#I hope everything works out well for you too!

[hanniebaeee]

Bambi

Hyunjin x fem!reader

Warnings: Suggestive 18+ MDNI

Genre: idiots to lovers, frat boy au, fluffy, suggestive

Summary: Something has you stuck in Hyunjin's glare list, and you don't even know what. Felix and Jisung, your mututal friends, are here to stir the pot, and everything unfolds in the most dramatic way during a party.

a/n: It's crazyy. But yeah. It is what it is. Please let me know if you see any errors. I swear I had a moment where my hand slipped and I wasn't where I was supposed to type. Anyway, I'm too sick to do another round of editing rn. But I will get to it soon! Hope you enjoy this!

You really didn’t know what you did to piss off Hwang Hyunjin, but God, the man hated you.

Hated. Like full-on, glares-like-you-kicked-his-dog and flinches-when-you-speak kind of hate. And it wasn’t even subtle.

No, Hyunjin had made it his full-time side hustle to make you stutter and stumble. And it did you no good because you were just a soft, shy lit major who wore your cardigans a little too big and had a heart so soft, it fluttered like it was malfunctioning when he was around.

It wasn't especially convenient when you spent way too much time at the frat house, because Felix was your closest friend, and you two bonded over baking - almost every day.

---

Now, you stood in the kitchen of the Sigma Kappa frat house, hair tied up in a scrunchie that matched your baby blue skirt, piping bag in hand, and Felix bopping next to you to some song. You were here, helping Felix set up the snacks for some achievement party at the frat house.

“More sugar,” Felix said, dipping a finger into the frosting and licking it with a satisfied hum.

“It's way too sweet already, Lix,” you mumbled, but added a spoonful more into the bowl anyway.

“You’re sweet,” Felix grinned, poking your cheek. “Too sweet. Which is why some people are going feral every time you breathe.”

Your spine stiffened. You knew exactly who Felix meant, and the thought alone made your brain glitch. You remembered the way he’d glared at you as you walked in with Felix merely thirty minutes ago - like you had burned down his mother’s garden. And it made your stomach turn like a haunted carousel.

You licked some frosting off your fingers absent-mindedly, glaring at Felix, who was now chucking.

“Ohmygodstop,” you hissed. “He doesn’t.”

“Babe.” Felix winked. “You don't know half of it.”

And speak of the devil.

Hyunjin was trying not to hover outside the kitchen like a creep. He was trying so hard. But you were in there with Felix. In that damn skirt. And he'd just seen Jisung step out of the shower, which meant he was going to sniff out the fact that you were here.

Jisung was a leech. According to Hyunjin at least. A cross between a horny golden retriever and a leech if there could ever be something like that. Because the moment Jisung spotted you anywhere in the vicinity, he was on you. Like on you. And it drove Hyunjin up the wall.

Now why should it bother him, when he didn't even like you? Well, the entire world, except for you knew that he was crazy for you. Hyunjin- the gorgeous broody artist - a little emotionally constipated, yes, but totally gone for you.

His friends were sick of watching him silently eye fucking you and growling at anyone who even looked your way. Yeah, the entire frat house was sick of it. But he thought you were too good for him. Too nice. Too delicate. He didn't want to ruin you. He thought you deserved better.

Hyunjin heard Jisung's loud obnoxious singing - moving down the stairs now. And his body was working on autopilot.

---

“Can you not lick your fingers like that in public?” Hyunjin snapped from the doorway, shirt half-tucked, and a scowl carved deep into his face.

You shrank back, holding the piping bag like it was a weapon.

“I wasn’t…I didn’t -”

“Relax, oh my God,” he muttered, brushing past you, the heat of his body grazing yours in a way that had your entire frontal lobe short-circuit.

“You okay, Bambi?” Jisung appeared right on cue.

He threw his arm around your shoulders and leaned into you with a smile. Jisung, bless him, loved the drama, and he adored you, maybe a little too much. But he also knew that Hyunjin needed a little nudge in the right direction to get things moving.

“Don’t mind Mr. Tall-and-Twitchy. He’s just mad it's me and not him.” He whispered, his hand sliding suspiciously low.

You elbowed him, whisper-yelling, “Ji!!”

Felix cackled, but Hyunjin wasn't laughing. In fact, he was glaring so hard at Jisung's hand resting way too close to the curve of your ass, it was a miracle that a storm cloud didn't magically pop up over his head.

Unfortunately for him, Jisung didn’t miss it. “What, you want a turn?”

You expected him to swear at Jisung and storm off - the usual. But then, he stalked over to you, grabbed your wrist (still holding the piping bag), and dragged you out of the kitchen. Just like that.

You blinked up at him as he speed walked with you down the hallway, completely confused and struggling to keep up. But he stopped just as abruptly and you stared up at him.

“What the hell was that?” he hissed, crowding you against the wall with the intensity of someone about to commit a crime.

Your eyes went wide. “What do you mean??”

“You let him -” His hands clenched and jaw flexed. “He was all over you like - like you’re some kind of chew toy.”

You continued to stare at him, utterly confused.

“Jisung's like that with everyone-”

“So? You'd just let him paw at you -”

“Why do you even care?”

That seemed to stun him. His mouth opened and closed, and his eye twitched. He seemed like he was having an existential crisis.

“I don’t care,” he snapped finally, stepping back. “It’s just - it’s gross. He’s gross. This whole thing is gross.”

You looked down at the piping bag, and then down at Hyunjin’s shoe, which was now spotted with rogue dots of frosting.

“So you dragged me out of the kitchen,” you said slowly, “while I was frosting cupcakes… for your party… because you’re grossed out?”

Hyunjin glared, but his ears were red. “Shut up.”

“I’m literally so confused right now, Hyunjin.”

He looked like he wanted to throw himself out the window. Or maybe throw you on the counter. Either way, your heart did wild somersaults as he held your gaze.

“Go back in there,” he said. “And tell Jisung if he touches you like that again, I’ll kill him.”

Your brows lifted, as you tried to hide your amusement. “Should I tell him you said that because you don’t care?”

He didn’t answer. He just turned and walked away, muttering curses under his breath while you stared after him, pink-faced.

Felix poked his head out of the kitchen with a grin and asked, “So… did he confess his love, orrr…?”

You threw the piping bag at him and he ducked, laughing.

The party was in full swing.

The boys were socializing. Chan looked stressed as he watched the cups plates pile up beside the snack table (even though he did leave a bin next to it, yeah, it was ignored).

You, on the other hand, were stuck between Jisung and the snack table.

“Bambiiii,” Jisung purred into your ear, arms slung around your waist. “You smell like cupcakes, and it's doing things to me.”

“You’re doing things to yourself, Ji” you murmured, not even turning around as you reach for a cookie. “Stop pressing your boner on my ass.”

He groaned, half in pain, half in pleasure. “Don’t say boner in that voice, are you insane -”

You elbowed him hard. He doubled over dramatically, clutching his stomach with a low whimper that was way too breathy to be appropriate.

“That’s another bruise,” he groaned. “Do you hate me or do you want me to die with a hard-on? Just tell me.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You like it.”

You rolled your eyes. But you didn’t move away - he was warm, and you were a little tipsy, and honestly - maybe it was petty, maybe a little spiteful. But you had caught Hyunjin watching again, over the rim of his cup, eyes narrowed like he was five seconds from coming over.

He was seething. Not saying a word. Just standing there, jaw clenched, eyes locked on Jisung’s hand on your waist. He didn’t even blink when you looked at him.

Like he was imagining what you’d feel like against him instead.

You blinked and turned away, cheeks flaming.

“Ji,” you murmured under your breath, “If you grind on me, I will cut your dick off with a butter knife.”

Jisung gasped and said, “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

You reached around and pinched his side, right above his waistband. He moaned into your neck, enjoying this way too much.

“I hate you,” you sighed.

“I love you,”

"I love you too,"

"I know," Jisung grinned.

“You’re an idiot.”

“You let me do it.”

God help you. He was right.

Felix appeared out of nowhere, leaning into your side.

“You two are about three seconds from getting kicked out. Or murdered.”

Jisung smirked. “I'd die happy.”

Felix giggled and flicked Jisung’s forehead.

“He’s gonna explode.”

“Why is he always so mad?” you asked, exasperated. “Like, what did I do?”

“Oh, Bambi.” Felix gave you a look. “He’s not mad at you. He’s mad at his boner.”

You blinked. “What -”

Too late. Because Hyunjin had moved. One second you were talking. The next, he was behind Jisung, grabbing him by the collar of his sweatshirt and yanking him off you like he’s swatting away a mosquito.

“What the f- Hyunjin!” Jisung yelped, flailing as Hyunjin threw him a full foot back. “I was talking to her!”

“You were humping her,” Hyunjin growled, standing between you and Jisung now, tall and tense and radiating murder.

You blinked up at him. He didn’t even look at you, his eyes were still on Jisung.

“Back. Off.” he bit out.

“Bro, seriously -”

“I swear to God,” Hyunjin’s voice was low, furious. “Touch her again and I’ll break your fucking fingers.”

You inhaled sharply, taking a step back. Jisung stared, wide-eyed for a moment. A very fleeting moment, because the next, he was grinning. "Someone's cracking."

And he had the audacity to take a step forward. And so did Hyunjin. Jisung took another, and Hyunjin’s hand shot out, landing on Jisung’s chest, making him stumble back a little. Jisung, with zero self-preservation instincts, just laughed, brushing himself off like he didn’t almost get decked.

“Whoa, Hyunjinnie, save the foreplay for Bambi!” he teased, dodging as Hyunjin lunged, fist raised, eyes blazing.

“Call her that one more time, and I’ll end you,” Hyunjin growled, his voice low and dangerous, but the way his hands were shaking betrayed how close he was to cracking. Jisung’s grin only widened, because of course it does - he’s been playing this game all night, winding Hyunjin up like a toy car and loving every second of the chaos.

Before Hyunjin could make a move, Chan’s voice boomed across the room like a foghorn.

“EMERGENCY FAMILY MEETING! KITCHEN! RIGHT FUCKING NOW!”

Ah. There it is. The Chan Voice™.

The partygoers barely blinked, fights and drama were absolutely normal at a frat bash - but the boys knew better than to ignore Chan’s summons.

Hyunjin's eyes met yours, and you huffed at him before storming off towards the bathroom, slamming the door shut.

You gripped the sink, staring at your flushed reflection in the mirror. Your pastel cardigan was slightly askew, your cheeks pink, and your heart was doing cartwheels.

“You’re fine,” you muttered to your reflection. “He’s just… intense. And hot. And confusing. And…oh my god, stop it, you’re not helping!”

You splashed cold water on your face, hoping it’ll douse the fire in your chest, but it was of no use. Hyunjin has got you spinning, and Jisung’s relentless flirting wasn’t helping.

---

Jisung sauntered toward the kitchen, followed by Hyunjin, who was still vibrating with barely contained rage. Felix slung an arm around Hyunjin’s shoulders, steering him toward the kitchen.

“C’mon, loverboy, let’s not murder Ji in front of the guests. Bad for the vibe.”

Hyunjin muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “I’ll kill him later,” but he let Felix drag him along.

Chan was at the head of the kitchen island, looking like he was about to give a lecture on responsibility, but the glint in his eyes said something else entirely. Felix patted Hyunjin on the back and perched on the counter, swinging his legs, while Jisung leaned against the fridge, munching on a cookie like he wasn't the catalyst for this chaos.

Hyunjin was pacing like a caged tiger, his hoodie sleeves pushed up, his jaw so tight.

“Alright,” Chan started, clapping his hands to get everyone’s attention. “What the hell is going on? Hyunjin, we never raise our hands at each other. So spill.”

Hyunjin glared at Jisung, who was licking cookie crumbs off his fingers with exaggerated slowness, smirking like the gremlin he was.

“He’s been all over Y/N all night,” Hyunjin snapped, his voice dripping with venom. “Grinding on her, calling her Bambi, acting like he’s got some claim -”

“Claim?” Jisung interrupted, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, Hyunjinnie, I’m just giving Bambi the attention she deserves. Unlike some people who just glare at her like she stole their favorite paintbrush.”

Hyunjin took a step toward him, fists clenched, but Felix hopped off the counter, blocking his path with a grin and a sly, “Down, boy.”

Chan raised an eyebrow and said, “Hyunjin, you’ve been acting like a caveman all night. Care to explain why you’re so obsessed with Bambi?”

Hyunjin froze, his eyes darting around like he has been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“I’m not…obsessed,” he stammered, but his flushed cheeks and the way he was gripping the edge of the counter said otherwise. “She’s just... always flitting around in those stupid skirts, smiling at everyone, letting Jisung -”

He cut himself off, dragging a hand through his hair, and the room went quiet for a split second.

Jisung, of course, cackled.

“Oh, please. You’re so gone for her it’s pathetic.”

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, but it’s loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Bet you’ve been jerking off to the thought of her in that skirt, haven’t you?”

“JISUNG!” Chan barked, but he was fighting a laugh.

Felix was trying so hard not to laugh, because he wanted to support Hyunjin - while Hyunjin looked like he was going to spontaneously combust.

“You’re dead,” Hyunjin growled, lunging again, but Chan stepped in, grabbing his shoulder.

“Enough!” Chan said, though his lips were twitching. “Jisung, stop antagonizing him. Hyunjin, use your words like a big boy and tell us what’s got you so twisted.”

Hyunjin’s mouth opened, then closed, the gears grinding in his head. He was trapped, cornered by his own feelings and the relentless teasing of his frat brothers.

“She’s just… she’s too much,” he finally managed, his voice low, almost defeated. “She’s so soft and sweet and…fuck, I can’t think straight when she’s around, okay? And then Jisung’s all over her like some horny octopus, and I -”

“Horny octopus?!” Jisung choked, clutching his stomach as he laughed. “Oh, that’s rich. Bambi loves my tentacles, ok?”

“Hyun, you’re not fooling anyone. You’ve been crushing on her since she showed up with that first batch of cookies. Its like what? Two years now? Just admit you want her so bad it’s making you stupid.” Felix laughed, and Hyunjin looked absolutely embarrassed.

“I do not -” Hyunjin started, but Chan cut him off with a raised hand.

“Nope, you’re done lying to yourself,” Chan said, his tone firm but teasing. “You’re jealous as hell, and it’s obvious to everyone except maybe her. So either man up and tell her how you feel, or Jisung’s gonna keep doing this just to see how long it takes you to snap.”

Jisung grinned, completely unfazed.

“I mean, I’m having fun either way. Bambi’s got those little pinches that sting so good…think I’m bruised to hell under this shirt.” He lifted his shirt, showing off a scattering of red marks on his stomach, and Felix howled with laughter.

“You’re a freak,” Chan said, shaking his head, but he’s grinning now. “Hyunjin, for the love of god, just talk to her.”

Hyunjin’s face was a mix of fury and mortification, but there was something else there too. Something raw and desperate. He was cracking, and everyone in the room knew it.

---

Back in the Bathroom:

“You can do this,” you whispered, smoothing your skirt. “Hyunjin’s just… intense. And Jisung’s just Jisung. And you’re not gonna melt into a puddle just because Hyunjin looked at you like he wanted to eat you alive. Nope. Not at all.”

But as you step out of the bathroom, you had no idea you were about to walk into a firestorm.

You were sulking. Still no clue why you were the walking target of all his emotional instability and/or wet dreams.

The kitchen door has been shut for Chan’s “emergency family meeting,” and you were stewing in a mix of confusion, irritation, and Hyunjin-induced heart palpitations. You could hear Jisung’s cackle and Hyunjin’s low growl through the door, and it was driving you nuts.

You were back by the snack table. Alone. With your thoughts. And a tray of brownies you absolutely didn’t remember seeing earlier.

They looked rich. Fudgy. Gooey.

You stared. You definitely didn't bring that. You knew they weren't Felix's. But they looked so good.

You shrugged, because stress eating is a coping mechanism. Right? Not your best one, but it’s better than crying in the pantry again.

So you grabbed one, and took a bite. Ohhh, that was good. You had another. And then another. Because you had no self-control and those things tasted like sin.

But halfway through the fourth one - your skin tingled. Not in a “this is tasty” kind of way. In a “why do I suddenly want to make out with the refrigerator” kind of way. Your head felt floaty. Your heart beating louder. And your thighs? They were squirming.

“Oh my god,” you whispered in horror. “These are sex brownies.”

The kitchen door creaked. You looked up, eyes blurry, mouth half-full of brownie, pulling at the neckline of your cardigan.

Felix stepped out first, smiling when he saw you.

“Hey, babe...” He faltered, seeing the way you were fanning yourself dramatically with a paper plate.

“Bambi, you okay?” he asks, eyeing you with suspicion.

He glanced at the chocolate on your fingers. And then cocked his head to look behind you on the snack table.

“Babe, what did you eat?” Felix rushed over, smelling your fingers without hesitation, and then picking up the tray of brownies off the table and smelling them.

He swore under his breath, before turning to glance behind him. Because there he was - Hyunjin, looking angry and brooding and violently hot for you.

Your eyes meet again, and your skin buzzed. Your nipples were embarrassingly hard. Ah oh, you were aware.

His walked towards you, eyes locked onto you, but instead of the usual glare, there was a flicker of concern - probably because you were swaying like a palm tree in a hurricane.

“You okay?” he said gruffly, eyes darting over your flushed face.

“You,” you slurred, jabbing a finger in his direction, your cardigan half-off one shoulder. “You and your stupid… stupid face!”

You were trying to sound fierce, but the brownies made it sound more like a squeak. “Always glaring at me, snapping at me, acting like I’m some… some problem! And then you’re all up in my space, looking like you wanna -” You paused, eyes going blank for a second. “ Like, like -”

Felix snorted, leaning against the snack table, clearly enjoying the show. Jisung was peeking out from the kitchen, grinning.

Hyunjin’s jaw dropped, and he stepped closer, his voice low and strained.

“You think I’m glaring because I hate you?” he said, his eyes blazing with something that was definitely not hate. “You’re out here, being…you…, and I -”

He stopped, dragging a hand through his hair, looking like he was about to implode. “You drive me fucking insane, okay? I can’t think, I can’t sleep, I can’t -”

You were barely listening, because goddamn, it was hot in here. Your cardigan was strangling you, and in a fit of brownie-induced madness, you started yanking it off. Except it got stuck over your head, trapping your arms in a tangle.

“Ugh, why is this so tight?!” you whined, flailing like a pastel-colored T-Rex. The room was spinning, your skin was tingling, and you were pretty sure you were dying.

Hyunjin froze (again), his rant cut off as he stared at you, half-trapped in your cardigan, your hair a mess, your cheeks flushed.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered, stepping forward to help. With a sigh of exasperation and resignation, he gently tugged the cardigan over your head, freeing you. Your hair was now a static-charged halo, and you were panting, fanning yourself with both hands.

“It’s so hot,” you complained, your voice whiny as you start tugging at the hem of your cami top, ready to strip that off too. The brownies had obliterated your inhibitions, and you’re about two seconds from flashing the entire party.

“Nope, nope, nope,” Hyunjin said, his voice panicked as he grabbed your wrists, stopping you before you could yank the top over your head. His hands were warm, his grip firm but careful, and you swore you felt a spark where his fingers touch your skin. “You are not stripping in the middle of the living room.”

“Why not?” you pouted, swaying closer to him, your high brain deciding he’s the most fascinating thing in the room. “You’re mean, but you’re sooooooooo pretty. Like… really pretty. Why’re you so pretty?”

You reached up, trying to poke his cheek, but he dodged, his face turning an alarming shade of red.

Felix lost it, doubled over laughing, while Jisung called from the kitchen, “Bambi, you’re my hero! Keep roasting him!”

Chan facepalmed so hard, you (high as a kite) could hear it from the living room.

Hyunjin had had enough.

“That’s it,” he said, his voice a mix of frustration and something softer, almost protective. “You’re going back to your dorm. Now.”

Before you could protest, he was scooping you up - bridal style - because of course he is, and marching toward the door. Your head was spinning, and you were giggling uncontrollably, your hands flopping against his chest.

“You’re so strong,” you slurred, patting his pecs.

“Please stop talking,” Hyunjin muttered, but his cheeks were flaming, and he was holding you a little tighter than necessary as he stepped out the back door.

Felix trailed behind, still snickering, while Jisung shouted, “Take care of my wife, Hyunjinnie!”

---

You stumbled into your room, collapsing onto your bed with a dramatic groan.

“It’s so hot,” you whined again, kicking off your shoes and flopping around like a fish out of water. Hyunjin stood in the doorway, looking like he was struggling to hold himself together.

“Stay put,” he said, his voice gruff but laced with concern. He grabbed a bottle of water from your desk, shoving it into your hands. “Drink this. And don’t eat random brownies ever again.”

You sipped the water, pouting up at him.

“You’re so bossy. But… kinda hot when you’re bossy.” You giggled, then hiccupped, and Hyunjin pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing.

You were out like a light not long after, curling up in a ball, whimpering softly in your sleep about “stupid pretty boy” and “sex brownies.” Hyunjin pulled your blanket over you, his fingers lingering as he tucked it around your shoulders. For a moment, he just watched you, his expression softening, the hard edges of his usual scowl melting away. He brushed a strand of hair from your face, his touch so gentle.

But as he walked back to the frat house, he couldn’t shake the image of you - high and feisty, tugging at your clothes, calling him pretty - and he knew he was in deeper than he could ever admit.

You were still recovering from last night’s brownie-induced chaos, your head slightly foggy but your pride fully intact. You were perched at your usual desk in the lecture hall, your notebook open, trying to focus but mostly replaying last night's events. You were equal parts mortified and furious - furious at Hyunjin for being such a confusing jerk, and mortified at yourself for the whole brownie thing.

You were determined to play it cool today, but “cool” wasn’t exactly your brand. You were more…chaos.

Jisung was already sprawled in the seat to your right, his legs kicked up on the desk, grinning like he’s got a PhD in stirring shit.

“Morning, Bambi,” he drawled, leaning close enough that you could smell his cologne “You look cute when you’re hungover on mystery brownies. You sure you're ok?”

You shot him a look that was supposed to be withering but probably just makes you look like a disgruntled kitten.

“Shut up, Ji,” you muttered, scribbling nonsense in your notebook to avoid his eyes.

He was chuckling, when the lecture hall door swung open, and Hyunjin strode in. He was all dark jeans and fitted black sweater, his gaze zeroing in on you immediately.

He didn’t say a word, just stalked over and dropped into the seat on your left, his long legs sprawling under the desk, his arm brushing against yours. The contact sent a jolt through you, and you stiffened, refusing to look at him. You can feel his eyes on you, though, burning into the side of your face.

Jisung was practically vibrating with glee, his grin so wide it was a miracle his face didn't split. You, on the other hand, were giving Hyunjin the meanest side-eye you could muster. Your lips pursed, your brows furrowed, and clutching your pen like a weapon. Hyunjin didn’t flinch, but his jaw tightened, and you saw his fingers twitch on the desk.

The lecture was a blur. You were hyper-aware of Hyunjin’s presence, the way his knee kept bumping yours, the way he was tapping his pen like he was trying to keep his hands busy. Jisung had his unhinged commentary running the whole time - “Bet he’s imagining you in that skirt, Bambi, all bent over his easel” - and you were torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to yeet him out a window.

When the professor finally dismissed the class, you were ready to bolt, but Hyunjin was faster. He was on his feet, grabbing your wrist before you could escape.

“We’re talking,” he said, his voice firm, and before you could protest, he dragged you out of the lecture hall, Jisung’s laughter echoing behind you.

“Get it, Hyunjinnie!” he calls, and you heard Felix’s cackle join in from somewhere in the crowd. Traitors, both of them.

---

Hyunjin didn’t stop until he’d pulled you into a quiet corner of the campus courtyard, a secluded spot tucked behind a cluster of trees, the brick wall cool against your back as he crowded you against it. He was close - too close - his hands braced on either side of your head.

“What is your problem?” you snapped, crossing your arms, though the effect was ruined by how your voice shook. “You can’t just drag me around like some caveman every time you’re pissed!”

“My problem?” Hyunjin fired back, his voice rough, like he has been holding it together by a thread. “You’re out there, letting Jisung drape himself all over you, calling you Bambi, acting like you don’t even notice how it’s driving me fucking insane -”

“Driving you insane?” you interrupted, poking his chest. “You’ve been a jerk to me for months! Glaring, snapping, acting like I’m some annoying little bug you can’t stand! And now you’re mad because Jisung draped himself over me? Make it make sense, Hyunjin!”

He stared at you, his chest heaving, and you could see the moment he broke.

“You think I hate you?” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You think I can’t stand you? Fuck, you’re so -”

He raked a hand through his hair, stepping closer, and you feel the wall press against your back. “ I don't hate you. I can’t stop thinking about you. Every time you’re around, with your stupid soft smile, and your cupcakes, I lose my fucking mind, okay?”

Your breath caught, and you’re about to say something - probably something dumb - but then he was closer, and you were closer, and suddenly you were kissing. You didn’t know who moved first, and you didn’t care. It was messy, rough, all teeth and tongue and pent-up frustration, his hands gripping your waist, pulling you closer. You were tugging at his sweater, pulling him closer, and it was like the world had narrowed down to just this - his lips, his heat, the way he groaned against your mouth like he’s starving.

You broke apart, gasping, and his forehead rested against yours, his breath ragged.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. “The frat house. It’s closest.”

You nodded so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash, your brain too scrambled to overthink it.

“Yeah, okay,” you breathed, and before you could say anything else, he was kissing you again, his hands sliding under your shirt, fingers grazing your skin.

You giggled into the kiss, because it was ridiculous, it was perfect…and more than anything, it was Hyunjin, and you were so gone for him it wasn't even funny.

Outside the lecture hall...

The hallway was silent. Felix sighed and turned to Jisung, who was biting into a protein bar.

“So,” Felix said slowly.

“So?”

“Ji.”

“What?” Jisung said, chewing dramatically, starting to walk.

“Don’t start your clueless act. Not with me.” Felix said, giving him a flat look.

Jisung fell quiet, and shrugged.

“They’re happy,” he said after a beat. “Jinnie’s wanted this for so long. He’s happy. That’s all that matters.”

Felix didn’t speak right away. He just sighed.

“I told you this would blow up in your face,” he said gently.

“Yeah, yeah.” Jisung smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Felix huffed out an exasperated laugh, “You’re an idiot.”

“I’m fine,” Jisung said, too quickly. “I really am.”

Felix stopped walking, grabbed Jisung’s arm and turned him around.

“Stop doing that,” he said, seriously. “I know the minute I step away, you’re gonna cry in a janitor’s closet.”

“Am not,” Jisung muttered, offended.

“Ji.”

“Ok, maybe a little.”

Felix’s hand slipped into his, fingers warm and grounding.

“She’s so sweet,” Felix whispered. “I won’t blame you...”

He chuckled under his breath, and Jisung joined him, head tilted back.

“They deserve each other,” he said finally, voice low, but sincere. “I mean, have you seen the way she looks at him? Like he’s made of stars and Greek yogurt.”

Felix raised a brow. “Greek yogurt?”

“Shut up.”

They both laughed, and then fell into silence again.

“I need a drink,” Felix said finally.

“Yeah, me too.”

Divider: @saradika-graphics

Tags: @moonchild9350 @velvetmoonlght @hwangjoanna @pixie-felix @sailor--sun @chancloud8 @captainchrisstan @hansmic @emilyywhyy @inlovewithstraykids @my-neurodivergent-world @nightmarenyxx @channie4lifeee143127 @lezleeferguson-120 @silly250 @pansexual-and-eating-pancakes @sammhisphere

[criminalyapping]

due for trouble | he's around

the pitt masterlist main masterlist

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader

a/n: after a one day hiatus on this project i am back and i hope you all like it! as always if you have thoughts or opinions or ideas my asks are always open and i would love to hear from you. ok love u bye

warnings: unplanned pregnancy, age gap relationship, language, alcohol, reader has a mom

< part 4 | part 6 >

"They put it on the market for 899, when, you know, all of these houses are like, north of a million, so I talked to the realtor and was like, what? What's up with this house, you know?" your mom says into the phone.

You bite your lip and look up at the ceiling. Not that you really want to change the subject, but you had just given yourself a pep talk and were about to lose your bravery.

"Hey, mom, can I change the subject?" you interrupt.

"Oh," she says, "yeah, what's going on?"

"Uh," you start, "I'm havingababy," you say in a rush.

Silence. More silence.

"Mom?" you ask.

"Sorry, what?" she finally returns. "No you're not."

That brings a chuckle out of you.

"Yes, I am." you tell her.

Even more silence.

"Oh. Uhhhhhhh, okay. Okay. What?" she stutters. "I'm sorry, with who?"

"Um, his name is Jack?" you tell her.

"Tell me more." she says.

"His name is Jack," you repeat, "he's a doctor."

"A doctor," she says, mostly to herself.

"Mm hm," you agree.

"And he's," she trails off, "... there?" she asks.

"Not right now," you answer, "but he's like, around. We went to the doctor on Thursday."

"And everything is... good?" she questions.

"Yep," you say, the awkwardness palpable.

"Okay, well, good." she forces out. "Sorry, honey, this is just..." she trails off.

You laugh, "I know,"

"Let me, I don't know, absorb." your mom says. "Can I call you later?"

"Yeah, for sure," you agree.

"Okay, bye honey, I love you." she says.

"Love you too." you bid goodbye, hanging up the phone.

Could have gone worse, you think.

And that's mom, crossed off the list. Your next ordeal is telling your friends, who frankly you're even more scared of because you just know that they will simply not bite their tongues and will say exactly what they're thinking.

Not wanting to deal with it in person, and maybe ensure a bit of peace after you reveal, you decide to text them. You open your group chat with the three of them and send a picture of your sonogram, quickly followed by a message.

'not taking questions at this time'

Your phone is silent for a second, before a rush of notifications fill your lock screen.

You glance at one before deciding not to interact.

'bitch what the hell'

It does pull a chuckle out of you before you turn your phone over, face down.

It's a gorgeous Saturday afternoon; Jack is sleeping off his night shift, you're on a three day streak of not throwing up, and you are in the middle of a couple of loads of laundry. Your windows are open to let in the light, and telling the important people in your life about the latest situation has you feeling like nothing can bring you down.

You eventually read through your friends' messages, all of them shocked, incredulous, and asking you questions that you don't have the answers to right now.

Your mom sends a text, one that scares you to your core.

'Houses are really expensive in Pittsburgh"

You don't reply to that one.

You do text your friends back, assuring them that yes, you're happy, and no, they don't need to come over right now. Apparently, and unfortunately for you, they all seem to be either free or canceling their plans, and before you know it, all three of them are sitting on your couch.

"How long have you known?" Jiya, your friend from work, asks.

"Um, a few weeks," you reply. You're sitting criss crossed on the floor in front of the couch, taking questions from the panel.

They're all treading and circling around the questions that they really want to ask.

"Okay fine, I'll do it," Emily, your friend you met in college, speaks up. "Who the fuck?" she asks.

You blush, "do you guys remember that guy from the bar?" you say.

"The OLD GUY?" Jada asks in a yell. Jada, Emily, and you all met in college, and Jiya had joined seamlessly when you introduced everyone after a few months of working post-grad.

You hide your head in your hands at their question, groaning out an affirmative sound into them.

"Oh, my god," Emily says, "did you tell him?"

"Yes, I've told him." you reply.

"And?" Jiya prompts.

"And what?" you say, not really wanting to continue with this line of questioning.

"Oh, my god," Emily sighs, throwing herself against the back of your couch.

"Jack is fine, we are fine, and everything is totally fine," you tell them.

"Is he your boyfriend, is he just around, what's going on with him?" Jada asks.

"I don't knowwwwww," you whine. "He's around, and he's nice and caring and asks me how I am all the time," you tell them.

Your friends stare at you with wide eyes.

"Don't give me that fucking look," you murmur.

The three of them share a look between them.

"Okay," Emily agrees, "no judgement, but it seems like you might need to have a conversation." she says.

"I don't wanna," you pout.

"Do you want us to do it for you?" Jiya smirks, snatching your phone off of the coffee table.

"No!" you scream, climbing onto the couch on top of her, reaching for your phone as she holds it up.

A terrifying game of monkey in the middle ensues, your phone being tossed around and handed off as you desperately try to get it back. It ends a few moments later as you all shake with laughter and are barely able to get words out.

You take advantage of the break and snatch your phone back from Jada, who is still crying with laughter.

"He texted me," you tell them as the laughing tapers off.

"What did he say?" Emily squeals.

"That he's on his way with stuff," you say, eyes growing wide with terror.

They share conspiratorial looks.

"When did he say this?" Jiya asks.

You gulp. "20 minutes ago."

Your friendss all cheer, reading between the lines and understanding that he would most likely be here at any time now.

You groan, collapsing on the floor in a heap.

You sit back up quickly, rushing to send him a text.

'sorry I didn't see this. my friends are here and they're monsters who will embarrass me'

He texts back quickly.

'My bad, I should have waited for a response. I just pulled up but I can go'

"He's just gonna go," you tell your friends, dissapointed for a reason that you can't quite put your finger on. Before you can text back with an apology, he sends another message.

'I can still come, though. Just to give you the stuff, it's no problem.'

You bite your lip, typing out a response.

'yeah, if you want to! you're welcome to come and say hi'

"Nevermind, I think he's coming," you tell them, to which they cheer. A second later, there's a knock at your door. You share a look with your friends before all four of you clamor towards the door. Luckily, you get there first and stand with your back against it, giving them a look.

"Be. Normal." you threaten. You point at the couch sternly and they all head back and sit down.

You take a quick breath and turn around and open the door.

"Hi," Jack greets, leaning against the frame. He leans down and presses a quick kiss to your lips, catching you off guard.

His eyes flick over to the three on your couch, all smiling devilishly at him.

"Hi," he says again.

"Hi," they echo, actually being normal for once.

You step back, letting Jack in and closing the door.

"Sorry," he says, speaking towards the couch, "didn't mean to crash your party."

"No, we are so glad you're here." Jada replies. Jack laughs in response.

"Uh," he starts, quickly turning his attention back to you. "So, vitamins aren't FDA regulated and I know you're already taking some but I got these. They have some other stuff that'ss research based in them that most don't have." he says, holding out a container of vitamins.

"Aww," one of them coos quietly, before a fleshy slap noise cuts it off.

"Ow," whoever it was quietly says. You're not looking over there.

Jack does; he glances over to the couch and then back at you, smiling.

"I also got you more candies." he says, holding out a large pack of peach rings. Call you crazy, but you swear those are the only things that help the nausea.

"Thank you," you smile, taking the candies as well.

"Okay," he says, rubbing his hands over his jeans. "Well, I can go now."

Somehow, though, Jack ends up sticking around. He sits on the floor with you, drinking a watermelong White Claw that was hanging out at the back of your fridge, and manages to easily win over your friends. He has a surprising knowledge of slang terms that woo's them, not to mention his sense of humor that has them clutching their sides multiple times as the afternoon fades into the evening.

"I have to go to work," Emily eventually whines, groaning about her bartending jobs that gets her more money than any job in the field of her degree.

The other two leave with her, grinning and waving at you and Jack standing in the doorway.

"Your friends are fun." he says with a grin after you shut the door.

"It's fascinating how well you get along with a bunch of 20 somethings." you laugh.

"What can I say," he says with faux pride, "it's a gift."

tagging: @michasia24 @veggieburgerwrites @bruher @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @catmomstyles3 @qardasngan @fuckalrighty @rae4725 @beebeechaos

let me know if you want on the taglist!

[hyuckiefluff]

The Wicked Game of Love| Lee Haechan

pairing: slytherin! haechan x ravenclaw! fem.reader genre: rivals to lovers, smut, angst wc: 21k+ (full fic) content warning: explicit sexual content, public sex, oral (fem. receiving), rough sex (hair-pulling, light spanking), marking (hickeys, bruises), forced proximity, toxic family dynamics, blood status discrimination, mean haechan, usage of wizard ver. of a slur, canon divergence (post-hogwarts /ministry setting), their relationship gives whiplash i apologize in advance, hurt/comfort. summary: Lee Haechan was a pure-blood heir raised to hate everything you are. You, a half-blood girl who knew better than to let your guard down around someone like him. You were never supposed to want each other—until one disastrous kiss shatters everything you’ve worked to protect. a/n: AT LAST it is here!! my blood, sweat, and tears went into this u guys. i hope it was worth the wait. also i somehow ended up with a very dramione-coded fic (yes, this is me coming out as a dramione enjoyer). it’s so long i had to split it into two parts because apparently i don’t know when to stop. part two should be up right after this one (unless i passed out from exhaustion). pls enjoy and scream at me about it in the comments <3 ps: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY BABYGIRL HAECHAN!!! ILYSM!!!

READ PART 2 HERE

“I hate and I love. Perhaps you ask why I do so? I do not know, but I feel it, and I am tormented.” — Catullus, poem 85

What you and Lee Haechan had could only be described as pure, unadulterated rivalry. Or it started that way, at least.

Your mother and his father had been political opponents for as long as you could remember—two towering figures in the wizarding world, constantly at odds in public and behind closed doors. While your mother built her career on progressive reform and transparency, his father operated in shadows, pulling strings and building alliances that made him one of the most quietly feared men in wizard politics. When your mother was named Minister of Magic, it was only by a thin margin, one that turned their rivalry into something closer to open war.

Because of your parents’ standing, and their closely intertwined conflict, you were often forced to share space. Too much of it. Not just at Hogwarts, but everywhere. Ministry galas, private events, summer functions.

Haechan was like a buzzing fly in your ear, a little gremlin who made it his life’s mission to drive you up the wall. You didn’t like him. You didn’t like his voice, or his slouchy posture, or the way he looked at you with those half-lidded eyes. You didn’t like the stupid pattern of moles on his face or the way he always knew exactly which button to press. 

Everyone who knew you, knew you couldn’t stand him. If anything, the daily verbal sparring made it pretty damn clear. But what no one could’ve ever predicted was how quickly this would change.

A change that started when your mother was officially sworn in as Minister.

The announcement made headlines across every wizarding publication, and for a brief moment, your name was something people said with admiration. Students congratulated you in the corridors, professors gave you subtle nods of approval, and even the portraits seemed more polite than usual.

Your mother had been a respected Ministry official long before taking office, a well-known pureblood figure who shocked everyone by marrying a Muggle-born wizard, a choice that set tongues wagging long before you were born. Eventually, your father cracked under the pressure of a world he never fully belonged in, leaving your mother in favor of a simpler life with a Muggle woman.

Because your mother was so busy with her political career, you grew up with your father in the Muggle world, isolated from magic entirely until the age of ten, when strange incidents like your hair changing colors overnight, glass shattering during arguments started happening and forced your mother to intervene.

She brought you into a world you didn’t know then. Hogwarts became your fresh start, your chance to prove you belonged in the magical world despite whispers about your blood status, your father’s scandalous departure, and your upbringing.

Which was exactly why, when you walked into the Great Hall a few days after your mother was sworn in and saw the headline The Daily Prophet had run, it hit so viciously.

“Merlin’s beard, Y/N. Have you seen this?”

Hannah Parkinson’s voice stopped you on your way to the Ravenclaw table. She unfolded her copy with a dramatic flair and shoved it into your face. Your stomach dropped as you read the words.

“THE MINISTER’S HALF-BLOOD HEIRESS: RAISED BY MUGGLES, GROOMED FOR POWER?”

Under the headline was a moving photo of you walking through a Muggle market wearing jeans, scuffed trainers, and a second-hand T-shirt. You hadn’t even noticed the photographer.

Rita Skeeter’s quill did its best to flay you alive.

“Young Miss Y/L/N may carry a famous surname, but does she carry the polish befitting the office? Sources say the new heiress spent most of her childhood in a Muggle household, blissfully ignorant of wizarding custom until age ten—hardly the upbringing our world expects from a Minister’s child.

Classmates describe her as ‘aggressive on a broom, and foul-mouthed in the hallways’.  One wonders whether this half-blood Seeker has the temperament to represent us on the international stage.”

And it continued into the next page, because Skeeter never knew when to stop.

“Her fashion sense appears equally questionable as she’s seen in the picture wearing Muggle denim and a shirt bearing a ‘Misfits’ logo (whatever that means). One hopes Madam Malkin can work miracles.”

The tears welled in your eyes before you could blink them back. Skeeter had somehow managed to hit all of your insecurities with one article—your parents separation, the years spent as the weird kid, the endless fight to prove you belonged in the wizarding world—and splashed them across the breakfast tables of the entire wizarding world.

“Aww, is the Minister’s little charity case going to cry?” Hannah cooed mockingly.

Before you could even find the words or grab your wand to shut her up, there was a loud crack behind you. The paper in her hands tore clean in half, as if slashed by an invisible blade. Hannah stumbled back in shock.

Next thing you knew, Lee Haechan was walking past you, his wand still glowing faintly. Dark hair fell in soft waves over his eyes, his uniform tie was crooked as always, his expression flat with boredom.

“Parkinson,” he drawls “I’d ask if the Prophet’s paying you for distribution, but just like your father you clearly enjoy handing out trash for free.”

A collective ooh rippled across the Hall. Hannah’s face turned an impressively blotchy shade of red before she turned around and stalked off, tripping over the hem of her robes.

Haechan turned then, catching your eye before his gaze dipped to your jeans and the battered trainers peeking out beneath your open robes.

“And you.” His mouth curved into a half-snarl. “If you insist on dressing like a stray Muggle, don’t act shocked when the rats sniff you out.”

You flinched at his words, feeling even more self-conscious than when Hannah was insulting you.

He nudged the ruined paper with his shoe, his voice low so only you’d hear it. “Never bleed where they can smell it.” Then, louder in a mocking tone “Try to keep up, you’re the Minister’s pet now.”

He turned on his heels and strolled back to the Slytherin table, his friends thumping him in the back in glee.

You stood frozen, not knowing how to react. He humiliated you, which wasn’t a new thing in your relationship. But this time, it felt as if he’d thrown the punch so no one else could.

After that day, Haechan was still a nuisance to you. Still the boy whose father would do anything to see your mother fail. But now his teasing felt different. It wasn’t sharp the way it used to be. His taunts started landing just shy of cruelty, aimed to sting you into strength instead of out of it. No one noticed the difference except you.

Bit by bit, you found yourself almost looking forward to it. Not that you’d ever admit that out loud.

In the days following the article, you did your best to become invisible—but Hogwarts was not a place that allowed anonymity when your name was constantly on the front page of newspapers. Rita Skeeter’s words spread fast, and soon every corridor was filled with whispers about your family. The attention made you retreat into solitude, often spending your free periods hiding among the furthest library stacks.

One afternoon, as you sat hunched over your Charms textbook, the chair across from you scraped loudly against the stone floor. You looked up, startled and already annoyed.

"Did you lose your way?" you asked coldly, glaring at Haechan as he settled carelessly into the chair opposite.

"Unfortunately not.” He replied with a yawn, dropping his textbooks onto the table with a thud that made you flinch. 

"What do you want, Haechan?”

He raised a brow. “Wow, no ‘hello’? No ‘thank you for publicly humiliating a pureblood princess on my behalf’?”

​​"Right, I almost forgot chivalry’s alive and well in Slytherin.” you said, sarcasm dripping from every word.

"Only when it comes with entertainment value." He leaned back, arms behind his head. "And you're a surprisingly decent show these days."

"Glad I could provide," you muttered. “Did you come here just to annoy me?”

"Nah, I just figured you were desperate enough to tolerate my presence," he retorted, flashing a shit eating grin. "Since your fellow Ravenclaws aren't exactly lining up to spend time with you these days."

You narrowed your eyes. "If you're looking to have a laugh, go bother someone else."

"Believe me, watching you sulk around like a kicked puppy isn’t that fun anymore."

"Then leave," you hissed.

“Can't. I need your notes."

You scoffed loudly. "You're delusional if you think I'd help you."

"Am I?" he tilted his head thoughtfully. “Cause you still haven’t hexed me, which means you're at least considering it."

Your wand hand twitched under the table, and he noticed immediately, mouth quirking upward in amusement. The two of you were used to swapping harmless hexes for years. Silly stuff like changing each other’s hair color, gluing quills to fingers, turning the other’s pumpkin juice to green sludge during breakfast. Nothing scarring, but enough for you to flinch when the other’s temper flared. Haechan’s smirk said he remembered every jinx.

The nature of your relationship is exactly why you weren’t used to having him on your side all of a sudden, and you couldn’t be judged for holding him at a safe distance when you had no idea what his intentions were. 

Especially now that his father was capable of doing anything to ruin you and your mother’s reputation with the purpose of hindering her future reelection. Not to mention, you hated feeling like you owed him anything.

"You didn't have to interfere the other day," you muttered bitterly, unable to meet his gaze. "I could’ve handled Hannah myself."

He didn't respond at first. The quiet stretched long enough that you glanced up just in time to catch a strange expression crossing his features. He masked it quickly with indifference.

"Parkinson annoys me," he shrugged.

"Since when?" you raised a skeptical eyebrow. 

He leaned forward, voice dropping into a velvety murmur. "Since she started messing with what's mine."

"Excuse me?" you stammered. 

"Mine to torment, I mean," he corrected, rolling his eyes. "Merlin, don't get ahead of yourself."

"I wasn't," you snapped, embarrassment twisting sharply in your stomach.

"I know." His smirk returned. "Your pride wouldn't allow it."

You huffed, returning your gaze to your textbook, pretending to read despite the words blurring uselessly in front of you.

He flipped open his own book, pretending to skim through pages in bored silence. After about twenty minutes of silent “studying”, he stood up without looking at you.

"I’ll come back tomorrow for those notes.

You hesitated, feeling the inexplicable urge to humor him, despite every reason not to. "Fine. Whatever."

"And stop hiding in the library every day. It's depressing."

"Fuck off," you shot back sharply.

His answering laugh echoed as he walked away and you sat there for the next few minutes trying to summon any sense of concentration to no avail.

A week later you were back in the library, this time sequestered at a corner table piled with parchment and potion vials. Professor Slughorn had paired the two of you for an extra-credit antidote project—“my favorite students working together!” he’d said with a wink—and neither of you had managed to wriggle out of it.

Haechan wasn’t really doing any work, he just kept  twirling his quill and splattering ink blots across your carefully labeled ingredient chart.

“Could you not?” you snapped, blotting at the stains.

“Relax,” he said, slouching until his knees bumped yours under the table. “Don’t you know that chaos is the mother of invention?”

“That mentality is how you melted the cauldron earlier in class”

He grinned. “That was funny, though.”

You rolled your eyes and bent back over your parchment, quill scratching furiously across the page. You could feel him watching you, but you refused to look up.

The quiet of the library was broken by a burst of loud whispers from a nearby table.

“…I bet he only keeps the half-blood around because he feels bad for her—”

“—heard they sneak off after curfew. Wonder what she’s giving him in return…”

You didn’t even need to guess who they were talking about. It was obvious what people thought when they saw you with the Slytherin golden boy, the heir of one of the most ancient pureblood families. They probably thought you were his charity case as well. That you were stupid enough to want him around after all he said to you.  

Your pulse pounded too hard in your ears to hear Haechan’s chair scraping back. A second later, the gossipers’ table went silent, punctuated only by the unmistakable snap of someone’s quill being broken in half.

He walked back to your table and dropped into his seat, jaw tight. “Idiots.”

You shoved your notes into a messy stack. “I’m done for tonight.”

“Y/N—” he reached across the table, but you were already on your feet.

You didn’t stop until you reached an unused classroom three corridors away. It was cold and dusty, with cobwebs in the corners and desks scattered around.

The ghost of a bride hovered near the corner, sobbing quietly into her translucent veil. You ignored her as you braced both hands on the windowsill, trying to steady your breathing, willing the sting behind your eyes to fade. 

After a few minutes, the ghost floated silently through the wall, giving you a mournful look—as if accepting that you had more reason to cry tonight.

The door clicked open after a few seconds.

“Thought I told you I was done,” you said without turning.

“And since when do I listen?” Haechan closed the door behind him.

You didn’t reply, only sound that could be heard was your quiet sniffles and his slow steps getting near.

“They’re not worth it.” His voice was careful. “A new article will come out tomorrow and everyone will move on. You know people need a new chew toy every week.”

You huffed a shaky laugh. “Easy for you to say. Your family’s never been headline fodder.”

“Sure we have. Just with less sensational adjectives.” He stepped closer until your shoulders brushed lightly. “Besides, if they’re going to talk, we might as well give them something good to gossip about.”

You glanced up at him, puzzled. “Like what?”

Haechan hesitated for a quick second, before his mouth quirked into that half-smile you recognized as the one he gave before saying something ridiculous. “We could pretend to date.”

A surprised laugh burst out of you, louder than you’d intended. “Fake dating? Seriously?”

“Why not?” His expression was deceptively casual, but his eyes stayed serious on yours. “It’s the quickest way to control the narrative. People eat that shit up.”

You shook your head, smiling, expecting him to crack up and admit he was joking any second now. But his expression didn't waver, and you faltered slightly.

“You’re not serious.”

His gaze didn’t shift. “What if I am?”

You stared at him, waiting for the joke, the laughter—but it didn’t come. Still, the idea was too absurd. Fake dating Lee Haechan? Impossible.

You shook your head again, forcing another laugh as you quickly dismissed the notion. “Nice try, Lee. But I think I’ll stick to something easier to manage like maybe getting top marks in our Potions assignment?”

He chuckled, finally relenting. “Suit yourself.”

Another tear escaped as you laughed softly, embarrassed. You swiped at your cheek. “God, I hate crying.”

“Yeah, you’re an ugly crier.” He nudged your shoulder gently

You rolled your eyes, shoving his arm, but he caught your hand mid-motion. His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, making your breath catch. For a moment you both stood there quietly, until finally, you let out a slow exhale and allowed your head to rest carefully against his shoulder.

He stiffened for barely a second, then relaxed, leaning gently into your weight.

Neither of you spoke again until the clock tower chimed curfew. Reluctantly, you straightened, feeling calmer but oddly reluctant to move away from him.

“We should finish that antidote tomorrow,” you murmured.

He nodded, eyes searching your face as if confirming you really were okay. “All right.”

When he left, his suggestion lingered in your thoughts, stuck there like an itch you couldn’t scratch.

Fake dating Lee Haechan. You snorted softly to yourself, shaking your head as you walked back to the common room. The idea was not only ridiculousbut completely impossible.

Yet your brain, traitorous as always, circled back stubbornly to it. The thought of Haechan holding your hand in the corridors, leaning closer at dinner, brushing a casual kiss to your forehead in front of everyone...

Heat rose sharply in your cheeks.

Ridiculous, yes… but not completely unappealing, if you were honest. He was handsome and smart, plus he wasn’t as irritating as you originally thought.

You shook your head again firmly, as if to physically dislodge the thought. No. You couldn’t afford to indulge this. It was crazy. Dangerous, even.

But as you walked up to the Gold Eagle Knocker at the entrance of the Ravenclaw common room and answered the riddle, you couldn’t deny the way your heart sped up at the thought of everyone believing you belonged to each other.

You spent more and more days studying with Haechan after that. Or rather, you studying while he studied you. It was a comfortable escape from judgmental whispers and the scrutiny of everyone else’s eyes. Somehow, he’d become your calm in the midst of chaos.

To your surprise, Haechan was actually a good listener, offering better advice than anyone else you'd ever met. It was unexpected for someone who seemed born to antagonize, but behind his cutting remarks was someone who noticed more than he let on.

He was even helping you improve your flying form, despite technically being your biggest rival since both of you played Seeker. But he’d started noticing small flaws in your technique, quietly pointing them out during your private drills. You only learned to fly at eleven, which made you less experienced compared to Haechan who’d practically grown up on a broom.

“You’re still dropping your shoulder every time you dive for the Snitch,” he called over one afternoon, a playful grin on his face as you landed and sat on the grass.

“I do not,” you shot back, brushing hair from your sweaty forehead.

“Yes, you do.” He snorted lightly, tossing himself onto the grass beside you. “It’s why I keep beating you in dives.”

“Whatever.” You sighed, picking at blades of grass. Admitting your weakness felt uncomfortable, but the words slipped out anyway. “It’s just...dives still freak me out a bit.”

His teasing expression softened immediately. Quietly, he stood and held out a hand. “Come on, I’ll show you how to fix it.”

You hesitated only a second before taking his hand. The warmth of his fingers sent a small flutter through your chest.

“Mount your broom,” he instructed gently, letting go once you were steady. “But don’t kick off yet.”

You did as told, gripping the handle tight enough to hide the slight tremble in your fingers. He moved behind you, his presence too close. You felt your breath catch sharply when one of his hands gently settled on your lower back, steadying you. His palm felt impossibly warm through your Quidditch robes.

“You’re way too tense,” he murmured, amused. You jumped slightly when his other hand rested firmly on your shoulder. “Relax a bit, yeah?”

“How am I supposed to relax when you’re—”

“Just trust me.”

You tried to turn your head but he gently redirected your chin with his fingertips, guiding your gaze straight ahead. 

“Eyes forward. If you were flying, you'd have crashed already.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, not from embarrassment, but from the soft rasp of his voice near your ear and the firm grip of his hands. You swallowed thickly. “It’s hard to concentrate with you right there.”

“I’m just correcting your form,” his fingers moved softly along your spine, and every nerve in your body seemed to spark under his touch.

His grip tightened slightly on your shoulder, pressing it into a more relaxed position. “Keep it down like this. Shift your weight forward without leaning into your broom too hard.” His breath was warm in your ear. “Trust your broom, and trust yourself. And stop tensing every muscle just because you’re afraid you’ll fall.”

“Easy for you to say,” you mumbled, frowning. “You were born with a broom attached to your hand.”

“Just try the dive.”  he chuckled.

You hovered mid-air and bent forward, shoulders steady this time as the broom descended. The dive went smoother and your stomach didn’t feel like a bottomless pit. 

“That…felt better.”

He grinned. “Told you.”

You dismounted, heart still thumping. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” he said, grabbing his own broom. Then, with a teasing smile, “Just remember who helped you when you finally beat me to the Snitch.”

The following week The Great Hall hummed with the usual breakfast chatter. It had been an awkward morning, people seemed more on edge than usual and you didn’t even know why until commotion started by the Slytherin table.

Haechan’s voice rose sharply with anger, breaking through the murmurs. “Mind your own business, will you?”

Glancing over your shoulder, you saw him glaring down a small cluster of Hufflepuffs who immediately ducked their heads, faces flushed and eyes darting nervously. He snatched a crumpled copy of the Daily Prophet from one boy’s trembling fingers. He looked up and his eyes locked onto yours.

“Enjoying this?” he stalked toward you, paper clenched in one fist.

“What are you talking about?” you asked, defensive under the weight of everyone’s stares.

He threw the Prophet down onto the Ravenclaw table. The headline screamed out in black lettering “MINISTRY SCANDAL—LEE FAMILY FACING INQUIRY OVER ILLEGAL DARK ARTEFACTS”

“You happy now?” Haechan hissed. “Your mother’s finally getting rid of the bad press. Congratulations, Minister’s pet.”

“What… I—We had nothing to do with this!”

“Oh, really?” he sneered bitterly, leaning in closer. “Funny how these stories started coming out right after the articles about you. Maybe Skeeter wasn’t so wrong… hanging around Muggles didn’t teach your family much about fair play.”

A few gasps echoed softly around you. You wanted to scream, to hex him right then and there, but your hands shook too badly under the table to even grip your wand.

You lifted your chin, staring back. “What are you really so upset about? That your father’s finally being exposed, or that people might think you’re just like him?”

His expression faltered enough to let you know your barb had landed. Of anything you could’ve said that was probably the worst for him.

Haechan didn’t just resent his father. He was terrified of becoming him. Every cruel instinct he buried, every smirk that masked something darker, every time he played the game too well—he wondered if he was already halfway there. So hearing it from your mouth, that disgust, that echo of everything he feared he might become? It was too much and it shook something in him loose. 

“You’re right,” he said with a cruel laugh. “My father’s not a good man. But at least he never pretended to be. Your mother clawed her way to the top on the back of others and you’re just her dirty little project. Filthy blood dressed in silk. And no matter how high you climb, you’ll always reek of where you came from.”

The air drained from your lungs. It wasn’t just the insult — it was how easy it came to him. As if it had always been there, lurking under his tongue. You stared numbly at the crumpled headline on the table. 

He was clearly deflecting. Protecting himself and his family’s name. But you never expected him to use words you’d only ever heard whispered by the worst kind of witches and wizards.

Haechan stormed out of the Great Hall, past the whispers and stares, past the first-years who scrambled aside in fear, past the professors who pretended they didn’t see anything. He didn’t slow down until he reached the abandoned courtyard behind the greenhouses, his breaths coming short and shallow.

He braced a hand against the cold stone wall, his pulse pounding sickeningly in his ears.

“Filthy blood dressed in silk”

The echo of his own voice made bile rise in his throat. He’d said it so easily, so effortlessly cruel, exactly like his father would have.

He could still see the way your expression had shattered. Not in anger—that would have been easier to stomach—but stunned disbelief, pain etched deep into your features, your chin held high even as your eyes welled with tears. He’d torn you open, hit you exactly where he knew it would cut deepest, and he’d done it because he couldn’t face feeling vulnerable himself.

“Fuck,” he whispered harshly, sliding down onto the nearest bench and burying his face in his hands. He felt like a coward. No, he felt worse.  He felt exactly like the kind of person he’d sworn he would never become.

He’d watched you go through this already, helped you pick up the pieces, telling you people would forget, that it wouldn’t matter in the end. But he’d never imagined his family would become the next target. He’d never expected the anger, the embarrassment, to burn so personally.

He swallowed thickly, head tilting back against the wall, gaze fixed unseeingly on the darkening sky. He needed to fix this. Needed you to understand that he’d meant none of it, that he wasn’t like his father, even if today he’d failed spectacularly at proving it.

But how could you possibly forgive him after what he'd said?

He wasn’t even sure if he could forgive himself.

The courtyard incident never reached the Headmaster, but the castle carried gossip faster than owls. By the next morning everyone knew Lee Haechan had called the Minister’s daughter “filthy blood” to her face. Ravenclaws pitched him glares sharp enough to cut skin. Half the Slytherins avoided eye contact, the rest wore smirks that said at least one of us finally said it out loud.

You refused to be in the same corridor with him, let alone speak. At meals you sat with your team while he took the far end of the Slytherin table and toyed with food he never finished. Whenever you entered the library, he left. Wordlessly. Every time.

The distance should have made things easier, instead it thrummed like a headache behind your eyes.

Thing’s should’ve calmed down after that, but the Prophet ran a follow-up column on the Lee investigation, calling Haechan directly a liability to the family reputation. Skeeter framed his words against you in the Great Hall as proof of the “volatile Lee temper,” the perfect angle to question whether the family’s dark artefact inquiry hinted at deeper corruption. 

She quoted unnamed “allies” of the Lee family who feared the heir’s public outbursts were undermining decades of carefully polished prestige. In Skeeter’s telling, Haechan wasn’t just an embarrassed teenager but a wobbling pillar threatening to topple the entire Lee dynasty.

You closed the paper before anyone could see your hands shaking. Whatever anger you still felt, seeing him reduced to a scandalous article—no less than you had been—left a sour taste in your mouth that lasted throughout breakfast.

By the time you slid into Charms class, your stomach was in knots. Professor Flitwick’s flickering quill skated across the blackboard, dividing your Charms class into pairs for the upcoming Presentation on Non-Verbal Counter Charms.

The moment your name appeared next to Lee, H., the knots pulled so tight you thought you might throw up.

Across the room, Haechan twirled his wand between two fingers, deliberately avoiding your gaze. You’d managed to avoid him so well you were half-convinced the castle had sprouted secret passages just to keep you apart, so being forced into proximity again felt deeply unpleasant. 

“Partners will demonstrate in two weeks,” Flitwick announced, clapping his tiny hands. “Research and practice outside class is essential!”

Reluctantly, you gathered your things and walked stiffly to the empty seat next to Haechan. He didn’t bother moving his books to make room for you.

“I wrote down a few options,” you said, dropping your notes onto the corner of the desk. “I’ll handle wand movement notation, you can do the theory.”

Haechan barely cracked one eye open. “Pass. Last time I trusted your wand work, I nearly lost my eyebrows.”

“That was in Defense class, and you deserved it,” you snap, voice sharp enough that two Gryffindors glancd over. “Just do the theory, Haechan. It’s not that hard.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—did I miss the part where we decided you’re in charge?” He straightened slowly, finally meeting your glare. “If Flitwick’s grading us on performance, I’m not gonna let you take all the spotlight.”

You exhaled sharply. “Then what’s your brilliant idea?”

“We can meet in the library tonight,” he said evenly. “Let’s practice first, figure out who does what later.”

“Fine,” you snapped.

“Fine.” He leaned back again. “And let’s do something advanced. Your choice, if that makes you feel better.”

You rolled your eyes, muttering a resigned “Whatever”

When you arrived at the library a few hours later, it was mostly empty aside from a Ravenclaw girl who was crying into her Potion notes and Madam Pince who was judging from her desk at the front. Haechan was sitting at a back table, posture so straight it seemed unnatural for him. His eyes flicked up only when you dropped your bag across from him.

“Non-verbal Disillusionment,” you said by way of greeting. “It’s a simple figure eight motion. If you botch it, I’m not explaining to Flitwick why you’re half-invisible in class.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Nice to see you, too.”

“Let’s try partial disillusionment first, just my hand."

He raised his wand, eyes narrowing in concentration. "Stay still," he murmured. His wand flicked in a tight spiral. At first nothing happened, then slowly your fingertips began to shimmer into the tabletop, camouflaging perfectly with the wood.

“Not bad,” you admitted, slightly impressed.

He lowered his wand, the illusion fading quickly. "Your turn."

You focused carefully, tracing a precise spiral in the air. His hand flickered briefly before returning fully visible.

He gave you a faint smirk. "Looks like you need some pointers."

“Just be quiet for two seconds, will you?"

"Maybe try easing up on the wrist movement," he suggested anyway. "Less stiff."

You tried again and his fingertips vanished almost completely. He flexed them experimentally.

"Better," he said quietly.

Halfway through the wand practice he paused. "About the other day, in the Great Hall—"

You tensed immediately, eyes snapping up to meet his. “I’m not really here for an encore performance,” you muttered. 

Your counterspell fizzled again, causing reddish brown to bleed through the fading illusion on his arm. He didn’t mock you this time. Instead, he silently recast the charm, patiently waiting for you to try again

“I was a dick,” he said quietly. “And not in my usual charming way. I mean… a proper, full-scale dick.”

“I’m aware.” You said, though you wanted to laugh at the way he described that.

“I crossed a line," he finished, holding your gaze steadily. "I shouldn't have lashed out like that or called you a—”

“A filthy half-blood?” you finished, swallowing around the tightness in your throat.

His jaw tightened. “Yeah. My father always taught me the fastest way to look strong was to punch down. It’s taken me this long to realize how pathetic that is.”

"You didn't have to throw me to the wolves to save yourself."

He exhaled slowly, looking tired and ashamed. “I know. And I’m sorry.”

His sincerity softened some of the tension that had lodged itself inside your chest. After a pause, you gave him a small nod. “Apology acknowledged.”

He tilted his head cautiously. “But not accepted?”

"Still pending," you offered quietly. "But no more low blows and no more humiliating me publicly."

He almost smiled, relaxing slightly. "Fair, truce?"

You hesitated, then held out your hand. "Truce."

He took it firmly, and you felt warmth linger briefly even after he let go. You hesitated, fingers tracing the edge of your wand. 

“How are you doing, by the way? With... everything. The Prophet. The investigation on your father.”

Haechan looked down at the table, then exhaled a laugh that had no humor in it. “It’s weird. Part of me’s pissed they’re dragging his name through the dirt. The other part…” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “The other part thinks maybe it’s what he deserves.”

You stayed quiet, but your hand crept across the table, resting just near his.

“I keep thinking,” he said softly, “if they tear him down, does that mean they’re tearing down part of me, too?”

You bit your lip. “No. You’re not him.”

“Don’t sound so sure.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I sounded exactly like him that day in the Great Hall.

“But that’s not who you are.” You reassured him softly.

His hand moved then, his pinky brushing yours.

“Thanks,” he said, voice barely above a breath.

“Ready to try the full-body charm?”

He leaned back with a teasing smirk. "Try not to make me disappear permanently. I know you'd miss me."

You rolled your eyes, but couldn't entirely suppress your smile. "Don't tempt me."

For the next hour you traded spells and counter-spells. He still rolled his eyes and mocked your notes, but the comments landed softer every time, the edge dulled by something like mutual respect or at least mutual exhaustion. When Madam Pince finally shooed you out of the library, you’re silently looking forward to the next practice.

After that truce in the library, nothing between you and Haechan got any easier.

In private, he still showed up to practice and study. In public, he kept his distance, afraid that more articles would come out. The more time you spent around him, the riskier everything felt.

If anyone had asked, you would have denied thinking about Lee Haechan at all—denied the way your pulse lurched when his broom skimmed too close during matches, denied how your gaze drifted to his mouth when he argued with you in class, denied the fierce stab of protectiveness that flared whenever someone else insulted him.

But your parents were still political adversaries, and it was the middle of the elections which meant everything was so much more fragile. You were starting to think that The Prophet had spies in Hogwarts. The rumor that Rita Skeeter could transform into a fly and that’s how she heard so many private conversations was starting to seem more believable every day. 

Because of the complexity of all these things, you hand no choice but to roll your eyes at Haechan in the corridors, call him insufferable beside your friends, and let the castle believe you hated him without exception.

Mostly you stuck with your own Quidditch team since it was easier to pretend around them. Venting about the Slytherin Seeker was practically a bonding ritual.

“He’s such an asshole!” Mika spat after a Saturday match, pushing her dark hair off her forehead.

“I can’t believe Madam Hooch let that shoulder check slide,” Renjun grumbled, ripping off his gloves. “He nearly sent you into the stands.”

“Typical Slytherin, they only know how to play dirty,” you agreed breathlessly, bruised, and secretly exhilarated.

But you weren’t totally innocent either.

That morning at breakfast, right before the match, you’d gotten into one of your usual arguments with him over something silly like who’d scored more points this season or who had better broom control.

“Keep dreaming, Lee,” you said, smirking across the table. “You’ll fumble the second the Snitch shows up.”

He scoffed, chin propped on his hand. “If I win today, I want a reward.”

“A reward?”

“Yeah. Something worthy of beating you.”

You pretended to think, tapping your fork to your lip. “Fine. If you catch the Snitch, I’ll give you whatever you want.”

The words left your mouth with a casual shrug, but the second you said them, his expression darkened with interest.

“Anything?” He asked, lowering his voice enough so only you could hear. “You might not like what I want though.”

You blinked, suddenly very aware of how close his knee was to yours under the table.

His gaze flicked briefly down to your mouth, then back up. “See you on the pitch, then.”  he said softly, pulling away with a smirk that left your cheeks burning.

You’d said it as a joke. Obviously. But now, after the match, with bruises blooming on your ribs and your teammates fuming about missed fouls, you couldn’t stop replaying that look on his face. And to top it all off…

He’d caught the damn Snitch.

You waited until your teammates were gone and the Slytherin tent was empty to walk in. Haechan was sitting on a bench there, shirt half-off and hair damp with sweat. 

“Took you long enough,” he sighed, leaning back in his arms.

“You’re lucky the wind was on your side today.” 

“Aht! Aht! Don’t come at me with that now, you were still confident enough to bet.’

You rolled your eyes. “Whatever, you’re not even going to cash that in.”

“Oh, but I am.” He pushed off the bench slowly, stepping closer. “You can’t offer something like that and expect me to just forget.” 

You crossed your arms. “What do you want, then? A box of Fizzing Whizbees? A foot massage?”

“Tempting. But no.” His fingers reached out, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear before letting his hand drop. 

“I want you to admit I’m the better Seeker.” 

“Come off it.” you laughed.

He leaned in a fraction, his voice lower now. “Alright then. I want you to ask nicely.”

“What?”

“Please, Haechan, what do you want from me?” he said, mocking your voice. “Say it.”

He was getting too close. Your eyes flicked to his mouth for half a second, and you knew he caught it.

“Is this the part where you make me kiss your boots or something?” you scoffed, looking at a point behind him instead of his eyes.

“I have a better idea of what you can kiss.”

An annoying flush crept up your neck, lips parting in disbelief at the implication.

“Excuse me?” you asked, with a laugh that came out shakier than intended.

“You heard me.” He didn’t look away, didn’t even blink. 

This wasn’t your usual banter anymore. The kind you could dismiss with a scoff and a snide remark. This felt infinitely more charged.

“Oh, you’re disgusting.”  You muttered.

“We made a deal,” he said, stepping even more into your space. “And I won.”

You backed up slightly, only to hit the wooden lockers behind you.

“What exactly do you want from me, Haechan?”

“That,” he started, his voice lower and raspier now “is a great question.”

He moved slowly as if he was offering a chance to run but you didn’t. Maybe you should have.

His hand came up, knuckles brushing your jaw. “You want to know what I want?”

You swallowed hard and nodded.

“I want to know what happens when you stop pretending you hate me.”

“I don't pr—”

“Don’t lie. I've seen the way you look at me when you think no one’s watching, you’re so obvious.”

You tilted your head, defiant even now. “Fine, let’s say you're right. What then?”

He gasped so slightly you barely caught it before his smirk came back in full force.

“Then we need to do something about it.”

You stared up at him, close enough to count every damn mole on his stupid, perfect face.

He leaned in until his  lips brushed your ear. “Unless,” he whispered, “you’re scared you’ll like it.”

Your hands twitched at your sides.

“As if.”

You kissed him so hard you knew it would bruise later. And for a second it wasn’t about politics or Quidditch or the Prophet or who hated who first. It was just his mouth on yours, insistent and warm, and the way his hands gripped your waist possessively.

The kiss only lasted a few seconds before he pulled back, breathless. 

“That was definitely better than a foot massage.”

He barely finished the words before your mouth crashed onto his again, hungrier this time, any shred of dignity gone. Your fingers slid up his neck, tugging him down by the collar of his robes.

Haechan chuckled into your mouth, and you felt him press you harder into the wood, his body trapping you there.

“So much for hating me,” he murmured, breaking just far enough away to speak, his breath hot against your lips.

“Shut up,” you hissed, fingers tightening in his hair as you pulled him back down to you, kissing him roughly to silence that stupid mouth. 

He groaned against your lips, slightly annoyed at how good you were at this. Your hands caressed his jaw where stubble was growing. His hands found your hips and squeezed firmly.

You gasped, lips parting to give him an opening, and he took it immediately, deepening the kiss with the kind of reckless arrogance that made your knees tremble. One of his hands slid lower, slipping under your Quidditch shirt to brush bare skin.

“Fuck—” you breathed, eyes fluttering shut when his mouth pulled away to trail along your jaw. “Haechan.”

He hummed, pleased at the way his name sounded from your lips. “Say that again.”

You shook your head stubbornly, pulling his mouth back to yours, swallowing the cocky smirk you could feel forming. You needed him silent, you needed to stop thinking, stop remembering that this was Lee Fucking Haechan.

His thigh pressed between your legs, and suddenly it was harder to pretend you didn’t want this with every fiber of your being. Especially when you were arching against him, hips chasing the friction shamefully. He noticed and pressed harder, savoring the breathless sound you made.

“Not so mouthy now, are you?” he teased, nipping your lower lip.

“Just—god—stop talking,” you breathed, dragging your nails down the back of his neck, earning a rough groan that vibrated through you. 

Your head spun from how quickly this was happening, how eagerly your body surrendered to him.

He smirked against your lips. “But I like watching you argue.”

You grabbed his jaw firmly, forcing his gaze down to yours, reveling in the way his breath stuttered at your sudden boldness. “Haechan, I swear—”

“What?” His voice was challenging, eyes glittering with excitement. “What are you gonna do?”

The answer came in the form of your hand sliding down to palm him through the fabric of his quidditch trousers, smiling sharply when his confident expression fell, eyes squeezing shut as he bit out a moan.

“That.” You murmured, stroking him again, slowly.

He recovered quickly and was kissing you again with a hand tangling in your hair, tugging firmly enough to make you gasp.

“Two can play dirty, princess.”  He growled softly, hips pressing forward into your hand.

“Then fucking play,” you challenged, breathless.

His fingers swiftly undid the buttons of your trousers. Nothing but heat flushed your skin as he slipped his hand lower and under your panties, fingers finding exactly where you needed him.

You cried out sharply, hips bucking into his touch.

“So sensitive,” he teased, voice shaking just slightly as his fingers circled your clit gently, then pressed inside you. “I wonder if your team knows their perfect little seeker gets this wet for a Slytherin.”

“Shut—ah—” your retort melted into a moan, hips grinding shamelessly against his hand.

Your head fell back against the locker, lips parted in a silent gasp as Haechan’s fingers worked you over. Your legs were already trembling, breath hitching in time with every curl of his fingers.

The need to to wipe off the fucking look on his face of pure cocky satisfaction was overcoming. He was watching you unravel like this was the victory he really wanted—not the snitch, not the match, this is what he’d been craving the most.

“Who knew,” he murmured. “That you’d look this pretty falling apart all over my fingers.” 

You couldn’t even glare at him, all your strength focused on moving your hips against his hand, chasing that high, chasing him. Until the unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching froze you both on the spot.

His hand stilled immediately, and you slapped it away in a a panic. Your pants were unbuttoned, his shirt was still half-off, your lips were swollen, and you could feel your pulse between your thighs, desperate and unfinished. This was not exactly how you wanted to be caught dead.

“Shit,” you hissed, shoving him back as quickly as your wobbly knees allowed.

Haechan grabbed his wand and muttered a cleaning charm under his breath, wiping any visible evidence from his hands and your legs. Then, he schooled his expression into that bored and slightly annoyed mask he wore in class.

You barely had time to fix your clothes before a voice rang out from outside.

“Haechan? You in here?”

The Slytherin beater, Na Jaemin.

Haechan stepped out of the tent as if he hadn’t just been knuckle-deep inside you. “Just grabbing my wand,” he lied smoothly. “I didn't know I needed a hall pass to change.”

Jaemin laughed. “Hey, was someone else in there?”

You forced yourself to step out, tucking your shirt in with trembling fingers and praying to every god in the castle that your face didn’t look as wrecked as it felt..

Jaemin blinked at you, confused. “Oh.”

Then he looked between the two, and you could see the pieces falling in place.

“Right…” he said, drawing out the word. “Well, don’t let me interrupt. Just  figured you’d want to see the scoreboard. They’ve posted top players.”

Haechan raised a brow. “Top players?”

Jaemin gave a pointed look. “i think you’ll be surprised.”

Then he turned and walked out, leaving behind a thick silence in his wake. You let out a breath, arms crossed tightly over your chest.

“That was a close call.” He said, still looking way too proud for someone who’d just been caught mid-debauchery.

You glared. “I'm going to kill you.”

He smirked. “Only if you say please.”

The Ministry’s Galas always felt like a battlefield in ball gowns, but this year it was worse. Your mother moved through the ballroom with effortless grace, every nod and handshake a subtle show of dominance. You followed half a step behind, champagne flute untouched in your hand.

“Y/N, darling, try to look engaged,” she murmured, looping her arm through yours as she guided you toward yet another tedious cluster of political allies. “This is the perfect opportunity to make connections before graduation.”

“Can I at least enjoy dessert before I get offered a job I don’t want?” you said under your breath.

She laughed lightly as if you’d said something charming. “You have options, dear. The International Magical Cooperation office is always interested in young minds, and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement has already reached out. You could even apprentice under Councilwoman Fairbairn, she’s been watching you.”

You blinked, trying to summon enthusiasm. “That sounds... overwhelming.”

“It sounds like a future,” she corrected, smiling at a passing Wizengamot elder. “We can’t all be Quidditch captains forever.”

You clenched your teeth behind a tight smile. This entire night was curated around your mother’s standards. From your dress, your hairstyle, to your perfectly timed laugh. And you were so bored you could scream.

So when she paused to speak to a pair of visiting diplomats, you used the opportunity to escape toward the dessert table. You stuffed a sugared pumpkin tart into your mouth just to have an excuse not to answer questions about your “career trajectory.” If anyone asked again about your post-Hogwarts plans, you were going to throw yourself into the enchanted punch fountain.

The peace lasted until you felt that familiar prickle between your shoulder blades. You turned just as Haechan bowed to a council witch, and walked straight toward you.

“Enjoying the pastries, princess?” he asked, stopping close enough that the chandelier lights caught a storm of gold in his eyes.

“You should focus on your father’s damage control, not my dessert plate,” you replied, forcing a smile that hurt your cheeks.

“Trust me, he’s better at politics without me. Besides, I’m here to make sure you don’t die of boredom.” he said with a crooked grin. 

Then as if it was the most common thing, he wiped a bit of powdered sugar from the corner of your lip. The action shocked the reply out of your mind, and you had to look around to make sure nobody saw that. A passing journalist drifted too near so you stepped back on instinct and lifted your chin to reply.

“I would rather be bored than babysat by you.” The reporter’s quill twitched happily and moved on.

Haechan’s eyes cooled, but a corner of his mouth lifted. “If you keep insulting me that sweetly, people might think you mean the opposite.”

“Are you ever serious about anything?” you rolled your eyes, yet your pulse thudded hard enough to blur the string quartet.

He offered his hand. “One dance. You can call me names the whole time.”

“Not a chance,” you hissed but a council member brushed past and mistook your glare for a smile. “Oh, Miss Y/N, would you lead the next waltz?”

Before you could refuse, Haechan’s hand slid to your back. “She’d be delighted,” he said smoothly, steering you onto the glassy floor.

You settled your palm against his shoulder, felt muscle tense under velvet, and tried to count the steps. But his thumb brushed the inside of your wrist and the numbers scattered.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered.

“It’s the tempo,” you lied.

The waltz spun you through three agonizing minutes of perfect posture and silent arguments fought with eyes alone. When the final note faded, applause burst around you, and you let go as if burned.

You escaped to a side corridor lined with stained-glass portraits. Halfway down, you heard his footsteps. You spun, skirt whipping.

“You had no right—”

“No right to what? Save you from making a scene?” He stopped an arm’s length away, breathing hard. “I’m pretty sure we’re here to keep appearances.” 

“Oh, thank you,” you snapped. “But I can fight my own battles.”

“I’m aware.”

A flickering wall sconce threw silver across his cheekbone, your eyes followed the droplets of melted snow that still clung to his hair from the ride here. He looked beautiful, and you hated it.

“Why do you always do this,” you said, softer now, “You always make everything harder than it needs to—”

He stepped closer. “Do you really not know why?”

Your breath caught, his gaze dipped to your lips.

“Haechan… this isn’t right,” you whispered.

“I know,” he answered, not moving back. “But tell me you don’t want it too.”

A voice rounded the corridor corner—two aides chatting about the banquet. Without thinking, you grabbed Haechan’s collar and dragged him into a narrow alcove behind a velvet drape. The aides passed but you still held onto him.

“You’re truly such a pain,” you breathed.

“You’re one to talk.” He said and kissed you before you could come up with another retort.

His hands framed your face, thumbs stroking away shock. Yours fisted in the silk of his robe as you kissed him back, matching every demand. The gala’s distant music thumped through the walls, but inside the alcove everything narrowed to the press of mouth on mouth, the soft catch of your breath, the relief of finally, finally shutting each other up.

When you broke apart, you were both trembling. He rested his forehead against yours.

“This is so dumb,” you breathed.

“I have to disagree.” 

Another set of footsteps came from outside and you pulled away smoothing your hair. He straightened his lapels with a tiny smirk on his lips.

“Lose the grin, Lee.” you said, slipping out first into the hall, masking swollen lips behind a polite smile. He followed a minute later, expression schooled into neutrality again.

Across the hall, your mother caught your gaze. You forced yourself to move toward her, while behind you his fingers brushed across the back of your hand before letting go

A week went by without much thought. The bruises from the gala’s waltz, the little half-moon marks his fingers left on your wrist, had faded. But the memory of that alcove kiss refused to. Unfortunately, life went on, and in your household that meant tea with the Minister at precisely eight in the morning.

Your mother was already seated in the glass-roofed conservatory, steam curling from a delicate china pot. She greeted you with the smile she reserved for diplomats.

“Sit, darling.”

You obeyed quietly but anxiety bubbled in your chest.  She only used this much ceremony when she was about to drop a bomb.

“I’ve been thinking about your future,” she began, pouring. “You’ve always excelled in Defense, but I know how fond you are of languages as well. So I called in a favor.”

Your stomach dipped. “Mom…”

She set a parchment envelope on the table. “A summer internship in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, right after NEWTs. You’ll shadow the Trade Accords division, they might even pay if you impress them.”

“I didn’t apply for this,” you said tightly.

“I applied on your behalf. They accepted instantly, obviously. One look at your marks, your pedigree—”

“Exactly,” you cut in. “My pedigree. When do I get to make a choice that isn’t pre-selected for political optics?”

Her expression cooled by a few hard degrees. “Opportunities like this don’t wait. You’d be foolish to refuse.”

The conversation spiraled quickly with her measured reasoning, your rising temper, and the clink of china as you set your cup down too sharply. In the end she dismissed you with a gentle but immovable, “We’ll speak once you’ve calmed down.”

You left the conservatory shaking, the parchment still unopened in your fist.

You considered skipping but pride shoved you into the Ministry lift at 8:59am. You wore sensible robes you hated, hair pulled back into a ponytail that was giving you a headache, and your heart was still hammering with resentment. But if you had to do this, you would do it well… and spitefully prove you didn’t need your mother to pull strings.

The lift grill rattled open onto a marble corridor lined with signage that said Level Five, International Cooperation. You approached the reception desk, rehearsing a polite introduction. Then you heard a laugh that froze you on the spot.

Haechan was leaning against the counter, chatting easily with the receptionist. He was wearing dark robes, and his hair was slicked back. The receptionist pointed toward a stack of orientation folders, he thanked her with a wink, and turned towards you.

His eyebrows shot up in shock when he saw you, then his mouth curved into a slow smile.

“Well, well. Fancy seeing you here on a Monday morning.”

You gave him a flat look. “What are you doing here?”

“Same thing as you, I’m guessing. Interning because my father thinks letting me rot on a beach all summer would reflect poorly on the family name.”

You raised a brow. “Was this the only department desperate enough to take you?”

“Actually,” he drawled, stepping closer, “Magical Law Enforcement was my father’s first pick but it was too much work so I requested this department specifically.” He tilted his head. “Imagine my surprise when I saw your name on the roster last night. Made this whole endeavor infinitely more entertaining.”

Heat crept up your neck, equal parts anger and something far less convenient. “I’m not here for your entertainment, Lee. Stay out of my way.”

“That might be difficult,” he said, tapping the crest on his folder. “Trade Accords division, same as you.”

Of course. Your mother couldn’t have orchestrated a more ironic punishment if she’d tried. But grateful relief pooled in your stomach anyways. At least you wouldn’t be alone in a sea of strangers, at least the one person who could keep up with you (and rile you up) would be right there. But you couldn’t show that. The whole structure of whatever twisted thing existed between the two of you depended on pretending you’d rather kiss a Blast-Ended Skrewt.

The program coordinator, Ms. Thatch approached you, beaming at you both. “Wonderful! Our Hogwarts pair. Minister Y/L/N spoke highly of you, and Mr. Lee comes with stellar references. You’ll be working together on our project about Portkey Tariff revisions.”

You swallowed a groan, Haechan’s grin only widened.

“Looking forward to our collaboration,” he said sweetly, extending his hand. Ms. Thatch watched, expectant.

You shook it, pretending your pulse didn’t spike when his thumb brushed the inside of your wrist in a silent echo of the waltz from the gala. His eyes flickered with the same memory.

“I hope you can keep up,” you murmured under your breath.

“When have I ever disappointed you?” he answered, squeezing slightly before releasing your hand.

The morning of your first official group session, you found Haechan sitting on the arm of a leather sofa in the Ministry atrium, twirling his wand mindlessly and balancing a croissant on his knee. You approached slowly, arms full of color-coded folders of all the research you’d done already. He looked up, eyes dragging over your thoroughly professional appearance before raising a brow.

“Someone’s ready to storm the Wizengamot.”

“I can’t say the same about you.”

He popped the last bit of croissant into his mouth and spoke through the crumbs. “Relax, this thing’s just a formality. They don’t expect us to have actual solutions yet.”

“I’m not here to coast,” you huffed. “I’m not going to let anyone say I got this internship because of my mother.”

“Of course not. You’ve got enough pressure breathing down your neck without adding my laziness to it.” he replied with a dramatic sigh.

 “So you admit you’re lazy.”

“Ah, I'd call it strategic,” he corrected with a grin. “Why waste effort on a rigged game?”

You stared at him, genuinely annoyed now. “Why even be here if you’re not going to try?”

“Because I was told to be,” he said, still smiling but something behind his eyes hardened.

You opened your mouth to press, but Ms. Thatch appeared, waving the two of you over to the briefing room where interns settled around the long mahogany table. Ms. Thatch stood at the front, adjusting her elegant tortoiseshell glasses.

“Welcome back, everyone. Today we’ll outline initial proposals for the Portkey Tariff Revision project,” she said briskly. “I trust you all reviewed the necessary documents in preparation for this.”

You glanced quickly at Haechan, who was leaning back  and looking bored in the chair opposite you.

When Ms. Thatch’s gaze landed on you, she smiled encouragingly. “Miss Y/L/N, let’s hear your proposal first.”

You straightened, ignoring the faint twitch at Haechan’s lips, and began clearly, “The current tariffs favor Western European trade. I think we should revise the rates using updated data from underrepresented regions, especially in Eastern Europe and Asia. It would make things fairer across the board.”

Ms. Thatch nodded appreciatively. “Very good, any thoughts?”

Haechan leaned forward, eyes glinting as they locked onto yours. “That sounds good on paper but it ignores our current diplomatic priorities. Adjusting tariffs too quickly risks alienating our key European allies. I’d suggest a phased approach, start with targeted reductions for certain regions while giving our main trade partners time to adjust.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, feeling irritation rise at the implication that your idea was naïve. “So we just let the imbalance drag on for years while everyone tiptoes around it?”

He tilted his head, annoyingly calm. “No, we just need to be smart about timing. If we push too hard and too fast, we could lose cooperation completely. It’s not just about fairness, it’s about what’s actually doable.”

“Diplomacy requires action,” you shot back, voice sharpening despite your efforts to remain composed.

“When has rushing things ever gotten us anywhere?” he asked with a raised brow.

The other interns glanced between you two with barely hidden fascination. Ms. Thatch cleared her throat delicately. “Passionate debate, but perhaps we can find a middle ground?”

You flushed slightly, biting your lip. Beside you, another intern whispered something like awkward, but you ignored it.

“Well,” Haechan started, “we could try a hybrid approach. Immediate adjustments where the gaps are the worst, but phase in the rest over time. We could also offer incentives like better magical goods regulations for countries willing to work with the new model early on.”

You blinked. It wasn’t a terrible suggestion. It was annoyingly logical. Worse, you’d briefly considered something similar before dismissing it because it felt too cautious. You glanced at Ms. Thatch, whose expression was encouraging.

“…That could work,” you said reluctantly. “As long as we set clear timelines for change and don’t let it get buried in process.”

Haechan gave you a satisfied smile. “Look at that teamwork.”

Ms. Thatch clapped once, pleased. “Wonderful! A joint proposal from Mr. Lee and Miss Y/L/N. Excellent demonstration of cooperation.”

Your face warmed up at her compliments, but you were still annoyed because you'd unintentionally made Haechan look good too. He reclined in his chair again, twirling his quill lazily, with a little smirk on his face.

When the meeting ended, you gathered your parchments quickly, eager to escape the lingering awkwardness. But as you stood, Haechan slipped smoothly into step beside you.

“You’re welcome,” he murmured, leaning slightly toward you.

“For what? Pointing out flaws in my idea?”

“For saving your impulsive approach from alienating half of Europe,” he corrected.

“Why do you act like you care about the outcome now?” you snapped softly.

“You’d be surprised.”

The lift chimed before you could answer. You stepped in first, forcing a slow breath. Haechan followed, positioning himself at a polite distance but still close enough that his body heat seeped through your robes.

The enchanted car lurched upward, then swerved left, then right in its usual nauseating zig-zag. Your boots slid and you lost your balance. Haechan’s hand shot out, pulling you against the solid plane of his chest.

“Careful…” he murmured.

“Thanks,” you managed, the word thin and embarrassingly high.

He released you the moment you steadied, but the imprint of his fingers stayed on your skin. When the doors finally opened on the Atrium, your pulse was thudding so hard you could hear it.

“See you tomorrow, partner,” he murmured, throwing a knowing glance over his shoulder as he exited.

You watched him disappear through the bustling floor realizing it was going to be a very long internship.

The next few days consisted of nothing but research. Haechan seemed more interested in the project after your argument. He claimed he was committed to helping but you suspected he just enjoyed contradicting your findings.

“Page six,” he announced, flipping your draft around. “Your import tariff curve is off by half a point.”

“It is not.” You muttered without looking up.

He leaned forward. “Wanna bet?”

You rubbed your temples, eyes throbbing from going through three decades worth of parchments. “Fine. Show me.”

Haechan stood and bent over your chair, his cologne wrapping around you. He pointed to a neat column of figures, far closer to your face than necessary.

“See?” he murmured. “You adjusted by seven percent, but the 1903 clause moved the baseline to eight.”

“Good catch,” you conceded through gritted teeth.

He straightened, grinning. “Say it louder, the ghosts in the basement might’ve missed it.”

You rolled your eyes, then pressed two fingers to the side of your neck and winced. All those hours of hunching had finally caught up with you.

Haechan’s smirk faded. “You okay?”

“Just sore,” you muttered, rotating your shoulder. “Thanks to someone who insisted we cross-reference three languages and thirty years of footnotes.”

“That same someone happens to give excellent massages,” he said, sliding behind your chair before you could protest. “Turn.”

You opened your mouth to refuse but then another sharp twinge shot down your spine. So with a reluctant sigh, you let his hands settle lightly on your shoulders.

“Don’t break me,” you mumbled, cheeks heating.

He chuckled, low. “You’ve survived Bludgers to the ribs. I think you’ll live.”

His thumbs worked slow circles into the knotted muscles at the base of your neck. Heat unfurled under your skin; the room seemed to narrow to the quiet rasp of parchment and the steady press of his hands.

“Better?” he asked, voice a breath from your ear.

“A little,” you managed, pulse thudding far too fast for mere relief.

He kneaded deeper, tracing careful circles. Your breath caught as his thumbs slid higher toward your neck. He paused, and you didn’t realize he was leaning in until you felt the faintest ghost of a kiss graze your bare shoulder where your robes had slipped. Your entire body stiffened in surprise.

“Haechan—” The name broke on a gasp as he kissed you again.

“I’ll stop if you want,” he murmured but his lips only drifted higher. Another kiss landed below your ear, teeth grazing a spot that made your breath hitch. He nudged your hair aside, mapping the exposed skin with his mouth.

“What are you doing…” you breathed.

“Just helping you relax,” he whispered, mouth warm on your neck.

You turned without thinking, and his mouth met yours, stealing the rest of your question. Your fingers slid into his hair, tugging him closer. 

He stood from his chair and eased you back until you bumped the table. His tongue brushed yours; a low sound caught in his throat when you arched into him. Your hands found the loosened knot of his tie and pulled. He broke the kiss just long enough to trace your bottom lip with his thumb.

“Feeling better?”

You swallowed thickly. “I don’t know.”

“Hmm, we gotta keep going then.” He kissed you again, deeper this time, hands sliding down to your waist and gripping tightly. His hips pressed forward, drawing a sharp gasp from you as you felt the heated line of his body. Your fingers tightened in his shirt, clinging as he kissed along your jaw, teeth gently scraping your skin.

“We shouldn’t—” you breathed, though you tilted your head to grant him better access.

“I know,” he said hoarsely. But neither of you stopped.

His hands slid down to explore the curves of your body through your robes. You felt dizzy, entirely consumed by him. He lifted you slightly onto the table, knocking scrolls and parchment to the floor, but you hardly cared. There was no one around in the Archives at this hour and all you could focus on was him—the fierce heat of his mouth, the soft catch of his breath when you bit his lip.

Your robes shifted upward, exposing bare thighs. His palms skimmed your skin, rough fingertips igniting sparks along your nerves. He kissed you deeply, tongue sliding against yours as you parted your knees instinctively, drawing him in closer.

“Lie back.” He murmured.

Your heart kicked up as you leaned onto your elbows, breath already shallow. His eyes didn’t leave yours, not even as he dropped to his knees, hands sliding up your thighs and pushing them apart with slow pressure. With his other hand he bunched your robes higher, the cool air hitting your skin in sharp contrast to the heat rolling off him.

“Haechan—” you gasped, tensing when his mouth brushed the inside of your thigh. 

You hadn’t expected how soft he’d be. How careful. He kissed higher, lips dragging up inch by inch until his breath was warming your core. You squirmed closer, needing him closer, needing somethinv to relieve the pressure building low in your stomach. His eyes flicked up to yours with a silent question in them. You nodded without hesitation.

His mouth was on you in a second. A sharp main escaped before you could stop it, echoing off the dusty shelves. His tongue moved slowly at first, learning you, and then with more purpose. Your hands fumbled for the edge of the table, gripping tight as your breath caught again and again. The sensations were overwhelming, so much better than anything you’d let yourself imagine.

“Fuck,” you breathed. “Haechan—”

“You’re so fucking sweet,” he said between strokes. “Tastes better than I thought.”

“Don’t stop,” you gasped, voice cracking. “Please—”

“Not planning to.” His fingers dug into your thighs as he dragged his tongue in tight circles. “Gonna make you fall apart on my mouth.”

He groaned low against you, and the vibration nearly sent you over. Your hand flew to his hair, tugging, desperate, but he didn’t slow. His tongue worked you relentlessly, fingers digging into your thighs as you twitched.

“Haechan—fuck—” you choked, voice high and strangled as you came hard. Your thighs clenched around him but he still didn’t stop until you started to shudder.

You slumped back, breathing fast. Haechan rose slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

You reached for him without thinking, pulling him into a kiss. You tasted yourself on his lips, but you didn’t care. You just needed to feel him.

“Less tense now?” he murmured, his smirk returning, but softer this time.

You exhaled, dazed. “Yeah. But—”

“I know,” he said, pressing his forehead to yours. His eyes slipped closed. “This doesn’t leave the room.”

You nodded, even though everything in you hated the idea. He pulled back just a little, smoothing your robes down, then reached for his fallen notes without meeting your eyes. You fixed your hair with trembling hands, still trying to get your breathing and your thoughts under control.

But you knew the truth, even if you weren’t ready to admit it. This wasn’t just something that happened and pretending otherwise wasn’t going to make it go away.

[verdurous-heaven]

Pick a pile: why are you unforgettable?

Hello everyone! Hope everyone's doing fine. Please pick one or more than a one pile you feel the most drawn towards or u can simply use a random number generator for it and enjoy your reading. Like and reblog to claim.

Pile: 1

You guys are the leaders! my loves. You guys remind me of the pack leader(alpha pack leader of the wolves). Your leadership quality is the first n the most shining thing the world notices about you which makes u quite literally the unforgettable in a crowd of millions. Your willpower n resilient nature is what keeps u in your go-getter energy n is the most admirable thing in your personality. Even if you guys are hurting inside, hit the rock bottom n go through a dozen shit of hurdles, you don't forget to give love out to those who deserve it. (I'd be lying if I said you have healthy boundaries n just give love to the deserving ones coz you guys are the people pleasers! me too hun me too, let's work on this tgt).

Despite this alpha leader persona n hard personality, underneath lies a complete softie, a pookie full of love, light n laughter. When I say you guys are full of love, I don't just mean you guys are the givers coz u do know how to back off when the equal effort is not being reciprocated from the opposite party. And then you are on your self love journey to restore the love u unnecessarily gave out. Woah I love this bold move of yours guys muah<3 This quality might be the first n foremost thing your exes, ex friends, known ones remember when they think of you.

As I said before you guys are the leaders meaning no matter what you won't backoff once u set ur mind onto something. This go getter personality comes handy in most difficult situations. You guys might be the ones settling a quarrel n then going after the goal you guys were quarrelling about. (I'm not really good with examples so bear with me, let's say you n your group of friends are quarrelling about a project report n are not settling on to the roles of who will do the given things n so on, that's when you'll jump in, give everyone their respective roles n work n settle the argument while doing your own work n excelling in the class project report among every other classmates ykwim?)

People admire the strength in you to walk away from literally everything and anything that hurts you or drains you. You are also unforgettable with your instant decision making skills. People might have noticed how you can instantly make really good decisions on the spot which favours u for the longest. Your communication n thinking capabilities are top notch. You're a hustler. You guys look like you have it all, you have your shit together. Wherever you go people often think you might have it all(bags full of money, beauty, hunger for power, wisdom n everything one can ask for)

You guys are also unforgettable for your love for travelling esp in nature or the countryside. You might often travel overseas or atleast out of states which makes others think you are financially really well off(doesn't matter if u hv enough or more than enough but ur essence gives luxury) you guys might be gifted creatively could be singing, painting, sketching, dancing, playing instruments or anything n that's what makes u unforgettable for some.

Honourable mention: your manipulation skills. Use it only when it's needed n not to harm others or for taking advantage of others.

Pile: 2

You guys are my mystic healers pile. That innocent n kind heart with strength n fierce power, that's your essence n this is why you guys are so unforgettable. You guys have the strength, the fire, the power to face any hurdle of your life n still have the heart to be soft, gentle n kind to the world. I wonder how u guys have such a big heart that even going through some real shit you still have the power to be tolerant n being kind. I cannot say enough just know that you guys are really hard to ignore n even hard to forget. If a person bumps u even for a sec they'll spend the rest of their life thinking about u from time to time. You'll always be there in the back of their mind. You have the charm, charisma that's really hard to go unnoticed.

You are also my carefree cleric n the lovers of the life pile. I'm still in awe of how someone can be soooooooo kind n gentle even after having a life full of lessons n reality checks. I wanna give a tight n warm hug my loves(gosh I'm getting emo for some reasons😭a big bear hug n loads of love from my side<3) you guys reminds me of a line I read or heard somewhere which goes like, "we are broken beyond the words yet we are the most powerful creatures of the world" (maybe tvd or ogs) your soul may feel broken n tired but you still are so so powerful that even I feel goosebumps while writing this. I'm so so proud of you my pile 2. You guys hv done enough for the world n will continue to do so, so let's take a sec n appreciate u for that. Breathe in n breathe out for a sec n say I am proud of myself n I love myself.

Also there might be a tendency to juggle between things, thoughts, choices n options where you're not really good at. Also u guys find it difficult to make a choice when given infront of u with too many options. You often feel confused about your life, future, purpose etc. there's always this mental conflict going on n it doesn't go unnoticed by the others which is also the reason you're the talk of the town most of the time which makes u quite literally unforgettable. Unlike pile 1 you're not really good with decision makings(which is not a bad thing, it happens just trust ur instincts n go with the choice you feel is right for u. Learn to trust ur gut feeling. Practice ur Intuition n start listening to your inner voice).

You guys are also the ones who leave the deepest impression on the people u interact with. Your energy is transformative n so are your thoughts, personality, behaviour n habits. This is also the reason you're unforgettable coz you break free from anything n everything when u want. You don't stay stagnant over a place, person or a thing if not needed. There's this mysticism in the way you talk or walk which makes u unforgettable even after a milli sec of talk. Yet you carry your heart on ur sleeves, so full of love,kindness,bubbly n childlike energy. Even your presence heals the ones in your surroundings. You are a blessing in other people's lives. You guys are my hardcore romantic n travel often to find love in diff places, things n whatnot which makes u so unforgettable.

Useful tip: start learning n practicing reiki. You guys have that ability n it'll help u earn a good chunk of money. This ability can help u financially so make use of it. Reiki,aura cleansing, and energy healing are just your things. You can heal people even through your thoughts so try exploring this side of your spiritual journey.

Pile: 3

You guys are my flame-child pile 3. The most strongest among the other 2 piles(don't tell them this ok. They are my leaders n healers but u guys are my warriors). You guys might often see or feel the tension, conflict or hollow victory in ur life but the truth is you are the real warriors n can conquer victory over anything. From mental to physical conflict you can win over anything. You guys will win no matter what. Despite having this strong demeanour you guys are still the most happy go lucky kinda people which makes u the most irresistible and unforgettable.

You can also be really good with your hands n craft. Could any craft be it be painting, sketching, drawing, carpeting?? crocheting, knitting, origami, pottery, jwellery making etc. You guys always walk with hope in your heart. Walk with the intentions of letting go of the past n looking out for the new beginning. You don't cling to your past n that quality of yours makes u so unforgettable in my eyes ✨ there's also this dominance in your personality yet a puppy like soul. You guys can work the best in groups. You can lead a group really gracefully n make it do its work. You can be in a music band, dance group or usually likes to work or play in groups rather to go solo. Teamwork makes the dreamwork could be your tagline.

You can also be really good at multitasking or juggling responsibility. This habit of yours makes u shine the most around ur people and even strangers. People know you're the endgame. They either wanna be you or wanna be close to u somehow. But u behave like a light switch, can literally switch on or off your sunshine personality depending upon the situations or people u are around with. You guys are my magicians. You're the world or the one saving the world there's no in between n this is what makes u unforgettable in the memory of those who know you.

You might be the popular one at school/college/uni/work or might become very popular or well known in the coming future. There's also a possibility that you guys have friends from all over the world which makes u quite popular in different countries coz the people you're friends with are quite popular in their respective countries n u fly to go meet em every once in a while(hello my fella celebs nice to meet u). Also as I said before you guys are so carefree,lovely, kind n hopelessly romantic at heart who don't even hold grudges against no-one. You can adapt to any situation n can tolerate almost everything with patience is what makes u unforgettable. You have this hidden or mysterious personality due to which u allure so many diff people with ur Intuition n unpredictable abilities. Ketu or Pluto in 1h vibe. One moment people are like they know u and the other moment they flip like they don't even know u abit. This mysterious personality charms everyone around u.

Advice: always remain humble n down to earth. Respect your elders, teachers n the unprivileged ones, this will help u rise like a phoenix from the ashes after every downfall or struggle. Victory will be yours as long as you're helpful, kind n humble towards everyone around u including ur foes.

If you guys made it till the end, pls do like n leave a feedback to lmk if this resonates or not. Thankyou so very much for reading my first ever pac reading. Love u all. Have a good night/day ahead🫶🏼🧿

Credits giving section:

The divider used within the post is from the lovely @thecutestgrotto

And the pile pictures taken from pinterest do not belong to me and the credit goes to their rightful owners.

© All rights reserved to verdurous-heaven. Please refrain from reframing, reposting or using my work without my permission. ©VH 2025

[motorsportbarbie13]

One New Voicemail (Jenson's Version)

your relationship with jenson as told through voicemails

(i'm aware jenson doesn't have twin girls but he does in this. also potential trigger warning for boss/employee relationship? age gap as well. thank you to @lestapiastrisgirl for encouraging my daddy issues with this one <3)

His Daughter Is Sick

“Hey, it’s Jenson.” He pauses, a breathy chuckle cracking over the line.

“You know that, caller ID and all. Sorry, I’m scattered.” He shakes his head. He’s scattered because calling you is always a nerve-racking experience. 

Jenson can’t quite explain why you make him nervous. You’d been working for him for almost a year now, nannying for his twin girls Gracie and Molly but it was like he was brand new at this whole ‘interacting with a pretty girl’ thing. Which was total bullshit. He was Jenson Button, for crying out loud. And you were the NANNY for fucks sakes. 

“I know it’s your day off and you already work so hard with the girls and I appreciate all that you do for them…” Another pause, a quick breath before he pushes it a bit more. 

“And for me too.” The words hang in the air, like he’s testing the waters. 

You’re always willing to take on more with the girls. Saying yes to anything Jenson asks of you. He feels the guilt that comes along with needing someone, but you never make him feel like a burden.

“But Gracie is sick, the school just called.” Desperation is back in his voice. He’s panicking, you can hear it in how quick the words tumble out of his mouth. He loves his girls more than anything, you know that. Know how hard it is for him to ask for help. 

“She has a fever and it’s my week so Mallory is saying this is on me,” Frustration edges into his voice, when he speaks about his ex. She’s nice enough but there’s something about the way she shirks off her parenting responsibilities when she knows you’re around that rubs you the wrong way. 

“But I’m in London today so I’m at least an hour away, I wasn’t planning on needing to be back until pickup. Can you go pick Gracie up?” 

You know how hard that question is for him to ask. How he hates depending on you. You don’t mind. The girls mean everything to you. 

And so does Jenson.

“I’m leaving the city now so you won’t have to give up too much of your evening.” To punctuate his point, you hear a car door slam in the background. An engine firing up. 

“I’m sorry. I feel like I’m always asking you to help bail me out. I’m really shit at this whole single dad thing, aren’t I?” 

You made a mental note to remind Jenson how well he was doing. You knew it probably wound’t make much of of an impact. You were only 25, no kids of your own but you knew the girls. You knew Jenson. You knew how well he was doing with them.

“I appreciate your help…for everything you’re willing to do for the girls. For me.” He sighs, knowing full well there’s more he wants to say. 

So much more. 

“You’re a Godsend, really. I hope you know how much the girls love you. How much you mean to them.”

How much you mean to me, he nearly says. The words are on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill like a forbidden confession.  But that would be wildly inappropriate. 

Wouldn’t it?

“Okay. Please let me know if you can swing by and pick Gracie up.” Jenson shakes his head.

“Bye.” 

Click. 

It’s Late and He’s Tired

“Hey.” Jenson’s voice is low and raspy, a direct result of spending the weekend in Austria commentating for Sky Sports. 

Your heart squeezes at the exhaustion edging into his voice. The moment hear how tired Jenson sounds, you get up from the couch and put the kettle on, wanting to have his favorite peppermint team steeped and ready for him when he gets home.

It’s beyond your nannying duties. You know that. But you can’t help your desire to not only take care of the girls but to take care of Jenson as well. 

“I just landed at Heathrow. I should be home in the next hour or so, depending on how bad traffic is. Hopefully the girls went down good for you. I’m sure they did, they always do. They adore you.”

His girls weren’t the only ones either. 

“Thank you again for agreeing to stay overnight with them for this trip. I hope you know how much you mean to the girls. How much you mean to me.” 

A breath. Was that too much? 

“I don’t know what I’d do without your help.” The words hit like a forbidden confession, twisting something deep in your chest.

Jenson pauses, like he knows there’s not much more to say but he doesn’t want to hang up the phone quite yet. He realizes how much he likes talking to you, even if it’s just to your voicemail. 

What he doesn’t know is how you save each and every message he leaves you. 

“I know it’s super late.” His flight had been delayed getting out of Austria, but you’d known that was a possibility. 

“You can just sleep in the guest bedroom tonight. It’s not a big deal.” 

Oh, but it was a big deal. 

“I don’t want you driving home this late really, and my weather app says it’s going to rain in the next hour or so.” He was scrambling for excuses now, hoping to give you enough reason to stay over. 

It had been a while since he’d been able to spend much time with you, with all of the travel he’d been doing. Not that he should be focusing on that. You were the nanny. Just the nanny. Right? 

“So if you’re not already asleep, please stay.” 

You weren’t asleep. You were moving around the kitchen quietly, making sure the last bits of dinner were cleaned up and the kettle was set on the burner, peppermint tea already steeping for him. 

“It’s just not safe for you to leave.” He reasons, like you hadn’t already decided to stay the moment he’d told you he’d be late.

“Plus it would be a nice surprise for the girls to see you there in the morning.” 

And not just the girls. But he can’t say that. Not yet. Maybe not ever. 

Jenson pauses again, working up the courage to ask the next question that’s been sitting on the edge of his mind for weeks now. 

“Maybe we could all go out to breakfast together?” His heart races as the question lands. 

“They’ve been asking to go to that little cafe down the road from the house for months now and I’m just never home enough for us to go.” The explanation stutters out of his mouth, swift and fast like he wants you to keep listening.

“So, if you don’t have anything going on tomorrow morning, maybe the four of us could all go together.” He winces, knowing what this sounds like. Knowing that he sounds like he wants more.

Because he does. He does want more with you. More than the stolen looks while you prepare dinner after he arrives home. More than the late night talks that have become more and more frequent after the girls are fast asleep. More than the lingering press of fingers against hands as you catch up on that day’s activities while the girls unwind in front of the television. 

He wants more with you but Jenson is terrified to ask for it. 

“If you’re not busy.” He says quickly, hoping to save himself from embarrassment if you reject him. 

Jenson couldn’t stand that. Not from you. 

“I’m sure you are, so maybe just forget I asked? Or not. Whatever.” He fumbles. 

You smirk because there was nothing more you’d like better than to spend the morning with the girls who have stolen your heart and their dad, who has also worked his way into your soul. You smirk because there’s no way you’re ever going to forget he asked. Forget how nervous he sounded, how much you wished he’d asked you to your face so he could have seen the blush creep up your neck at just the thought of spending more time with him. 

“Okay. Well, I’m in the car and on my way home. See you soon.”

Click.  

You Both Have A Rare Free Weekend (aka Jenson Button Asks the Nanny Out)

“Hi.” Jenson clears his throat. You pick up on the nerves instantly. 

“The girls are fine, I don’t need rescuing.” He chuckles, palming at the back of his neck. 

“They’re actually at their moms this weekend.” 

Pause. A deep inhale. 

“But you knew that. You did the exchange for me yesterday.” He laughs, nerves fraying at the edges. 

“So, the girls are at their mom’s for the weekend and I don’t have anywhere to be, no races, nothing.” 

Was he really going to do this?

“I remembered you talking bout that Monet exhibit that the National Gallery was debuting this week and thought maybe…” 

Jenson sucks in a breath. Does he risk it? Everything that’s passed between you over the last year flashes before him. The lingering looks. The secret smiles shared when the girls weren’t looking. The way you seemed to always find a reason to stay later and later lately, insisting on helping Jenson with dinner or bedtime or homework. It felt domestic. Serious. Natural. 

“I just thought maybe if you didn’t have any plans, we could go…together.” 

The words hang in the air, heavy and big and dangerous. Jenson knew what he was risking here. Knew that you could retreat behind the professional veil that you wore, even if it was becoming less and less lately. 

“It’s been ages since I’ve been to the gallery and you were saying the same thing the other night. How you never get into the city anymore.” He’s scrambling now, trying to speak over the nerves. 

“I thought maybe we could make a day out of it. If you want. Get an early start into the city, wander around the gallery for a bit and then maybe lunch?” Jenson hates how desperate he sounds. It’s the truth though. He’s desperate for you. 

You haven’t been ‘just the nanny’ for quite some time now. 

“Dinner too, if you want.” 

Jenson wanted to wring as much time with you out of one of his rare lazy weekends. 

“You are just so good with the girls and you do so much for us and…” He’s trying to decide how far to push this. How honest he should be. 

“I just want to spend some time alone with you.” He murmurs, the confession making his chest constrict. 

This was so dangerous. If you turned him down, he could lose you for good. His girls could lose you for good. But he had to try. Had to risk the rejection.

“Fuck.” He hisses, losing his courage for just a moment. 

“I’m sorry, I know this is probably the worst way you’ve ever been asked out on a date.” 

Jenson freezes. What if he hadn’t made it clear enough that he was actually asking you out on a date?

“I’m really rusty at this. And nervous.” He chuckles. 

“You make me nervous.” What was it about you that made Jenson forget how to act? What had happened to the man that just had to crook a single finger to get a girl into bed? Where was that man?

Long gone for you, apparently. 

“Okay. Well. If I haven’t totally fucked up this entire thing, give me a call. I can pick you up any time tomorrow morning…”

Click. 

The Morning After

“So last night…” Jenson’s voice is rough, still heavy with sleep. 

“I genuinely can’t remember the last time I had so much fun at a bloody art gallery. And then lunch. And dinner.” He pauses.  

“And then after dinner…” A smirk collects at the corner of his mouth.

You and Jenson had crossed all sorts of lines last night. Starting with going out on a date with your boss and finishing with…well. It was now Sunday morning and you were just easing your way back into your apartment for the first time in over 24 hours.

“I hope you’re okay with everything that happened last night.” Jenson’s stomach twists suddenly, anxiety gripping at his throat. 

“It felt right though, didn’t it? It did for me. Natural, fun, like this was always supposed to happen.” Jenson would never forget the way you’d smiled at him when he suggested you two go home together. 

It felt dangerous, new, comfortable. 

“You’ve been a goddess in my life since you found us and I know this might be a lot.” The reality of what had happened last night began to sink in. 

What this meant for your working relationship. How badly he wanted this to work with you. 

“I know people are going to talk. Our age gap is going to raise some brows but…I’m willing to risk it if you are.” Jenson imagined when people found out that he had fallen for you, the nanny, tongues would wag. 

He was right, of course. You two ended up being a huge scandal around town. 

It hadn’t mattered.

“I don’t give a fuck what other people say and last night was��God, baby.” He chuckles, easing his way into the nickname. 

Your heart squeezes. Baby. 

“Last night was…” He laughs again, shaking his head.

He wouldn’t have been able to predict how well last night had gone. It had meant everything. 

“I’d been working up the courage to kiss you all night. And then when we were on the couch after the movie and you were right there, you were so close.” Jenson pauses, reliving the moments just before he had pressed his lips to yours, warm and inviting and everything he’d been dreaming about for weeks now. 

“I suspect you kept scooting towards me the entire time, weren’t you? Cheeky girl.” He wasn’t wrong. You smirk.  

“You just looked so warm and cozy and you smelled so good, I couldn’t resist.” The way he’d kissed you on the couch you’d already spent so much time on was something you’d never forget.

Soft. Tender. Reverent. Like he never wanted the moment to end. You certainly hadn’t.  

“I know this is…not conventional but I want to give this a try.” 

This. You and Jenson. Something that felt right and natural and a little bit dangerous. 

“I can’t get you off my mind.” His confession hangs, heavy and thick.  

“The girls are with their mom until Wednesday.” He says it like an invitation.  

“Maybe we could do something tonight?” 

Pause. He was getting ahead of himself, wasn’t he? Fuck.  

“Too much?” Jenson winces. The last thing he wants to do is scare you off. 

You both were risking so much by giving this chemistry between you a chance to bloom. He didn’t want to fuck it up. 

“Not enough for me, if we’re being honest.” He felt like he was 18-years-old again. Fumbling and dumb.  

“God, I’m in so much trouble with you.” Jenson chuckles, low and thick. It sends a shiver down your spine.  

“Okay, I’m going to hang up now before I really embarrass myself. Call me if you want to do something tonight. Even if it’s just us making out on my couch.” 

Another laugh. 

Click.  

Overheard. 

“Daddy! What do you mean she won’t be our nanny anymore?” Gracie wails. 

You frown at the phone. You can hear dual sniffles, slightly muffled, like they’re farther away than the phone would like. 

“Why is she leaving us, daddy?” That’s Molly. She’s upset too. 

“Girls.” Jenson soothes. “Girls. It’s okay. Really.” He leans over, resting his elbows on the kitchen counter. The girls sit opposite of him, plates of pancakes and bacon sat in front of them for their Saturday morning breakfast. 

“She’s not going to be your nanny anymore because well…” Jenson wasn’t quite sure how he should word this. The girls were young, sure but they were old enough to understand. 

“You know Michael is Mummy’s boyfriend?” 

“Yeah…” Gracie is skeptical as to where this is going. Molly just blinks. 

“Well, she’s not going to be your nanny anymore because she’s my girlfriend.”

Silence. 

“WHAT?” Molly and Gracie shout in tandem. 

“Is…is that okay?” Jenson wasn’t prepared for what would happen if the girls rejected this news. His heart hammered, chest constricting at the possibility. 

The way grins split both of his girls faces instantly set Jenson’s mind at ease though. This was going to be fine. 

“So she’s not leaving us?” Molly asks in her delicate 4-year-old voice. 

“No, honey.” Jenson shakes his head, a relieved smile pulling onto his face. 

“She’ll still be around and taking care of you, she just won’t be your nanny anymore.” 

It had been a tricky conversation but one that had needed to happen. Details were still being ironed out, but this was step one of untangling your professional relationship while your personal relationship with Jenson grew fast and strong.

“In fact, you’re probably going to be seeing her a lot more than you did when she was your nanny. Is that…okay with you girls?”

You couldn’t see it, but both Molly and Gracie nodded their heads vigorously.  

“Are you going to kiss her?” Molly chimes in. 

Jenson chokes on a laugh. 

“Probably.” A smile crinkles at the corners of his eyes. 

“Will she still tuck me in at night?” Gracie asks. She depends on your bedtimes stories now. 

“Of course.” Jenson nods. 

“And she’ll cook us dinner? She’s a lot better at making dinner than you are, daddy.” That was Molly, a serious fan of your cooking.

“If you want her to.” Jenson laughs, full and bright. 

“She loves us.” Molly says solemnly. 

“Yes she does, bug.” Jenson answers, just as seriously. 

Your love for his girls had never been in doubt. Not since the first day you’d started caring for them. 

“Does she love you?” Gracie asks. 

Jenson sways on his feet, the full force of the innocent question nearly bowling him over. 

“Well,” He struggles. 

Your heart stops. 

You do, you realize. You do love him.

“I don’t know. We haven’t talked about that yet.” He sounds anxious and you suddenly can’t wait to confirm what you just figured out yourself. 

“Do you love her?” That’s Molly. 

Silence. 

Jenson thinks. He knew the answer immediately but he’s almost afraid to vocalize it. It’s only been six months since your first kiss. Is this…too fast? Too much? 

“I think so.” He manages around a thick knot of emotion that’s suddenly settled in his throat. 

“Good.” Gracie says. 

“Yeah. Good.” Molly agrees. 

“Daddy…” Gracie starts and Jenson looks over at his daughter. “Why does your phone say her name on it now?”

Jenson’s heart ceases to beat.  

“Bloody hell.” He groans. 

“Hi, honey.” 

Click. 

Checking On His Girls. 

“You fell asleep putting Molly to bed, didn’t you?” Jenson chuckles. 

His hotel room door snicks closed. 

“Or maybe my old man habits are just rubbing off on you and you’ve fallen asleep on the couch already.” He teases. 

You never missed an opportunity to remind him how old he was. He never missed an opportunity to remind you that you were the one that fell in love with an old man. 

“ I just got back to the hotel, wanted to check on my girls.” 

A pause. Sheets shuffle as Jenson sits on the edge of the bed. He glances at your contact photo on his phone. You and him and Molly and Gracie, all piled together on vacation earlier in the year. 

“All of my girls.” 

You’d never get tired of being called his, of belonging to Jenson. 

“I rescheduled my flight to leave a bit earlier from Spain so I should be home before bedtime, hopefully.” He leans back onto the headboard, closing his eyes. 

“If I don’t quit live on air after having to deal with Danica for another six hours.” Jenson groans just thinking about his coworker. 

“Anyway, I miss you. God, I miss you.” He whispers, voice dropping an octave as he mentally goes over exactly what parts of you he misses.

“I’m so glad you finally agreed to move in with us. Not having to say goodbye to you twice is just…lovely.” 

That had certainly been a big step. One that had been nerve-racking and anxiety inducing. One that felt big and scary but natural and like it was the next step all at once. 

“I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of waking up next to you.” He muses, rubbing at the back of his neck. 

“Coming home to the girls was always the highlight of my weekends away.” He pauses, remembering what it was like before he had to say goodbye to you when he got home. 

Now he doesn’t. 

“But you being there too? God, Baby.” 

You’ll never tire of hearing him call you that. 

“Your things being with our things, you being in our family now. The place finally feels…complete. Like this was how it was always supposed to be.” 

Jenson falls silent, reflecting on how much has changed since you came into his life. He wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve you, but he was never going to allow you to walk away. 

The Tiffany blue box in the far corner of his closet, hidden beneath a pile winter jumpers, was going to ensure that. Jenson was certain of it. 

“I’m going to order room service and eat, I’m famished. FaceTime me later? I want to see your pretty face before I go to sleep.” He grinned, once again looking down at the photo that was displayed on his phone. 

“Okay. I love you.” 

Click. 

[katscki]

Hii!! what about reading RIDING (and I mean it) katsuki while wearing a cowboy hat?? 👀

I love your works, hope you can do this!! xx

Oh… my god…. I am at a loss for words. Whoever you are you better keep leaving your smarty pants ideas in my inbox😼

Pretty As A Peach

MDNI 18+

M-list

Bakugou x fem!foreign!reader she is a southern belle

When bakugou asked for you to show him some things about where you’re from, he didn’t think you’d go this hard… riding, squirting, sex stuff

WC: 1.3k

This is the outfit I had in mind for reader but the shirt is described as a little shorter

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

You had been planning this for months. The apartment was decked out, stupid gingham tablecloths on the counters and table and the whole place smelled of barbecue sauce. And as much as this had been a silly surprise for him, it felt like home to you.

Keys jingle in the door and you yell “wait! M not ready!” Now you’re scrambling around the kitchen like a mad woman trying to find the defining accessory to your outfit.

A grumble is heard from outside the door, “What ya trying to hide a guy real quick? Cmon baby let me in m starving.” But as much as katsuki whines, he still waits for your okay. “Yes got it!” Gently placing the hat on top of your head you stand in front of the door excited to present your night out West. “Kay come in!” The keys jingle once more and his eyes aren’t on you immediately, busy wrestling his key out of the hole. “Smells s’good in here baby what did ya- holy shit…”

You swing your arms out as a welcome, “Howdy! Welcome toooo… drumroll please? No? Okay. TEXASSSS. You had asked me before to show you what it was like back home and while this is a little overkill you get the idea.” You giggle out but it’s almost as if he isn’t listening, red eyes staring holes into your tits.

Bakugou makes his way over to you, already relieved he showered and changed at work. “Ya really wore this shit back home baby? You’re practically fucking naked…” His hand plays with the tie in your flannel that sits right on your sternum. “Oh gosh no! Well the hat yes but everything else not really! I didn’t really have any of my old clothes and this is just some silly costume I found online!” All he does is hum in response hardly even listening to you anymore.

“Well anyways I made you rib and pulled pork with some mac n cheese, Cole slaw, and some rolls- Oh! And sweet tea! But you probably won’t like that…” your head tips down a little in thought, curled hair falling over your shoulder perfectly. His hand starts to play with the rim of the hat as you continue to speak. “And we don’t have to eat now if you don’t want! We can warm it up-”

“Doesn’t it mean somethin when you take someone’s hat?” He’s looking at you lowly now and you’re still too excited to notice the shift in the air. “Hmm yes I think, I’m pretty sure it means you want to have sex.” Before the words are fully out of your mouth his callused hand is reaching for the garment and placing it on top of his head. A small “Oh.” Is all he can hear from you before he starts making work at your jaw.

“So fucking sweet baby, doin all this for me- smells so good, wearing this shit for me.” His hand goes down to smack your half out ass then grope all while he continues to suck on your neck. It was getting hard to pay attention to him though when the hat kept bumping into you. “K-kats… the hat s in the way.” As sexy as he looked in it, you just wanted a clear path for him. “So you wear it then.” He leans up and takes it off him to put it back on you before whispering in your ear. “Cmon show me how a real belle rides…” and you have to fight the moan that threatens to fall from your lips.

Quick hands try to make work at your outfit before his hands come to stop you, “Fuck no baby, yer keepin this shit on. Everythin but the shorts.” So you forgo working on your shirt and skip to the tiny daisy dukes, tossing them across the floor and running back to him.

Bakugou gently picks you up and takes you over to the table, good thing you hadn’t put the food out already cause he’s laying down and taking you with him, the table cloth bunches at your knees and the wood aches but you can’t find it in yourself to care. You’ve never been so wet in your life, something about the new location maybe? How he looks under you? Who knows but the slick is running down your thigh onto his crotch and he’s smirking wildly at you.

Bakugou lets his hands rest behind his head looking at you teasingly, “Need me to finger you baby or are ya ready?” You shake your head, pawing at the drawstring on his sweatpants and pushing them down only enough so his cock could spring out.

“No, want you in me now…” you position yourself over him and sink down rather fast, a choked moan leaving you. “F-fuck sweetness take your time.” Bakugous hands untangle from behind him and shoot to your hips. “Nooo need it now Suki. N-need it so bad…” The initial bounces were small but eventually only the tip is in and you slam back down on him, table legs crying at the motion. It’s unlike any other time you’ve been on top, it’s hungrier.

You continue to pull him all the way out and fall back down, a moan leaving your lips every time he re-enters you, your legs are screaming in pain but you can’t find it in yourself to stop. His hand lays a small smack on your ass, “That’s it baby… yeah cmon fuckin ride me.” Your head falls down in pleasure and the hat tumbles onto his chest. He takes it and whips it across the room, a lamp or something shattering in the distance. “Damn thing.” Because he will be damned if anything is obstructing this view.

“Tell me how good it is baby, tell me you love my dick.” You’re still doing all the work, eyebrows pinched up and eyes shut in pleasure. “O-oh Suki~ mph! L-love it feels so good Suki…” At your words, his fingers are digging into your ass and fucking you onto him himself. It’s so much deeper than before you can’t help but scream his name.

“Shhh baby gonna make the neighbors mad.” He chuckles deeply. “W-wan, wan a…” the words can’t even escape your mouth, his dick hitting a spot that makes you numb. “Whatcha want sweet girl tell me what you want. Give anything to ya.” It’s getting hard for him to speak too, the sound your pussy makes when it talks to him is blinding, completely focused on the sloshing sounds in the room.

“Wanna kiss… please” you are barely able to mumble it into his chest but he hears it. “Good girl, ya wanna kiss? Cmere.” As soon as your lips connect his tongue slides into your mouth making you weak. One more thrust sends you over the edge, table cloth completely ruined with your cum. You try to keep kissing him but as he fucks you through it you have to break away to moan.

“M almost there baby, fuck, you’re so good to me, feel so fuckin good. Where baby where can I cum?” It’s desperate, begging you to say what he wants to hear. “I-in me please… wanna feel it…” at your words, warm cum shoots up into your womb making you even more weak than before. Bakugou continued to fuck you down onto him, albeit much slower than before and once again you’re cumming. Before you can even realize what you had done, his chest is covered in you, liquid dripping down onto the table.

“Holy fucking shit baby, you just- you’ve never- fuck.” He can’t even wrap his head around what he just saw already craving it again. But you’re tired and his dick is almost soft, so he picks you up and stands, dick slipping out and slopping your cum mixture into the floor.

“Fuck I’ll clean us and… that up baby cmon.” As if you could move anyways, fully melted into him. You can still manage to nag though, “my lamp, think you broke it Suki.”

“Couldn’t fuckin see. It had to go.”

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

AN: this was the fic that got deleted but I think it’s better and a little longer than the first one, hopefully you guys enjoy if I think about it too much I’ll think it’s shit.

[mysteryshoptls]

SSR Silver Vanrouge - Room Relaxation Vignette

"Happy Birthday"

[Sports Field]

Silver: …Today's training was very productive, as always. Now, time to put away the equestrian gear and clean the stables…

Silver: Hm? Who's that standing over there?

Silver: Ace, did you have some business with the Equestrian Club?

Ace: Oh, hey, Silver-senpai. How's it hanging?

Ace: I was passing by, and just so happened to catch you jumping over that hurdle with your horse…

Ace: It was just so cool that I just ended up watching. You guys in the Equestrian Club are really amazing.

Silver: Is that so? Unfortunately, my landing in the aforementioned show jumping was a tad too clumsy. I still have much room to grow.

Ace: Uh-huuuh… What, like how you gotta grow up with every year you grow older, or something?

Ace: Y'know, I heard it’s your birthday tomorrow, Silver-senpai.

Ace: "It grinds my gears that Silver has yet again surpassed me in age!" Sebek was griping, for some reason.

Silver: Ah, he says the same thing every year. Yet, despite his frustration, he never fails to wish me a happy birthday.

Ace: Man, he's such a pain… Well, anyway, I'm gonna head on out.

Silver: Right. See you later, Ace.

[Diasomnia Dorm – Lounge]

Silver: There didn't seem to be any abnormalities during today's rounds. Now, after this…

[Malleus speaks]

Silver: Ah, Malleus-sama, sir! May I be of any assistance?

[Malleus speaks]

Silver: You'd like me to help in looking over the documents you put together during the Gargoyle Research Club? This is a very thick stack of papers.

Silver: Of course, I would be happy to be of any assistance. Please, allow me…

Silver: I see, this here is a drawing of a Gargoyle that was produced 300 years ago. It is a very handsome looking crow.

[Malleus speaks]

Silver: …I apologize for my ignorance, I see now it is a raven, and not just a mere crow. I shall take better care next time.

[Diasomnia Dorm – Hallway]

Silver: It was my honor to have been of use to Malleus-sama. However, it was such a large load of work that… I'm starting to feel sleepy…

Silver: Tonight, without fail, I must try to finish my History of Magic homework. I need to resolve my sleepiness somehow.

Silver: Ah, that's right. If I take a shower, it should help me awaken a little. I should head there now.

[Diasomnia Dorm – Silver's Room]

Silver: I dozed off slightly while in the shower… But just as I hoped, I feel a little more awake.

Silver: I should tackle my homework now. At the very least… I will complete this for submission!

[Diasomnia Dorm – Silver's Room]

Silver: …......Zzz…...Zzz…

[door opens] 

[Roommate speaks]

Silver: Nn… Ah, Hello… I see you returned to the room… Your opening the door helped me to wake up.

Silver: How could I have fallen asleep even after I took that shower to help keep me awake. I haven't even started on my History of Magic homework.

Silver: Due to constantly falling asleep in History of Magic classes, I am causing Trein-senpai undue anguish.

Silver: I do think something needs to be done…

[Roommate speaks]

Silver: …Ah, you too, I see. Whenever I hear Trein-sensei's calm, deep voice, slumber takes me quite mercilessly.

Silver: I've tried chewing on tablets that are meant to keep one awake, or pinch pressure points…

Silver: I've even tried sitting in the very front of the classroom, as well.

Silver: Despite everything, as soon as class begins, I fall victim to that drowsiness once more.

Silver: There have been occasions that I have been able to wake up thanks to Lucius's help… However, most of the time by the time I realize it, class has come to an end.

Silver: It seems my grades have suffered greatly because of this. So I'd like to… at least be able to... finish my homework...

[Roommate shakes Silver awake]

Silver: Ah! Hm, the survey? I see, perhaps if I were to focus on something else for a while, I will be able to help clear the fog. I appreciate your advice.

Silver: Now, let's see… Where is the survey sheet…? I thought I had put it in my bag… Ah, here it is.

「Survey on Quality of Life Improvements for the Student Body」

Silver: What would I like to see improved during my time here…? …Nothing particular comes to mind.

Silver: If there truly is something missing, that is through no fault of this academy, and falls solely in my incompetent hands.

Silver: If I must think of something to put down… Then I suppose it would have to be that this place is far too comfortable.

Silver: Not only are we fed three square meals a day, but we also have comfortable living quarters. We have an abundance of electrical appliances, and the education is the best a school can offer.

Silver: Of course, I've never once felt like my life before coming to this school was impoverished.

Silver: The rigorous training my father would subject me to was well worth it, and I loved the crisp air within the forest. Sometimes I miss it to this day.

Silver: Both environments are wonderful in their own ways, but I fear becoming complacent in a place as convenient as this.

Silver: …No, that would just be something I would need to overcome myself. I shall just answer "None" on the survey.

Silver: I feel much less sleepy than before. I think I should be able to work on my History of Magic homework now.

Silver: I'll start with the short answer question. "Briefly summarize what took place during this time period."

Silver: …The research of prominent mages resulted… in newly established…...Zzz…Zzz…

Silver: AH…! I FELL ASLEEP AGAIN!! And here I thought I had successfully beaten off sleep…

Silver: No, this is a critical situation… I absolutely must overcome this drowsiness…!

[Diasomnia Dorm – Silver's Room]

[RIIIIIIIIIIING!!!!]

Silver: Zzz… Zzz…

Silver: Zzz… Zzz…

[Roommate shakes Silver awake]

Silver: Ah! What was that shaking just now…? Oh, you were waking me up.

Silver: I'll turn off my alarms now. Please wait a moment.

[click, click, click… click]

[Roommate speaks]

Silver: Apologies for the noise every morning. Yes... you have a point.

[Roommate speaks]

Silver: I can't believe that I still continue to sleep without stirring, despite all these additional alarms…

Silver: I should buy another alarm and… Please, no? Alright, I understand. I shall refrain since you requested.

Silver: Perhaps the reason why I am sleepier than I normally am may be due to staying up late to finish my History of Magic homework.

Silver: I was able to finish the assignment up, somehow…

Silver: Ah!! I almost fell asleep again.

[Roommate speaks]

Silver: You're heading to the washroom? Ah, that's right. I should go splash my face with cold water and attempt to wake myself up, as well.

[Diasomnia Dorm – Washroom]

[splash!]

Silver: Urk… My ear stings…

Silver: Ah, now that I look closely, it seems damaged. I must have scratched it during yesterday's practice.

Silver: It's nothing too deep. …However, I suppose I should treat it just in case.

Silver: Hm? There is a mark on my neck, as well. When did I get that…? Could it have been from martial arts practice two days ago?

Silver: I'll rub some ointment on it… Alright, that should do it. I'm done getting myself ready. How is it going for you?

[Diasomnia student A speaks]

Silver: …Yes, that's right. I don't generally do any skincare or makeup, so this is enough… Eh, my hair?

[Diasomnia student A speaks]

Silver: I should at least fix my bedhead…? I suppose you aren't wrong. Alright, then. I'll use this brush, and…

[brush, brush…]

[SPARKLE, SPARKLE…!!!]

Silver: This should be enough. …Please tell me if there is anything else that needs fixing.

[Diasomnia student B speaks]

Silver: It bugs you that the "product" is complete just by combing through hair? …I see, by product, you mean this wooden brush.

Silver: I bought this before arriving here, when Sebek would constantly nag me to at least brush my hair before appearing before others.

Silver: The wood materials used for it is high-quality and magically enchanted, meant to make combing through tangles much easier.

Silver: That's not what you meant by "product"? However, I cannot think of any other materials used for it.

[Roommate speaks]

Silver: …Oh, never mind? Understood.

[Main Street]

[Diasomnia students chatter with Silver]

Ace: Oh, hey, Silver-senpai, morniiiing. Or I guess, more like, Happy Birthday!

Silver: Thank you. It's nice having even someone from a different dorm like you wishing me well.

Silver: I will be taking your warm wishes to heart. I will do my absolute best to tackle headfirst the challenges I must overcome today.

Silver: Today… I will definitely… STAY AWAKE DURING HISTORY OF MAGIC CLASS!!

Ace: Eh…? You mean Trein-sensei's class that knocks you out in no time flat? Preeetty sure that's gonna be impossible…

Silver: No, today is a new dawn, a new me. I will bring forth all of my capabilities, and today will be the day I succeed!

Requested by Anonymous.

[gotaksboyfie]

yeon sieun with a short partner

general

gif creds: @siqoi

» he's not the tallest (5'8) so it comes as a bit of a shock when he sees you for the first time. did you skip a couple grades?? are you in the right grade school???

» doesn't think much of the height difference honestly—you're short there's not much to it. it's only deeper into the relationship that he starts to become hyper aware of it.

» every time you go to hug him, he relishes at how well you just tuck under his chin. when cuddling, he'll pull you flush against his chest and stroke your head in a soothing manner, lulling you to sleep while you're completely surrounded by everything sieun

» gets too used to looking down at you that it makes it a little awkward when he's faced with his friends again. looking up is so much work compared to just glancing down at you, especially since he isn't rewarded with seeing your cute face but baku's instead :/

» analyzes everything you do. you're just so fascinating in how you move (a bit creepy, but whatever sieun..) he notes down the way your face slightly scrunches when something is just barely out of reach, or how you tippy toe just to pat his head, or how your head blends into the crowd just a bit too well and he loses you sometimes— yeah. he's whipped

» being not much of a talker, he silently does everything for you. he'll grab all the items you need off the top shelf, presenting it like an expectant puppy and preening slightly when you praise him for it

» locks onto you pretty firmly in crowded areas. his hands tightly hold yours, ensuring that you won't escape his grasp. "losing you is such a hassle because of how hard it is to find you" - that's the excuse he prepares when you point it out, but you know he does it mostly because he likes holding your hand

» speaking of hands, yours are actually small in comparison to his. sieun's always been on the smaller side in the hand comparisons that baku and gotak make him do. when he noticed just how tiny your hands are, it made him want to hold them more. (something inside him is unlocked once he realizes the size diff between you guys..)

» not one to initiate physical touch, but when he does he usually goes for a back hug. you're like a portable teddy bear with how you just get dwarfed by him. his hands wrap around your waist and he breathes in some of your scent, perfectly content where he is

fin

a/n omg i accidentally posted when i wasn't ready (only had the gif LOL) and i lost the ask i'm so sorry anon!! i hope you see this.. 🙏

[sqgeism]

If I may make a request?

I saw your vampire reader x Anaxa fic and absolutely loved it! Would you be willing to do it the other way around? (with Anaxa being the vampire) lowkey obsessed with the idea of vampire Anaxa. I can just imagine him doing another wild experiment on himself again and accidentally turning himself into a vampire. So now his S/O takes care of him by letting him feed off them.

Also happy birthday!! Hope your day is wonderful!

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 l - i - licky - c - k - licky - y ! | anaxagoras x gender neutral reader

love mail — 🍒 ⨾ hiiii thank u for the bday wishes!! cw suggestive.. 🧘‍♀️ thank u anaxacannibalau for helping me w this when i asked lol ❤️‍🩹 more vamp stuff coming eventually when i lock in.. also this was supposed to be short but i got carried away (*´▽｀)

coming home to your husband as a vampire should have been one of the things you had expected from the young genius, but you didn't. so now you've walked in on him draining a dead dove in the living room, how.. symbolic.

but he seemed to be relatively the same, just sharper teeth, red eyes, and far too much strength for him to need. oh, also the blood issue, that was always a concern.

you began unintentionally studying anaxa's behavior ever since he turned, taking down notes on things that may be helpful for research or understanding his new.. form. something of note was his reaction to his 'diet'.

animals and alike were working but anaxa never seemed to like them, not so big on their flavor and he always needed some sort of drink to 'wash away' the flavor, since he seemed much more relaxed after a glass of water. human blood bags were better, but he always grumbled that they were cold. never quite comparable to the real thing.

however something of note, was that the one and only time he fed on fresh blood, yours, was probably the best he had ever been. he was stronger, not at all crabby about it, and seemed to really like biting you. he got pretty into it until he could feel your pulse almost weakening, and immediately pulled away to care for you.

though since then, it seems he's trying to punish himself for almost 'killing' you. his vampiric urges won over his humanity, which almost scared him, he knew he still held great control compared to his bloodsucking kin. it still doesn't erase the fact he almost lost it, though, and has refused to drink from you ever since.

except you've always been a stubborn little thing, wouldn't be you without constantly worrying for his well-being, insisting he take the bite—to drain you, as if he's the victim. as if he didn't do this to himself and is just a helpless fledgling.

no, he was an intelligent man—with heightened senses and means of reading someone.

so yes, he could see right through your concern.

and yes, that means he knew your real intentions.

you wanted him to bite you, you were into it.

and by the titans he couldn't agree more.

even so, he still held some sort of restraint. whereas you began to wear much.. looser clothing around the house, exposing skin that was just soft to the bite, he stayed together.

till he didn't.

"titan forbid a man wants a little restraint around you." he huffed, pushing you down onto the bed firmly but not quite forcefully. "i want you safe," he says, making sure your head is comfortably rested on the pillows. "protected," one of your legs is lifted onto his adjacent shoulder to it. "but here you are. testing me like i'm some kind of hypothesis to study, do you really value yourself so little?"

breathless, you reply. "it isn't endangering myself if i know you wont hurt me."

seeing him looming over you, his eyes softly glow in the darkness of the room and there is nothing stopping him between the major vein behind your knee, and his teeth.

he then whispers quietly. "are you sure you trust me?"

"with my life, anaxa. with everything i am."

the chuckle he lets out shouldn't be attractive, but it very much is. especially with the fact he's leaning down to your thigh to bite.

"just tell me when it starts to hurt."

he presses a delicate kiss to your thigh, and you listen to the quiet hiss he lets out before biting.

while he could undoubtedly rip off the flesh from your bones, anaxa loves you too much to let his urges do so. and so he almost nibbles, and sucks on your thigh so gently you could mistake it for a kitten.

"mmgh." he grumbles, his brows furrowing as his eyes close shut—lost in the flavor of your blood, in you. but when is he not?

how is he supposed to ignore how pretty you are when you're forcing yourself to keep quiet, biting your bottom lip and making the prettiest noises. all while you still reach for his hand, for his comfort, which he's happy to give through reaching out to you and gently caressing your leg. "doing so well, dove. so well."

"an— anaxa— it hurts.."

then he's off just as quick as he bit, licking the mark and softly applying pressure to it. "good dove. now let your mind and body rest, i'll take care of you."

the most tender kiss is placed on the bite, slowly lowering your leg as his kisses trail upwards, all the way to your lips. "thank you, my sweet dove. sleep well."

© sqgeism or wtv (^_^;)

[agentpeggycartering]

running your finger down their spine, bucktommy

Thank you for the prompt, dear, and I hope you enjoy!

The last few months— the last year, really— had been rough on everyone, but things were improving. It was good to have everyone together like this again, in a backyard, surrounded by the smell of grilling meat and the sound of laughing children. And there was so much to celebrate, too.

Baby Han was growing more and more each day, and Jee was taking so well to being a big sister. Maddie was doing well, having open and honest conversations with Chimney and her doctors about how she was feeling and it wasn't anything like how she was after Jee-Yun was born.

Mara was officially part of the Wilson family, and the grin had hardly left her face since they left the courthouse after her adoption. The knowledge that she was home and never had to leave again—could never be made to leave again— settling something deep within her, putting to rest a lot of her worries and fears after everything that had happened with Councilwoman Ortiz.

Athena was smiling more often, accepting more dinner invitations. She wasn't her old self again, but no one expected her to be. They just didn't want to lose touch with her, and Buck especially didn't want her to be alone.

And, of course, they were celebrating the newly promoted Captain of the 118.

But the happiest thing, the thing that was the most important, the thing that Buck wanted to shout from the rooftops, was that he and Tommy had sat down and talked about their fears, their pasts and baggage, their expectations for their relationship and the future and had gotten back together. They were on the same page and fully committed to both each other and to doing the work to make their relationship last.

Buck is in the middle of telling Ravi a story when Tommy comes up next to him, crowding in close and resting a hand on his hip. He presses a quick kiss to Buck's cheek in greeting before he presses carefully assembled plate of food into his hand.

"Thanks, babe." Buck says to Tommy with a grin and a kiss to the cheek, before turning back to his conversation with Ravi, now embellishing and emphasizing with his fork. Tommy has to dodge the occasional bit of food when Buck gets too excited in the middle of taking a bite and waves the fork around before it gets to his mouth.

He's a warm, steady presence at Buck's side, interjecting when there's an opportunity but largely letting Buck steer the conversation. Buck is so overjoyed that he gets to have this, Tommy at his side, his family all around him. It's different than it was last year in a lot of ways, but for the first time in a long time he's truly content.

Ravi's drink runs out and Tommy offers to get him a new one, because he also needed a drink and 'do you need anything, Evan?'. Buck does, and he watches as Tommy makes his way across the yard to the coolers, chatting briefly when he's stopped, but he doesn't take too long, pointing over at Buck and Ravi with an apologetic expression on his face. He comes back with bottle of water for himself and beers for Buck and Ravi, opening them before handing them out like the gentleman that he is. Buck gives him a kiss in thanks.

"Thanks man, but I'm not going to kiss you. You're not my type and also I like my ankles the way they are." Ravi says, and Tommy chuckles, laughing even harder when he sees the pout on Buck's face. He kisses the pout away and Buck decides to forgive him, he did bring him food and a beer, after all. Ravi tells them that they're gross, and then asks Tommy to clarify something that Buck had said while he was gone, because he didn't believe that Buck was telling the truth, which, rude!

Tommy obliges, crowding into Buck's side again, but rests his hand at the small of his back instead of his hip. He rubs his thumb up and down while he tells Ravi a story from when he first started at Harbor.

Buck finds that this beer is making him pleasantly buzzed, and he finds himself leaning towards Tommy, just wanting to be close to him. Tommy takes his weight without a word, easily carrying the conversation with Ravi, and runs his fingers up and down his back, right on top of his spine. Buck finds himself going even more boneless and sighs to himself, happy to be here with his family and the man he wants to spend the rest of his life with.

[thefrogman]

First, thank you to everyone who is nerding out with me about motivated lighting. I love that I can have these conversations on a large scale like this, so I thought I'd post on my main blog too.

I'd like to add something to my conversation and I'm hoping it won't be too controversial.

I think we also need to talk about making demands of artists.

Looking at the comments, I did notice a new concern. Some folks expressed they would like their preferred viewing experience be catered to. They didn't want to make their environment more suitable to watch content with darker scenes.

Not to be confused with accessibility issues. I agree that there are accessibility concerns that are underserved. I tried to address those in another post. (I will reblog it on my main after this.) I think those are best solved with tools that alter the image after the fact. And there are a lot of tools for people with low vision (high contrast modes, zoom features), but not very many options for people who are light sensitive. So if you want to learn more about that issue, check out that post.

This discussion is about wanting filmmakers to make their content more friendly for less-than-ideal viewing environments.

Viewing experience is very wrapped up in artistic intent. The people who make cinematic movies are hoping people will experience them in an actual cinema. That is their artistic priority.

And I think that is where I have a problem with people wanting movies and shows to be completely legible even if they are in a bright or sunny room.

If someone told me to make my photography brighter so they could see it better in their bright kitchen… I would not be okay with that.

I think we sometimes forget that movies are giant artistic collaborations. I know they have been commodified and can sometimes feel like a product more than art. So some people feel like they are getting defective product when they can't see everything clearly. But films are made by hundreds of artists and they are still very much works of art.

And while I do think it is reasonable to make some concessions for accessibility and legibility, I also think people need to respect artistic vision.

If I am Christopher Nolan or Denis Villeneuve and I make an epic cinematic masterpiece using IMAX cameras and all of the most advanced filmmaking techniques to perfectly craft an amazing visual spectacle… and you say you need Dune or Intersteller to look good on your phone as you watch in your backyard at noon… well… no.

If you want to watch something cinematic, I think some effort on your part to find a suitable viewing environment is warranted.

There are definitely shows and movies that got way too caught up in this darkness fad.

The night battle in Game of Thrones was absolutely too dark.

I am in full agreement.

They mastered it on a $20,000 display under ideal conditions and crafted the visuals so they could only be legible in that same environment on a screen that no regular person owns.

I don't think it should be necessary to watch in a pitch black room on a magic TV with perfect calibration.

But if you are watching movies like John Wick or Avatar or Star Wars, I think you owe it to yourself to find a darker space and watch it on your best display.

You will have a better experience and you will be more respectul of the artistic intent.

I create my photography on a highly calibrated 30 inch display in a modertately dark environment. And if I could invite all of you into my room to view my photos, I would. I can't tell you how difficult it is to know people are going to view my highly detailed work on phones. Many are going to have poorly calibrated screens with the wrong colors. Some people might be in the waiting room of a doctor's office with green fluorescent light contaminating their screen.

I love making art for people and I just want them to experience it as I crafted it. But I know that is logistically impossible and most people will view my images under less than ideal circumstances.

And while I'd never demand people change those circumstances just to see one of my photos, I do think it is worth the effort for some content.

I mean, if you are watching Andor on your smartphone next to a giant window, I feel like you are cheating yourself out of a truly unique and beautiful cinematic experience.

So... if you can manage it... meet these artists half way.

Wait until night or turn off a few lights and watch on your biggest screen.

Watch the Mormon wives and Mr. Beast next to the sunny window. They don't care.

But maybe save the cinematic shit for when you can watch it properly.

In this scene, they are in the middle of the woods under a canopy of trees. They show the sky and there is no moon.

The light has absolutely no motivation.

Motivated lighting is a philosophy where all of the light sources on screen have a logical source. The light from a smartphone on someone's face. A lamp next to the couch. Sterile overhead office lights.

Often filmmakers will still use their own custom light sources, but they will simulate these things to give the impression the light has motivation.

Compare this to when all they really had were bright spotlights and insensitive film. An indoor scene just couldn't have this warm and cozy feel. And the light was just blasted in from everywhere.

Black and white helped a lot. You could still get dramatic effect despite things needing to be overlit. Or you could play with contrast ratios and shadow.

All the stuff you need to see was very bright and exposed well onto film and all the stuff you didn't was very dark.

But there was no graduation in between. It was hard to be subtle.

And when television and movies went color, this black and white contrast advantage was lost.

You can see EVERYTHING. And look at those sharp shadows. Everyone is just being blasted in the face with lights.

This sitcom lighting persisted long past when it was necessary. It became part of the sitcom language.

I think M*A*S*H was one of the first shows to subvert the overlit sitcom aesthetic. They began to play with lighting that had more motivation.

But aesthetic standards are hard to kill. And despite the heavy influence of M*A*S*H, sitcoms persisted all the way into the Friends era.

Her lamp isn't even on. Everything is just lit by God.

I don't think you will see a living room or kitchen scene lit like this very much from here on out.

People are getting used to lighting making more logical sense.

With the advent of LED lighting that can be any size, shape, and brightness, as well as cameras that can interpret very dark images, modern shows can now use bright and dark as narrative tools.

I think Severance does this well, and still keeps everything properly motivated.

But this newfound flexibility has created new problems. If you can film dark things, how dark is too dark? And how do you make sure the audience can see all of the important visual information?

The two worst examples of unmotivated lighting are always space helmets and cars.

It's a conceit. You gotta see the faces so these things are usually forgiven.

But the biggest debate in the realm of unmotivated lighting is night scenes. People have lots of opinions on how best to use light in the dark.

This is because following a motivated lighting philosophy can be especially tricky. Particularly if your setting is a secluded area without any artificial light sources.

Many cinematographers will try to give some sense of moonlight. But moonlight is very hard to replicate, so the effect usually ends up looking pretty fake.

This scene during a blackout in Die Hard 4 looks like they took the brightest light they had, mounted it as high as possible and said, "Fuck it, that's moon-ish."

If the DP is hardcore into motivated lighting, they just make the screen really really dark, like the Long Night battle in Game of Thrones.

The really really dark option bugs a lot of people.

Froggie Tangent about Dark Scenes:

I originally thought people needed to adjust their display settings. But then I realized not everyone watches content in a darkened room like a vampire. But if you find a show or movie is too dark, turning off any room lights will help a lot. Watching it in HDR will also help. And watching it on an OLED will help even more.

Scenes this dark are mostly a fad. DPs are experimenting with the possibilities of new technology. But sometimes they forget not everyone has that technology yet. And they forget some people watch stuff on their phones in a room full of sunlight.

Eventually the fad will fade, we will all adopt better screens, and the darkness will land somehwere between "I can't see shit" and "it would never be that bright in real life."

[End of tangent]

In the olden days, since film wasn't sensitive enough to do scenes in the dark, almost everything needed to have unmotivated lighting just to make sure their film wasn't a grainy mess. And as a culture, we sort of got used to that style. They'd mess with the contrast ratios to give the feeling of night, but if you think about where the light is coming from too hard, it won't make any sense. They took a Broadway theater approach to lighting and so a lot of movies felt like they were on a soundstage.

The 1961 West Side Story is a good example.

They've got a spot light hitting them, but not the building behind them. I guess that could be an overhead street light. But street lights are meant to flood the area like an ever expanding donut of light. A spotlight is like a directly projected cone of light. It is perfectly pointed at the side of their face and not coming from above.

She has some magical purple light coming from... somewhere.

And then they are in an area under a bridge, far away from any lights, but they've got soft fill light with a bright rim coming from the right.

Speilberg's version has much more motivated light.

This one is a bit of a cheat, some very bright source off in the distance. But it feels more plausible to the brain and gives a better sense of darkness. It feels like some kind of industrial lighting. Or a security light at a junkyard.

Here he straight up shows you where the light is coming from. And his preference for anamorphic lenses.

And here he uses bright train lights to create silhouettes. This is clever because it allows everything to be very dark but everyone is still legible in the scene.

I'm torn. Because I study light. And so I am very aware of how shows and movies are lighting things. And unmotivated lighting sticks out in my brain. Like when I watch someone miming playing the guitar. Or using a camera improperly. When you know too much about something, inaccurate onscreen depictions just drive you nuts.

There are some techniques being experimented with to make night scenes more legible while maintaining lighting realism. I think the most promising is the infrared day-for-night process used in Nope.

But maybe it doesn't need to be solved. Maybe DPs should just light the night even if it doesn't always make sense. Maybe general audiences just do not care and I am a big nerd who should be ignored.

[shinysobi]

sleepless in busan (lee jihoon)

what do you think about nostalgia?

☆ strangers to lovers, diner owner! jihoon x writer! mc ☆ w.c: 19k. (i know. i know) ☆ genre: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff ☆ warnings: mentions of alcohol, smoking, underage smoking ☆ notes: long time no see lol. i spent way too long on this, but there was a lot to say. this chapter is dedicated to the lovely people in my discord dms, i promised angst, so i shall deliver. also big thanks to my betas: @mylovesstuffs and @cheers-to-you-th, for reading and commenting on this ginormous chapter <3 hope you enjoy this, and if you do, let me know what you think! chapter one | chapter two | masterlist playlist here

Verse 3 — milmyeon. 

Gukbap is a strange dish. All the ingredients that go into making it are found in a typical Korean kitchen. Rice, salted shrimp, onion, noodles, kimchi, garlic. A bit of pork, if you want it. All of them are found in the kitchen we inhabit—the same spaces that see us moving in and out of them on a daily basis. I wonder sometimes, how long does it take for us to realise that the kitchen is where we spend most of our lives—and for women, it becomes an accepted form of prison. I don’t know about the politics of it, but growing up, the kitchen was an unlikely refuge for me. Away from everyone else, a space where even the relative solitude of my room was unmatched. 

It’s not like I enjoy cooking, or that I'm any good at it. Most of my experiences with cooking have ended in disaster, or at the very best, something barely edible. It was not until I was 17 that I learnt how to move beyond the realm of instant noodles and got over my fear of the gas flame. Even so, I spent hours in the kitchen, watching my mother and grandmother, making meals for people like us, who didn’t even learn to appreciate it. 

My father enjoys gukbap. It’s a homely dish, one that my mother whipped up on a daily basis when she got tired from all the work that needed to be done around the house. Simple ingredients for a rice soup that seems to be a representation of all that we are. Even when he goes out to eat, he gravitates towards gukbap. ‘If the restaurant doesn’t have good gukbap, it’s not really a good restaurant’. These are words to live by, of course, but from time to time, I think: would he still like gukbap if it wasn’t something my mother cooked all the time?

The gukbap here is good, because of course it is. The first time I had it, it was garnished with abalone because the owner ran out of other protein to put in it. I should be calling him out on this, but I don’t, instead, tucking into the soup with all the grace of a starved salaryman. Like every time I’ve had food at the diner, he says nothing, just smiles as I eat it. There’s a bit of guilt in there as well, for bothering him so late at night, but all of it fades away as my nose gets a whiff of the sesame oil put in the last step. 

It’s nostalgic. I’m transported back to the kitchen of my younger days, in a stuffy apartment where I shared a bedroom with my sister, five years older than me, going through puberty under the worst possible conditions. All the anger, all the arguments, even the misplaced passion of my youth, condensed in the soup, my own nostalgia trap laid so carefully, so unintentionally, all in a stone bowl garnished with abalones.  

Nostalgia is a hell of a drug, I’m afraid. 

—

“Did you know that Haeundae Beach has a sea life aquarium? I’ve never really seen an aquarium that big, the pictures were all so gorgeous,” my father says as soon as he steps onto the train platform, “KTX was crappy, as usual.”

“It always is,” I laugh, wheeling his luggage out of the train station, “how long are you here for?”

“A week, if everything goes well,” he replies, taking the cart from me, “do you want to have lunch outside?”

“Lunch outside?” I’m a bit surprised at this tone, to see my father who never really ate out if he could help it, voluntarily suggesting a diner for lunch, “so suddenly?”

“You kept talking about that one diner and their rice soup, so of course I’m a bit interested,” he shrugs, “you’ve never really talked about Busan in all these years that you’ve been here. The only time you said anything about this city was when you talked about that diner two weeks ago.”

“Really?” I shake my head, “I doubt that it took me three years to tell you anything about Busan. I remember talking to my mom about the city all the time.”

“You only talked about the places you visited, which were the house, and your office,” He laughs, “I don’t think we ever heard anything about what Busan was actually like, until six months had passed. Your mother had started to worry by that point.”

I turn away, trying to ignore the question, “well, I was busy trying to hold down my job, dad, I didn’t exactly have a lot of time to explore the city.”

“One would think that moving to a comparatively slower city would afford one more time to take care of themselves, but here we are,” he laughs, “how far is your home from the train station?”

“We’ll take a taxi,” I reply, getting onto the first taxi at the line. My father grumbles, but allows me to take his luggage and place it in the trunk of the car. It’s a small thing, but it’s  important for me, to be able to take care of him, even in trivial ways like these. He’s never once allowed us to lift heavy bags by ourselves, even when we grew older and could very well do so. My father, the strongest man I knew, was now old and frail, sighing as he handed me the suitcase he’d brought with him for a week-long trip to my city.

“I didn’t bring any side dishes with me,” he says, as soon as I finish giving my address to the driver, “it’s going to be New Year’s next month, so she’s making both you and your sister’s favorites, for you to take back home.”

“Really?” I perk up, “is she making kimchi from scratch?”

“She’s saving all the work for when you get home to help out,” he replies, “she’s not as young as she was, you know. She needs a lot of help right now.”

I raise an eyebrow, “and you left her to fend for herself? She’s stuck in Seoul while you’re in Busan? Not cool, dad.”

“She’s visiting your sister,” he answers, “your niece and nephew are kicking up a fuss daily, demanding to see their grandmother. As if they don’t see her on a weekly basis,” he adds, disgruntled at the prospect of living away from my mother for a week, “she would have liked to come here too. She likes the beach a lot more than the mountains.”

“I know that,” I reply, “she’s always been the one to suggest seaside trips whenever we could manage to get a holiday.”

“She has not been on a holiday since she came here two years ago,” he replies, “I keep telling her to take a break, but no, she can’t go a day without working herself to the bone.”

“She’s still teaching at the hagwon?” I ask, although I’m not really that surprised, given how my mother loved to teach, “I thought she would have quit the hagwon by now. Even if she owns it, she doesn’t have to work that hard every day. She can take it easy now.”

“She might own the institute, but she’s under a lot of pressure to make sure all her students get excellent grades,” he replies, “she was a schoolteacher half her life, and now when she’s retired, she opened up her own private coaching centre just so she wouldn’t get bored. Your mother has worked hard all her life.”

“So have you,” I pause, as the car pulls up on the street in front of my apartment complex, “you still teach, don’t you?”

He doesn’t meet my eyes. Bingo. “Still taking lectures at the university, even though you’ve retired years ago,” I shake my head, “still working, and you come here to gossip about my mother.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he sputters, but I’m already out of the car, pulling out the suitcase from the trunk, “come on, dad, I’ve got lunch ready for you.”

—

As I had predicted, my father spends an enormous amount of time cleaning up around the house. He spends about two hours dusting every surface, because I do not “maintain a hygienic standard of living”. It is annoying, but at the end of the day, he does make the house look better than what it was before he stepped foot inside. It’s funny, actually, how he managed to make my relatively clean apartment spick-and-span in a matter of minutes. At least he didn’t find my stash of cigarettes. 

“Do you still love playing chess?” I ask casually, placing a bowl of rice in front of him, “mom told me you still go out to play at the park.”

“I do, actually,” he nods, looking appreciatively at the meal, “I play chess all the time. Your mom hates it so much she’s told me to stop on three separate occasions.”

“And you haven’t.” I sigh, placing the big bowl of tofu stew in the middle of the table, “hey, you could go out to play at the nearby senior citizen’s park if you get bored. I’m going to be at the office, so you can go there to play against all the oldies.”

“Not interested,” he mutters, “I doubt there’s anyone in Busan who can beat me at chess.”

I say nothing in response. 

—

After dinner, I peel an apple and cut it into slices for my father to eat, and we sit in silence, chewing thoughtfully on the apples, when my father reaches into his backpack and brings out a copy of my book. Yes, there’s no doubt about it; it’s my book all right, the cover art, the pseudonym, everything points to it being my book. I try my best to not cringe away from the sight. 

“Your sister gave this book to me,” he says, “I actually enjoyed it a lot.”

“Hmm,” I say, “didn’t know eonnie was into reading collections of fictional essays.”

“You’ve read this?” my father perks up, “it’s really good, and the author is from this city, too, they won the Daesan Literary award for their second book, but I do like this one better.”

“What’s your favorite essay?” I ask, unable to resist, “out of the ten in the book, which one do you like the most?”

He has to think for a while, “the one about high school.”

“The high school essay? I enjoyed the one about university and family life much more,” I say, “the one about high school was so—vague. It barely made any sense to me.”

And it’s true. Even while writing it, I had felt no sense of connection to the place I called my school, all of my memories having faded into unpleasant nothingness. Save for one person, I don’t think I remember anything from my school life. To think that the most formative years of my life were reduced to fleeting memories is a humbling thought, “why did you like that one the most?”

He pauses, “it reminded me of you.”

Ah. There it was, the inevitable moment where my father figured out it was me who wrote that book, “why did you think so?”

He says nothing for a long time, chewing on the apple slices I place in front of him. After five minutes pass, he speaks, so low I barely catch it, “you were the same in high school.”

“I was vague in high school?” I snort, “Dad, I was seventeen. Of course I was vague, I barely knew what the hell to do with my life.”

“Not that, of course,” he waves a hand, “you always seemed to be struggling back when you were in high school. At first, your mom and I thought it was just puberty, but towards the end, we all grew anxious about it.”

“I was just stressed,” I laugh, “we all were, it was the final year of high school, of course we were stressed, dad. I wasn’t struggling.”

A lie. Of course I was struggling. Yes, we were all struggling, but mine took on a different form altogether, morphing itself into the many-eyed monster of my childhood nightmares, even after I finished high school and moved on to university. I just thought I had managed to hide it pretty well from everyone. Hadn’t realised my parents knew all about it. 

“It looked like you were,” he waves a hand, ‘and I thought it was the same as what your sister had gone through, and left you to your own devices, because that’s what we did with your sister. It’s only after all these that I took some time to think to myself, and I came to the conclusion that maybe, we should have been a bit more proactive.”

“Dad,” I sigh, “I was fine in high school. I did well in my exams, I got into Hankuk university like my sister did, and I even had friends to share the burden of exams. Don’t worry too much.”

Blatant lies. High school was where my existence was a mere blip on the radar of most people—to the extent that I don’t know if anyone from my school even remembers who I was. Three years—three years spent in the middle of a crowd, and I walked away with nothing. 

“Oh, I heard Doyeon got married,” he says, “did you hear?”

“I didn’t, actually,” I reply, shrugging, “she got married? Didn’t realise she was into the whole marriage thing.”

“You didn’t know your high school classmate got married?”

“No, I just didn’t know she was so keen on getting married in the first place,” I reply, “did she invite you?”

“She did, actually.” 

“Huh?! Why the hell would she do that?”

“Because she’s also our neighbour?” He makes a strange gesture with his hands, “her mother invited us, actually. We’ve been close friends for years.”

It’s strange, because my memories of Doyeon from all the time that I have known her, are restricted to vague recollections of a girl who ignored me in the hallways. We used to be close friends in middle school, which had petered out upon entering high school. Now, she was a married woman, had been for some time, and I wasn’t even aware. Apparently, my parents were. 

“Are you still in contact with anyone from high school?” my father asks, “everyone from the neighbourhood went to the wedding. We didn’t go, but we got the pictures.”

“Yes, of course,” I mutter, “I don’t know why you’re bringing it up right now. I didn’t go because I wasn’t invited.”

“It’s not that,” he fidgets, “you know what I’m trying to get at, right?”

I groan, “stop doing this, dad. I’m not looking to get married right now.”

“It’s not about getting married,” he sighs, “I don’t understand why you have to be so needlessly difficult about everything. It’s marriage, not a death sentence.”

“You still don’t get it, right?” I stand up, grabbing a hold of the plate of fruit, “it’s fine, really. I just don’t want to get married, not right now.”

“You’re not getting any younger,” he replies, “all your peers are getting married and settling down, and here you are, living in the middle of Busan. Do you even want to think about us?”

Deep breaths. Don’t lose your temper. “It’s really nothing to be angry about, Dad. I just don’t want to get married right now, that’s all.”

“It’s been five years since you’ve told us that, you know.” He doesn’t let up, “I’m not the only one who’s worried about you, we all are. Your mother keeps asking your sister if you’ve told her about someone. We’re all worried.”

“Great, good for her, it’s just that I don’t want to get married. Not right now, probably not ever.” 

My father stands up, and he’s obviously about to berate me again, for deciding against marriage so early in my life, but I hold up a hand, “get some rest, dad. It’s been a long journey for you. We’ll go out for dinner, yeah?”

—

My father mentions nothing about the interaction after his afternoon nap. Instead the two of us spend the rest of the evening at the supermarket, picking out groceries for me to prepare for the coming week. Sure, I can get the store-bought side dishes that everyone my age uses, but according to my parents, nothing beats the health benefits of cooking everything by yourself. 

“Sometime it’s really apparent, that you never grew up in a largely capitalist economy,” I grumble, watching my father place a box of unpeeled garlic in the shopping cart, “I barely have enough energy to make myself a single meal after work, how do you expect me to prepare these on a weeknight?”

“I’ll peel the garlic, if that’s what you’re worrying about,” he mutters, throwing in more groceries, “you always seem to eat out for dinner. I found nothing in the fridge other than fruit. Is this how you plan on living?”

I scowl, he has a point. “I wasn’t planning on doing that,” I grumble, but push the cart obediently, watching with increasing horror as he places the expensive soy sauce in my cart. Everything goes in, and it’s becoming increasingly evident that my father is planning a cooking session for a family of four, not a single-person household. And I can’t even return some of the things. 

“Isn’t this a bit too much for one person?” I ask, after he’s placed a cut of salmon in the cart, large enough to feed me for a week, “do I really need this much food? I’m just cooking for a single person, not a whole family.”

“Huh?” he turns around, holding a whole skirt steak, “oh, right, of course. Silly of me to forget, really.” 

He places some of the groceries back, more notably the half salmon and the skirt steak, but I can’t help the feeling that I’m missing out on something important. Sure, there’s a sense of familiarity in this, us shopping for groceries like I am back to being seventeen again, impatient waiting for my parents to hurry up and finish shopping so I could go back to studying. 

When we get to the counter, the cashier gives us a strange look, obviously judging us for the sheer amount of stuff that we dump onto her desk, sorting it out with a level of efficiency that is almost frightening. Dad helps her in putting things away, but as soon as the time comes to pay for things, I swat away the proffered card, instead offering mine. 

“I’ll be the one eating all of it anyway,” I say, without giving him a chance to counter the argument. 

It’s fine, really. I’m going to be home soon, back in my room, where there will be no one standing between me and the futon and I can finally get some rest. The day has been a long one. 

—

It’s not over, apparently. The next day, he makes me go through the same ordeal, and as soon as we get out of the supermarket, dad takes it upon himself to go to the diner. When I ask him why, he just shrugs, saying, “I want to try eating gukbap at a diner”. This is a lie, because he’s eaten that dish at diners more times than I can count, but I let it go, instead following him obediently along the wharf, dragging the folding cart behind me like I’m back in elementary school, only instead of dragging my school bag behind me, I am dragging groceries. It’s no less humiliating, unfortunately. 

The place is as bustling as I remember, and the dinner rush makes it difficult for the two of us to get a table at first. It’s only the third time that I’ve been here, but the additional time spent waiting allows me to look closely at the walls; covered in memorabilia from Paris, interspersed with small trinkets from different cities in Korea. It’s as if Jihoon has made the walls of his diner into a shrine for all his memories, a living time capsule of all his experiences. I don’t want to, but I can’t help comparing it to my apartment; bland walls, devoid of any personal touch, almost like a hotel room. It’s been three years since I’ve lived here, and I haven’t even made any memories worth putting up on my walls. 

“Table for two?” This time it’s a random part-timer, a wide smile in place as he shows us to the table, set against a large bay window, overlooking the beach, “order when you can, right?”

And he’s gone, tending to other customers, leaving behind my father with a disapproving grimace on his face, “we never treated customers like that when we were young.”

“You never worked a retail job, dad,” I shake my head, calling out, “two gukbap, please!”

“How would you know?”

“You’ve told us at least fifteen times, dad,” I set out chopsticks and spoons for the two of us, “you never knew anything other than studying when you were a young man, and you expected us to be the same. You went on and on about it, actually.”

He looks affronted, “I lied.”

I make a face, “no, of course not. You wouldn’t lie about something that stupid, right?”

He sighs, “never mind.”

The part-timer (whose name tag reads Kevin) places two steaming bowls of rice soup in front of us, and a plate of chicken skewers, smiling, “this one is on the house.” I look up, and of course, there is Jihoon, smiling and waving at me like he’s done something great. Great. Now my father is going to go after me and force me to tell him everything about my relationship with Jihoon, no matter how non-existent. And if he’s feeling adventurous, he’s going to go over to him and ask him about his relationship with me, which has historically meant that Jihoon is not going to ever talk to me again, which would not bother me in the slightest, but I would hate losing out on such a good diner, just because my parents want me to get married to someone I can tolerate at the earliest—

“You must be a regular here,” My father mutters, taking a sip of the soup, “oh this is good, let me take a picture to show your mother. She keeps worrying that you don’t really get to eat well.”

“You were the one who went shopping two days consecutively,” I reply, pointing to the shopping cart, “the cashiers were all staring at us, didn’t you see? They were wondering who the hell are we, going shopping on a regular basis.”

“No one was staring at us.”

“They were! They probably thought we opened up a restaurant or something,” I groan, “really, we did not need two large steaks, dad. One would have been enough.”

“You cannot possibly survive on a single steak for a week,” he says, as if I am not allowed to consume anything other than protein, “you look like you’ve lost weight, again. Do you want to make us worry by living like this?”

Again with that line. They mean well, but they don’t really know the proper way to go about things. “It’s fine,” I shrug, dumping half my rice into the soup, “I’m set for two weeks, at least. More than that, even.”

“You know, this would not have been the case at all, if you were—”

“Dad!” My tone is perhaps unnecessarily harsh, because it makes at least two people (one of them is Jihoon, not that I care) look over at us, “stop with the marriage thing! We’ll discuss this later.”

I want to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the twenty minutes that we spend eating dinner, not telling him what I really wanted to say, I keep telling the two of you that I don’t want to get married now, and you keep ignoring me, pushing for me to do what you want me to, and it’s fucking suffocating me. I might have left Seoul for a different reason, but I think I’m never going to return if you keep asking me to hitch myself with the first man you find appropriate. 

“Your sister has got a promotion at work,” he says, halfway through his meal, “she keeps saying she wants to come to Busan to visit you, but I don’t think she has  the time to take a holiday.”

“She also has two kids to take care of, dad,” I mutter, “even if my brother-in-law takes on the larger share of the housework, a lot of childcare falls on her. She doesn’t have the time to go on holiday right now.”

“She talks to you?” my father asks, eyes narrowed, “she never told us that she talks to you.”

“Probably because you’d rope her into your idiotic schemes to get me married off.”

“It’s not a scheme, and I don’t appreciate the two of you keeping secrets like that from us,” he replies, “at least sign up for a matchmaking service or something like that.”

“When my sister doesn’t force me into thinking about marriage, why should I give into societal pressure?” I shake my head, “really, dad, you both think too much about what other people are going to think. If and when I get married, I’m the one who has to spend my life with someone, not random aunties with whom my mother goes on walks.”

He shakes his head, and there’s five minutes of blissful silence, until, “there was an invitation from your high school alumni association for their reunion next month. I don’t think you changed your address.”

“High school reunion?” I shrug, “good for them, but I don’t really think I’m going to get the time off to go to Seoul for a reunion, dad. Maybe next time.”

“You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” he asks, although it’s more of a statement when you think about it, because of course I have not. 

We do not speak for the rest of the night. 

—

[Ten years earlier]

“Of course, it’s no question,” Yura, the class president, laughs, loud enough that it grates on my nerves, “she’ll do it.”

The task in question is to stay behind and clean the classroom in place of the president and one of her friends, who had fallen sick in the middle of school, while also being conveniently on duty for staying back and cleaning the classroom after school got over. And now, they were all giggling over delegating their work to someone else, and who else was better suited for the work than me, right. 

“Sowon,” Yura’s now standing beside me, a smile on her face, “Kim Sowon.”

I stay silent, pencil tapping on the thirtieth problem in the math chapter. Being an outsider is better than doing her bidding. “Kim Sowon,” Yura wheedles, “Jiyeon’s sick.”

“Tell her to go home early,” I reply, moving on to the thirty-first problem. Integral calculus, chapter two. The double integral of a positive function of two variables represents the volume of the region between the surface defined by the function (on the three-dimensional Cartesian plane where z = f(x, y)) and the plane which contains its domain. Multiple integrals will calculate the hypervolume of a multidimensional function, “if she’s sick, she shouldn’t be here in class. She should go to the nurse’s office.”

“She’s not that sick,” Yura’s still smiling, and I have to physically restrain myself from lashing out at her, “you’ll help her, right?”

“Tell her to go to the nurse’s office, Class President,” I reply, focusing again on the math problems at hand, “if she’s not that sick, then she can do her share of the work. And if she’s that sick, then she should go to the nurse’s office, not sit here and gossip.”

Yura gives me a look, which can be interpreted in two ways, do it while I’m being nice, or, of course you’re going to be this way, huh. “Don’t be this way, please?” she’s batting her eyelashes at me, which means, of course, that there is something else that she wants out of me other than free labour for her friend, “you promised me you’d get me Mingyu’s sns, and you still haven’t—”

“I asked him, and he said no,” I replied, standing up, “I asked you very nicely, Yura, to keep me out of your little games. I don’t want to be involved in this bullshit. Go ask him yourself if you want to get close to him that bad.”

“Really, Sowon?” another one of her lackeys pipes up, “she’s asked you so nicely, and you still don’t want to give it to her? Are you interested in Mingyu?”

This one elicits a loud gasp from the rest of the class, as though my feelings towards Mingyu were important enough for Yura to stop with her dogged fucking pursuit of him, “I don’t care, Yura. date him or don’t, that’s not up to me. Just leave me out of these stupid games.” 

I can feel them staring at me when I leave the classroom, heading towards the playground. If there’s any place where I can find Mingyu in this school, it’s the playground, where he’s almost certainly playing football right now. 

Pushing past a gaggle of underclassmen, I make my way to the edge of the field, where Mingyu is showing off his skills in dribbling to a bunch of enamored football club mates. He’s even posing for the crowd, that vain idiot. He’s two compliments away from dumping a bottle of water all over himself in an attempt to look sexy.

 Five minutes pass before he even catches sight of me, running over to where I stand, far apart from the crowd, “what’s up, Tteowonie?”

“Go on a date with Yura,” I reply, ignoring the childish nickname, before following him to the water fountain, “she’s going to make my life hell if you don’t, so I’m asking you nicely, just go on a single date with her, okay?”

“I don’t like her,” he shrugs, “she smiles too much, and that creeps me out.”

“Smiles too much? Is that why you’ve been blowing her off every time she asks you out?” I scoff, “is that why you hate the idea of going out with her? At least you have options, man, unlike the rest of us, who must survive on your cast-offs. Just go out with her one time, and then she’ll finally get off my back about asking you what the fuck you think about her.”

He looks up from drinking his water, “Is that why you came to find me?” 

“Yes,’ I nod, “I don’t have time to be bullied because Yura hates that she can’t get you. I need to get into Hankuk university, not waste time in high school.”

“So, you’re pimping me out?”

“Now that you say it like this, I hate that idea,” I shake my head, “never mind, I’ll tell Yura you have a girlfriend or something.”

“But I don’t.”

“That’s not important, you idiot,” I shake my head again, “she just needs to know that you’re off the table when it comes to getting into relationships.”

“I don’t get it,” he mutters, picking up his bag and following me to the classroom, “why is she so hell-bent on dating me? She’s popular and pretty, she’s got boys dying to hang out with her. Why me?”

I turn around, “Kim Mingyu.”

He stares at me, “the tone is making me scared for my life.”

I scowl, “What do you think makes someone sexy?”

Mingyu gapes at me, “what? Why would you say that?”

“You’re missing out on the point,” I shake my head, “Yura doesn’t want to date you because you’re more attractive than everyone else in the class.”

“Way to make a man feel better about himself, Kim Sowon.”

“She wants you precisely because you’ve got no interest in her,” I reply, making a venn diagram with my hands, “she’s not interested in the people who pay her attention, but you, precisely because you’ve got the air of being unattainable.”

“I’m unattainable?” Mingyu looks shocked, “that’s nice of you to say.”

“Unattainable because you don’t pay her attention, not because you’re some kind of god,” I mutter, “she’ll lose interest if you go out on a date with her one time.”

“Pimp.”

“Jerk.”

The door to the classroom opens, and Yura’s still sitting at her desk, surrounded by the members of her entourage, but she smiles as soon as Mingyu steps foot into the room, running over to me, “Sowon!” she giggles, “did you ask Mingyu to come over to help us out?”

“I thought you were going to take Jiyeon to the nurse’s office,” I say blandly, “or is she fine enough to do her share of the cleaning chores now?”

“She’s still sick,” Yura makes a face, turning to Mingyu, “Will you help me take her to the office?”

“Huh?” Mingyu, who’s already made his way to my desk, looks confused, “why? I’m here to solve math questions with Sowon for our academy class.”

Never mind. He’s got no hope. 

—

Even now, I’ve never been to a high school reunion. Not when they asked me right after university, when emotions were at an all-time high, and I was practically on cloud nine after landing my first job, and certainly not after I had made the decision to move away to Busan. Of course, every time the invite lands in my inbox, I spend a moment reading it, and promptly deleting it off of my inbox. No need to go to a place where there were so many people reminding me of whatever I did wrong. 

Which was why, when my dad asked me, “You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” with all the certainty of old age, all I could think of was the endless veiled insults and taunts of the people around me, the late nights and the hours spent poring over practice problems and English exercises. I used to walk to school with a notepad of English words to practice; not a moment spared, because as everyone around me liked to point out, all the people of my family had gone to either Seoul National or Korea University, and anything else from me was a sign of failure. 

“I have not, actually,” I reply, “I didn't think it would have been important. Who did you meet?”

“Choi Yura,” my father says, picking at his meal, “she’s getting married a week after the New Year, and asked us to invite you. She said she was trying to get in contact with you, but apparently you’ve changed your number since high school, and she could not get in contact.”

“I had a very good reason to change my number, “ I sigh, “really, did she ask you to get her wedding invitation to me? If I have not responded to her invitation, then it means I don’t want to go.”

“Her parents are close friends,” he replies, in that tone of his, “it would be a good thing for you to go. Especially since you’ve been spending all your time in this city, working even on the weekends. This is why you should have gone to law school.”

“Except I didn’t really want to go to law school, you wanted me to go to law school,” I point out, “we wanted different things at that point.”

“It’s not about wanting different things, it’s about wanting what’s the best for yourself,” He points out, “you even got accepted into a doctoral program, and now you’re working on what—the newest HR communications model?”

“Maybe don’t look down on my job, please,” I sigh, “fine, I’ll go to her wedding. It’s a matter of a few days, anyway, I don’t mind spending my time in the middle of those people.”

Dinner is over before it even begins, but the inside of my mouth feels bitter as I pay for our meals and follow my dad out onto the patio where he’s looking at the sea. He’s always had a habit of doing that, looking intently at things, trying to figure out their flaws. It makes me wonder every time he looks at me, if he’s trying to find a fault in me too. 

“You’re looking at the sea pretty intensely,” I say lightly, standing next to him, “anything on your mind?”

He sighs, “you’ve always been like this.”

“Like what?”

“Stubborn, hot-headed. Always going your own way, even if you didn’t have to. Your sister was the one who fought all the time, but you always went ahead and did whatever you wanted anyway. We all told you not to get a transfer, but you did anyway, moved to Busan, where we knew no one.”

“You make it sound as though being stubborn is something to be ashamed of,” I reply, trying to laugh, “why all of a sudden?”

“Sitting back there, I realised something,” he says, “you don’t need us anymore.”

I make a face at that, “what do you mean?”

“You live in a different city, away from your parents, away from the life you’ve known, and you seem at ease here. Maybe it’s just me and your mother, who have been waiting for you to come back.”

“I’m comfortable here, dad. I don’t even miss Seoul anymore.”

“Do you miss us?”

To that, I can’t say anything. 

—

My father leaves three days after that, making me promise to go to Seoul for Yura’s wedding, and for the New Year. It’s only half a month away, I realise. A new year, in a place that I’ve only known for three. I wave him off at the bus stop, before walking back to the diner for an early lunch. 

It’s empty, with only Jihoon behind the counter, who smiles when he sees me walk in, “did you come here with your father the other day?”

“How did you know that?”

“You both look exactly the same. You’ve got all his features,” he explains, “it would have been strange if he was not your father.”

“You got me,” I sigh, “he was doing what they call a ‘welfare check’.”

“A welfare check?”

“Yeah, they do a six-monthly check on how I’m actually coping with living on my own.” I sigh, “do you have something other than gukbap? My father craved it so much this past week; I feel like I’ve had enough of it for a lifetime.”

Jihoon laughs, “what do you feel about cold noodles?”

“In the middle of winter? I’m not averse to it, but will I get a cold?”

“Not if you’re used to it,” he shrugs, “okay, one milmyeon it is.”

“Cold noodles in the middle of winter?” I laugh, “are you trying to get me sick?”

“Not at all, actually,” Jihoon replies, not at all fazed, “just thought that having cold noodles would help with the whole situation that you have going on right now.”

“It’s not a situation,” I try to defend myself, but who the hell am I kidding. It is a situation, one that could potentially turn my carefully curated life into a pile of smoking ruins. “All right, fine. You got me. It’s a situation. But it’s nothing I cannot control on my own.”

He sets out a bowl of noodles in front of me, with bits of ice floating around the soup. I sigh, before digging in; delicate wheat flour noodles, floating in a gentle meat broth, seasoned just right. Even the ice is not overpowering, and cools down the broth enough for me to start eating without fear of burning the roof of my mouth. 

“They made this when resources were scarce after the war,” Jihoon says, sitting down on his usual chair, “when the northerners, who moved to Busan, didn’t have buckwheat flour to make their usual noodles with, they changed it to wheat flour.”

“Quintessentially Busan, eh?” I make a feeble attempt, and he does not laugh. 

He does not speak until I have finished my entire bowl, and then starts speaking again, “What I mean is, human beings are endlessly adaptable. People moved from North Korea, and made this dish using things they did not have, just to get a taste of home. People move on, people adapt. Situations that seem difficult right now, you’ll probably get used to them in some time.”

“That is funny,” I laugh, “it’s been three years since I moved, and I cannot seem to get used to anything.”

“You might just need more time,” he smiles, “it’s been a long time for me too, and unfortunately, what I thought of as a cataclysmic, world-changing event, just seems like a mild inconvenience in hindsight.”

“Why do I have the feeling you are lying to me?”

“Probably because I am.”

I laugh, “do you want to come to a wedding with me?”

—

New Year in Seoul is less like a family occasion, and more like a battlefield; I spend the day before my vacation obsessively going over every little detail of my pending work; I had to beg my supervisor to let me work from home in order to be able to attend Yura’s wedding, on top of New Year’s. 

Damn Yura and her timing to get married. I should not be angry; the week after New Year is when wedding venues are slightly cheaper because no one wants to attend, not after a week of eating the unhealthiest food known to mankind, and drinking more booze than is healthy for even a grown horse. Hence the random wedding date. Saving costs on people who are trying to lose weight, and also making sure they don’t have to take time off in an inconvenient month. 

“At least prepare the bean sprouts normally,” my sister scolds from her vantage point in front of the television, where she’s currently busy with helping her little children with their homework, “you were the one who volunteered to do this, not me.”

“Making the kids do the homework is probably easier,” I mutter, “is this why you all asked me to come a day before New Year's? So I could be a glorified slave? Just get them prepared, no one does this much work nowadays.”

“Imagine the amount of money they’d have to shell out on every important day,” my sister muses, “and do you think our parents would do that? Miserly Lawyer and Penny Pinching Professor?”

“Miserly Lawyer never had a ring to it. And yes, they’d rather die than give out money to other people to do this bullshit,” I mutter, peeling my thousandth bean sprout. 

“Still, we get to see your face in something other than a video call. When mom told me you were going to come here before New Year's, I was excited, actually. Who knew my little sister, the runner of the family, would come back for New Year like an obedient child?”

“Prodigal daughter?” I laugh, “mom threatened me, actually. And between the two days spent in Jeju and Yura’s wedding, I doubt you’re going to see much of my face around here.”

“Yura’s wedding?” My sister yells, “that b—girl is getting married?” The swear word is, of course, censored, for the sake of my young nephew and niece, who have the awkward ability to become Einsteins when it comes to learning swear words. 

“Apparently, yeah. Her husband works at Samsung as a production engineer, I think.” Of course, my parents had heard of this from her parents, and repeated it to me about twenty times, but I keep that from my sister, who’s jaded and bitter from marriage, “anyway, she’s asked our parents to pass on the wedding invitation to me. Plus one included.”

“The girl who kept hanging around Kim Mingyu in high school?” My sister still cannot believe her ears, “the one who hated you because she thought you were ruining ‘her chances’ with Mingyu? She’s getting married? And what? A plus one? This is not an American wedding, who the hell brings a plus one?”

“Many people, actually.” I reply, “calm down, eonnie. I’m going to her wedding, that’s decided.”

“You even refused to apply to law school because she was going there, even if she never really made the cut,” my sister sighs, “god knows why the hell you’ve been this scared of her, but if you’re going to go to her wedding, then at least dress up well.”

“What’s wrong with the way I dress?” I ask, and she gestures to the outfit I was currently wearing—patterned pajamas, and a black sweatshirt, “please do not judge me on the basis of this.”

“Do you even have clothes appropriate enough to wear to a wedding ceremony?”

“Aren’t people supposed to not outdress the bride at her wedding?”

“Not if the bride was their high school bully.”

“Mom,” Ui-jun pipes up, “what’s a bully?”

“A bully is someone you should never become,” I say, loud enough that his curiosity is satisfied, “you need to get them earplugs.”

“They’re amazing, aren't they?”

“This is not a product launch, you idiot, that’s not how children work. Stop swearing around them.”

“You’re avoiding the question,” my sister makes an accusatory jab with Ui-jun’s crayon, “no one goes to a wedding in casual clothes unless they are a celebrity, which you aren’t. So, do you have clothes for a wedding reception?”

I shake my head. 

“Knew as such,” she sighs, “we have to go shopping the day you come back from Jeju.”

“You’re going to make me shop for clothes after I land from Jeju?”

“Are you swimming to the mainland?” She makes a face, “you’re going to take an early morning flight, no traffic either. Shopping will be fine.”

“Ugh, whatever,” I groan, “fine, I’ll go shopping with you.”

“And the plus one?” She’s still skeptical, “no way you got a plus one to go to a wedding with you.”

“What if I ask Kim Mingyu?” I make a face, “he’s going to say yes, right?”

“And Yura will kill you,” she snorts, “no, seriously. Who is going with you to the wedding? If you show up with someone random, they’re never going to let you, or us, hear the end of it.”

‘Don’t worry about people talking nonsense, just tell me who’s coming with you to the wedding.”

“Really?” I narrowed my eyes, “and you are not going to tell the parents?”

“Scout’s honor, I promise.” She makes a cross on her chest, but the whole effect is kind of destroyed when a three-year old Seoyeon starts yowling for her favorite stuffie that her brother had stolen from her. 

“Fine,” I sigh, wrestling the stuffed toy from Ui-jun and giving it back to Seoyeon, “he’s a restaurant owner. Back in Busan.”

“A restaurant owner?” it takes her about a whole minute to realise who I was talking about, and she stands up immediately, half in shock and half in genuine surprise, “don’t tell me you are going to Yura’s wedding with the guy who owns the diner you’re a regular in?”

“Yes, actually,” I settle back down on the sofa, “the very one. He’s agreed to go with me as my wedding date.”

“Doesn’t he live in Busan? Why the hell would he come to a wedding in Seoul, just to go to a wedding with you?” She stares at me, “no, you’re too boring for a love affair. You’ve probably befriended him or something.”

“At least have some faith in your sister’s flirting skills,” I mutter, “why the hell do you think I am some sort of annoying caveman with no sense of social cues?”

“Because you are one,” she replies, grinning shamelessly in the face of my despair, “you have no sense of shame, and you behave like an annoying caveman.”

“Anyway,” I pick up Seoyeon, who’s now beginning to get fussy, “I’m going to go back to peeling my bean sprouts because mom will kill me if I am still stuck on them by the time she comes home.”

“You’re going on a wedding date with the diner owner, and you’re worried about the bean sprouts,” she sighs, joining me at the dinner table, “at least tell me why he agreed to be your date.”

“He’s going to be in Seoul that week, so he just moved around a single plan to make sure he can accompany me to the wedding,” I shrug, “and for your kind information, he’s not a diner owner. They have an Orange Ribbon, and he used to be a music producer and composer before he changed careers.”

“You’re arguing like you’ve been dating for years,” she raises an eyebrow, “no matter, mom and dad will blow their top off either way. Imagine Sowon, the baby of the family, dating a man. They’re all going to go insane.”

“Which is why I need you to keep your mouth shut.” I sigh, “it’s already awkward as is.”

“Just make sure you don’t make a mistake,” my sister says, half of her attention on the kids, “remember what happened at university? Do you want a repeat of that?”

“It’s a miracle I got Jihoon to agree to come with me to the wedding, so please don’t bring up random stuff from my past,” I mutter, and she drops the subject, but the final words remain; do you want a repeat of what happened at university? 

Hey, at least Jihoon said yes to this ridiculous idea. 

—

“A wedding?” If this was a comedy, there would be a funny sound effect right about now, but this is not a comedy, and so, I stare at Jihoon, who’s staring right back at me, looking as though I have handed him a marriage registration certificate. “Why would you want me to go to a wedding with you?”

“It’s a high school classmate's wedding,” I offer as little explanation as I can, “nothing more than that.”

“But you are asking me to go with you to their wedding.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, “well, the thing is, I’ve not been on good terms with them, not since high school.”

“And you want them to know you are not a loser?” He’s smiling now, which would actually be very attractive if I was not actively trying to remain sane. 

“Sort of. I don’t want them to think I left Seoul for them or something like that.”

“I thought you ran away from Seoul.”

“Yes, but no one needs to know that,” I reply, “although, in retrospect, they probably already know.”

“So, you want to show up with someone in order to prove rumors wrong,” he’s smiling now, “am I going to be your trophy boyfriend?”

I promptly spit out the water I was drinking, “what are you talking about?”

He’s still smiling, “I mean, asking me to go to a wedding with you, isn’t that slightly romantic? And I still don’t know your name.”

“Is my name really important to you?” I scoff, “I doubt people at my work know my name either. It’s always Miss Editor or Miss Kim to them.”

“Kim is the most common surname in the country,” he replies, “and I would like to think I am slightly more important than the people at your work. You’ve been eating here for a month now, and I don’t think I've ever seen you with any of your coworkers. Is the food not good?”

“If it was not, would you think I would be coming here for a month?”

“Touche.”

I sigh. Who knew convincing someone to come to a wedding with you was this difficult, “if you want to know that badly, it’s Sowon. Kim Sowon. My parents were not terribly imaginative with their naming of me and my sister.”

He shakes his head, “the name means hope. That’s a nice name, actually, Kim Sowon.”

I stare at him. The way he says my name, it’s different. Not the Kim Sowon my parents use when they are angry with me, nor the Sowonie that my sister uses when she wants to tell me something sad or heartbreaking. It’s my name, but why does it feel like he’s saying it like no one has ever before?

“That’s the name. Kim Sowon. So, will you be coming to the wedding, or not?”

“Depends. Will I be introduced as the boyfriend?”

I laugh at that, “me, with a boyfriend? My friends are going to catch on to that little deception sooner than you think. I’ve been single almost my whole life.”

“Almost? Do I need to look out for potential ex-boyfriends to come out and attack me while I am sipping on martinis?”

“That is a very detailed mental image you have there, Lee Jihoon,” I laugh, “but no. No exes, at least none that will come out and attack you. They might tell you to dump me at the first opportunity, but no, they will not attack you for dating me.”

“That seems self-deprecative.”

“It’s the truth, actually,” I smile, picking up my coat and bag, “give me your number, I need to send you the details of the wedding venue.”

“You just told me your name. Aren’t you moving a bit too fast for anyone’s liking?” He laughs, but holds out his phone anyway. 

—

“You have his number?” my sister says, who’s been holding it in while I relay the incident of me asking Lee Jihoon to come to the wedding. “You have his number, and you didn’t even tell me?”

“Babe,” her husband pats her shoulder, “maybe this is not something you want to discuss in the middle of the day.”

We are all piled into my room. The children are splayed out on my bed and sleeping after lunch, and the three of us—me, my sister, and her husband—areall lying down on the heated floor, trying to get some rest before the evening meal is to be prepared. 

“I did not think it was important, really. When have I ever told you anything about my love life?”

“Oh, so you are admitting it is something related to your love life,” she grins, “let me see his Kakaotalk profile picture.”

“And what will you do with it?” I make a face, “you never let me see my brother-in-law’s picture until you were dating for a good seven months.”

“I am slightly hurt by that.” The man in question says from his spot in the corner, “why didn’t you show her my picture for seven months?”

“She was making sure you were the one,” I shrug, “I told her not to bother me with showing me a man if I was not going to get him as my brother-in-law.”

“That’s nice.”

“Anyway, that was your condition, not mine,” my sister announces, “I want to see who this man is, that you managed to strong-arm into going on a date. That too, to a wedding.”

“It’s not a date,” I groan, but I hand over my phone anyway, and she eagerly opens up the messaging app to check out his profile picture. I know what the profile picture is. I would not admit it to anyone, but I had the whole thing memorised; a snapshot of the sea from his diner window, in the middle of winter, with rolling clouds on the horizon. I’ve seen it thrice too, hoping that he would change it into a picture of his own, something that I could see whenever I missed Busan. 

“He doesn’t have a profile picture!” she says, annoyed, and the sound wakes up Ui-jun and Seo-yeon, who immediately start calling for their parents. With my sister and her husband busy with the kids, I look at the photo again, smiling softly to myself. What’s the menu at the diner tonight? Milmyeon? Or gukbap? Or do they have samgyeopsal on the menu for tonight? Or a special New Year menu? Should I have stayed back to see what he was cooking? 

I miss Busan; I realise with a shock that I miss the city and the sea. It’s different from missing Seoul; in my first few months in Busan, I missed Seoul so much I had to physically restrain myself from buying a ticket back home. Seoul is where I was raised; I remember the streets of my home, filled with old-fashioned houses built back in the sixties. I even longed for my old home, the two-bedroom apartment where we lived until my parents could afford a house. Seoul is a city I will never be able to escape, I realised in those few months, no matter how much I hate it, I will still carry bits of it with me. It will always be the same—suffocating, oppressive—but I will still miss it. Much like a caged bird once freed thinks about the cage, I too, think about Seoul. 

If there was a word that conveyed both love and hate, I would use it for the city I grew up in. 

But I miss Busan differently. I miss Busan’s beaches and the way people speak and the slight lilt in my voice that has crept in after three years. I miss the way it has made a place in my heart despite my desire to close off everything. Like the sea, like water, it has managed to creep into my heart and make a place for itself, despite how much I tried to resist. Most of all, I think about the diner; my sole place of refuge, the place I wanted to keep hidden from everyone in the world for as long as I could. Just the diner, or Jihoon as well, a voice whispers in my mind, a voice that sounds suspiciously like my sister, the drama addict in the family. 

Either way, I miss it. 

Before I can stop myself, I send a text. 

What’s the menu for today?

—

Jihoon doesn’t hate New Years. He’s simply not interested in it anymore. Why celebrate a meaningless turn of the Earth around the Sun? They should be congratulating the Earth, not themselves. Still, he makes a new, celebratory menu for the diner, meticulously prepares everything on the menu, and makes sure to set out a notice in front of the door, that tells passers-by, new menu!

Even the group chat is silent, which is to be expected, really. Wonwoo’s company was launching a new update for a game, and Wonwoo had been working overtime to make sure the code was up to date and not crashing when someone tried to tweak it the slightest bit. Crunch time was hell, apparently. Both Jeonghan and Seungcheol were busy preparing for Hoshi’s comeback in the first quarter of the new year, and he was expected to send in his final composed scratch track by the end of January. 

“Boss,” the part-timer, Kevin, saunters into his line of sight, “two tteokguk for table four.”

“Coming up!” He’s fine. Jihoon is not thinking about the dead group chat and definitely not thinking about Sowon. She really was an enigma. Who else would come into the restaurant they were a regular at, and demand the owner to go on a date with them? He even talked to Jeonghan about this, which just showed how desperate he was getting. 

“Hyung, how would you react if the woman you were thinking about just showed up at your doorstep, and asked you to go to a wedding with her?” Jihoon is doing fine. He really is, but the twin laughter from Jeonghan and Seungcheol on the opposite end of the phone call confirmed whatever suspicions he has had—those two were listening on to the whole thing. 

“So? Did you manage to get her name or did you agree to go to a wedding with her without knowing her name?” Seungcheol laughs, “yes, Jeonghan told me everything.”

“Wow, you’re still a married couple after ten years, huh,” Jihoon mutters, not displeased, but feeling slightly betrayed, “and why the hell would you think I would agree to accompany someone to a wedding without knowing their name?”

“Because it is something that you would do, Jihoon,” Jeonghan says, “you would go to the wedding even if you did not know her name. You’d print out a sign that said ‘Diner regular’ and hope that she showed up.”

“Glad to see my oldest friends have so little faith in me,” he grumbles, “no, she actually gave me her number and her name.”

There’s a scramble on the other end, and Seungcheol’s indignant voice floats through, “her number? She gave you her number and her name? The same woman who told you straight up that it was not required for you to know anything about her?”

“Well, I did say that finding the correct wedding venue would be impossible if I did not know her name, so maybe, I asked her and she gave in,” he muses, and Jeonghan laughs, “why the hell are you two laughing?”

“I just think it’s funny. Lee Jihoon, the man who only pined once in his lifetime, is openly down bad for a woman he’s met maybe five times.”

“She’s been to the diner at least ten times. Besides, I even saw her father with her the other week.”

“Meeting the parents already?”

“Shut up!” He’s yelling in the middle of the night, and oh god his neighbors are going to report him for real, “I did not meet her parents. Just tell me what the hell do I do to make this thing go in my favour.”

“Wear something good, for one,” Seungcheol offers, “I’m pretty sure she does not want to see you wearing the same uniform that you wear all the time. Ditch the apron, wear something fashionable.”

“Right, yes.” Jihoon mutters, “something fashionable. Now what would that be?”

“You’re fucked,” Jeonghan replies, “what do you mean you don’t know your personal style? You used to wear so much black leather stuff when you were here.”

“And I was also in my twenties then,” Jihoon snipes, “maybe wearing the same style in your twenties is not the best idea you can give me.”

“Wear something nice, not flashy. Understated is the way to go,” Seungcheol says loudly, talking over Jeonghan, “and for god’s sake, wear an expensive watch. You used to have a really nice one, what happened to that?”

“I still have it. It’s kind of inconvenient to wear it on a daily basis, so I keep it in my closet.”

“Then wear it for the date,” Seungcheol groans. “You really like her, huh?”

“Apparently, I do,” Jihoon doesn’t even fight the smile on his face, “it’s strange to feel so strongly about someone this fast, but I can’t help it, it seems.”

“Why?”

Why, huh? He’s asked himself this about ten times, and always comes up empty. Why do you like her? Does he even like her? “I don’t know what I feel just yet. All I think about when I look at her is how much she reminds me of myself.”

“And?”

“And I would like to be there for her, if I can. The wedding seemed like it was a big deal to her, so I said yes. She really needed someone to be there for her, at least at that moment.”

Seungcheol whistles, “wow, you’ve gone mad. You’re entirely gone. Good luck with the date, huh? Call us to the wedding later on.”

—

He’d even brought out the watch collection and pondered for an hour straight on which watch to wear to a wedding. Nothing too flashy, his mind had supplied, it’s a wedding. Don’t draw attention to yourself. 

Then he thought about what Seungcheol had said. Good luck with the date. Even though he had tried to ignore it, it really was a date; even though they both drew strict boundaries, there was no mistaking what this was: a date. 

In the end, he had picked out the flashy one. If I have to make an impression on her, I need to pull out all the stops. 

—

“Boss,” Kevin’s voice brings him back to reality. “Three japchae for the bar.”

“So many people are ordering bloody japchae,” he grumbles, but he gets started on the order anyway. Sales for today have been higher than the entire month, and he really should not be complaining when it concerns money. 

Still, half an hour later, when they’re all tired out from the lunch rush and he’s contemplating closing up the diner for the night, his phone rings with a message notification. He’s really not hoping for anything, but it’s her. 

What’s the menu for today?

Jihoon bolts upright, scaring Kevin, and starts pacing around nervously. What’s the menu for today? Realistically, he should be able to answer this easily, but he cannot find himself to type out the words. He’s not chickening out; he’s just nervous. 

“What was the menu for today?” He asks. Kevin, who’s still staring at his boss pacing the entire length of the diner floor, shakes his head, “tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon—”

“Fine, I get it,” he sighs, typing out the words on his phone. Tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon. Finished, he holds it up to Kevin, “is this a good text?”

“Depends, are you her private chef?” He raises an eyebrow, “why the hell are you sending her a menu?”

“Because she asked!” He’s fully aware that he’s yelling, thank you very much, but he also can’t help himself, “oh god, why the hell did I ask you? Go back to what you were doing, Kevin.”

Kevin shrugs, “my name is not Kevin.”

Jihoon stares, “you wrote Kevin on the application form.”

“Yes, but it’s kind of a pseudonym I’m trying out,” Not-Kevin shrugs, “I have other ones, do you want to know?”

“Now you’re gonna tell me you’re not Korean-American or something.”

“I am not.”

“Oh dear,” Jihoon sighs, “what other names were in consideration?”

“Dino, for one,” the other man shrugs, “Dino.”

“Short for Dinosaurs?” Jihoon asks. 

“Correct. The actual name is Chan, though. Lee Chan.”

“Stupid fucking name,” he mutters, but there’s already another text from her, a reply to his earlier message. 

That’s a lot. We made tteokguk and jeon only. Couldn’t manage so many things. 

“She replied! Hah!” Jihoon waves the phone excitedly, “see this, Kev—I mean, Chan.”

“Wow, you’re weird,” Chan sighs, picking up his bag, “your mother called, she asked you to go home for tteokguk in the evening. I am out of here, since I have a date to go to, unlike you.”

“Little shit,” Jihoon mutters, but it’s really nothing bad, because he has a proper excuse to talk to her now. 

I run a diner, Kim Sowon-ssi. 

Sorry, forgot about that one, really. Shouldn’t you be spending time with your parents?

Will go to drink ceremonial new year’s soup at their home after I close up. 

Fun. I'm packing for two days in Jeju. 

Jeju?

Seungkwan, my friend, invited me. To be fair, his sisters did, so now I’m going to crash their family holiday. 

Make sure to carry gifts for the whole family. 

I’m a competent houseguest, thank you very much. 

Jihoon looks out of the window as he begins to gather up his things. Winter is here, with snowflakes that have fallen fast and unyielding over the past weeks, but he’s really never paid them any attention. Today, though, he takes some time to bask in the beauty of nature. He’s never really liked winter, despite being born in the middle of November, when the tips of his nose turned pink from the cold, but today, it’s different. Today he can think about the snow in January, in the longest month of the year. He hopes it snows next week as well. 

—

“You look good,” Jihoon’s mother remarks as soon as he enters the house, dusting off the snow from his hood, “did something happen?”

“Nothing worthwhile,” Jihoon shrugs, toeing off his shoes, “where’s dad?”

“Waiting for you,” she replies, “something good has happened, I can feel it.”

Tteokguk is fine, as usual; his mother had brought out the recipe from her mother, and Jihoon pays his respects to his parents before settling into a meal with them. He even takes a picture of his soup bowl before tucking in. 

“That’s new,” his father notes, “you never take pictures of food.”

“That’s not true,” Jihoon lies, “I take pictures of food all the time.”

“He’s met someone,” his mother sighs, throwing down her chopsticks, “really, do you think we are going to tell you to not date them or something like that? You’re thirty, we’re glad you found someone to date.”

“Is it a therapist?” his father asks, “the last time, with Seungcheol, you said he was seeing a therapist. Are you seeing his therapist, too?”

“God, no!” Jihoon exclaims, a bit louder than he should have, and the self-satisfied smiles on their faces give away the whole thing; they’re onto him. “Look, it’s nothing yet,” he reasons, “it’s not even a date, or attraction. I just know someone.”

“Leave him alone,” his father says, silencing his mother, who looks like she’s bursting at the seams to grill Jihoon about his love life, “you know how he is, he’s never going to tell us anything. At least you’re going to be taking the next week off, right?”

“Yes, but I have to go to Seoul,” Jihoon replies, “I have an appointment there.”

“With the boys?”

He hesitates, for a split second. That’s all it takes for his parents to zero in on him. Seriously, they’re like sharks, tasting blood. “Don’t ask me what I am going to do.”

“You’re going to meet her, right?” his mother asks, excited, “who is she? What does she do?”

Jihoon sighs. Even his father shrugs, indicating that he really cannot help him out in this case. He doesn’t even look sad or guilty. Traitors. “I’m going to a wedding,” Jihoon says, settling on the least exciting version of the events, “an acquaintance of mine is getting married the week after the New Year.”

“Strange time to get married,” his mother muses, but his father does not look convinced. 

“It’s her, right?” he drags Jihoon out for a smoke as soon as the dishes are cleared, “you’re going to meet her in Seoul, aren’t you?”

Jihoon really hates how perceptive his parents are. Sure, it’s worked out in his favor mostly, but right now? Right now he wants to get some alone time to figure out his feelings in peace, before being accosted by his parents into divulging whatever secrets he has. 

“Why wouldn’t I tell you if I was meeting her in Seoul?” he argues, “it’s nothing, really. I’m attending a wedding.”

“With her.” his father nods. “Well, you’ve never really been one to maintain secrets, so I’ll let you have this one.”

“How—how did you know?”

“Well, since you’ve brought her up every time you’ve come over to our house, I figured out she was someone important, but I did not know that she was accompanying you to a wedding.”

“I am accompanying her to the wedding,” Jihoon sighs, “she’s going to a wedding, and she asked me to come with her.”

“As a date, or as a friend?” His father stubs out his cigarette, “it’s important you make the distinction yourself. Make sure of what you are, before you go around getting hurt in the process.”

“I’m thirty, not thirteen,” Jihoon sighs, “I’ll manage myself just fine.”

“Just because you are thirty does not mean you can’t get hurt over matters of the heart,” his father says, serene, “your heart can always get hurt, Jihoon. Don’t be careless with it, just because you’re over a certain age.”

“Really, there's nothing to it, dad.” Jihoon argues, but he’s getting slightly tired of saying this too, “I’m not even interested in her romantically. She just reminds me a lot of myself when I was younger.”

—

“Do you have anyone to take with you to the wedding?” My mother asks, on the morning of my flight to Jeju, “you can ask Seungkwan if he can go.”

“He’s busy with hosting New Year celebrations at his ancestral house, mom,” I reply, “he’s definitely not interested in coming to a wedding with me.”

From across the table, my sister squints at me, mouthing what is wrong with you? Just tell her the truth, but I shake my head. If I tell her the truth now, she’s going to have expectations of me later on. She’s going to ask me where I met Jihoon, what are my plans with him,  do I see a future with him—questions that seem routine to her, but to me, really, it does not make any sense to me. Whatever he said about me, the flirting, the talk of being a trophy boyfriend, all of that was for show, I know it. 

“So you seriously have no one to go with?” She asks, more insistent now that I have ruled out Seungkwan as a possibility, “Yura’s getting married. You should make some effort at least.”

I keep silent. I want to say, I’m going to the wedding of the girl who ruthlessly antagonised me in high school. Is that not enough? It’s true as well, while Yura was not someone to be an outright bully, she used her words and her influence to her advantage, and knew exactly where to hit, in order for it to hurt the most. 

Hey, Kim Sowon, are you sure you’re not hanging out with Kim Mingyu just to sleep with him?

Hey, you know, Sowon just goes around with Mingyu all the time, don’t you think the two have something going on between them?

No wonder she tried to keep everyone away from Mingyu. I feel sorry for him, having to put up with her. 

It’s all meaningless high school gossip, I’ve told myself. Nothing matters in the end. I left that school, went to Hankuk and left it behind. Still, on days I barely feel like a person, I think, would things have worked out better if I had told them all off? Took a stand for myself? They knew they could say whatever they wanted about me and I would not antagonise them. It’s easier to ignore the hurt than to do anything about it. 

“Do you want me to set you up with someone?” My mother prods, “he’s a doctor, you know, and he’s got a clinic of his own—”

“Mom,” I sigh, “I doubt anyone would like to think of me romantically when I don’t even recognise myself as a person anymore.”

“I don’t understand why you keep talking like this,” She grumbles, “you keep making us all uncomfortable when we are just trying to help you.”

“Sorry for making you feel uncomfortable, mom, but I really don’t think I’m ready to be dating anyone right now,” I reply, standing up from the table, “and tell the aunties to stop the matchmaking. I’ve been here for two days and they’ve already accosted me thrice to tell me about their eligible matches. I don’t care about getting married right now, and doing all this is making me uncomfortable.”

“They’re just being nice, you know. Would not hurt to let them be nice to you for once.”

“They are not being nice!” I really should learn how to control my temper, “they’re not being nice. I hate the way they look at me, as though I’m some kind of exhibit, a zoo animal to be paraded around for their entertainment. Why do you want me to be nice to them anyway? They hated me all throughout high school, they spread rumors about me all throughout university, they even gossip about me now that I’ve finally left and moved to Busan. When does this end?”

“Watch your tone, Sowon,” my sister warns. I ignore it. 

“They did not care about our family, so I suggest you stop caring about them too much, mom,” I  say, picking up my luggage, “take it from me; don’t waste your time on people who do not care about you.”

—

“Noona!” Seungkwan has kept his promise, waited for me at the airport to pick me up in his family car, “how long are you here for?”

“Just two days, thank you,” I mutter, picking up my suitcase for him to stash in the boot, “nothing too much for me right now.”

“Two days?” He’s pretty surprised, “I thought you had tickets for at least five.”

“Yes, except I have to attend a wedding in three days,” I shrug, “I need to go shopping for clothes as soon as I get back. Then I have to work on the draft again, which I have been ignoring for far too long to be normal, and then get started on work-from-home.”

“They didn’t give you a vacation?” Seungkwan scoffs, “hey, noona, just leave the damn job. You’re popular enough that you can do it. Just leave the damn job and start writing full-time.”

“I need twenty million more in savings, and then I can think about resigning,” I shake my head, “besides, you know why  I keep this job.”

“So that your parents don’t bother you about it,” He nods, “but if you get a proper contract, you should leave the job. They don’t pay you enough, and you clearly hate working there.”

“Not all of us are blessed with workplaces that let us do whatever we want, Boo Seungkwan,” I sigh, “although you’re still stuck at Associate Editor. Why the hell don’t they promote you?”

“You’re what they’re looking for, noona,” Seungkwan has a tight sort of smile on his face, “until you bring out another book, they’re not going to promote me. I’m busy with the day-to-day goings as is.”

“Basing your promotions on my work seems a bit silly and counterproductive,” I grumble, “and why the hell won’t they promote you? Should I write that I want my editor to be promoted for all his work?”

“And that will not help,” Seungkwan grips the wheel a bit tighter, “I can come off as pushy and annoying, which does not help my chances of getting promoted in my company.”

“I thought they liked that you were slightly pushy.”

“Now they think it’s annoying,” he points out the window, “look, there’s the village.”

Seungkwan is trying to change the subject. Well, it’s bound to be difficult for him, I think, being solely responsible for my success, but I do wish he opened up to me, from time to time. Beyond the usual editor-writer relationship, Seungkwan is probably the only person left in my life who I can consider a friend. Whatever happens, he’s always been there for me, something which I have come to appreciate much more than I did in the beginning of the relationship. 

“By the way,” he says, “the series is working out really well.”

“Series?” I ask, “oh, the diner series?”

“Yes, the very one. Over five hundred thousand hits on the magazine website, not to mention subscriber count has increased. Even your writing style has changed, which might be why so many young people are reading it.”

“Hold on, five hundred thousand?” I ask, “who the hell is reading a column about what I eat every week at the diner?”

“A lot of people, actually,” he points to the tablet sitting beside him, and I pull up the publishing house’s website. I could have looked at a physical copy of the magazine, but the website seems easier, and Seungkwan insists on me looking at the comments people have been leaving. 

“How did this get so many views?”

“Apparently, a lifestyle blogger read that column,went to the diner, and then made a video about it. Don’t worry, they didn’t show the owner, but they talked a lot about the food. It became very popular, surprisingly.”

“The diner has been in the running for an Orange Ribbon, of course they’re going to be popular,” I sigh, “let’s see the comments, shall we?”

The column was about the gukbap I’d had before my father came to visit, written evidently in a hurry, with grammatical errors and typos in the first draft that had taken me ages to clean up. Still, it’s not a bad piece of writing, and it’s something that I do take pride in. 

There are about five hundred comments, and I managed to read the first few before giving up: 

—it’s pretty obvious she’s in love with the owner, LOL

—when’s the wedding?

—she’s not wrong, though. Gukbap is the representative dish for Korea

—need to go to the diner she’s talking about, stop gatekeeping

—this reads less like a column and more like a lovestagram haha

“They’re all speculating,” I shrug, setting the tablet down, “there’s really nothing of importance in the column itself.”

“Really? Not even the bit where you wax eloquent about his cooking skills—which might I suggest, are not Michelin-level?”

“He’s good, Seungkwan.”

“Yeah, he’s good. He’s not Marco Pierre White.” Seungkwan sighs, “look, what you do with your life is not my business. It will never be my business either. But you’ve got to stop writing lines like ‘I wonder what secrets he has been hiding behind those perfectly manicured nails’. Frankly speaking, it looks a bit desperate.”

“I’m not desperate,”  I resist the urge to snap at him, “I’m not anything but exhausted right now.”

“We’re almost there,” Seungkwan swerves from the main road to another one, driving through a traditional village, “welcome to the casa, noona.”

“Casa,” I scoff, “we are not kids trying out new Spanish names, Seungkwan.”

“While you’re here, write a few lines about the famed Jeju hospitality too, eh?” Seungkwan gets the bag out of the boot, yelling, “look who’s here!”

—

“Thirty pages?” Seungkwan is more surprised at the volume of the pages than at the fact that I have been able to write anything, really, after the first twelve hours of non-stop feeding, “you write thirty pages in half a day?”

“Had twenty of them written down, actually,” I mutter, snacking on candied tangerine slices, a Jeju specialty (the tangerines) and a Seungkwan’s mom specialty (the candied bit), “just needed ten more, and wrote them in the middle of the night.”

“Why the hell would you write ten pages in the middle of the night?” Seungkwan asks, “you look like you’ve been well-rested, though.”

“It’s probably the weather out here,” I stretch my limbs like a cat, yawning, “I haven’t had a nice rest like this in a long time.”

“Yeah, too bad you’re going back to working from home in two days, and be out of here,” Seungkwan sighs, looking at the PDF on his tablet, “you know, if you want, you can just stay here for the rest of your life.”

“At your grandmother's house?” I raise an eyebrow, “I give it three days before they all kick me out of here.”

“You were given a plate of dried persimmons, and I was given only one,” he points to the empty plate next to the one with the candied orange slices, “they like you more than they like me, you know that, right?”

“Is it because I am the daughter they always wanted?” I smile, and he scowls, “the youngest daughter, so charming she has her family wrapped around her thumb?”

“You’ve already got my family under your thumb, why are you even crying about it,” Seungkwan mutters, “this is good enough for an introductory chapter, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” I shrug, “but I’m not really looking to publish right now. Just see if these pages are good enough to put on the company website. Not even the literary magazine, just the website for serialisation.”

“Well, they are, but why the sudden need to not serialise?” Seungkwan asks, “have you been caught by the sophomore novel bug? But wait, you’re on your third novel already, that cannot be the reason, right?”

“I just don’t want to rush into publishing something when I know the material is not good enough,” I shrug, “why do you want me to publish so fast?’

“Because public opinion is always shifting,” Seungkwan smiles, “and they want something new, every few months.. And you’re one of those people who doesn’t have an active social media presence, not that I can fault you for that, but you have to admit, it goes against object permanence. If they are not seeing you at all times, they’re going to forget about you. Public memory is like that of a goldfish.”

“And I don’t make public appearances, either,” I say, “that was partly why I agreed to the serialisation.”

“Glad to see you’re still taking your literary career seriously, noona,” Seungkwan replies. 

“Hey, your parents home?” I ask after a beat, “do you mind me smoking?’

“Really? Smoking while on holiday at the family home?” Seungkwan laughs, “go ahead, they’re all busy. Besides, we’re sitting in the back courtyard, so I doubt they’re going to notice. The only witnesses are the vegetables, and I doubt cabbages can speak.”

“Do you think I should write about the wedding?” I ask after lighting a cigarette, puffing out smoke away from Seungkwan, “they’re going to have a buffet there.”

“Noona,” he turns to look at me, “you’ve never once told me about them, and now you’re going to go to someone’s wedding when you haven’t been in contact with them for what, ten years? A whole decade? Do you even want to write about that experience?”

I scoff, “really, Seungkwan, I don’t need the damn lecture. And I would not be going to fucking Yu-ra’s wedding, but my parents promised them that I would, and now my sister is treating this like it’s some sort of personal project. Revenge for all the times that I did not allow her to dress me up.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I just got sent a Chanel catalogue,” I show it to him, and his face falls, cringing, “I wish I was kidding when I said that this was a nightmare of my worst proportions. Never did I think once that I would be going to see those people again, not after whatever went on during those years.”

“Seriously? You didn’t have a single friend during high school?” Seungkwan narrows his eyes, “what about Mingyu? You were really close to him.”

“I feel very grateful that Mingyu existed in my life, at least in that moment,” the cigarette is halfway gone, and Seungkwan, who leans forward to listen to me better, catches a whiff of the smoke, wincing, “he’s the only person I think I would talk to, if I ever ran into him on the streets.”

“And the rest?”

“Running in the opposite direction,” I shudder, “no way. No way in hell.”

This is nice. Seungkwan doesn’t push, and I don’t say anything. Our relationship is not based on total transparency—god knows what secrets of his own he has hid from me, but it’s easy. It comes easy to both of us, or me, at least, to sit in the silence of a winter afternoon and smoke cigarettes one after the other, ignoring all his warnings. He doesn’t need to know how my school life was, nor does he need to know anything about my growing pains. For the both of us, companionship is easy—it means staying when the other one needs you. And he doesn’t need to know.  It’s better this way. 

And to think I haven’t even told him about the transferring of book contracts. 

—

“Seriously?” My sister throws her hands up in despair, looking at the outfit I had picked out for the wedding the next day, “you’re going to the wedding of your high school friend, and you’re wearing work clothes?”

“They’re not work clothes, eonnie,” I sigh, “they’re what I wear for going to funerals. Excellently made, and comfortable in the biting cold. Look, it’s going to snow tomorrow morning. I’ll need all the help I can get for this one.”

“Do you have something against dressing up?” She asks, sitting on the foot of the bed, “you used to dress up all the time when you were a kid, saying it made you feel special and like a princess. Now, you cringe at the very idea of wearing something other than funeral clothes to a wedding.”

“They’re not funeral clothes,” I protest, “it’s just that I have worn them to funerals.”

“That’s the same,” she sighs, “what happened at high school?”

I freeze. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You used to be such a normal kid, then you clammed up entirely during high school, and never seemed to recover from that. I want to know what happened during those years, that made you like that.”

I sigh. How do I tell her that it was no one’s fault, but my own? I went into the situation with higher expectations than I should have. It’s my fault, really. 

“I just got lonely,” I replied, “high school was lonely, and I got too used to it, I think.”

“You had Mingyu, right?”

“I couldn’t depend on Mingyu all the time,” I mutter, holding out a white dress shirt for her inspection, “and besides, everyone got so busy during that time, with studies, with work, with everything. I didn’t think my problems would have been very appreciated in the midst of all that.”

“Now you’re making us the bad guys.”

“I’m just stating what happened. I’m not making anyone the bad or the good guys out here.”

“And this has nothing to do with all the rumors about you in university?” She asks, “yes, I heard them too. Everyone talked about you for months, Sowon, and you never gave me an explanation for that.”

“Why do I have to give you an explanation?” I snap, “why is it that my life revolves around me being accountable to everyone—you, our parents, my boss, my editor, my friends, everyone? Yeah, there were rumors about me at university, and I did not tell anyone, because I didn’t want to repeat the damn situation over and over again!”

“Telling someone your problems is not making yourself repeat the situation, Sowon.”

“Yes, but I am doing it, even right now. When you’re asking me for an explanation about what happened, you’re assuming that I was in the wrong.”

“Were you? Were you in the wrong?” She snaps back, “at least tell me what exactly happened, so I can make some sense of the situation!”

“You’re supposed to be on my side!” My brain has gone into overdrive now, and I can feel it, feel the inevitable panic attack, the shortness of my breath, “you’re supposed to be on my side, because if I had done something wrong, I would have come to you. To this family. But I didn’t, and I’m still being interrogated like I’m some sort of common fuck-up instead of your sister.”

 I pause, chest heaving, breathing shallow, and my vision is blurring right now. All I want is to be able to breathe normally, but even that seems impossible. It’s okay. You’ve got experience with this, haven’t you? Just focus on the breathing. Seeing what’s in front of you is not important right now. 

“You’re not in your right mind now, we’ll talk about this tomorrow,” she mutters, without casting a second glance at me, leaving the room. I manage to take three steps to my bed, before I collapse on top of it, breathing heavy and shallow. It’s fine. It’s all fine, I tell myself, don’t worry about it too much. I’ve gone through this. 

In the end, I go with what I know, as usual. The only time I have strayed from what I know, has been when I left this city and went to Busan. 

All my life, I’ve knowingly or unknowingly, done exactly what my parents wished of me. Got into the top public school in the city, the one that we moved school districts for. My sister got in, and so did I. I went to Hankuk University on a scholarship, because my parents told me I had to. Studied Pre-Law, because my father was a lawyer, and he wanted at least one of his daughters to follow in his footsteps. Graduated from the university to train at a law firm, just like my father wanted me to. Even before I applied formally to Hankuk Law school, I was poised to become a lawyer, just like him. Even a prosecutor, if I put my mind to it. 

And I left it all to get a random job at a random company, and moved to Busan as soon as my transfer application was processed. 

What a pathetic life, I think, the only time I’ve tasted freedom, has been when I went to another city. What a life you’ve led, Kim Sowon. 

—

He’s really not waiting for anyone. Jihoon’s standing in front of the hotel, waiting, nonchalant in the way he shoves his fists inside his pockets. I’m not waiting for anyone. This is not a date. 

Really, she’s not even said this was a date. This was merely an arrangement for her, a way to get out of a sticky situation and come out of it unscathed. He’s trusted, that’s what he is. She trusts him enough to ask him to accompany her to this wedding, and he’s out here, thinking about her in terms she does not want to be thought of, imposing his feelings on her like some kind of idiot. 

I’m an acquaintance, he repeats to himself, I am an acquaintance, nothing more. The snow falls thick around his ears, the sound of it rushing around his brain. He should really go inside, he thinks, he should go inside where it’s warm and he’s not in danger of freezing over—

The sound stops. Pure white snow. No sound. All that remains is the loud thudding of his heartbeat, over and over as it reaches a hundred twenty, racing against time and space. 

Because in front of him, is Kim Sowon, dressed in her usual black suit, the same smell of menthol cigarettes wafting around her. Her face is pale, devoid of makeup as usual, and her hair is cut short for ease of movement. 

But he still can’t say anything, because even a single noise would destroy the landscape in front of his eyes. He’s transfixed, waiting helplessly for her to say something before his knees give out. He’s reminded of a line he read in a book a long time ago: 

The train came out of the long tunnel into the snow country. 

“Shall we?” She doesn’t smile at him, merely squares her shoulders. Jihoon offers her his arm, and they wordlessly set off into the hotel. His heart is still racing, and he hopes she doesn’t notice. 

This is—this is bad. He wants her to think of him as a friend, not like this, not like someone who is halfway in love with her already. 

Still denying your feelings, huh? The voice in his mind suspiciously sounds like Seungcheol, and Jihoon wants to hit himself for letting his stupid words affect him like this. Nothing will happen. I’m here as a friend. As a helping hand. 

When it came to Kim Sowon, Jihoon, runner extraordinaire, found that his feet would not move. 

—

I wish I never came here. 

Even for a hasty post-new year wedding, the ballroom is filled with people. Did she even have that many acquaintances? I think to myself, before signing the register and depositing my gift money (50 thousand won only). Guests keep filing into the foyer, looking at the wedding venue, the names written in fancy script, congratulatory bouquets from the couples’ acquaintances. 

“Wow, a lot of people here,” Jihoon whistles, and I wish I could have a cigarette right now. 

“Too many people, I think,” I sigh, “let’s go visit the bride.”

Yeah, this is easy. This is what I am supposed to do, as the bride’s high school classmate. “It’s good manners, I think,” I laugh, hoping it does not give away how nervous I actually am, “we should go there.”

“And why are you going to visit the bride?” Jihoon asks, “you did not seem that enthused when walking into the actual building. And I’m supposed to just take you at your word?”

“It’s good manners, Lee Jihoon, “ I reply, “and I’m trying not to come off as an asshole here.”

There are people coming out of the bride’s reception room, and I can recognise the people I went to school with; Jiyeon, Soyeon, all the people who had, at one point, ignored my very existence. Not that they’re doing anything else right now, I sigh, as Jiyeon passes me by without a second glance; there are always people who will fall behind, huh? 

I knock politely on the door, Jihoon standing right behind me, and Yura calls out, “Come in!” 

The first thing I can think of when I walk into the room is how vulgarly pink. Everything is pink, everywhere, from the pale pink of the peonies to the pink gemstones on her wedding tiara, everything is draped in pink. And so very distasteful. 

“Kim Sowon?” Yura stands up, all smiles, “I didn't think you’d be coming to my wedding! Oh my god, what a nice surprise!” She stumbles over her feet in her excitement to get to me, and I rush forward to catch her, half in my arms and half-dangling, precarious, but not too much. 

“Be careful,” I mutter, helping her back to her seat, “we don’t really need an accident on your wedding day.”

“Kim Sowon, still the same knight in shining armor,” Jiyeon teases, “you never really grew out of the habit of saving other people, did you?”

“I never saved anyone,” I reply, tone more clipped than proper, “I’m the only person here who’s wearing flats.”

“Sensible,” Jiyeon shrugs, before spotting Jihoon by the door, “oh, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“Uh,” I take a deep breath, “this is Lee Jihoon.”

“And who might he be?” Yura’s eyes are sparkling the same glint that I used to see whenever she managed to unearth something about the other, overlooked members of the class, something to use as leverage, “you should introduce him to us, properly, Kim Sowon.”

Fuck, I hate the way she says my name. I take a deep breath, the words ‘he’s a friend of mine’ on my lips, when Jihoon beats me to the punch, taking my hand in his, and smiling widely for everyone to see, “I’m a close friend of hers, as you can see.”

The implication of those two words are not lost on anyone. I can practically see the cogs turning in their heads, making calculations about how long I've  been dating him and how far is it that we’ve gotten, and Jiyeon walks up to us, smiling bashfully, “so you’re close friends, huh? Does that mean you know everything about her?”

I roll my eyes. Really, they had no business even talking about me like this. “What are you talking about?” I ask, after a deep breath, “what do you even mean?”

“I mean, does he know about everything you got up to in high school?” She laughs, turning to Jihoon, “Sowon used to be very famous in high school, you know. Especially amongst the boys.”

Lies. None of that happened. And they know it. 

“What are you talking about?” I ask, and they all just laugh, the noise grating over my ears as I desperately look for someplace to hide. I wish I had never come to this fucking wedding. I wish I had a cigarette with me right now. 

“We all heard from your university friends, that you had moved down to Busan,” Yura smiles, shifting her flower bouquet in her lap, “Bora and Eunji, was it? They told us that you had taken a job as an editor at a publishing firm.”

“Stop it, Yura,” I sigh, “this is your wedding day.”

“I’m not doing anything illegal here, am I?” She smiles again, and I feel an irrational wish to punch the smile off of her face, and continue, until her face is bloody and her teeth are knocked out. It’d take three minutes, I think. Two if I can be fast enough. “You should have some idea at least, Lee Jihoon-ssi, of how Sowon used to be in high—”

“I doubt that is of any importance now, given that she’s almost thirty years old,” Jihoon replies smoothly, “and I doubt anyone here has kept track of everything Sowon-ssi has been up to after high school.”

Taking another look at everyone, he smiles again, “whatever she was, if she was even anything—that was the past. At present, she’s one of the best people I know, and that’s the impression I would like to continue with.” With that, he half-drags me back to the main lobby, making our way to the wedding lobby with a singular look on his face that I can only say is determination? Perhaps. 

“Did you really have to say all that?” I ask, after we’ve taken our seats, “I mean, they weren’t really doing anything outright horrible, per se.”

He turns to look at me, “Was any of what they said real in any capacity?”

I sigh, “it’s complicated. High school was—not my best moment.”

“Whatever happened, I’m sure you didn’t do it,” he grins, “from what I’ve seen of you, you don’t seem to be that kind of person.”

“And if I was? That kind of person, I mean.”

“Even if you were, it would not matter. It’s been ten years; you’re allowed to change during that time. As long as you never hurt anyone, it does not matter.”

I stare at him. Does he really mean all this, or is he just saying it for my benefit? Even as the bride and groom step into the hall, flanked by applause, I keep staring at him. If he’s uncomfortable by it, he doesn’t show. 

He’s attractive, even an idiot would be able to say that. In a way that’s quieter, perhaps. Not that I am an expert on the attractiveness of men, but Lee Jihoon has that sort of confidence in him that makes one want to look twice. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t looked twice. Thrice, too. Halfway between brooding and open, his features are as enigmatic as his words. 

“Didn’t realise my face was that interesting,” he says, mild enough to be only for my ears, “you’ve been staring.”

“You have something on your face,” I lie, looking away, “it’s just distracting.”

“You mean handsomeness?” He grins, “don’t worry, you’re not the first person to tell me that.”

I scowl, “please never use those cringey lines with me again.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, and I lean back, trying not to look as though I have been forced to come to this wedding in the first place. 

—

In the spirit of feeling cheap, I ate three servings of beef ribs, had two desserts, and three bowls of the expensive french-sounding soup from the buffet hall. Jihoon doesn’t say anything, merely observes as I pile more food onto my plate, but at one point he asks, “are you a camel?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, “oh, the resource-gathering part. No, I’m not a camel. I’m just traumatised from this wedding.”

“And trauma must be overcome with galbi.”

“You get it,” I mutter, taking another bite of it, “I need to overcome this trauma with meat.”

Even after all the food has been consumed and the pictures taken, I still wish to be as petty as I can, and snag the biggest flower arrangement from the wedding hall, grinning triumphantly at Jihoon as I emerge from the crush of people wanting some flowers for themselves, “the pink scheme was a monstrosity, but the lavender theme matches my room perfectly.”

“You’re going to put that big bouquet in your room?” Jihoon asks, “your childhood room?”

I want to say yes, in a way that’s both chic and sexy and flirty, like everyone else does, but really, who the hell am I kidding? I manage to nod once, before I open my mouth to ask him the one question that has been weighing on my mind since I heard the words being spoken. 

Did you actually mean it when you said I was a special friend, I want to ask, or was it simply something you did because you felt abject pity?

“Tteowonie!” There’s really one person in the entire world who called me by that name, a childish bastardisation I had always pretended to hate. I turn, hands full of lavender and hydrangeas, and come face-to-face with Kim Mingyu. 

I felt hatred for Yura the moment I stepped into that room and saw her in her bridal gown, waiting as though she had expected me to come and pay my respects and prostrate myself at her feet, hoping to be fucking included in the group. With Mingyu right in front of me, all I can think of is I missed that stupid nickname. He’s still taller than everyone in the room, standing impressive amongst the rest of us commoners, looking like a Greek god carved out of stone. It’s funny, how I remember him as the boy who failed three math tests at the private academy we went to before begging me to help him out just this once. 

“Kim Sowon?” Mingyu gives me a hug, enveloping me warmly in his too-big frame, because of course he does that, he’s Kim Mingyu, the boy who never really knew how to turn off the physical affection with his friends, “fancy running into you here!”

“I was invited, I’m not gatecrashing Yura’s wedding, of all people,” I mutter dryly, “have you managed to get flowers?”

“No, but the bouquet you have in your hand is pretty impressive,” He nods towards the sprigs of flowers in my hands, “planning to decorate your whole house tonight?”

“None of your business, Mingyu,” I scowl, turning to Jihoon, who’s been looking at the two of us like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle without opening the box. Like if he says something at all, it’s all going to fall and spill out and get ruined. “This is Lee Jihoon, he’s my—”

“Friend,” Jihoon pipes up, smiling tightly, “we’re friends. I live in Busan. Nice to meet you, Kim Mingyu.”

And he shakes his hand, in that strange way that all men seem to have perfected, the one where it’s not really a sign of affection nor of greeting, but a casual thing in between, that hides more than it tells. 

“Well, if you’re here with her, then you must be a great friend,” he grins, “did you know, she used to be my best friend in high school?”

Jihoon’s expression changes, from devastated to curious and then settles on a mix of the two, “Best friends, huh?”

“Yes, well, no one would hang out with her,” Mingyu offers as an explanation, “she used to be obsessed with getting into Hankuk university.”

“Really?” Jihoon is smiling, “she seems like someone who always went for what she wanted.”

“She is that kind of person, yes.” Mingyu grins, “have you told them about the time you gave up the Class president position because it would interfere with your studies?”

I sigh, “I try not to think about that moment. And really, I do not. I should have accepted it at the time.”

‘Still, you got into Hankuk,” Mingyu grins, “that’s what you wanted to do.”

Jihoon changes the subject, “What do you do right now, Mingyu-ssi?” It’s less of a desire to know what Mingyu does for a living, and more about not bringing up the memories of my past, “since you’re her high school friend.”

“I work as an architect,” Mingyu smiles, “went to a Seoul university because I had her study notes with me.” He passes us his card, and I take a look at them. Kim Mingyu, Senior Architect. At a firm            specialising in office buildings. He’s made it big, thank God. He deserved it. 

“You would have gotten in regardless,” I shrug, “hey, make me a house.”

“Pay me first.” He holds out his hand. 

“I have no money.”

“Why the hell would I do that without any payment?” Mingyu laughs, and I think what a relief it is to hear him laugh the same. His laughter has not changed; still the same carefree boy of my years past, the brightest spot of my youth. If I close my eyes, I can imagine him laughing at the edge of the field, voice loud enough to be heard from the classroom, after scoring a goal, calling out to me to just come down and enjoy. 

“I’ll pay,” I begrudgingly say, “friend discount.”

“No friend discount for the girl who terrorised me with her math workbook.” He grins, “what do you want it for?”

What do you want it for? I can think of no idea that would suffice, because I do not want an office building, I don’t want anything to do with offices anymore. All I want is a place of my own, where it does not feel like a hotel room, where breathing comes easy.

“Not an office building. Can you redecorate my house?” I ask, and both of them laugh, Jihoon and Mingyu, before he gives an indignant squawk, hitting me across the shoulders. 

“Do I look like an interior designer to you?”

“What she means is,” Jihoon steps in, “she thinks you’d do a better job of decorating her apartment than any interior designer.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

—

Jihoon has been waiting for his friend to pick him up, he tells me, and the three of us—Mingyu, me, and him—stand awkwardly on the sidewalk like elementary school children waiting for their parents after school. I have a cigarette in my mouth, slowly taking a drag on it like Jihoon or Mingyu might find it uncomfortable, to see me smoking right in front of them. 

“Really? Still onto that habit?” Mingyu turns to Jihoon. “I caught her smoking for the first time when she was in senior year. She told everyone that she’d give it up, but never did.”

“Really? You’re going on about the one incident in my final year of school?” I make a face, “at least I wasn’t preening in front of all the school for a football match.”

“It was not a football match, there was a lot riding on it!”

“Your dad told me you gave up law school to get a job,” Mingyu says, “not that I thought you’d ever have a career in law.”

“Are you calling me an idiot?” I scoff, “doesn’t matter, whatever I did back then. I’m fine now.”

“I’m going to Busan for a meeting next month,” he says, after a beat, “do you want me to bring you anything?”

“Cigarettes.”

 A large car comes screeching to a halt in front of us, and a man with long hair and a pleasant, almost sly-looking face jumps out, arms outstretched, “Jihoon! How nice to see you again!” 

“That’s Jeonghan,” Jihoon, from beside me, mutters, “where’s Seungcheol?”

“Gone to get coffee for you,” Jeonghan grins, before pointing at me, “is that her?”

“Where the fuck are your manners?” Jihoon hisses, swatting at him, “I’ll see you back in Busan, Sowon-ssi.”

I want to say something, but I really can’t. There’s an easy dynamic there, borne out of years of familiarity, nothing like the awkwardness between me and Mingyu. Even if I could, I should not. 

“See you in Busan, Lee Jihoon.” 

—

“Who was that man with her? That was her, wasn’t it?” Jeonghan starts his rapid fire as soon as Jihoon gets into the car, “she looked right comfortable with him. Also, I don’t think I’ve told you this, but she’s really fascinating.”

“Gets your attention right off the bat, right?” Jihoon muses, “the first time seeing her, I don’t think I breathed for a minute.”

“I get why you wrote three R&B songs about her, Jihoon,” Jeonghan laughs, “I would do it too, if I could.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he sighs, “didn’t you see them back there?”

“See who?” Jeonghan takes a look through the rearview mirror, “ah, them. They seem like friends to me.”

“Doesn’t matter. There’s history there; too much history.” Jihoon sighs again, watching the heater in the car steal away the mist of his cold breath,  “if I were to barge in, it’d be an intrusion.”

Jeonghan draws the car to a stop in front of a cafe, and Seungcheol hurries into the car, “who’s intruding?”

“Me,” Jihoon raises a hand, “I'm realising that with her, I can’t compete with history.”

—

[thirteenheavens]

Heyy! I love your tics! I was wondering could you write a breakup fic with mingyu? Maybe reader isn’t sure ab the relationship and he begs her to stay? It’s okay if you don’t want to!

Never Again || Kim Mingyu || Angst

Word count:900+

Notes: god a lovely angst request hehe thank you for requesting anon!!

You enter the apartment, exhausted and emotionally drained from the day. You see Mingyu sitting on the couch, his expression a mix of worry and guilt. "Y/N," he says, standing up as soon as he sees you. "Can we talk?"

You sigh heavily, dropping your bag on the floor. "What's there to talk about, Mingyu? We've been fighting for days now." Mingyu runs a hand through his hair, looking frustrated. "I know we have, but I don't want it to end like this. I don't want us to break up."

"Well, I don't know if we can fix this," you reply tiredly. "We keep having the same arguments over and over again. It's exhausting." Mingyu's face falls at your words, but he doesn't interrupt. He knows you need to vent.

"I just don't think we're on the same page anymore," you continue, tears starting to form in your eyes. "We used to be so happy, Mingyu. What happened to us?" Mingyu steps closer, his eyes pleading. "I don't know, Y/N. But I know I don't want to lose you. I love you too much." You shake your head, feeling conflicted. "I love you too, but love isn't enough sometimes. We need to communicate better, and we need to find a way to compromise."

Mingyu's eyes well up with tears as he kneels in front of you, taking your hands in his. "Please, Y/N, don't give up on us. I'll do anything to make this work. I'll change, I'll listen better, I'll..." He chokes on his words, tears streaming down his face. "I can't imagine my life without you. You're my everything."

His voice breaks as he continues to plead with you, his grip on your hands tightening. "Please, don't leave me. We can work this out, I promise." You kneel down in front of Mingyu, your own tears falling now. You look into his eyes, seeing the desperation and pain there.

"Mingyu, I don't want to leave you either," you say softly, cupping his face in your hands. "But I'm scared. I'm scared that we'll keep fighting and eventually drift apart." He leans into your touch, his shoulders shaking with sobs. "I'm scared too, Y/N. But I don't want to lose you over fear. We can get through this together."

"Okay," you whisper, wiping his tears away with your thumbs. "Okay, let's try. Let's try to communicate better and work on our issues. But I need you to promise me something." Mingyu nods, looking at you with hopeful eyes. "Anything, Y/N. I promise."

"Promise me that you'll be honest with me, no matter what," you say firmly. "No more hiding your feelings or brushing things off. We need to face our problems head-on." Mingyu nods again, his grip on your hands tightening. "I promise, Y/N. I'll be completely honest with you. I won't hold anything back anymore."

He pulls you into a tight embrace, burying his face in your neck. "Thank you for not giving up on us," he murmurs. "I don't know what I would do without you." You wrap your arms around him, feeling his body trembling against yours. You stroke his back soothingly, trying to calm him down.

"Shh, it's okay," you whisper, pressing a kiss to his hair. "We're going to be okay, Mingyu. We just need to take it one step at a time." He clings to you even tighter, his tears wetting your shoulder. "I'm so sorry for everything, Y/N. I'm sorry for being stubborn and for not communicating. I just... I love you so much." Mingyu pulls back slightly, his eyes red and puffy from crying. He looks at you with a mix of exhaustion and vulnerability.

"Can we go to bed now?" he asks softly. "I just want to hold you and forget about everything for a while." You nod, understanding his need for comfort. "Of course, let's go to bed."

You stand up, helping him to his feet, and lead him to the bedroom. Once there, you both change into your pajamas and slide under the covers. Mingyu wraps his arms around you, pulling you close to his chest. He buries his face in your hair, breathing in your scent.

"I missed this," he mumbles sleepily. "I missed holding you like this." You snuggle closer to him, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. "Me too," you admit quietly. "I missed feeling safe in your arms."

Mingyu tightens his hold on you, his voice firm. "Never again," he repeats. "I won't let us fight like this again. I won't let us come close to breaking up ever again." He lifts your chin gently, making you look at him. "I'm going to do better, Y/N. I promise you that."

[thepeaklegendoffirstgen]

Hiiii

can you plz write future lookism AU where 1st gen kings + James find out that their daughter (high schooler) has a boyfriend I think it would be hilarious

thanks ❤

I don't know whether it's hilarious, but here we are, I had fun writing this❣️ hope you enjoy :)

Characters: James Lee, Kitae Kim, Jichang Kwak, Jinrang, Jaegyeon Na, Taesoo Ma, Seongji Yuk.

JAMES LEE

He will create a nurturing yet disciplined environment where enjoyment and growth coexist. His daughter won’t be spoiled, he loves her deeply, but to him, love also means ensuring her well-being and development.

So when a no-name, good-for-nothing loser ends up dating his daughter, James is absolutely stumped, how did this clown even manage to get near her?

He’ll give a cold, deadly stare and instantly dig up the guy’s full history, geography, and psychology like it’s a mission.

If this guy genuinely makes his daughter happy, and James believes she’s made an informed, mature decision, he won’t interfere. He wants her to grow as a person, and relationships, good or bad, are part of that journey.

But let me be very clear: if something goes wrong, Mr. Boyfriend might find himself mysteriously missing a few fingers... or limbs. Who knows? 🤭

KITAE KIM

Immediate axe-out!!! Mr. Boyfie , I hope your cardio's good.....run.

Kitae isn’t entertaining any cockroaches around his daughter. He knows how men can be, he’s seen it firsthand, starting with his own scumbag of a father.

No amount of begging will work. In his mind, his daughter is still way too young to even think about dating. There’s a right time for everything, and this is not it.

Now imagine a 6’7” giant charging with an axe in one hand, chasing down Mr. Boyfie… and the daughter running after him, trying to stop the madness.

Even in the rare event, he gives his approval, because no matter what, he doesn’t want to be the reason for his daughter’s sadness—he’ll keep a very strict eye.

Tears? Bad mood? One wrong move? That axe is coming out of his pocket again🤣

JICHANG KWAK

Think of how Manager Kim reacted when Minji brought a guy home, that will be Jichang. 😂

Now, he’s not the overprotective type at all. He believes his daughter should live her best life. But her well-being? That’s everything to him.

He’ll run a background check, not just for safety, but also for fun, and might even throw in a casual threat involving a bullet, just for laughs.

If the guy turns out to be kind, genuine, and respectful, Jichang has no issue.

But if he finds even the slightest red flag, he’ll push for a breakup fast. His daughter can hate him if she wants, but he refuses to sit back and watch someone else break her heart.

JINRANG

He’s got a solid head on his shoulders. Like a wolf: calm but overprotective. He knows choices like these shape a person for life.

First question he asks the guy after he hears she’s dating:“Are you James Lee’s dog?” LMAO.....yes, that’s real😂😂 He’s testing the guy’s character, strength, independence, whether this boy has his own backbone or just blindly follows others.

His daughter’s safety and well-being are his top priorities, but he’ll never suffocate her growth.

Instead, he gently makes her do a pinky promise: “No matter what happens, or who walks into your life, always remember, you can rely on Dad. You’ve got nothing to be afraid of.” A genuinely good father, with the right balance of care and protection.

He’s not against dating. Even if things fall apart, he’ll handle it with maturity and calm, but let it be known: if the guy steps out of line, he will vanish. Murder? Not off the table.

JAEGYEON NA

He will literally run his car over the poor guy, zero shame, zero fear. The law? Irrelevant. Because in Jaegyeon's eyes, this boy already broke the first and most sacred law: pursuing his precious daughter.

Now imagine this: his daughter is on a sweet little ice cream date with her boyfriend. Jaegyeon spots them by chance.

Suddenly, it turns into a full-on Bollywood scene, his car turns in slow motion, dramatic background music blaring, jaw dropped, eyes bulging, multiple-angle cinematic shots🤣 Then... he floors the accelerator.....full speed ahead, aiming straight at Mr. Boyfie. 💀

He’s hurling every curse and profanity that comes to mind. Mr. Boyfie is so traumatized that he might just beg her to break up.

Jaegyeon isn’t against love. He just won’t let some average Joe ruin his daughter’s happiness. Teenage hormones? He knows all about them. He’s certain she’ll find the right one someday. But definitely not right now.

TAESOO MA

Another one in the category of healthy dads with strong boundaries. When he finds out his daughter’s dating, he doesn’t lose it. He sees it as a natural part of teenage life, but warns her to stay cautious and alert to red flags.

He’s raised her with strong values and a clear sense of self, so he trusts she wouldn’t just fall for any random guy.

Not throwing shade at above men, but come on, have you seen how Taesoo treats Hudson?It’s a tearjerker....that perfect mix of discipline and motivation, of grit and love.

He won’t meddle unnecessarily in her personal life, but he’ll always be there in the background, offering a gentle yet firm nudge to make sure she’s walking the right path.

SEONGJI YUK

The chillest dad out of the entire bunch. Honestly, all he wants is for his precious, adorable little girl to be happy and healthy,that’s it.

He won’t throw tantrums or launch threats. His daughter would likely come to him herself and say, “Dad… I have a boyfriend.” He’ll probably just nod and say, “Okay. Just be careful. And make sure he respects you, not just as my daughter, but as a human being.”

But deep down… a quiet sadness will settle in. Time moves too fast. The same little girl who once held his hand just to walk straight is now slowly stepping away. He’ll have quiet moments where he mulls it over. He’ll sigh, smile faintly, and accept it.

Because at the end of the day, if she’s safe, healthy, and truly happy, then he’s okay too. That’s what being a father means to him.

[cosmowgyral]

The Lying Fox is filled with a Love free of Lies

▪︎ Harrison's 3rd Birthday

This is a fan translation so please don't expect it to be 100% accurate. Creative liberties have been taken. All content belongs to Cybird. Reblogs are appreciated but do not repost. Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 2

The day before Harry’s birthday—

Kate: Today’s present… is this!

I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand and stood proudly, satisfied with my work.

Harry’s eyes sparkled as he took in the sight of the mountain of sweets spread across the kitchen counter.

There was jelly, pudding, biscuits, scones—and the grand finale, the annual tradition: a cake.

Harrison: You made all of this?

Kate: Yes! The chefs and maids all pitched in and helped me out.

Among everything, the showstopper was the seven-tiered cake—each layer filled with a different fruit.

We all worked together to stack it carefully, making sure it didn’t collapse along the way.

Harrison: With this much… we’ll still be eating tomorrow.

He looked like an excited little kid, eyes shining with joy. I couldn’t help but laugh as I handed him a fork.

Kate: Even Victor ended up helping when he saw how hard we were working on it.

Kate: We all discussed it a lot and kept doing trial runs together.

Harry, who had been indecisively scanning the lineup of sweets, suddenly paused.

Harrison: ...All of you, huh. With that old man, too.

He shot me a sharp look, his expression clearly displeased.

But—

Harrison: Well, whatever. You made all this stuff I love… so I won’t complain.

With a sigh, he turned his gaze back to the sweets, his eyes sparkling again.

I picked up a knife and plate and asked him with a smile...

Kate: So, which one do you want to try first?

Harrison: Which ones did you make?

Kate: The cake… and…

Harrison: Then feed me that one.

He set down his fork, turned his gaze toward me, and smirked—mouth slightly open, waiting.

I scooped up a bite of cake and gently brought it to his lips.

Kate: How is it?

Harry licked the cream from his lip with his thumb and gave a satisfied hum.

Harrison: Mmh, it’s good. But it tastes even better ‘cause you made it.

Harrison: Here.

Kate: Mmh—

He leaned in and stole a kiss.

The sweetness of the sugar spread through my mouth, and as his lips pulled away, I couldn’t help but smile.

Kate: Hehe… it’s delicious.

Then, suddenly, he slipped his hands under my arms and lifted me up.

Startled, I quickly wrapped my arms around his neck as he laughed and set me down on an empty space at the edge of the counter.

Harrison: One more…

Kate: Mmh… haa…

His lips returned, kissing me again—pulling away, only to change angles and kiss me once more.

Harrison: Your lips are sweet.

Kate: So are yours, Harry…

We both giggled softly, wrapped in the warmth of the sunset pouring through the window.

Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the cake tinged in red from the sunlight.

Before I could say anything, Harry scooped up some cream with his finger and dabbed it on the tip of my nose.

Harrison: Pfft… You’re too cute.

Kate: Hey—where do you think you’re putting that—?

Harrison: ...Kate.

Kate: Eep—!

The sweet smile on his face deepened—then, suddenly, he leaned in and gently nibbled my nose.

He licked the cream away with his tongue, then pointed to his lips next.

Harrison: Next… give me some here.

Smiling, I closed my eyes and accepted his sugar-sweet kiss.

And after that—

To my surprise, Harry ended up eating almost all the sweets by himself.

[Chapter 1] [Masterlist] [Chapter 3]

➽──────────────❥

didn't diabetes exist back then? 😭

[himasgod]

Hehehehe

First years with reader who is Ace's sibling? Reader is an absolute sweetheart to the point people question if they are actually related to Ace.

DEUCE X READER

Where he falls in love with Ace's kind sibling

I'm sorry if it's not what you expected cuz I didn't feel like writing about all the first years today, instead, I focused on deucey, hope u like it anyway <3

Deuce hears it so often he’s not even surprised anymore.

From underclassmen in the cafeteria to random upperclassmen in the hallways, the reaction’s always the same.

“You mean that Ace? Like, Ace Trappola? No way they’re related. Are you sure?”

The confusion never ceases to amuse and confuse everyone—except Deuce.

He gets it. You’re kind, quiet, polite to a fault. You smile at ghosts when they float by Ramshackle and thank the chef ghosts for your meals. You’re always the one with band-aids in your bag, the one who helps Grim reach the higher shelves in the library without complaining about his fireballs.

You're basically the unofficial nurse, therapist, and cheerleader of any anxious student, while your brother…

Well.

“TRAPPOLA!” Riddle roars in the background, and Deuce flinches.

Yep. That.

So no one really blames Deuce for being a little surprised the first time Ace introduced you. He’d been expecting another troublemaker with a grin like a loaded slingshot.

Not someone who greeted him with a soft, “Oh! You must be Deuce! Ace says a lot about you,” with a smile that knocked the breath out of him.

“Not all bad things, I hope?” he’d stammered, ears turning pink.

You just giggled, tucking a stray hair behind your ear.

“Well… it is Ace. But I don’t believe everything he says.”

And just like that, Deuce was gone.

“I’m serious, I think my sibling’s casting some weird love spell on everyone or something,” Ace grumbles one day, flipping a playing card over in frustration.

“They’re just… nice,” Deuce says, ducking his head to hide his blush.

“Yeah, to the point it’s suspicious. It’s like they got all the angel genes and I got all the cool ones.”

“Wouldn’t call it that,” Deuce mutters, but Ace is already too busy cheating at cards to hear him.

The truth is, Deuce can’t help it.

He finds himself looking for you on campus. Not in a creepy way—he just feels better when you're around.

You talk to him like he’s not just a delinquent trying to play hero. Like he’s someone worth talking to.

Once, you caught him struggling to carry potion ingredients, and without a word, you took half the load into your arms.

“Teamwork makes the dream work,” you’d smiled.

He had to stare straight ahead the whole walk back so you wouldn’t see how red his face had gotten.

“Hey, Deuce?”

He looks up from where he’s fixing something outside the dorm. You’re hugging a pillow to your chest, hair tousled from a nap, and his brain short-circuits for a moment before he manages, “Yeah? Did you just wake up?”

“I was sleepy, so I took a nap…but that doesn't matter... I mean, you want to go to the Mystery Shop with me?” you ask.

“Ace’s stuck in detention, and I… well, I kind of wanted your opinion.”

“My opinion?” Deuce blinks. “On… what?”

You shift shyly.

“I want to buy a charm. For someone. But I’m not sure which one suits him better.”

He stares. His eye twitched a little unconsciously as he felt his heart now beat in a sadder rhythm.

“...Is it for a classmate?”

You hum.

“Mhm. He’s really sweet. A little clumsy. Tries really hard to do the right thing. I think he likes bastcycles?”

Oh.

Oh.

His brain stutters like a bad engine.

“...Wait. Is that—”

Your grin breaks through like sunlight.

“It’s you, dummy.”

He just about drops the wrench.

By the time you two are officially dating, the confusion on campus triples.

“Ace’s sibling? Them? Dating Deuce? What is going on in that family?!”

But Deuce doesn’t care what people say. You make him feel calm. Whole.

Like maybe he doesn’t have to prove himself all the time just to deserve good things.

And when you sit next to him during class and gently fix his tie, or when you sneak him snacks during long lectures with a wink, he feels it again—that dizzy warmth in his chest.

Love, probably.

And if he sometimes ends up sparring with Ace over who gets to walk you to class, well… he’s not sorry.

“Just don’t break their heart, Spade,” Ace says one day, not looking at him.

Deuce nods solemnly.

“I won’t. Ever.”

Because you’re nothing like Ace—but maybe that’s what makes this so special.

And somehow, that kindness of yours?

It’s exactly the kind of chaos Deuce Spade’s heart needed.