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forest-hashira · 2 days ago

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Mating Season

back with my final entry for my love in the air omegaverse event! it's also technically a sequel to this fic that i wrote for a different omegaverse event last spring. it's not necessary to read that one first, but for anyone who's into hybrid smut, that one's like 8k words, so. more for you to enjoy! i hope this sequel measures up to the original, bc i once again let the horny gremlin take over and write most of this for me lmao. enjoy this madnesss 💜

event masterlist | read on ao3 | wc: ~3.5k | cw: omegaverse, hybrid au (fox!suguru/bunny!satoru/bunny!reader), gn afab reader (afab anatomy terms used), alpha!suguru/omega!satoru/omega!reader, gojo cries & not in a sexy way, mating cycles/in heat (gojo + reader), intersex omega (gojo has a pussy + a dick), established relationship, oral sex (satoru receiving), threesome, multiple rounds, multiple orgasms, creampies, heavy breeding kink, knotting, reader & satoru referred to as "mommy" once. 18+ only, minors & ageless blogs do not interact, you will be blocked.

When Satoru’s heat had started, you’d waved Suguru off, promising to take care of your fellow bunny until your alpha returned from work. He’d hesitated at first, understandably, but when he saw the way Satoru nuzzled into you and relaxed, his tail twitching happily, his worries seemed to ease a bit. Unfortunately for you, though, that had just been the calm before the storm. Almost as soon as your omega mate shed most of his clothes to keep from overheating too badly, his scent filled the room, even more syrupy-sweet than usual because of his heat. It practically had your mouth watering, and you knew from the moment that Satoru had given you his pleading puppy look, fingers playing with the waistband of your pants, that you were a goner.

What you hadn’t really expected, though, was for your own heat to rear its ugly head while Satoru worked you open with his fingers. The combination of his pheromones and the way he babbled between kisses about needing to breed was apparently enough to make your body get with the program. You felt fire flicker to life in your core, and you whined needily into his mouth, suddenly as desperate as he was.

He swore into the kiss, pulling away to stare down at you, the stunning cerulean of his eyes now only a thin ring around his pupils. You stared back up at him wordlessly, panting and rolling your hips down to meet his fingers. When he added a third and curled the digits into your sweet spot, your back arched off the bed, a nearly inhuman noise escaping your lips.

“Satoru,” you cried out, squirming at his touch even as your body relaxed a bit more. “‘S too hot in here…”

“‘Cause you’ve still got your clothes on,” he replied, though he made no move to help you out of them, just watched your pussy greedily clench around his fingers, clearly eager for more.

“Then help me out of them!” you replied indignantly, trying to pull your shirt over your head and only managing to get the fabric twisted around your ears. “Satoru,” you whined again, bumping his side with your knee. “‘M all tangled.”

The other bunny looked up at you then, and he did his best to help you get out of your shirt without hurting you, but he refused to quit fingering you even for a second, so it took the pair of you a good thirty seconds to finally toss the offending fabric onto the floor. Having not put on a bra after waking up, you were now completely bare beneath your mate, and he quickly buried his face in your chest, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to every inch of skin he could reach. The feeling of his fluffy hair and soft ears brushing across your skin had you gasping and trying to wiggle away from the ticklish sensation.

“Where you tryin’ t’go, little bunny?” Satoru asked, tilting his head slightly to look up at you. “Don’t you like when I touch you?”

Heat flooded your face, leaving every inch of you burning over your circumstances. “Tickles,” you told him after a moment, threading your finger through his hair and pushing it back from his face.

“My little bunny’s sooo sensitive,” he teased, a glint in his eye, but he had a bit of mercy on you, lifting his head to capture your lips in another heated kiss instead. When you sighed into him, he took advantage by slipping his tongue into your mouth and curling his fingers hard against your sweet spot. The way you jolted and moaned into him made him moan, too, and he rocked his hips down against yours.

“Please,” you panted, breaking the kiss just enough to speak. “Fuck, ‘toru, need more. Need you to fill me up, please.” With every passing moment, your heat was further clouding your mind, narrowing your focus to the burning need to be filled by your mate, to be knotted and bred until you couldn’t move anymore.

Feeling just as desperate as you with the need to breed, Satoru obliged your plea, pulling his fingers from your pussy and guiding his aching cock into you in their place. The glide as he pressed forward was effortless, your body already dripping slick even though your heat had barely even started.

You moaned at the faint stretch as he filled you, immediately rolling your hips up to meet him; if he didn’t start fucking you right away you thought you might cry. Thankfully, though, your fellow omega either got the hint, or was just as frantic for relief as you were, and he began driving into you in earnest. The bedroom quickly filled with a symphony of your moans and Satoru��s grunts and whines. You were vaguely aware of your own voice begging your fellow bunny to breed you, and his only partially intelligible responses, and before you knew it, an orgasm was racing through you, leaving you shaking beneath your mate as you clawed at his back and cried out his name.

The feeling of you clenching around his cock was enough to send Satoru toppling over the edge. He bit down on your shoulder as he spilled into you, not quite hard enough to break the skin, but certainly hard enough to leave a mark. His hips never quite stilled even as he came, and a few moments passed with the two of you breathing hard against each other’s skin. Despite each of you having had a rather intense orgasm, the voracity of your heats failed to ease at all. If you’d been in a more rational state of mind, it wouldn’t have been a surprise – you hadn’t gotten the knot you craved, and Satoru had yet to experience any sort of attention to his own pussy – but with your minds muddled by hormones, all you felt was upset.

“Satoru…” you whined, rolling your hips up against him, one hand threading into his sweaty white hair. “Please, need more… Need you to breed me, need your babies…”

“Fuck, yeah, need it too,” he mumbled into your neck, beginning to move his his hips again almost immediately, his pace just as desperate as before.

Lost to the pleasure of being filled over and over, one round blurring into the next, you found yourselves losing track of time; the only thing that mattered to either of you was breeding, the need so deep and intense that it threatened to eat you from the inside. There wasn’t a moment that Satoru wasn’t inside you, and that you weren’t clinging to him; the air of your bedroom filled with the scent of your shared heat and the breathless panting and moaning of each other’s names as you tried to ease the fire you both felt in your core.

What clued you in to the fact that the two of you were no longer alone wasn’t the sound of doors opening, or the sound of Suguru calling your names, letting you know he was home; it was his scent entering the room, spicy and smoky and soured with worry.

You and Satoru both stilled for the first time in… you weren’t sure how long, and did your best to turn to him without separating from each other. Thankfully, he was already making his way to your bedside, and he dropped to his knees as soon as he reached you.

“Oh, bunnies, I’m so sorry I wasn’t here,” he murmured, brows pinched and ears drooping; even through the haze of your heat you could tell he was upset, and likely feeling guilty. You really couldn’t have that.

Weakly, you reached out towards him, a soft whine of what hopefully resembled his name escaping you. He was quick to take your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm before cradling it to his cheek. He searched your face for a moment, then turned his attention to Satoru, whose cheek now rested against your own as he panted soft, quick breaths. When Suguru’s hand came to rest on his other cheek, his eyes fluttered shut and he whined.

“Alpha,” you pleaded, weakly wrapping his own hand around his mate’s wrist. “Need your help… ‘s too hot without you…”

“Shh, sweet boy, it’s okay. I’m here now, and I’m going to take care of both of you, I promise.” He leaned forward and kissed the other man’s forehead, then your own, before standing once again. He made quick work of his own clothing, and once he was nude you were granted a fresh wave of his scent; the worry had faded a bit, replaced with arousal that was beginning to show itself in other ways, too.

Without even thinking about it, you reached out again, brushing your fingers against his hip, hazy eyes locked on his half-hard cock. Before you could take it into your hand, though, he was moving to the foot of the bed. Grabbing your ankle with one hand and Satoru’s with the other, he tugged you closer to himself, causing you both to squeak in surprise.

Once he was satisfied with your proximity, he released you, and knelt once more. Though he was now out of your line of sight, it wasn’t difficult to realize what he was doing, especially based on the way your fellow bunny reacted

Satoru’s gasp quickly melted into a moan, and he rocked his hips back towards your alpha a bit, though he didn’t want to leave the welcoming heat of your cunt.

Suguru, eager to make up for lost time, lapped at the omega’s pussy, drinking in the slick that dripped from him like he needed it to survive. When he moaned at the taste, Satoru’s hips bucked again, making you moan breathily beneath him. The alpha fully committed himself to the task before him, fucking the bunny relentlessly with his tongue, as if he were trying to apologize for leaving his mates wanting for so long. Though he wanted to close his eyes and fully lose himself in pleasuring his mate, the fox dutifully kept his gaze locked on Satoru’s snow-white tail as it twitched with pleasure; just like always, it twitched faster and faster as he grew closer to orgasm, until it was trembling nonstop.

It wasn’t long until Satoru was gasping and moaning, babbling a half-garbled warning before he came, once again filling you as he cried out, the sound muffled by the skin of your throat. The feeling of him spilling into you again drew a soft moan from your lips, and you wrapped your arms a bit tighter around him, your nails lightly scratching against his scalp. You watched over your fellow bunny’s shoulder as Suguru stood, lightly nipping the soft skin of Satoru’s ass on his way up. His pupils were blown wide with lust, his dark hair already tumbling around his shoulders, his half-bun fighting to keep any of the silky strands out of his face.

He caught your eye as he wiped your omega mate’s slick from his chin, and he smiled at you. “Has our bunny been taking care of you after triggering your heat?” he asked, his voice almost jarringly sweet.

You nodded in response, watching with hazy eyes as he removed the hair tie from his hair, allowing it to spill around his face like ink for a moment before gathering it all into a quick, somewhat messy bun once again. “Mm-hm,” you hummed after a moment, knowing that your alpha liked when you answered him verbally.

“Good,” the fox murmured, smiling down at you for a moment before turning his attention to the other omega. “What about you, Satoru? Has our little one been taking good care of you today?” As he spoke, he rubbed gentle circles at the small of Satoru’s back, just above his tail; he was almost as touchy as Satoru was when it came to the two of you, but he was much more subtle about it.

“Y-Yeah, they have,” the frosty haired bunny managed to pant after a moment, subtly pressing back into Suguru’s warm touch. “Need you, too alpha, please?”

You whined softly in agreement with Satoru’s words, reaching for Suguru once again; sure, you’d been bred practically nonstop by one of your mates for most of the day, but it wasn’t the same as having your alpha’s knot.

Suguru was quick to take your hand in his own, leaning down slightly to press a kiss to your knuckles. “I know, sweet bunnies, I know, but I can only help one of you at a time.” He looked genuinely guilt stricken as he spoke, like it pained him deeply to know he would have to leave one of you wanting.

Apparently more lost to the haze of his heat hormones than you, Satoru let out a weak little sob against your throat at Suguru’s words. He arched his hips up a bit closer to your alpha as he practically begged, “Please, alpha, need you so bad… ‘m so empty, it hurts.”

The once pleasant aroma of all of your combined scents quickly soured, Satoru’s distress so intense that you could practically taste it. You immediately began scratching his scalp again, murmuring little assurances and massaging the base of his fluffy ears; anything you could think to do to soothe him, you did. He quieted the smallest amount under your touch, but it was clear that his heat hormones were really starting to mess with him.

Suguru swore quietly under his breath, and you glanced up at him, giving him a faint nod when you finally caught his eye; you were dying for his touch and attention, too, of course, but having Satoru breeding you for hours had taken the edge off your own heat enough that you could wait until your fellow omega was able to get the relief he was in such desperate need of.

The alpha relaxed a bit when you gave him the go ahead, and he nodded back, his ears slowly easing from where they’d gone flat with worry over his distressed omega. “Shh, Satoru, it’s okay. I’m right here, okay? I’m here to take care of you now, it’s okay.” He resumed rubbing circles on the bunny’s back as he spoke, soothing his mate as much as he could before going any further. When Satoru calmed at his words, his touch easing more tension from his lithe frame, Suguru smiled a bit, seeming to relax a bit himself. Once he was satisfied, the fox shifted, one hand gently holding your fellow omega’s hip steady, the other guiding his cock towards the bunny’s slick cunt.

“Deep breaths, bunny,” Suguru murmured, giving Satoru’s hip a gentle squeeze.

Satoru did as he was asked, taking in a deep, somewhat shaky breath, though the exhale quickly dissolved into a moan as the alpha finally gave him the attention – the relief – that he needed, slowly sliding into his tight, wet heat. “Fuck,” he whimpered, canting his hips back toward your alpha. “Feels so good…”

Both you and Suguru moaned in tandem, Satoru’s movement causing his cock to drag against your walls and dragging Suguru in deeper at the same time. When the fox was finally as deep as he could get, hips flush against your fellow bunny’s ass, he paused, letting out a few shaky breaths as he collected himself. Satoru’s tail twitched against his abdomen, and the alpha let out a soft, short growl, his ears twitching at the feeling; if you’d been less lost to your sudden heat and the pleasure of being full for so long, you’d have found it more amusing.

The sound of Satoru whimpering is what finally got Suguru moving again. “Shh, bunny,” he soothed, “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Settling both hands on the omega’s waist, he got a firm, though still gentle, grasp of his hips. “Gonna do all the work for you now, okay?”

“‘Kay,” Satoru murmured, allowing himself to melt into you a bit more. Though the weight of him relaxing further into you, coupled with the added weight of Suguru keeping you all pressed together, was more than you were used to, you had to admit you liked it; it was comforting, in an instinctual way you couldn’t quite articulate. Then your alpha followed through on your promise, and your head dropped back onto the pillow.

The way that your fox guided Satoru’s hips was incredible, the movements fluid but calculated, playing all three of your bodies like instruments; each roll of his hips had the tip of his cock pressing into your sweet spot, and if the breathy little moans that left your bunny’s lips were anything to go by, they also had Suguru’s cock pressing all the right buttons inside of Satoru.

For a little while, the steady, fluid pace that Suguru set was perfect, but eventually Satoru began to grow impatient, letting out fussy little breaths and rocking his hips back a bit more forcefully into the fox.

“Need it, alpha, please…” he whined, lifting his head from your neck, where he’d been pressing kisses and leaving little nips wherever he could reach. “‘M not gonna break, just give it to me.” Glancing over his shoulder at Suguru, he twitched his tail again, knowing the sensation would spur your mate on, just like it always did.

Despite looking mostly composed still, you noticed his tail twitching behind him, one of his dark ears flicking in response to your omega’s words as well. “You need it, hm?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What is it that you need, Satoru? Need me to fuck you real good? Need me to make the heat pains go away for good? Need me to put a baby in you, make you a mommy? Is that what you need?” With each question, Suguru increased the pace he moved Satoru’s hips, making both of you moan beneath him. When the alpha referred to him as “mommy,” though, Satoru moaned even louder. The sound only seemed to spur Suguru on, and soon enough he was snapping his hips against your fellow omega’s with every thrust, though he made sure to still fuck the other bunny’s cock into you; he didn’t want to leave either of his mates wanting, after all.

“I see,” he said, breathing a bit harder as he spoke. “You need me to breed you, huh? Don’t worry, bunny, I’ll make sure you’re so thoroughly bred during your heat that it’s impossible for you to not be carrying my baby.” He drove into the other man harder and harder with every thrust, which in turn made every thrust of Satoru’s hips more forceful. The tip of your omega mate’s cock was practically bruising your cervix, and it made stars burst across your vision. You could feel that coil tightening in your core once again, but it wasn’t quite enough to get you to your peak.

“Please!” Satoru wailed, tears once again spilling down his cheeks. “Yes, please, alpha, fuck, want it so fucking bad…” He was practically babbling at this point, consumed by his instinct to be bred by his alpha to the point that nothing else mattered to him.

“I’ll give it to you, Satoru, no need to cry,” the fox crooned, though there was the faintest hit of taunting in his tone. “Just need you to fill up our little one again, one last time. Gotta make them a mommy, too, yeah?”

As if all he’d been waiting for was permission to cum, your fellow bunny let out one choked sob of pleasure before his cock throbbed, then painted the inside of your pussy white again.

The feeling of him filling you up again was enough to tip you over the edge, and you cried out his name as you came, clawing at his back as your vision whited out for a moment. You were dimly aware of Suguru swearing, then stopping the movement of both his own and Satoru’s hips.

It was a few moments before you fully came back to yourself, and you turned your head, resting your damp forehead against Satoru’s sweat-sticky one. He bumped his nose lightly against yours, letting his lips ghost across yours – not quite a kiss, but as close as you could manage as you fought to catch your breath.

Your gaze flitted upward again when you felt Suguru take your hand, lifting it to his lips as he leaned down and pressed a kiss to the inside of your wrist right above your scent gland. He then leaned down a bit further, pressing a kiss to Satoru’s shoulder as he caught his own breath.

You felt your ears droop with exhaustion, but your heart stuttered for a moment when you both heard and faintly felt your alpha’s low, rumbling purr as he laid over the two of you. Though you knew that soon the three of you would have to separate to get cleaned up and to eat, for now you would bask in the afterglow of such an intense bout of lovemaking with your mates. When Satoru began to purr as well, you couldn’t help but join in; all was right between the three of you, and you were happy. Nothing else really mattered beyond that.

also special shoutout to @pastelle-rabbit & her post about bunny hybrids that i got permission to incorporate into this fic. hope i did that mental image justice for you friend 💜

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@dr-runs-with-scissors @teddybeartoji @togame-hoe @sootspritestar @lu-dao-writes

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lostpiewrites · 3 days ago

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Red Light Green Light 🚦

a/n : here you go with my first ever post. Im so excited and so nervous at the same time. I hope you guys like it. And idk the art credits , if you do , please let me know.

Warnings: written with a fem!s/o in mind , manga spoilers and characters may not behave canonically , it's my interpretation of them so feel free to disagree... Also , i have counted potential trauma trigger factors as red flags ; if it doesnt count so , please let me know so i can improve.

THE RED AND GREEN FLAGS OF BLUE LOCK GUYS IN A RELATIONSHIP :

Michael Kaiser

Red Flags 🚩

Manipulative asf. It's canon in the manga that he reads psychological books to understand and control people better and that applies to your relationship as well. He will pull tricks on you to avoid accountability and responsibility most of the time.

Physical Trauma. I haven't seen any headcannons stating this but this man was abandoned by his mom and was constantly abused by his father. So physical affection might be awkward and stiff at the beginning because physical contact without getting hurt is a foreign concept for him. (But gets used to it if you are patient enough with him)

Green Flags ✅️

Spoils you A LOT. Princess treatment at its peak. We have seen how angry he got when his dad harmed the only thing he owned in his childhood , his soccer ball. He values his possesions and treats you like you are something he is proud to own.

If you get past his exterior and find the traumatized little boy in him , he is insecure and has some abandonment issues from his mother. So he treats you in a way that would make you want to stay with him. (Idk if its a green or red flag tbh)

Alexis Ness

Red Flags 🚩

Has OBSESSIVE attachment issues. Have you seen this man around Kaiser ? He is like a servant. Gets EASILY attached or addicted to people , possessions or habits. This results in two different bad outcomes : One is that if you ever were to break up with him , he probably would cause problems because he doesnt want to let you go or would guilttrap you into staying. The other is because of his easily-attached nature , its way TOO easy for him to gain addiction to harmful things like gambling , smoking etc.

Indecisive and constantly nerved. We have seen how nervous he got when he received the last ball in the last PXG match , thinking about what he should do. That is the energy he would constantly have. You can't leave this man alone on choices. He can't do nothing by himself. It is always on you to plan dates , outfits etc.

Green Flags ✅️

This man is your no1 supporter , your personal cheerleader , no1 hypeman. Right from wrong. He defends you so fiercely that he makes people think that you are his god. You may be defending sth ridicilously wrong like p0rn addiction but he is right there defending it with you like his life depends on it.

Isagi Yoichi

Red Flags 🚩

KING of overthinking. His analiytical mind works against him in relationships. You could have just told him "no" to something simple as an ice cream flavor , he is over there thinking that you dont love him anymore , your relationship is over and whatnot.

He doesnt mean to but when he gets angry , his words gets so agressive that he can call you a wh0re out of nowhere. (slursagi moment here) So arguments with him are mostly heated and doesnt really end well.

He is a socially awkward bean as its implied in the light novel, so getting him into crowds is a huge work. Constantly avoids family or friend gatherings.

Green Flags ✅️

This man has a loving and functioning family and knows how to treat a woman so expect to be treated like you deserve , like the queen you are.

He constantly learns things about you and tries to apply it to himself , just like he does with soccer. What you like ? What you dont ? Your love language ? What makes you happy ? What makes you cringe ? All of it. And he REMEMBERS. Dates , people , everything.

Itoshi Sae

Red Flags 🚩

WORDING. This man has issues with how he talks to people. Have you seen the way he treats his younger brother ? He is a terrible communicator. His words are blunt , unfiltered and even tho he may not mean bad , they sting most of the time.

Time issues. This man STRUGGLES to make time for you when he is busy with his soccer schedule. Doesnt put you at his first priority , you are always behind soccer in importance to him. (Unless he feels like you are THE ONE for him)

Green Flags ✅️

He is always attentive to your needs. He doesn't talk much but his actions does. Big on acts of service. You wake up to see a small breakfast , a coffee and a note saying to take care of yourself. Mention you need sth in a convo ? Next day its on your door with a parcel.

Itoshi Rin

Red Flags 🚩

He is apathetic most of the time. Sometimes you aren't even sure if he loves you or not. It takes a lot of effort to making him care for sth other than soccer and his elder brother.

Green Flags ✅️

This boy LIVES for the day that Sae will finally acknowledge him. And if you are dating him , your opinion matters to him too. He LOVES praises , especially coming from you. So you praise him on his skills at anything , especially at soccer , he will melt into a puddle in your arms. He will deny it with his life but he loves being acknowledged and seen.

This brings me to the second point. He sees YOU because he knows what it feels like to be seen as a shadow of somebody else. He doesn't outwardly complement you but he shows through actions that he sees your effort and is proud of it.

Helps you study or finish your tasks. His English knowledge is otherwordly and canonically doesn't really care for any other lesson than English as it will not do any good to his soccer career but will put in effort to learn a spesific lesson so he can teach you.

Mikage Reo

Red Flags 🚩

Growing up as a nepo baby , he got everything he wanted. He still does. And it makes him unable to understand the struggle of other people who are working 8am-5pm and living paycheck to paycheck. He isnt outwardly rude or insulting but silently judges when people mention something being expensive or that they need to save up.

Again as a nepo baby , he never learned how to control money. So without an advisor , he would go bankrupt in an instant. He wastes money like he has a personal problem with his dad's bank account.

Being a rich kid , he has always thought that people come to him for money. (I think this is something we all agree upon as the blue lock fandom.) So he has trust issues.

Green Flags ✅️

Has no problems buying you anything you want/need no natter how "expensive" you think it is. My mans is rich. 🙂‍↕️

Have you seen the way he puts in effort with Nagi ? He will physically drag you to kitchen if you forget to eat , will force it down your throat if you forget to drink water, will wake you up in time. He is just happy he finally has something he feels he earned and deserved , so he doesn't see anything wrong with cooking a full course meal half sleepily at 3 am for your midnight cravings.

Bachira Meguru

Red Flags 🚩

My boi is schizophrenic. Canonically. I know it's because of something sad like having no friends and trying to cope , but no healthy mankind would have an "imaginary" friend.

Has hyperactivity issues /ADHD. This may not count as a red flag as it's a health condition but days with him is TIRING.

Green Flags ✅️

Anything you do with him turns out to be funny at the end. He knows how to have fun and entertain you , so dates with him would be something you always look forward too.

You're not only his first girlfriend , but also one of the first ever friends. So he treats you more like a girl bestfriend than a girlfriend.

Shidou Ryusei

Red Flags 🚩

I have seen a headcannon that he is raised by his grandparents because his parents were neglectful/busy with work. And i believe that with my whole heart. So he has family issues too. He grow up as rowdy and energetic as he is because he got fed by his grandma's delicious cooking which gave him a superhuman energy boost and had little to no supervisor by his side. (Poor grandparents tho , how they can handle a boy child at that age ? )

Probably has sexual trauma. Because the way we have seen him oversexualize himself and people around him is usually a trauma response.

Has anger management issues. No one can convince me otherwise.

Green Flags ✅️

This man is up for ANYTHING you want to do. Your no1 partner in crime. You can text him something like "i wanna go to a haunted escape room" in the middle of the night and he is at your door in 5 mins with a camera for photos , a few snacks and ready to go.

Brags you to his friends like you are the only thing worth of talking. Shows you of to anyone who asks and goes "you see that gorgeous sexy woman there ? Yeah , she is mine".

Is your guard dog. In LITERAL meaning. He has a tendency to get physical at the slightest trigger and will defend you like you are his treasure while wearing the proudest smirk.

Otoya Eita

Red Flags 🚩

LOYALTY. I don't think i have to even say it. This man has commitment issues and an infamous reputation as a cheater. Leaves you wondering if you are actually his girlfriend or one of his sidechicks. You can never be 100% sure with this man and this causes HUGE trust issues in your relationship.

Doesn't take things really seriously. Unless you force him to listen , care or do something ; he just laughs it away and acts like nothing happened.

Green Flags ✅️

This man is a comedian at heart. Can make you laugh even when you are ugly crying over a failed exam.

Flirts like it's his second nature. Annoyingly smooth with his words and actions. (It's a green flag when it's against you but a red one if it's against other girls tbh)

Karasu Tabito

Red Flags 🚩

Another born-to-be-a-womanizer. Mostly under the effect of Otoya on this topic , he rubs off on him.

Green Flags ✅️

Will make you feel special around him. Because to him you are the most beautiful girl he ever laid eyes upon and he will make you feel like it. He leaves no room for you to feel insecure about anything.

Oliver Aiku

Red Flags 🚩

Yet another charming flirt. Probably the biggest one yet because in the manga we have seen him with two girls in the same time , one of them just ambushes him and catches him with another. 😔 He has had a lot of partners before you and it makes you feel like you are another insignificant person in his life and he will have a lot more after you.

Green Flags ✅️

Even tho it may be a bad thing that he has had a lot of partners before , it also makes him experienced. He knows how to handle a crying woman , what time and where to take you out on a date , helps you on you period etc.

He IS responsible , even tho people may not see him so. He is a team captain so he knows how to take responsibilities and carry them.

#blue lock #blue lock headcanons #blue lock x reader #michael kaiser #alexis ness #isagi yoichi #itoshi sae #itoshi rin #mikage reo #bachira meguru #shidou ryusei #otoya eita #karasu tabito #oliver aiku

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yingdu-lover · 3 days ago

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"I am not an accessory...I want freedom!" : Li Haolin's critique of the comphet media expectations, toxic entertainment industry and deconstruction of 'heroism' in To Be Bero X episode 2

Disclaimer : There are two more episodes left, and things will go haywire beyond our expectations; interpretations will change. However, I do believe that the core message should not change; the vision Li Haolin has, and I hope people who have watched his previous works recognize this. Li Haolin did say that the core theme remains the same in all To Be Hero works. May I have the pleasure of reminding you that Link Click was previously named 'To Be Hero: Photo'? Yeah. That being said, I should start my yapping.

Note : If you are a Link Clicker and have gone through all the stages of emotional peculiarities when Yingdu was airing, you may have noticed, with a critical lens, that Yingdu was very vocal about the nuances and politics of the entertainment industry. The recurring dialectic between (heteropatriarchal) capitalist consumerism and subversive counter-narratives really makes me happy; it affirms that Li Haolin is a political artist.

TBHX had a massive worldwide release; of course, it is aimed at an international audience, but I am sure that releasing TBHX a short period after Yingdu's completion was something Li Haolin did purposefully. Probably, it was a deliberate nod to avid Link Click fans to keep thinking intertextually. I took that as a sign.

Link Click and To Be Hero : Photo

(If you wish to skip this section, you can, but you won't be able to understand much when I actually start talking about To Be Hero X. I will draw ample comparisons with these discussions.)

Link Click, especially Yingdu, really deconstructs the concept and construction of 'Hero' and their identity. To quote Li Haolin: Tbhx is not your usual superhero story. It is fundamentally deconstructing the typical popular narratives.

To summarise, Link Click has/shows/raises questions about

1. explicit references to the concept of 'Hero'

2. how heteronormative masculinist capitalism forges the figure of 'Hero'

3. the question of agency : The dichotomy between public and private

4. narrative identity : hero, villain or is it a blur?

5. the 'soft' power of artistic hierarchy : genre and gender

6. the politics of ordinariness in popular culture (the communist propaganda :D)

[Of course, a lot of introductory yapping is about Link Click! It's important! So I am not stopping]

1. explicit references to the concept of 'Hero'

Starting with the 'Hero' (Hero with a capital H) theme, I think the first time we were introduced to Power Rangers-type heroes in Link Click was in the Doudou episode. Oh my God, this was the only episode that really stressed me out. Anyway, the Doudou story hits so hard because it is painfully realistic; it weaves simple yet endearing love with guilt, escapism, patience, helplessness, brutal honesty, and the acceptance of vulnerability, creating an alternative form of 'heroism' that is both funny and poignant at the same time. It is truly one of the most powerful episodes in the entire season 1.

Season 2's 'hero' discourse is more nuanced, so I'll discuss it while addressing the fifth point. It continues in Yingdu.

Ah, Yingdu. Cheng Xiaoshi's studio was called 'Hero Photo Studio' (ah) before Lu Guang moved in (actually- no, 'Hero' was replaced with 'Time' after they returned from Yingdu and Cheng Xiaoshi kept the promise he made with his maa)

Cheng Xiaoshi exclaiming : am I a hero in a freaking donghua-?! (ah.)

And those lines from The Eye full version :

No matter how hard we looked in the lost and found We never could shine the moonlight underground To the point where we got sick of pretending like we are saviors Till we learn to carry on

Heroes and their savior complex: What is a hero if he does not save people? Useless, right? Heroes are built on narratives. There needs to be a villain to blame, victims to be saved, and most importantly, people to identify the hero as a hero and give the final verdict. What happens when even one parameter is missing?

It's quite amazing how Lu Guang is highlighting his fragility. He does pretend, and he has to be adamant and quite delulu in order to continue his task, or he will collapse.

The interesting thing is that there is an utterance of 'we' rather than 'I.' So, is Cheng Xiaoshi cognizant of this? Something is amiss. It beautifully haunts. It's not just a recollection of the past or their shared suffering and understanding of the world, but rather a sense of final submission on Lu Guang's part.

2. how heteronormative masculinist capitalism forges the figure of 'Hero'

'Heroism' is a fundamentally masculinist construction. Even the term 'virtue,' which has taken on a moral connotation in modern vocabulary, is actually associated with virility/vir (the Latin word for 'man'). Historically, justice, reason, and virtue—the three most basic tenets of heroism—were reserved for (and believed to be possessed only by) exclusively able-bodied men. Women are bestial, devoid of reason, driven by excessive passion, and therefore can never be eligible for the role of a 'Hero.' Even in recent years, the trend is that a female character has to renounce some (or all) parts of her femininity to access aggressive masculinity. Moreover, she can almost never exist without being a shadow to her male counterpart(s). In short, humanist 'Heroism' is predominantly masculine. Female characters must follow a norm to be considered a 'Hero'; they can't topple a system. The fixed binary positions of hero/heroine are heteronormative constructs. Ever wondered why, when a 'heroine' saves a 'Hero' (let's assume both are able-bodied, of equal caliber), it's considered very 'subversive'? It should just be another story of saving people, right? But...It is the normative story that sells. It sells, and that's what matters to capitalism. An alternative story of heroism will remain alternative and special (you know those companies that hire disabled people, queer people, and Black people as a form of tokenism? Then they sack them first without any legible reason or notice). A cluster of 'heroes' will never be able to compete with the 'Hero' (hero with a capital H).

Now, what kind of 'hero' is Qiao Ling?

Honestly speaking, she has been saving Shiguang's ass since the beginning of season 1. Whether it is financial help, legal help, paying hospital bills, paying their bail, or confronting difficult opponents, Qiao Ling hardly backs down. She takes risks; she is overprotective of Shiguang, but since her 'heroism' is so subtle and there is a lack of an audience to identify her as a hero, her 'heroism' goes unnoticed for the most part.

3. the question of agency : The dichotomy between public and private

I discussed a hell lot about it in my analysis of Xia Fei's character before. A few excerpts-

He (Xia Fei) is smart enough to know he is being exploited (and tbh the theme of surveillance and making him the 'morbid' object of gaze, I say morbid because in the last scene of his pv, it's a dead shot, his eyes look so dead, the camera's battery is dead. But yk what remains? his face card. The like button continually popping with likes made me very uncomfortable.

and

Also Xia Fei's story talks about another important theme of the donghua; photo! How photos taken in private spheres are meant to preserve memories of the loved ones, loved encounters. How you capture someone you love in that still image, alive with the emotion you associate with them, giving it an afterlife. The photo becomes the literal and metaphorical medium through which Lu Guang can rewrite history. Forget-me-not, remembrance. It empowers him.

On the contrary, for Xia Fei, it is the panopticon seizing his life and rendering it absurd. The emotive power and affect for lu guang changes into viscous institutionalised power politics for Xia Fei. Brilliant! 😭

Xia Fei is surrounded by cameras and it's the play of fate that it continues even to his private life (while befriending Shiguang)

The most perfect focus Wandering between gazes

Wherever there's a good position, I'll offer a smile To the lights, I lend this beautiful body To stand in the center

No need to guess, this complete disguise The crowd will eventually forget this mask It doesn't matter if the great fire extinguishes the truth Who will it be, perfectly concealed The stolen gaze Yeah, I know I gotta run Yeah, fake a smile in calm

It's a public performance and an elaborate enterprise of concealing the truth; the more you can hide yourself and present what the viewers want, the more success comes to your plate. But very dangerously, when the mask starts to replace your real face, you don't even process it in the beginning, but when it's realized, it's actually too late.

4. narrative identity : hero, villain or is it a blur?

Let alone heroes, villains, or contradictions, all of us are a cluster of fragmented or gap narratives trying to make sense of each other's existence. The reason we resonate with others is that some of our own narratives click with theirs. Our narratives have gaps, and we fill those gaps with what we want to believe. The way we perceive others, forge relationships with others, or even ourselves fills in the gaps in the storytelling. That's how we become complex human beings. Objectively, we are on a perpetual stage of liminality, but to make it easier for our subjectivity, we appropriate narratives according to our ease and taste.

A few months ago, I would easily lose my calm over the 'Is Lu Guang evil?' debate. Now, I feel that it is actually important. Lu Guang himself doesn't identify as a 'Hero.' The problematization of Lu Guang's stance as a 'Hero' is important. Remember the fable-esque story of the forest fire that began featuring in S2 and continued in Yingdu? Who was the culprit? Who was the hero? We may NEVER know. When you are searching for the absolute truth, after a point in time, you realize that absolute truth has no practical value. If you have watched Akira Kurosawa's Rashomon (I strongly recommend this movie; please watch it), you know how people choose a narrative for their own convenience and continue their lives with it, however contradictory they might be from each other. This is what really happens in our daily lives. The problem arises when one narrative is weaponized by a certain group and preached as the grand narrative, and the people who believe in alternative narratives become victims of persecution.

The similar story follows in creating the figures of a 'Hero' or a 'villain.' Until now, Xia Fei and Lu Guang's characters have subverted those horizons of expectations the most in the Link Click universe.

5. the 'soft' power of artistic hierarchy : genre and gender

First, I would like to mention a few lines from Virginia Woolf's A Room of One's Own

Speaking crudely, football and sport are 'important'; the worship of fashion, the buying of clothes 'trivial'. And these values are inevitably transferred from life to fiction. This is an important book, the critic assumes, because it deals with war. This is an insignificant book because it deals with the feelings of women in a drawing room.

Sadly, there will be even a tiny residual of internalized misogyny even when we grow up. It's hard to deal with and that's why it's very important to point out. Romance and shipping is for feminine minds, therefore 'trivial' as a genre. War narratives and heroic battles talk about 'serious' topics, therefore it has an actual 'plot.'

Firstly,

the notion of heroism is inextricably linked with patriotism. In modern-day popular narratives, we may not see the blatant nationalism, but there always remains an echo of 'sacrificing for our own people.' Who are these people? Heroism can't exist if there is no distinction between 'us' and the 'other.' Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. (Very rough translation: It is one's sweet duty to die for his fatherland/country.)

Heroic narratives are war narratives. If you change the perspective, your hero becomes a villain. We always like to see ourselves at the end of suffering as people who have been wronged; injustice has been thwarted against us, and it's our hero's duty to save us.

I know this is more relevant to tbhx, but if you look closely, Link Click implicitly builds upon this: the hierarchy of gendered genres.

Also, Lu Guang's commentary on art, fiction, and philosophy was much more than just shits and giggles. He equates Shakespeare with donghua and manhua; all of these are forms of popular art with different modes of presenting philosophy. Donning a mask and playing a character from Shakespeare's play and cosplaying as a donghua or manhua character are not that different. Lu Guang questions the hierarchy of high culture and low culture. He writes his diary in Latin and Mandarin; he is undoubtedly a fierce scholar. He respects alternative belief systems such as Tarot cards, traditional Chinese medicine; indigenous or pagan forms of knowledge that are often looked down upon by modern Western scientific disciplines (I will write a separate post on this). The crux of my discussion is that Lu Guang continuously identifies the various forms of hierarchy in social beliefs and art and questions their validity. It's a form of soft power that no one bats an eye at, but many do not realize that it shapes how they process information. It is very much linked to the gendered hierarchy, as misogyny and the exclusion of women are very pervasive. And this brings to our last point : the question of power.

6. the politics of ordinariness in popular culture (the communist propaganda :D)

Lmao. Did I say communist propaganda? wth sure.

I will start my combined discussion from here.

Heroes are these big, big people with big, big superpowers-very flashy, very cute, and very demure. Can ordinary people afford to be a hero? It's not a new question, but I can't remember anyone who has dealt with this topic the way Li Haolin has.

I have talked about this before. This genre reflects Li Haolin's vision in his various works. Take, for example, an episode from To Be Hero: Leaf, where little children are playing on the midnight streets, where all the adults have gone for a factory strike. There is a HUGE focus on ordinary people. The reason I remember Eisenstein's Battleship Potemkin's Odessa Steps sequence is not because it was a government-funded Russian film to preach communism, but because it showed how to decentralize your focus from grand narratives in artistic representation (for example: navy mutiny and soldiers fighting) and strike the audience with alternative, lesser important narratives (normal people suffering from the war). Digressing from the crime-suspense plot and delving deep into Emma's experience, weaving the Shiguang story with hers in 'Keep in Mind' was not truly a necessity plot-wise, but Haolin felt compelled to do so. To the person who mentioned in their post: 'link click' centers around two young boys who are struggling to pay their debt. I will forever be indebted to you. It's all there, but we need to identify it.

Now that I have discussed all of that, let's dive back into To Be Hero X. Just a list so that I don't forget things,

1. Moon and her plight : Idol culture and how relationship rumours affect female idols' public reputation

2. how corporate dehumanizes people

3. Private queer lives and politics in entertainment industry: Wreck and Nice's relationship as a twofold critique on the audience.

So, Moon.

Can you imagine how disturbing it is to be romantically associated with a person just because you signed a contract with a company? For three years, her main identity was someone's girlfriend, whom she didn't even love. She used to be a travel vlogger, a woman who constantly travels and archives different experiences. If you are into the earliest feminist discourses, women traveling is a frequent topic. From Mary Wollstonecraft to Virginia Woolf - everybody acknowledges that. From THAT, she became someone's girlfriend. The sheer humiliation. The most heartbreaking part is that it is the people's expectations which curbed her teleportation powers; it can only open to Nice's side. Moon can't leave Nice. But is Nice bound to her? I don't think there were any suggestions like that.

If you have already guessed it, then congratulations! You are right; Moon's experience as a female idol is actually a microcosmic representation of how women are treated in a heteropatriarchal society.

When they were hatching the plan to 'free' Moon, Lin Ling said :

'Since Nice is a perfect husband, you can't say no to his proposal.'

Of course! If a man is handsome, virtuous, a respectable 'Hero', and the people love to see the heroine as the Hero's partner, how dare the heroine refuse this proposal? The Moon's consent does not matter. It would be a narrative so audacious and absurd that it would not sell. Champagne problems, ha?

And that woman who constantly speaks corporate said: "We have locked them in the same room for a whole month without any other engagement. Of course, they will grow feelings for each other." Ah, fuck-ass logic. Before you jump on me saying, 'But oh, what about the propinquity effect?' and shit, it is a very heteronormative notion to assume that a man and a woman will always develop romantic feelings for each other. Many people (me, I am the many people) headcanon that Moon is queer, aro-ace, and a strong independent woman—I second all of these, but my point is Moon doesn't need a thesis paper on her sexual preference or romantic orientation to reject Nice or Nice's substitute. Again, Lin Ling is Nice's substitute! Imagine the horror: you are shipped with a man you don't love, and people want you to marry him. Then the fucking company doesn't even have the basic courtesy to inform you that that man died, and now you are playing the same game with a substitute! It's a double violation of Moon's dignity. So, Moon is just a mindless idk animal? You throw a man assigned to be her husband or his decoy WITHOUT her consent and EXPECT her to fall in love with him? I mean, Moon would eventually know about Lin Ling's identity...wha-what was the point of excluding her from the discussion and keeping her in the dark? If it was just work, then why wasn't she consulted before the step was taken? She is the central figure, and she has no say in any of the mayhem unfolding.

Moon could be a sorted woman totally comfortable with her heterosexuality and still say no to Nice, even if he is the last surviving man on Earth. She just doesn't like him; it's that simple. That should be the end of the debate. However, people are not ready to accept that. The audience of the 'To Be Hero X' world and the real audience of 'To Be Hero X' donghua both should question themselves: is it okay to still enforce a relationship between them when the woman clearly expresses her sheer irritation at this fake relationship?

And that staged marriage plot! A perfect woman can either be a wife or a dead wife. Part of the reason Lin Ling cries while holding Moon during Moon's 'death' scene is that Moon has to metaphorically and literally die and withdraw herself from the narrative in order to chase the freedom she deserves. She can't exist with her individuality and agency in this world; capitalism and heteronormativity will not allow that.

Also, Moon's mock attempt at suicide is not funny. If I remember correctly, Li Haolin said in the Link Click art book interview that Liu Siwen and his girlfriend's story was something he actually took from a real-life story from a newspaper. Contrary to the happy ending in episode 5.5, the girl actually ended her life.

Another thing I want to mention is Moon from Lin Ling's perspective. In that interview, Lin Ling said

: Moon is not my girlfriend, she is my goddess.

It is not a typical 'romantic' declaration. Lin Ling acknowledges his position and accepts the fact that he will never be able to reach an equal position with Xiao Yueqing. That's why Yueqing is an inspiration to be admired from afar. And do you know why he accepts this? Because he respects Xiao Yueqing. During their one month together, Lin Ling realized that she never loved Nice to begin with. Lin Ling was the person she learned to be a bit softer. "Lin Ling is a much better name," she said. There is no possibility of assuming a relationship (which, honestly, most men don't even pay heed to. If I love you, I will be eligible to be with you, I will make you fall for me, and then how will you be able to say no to me? This is the general logic. Annoy, cross boundaries, violate personal space, and then coerce the woman into falling in love with you because YOUR love is so pure, omg) when the other party doesn't reciprocate. Lin Ling can still love her, but the love will not be actualized. I think Lin Ling was really upset when he learned that Yuqqing was forced to be in a fake relationship with Nice. He didn't want to hurt her more. The idol-fan relationship was fine, but in my opinion, Lin Ling did see her as more than an idol. His simple efforts to make things better for Xiao Yueqing without the illogical hope that 'if I do this, she will fall in love with me' make their relationship very humane. There might be a desire to be with her, but it never becomes the determining motive. I think Lin Ling would say this to Xiao Yueqing: Ti voglio bene. The literal translation of this Italian phrase is 'I want good for you,' which feels more impactful to me than its allegedly more intense romantic cousin.

Whatever the nature of the feelings Lin Ling had for Xiao Yueqing, if more people had this kind of feeling for others in our world, the world would be a much better place than it is today.

I love Li Haolin for how he tries to liberate heterosexual relationships from heteronormative constraints. In a sense, he introduces a splash of queerness into those relationships. Haolin's hetero couples are couples not merely because they share the same room as a boy and a girl. He portrays heterosocial relationships in a beautiful way. There is room to explore and form different kinds of human bonding. If things were normal, maybe Moon would form a really good friendship with Lin Ling. I feel that Lin Ling is the best interpreter of Moon as a human in tbhx.

2. how corporate dehumanizes people

Moon clearly has a more marginalized space in the dynamic, but how does one process power and position thrown towards them without their full control? Nice's character makes us ponder over this. Power and privilege come with a price. For Moon, she still had room to be subversive because things were clearly not working in her favor. What excuse does Nice have in this regard? It's much more complex. His death was so comical and absurd that until a new character is introduced in the second episode, we don't even feel that a real person has died. THAT is the power of perspective and storytelling. Lin Ling didn't quite process what he saw and perhaps didn't feel the need to bother. And Moon... yes, Moon had her reasons and irritation towards Nice, but it was really appalling to see that she did not even feel a little sad about Nice's death. How bitter must her workplace be? How much does capitalism isolate people to the point where fellow sufferers do not even bat an eye at each other? I am not blaming Moon, but I am asking you to consider the horrifying simplicity in this admission: so what if he died? You arranged for another one? Well, I felt chills. Imagine, one day you die, and then, very unfortunately, you didn't actually die and return to see a clone of yourself performing better than you probably could have done. Corporate not only dehumanizes people but makes people dehumanize each other and that's how it thrives.

Next, I would ask you to remember or re-read the third discussion; the question of agency : The dichotomy between public and private. Just replace Xia Fei with Nice. Heck, listen to Xia Fei's character song and if that doesn't make you remember Nice-

fake a smile in calm

3. Private queer lives and politics in the entertainment industry: Wreck and Nice's relationship as a twofold critique on the audience.

*sighs*.

I thought Haolin would just tease us with a iykyk rivals-enemies to lovers trope between a hero and a villain. Like, people who want to ship, ship. I really didn't expect him to pick shiguang, reverse the colour scheme and maintain the trauma and go : did you like my doomed yaoi?! 😃 man-

Haolin's obsession with widows needs to be studied. He pulled the similar string thrice in Yingdu and it's just the second episode in tbhx. Chill, man.

Back to analysis...what should I say? Let's assume you are Wreck.

you look at him like this. You wanted to be a hero with Nice together. So, for Wreck, to be a hero really meant to be with Nice.

Then one day, a script shattered everything. He became a hero, you became his villain, a literal stepping stone for him, so that his trust value increases.

The flashback suggests that Nice would frequently visit Wreck's house, probably the only place he could call 'home.' Nice would let his imperfect but real, unguarded self liberate in front of him.

And then suddenly, one day, he calls Moon his 'goddess.' You text him, call him, and send letters, but he doesn't reply. You shared a private life beyond the gaze of the camera and the prompt of scripts with him, and the company doesn't feel the need to inform you of his death. You reached there for the much-awaited encounter because nothing makes sense to you. The moment he speaks, a world shatters in your heart; he doesn't seem like your Nice. Still, you urge him to speak, almost pleadingly, because nothing makes sense and you hold onto that one tiny belief that things are still okay; maybe it's just a play. Then the illusion breaks. You can't tolerate it anymore and implore the imposter to speak the truth. He says that Nice committed suicide. He died.

People will remember Moon as an individual and someone who had an emotional dynamic with Lin Ling. But Wreck makes us mourn for the original Nice who died.

I don't know if Wreck knew that Nice was capable of doing something like that. He had already begun to cry, and when he heard the truth, he didn't even say things like, 'It can't be possible,' or 'How can it be possible?' Probably, it was more than possible, and that's why he was so tortured and disturbed. Wreck fell to his death with a smile, thinking that perhaps he might finally be able to be together with Nice peacefully.

Now, after everything, people will come and say: 'Ah, they were best friends.' Sure, they were. And that doesn't sit mutually exclusive to being lovers. What I feel is that it is a very conscious narrative within the narrative that Haolin deliberately put forth to unfold the compulsory heterosexuality and queer erasure in the viewership. Fans in the tbhx world forgot Wreck and didn't bother to understand what made him a villain. If tbhx donghua fans do the same after knowing the other perspectives, it's really... just, um, disappointing. You are proving Haolin's point, and you are the type of fans being criticized in the show. If Wreck were a female villain, my god.

I mean, yeah, I am kind of tired of 'proving' that they were lovers. It's the basic lack of media literacy.

I HAVE YAPPED TOO MUCH HELLO

did moon really survive? we don't know. did nice really die? we don't know. did wreck really die? i don't know. did LIN LING REALLY survive? I DON'T KNOW.

But I don't think those will totally topple these reflections.

Special note :

hello, today is this head emptu's birthday. please give him blessings and pray that he does not bite through the longevity noodles. He has a wife at home. and a sister. please. He has a family.

#to be hero x meta #to be hero x #tbhx #tbhx nice #tbhx wreck #nicewreck #link click meta #tumblr meta #rupu yaps #link click #lu guang #cheng xiaoshi #shiguang #时光代理人 #chinese donghua #happy birthday cheng xiaoshi

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plaidos · 2 days ago

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hi plaidos! i was looking for some advice and i felt that given the subject matter, you were well positioned to do so.

a friend of mine (cissexual she/they) is going through a pretty tough break up with a trans woman who has evidently wronged her in a lot of ways. I’ll call the cis girl ‘S’ and the trans girl ‘R’. R has cheated on S, started a new relationship 8 days after dumping S, failed to tell S that R doubted the longevity of the relationship for 6 months before the breakup, (this included valentine’s day, their 2 month anniversary, and S’ birthday), and gave R’s friends unfairly negative portrayals of S.

This is all bad of course. However, S’ response to this has been somewhat troubling. When talking about all the ways R has wronged S, S said that R is engaging in ‘grooming behaviour’ for dating a 17y/o because R is 18 and the 17y/o ‘acts like a 15 year old’. S has also said that because R and the 17y/o have exchanged sexual images that R is engaging in possession of child pornography.

I don’t think she’s at risk of going full twerf, she continues to be friends with myself and other trans women in a mutually reciprocal and healthy manner, but I’m worried that this might be the beginning of a pattern of transmisogynistic accusations and appeals to transmisogynistic tropes and stereotypes. I’m aware of the catastrophic effects these accusations can have on transfems and i don’t want them to happen even to someone i don’t like or know very well. Furthermore, i would like to make S aware of the context that these kinds of accusations hold in transmisogyny. Regardless, i disagree with S’ notions of what constitutes morality in terms of dating and sex

As a trans woman and transfeminist, i don’t want to let this slide. but at the same time, i want to do so sensitively as to be a good friend to S in this very difficult time for her. Do you think i could wait for S’ understandably high emotions to subdue, in order to make this as easy a time for S as it can be, and then see her come to her senses as opposed to make accusations based on emotion? Or do you suggest something sooner and/or more direct?

Any advice is appreciated, thank you for reading and i hope you have a good day :)

(p.s.: you’re not the only person i’ve sent this ask to in search of advice so if you see this story elsewhere, that’s why)

i mean, if my partner was the type of cis woman to call a transfem a groomer for dating somebody literally a year younger than herself then i would fucking cheat on her too, are you kidding me?

if her ex were a legitimate threat or worry in any way then she wouldn’t be so mad about the break up, would she? to me, whether she realises it or not, this is a blatant grab at power over this girl. “she doesn’t want me? then she can’t have anybody” type shit.

nobody should be expected to like their ex unconditionally, especially if they were dishonest & cheated on. but cheating is just this random act of evil that springs feom nothing — it springs from an unhappy relationship. and based on what happens to trans women who wrong your cis friend, i would also be unhappy in that relationship 🤷‍♀️

imo it’s important to let your friend know that what she’s doing is transmisogynist pedojacketing and it is actually fundamentally no different to terf behaviour. Like, the most important thing is to stop these false accusations from spreading about another transfem. you say she’s treating all the other transfems you know well — that is, until you upset her. then i’m sure you’re gonna be next to be called a pedophile.

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revivemyreverie · 1 day ago

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SKETCH SSR: WISHMASTER’S CONCERT

CREDITS: Wishmaster's Concert Event : @tixdixl, Cyril Zeman (mentioned in story): @ramshacklerumble. I consider following both of them if you haven't already!!!

This event is crazy fun and I cannot believe I finished in under 3 days. anyhow! A short story is under read more :)

Groovification: Such frivolities–this kind voice, warm smile, and upturned brows– none of it has ever been real.

Set to Home Screen: Would you like to hear a tune?

Home Transition 1: Are we moving stages? I’ll follow as you desire.

Home Transition 2: My past self would “love” being here, I’m sure. Even if I no longer hold the emotions that came with those memories, the knowledge of how many times he used this violin is logical proof.

Home Transition: 3: These light choices are quite interesting. You usually expect something more refined when it comes to violin performances, but I suppose the inclusion of guitars and death metal muddles that.

Home, after Login: Ashengrotto said this event is in the best interest for both of us, but I am very sure I heard him saying he’s finally rid of me the other day… Is that what you refer to as “disdain"?

Tap Home 1: These clothes are not very optimal, since I cannot move much except the sleeves. I do not mind any of it, however, since I can still make quick movements with my bowstring.

Tap Home 2: I’ve heard it's good to deviate music choices every once in a while for experience, so perhaps adding a few songs into my usual classical music may be good for me.

Tap Home 3: I try to avoid bumping into my bandmates when on stage, as it would be rather terrible if my magic activated mid-performance... A husk might end up singing on stage instead of a person.

Tap Home 4: I’m quite shocked by the people who enjoyed my performance, seeing that I had failed to remember to smile. Those in the crowd even said I looked mysterious. Emotions are such an odd thing.

Tap Home 5: Logically, none of this really matters. All these people do is sit through a bunch of flashy lights while listening to sounds mixed and mashed together through ear-damaging speakers. Still, I partake in it, for I want to understand the past “me”’s love for it.

🎙️.

“I don’t care if it's to show off the school’s music prowess! My Abyssal Lover will not be working with the jerk that broke the head singer's and his boyfriend up!”

Such is the common complaint Allegra has been facing as of late by the head-singer of a little band made in Night Raven College, who the former had the delight of joining thanks to his dorm leader’s so-called recommendation (it was forced, but Allegra's not allowed to sa a word on it).

In his eyes, he had done nothing of what he had been accused of. All Allegra Mahalath had done was help a client and pull a little bit of an emotional possession with his magic. How was it his fault if he revealed that someone was having second thoughts about their relationship? Logically speaking, the singer should have just discussed this nonsensical problem from the get-go.

He might get a punch for such words, however, so the man stayed silent with his usual smile. Their manager spoke in his place, “YOU’RE the one who said anyone would do for our sick violinist, and I’m already in good-standing with Azul! I’m just taking advantage of the situation, so how about you get over yourself and move on?! Do you really want to throw away the chance to impress THE Cyril Zeman?!!”

The Octavinelle student watched his new nemesis remain silent.

“Then stop complaining and start rehearsing! And Allegra,I know you’re good at the violin, but our set also has some more... dramatic... parts in it. Please try your best.”

The therapist kept his demeanor the same. “As you wish, manager.”

—-----

The singer wondered if Allegra had a best to begin with, or was just trying to piss him off. He was awful at acting entirely, his motions being so stiff and short that he looked like a robot compared to the whisking twirls and light steps everyone else had managed to do. His only saving grace was his violin, which somehow made Allegra look far more graceful than the mannequin he turned into when he wasn't playing.

“If you can't bother to dance right, then how about taking off that tacky customer-service smile?” He complained after their 5th rehearsal and failure of an act.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Allegra speaks like one of Ignihyde's new robots. “but if it’s not up to par, I’ll change it.”

“Are you a human? I meant to use your real smile.”

Allegra pokes at his own cheeks, “But this is my real smile? It’s the same one I use everyday, even for my clients. I thought you would understand, seeing as you even had a previous session with me–”

The last sentence seemed to have switched something in the young man. With a aggressive yell, he gets up and grabs the spiral-eyed student's shirt

“Say a thing about my stupid session from that day and I’ll break your nose!"

The other band members ran between them, splitting the two apart to avoid a big fight. The singer clicked his tongue in return, turning to the classroom's door.

“I need a damn break.”

Allegra watched as he walked out, his temporary band mates surrounding him. A silence filled the room, yet the smile on his face remained sweet as always.

—-------

“Do you have an issue with me?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

The vocalist and violinist sat alone in the makeup room, their group having already departed for set preparations and to avoid the ever-growing storm between the two students.

“You’ve shown a great amount of physical hostility towards me.” Allegra spoke with such niceties, “I would love to know why.”

“Oh I’m sure you would.” Sarcasm came up like vomit. “You’re an ass who ruined my goddamn love life, and now I’m expected to work with you and your weirdo facade.”

“Facade?”

The vocalist slammed his hands on the table, tired of dealing with him for the past 3 weeks. “Yes! Facade! You think everyone just takes your little goody-two-shoes employee act as fact? Everyone in the band knows it's all either a cover for you being a creep or that you just hate everyone in the world!”

Allegra turned away from him, looking outside the door’s window. “I don’t hate anyone.”

“Cut the crap! That’s a lie itself!”

“Would you like to hear the truth about me then?” Allegra says, his voice suddenly ice cold.

He turns back to the lead-singer, his face lacking all signs of emotion.

“Such frivolities–this kind voice, warm smile, and upturned brows– none of it has ever been real.”

This is the true Allegra Mahalath, the one who put no effort into any relationships he was expected to care for. The vocalist looked into those empty, spiraling eyes, which grow closer with every step the brunette takes towards him.

“You’re correct, as I am simply playing the part of a false me. In my eyes, anything and everything holds no meaning; Allegra Mahalath doesn’t care for this event, nor its people, or its problems. The same can be said for my clients and their relationships, especially yours." He stated it all so matter-of-factly, as if there truly was nothing inside his heart. "It's most fitting to say that I can't seem to care about anything.”

A shiver ran down the singer’s spine. “...Then why are you even here?"

“Because I want to understand why the past ‘me’ did.”

The announcer’s voice could be heard through the loudspeaker, cutting off their confrontation with the calling of their band's name.

"Next up, from the dark corners of Night Raven College itself, is My Abyssal Lover!"

Allegra’s monotone demeanor remained as cheers could be heard echoing from the crowd. “It’s officially stage time, I kindly suggest you hurry up.”

—-----

“Look! We got put in the event’s article!” The team’s manager exclaimed, showing off his phone to the group. “They even got a photo of you, Mahalath!”

The brunette takes a look at the article presented in front of him, reading the text with a feigned interest.

“Oh. Oops.”

“Huh? What’s wrong?”

“It appears I forgot to smile during the set.”

For the rest of the band, it seemed like a well-timed joke. They laughed at another one of Allegra's supposed oddities. Only the vocalist remained silent in the classroom’s corner, understanding exactly what the Octavinelle student meant.

#“why is it called sketch its obvs refined”#there is a lack. of usual rev care #so #sketch.#twisted wonderland #twst oc #twisted wonderland oc #twst fanevent #Wishmaster's Concert #twst #allegra mahalath

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jeonscatalyst · 3 days ago

Note

https://x.com/funnyjimin1/status/1911855287507595613?s=46

I hope this doesn’t come off like I am trying to be messy but I always wondered why Jk was seated right next to Tae but had to ask Jimin seated at the front to help him with his speech preparations. Wouldn’t it make sense for him to ask anyone seated closest to him? Or am I overthinking it?

Hi anon,

No, don’t worry about it. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with asking questions when you’re curious about something you’ve observed. Moments like this and many others like it just continue to show us how complex and nuanced human relationships really are.

For those who have been paying close attention to Jikook over the years, this is actually very on-brand for them. In this instance, we see Jungkook seated next to Taehyung in the back seat. When he needs help preparing his speech, he doesn’t take the more expected route of asking the person sitting right beside him. Instead, he chooses to reach out to the person sitting in front of him…Jimin. It naturally makes you wonder why. But of course, it’s not because he dislikes Taehyung or because they aren’t close. In fact, we know Jungkook and Taehyung are among the closest pairs in BTS. And yet, Jungkook doesn’t feel the need to turn to Taehyung….he goes straight to Jimin.

I believe this is because Jimin has always been a reassuring presence in Jungkook’s life. He’s someone Jungkook sees as an emotional anchor …someone who supports him, understands him, and knows how to calm his nerves in specific situations. In that moment, it wasn’t about convenience for Jungkook ….it was about connection. During vulnerable times, like preparing an important speech, he’s not thinking logically (“Who’s closest to me?”). He’s thinking, “Who can help me feel okay?” And for him, that person is almost always Jimin, even when he’s physically further away.

We’ve seen this same pattern over the years. One particular moment comes to mind: Taehyung and Jimin were seated together on a couch, and Jungkook, feeling down about his performance, wanted comfort. Even though there was more space for him to sit next to Taehyung, he chose to squeeze himself into the small space beside Jimin because it was Jimin’s comfort and reassurance he needed in that moment, not Taehyung’s. Again, this speaks to the emotional connection they share. It shows that even in a room full of people, when it comes to certain things, they only seem to need each other.

We see something similar in AYS. There are multiple moments where Jungkook is seated next to Taehyung during meals, yet his interactions are primarily with Jimin. When he speaks, he looks at Jimin. He constantly asks if Jimin likes the food, and his attention is more focused on Jimin even though Taehyung is sitting right beside him.

I’ve always said that Taekook seems to have a more physical closeness than an emotional one. Jungkook and Jimin could be seated far apart, but when it comes to certain emotional needs, they instinctively reach for each other. It’s the same for Jimin too. We have seen so many moments of Jimin running into Jungkook’s arms when he feels embarrassed or shy. Even sometimes during the ending ments on stage while making his speeches, it isn’t hard to see that his eyes are usually fixed on Jungkook. We saw him constantly only keep his eyes on Jungkook during his speech at the UN when he was a nervous wreck. On the other hand, Taehyung and Jungkook could be seated right next to each other and still wouldn’t naturally reach out to one another for emotional support. That’s just the nature of their dynamic….it’s not built for vulnerability in the same way.

Jungkook doesn’t operate based on physical proximity. He moves toward whoever he feels emotionally safe, understood, and supported by in that specific moment. That’s why he reaches for Jimin…. not because Taehyung means less to him, but because Jimin means something deeper in that moment.

#jikook #jimin #jungkook #taehyung #Taekook

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inseobts · 1 day ago

Note

Hi!! Hope you're doing well. If you feel up to it, would you be ok with doing an imagine or headcanons about Jinbe comforting and insecure s/o?

Insecure S/O - headcanons

a/n: since I wanted to keep it generic to not include something different from your imaginary I choose to do headcanons, but I have to admit I’m not really good with them T.T

masterlist || ko-fi

• Jinbe possesses an innate ability to sense when something is amiss. Even before you voice your insecurities, he notices the subtle changes. Like the way your shoulders slump, how your gaze avoids his.

• Without pressing, he offers his presence, allowing you the space to open up only when you’re ready to.

• When you finally share your feelings, Jinbe envelops you in a warm, protective hug. His large arms wrap around you gently, providing a safe space where you can let your guard down.

• He doesn’t rush you. Instead, he holds you until your breathing steadies, offering silent support.

• In his deep, calming voice, Jinbe reminds you of your worth. He speaks of the strength he sees in you, the kindness you show to others, and how much you mean to him. His words are sincere, aiming to rebuild the confidence that your own self-doubt has eroded.

• He knows very well that comfort isn’t always and only about words, so Jinbe engages in small acts to lift your spirits. He prepares your favorite meals, ensures you rest properly, and even shares stories from his past to make you smile. These gestures, though simple, are his way of showing love and support.

• Jinbe also knows that healing takes time. He doesn’t expect immediate changes or for you to “snap out of it”. He actually remains by your side, offering a steady presence that reassures you that you’re not alone in your journey.

• Whenever you doubt yourself, he gently encourages you to see yourself through his eyes, highlighting your achievements and the positive impact you have on those around you, especially the impact you have on him and his life.

• Jinbe’s approach to comforting you is with patience, understanding, and unwavering support. His actions and words aim to create an environment where you feel valued and loved.

• Even after you start feeling better, after the heavy thoughts begin to fade and the days feel a little lighter, Jinbe doesn’t ease up on his support. Not because he doubts your strength, but because he knows healing isn't a straight path. One good day doesn't mean the storm is gone for good.

• He stays close in that quiet, unwavering way he always does. He doesn’t hover, but you feel that calm presence at your side, like a steady current guiding you home.

• He asks things like "Are you feeling a bit lighter today?" but he's not expecting anything. Just making room for the truth, whatever it is.

• He also prepares your favorite meals, even if you haven’t asked for them in a while. Still insists you rest when you’re tired, not because he thinks you’re fragile, but because he wants you to feel cared for, always.

• And when you begin to doubt yourself again, because it's only normal that it happens, and he knows it will, but he never sighs or asks you to “be strong”.

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always-been-aubrey · 3 days ago

Text

"I tried not to think of you but you distract me."

😔

This feeling comes over me more here lately, thinking about my best friend and first crush.

I know you've probably read some of my recollections of being with Chip, but I don't know that I've shared that he was killed in a car accident his freshman year in college, and the pain of losing him so suddenly still grabs and stabs at my heart here some fifty years later...

Oh, sure, I can fantasize about what it would-a, could-a, should-a been like - despite knowing 1,000% that nothing would-a, could-a come from my actually telling him who I was and how I felt - this was the mid-'70's after all, and rural north Georgia - the culture was SO different both there and even in the "big city" of Atlanta thirty-plus miles away...

Transgenderism was called "transsexualism," Christine Jorgensen was the only one I'd heard about having a "sex change" operation, and that she'd had to go to Europe for that, and the only article I found - quite by accident one night while babysitting for a nurse - was in a medical journal, and despite its clinical descriptions and telling of what it meant and what it would take to what we call "surgically transition" today, I felt a million light bulbs go off inside me as I realized first that I wasn't unique, and secondly what I felt and knew about myself was true... not that it made being able to talk about it any easier... but it did let me know - give me "permission" - to feel what I felt for Chip even if I couldn't express it to him directly...

Please note - the following may be triggering and/or a bit graphic/NSFW and/or might be unintentionally "rude" or seen as possibly insulting (though I'll do my best) - please read accordingly... or skip down to the next indentation...

That brief article also put to rest the wrestling going on within me - it was "comforting" to realize I wasn't gay or even bi (and no disrespect intending to my sisters and brothers who are - remember, this was 50 years ago...), but that my feelings weren't "same-sex" attraction, but truly "heterosexual" - I was a teenage girl at the time who found him, and other guys, cute and attractive and, because I was seen and treated as a guy and expected to behave as one, got to see them in the "all-together" in locker rooms and showers (I'll just leave it at that...)

Of course, by this time, I'd already acted on some of these feelings and attractions - experimented I believe was the term that would've been used then - and found some of it contradictorily right and wrong at the same time... but the few times after that, when I "relaxed into" my girlhood/womanhood, these contradictions disappeared and only resurfaced when my partner treated me (or expected me to treat him) as the guy/man he thought I was...

You may now "safely" return to the rest of this post... thank you for your understanding...

And so when Mom came in that bright, sunny morning to tell me what had happened the night before, the sun went immediately behind the only cloud in the sky, and to this day, despite the slow recovery it took me to get over his loss, it still presents itself in many subtle and bittersweet ways... some regret, of course, given what I've learned and done since then, that I'd not known or been able to act on, but also some strength and courage to embrace who I am, how I got here, and share - mindful of the costs to both of us - with others how I truly feel, and, most importantly, who I truly am...

...and there is so much more to come...

Ho provato a non pensarti ma tu mi distrai.

Eric Berardi

#transgirl #mtf girl #transgender #transsexual #first crush #growing up #my story #becoming who i've always been

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headlinxr · 1 day ago

Text

❪ 致你 ❫ ⨾ to you ﹐ 𝓳.𝔀

──𝐒YNOPSIS ┆ 𝔀. you've been meaning to visit your brother 𝐦in-gyu's new house for a while now. but when you finally arrive, somene else greets you─won-woo, his enigmatic roommate. nothing is quite as your imagined, and little by little, that stranger begins to stir questions within you... and feelings you never expected.

──𝐏AIRING ┆︵ 𝓦 ... 𝒻.ᐟℛ𝓮𝒶𝒹𝓮𝓻 (ft. 𝐦in-gyu, 𝐬eventeen).

──𝐖ARNING(s)┆𝐫eader is 𝐦in-gyu's sister, won-woo is 𝐦in-gyu's roommate, 𝐦in-gyy model, writer won-woo, artist 𝐫eader.

𓆤 ⎯⎯͟͟ HEADLINރR .☽༊˚ .°

It was Saturday, and today you were finally going to visit your brother in his new home. Min-gyu was always busy, with a schedule so tight that there was barely room to breathe, much less receive visitors. Opportunities to see him were few and far between, so any excuse to stop by and say hello was a small accomplishment. As an up and coming model, his career had him completely absorbed; it wasn't easy to find a niche in the life of someone making his way up through the big leagues.

Ever since he told you about his new apartment in one of Seoul's most exclusive areas, you had been curious to meet him. You'd been wanting to go for some time, imagining what the place he now called home would be like. And although he sometimes pretended to resent your insistence, you knew that, deep down, he liked having you around.

To your surprise —and, admittedly, also to your relief— Min-gyu had finally managed to squeeze you into his infamous rising star schedule. Between photo shoots, catwalks, social events and endless workouts, that he devoted an entire evening to you seemed almost miraculous. As soon as he wrote to you to confirm the time, a surge of excitement coursed through your body. You feigned indifference, of course, like someone who has a thousand plans and can barely make room. But the truth is that you had been waiting for this moment for days —maybe weeks— waiting for this moment.

When you arrived at his apartment, you couldn't help but smile like a fool. That wide, sincere smile that escapes without asking permission, the same one that always appears when you are about to see someone important to you.

As soon as you opened the door, you saw him standing on the threshold of the dining room, with his apron on (yes, apron), and you didn't think twice.

—Min-gyu!— you shouted excitedly before throwing yourself into his arms.

Min-gyu laughed, catching you with that characteristic carefree gesture, the one that reminded you that, even if his life was surrounded by flashes and red carpets, with you he would always be the same brother as before.

—Can you not shout? My neighbors already think I'm hiding a zoo here— he joked, although there was an unmistakable warmth in his voice.

The place was spectacular. Spacious, with a modern and minimalist design, and large windows that offered a view of Seoul so impressive that it looked like something out of a luxury architecture catalog. Everything was impeccable: The table was perfectly set, a soft and cozy playlist playing in the background, and a warm and spicy aroma coming from the kitchen.

—You did this?— you asked, raising an eyebrow with theatrical skepticism as you plopped down in one of the chairs. —Weren't you the one who mistook the microwave for the toaster?

—Times change— he said with a triumphant air, as he placed the plate in front of you. —Besides, I wasn't going to let you come all this way just to eat ramen. You had to try my best dish.

—And that would be...?

—Min-gyu style chicken. Patented. Unrepeatable. Probably slightly burnt.

You both burst out laughing. Dinner passed between jokes, anecdotes and that kind of complicity that only siblings who miss each other but love each other madly can understand. There was something comforting about being with him, as if the world was put on pause just to give them that moment.

But just when everything seemed perfect, the door to the apartment opened with a dry, resounding click.

A tall man stepped across the threshold. Dark, slightly tousled hair, thick-rimmed glasses, baggy T-shirt, backpack over his shoulder. His expression was that of someone who didn't expect to find a family dinner in the middle of the living room. He glanced sideways at you, then at Min-gyu, then back at you with a look somewhere between curious and tired. Finally, he nodded briefly, as if that were enough to say hello, and without saying a word, he walked quietly into the hallway and disappeared into a room, closing the door behind him as naturally as others open the refrigerator.

The silence that followed was... Peculiar. You looked at everything with your eyes wide open, as if you had witnessed a scene out of a domestic thriller.

—Are you going to explain to me what just happened?— you asked at last, pointing your fork down the hallway.

Min-gyu let out a low, amused laugh, as if everything was completely normal.

—Oh, right... I forgot to mention it. That was Won-woo— he said, as if it was the most irrelevant thing in the world. —My roommate. I've known him for a long time. He's quiet. A little strange, yes... But nice.

—Since when do you have a roommate? And why does he look like a mysterious character from a dorama who keeps secrets in his closet?

Min-gyu burst out laughing for real this time, leaning his head back with a laugh that filled the room.

—I swear he's a good person. He just doesn't talk much. And he always comes in like this. And he always leaves like that. You'll get used to it.

You blinked, still processing the fact that, of all the things Min-gyu could have told you, “I share an apartment with a quiet, handsome guy who looks like he's straight out of a Korean thriller” wasn't on the list.

The evening continued with the warmth that only the company of someone close can offer, but your mind was still anchored on that brief instant: The moment Won-woo crossed the room like a ghost not expecting to be seen. It wasn't as if you were expecting a formal introduction, nor a deep conversation with emotional fireworks, but his hushed entrance, his fleeting gaze and that enigmatic presence that trailed like a second shadow... It left you more than intrigued. They left you wondering.

—And how long has he been living here? you asked, hiding your growing curiosity behind a sip of water, as if the question did not carry a camouflaged interest.

—A few months already— Min-gyu answered as he poured himself another portion of rice, as if it were the most everyday thing in the world, —It was something improvised, he's my manager's brother and he was having trouble paying for his apartment at the same time I was looking for one. The rent here is crazy. But we get along well... Although sometimes he seems more like a cat than a person.

You let out a short laugh. Yeah, that sounded pretty accurate. Won-woo had that same feline energy: Elusive, silent, with a gaze that seemed to pierce through you without needing to touch you. As if he understood more than he said, and said less than he thought. An observer of the world, but in no hurry to be part of it.

—And is he always this... Expressive? you asked with a half smile.

—That was his effusive greeting— joked your brother —Believe me, he treated you well.

The evening closed with laughter, ice cream out of the freezer —which Min-gyu served with the air of a five-star chef—, and promises of a repeat visit. When you left, the hallway was silent, Won-woo's door was still closed, and curiosity followed you to the elevator.

You didn't see him again.

At least, not that night.

A few days passed before you came back. This time, at Min-gyu's spontaneous invitation: Movie night, just like in the old days. Movies, blankets and junk food. Your favorite plan.

When you arrived, Min-gyu didn't reply to your messages. But you already knew the code to the intercom —a privilege that did not go unnoticed— so you went in alone, as if it were your second home.

—I'm home!— you crooned as you entered —I hope you haven't prepared another cycle of psychological horror movies, because I'm not going to spend the night watching traumatized people.

The apartment seemed deserted. Silent. One of those silences that are not exactly uncomfortable, but expectant. You left your bag on the couch and headed for the kitchen in search of something to snack on. It was then that a low, soft, clear voice interrupted the air like a leaf falling on still water:

—Min-gyu is not here. He said he was arriving at fifteen.

You turned sharply.

Won-woo was there, leaning against the doorframe of his room, a cup of coffee in his hand, barefoot, his hair slightly disheveled as if he had just awakened from an eternal nap. His expression was serene, neutral, as if there was nothing unusual about finding you invading the kitchen.

—Ah... Hello— you said, a little awkwardly, trying to regain your composure.

—Hello— he replied with a slight nod of his head. His tone was calm, unhurried, as if every word was carefully measured.

The silence that followed was not awkward, but dense. Filled with something that had no name yet. As if both were waiting for the other to speak first, even if neither had the urgency to do so.

—I'm Min-gyu's sister, by the way— you finally added, breaking the stillness with a polite smile —I'm not sure if we officially met.

—Won-woo— he replied with a small gesture, though you knew perfectly well who it was. His voice, so low and deep, had a curious effect: It didn't fill the room, but it did catch your full attention to. —I know.

Pause.

—I saw you the other day— he added, as if it were a thought he'd suddenly given permission to come out, —You had rice in your hair.

You blinked, puzzled.

—What?

—When you were laughing— he clarified, with that same imperturbable calm —A grain fell on your head. You didn't say anything. You left it there as if you didn't notice.

You let out a laugh, genuine, surprised by the absurd memory of the moment. Had he really noticed that? And why did he remember it?

And then it happened: You saw him smile.

It wasn't a big smile. It didn't even go as far as a full one. Just a subtle curve at one corner of his lips, so brief that you doubted if you really saw it. But it was there. Fleeting. Almost shy.

—Are you always this observant?— you asked, half jokingly.

—Only when there's rice flying— he answered nonchalantly.

Another silence, but this time it was different. Warm, almost comfortable. Like when two people are tuned to the same frequency and don't know it yet. He took a sip of his coffee, turned to go back to his room, and just before disappearing, he said with a disconcerting naturalness:

—You look different today. More... Funny.

And then he simply walked away.

It took you several seconds to process what had just happened. Had it been a compliment? An unfiltered observation? Or just the odd —and slightly poetic— way he had of looking at the world?

Whatever it was, you felt it: That little knot in your stomach that forms when something unexpected touches you in just the right place. It was nothing concrete yet. Nothing definite. But there it was. A silent promise that something had begun.

You went back to the apartment, again, this time without a very concrete plan. Min-gyu had sent you a quick message, with all the elegance that characterized him:

[Min-gyu - 12:23]

I'm free this afternoon if you want to stop by.

Bring something to eat.

I literally don't even have bread.

A subtle invitation wrapped in emotional blackmail. So there you were, carrying a bag of snacks and a cold drink, without much expectation... Although, deep down, you knew exactly why your step had brought you to that door again.

Min-gyu was in the shower when you arrived. You knew because his muffled voice echoed from down the hall with the assurance of someone shouting into the wind:

—Put whatever you want on TV! I'll be out in five!

You plopped down on the couch with the familiarity of someone who had already turned that place into a kind of extension of herself. Reaching for the remote control, you noticed something different: On the table, a shiny black joystick connected to a turned-off console. Next to it, a stack of video games —some with Korean titles, others in Japanese, one you recognized from having gone viral a couple of years ago for its tragic story.

Curious, you picked up the controller and twirled it between your fingers, as if that small object could give you clues about its owner.

—I didn't know they played video games— you commented on the air, without waiting for an answer.

—I play— answered a voice behind you. Calm. Solid.

You turned around immediately.

Won-woo was there, leaning against the wall frame, dressed in a dark sweatshirt with his hair a bit disheveled, as if he had just stepped out of a parallel universe. In one hand he held his ever-present mug-you suspected it came standard with him.

—Oh, yeah?— you asked, smiling curiously, —I thought you were more of a "I meditate with my eyes open for three hours" kind of guy.

—I do that too— he replied matter—of—factly, and walked over to the game shelf without haste. —But on weekends I'd rather save fake worlds than fix the real ones.

His voice had that gentle tone that didn't need to get louder to stay with you. And his commentary... Well, it had that dark, sarcastic and strangely deep undertone that you were beginning to find addictive.

—And what's your favorite?— you asked, sitting up better on the couch, elbows resting on your knees.

—It depends on the day— You went through the titles with your fingers. —RPGs, mostly. Long stories. Where your decisions matter.

—Decisions that matter? Interesting, coming from someone who seemed to take five minutes to decide whether to answer a greeting or not.

He raised an eyebrow, almost imperceptibly, and muttered:

—That's exactly why. Words cost less if you don't use them all the time. Decisions, too.

He disarmed you. Not with an irrefutable argument, but with that way of his of saying things like someone who drops stones into a calm lake and watches the ripples.

—Would you teach me how to play?— you asked after a moment, pointing to the console. —I never understood anything about these worlds. But I always found them fascinating.

Won-woo blinked once, as if your request had taken a while to reach his brain. Then he nodded slowly.

—It depends. Do you have patience?

—I have brothers— you said with a smile. —I'm trained to deal with everything.

For the first time, you saw him laugh a little more freely. It wasn't a laugh, but a broader gesture. Almost human. Almost complicit.

—Then let's start with this one— he said, offering you a box. —It's long, slow... And if you do something wrong, you basically bring on the apocalypse.

—Perfect. Just what I need to relax.

You sat in front of the TV, you with the controller in hand and he calmly guiding you. You were surprised by the patience with which he explained each mechanic. He wasn't condescending, not distant, just.... Meticulous. He chose his words like someone tuning an instrument.

At some point, his fingers brushed yours as he corrected how you held the joystick. It was a brief touch, almost accidental. But you felt it. You felt it in every millimeter of skin he touched, in the silence that followed, in the way he just.... Went on, as if nothing had happened. Or maybe as if something did happen, but you didn't know how to name it.

When Min-gyu appeared, already dressed and drying his hair with a towel, he found them immersed in the game.

—What are you guys so focused on? Did you found a secret clan or what?

—I'm teaching her not to destroy a civilization in less than ten minutes— muttered Won-woo, without taking his eyes off the screen.

—It was a tactical error— you defended yourself with a chuckle —Besides, no one warned me that the “X” button decided the fate of a kingdom.

Min-gyu rolled his eyes and went to the kitchen.

But something had changed.

An invisible door had opened between you and Won-woo. It wasn't trust, not yet. But it was a silent connection, the kind that isn't shouted, forced, or announced. It was felt. And for now, that was enough.

The game had been paused for a while. The console slept like a contented pet, the background music was barely a soft murmur floating through the warm air of the apartment, and the dim lights bathed the room in that golden glow that only comes unintentionally, as if the night itself had made itself comfortable.

Dinner had arrived without great ceremony: Two open boxes on the low table, each with a personality of its own. One was overflowing with cheese to the brim, the other looked like some kind of culinary experiment that, against all odds, worked. Delivery chaos has never been so comforting.

The three of them sat down without order or protocol. Min-gyu plopped down on the floor like a K-pop star in the middle of a world tour break, you took the couch wrapped in a blanket you clearly already considered yours, and Won-woo, with his classic economy of movement, settled into one of the chairs with his legs crossed and his face half hidden behind a steaming mug.

As always, Min-gyu dominated the conversation with his inexhaustible energy. He told stories with that mix of sarcasm and drama that only someone with his social life could afford.

—Then the guy grabs the camera, puts it in front of his face and says, “How do you turn this toaster on?”— he recounted, between chuckles. —I don't know whether to cry about the state of the industry or nominate him for an unintentional comedy award.

—You're sure that wasn't part of the script?— you said, biting back a laugh.

—I wish. The worst thing is that that take did come out well. Ironies of the trade.

Then, as if suddenly remembering, Min-gyu raised a slice of pizza like a white flag and blurted out:

—Ah, and I'm going to China. Two weeks.

—What? So soon?— you asked, glancing sideways at Won-woo, who at that moment was stirring the edges of the cheese as if it were a chemistry experiment.

—Monday. Photo shoots, events, fake smiles. You know. What one does to survive in style. But I need you to keep coming over here— he said, pointing at you with the half-eaten portion. —This isn't just a casual invitation. It's a veiled plea.

—Why? Have I been assigned responsibilities without my consent?

—Let’s say, yes. I want you to hold down the fort, mostly because Won-woo…— he paused dramatically— Isn't exactly the pillar of domesticity.

Won-woo, without looking up from his pizza, mumbled in his unflappable tone:

—Said the man who washed clothes with dish soap.

—It was an international emergency!— Min-gyu defended himself. —Besides, the clothes were left with a citrus scent.

—And the texture of cardboard…

You covered your mouth so as not to spit with laughter, while the exchange continued with the fluidity of a sitcom you already knew well. But between bites and jokes, you kept watching Won-woo.

There was something fascinating about his silent presence. His glasses fogged up at times from the steam of the pizza, black hair fell untidily over his forehead, and his relaxed posture seemed as natural as it was learned. As if he had been in that corner for years, not asking permission to be there, but not needing anyone to invite him either.

And you watched him. Not blatantly, of course. Only at times. Like someone who leafs through a book without deciding yet if he wants to read it from beginning to end.

Min-gyu, in one of his multiple abilities to notice what is not said, interrupted you with a suspicious throat clearing.

—What? you asked, disguising the curve of your smile.

—Nothing. I just think this trip could be very, very productive.

—Productive in what way?

—In the sense that you'll be in charge of the emotional balance of this department while I'm away. And yes, that includes you keeping Won-woo from trying to live on ramen, tea and cynicism alone.

—You exaggerate.

—Your record speaks for you.

The conversation dissolved into more giggles and nibbles, until at one point, perhaps looking for a change of pace, you threw out a question that had been rolling around in your head for some time.

—Hey, Won-woo... What exactly do you do for a living?

He looked up with a leisurely gesture, almost as if that simple question brought him out of another world.

—I sell video games. Collectibles, rare editions. Some things from Japan and others restored. And I... I write, too.

—As a hobby?

—More like a refuge— he replied, without embellishment.

The way he said it was not melancholy, nor dramatic. It was direct. Almost overly honest.

—What kind of writing do you do?

—Situations, small details. Unexpressed emotions. That's where it's all at, I think.

That kind of answer was the exact kind of sentence someone else might have ruined for pretentiousness. But in his mouth it sounded different. It had weight, but not burden. And you didn't know if it was because of what he said, or how he said it, but there was something that stuck with you inside.

—And that pays the rent for this nice place?

—That, online sales, and avoiding going out too much. I don't have many vices.

—Just tea and games?

He nodded. And for the first time, he smiled with his lips, not just his eyes. It was slight, but evident.

The night faded naturally. When you got up to leave, Min-gyu was already half sprawled on the couch, using a napkin as a makeshift mask and the empty pizza box as an abdominal shield.

Won-woo escorted you to the door without a word. The sound of your footsteps on the wood floated over a comfortable silence.

—Thank you for... The pizza— he murmured.

—Thank you for letting me ruin only half a virtual village.

He laughed very softly, and for a second, just one, the two of them stood still. Not too close, not too far. Just... There.

—See you soon, then— you said.

—If I don't forget to pay for the internet, yes— he replied.

The door closed softly behind you, and as you walked down the stairs this time —without using the elevator, as if you wanted to prolong the moment— you realized that something had changed. Nothing definite. Nothing explicit.

But as in writing, what matters is not what is explicit, but what is suggested.

You had left Min-gyu at the airport barely an hour ago, and it already seemed to you that something was missing. Not so much because of the silence, but because of the way the air seemed to have lost its natural rhythm. Your brother had that effect: He made noise even without speaking. There was always music in the background, ridiculous anecdotes, impromptu plans or complaints about such trivial things as the weather or cold coffee.

Now, as you walked with a bag of groceries dangling from one arm and your cell phone vibrating in the other —messages you purposely ignored—you felt a strange anxiety. Attributable, of course, to the thought of having to visit the apartment without Min-gyu.... And with Won-woo there. Alone.

—I just have to check that he's still alive— you muttered to yourself, in a tone more humorous than realistic, though the image of him completely abstracted from the world amidst wires, screens and cups of tea didn't seem so far off.

That was it. Just checking that he hadn't merged with the couch or that he wasn't growing mushrooms in the fridge. Quick. Painless. No unnecessary emotions. No butterflies.

But of course, butterflies never ask for permission.

The click of the door was barely audible, drowned out by the soft hum of the television on. You entered without making too much noise, expecting perhaps to find the room empty, leave the food on the table and disappear. But no.

There he was. Sitting in the center of the couch, with the relaxed posture of someone who had lost track of time. He was wearing a black sweater with white letters almost erased, and his hair, messy as always, fell in unruly locks over his glasses. He was absorbed. He didn't move, except for his thumbs, which danced with surgical precision over the control.

There was something about that image that stopped you. Not just because he looked... Incredibly good —though it did, without pretension or effort—but because it seemed to be on its own planet. A silent, pixelated, and curiously attractive planet. There was something intimate about the scene, as if you'd caught him in a private moment, and yet he didn't seem uncomfortable.

Until he spoke.

—Did you bring food?

He didn't even take his eyes off the screen. But his voice, soft, with that low, neutral tone that sounded like something out of a lo-fi song, jolted you as if you'd been caught prying into his thoughts. Or yours.

—Yes— you said, holding up the bag as if it were a peace trophy. Your tone sounded more shrill than you expected, so you lowered your voice a little as you approached. —I thought you had no supplies beyond tea and apocalypse.

A slight smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He didn't look at you yet, but you could tell he had listened.

—It's a balanced diet.

—Of course— you replied, pulling out the food containers. —Balanced between nutritional collapse and dehydration.

This time he let out something very much like a laugh. Brief, as if he wasn't used to it, but real.

As you placed the containers on the table, you moved a little closer, without thinking too much. There was something in the atmosphere that made you want to stay. Maybe it was the soft music of the game, the artificial warmth of the apartment? Or just curiosity.

—What are you playing?

Pause. Now he turned down the volume of the TV and turned his head towards you. His eyes were dark and expressive, even behind the glasses. They didn't look at you with distrust, but with that kind of attention that comes when someone really thinks before they speak.

—Sinsong— he finally said. —It's Korean. A strategic RPG with moral decisions. Everything you do changes the course of the game.

—And have you destroyed any villages yet?

—Not yet. But there was a scene... Intense.

His answers were short, yes, but not evasive. There was something honest in the way he spoke, as if he didn't seek to impress, but he still couldn't help but be interesting. That kind of mystery that doesn't try too hard to be.

—Can I try it?— you asked, crossing your arms over the back of the couch.

He looked at you as if trying to figure out if you were serious. Then, very slowly, he nodded.

—If you don't mind losing in the first five minutes?

—I have pride, not fear.

He made room for you on the couch and handed you the controller without touching you, but so close that you could catch the soft scent of tea and freshly washed clothes. He stayed by your side, explaining game mechanics with a patience that contrasted with his seemingly introverted nature. He spoke in a low voice, weighing each word carefully. But there was something in his tone, in the way he glanced at you sideways every time you fumbled with the controller, that hinted at another layer.

Won-woo was reserved, yes. But not closed off. He seemed to live inwardly, observing everything, storing away details no one else noticed. Like when he scratched the back of his neck while thinking about how to explain a game system to you. Or when he pushed his glasses up with one finger without even realizing it.

And you... You noticed everything.

After nearly an hour, you managed to save one village and accidentally destroy another. He didn’t laugh, but his smile was clear enough to tell you he was enjoying it.

When you got up to leave, the atmosphere had softened, as if something had settled between you. Not necessarily immediate trust, but a quiet truce. A mutual recognition.

—Thanks for the food— he said, this time looking at you directly.

—Thank you for not judging my military skills— you replied, opening the door.

—I haven’t finished the analysis yet— he murmured.

You said it jokingly. But his voice… Carried something else. A spark. And for the first time since you arrived, you felt like maybe… It wasn’t just curiosity that kept pulling you back.

It was him. And now, more than ever, you wanted to find out what else was hiding behind those foggy glasses and carefully measured silences.

You were about to turn the doorknob when something —maybe your conscience, or maybe just that impulsive part of you that never shuts up— stopped you. The hallway was quiet, with that mid-week stillness buildings tend to have when everyone else has things to do except you.

You didn’t want to seem eager, or nosy, or anything like that… But something inside you refused to leave without trying. So you took a deep breath, like you had to convince yourself first, and spoke without turning around.

—Hey… Before I go— you began casually, like you didn’t really care about the answer. —You should give me your number. Just in case, you know... Fires, ninja attacks, the fridge becomes sentient and declares war. Emergencies, normal stuff.

The silence that followed was longer than you expected. Not awkward, but… Dense. Like inside the apartment, someone was reorganizing their entire internal operating system to process what you had just said.

You turned, and there he was, exactly as you’d left him: On the couch, the video game controller in his lap, body half-sunken into the cushions like he’d been there for hours. But now he was looking at you. And that already meant something had changed.

—My number?— he repeated, like the phrase was new to him, strange, or too intimate to process so quickly.

—Yes— you said, keeping a calm smile, even though you were chewing yourself up inside. —Not to stalk you or anything. Just... It’d be useful. In case I find out you left something on. Or if the ceiling collapses on you and I need to call emergency services. Nothing weird.

Won-woo shifted slowly, like his body couldn’t decide whether to stay where it was or bolt out the window. He took off his glasses and started cleaning them with the sleeve of his sweater. Not because they needed it, but clearly because it was his way of thinking without saying much.

—I don’t usually… Give out my number— he murmured, not looking directly at you. His voice was calm, but there was a hidden tension at the edges, that soft discomfort of someone not used to being reached.

—I don’t usually ask for the number of guys who barely talk— you replied, raising an eyebrow. —We’re both out of our comfort zones, aren’t we?

That pulled a half-smile from him. Brief, shy, but genuine. Like he was thanking you for not pushing, for understanding him even when he didn’t say things outright.

—All right…— he said finally, and looked down at his phone. —You give me yours too. For... Balance.

His tone almost sounded like a joke, but without the confidence of someone who tosses jokes around easily. It was more like an attempt to bring lightness to something that clearly felt very personal to him.

—I was just about to suggest it. We wouldn’t want to throw off the universal balance, after all.

You handed him your unlocked phone, and he took it with the care of someone holding a sleeping animal. He typed slowly, with long, meticulous fingers, making sure not to mess it up. Then he gave it back, barely looking at you, like he didn’t want to make you any more uncomfortable than this moment already was.

—Done— he said. —But... if you call me, I probably won’t answer.

—And if I text you?

—I’ll... Read it a few times. Maybe think of a reply in my head and not send it. Or write it and delete it. But... Yeah. I’ll reply. Sooner or later.

You couldn’t help but smile. There was something so transparent about him, so unfiltered, it was endearing. No effort to seem more interesting, more fun, more anything. He was just him. A quiet guy, distractingly attractive, with measured replies and long silences that somehow didn’t make you want to run away.

—Perfect. I’ll keep that in mind. Though I hope if the fridge explodes, your reply won’t just be an ellipsis.

Won-woo blinked a couple of times. Then, in his driest, most serious tone:

—I don’t use emojis.

And that was it —the final straw—. You laughed. It was quick, spontaneous. You covered your mouth with your hand, not out of embarrassment, but because it surprised you how easy it was to be there. With him.

You walked to the door, this time slower. You felt like you’d crossed some invisible line between the practical and the personal. You weren’t just “Min-gyu’s sister who’s watching the apartment”. At least not in the way he was starting to look at you.

—See you soon, Won-woo— you said as you opened the door.

He nodded. It seemed like he was going to leave it at that. But just as you took your first step out, his voice, almost a whisper, reached you from behind.

—Thanks for... stopping by.

It was simple. Unadorned. But coming from him, it sounded almost intimate. Like his own particular way of saying “I liked having you here” without having to face the embarrassment of saying it out loud.

You turned around one last time.

—It was… Nice— you said sincerely. Then, after a pause, —And I’m not going to pretend I didn’t enjoy beating you at the end.

Won-woo smiled to the side, like someone keeping a rematch hidden up their sleeve.

—That victory was... Generous on my part.

—Uh-huh. Sure it was— You winked at him. —Till next time, strategic-defeat champion.

The door closed softly behind you, but the echo of the conversation —his voice, his awkward interest— followed you all the way to the elevator. As it descended, with no one else around, you couldn’t help but look at your reflection in the steel doors and smile.

You didn’t know exactly what was starting to happen between you and Won-woo, but it was... Different. And somewhere deep inside, that subtle flutter told you you didn’t want it to end any time soon.

The elevator dropped you off on the ground floor, but your mind was still floating somewhere much higher. Between Won-woo’s final comment, that rare but real smile, and the way he said “thanks for stopping by”, something had lodged itself inside you. Something small. Uncomfortable in the best way. Like a pebble in your shoe, but in your chest.

You walked home more slowly than necessary, the empty bag swinging from your wrist and the ridiculous feeling that you’d left something behind. Not a scarf. Not your dignity. Something more subtle. Maybe part of your focus. Your energy. You.

When you got back to your apartment, you kicked off your shoes, dropped your keys on the table with a metallic clink that broke the silence, and flopped onto the couch with that kind of drama that only comes when part of you is waiting... For something. Anything.

You closed your eyes. Opened them again. Stared at the ceiling. Then turned your head toward your purse, knowing full well your phone was in there, waiting like a silent accomplice. And that’s when the inner battle began.

“There’s no point in texting him. You already said everything that needed to be said. It was just one shared afternoon. A video game. A pizza.”

But the other voice —bolder, more you when no one’s looking— piped up without shame.

“What if you just want to text him? Because not everything has to be necessary. Because maybe you just feel like it. And that’s enough.”

You sighed softly, grabbed your phone like someone surrendering to the inevitable, and opened the chat. The empty screen was intimidating. A blank, silent space that seemed to say “nothing’s happened here”. But you knew better. Something had.

You typed something. Deleted it. Tried an emoji, hated it, deleted that too. Until you gave in to what you actually felt: Simple. Light. Expectation-free.

[You – 10:17 PM]

Made it back fine. No alien invasions on the way. So far.

The moment you hit "send", you dropped the phone like it burned, like you hadn’t just spent the last five minutes debating whether to text him at all. You got up to make some tea, even though the water never even boiled. You came back to the couch. Looked at the screen. Still blank. Of course.

“He probably read the message, panicked, and is now thinking it over in some dark corner while his imaginary cat judges him.”

Eleven minutes later, just as you were about to give up and open a dumb video to distract yourself, your phone buzzed.

[Won-woo – 10:28 PM]

Good. Glad the fridge didn’t win this time.

You smiled. Not a loud one. Just that soft, silly smile that slips out when no one’s watching. The kind that says more than you’d ever admit out loud. Because he’d replied. Not just that—he got the joke. He matched your tone.

You read it again. As if there were a second, hidden layer beneath his words. Then you replied without overthinking:

[You – 10:29 PM]

It was a tough battle. I escaped with minor injuries (burned a finger on the microwave). But I survived.

A few seconds passed. You saw him “online”. Then “typing.” Then nothing. Then “online” again.

“Weird”, you thought, amused.

[Won-woo – 10:33 PM]

The microwave has always been the most treacherous one.

You laughed quietly, with that warm feeling that seeps into your skin without asking. You typed again.

[You – 10:34 PM]

I know. It has a suspicious look.

Thanks for today, by the way.

That “thanks” came out heavier than you meant. Because it had been more than just another afternoon. And you knew it.

A few minutes passed, then his reply came:

[Won-woo – 10:36 PM]

I didn’t do much.

But… It was nice.

The word "nice" felt small, almost shy. But coming from him, it sounded like a confession. Like low—volume vulnerability. Like “I liked having you here”, without actually saying it.

You rested the phone on your chest, as if its warmth might linger a little longer. The silence in your apartment didn’t feel so heavy anymore. It had a different texture now, like someone else had left their shadow behind.

You weren’t in love. Not yet. But something had shifted. Or started.

And for the first time in a long while, you wished the night would last a bit longer. Not necessarily to keep talking. Just to stay in that feeling. That invisible thread you’d somehow started to share with someone who spoke little but said so much between the lines.

The next time you went to the apartment, you weren’t just carrying food or some improvised excuse. You brought cookies. Homemade. Or, well, as close as you could get to something edible and baked, given your limited baking skills. The first attempt had been a tragic disaster, but the second... The second had shape, color, and even a promising smell.

You walked in without knocking, as usual, but this time he wasn’t in front of the TV, nor holding the joystick or lost in some video game. Won-woo was by the window, slightly hunched over an open notebook, as if the outside world didn’t exist beyond the words he was writing.

You stopped cold, not wanting to interrupt right away. The scene felt intimate, fragile. His glasses were slipping down the bridge of his nose, and his messy hair shifted with every faint breeze sneaking through the window crack. He was so focused he seemed to float in a slower, entirely his own frequency.

You knocked gently on the doorframe with your knuckles.

He looked up, startled, like he’d just landed from somewhere far away.

—Were you writing?— you asked with a sideways smile, lifting the makeshift box of cookies like some kind of offering.

Won-woo closed the notebook quickly, almost guiltily, like you’d caught him doing something too personal. His reaction surprised you, though not entirely. There was always a part of him somewhere between wanting to share and the instinct to hide.

—Something like that— he said, not quite meeting your eyes. —Nothing important.

—And how do you decide that?— You stepped closer, setting the box on the table. —Do you always write by the window, or is that part of your mysterious writer aesthetic?

That earned a small, almost imperceptible smile—but enough.

—The light is good— he replied. —And almost no one interrupts me.

—Until today— you added, shameless. —But I come in peace. And with cookies. I think that gives me the right to stay.

He reached out to grab one awkwardly, like he wasn’t entirely sure how to eat something made by someone else. He examined it like he was analyzing its molecular structure, then took a bite.

The verdict: A neutral expression, followed by another bite and a slow nod.

—They’re good.

And for some reason, that simple "good", spoken in his quiet, honest voice, warmed your chest in a ridiculously disproportionate way.

—What were you writing?— you asked, nodding toward the now-closed notebook.

He hesitated. You saw him swallow, look down at his hands.

—Ideas. Scenes. Things I imagine when I’m not… Avoiding people— he said, with a hint of self-deprecating humor. —Sometimes I write stories. Other times, just scattered lines. Thoughts.

—And you keep them all in there? Like a journal?

—Not exactly. It’s more like… A conversation I don’t know how to have out loud.

That made you pause. The sentence carried unexpected weight. You looked at the notebook, now a loaded object.

—Have you ever thought about showing what you write?— you asked—not pushing, just curious.

Won-woo shrugged, lowering his gaze to his hands.

—I’ve thought about it. But I’m not sure what I write is any good. And sometimes, when I read it again, I feel like... I’m exposing too much. Like someone could read it and see all of me.

—That doesn’t sound so bad.

—For someone like me, it is.

You stayed quiet for a moment. Then decided to offer something back.

—I draw. Or at least I try to. I have a notebook full of mural ideas, abstract stuff, weird colors. Some phrases that keep following me around. I’ve always wanted to do something with it, but…— you shrugged —Sometimes we sabotage ourselves too, don’t we?

—Yes— he said, his voice barely a whisper. —You become your own obstacle.

There was a pause. One of those that doesn’t feel awkward—one that lets the words breathe.

—Do you have your drawings here?— he asked, with a softness you didn’t expect.

You shook your head, smiling.

—No. But if you ever invite me for tea, I might bring them.

He didn’t say anything—just nodded. But that gesture, that small tilt of his head, carried the gentleness of a true yes. As if he’d just opened a door that was entirely his… Just for you.

That night, you didn’t rush to leave. You left slowly, feeling that something had shifted. Not in a grand or obvious way. But just enough.

And when you got home—after slipping off your shoes and dropping your keys in their usual spot—you saw it. A short message glowing on your phone screen.

[Won-woo – 10:04 PM]

Thanks for the cookies.

And for staying.

The words came easier today.

You lay back on the couch with a soft smile, almost without realizing. The phone resting on your chest like a musical note still vibrating.

You didn’t know if he would ever show you what he wrote, or if you’d actually let him see your drawings. But something was definitely growing between the two of you. Not a movie—kind—of—story. Something slower. Something real.

Like a story written by hand.

Like a line sketched without erasing the one before it.

You returned to the apartment one afternoon when the sky seemed to have forgotten how to be blue. It wasn’t raining, but the air smelled like it might—like a promise of water, a soft melancholy that clung to your skin like a light blanket. It wasn’t a special day. Not his birthday, not a marked date. But you were carrying your notebook. That made it different.

You had told yourself you wouldn’t show it. That you’d bring it along "just in case", like someone taking an umbrella when the forecast says “maybe”. And yet, as soon as you stepped inside, you knew it wasn’t just a remote possibility. It was a decision you’d been chewing on for days.

Won-woo greeted you with his usual gesture: A slight nod, no words. But this time, his eyes lingered on yours a second longer, as if he noticed something different. Maybe he did. You felt it too.

He was in his favorite spot, by the window, a cup of tea in his hands and a half-open notebook in front of him. The pen rested on top, forgotten.

—Did I interrupt your creative session?— you asked, slinging your backpack over the back of a chair.

—Not enough to be mad about it— he replied without moving, with that dry tone laced with subtle humor that you were starting to understand better than anyone.

You sat on the couch, dropping your bag to the side. Outwardly calm. Inside, a whirlwind. You hesitated for a few minutes. Chatted about random things: The weather, the playlist he had on, how useless electric ovens were for baking decent cookies. He listened, quiet but focused, with that expression of his that made it seem like he wasn’t giving opinions—but was storing every detail in some private corner of his mind.

Finally, before you could change your mind again, you opened the backpack and pulled out your notebook.

You placed it on the table with a mix of shyness and determination, without looking at him directly. As if just putting it there was an act of bravery on its own.

Won-woo tilted his head, curious.

—Is that…?— He didn’t finish the question, but you filled in the silence.

—My sketchbook. Where I draw. Sometimes I write too. It’s not organized or anything.

He looked at it like you’d just offered him a map to an unknown place. And then, with the kind of respect someone might have for a borrowed relic, he asked:

—Can I see it?

You nodded. You weren’t sure if your hands were shaking on the outside, but inside… Every heartbeat felt like an unspoken truth.

Won-woo took it with both hands. His fingers were long, steady, almost ceremonial as he turned the first page. And then, simply, he began to read. Or look. Or feel—because he didn’t comment, didn’t interrupt, didn’t ask for explanations. He just moved through the pages with a reverence that made it feel like every sketch, every word, deserved its time.

Half-human figures, dreamed murals, fragments of poetry, splashes of color where some emotion had spilled uncontrollably. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t flatter you. But his complete attention was enough to make you feel that—for the first time—someone was seeing what you’d made without trying to fix it, just trying to understand it.

He stopped near the end, at a page you’d scribbled on at 3 a.m., the ink smudged:

“I’m scared to be seen. But I’m more scared of never showing myself at all.”

His eyes lingered on the words. And instead of saying something clever, he simply said:

—I feel that too.

It caught you off guard. He didn’t speak like that—not easily.

—You feel… What?

—I’m scared too. Of sharing what I write. Of someone reading it and really seeing me. But also… Of never letting that happen at all.

You didn’t say anything for a moment. You just sat there, sharing that—raw vulnerability. A mirror confession.

He was the one who stood up first. Walked over to the shelf, rummaged through worn—out notebooks, and pulled out one that looked like it held history. He handed it to you—not ceremoniously, but with a certain care. He opened it to a specific page, like he had chosen it in advance.

—It’s not a full story— he said. —Just a scene. But… I don’t know. Maybe you’ll like it.

You read in silence. It was a fragment of something bigger. A conversation between two characters on a train. He wrote with restraint, no unnecessary flourishes, but every line carried weight. It was honest. Deep without trying to be. As if he wrote from somewhere very far inside—but still with his feet on the ground.

—This character…?— you began.

—Isn’t me— he said right away. But then he added, lowering his gaze. —Not completely.

—You could write a whole story from this— you told him. —It’s beautiful.

He looked at you then—and for the first time, didn’t look away so quickly. There was something different there. A certain trust. Or maybe a need to trust.

—What if you drew the scenes?— he said. —Like little snapshots. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just something… Ours.

That last word hung between you. Not as a promise. But as a spark.

—We could try— you said. And you sounded more confident than you felt. But also… Freer.

You didn’t hug. You didn’t hold hands. But as you were leaving, he didn’t hand back the notebook.

—Can I keep it for a few days?— he asked.

—Sure— you replied. —But don’t correct anything.

—Never.

And when you closed the door behind you, you knew that something between you had opened. Not suddenly. Not loudly. But with the exact rhythm of a story just beginning—one no one else needs to understand for it to be real.

The message came mid-morning, while you were still in pajamas, your hair tied up any which way, the breakfast mug forgotten on the edge of the sink. Just another notification—no sound, no urgency—but the name on the screen was enough to make your pulse quicken, just a little.

Won-woo sent you an image.

You opened it without thinking. It was a photo. Nothing more. Nothing less.

An urban landscape, captured in a moment suspended between fog and noise. Sidewalks still wet from an earlier drizzle, reflections of unlit streetlamps on the asphalt, an old building in the background with glowing windows—as if someone were reading behind each one. No people. Just a near-cinematic stillness, like the world was breathing in a whisper.

You smiled, instinctively, automatically.

[You – 10:03]

It’s a beautiful photo.

Feels like a scene from your story.

You were about to set the phone aside when his reply arrived, as precise as a second thought:

[Won-woo – 10:09]

I’m glad you like it.

Are you free this afternoon?

I thought… We could go to a café. Talk a bit about last night.

You read the message several times. No exclamation points, no emojis—but knowing him, it felt like a leap. A simple invitation, but one that said a lot coming from him. And you knew it. It wasn’t just coffee. It was a bridge.

As you picked up the empty cup and forced yourself to pull together some kind of composure, your mind drifted to him. How he wrote. How he noticed beauty in the things others ignored. That quiet way he had of telling the truth without raising his voice. He had a kind of sensitivity that didn’t need to announce itself, and maybe that’s why it ran deeper.

“Elegant without meaning to be”, you thought. As if his talent weighed on him, as if he was shy about having something so personal others could touch.

You got ready without rushing, but with more care than you were willing to admit. You slipped a notebook into your bag—the good one, the one you used when inspiration truly hit—along with a few pencils, just in case.

The café he’d suggested was only a few blocks from the apartment he shared with Min-gyu. It wasn’t a well-known place. The sign was barely visible, the tables were pale wood, and the hanging lamps cast warm yellow light. The air smelled like freshly ground coffee and old books.

“Perfect”, you thought. It seemed like the kind of place someone like him would choose.

You arrived a few minutes early—because you wanted to. Because you wanted to be there before the moment began.

You waited outside, hands in your pockets, eyes scanning the street. And when you saw him coming, the world seemed to pause for a beat. He walked with that unhurried pace of his, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, a gray scarf tied clumsily around his neck. His hair was carefully combed, though a rebellious strand still fell across his forehead. He wasn’t dressed to impress, but there was something about the way he carried himself that felt… Different. Present. Like he’d taken care, too.

He saw you and raised a hand in a brief wave. No words. But that small smile… Tt undid you.

—Hey— you said, glancing down a little, still smiling.

—Hey— he echoed, his voice calm, almost a murmur.

You went into the café and chose a table by a fogged-up window. He ordered an americano, no sugar. You got a cinnamon latte. The waitress jotted it down with a distracted smile and walked off. You were alone. The hum of the café made the perfect backdrop for what was to come.

—Did you bring your notebook?— he asked, motioning subtly toward your bag.

—I did— you said, pulling it out as if presenting something with reverence. —Also some pencils. In case inspiration decides to slip away.

—Or in case I start saying a very profound thing— he joked—his usual way: Barely noticeable, but charming.

You laughed, and that sound seemed to loosen something between you. The coffee arrived, bringing a comfortable pause. He held his cup with both hands, like it gave him courage. Took a sip, then looked at you—direct, but not invasive.

—I’ve been thinking… About what you said. About sharing what we make. About not always hiding it.

You nodded, but said nothing. You wanted to listen more than speak.

—I don’t know if I’m ready for a lot of people to read it— he went on. —But I’d like to keep sharing it with you. Not because I feel like I have to. But because… I want to.

Your heart made a strange noise. A flutter. A crack letting in the light.

—Thank you— you said. —I feel the same. I don’t know why, but ever since I started reading your words, I’m less afraid to draw the things that really matter to me.

He looked down for a second, a small crooked smile on his lips. Then he looked up, and for a moment, he wasn’t the shy Won-woo—you saw him more clearly. More fully.

—Can we create something together?— he asked. —A project, small, big, doesn’t matter. I want to see what happens when your drawings and my words meet in the same place.

—What if it doesn’t work?

—Then we’ll have shared something. That alone makes it worth it.

You picked up a pencil without thinking. Started sketching soft lines on the paper, no explanation. He didn’t interrupt. Just watched you, fingers still wrapped around his mug.

—What are you doing?— he asked eventually, curiosity blooming in his voice.

—Drawing you. But this time, without the mystery. Just a guy in a café, with the most honest eyes I’ve ever seen.

He blushed, clearly. And you pretended to focus on the paper so you wouldn’t laugh too loudly.

You spent the afternoon talking about stories. About characters you both wanted to write. About scenes you imagined. He told you he once wanted to be a screenwriter but gave it up because it felt too pretentious. You told him you once dreamed of painting murals all over Seoul, though you still weren’t sure if you had the courage.

The conversation bloomed like a flower you didn’t know you had planted.

And when it was time to go, he offered to walk you to the corner. Outside, the afternoon had already turned to night. The city lights felt like a soft echo.

—I want to keep seeing you— he said, like handing over something he’d been holding too long.

—Me too— you said, meeting his gaze with a sincerity that even surprised you.

The words came so fast, it startled you. Like all the air you’d been holding in your chest had finally been released in that sentence. And deep down, you knew it wasn’t just a response. It was the first time something inside you also wanted to be spoken.

Won-woo blinked, as if you’d thrown a stone into water and he was watching the ripples reach his side. He was silent for a moment, processing. Then, without panic, he opened and closed his mouth a few times, like searching for the right word in the maze of his thoughts.

—I’m glad— he finally said, in a soft, almost hesitant voice. —Because that way we can keep the story going.

The words fell like a single drop into a pond, sending out waves inside you. His reply came so quickly, so mechanically, that for a second you wondered if he really understood what you’d just said. Or if maybe, he’d gotten lost in his own world of untold stories and unsaid things.

And there it was —an unnecessary clarification, a near-clinical detachment that slightly ruined the warmth of the moment. As if everything that had just happened was now reduced to a continuation, an extension of something already in motion.

Your smile froze. It wasn’t sadness. Not contempt. Just... Confusion.

You weren’t expecting a grand declaration. You weren’t expecting anything specific. But part of you had lifted with the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he felt the same. That his gaze held more colors. That his words carried more weight.

And now, hearing those simple words, you understood what made Won-woo who he was. Someone who maybe needed to frame everything —every gesture, every word. Someone who didn’t quite know how to let life happen without a script. Without something to hold onto.

—Right… The story— you said, lowering your gaze, feeling the weight of those words settling over you like dust. But you said it calmly, as if the world kept turning despite the tiny crack that had just opened between you two.

He nodded without thinking. Then looked away, as if the small curtain of silence that had just fallen between you didn’t affect him. As if he hadn’t noticed the faint shadow that passed over your face.

The disappointment —soft, almost invisible— cut deeper than you expected. But you understood. He doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t know how to play in the shadows of the unsaid, in the small spaces where language fails. And still, in his own clumsy but honest way, he was trying.

You walked in silence, unhurried. The city carried on around you —cars gliding by, distant conversations humming, the sky heavy with a promise of rain. Each step seemed to move you further from what had just happened in the café. But something inside you —a small spark— remained alive. You weren’t ready to let it die.

—Don’t worry— you said, breaking the thick silence that had formed between you. —I love the story.

And it was true. You did. Even if the way he had said it left a bitter taste, there was still something in those story fragments that felt like yours. Like you were part of something bigger than just a simple encounter.

He glanced at you, a flicker of discomfort crossing his face. He didn’t say anything, but something in his body eased. Maybe, just maybe, he understood that not everything about you could be handled like a neat, linear narrative.

When you reached the corner, you both stopped. Just stood there, watching the street, the traffic, the ebb and flow of strangers as if looking for something in the city’s movement.

—Will I see you again soon?— you asked, no hesitation, letting the question linger like an unspoken wish.

Won-woo’s answer came with the same precision as before. His words, so measured and controlled, felt heavier than the silence that preceded them.

—Yes. I’ll write to you tomorrow. I promise I won’t leave it paused for too long.

Something in that response —so small and tangible— began to melt away the disappointment, though not entirely. It’s not what I hoped for, you thought. But maybe it’s all he can offer.

You watched him cross the street, unhurried, as if everything were perfectly normal. His scarf caught the wind, and for a moment, it felt like time stretched —that the image of him walking away etched itself in your eyes, like a scene from a movie whose ending you’d never get to see.

And as you watched him disappear, something hit you with sharp clarity:

“Not all feelings have to be big. Not all moments need to be monumental to matter. Sometimes, all you need is the quiet unfolding of a story —soft, subtle, whispered”.

“He’s trying”, you told yourself, feeling a quiet peace spread through your chest as the evening deepened and the city moved on.

That night, back home, the notebook you’d left on the table seemed to be watching you from across the room. And when you opened it, hands still slightly trembling, a thought came to you:

“Maybe I just need to let this story flow on its own—no rush, no expectations.”

And for the first time, that thought didn’t scare you.

The notification came just after noon, sunlight slanting across the table as you stirred a spoon in an already cold cup.

[Min-gyu – 12:04]

I’m back, little sis.

Are you coming over tonight? I’ve got stories to tell.

Brought stuff.

Oh—and Won-woo’s picking me up from the airport.

You read it once. Then again. And on the second read, your heart did that silly little leap you’d come to know so well.

Won-woo.

That name again, ringing like a held note, slipping into the spaces of your day. As if he’d become part of your routine without you realizing it.

He went to pick him up. You didn’t know why that mattered so much. But it did.

That afternoon, you packed a small bag —not because you needed to, but to have something to hold onto. You tucked in some lemon cookies, Min-gyu’s childhood favorite, and your notebook— the one you carried everywhere like a quiet secret. You picked an outfit—simple, but chosen with care. Nothing loud, but suggestive.

When you got to the building, the first thing you noticed was the apartment door—slightly ajar. A small gesture, but intimate. As if they were waiting for you.

You pushed gently. Stepped in.

And you saw him.

Won-woo was in the kitchen. Standing like a figure from another frame. No sweater or loose jeans today. He wore a blue linen shirt, the collar open, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Dark pants, crisply pressed. His hair styled with quiet intent. But that rebellious strand —always him— still fell over his forehead, undoing the seriousness.

He looked… Like a different version of himself. One you didn’t see every day.

And in that instant, a sharp mix of emotion and doubt swept through your chest. You didn’t know if it made you happy to see him like that. Or if it hurt.

Because you didn’t know if that version was for you.

Or for something that was about to happen—and that you still didn’t understand.

You raised your hand and smiled, trying to make sure the gesture didn’t give anything away.

—Hello— you said.

—Hello— he replied, with a half-smile that didn’t quite form.

Min-gyu looked up from his open backpack. —Little sister!— And then yes, you ran towards him as if time had rewound. You hugged tightly, with those laughs that didn’t need an explanation. The hug smelled like the airport, like new fabrics, like distance overcome. You closed your eyes for a second and let yourself be in that familiar place: the arms of the one who reminds you who you are.

—Look what I brought you— he said, rummaging. —I couldn’t resist—. He pulled out an embroidered blouse with golden threads, a pair of jade earrings that seemed to have been sculpted with ancient patience, and a bamboo-covered notebook that cracked when opened.

—Min-gyu… This is incredible— you whispered, touching the items as if they were fragile. As if everything, at that moment, was fragile. —Thanks to you— he said, lowering his voice too. —For respecting my space. For being here. You’re always here. You know you’re my safe place.

“My safe place”, you thought. How easy that sounds… When there’s no risk of parting. You settled in like always. You by the window, Min-gyu in his favorite chair. And Won-woo in the middle. But it wasn’t the same. There was something different in the air. In how he held his glass, in the way he didn’t quite settle back. Like he had one foot in another place. Min-gyu began to talk. And talk. About flavors, streets with red lanterns, clothes hanging from balconies, a man who mistook him for a famous actor and asked for a selfie on a train. You laughed, because laughter was a refuge, a pause. —And thanks for not killing the balcony plant— he joked, winking at you. —I’m impressed.

—It almost died. I talked to it. I gave it black tea. I think it believed me—. He laughed. You did too. And by instinct, by reflex, you turned toward Won-woo, looking for that shared glance. That invisible line that connected you when no one else could see it. But he wasn’t looking at you. His eyes were fixed on his phone. And his expression was hard, tense. Like someone waiting for something important, or just having received it. Min-gyu noticed the silence.

—And you?— he asked teasingly. —What’s got you so caught up? Won-woo lifted his gaze like someone emerging from a dream.

He blinked. —A message. For work— he said, without inflection.

—Really? Where?— A second of pause. Almost imperceptible. Like he hesitated to say it.

—Busan.

And that’s when the world, for you, stopped spinning.

The blow was so brief, so clean, that you didn’t make a sound. Your body didn’t move. But inside, something cracked. Like a dry branch under the foot of someone who didn’t want to break anything.

Busan.

You repeated it silently. As if you could lessen its power by thinking it without sound. You gripped the edge of the chair, searching for air. And asked, with a voice you didn’t recognize as yours:

—And… Are you going to accept it?

Won-woo shrugged slightly.

—I don’t know. I just read it—. You didn’t look at him, but you felt it. You felt the distance. The pressed shirt. The faint smell of cologne. The way his attention had been elsewhere all night. Like something was already saying goodbye without you being able to stop it. Min-gyu changed the subject with a joke, with another story. But the thread that had connected your thoughts had already come undone. Everything was background noise. A stranger’s laughter. White light in a room too large. The story that seemed to be beginning now revealed itself as a parenthesis. Beautiful. But finite.

The offer was good. You knew that with a quiet certainty, almost painful. All it took was reading a line of what Won-woo wrote to understand it. He had that strange talent of looking at the world with a piercing tenderness, capable of turning a simple beam of light falling on a carpet or a pair of umbrellas forgotten at the entrance of a bookstore into a scene that tore at you, but in that sweet, almost addictive way. Like when an old song pulls you toward a memory you didn’t know you missed. That you thought you had forgotten. Of course they had wanted him.

Of course someone, somewhere in Busan, had read those words with the same tremor you felt the first time. That voice had something. Something valuable, unique. A quiet beauty that deserved to explode in more eyes, in more souls. To reach further. To be heard louder. And you… You just wanted to stay a little longer in that echo. In that half-open notebook that, for an instant, had let you see something not meant for anyone.

You thought about the offer. Drawing what he wrote. An apparently simple gesture. But to you, it was something else. It was a key. A crack. A secret invitation to an intimate place, where his thoughts breathed defenseless, where you could discover him without him knowing. And now… Where was that place? The emotion that had ignited you that afternoon —like a match that catches in the wind, fleeting but intense— no longer burned. It had been extinguished before you could bring your hands to the heat. Too soon. Too real. It wasn’t his fault. Not entirely.

But that didn’t stop the pain. You didn’t know what your place was in his life. Maybe you didn’t have one. Maybe you were just “Min-gyu’s sister who shows up with tupperwares and cookies”. Or maybe you did. Because there was something in his eyes. In the silence between words. In the way he listened to you without interrupting.

And yet, now you felt him closing up again. Like a flower folding before a storm. Like a door that opens just enough to make you dream of the light, and then shuts with that final click that sounds louder than it should.

Did you have the right to be sad?

You asked yourself that while pretending to laugh at one of Min-gyu’s absurd stories. This time he was talking about a taxi driver who collected traditional knives and offered him one wrapped in silk, in the middle of traffic. You laughed out of reflex, but you were far away. Very far. On another plane. Trapped in that thick, nameless emotion: Between emptiness, resignation, and a silent anger you barely knew how to recognize. You sought relief in the external world.

You looked at a cup, a scraggly plant, the shape the shadow drew on the floor. As if focusing on something else could save you from thinking about him. But then you did. You looked at him. Won-woo no longer had his phone. He had set it aside, as if it no longer mattered.

Now, he was watching you. Directly.

With those eyes that said more than words could hold. They weren’t cold. Nor empty. There was something calm but sharp in them. An unspoken goodbye. A doubt that begged to be read. There was no hardness in him. Rather, there was a fragility trying to appear solid. As if he were telling you with his gaze: "Don’t judge me for not knowing how to hold this." He stretched out his hand, took a cookie. Held it for a few seconds. Looked at it as if inside it he could find something missing. And then he bit into it slowly, as if buying time to avoid speaking.

Min-gyu, busy with one of his gifts, noticed the heavy air that had formed like an invisible cloud in the middle of the room. —So?— he asked with a sideways smile. —Are you going to tell us about that magical proposal, or are you going to keep staring at your phone like it’s a tragic novel?— Won-woo raised his eyes. His mouth was already empty, but his throat full of doubts. He took a second longer.

—There’s not much to tell— he finally said, in a low voice. —It’s just a possibility. Nothing certain.

Min-gyu snorted, amused. —Always so mysterious. You’re a poem locked with a padlock.

You remained silent. You felt that if you said a word, your voice would break in your throat. And maybe with it, something else. Min-gyu turned to you, with that playful spark he used when trying to lighten the mood.

—And you? How was it these days with this hermit of poetic silences?— Thousands of images crowded your chest. The walk under the wisteria, the coffee you shared without saying a word, the moment he took your notebook and flipped through it silently. "I want to keep seeing you", he had said. "To continue the story". And you had wanted to believe it was true. But now… Now you didn’t know.

—Fine— you said, and the word felt like a half-empty glass offered with a forced smile.

Min-gyu looked at you carefully. He read you like always. Quickly. Effortlessly. He raised an eyebrow, mischievously.

—Will you help me with something in the kitchen?— You didn’t need an excuse. You got up. Your body tense, as if it was about to break. You followed him. Only when you crossed the door and Won-woo’s face was out of your sight, did you release a little air. You didn’t know how long you had been holding it in.

Min-gyu opened a cabinet, took something out —it didn’t matter what— and placed it on the counter without even looking at it. Then he turned to you.

—Do you want to talk?— he asked, straightforwardly, with that unadorned tone he only used when something truly mattered to him. And you… Looked down. You didn’t know where to start. But you knew you needed to say it. The air in the kitchen smelled of wilting jasmine, like a memory refusing to disappear. The steam from the abandoned tea had dissipated, but its scent still floated between the shadows.

Half-eaten cookies rested on a cracked porcelain plate, silent witnesses to a conversation that had yet to begin. The hanging lamp bathed the scene with a warm, dim light, gilding the edges of the silence. Min-gyu leaned against the counter, arms crossed, his face serene. He didn’t ask. He didn’t hurry. He was just there, like a reliable presence who knew how to read the gaps between words. Your fingers gripped the edge of the table, white from tension, as if that wood could hold you beyond the inner tremor.

—It’s strange— you murmured, not lifting your gaze. —He asked me to draw his stories. That’s all, on the surface. But the way he said it… It sounded like something else. Like behind that proposal, there was a crack, an invitation to look inside something he himself didn’t dare name—. Min-gyu nodded, with a minimal gesture. He didn’t need to say anything: His listening was a refuge.

—I thought it was just a courtesy— you continued. —A passing comment from someone who admires your work. But his voice... It had weight. Like he was offering me a corner of his universe. Not a leading role, no. Just a corner from which to watch. And still… I can’t stop thinking about it—. You placed a hand on your chest, trying to calm the vibration that had settled there. A constant echo.

—Since then, I’ve been thinking about it. Not just about him, but about how he makes me feel. It’s like an unease that doesn’t dissolve. Like my whole body knows something is moving beneath the surface and can’t ignore it.

Min-gyu tilted his head, with that loving patience only seen between siblings who have shared scars. His voice was low, as if not wanting to disturb the delicacy of the moment. —And what do you feel?

You took a deep breath. The air thickened, full of the unspoken. Then you spoke, as if undressing with words. —It’s like walking on a tightrope. Sometimes, I feel like with just one look from him, I could understand everything. That his silence has more language than any phrase. And other times… He becomes distant, almost unreal. I convinced myself it was a delirium. A mirage I wove on my own.

Min-gyu moved away from the counter with a light sigh, crossing the space until he was closer to you. —It’s not a mirage if you feel it. Even if he doesn’t know how to hold it, even if he doesn’t even know he’s giving it. What you received, what made you tremble... It was real.

Your eyes found his, and for a moment, you found in his gaze the recognition you needed: Someone else validated the existence of that intangible thing that overwhelmed you.

—Sometimes, I imagine him in scenes. Neither romantic nor logical. Just… Moments. Like my mind searching for spaces where we can both be without this vertigo. Today, for example, I saw him eat a cookie, and I thought of drawing him like that. With his head tilted, eyes lost, as if he were chewing a memory. Or sorrow—. You laughed briefly, with a hint of shyness.

—And at that moment, I imagined he said something. I don’t know what. Something he didn’t say and maybe will never say. But it made me want to capture him there. With ink. As if by drawing him, I could keep a part of what I don’t understand—. Min-gyu watched you with an old tenderness, the kind that knows your defeats and doesn’t judge them. His words were soft:

—You are not naive. What you feel has roots. And what he carries... It's not light. Sometimes people walk around with stones in their chest without even knowing they are there. And then they trip, without even understanding why.

You nodded, swallowing the lump that rose in your throat.

—There are times when I wish I could hug him— you whispered. —But not with the desire of someone who loves. But with the urgency of someone who wants to stop the other from falling apart. As if just holding him could prevent his ruin.

—And other times…— Min-gyu added, anticipating your emotions, —...You wish you could shout at him. Ask him why he looks at you as if you were a fire. And then walks away as if afraid of getting burned.

You smiled sadly. A tear trembled, rebellious, but didn't fall. As if even your tears knew it wasn’t the moment to give up.

Min-gyu returned to his original position, took a sip of the now-cold tea, and scrunched his nose thoughtfully.

—Look, sister— he said, with his most intimate tone. —I don't know what knot he has in his throat, but I do know this: When someone touches your soul, even if just a little, it's natural to want to build them a shelter. But you can't live in that house alone, if he doesn't want to enter.

The silence returned, thick and sincere.

—So, what do I do with all this?— you asked, your voice low, as if carrying a secret too heavy to bear.

Min-gyu came closer. He wrapped his arms around you and held you, like someone who’s learned that sometimes the only remedy is human warmth. His chin rested on your head.

—You keep it— he said. —Like you keep an unsent letter. Not to forget it, but to understand it someday. And if the moment never comes, if you never get to deliver it... You’ll still know it was real. That it existed. That it made you tremble. And that, in itself, is love.

When you returned to the living room, the first thing you noticed wasn't his absence, but the perfect gap he left. As if the air was still shaped to his form. Won-woo was no longer there, but the cookies from the plate had disappeared, leaving only a few crumbs scattered like a harmless trace of what could have been a silent goodbye.

You sighed involuntarily, like someone exhaling a bit of their soul. You looked for Min-gyu, needing some form of refuge. He responded with a simple gesture full of tenderness: A hand on your shoulder, like an anchor; the other smoothing the couch, inviting you to rest as if he could shelter you from the weight you carried in your chest.

The night fell without drama, wrapping everything in that thick mantle that sometimes seems to have a will of its own. From the next room, you heard Min-gyu’s door close gently, like a curtain falling without applause. And then you were left alone, accompanied only by your thoughts, which were many, loud, and disordered.

You wrapped yourself in blankets, seeking shelter more than warmth. Part of you felt ridiculous. All this, you thought, why? For a man who hadn’t even given you certainties? For a connection that perhaps only lived in your imagination?

You turned on your phone. The cold light of the screen illuminated your face as if you were the protagonist of a scene with no name. You scrolled through the old messages with Won-woo. At first, there had been magic: Loose words that felt like keys, jokes with double meanings, questions that weren't asked out of courtesy but out of desire. Now, only gaps remained. Dead time. Interruptions that had become routine.

You sighed deeply and long. With a frustration that had no scream but had a knot. You threw the phone to the side, where it landed with a dull thud, without scandal. And you took your head in your hands, as if you could squeeze your thoughts to make them stop hurting.

—You shouldn’t do that— said a voice behind you, low and raspy, like the echo of an ancient dawn. —You'll have to buy another one later.

You froze. Your heart suspended. You turned slowly, as if fearing you had imagined it.

But no. There he was. Won-woo. Different. In a loose t-shirt and cotton pants, as if he had also stripped away all his masks. His hair disheveled, feet bare, and in his eyes, a calm that wasn’t indifference but intimacy.

—I couldn’t sleep— he said, his voice coming from a soft place inside him. —Do you want some tea?

You nodded. The words didn’t come, but your silence took the shape of acceptance. He walked to the kitchen without hurry, as if every movement were part of a secret ritual. The sound of the boiling water filled the room with a serene murmur. There was a sacred pause in the air. As if the whole universe had stopped just to listen to what you hadn’t yet said.

When he returned, he offered you a cup. He sat on the opposite end of the sofa, keeping a polite distance, but one filled with meaning. As if he knew getting too close would make everything explode.

—Thank you— you said, barely, with your voice wrapped in tea steam and fragility.

Won-woo nodded, but didn’t say anything right away. He took a sip, looked at the cup, and then spoke with the serenity of someone who had been chewing on his words all night.

—I was thinking... About the work. About the proposal.

You lifted your head, alert. It surprised you that he mentioned it again. After so much distance, that simple comment was almost a caress.

—And?— you asked, softly, not wanting to scare the conversation away.

He turned the cup in his hands, as if searching for answers in the porcelain.

—I don't know if I can— he said, straightforwardly. —I don't know if I want the world to see what I write. I’m scared they won’t care. That they’ll look at it and feel nothing. That it’ll be invisible. Or worse, that you’ll put your art into something that’s not worth it.

Your fingers tightened around the cup, as if you wanted to hold him too from afar.

—Don’t say that— you whispered, with a hardness you didn’t expect to have. —Your words matter. I read them. And they hurt, and they moved me. And they kept me awake, thinking. Not everyone can do that. You can.

Won-woo then looked at you, directly, with those eyes that couldn’t lie even if they tried.

—It’s not just the work— he said, and in his voice, there were cracks that let light through. —It’s what changed since I mentioned it. What happens to me when I imagine you drawing what I wrote. When I see you close. When I realize there’s something moving inside me, and I don’t know how to stop it. Or how to name it.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was fertile. A ground waiting for the first seed.

Your lips parted, but the words wouldn’t come. Because something inside you understood that this couldn’t be resolved by talking. That there were feelings that could only be held with a still body, with trembling breath, with the heart juggling.

Won-woo looked down at his cup, as if afraid he’d said too much.

—I’m scared of what crosses between us— he confessed. —What I don’t know if you feel too. What escapes me every time I look at you for more than five seconds.

You stayed silent, but brought the cup to your lips, as if the tea could give you courage. Your heart was beating in every direction. You didn’t know what to say, and maybe it didn’t matter. Because in that polite distance, on that shared sofa, with those two warm cups, the essential had already been said.

There were no names yet. No promises. Just a possibility beating between the two of you, like a flower about to bloom.

The silence settled between you like a third presence, invisible but intense, filled with something that had no name but pulsed strongly. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was dense, like the calm before an electric storm. Outside, the city seemed to have held its breath, and the distant lights of the buildings flickered like fireflies trapped in a glass jar.

The corner lamp spilled a soft, amber, and melancholic light, gently caressing the edges of the scene with tenderness. Your fingers played with the rim of the already empty cup, as if in that simple gesture, you could find some sort of comfort. Won-woo did the same. His eyes were lowered, but his brow spoke loudly. In his silence, there were questions he dared not ask, fears tangled with desires, words that seemed to have barricaded themselves behind his lips.

It was then, without warning, that your voice broke the calm surface of the moment.

—What if i do?— you asked, almost in a whisper. —What if we feel the same?

He lifted his gaze. One second. That was enough. Because sometimes a second is enough to crumble walls, to let a truth slip through the cracks of what’s unsaid.

Won-woo didn’t respond immediately. He took a breath, that dense air that seemed harder to take than before. He placed the cup on the low table with a slowness almost ritualistic, as if letting go of it was accepting that he could no longer hold that distance. He straightened up but didn’t come closer. Not yet. His eyes rested on you, with a gravity that hurt and healed at the same time.

—What if we ruin it?— he murmured, with that voice that seemed made for reading love letters that were never sent.

—What if we don’t?— you answered, not breaking eye contact, not trembling.

And then everything changed. Not like an earthquake, but like the thawing of an ancient river. You saw him give in slowly, as if he finally accepted that what was between you was stronger than the fear. Deeper than the doubts.

There was no music. No memorable phrases. Just his steps drawing near. First, his eyes, searching for you. Then, his hands, which hesitated in the air before touching yours. And then, the breath, warm and contained, suspended between you like an unsaid prayer.

The kiss came like the last leaf falling from a tree in autumn: Inevitable, silent, perfect.

It wasn’t a hungry kiss. It was deep. It was a descent into the sacred. As if by brushing your lips, he was opening his chest and showing, without reservation, everything he had hidden. He leaned towards you with the reverence of someone touching something sacred, and you received it with your eyes closed, as if this gesture were an old promise, finally fulfilled.

Your fingers clung to his shirt, not out of weakness, but out of the need for an anchor. His hand rested on your cheek, tracing a slow caress with his thumb, as if every inch of your skin could say something his mouth had yet to find words for. It was a kiss filled with tenderness, yes, but also with vertigo. A leap without a net. A language only the two of you spoke in secret.

And although it lasted only a few seconds, time curved. Because there are kisses that break the clock. That undo the rules. That melt the past and the future into a single, absolute now.

When you parted, it wasn’t by will. It was out of the need for oxygen. Your foreheads stayed pressed together, eyes closed, as if neither of you dared to look at what you had just unleashed.

Won-woo’s hands touched you with affection, an affection never expressed but always present in the silence of the air. A half-smile rested on his lips, almost sad, almost endearing. He moved closer again, this time with an intensity you never would have imagined from him.

His hand, which had rested like an anchor on your cheek, slid down the curve of your neck, barely grazing the skin with the tips of his fingers, as if exploring new and forbidden territory. It wasn’t the urgency of desire, but its most delicate version: The desire that breathes, trembles, waits to be allowed.

Your lips parted not to speak, but because the air seemed thicker, as if suddenly it was harder to hold it in your lungs.

—I don’t usually do this— he whispered, in a voice almost inaudible, as if speaking to himself. —Not like this.

—And how do you do it, then?— you asked, barely brushing the words, as if you weren’t sure whether you wanted the answer or the silence that could avoid it.

He didn’t answer. He only lowered his gaze to your mouth and then met your eyes again. There was a question unasked in his gaze, a surrender that wasn’t total but was inevitable. Then his other hand searched for the curve of your waist and wrapped around it with a slowness almost liturgical.

And you... You gave in. But not like a fall: You gave in like a flower blooming in the night, silently, without announcement.

Your fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt, not with desperate passion, but with the care of someone who fears that if they hold on too tight, the other will disappear. His mouth returned to yours. This time it wasn’t a shy brush: It was a slow, deep exploration, lips barely parted, breaths mingling. It was a kiss that didn’t ask, but offered.

Was it love? Was it desire? Was it the echo of a long-shared loneliness?

The doubt floated, suspended in the air, like an ancient perfume. And yet, you didn’t want it to dissipate.

He guided you without hurry, with fierce delicacy, to the carpeted floor. The blanket fell aside, wrinkled, like a silent witness. You lay between twisted cushions and soft shadows. No words were spoken. There weren’t enough words. Only sustained glances and caresses that asked without speaking.

His hand slid down your back, moving with a mix of respect and desire, as if seeking entry to something more than your body. Your legs tangled with his, seeking shared warmth, that warmth that starts as a brush and ends as an entire tongue speaking without a language.

He lay down next to you, pressed against you like a shadow finally merging with its origin. His warm breath grazed your neck, and you shivered. You closed your eyes, but not to sleep. You closed them to feel better, to let the touch speak for you.

—Is this... Real?— you asked, with a voice like water, like crystal trembling on the verge of breaking.

Won-woo didn’t respond immediately. He just held you tighter, as if holding you this way could seal something he didn’t yet know how to name.

—I don’t know— he whispered, his mouth barely grazing your clavicle. —But I don’t want it to stop.

And that was enough.

Because sometimes it’s not about understanding. Sometimes it’s just about being there, about allowing someone to come closer with that dangerous sweetness of someone who isn’t sure if they’ll stay, but touches you as if they will. Outside, the world could keep sleeping, ignorant of what burned inside those four walls.

But here, in this corner of night and desire, two souls were tentatively recognizing each other. And even though neither spoke the word “love”, in the way they touched —with fear, with surrender, with reverence— something sacred had already begun.

Because maybe love, at first, is nothing more than this: A shared silence, a tremble in the skin, the certainty that someone, at last, dared not to run away.

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