#who will write me 40k words of this

[choccy-milky]

the place me and my roommate were supposed to move into today was so disgusting and uninhabitable we just took our stuff and left and now we're gonna be staying at airbnbs and hotels until further notice/until we can find a new place hopefully quickly...........im in my homeless drifter era y'all!!!😍😍so if im not as active then thats why LMFAO

1 like = 1 prayer

[your-unfriendlyghost]

it feels so…… weird… seeing a cishet dude be so chill with queer themes lmao your soda-in-drag moment, the stevepop of it all, even guys with queers in their friend circles can’t bring themselves to partake sometimes lmao 😭 but it’s cool !! refreshing even sjksksndks this is a /pos statement I promise

Thanks lol! I think it’s cos I’m fairly secure. Sorta. (I’m still prone to compensating for things and being a stupid teen boy, but like, I’m aware of it, at least when I stop to think. Yk I’ll still join in on dick measuring contests, but deep down I’ll know it’s dumb and performative.)

I guess I feel a kinship to queerness. I go to art school where I’m sometimes the only guy in a class of girls, and I’ve been the token straight guy in every friend group I’ve been in since freshman year of high school. Beyond that, growing up I was frequently mistook for a girl- I had long-ish hair (post bowl-cut era 😭) and I’m part Asian, I was pretty androgynous lol. People irl have thought I’m gay, or a trans man on testosterone (I mean fine, I guess I am pretty short and hang with a lot of trans guys.) Hell, I did drag on a dare once, back when I was even more secure. (And I was hot asf in drag lemme tell ya. It felt lousy and it’s definitely not my thing, but man if I had a clone who was a girl-) All this to say, I say I’m straight, but honestly I don’t really know. I like girls a lot, but I have seen a buddy of mine in drag, and lemme tell ya I felt something but I’m not gonna examine that rn lol. Straight just feels comfortable, safe, and it’s good for interacting with folks who ain’t so progressive, so it’s what I’m sticking with…but I’ll admit there’s a gray area.

I relate a lot to the guys in the Outsiders, and irl I like to present myself as a tough, cool, Very Masculine guy. Hell, sometimes I play dumb about stuff because it’s “feminine” and a guy like me shouldn’t know about it. I act a lot like how I write Steve Randle, he’s my guy I like to project on lol. Honestly, I’ve got a fair amount of internalized toxic masculinity. But I think because I know how silly it all is deep down, I can interact with queer themes in art without feeling like I’m not “man enough”. Idk, I suppose it’s an outlet in some ways. Who knows maybe in 2027 I’ll come out as bi or something, but don’t wait up.

idk, I guess what I’m trying to say is that I like exploring queer themes, not because they’re queer necessarily, but because they’re human and I relate to them. And that’s hard not to partake in, y’know?

[minweber]

Belisarius Cawl, hiding for his life, his ass kicked, ship crashing, friends in mortal peril: I am such a smart boy, he-he-he =)

[alystar00]

I am on AO3 since last year to read a post fics and like

I have so many fics I wrote that I want to post there but I have to translate them and translating requires SO MUCH TIME!!! Even with the enormous help of Google Translate it takes so much time (especially in my case because it doesn't get male/female pronouns if they are not written down, so it translates and I edit it)!

It's devastating

[riotgerrd]

my toxic trait is that i get bored with fluff. like WHEEEEREE IS THE ANGST WHERE IS THE HURT NO COMFORT. WHERE ARE THE TEARS AND THE DREAD AND THE HATE AND THE

[hashembadr]

Please don't skip ‼️

My Testimony About What Happened at the American Aid Distribution Point

That day, I went out with one hope ، to bring back food for my starving family. But what happened there felt like the Day of Judgment.

As we stood in line waiting for humanitarian aid, we were suddenly met with a hail of bullets. We were shot at by Israeli snipers, attacked by quadcopter drones, and even assaulted by looters supported by the Israeli army. We were completely unarmed, simply trying to get food ، but the bullets of betrayal spared no one.

I was shot in the leg a minor injury ، but my phone was destroyed after being hit directly. I had no way to contact anyone. I’m now using a borrowed phone, just to write these words… hoping they reach someone who cares.

I saw bodies fall all around me… more than 70 people were killed, including children, women, and elderly men. Moments earlier, they were standing beside me, simply waiting for aid. They were not a threat to anyone ، just hungry human beings.

I went out in search of food for my family of 26 people, including a young girl who was injured in the war and urgently needs special care and surgery. I came back wounded, devastated, empty-handed, and without a phone.

We are not living ، we are slowly dying. The occupation has turned us into zombies… starving, sick, hopeless.

Please, do not forget us.

Speak about us. Share our story. Be our voice.

We desperately need donations from kind hearts to buy food, provide urgent medical care for our injured child, and support the family under this brutal siege.

Even the smallest donation can make a real difference.

Help us stay alive.

Vetted by @gazavetters , my number verified on the list is ( #102 )

@a-shade-of-blue @sunnylittledragon

@cantsayidont @virovac @ot3 @qattdraws @cheshirepirouette

@autisticmudkip @lordzannis @sweet-honey-bunnies @dyspunktional-leviathan @thegreatdemonzhuyan @zone0neko @comrademango @genderdog @deansmultitudes @geekydragonyt @myceliacrochet @raangmanch

@acehimbo @fancy-strawberry-beard @thatsonehellofabird

@leechloach @metamorphesque @eremes @waterloggedsoliloquy @fascinationstreetmp3 @queerpyracy @lakesbian @u3pxx @crtvirus @tiercel @nonbinary-watanuki @dykentery @ossifer @crusty @libelelle @coastalhorrors

@guerillas-of-history @c-u-c-koo-4-40k @good-old-gossip @beetledrink @butchfeygela @3000s @victorxaxvale

[eightmakesonebraincell]

can i get a name for your drink? yeah, peter parker

genre: delinquent!ateez x bubble tea worker!reader, meet-cute, high school au, fluff, crack

length: 6.6k

c/w: cliche depictions of high school delinquents, mentions of smoking, drugs and clubs, boys trying to act tough, everybody has bad humour, swearing is their mother tongue

synopsis: a bubble tea shop is one of the last places you would expect for a high school delinquent to walk into during the dead of night. yet here you are, forming an unlikely friendship with not one but eight of them. they may be kind of stupid, but they also kind of grow on you.

a/n: a fic with no angst? a fic without a 40k wc?? new writer who dis. just a short and sweet fic @sorryimananti-romantic helped prod me to write

you know that you are probably shaving a couple months off your lifespan each time you work a night shift at the bubble tea shop and subsequently fuck up your entire sleep routine for the next couple of days, but it gives you a bit of extra money, there are hardly any customers, and it is quiet enough that you can squeeze in some studying at the same time.

the shop probably averages about two couples and a few odd individuals here and there per night. why a small business would even decide to stay open during ghost hours in the first place, likely making negative profit, you have no idea. but you digress–you are just here to bum around for money.

so when your average customer number suddenly spikes not just by one, two or three people, but by an entire group of eight, it is safe to say you are more than confused. they are obviously your age because you can recognise the school crest embroidered onto the front pocket of their uniform shirts; it is one of the nearby high schools in the area. except, that is where the similarity ends.

only half of them are wearing their uniform, and even then they layer it unbuttoned over bold statement t-shirts like it is a mere accessory. the others wear black tracksuits and there is not a single pair of proper school shoes to be seen. your eyes cannot help but scan their pierced ears and obviously-styled hairstyles–you are pretty sure the shortest boy has dyed his hair a lighter shade of brown too.

it is hard to take your attention off of him as he takes one last drag of the cigarette in his hand, lazily blowing the smoke out of the corner of his mouth before he flicks the butt onto the floor outside and steps in through the door along with the others. you idly wonder how he got his hands on a fake id to purchase cigarettes in the first place, but at least he is polite about not smoking inside your store.

the group saunters up and you startle slightly as the boy at the front slaps his hand against the counter with the matching confidence to his glorified 6 foot height to demand, “give me a double shot of espresso.” he pulls away his hand to reveal a mismatched assortment of sad coins and crumpled notes.

“we, uh–” you glance not so subtly at the wall-sized menu behind you and the LED lighting decor sprawled across the other three walls with the phrases, ‘you’re a cu-tea’, ‘you’re pearl-fect’, and ‘you’re my bo-bae’, and wonder what gave these boys the impression they could order coffee. “we don’t sell coffee,” you state.

he does not seem fazed by your words at all. “can’t you just, like, charge me for your most expensive drink and make me a coffee?” he asks his absurd question with practiced ease, which makes you think that this is not his first rodeo.

unfortunately for him though, you deadpan, “i physically can’t. we don’t have a coffee machine.”

the boy’s expression finally cracks a little and you can literally see the cogs slowing down to a stop inside his brain. “aw, fuck,” he swears, “this worked last time.”

one his friends shrugs callously and snickers, “what did i say, mingi. told you they wouldn’t have one.”

“shut up, jongho,” he gripes in response.

you gesture vaguely at the laminated menu on the counter beside the cash register. “would you like something else to drink?” you offer.

the tall boy–mingi–takes all but one look at the barrage of words before his eyes flicker back up towards you. “recommend something.”

“depends on what you’re feeling,” you hum your scripted question, pointing to the different sections of the menu. “do you want something fruity or milky?”

he looks constipated as he weighs the two options. “fruity?” he eventually settles, still sounding unsure. “what’s good?”

at the question, all of their eyes turn to look at you intently and you feel yourself wilting internally at the thought of explaining the drinks to a group of boys that look like outright delinquents, because if there is one downside to working here apart from the crippling health impacts, it is the loss of your dignity each time you have to say the stupid names of the drinks.

“well,” you clear your throat and steel yourself, “we’ve got the bubbly butterfly blues, a purple grape and blueberry fruit ade, or the mysterious mermaid magic, a mango and passionfruit green tea with rainbow pearls.” you forge on with your explanations despite the furrowed brows and open mouths of judgement on their faces, deciding to give them a recommendation for a milky drink too just in case. “the rainbow unicorn fairy sparkles is also pretty popular. it’s a strawberry milk tea with whipped cream, sprinkles and marshm–”

“i’ll take that one,” mingi interrupts, unable to stand the onslaught of words that make the world around him explode into pink glitter. he drops an additional crinkled note onto the counter for good measure and then strides away to take a seat at the table in the furthest corner of the store to wait for his cutesy drink.

half a snort escapes the back of your throat at the sight. mingi may as well hold a megaphone to his mouth and shout “i am a manly man!” to make himself feel better. what an idiot.

you shift your attention to the rest of the group. “anything i can get for you guys?” you ask.

“fuck it, why not,” the one who had been smoking shrugs immediately. “get me the same thing he’s getting.”

most of the others pass and step away to join mingi at the table as you sort out the payment for delinquent number two’s cutesy drink. when you close the cash register–you are tempted to ask them why they have so many loose coins–the last two of the boys sidle up to the other side of the counter, peering down carefully at the menu.

you frown.

these two are actually wearing their uniform properly, only the first buttons of their shirt undone, no brightly-coloured tee peeking out from underneath, ties still around their neck and shirts tucked into their pants. they are even wearing their name tags; kang yeosang and park seonghwa. also, apart from the fact that the two appear prim and proper enough to be part of the student council, they are also very pretty.

said two look up at you, catch the frown across your face, fumble a little, then give you a small smile as a peace offering. “hi,” seonghwa greets softly, “can we get two regular pearl milk teas, please? thank you.”

you physically recoil.

“blink twice if you’re being threatened,” you blurt out, the words tumbling unwisely out of your mouth before you can stop them and definitely loud enough that all eight of the boys can hear you.

blink twice seonghwa and yeosang do, but not as a confirmation that the stark difference in their appearance and demeanour to the others is a sign they are being bullied into hanging out. they blink to ask–very respectfully–what the fuck you are on about.

they blink at you. you blink at them. the other boys blink at the three of you.

“sure thing!” you vocally sweep your own words under the rug. “two regular pearl milk teas coming right up!”

you swipe yeosang’s payment out of his hands–notes and coins carefully counted out to the exact amount–and punch the number into the cashier before swiftly turning your back to them to make their drinks. if you ignore something hard enough then it never happened. and it works, because they retreat to join the rest of their friends at the furthest table without further comment.

it does not take long to make all four of their drinks, but you do take a few extra minutes to carefully swirl the whipped cream on top of the strawberry milk tea orders and artistically shower them with sprinkles and marshmallows. you want to make them as cute as you fucking possibly can just for mingi.

“two rainbow unicorn fairy sparkles and two regular pearl milk teas,” you call out.

they all stand up, likely ready to leave once they grab their drinks. mingi leads the group with his long strides and he picks up his drink with one hand. he holds it up to eye level to study it like an unknown specimen and the moment he picks it up, one of his friends–you think you overheard the others call him wooyoung–cannot help but blurt out with distaste, “that shit looks sweet as fuck.”

mingi holds his drink closer to his body with a light glare because hey, it does look sweet as fuck but it also actually looks really good. and kind of cute, he will admit. he takes a tentative sip through the straw then a small lick of the whipped cream on top, the scattered toppings simultaneously crunching and melting in his mouth to spread sweet diabetes across his tongue.

it tastes like drugs in sugar form.

and it must show on his face because the tallest of his friends leans over to do the same, taking a sip from the same straw and a lick of the whipped cream from the other side, only far more generous and daring than the drink’s owner.

“bro,” comes the tall boy’s immediate reaction, “i’d get one of these every day.”

wooyoung suddenly looks less dubious and asks, curiosity now piqued, “give me a sip of that rainbow shit.”

“no,” mingi instantly responds, still keeping his drink close to his body and literally turning away to keep it protected and out of wooyoung’s reach. “you insulted my drink. get your own.”

the latter whines and you physically jerk backwards for the second time that night at their complete disregard for following stereotypical delinquent traits. you are starting to think that they are not delinquents so much as delinquent-wannabes and they seem increasingly harmless the more they simply exist.

“hongjoong,” wooyoung suddenly sings out, appearing to change targets to his other friend who had ordered the same drink. he is determined to try a sip tonight without having to spend his own money, but alas–

hongjoong flips him off and cradles his drink out of sight too. “you insulted my drink by extension.”

–determination can only get him so far.

this time, you cannot help the proper snort of amusement that leaves your mouth. you dare to hold your gaze with a lightly teasing lilt of your lips when wooyoung whips his head around with narrowed eyes. the boy cogs turn in his head as he deduces how far he can push the boundaries with you and he must come to some sort of conclusion that you are a newfound stranger-friend because he jokes with a straight face, “i’ll rob you.”

“sure,” you answer easily, tapping in a fake order onto the register’s screen to eject the cash drawer with a comedic ding! emphasising your words.

a few of them guffaw and wooyoung’s expression lights up to actually reach over the counter to help himself to a ten dollar bill. that is, until his hand is slapped away by somebody else with quite possibly the most perfect eyebrows you have ever seen. and no. you are most definitely not jealous.

“i’ll pay for your drink,” the friend chides, digging into his back pocket to fish out his wallet.

seonghwa shakes his head and advises, “don’t enable him, san,” at the same time that wooyoung brattily decides, “nah, don’t want one.”

“god, that’s it,” jongho mutters, starting to usher the group away from the counter towards the direction of the doors. “we’re leaving. mingi’s waiting outside already.”

they let themselves be herded and a few of them even turn to wave goodbye to you at the doors, cheerfully leaving behind the words ‘we’ll be back!’ in their wake as they exit the shop. your hand remains suspended in the air mid-wave even after they have disappeared and you blink blankly at the bizarreness of your entire encounter with the group of boys.

you do not know if they truly mean it when they say they will be back, but you do know one thing; you kind of hope that they do.

“can i get that thing i got last week.”

the tone of mingi’s voice ends his sentence more like it is a demand than it is a question, but the nuance of his words is still a request and already an improvement in comparison to your first encounter with him. if you are completely honest, you are also somewhat happy to see him and the others come back, so you will take the wins where you can. baby steps.

“which one?” you clarify. “i don’t remember.”

you do remember because their group of eight is pretty hard to forget, and they are some of the only customers you ever get. plus, you have made it somewhat of a personal challenge to hear mingi say something as stupid as ‘rainbow unicorn fairy sparkles’, which means that you are going to pretend for as long as you need to.

he scratches the side of his neck. “y’know, that drink you said is good.”

“we have a couple of those. was it the, uh, mysterious mermaid magic?” your head tilts with exaggerated thoughtfulness and from behind mingi, hongjoong and wooyoung cackle while the others look on with smirks, having caught on to exactly what you are doing.

“no, the rainbow unic…” he mumbles, voice growing increasingly softer with each syllable until his mouth is simply opening and closing.

you look at him with faux apologeticness and furrow your brows, “sorry? i didn’t quite catch that.”

“say it louder, dude,” his tall friend nudges him playfully. you are going to need to find out his name somehow because his is the only one you have yet to figure out, and you have a feeling you and him would get along real good.

“the rainbow unicorn fairy sparkles,” mingi finally gets out. if he were a cartoon character, you would see the rising colour of bright red creep up from under his uniform to the tip of his ears and then to the very roots of his hair.

god forbid a manly man purchase a cutesy pick-me-up drink on a friday night.

you smile brightly and use your cheeriest customer service voice to announce, “one rainbow unicorn fairy sparkles for princess mingi coming right up.”

the boy in front of you is flattered to learn that you know and remember his name but is also twice as horrified by the nickname you have crowned him with. his brain short circuits and his eyes widen at you in panicked masculinity and he shoves his payment across the counter before retreating to the same table in the corner of the store where seonghwa is already seated. if you look closely enough, there is a little wisp of smoke coming out from the top of mingi’s head too as he malfunctions. heh.

the boy whose name you still do not know comes up to the counter next. he jerks his head backwards in the direction of mingi and orders, “could i get the same? that rainbow fairy sparkling unicorn or whatever.” the name is wrong but he gets an a+ for trying so you do not correct him, simply nodding and putting his order into the cash register instead.

then you ask for your own personal gain, “can i get a name for your drink?”

he does not appear to question your intentions nor realise he is the only one you have asked because he is too occupied grinning widely at you, unable to curb his cheeky excitement at the thought of what he is about to say. “yeah, peter parker,” comes his proud answer, quite literally naming his drink.

and that is how you find out that he has the best (read: worst) humour out of all of the boys.

it is frankly right up your alley but you refuse to let him one-up you. instead, you use it to your advantage. you nod, “p.p. for short,” dragging the abbreviated initials out for longer so that it sounds intentionally crude.

“peepee,” wooyoung repeats with unrestrained laughter, high-pitched shrieking that sets off the others as well.

and that is also how you find out that wooyoung has the easiest funny bone to tickle out of all the boys.

p.p.’s eyes glint with delight at the fact that you can both take and dish out your own freak. he leans against the countertop on his elbow, which is a sight to behold with how far he has to stoop down because of his height, and exposes you with no qualms, “it’s yunho, by the way, since you wanted to know my name so badly.” he adds a flirty wink for good measure as his friends ooh like the true teenage boys that they are.

you mirror his mannerisms and bat your eyelashes at him to say, “okay, whatever you say, peepee.”

hongjoong intervenes and shoves yunho aside before the latter can fall in love with you and your wack-ass humour or something. he shoos him away, “go sit at the table,” as if he is sending the taller into the naughty corner.

yunho concedes with his hands raised in mock surrender, walking backwards as he reassures his friend, “don’t worry. you won’t hear a peep-ee out of me.”

your facade cracks and you let out a laugh, which only grows louder when jongho takes the liberty to grab a wrapped straw from the container on your countertop to peg it at yunho’s face. it bounces perfectly off the middle of his forehead and lands on the floor, where seonghwa–bless him–bends down to pick it up. you think he might just be your favourite.

“didn’t know you were into that kind of humour,” hongjoong notes with a tone of amusement.

“oh, there’s a lot about me that you don’t know,” you respond, a hint of flirtatiousness in your words.

fuck being professional. these boys would probably be the last people on earth to ever report you for something like a coquettish comment, and god forbid you want to flirt with a couple of really hot guys. the image of hongjoong taking a lazy drag from his cigarette burns at the forefront of your mind as he stares intently into your eyes, and his seeming nonchalance to his own charm only makes him that much more attractive.

he raises an eyebrow, “is that a challenge?”

“only if you’re up for it,” you respond coyly.

san coughs and interrupts, “not to be a cockblock, but can you flirt after we order our drinks.”

the boy in front of you rolls his eyes, pairing it with a loving middle finger at his friend. however, he moves over anyway, half mumbling that he is not going to get a drink. his spot at the counter is immediately snagged by san who mimics yunho’s earlier pose leaning against the surface. “so,” he gives you an overly-smouldering gaze, “tell me something about yourself that i don’t know.”

a bubble of mirth rises from out of your chest and san drops the act utterly pleased with himself. you humour him, though only partially, by revealing, “the desserts here are actually really good. i love the cookies.”

“which one’s your favourite?”

you point to one of the cookies in the second row of the display counter. “the biscoff and peanut butter fudge.”

one of his beautiful brows raises upwards as if to ask why the cookie name is so normal. you give him a miniscule shrug. beats me. he shakes his head with a slight chuckle then requests, “i’ll have one of each cookie and one of each donut that you’ve got.” your eyes bug out of your head because that is a fuckton of cookies and donuts, but san reassures you they all have caves for stomachs.

you get started on their drinks then slide the glass doors open to pull their desserts out, only to realise that yeosang has lingered close by to watch you. he is not wearing his uniform today, instead in a tracksuit like the others but in white. he looks good in that colour and you tell him such, “your tracksuit looks good.”

“thanks,” he replies easily, “wooyoung shoplifted it for me.”

your jaw drops at his sudden confession, too taken aback to appropriately school your expression in time even if you should not really be too surprised by their shenanigans. at your obvious stupor, yeosang’s stoic face breaks immediately and he reveals, “just kidding, hehe.” despite his joke, he blushes to the very tip of his ears like rudolph but elf style and rushes away.

you are left dumbfounded in a good way. one day, you are going to teach yeosang a thing or two about confidence because his uncanny ability to keep a straight face whilst saying the most out-of-left-field thing when it is least expected then leaving the other person wondering whether he is being genuine or only joking is top-tier humour–he just needs to learn how to own it.

you are also left wondering whether there is a single sane soul in this friendship group. you still hold some hope for seonghwa and maybe san, but who knows.

when their drinks and spread of desserts are ready, you expect them all to leave like they did last week. except this time they drag two circular tables closer together in the far corner of the store that they seem hellbent on claiming as their spot, where they then lay out all of the desserts across the joint surface. you watch from behind the counter. there is both a sense of systematic order and chaotic mess to the way they take a bite out of a cookie or donut, nod enthusiastically at how good it tastes whilst shoving it into the face of somebody else, who will in turn take a bite and join in on the enthusiastic nodding and moan an affirmative that it is good.

“wait, this donut is fucking fire,” you hear, and, “this cookie is The Shit, bro.”

they are sort of really fucking cute; boys you would expect to see loitering in alleyways with cigs in their mouths and sneaking into clubs with fakes to pop pills, instead sitting hunched over on cute plastic stools around rickety circular tables sharing sweet desserts like they are at a tea party.

wooyoung catches your gaze over the top of jongho’s head and he gets up instantly to drag you out from behind your counter. all of your warbled protests go unheard as he pulls you by one of your loose apron ties–his strangely endearing way of being respectful not to actually touch you–towards their tables whilst refuting, “there’s nobody else in here but us.”

that is how you find yourself squashed between seonghwa and jongho, your shoulders and thighs touching from close proximity.

“try this blueberry lemon cookie,” seonghwa offers from beside you the moment you sit down, extending the treat for you to take a bite from.

mingi so helpfully reminds, “she literally works here.”

seonghwa shushes him, “yeah, but she probably hasn’t tried everything on the menu.”

he is not wrong. you may have the appetite, but you do not have the physical stomach to try an entire serving of each dessert available in the shop, even if you were to try one per shift. now that the opportunity has handed itself to you on a silver platter, you are not going to refuse. plus, you do not think that you could ever bring yourself to say no when seonghwa is holding the cookie out with both hands so eagerly.

he is definitely your favourite.

you take a tentative bite out of the cookie and eight pairs of shiny eyes do not leave yours until you give them an affirmative and enthusiastic nod at its taste. all flurry of activity starts up again as they continue to trade desserts with those sitting beside them and across the circle. it feels like you are suddenly back in primary school, sharing your snacks out of your lunch box and trading sandwiches with your friends. they include you easily in both taste-testing and conversation, filling your usually quiet shift with antics and laughter.

it has always been a perk that you do not get many customers, but now more so than ever, you hope that nobody comes in for the remainder of your shift–or at the very least, not until the boys leave. in just two meetings, they have all grown on you in their own ways and you kind of want this to become a regular thing. you could definitely get used to this.

despite their appearances and rough-around-the-edges personalities, they are really just a bunch of boys living their life to the fullest in the diabetic form of bubble tea, loaded cookies and glazed donut runs in the middle of a random night.

and honestly? if you had a group of friends like them, you would too.

yunho’s eyes narrow fiercely at the couple who are walking along the footpath outside the perimeter of your shop, daring them to step in through the doors. his glare is not needed though–the very sight of what is going down inside is more than enough for their eyes to widen and for the man to hastily pull his girlfriend away.

“oh look, there goes another two potential customers,” hongjoong notes with sarcastic dismay. “i wonder why people are always in such a hurry to leave.”

yunho blinks his murderous intent away and faces you with round, innocent eyes as you roll your own and cross your arms. your insides wilt at the loss of potential revenue but only by a tad, because whatever business they boys scare off, they make up for several times over. you state as a matter-of-factly, “maybe it has something to do with jongho.”

said boy currently stands about three feet away from you, his arms raised and fists clenched threateningly as the rest of the boys surround the both of you in a circle of sorts as if they are about to witness a bloody fistfight. you suppose it does not look too far from the truth–you are about to get punched in the face.

jongho shrugs dismissively, “it’s not my fault other people aren’t interested in learning how to get knocked out by a sucker punch safely.”

“i don’t think any of those words should go together in a single sentence,” you tell him honestly, unimpressed.

“they normally don’t,” jongho’s mouth ticks up, “which is exactly why you’re learning.”

you cannot win against him or any of them. last week it had been learning how to pop a dislocated shoulder back into place, the week before it had been how to dislocate a shoulder, and then the week before that it had been how to reverse-jump a person if they were chasing you into an alleyway.

it has become an ingrained part of your weekly routine for the boys to rock up during your friday night shift, order half the menu, hang around for hours where you usually join them, then leave until the next week rolls around again. but these random tutorials have only just recently become a new routine within your pre-existing routine.

it all started when wooyoung snuck behind your counter one night while your back was turned to make their drinks and decided it would be hilarious to scream in your face as you turned around. you had jerked backwards so hard that you knocked over the entire stack of blender jars, which toppled over into the dirty sink one after the other like noisy dominoes. seonghwa had made wooyoung personally clean and stack them all again as punishment, but the damage had been done and hongjoong had declared that you would not survive in the real world if a little fright like that could make your butthole pucker right back up into your own intestinal system.

and so had begun your weekly crash courses on survival instincts because according to them, you had none. you had refused to submit to their antics at first, but then yeosang had pointed out, “it’s true. wooyoung was standing behind you like a creep for a full five minutes and you didn’t even notice.” san had also threatened that they would not order anything until you complied each week.

“that’s not fair,” you had complained petulantly. “i just won’t serve you guys at all then.”

san had given you a cheshire grin. “you wouldn’t. we’re like, eighty percent of the total revenue you make during your shift.”

that shuts you up real quick and san knows, so you have no choice but to give in to whatever tomfoolery they choose to teach you for that week. if it is learning to ‘get knocked out by a sucker punch safely’, then so be it.

“okay, i’m all set to be punched in the future,” you declare dryly as jongho reigns in his fist after a pretend swing at your temple, “are you guys going to order now?”

hongjoong nods like he is the little leader of this delinquent gang, but jokes on him because they follow behind you to gather in front of the counter in a single file of sorts with practiced ease, an endearingly crooked line of ducklings. you know right off the bat that it means they already know what they want to order because other times they will come together as pairs or even triplets so that they can umm and ahh over the menu together.

you do not think you can ever take them seriously as proper delinquents–if they even count as such.

as if to prove your point even further, mingi throws up double gang signs and makes a poor attempt to rap, “i want an emineminem,” and when seonghwa not-so-subtly pinches his elbow, he adds on, “please.”

you bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing as your hands automatically move to input his order into the register, long past familiar with what his order truly means; mysterious mermaid magic, because the alliteration of the name ‘m and m and m’ sounds the same as the rapper’s name twice. go figure. you do not know if ‘emineminem’ is worse, or, as san calls it whilst flexing his biceps, ‘the merman’.

the boys have a shockingly terrible incapacity to remember the names on the menu correctly, but it is also partially due to the fact that they could give less than zero fucks about them. they will either say what they think the name is, or what they think the name should be.

they make the rules. you simply follow.

the first time it happened was during their third time at the store. “yo, give me a triple b,” jongho had confidently ordered.

“a fuckin’ what?” you were positive you were having a stroke.

“a triple b,” he had tried again, frowning at how you did not automatically understand him. “the big butterfly bus or somethin’.”

you could not take him seriously. “big butterfly bus? what are they gonna do after hopping on? go to fucking school?” you had jested. “also, you can’t just make up your own name and expect me to–you know what, sure.”

it sort of becomes a game. you will roll over in your grave before admitting it, but it is sort of fun to hear an absolutely rubbish string of words–or letters–come out of their mouths for you to then follow their ridiculous train of thought backwards to work out what the actual drink is. the silly boys with their silly names kind of grow on you.

and you may or may not indulge them a little too much. they are the first to try any new items on the menu, even when they are still technically not meant to be available to the general public. but when they pounce on whatever you present to them on the table like puppies and fresh kibble, it is very hard not to keep doing so. which is exactly why you bring out the batch of cupcakes you had made earlier specifically for them to taste.

they look like normal vanilla-frosted cupcakes, except when you bite into them, there is a dark chocolate cookie inside the base. it is the perfect mix of soft and chewy, and when the gooeyness is maximised by slightly warming the dessert up, it is–

“fucking fire, bro,” yunho says around a mouthful, blatantly ignoring the dirty look that seonghwa shoots him for talking with food in his mouth.

yeosang inspects the cookie at the core. “have you named it yet?”

you do not get a say in what the menu items are named and they always do in fact already have a name by the time the boys get to try them. regardless, you answer, “not yet,” because they love the power trip they get when they have creative liberty over your store’s products.

“i have an idea,” wooyoung pipes up immediately. “the frosted ultimate cookie cupcake.” then in a falsetto voice, he role-plays by himself, “hi, could i get a fucc please?”

mingi snorts himself silly and continues, “actually, could you give me two fucks?”

you oblige, “fuck you, and double fuck you,” flashing your middle finger at wooyoung first then mingi second to punctuate the fucks you are gifting them.

the boys snicker at your crudeness, absolutely delighted. not the type to let any opportunity to swear go by, the rest of them join in as san yanks you down to sit at the table with them before you can roll your eyes and walk away.

and out of all moments, it is this exact moment, when you are surrounded by the eight of them throwing out colourful words left and right with the giddy enthusiasm of toddlers, each holding a half-eaten vanilla-frosted cookie cupcake in their hands, that you realise you may actually give a few too many fucks about them…and not just in a friendly way.

well. fuck.

when you get a call on friday morning from your branch manager the following week, your immediate thought is that somebody finally chanced upon watching the store’s security footage and you have been caught making friends with delinquent customers and literally feeding them with business secrets. except when you pick up and tentatively greet him, he starts to say something that is arguably just as bad.

“i need you to swap shifts with gayoung. she can’t work this tuesday night so i need you to cover that day ‘cause there’s nobody else available,” he informs. “gayoung will cover your shift tonight instead.”

you are still trying to process his words as you repeat, “tonight?”

“yes, so you won’t need to go into work tonight.”

your heart skips a beat. for the first time in your life, you find yourself asking, “can’t i take both shifts?”

“no, you can’t. sorry,” your manager apologises but he does not sound sorry at all.

you have never voluntarily taken up extra night shifts, much less asked to take up additional shifts. yet, there is a heavy sense of disappointment that simultaneously settles itself deep inside your stomach and lodges itself in your throat, because it is friday today and friday night is for your boys. you do not even have a way of letting them know that you will not be in tonight.

you wonder if they will notice your absence and whether they will care. after all, you may just be somebody who happens to work at the bubble tea shop they frequent. but it turns out that they do and turns out you are not.

“where were you?”

those are the first words that are thrown at you the moment the boys walk through the door during your friday shift the week after you swapped nights with gayoung. they stomp up to your counter sporting furrowed brows and pressed lips, and if it were not for seonghwa’s soft smile and warm, “we missed seeing you,” you would have thought that they were angry at you.

you can only imagine how terrifying their demeanours would be if they were actually to be angry.

“my manager made me swap shifts with another coworker,” you explain and their expressions soften immediately.

jongho breaks out into a triumphant smirk as he turns to hongjoong with an upturned palm. “i told you. pay up.”

the latter sheepishly pulls out some crumpled notes as you gawk, “you bet on why i wasn’t at work?”

“don’t mind them,” wooyoung waves his hand dismissively. “hongjoong has trust issues–said that you were avoiding us.”

“i would never!” you refute at the same time that hongjoong exclaims, “i did not!”

“either way, fuck your manager. the fucking audacity to take you off our shift?” wooyoung complains.

you try to keep a straight face at the fact that wooyoung has just very casually claimed your shift–and by extension, you–as theirs. you babble the first thing that comes to mind, “the drinks are all made using the same recipe. it doesn’t matter who makes them.”

yunho’s eyes narrow with offense that you would even suggest a thing. “it’s nowhere near the same.” he is not the only one who wants to tell you that as long as it is not you it will never be the same.

their collective thoughts come out instead through mingi, “nobody understands when we order a triple b or an emineminem or a ‘horse drink’.”

“yeah, no shit sherlock,” you fire back, because apparently sarcasm is your automatic defense mechanism when you are flustered, “might help if you call them by their proper names.”

“or maybe the problem is that nobody knows us well enough like you do,” san insists with a wink and in response, yeosang reveals, “we don’t let just anybody get close to us.”

you joke before you can truly think your words through, “sounds like a you problem then.”

“you’re right,” hongjoong banters easily with smugness.

your nervous fidgeting as you tap useless buttons on the screen of your register gives you away despite your attempts to stay collected. they chuckle and it is difficult not to crumble under their unwavering gazes because it is obvious they can see right through your facade. but can anybody really blame you when you had not been expecting them to reciprocate your feelings of interest, much less admit to it so easily and straightforwardly?

in a last ditch attempt to regain some control over the conversation, you ask, “so, what do you guys want to order?”

from day one, the boys have surprised you in the most unpredictable ways–eight not-quite-delinquent delinquents with simultaneously calloused fists, pottied mouths and insatiable sweet tooth. today is no exception, and you have a feeling that you should start becoming accustomed to their antics because they are here to stay, especially after today.

“what we want to order?” they look at you with confident flirtatiousness. “your phone number and a date.”

taglist pt. one | apply for taglist

@thecarnivaloflies @ilovekimhongjoong @yuranimous @ppprimary @hwas-housewife 

@itza-meee @lavishloving @okshu @mizumigi @everythingboutkpop

@ayytease @hopefulrascalstatesmantoad @hongjoongsprincess @booyoungie @green-agent

@darkmentalitystarfish-blog @taytayy178 @babymbbatinygirl @oddracha @sourkimchi

@mimilia1801 @kibs-and-bits @mlysalt @jjoongstar @aaa-sia

@nollamuumialaaksossa @skz1-4-3 @minkilicious @joongscheese @ddeonghwva

@delulu18 @teenyfinds @shakalakaboomboo @hxpelesscxven @fureastel

@seomisaho @levishun @lesyeuxdeanna @readerofallthingss @potatos-on-clouds

@apriecotte @hhoneylix @kyeos4ng @smally97 @savluvsmingi

[kosmikowboj]

some of my favorite tag additions to this post, in no particular order:

#love all of these plot points except the henry gets rid of the bassoon one bc he actually would never #he has all of shawn’s crap and we know it #but i like the dept having to rent him one so maybe in school he was just using a loaner bassoon #how about to compromise shawn is resentful that henry never believed he took it seriously enough to buy him his own bassoon (via @loosethreadsofyoursoul)

no you’re so right actually. when I was a kid we had a rent-to-own situation with my oboe (and violin actually, but I quit that one after two-ish years so I never got to the “owning” part), so it’s entirely feasible henry just. stopped renting it when shawn stopped playing. which is a totally normal and expected thing to do. this does not stop shawn from being annoyed, nor does it stop henry from being annoyed shawn is annoyed. idiots, the both of them.

(the rest of the tags also mention shassie undertones which are absolutely on purpose. I'm rewatching the show rn and they’re genuinely so fucking weird /pos)

#lassiter playing oboe and having beef with the flutes shows so much mastery. amazing work. this is my roman empire now #shawn definitely gives off 'low reeds player that brings cards against humanity to play during long rests' energy (via @boltlightning)

YES HE DOES!! he and gus are opposite ends of the “counts every single beat of rest -> just feels the music and comes in when it sounds right” spectrum (the former being gus and the latter being shawn, of course).

also I’m so glad people resonate with oboist lassie and his flute beef. this is what 12+ years as a band kid gets you, apparently.

#All this but as a percussionist #our drama is WAYYY worse than cheating (via @taszzer)

yeah no you guys amaze and frighten me in equal measure. the stories I’ve heard/witnessed could make an entire season of psych on their own. godspeed to all of you.

you know now knowing that as kids shawn played bassoon and gus played clarinet it’s truly criminal there was never an episode involving a local symphony orchestra. like, one of the principal musicians dies—call it the principal flutist—and foul play is suspected, so shawn convinces the chief to let them go undercover. gus is still using his old clarinet, but henry got rid of shawn’s bassoon like ten years ago so shawn makes the department rent him a really nice one. lassiter’s huge qualm this episode is that he thinks shawn and gus are making a mockery of the beauty that is classical music. shawn actually feels very strongly about the case because one of the pieces they’re performing has a majestic bassoon solo that he was supposed to play in the eighth grade until he got stiffed for first chair. gus and jules are the only ones being normal.

lassie and jules end up arresting the second chair flute player because it seems like a jealousy case, but shawn isn’t convinced. he goes down the rabbit hole and uncovers this crazy romance subplot about how the principal bassoonist and the principal flutist were sleeping together, but then the flutist slept with someone else in the orchestra—call it a percussionist (they’re always doing that)—and so he killed her. shawn claims he learned this through the instruments speaking to him. the high stakes moment of the episode is when the bassoonist tries to kill the percussionist, but our fave crew end up saving the day.

the episode ends with shawn and gus playing in the concert and shawn doing the bassoon solo since the principal was arrested for murder. biggest plot twist of all is that he actually sounds pretty good.

another random note is that lassie has it out for the second chair flute because he used to play oboe when he was younger and got relentlessly bullied by the flutes. shawn finds this out and forces bonding between the two of them by sharing his bassoon trauma. lassie does not seem to care. because the percussionist gets injured in the scuffle near the end of the episode, shawn convinces the orchestra director to let lassie play the triangle in the concert. later on in the series, there’s a throwaway line about how shawn can’t get ice cream with gus after a case because he’s busy. there’s a honk outside the psych office and shawn jogs out, gets in lassie’s car, and they go to community orchestra together.

oh also the henry subplot of the episode is that he and the director of the orchestra go way back for some reason and that’s the only reason that shawn and gus are allowed to go undercover. shawn is pissed at henry for getting rid of his bassoon and henry tries to turn it into a lesson about responsibility that is immediately undermined by the department renting one for him.

do you see my vision

[coupsalchemy]

Hothouse Flower [Part 1]

Summary - Your five year relationship with him ended two years ago. You need to move on, have to, since you are the only one stuck in the past. Jeonghan moved on, happy, gallivanting away. When you finally agree to meet up a fellow heartbroken stranger set up by 'Get Love Quick', you didn't expect to see him there.

Tags: Jeonghan x f.reader, exes! au, second chance romance, angst, yearning, fluff, suggestive, SLOW BURN

Warnings: mdni, very suggestive (at least in the next part), fist fight, mentions of blood, just a very angry Jeonghan, swearing, and a lot of grammatical mistakes as English isn't my first language.

Word Count: 21k (this part, total 40k)

A's Note: I've been working on this for like four months. Please get ready for the angst and yearning. The birth of this story took place from Don't Wanna Cry Jeonghan falling onto his knees in yearning, and the song 'no one noticed by the marias'.

I wanted to write a story where reader gets to forget everything and be in the world of the fiction, enjoy momentary bliss instead of the bitter taste of life, at least for some time. So by the time you complete reading this part, next part would have already been uploaded. If I succeeded in making you forget everything and you enjoyed the fic please let me know so I can stare at your message for eternity in happiness.

Also I want to thank my two friends who have been patiently answering my questions, and kept on encouraging me all the time. If not for you two this wouldn't have happened. Thank you!!

divider credits to the rightful owner.

⌜ If anyone else were to kiss me, all they would taste is your name.⌟

— Clementine von Radics

“You should try this,” Seungkwan places the folded worn out newspaper on your work desk, looming over you like a dark cloud before rain. Nothing good is going to come out of this. 

With a sigh you minimize the word document you have been working on, and focus on the headline of the advertisement, Get Love Quick. “If you have time to find crap then you have time to prepare the deck.”

Seungkwan tsks. “I have time till this Friday.” He drags the chair from the next cubicle, making a home for himself. “Send in an application.” He shoves the paper back to you, sending your notebook flying.  “It’s high time for you to move on.” 

You reopen the word document glaring at the words and hit random letters on the keyboard with more force, “I have work unlike someone. If you leave me alone.” 

“Come on,” he insists, locking your system and turning your chair in his direction. “You have to get out of that four walls of darkness you call a room,” his gaze is firm, the frown line between his eyebrows makes you think. He isn’t going to back away like the other times, this time he is serious. 

You fall back into your chair, gnawing on your lower lip. The words on the newspaper glares at you, in mockery or a challenge, you couldn’t say. 

Find your other broken hearted half.. 

It’s been more than a year since you went on a date. You are sure that even the process of dating has changed by now. Fresh after the break up you were relentless, swiping right on guy after guy to rile up your ex, only to end up canceling most of the dates.

The two men you met were good, considerate and even attentive, something you begged from your previous relationship. Their questions and interest in your work, hobbies and daily life solidified their points in gaining the second date. 

If not for the constant comparison to a certain long black haired man, who would be cracking jokes on the other two for their pretentiousness. It’s safe to say that you didn’t get a second date with anyone. Eventually the fire to make your ex jealous and show him what he is missing has died down. 

“Are you still here?” Seungkwan shakes your arm. 

You faze out from your thoughts, “I'm not sure. It’s a lot of work.” You pull your hair to one side, playing with the ends. “I have to dress up, put on makeup and,” you suck in a breath dreading the worst of all, “I have to make stimulating conversations.” 

You click your pen, chewing on your lip, losing yourself in thoughts. What you don’t voice out is the fear of losing someone again and losing yourself in the process of clinging onto him to make him stay. You have done it once, and not sure you could do it again. Especially if it’s someone who is not your Jeonghan. 

Seungkwan holds your hands in his, he says, “you don’t need to put up an act this time.” 

“Hey.” A coworker greets you, crossing the office floor to the elevator. 

Seungkwan presses his lips in a thin line, nodding back at the intruder who is already out of earshot. “Anyway, as I am saying,” he goes back to the topic, “no need for an act. Be yourself and the right one will come.” 

The strong belief in his words sways your stubborn heart a little, a faint hope flickering in your chest. 

“Remember there’s no one you need to get back at this time.” He reemphasizes, “I don’t want to see you pulling that old shit.” 

You nod without a second thought, a little scared of his authoritative tone. 

“Good.” He presses your hand, eyes softening, studying you. “I have a gut feeling that this is going to be your turning point.” He adds, “a good one. You’ll find someone who understands you as you are.” 

The love in his words and caring gestures were what made you you till now. He always dragged you back whenever you were spiraling down the rabbit hole. He doesn’t have a reason to look after you, especially when even your mom has given up on you after a few tries. 

“Oh,” his soft voice makes your eyes moist, “I didn’t want to make you cry.” 

“I know.” 

He ruffles your hair, “straighten up and fight back, my warrior. You can do this.” 

You laugh, wiping the corner of your eyes. “Warrior?” 

“Frontline army?” 

You push him away, “go back, Seungkwan. Our boss is already glaring.” You backspace the crap you have written on the report. “We are one call away from the HR office.” 

“Ugh,” he fixes his tie, “that old retard should find someone else to stalk.” He slowly rolls away to the next cubicle leaving the chair in its rightful place. “Think about it. Okay?” 

“Thank you, Seungkwan.” 

“Anything for you.” 

—

You wake up with a start, your mind in a haze. The rotating ceiling fan spins your head making your dizziness worse. You fight with the comforter rolled around you to free your hand, the movements worsen the pounding in your head. 

“Ugh, Hannie.” You search for the other side of the bed, your fingers tracing the cold bed sheet. “Huh?” 

You open your eyes forcefully, the bright sunshine falling directly on you. You forgot to draw curtains again. The empty space beside you cracks your heart again, the unused pillow still in bright yellow cover mocks you. He is not in your life anymore. You pluck the pillow, hugging it to your chest and inhaling its scent. It doesn’t smell like him anymore. 

The warmth of this pillow doesn’t suffice the warmth of him, his midnight cuddles, kisses all over your face when he thinks you are in deep sleep. Your fingers grasp the edges of the pillow, legs curling into your stomach from the ache echoing your entire body.  

Longing for Jeonghan has become one with breathing. Each moment and thing is closely intricated with his existence, the reminder of him throwing you back into the pits of suffering. You eye your phone resting beside you, the temptation to check his whereabouts is gripping your chest. Your fingers hover over it succumbing to your desires, but no, not this time, not when he never cared about you. Does he even think about you? 

—

Jeonghan smiles at his date reassuringly, “it’s fine. It’s fine. Don’t panic.” He stands up from his seat, approaching her side of the table, “let’s go get you cleaned up.” He holds out his palm, interlacing their fingers.  

His confident stride leads them across linen covered tables, wafts of delicious food surrounding them. Familiarity with this restaurant propels his sense of direction, he took this path countless times. He grips her hand, almost crushing, anchoring himself to the present moment. 

She squeezes back, peering at him through his shoulder. He runs his fingers through his long hair strands, curling the strays behind his ear. She reaches out, tenderly running her fingertips at the back of his head. He ducks his head down, straightening his suit pants. Her steps stumble into one another, her cheeks blushing with embarrassment.  

The kitchen is bustling with waiters coming in and out with orders. A waiter carrying an order is craning his neck, waving his hand to gain Jeonghan’s attention. 

Jeonghan frowns at the unprofessional etiquette of the staff, and the waiter’s relentless efforts only irks him further. It strikes him, the reason behind the enthusiasm of the boy. Jeonghan exhales through his mouth. He knew it was a bad idea to dine in this restaurant, but two years is enough time for people to forget. 

Oh. How he never learns. 

The boy stops in his tracks confused at the lady hiding behind Jeonghan, and the rosary blush on her cheeks complimented with the shy glances at Jeonghan. He drops his hand, unimpressed. 

Jeonghan is annoyed, reading the judgemental stare he is receiving. He presses his lips in a thin line, not sparing another glance he leads his date to the washroom. “Go ahead. I’ll be here.” He leans on the wall opposite to the women’s restroom, pocketing his hands. 

She hurries in with a blush creeping up her cheeks, matching the red of her dress. He would have found it cute once upon a time, and would have even teased a little. But now, Jeonghan throws his head back a sigh escaping his lips, he can’t even bring to crack a joke or worse lead the conversation from topics other than weather or work.  

Silver lining out of all is, this is their second date. Maybe it can lead to something prominent one day. And he can go back to his old ways, find it in himself to laugh and joke around. His gaze flickers to the women’s restroom door, a memory creeping into his mind. 

You spilled wine on yourself on a date with him. He tsks, teased you for a klutz while leading you to the washroom. You expected him to stop outside but you should have known how crazy he was. He checked either side before following you in with a false pretense to help you wipe the stain near your chest. 

You rolled your eyes at him when his thumb caressed a little longer, understanding his actions. You pinch his arm and he bites his lower lip, suppressing a smile. He looks at you in mockery before squeezing your breast, eliciting a moan, he crashes his lips on you. 

“Been a long time,” the waiter reappears before him disturbing him from the memory of his ex. “I hope you remember me.”

Jeonghan’s jaw ticks. The boy, his name tag reads, Dino, is oblivious to Jeonghan's bubbling irritation. He continues, “well, if it was her,” he whispers, checking around for Jeonghan’s date, “she would have recognized me. I can’t believe you let her go.” He shakes his head in disappointment, sneaking glances at Jeonghan. 

Jeonghan stands up straight, looming over the younger boy. Darkness exuding from him, now he doesn’t need some little boy to preach what he missed out. 

Dino, bad with reading cues continues, “well,” he presses, drawing random figures on the serving tray, “can I… get her number?” 

Red flashes in Jeonghan’s eyes, “what?” 

Dino takes a step back, eyes shaking, “I-I-I me-mean..” he shields himself with the tray, “yo-you moved on, so, I thought–”

“Thought what?” Jeonghan spits.

“Th-that I sh-should shoot my shot,” Dino musters up courage, squaring his shoulders, head held high, “she is worth the–”

Jeonghan grabs Dino’s collar, “Fuck off you little—” 

“Jeonghan? Jeonghan?”

His date grabs his arm off the waiter, “are you crazy? Let him go.” 

His date looks at him in worry, her hand still holding onto his arm. Jeonghan snaps at her, “what?” She reels back from him, dropping her hand. Jeonghan closes his eyes, regaining his senses. “Sorry.” 

She nods, not meeting his eyes. He scoffs at Dino scurrying away without looking back. “Let’s go.” He leads the way back to their table. This time he doesn’t hold her hand. She jogs to keep up with his pace, reaching out to his hand only to fail. If she is upset she doesn’t show it when he slips his hands into his pockets. 

—

“I had fun tonight, Hannie.” She unbuckles her seatbelt, leaning into him, kissing his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispers in his ear.  

Jeonghan taps his forefinger against the leather of the steering wheel, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. “Yeah.” 

She holds his chin, gently nudging him towards her. Her thumb traces his bottom lip, her brown eyes focusing on the slight cracks and splits. “I don’t wanna ask what you are not gonna tell,” she taps on his lip twice, “but I can’t tolerate it happening again.” She holds his gaze, “if I am gonna have you I want all of you.”

He nods. 

She presses a kiss on his lips, her soft ones moving against his static ones. He closes his eyes, shutting down the images of someone who is not his date. He sucks on her bottom lip, the cherry flavour of her lip balm on his tongue. 

He unbuckles the seatbelt, slips his hand around her nape pulling her in. Their lips move in fervent need, tongues clashing, biting and nipping. Soft whimpers fill in the car, her hands roaming across his chest. “So hot.” She runs her hand through his long hairstrands, tugging at their ends, “You look—” she breathes as he nips her bottom lip “—fucking hot.”

He holds her roaming hand, intertwining their fingers, his eyes still closed, kissing her now swollen lips. 

Images of her clouds him, her cheeky smile when he catches her causing ruckus, her droopy eyes yet a blissful look of satisfaction, her kisses in the middle of the night, her taste, her, her, her everywhere. 

Her name slips past his lips in a shaky whisper. He backs away from his date, running a hand through his ruffled hair, “fuck.” He holds the hand slipping away from his grasp, “I am sorry. Sorry, it's just the,” he blinks at her teary face, “the..” he falters. 

“Goodbye, Jeonghan.” She exits the car. Her flowery scent lingering in his car, a constant reminder of what he fucked up just because he couldn’t forget his ex. 

He hits the steering wheel repeatedly. The ghost of his ex is still haunting him, in the corners of his apartment, the track sounds of her favorite sitcom, in his office, and fuck even in his car fiddling with the playlist. 

Does he miss you? He doesn’t (it’s killing him). 

Jeonghan ignites the car, clicking some random playlist on his phone. He reverses the car, driving through the silent empty streets, humming to the songs to clear his mind off the awkward date. 

The community he resides in is a mile away, small stalls and restaurants around the area are bustling. Familiar neighborhood eases his uneasiness. Few more minutes and he can go home to his whiskey and drown himself in sleep. He rolls the car to a stop at a red light. He keeps clicking on the next song. 

Her laughter plays on the speakers. Jeonghan drops his phone in a shock, startled to hear the voice he didn’t hear for months. Her giggles fill in his car, “Hannie, Hannie, baby,” cut off with a moan. 

Next song starts playing and Jeonghan stares at the screen with a frown. What just happened? He clicks on the previous song, the voice note replaying. A car honks behind him, he drops the phone checking the rear view, he accelerates through the green light, and pulls up to the side. 

The voice note replays again and again. The blinkers on his car keep flicking till a police car pulls up to check on him.

—

You fiddle with the silver band on your ring finger, staring at the blank application opened up on your laptop. It has been an hour, and not even one question has been answered. You let out a long sigh, still confused, still hesitant whether you are truly ready to give love a chance again. The questions are simple, What’s your heartbreaking story? The answer to them isn’t, you are not sure you can rehash your heartbreak in words, without getting the need to find him and see how life has been treating him. 

You close the laptop and throw it aside on the bed, burying yourself in the comforter, staring at the unoccupied side of the bed and bright yellow pillow. A stray tear wets your pillow, your hand tracing the empty bedside. 

—

Jeonghan punches in the words on his keyboard with force since he can’t punch the person in the face. He sits back cross-checking the draft email just in case his thoughts are translated into words subconsciously. Another visit to the HR will for sure land him in trouble. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” His senior, Soobin, raps his knuckles on the table. 

Great, Jeonghan can feel the universe breathing down his neck today. He folds the laptop screen, reclining in his seat listening to the rant.

“I can’t believe you messed up man.” Soobin rakes his hand through his hair, plopping on the empty chair, rolling the paper weights around the table. “She is the hottest one dude.” A sleazy grin on his lips, “a goddess in that red dress.” He mimics the shape of her waist line with his hands. Jeonghan raises his eyebrow at the detail. Soobin smiles sheepishly, adding, “She posted a picture on her account.”

Jeonghan wants to throw up at the vulgarity. “If you find her attractive then why don’t you date her?” He opens his laptop back, sending the mail.

“Have to wait till I break up with my current one.” He says with remorse. 

Jeonghan grits his teeth, irritation bubbling up in his chest. He tries to tone it down before it escalates into something like throwing him out of his room or worse, throwing a punch. He doesn’t have it in him to sort through another mess and complicate his already stressful life. 

Soobin, not heeding to any hints radiating from Jeonghan, dips his fingers into forbidden waters. “But, come on, man.” He leans in with a wicked expression, “admit it she is the hottest one out of all of your exes. And waaaay better than that sorry shit of your ex. I can’t believe you were stuck up on her. She was boring as hell, and I bet the sex was as dull as—” 

Jeonghan isn’t sure of his movements, how and when the things ended up in the way they did. Soobin is on the floor, spitting blood. Jeonghan holds the floor, helping himself to stand up from his senior’s body. Grabbing the opportunity, Soobin throws a punch. 

Jeonghan falls back on his ass, his ears ringing and knuckles ache like fuck. He clutches his head, watching Soobin scramble on the floor, sliding away from him. Their CEO is standing at the door barking at them. 

He stands up, flicking his hand and stretching his fingers. He grabs Soobin before he can go hide behind their head and puts his all into one last punch. 

The CEO drags bloody Jeonghan to his cabin while Soobin is taken to the hospital. “You were up for promotion next month,” the CEO scolds, “a director can’t hit a coworker in broad daylight.” 

This followed a two hour long lecture mixed with threats of termination. All the while Jeonghan stares outside the window, two birds coddling. Strangely, he is jealous of two birds for having something he once had. 

“Yoon Jeonghan!” The head of the company snaps, “do you feel any remorse for bruising one of our most important employees?” 

Jeonghan massages the ache in his hand, did he break his bones? He did keep punching Soobin’s jaw until he saw red. 

“He had it coming.” He stands up, buttoning up his suit. “I’m quitting. You can write it up as terminated or whatever makes your ass happy.” 

—

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!” 

You wake up with a jerk, disoriented. Light floods your room, blinding you for a second, and someone is singing happy birthday. A cake with a burning candle is shoved in your face, and were those cats on the cake. 

“Blow it,” a high-pitch voice screams in your ears. 

You blow the candle, still lost in the happenings in the middle of the night. Cheers and claps snaps you out of your drowsiness, awakening your brain. 

Seungkwan is busy squashing the remnants of cake on his girlfriend’s face, and your roommate is standing awkwardly near your bed end. You search for your phone, finding it under your pillow, you read the date. Ah, birthday. 

Messages from your friends and family flood your phone, a hope births inside you, maybe, maybe he remembered and wished you this time. You scroll through the notifications slowly in case you miss it. None. Tears brim your eyes, stupid heart, why does it still hope? 

“Come on, come on.” Seungkwan drags you out of your bed and into the living room, blasting music and orchestrating a sudden dance battle. You laugh at their antics, momentarily forgetting about the heartache.

— 

“We should go for drinks,” Seungkwan announces in the middle of you enjoying each bite of cold noodles. “Enjoy the fact you become a year older and wiser.” He stirs his chopsticks around the noodles.

“Overnight?” You raise an eyebrow, slurping in the noodles. 

The waiter refills the water jug, sets it on the wooden table with a clang. You grab Seungkwan’s glass, filling it to the brim before the waiter has an opportunity to do it. “Thank you,” you smile at the younger male, assuming a college student working for extra pocket money, “we got it. Go and take a breather.” You shoo him away. 

He bows in gratitude, scurries away grabbing the opportunity of a five minute break. You chuckle reminiscing about your days of waiting tables.

“Too kind,” Seungkwan berates, sipping on the water. “It’s gonna bite your ass someday.” 

“I can’t drink.” You go back to the main topic, “it’s weekday. I have an early meeting tomorrow,” you set the chopsticks down at the soar reminder, “a round of drinks sounds good tho.” You sigh wistfully, “but what can one do? I’m not young anymore to bound back after a night of drinking.” 

Seungkwan chews at his food a little louder for your taste. “This must be what they mean by growing pains. And you can’t handle drinks. It’s better to not have you drunk since we have an important meeting tomorrow.” He grabs the menu from the holder, skimming through the noodles section again. “Their noodles are tasty.” He murmurs, “ah,” he taps on a ramyeon picture. 

He flags down the waiter from before who approaches your table with merriment. Seungkwan narrows his eyes at the wandering gaze of the waiter towards you. 

“One ramyeon,” Seungkwan orders, “and a drink please.” 

“Anything else for the beautiful lady over here?” His dimple pops out waiting for you to swallow your food. 

“No, thank you.” You twirl the noodles around the chopsticks, you slurp the cold noodles enjoying the flavours bursting in your mouth. 

Seungkwan chuckles, “poor boy. Look at him walk away like a sad puppy.” 

“Huh?”

He shakes his head, “nothing.” He sets his chopsticks down, “did you hear that there’s restructuring happening? I just hope I won’t be transferred again,” he huffs, folding his hands, “I don’t want to leave Nari.” 

“And you,” he adds, after a beat. 

The meat floats in the broth, you dunk it deeper into the liquid. You prefer to not be mentioned at all rather than being added as an afterthought. Being someone’s priority is a luxury you realized, not after the break up, but rather when you were in a five year long relationship with your ex. 

The nights you laid on the bed waiting for your lover to join you were countless, his disinterest in your enthusiasm, and his laid back answers were the slow killers. Labeled as needy and clingy when asked for attention was the threshold point. And yet, you begged him to stay. 

A green feeling bubbles in your chest, stabbing the meat piece you nod to Seungkwan’s rant absentmindedly. You catch bits and pieces of how his girlfriend suffered from the long distance during his last transfer, and how he was helpless to pacify her. If only you got a transfer and Jeonghan was desperate for you back then, would he have realized your value? Does he realize your value now? 

The answer was glaring back at you. You have seen, stalked, his dates and flings profile, how happy he is, smiling at the pictures, posing intimately and sharing something that was yours first with strangers. How can he be happy after ruining you for anyone else? Making you incapable of loving someone else? Why, only you, can’t replace him where he is mingling as if you never existed?

—

You peek from your computer at the manager’s cabin. He is in a meeting with a team, and it doesn’t end for another thirty minutes. You click the third link of the web results for Get Love Quick. The cursor at the name field blinks, waiting for your input. 

It requires a lot more than momentary courage, you realized, your fingers hover over the keyboard hesitant. Are you really ready for this new step in life? The silver band ring glimmers under the fluorescent lights, you take it off and throw it in the drawer. You are going to fill in the form and submit it. If you are matched then it is a future you’s problem. 

Filling in the basic information was a breeze, you crack your knuckles preparing yourself for the big ones. 

What’s your heartbreaking story? 

The keys click-clacks under your fingers, momentary pauses, a tear rolling down your cheek. You hover over the exit button unable to articulate  it in words, but you don't want to give up. Not this time. 

By the time you press submit, the office is half empty. You check for your friend, he is clutching his head and looking close to breakdown. You clock out of the system for the day, grabbing your things and sauntering towards your distressed friend. 

“What’s wrong?” You grab an empty chair and settle next to him. 

Seungkwan looks up at you with red eyes, softly whispering your name. 

“Hey,” you panic, “tell me what happened?” You hold his hands bracing yourself. 

“My name is on the list for transfer,” his voice quivers, “I have to fill in an empty position at this new branch.” 

Your heart aches watching your friend breakdown. “Is there no other way?” 

He pulls his blue tie free, “I am not sure. God, I didn’t inform her yet. I just,” he exhales loudly, “I wanna try requesting the manager or the higher ups.” 

You nod slowly, gears turning in your mind. Seungkwan has been a steady pillar in your life even during the times of crisis. He didn’t walk away when you pushed him off your life. 

“By when you have to transfer?” 

“Soon, there’s an urgent requirement in Yangsan.” he answers, “I hate it so much. Why always me?” 

You pat his shoulders, “I know. But I think it will work out in your favor this time.”

He scoffs, shutting down the computer, and packs his stuff into his bag. “It never works out. One suffering after another is the theme of my life.” 

“Believe me, Seungkwan.” You smile. 

He pauses in his track, narrowing his eyes, “I know that smile. Don’t do anything stupid, please.” 

You smile wider. 

—

Jeonghan cradles nearly empty whisky glass to his chest, spreading his legs wide on the couch, reclining back. He sips from the bottle watching six friends lounging in the flat yapping on the TV screen, the laugh track accompanying the show irks him. How can one find comfort from this show? He can never understand it, but he never stops watching it again and again. 

He sips on the last drops of the drink, shaking it in hopes to get more out of it. He discards it on the floor, and grabs his phone. 

His thumb brushes over the date displayed on the phone. He used to be busy on this day in previous years, planning the day to its perfection, wooing his girl with carefully crafted plans and in the last two years buried in work. 

He misses his home being filled with delicious scents of his cooking her favourites, her laughter at some stupid reruns of sitcoms. It’s been so long since his home and his life has seen some daylight. 

His thumb hovers over her chat, uncertainty brimming up in his chest. He shouldn’t text her, he reiterates to himself. He scrolls through her unanswered texts right after their break up. 

Please. I’ll be better. 

-baby, May

Hannie… how can you do this to me? 

-baby, May

Don’t leave me, Jeonghan. Please, I can’t live without you. It can’t be that easy to leave me. I beg you. I’ll do whatever you want. I will text you less, call you less, and we can live separately and only visit once a day. Don’t leave me Jeonghan. 

-baby, May

[Voicenote 1:43 mins]

-baby, May

Jeonghan quickly scrolls past the voice note, he doesn’t have enough guts to hear you breaking down. If he does he will be standing outside your home, asking you to come back to this toxic union. Somewhere his mind nags, was it always toxic or were you scared to admit your wrongdoings?

Ridiculous

-baby, June 

For my sake? For my sake you broke up????? 

-baby, June

Be honest there’s someone else right?

-baby, June 

You wanted to get rid of me to be with her

-baby, June

Explains the late nights and unanswered calls 

-baby, June

YOON JEONGHAN YOU FUCKING BASTARD ASSHOLE AND AND I love you Jeonghan please… please reply I beg you

-baby, July 

I’ll change myself the way you want Jeonghan I won’t be needy please I will give you your space I would be one with the wall in your life as long as I can see you everyday I am okay with anything 

-baby, July

Did you loathe me that bad? I heard you already moved on. Is she prettier? Is she self-sufficient? Is she better than me?

-baby, August 

[photo of your date holding your hand]

-baby, August 

Ah so you really don’t care about me anymore. 

-baby, August 

I gave you five years of my life. You could have ended it in the first year. Could have spared me the heartache.

-baby, September 

It feels like dying. Is this how people feel in their last moments? How can you be so happy while I’m scraping myself off the floor? 

-baby, October 

Happy birthday

-baby, October 

Good luck with your life.

-baby, December

Jeonghan notices the unsent message sitting in the type bar. 

Should we try again 

He contemplates on sending it, but decides otherwise. He backspaces the message, he scrolls deeper into their conversation when things are rainbows and sunshine. 

Hannie Hannie my dear Hannie saw you again in the sky shining brighter than ever… my sun 🌞

-baby

😒

-Jeonghan 

Get back to work 

-Jeonghan 

He remembers smiling ear to ear in the office, rereading her message in the singsong tone of hers. He was fluid like water throughout his work that day, acing every meeting and task, humming all along. 

Saw a baby playing with a baby chick 🐤 

[photo] 

-baby

Sooooooooooo CUTE 

-baby

I JUST WANT TO GO AND BITE HIS CHEEKS 

-baby

Can I do that 🥺

-baby

Didn’t know our date is at jail tonight

-Jeonghan

Jeonghan laughs at their conversation. Rolling onto his side he scrolls deeper. He sniffles, tears falling onto the cushion. He wipes his blurry eyes, reading the conversation from another day.  

Rant incoming 

-baby

Uh oh  

-Jeonghan

That freaking bastard retard good for nothing asshole and the worlds most dumbest high paid person. How the fuck he got a job. Mr.know it all knows nothing. NOTHING EXCEPT MAKING MY LIFE HELL 

-baby

HAVE TO WORK OVERTIME AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!! 

-baby 

I MISS MY MAN!!!

-baby 

(I miss you too)

-Jeonghan

BUT DUE TO THAT FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT.. OH HANNIE MY PRECIOUS BABY MY LITTLE MUNCHKIN 

-baby 

[Incoming call from baby]

Jeonghan wishes he can go back to the time when you called him all the sweet things in the world. If the universe or whoever is out there, is willing to give them one more chance will he take it up? Maybe or maybe not. 

When will you be back? I miss you 

-baby 

… 

-Jeonghan 

Come on. It’s been like thirty minutes

-Jeonghan 

What can I do? 

-baby 

Your cum is still running down my thighs reminding me of you 🤷‍♀️

-baby 

FUCK 

-Jeonghan 

YOU CANT PULL THAT CARD 

-Jeonghan 

☹️ okayyyy don’t worry I pushed it all back in. 

-baby 

Happy golfing Hannie!!! Win and come home 🥰😘

-baby 

You DEVIL 

-Jeonghan 

I’m coming home

-Jeonghan 

😇😇😇

-baby 

Jeonghan locks his phone, closing his eyes, tears rushing out. A ripping pain in his chest makes him curl up into a ball, he holds himself, all the pain inside of him bursting out. The silence of his apartment is now broken with whimpers and cries for help. It's been so long since he felt something, he doesn’t want to continue to live in this pain. He doesn’t have the will or fighting spirit left in him. 

He messed with his career for the sake of his ex, he stopped going out with his friends, and it's been so long since he talked with his parents. Another sob escapes him remembering how you used to hold him whenever he felt low. Despite the thousand fights they had, you were always there to catch him. You are his sun, not the other way around. He is stupid, stupid, stupid. 

He ended things for their own good. He realised that no matter how much you love someone, sometimes you just end up hurting each other. He couldn’t bear seeing you standing in the middle of the apartment everyday mid fight with tears spilling out.  

He knows he is the problem, he wasn’t mature enough to handle his love with care, love and affection, the only thing you wanted out of him. He only gave you pain, sadness and a reason to cry. He was the source of your unhappiness. He tried to be a source of happiness, but things slipped right through his fingers.  

If only he could be more like how you wanted him, maybe today he would have been curled up in your warmth instead of the coldness of his apartment. 

—

The office is swarming, phones ringing, and hellos echoing around. You keep checking the manager’s cabin, eyeing the expressions of the director, manager and Seungkwan through the glass doors. It is hard to catch their words, or read their lips, as it is a few cubicles down from yours. You send a document to print, slipping on your heels, you march towards the printer next to the cabin. 

Seungkwan catches you, shaking his head subtly before answering to the director. The printer spits out the papers slowly with a wheezing sound, you adjust your hair straining your ears to catch at least a few words.

“... branch needs you,” the director’s firm tone makes you wince, “or…” you lose some words as the printer whirs loudly, and you swear you heard your name, “..can go in your place.”

“I am not sure,” Seungkwan replies, “I can’t..”

A colleague of yours watches you in suspicion, his eyes darting from you to the cabin you are eavesdropping. Fuck, he is HR. You bow in greeting, laughing, pointing at the old printer dying to print out some documents. He nods, mumbling a feeble, keep up the good work. 

You collect the papers just in time the director walks out of the cabin, noticing you, he smiles warmly in greeting before walking to his cabin. Seungkwan closes the manager’s cabin behind him, his lower lip wobbly at the sight of you. You step in with him to his cubicle, “what happened?”

Seungkwan lets out a big groan, “I have to start relocating by the end of the month.” He rubs his temples, “I have to tell her tonight.” He checks the time on his watch, “and she was looking forward to our date,” his voice shakes a little, “only for me to pour water over all her excitement.”

He plops down on his seat, keying in his password. You lean against his desk, thumbing the pages, “you know,” you muster up the courage, “I want to ask for this transfer.” You quickly add before he can jump in, “I really want this transfer, Seungkwan. I think..” you trail off, your voice dropping an octave, “I am done with this city.”

You blink back the tears with a laugh, you set the papers on his desk, turning away from him. “I am planning to talk it out with the manager, and,” you look at him from the corner of your eyes, “ask to get off your back.” 

He smiles, tapping his fingers on the armrest, “I don't want you to force yourself for my sake.” He raises his hand, stopping you from defending yourself, “someone going away in my place will loosen my burden but I don’t want that to be you. Got my point?”

“I understand, but,” you meet his eyes head on, “I really want to get out of this place, Seungkwan. I don’t have any fond memories left–” Seungkwan scoffs “–apart from our hangouts, of course.” 

With a deep inhale, you blurt out, “everywhere I go, I see us. I search for him everywhere,” you wipe away the stray tear, “I don’t want to live this way. Not when he is happy somewhere, in someone’s arms.”

Seungkwan evades your gaze, clicking on some email, “about that..” 

“I don’t wanna hear anything else.” You square up your shoulders, “I am going in now and ask for the transfer.” 

Seungkwan calls out your name but you are already at the manager’s cabin. 

—

“Cheers,” you clink the glasses with Seungkwan’s and Nari’s. You dunk the contents in a single gulp, a bitter sigh escaping your lips. 

“Congrats on the new role,” she congratulates, with a beaming smile, “I am very happy for you.” 

Seungkwan sips on his soju, not joining in the party of your transfer and beginning of new life. His girlfriend, not knowing the reason behind his silence, chats away about her new boss and the funny antics of his. 

Seungkwan grills the meat, the sizzling sounds of the meat grabs your attention more often than you let on. He places the cooked meat on Nari’s plate, your eyes fall on your empty plate, and the growling of your stomach. You pour yourself another glass of soju, laughing at the reenactment of the fall of her new boss. 

“I couldn’t not laugh!” she fans herself, “but I was the only one with a loud laugh. He saw me, I just hope he won’t get his revenge.” 

You grab the cooked meat from the grill, and blow on it, “he wouldn’t. You are one hard working person. He is lucky to have you on his team.”

She blushes, fumbling with her thumbs. Seungkwan drops the tongs, brushing her pink cheeks. You excuse yourself to the washroom, grabbing your phone. Few messages from your colleagues congratulating on the promotion, and also sad for the transfer. Your heels halt when the email from the Get Love Quick sits on your notifications. 

You open the washroom stall, and lock yourself in, calming your nerves. You open the mail.

Dear Heartbroken soul,

Thank you for choosing us to direct you to true love. We are sad to hear your pain, and with all the shit life threw at you, we just want to apologize on behalf of life. Along with the apology we also want to throw in some delight by informing you that, *drum roll*, your date has been fixed for this Sunday. Please find the venue details below. 

Ps. As a tradition of Get Love Quick the details of your date is a surprise. Builds the anticipation *wink wink*. 

With love,

Get Love Quick

It’s already Friday today, one more day and then you have a date. Your clammy fingers don't help in clicking the venue details in the maps. You rub your sweaty palms onto your skirt, and try again typing the details. This cafe is forty minutes drive away from your apartment. 

Is it worth it? You are about to move away from this place in a couple of weeks. You have to start packing away, look for a house in the new city, and break the news to your family and friends. Who would be interested in someone who isn’t available after the first date? Highly unlikely to convert this date into a long distance relationship. A part of you believes that there’s no aspect of you that will be appealing to the other person to make him leave everything too. 

For now you put the date on the back burner. You have one more day, and it's Sunday you to decide. 

Completing your business in the washroom, you saunter back to the table, slowing down, giving space to the couple kissing. You fiddle with the promotion mails on your phone, coughing into your fist before sliding onto your stool. Seungkwan hangs his hand around his girl, color coming back in his face. Ah, she does hold the key to his heart, no wonder he was desperate to stay. 

No matter how happy you are for them, to have each other through ebbs and flows, watching them, or spending time with a couple opens a part inside you that you aren’t proud of. It reminds you of what you don’t have in your life, or what you once had. 

“I’m done for the day,” you fake yawn, “my uber is on the way, I will meet you on Monday.” You sling your handbag, walking away before he can understand the urgency in your exit. 

“You didn’t even eat anything.” He points the tongs to your full plate, “why are you leaving so soon?”

“I’m tired from all those meetings, and I am not feeling good. Need some rest.” 

If he has doubts about your poor acting, he doesn’t comment on it. You greet them good night, exiting the restaurant.  

— 

The cafe is in a run down building, the ivy creeps all over the creaks, and the light illuminating the cafe name flickers. Sweet Life. No soul is seen around the empty street, a cat mewls from the garbage can, and rustling of covers echoes. The sun is already setting with an orange hue across the sky. You share your location with Seungkwan just in case, tugging the neckline of your dress up, you open the rusty door.

“Welcome!” A woman greets from the whirring coffee machine. “Please find a seat.”

You bow in a greeting, and turn to the almost empty cafe except for, your breath catches in your throat, one person. Your feet stay rooted, your gaze not moving from him, and him staring back at you with his lips parted. The exit door is two steps away, you can run away and sleep it off like it's a bad dream. 

The door rattles open, two sleazy men brush past you, stinking of alcohol. You grab the half open door, quickly slipping past the door, your vision blurry making your ankle twist a few times. You sit on your feet, leaning against the wall, rubbing your eyes and the runny nose with the back of your hand, your breathing becomes irregular. Seungkwan. You need him to tell you what to do. You search for your phone in your wallet, dropping the papers, lip balm and keys on the road. 

You gasp for air, breathing in through your mouth, hitting your chest. Five things. List down five things, you see a crumpled tin on the pavement, you smell stinky garbage, and you hear the crack of the door opening. Two black shoes step beside you, and you smell of him. 

Jeonghan separates a tissue from the stack, and holds the back of your head, wiping your tears. You push his hand away, shaking your head trying to get out of his grasp. He grips onto your neck, pulling you closer to him, his teary eyes glaring back at you. He cleans your wet cheeks. “Breathe in,” he commands, “one..two..do it,” he pleads. 

You turn away from his touch. He sighs, kneeling on one foot, “I get it,” his voice wavers, “I know you don’t want me here.” He wipes the corner of your eyes, and below your eyes, “but let's get you calm down.” He whispers, “please, ba–” he clears his throat “–not for me but for you, okay?”

“I-It’s be-because,” you gasp for air, “of y-you.” 

Jeonghan sits next to you, on the dirty pavement, “I know.” He holds a fresh tissue to your nose, “I am sorry.” His eyes run across your face, “I didn’t know, or else,” he trails off. 

You grab the tissue from him, and blow your nose, sitting on your bum next to him. “Or else you wouldn’t have come.” You hiccup, folding the tissue, “like always.”

He grabs the used tissue from you, stacking all of them next to him. He hands you a new one. Both of you sit in silence, his shoulder leaning against yours, while you catch your breath. 

He picks up your discarded items and puts them back in your wallet, “are you good now?” 

You pick on the ends of the tissue, sniffling, why is he my date out of all? Jeonghan clasps your wallet shut, drumming his fingers on the black surface of it, his long messy strands obscuring his face. 

He is here, next to you, after almost two years, breathing and you can feel his warmth unlike the Jeonghan in your dreams. But why now? When you were all set to move on with someone, anyone new. Leaving everything and him behind in a couple of weeks. What kind of cruel joke is the universe playing now? 

“Better than when you left me,” you reply. The bitterness in your words flinches him, he drops his head to his lap, fiddling with his thumbs. You scoff, “are you nervous now?” How dare you feel nervous? 

Jeonghan sighs, “I get it you hate me.”

“Hate, Jeonghan? Hate? You ruined me. You left me to tend to myself. I..” your voice wavers, remembering standing outside his apartment, begging him to open up, “what is the point anyway. Reiterating everything won’t change anything.” You grab your wallet from him, you hold onto his thigh helping yourself stand, “you will still be that bastard and I will still be.. me.” 

Jeonghan stands up, falling in step with you as you walk without any direction and your anger being the only navigator. “I’m sorry,” he holds your wrist, turning you to him, “I’m really sorry.” 

“Sorry?” You hit his chest, he stumbles back, “do you think saying sorry will heal me? All those nights,” you are crying again, “all…” you hit him, “those..” another hit “nights..” he accepts all your hits. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Stop saying that!” You shout. “You don’t even mean it.” You grab his shirt, his familiar warm woody scent cracks your semblance. “You don’t even.. mean it.” You inch closer, nuzzling into his chest, inhaling his scent. 

God, no!

You push him away, “no, no, no.” You turn around, running away from him and the dead feelings sprouting back. 

Few more steps and you will reach the road. Some taxis should be there for you to go back home. Before you can come into proper light, he tugs you back. 

“Please,” he begs, “one chance. One dinner,” he holds your hands, squeezing them. 

The streetlight falls on him, you forget your anger for a moment, reaching to his brown bruise on his chin and split lips. “What happened to you?” 

He leans into your palm, closing his eyes, tears falling onto your arm. He grips onto your other hand, “please, one more chance.” 

“What makes you think you deserve it?” 

Jeonghan slowly opens his eyes, his brown eyes flicking across your face, “you still carry my picture.” He holds up your left hand, tracing the print of the ring that used to be on your ring finger.  

You shove his hand away, “I’m not meeting you anytime soon. Or anymore.” 

You sink in the new details of him one last time, he lost weight, and the dark circles under his eyes are prominent. The bruise on his cheek is dark, and the split on his lip is red with blood. What on earth is he doing with himself? You don’t have it in you to know the reason, scared you will crumble here and now, taking him back into your life in a beat.

“Have a good life, Jeonghan.”

Jeonghan speaks up, halting you from moving away. “When you are not wanted or needed by anyone then you cease to exist.” You look in his eyes, the dark ones hold yours, “The moment,” he is towering over you, clad in black long coat, “you walked away, my existence went away with you.” He silences you, pressing his finger onto your lips, “I am an idiot who didn’t realize your worth and,” he brushes your cheek with his thumb, “took you for granted.

“I tried everything, baby,” he rests his head over yours, bending to your height, “nothing is you. I was searching for you in everyone,” his breath hits your forehead, “and no one is you. I am not asking you to take me back,” you look in his eyes, “yet. One dinner, one chance is all I ask.”

When he meets your silence, he calls out your name in a soft whisper. “Baby,” he pulls your chin up, “one dinner.” 

And you crumble like a historic building holding years of past, falling apart. You are nodding to his request even before you know. 

—

The day’s heaviness settles on your shoulder, the entire ride back home has been a blur. Pushing past the door, you enter your apartment, leaving your high heels and keys. Seungkwan is already at your flat, lounging on the couch, eating your snacks. He springs to his feet, rushing towards you, “what happened? Why are you crying?” 

You throw your wallet onto the coffee table, the potato chip bag crunching under your feet as you make your way to the couch. Seungkwan sits next to you, questioning you. Your phone vibrates on the coffee table, he grabs it at a lightning speed, opening it and his eyes going wide, dropping the phone on the carpet. 

“Fuck.” 

He pulls you into a bear hug. You sob into his shoulder, incoherent words leaving your lips in an attempt to explain what happened. He pats your head, cooing comforting words. 

“He is there, Seungkwan.” You rub your eyes, “he is my date. How can this happen?” 

“I am sorry,” he holds your arms, tears in his eyes, “I am so sorry. It’s all because of me, I shouldn’t have forced you to–”

“No,” you pick your phone from the carpet, unlocking it. “It would have happened sooner or later.” 

Did you reach home safely?

-Hannie

“Block him.”

Locking your phone, you hide it behind you. “Can’t.” 

He frowns, “why?”

You drop your gaze to your lap, “we are meeting on Tuesday for dinner.” 

The expletives leaving from Seungkwan’s mouth makes you shut your ears. “Hand me over your phone now.” He extends his palm, waiting. Your bottom lip quivers, you give a slow shake of your head. “For fuck’s sake.” He reaches for it, and you hold it with your entire being. 

“Listen to me, listen to me,” you plead, Seungkwan reclines back in his seat. “He just wanted one dinner,” you raise your arm when Seungkwan opens his mouth, “only one dinner. And with my schedule, I won’t be able to meet him more than that.” You reason. “I will be away, and he won’t be there. I think this will be the end.”

“End my foot.” Seungkwan snatches the phone from you, and hits the block button. “He is back at it again. Getting into fights, summoned by po—”

“Fights?” 

Seungkwan bites his tongue in grimace. “Nothing.”

“Seungkwan.” Your voice is firm, thinking about the bruises on his face. What on earth is he up to? Fights? You knew he had some issues managing his tongue but he never hit someone out of anger. “What are you hiding?” 

Seungkwan clutches his head in a groan, leaning back on the couch. “I’ll tell you if you promise me you won’t meet him.” 

You gape at him, your lips opening and closing without a single word escaping. Anger seeps into your thoughts, hating the way Seungkwan is interfering in your life. “I am telling you that it's going to be only one dinner!” 

He flinches at your sharp voice, glaring back at you. “And I know you!” He fights back, “I saw you. It's not gonna be a single dinner.” 

He holds your arm, handing you your phone back. “I am not against you,” he stands up, “I was with you, am with you and will always be.” 

Guilt crawls into your heart, god, it’s happening again. How can you lash out at Seungkwan? This is exactly why Jeonghan re-entering your life is catastrophic. The chaos he left took you long enough to calm it down. And now with your behavior you aren’t sure Seungkwan is going to stay with you this time. 

“I’m sorry.” You apologize, staring at the blocked contact on your phone, tracing his message. You lock the phone, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have,” you gesture between you two, “I’m sorry. I won’t meet him.” 

Seungkwan takes your hands in his, sitting next to you, “you have to believe me.” You nod, not meeting his gaze. “I know it seems tempting and you want to have him back but,” he tilts to the side, wanting you to look at him, “he is not worth it. Not worthy of your love.”

Flashes of Jeonghan holding you, calming you and wiping your tears and snort crosses your mind. The tenderness in his gestures, regularizing you out of the anxiety attack, and the desperation to meet you one more time. If this ain’t love then what is? 

But you don’t say this to Seungkwan, he wouldn’t understand you or Jeonghan. Your relationship with Jeonghan wasn't smooth sailing like Seungkwan’s is. You had your high tides, heavy rains and darkest sails but he was your port, your anchor, and the morning always came. 

“Yeah,” you pull your arms out of his hold. “Go home, Seungkwan, it’s late.” 

He is silent for a few seconds, but stands up ready to leave. 

“Should I know why Jeonghan is involved in fights?” You ask from the couch. 

Seungkwan holds the door open, turning to you, “it's better if you don’t.”

So it is because of you.

—

Packing your entire life and moving away isn’t as easy as you thought it would be. The boxes around you are overwhelming, and yet the packing is the only thing that’s keeping you sane. 

It’s been a week since your meeting with Jeonghan. Work has been hectic leaving you little time to think about the notifications of the blocked contact. It feels like a drink is placed before a recovering alcoholic, tempting yet restraining yourself. 

Your phone lights up again with another notification of the blocked caller. You flip the phone, tackling the old clothes into a box. Why did you buy all of these? Folding an old sweater your attention drifts to your phone. One call or text wouldn’t hurt, right? Or unblocking him is not going to hurt you. He is your Jeonghan after all. 

Shaking yourself out of it you shove the sweater into the box. You kneel down on the floor, bending to grab the clothes shoved inside of your cupboard. Jeonghan’s. Hoodies and oversized T-shirts of his you loved to wear. 

You pluck the blue oversized tee, running your hand over the softness, a laugh tumbling out of you at the memory.

He spent an entire week searching for the tee only to find you wearing it one night. He stood near the kitchen counter, hands folded across his chest, pissed. 

You didn’t dare to acknowledge him knowing he is waiting for you to give in. Or some explanation on why you searched for the tee along with him when you are very well aware where it is hiding.  

You chop the carrots into thin slices and pretend he isn’t standing near you. He scoffs, his slippers hitting against the wooden floors as he approaches you. You slithered to the side slowly, peeking over your shoulders. 

Anger is replaced with a lopsided grin on his face, he drags you to him by the shirt. He locks your wrists behind your back and grabs your face, leaving stinging kisses. Hearing your grumbles, and chasing lips for his’ in need of a proper kiss, he spanks your ass muttering, “punishment.”

You stuff his clothes into an empty moving box before it can pull you into the darkness of his memories. Wiping your tears with your shirt sleeve. The phone lights up yet with another notification. Another call from the blocked contact. 

A sob leaves your lips, why is he so insistent now? After all these months why is he adamant on talking to you. The urge to unblock him and text him is uncontrollable, but Seungkwan’s words run through your mind. You imagine his disappointed face once he knows that you didn’t listen to him, and honestly you are a little scared that he will stop talking to you. You are scared that the only person who cares about you will leave you, just like everyone else. 

Clearing the notifications you shoot a text to Seungkwan. 

Need to drop these off at Jeonghan’s. 

-sent

I’ll drop by and do that. 

-Seungkwan

One last glance at the box containing his clothes you are overcome by the need, and pluck one of his black hoodies. You pull over the hoodie, hugging yourself as you curl up on the floor next to a half filled trolley and dozens of boxes. 

—

Jeonghan is pacing around his living room, chewing on the unlit cigarette. He dials your number again and again. Blocked? How can you block him? You didn’t delete him away after the break up, but you did it now? Not when you agreed to meet him for dinner, and he can tell a lie, especially when it's coming from you. 

He drops the cigarette on the couch rustling through his drawers for the unused phone. It should have another sim, if he can contact you with it he can end this torture. Going to your house is also an option that he considered dearly, he didn’t want to cross that last boundary. Not especially when you are putting up a wall for some reason. Oh, how he so wants to fuck the rules. 

The knock on his door garners his attention from throwing the notebooks and mail from the drawer like a raccoon sifting through trash. He runs his hand through his unkempt hair watching Seungkwan standing outside his door. He leaves the door open, massaging the space between his eyebrows. Seungkwan visiting him will never end in peace.  

“Here.” Seungkwan throws a bag onto the couch. The bag bounces off the couch and falls on the floor. “Your clothes.” 

Jeonghan turns around at those words, frowning. His clothes? Why would Seungkwan have–ah. He pads over the strewn notebooks and papers on the floor, reaching for a new cigarette, his fingers shaky. The bits and pieces aligning themself, the abandoned dinner, blocked contact, and now—his clothes. He glares over his shoulder at the man who is ruining his life, along with yours. You would never ever even dare to discard a single message from him. 

“Don’t ever contact her.” Seungkwan warns, completing surveying Jeonghan’s dumpster called home. “She finally moved on.”

Jeonghan rests his hand on the wooden surface, the cigarette crushing between his fingers. He tilts his head to the side, giving a once-over at the friend of his ex. “Did she, now?”

Seungkwan takes a threatening step forward, “Don’t you dare, Yoon Jeonghan.” He fists his hand, “you are a bastard, and have you seen yourself,” he spits, “do you think she needs someone like you?” 

Images of you laughing at his mess and swatting his shoulder before dragging him to clean up crosses his mind. He loved those moments. 

“You don’t deserve a second of her attention.” Seungkwan continues, “Go back to your devious ways and party life. And leave her alone.”

He storms out of the apartment, leaving behind a seething Jeonghan. 

Fuck rules. 

—

You rustle under your blanket, the faint knock on your door stirring you out of your slumber. The night is up outside your window, the cool spring air blowing in, curtains flying in tune with it. Another knock. No one visits you at ten in the night, peeling off the thin blanket you step in the empty spots between trolleys and card boxes. Did Seungkwan need something from you? 

Your roommate winces at your sleepy state once you open the door. She looks over to her left scowling. “I tried.”

What? Your eyebrows pull in at the confusion, what’s going on? 

Jeonghan steps in, hovering over your roommate. The sleep goes away from your body, nervous system kicking in for the fight or flight response. What is he doing here? His blood red eyes doesn’t move away from you, drinking in your bed head, and the—shit, fuck, his hoodie. Your knuckles turn white from the deadly grip on the door handle, shut it. 

“Call me if you need me.” Your roommate steps away, giving space for him to come closer.

He crowds over you, his cozy scent mixed with cigarette smell messing with your senses. You push the door to a close on his face, his hand holds the door, his strength threatening over yours, he pushes it open with ease. If he was angry earlier, now he is pissed. His chest brushes your face, his hand coming over your shoulders, bringing you both inside your room, and shuts the door behind him, turning the lock in. 

“Why?” 

Desperateness clings to your voice. The grip on your shoulder causes you to jerk back, pushing his chest away from you. He backs away to the door, hands behind him. Your fingers hover over the light switch, wondering whether to turn it on or not. Seeing him might make it harder for you to handle all the emotions. The memories of him you have in this room, the ones that kept you going and also pulled you back, drove you crazy and now with him in the space won’t help you hold back anymore.  

The light stays off, the street light falling from your window is the only illumination outlining the shadow of him. You are standing next to the window a few feet away from him, your hands clasped behind your back. 

Jeonghan shuffles across the room, his hand tracing the edge of the table placed near the window, a few steps away from you but closer than before. He leans on the table with one hand, another stuffed in his jean pocket. A car headlights flashes across your room, he is wearing the blue t-shirt. He got his clothes back. 

“You aren’t picking my calls.” 

“Didn’t feel like it,” you answer after a beat.  

“You or Seungkwan?”

You snap your head from your fingers to him, “What?”

Another step forward. “You have so many protecting you,” he pauses, and adds with a slight shake in his voice, “from your villain.” He dips his head to the floor, his hair cascading his face. 

You prick on your fingers, locking them behind you. No, you can’t touch him. 

A chuckle escapes from him, he flips his head back, running his crooked fingers through the hair. “I earned the title.” He shrugs. “But,” he singled out his focus on you, “I would’ve stopped calling if,” another step, “you didn’t want me.” He tilts his head, the light from the window directly falling on him, his frown, “but for Seungkwan?”  

“I didn’t want to see you.” A half lie.  

His lip curls into a smirk, “you couldn’t lie then.” He nods to himself, “and you can’t lie now. So, don’t.” 

“Why are you here, Yoon Jeonghan?” 

He is toying with the bobble head on your desk. “Why do you think so?” 

The words rattles the last wall you are holding up. Tears prick your eyes, exhaustion creeps up your bones. “Stop,” your voice wavers, he looks up with confused eyes, “please.” 

The frown line between his eyes is prominent, he lets go of the bobble head and is standing next to you. His scent engulfs you, clouding all your thoughts. “Don’t cry,” his hand reaches for your cheek but stops, not touching. “Please.” The crack in his voice is too much. 

You step away from him, stumbling on the trolley. He stabilises you by your arm. You push away his grip, backing away to the bed. Pulling up the blanket you hide beneath it. A sob escaping. The bed dips, he holds your knee over the blanket. 

“Let me see you,” he pleads, “one last time, and I’ll leave. But don’t cry.” 

You shake your head. “You are the worst.”

“I’m sorry.” 

“Yo-you ca-can’t come-comeb-ack and.. and,” you hiccup, sobbing uncontrollably. “Ex-expect me-me to be ok.”

He pulls you into a hug, the blanket slips off your face. He pats your head, “please, don’t cry.” His cheek presses into yours, nuzzling his nose into your hair. “I don’t want you to cry. If being with me makes you cry then,” he grips onto your shoulder, pressing himself tightly, “then I’ll leave.” 

“You always leave.” You free yourself from him. Breathing in and out to regulate yourself. “Always.”

Jeonghan holds you down, “if you want me to stay, I’ll stay.” He brushes the stray strands off your face, “but if I’m going to be the reason for you to cry then I won’t. I don’t want you to cry, not again.

“I realise my mistakes. I shouldn’t have been the asshole, and ran away from our problems that day. I’m sorry. Hate me, hit me and slap me all you want till your anger subsides. But don’t cry. You and I, we both want each other,” he holds the drawstrings of your hoodie, “we are for each other. I’ll wait till you can accept me.” 

“Lies.” You turn away from his pleading face. “I have seen you. And your fuck buddies.” 

Jeonghan groans, rubbing his face in frustration. “I didn’t sleep with anyone. There was no one after you.” He clings onto you, “I did go out but it never worked.” 

You scoff, not believing his words. The pictures looked pretty chummy for you to believe that nothing happened afterwards, especially knowing how handsy Jeonghan can be. 

“I can dial all my dates and let them speak to you,” he pulls out his phone, opening the messaging app and scrolling through dozens of unanswered chats. 

You hold his hand before he hits the dial button. “No need.” Like Jeonghan, you can tell when he is lying or not. “But you moved on pretty quickly.” 

“I had to.” He answers quickly, “or else I would have sorted you back. And it wouldn’t have been a good choice.” 

“Why?”

“You weren’t happy,” his voice drops, barely a whisper, “and I wasn’t too. And it really gutted me to see you cry,” he sounds distant, like lost in a memory, “I hate to see you cry, whether we were fighting or not. It didn’t matter that I was angry at you. And when it became clear that I was the reason for you crying every night, I couldn’t do it any longer.

“I wondered maybe if I stepped away from–” his voice breaks “–your life then you would finally be happy. You don’t know how much my chest hurt when you were crying outside my door. Baby,” the nickname slips his mouth before he can hold it back, “I really thought you would be happy, and if I had known,” he wipes your tears tenderly, “it would break you this bad, I would not have done it.” 

“It’s for good.” You say, “we needed space. I was too much, too greedy for you and your attention.” 

“No–” 

You cut him off, “let me talk. I realized how it tortured you, I occupied your entire life. I restrained you, what not. I did later on hear from your friends on how.. how you cancelled all your plans and didn’t meet them.” You chuckle, fumbling with your fingers, “and that’s just the tip of the iceberg. I am sorry. Truly.”

“I don’t want–”

“And as much as we want to rework on our relationship,” you cut in again, “I don’t think it’ll work again. Not only because of our pre-existing issues, but there are few others.” 

He shifts uncomfortably, “like?”

“Like, I am moving away in a week.” You gesture around the trolleys and moving boxes. “I was that needy when you were next to me, imagine us doing long distance.” You chuckle imagining the disaster it will be, the tears shining on the edge of your eyes. “I might even kill you.”

“You are moving?” 

The smile vanishes noticing the hurt laced in his words. “Yeah. That should explain the mess in my room. You know how much–”

“You hate messy room. I know.” 

“Yeah..”

Silence cascades between you two. He is ruffling his hair, a tic whenever he is in distress. You pick on your finger not knowing what to say or how to.. end things again. It shouldn’t hurt as much as it did the first time, right? Maybe this time you may walk out unharmed as long as you don’t remember that Jeonghan wants to try things again. If only it was as easy as telling yourself to just forget. 

Jeonghan wouldn’t move from Seoul or quit his job where he put in his blood, sweat and tears. The long nights and weekends he invested, the ranks he climbed are too dear to him to lose now. You aren’t that special anymore for him to resign and find you. Bidding your goodbyes now is the right thing to do. 

“I–”

“Where are you moving to?” He asks. “What about your job? The lease? Your parents?”

You hear the unasked question. What about me?

“I am being transferred to another branch. Seungkwan was supposed to go but his girlfriend–”

Jeonghan snorts. “Explains. You are lifting your entire life just for a friend?” 

“He is my brother.” You snap. “If not for my father he will be the one to walk me down the aisle. Don’t downplay our friendship.”

“How can I not? He is the reason you weren’t talking to me. Me! He is ruining whatever we are having or would have.”

“Because he saw me. He helped me put myself back when you were galavanting with your dates and what not!” 

“This is too much to do for someone else. It isn’t right. If he is chosen he has to go no matter what.” 

You stare at Jeonghan in the dark, “this is nothing compared for people we love. If you loved someone then you would have understood.” 

Nodding to yourself at his silence, you pull your hoodie sleeves over your fingers. “I am not going to tell you where I am moving to, Jeonghan. It wouldn’t help either of us. I would be too stuck up in hopes that you would come, and you wouldn’t even bother to..” you shake your head, “what’s the point. We are running in circles.

“We had a good five years, maybe four before it all went down. But it's something I cherish for the rest of my life.” You cup his cheek, “have a good life, Jeonghan. Don’t drink too much, or smoke. Clean up after yourself, and,” you feel wetness crawling on your hand, “and, you are a good person. If we had met in different timelines where you weren’t distant and I wasn’t desperate, we would have ended up in an ocean side house with a little family like you always wanted.”

He rests his head on your forehead, his tears falling on your cheeks. “Bye, Jeonghan.”

—

Yangsan is a breath of fresh air. It’s more of a town than a city, reminding you a little of your hometown. Neighbors were friendly helping you lug your furniture up the stairs to the first floor. Your ears strained from listening to them go off about the highlights this city has to offer. Sparkly, full of life. 

Their words blend with the sounds of the ocean. You saunter to the balcony attached to the living room, sliding the glass doors. Salty air hits you in the face, a little treat for your sweaty self. The summer sun sits in the middle of the sky, shining brighter than ever you have seen, blinding you for a few seconds. Adjusting to the light, the blueness of the ocean pulls you further. 

The sounds of the waves rattles the serene feeling, an overwhelming emotion consuming your entire being. You gamble with the risk of staying near to the ocean, the stench and cyclones, but if you are going to live here for a year you want it to be somewhere you love. 

You got a feeling— a hunch, that you are going to love Yangsan. It’s about time.

—

Work at the new branch turns out to be better than your previous office—minus not having Seungkwan. The new role is full of heavy responsibilities as you have to carry a team of six. Growing closer to them was a task, and it took you three months to reach this point. 

“Thank you for all your hard work.” You beam at your small team cooped up in the meeting room. Tired smiles thrown back at you. “Should we grab dinner and have some—”

The team is already up, closing their laptops and hurrying out of the meeting room. You have never seen an enthusiastic team for a team dinner. Seungkwan and you had to drag yourselves to the dreadful and boring dinner which was borderline a self-boasting manager session. 

Hansol, one of your juniors, is closing his notes and capping his pen. Neatly coiling his charger cable, he sets everything on top of his laptop. 

“Hansol,” you approach him slowly, like getting near to a stray kitten afraid you might make it run away, “are you coming for dinner?” 

He straightens, rubbing his neck. “Ah..”

“I mean no big deal but the team would be happy to have you with us. Afterall you were the key player to lock in the client. You need to celebrate.” You persuade, or more like try to. 

Hansol is known for skipping the team dinners, happy hours and laying low until it’s crucial work. One month into the office, you heard the rumours floating around, Hansol moved back from Seoul. His childhood sweetheart and love of his life cheated on him. It’s his third year in this branch, and he still eats alone most of the time. You didn’t dig deeper, if time comes then he will be ready to talk about it. 

You would be lying if you say you don’t have a soft spot for him. You saw a part of you in him, in his absent stares, hunched back, and disassociated nature. Coming out of love can be heart wrenching, imagining a betrayal from the most trusted person is just dying. The dark cloud is always over his head, a smile as rare as a comet. All you could do is hope that he will find his happiness again. 

He traces his finger along the coiled charger. “I mean it's fine if you don’t want to,” you jump in scared that you are acting as your previous manager. “But I really appreciate all your help.” You smile when he finally looks at you. “Keep up the good work! See you on Monday.” 

Sunhee, your other junior is standing by the door, her handbag on her arm. Anxious eyes on the man trailing behind you. Turning off the lights you cross check the meeting room before closing it. 

“Are you going to your cats again?” Sunhee asks Hansol. 

“Ah..” he rubs the back of his neck, looking at her for a second before staring at the floor. After a brief moment he adds, “nah, coming for dinner.”

The girl’s cheeks tint pink, jaw slack open. You shake your head, walking to your desk and packing away your day. 

— 

The dinner turns rowdier than you anticipated. One by one of your co-workers are being sent home, leaving you with slightly buzzed Sunhee, Hansol, and two more of your co-workers waiting on their ride home. 

“I’ll pour you a drink,” Sunhee grabs the soju bottle, giggling at the swirling liquid, “round, round,” she mimics the movement with her head, “ah, dizzy.”

You slap her hand away from the bottle, “no more drinks. You are going home next.” 

“Whaaaaaaaaaaaat??!?!??” She cups her mouth, tears springing in her eyes. “You can’t do this to me!!” Coyly she flits her gaze to the man sitting across her, “Chwe Hansol!” 

The man, already tipsy with overly bobbing his head, said, “that’s me.” 

“Why??” She screeches, “for the love of the god—”

“Amen.” He bows. 

You throw your head back laughing at the ridiculous scene unfolding before you. 

Sunhee hits him with a crumpled up tissue. “CHWE HANSOL!” 

He straightens up, “yes, ma’am.”

“For the love of the god,” she repeats, he mutters another amen, “why? Why won’t you understand?” She continues over his giggles. 

His giggles die down. She slumps over the table, her long hair all over the place. You awkwardly look across the two, scratching your forehead wondering whether you should stay or give them the private space. 

The team has already gone home except for you three. Sending them home is also your responsibility as the sober one and as a senior. One look at the distressed girl next to you makes you slouch back giving them the time they needed. 

It’s no secret that Sunhee loves Hansol. From bringing in his favorite coffee to staying back overtime just so she could leave with him. Countless conversation starters only to end with a nod from him. 

“Look at me,” she pleads, “please look at me.” Her voice quivers, “I’m standing here waiting for you to look at me.” 

Hansol twirls the liquid in his glass, her words going over him. He doesn’t reply or even acknowledge her words, all her efforts and love are one-sided. 

You attempt to stand up and leave them to talk, maybe without you between them Hansol might talk. 

Sunhee grabs your hand, tear stained cheeks and bloodshot eyes, “if you leave he isn’t gonna stay. Please.” 

You concede, patting her back in quiet encouragement. 

“I answered you.” He replies after a prolonged silence. “It’s not gonna change.” 

Your heart breaks watching tears spill from Sunhee’s eyes onto her lap. Her attention is not wavering from the one boy who is actively avoiding her. You slip your hand into hers, pressing it in a reassuring way. 

She squeezes back, a wavering smile and she picks her bag. “See you on Monday, senior.” She salutes, laughing with tears. “Bye, Hansol.” 

“Can I drop you home?” You ask. 

“I sobered up. Thank you.” She walks out of the table, and her wobbly steps towards the exit. 

Hansol refills his empty glass, sipping on it in silence. You check for the notifications on your phone, another missed call from Seungkwan. You sigh, you have to answer him one day. 

“I’m a villain in your eyes right?” Hansol’s question cuts through the awkward silence. “A bastard who broke the sweetest girl on the earth.” 

You set your phone down, shaking your head vehemently. “No, Hansol.” 

He chuckles to himself, pouring another glass of drink. “The funny part is my sweetest girl on the earth broke me beyond repair.” He looks at you, but distant, lost in thought. “I feel something after so long,” his hand is over his heart. “I feel bad for breaking her. But she deserves more than what I could offer.” 

You frown. 

“It’s for her best.” 

His words trigger the angrier side of you. You shouldn’t mix your past with their future. Before you can restrain yourself a scoff slips past your lips. 

His eyes widen, “what?” 

“If you don’t have guts to change yourself, then don’t say stuff like ‘it’s for her’,” you say, “if you want her then pick your ass up and get your life together.” 

Hansol blinks. 

“I mean,” you run a hand through your hair, “thinking about it, if you are letting her go because she deserves more, then you should have at least a little bit of interest in her right?”

He doesn’t agree nor deny. 

“Do you doubt Sunhee’s capability of decision making?” 

“No.” His answer is quick. “Her decisions led us to achieve the highest returns.”

“See.” You refill his empty glass, “she knows you for years, she likes you, and she has an idea of what she will get out of this relationship. So don’t bullshit yourself saying she deserves more.” 

Hansol is lost in thought. His gaze on the exit where Sunhee disappeared. 

“She isn’t your ex. I can’t say she won’t break your heart,” your voice lowers, “you never know what life makes you do but you can’t deny something beautiful just so you are scared.

“And that’s where I’ll stop. I have already butt in where I shouldn’t have. Do you have a ride home?” 

Hansol checks his phone, “yeah. My neighbor is around and he said he’ll pick me up.” 

“That’s kind of him.” You comment. “People around here are more hospitable than the ones in Seoul.” 

“He is from Seoul.” Hansol clarifies, “he came here,” he ponders, “one or two months back? But he is always travelling back and forth.” 

“Ah. Seoul has good people too then.” 

“You are from Seoul.” He frowns, “you are a good person.” 

You turn pink from his compliment. “Th-thank you. I’ll be right back.” 

You take a much needed washroom break. The day has been tiring, and very long. Did you overstep in counselling Hansol? Who are you to lecture him on what he should or shouldn’t think? You couldn’t help yourself listening to him say the same words once you heard from your ex.

Washing your hands you wipe them off with a paper towel. Yoon Jeonghan. It's been six months since your last conversation with him. How is he doing? You are actively trying to not think about your life from Seoul, pushing everything away that reminded you of that time. Sadly, Seungkwan also falls into that category hence screening his calls too. 

Jeonghan must be living his dream. He isn’t the one to fall back in life. The grit and passion he has shown is enough testament. He must have moved on by now. Found a girl who is of his ideal type, not someone needy and clingy. 

You rush out of the washroom before you submerge yourself in self-pity. This is Yangsan. And this is new you. No more Yoon Jeonghan. No more… 

A man in a long black coat catches your attention for having a similar build as your ex lover. You search for his hair to make sure if he is your Jeonghan. Sadly he is wearing a cap. Your steps pick up its pace, following the stranger amidst the drunken men going towards washroom. 

The stranger whispers something to Hansol and exits. Hansol’s neighbour? 

“Senior!” Hansol waves to you, “caught you in the right moment. My ride's here, see you on Monday.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” You crane your neck to get a sight of the stranger but he is already out of the restaurant. “Did your neighbour come?” 

He nods. “I have to go. I’m sorry. He’s a bit short tempered.” He winces. “But thank you for all your help. Thank you.” 

“No problem.” You pick your own bag ready to leave. “Have a great weekend, Hansol. Remember to get some sun.” 

He smiles before leaving. 

You pay the bill at the counter, berating yourself. What were you thinking? Yoon Jeonghan here? In a nameless city? He didn’t put his feet anywhere remotely as close to a town. Even your trips while dating were to some exotic places. 

Why are you following some stranger? Why are you still looking for him when you ended things with him? When will you learn? 

—

You are at a restaurant again. This time Hansol chooses a seat next to Sunhee. During the one month since the team dinner, there have been little changes in Hansol. He has been starting conversations—not every single time but once or twice in a couple of weeks. He tries to attend the happy hours every Thursday. 

Biggest change of all is he doesn’t shut down Sunhee completely. He sits in his chair when she comes around and doesn’t leave like previous times. Talks in sentences instead of one or two word answers. All in all you are proud to see the change. 

“You are drinking tonight?” Sunhee holds the soju bottle, suspicious of your sudden need for alcohol. “Are you really sure you can hold your liquor?” 

You roll your eyes, “I should be asking you that. Do you even remember what you do once you are drunk? Should I remind you of the countless times I have to drag your screaming ass?”

Hansol snickers. 

“You too. You were the worst. How can you sleep in the middle of the road?!” 

Hansol plucks the soju from Sunhee and pours you a drink. “Enjoy your night, senior.” 

He is shutting you up with alcohol but you don’t complain, drowning it in one gulp. Ah, the bitterness. You missed the feeling.

“Pour me one too.” Sunhee shoves her glass into his face. “Why are you hiding it? I need a drink too.” 

“Another!” You slam your empty glass on the table. 

Hansol fulfills your request. You drain down the contents. 

“Slow down.” Sunhee attempts to steal your glass. You slap her hand away. “What’s gotten into you today?” 

“The rain doesn’t look like it’s gonna stop soon.” Hansol sighs, “I can’t believe we are in October already.” 

Sunhee nods, momentarily forgetting about you stealing the bottle and pouring yourself another drink. “It’s getting chilly. I have to take out my scarves and cardigans.” 

“October,” you sigh, dragging all of your hair to one side, “I hate octobers.” 

“And that’s because?” 

“Just hate it.” You shake your head, pouting. The table starts to spin, “hate it hate it.” 

“She’s gone.” Hansol concludes. 

“Not even half a bottle? You are drunk only from four glasses?” Sunhee throws her arms in the air, “I can’t believe you.” 

You giggle into your palms. “Hehe.” 

Sunhee and Hansol sit in silence, dropping everything to watch you, the ever uptight senior, always in control of every moment, giggling to yourself. 

“Did you see what I saw?” Sunhee nudges Hansol’s ribs. 

He gives an affirmative nod. 

“What I’m saying is!!” You stand up holding the soju bottle as your mic, “hello! Everyone!” 

The elder men all hooted back. Sunhee grabs your arm from across the table, whisper-yelling you to sit down. 

The overhead lights are brighter than your future, blinding you for a second. “Hehe,” you snicker at the futile attempts of Sunhee to make you shut up, “I love youuuuu guysss.” 

“Love you back, princess.” One of the drinkers calls back. 

Few other voices overlap your muzzled brain can’t decipher. You turn to the audience, “what?” 

A hand clamps your mouth shut, another hand dragging you out of the restaurant. “Touch alcohol one more time and you’ll see my—”

You fumble over your heel at an unseen step, falling onto your knees and hands. You giggle remembering something similar happened to you. You sit down on the wet floor wondering when you fell on the floor. 

It was related to someone you love. “Loved.” You mutter to yourself, sadness washing all over you, “loved.” You toy with the sleeves of your shirt. “Is he celebrating now?” 

Sunhee picks you up by your shoulder, “I can’t with you and this city. I am fed up. Stand up please. I can’t carry you all on my own. Where the fuck is Hansol?” 

You lean on her shoulder, wrapping your arms around her. “Why do you hate this city so much? I love it!” 

“Are you being serious now? What’s there to love about this city? No one loves this city except you.” 

“That’s not true.” You watch a car approaching you two. “Hannie will love it.” 

“Hannie?” She steals a glance at you. “Hansol? Since when did you two become nickname basis?”

Hansol gets down from the parked car, grabs you from Sunhee helping you into the car. He drops you on the seat, you plop down from the sudden release hitting the roof of the car. Your mind blanks out a second, pain vibrating throughout your skull. 

“Careful.” Sunhee chides from behind, helps you sit up in the seat before buckling you up. “Are you okay? Should we go to the hospital?” 

You smile, shaking your head. 

“Are you sure?” 

You nod. 

Hansol drives you home. The rain hits the window harshly, the water sliding down in a hurry. Your eyes droop, blinking slowly at the blurry window. It’s October 4th. The day you dread, his birthday. 

You honestly thought you were doing great. Going out, talking with new people, actively not pushing away people who show interest in you and even went on a date. It ended on a friendly note but the point is you moved on. 

Until a memory or a food or a tv show reminds you of him. In the middle of the day when you hear someone hum a song he used to sing, you have to spend thirty minutes in the restroom consoling yourself, or overwork yourself to death. 

Then you realised you can’t tear him away from your life. He is going to cross your mind, strangle your heart, and it will always leave a bitter taste of what could have been if you weren’t scared. If you were a little brave to accept him again, brave to loose Seungkwan over Jeonghan, and brave to face another heartbreak, you would have been celebrating his birthday. 

Sunhee tugs you to your flat, holding your arm and keeping you from rain. The umbrella pokes your shoulder now and then, you stretch your arm enjoying the rain drops on your hand. 

“Rain is pretty,” you mumble. A little sad that you are already under the roof. “Pretty, just like Hannie.”

“Hannie?” Hansol asks, confused. 

“Hannie, Hansol.” Sunhee doesn’t spare him a glance, helping you up the stairs. “I didn’t know you were close.” 

Hansol frowns, trying to squeeze between you two to face her. “I’m not close with her.”

“Keys?” She searches for the pocket you pointed in your bag. “Are you hungry? I can whip something up in a minute.”

You saunter into your home going straight to your bedroom. Opening your closet you grab the yellow pillow and fall on your comfortable bed. You nuzzle deeper into the pillow, mumbling his name. 

“I don’t think she is calling for me.” Hansol stands at the door watching you cry into the pillow. 

“Unrequited love?” 

“Or an ex.” 

—

The first time you have seen Jeonghan is at a party you weren’t invited to. The infamous yet rowdy party happening at one of the houses near your campus is always the talk of the town—a whisper shared between two, and then three. Next you were hoping you could at least get a glimpse of the dancing crowd and games. 

Seungkwan, your almost knight in shining armour, dragged you along with him in hopes of shaking off the semester end exams. You were going back home tomorrow for the winter break, and he is staying back to work to save money. 

Girls dressed in the shortest possible skirts, and moderately covering their assets you realized how outdated you are living. The long skirt you are donning is a hazard from the number of times you tripped, and almost dragged a stranger along with you to the floor if not for the wall. 

Meandering the long halls, and along the locked rooms, you rest against the railing of the veranda. In spite of the chaoticness there was no one accompanying you, Seungkwan took a detour when he saw his crush from the statistics class. The full moon is shining in the sky, shining tranquility upon the drunk hazed people, and from the clouds eclipsing the moon your gaze falls on him. 

He has neck length hair, mostly black, wavy at the ends. Bobbing his head to the chants from his group, “Yoon Jeonghan! Yoon Jeonghan!” He gestures his hand for them to chant louder, cupping his ear with a smirk. They comply, his name louder than the music blasting from a huge speaker. 

A beer bottle is passed to him. He chugs its contents in a single lift, his Adam's apple moving along with his each gulp. He throws the bottle to the side, brushing his wet lips with the back of his hand. People burst out in cheers. He ducks down his hair hiding his face, shaking his head once before he flips his head back, his hair forming a perfect arc. 

The clouds move away from the moon. His eyes fall on you. 

—

Yoon Jeonghan is a final year student you got to know at the beginning of the spring season. Another hushed whisper among your classmates about his scandalizing break up happened at the cafeteria. 

“He was drenched!” the girl beside you shrieks as slowly as she can without garnering attention from the professor but loud enough for you to hear. 

“I wouldn’t have done that.” her friend chimes in. “not gonna lie he looked hot.”

“And embarrassing! Who gets dumped near a trash can with chocolate milk dripping down their face.” 

“Yoon Jeonghan.”

—

Next time you hear about Yoon Jeonghan is from your best friend, Seungkwan. He is going off about his day, your daily ritual before sleep, when he comes to the part where his car has been crashed into (more like scratched but you weren’t going into details and spark another fire). 

“That bastard,” Seungkwan eyes flit to you, “pardon my words but that scumbag deserves it.” 

“Mmhmm.”

“He was so clearly in wrong, and he has fucking guts to say, ‘how much?’” Seungkwan’s face is as red as your pyjama pants. Should you be scared? “How much?! Where is the sorry and remorse? What happened to having decency?”

You nod. You swear you are trying your best to be empathetic to the victims of Yoon Jeonghan— the girl who got stood up in the rain, Seungkwan who got his car scratched, another girl who got dumped on the first date within ten minutes, another girl who you forgot about. 

“If you can’t drive then you should stay home tending your ego.” Seungkwan rants on. And you keep nodding. 

He is a menace. You know this, if you didn’t then you would be the dumbest person. But god isn’t he hot. That night still haunts your dreams, his eyes still on the back of your mind. 

You hear your name. “Are you listening?”

“Of course.” 

Would he kill you if you confess you are developing a crush on his enemy?

—

In a blink of an eye you were about to sit through your semester end exams. Library is bustling with drained and lifeless students, the smell of coffee lingers around you as you search for the row containing the textbook you are looking for. 

“History… literature.. AH!” You step on something, losing your balance. You fall on your hands, minimising the fall trying not to scrape your knees. “Fuck.” 

A male howls in pain. 

“Shhh.” 

Several shhs hit your face. 

You sit on your bum, brushing off your scraped hands. A head peeks out of the rows of the bookshelves. His frowning eyes soften landing on you, revealing more of him. Yoon Jeonghan. 

You tripped over his fucking feet. 

“Who sleeps on the library floor?” You scoff, picking up your textbooks. 

“Me?” He scoffs back. He crawls out of his hiding space, sitting in front of you. “Don’t you know to keep your eyes on the road?” 

Now you understand why Seungkwan hates Jeonghan. 

Jeonghan’s lips curl into a smile, as he clutches his ankle, “I think I hurt my ankle. What if I can’t walk?” He gasps, holding his chest. 

You roll your eyes at his antics. Yet with little apprehension you near him, crawling to him, peering over his outstretched leg. You poke a finger at his ankle with a frown. 

“Does it hurt?” 

You look up at him meeting his silence, curling your hair behind your ear so you can see him clearly. His eyes follow your hand as you do it, lingering at the side of your face before snapping to your eyes. 

“Ah, ah, it hurts.” He grins cheekily when you pinch his leg. “What? It takes time for your body to send signals to your brain.”

“I can’t believe you.” You stand up, dusting your ass off. You walk away from him, your heart clogged in your throat.  

Fuck that was Yoon Jeonghan and you had a conversation with him. 

“Hey,” he calls you. You turn around, hair obscuring your vision before you tuck it back, his head tilted to the side, “did we meet before?” 

—

The semester came to an end. You heard about the biggest party of the year from your best friend as you are stuck at home. 

Grad party of the century, and you are depressed that you missed your last chance of seeing Yoon Jeonghan.

Life works that way. 

— 

You aren’t sure whether to be happy as you are past the tumultuous student life or sad that you have finally become an adult. 

Adulting came with responsibilities, body aches, and magic ability to fall asleep anywhere and anytime. Tiredness is your second nature at twenty two. 

“I could have been sleeping but no. You fucking have to attend this fucking ridiculous reunion.” You exasperatedly throw your hands in the air. 

Seungkwan feigns a hurt expression. “That hurts right here,” he pokes at his heart. “It’s been a year since we last met and here you are nagging.”

“Gah!” You march into the restaurant, throwing the door open, only on someone’s face. “Ah,” you cup your mouth with wide eyes. 

Seungkwan slips past you pretending to not know you while the man you just hit is bent in half groaning in pain. 

“Is that blood!?!?” You gasp again. Seungkwan is now running to the others. He is so going to die tonight for leaving you at times of crisis. 

The man in the question stands up licking his thumb, “nah, that’s ketchup.” 

“You!” You gasp yet again not believing your eyes. 

“Yeah, me.” Jeonghan sniffles, touching his nose tenderly. “Why do you always inflict pain on me whenever we meet?” 

“What pain?” You frown. 

“You forgot?” He holds his left leg, “I still limp from the pain. And you forgot.” He clicks his tongue in annoyance, his eyes glimmering with mischief. “You wound me.” He later on adds touching his black nose, “literally.”  

You step away from the entrance to let the customers flow in and out. Jeonghan trails behind you, limping when you look over your shoulder and walking perfectly fine when you look at him in the glass reflection ahead of you. This man—

“But from what I remember I think I stepped on your,” you flit your eyes down his pants, “didn’t I?” You lie. 

His tongue pokes his cheek, interest blooming in his eyes as he watches you. “Well played.” He leads you to the boisterous table out of all, “remembering properly, didn’t you palm my—”

You hit his back with your wallet. “Fine! You win.” 

He throws you a boyish grin over his shoulder, snagging two empty seats and patting one to you. You comply, accepting it and settling yourself for the long night. The fatigue from work disappears at the sight of Jeonghan’s teasing smiles and intrusive questions. 

“We live ten minutes away!” He beams at the google maps displaying the route between his and your apartments. “So when are you bringing me homemade lunch?” 

He props his elbow on the table, resting his chin on his palm watching you suffocate under his scrutiny. You nibble on the chicken leg, suddenly shy. 

“Why would I ever do that?” You throw him a heated look. 

He grins, finally having your attention on him. “Why not? Korea is known for its hospitality. Are you denying it by not bringing me food?” 

This man’s audacity. A flicker in your heart. You toy the chicken between your fingers hundreds of thoughts running at a million speed. Is he insinuating what your overworking brain is thinking? 

“Why don’t you bring me food? You can tend to me to,” you pick up the chicken again, taking a big bite. You are starving for fuck’s sake. 

“Is this your way of roping me into your service?” He grabs a tissue, wiping your mouth as you chew. “Not only looks like a baby but is a baby.” 

He flicks his eyes to yours, cunningness apparent in them. His face glows watching the pinkness spread across your cheeks. 

“Should have opened the door harder,” you grumble under your breath. 

Yoon Jeonghan throws his head back, laughing. And man doesn’t his laughter tickle your insides, ending with a smile on your lips too.

—

You aren’t sure how you ended up here. It’s been two months since the reunion dinner. Suddenly there are two adult sized kids bickering in the middle of your flat. 

“That’s a lame movie.” Seungkwan points the TV remote at the Godzilla paused in the middle of roaring. Not a pretty sight and you are hundred percent sure those canines are gonna chase you in the dreams tonight. 

Jeonghan dramatically clasps his chest, bunching his eyebrows together. “You are saying that to an animal?” He searches for his phone, “should report you to animal protection authorities. Cruel cruel human.” 

Seungkwan grabs Jeonghan by the collar who just raises his eyebrow. “What are you saying?” 

And cue. Another WWE fight breaks out in your home. You pick up your delicate vase and move your coffee table away from them. Picking up the discarded remote from the floor, you plop on the couch exiting the movie and playing a recently released rom-com. 

Twenty minutes into the movie with you actively trying to catch the dialogues over two grown ups bickering, suddenly silence fills in. Did they finally kill each other? 

Two men loom over you. You gulp, setting your feet down ready to run. Seungkwan makes a grabby hand for the remote only to be blocked by Jeonghan’s body. He rests his knee on the couch next to you, the other leg between your feet, trapping you. 

You hide the remote behind you, not letting go of the chance to watch your most anticipated film. It’s Friday night, it's supposed to be your unwinding time from the week’s stress. And you haven’t tasted peace since Jeonghan started crashing in your spare bedroom regularly—despite having his own huge flat all to himself. 

He is a wall taking in Seungkwan’s hits. His fingers trail down your arm with a tickling touch. His fingers grazing your waist before slipping his hand between you and the couch. Seungkwan pushes him and Jeonghan crashes into you. His chest landing on your face. Your grip loosens on the remote momentarily as you try to push him off of you. 

He steals the remote from you, walking away in a second. Seungkwan berates you while you catch your breath, still feeling the softness of his shirt. 

Jeonghan resumes Godzilla sitting in the middle of the couch. The smirk never leaves his lips. 

—

Jeonghan is your unofficial roommate at this point. He is on your mind while grocery shopping and planning the dinners for the coming weeks. He hates greens and you can’t sit through another lecture on how we are stealing animals’ food. Ridiculous, yet you couldn’t help but nod along with his points. 

After getting used to his antics’ and finding him sprawled on your couch by the time you are home from the office, it is odd to not see him some days. 

You will find yourself sitting on the couch where he should have been and lay there for a few minutes wondering. Asking him will make it easier and can put your overthinking brain to rest. But there’s this meaningless fear of him finding out your crush. 

He is not home today, and the TV isn’t playing in the background. It is friday and usually he is at home, waiting for you. A sigh escapes your lips as you drop the keys in the bowl and neatly line up your shoes. You pause by the couch staring at the empty couch, what is he up to? 

Your shoulders snag realizing there is no movie night today. You can’t slowly find yourself resting against him, some days on his lap falling asleep as he runs his fingers across your hair. Is he on a date? Did he find someone? Is that why he is not with you now? 

Sadness engulfs you, the thought alone rattling your peace. What will you do if you see him with someone else? This whatever that is between you two is doomed to begin with. Seungkwan has been relentless about his hatred for your crush, throwing warnings everytime possible. 

“He is not right for you. I never saw him with the same girl.” Seungkwan’s words are an echo in your mind. “You deserve more than him.”

But you want Yoon Jeonghan. Whatever or however he is. You like him as he is. 

He doesn't reciprocate the same, apparently. You never find him looking at you twice or bringing up dating or anything he usually does. You heard stories of him but not one of them playing out in reality. Does he not see you as a girl? Are you his bro?

Before you can spiral into your downfall you rush into the shower to clean yourself of the miseries. 

—

One hour into a refreshing bath and re-energized version of you, you step out of the shower only to find you forgot to bring in change of clothes. Wrapping a towel around your wet body you open the bathroom door to rush into your bedroom. 

Watching over your steps trying not to slip and meet the floor, your eyes are rooted on the floor. A rustle of a bag of chips falling on the ground startles you. 

Yoon Jeonghan is standing across the hallway still clad in his work suit, his lips parted and gaze scanning over you slowly, lingering. You grab onto the knot holding your towel tightly, the sound of your heart too loud even to your ears. With a shriek you rush into your room slamming the door behind you. 

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck.” You pull your hair in frustration. 

Did he see you? 

Of course he did. He couldn’t move his eyes off of you. 

“Ugh.” You groan into void. How to face him again? 

You are prancing around your room—clothed, you learnt your lesson now. Wasting time inside so that magically the night will deepen and he falls asleep. You will go out once everything is clear to grab some food. Your stomach growls, not agreeing to the timeline. 

Jeonghan knocks on your door, “come out.” 

“No.” The answer is swift, surprising yourself. 

“I ordered chicken and beer.” 

He can’t know the cheat code to your weakness. How does he know it’s your favorite? You didn’t mention it to him. Did you?

He raps his knuckles again on the door. “Come on.” 

You trace the doorknob pondering. Your stomach growls yet again. You turn the knob opening the door, Jeonghan is leaning against the door frame, his suit jacket missing and the top three buttons of his dress shirt undone. 

You avoid his eyes, tucking your wet hair behind your ear. He inches towards you, lingering for a second before walking back into the living room. 

The dinner passes in silence, the usual chatterbox Jeonghan is concentrating more on his chicken. You frown when he lets you pick the movie without a fight or random game. Not wanting to let go of the golden chance you choose the cheesiest chick flick to rile him up. Only for him to watch it without a comment. 

In the middle of the movie, amidst the hero and heroine yelling their love for each other, Jeonghan’s hands rest over yours. When the couple on screen is kissing, he interlocks his fingers with yours. 

—

“I can’t believe you!” Yoon Jeonghan is pacing around your living room. “Why didn’t you say anything to me?” 

“Why are you yelling?” You shout back and shrink back into the corner of the couch receiving a glare from him. 

“Why? Why?!” He marches towards you, gripping your cheeks. “You exactly know why. Don’t play dumb.”

A storm is brewing in his black eyes, but still pretty, and still lovely. This is the exact reason you did what you did. Went on a date arranged by Seungkwan. 

It was okay. Your date was plain, boring. Ending the date quickly, you came home only to find a fuming Jeonghan. 

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” You push his chest, he doesn’t budge. “Let go, Jeonghan.” 

“She doesn’t know,” his voice is low, threatening. “Sneaking into my bed middle of night thinking I don’t know, and leaving before I wake up, what does that mean?” 

He curls the stray strand behind your ear, “stealing looks, clothes. What is my hoodie doing in your closet, baby?” 

“I’m not sure.” You fluster, gripping onto the couch, pushing yourself back into it as much as you can, away from him. 

“How was he?” He pushes your chin up, “look at me.” 

“Why do you care?” You snap. “You don’t even care. I am going crazy because you don’t even care—mmmph.”

He shuts you up, crashing his lips on yours. You imagined this moment countless nights, on your bed restless and desperate. He would do it slowly, sweetly just how he is with you. But you were wrong. His kisses are feral, biting and, and, so, so Jeonghan. 

He bites on your lower lip, soothing the sting with his tongue. You gasp, your tongues clashing for dominance. Slowly you follow his dance, letting him lead. You are sprawled on the couch, Jeonghan hovering over you, his knee nuzzled just right between your legs. 

He breaks the kiss, a wet string of saliva trailing behind his lips. The storms in his black eyes shifted into starry eyes, ethereal, luring you right into him. 

“Pretty boy.” You cup his cheek. He leans into your touch, closing his eyes, inhaling big gulps of air. “Mine.” 

His eyes snap open, a glimmer, possessiveness shining in them. He shifts, his knee pressing into your core. A moan spills from your lips before you can stop it, eyes fluttering shut from the bliss. He presses further extracting moan after moan. 

His name, a prayer, chanting the entire night as he makes sure you know just how much he cares. 

—

“Don’t panic,” Jeonghan chuckles at your panicky self, rummaging through the first aid kit. “It’s just blood.” 

You slam the cotton on the coffee table, glaring at him. The smile drops off his face seeing the unshed tears. A sour taste spreads across his mouth, he doesn’t like it. He hates seeing you cry, he realized. 

You weren’t a crybaby, even during the fights and silent treatment you didn’t cry. His heart softens, grasping the meaning, oh, you love him. If you asked Jeonghan later on which moment solidified his love for you, he would point out this exact moment. 

You tenderly tend his bruised hands and legs, wiping your eyes with your sleeves. Once neatly bandaged you put back everything in the kit not meeting his eyes. 

He calls your name. You shake your head. He sighs, pulling you onto his lap not heeding your warnings. He circles his arms around your waist, resting his face in your chest. 

“Home.”

—

You wake up with a jerk, heart beating against your chest like you were running a marathon. Squeezing yourself out of the tangled blanket, you wipe the wetness off your face, eyes. 

Jeonghan. You dreamt of him. It’s been so long since you have seen his smile, the dream Jeonghan was your Jeonghan, the one you fell in love with. 

It’s the day after his birthday, you want, need, to check who he celebrated it with. Who took your place in his life. You trudge to the living room searching for the phone, a dull pound in your temples slowing your body. Why did you have to drink? 

The phone is lying on the kitchen counter next to your bag, and you see notifications from Seungkwan. Twenty messages and three calls. You swipe off his ‘don’t do anything stupid’ messages and open your fake account. 

You sit on your knees, pushing your hair away from your eyes. It would be a lie to say you aren’t scared. If he has a girl again you don’t know how you would stomach it. Your thumb shivers before clicking on his profile. 

No update. No story. Or any post. You sit back on your butt staring at the dry profile. Did he finally choose to go private? Or did he figure out that bloom_234 is you? 

Or what if he didn’t have any girl last night. 

You click on his contact, still blocked. Should you unblock him? He doesn’t even know if you unblocked him, it’s been more than a half year. You unblock him before nerves get you. Or Seungkwan. 

—

“He is still sulking,” Seungkwan’s girlfriend rolls her eyes, “you know how he is.” She says with an exasperated sigh, summing up the childish acts of her boyfriend. 

It’s Sunday, and it’s been a week since you unblocked Jeonghan. He didn’t realise it just as you expected. You weren’t going to push it, or beg him this time. At least you leveled up one bit from being a pathetic loser to a loser. 

Call with Seungkwan has become inevitable as he threatened to revoke your right to be one of his groomsmen. He proposed to his long time girlfriend last weekend. 

“You would have known if you picked up my calls.” He berates when you pout about missing out on a precious moment. 

His girlfriend who was already brighter than the sun is shining like a thousand suns combined in her. The green feeling births inside your chest and you snuff it out before it can blazes over. 

“I’m so happy for you.” Your eyes prick from the overflowing emotions. “So so happy.” 

You really are. Seungkwan and you have been attached to each other since high school, seen every phase, every embarrassing moment and every key event of each other’s lives. And now marriage. 

They both smile endearingly at each other, Seungkwan kisses her ring clad finger before turning to you with a serious expression. Uh-oh.

“What were you doing all these months? Why are you avoiding me?” 

You flip the pancake, pressing on it with spatula. “I didn’t avoid you.” You hold the phone away from your face, “I was busy getting used to a new place and settling in. Mind you of the fact I have to set up everything on my own.”

Seungkwan barks into the phone, his voice loud to your quiet apartment. “You are avoiding me now. Show me your face.” 

You wince, setting the spatula down and picking up your phone. “Happy?” 

“This is exactly how a guilty person looks.” He sits up from the bed, rubbing his swollen face, “spill.”

“Spill what?” You sweat, despite the cold autumn breeze flowing in through your balcony. “Ah, there’s new love blooming in my office. Cute I have to say. Didn’t confess yet, but they are on their way.

“Can you believe Hansol also tried ‘Get Love Quick’ only to be paired with a man?” You continue not giving a second for Seungkwan to budge in. If he knows you have opened the gate to Jeonghan again, he will manifest himself next to you in mere seconds. “Well, that’s that. Anyway, Sunhee is excited that they are going out this friday. She said some place but I don’t remember where it is.”

Seungkwan calls your name in a warning. 

“What?” You whine, turning off the stove, leaning on the kitchen counter. “What else do you want me to do? I made new friends, I am not wallowing in self-pity, and I am not saying no to blind dates. What else do you want Boo Seungkwan? Should I write off my life now?”

“Did you talk with Yoon Jeonghan? Again?” Seungkwan discards your rant like removing a cherry from a cake. 

“I didn’t!” 

“Guys. Guys.” Seungkwan’s girlfriend snatches the phone from him. “You have to chill,” she chides her boyfriend. “And you,” she gets down the bed and walks out of the room, away from Seungkwan. “He is just worried about you. You literally ghosted us for months. You know how he gets.” 

You hold the bridge of your nose, letting out a long exhale. “Yeah, I am sorry.” You pick your breakfast to your couch. “It’s just.. Its too much. I mean I am human, what if I did text him,” you quickly add, noticing her alarmed expression, “I didn’t. Hypothetically, I am saying. He isn’t a bad person, you know.” 

“If he was so bad, why would I,” you trail off, not seeing the point in explaining yourself again and again to someone who just couldn’t get you. “Enough about me. How’s the celebrations going on? How did your family react to the engagement?”

She lets the topic change with a side glance. “They knew about it. He met my family and asked for their permission.” She huffs in disbelief, a smile on her face, “I can’t believe my family knows how to shut up. Usually, we kims are very bad at keeping secrets.”

“I had to prepone the date a week,” Seungkwan joins in, resting his chin on her shoulder, “her sister almost spilled the beans and I was pissing in pants the entire time. You had to be there to see it.” 

You chuckle, taking a bite of the pancake. “I missed it all, didn’t I? I am sorry, I wasn’t there to help you with your big moment.” 

“That’s okay,” Seungkwan brushes it off, his girl bobbing her head. “My big moment will be in six months, and I am gonna kill you if you miss it.” 

You screech, dropping your fork to the carpet. You promise him to be there with him for planning and executing everything, letting him verbally bind you to a contract having you to be a slave for him as long as he wants if you miss even a small event. 

You should’ve stopped yourself, should’ve seen the red light glaring but you concede away blind in happiness. 

—

Universe is plotting against you. The series of misfortunate events should speak for itself. It started with a client imposing an urgent task, throwing you off your work schedule. Your heater at home crashed forcing you to experience a free simulation of how raw chill autumn nights work. The repairman is out of town, ranaway to marry the love of his life. Administration is on look out for a replacement. And, you had to catch the new love birds making out at the staircase. 

Awkward is just another word as you currently sit at your desk avoiding your juniors. You weren’t mad per say seeing them break rules it's more of a shock, like seeing your sister make out. Sunhee has grown close to you over the days, especially after the disastrous night of her taking care of you. 

“Come on,” she swivels her chair next to you, “till when are you going to run away. I am sorry!” 

“What? Who?” You blink at her feigning innocence after almost reaching for the bleach to clean your eyes. “Did something happen that I should know of?”

Hansol stretches his body, walking away from you guys with his hands in pockets and whistling his way out. Sunhee grumbles under her breath, “scaredy-cat.” She turns to you, eye-to-eye. You push your chair away from her slowly, scared for your life. “You are almost 30, and you act like you haven’t seen a kiss or kissed someone.” 

That hurts your pride. “What?!”

She has a teasing lilt, “but that couldn’t be true.” Her eyes shine, mimicking you, “‘Hannie, Hannie, my Hannie will like Yangsan’.”

You shove her face off of you. “Shut up. We are in the office. And I am your senior. I can easily report you—” 

“Who is he?”

“I have a deadline. And you have one too.” You roll her away to her desk. “If you could go back to working I’ll be happy that I won’t need to pull another all-nighter.” 

She is back at your side in a beat. “Who is he? Tell me. It’s only fair since you know all of my love story—”

“Only because you shove it in my face even when I don’t want to—”

“—I won’t stop pestering you until you go on a date.” 

“Don’t you have a boyfriend? I’m flattered that you find me attractive but I like men.” 

“Ha. Ha. Funny.” She folds her arms, “on a blind date. With a man. That’s the only requirement for you right?” 

“Excuse me!” You are offended yet again. “My bar isn’t as low as you think. I’m one sophisticated woman.” 

“This Sunday at 6. Be ready.” She rolls away humming a song. 

Did you just get blackmailed into a date? 

—

The restaurant is bustling. You check the message from Hansol again to confirm your date is at the expensive restaurant of Yangsan. Checking up on the details of the restaurant, you had to recheck the city and pin code to make sure it’s in the city.  

People in their fifties, pepper hair and classy suits, a woman on their arm, file in and out of the wooden doors. You press the black velvet dress, smoothing down your jitters. It’s been so long since you dined in a fine restaurant. Three years to be exact. 

How bad does your date want to impress you to choose this place? Can you back out now? Is it too late? 

He’s waiting. 

-Hansol

You groan reading the text. There’s no way out of it now. You put the phone back in your purse clicking it shut. Rounding your shoulders you get ready for the date, it’s going to be alright. You flick your hair back, pulling your dress a little higher and you climb the steps to the door. A sweet valet parker beats you in opening the door for you. Mumbling a thank you, you wait for the attendee to finish up talking with an elderly couple. 

“Welcome!” The lady dressed in a red jacket and red lipstick beams at you. 

With a small smile, you check the message from Hansol again. “Hey. My reservation is for table 17?” 

She checks her iPad scrolling through her list before leading you through the oak tables, servers tending to customers, different scents of food hitting your nostrils, awakening your dead hunger. All the anxiety numbed you from the usual munching of your snacks, and the dread of the date now settled in your stomach. You may throw up if food hits your stomach but you may faint if you don’t eat anything in the next hour. Workings of your body never leaves you amazed. 

“Here you are,” she points to the empty chair, her red lips still stretched wide in a smile. 

You look up from your phone reading the sender’s name. Seungkwan. “Thank you,” you bow to the lady. Your phone vibrates in your hand, your life tilted on the axis seeing the man sitting at your table, supposed to be your date. 

Yoon Jeonghan is occupying the other chair watching you with his hooded eyes, hard to read, hard to decipher his feelings. You hold the woman’s shoulder before she can leave you two. “Are you sure this is table 17?”

Her perfect grin slips, a frown dancing on her face, checking the iPad yet again. “I am sure. This is the table. Is there any problem?”

Jeonghan shifts in his chair uncomfortably. You made the mistake of meeting his eyes, the darkness in them pulled you in, his eyebrows pulled in, and a breath escaping his parted lips. You can't believe that you are again here, in the same situation as few months ago, set up with Jeonghan coincidentally. He anticipates your decision, not saying a word or asking you to join him. Should you go along with this dinner or take a turn and make a run?

Your comments, reblogs and likes are very much appreciated as they encourage me to write more! Here is the like to part 2

[taegularities]

upcoming… | (m)

Summary: Jungkook once planted a garden in your chest that he watered when he smiled and you killed when he left. But flowers withering isn't enough; that doesn't mend the ache. No – you want this entire story to die.

➵ pairing: Jungkook x female reader ➵ rating: 18+ ➵ genre: exes to ?, college!au; angst, fluff, smut; oneshot ➵ warnings: heartache, past breakup, flashbacks, memories, memory erasure (eternal sunshine of the spotless mind vibe), tears, angst angst angstttt, fights but also such tender moments, college sweethearts 🥺, smut (details to be added when the fic drops)… the ending 👁 ➵ est. word count: around 25k ➵ a/n: another angsty taegularities special :D coming next, so stay tuned!! 👁

–

"I do fear… what if one day, it's just me and my thoughts, and you're nowhere to be found?"

Jungkook laughed; not at your worries, but about how improbable the words sounded. It flooded a sense of relief through you when he promised, "To leave… I'd have to un-meet and forget about you entirely, you know?"

Summary: Somewhere out there, a sinister castle roams the hills behind the dense fog. And somewhere hidden inside, there is a man you need to find; to charm; to wreck. Provided… he doesn't destroy you first.

➵ pairing: Taehyung x female reader ➵ rating: 18+ ➵ genre: howl's moving castle au, fantasy au, s2l / e2l; angst, fluff, smut; oneshot ➵ warnings: magic and stuff, spy stuff, frenemies?, bickering and initial dislike, fights, sexual tension, based on the movie version of HMC, multiple (2) smut scenes (details to be added but expect… quite smth :p) ➵ est. word count: 20k ➵ a/n: this has been a wip for literal years now, and i think it's time i sent it out into the world :') since i'm rereading the book (but the fic is based on the ghibli movie!), i've been feeling some sort of way, soooo… howl oneshot soon?

–

“Do you feel anything?”

You can't. There is no heartbeat, no steady rhythm, nothing. Yet he breathes, walks, smiles as if he's missing nothing.

You shake your head, and he chuckles, a crooked smirk that confuses you in the best way possible. He loosens his firm grip around your hand, but you still leave your touch right there, rubbing over his chest until he adds,

“A heart's a heavy burden.” The warmth of your fingers sprawls across his torso, his eyes closing. “Especially if you’re me.”

Summary: Jungkook and you try something very, very new.

➵ pairing: Jungkook x female reader ➵ rating: 18+ ➵ genre: fwb/fake dating/established relationship; fluff, smut; series ➵ warnings: smut smut smut (everything else is redacted bc that'd just spoil the whole thing ha ha :D) ➵ est. word count: 10-12k ➵ a/n: this is part of my colour me in series – for those who don't know! the series is still paused, but i might continue it sometime this year if things work out. this drabble would come next <3

–

"I've been promising it for so long now," he whispers, fingertips wandering along your bare sides, beneath your crop top. "Haven't I?"

Summary: Jeon Jungkook barges into your unproblematic life unexpectedly. He's supposed to stay for the summer; but it doesn't take long for the bright days to turn grey, stirring, bittersweet; a trigger for bleak memories and a reminder that sometimes, closeness shatters more than it heals.

➵ pairing: Jungkook x female reader ➵ rating: 18+ ➵ genre: s2l, summer/college au, dancer!jk; angst, fluff, smut; oneshot ➵ warnings: love triangle!!, yearning, thin walls lol, tears, fighting, old memories/childhood stuff, (mention of) drugs, abandonment, camping, multiple smut scenes (details will be added when the fic drops), plot twists, heartbreak, THE ENDING PLS ➵ est. word count: 40k lol; might split it in 2-3 parts if it gets too long ➵ a/n: i am most excited for this oneshot (?), and i have been for so long. it's a scary amount to write and i don't know when it'll be done. if i could, i'd write and post it rn… it's hella intimidating, but i love this story and i'm also hella excited, so… stay tuned and bring tissues <3

–

“Maybe… I don't know,” he pauses, blinking, and then starts anew, “maybe I'm this much with her, so I don't end up knocking at your door.”

A sting of guilt pierces your heart; you ask, “You… you guys hook up all the time. Doesn’t she feel… that way for you?”

“She doesn't.”

“And you? Do you feel anything for her?”

“I don't.” He hesitates again, shrugging a shoulder. “Well, friendship.”

“...Don't end up breaking hearts, Jungkook.”

Summary: In a world fractured by hatred, Yoongi seems your quiet salvation. But when a boy from your past returns, cloaked in secrets and unfinished memories, battle lines blur and you find yourself faced with a choice between the peace you built and the fire you never truly forgot.

➵ pairing: Yoongi x female reader, Jungkook x female reader ➵ rating: 18+ ➵ genre: royal au, s2l, childhood bf2l, love triangle; angst, fluff, smut; series ➵ warnings: there's a battle/war thing going on, love triangleeeee of the best sort, tender yoongi and fierce jungkook, some scenes are extremely tense – again in the best way possible, sexual tension, heartbreak, hate, betrayal (and nope, no cheating), multiple sex scenes (with both yoongi and jk (but not with both of them together lol)), falling in love hard, jealousy; the… the ending…… ➵ est. word count: 150-200k (around 10 chapters) ➵ a/n: THIS WILL LITERALLY RUIN US LMAO no seriously, i'm going to pour my everything into this. it's a story with quite some angst and heavy tension that even gave me trouble breathing when i was just outlining it :') yoongi in this is achingly sweet and jk is absolutely delicious. i think it'll be a piece i'm most proud of… and someday, i want to turn it into a novel. i hope you all love this 🤍

–

"I am in love with you," Yoongi whispers; your eyes water. "Even if you aren’t only in love with me. I know how this might go. And I am not saying we should make this official because – I am scared you might realise you need him more."

"It’s not about needing anybody…"

"But it’s about who sits in your heart so deeply that it feels like you need him to survive. I don’t know if I am that for you. But you’re that for me."

–

"Why are you still here, Jungkook? Why are you always around me? It’s not me you came back for."

"Sweetheart–"

"Would you have? If not for this?"

"If not for this… I would have come sooner."

Summary: A casual hook up morphs into a fierce fever dream when roommates slash best friends Min Yoongi and Jeon Jungkook bring heaven and hell to you – all at once, in one single night.

➵ pairing: Yoongi x female reader x Jungkook ➵ rating: 18+ ➵ genre: kind of fwb, threesome, college au; fluff, hella smut ➵ warnings: yoongi and oc are fwb, teasing, flirting, kissing booth stuff, jk wears glasses and has long hair (manbun beloved), sexual tension, mid-sex convos, threesome, smut (e.g., double penetration, degradation, spit stuff, manhandling,.. (will expand on this once the full thing drops), aftercare, valentino yoongi and ck jk!! ➵ est. word count: 12-15k ➵ a/n: back to the ruin you days, i guess. am super excited for this to finally drop. gonna give y'all the best version of it possible, love you <3

–

“I’m just saying. Tonight might be a little too much for you with the two of us, you know? I’m not as easy to handle as you think.”

“I don’t think you are,” you confess. “But I don’t want to handle you. I want the opposite.”

There’s a glimmer in his eyes. A hint of desire, hunger growing in the predator’s big gaze. If he wants to reject you now, you’ll walk away.

But you don’t think he will.

And once more, courageous, you say, “Handle me, Jeon Jungkook.”

full teaser that i once posted!

Summary: You carve your name into Jungkook's mind with constant affection and care, and he keeps hoping that both your hearts beat in unison, synchronised and wild. But in reality, it’s only ever him who falls – you're as still as time... until, you're not.

➵ pairing: Jungkook x female reader ➵ rating: 18+ ➵ genre: singer!jungkook, bf2l but also brother's best friend; angst, fluff, smut; trilogy ➵ warnings: jealousy, another love triangle lmao, namjoon is her brother and his best friend, oc playing wingwoman, confessions, pain, tears, moving away, yearning, idiots to lovers too tbh, smut <3 ➵ est. word count: around 60-70k in total ➵ a/n: this is part of my evermore series which was supposed to have a oneshot/twoshot/trilogy per member with unrelated stories; but since life has gotten so crazy, i might not be able to write all of them. but i still have tae's fic 'cotton candy' written and want to work on timbre; so these will drop at least and i am so thrilled to share them. especially this lil mini series 🤍

–

Jeon Jungkook has been in love with you since the very first time he met you.

At least that's what he'd tell you if you ever asked.

He won’t tell you that whatever respect he housed for you since you were teenagers evolved into something far more advanced along the way.

That it was over time that your friendship started blooming like the tiger lillies he liked so much. You must have been sixteen then.

Now, around eight years have passed, and the thriving musician and your best friend Jeon Jungkook is still in love with you. Boundlessly, irreversibly.

–

a/n: hey hey!! this is a small overview of all the things i shall start preparing very, very soon. i will work on these wips whenever i can, and i am excited about every single one of them. i will ofc also drop longer teasers to each story when we reach that point!

i do also think you guys will love each story! so i can't wait to drop them one by one :') this post is also sort of to motivate and inspire me, so if you want to talk about any of these or hype them up… let's talk :p

–

also, here's the taglist! <3

[lexalith]

SOUR || Choi Subong (Thanos)

summary: a summer trip to seoul was supposed to be a brief escape, not a love story. meeting subong wasn’t on your bucket list… neither was spending five nights tangled up in his world, wrapped in a kind of closeness that felt too good to ever be temporary. you wanted to believe in it. in him. in the version of love that could survive anything. but loving subong was never meant to be easy. and by the time you realize the damage, there’s no saving either of you from the inevitable crash. when did your love turn so sour?

warnings/this story contains: 18+ (reader discretion is advised) female reader, small age gap (reader is 24, subong is 28… story ends when reader’s around 27 and subong’s around 31), smut (fingering, implied unprotected sex, face sitting, praise, degradation, p in v, oral sex f+m, public sex, sexting, phone sex, breeding kink, sex while being high, switch!subong and switch!reader, leg humping. subong acts like a dog in heat quite literally and is very pathetic at times… he’s overly freaked out) subong calls himself daddy once as a joke but it felt morally correct to include it as a warning lmaoo. reader is a foreigner. excessive use of pet names and the words “fuck” and “fucking”. completely fabricated subong lore. angst (miscommunication, manipulation, gaslighting, lies, deception, name calling, heartbreak, drug abuse and addiction, emotional codependency, verbal fights, toxicity, trauma, emotional whiplash, mentions of suicide/mental health and suicidal ideation, near death experience, identity loss, financial instability, debt, gang involvement) subong’s an actual human being with feelings!! (crazy, right?) both subong and the reader do and say questionable stuff at various points. they’re not perfect. ah, yes, there’s also a bit of fluff too ig… this story doesn’t have a happy ending.

a/n: this is an au set before the games! this story took me forever to write, but it’s finally here and i really hope you enjoy it :) it’s extremely LONG, though (around 40k words), so get comfy. also, i have absolutely no idea how crypto works, but i did my best. as always, lower case is intended, reader’s dialogue is in bold, text messages are in purple for subong and orange for the reader. english isn’t my first language.

songs: ifhy — tyler the creator (pls, pls, listen to this because it’s literally them) || all i need — radiohead || duvet — bôa || less than a zero — the weeknd

the night has barely started and you’re lost in hongdae, sweating through your shirt, and praying your phone doesn’t die because it’s already on 27% “let’s just go in here,” one of your friends says, pointing at a building lit up in flashing purple and blue. it’s not your first choice. not even your third. the last two clubs you tried had lines stretching down the block and bouncers who barely glanced at you before shaking their heads, and the one before that was so packed you heard someone literally got pushed back down the stairs. you’ve spent more time wandering around than actually partying, and at this point, anything with functioning air conditioning sounds good. no one argues, you’re all too tired to keep searching. so you follow the group through the door.

the club isn’t what you expected, and the second you walk in, you all kind of pause like… huh. for one, the music’s live. which isn’t necessarily a bad thing—it’s just not what you were hoping for. not exactly what you had in mind when you pictured partying in seoul. but you stay. partly because it does feel more local and less… touristy. and also, one of your friends is already deep in conversation with a very tall, very handsome guy who appeared out of nowhere and offered to buy you all drinks—which, given the state of your wallet and your mood, feels like a small miracle. so you can’t really complain, can you?

the guy casually mentions he’s got a table upstairs and asks if you all want to join. next thing you know, you’re slipping past the crowd, walking toward a staircase in the back that leads to the vip section. an area you definitely wouldn’t have gotten into on your own, not dressed in sneakers and a tank top that’s slowly clinging to your back from the heat. so there you are, heading up, clinging to the sticky handrail. upstairs is somehow worse and better at the same time. the music is slightly muffled, the lighting is dim and moody, couches line the walls, there’s actual airflow, and from here, you can see the stage perfectly—a little overlook built for people who want to pretend they’re part of the party without actually being in it.

you hang back for a bit, sipping something cold and citrusy, listening to your friends laugh and flirt and fall into easy conversation with a new group of people that magically appeared the second you sat down. and then, just as you’re about to zone out entirely, the music shifts. a beat drops and you freeze for half a second because is that 50 Cent? it is. or at least, a sample of something that sounds very, very similar. then, you hear a voice sliding between english and korean with ease, and that makes you stand up. you mutter something about needing air (which is a lie), and wander over to the balcony that overlooks the stage, drawn in like a moth. that’s when you see him—mic in one hand, the other moving with that effortless kind of swagger people either spend years practicing or were just born with. he’s wearing yellow tinted sunglasses even though it’s pitch black in the club, oversized clothes, and purple hair styled into what looks like two small, deliberate horns which, if you’re honest, is the first thing that catches your attention. his voice is deep, a little rough, and he spits each line with the mic so close to his mouth you can hear every breath he takes between bars. there’s something strangely intimate about it, like he’s performing just for himself and anyone else who happens to be listening is just lucky to be there. the crowd doesn’t seem particularly impressed, but you are. the lyrics aren’t exactly genius, but the delivery is. some lines are so cocky they make you laugh under your breath without meaning to. because it’s not what he says, it’s how he says it. he knows exactly how good he looks with a mic in his hand and doesn’t care if you agree. and unfortunately, you do.

“oh god, he’s awful,” your friend mutters beside you, and it startles you a little. you hadn’t even realized she was there, you’d been too focused, too pulled in by the purple-haired guy onstage. “he’s not that bad. i like him—the song, i mean,” you say, still watching him. there’s a pause, and then she gives you a look, trying to figure out if you’re being serious or if you’ve just had one too many drinks. “he’s said the word ‘bitch’ over twenty times,” she says flatly. “i counted.” you let out a small laugh, shrugging. “yeah, but like… with passion.” your friend snorts, shaking her head, but before she can get another jab in, someone calls her name from inside. she turns, leans in a little. “they’re doing shots,” she says. “come on.” you hesitate, glancing back at the stage—only to realize the music’s stopped. the lights have shifted, and the guy with the purple hair is no longer holding the mic, someone else is already taking his place, adjusting a guitar strap. he’s gone. you blink, surprised at how disappointed you are, and nod. “yeah, okay. coming.” you follow your friend back into the low light and noise, pretending not to care that you didn’t even get his name. not that it matters. it’s not like you’re going to see him again.

except you are. when subong steps into vip, still slightly buzzed from the stage lights, his eyes move instinctively across the room, and he sees you. he doesn’t know who you are, doesn’t recognize your face, which is rare. because he’s seen most of the faces that cycle through this place, and someone that pretty? oh, trust, he would’ve remembered. you’re standing next to the couch with a drink in one hand, looking a little overwhelmed but not uncomfortable, surrounded by people but not really paying attention to any of them. you’re not trying to stand out. which is probably why you do. his gaze lingers longer than it should. because something about you is pulling at him, and subong’s never been the type to ignore that feeling. so he grabs a drink from someone’s tray and makes his way toward you, direct. like he’s already sure how this is going to go. he stops in front of you, eyes flicking down once before landing on yours. “señorita, excuse me,” he says, voice smooth. you recognize him immediately. up close, he’s different. prettier. no, actually… he’s so fucking fine. you pay special attention to his sharp jaw, and eyes that are clearer now without the yellow sunglasses hiding them. “you’re cute,” he continues, casual, like it’s just a fact he felt obligated to mention before anything else. then, after the smallest pause—“hi.” you blink, caught off guard by the compliment more than the greeting. “hi.” his lips twitch, holding back a grin. “i’m thanos.” the music chooses that exact moment to spike—a sudden burst of bass and reverb that drowns his voice out completely. “sorry—what?!” you ask, leaning in slightly. he steps closer, bringing his mouth near your ear, his breath warm against your skin as he repeats himself loud enough for you to hear over the music. “i’m—i’m thanos!” you catch a whiff of his cologne when he moves, something fresh layered with the faint, bitter scent of smoke. it hits you all at once, and for a second, you forget what you were even trying to ask. you pull back enough to look at him again, brows lifted. “thanos?!” “stage name!”

the music finally drops to a bearable level, something with a steady beat. “like the marvel villain?” you ask, laughing a bit. “the one who wiped out half the universe?” “yeah.” “why thanos?” he just lifts a hand, points lazily at his hair, and then turns his wrist to show you his nails, each one a different color—deep purple, bright blue, fiery red, vibrant green, and a sharp orange. “see?” he says. “you’re fully committed to the bit!” “branding,” he says, like it’s obvious. you shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “well, nice to meet you,” you say, offering your name in return. he repeats it under his breath, trying it on. it sounds different with his accent—stretched out a little, in a way you instantly like. his korean accent is obvious, and you’re sure some people would call it heavy, but to you it just sounds… hot. he gestures toward the space between you, then tips his head slightly. “did you see the set?” you nod. “yeah. from the balcony.” “and?” “you were… loud.” you admit, taking a sip of your drink to buy time. “mmh,” he hums, clearly entertained. “not your style?” “not usually,” you say. “but i liked it! you had your moments.” “that’s good,” he nods, eyes still on you. “i only needed one.” “one what?” “moment. to get your attention.” oh, okay… smooth. he lets the silence hang for a second, sipping his drink. “you’re not from around here,” he says eventually—not a question, more like an observation he already knows the answer to. you shake your head. “nope.” “where you from, baby?” you raise your eyebrows at the pet name, almost embarrassed at how warm your cheeks have gotten hearing him say it. you tell him where you’re from, and he nods like that fits some kind of theory he’s already formed about you. “just visiting?” he asks. “yeah, we’re here for the week,” you say. “girls’ trip.” his gaze flicks past you briefly, toward your group of friends still talking and drinking behind you, then back to you. “that all?” “mhm.” you nod. “good timing.” “for what?” you ask, tilting your head. his eyes flick over your face. “me.”

so that’s where this is going. not that you weren’t already suspicious. you kinda figured by the way he looks at you like he’s halfway through undressing you with his eyes, but still, hearing him say ‘me’ with that much confidence really drives the point home... he wants to fuck you. this is very much a he has already made up his mind and you’re just the last one to catch up. well, good luck with that, boy. you tilt your head, pretending to think. “i don’t even know your real name.” he grins. this part is his favorite—the push and pull, the game. “i’ll tell you later, baby.” you narrow your eyes. “later when?” he doesn’t miss a beat. “when you let me buy you another drink.” you stare at him for half a second, considering your options, which—let’s be honest—are limited. you could walk away and rejoin your friends, go back to the safety of watered-down vodka cranberries and gossip. or you could stay here, entertain whatever this is, and see how far he plans to take the act. subong’s still looking at you, glass in hand. in his mind, he’s already planned five different ways to keep your attention if this line doesn’t land. you glance down at your drink—or what’s left of it, really. a few pathetic ice cubes floating around in reddish water, the sad remains of something that once had flavor. it’s warm now, or getting there, and you’ve already chewed on the straw more than any adult should admit. there’s no real reason to say yes, but there’s also no good reason to say no, so you nod. “okay.”

it’s quieter closer to the bar, though still not quiet. he orders something—you don’t know what—in korean, and you don’t ask. you just lean against the bar like you’re not mentally calculating how close he’s standing. the drinks arrive, stronger than the last one you had. you sip as he asks about the trip, nods when you give half-baked answers, says little things you don’t always catch but smile at anyway. somewhere along the way, he starts teaching you random korean words, pointing at objects. you try to follow along, repeating what he says with varying degrees of accuracy, sometimes getting it close enough to earn a nod, sometimes butchering the vowels so badly you can see him wince, like you’ve committed a mild crime against his language.

he’s close. so close you start noticing the details. the way his the fabric of his shirt moves, the faint line of a scar near his collarbone, and the thin silver chain resting against his skin, catching the low light with every shift of his body. it disappears beneath the collar of his shirt and reappears again near the dip of his throat. a tattoo peeks out from the side of his neck, a straight black line that seems to be connected to one of his fingers. your eyes flick to his hand before you even think about it. silver rings catch the light—some smooth, others engraved with intricate patterns. you don’t know why you’re so focused on them, but there’s something about the way they contrast against his tanned skin that keeps your attention. then he lowers his hand, and your gaze follows. there, on the back of it, another tattoo in black ink sprawls across his skin—some kind of demon with horns, twisted together with what looks like snakes. it’s faded in places, like it’s been there a long time and he hasn’t bothered to touch it up. without thinking, you track the movement of his fingers as they flex slightly before settling at his side. they’re long, perfectly proportioned to his massive hands. wait… that’s fucking hot. would they feel coarse on your skin? would they— “yo.” you blink, snapping back to reality, realizing he’s watching you, head tilted slightly, amusement playing at the corner of his mouth. “you good?” he asks, his smirk deepening and making your face warm. “yeah,” you say too quickly, clearing your throat. you’re pretty sure your mouth was watering for a second there.

you try to focus back on the conversation. focus on the way he tilts his head every time you speak, like he’s making room for the sound of your voice. it’s probably something he does with every girl he likes the look of, and yet you still feel the heat crawling up your spine like you’re special, which is probably exactly how he wants you to feel. and then, without ceremony, it just happens. one second you’re trying to act normal, pretending you don’t notice the way he keeps glancing at your mouth between sentences, and the next he’s leaning in— hand on your jaw, breath warm and close, before he kisses you. and honestly? it’s not great. it’s hot, yeah, and his mouth is warm, and you can tell he knows what he wants to do… but it’s too much. all tongue and pressure and zero pacing… like biting and breathing through his nose and full-on consuming you is the only way to make sure you’re into it. your teeth knock once, your lips feel bruised, and for a second you’re just trying not to choke on the fact that he is really going for it. you pull back, a hand against his chest to create a little breathing room, your lips probably shiny in the worst possible way. your eyes meet his and you swear he looks kind of smug about it, like he thinks you’re about to fall into his arms or ask him to fuck you right here. “jesus,” you mutter, not even hiding it. “slow down.” his brows lift, breath shallow, lips parted like he’s halfway through his next move, and you can tell he didn’t expect to be stopped. he probably never is. “what?” you don’t move your hand, just stay there, catching your breath. “i’m not going anywhere,” you say, a little softer this time. “just… not like that. try—try going slower.” he blinks once, like he’s rewiring the pace in his head, and then the corner of his mouth twitches. “bossy. i like that.”

and to his credit, he does what you asked. he leans in again, slower. this time, it actually feels like a kiss. it’s still deep, a little wild and rough, but better than before. you make a soft noise into his mouth and his hands respond immediately—one sliding lower, the other gripping your hip. and then you feel it—his fingers moving further down, gripping your ass like he needs something to hold onto or else he’s going to lose his fucking mind. bold. heat is building fast, and he’s pulling your body right up against his, which you let him do. he’s finally moving like he’s tuned in to what you want instead of just steamrolling through it. it’s good. the kind of kiss that makes your brain go fuzzy and your knees a little weak. and then he pulls back. “you wanna get outta here?” and… he’s just ruined it! “what?” his hand squeezes your side a little, still very much pressed against you. “yeah, like… somewhere private. we don’t gotta stay long.” the subtext is not even trying to be subtle. you lean back to look him in the face. “seriously?” he shrugs, but his eyes flick away for half a second because he already knows he’s misread this. “i mean. you’re into it. i’m… really fucking into it. figured we could…” he trails off, then laughs like it’ll cover for the fact that he has absolutely no idea how to finish that sentence without sounding like a dick. “you don’t even know me,” you say, and it comes out flatter than you expected. “you kissed me, girl.” “and that means what, exactly? that i owe you something now?” you start to move, shifting away from him, scanning the room for your friends.

“wait, wait—! shit—no, don’t go,” he says, suddenly very aware that he’s said the wrong thing. “please don’t hate me, pretty girl.” his hand almost reaches for you but he thinks better of it. “i didn’t mean it like that. okay, no—i did, but not like—damn. shit, man.” you don’t say anything, and that seems to only fuel the panic. he keeps going. “you’re just—fuck, you’re so hot, bro. like… so fucking hot. you have the best ass i’ve ever touched in my entire fucking life, and your mouth? damn girl. i’m not built for that kind of shit, i got so hard i—sorry.” he laughs under his breath, runs a hand through his hair. “i’ll—i’ll chill. i can chill, baby. i’ll make out with you for five hours straight if that’s all you want. i swear to god. i just—i don’t want you walking away thinking i don’t respect you or some shit.” he knows how he looks. like the kind of guy who gets girls easy, like he does this all the time. and sometimes, yeah, sure, some do stick around for a night or two, but not like you. and if kissing is all he’s getting tonight, then fine—he’ll take it happily. you laugh, soft and breathy, and he can’t tell if it’s at him or with him, but it doesn’t really matter. there’s something amused in your eyes, like you’re watching a very eager dog try to sit still. you’re trying to decide if he’s serious or just really, really horny. maybe both. either way, you find extremely funny the way he went from cocky to borderline begging in under a minute. “i’m not like that,” you say finally, and your voice is gentler now. “i don’t do the one night stand thing. it just feels… cold.” he nods. he hears you, even if he’s still a little dazed from the way your mouth tasted two minutes ago. “and you’re sweet,” you add. “but i’m gonna head back to my friends.” “wait,” he says. “can i—can i get your number, baby?” you pause, considering whether or not you want to give it to him. “yeah, okay. sure” you end up saying. “give me your phone.” oh, don’t tell him twice… he fumbles for it, unlocks it fast, and hands it over. and when you type your number in, he watches, not quite sure it’s really happening. you hand his phone back, and he stares at the contact for a second longer than necessary before locking the screen. you’re already stepping back when he finds his voice again. “and—fuck, wait,” he says. “if i asked you out… like, on a date. would you say yes?” you snort. “maybe.”

by the time you get back to the hotel, your feet are killing you and your face hurts from laughing, your makeup slightly smudged. you’re all stretched out on one bed, voices low and tired and still a bit drunk, retelling the night in pieces, everyone interrupting each other with “wait—wait—and then she said—” and “i swear he looked straight at me,” and “i think that guy wanted to kick us out, dude.” and then, eventually, they ask. about thanos. you tell them about the kissing, about the moment he ruined it, the apology and all the ridiculous things he said. they laugh, obviously. one of them calls him down bad, and yeah, fair. another says he sounds like a walking red flag, and you nod, because again, fair. but then you mention the part where he asked for your number. how he asked if he could take you out. “and you gave it to him?” one of them asks. you just shrug, staring up at the ceiling. “i mean… he asked nicely.” they tease you, of course. and you pretend not to care, but you’re smiling into the pillow like a fucking idiot anyway, because something about the way he said please don’t hate me, pretty girl has been playing on loop in your head all night, and it’s way too late to pretend it didn’t get to you. you’re about to drift off, the room quiet now, someone already snoring in the corner—when your phone buzzes. a text. from a number you don’t have saved yet, but you know exactly who it is.

yo babygirl

pls tell me this is u and not like some random old man

you stare at the screen for a second, already shaking your head, biting your lip to keep from laughing. you don’t respond right away.

dont leave me on read baby

you finally answer:

who’s this?

you know exactly who it is but you still want to make him suffer a little.

girl dont play me rn

it’s thanos🔥

you roll your eyes, but your smile’s already giving you away.

mm idk name doesn’t ring a bell

crazy, u were tryna suck my soul 2 hrs ago, girl

you tried to suck my soul, get it right boy

okay thats fair, my bad

i got excited

u fine asf what was i supposed to do

you glance over at your friend, still asleep, then sink deeper into your pillow, thumbs moving slow on your screen.

romantic

i can be for you bby

:))

cute

you never told me your real name btw

it’s subong

choi subong if we r being formal n shit

subong?? no way that’s real, it sounds made up as hell

why would i lie tho

this me fr, ask my mom

oooh say less, send me her number, i’ll fact check

u tryna meet her already?? damn girl slow down

you read it once, then again—and the laugh that comes out of you is loud enough that your friend stirs beside you and mutters something unintelligible into her pillow. he texts again.

so what u doin tmrw night, bby?

depends

on?

what you’re asking

dinner, me n u

dinner?

yeah u said u not on that one night shit so i adjusted

growth, baby

okay mr. mature

so what time u lettin me pick u up tmrw

when did i agree to the date?

dont play w me ma, cmon lemme feed u

ooookayy pick me up at 8

bet

dont flake on me pretty girl

i already told my friends i got a date w the baddest tourist in seoul

dw i’ll send you the hotel address tomorrow🙂‍↕️

goodnight subong

goodnight❤️

you wake up slowly, blinking against the sunlight filtering through the half-drawn curtains as someone’s phone buzzes on the nightstand. your mouth’s dry, your back aches a little from the shitty mattress, and one of your friends is already rummaging through their suitcase way too loudly for 9 a.m. the day starts in hongdae, where you grab iced lattes from a café, and eat soft pastries that flake apart in your hands while you lean against the glass and watch the crowds pass by. you wander from there, no real plan in place. it’s hot, not unbearable but definitely the kind that makes the shade feel like a gift from god. you end up in ikseon-dong after someone sees a post about it on tiktok—the winding alleys and hanok rooftops and little stores selling handmade accessories. you try on rings, pose in front of storefronts you can’t pronounce, and eat cold tteok skewers that stick to your teeth while your friends debate if it’s worth renting hanboks just for the photos. and it’s somewhere in between all that—while you’re wiping your hands on a napkin—that someone turns to you and says, “so what happened with purple hair?” you shrug. “he texted.” “and?” you don’t say anything. instead, you reach into your bag, pull out your phone, and start scrolling. you wordlessly hold your phone out, and one of them takes it, squinting at the screen as the others gather around her shoulder. it takes about three seconds for the noise to start. “yo babygirl?” “oh, god… not the fire emoji.” “nahhh, he’s a bit icky—” “no, no, i think he’s lowkey funny.” they keep scrolling—laughing, gasping, reacting… and then someone sees it. the message. “wait… you’re going on a date?” you nod. “what? girl, you met him like twelve hours ago—do we trust him?” she lowers her voice even though no one around would understand anyway. “we’re in a different country, you literally met him at a club, and now he’s taking you somewhere alone?” “i know,” you say, already anticipating this. “i’ll be careful.” “how careful?” “i’m gonna send you my location before i leave. i’ll keep it on the whole time. if anything’s weird, i’ll text.” the worry’s still there, visible in the slight crease between their brows, in the way they exchange looks. “i’ll be fine, don’t worry.” “okay. but try to be in public spaces.” “i will.”

you make it back to the hotel just as the sky starts turning that soft, bruised purple, and you peel off your clothes like they’re too heavy, staring at the limited wardrobe you packed as if suddenly it matters way too much. you change your outfit twice, almost three times, before settling on something simple, something that doesn’t look like you’re trying too hard. you’re fixing your hair for the hundredth time when your phone buzzes.

outside

your stomach flips so hard it’s stupid. you grab your bag, do a quick mirror check you immediately regret because now you’re second-guessing everything, and head for the elevator before you can talk yourself out of it. and when you step out into the sticky air outside, you spot him almost immediately—standing by the curb, head tipped back slightly as he exhales a slow stream of vapor into the humid air. he’s dressed way more casual than you expected too… an oversized white t-shirt hanging loose over broad shoulders, baggy jorts and sneakers. he looks… cool. subong spots you, flicking the vape down to his side with a lazy grin as you start walking toward him. you barely get the word out— “hey—” when he steps right into your space and presses a kiss to your mouth. your body freezes, every muscle stiffening in surprise. you instinctively pull back, blinking up at him. “what—” you start, hand coming up between you half in reflex, half in shock. “what are you doing?” he shrugs, one shoulder up, all casual confidence. “what you mean, girl?” he says, tucking his vape into the pocket of his jorts. “we kissed last night.” you just stare at him, heart still hammering, lips tingling from the stupidly quick kiss. he’s looking at you like you’re the crazy one, like this is normal. but there’s the smallest tug at the corner of his mouth, the smallest glint in his eyes that says he knew exactly what he was doing. “that was different,” you mutter. “was it?” you open your mouth, ready to say something—not sure what—but nothing comes out. you try to catch up to the pace he’s apparently set without telling you as he glances back at you, one eyebrow raised, head tilted slightly like what? what did i do? you shake your head, blinking to reboot your system or at least form a coherent sentence, “you can’t just kiss people like that.” he grins. “wasn’t just people. it was you.” you snort. “you’re lucky i didn’t slap you.”

he laughs under his breath, genuinely amused by how hard you’re trying to act unbothered when you’re still standing close enough to feel the heat coming off him. “okay, don’t trip,” he says, like he’s letting you win just because he feels like it. “i won’t kiss you again, i’ll be good. you set the pace. whenever you’re ready to stop acting like you ain’t feelin’ me, you let me know.” you roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts, but you’re also pretty sure your face is still warm from the kiss, and the worst part is, he knows it. his eyes trail down your body, and he lets out this soft, almost inaudible damn under his breath that somehow feels a thousand times louder than it is. “you look so fucking good, baby,” he comments, voice dipping lower. “shit’s actually disrespectful.” he licks his bottom lip. “got me thinkin’ wild stuff.” before you can even finish processing the fact that he just said that out loud with no fucking shame, he reaches out, fingers curling gently around your wrist, and spins you—checking out the full view. there’s something in the way his eyes trail over you as you turn that makes your skin prickle. and subong knows he’s pushing it but can’t quite help himself. you stumble a little when you land back in front of him, cheeks hot, hand fluttering uselessly at your side.“so pretty.” “thank you,” you respond, voice smaller than you mean it to be.

desperate to shift the focus, to get it off you, you ask, “so this is what you wear on a first date?” your voice back to playful now. he grins, completely unfazed, hands slipping casually into his pockets. “yeah,” he replies. “like what you see?” you can’t deny he pulls it off. “could be better,” you tease, throwing it out just to see if you can knock him down a peg. it makes him laugh, head tipping back slightly like you just said the funniest thing in the world. “alright,” he shakes his head. “i’ll let you get away with this one. first one’s free.” you grin, feeling lighter now, falling into step beside him as you both start moving. you walk for a bit, the conversation drifting into whatever, until something tugs at the back of your mind. you glance around the street, at the line of cars parked along the curb, at the people climbing into taxis and scooters buzzing past, and a tiny frown pulls at your mouth before you even know why. you slow your steps just a little, enough that subong notices, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “wait,” you say, looking around again, feeling the pieces start to click together. “where’s your car?” he doesn’t answer immediately—just lets out this quiet heh under his breath, the kind of sound that’s both i knew this was coming and damn bro, she caught me. “uh,” he starts, dragging the word out way too long. “‘bout that.” you try to keep a straight face because you’re very close to laughing and you’re not sure if you’re allowed to. “i don’t have one.” “you made it sound like you were picking me up.” “i did pick you up,” he argues, grinning like this is all very charming and not mildly ridiculous. “i’m here, aren’t i?” you shake your head, letting out a laugh you can’t hold back this time. “relax, señorita,” he says, nudging your arm lightly with his elbow, walking backwards a few steps so he can keep looking at you. “the place we’re going is close. we good. thanos’s here with you.” you raise your eyebrows, biting back another laugh. “yeah, okay.”

you follow him down a few blocks, weaving through narrow side streets that don't look like they lead to anything good, the sidewalks cracked and uneven, neon signs lit overhead. you're not really sure where you're going, but somehow you don't care. finally he stops in front of a tiny restaurant. there's no sign in english, just a battered old menu taped to the window, the plastic chairs outside scratched and sun-bleached to hell. you glance at him, raising an eyebrow, and he just smiles, flashing you that lazy, boyish look like trust me, i got you. subong holds the door open for you, and you step inside. the place smells like frying oil, grilled meat and cheap beer, and the tables are crammed so close together you have to squeeze sideways to get through. there’s a little bar shoved in the back, stacked with soju bottles and bags of chips, and a woman behind it who looks like she’d throw you out if you looked at her wrong.

you sit at a table near the window, the seat creaking under you, and he grabs two menus—ones that are almost falling apart from too many hands flipping through them—and leans across the table like he’s about to tell you a secret. “they got the best shit here,” he says, all serious. you laugh under your breath and skim the menu… it’s all in korean. and when you look up at him, he’s already watching you. “what you want, baby?” he asks, tapping the menu with his ringed fingers. “i have no idea what any of this is.” he chuckles, low in his throat. “don’t worry. i got you.” he orders for both of you, tossing words toward the server with an easy familiarity, laughing at something she says in return, flashing her that same smile that’s been getting him out of trouble his whole life, probably. you watch him, chin propped on your hand, hiding your grin. it’s hard to pretend you’re not a little charmed. the food comes fast: bubbling stews, plates of fried chicken glistening with sauce, little bowls of pickled side dishes you can’t name but don’t hesitate to try. it smells incredible. you barely finish thanking the server before you’re digging in, laughing when you nearly burn your mouth on the first bite because you were too impatient to let it cool. “careful, girl,” subong says, laughing at you while he pops a piece of chicken into his mouth. he watches you take your first proper bite, waiting for a reaction, looking way too pleased with himself when you close your eyes and groan around a mouthful of food. "told you.”

the conversation flows easy after that—mostly him talking, telling you stupid stories about growing up in the city, about getting in trouble for sneaking into clubs before he was legal, about how he got kicked off stage once for getting too drunk during a performance. every once in a while he has to stop mid-sentence, brows knitting together as he fumbles for a word in english, pulling out his phone to type it into a translator app, muttering curses under his breath when it doesn't come out right. but most of the time he powers through, thick accent clinging stubbornly to every word. you notice it—the effort, the way he doesn’t act embarrassed about it, just keeps talking, keeps looking at you like what matters is that you’re listening, not whether he gets every syllable perfect. but his english is way better than you expected. by the time the plates are empty and you’re leaning back in your seat, full and happy and a little buzzed from the cheap beer he insisted you had to try, you realize you haven’t stopped smiling for at least an hour. when the server drops the check, he snatches it off the table before you can even reach for it, tossing a few crumpled bills into the plastic tray. “i said i got you, baby. you’re my guest in seoul. gotta treat you right.”

you step out of the restaurant still laughing at something stupid he said. subong throws an arm around your shoulders, tugging you a little into his side as you start walking again. jesus, this man loves physical contact. but you let him because fuck it—you’re in seoul, he’s fine as fuck and you just had the best dinner ever. you assume this is it. that he’ll say something smooth about how he had a good time and then you’ll part ways like normal people… but of course that’s not how this night is going to end. “yo,” he says suddenly, glancing at you sideways. “you ever been to karaoke?” you blink at him, thrown off. “like, here? in korea?” he nods, looking way too excited about it. you laugh. “i mean, no? not yet.” “say less,” he says immediately. “we’re going.” you don’t even protest. maybe it’s the beer, or maybe it’s the way he says it, giving you no room to say no but somehow you don’t want to anyway. once you arrive to the closest karaoke place you could find, he pays for an hour and drags you into one of the rooms, tossing the remote onto the fake leather couch before flopping down like he owns the place. and you swear you’re ready—thinking he’s going to pick something remotely cool that would actually show off the fact that he’s a real rapper with actual skills—but instead, he picks the corniest, cringiest song you’ve ever heard, something so bad it feels like it should be illegal to perform it in public. and he commits to it, bouncing a little on the couch and pointing at you dramatically, hand over his heart, singing the dumbest lines with so much fake sincerity that you’re doubled over laughing, wiping tears from your eyes while he struts across the tiny room like he’s on tour. “this one’s for you, babygirl,” he says between lines, winking exaggeratedly, nearly dropping the mic because he’s laughing too hard at himself. you can’t remember the last time you laughed like this. to the point where your stomach hurts, and the laugh bubbles up uncontrollably until you can’t breathe and you’re clutching the arm of the couch just to stay upright.

somewhere in the middle of it you realize you’re completely fucked because he’s so annoying and so stupid and so fucking handsome at the same time. his hair’s sticking to his forehead, sweat glinting at his temples, his oversized t-shirt clinging to his chest in a way that makes it real fucking hard not to stare, and every time he sings louder, that vein in his neck strains against his skin like it’s begging for your mouth. lord, have some fucking mercy. you hate him for it—hate the way he’s making you want him without even trying, without even looking at you sometimes… just existing like this, all loud and cocky and hot enough to make your thighs press together. you cheer for him because you can’t not, hollering louder than you should when he throws in a stupid dance move that nearly knocks over the mic stand. and when he finally hands you the mic, yelling “let’s gooo, pretty girl!” like you’re stepping onto a stage instead of a busted karaoke floor, you realize you’re smiling so hard it actually hurts. you sing, and he’s clapping, hyping you up like you’re winning a fucking grammy—shouting your name. you take turns picking songs after that, drinking whatever cheap shit they sell at the front counter, voices cracking, bodies slumping closer together the longer the night drags on. and somewhere between your third song and his fourth, somewhere between him rapping aggressively at you from three feet away and you pretending to dodge his dramatic finger guns, it happens.

you catch him grinning at you, and your heart kicks hard against your chest, like your body already knows what you’re about to do before you even decide it. you remember in that moment what he said outside the hotel, about letting you set the pace. and god help you, you’re ready to set it now. you don’t think. you just move, leaning over the little gap between you, grabbing the front of his t-shirt, and pulling him in. when you kiss him, it’s nothing like the night before. it’s so much better. his mouth slants over yours perfectly, with enough pressure to make your stomach flip and enough softness to make you forget about everything outside. one of his hands slips around your jaw to hold you steady and the other one finds your thigh. you hum against his mouth without meaning to, and subong breathes out a low sound in response. you pull away to catch your breath, and when you kiss again, it’s a bit more desperate, which makes him groan, the sound vibrating against your mouth. it’s honestly embarrassing how fast you feel your panties soak. you don’t know how long you stay like that—lost in the beat of some awful pop song bleeding through the thin walls as you heavily make out—but you know that when you pull back again, breathing hard, you’re smiling like an idiot. and so is he.

it’s past three in the morning by the time you finally stumble out of the karaoke bar, that area of the city almost empty now. the only sound between you is the soft scuff of your sneakers on the pavement and the occasional lazy laugh when one of you says something too stupid to hold in. you make it back to the hotel slower than you probably should’ve, feet dragging a little like both of you are trying to stretch the night out just a little longer, neither one really willing to say it’s over yet. you stop just outside the hotel doors, under the weak yellow glow of the streetlights, and turn to him. subong smiles at you. “had fun with you, baby,” he says. you smile back, feeling it settle deep under your skin. “i had fun too. a lot.” he nods like he’s filing that away somewhere important, then shifts his weight. “we should hang out again,” there’s a thread under it you can hear, something almost urgent. you bite your lip, hesitating just a second longer than you mean to, and his eyes catch it immediately, narrowing slightly, picking up the shift in you. “i mean…” you start, fumbling a little, “i’m here with my friends. i told you, it’s like… a girls’ trip. we already have stuff planned and—” he cuts you off, scoffing, half laughing under his breath, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “man, fuck them plans,” he says, grinning but shaking his head like he’s serious underneath it. “they get to see you all year. i got only four days now, girl. four.” you open your mouth to argue, to say something logical and responsible, but he continues, “they ain’t gonna miss you for a few hours,” he says, coaxing, all lazy sweetness. “i will.” you blink up at him, caught off guard by the way he says it. maybe you should say no, tell him you’re here for your friends, not to get caught up in some boy you barely know. maybe you should turn around and go inside and pretend this night was enough. but the truth is, you already know what you’re going to do. so you just breathe out a soft, helpless little laugh, and shrug one shoulder like you’re trying to play it off even though you know he sees right through you. “okay.” you nod. “i’ll see you again.” the grin that breaks across his face is so quick, so bright, it almost knocks the air out of you. he doesn’t even try to hide it. “damn right you will,” he says. “same time tomorrow, yeah?” you can’t help the smile that pulls at your mouth, can’t stop yourself from playing along. “same time?” “yeah, baby. same time.”

the next morning you wake up feeling like you barely slept at all. you lie there for a few minutes, blinking up at the ceiling, replaying pieces of last night in your head, until someone throws a pillow at you and tells you to get up because you’re all late for whatever tourist plan you made before the trip. you tell them about the date during breakfast, skipping over the part where you made out on the sticky leather couch, but you’re pretty sure they can read it on your face anyway. they tease you again. ask when the wedding is and if they should start learning korean for the reception. those bitches. you laugh along with them, pretending you’re not checking the time more often than you should as the day wears on, counting down the hours until the sun goes down and it’s time. when you make it back to the hotel to shower and change, the sun’s just dipping low behind the buildings, painting the whole city gold. your friends are sprawled out on their beds, chatting about dinner plans for the night, but you’re in another world, getting ready for your date with subong. you slip outside just a few minutes before the time you agreed on, standing on the same spot as the night before, the concrete still holding the heat of the day. you spot him as he walks toward you, vape tucked between his fingers, a slow stream of smoke curling up. he’s hard to miss—not just because of the purple hair, but because somehow he looks even better tonight, a little more put together. he’s wearing those same jorts, a white tank top that clings to him in a way that makes you bite the inside of your cheek, the thin fabric stretched across the lines of his shoulders and the curve of his chest. over it, he’s thrown on an open short-sleeved button-up, some tropical print you can’t even process because you’re too busy processing him—the way the shirt flutters open as he walks, flashing glimpses of tan skin and silver chains. you restrain yourself from barking because oh my fucking god. you’re so feral, it’s insane. he gets closer, mouth curling into a smirk. “damn, mama,” he says. “you tryna kill me looking like that?” you smile. “maybe.” he snorts before reaching out to hook a lazy arm around your shoulders like he did last night, pulling you into his side. “come on, baby,” he says, giving you a little squeeze. “night’s young.” you glance up at him, amused. “so, what’s the plan?” he hums, thinking, like the idea of having a plan never once crossed his mind. “have fun, get you fed and keep you laughing. that good enough?” you chuckle, letting yourself be dragged wherever he feels like going.

he pulls you down a side street you wouldn’t have noticed otherwise. there are carts lined up one after another, steam rising from boiling pots, old men barking orders, kids laughing, girls dressed way too nicely for the grime around their shoes. subong stops at the first tteokbokki stand he sees, hands you a toothpick without asking like it’s a rite of passage, and grins at you when you eye the bubbling, angry red sauce with suspicion. “don’t be soft,” he says, plucking a rice cake out and blowing on it dramatically before popping it into his mouth. “fire, but it’s good for you.” “fire? what do you mean ‘fire’?” you poke at a piece, hesitating, and he bumps your hip with his. “c’mon, girl. don’t think about it.” you stab the piece, blow on it half-heartedly, and take a bite—immediately coughing as the heat punches you square in the mouth. he laughs so loud people actually turn to stare. you glare at him through watering eyes, cheeks puffed out, waving your free hand frantically. “shit, baby, you good?” he says between wheezing laughs, grabbing a water bottle off the cart and handing it to you. you chug half the bottle in one go, scowling over the top of it while he keeps laughing, trying and failing to school his face into something resembling sympathy. “it’s not funny,” you choke out, but it’s hopeless—you’re laughing too, half in misery, half because his smile is so stupidly infectious.

you move from cart to cart after that, him insisting you try everything—fish cakes dipped in broth, skewered meats glazed with something sweet, a fried pancake stuffed with brown sugar and nuts that you basically inhale because it’s the first non-lethal thing you’ve eaten all night. you end up perched on the curb a few minutes later, paper trays balanced between you. it’s not exactly glamorous, but somehow, sitting here next to him, none of it really matters. he’s good company… snatching bites off your plate like he didn’t just buy two full meals for himself. you watch him for a second, amused, as he chews dramatically, eyebrows raised like he’s waiting for you to fight him for it, but you don’t. “by the way,” you say, nudging him with your knee. “i forgot to ask. how old are you?” he freezes mid bite, eyes wide like you just hit him with a question he wasn’t ready for. then he swallows and smirks, licking sauce off his thumb before answering. “twenty-eight,” he replies, tapping his chest like it’s a badge of honor. “grown-ass man, baby.” you laugh, shaking your head. “you act like you’re eighteen.” he grins wider. “young at heart, old in the dick.” you almost choke on your food, smacking his arm while he doubles over laughing, clearly way too proud of himself. “jesus christ,” you mutter, hiding your face in your hands for a second while subong keeps laughing, wiping fake tears from the corner of his eyes. “what about you?” he asks once he catches his breath, nudging you back with his shoulder. “twenty-four,” you say, still side-eyeing him like you’re waiting for another stupid comment. he whistles low under his breath, shooting you a look. “damn. little baby. you’re so cute.” you flip him off automatically, but you’re smiling too much for it to mean anything.

after a while, he pushes himself up, brushing crumbs off his jorts, and reaches a hand down to you. you let him pull you up, your fingers slipping easily into his for a second longer than necessary before you let go, pretending not to notice the way he smirks. you start walking again, no real direction, just weaving through the crowds as the streets pulse around you. he keeps glancing down at his phone, scrolling, texting, doing something you can’t quite catch, and you’re about to tease him for being glued to it when a low rumble cuts through the street noise—a motorbike pulling up just a few feet ahead of you. you pause automatically, stepping closer to him, and he looks up like he’s been expecting it. the guy on the bike kills the engine and pulls off his helmet, grinning wide. subong grins back, stepping forward to dap him up—a quick handshake and a bro-hug, that thing guys pretend isn’t just them being affectionate. they talk fast, laughing and jostling each other like they’re still teenagers. you’re not really listening, since you understand absolutely nothing. your eyes flick between the beat-up bike and subong’s lazy posture, the way he gestures casually in your direction mid sentence and jerks his chin toward you. then he says something that you do understand. “that my girl.” and you can feel your cheeks get warm. the guy nods, still grinning, and tosses subong two helmets before hopping off the bike completely and handing over the keys without a second thought. he gives you a quick polite bow, claps subong on the back, and then disappears into the crowd without a backward glance.

you blink at subong, stunned, as he turns back to you, tossing you one of the helmets with a cocky grin. “what just happened?” you ask, catching it awkwardly. he shrugs, sliding his own helmet on. “my boy owed me a favor,” he says casually, tugging the strap of his helmet tight under his chin. “told him i needed a whip for tonight. came through.” you open your mouth to question that (because what the actual fuck) but before you can, he steps closer, plucks the helmet out of your hands, says, “c’mere, baby,” and starts fitting it onto your head like you’re a little kid he’s dressing for school. he’s surprisingly gentle about it too—adjusting the strap under your jaw, fingers brushing the sides of your neck, tilting your head a little so he can buckle it properly. you hold still, heart thudding a little too fast, trying to focus on anything other than the way he smells up close. he tugs the strap once to test it, his thumb brushing the underside of your chin lightly. “perfect,” he says, grinning down at you like he just built the whole damn helmet himself. you look up at him, a little too aware of how close he is, and mutter, “you do know how to drive this thing, right?” his grin only widens. he swings one leg over the bike, settling onto the seat like he’s done it a million times, flashing you a look so smug you already know the answer before he even opens his mouth. “nah. not really.” he pats the seat behind him with the flat of his palm, all easy confidence like he’s not actively trying to kill you both tonight. “come on, baby.” “what do you mean, ‘not really’?” “i mean, like... how hard can it be?” you just stare at him, actually opening your mouth this time because no, absolutely not, what the fuck. “subong—” but before you can launch into the speech he probably deserves, he twists a little in the seat, facing you more fully, one hand reaching out to tap his knuckles lightly against the side of your helmet. “chill, girl. i’m not gonna kill us.” you narrow your eyes at him through the visor, unconvinced. “trust me, yeah?” the sheer audacity of this man… but he looks so fucking good it physically hurts. like hell yeah, if he were to fuck you right now, the helmet would stay on because holy shit…

you blow out a slow breath, feeling the last of your protests crumbling away, and swing your leg over the bike, sliding onto the seat behind him. your hands find his waist automatically, gripping tighter than necessary, and you’re pretty sure he feels it…because he lets out this low, smug little laugh. “if we crash,” you mutter, “i’m haunting you.” “shit,” subong laughs, glancing back at you. “you can haunt me anytime, baby.” you snort, and then he’s pulling out into the street, smooth and confident in a way that should not belong to someone who openly admitted he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. the bike jolts forward a little rough at first, and instinctively, you squeeze him tighter, your fingers fisting the hem of his shirt like you’re clinging for your life. which you are. he laughs again. you can feel it more than hear it, this rumbling sound that vibrates through his back and straight into your chest. the first few blocks are hell. you’re tense, stiff, squeezing the life out of him every time he takes a turn too sharp or guns it a little too hard between cars. subong’s reckless, weaving through traffic, laughing under his breath when you curse him loud enough to make two drunk guys on the sidewalk turn around. “relax, pretty girl!” he calls over his shoulder. “i got you!” hell no. you don’t relax. but somewhere along the way— maybe after the third near-death experience—you loosen your grip a little. your body starts to move with his instead of against him, leaning into the curves, even when your stomach drops into your shoes. he flies through the city, streets blurring into streaks of gold and red and neon blue, the whole of seoul stretching wide and endless around you. you laugh and he hears it. you can tell because he glances back briefly, enough for you to catch the way he’s smiling with his eyes under the helmet.

eventually, he slows, pulling into a quieter part of the city where your hotel is. he rolls the bike up to the curb, tapping the kickstand down with the side of his foot. the engine cuts off with a low grumble. subong looks back at you, hands still resting lightly on the handlebars. “see? you survived,” he says. you snort, pulling off your helmet, your hair sticking to your forehead and your cheeks hot from the ride and the adrenaline. maybe a little from him too. “barely,” you mutter, swinging your leg off the bike and standing, feeling the ground steady itself under you again. he watches you, leaning back a little, hands loose in his lap, looking so stupidly proud of himself you almost want to smack him. but mostly, you just want to kiss him. and you hate how badly you want it. how badly you’re really starting to want him. you shove the helmet into his chest instead, and he chuckles, grabbing it easily like he was expecting the hit. “damn,” he says, shaking his head like he’s genuinely offended. “no kiss goodbye?” “maybe if you took off the helmet first.” without missing a beat, he yanks the helmet off, rakes a hand through his messy, sweat-damp purple hair, and looks at you. you don’t even hesitate. you lean in, pressing your lips against his, and he’s ready for it—smiling against them like he knew you’d cave, hands finding your waist and pulling you in. you pull back after a second, but subong stays close, forehead almost bumping yours. “better,” he murmurs. you huff out a laugh. “don’t get used to it.” “too late, pretty girl.” you shake your head, trying not to smile too wide, stepping back to give yourself breathing room you’re not sure you actually want. “i wanna know more about you,” you say all of sudden. his eyebrows lift. “oh yeah?” “yeah,” you say, feeling your face heat up. “we’re hanging out again tomorrow, right? i wanna know more.” he blinks, like you caught him off guard for a second, then he smiles. “oh, we are?” subong tilts his head, teasing. you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling too, shoulders lifting in a half-shrug like you’re giving him a choice when you both know you’re not. “unless you’re busy.” you know damn well he isn’t. “i’m always free for you, girl.” “good. same time tomorrow then,” you afirm, stepping back, starting to turn toward the hotel entrance. behind you, you hear the faint click of his helmet getting strapped back on, the low rumble of the engine coming back to life. “hey,” subong calls after you, voice a little louder now over the growl of the bike. you glance back over your shoulder. “better get some rest, baby. you’re gonna need energy to handle all this tomorrow.” you raise an eyebrow. “all what?” he laughs, shaking his head. you’re so cute for even asking. “me,” he answers, flashing a wink. “got plenty to show you.”

and he’s right. he’s got plenty to show you—all the places that built him. the convenience store he used to get kicked out of for loitering. the fried chicken shop where he spent whole summers broke and eating scraps off his friend’s plates. the basketball court where he learned how to throw a punch and how to lose without crying. he shows you the narrow alley behind a laundromat where he tried his first cigarette—coughed so hard he almost passed out, ended up swearing off smoking for a year before picking it back up like a dumbass. and the little restaurant his mom used to take him to when she had extra money, telling you all proud, like he was taking her out instead of the other way around—points at a booth through the window, saying, “we always sat there. always. didn’t matter if the place was full, we’d wait.” you pass the corner where he says he got his first kiss—“shit was so bad… she had gum in her mouth, bro. almost choked me out.” he laughs so hard at his own misery you can’t help but crack up too. half the time you’re laughing so much you have to grab onto his arm to stay upright, the other half you’re just smiling, letting yourself imagine him at fifteen, wild and cocky and probably just as much of a little shit as he is now. he tells you about the time he broke his front tooth on a skateboard he stole from his neighbor—“wasn’t even a good skateboard, man, shit was so trash it couldn’t even roll properly”—and the time he got detention for a month straight for sneaking out during lunch breaks to freestyle rap behind the gym. he’s proud of it all in a weird way, even the stupid stuff, even the shit you can tell he probably should’ve been more ashamed of. and you get it. you get why he’s showing you this—the scraps, the corners, the places no one else would think mattered. because to him, they do. and for whatever reason, he wants them to matter to you too.

the night keeps pulling you along, the city thinning out into quieter streets, until you turn a corner and there it is—his old high school. the building itself looks tired, the chain-link fence rusted and sagging in places. he slows down as you approach, hands tucked loose into his pockets, eyeing the fence. you already know the look on his face before he says anything. and sure enough, a second later: “wanna go in?” you hesitate, glancing around. it’s late, the streets mostly empty, but still… breaking into a high school wasn’t exactly on your vacation checklist. “subong,” you hiss under your breath. “what if we get caught?” he just laughs, not even pretending to be worried. “ain’t nobody patrolling this old-ass place at night, baby. plus, you said you wanted to know more about me, right?” “shit—okay, fine. but i don’t wanna stay for too long,” you sigh, knowing you’ve lost, already stepping closer to him like an idiot because honestly, how could you not. he finds a spot where the fence leans out, grabs it with both hands, and yanks it back with a sharp creak, wide enough for you to slip through. he holds it open, hand reaching for yours. “ladies first.” you mutter something under your breath about how stupid this is, but your fingers still find his, and you duck through the gap, heart hammering way too loud in your chest. inside, the courtyard feels huge. you stick to the shadows instinctively, ducking your head as you walk, trying not to step directly under the working lampposts buzzing dimly overhead. subong moves beside you, easy and relaxed, hands shoved back into his pockets, looking around like he’s remembering every stupid thing he ever did here. he points out the corner where he used to ditch class to smoke, the back wall where he and his friends would race to see who could climb over it the fastest without getting caught. “got caught only once. made me mop the cafeteria floors for a week.” you stifle a laugh behind your hand, glancing at him sideways.

you weave through the empty playground, passing a soccer goal and a few wooden picnic tables, until you find yourselves near the old bleachers, which are leaning like they’re about to give up completely. before you can say anything, subong grabs your hand—big and warm around yours—and tugs you toward the space underneath. it’s dark under there, the only light filtering through the cracks in thin, broken lines from the nearest lamppost, but it’s enough to make out the shape of him standing in front of you. you’re still smiling when your hands find the back of his neck, fingers curling into the hair at his nape. his hands find your waist, sliding low, rough palms against your sides as he backs you up until your spine hits the thick metal bar behind you with a soft clang. you let out a breath, feeling the cold bite of the steel through your shirt, and feeling the way he cages you in with nothing but his body. he doesn’t say anything for a second—just stands there, so close you can feel the heat rolling off him. you tilt your head back a little to look at him, and he just grins, lazy and lopsided. “what’s your opinion, then?” he murmurs. “on what?” he leans in. you can feel the brush of his breath against your mouth, his hands tightening a little on your waist. “me. thanos.” you pretend to think about it, humming, dragging it out just to see the way his mouth twitches, fighting a smile. “trouble… but fun,” you whisper finally. he huffs out a quiet laugh. “good,” he says. “wouldn’t want you gettin’ bored on me.”

and then he kisses you, his mouth moving over yours with purpose. your fingers tighten in the hair at the back of his neck, making him groan, the sound slipping out between your mouths. the kiss grows hotter fast, needier. his hands are everywhere—pulling you closer until your body is pressed tight against his, the cold metal bar digging into your back the only thing keeping you grounded. you don’t even think about it, you just move. you grab his wrist, sliding his hand up, up, until it’s over your chest, pressing his palm flat against your left breast through your shirt. he stiffens for a moment before he squeezes, making you gasp softly. subong pulls back to look down at you, his pupils blown wide, lips parted, breathing heavily. “want me to make you feel good, baby? hm?” he mutters. you nod, fast and desperate, the word ‘yes’ stuck somewhere in your throat. his hand slides lower for a second, dragging slow over your ribs, down your waist, before he comes back up—fingers hooking into the dip of your neckline, where your shirt already hangs low. he tugs it down, dragging your bra with it until your left breast spills free. you barely get a breath out before subong’s mouth is on you, wrapping around your nipple and sucking hard enough to make you whimper. his tongue’s lapping at you like he’s tasting something he’s been thinking about for way too fucking long—because he has. his hand comes up to cup the underside of your breast, squeezing, pushing you harder against his mouth. your fingers dig further into his hair, pulling, desperate for something to hold onto because your legs are barely holding you up anymore. he sucks harder, sloppier, teeth grazing your nipple just to hear the broken sound it pulls out of you, his other hand already sliding toward the waistband of your shorts. you’re so fucking wet already it’s humiliating, a low ache building between your thighs.

his hand doesn’t stop—fingers dipping just beneath the waistband, grazing over your panties. you whimper, hips jerking forward instinctively, chasing the heat of his touch. his fingers slide under the thin fabric, and when he finds you—hot and soaked and so fucking ready for him—he hisses through his teeth, his whole body tensing against yours. “fuck,” he mutters, mouth still trailing over the swell of your breast. “you’re so fuckin’ wet for me—shit, baby.” he doesn’t even give you a second to catch your breath. his middle finger slips between your folds, gliding slow through the mess he’s already made of you, teasing your clit with the lightest fucking touch—making you writhe and grab at his shoulders, nails digging in. he pulls back from your chest finally, lifting his head to look at you with dark eyes and a shiny and swollen mouth from sucking on you. “you want it, pretty girl?” he rasps, fingers barely circling your clit, teasing you. “want me to fuck you with these fingers right here?” “yes,” you manage to say. “yes—please.” he grins like he was just waiting for you to beg. and then he finally gives you what you’re aching for. he slides one thick finger into you, slowly, letting you feel every inch of it, the stretch enough to make your mouth fall open around a broken gasp. “fuck,” he mutters under his breath, he can’t believe how tight you are around just one finger. “been thinking about this shit since the second i saw you.” he thrusts his finger deeper, curling it inside you, making your hips jerk helplessly against his hand. “couldn’t stop picturing it,” he keeps going, filthy and sweet all at once. “you, all needy and fucking dripping for me… just like this.” you whimper when he adds another finger, and your body moves on instinct—desperate for him, desperate for something more—your thigh brushing up against the bulge straining against his pants.

he shudders when you do it. a sharp, involuntary twitch running through his body. so you do it again, slower this time, dragging your leg against him on purpose just to feel the way he grits his teeth and mutters something under his breath in korean. “you got me so fucking hard, girl. shit—” he rasps, but he doesn’t pull away. he just flexes his fingers inside you instead, fucking you deeper, rougher, desperate to keep you right there against him. and when you do it once again, subong finally gives in, hips grinding into your leg in these short, helpless thrusts, chasing friction. you keep rocking your hips into his hand, feeling the heel of it grind up against your clit every time his fingers sink deep inside you. it’s filthy, the wet sounds of him working you open, and the soft, broken little whimpers spilling out of your mouth no matter how hard you try to bite them back. he pumps his fingers faster, his palm catching your clit on every thrust, making your whole body jerk and tremble, gasping so loud you’re sure someone’s gonna hear. he kisses you before you can make another sound, crushing his mouth against yours, swallowing every moan. his tongue slides against yours, demanding as you cling onto him, legs shaking. “you’re so fuckin’ loud, baby,” he pants, pulling away for a second. “what, you tryna get us caught?” you shake your head frantically, mouth falling open around another moan.“then be good for me,” he growls, thrusting his fingers harder, lips brushing yours. “c’mon. be fucking good and cum for me. let me have it, baby.”

you don’t even have time to warn him. your whole body tightens, back arching into the cold metal behind you. you bury your face in his neck, biting down on his skin to stay quiet as the orgasm rips through you. he feels it—feels the way you clamp down around his fingers, trying so hard to stay quiet and still end up letting out this broken little cry against his throat. “yeah. yeah, that’s it. that’s it, baby.” you’re still cumming, trembling against him, and he barely holds it together. he knows he should slow down, let you catch your breath and be a decent fucking human being for once—but he can’t. he’s so fucking hard it’s unbearable, grinding helplessly against your thigh because he needs you so bad he feels feral. and it’s fucking pathetic but he can’t stop. he’s humping your leg like a goddamn dog and he doesn’t even care. you’re warm and wet and still pulsing around his fingers, and all subong can think about is how much he wants it to be his cock instead, how fucking good you’d feel if he was buried inside you instead of just fucking you with his hand. “a-ahh, fuck—shit—” he mutters against your skin, hips rutting against you without rhythm, without shame. “should be my dick i-inside you… fuck, fuck, fuck, baby—” he feels it hit him hard—feels the heat coil up in his gut—and then he’s cumming in his fucking pants like an loser, grinding against your thigh one last desperate time, his whole body locking up, breath catching in his throat. and it’s messy, leaking hot and wet into his boxers, making him feel like he’s sixteen years old again with no self-control. he slumps against you, both of you panting. for a second, neither of you says anything, and then you shift a little, enough to glance down between you and realize what the fuck just happened.

you freeze. your head snaps back up to look at him, eyes wide, mouth parting like you’re about to say something—and he knows. he knows the exact second you realize it. “oh my god,” you whisper, choking on a laugh. he groans, dropping his head into the crook of your neck, too fucking embarrassed to meet your eyes. “don’t fucking say it,” he mutters, voice muffled against your skin. “shit’s not funny.” you start laughing anyway. even harder when he curses under his breath like he’s actually contemplating death as a real option right now. “bro,” he pulls back, cheeks flushed redder than you’ve ever seen them, voice miserable, “the fuck am i supposed to do now?” he gestures vaguely down at himself—at the wet stain darkening the front of his pants. “walk you back to the hotel like this?” he scoffs, dead serious, like this is a real crisis. “people gonna think i fucking pissed myself, man.” you’re laughing so hard now you have to cover your mouth with your hand, trying not to completely lose it right there. he just shakes his head, dramatic as hell, pulling his shirt down lower to cover himself like that’s gonna fix anything. “nah, fuck it,” he mutters, resigned. “relax, subong,” you say, finally managing to get your breath back. “it’s dark. no one’s gonna notice.”

you walk back to the hotel—subong sticking close to your side, occasionally tugging at his shirt like it’ll somehow hide the obvious mess he’s made of himself, and you’re barely holding back your laughter every time you catch him glancing down at himself in misery. when you finally reach your hotel, he slows, almost reluctant. you turn to him, smiling. “thanks for tonight,” you say, which sounds stupid when you think about it, like… you’re thanking him for blowing his load in his own pants and making you cum on two of his fingers. “anytime, baby,” he says with a grin. “anywhere, too.” you roll your eyes before stepping closer, and kissing him—quick and soft. when you pull back, he smiles. “we’re hanging out tomorrow, right?” he asks, scratching the back of his neck, looking down the street instead of at you. you raise an eyebrow like really? “yeah, of course.” which translates to: duh, obviously. he shifts his weight, dragging his sneaker against the sidewalk. “could… could we meet earlier, maybe?” you blink at him, a little surprised at the sudden softness in his voice. “just,” he adds quickly, “you know… we only got, what? tomorrow and one more day? tryna… see you more—make the most of it.” and it’s the kind of thing that should make you pull back, remind yourself this is supposed to be a fling, a summer story you get to laugh about later. but instead, your heart does this stupid little skip in your chest. “i’ll talk to my friends,” you say. “i’ll let you know.” “hit me up, girl,” he answers, backing away toward the street. “i’m always down.” you nod. “good night, subong.” “good night, pretty girl. sleep well.”

the second you get a hint of free time the next morning, you’re grabbing your phone, texting him.

hey, i can meet earlier today if you still want

my friends don’t mind

hell yeah

been waiting on u all day

subong it’s only 11am

tf that gotta do w anything

missed u since u left last night

you’re so silly

5pm work for you?

perfect

i’ll be lookin fine as hell just for u

that better be a promise

u r gonna see girl

what’s the plan?

cant say bby

just trust daddy🔥

EWWWWW

oh hell no

absolutely not

i’m literally blocking you rn

bro im playinggg😂😂

i let you call yourself thanos

but daddy??? you lost me there

u r funny girl

i like u

see u at 5 sexy😍

subong has the whole evening planned—or at least, he pretends he does, which is close enough. you don’t even get a real explanation when you meet up, just him saying, “trust me, baby. this ‘bout to be the best date of your life.” and somehow, you let him drag you onto a rental bike, even though you haven’t ridden one in years and definitely almost crash into a post within the first two minutes. he laughs so hard he almost falls off his own bike, cutting figure eights around you in the street, showing off, and yelling “you good, girl?” like you didn’t just almost die in front of a group of passing tourists. you flip him off, wobbling forward with as much dignity as you can muster, which is none. he just laughs harder, racing ahead, calling back over his shoulder for you to catch up, then something about “damn, girl, didn’t know i was ridin’ with a fucking beginner!” “shut up, you idiot!” he laughs, throwing his head back for a second like he’s never had more fun in his life. you spend the next hour like that—racing through the paths by the han river, dodging kids and couples, weaving too close to each other on purpose, getting more than a few dirty looks from serious bikers in full gear who clearly think you’re assholes. you don’t care. you don’t think you’ve ever cared less in your life, honestly—not when the sun’s bright and high, and the air’s hot but not enough to ruin the way the breeze feels when you pick up speed. but most importantly, not when subong’s laughing like that beside you. somewhere along the way, you stop for ice cream—him skidding to a halt so fast you almost plow straight into his back, then pointing at an ice cream truck like he’s discovered buried treasure.

subong’s already halfway to the window before you even hop off your bike properly, tossing a grin over his shoulder like you’re too slow to keep up. you go simple—vanilla cone. he goes straight for the most ridiculous neon blue popsicle he can find, the kind that stains your mouth for hours. the second he sees your cone, he groans loud enough that the guy in the truck gives him a side-eye. “who picks vanilla, bro?” he says, pulling a face like you just personally offended him. “all these options and you pick vanilla?” you snort, eyeing the monstrosity in his hand. “says the guy eating radioactive smurf ass.” he almost chokes laughing, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, bright blue already smeared along the corner of his lips. “this shit’s elite,” he counters, holding it up proudly. “you just got no taste.” you bump his arm with your elbow, smirking. “not true. i’m hanging out with you, aren’t i?” “yeah, baby,” he agrees. “lucky me.”

you keep riding after that, weaving through the crowds along the river, laughing whenever subong swerves way too close to you on purpose just to hear you curse at him under your breath. but eventually, you go back to the rental spot, where a couple of kids are stacking bikes back into neat little rows. subong pulls up first, hopping off with way more swagger than necessary like he just finished a triathlon. you drop your bike into the stand next to his, brushing the hair out of your face, still a little out of breath. “i’m starving,” he says, stretching his arms overhead until his shirt rides up just enough to flash the waistband of his boxers. it feels like he’s doing it on purpose… yeah, he definitely is. “you’re always starving,” you laugh. then, you follow him across the street toward a small convenience store. you end up picking out a random assortment of junk—kimbap, banana milk, two different types of chips you can’t read the names of—and subong loads up with way too many drinks and candy. when you’re back outside, the bags crinkling in your hands, the sun’s starting to dip low behind the buildings, turning the whole sky this beautiful mix of orange and pink. he leads you down a small side path off the main trail, one you probably wouldn’t have found if you were by yourself, until you reach a quiet patch by the river where the rocks slope down into the water. no one else is around, just the distant noise of traffic, the occasional splash of a fish somewhere you can’t see. you climb down carefully, finding a spot on the bigger rocks that’s flat enough to sit without busting your ass. subong drops down beside you, tossing the convenience store bag between you, his legs stretching out long in front of him, sneakers almost brushing the water. the river laps gently against the stones, the breeze cool and soft now that the sun’s finally starting to ease up. he hands you a can of some random drink, cracking his own open with a sharp hiss, and you both sit there for a minute, just sipping quietly, the world slowing down around you like someone turned the volume down on the whole city.

“what’s shit like where you from?” he asks, voice low, trying not to break the moment too hard. you glance over at him, surprised he’s asking. you shrug. “my town’s small. and boring as fuck most of the time—you’d hate it, i think. no nightlife.” he grins sideways at you. “yeah? i think it sounds peaceful.” you hum in agreement, sipping your drink. he’s quiet for a second, tapping his fingers against the rock beside him, before he says, “always wanted to get outta here. when i was a kid, i used to think, like… soon as i turn eighteen, i’m gone.” this time he’s not smiling, but his expression’s tender in a way you haven’t really seen yet. “but shit’s expensive, y’know?” he continues. “and you get stuck. gotta hustle just to stay afloat. then next thing you know, ten years passed and you’re still sitting in the same fucking place.” you don’t say anything. you want to tell him it’s not nothing, that getting stuck doesn’t mean he didn’t make it somewhere, that he’s still here, alive, and that’s what matters. but you don’t know how to say that without sounding like you’re pitting him. so you nudge his knee lightly with yours instead, and he glances at you, the corner of his mouth twitching up enough to let you know he got it. “anyway.” he clears his throat. “didn’t mean to turn this into a therapy session.” “i don’t mind.” he looks at you, eyes flickering over your face as if checking if you mean it. whatever he finds there must be enough, because he smiles. “what about you? what’s next for you, after this trip?” you exhale slowly, staring at the ripples moving across the water. you could lie. you could say i don’t know, and leave it at that. but something about the way he’s looking at you makes you want to tell him the truth. “back to real life, i guess. work, responsibilities… pretending like this summer didn’t make me wanna change everything.”

“i’m gonna miss you, you know.” you roll your eyes, smiling, unsure if you should believe him. “please,” you say. “you’re gonna have another girl by next week.” he scoffs, scandalized. “woah. disrespectful as fuck, baby.” “am i wrong though?” he shakes his head, grinning. “honestly? i’m not even tryna entertain nobody else right now.” you raise your eyebrows, not expecting that—and he catches the look. “ain’t no one as cute as you, señorita,” he says, voice dropping a bit. you snort, trying to play it off, but your face is already getting hot, and he knows it. “whatever,” you tsk, taking another sip of your drink. “you’ll forget about me in, like, two days.” “i won’t. i don’t really fuck with people like i fuck with you.” “you’re gonna make me cry,” you mutter, half-joking, and he smiles like he’s proud of himself for it. “good,” he says. “i’m tryna leave a mark, girl.” you shake your head again, giggling. and then, because you feel like maybe you owe him the truth too, you say, “i’m gonna miss you too, subong.” “you will?” “mhm.” no one’s ever said that to him. or at least not like that, so sincerely. “it’s crazy. feels like i’ve known you my whole fucking life,” he admits, scratching the back of his neck, messing up his already messy hair. you smile into your drink, because yeah, even if it sounds stupid, it does feel like that. “same.” “you can’t, like… i don’t know, man. stay a little longer?” you almost choke on your drink. “subong,” you say, laughing because it’s either laugh or cry, “you’re so desperate.” he groans, dramatic as hell. “yo, fuck off. i’m tryna be romantic here,” he mutters, cracking a grin a second later because he can’t even fake being mad at you. “i can’t,” you say finally. “even if i wanted to.” “yeah… i know.”

you stay picking at the snacks, trading sips from each other’s drinks, the conversation drifting from one topic to another. you talk about home—about your job, your friends, the little boring details you wouldn’t think anyone would care about, but somehow subong listens like it’s all fascinating, nodding along, asking silly questions just to keep you talking. and somewhere between one story and the next, he starts talking about his family, which you didn’t expect. he tells you about his mom, tough as hell, the kind of woman who could work two jobs back to back, still come home and cook dinner, make sure homework was done, and find the energy to yell at him for being an idiot when he needed it. he talks about how she used to fall asleep at the kitchen table sometimes, her head on her folded arms, and how he and his sister would tiptoe around the house like they were trying not to break her more than the world already had. he tells you about his grandma too, the real boss of the family, sharp-tongued and brutal in the way only old women can get away with—the kind of woman who’d curse you out for forgetting to take your shoes off but slip an extra twenty into your pocket when you weren’t looking. he laughs when he says it, but there’s a softness in the edges of his voice, like he knows he owes her more than he can probably ever repay. and he talks about his little sister—“smarter than all of us combined,” he says, pride clear. the kind of girl who kept her head down, did her work, kept her dreams close to her chest like she was scared someone would snatch them away. the kind of girl who’s gonna leave one day, and not just leave, but stay gone.

then, tossing it in as a side note, he says, “my dad’s a piece of shit, though. wasn’t around much. and when he was… kinda wish he wasn’t.” “mine’s not really around either. he wasn’t then and… he isn’t now. he’s got better shit to do, i guess.” he hums, knowing the shape of that feeling a little too well. “mine used to come back sometimes,” he says after a minute. “acting like nothing, showing up drunk and high, fucking shit up, then disappearing again.” you don’t say anything, just pick at the edge of the bag between you, tearing little pieces off. “used to get so fucking mad at him,” he continues, laughing under his breath, but it’s not a funny sound. “then one day i just… stopped waiting for him to be different.” you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, at the way he’s hunched now, elbows on his knees, can dangling between his fingers. “got older, learned how to throw a punch.” he huffs a breath out. “one night he came back real fucked up… started yelling, breakin’ shit… and i just lost it. dropped him cold on the floor—felt good for, like, five minutes,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “then it just felt fucking sad.” he pauses, staring out at the river. “he disappeared after that… gone for years. then he just… came back one day. and my mom… she let him back in, man. and i get it. she’s tired of fighting. but—shit, i don’t know. i can’t pretend like i’m cool with it. i love her but… fuck, sometimes i look at her and i just get fucking pissed, you know?”

you nod, pressing your shoulder against his. “i’m sorry about that.” he shrugs. “it’s okay, pretty girl.” “your mom’s lucky to have you. she probably knows you’ll always be there if something happens.” “yeah, i guess” he pauses briefly before clapping once. “alright, enough of thanos already. tell me about you, baby.” “well… my dad… he was never really mean or anything. just… not there. physically, sometimes. mentally, never. i used to think if i was better somehow—better at school, better at sports—he’d notice more,” you say, laughing a bit under your breath because it sounds so fucking dumb now. “but he didn’t.” “wasn’t you, baby. it’s never you.” you smile at him before leaning in and kissing his cheek, sweetly. “we turned out alright anyway.” he snorts, tilting his head to look at you better. “yeah, alright’s pushin’ it, girl. speak for yourself. you’re solid. more than most people who had it easy, probably.” “maybe,” you mutter. “sometimes it feels like i’m just faking it better than most.” “that’s all any of us do.”

eventually, when the rocks get too uncomfortable and your ass starts going numb, subong stands up with a grunt, reaching a hand down to pull you up after him. “c’mon,” he says, dragging you toward a patch of grass a little farther up where it’s dark. he drops down without any ceremony, arms behind his head, legs sprawled out like he’s trying to take up as much space as possible. he grins at you. “what, you scared of a little dirt, princess?” he teases, patting the spot next to him. you glare at him, toeing the ground suspiciously because there’s definitely bugs around, but he’s already making himself comfortable like he’s about to nap right there, and you know you’re not gonna win this one. “there’s probably ants.” “so what?” he scoffs, genuinely confused as to why that would even be a problem. you roll your eyes, but you finally lower yourself down next to him, sitting stiff and awkward at first m, your body about to reject the whole idea of nature. he snickers, then suddenly turns his head toward you, holding out his hand—palm up. “gimme your hand.” you squint at him, suspicious. “why?” he lets out this long, suffering sigh. “the fuck you mean why? i’m tryna hold your damn hand, girl, that’s why.” you snort, still not moving, because you’re stubborn like that. he waggles his fingers at you dramatically, eyebrows raised, daring you to keep being difficult. “c’mon,” he insists. “don’t leave me hanging, baby. i got feelings too, you know.” you huff a breath—slapping your hand into his palm like it’s a burden, even though you love it. his fingers lace through yours immediately, squeezing once.

you lay back fully then, grass a little damp under your back, the sky stretching wide above you, and subong’s thumb starts brushing lazy circles over the back of your hand. “what do you wanna do tomorrow?” he asks. “i don’t know. you’re the local here.” he hums like he’s thinking, but there’s something smug about it. “was thinking,” he starts, dragging it out, trying to sound casual, “maybe you could come see me perform.” “perform? again?” “mhm. got a little set tomorrow night. nothing big—just some bar gig. but it’s nicer than what i’m used to anyway. this time’s an actual rap night, i get to show off. not like the other day.” you smile at the way he says it, like he’s trying not to let himself get too excited. “i want you to come,” he adds after a second. “bring your friends too—drinks are cheap.” you raise an eyebrow. “you just want a fan club.” he grins, shameless. “fuck yeah, i want a fan club.” you chuckle, shaking your head. “but i’m serious. i want you there.”“what time is it?” “late… like midnight. place stays open till three. and after,” he says, voice picking up, cockier now, “we celebrate—you and me.” “celebrate what?” “celebrate me being a fucking star, baby.” you laugh under your breath. “you’re planning a lot of celebrating for someone who hasn’t even performed yet.” “confidence. gotta manifest that shit.” “i’ll be there.” his hand squeezes yours again. “good. wanna show you off a little too.”

he props himself up on one elbow, grinning down at you before he leans in and kisses you, a little too eager, making you laugh right into his mouth. you push your fingers into his hair, kissing him back, and subong hums against you, pleased. his mouth starts dragging lower, pressing hot, sloppy kisses along your jaw, down your neck, his hand already sneaking under the hem of your shirt with no damn shame. you shove at his shoulder. “subong,” you hiss, still giggling. “we can’t.” he pulls back enough to look at you. “why not?” “because,” you say, shoving him again for good measure, “someone could literally walk by. and i’m not getting arrested because you can’t keep it in your pants.” he lets out the loudest, most pathetic sigh you’ve ever heard, dragging his hand down his face like the world is just too cruel to him specifically. “shit,” he groans. “i didn’t even get started yet—i was being good, too.” “that was you being good?” you tease. “fuck yeah. you don’t even know, girl. if i wasn’t being good, i’d have you sitting on my face right now—wouldn’t even care if somebody walked by.” you choke on your own spit, smacking his chest while he just laughs, proud of himself for getting you this flustered. “maybe tomorrow,” you mutter, face heating up so bad you’re surprised the grass under you doesn’t catch fire. “wait, wait,” he says, sitting up, needing to double-check you didn’t just say what he thinks you said. “you serious right now?” you shrug, biting back a smile, feeling stupidly powerful all of a sudden. “depends,” you answer, stretching your arms over your head. “you better put on a good show.” “you can’t say shit like that to me, baby,” he whines. “i’m gonna be so fucking hard on that stage—gonna forget my own fucking lyrics.” you snort. “perform well. maybe you’ll get a reward.” “watch.” he taps his chest as if swearing a vow. “i’m finna be the best fucking rapper korea’s ever seen tomorrow night.”

and he does perform well. better than well, actually. he’s the last one up, closing out the night. and he owns that little bar like it’s the biggest stage in seoul. you watch from the corner with your friends, pressed near the back wall, and you’re not even trying to play it cool—you’re hyped, yelling, cheering louder than anyone else in the place. you don’t know half the lyrics (most of it’s in korean and fast as hell) but you can feel it in your chest, in the way the crowd reacts, in the sharp flow of his voice and the smirk that never leaves his face. your friends… have mixed opinions. one of them leans in halfway through and whispers, “okay, now i get it—he’s hot,” and another just grimaces, mouthing, what is he even saying? when the beat switches and he starts spitting faster. he finishes strong, breathless and sweaty, and the crowd actually cheers. you can tell by the way he soaks it in that it means something to him. he steps off the stage a minute later, still catching his breath, and heads straight for you. “so?” he asks when he reaches you, wiping sweat off his neck with the hem of his shirt. “did i kill it or what?” “you killed it,” you afirm, letting him have it. “i couldn’t understand half of it, but you looked hot doing it, so.” he laughs, tossing an arm around your shoulders. “that’s all i needed to hear, baby.” your palm brushes his back and it’s borderline damp. “jesus,” you mutter, nose wrinkling. “you’re soaked.” “and you tryna act like you’re all innocent, girl, but you’ve been lookin’ at me like you wanna lick it off.” you shove him, laughing. “shut up!” he leans in and kisses you, and you kiss him back, smiling against his mouth. your friends do not let it slide. “okayyyy,” one of them says, loud and dramatic. “that’s enough, please. we are still here.” subong pulls back to look over at them, grinning, not even a little sorry. “my bad,” he says. “i just—shit, have you seen her? i can’t help it. she’s so fucking bad, like damn.” oh my god, this man... “anyway, we celebratin’ or what? first round’s on me. i’m feeling generous.” he pats his chest.

the night keeps going long after the music stops. your friends are perched at the bar because the drinks keep coming, and subong doesn’t leave your side for more than a second. it’s late when he leans in and asks if you want to get out of there, and you nod before he even finishes the sentence. your friends wave you off, and you leave the bar behind with that hazy kind of warmth in your chest that only comes from knowing exactly where the night is headed. his apartment is… not what you expect. but hey… we don’t judge over here. when he lets you in, it’s clear he didn’t plan on bringing anyone home. the place is old. the hallway light flickers, the door sticks so bad he has to put his whole body into it just to shove it open, and when you step inside, you’re greeted by the smell of weed and whatever boy-stank has been marinating in this apartment all summer. “yo—okay—before you say anything,” subong starts, kicking a crumpled sock out of the way. “this isn’t what it usually looks like. swear to god, baby.” he shares it with two other guys, he tells you, but they’re out tonight. and as you walk in, he’s already moving shit around—swiping a hoodie off the floor, then trying to hide the bong by the windowsill, muttering shit under his breath like, “that’s not even mine—my roommates are fucking disgusting, man.” “sure,” you say, trying not to laugh. you find it kind of funny, actually—the way he’s scrambling, all flustered, trying to pretend like this place isn’t the bachelor cave of three adult men who have never once cleaned a baseboard in their lives. he won’t shut up. he never really does. he’s talking about his roommates, about how half the stuff laying around isn’t his, and how if you give him five minutes he’ll make it nice. you’re nodding, pretending to care, pretending you’re even listening, but the truth is you stopped hearing the words about three minutes ago. all you can focus on is the way his lips move when he talks and the way his voice drops whenever he says the word ‘baby’. so you’re standing there, thinking, if this man doesn’t touch me in the next ten seconds i’m gonna lose my fucking mind. and you do lose it at some point, kissing him mid sentence, because you’ve never wanted someone this badly, this fast and this fucking stupidly.

the first night subong kissed you was awful, but two nights ago under the bleachers, his fingers were very much not. so you figured sex with him would probably land somewhere in the middle: eager and cocky but clumsy, maybe a little too into it to be smooth. and honestly, you weren’t wrong. because the second he’s inside you, he doesn’t ease into it. he’s just there, deep, all at once—couldn’t stop himself even if he wanted to. he’s behind you, both hands gripping your hips so tight you’re gonna have fingerprints there tomorrow. and you’re gasping already, because the stretch is so much... but what really gets you—what makes your stomach clench and your mouth fall open around his name—is the sound he makes. needy. “fuck, baby—shit—fuck me—” he mutters, breath hot against the back of your neck. you arch your spine, pressing back into him because you need more, need him to fuck you. but his grip tightens immediately, yanking you back flush against him, his voice rough and frantic in your ear. “no, no, no. wait—wait, baby,” he hisses. “shit—give me—give me a moment.” and it’s not a joke. he sounds genuinely panicked, like he’s hanging on by a thread. one more push from you and he’s gonna cum and never recover from the humiliation. honestly, girl, that makes you feel so damn powerful… and since you love to make him suffer, you clench around him on purpose. subong groans, curses in his mother tongue, then smacks your ass so hard you jolt, just to make you behave. “don’t fucking do that, baby. you tryna make me nut in two minutes, huh? that what you want?” you laugh, breathless, forehead pressed into his mattress. he leans over you, chest to your back, one hand slipping under you to toy lazily with your clit, trying to buy time. maybe if he can make you finish first he’ll be able to catch his breath, pull it together and not embarrass himself completely. “subong,” you breathe. “please, i need you.” you try to rock back into him again. “please—” “fuck—gimme a second,” he whimpers, hand braced on the mattress, eyes squeezed shut. and then pulls out, fully, trying not to fucking explode.

the thing about subong is that he learns fast. he picks up on what you want, what you need, and how to give it to you. and he knows exactly how you want it now—how hungry you are for him, how you’re waiting to be filled again, deep and rough. he drags his hand down the curve of your ass after a beat, slow, and you can feel the head of his cock nudging between your thighs again—sliding his condom-wrapped tip up and down your folds. “fucking soaked for me,” he mutters, almost to himself. “jesus, baby. i could drown in this shit.” you whine, push back against him, but he grips your ass tighter, holding you there. “nah,” he says, voice. “you can wait a second. wanted to act all cocky—squeezing me on purpose—now look at you. fucking pathetic for it.” you turn your head, glare over your shoulder. “subong.” he raises an eyebrow, smug as hell. “what? you want it that bad?” “yes,” you snap. “shut up and fuck me. don’t make me wait, please.” he lets out a soft laugh. “damn,” he drawls, guiding the tip against you, teasing your entrance. “my girl talks real tough when she’s beggin’ to get filled.” and then he’s pounding into you, hips snapping hard and fast, chasing whatever fragile ego you cracked in half the second you laughed at him a few minutes ago. and it’s exactly what you needed. you moan, loud, grabbing the sheets, your whole body tensing from the stretch. subong keeps muttering under his breath like he’s trying to self-soothe, praying to every god he’s never believed in. “so tight, f-fuck—so wet, too—shit! what the fuck did i-i do to deserve this pussy, huh?” his thrusts are mean now, every snap of his hips sending your body forward on the mattress. “subong! shit—y-yes, yes, yes! fuck!” you choke out, knuckles white in the sheets. “don’t stop, don’t fucking stop—” “that’s it, baby—take it. you look so f-fucking pretty like this—gonna—haa, fuck!—gonna give you what you fucking asked for.” he wants to make sure that five days from now, five weeks, five months, you still remember the way it felt to have him inside you, fucking you stupid. “yes! yes, please—” you don’t even know what you’re saying anymore, all that comes out are high, broken sounds that make him groan, hips slamming into yours with a filthy slap that echoes around the room. “so fucking greedy for it,” he goes on. “been acting shy all week just to end up bent over begging for my cock like this.”

you whimper, too gone to argue, too full to think. you try to fuck back again, try to meet him halfway, but his hand is right there, locking you in place, controlling everything—the angle, the pace, the way your body moves. subong knows exactly what he’s doing. he’s hitting that spot with every thrust, grinding in deep. “s-subong,” you moan. “your dick’s so—mmmh—so f-fucking good—fuck!” “damn right it is, baby.” you feel his palm slide under your body, fingers slipping down, teasing over your clit in circles, and the whimper you let out makes him dizzy. he’s close again—you can feel it, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hips jerk forward too hard, too rough. but this time, you are too. “you close, baby?” he breathes, leaning down, pressing his lips to the side of your face. “feels like you are. so f-fucking tight, girl. fuck! you gonna—you gonna come all over my dick? yeah?” you nod, frantic, eyes wet with it, mouth open but no sound coming out—and he groans like he’s in pain. “c’mon,” he mutters. “give it to me, baby. wanna feel you c-cum on it.” you’re burning from the inside out—and when he pulls you back harder, dragging his cock deep, your whole body locks up—thighs shaking, fingers clawing at the sheets. you cum around him, a full-body convulsion, your moan ripping straight out of your throat, loud and desperate. it hits you hard, your cunt clenching so tight around subong that he stutters, hips jerking like he wasn’t expecting it to feel that fucking good. “fuck, fuck, fuck—yes, yes, b-baby, just like that—fuck! such a good fucking girl!” he pants, thrusts faltering, losing rhythm completely. “shit, i’m—a-ahh, ha—fuck, i-i’m gonna—” he doesn’t even finish the sentence. he slams in one last time and then he’s cumming, letting out the filthiest moan you’ve ever heard against your neck like he’s trying to bury the sound. he can’t believe how fast you pulled it out of him. he stays like that for a second, shaking, breathing hard, still buried deep inside you while both of you try to catch your breath.

the flight home feels longer than the one that brought you here. not because it actually is, but because your body’s tired and your brain’s fried and your heart’s doing that annoying thing where it gets too attached too fast and then expects everything not to hurt when it’s over. your friends are spread out around the plane, and you’ve got your forehead against the window, watching the clouds smear across the sky. wondering how five nights with subong managed to leave a mark that felt this deep. you keep thinking about last night—about the way his sheets felt under your back, the way his hands never stopped touching you even after he came, like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go. you stayed there longer than you should have, tangled up and almost asleep, skin sticking to skin in the most comfortable kind of silence. and when it was finally time to go, neither of you moved for a long time. he just kept holding you. you talked a little. he said the week flew by like someone hit fast-forward. you said it felt like longer, like you’d known him way before five days ago. he made a joke about how it felt like you’d been there for a month, said, “you’re gonna miss me like crazy, girl,” in that smug, playful tone you’d grown to like way too much. and you laughed, pushed his shoulder, told him, “you wish,” but the way your voice cracked at the end gave you away. “i will miss you, though,” he said eventually, honestly. “i will miss you too,” you said back, and it felt real in a way that scared you. because it was. all of it had been. way more real than you expected from a week-long trip. he walked you to the elevator in nothing but his boxers, hair a mess, hickeys already darkening his collarbones. you kissed him one last time, tenderly and way too long for a goodbye that was supposed to be casual. and now you’re here, 30,000 feet in the air, trying not to overthink every second you spent with him, every kiss, every joke, every stupid pet name, every look that felt like it meant more than it should’ve.

you tell yourself it’s over. it was just a summer thing. a story you’ll get to tell your friends again and again—the time you fell for a purple-haired rapper in seoul who called himself thanos, didn’t own a car, and lived like a frat boy but made you feel like the only girl in the world for five nights straight. and that’s fine. it’s enough. you don’t expect to hear from him again. your phone stays quiet after you land in your country… and you’re okay with that. you throw yourself back into your routine, catch up on sleep, unpack your suitcase... your friends keep talking about the trip, replaying the best nights out and the weird food and the worst hangovers, and you laugh along with them, nod at all the right parts, but mostly you’re just quiet. and then—a few days later—you post a selfie. you in soft natural light, the corner of your mouth tilted up. and exactly eight minutes after it goes up, your phone buzzes.

damn baby

u forgot all about thanos already

smiling n shit

you stare at it for a second, grinning and rolling your eyes.

it’s just a selfie, drama king

and that smile not for me??

thats crazy

who said it wasn’t?

i was thinking about you when i took it😚

careful girl

my ego bout to start floating

good

maybe it’ll float you all the way here so i don’t have to miss you anymore

say the word and im packing my shit rn baby💯

i’ll clear out a drawer and everything for you

gimme a pillow and a corner of the bed

dont need much

just u

ugh

why’d you have to say it like that

now i’m sad again :(

i miss u bad

this distance got me feeling weird as hell

i miss you too, idiot

cant believe i got used to seein u every day just to go back to fucking nothing

you’ll be fine

you probably got three other girls texting you rn anyway

yo what??

don’t piss me off rn baby

i’m literally sitting here thinking bout u n ur dumb lil laugh

dumb lil laugh is crazy😭

ur tits too🔥

oh!😀

n ur ass😍

okay pack it up💀

nah hold on

was saving the best for last

that fucking pussy

oh my god

how am i supposed to recover from that

so my pussy is the best part??

cool cool

not like i have a whole ass personality or anything

don’t worry tho

you won’t be seeing it again anyway

i hope you and your hand have a great life together❤️

no no wait

baby no

don’t say shit like that

i was joking girl

ok maybe not joking but like

obviously it’s not just that

i swear

subong😭 ik, i was joking too lmao

fuck off then

plssss

i was already planning how to win u back

win me back how

a rap song?

hell yeah

bars been writing themselves ever since u left

ooooh i became your muse ;)

been my muse since the moment i saw u in that club looking fine asf

shit aint left my head since

oh

yeah

don’t ‘oh’ me like that bro

i meant that shit

i know

u free now?

i ammm, why

let me call u señoritaaaa

wanna hear that sexy voice🔥

you spend the next three months talking daily to subong. you tell him everything—what you had for lunch, what your boss said in that tone you despise, the color of the sky every afternoon. you send photos of your walk to work, your room, your coffee order. he starts to learn the difference between your moods just by the way your texts sound—when you’re tired, when you’re bored, when you’re secretly pissed but don’t wanna say it. sometimes he replies instantly, flooding you with texts and voice notes that make you roll your eyes and laugh into your pillow. sometimes it takes hours, because it’s three in the morning where he is and he’s passed out with his phone on his chest, halfway through texting you back before sleep hit him like a truck. but he always replies. and from his side of the world, it’s not all that different. he walks around seoul with his earbuds in, your voice filling his head as you talk about things, and he listens like they’re the most important things he’s ever heard. he sends you pictures, too—him holding up a bag of chips, mirror selfies, pics of his food or the graffiti outside his house that changes every two weeks. then a blurry shot of the back of his hand holding a bottle of soju, captioned wish u were here señorita, a nighttime shot of the city skyline, a candid one of him lying in bed with his arm thrown over his eyes… there’s something intimate about all of it, even the dumbest ones. like he’s letting you see what no one else does.

calls happen in the in-between. early morning for one of you, late night for the other. you’re usually still in bed when he rings—eyes puffy, voice groggy as you mumble a raspy “hi” while fumbling around for your charger. on his side, it’s dark and quiet, and he’s usually propped against something—his bed, sometimes the floor of his apartment with his hoodie pulled over his head and his legs stretched out in front of him, trying not to sound as excited as he is to hear you again. the calls are always fun. you laugh until your stomach hurts and tease each other until your cheeks ache. and for a while, in those moments, it doesn’t even feel like you’re in different countries, it just feels like you’re next to each other. but in between the jokes and the mock-serious rants about whatever stupid thing happened that day… there are other moments. it starts one night with a simple question. “can i ask you something, baby?” it’s past midnight for you, and you’re lying on your stomach, about to fall asleep, but you hum back anyway. “how many people you been with?” your eyes blink open, brain stalling for a second. “what? like… dated?” “yeah,” he says, then adds after a beat, “and, you know... hooked up with.” you turn your head, staring at your pillow. “why?” “just curious,” he responds, but there’s a shift in his tone—like he’s trying to play it cool. “you don’t have to tell me if it’s weird.” “it’s not weird.” and you tell him. not in detail, not the whole history of every person you’ve ever fucked, but enough. he hums low under his breath after you’re done, letting the silence stretch out a little before he fills it with, “damn… alright.” and you smile, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. “what, you jealous?” “nah,” he says, too quickly. then, softer: “maybe a little. not gonna lie.” you chuckle and he follows. “bet none of them made you laugh like i do, though.” “no,” you admit. “they didn’t.” you hear his exhale, the shift of fabric on the other end of the line, like he’s moving, maybe lying down too. “i haven’t… i haven’t really done this before,” he says eventually. “not like—like this. like… texting and calling and thinking about someone this much. i usually just…” subong trails off. “hook up and leave?” you finish for him, but it’s not mean. he laughs softly. “yeah. pretty much—but this shit’s different. like, you’re all up in my head, girl.” “i feel the same about you, subong.” “i swear—i’ve been going fucking insane not being able to touch you. i miss you so bad it’s making me crazy.” you hear him exhale through his nose. “i think about you all the time, like—fuck, man. i can’t even… you know…” “what?” there’s a bit of hesitation before he answers, “i can’t even jerk off without thinking of you.” “is that so?” “yeah…” “and what exactly do you think about?” he huffs a laugh. “what do you think?” “i don’t know, you tell me.”

you want to hear him say it. “i mean,” he says slowly, “i think of your voice. the way you sounded that night when i had my fingers in you—so fuckin’ needy—all those little whimpers, the way you kept grinding against my hand like you couldn’t wait… that shit’s been on repeat in my head, baby. shit… and the way—” he cuts himself off, laughs under his breath. “never mind.” “nope,” you shoot back immediately, “you can’t start and then stop like that. go on.” he groans. “you really gon’ make me say it?” “obviously.” he exhales sharp through his nose, then: “fuck, alright… the way you looked when we fucked, baby—jesus. turning your head to look at me while i fucking pounded into you, beggin’ for more even when your thighs were already shaking… best fucking pussy i’ve ever had, bro. i think about that shit every night. swear to god. got me jerking off like a fucking teenager again, just thinking about how wet you were for me.” you don’t say anything at first, mostly because you can’t. your whole body’s burning hot under the covers, phone pressed to your ear. “oh.” “right?” he murmurs. “now you’re thinkin’ about it too.” you try to play it off—“you’re so full of yourself”—but your voice is quieter now, and subong knows he’s got you. “not full of myself,” he drawls, all smug. “just got good memory, baby. and an even better imagination.” you let the silence stretch for a moment, because it’s not awkward—not between you two. if anything, it only makes the tension worse, tighter. “i bet you do.” you smile at the ceiling, heart racing. it’s a lot, this whole thing, but neither of you backs out. “you can say it,” you whisper, and it comes out needier than you meant. “say what you’d do if i was there.” you hear a shuffle, a low curse under his breath. “what?” “i mean… only if you want to.” “shit—yeah. yeah, i want to. okay… first? just rip that shirt off you to suck on those tits—they’re so fucking perfect.” your breath catches. he doesn’t stop. “then i’d make you ride my face. been thinking about that too much, you know? wanna feel you grind down on me, tellin’ me how close you are—fuck, i’d eat you out until you begged me to stop, baby.” you let out a quiet, shaky laugh, too turned on to hide it. “jesus christ, subong.” “yeah, yeah, something like that, but more breathless and between moans—” “subong! oh my god, shut up!” you cover your face with your free hand as you laugh harder, even though he can’t see you. subong laughs too. he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “i’m not playing,” he says. “you think i’m just talking shit, but i’ve had my hand down my pants this whole time. just… thinking about you.” there’s a pause, before his voice drops even lower. “fuck, you have no fucking idea what you do to me.” you don’t even try to pretend you’re unaffected. you shift under the covers, biting your lip, pressing your thighs together. “what? you’re—“ you clear your throat. “you’re touching yourself?” “fuck yeah. can’t help it, baby. you got me so fuckin’ worked up.” oh, okay. you lick your lips, your mouth suddenly dry.

the picture he painted with his words is vivid—his hand wrapped around his cock—and it's doing things to you. your body aches, your nipples hard and your clit throbbing. “ew, subong,” you whisper. what a fucking liar. “don’t act brand new, girl. i can damn near hear you dripping, don’t fucking play.” you snort at his words. but he’s right, you can feel the heat pooling between your thighs. “well… maybe i am dripping.” “huh?” he plays dumb, as if he didn’t really hear you. “i said… maybe i am dripping,” you repeat. “i can check for you, if you want,” you continue, voice all sweet and innocent. “you know… slide a hand… tell you how wet—” “yes,” he blurts immediately, not even letting you finish the sentence. you have to bite back a laugh. “yes, baby. tell thanos.” his voice sounds so fucking hot… you catch the way his breathing has turned ragged, each quiet sigh that escapes his lips betraying the fact that he’s quickened the pace of his strokes. you can't help but mirror his actions, your hand sliding down your body, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your panties, finding the slick heat between your legs. you're wet, so fucking wet… your fingers slip easily through your folds, finding that sweet spot that makes your hips buck. you let out a soft moan, not bothering to suppress it. let him hear. let him know what he's doing to you. subong’s dick throbs in his hand at the sound. “shit—baby?” “mmmh?” "tell me… tell me what you’re doing." "lying here." "that it?" "listening to you." subong clicks his tongue. “c'mon, baby, please. you're gonna make me do all the work?" you roll your eyes, a smile on your face. “i don’t need to tell you what i’m doing, you already know.” “i wanna hear you say it, señorita.” “hm… well, i—i'm... i'm touching myself," you whisper, your voice barely audible. you can practically feel his smirk through the phone, so you decide to tease him. "i'm so wet, subong... i can't stop thinking about you too." you’re pretty sure that wiped the smirk clean off his face, replaced it with something closer to pain—eyebrows furrowed and lips parted. his groan echoes through the phone, and you can't help but smile, biting your lip to keep from crying out as your fingers circle your clit, your body already craving release.

and just like that, you’re gone. your fingers keep moving without thought, without mercy, slipping through your slick folds and circling your clit in fast, desperate motions, and it’s obscene, really, how wet you are—how easy it is to get yourself off when his voice is in your head, in your ear, telling each other what you would do if you were in the same room right now. you arch against the sheets, eyes fluttering shut as your whole body starts to curl in on itself, all tight coils and trembling muscles, everything aching. “you sound so fuckin’ hot, baby—” he groans. “wish i could see you right now.” and that’s when you hear it—him, breathing hard, panting, and even whining under his breath as his fist pumps faster around his cock, the sound of it slick and filthy through the phone. you can picture it way too clearly—his brows drawn tight, back probably tense as hell as he strokes himself. holy mother of fucking god. you press harder. rub faster. your hips start rocking up against your hand, chasing that sharp pressure building low in your stomach. your body’s on fire, nipples hard and tingling, heart slamming against your chest like it’s trying to break free—completely swollen with need. you let out a soft, broken whimper. “fuck! subong—shit! fuck, i’m gonna—gonna cum—” on the other end, there’s a strangled noise, a gasp. “y-yeah, baby? fuck—do it. fucking cum for me.” your orgasm crashes through you, sudden and overwhelming enough to make you cry out as your body locks up, fingers still working through it even though everything feels too sensitive. your walls clench around nothing, and for a second it doesn’t even feel like you’re on the bed anymore—you’re fucking floating. you hear subong finish half a second later with that a wounded sound, breath catching and voice breaking around your name as he spills all over himself.

it doesn’t stop after that night. if anything, it starts happening more… neither of you knows how to fucking behave anymore, oh my fucking god. he texts you a photo one night, shirtless, sheets pushed down low to show the waistband of his boxers.

thinking bout u mama

you send back a photo of your bare shoulder and a flash of your bra strap.

thinking about you too ;)  

ten minutes later, your panties are on the floor and you’re trying to keep quiet while subong whispers, “show me, baby. show me that pretty fucking pussy,” over facetime, eyes heavy-lidded and greedy, lips parted like he can taste you through the screen. you set the phone against your pillow, camera angled enough for him to see your fingers sliding between your legs, like it’s not the sixth time this week that you’ve gotten off to the sound of his voice while you whimpered through the high, every inch of your skin sensitive and strung out from how badly you want him and how fucking unfair it is that he’s not there to touch you himself. he groans so loud you have to muffle your laugh in your palm. “such a fucking tease,” he mutters, jerking off just off-frame, only giving you the barest glimpse of his tattooed hand and the flex of his stomach. and you spread your legs wider for him, pressing two fingers inside—trying to give him a show he’ll never forget. you want to etch the memory into his chest until he can’t fuck anyone else without seeing you spread out and moaning his name between gasps.

those calls happen way to often, to the point where it can’t be healthy—fucking yourselves in sync almost everyday. and subong’s always running his mouth like it’s the only muscle he knows how to use. “you touching that pretty pussy for me, baby? hm? bet you can’t wait ‘til it’s my fucking dick instead of your fingers.” sometimes it’s just texts, which is somehow worse, because you’re in public, and your phone lights up with:

i could have u on ur knees rn

followed by:

u’d be so fucking obedient

mouth open

waitin for me

i’d cum down ur throat and make u thank me for it baby

fuck

this how much i want u

then a photo of his hand curled around his cock, tip red and glistening and so hard it makes your stomach twist, the unbearable proof that he does want you, indeed. a little too bad, perhaps. and you feel your pulse drop straight between your legs as you fumble to turn your screen brightness all the way down.

you feel so fucking pathetic for thinking this but… it’s kind of the best thing you’ve ever had. because, despite the distance, the different timezones, and the fact that your lives are still so wildly separate… this thing with subong starts to feel more real than anything else. which is both sweet and deeply fucked, considering the fact that you met him at a club on a night out in hongdae (a place with the worst reputation ever when it comes to korean men), and that your entire relationship exists inside your phone now, and that you haven’t breathed the same air since august. but you’ve carved out a little space in each other’s day just to be. to flirt, to talk, to tease, to miss… and yeah, to get off, too. but then again, it’s not just that. it’s the way he talks to you like you’re his, or the way he gets all sulky when you’re too busy to call to tell him about your day, because he misses you. honestly… what the fuck is going on between you two? you don’t know when it happened—maybe the night he fell asleep with his camera still on, mouth open and snoring so softly you didn’t even mute him because you thought it was sweet. or maybe when you started calling him ‘baby’ back—but at some point, this stopped being whatever-the-fuck and turned into a routine you can’t imagine dropping. something you’ve started organizing your entire day around like it’s just as necessary as food or sleep or breathing.

so, at around the four-month mark—when your fingers know the rhythm of his voice better than they know your pink vibrator’s settings, and you’ve started to memorize the chipped paint on his bedroom wall from how often you see it in the background of his calls—you start thinking: what if i go back? and when you make a comment about it to him and he says, dead serious, “i’d fucking love that, baby.” it’s not even a question after that. you look up flights that same night. you don’t tell him, but you know—you’re going. because he’s never once hinted at coming to see you. not because he doesn’t want to (you know he does, he’s said it in every possible way) but because over the past few months, you’ve learned that subong’s money situation is… well… bad. like, “my mom still sends me money every month so i don’t starve” bad. like, “i haven’t been to the dentist in two years and i think something’s wrong with my molar but i’ll just chew on the other side” bad. and it’s jarring, because when you first met him, he didn’t come across that way. but you see it now. how much of that was bravado, how much he fakes just to look like he’s got it under control, how much he hates needing help… but it doesn’t matter, you don’t care. you don’t need him to buy you things, you just need him to be there with you.

okay don’t freak out

i got the flights

i’m coming to korea next month :))

already talked to my boss, i get two weeks!

for a second he doesn't respond, and your stomach flips because you know he saw it. and then finally, your screen lights up:

what

u serious???

u r actually coming?

dont lie to me

stfu

u think u funny girl?

nah bro

pissing me off

subong😭

calm down

i’m not lying

look

you send him a picture of the confirmation email the airline sent you.

holyyyyy shiiit u r gonna be in my city again

in my bed😈

on my face🔥 👅

should i cancel?💀

acting like u dont wanna cum on my tongue girl

help

no help is coming bby

u gotta sit on ma face, take responsibility

LMAO

you’re not okay😭

please seek professional help

i will💯

right after i professionally help u cum every day for 2 weeks straight mama

subong.

damn okay

gonna show up at the airport w a sign n flowers n shit

plss you’re not doing any of that

no im not

but im actually gonna get a job baby

so i can take u on dates n buy u food

i wanna spoil u

cant have u flying all the way here just to sit in my depressing ass room eatin instant rice

tryna make u feel like a princess

i don’t care if we eat instant rice every night subong

i just wanna be with you :)

he does get a job. actually follows through, like he said he would, which surprises both of you if we’re being honest. he starts working as a delivery guy for some local food app, riding around on this beat-up scooter that barely runs unless he kicks it three times and curses it like it’s a demon—but still. it’s real work. and subong bitches about it constantly. tells you how cold his hands get at night, how the helmet messes up his hair, how his back is already fucked from carrying someone’s 12-piece chicken combo up five floors… but he does it. every day. even the ones where it’s raining and he’s soaked and grumbling through voice notes like, “i swear to fucking god, bro, if one more person orders jjajangmyeon and lives on a fucking mountain i’m fucking quitting, man.” and even with all that, even with the whining and the dramatics and the rants about tips and customers who “looked at me like i was fucking poor! that bald motherfucker! not even a ‘thank you’!”—you can tell he’s kind of proud. maybe not of the job itself, but of having one. of trying. of doing something that feels grown-up and grounded and like he’s earning something real for once. he tells you his mom’s proud, too. says it casually, like he’s trying not to make it a big deal, but his voice gets a little softer when he says it. “she smiled when i told her. haven’t seen her do that in a while.” and the thing is, up until then, subong hadn’t really realized how fucked things had gotten. he’d been so tunnel-visioned on making it as a rapper—so deep into the fantasy of maybe—that he never really stopped to look around. he knew he was broke, but he wore it like a joke, like something that made him cooler somehow. never really took stock of the fact that he was living in a room with mold blooming above his head and socks stuffed into the gap under the window because the cold kept leaking in at night. and it wasn’t until he started working that it hit him, just how far he’d let things slide. how much of his life was being held together by denial and a really fragile sense of ‘i’ll figure it out eventually.’ he hadn’t figured it out. like… c’mon now… he’s twenty-eight and still getting money from his mom like he’s seventeen. and if he hadn’t gotten this job, he might’ve kept floating like that forever. but now he has you, too. which, in itself, feels like a fucking miracle most days. even if he doesn’t know what he’s doing half the time, he knows he doesn’t want to lose whatever this is. doesn’t want to fuck it up. doesn’t want to look back and realize he had something good and let it rot in his hands.

you land in korea right after christmas and new year, just like you’d planned. and the second subong sees you, he yells your name and starts walking toward you with this bounce in his step like he’s physically holding himself back from sprinting. when you’re close enough, he grabs your bag and says, “c’mere. c’mere, señorita,” before leaning in to kiss you. you’d booked an airbnb because… duh. there was no way in hell you were spending two weeks at his place with two other guys you haven’t even met. and he didn’t even try to argue. the plan was for him to stay with you most nights, except when he had work. and day one? yeah, you don’t do anything but fuck. subong finally gets what he wanted. after months of running his mouth about it—whining like it was some kind of tragedy that it hadn’t happened yet—after all the dramatics, he finally, finally gets to have you ride his face.

at first, it feels ridiculous and a little too vulnerable. he’s flat on his back and you crawl over him, your knees bracketing his head, cunt dripping and right there. subong’s losing it already and you haven’t even fucking sat down yet. his hands are on your ass, squeezing it, pulling you in. he’ll die if he has to wait another second. “get the fuck down here,” he demands, breath already hot against your folds. “don’t fucking tease, baby. sit the fuck down. sit on my fucking face. come on.” so you do. you lower yourself slowly… just to hear that helpless fuck me noise and that sharp inhale through his teeth the second your pussy brushes his mouth. when you really settle in, grinding down, soaking his lips and tongue and chin with your mess, he groans, desperate. you start to move with steady pressure, hips rolling gently. subong whimpers. like actually. you glance down and his whole body’s tense, trying not to cum in his underwear again just from this. oh man, he’s so gone. tongue working over your clit, mouth wide, licking and sucking and moaning into you. and fuck—he’s good at it. you grab the headboard with one hand, and you ride. subong tries to say something, but it comes out as a moan, all muffled and needy, and you rock your hips a little harder in response. “shit—f-fuck, subong—you eat so good,” you breathe. “that’s it, baby—mmmmh—that’s my good boy.” his grip on your ass tightens, and then he groans so deep it rips through you. “you like that, huh?” you pant, voice rough. “you like being m-my good boy?” he nods, mouth still full of you, eyes begging. and it flips something in you. you start to ride him harder, chasing your own high, letting it take over. he’s taking it, all of it, trying to earn every word you’ve ever said to him. “o-ooh my—,” you gasp, head tipping back. “subong—shit—i’m s-so close—” he doubles down—licking faster. you cry out, hips jerking, your thighs starting to shake around his head. “oh my god, subong!—y-yes—yes, baby, don’t stop, you’re making me—fuck!—fuck, i’m—” you cum hard. your whole body goes taut, then collapses all at once. your thighs tremble, hands clutching at the headboard as you grind through it, riding the high out on his tongue, your breath catching in your throat as wave after wave crashes over you.

turns out, subong wasn’t lying. he does make you cum every single day for the two weeks you’re in korea. it’s insane how much you two fuck. but honestly… can anyone blame you? you don’t know when the next time will be. when the next flight, the next visit, the next anything will happen. and that thought—that quiet little shadow that slips in sometime around day five—just sits with you. because everything feels perfect and bright, but underneath all of it, something starts to ache when you look at the calendar and realize you’ve started counting backwards.

you try to focus on the good. subong introduces you to his friends, who are rowdy and weird and definitely give him shit the second he leaves to go pee. but they make space for you, switching to english every now and then without being asked. they ask about your trip, about what you’ve seen, what you want to do before you go. they’re nice. you meet his roommates too, eventually. one of them is clearly terrified of you. the type of guy who looks and acts like he’s never interacted with a woman in his entire life. the other asks if you’re staying long and winks. subong throws a slipper at him, cursing in korean and telling him off. you laugh, even though your face is warm, because you can tell by the way subong moves closer to you after, the way he wraps an arm around your waist, that he’s not interested in sharing you. not even a little.

then there’s the night you try weed with him. you don’t plan to, honestly—you don’t even know he smokes that until halfway through the week, when he says something about needing to ‘go clear his brain’ and comes back smelling… funny. you tilt your head, raise an eyebrow, and go, “really?” and he just grins. “what, baby?” you find out later he smokes pretty often. not out in the open, obviously—he’s not stupid, it’s illegal here—but at home, after work, when his head gets too loud. he offers to let you try, once, just to see if you like it. you say no at first. then maybe. and then you see the way he looks when he rolls one… and it’s over for you. he’s got his sleeves shoved up to his elbows, forearms on full display, veins popping, rings glinting… rolling the joint with this pretty little pout on his mouth. he lifts it to his lips while he looks at you. his eyes flick up, and you feel it hit you in the throat before you even understand why.

then his tongue comes out, wetting the edge of the paper while he holds eye contact, and your clit actually pulses. his lips drag across the paper, sealing it smooth, and a little smile starts to tug at his mouth. smug little fuck. and you know—you know—he’s doing it on purpose. you cough your lungs out the first time you inhale and subong laughs so hard he almost drops the joint. you call him a dick. and between the fourth and fifth hit, everything starts getting funny. you’re high, your lips feel numb and your chest feels floaty, and every single thing he says makes you laugh harder than before. at one point, you find yourself in the kitchen, perched on the counter, and subong is fucking you. his jeans aren’t even off all the way, just halfway down his thighs, enough to get inside you. you’re gripping the counter with one hand and his arm with the other, legs twitching, thighs already aching from the way he’s holding you open. you’re so high you can’t tell where his body ends and yours begins. everything feels hot. your moans keep stuttering into giggles, breathless little gasps that make him groan. “the fuck you laughing at,” he pants against your mouth, thrusting harder now, sweat sticking his forehead to yours. you try to say “you,” to piss him off, but it comes out like a whimper when you feel his cock dragging deeper inside you.

you do all the tourist shit, too. some of the places you visit, you’d actually planned to see the first time you came to korea months ago, with your friends. but you didn’t end up seeing half of them. either there wasn’t time, or the plans changed, or—if you’re being honest—you were too busy meeting up with subong. so now, this time around, you go. and he takes you, grumbling about tourists and how overpriced everything is, and “this place used to be so fucking cool before influencers ruined it, man,” but still. he’s kind of a great tour guide, you can tell he likes showing you around. there’s this quiet sort of pride in it. like yeah, this is his city, yeah, these are his streets, and yeah, you’re the baddie bitch he pulled. you visit namsan tower, take the cable car up while he complains about the crowd, the incline, and then grips the bar slightly too tight the second it moves, clutching his chest. you almost die laughing. you put a lock on the fence and subong writes his name next to yours in the absolute ugliest handwriting you’ve ever seen. you go to myeongdong and eat every fried thing in sight until you feel sick. he buys you a stuffed animal from a claw machine after three failed attempts and says, “easy win,” as if his entire soul wasn’t riding on the last try, making him swear under his breath in two languages. like he didn’t mutter “fucking rigged bullshit” while shoving more coins into the machine with a look in his eyes like he was going to physically fight the glass. but now it’s in your hands—a little bear with a small heart stitched to its chest—and he’s refusing to let you carry it. “you’re already holding the drinks. give it here.” “but i want to—” “he’s mine too, girl. i’m his father.” and then he tucks it under his arm like a baby and walks ahead.

you go to a photo booth at a mall. the seat’s tiny, obviously, but subong just sprawls into it, legs wide, taking up more space than physically possible. you hesitate, looking at the sliver of plastic next to him. “there’s literally no space,” you say. he smirks. pats his lap. “bring that ass over here, baby. c’mon. it’s thanos’ lucky day.” you snort before you sit, straddling one of his thighs. subong’s kinda excited. he messes with the little filter screen, starts choosing the backgrounds, says “pick somethin’ stupid, baby—no like stupider. wait no, do the sparkle one! yesss, that’s ugly as hell.” how is this man twenty-eight? you try to look normal in the first one. you fail so hard you almost choke. second shot—he pokes your cheek at the last second. third shot—you flip him off and he throws up some sort of hand sign (he thinks he’s sooo cool) and for the last one—he kisses you.

you drag him through the coex aquarium and take a hundred videos of the jellyfish. you stop at every tank like it’s the first one, filming the same slow, drifting movement over and over again, whispering things like “subong, look at this one!” he pretends to be bored. calls them ‘wet bugs.’ and while you’re busy pointing at the seahorses and gasping at the weird, squishy ones that look like aliens, he pulls out his phone and starts taking pictures of you. of your silhouette in front of the glowing tanks. you don’t even realize he’s doing it until he shows you one. just holds the phone out and says, “you look so sick in this, baby.” you take it, expecting something stupid, but it’s beautiful. you try to play it cool. say, “okay, photographer,” and hand it back. he smiles.

one day you go to lotte world too, and he hates it. he complains the whole time—about the screaming kids, about the rides—but he still stands in line with you for an hour to get on one. he’s especially moody that day. more than usual. and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why: you’re leaving soon. it’s one of your last full days in seoul, and the countdown is real now. you’re both ignoring it, but it’s there. as the sun starts bleeding orange into the clouds, he checks his phone and mutters “fuck, i gotta go soon.” because his shift starts in less than two hours. you take the train back together, like always. you sit next to each other, too tired to talk, your thigh pressed against his, his hand holding yours, and your head resting against his shoulder. and it’s in that moment that it hits you—holy fucking shit, you’re in love with subong. and you don’t know if he feels the same. you don’t know anything, actually. not even what this is—this thing between you.

you don’t bring it up until the next day. you wake up to the weight of his arm slung over your waist, and it takes you a second to register that he’s here—pressed so close you can feel the shape of his knees behind yours and the faint scrape of his knuckles against your stomach every time he exhales. you don’t remember him coming in. you must’ve knocked out before he even made it back from work. he shifts a little when you move, then that familiar groan—half-asleep, annoyed at the light, at the time—slips out of his mouth and suddenly you’re both awake, blinking into the soft blur of morning light. you get up first. subong follows like he always does, dragging his feet. he never wants to miss a morning with you. you make breakfast together. you sit on the counter while subong stand between your knees, his back facing you. your fingers trace along the ink of his tattoo while he sips his coffee and steals the last bite of your toast even though he hasn’t even finished his own. you shower after, and he won’t stop squeezing your ass even though you’re trying to rinse your conditioner out in peace. you tell him to knock it off, laughing, and he says “baby, i’m tryna start my day right,” and then you’re pinned to the tile with his fingers buried inside you, tongue between your legs, moaning into your cunt while you gasp and twitch against his mouth. you’re on your knees for him right after, choking on his cock while water spills down your back and his hands are in your hair, guiding you. and when it’s over subong wraps you in a towel so gently you forget how hard you just came.

afterwards, he throws on sweats and flops onto the couch. you crawl in after him, blanket over both of you, your legs across his lap and your head leaned back while he flips through shit on the tv. his hand starts moving over your shin, then your calf, dragging the edge of his knuckles along your skin. he stops on a variety show with bright graphics, double-checks that the subtitles are on for you, and tosses the remote somewhere across the cushions. you barely register what’s happening on the screen—something about a cooking competition, maybe—but he’s focused, or at least pretending to be. his hands keep working. he presses into your calf with his thumb, then shifts lower, wrapping his fingers around your ankle and rubbing slow circles into the arch of your foot, then back up again—his touch firm. you watch him for a second before saying, “baby.” he hums, not looking away from the screen. your toes press against his stomach. “subong.” his eyes flick down to you. “yeah, baby?” you shift a little under the blanket, pull your legs off his lap so you can sit up straighter—knees bent. and the second your body moves like that, he pauses, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s clocked the vibe shift. “can we—” you pause, clear your throat. “can we talk for a sec?” subong freezes. the words can we talk have never once led to anything good in his life. “talk,” he repeats, cautiously. “like…talk, talk?” “yeah. i just… i’ve been thinking.” “what you mean? thinking about what?” you can tell he’s panicking inside. you don’t know how to start. you don’t even know what part of it you’re trying to get to first. “i mean… i’m not seeing anyone else,” you say. “i haven’t been… since we started talking. and not like it’s some big deal or anything, i just—i don’t even want to. like, i don’t even think about it.” the minute the words leave your mouth, he looks a lot more relieved. “and i know we never really… talked about what this is,” you keep going, “but i’ve been out here for almost two weeks, and we’ve been calling and texting and facetiming for months, and i guess i just—” you pause again. breathe. “—i want to know what this is for you—” “nah. nah, see—what the fuck you talkin’ about right now,” he cuts in, all offended. “what is this for me? baby. you’re my fucking girl. like—since day one. what are we even—” “i just didn’t want to assume.” “you don’t gotta assume shit, baby. you’ve been mine.” “so… what? like… i’m your—i’m your girlfriend?” “fucking right you are. come here.”

he pulls you into his lap without hesitation, so fast you barely get the chance to react before his arms lock around your waist and starts kissing you—pressing obnoxiously loud kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, your collarbone, your neck. “my girlfriend out here making dumb questions thinkin’ she’s just some random girl i talk to—that’s crazy,” he says between kisses, voice muffled, mouth brushing your skin. you squeal, try to push him off, laughing too hard to breathe. “stop! subong—” “the fucking disrespect, bro” he grins, tightening his hold, kisses the side of your face again, “‘i want to know what this is for you,’” he mocks in a high pitched voice. “what you think, girl?” his hands tickle your side, until you’re twisting in his lap, giggling so hard your stomach hurts. “stop! i can’t—” “‘i didn’t want to assume’—assume what, baby? you think i let just anyone sit on my face and call me a good boy?” “subong!” he laughs, breath hot against your skin, and you can feel it now—how happy he is. how light. how fucking in it he’s always been.

the next few months are—against all odds and having the entire goddamn ocean between you—kind of perfect. you go home, and it sucks. obviously. you cry at the airport, your chest starts to cave in because your body doesn’t quite understand how to unstick itself from his yet. and subong pretends not to, but you catch him rubbing his eyes weirdly. life goes on. you tell your family about subong eventually, and they’re not completely on board at first. not because they don’t like him (they’ve never even met him) but because the whole thing sounds impossible. different countries, different lives… it makes them nervous, and they don’t hide that. but underneath the doubt, they’re happy for you. your friends, though… they’re all in. even the ones who were hesitant in the beginning have started to come around, because they see it now. they see how real it is, how happy you are. and it’s so sweet it makes you want to cry—to know that even though the relationship exists across an ocean, the people around you are still rooting for it to work.

life smiling at you, and you’re smiling back. you’re so, so happy. it feels like everything around you is finally starting to click and you aren’t constantly clawing your way through the week, you can actually breathe without apologizing for it. your head’s clearer, your chest feels lighter, you’re eating better, waking up well-rested… you feel better in your skin, too, more sure of yourself. maybe you’re not as impossible to love as you thought. even your boss gave you a raise last month, called you more ‘on it’ than ever before, and you almost laughed, because it’s not like you changed anything dramatic—you’ve just stopped wasting all your energy trying to feel okay. you are okay. better than okay. and it shows.

subong, on the other hand—he’s not happy. not because of you. you’re his peace and his favorite fucking person. but the rest? everything else? it’s a mess. he hates his job. he knows he’s lucky to have it, knows he was proud when he got it, knows it helped—he can pay rent now, buy groceries without asking his mom for help, take you on real dates when you visit—but that pride wore off fast. the hours drag, the streets are cold, his legs hurt all the time, and every time he clocks in, he feels like something inside him is cracking a little more. because this isn’t what he wants. this isn’t who he is. he was supposed to be doing music... supposed to be chasing something that made his blood move. but he pushed that part of himself so far back it barely makes noise anymore. it’s still there, though… buried under the tired, under the weight of pretending he’s okay when he’s not.

he says it one night, kind of out of nowhere. you’re on facetime, both of you horizontal in different beds. your voice’s tainted by exhaustion as you talk about your day. in the middle of your ramble, he lets out this little huff and says how he’d quit his job to be a broke rapper again, then proceeds to joke about how you’d break up with him if he did. smiles like it’s funny, with a little laugh at the end. you don’t laugh, though. instead, you sit up a little and say, “do it.” his smile falters. he stays quiet for a moment, then goes, “what?” “i mean—yeah. do it. quit your job, if that’s what you want. don’t give it up, subong. you’re good. and i know you don’t always see it, but i do. i do. and i want you to be happy, you know? if that means chasing music again… then fucking do it. and if you need anything—i mean it, baby—ask me. i’m not leaving you, i’m here for you. we’re together now, right? that’s what this is.” he doesn’t say much. he’s trying to wrap his head around the fact that you genuinely, without conditions, want him to be okay. that somehow, you’ve made the choice to see him as worth it, even on the days he can’t stand himself. he doesn’t know where to put that kind of grace, so he just nods. rubs a trembling hand over his mouth, trying to steady it, keep it from quivering and giving him away. and when you ask if he’s okay, he says, “yeah,” barely audible, eyes gone glassy in a way that betrays him instantly.

he quits his job two weeks later—pulls off the uniform and drops it in the trash like he’s shedding dead skin. texts you immediately after:

just quit

really?? omggg!!

how do you feel? :)

good💯

are you sure baby?

fuck yeah

better than ever

and for the first time in a long time, he means it. after that, he doesn’t fuck around. he works, pouring himself fully into the music. subong practices until his voice gets hoarse, rewrites verses at four in the morning, pulls strings with friends of friends who owe him favors from way back when, spends money he shouldn’t be spending on studio time and mixing. you see it happening in real time—the obsession, the tunnel vision, the way he lights up every time he thinks he’s nailed a line. he sends you the demo and then the mastered version. and one night, he uploads it to streaming. not even a month later, the song blows the fuck up. someone posts a clip of it on tiktok—this random girl lip-syncing to one of the more questionable lines, giggling—and people start clowning it immediately. the lyrics get memed. but eventually, something flips, like some invisible switch being hit in the collective brain of the internet, and suddenly the comments shift from ‘wtf is this bro’ to ‘wait ts lowkey eatsss’ and the lyrics that sounded dumb at first suddenly feel kinda… clever? he’s everywhere. you open your phone and there he is—on your feed, on your fyp. the memes don’t stop, but they’ve changed. no one’s laughing at him anymore, they’re laughing with him. they’re obsessed. subong’s so fucking happy. and you’re so fucking proud.

months go by and it just keeps getting bigger. the song opened the door and subong fucking sprinted through it. he releases a follow-up track a few weeks later, then another, and people eat them up like candy. the internet picks him up and carries him faster than either of you expected, which is amazing. the following months he’s busier, but he still texts you before he goes onstage, facetimes you the moment he’s free, and sends you voice notes and pictures of everything he does... but then the invitations start. first, it’s a launch party for someone else’s album, then an afterparty for a gig he didn’t even play at, then a private party for an influencer brand you’ve never heard of. and he goes, of course. he texts you, too, the whole time, telling you everything.

they got wagyu sliders n shit

these mfs be rich fr

miss u baby

someone asked who i’m texting

i said my girl

he said lucky

damn fucking right i am😍

this place got a whole ass chandelier in the bathroom

hi baby :) just woke up, i see you’re having fun

i think im a bit drunk

please be careful

im good baby, everyone’s nice

okayy :)

i have to leave for work in a few minutes

damn

that job rly snatching u away from thanos

gonna buy u an island someday baby

u wont have to worry bout work no more

n i’ll eat you out everyday

that’s so romantic, thank you

but for now i gotta get ready🙃

drink some water, please

and text me when you’re home safe

i’ll probably still be working when you get back

i’ll try to stay up

wanna hear how ur day goes

you won’t

but that’s okay! sleep if you need to❤️❤️

i wish u were here baby

i’d be showin u off so bad

my pretty girl

smilin all cute n stealing everyone’s attention

but you’re not there. you’re never there. you’re across the world, living a completely different life. and no matter how many texts he sends or calls he makes, that gap doesn’t shrink. if anything, it starts to grow. stretches like a crack down the center of something you thought was solid. because now, it’s not just distance—it’s dissonance. and it’s not that you don’t trust him. you do. it’s just that… fame changes things. and you can’t help but wonder how long you’ll stay interesting to someone whose world keeps getting bigger by the hour. how long you can keep up from so far away. how long until all the things that make you you—the mundanity, the simplicity, the slowness of your life—start to feel like dead weight to someone like him.

he calls one night, like always, right as you’re settling into bed and thinking about how weird it is that he still remembers to call, even when everything in his life feels like it’s speeding up fast. it’s morning for him, maybe early afternoon. sunlight spills across his bed, his voice’s all scratchy and bright in that way that tells you immediately: he had a good night. you’re in bed, barely awake, blinking into the dark with your phone pressed to your cheek as he launches straight into it, laughing, out of breath even though he’s just lying there. “yo, baby—you would’ve hated it. so many fake-ass people. but the place was mad bougie, i swear to god there was a real ass koi pond inside the fucking bar.” and then he’s off—telling you everything about last night. he sounds happy. like really, really happy. he tells you about the music, about the people, how everyone knew who he was. says it was probably the best night of his life so far. that hurts for some reason. and you want to be happy for him—you are—but there’s something in your chest tightening with every word, something quiet and mean and a little scared, because it’s never been clearer that you’re not there, and he’s starting to live a life that doesn’t involve you. and then he says it. “oh—shit, forgot the wildest part, baby. met this one dude—looked like he owns fucking a yacht. came up to me like, said he wants to manage me. and i was like bet. so now he’s my manager… well, i gotta sign up the contract and all that shit, but we arranged a meeting. and he gave me a pill too—no idea what the fuck it was, but fuck, baby, i was like… i don’t know, that shit hit.” what the fuck? he laughs as he says it, like it’s a joke. like it’s not a big deal... like you won’t care.

and for a moment, all the noise in your brain stops. you’re just lying there in the dark, blinking up at the ceiling, phone warm against your ear, suddenly freezing cold on the inside, listening to your boyfriend talk about taking some random-ass drug from a stranger like it’s a footnote in a funny story. and it’s not even that you didn’t expect something like this eventually… it’s just that hearing him say it, so casually, so proud, makes your stomach turn. and when you finally speak, your voice is quieter than you thought it’d be. “subong… that’s like… really bad.” and for the first time since the call started, he actually goes quiet—enough to let the silence stretch between you, like he’s trying to figure out how serious you are. he exhales sharply, not quite a laugh, but close enough to piss you off before he even opens his mouth. “baby, c’mon. it wasn’t like that. it’s not like i’m out here poppin’ mystery pills every damn night. it was just one time. it’s not that deep.” and maybe he really thinks that. but you can hear the part of him that’s panicking a little underneath, the part that knows exactly why you’re worried. you sit up in bed, your heart sinking as you try to stay calm and not sound like his mom or whatever else might make him shut down, but god it’s hard when he’s brushing off something that could’ve gone so wrong. “it’s not that deep?” you repeat, flatly. and already, you hate the way your voice sounds. “you didn’t even know what it was, subong.” he groans. “but i’m fine. nothing happened. i’m literally sitting here talking to you, girl, aren’t i?” “that’s not the fucking point.” “jesus christ—you’re making it sound like i fucking od’d.”

you don’t mean to snap. you’re trying to keep your cool—you were keeping it, even when your whole body went cold after he said it. but something about the way he’s laughing it off, like you’re overreacting, like he didn’t just tell you he took some random drug from a stranger… makes you angry. “you’re not some invincible asshole, subong.” your voice is shaking now, heat rising to your cheeks. “you didn’t even know what it was. and you still took it—you took something from someone you don’t know, at a party full of people who don’t give a fuck about you—even if you think they do—and now you’re bragging about it like it’s funny. it’s not. it’s not funny, okay? it’s fucking scary.” “here we fucking go.” he mutters. and just like that, you’re off the edge. “what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” “you acting like i fucking snorted coke off a stripper’s tit or some shit, man. it was one fucking pill. one. not even mine. i just wanted to feel good for one fucking night.” “you didn’t even know what it was, subong!” “so?” he snaps. “damn, what, now i need your permission to have a good time? what are you—my fucking mom?” “no, but apparently someone has to give a fuck about your life since you clearly don’t.” “talking like i ain’t fucking grown, like i ain’t out here doing this shit on my own! i’m older than you!” “don’t fucking scream at me, i can hear you just fine. and i’m trying to be there for you, but you make it so fucking hard when you act like this, subong.” “act like what, huh?” “like i’m the problem for caring.” he laughs again, but this time it’s cruel. you frown. “nah, you don’t care. you just hate not being here. that’s what this is really about, right?” “what?” “you heard me, girl.” the nerve he has…“fuck you,” you whisper. “no, no. say it with your chest, baby. c’mon. you wanna be mad so bad, don’t you? like that’s gonna make it easier—like that’s gonna make you less scared that i’m slipping away from you.” you blink. you didn’t just hear what you heard... right? “what the fuck did you just say?” he exhales hard through his nose. “you hate not being here, with me. so now you tryna control me.” “control you?” you scoff. “you always gotta have something to say when i’m out,” he continues, fast, like he’s trying to get it all out before he lets himself feel any of it. “every time i tell you about a party or who i saw or what i’m doing, you act weird.” “are you fucking serious?” “yeah.” “you really think i like this? you think i enjoy sitting here every night, wondering who you’re with, what you’re doing, if you’re safe? because that’s what i’ve been doing these past few months, by the way—worry. about your damn state and safety. so don’t even start. i just—listen… i don’t want to fight with you, subong. i really don’t. i just want you to be wise about the decisions you make. i want—i want you to be okay.”

he makes this low sound, like he doesn’t believe you. and you know then, none of what you’re saying is landing. “but you know what?” you continue, voice rising. “maybe it’s easier for you to pretend i’m some nagging bitch than admit that you’re scared, too. that maybe this is all too much too fast and you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing.” “don’t put your shit on me, girl,” he bites. “maybe it’s too much for you! you were good with broke-ass me, but not now, when i’m getting attention. when people actually want me.” “i want you too, you dumb fuck!” you shout. “hey! don’t fucking call me that!” “let me speak—” “you think you can talk to me like that?! the fuck is this shit—” “let me speak!” “nah, fuck that! fuck that! you think i’m gonna let you disrespect me?!” “can you just listen to me—” “i don’t give a fuck what you tryna say when you start it off by calling me a dumbass—“ “jesus—subong, let me finish!” you hear him mutter a few words but he quiets down. “what i was trying to say is that i’ve only ever wanted you—” “yeah? then stop acting like you hate every single thing that comes with me blowing up! ‘cause that’s what it sound like.” “well maybe that’s what you wanna hear,” you spit, “so you can feel like the victim—like poor little subong with the girlfriend who doesn’t get it—” “fucking right you don’t!” “—even though she’s the one who told me to follow my dream! even though she’s been here since before the clout, before the…the fame, or whatever this is now—” “and you think that makes you fucking special?” that one. that one makes you go silent for a moment.

your voice drops, hoarse now. “say that again.” he doesn’t. “go on. say it again, subong.” he doesn’t say anything. just breathes hard into the phone. “fuck,” he mutters eventually. “you know i didn’t mean it like that.” you don’t answer. “c’mon, girl—don’t do that. don’t go all quiet on me now, like we didn’t just—like i don’t—” he stops himself, letting out a loud sigh. “you know you’re different. you know that.” and maybe he thinks that’ll fix it. but it doesn’t. your throat is tight, and your hand’s starting to shake, and you feel that stupid sting behind your eyes, and you hate that he’s still on the other end of the line because now he’s going to hear it. “i’m gonna hang up,” you say. he reacts fast, urgent. “what? baby, don’t—don’t do that. we’re just talking. we always talk like this, it’s not—” “i don’t wanna talk to you right now. i’m going to sleep, i’m tired… you have a good day.” and before he can respond, you hang up.

he calls. once, twice, then again—back to back. when you don’t answer, the texts start flooding in too. he’s apologizing (kind of) rambling through hurt pride, guilt and panic, but you don’t read them. you don’t pick up when he calls again either. you just turn your phone on silent, curl deeper under the blanket, and let the night swallow the noise. when you wake up hours later, the screen is full of missed calls and unread messages, his name everywhere.

u really hung up on me??

dont do that shit

answer

u know i didnt mean it like that baby

i was talkin out my ass

fuck

ik i fucked up alr

i say dumb shit when im mad u know that

but calling me that, bro??

really??

u gotta own what u said too

im not gonna sit here and eat shit like u didnt throw it too

dont fucking ignore me

pls baby text me back

im sorry

say somethin please

i didnt mean to hurt u baby

u were right

about the pill

the way i acted

i wont touch that shit again

i promise

im not losin u over that

bc i love you

n i mean it

you work it out, the same way you always do. you talk for hours when you wake up. and after the apologies, the guilt, the careful questions and the reassurances, after the part where he swears up and down he’s never doing that shit again, never taking anything from anyone without knowing what it is, never scaring you like that again—you tell him the thing you haven’t wanted to say out loud. that he was right. not about the fight, but about the way you’ve been acting lately. how you’ve been more irritated, more quick to get upset, more sensitive to things that used to roll off your back. how you’ve felt it happening—this thing under your skin, this heaviness that comes from constantly wondering if what you two have is going to survive everything that’s changing. the attention. the pressure. the people. because this new version of his life—this shiny, fast, spinning thing full of parties and people who want pieces of him—is starting to feel so far from the version that belonged to you. and it’s not his fault, you know that. but no matter how often he calls or sends you pictures or tries to remind you that you’re still his, it’s hard not to feel like the rest of the world is trying to pull him away anyway.

by the end of the year, just a few days short of what would’ve been your one-year mark, you move to seoul. no countdown this time, no return flight circling in the back of your head like a vulture. subong doesn’t even ask you to move in with him, he insists. tells you: “you’re stayin with me. where else would you go, baby? i already cleared out my closet, you better fill it up.” says it like it’s already settled, like this wasn’t something you were supposed to talk about first, as if there was never gonna be another option. and part of you hesitates because the idea of suddenly living together, full-time, is kinda scary. you’ve been long-distance for months, and planning this move for even longer. but planning something and doing it are two very different things. he’s gonna be your everyday. and that kind of closeness—while beautiful—is also terrifying. part of you thinks maybe you should wait, get your own place first, test the waters, do this the ‘smart’ way. but still, you say yes.

the apartment he’s in now is better. way better. he can finally afford to live alone (and there’s actual furniture this time and the heat works) and subong’s always talking about ‘our home’ like he’s lived there with you forever. he even has a car now, can you believe that? it’s insane how good things are. it almost makes you suspicious, like you’re waiting for someone to tap you on the shoulder and tell you none of it’s real. maybe you weren’t prepared for how fast it would all feel normal, how quickly your things would start mixing with his, how easily you’d get used to waking up in the same bed with his leg thrown over yours and his arm tucked under your head.

he’s busier than you thought he’d be, though. that’s the first thing you notice. there are meetings, rehearsals, video shoots, endless phone calls… you’re busy, too, but in a different way. your job transferred you when you moved, thankfully, but your schedule didn’t change, which means your days start when everyone else’s are winding down. one of the perks of remote work is that the mornings belong to you. but around six or seven in the evening, you work—hunched over your laptop with your headphones in and the city lights bleeding in through the curtains. sometimes subong’s home and sometimes he’s not, but either way, you work. it’s fucking hard sometimes. and lonely, albeit a loneliness you won’t admit, because you made this choice… you knew it wouldn’t be easy and you told yourself you could handle it, that you were brave, that you were doing something people only dream about—but sometimes the small things get to you anyway. the stares. the little barriers in language and culture that make you feel like a clown, like you’re always just slightly out of place and you’ll never quite blend in no matter how long you stay or how hard you try. some days you handle it fine and you’re proud of yourself for even trying. but some other days, it sinks in too deep. subong’s always there making you laugh, holding you when you cry and get frustrated over the smallest things. when you’re in your head and missing home and wondering if maybe you made a mistake… he’s there. and you remember why you came in the first place. for him.

but nothing stays good forever. it’s just the nature of things, the way joy always carries a quiet expiration date no one can see until the air starts to change. you’re tired and alone most days, and the silence of the apartment is starting to feel different than it did before, heavier somehow, less peaceful and more pointed, like a reminder of everything you gave up to be here. you thought things would change eventually, but after living there for six months, you realize they aren’t… and you’re not sure they will. subong’s still busy. it really starts to show—the way his presence starts to stretch thinner and thinner across your days. it makes sense that he’s pouring everything into his music, that he’s working harder than ever, saying yes to everything, because what if the offers stop coming? what if it all disappears? and you get that. but that doesn’t make it easier to sit in an apartment alone in a country that still doesn’t feel like home. and it’s not that you didn’t expect him to be busy. of course you did. you moved here knowing what his life was turning into. but now you spend more nights than you’d like to admit sitting at the little table by the window eating alone and avoiding glancing at the clock again, trying not to get mad before he even texts that he’s staying at the studio late again. trying not to feel pathetic for the way you still wait up sometimes, fully dressed, hoping he’ll walk through the door before you fall asleep.

the fights start small. you misread a text. he forgets to say hello when he comes back from the studio. he leaves his dishes in the sink again even though you asked him not to, even though he said he’d try. you ask if he’s coming home for dinner and he says “i’ll see,” and something about the vagueness gets under your skin more than it should. you both pretend things are fine even though you’re starting to keep score in your head. and it starts to show in the way you text each other, too. which is honestly where most of the fighting happens now.

miss u

how’s my girl’s day goin

hi baby :) good

i miss you too

are you coming home for dinner?

yeah

should be back around 8

yayyyyyy!

i’ve been craving pasta all day so i’ll make that

save me a big ass plate señorita

obviously ;)

thank u bby ❤️

what thank you? that’s worth at least 5 kisses😙

5 kisses? i’ll give u something better girl🔥

dummy

i’m holding you to that ;)

don’t be late!

but then 8 p.m rolls around:

just finished cooking🙂‍↕️

i’ll wait for you to get here

it smells insane btw

hurry up

are you close??

baby

i’m hungry

suboooongggg

helloooo

and 9 p.m:

fuck

baby im still at the studio

we r behind schedule

i cant leave yet

wdym you can’t leave yet

you said you’d be home around 8

i thought we’d be done by then

you could’ve told me

i’ve been waiting yk

sorry baby

i didnt wanna disappoint u

kept thinking we’d wrap in time

well

guess what

dont be like that girl

excuse me

i took my break early to cook

and i’ve been sitting here waiting for you for an hour

i didnt fuckin plan for shit to run late bro tf u on me about

whatever subong

i’m tired

eat when you get home or don’t

idgaf

then another day:

hi baby❤️

i’m so sorry to bother you rn

i went to the 7-eleven and then decided to walk a bit after and i kinda got turned around lol

don’t laugh💀

i thought i knew the way back but i think i took a wrong turn and i don’t know where i am now

i’m using maps but it’s taking me up this street and none of the lampposts are working, so i don’t really wanna walk through there

can you come get me maybe?🥲

pleaseee

what?

where u at bby??

i don’t know

somewhere near that cafe you took me to last week i think??

everything looks different at night

wait let me check

yeah, the cafe with the green logo

i didn’t realize how far i’d walked

there’s no one around

kinda creepy

tf u doing walking around by urself this late bby

needed some air

i finished work and the apartment was starting to feel like a box

sorry

are you gonna be long?

baby?

im still at the studio

been here all day

we just started recording again

oh

i thought you’d be home by now, it’s late

nah bby

we got ppl over too

shit’s stacked rn

okay then

nevermind

i’ll figure it out

i’ll walk a bit more and see if something looks familiar

u got the taxi app

take one

ik the apps i have on my phone!

i’m not stupid ty😊

yo wtf

???

tf u giving me an attitude for

i’m not giving you an attitude

i’m literally lost and it’s dark and i asked you for help

and you’re telling me to just take a fucking taxi

i’ll pay for it

there are no taxis at this hour, yk how hard it is to take one after 1am in seoul

i told u i was busy tonight

tf u want me to do, girl? teleport out the studio?

ha ha you’re soooo fucking funny subong

dont fucking piss me off

don’t fucking piss ME off

u r the one who chose to go out at fucking 1am for no reason??

how is that on me girl

yeah i chose to go out because i’ve been alone all day

and yesterday

and the day before that

and the one time i actually need you, you can’t even leave for ten fucking minutes

my bad for having work🙏🏼

fuck off dude

like genuinely

you’re not even listening to what i’m trying to say

i am

u r acting like idgaf when im here tryna finish work that pays our rent

as if i don’t pay my part of rent too💀💀 tf

wtf r u even saying rn

no one said u dont

why tf u twisting my words??

i’m not twisting anything

i’m trying to tell you how i feel

not that you care :)

u know i fucking do

tf is this even about now man

act like it then! :)))))

what u think i’ve been doing?

im at the studio every night building a future that includes u

n u crying cuz i cant drop everything to play chauffeur??

what u want from me bro

don’t call me bro

i’m your girlfriend

ye

n u always on my dick about shit

you’re a fucking asshole subong

and u r a fuckin brat

fuck you

nah fuck you bitch

it’s the first time he’s ever called you that. it’s not like you’ve never argued before, not like you’ve never said cruel shit in the heat of the moment, but that? that one word? bitch? from him? it feels like something splits open in your chest, and you hate how fast your hands start shaking and your face burns. and maybe that’s what pisses you off the most—how much it affects you, how much it stays. because it’s him, not a stranger, not someone on the street. it’s the same mouth that kisses you at night, the same person who calls you baby, the same fingers that loop into yours under the blanket when you’re snuggled up against him. you don’t answer after that. and when he starts texting again, you just stare at the lock screen and let it buzz against your leg until it stops. because you know it’s coming. the half-assed apology. the “i didn’t mean it like that” and “you know how i get when i’m mad, baby” and “you’re the only one who gets under my skin like this”—as if that’s supposed to be romantic. as if being hurt by him is some kind of proof that you matter.

you forgive him, you always do. because you love him. because it’s easier to fold into the version of him that comes after: the sorry one, the one who kisses your hands and says “i fucked up, baby. i know i fucked up. that’s not who i am, girl, you know me. please, baby… forgive me, i’ll do anything.” you try, you really fucking try… but the thing about words is that once they hit, they echo. they stretch out inside you, and suddenly everything sounds a little different. and it shows. not in the way you pull away, not in the silence or the tears into the pillow while his back is turned. no, you still kiss him. you still touch him. you still let him press up behind you at night and mumble filth against your neck with his hands under your shirt. you let him fuck you. but not the way he’s used to. now it’s you on top—dragging him down by the jaw, yanking his clothes off rough enough to make him grunt, pinning him back against the pillows. subong’s stronger, he could flip you over in a second if he wanted to, but he doesn’t. he loves that shit. he loves watching you take control with your thighs straddling his hips and your nails digging crescent moons into his chest, looking at him like you’re the one who gets to decide when he gets to breathe. you kiss him hard, bite his lip, make him open his mouth just to pull away and laugh when he chases yours.

one day you wrap your hand around his throat, and say “you think you deserve to be fucked by me? hm?” and he shakes his head immediately, lips parted, already twitching under you like you’ve got a hand wrapped around his soul instead. his cock’s hard and leaking and he hasn’t even been touched properly, hasn’t earned a single fucking thing. his voice barely comes out when he tries—just a raspy “no, baby.” “right. then why should i?” you ask as you grind down once, pressing your heat right against him, reminding him what he’s not getting yet. subong chokes on his own spit, holding himself back from doing something pathetic. and you just tilt your head, all sweet and cruel. “’cause—f-fuck, baby, ‘cause i’m sorry. i’m sorry, i know i was a piece of shit—i’ll be good. i swear i’ll be so fuckin’ good.” “you will?” you drag your nails down his chest, watching his abs jump under your touch. he nods frantically. “i-i’ll be your good boy. i promise, baby, just—fuck, please—” you cut him off with another slow roll of your hips, dragging your soaked cunt down the length of his cock, letting him feel how wet you are, how fucking turned on you are from seeing him like this. from hearing the desperation in his voice and watching him twitch and shake and beg for a pussy he hasn’t earned. “aww, and you think saying sorry makes you good, subongie?” you murmur, leaning down, lips brushing over his cheek, your hand slipping up to grab his jaw. you squeeze it hard, making him gasp. “you think one little apology’s enough to make me forget how you talked to me? you’re lucky i even let you get this close.”

subong’s eyes flutter, throat bobbing hard under your touch. he’s finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate, not with the feeling of your pussy hovering just above the tip of his dick, dripping all over him like the cruelest fucking tease alive. he shakes his head quick. “no,” he whispers. “no, baby, it’s not. i fucked up, i know, i know, i’ll do anything to make it up to you, i swear—” “anything? you want this pussy that bad?” “yes,” he whines. “then beg.” he does. fuck, he does immediately. like his life depends on it, giving up every ounce of pride just to get inside you. “please, baby, please. just—just let me feel you, i can’t—i can’t fucking take it. i need you, i need that fucking pussy. please—” you hum, slow and thoughtful, then shift—lifting your hips and sliding off him, dragging the wet heat of your body away. he lets out a little sound at the loss before your fingers wrap around his cock, stroking him once, still deciding how generous you want to be. his hips buck off the bed, his body unable to take the smallest kindness without trying to fuck into it. “pathetic,” you whisper, leaning down to bite his neck, dragging your teeth across his skin. “all that attitude and now look at you… begging like a fucking loser.” he moans, embarrassed, but it turns him on anyway. he’d let you spit in his mouth if you wanted to. “i’m not,” he breathes, but it’s a lie. you stroke him again, slower this time, almost languid, just to watch the way he twitches under your touch, to feel the heat of him, slick and straining in your hand, every inch of him aching with want. “you are,” you say. “whining over some pussy you haven’t earned. what happened to that mouth, huh? where’s all that talk now?” “i don’t—i didn’t mean it, girl—fuck—” his voice cracks halfway through and it’s almost funny, how you’re working him up with barely a flick of your wrist. you lean in close. “that’s my name when you’re begging?” you murmur. “‘girl’? try again.” “‘m s-sorry. baby. ‘m sorry,” he stammers. “i swear, i didn’t mean it, you know i didn’t—please, baby. just let me cum—ahh-ha fuck—please let me cum—” “already?” you laugh, low. “you haven’t even been inside me and you’re already there? just from my hand? that’s how easy you are now, subong?” he groans, hips jerking up again, losing the ability to stay still. “yes—fuck! yes, girl—i mean, baby. shit, you’re s-so fucking hot… i’m gonna cum if you don’t stop. please, let me—” “no,” you cut him off, tightening your grip. “you don’t cum ‘til i say so.”

you let go of him entirely for a second, watching him. your core aches from how wet you are, too, because seeing him like this—all that mouth reduced to desperate noise—it feeds something inside you. you crawl over him again, straddling his waist, the tip of his cock sliding through the mess between your thighs, and subong groans. “please. please, baby, let me in. i need you.” you shift your hips, letting the head of his cock nudge against your entrance, but you don’t give him anything else. “hm… i don’t know…” you murmur, tilting your head. “what were you sorry for again?” “f-for… for calling you that,” he says. “for what i said. i didn’t mean it, baby.” “for calling me what?” you press, and the slick glide of your folds drags against him. “say it.” his throat bobs. “for calling you a bitch. but you know i didn’t mean it… i was just pissed, baby.“ “mhm.” your hand goes to his purple hair, clutching a strand, yanking his head back until he’s staring up at the ceiling. “and? what else are you sorry for?” subong moans. “a-and for leaving you alone,” he answers fast, desperate. “for always being gone, for not coming home when i said i would.” you hum like you’re thinking it over. “now that’s a good boy.” you finally sink down on him. a broken moan rips out of his throat as your walls clamp tight around him, wrenching a curse straight from his lips. subong’s hands shoot up to grab your hips instinctively, but you slap one away. “no touching,” you snap.

you start to move. every drag of your pussy around him has his jaw clenched and his abs twitching, his whole body fighting not to fuck up into you, not to ruin it by cumming too fast. you know he’s close. you can feel him throbbing inside of you, pulsing between your gummy walls. your pace picks up with every whimper that leaves his throat. “y-you want to cum, baby?” he nods frantically, unable to even form words. “yeah? then make me.” you pant as you grind down harder, chasing that spot that makes you see stars, riding him with purpose, hungry for that high tightening in your belly. every deep, deliberate drag of him inside you making it harder to think, the way his cock stretches and fills you perfectly. subong doesn’t dare use his hands—not after you slapped one of them away—but his hips start moving on their own, small upward rolls that meet the motion of yours, fucking up into the rhythm you’re setting. you almost stop just to remind him who’s in charge… but it feels too fucking good. your thighs are trembling, your moans are slipping too easily from your lips and your head’s falling forward as you brace a hand on his chest. “fuck! subong—fuck—” he’s babbling under you. “you feel so fucking good, baby… this pussy’s so good—shit—mine, baby, you’re fucking mine.”

you keep going, riding him harder, the burn in your thighs completely ignored. and then your head drops, your rhythm stutters, and a broken moan rips from your throat as your orgasm tears through you, your cunt clenching around subong so tight you feel him sob under you. only then, when you’ve taken what you wanted, you tell him: “cum for me, baby.” and he does. his hips jerk up once, twice, sloppy and frantic, and he cums, spilling into you as he curses through it, breath catching on every filthy, desperate sound that slips out of his mouth. you ride it out slow, milking every drop of his until he’s boneless, flushed and soaked in sweat. you smile, watching the way his chest rises and falls and that dazed, fucked-out look on his face as he tries to blink himself back into the world.

subong’s a liar. always been and always will be. it’s not even that he’s proud of it, it’s just who he is: a boy who learned too early that bending the truth made things easier. it started when he was little, when he was six years old standing in front of a cracked window with wide eyes, saying “it wasn’t me, grandma, i think the neighbor kid did it.” and she’d believed him. kissed the top of his head and muttered about how other children were raised like animals these days while he nodded solemnly and wiped his muddy palms on the back of his shirt. it got worse when he figured out how easy it was. how it opened doors, got him out of shit and kept people on his side. he lied to his mom constantly. things like: “yeah, i studied.” … “yeah, i went straight to school.” … “no, mom, my friend’s the one who smokes, that’s why my hoodie smells.” but the lies got bigger when he realized that a well-timed excuse could soften her exhaustion, could keep her from yelling, from crying into the sink at night when she thought he was asleep. he told her he wasn’t hungry even when he was, told her school was fine when it wasn’t, told her he didn’t need anything even when his shoes had holes in them… because what was the point in making it harder? what good would the truth even do?

he lied to teachers, too. said he didn’t hear the assignment, that he forgot his books at home, that he had a cousin in the hospital and that’s why he didn’t show up to the exam. he never felt bad for it, not once. if they were dumb enough to believe it, he figured that was on them. he would even lie to the police—with his hands in his pockets and shoulders relaxed like he had nothing to hide, even when his backpack reeked of weed and his knuckles were skinned raw from something he definitely didn’t want to explain. and he lied to his friends all the time as well. about stupid shit, mostly. said he had hookups he didn’t, that he fucked people he hadn’t even met… told one friend their crush liked them back just to see what would happen, and another that someone had said shit behind their back when they hadn’t, just to stir things up. for fun. he lied about school, money, his past, his feelings (especially his feelings)… and nobody ever really pressed him about it, because he was good at it. he lied to everyone.

and you were no exception. subong had been lying to you too, for months now. it started before you moved to korea. one of the first times his manager offered him a little something, to keep the energy up, to keep the night going. subong said no at first. actually said it out loud, too, laughing a bit to dodge confrontation. told him you wouldn’t like it, and he was trying to be better. but the manager just laughed louder, clapped him on the back like he was some kind of child who didn’t know better, and said, “damn, she really got you by the balls, huh?” that stuck. didn’t matter how joking the tone was, or how quick the subject shifted after that. it dug into subong, like a splinter under the skin. “you gotta loosen the fuck up, man. you got all this shit coming your way—money, fans, freedom—and you tryna say no ‘cause of her? fuck that!” “she just doesn’t like when i do this kinda shit,” subong replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “i promised her i wouldn’t do it again.” “bro,” the guy lowered his voice like they were talking secrets. “then don’t tell her. what she don’t know won’t kill her. it’s not like you’re fucking cheating or something… c’mon, man. you’re grown. you gonna let some girl tell you how to live? you gon’ let her control you like that?” and subong didn’t want to be controlled. he hated that word, actually. the guy knew that. probably smelled it on him from the beginning. “just one,” the guy pushed, holding out the little orange pill between two fingers. “you had fun last time, didn’t you?”

subong took the pill. just like that. he doesn’t even remember when it hit. just that he was laughing harder, saying dumber shit, dancing with sweat dripping down his temples while the bass made his bones vibrate and his jaw feel loose. and after that, it just kept happening. once, twice, then again the next week, and then it wasn’t just when his manager offered. it became when someone had something. didn’t even matter who. after a while, even that didn’t feel like enough. sometimes the high didn’t hit quite right, or maybe he was building tolerance, or maybe he just liked the chase of something stronger, better, heavier. so he started trying new shit, too. but it wasn’t until that one tuesday when he found himself pacing his room with a glass of water in his hand, sweating like crazy, digging through drawers and bags and old jackets trying to find something because it had been over four days and his body felt like it was shutting down… that he realized this wasn’t just for fun anymore. he was looking for it. needing it. and he couldn’t even tell you, because he knew he’d lose you if he did.

he never wanted to call you when he was high. tried not to text either, unless he was sure he could pass for normal, and the time zone difference gave him enough of a buffer to make it easy. he’d tell you he was busy, tired, at the studio... and you always believed him, and he hated that. and even more than that, he hated how guilty it made him feel, because you trusted him like no one ever had before, and he couldn’t even fucking look you in the eye over facetime some days. he’d never felt that way after telling a lie. never felt his chest tighten like that nor had to shut his eyes after hanging up just to sit with the sour twist in his gut. with you it was like every small dishonesty stacked on top of the last, pressing heavier and heavier, until some nights, after the high wore off, he’d sit alone in his bathroom staring at his reflection and he hated what he saw. hated how easy it was to lie to you, and how hard it was to stop. he kept telling himself he’d quit soon, that he just needed a few more weeks... but that never happened.

if anything, it got worse. so much fucking worse. because once you moved in, he didn’t just have to lie, he had to live the lie. he thought, stupidly, that by the time you got there, he’d have gotten his shit together. that he’d be better and clean. but he was so fucking wrong. the withdrawals hit harder than he expected. the pressure did too. and suddenly he was in it deeper than before, but now with the added weight of hiding it from you. hiding it in front of you. so the only thing he could do to survive the guilt was to avoid it altogether. that’s why he started avoiding you. it’s what he’s been doing for months now. because what else can he do? admit it? tell you he’s been high half the time he’s kissed you lately? tell you that some nights he lies awake next to you, cock throbbing, too fucked in the head to even roll you over and fuck you like he wants to? please. he can’t do that. he won’t.

so he tries to make up for it the only way he knows how: by being the kind of boyfriend he thinks you deserve. or at least sounding like it. saying “i love you” over and over, whispering it against your bare shoulder before you even open your eyes in the morning. touching you when you pass by, pulling you into his lap when you’re both sitting on the couch, brushing his thumb along your cheek when you’re ranting about your day just to see you soften into his hand. he means it, too. it’s the one thing he doesn’t have to fake, because he loves you more than he’s ever loved anyone in his life, and maybe that’s why everything else feels so fucking unbearable—because every time he kisses you or comes home and wraps his arms around your waist and breathes you in like he’s been drowning without you, he knows he’s lying about everything else. and it fucking kills him, honestly. because you’re right there, every single day, showing up for a version of him that doesn’t even exist anymore. he tries to drown it out with love and sex. with worship. fucking you like you’re made of gold—telling you you’re beautiful every time you’re on top of him, tits bouncing, head thrown back. “gonna marry you,” he breathes. “gonna make you my wife, baby. wanna wake up to this pussy every day.” and you laugh, soft, before kissing him again.

subong knows what you like. knows exactly how to say the right things at the right time, how to pull you back in when you’re pulling away. when he feels you go quiet, when your touches grow shorter or your gaze lingers a second too long without a smile, he cranks it up like clockwork—presses closer, kisses your neck more, murmurs “i wasn’t fucking joking when i said i’m gonna marry you,” mouth hot against your skin. “gonna put a ring on your finger so fat you’ll have to work your thumb around it when you wash your hands, girl.” and it works, most of the time. sometimes, to his surprise, he even means it. sometimes he wants that future so bad it makes him sick because what the actual fuck... he’s never thought of marriage, not even once, in his whole life. but now he does—when you’re naked in front of him, biting your lip, making fun of him for being sappy while he’s already got your panties shoved to the side and you’re saying “then prove it, big boy.” and he does—up against the bathroom counter, your leg hiked up and his hand gripping the edge so hard it goes white. “gon’ get you pregnant one day,” he grits out into your shoulder, “fuck a ring, wanna see you f-fucking swollen and full of me, mama.” and you clench around him every time. maybe because it’s hot, or maybe because there’s something inside you that wants it too, even if you’d never say it out loud. and he sees that in your eyes and loses his fucking mind. “you want that? yeah? want thanos to fuck a baby into you?” and you’re moaning, back arching for him. he means it in those moments, every word, every filthy, unhinged promise he makes when he’s buried in you. because if you were pregnant, maybe you’d stay. maybe you wouldn’t leave if you found out the truth, you’d be tied to him forever. oh god… how sick is that? how fucked up is it, that the idea makes him feel better? makes the guilt hurt less? subong knows how wrong that is. how selfish and immature and backwards it all sounds, but it doesn’t stop the thought from coming anyway. he’s a fucking coward, that’s all he is.

but the truth always comes to the surface. part of him knew that. because it was obvious, wasn’t it? bound to happen eventually, especially once he started surrounding himself with people he shouldn’t have even looked twice at in club pentagon. it was easy to disappear there, easy to pretend he was someone else for a few hours, someone untouchable. and that’s exactly what he did. he met his plug there. older guy, always with a different girl on his lap. they called him kyungho, or just ‘hyung’ if they wanted to be polite, and he had a reputation for being reliable and completely fucking terrifying if you crossed him. there were always two or three men flanking him, shoulders squared like bodyguards. subong knew better than to get too close. even when kyungho was friendly—and he was, in that offhand, slippery kind of way that made it hard to tell whether he actually liked you or if you were just the night’s amusement—there was something about him that made subong’s skin crawl. but kyungho liked him. or at least that’s how it seemed, the way he always made space for him at the booth, arm flung over the backrest like they were boys who went way back, like subong belonged there among them. subong wasn’t sure if that meant he was in or just being tolerated, but either way, he sat. “you always show up right when the night gets interesting,” kyungho said one night, not even looking at him. then he cracked a grin. “you’re either lucky or real fucking bored.” kyungho didn’t wait for an answer. just reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a little baggie, dropped it into subong’s hand. “this one’s smoother,” he said. “go easy, unless you’re trying to see god tonight.” subong didn’t ask questions. he didn’t want to know where the stuff came from, didn’t care what it was either. he just muttered “thanks, man.” and nodded.

everything was fine, as long as he paid. except now, he owed them. subong hadn’t planned for this part. he’d been doing so fucking good, hadn’t he? lying well enough to keep you close, which was already a fucking miracle. but everything falls apart eventually, and for subong, it started with that fucking ring. after dating you for two years, he’d finally bought it—kept it in a drawer under his socks, some proof to himself that he was serious, that he was going to get better to be with you. it wasn’t a matter of money then, he was doing alright. the bookings were steady, the endorsements had started coming in, and he’d made it to the semifinals in rap battlegrounds, which meant the prize money was close enough to taste. everything was building toward something. and he’d bought the ring without thinking too hard about it, still high on the rush of maybe being good enough for once. he didn’t know when he’d give it to you. maybe months from now, maybe years. but he would, eventually.

the rap battlegrounds final came. he should’ve been ready—he was ready. he’d been rehearsing for weeks, killing it in every freestyle cypher he stepped into. but the closer it got, the more it started to eat at him. not the performance itself, but the stakes. he told himself he wouldn’t do it, that he’d go in clean, that he didn’t need anything. but nerves are a bitch. and the second he stepped backstage and felt his throat go dry and his hands shake no matter how many times he clenched them into fists, he knew he was fucked. so he took a pill to quiet everything down and be able to concentrate. except it didn’t quiet shit. it fogged it. made him slow, made his tongue feel heavy and made him forget the third verse of his own fucking song like a rookie. and just like that, it was over: he lost. and the prize money he was counting on? gone. just like that. poof.

for weeks, he’s a fucking ghost of himself. not publicly, though. but when the doors close, when it’s just you and him in that quiet apartment, he’s… hollow. you sit beside him and hold his face, run your fingers through his hair and kiss the corner of his temple while he cries with his teeth clenched and his chest shaking, and you tell him it’s okay, it’s okay, you’re proud of him no matter what, that he gave everything he had and you’re not going anywhere. and he cries harder. not just because he lost the tournament—though yeah, that was fucking humiliating. but no, that’s not why he cries into your lap while your hands stroke the back of his neck. he cries because he’s fucked. because he was counting on that money to pay kyungho. and subong’s been dodging his calls for days, each one a sharp pulse of dread in his head. he thought about selling the ring, but he didn’t. couldn’t. he opened the box once and stared at the way the light caught the stone and all he could think about was how it would look on your finger. how you’d reach for him with both hands and kiss him before whispering yes against his mouth. and how you’d smile, all happy and cute, when you told your friends and family—he’d figure something else out.

the days kept going, and you never noticed. to you, everything was fine. the sex had been good lately. too good, actually. he’d been insatiable for weeks now, rougher than usual—fucking you with his fingers shoved in your mouth to keep you quiet, even though the windows were open and you both knew the neighbors could hear—but also sweeter in the moments right after. you made lunch together: grilled cheese, kimchi jjigae, that fried rice he liked with too much sauce and barely any vegetables. and subong grabbed your ass when you reached for the bowls on the top shelf, grinning when you squealed. you watched movies on the couch, went out for dinner, went on walks where you’d hold his hand and swing it between you like kids, and he’d kiss your knuckles and call you pretty. he was a bit quieter than usual, sure. but you figured he was tired, or overworked, or just coming down from the crash of losing rap battlegrounds and all the energy he’d poured into it. you gave him space and avoided asking too many questions. you didn’t realize that was the worst thing you could’ve done.

one sunday morning, you’re sitting at the dining table in one of subong’s shirts and eating toast, scrolling on your phone and sipping lukewarm coffee. subong’s out running, something he’s started doing lately in the mornings, probably trying to shake the gnawing feeling in his chest that losing the rap tournament left behind, or maybe just chasing a little silence in his head that doesn’t sound like self-hatred. suddenly, there’s this violent banging on your front door. you jolt so hard your mug wobbles, coffee sloshing onto your thigh as you hear a group of men yelling right outside your apartment—slamming their palm or maybe even their fist against the door again and again, rattling it in its frame like they’re seconds from breaking it down. you don’t understand a word, the korean’s too fast, aggressive and slurred with rage, but the tone alone is enough to twist something tight in your gut. you don’t know what to do. part of you wants to scream back, part of you wants to hide, and part of you’s just whispering his name under your breath like “subong. subong. subong.” as if he’s gonna magically appear to protect you from whatever it is that those men want. you quickly pull out your phone.

subong

baby please answer me

a group of men’s banging on the door screaming in korean

idk who they are

they won’t stop

i’m scared

i didn’t call the police bc i don’t want them to hear me talking

please call them

send someone here

and don’t come home

they could be dangerous

just send someone please

idk what to do

they sound so angry

fuck

okay bby stay inside

dont open the door

omw

what??

no

no no

don’t come here subongie

please just call the cops

i cant call the cops

what?

wdym you can’t

its alr

they r my friends

friends??

what kind of friends are those

and why don’t i know about them?

not the point rn

wtf

subong explain this

now

i’m serious

you’re scaring me

this isn’t normal

need u to trust me baby

dont open that fucking door

you shouldn’t move. you know that. but your body doesn’t listen. something is wrong. you stare at your phone, at those last two texts from him before you start moving toward the door, your phone clutched in one hand just in case you need to dial someone. the banging has stopped (thank god) but you can still hear someone pacing outside, heavy boots against the hall’s floor. you press your eye to the peephole. three men. when your voice comes out it’s small and tentative. “who are you?” nothing. “what do you want?” they answer… in korean. you let out a frustrated sigh. “i don’t understand what you’re saying—” and that’s when one of them switches. the voice that comes through is rough and accented. “where’s thanos?” “what?” “choi subong,” he says. “we’re looking for him.” “why?” “just wanna talk.” right. because people who just wanna talk usually show up pounding on your door on a fucking sunday morning like a goddamn swat team. your hand tightens around your phone. “well, he’s not here,” you snap. “so either say what you came to say or fuck off.” the man laughs as if he’s dealing with a little kid playing guard dog. another voice joins in too, somewhere behind him, the cadence of it low and amused. “feisty,” the guy mutters through the door. “you’re his girl, huh? makes sense.” you don’t answer. your heart’s going so fucking fast it’s hard to breathe. “we don’t wanna hurt you,” he adds. “this isn’t about you, sweetheart. we just want what he owes.” “he doesn’t owe anyone shit,” you fire back. they’re quiet for a beat. then: “you sure about that?” and you realize he knows something you don’t. “what are you talking about?” another chuckle. it’s not kind. “your boyfriend owes us money,” he replies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “lot of it.” “…for what?”

they exchange words in korean on the other side of the door before they decide to speak to you again. “pills.” “what kind of pills?” “do we really need to say?” you shake your head, laugh once, because that’s fucking ridiculous. “you’re wrong,” you snap, but it comes out weaker than you meant. “he doesn’t—subong doesn’t do that shit anymore.” “anymore?” the man echoes, amused. “then you do know.” you stay quiet so he continues, “he’s been getting supply from kyungho for almost a year now at club pentagon. pills, mostly… sometimes other stuff. he was good for it, at first—now he’s late.” you feel all the air in your body leave your lungs, your jaw tightening with the sudden warmth spreading in your face from anger. “you’re lying.” but deep down, you know… you know he isn’t. you feel so sick. “you didn’t know?” the guy says, all mock sympathy now. “shit.” you can tell he’s enjoying it—watching it all click into place behind a locked door. “what the fuck are you talking about,” you manage, but your voice wavers, already betrayed by the way your mind is dragging you down every memory, every weird excuse, every time subong came home late with red-rimmed eyes. the guy outside sighs, like he’s getting bored of your denial. “look, we just want what we’re owed. because we’ve been real fucking nice so far.” “how much?” “enough for us to be here.” you feel so fucking stupid. how could he lie to you for so long? “leave. just—leave. i don’t know where he is.” “we’ll be back,” he tells you, warning. “tell your boy to pick up his phone next time.” and then they’re gone.

you immediately walk to the bedroom, your hands moving before you even think of it, tearing through drawers and slamming them shut again when they turn up empty, muttering fuck under your breath. nothing in the nightstand, nothing in his coat pockets or the pockets of the jeans he left on the floor last night. your heart is hammering so hard it’s a wonder you don’t throw up right there on the carpet. the apartment isn’t big, but it feels endless all of a sudden—too many places where things could be hidden, too many corners where secrets could live. you start opening kitchen drawers next, rifling past silverware and receipts. nothing. you yank open the cabinet under the sink. cleaning supplies. trash bags. nothing. you’re not even thinking straight when you start on the closet—pulling clothes off hangers, tossing them over your shoulder, crawling halfway inside… when you see something wedged between a duffel bag and the wall. a shoebox. plain and black and stupidly suspicious now that you’re looking at it. you drag it out, breathing hard, hands shaking so bad you fumble the lid. and there it is. a small plastic bag—a few colorful pills, maybe four or five, rattling softly when you lift it.

you sit down right there on the floor, the shoebox slipping out of your hand and landing with a soft thud beside you. you don’t even know how long you stay there, hand frozen around the bag, feeling embarrassed as you stare at the proof that the men at your door weren’t lying. embarrased for being so in love with subong. because this whole time you were waking up next to him, laughing with him, moaning under him—you were also sleeping beside a liar. you press the heels of your hands into your eyes, as if that’ll make it stop, as if you can block out the sting or slow your heartbeat or undo the past year. but you can’t.

the front door opens so fast it hits the wall, rattling on its hinges, and subong’s voice cuts through the apartment before you even lift your head. “baby?” it’s that voice. the one that always used to make you feel safe. but now it feels foreign. “fuck, baby—where are you?” there’s panic in it, real panic. he probably thinks that something’s happened to you, that those guys hurt you, when the truth is sitting right here between your fingers, in its plastic cage. you hear him moving, fast, room to room, muttering curses under his breath as shit clatters to the floor. you can imagine it: the wild look in his eyes and that little tremble in his hands he tries so hard to hide. you can almost feel the moment he sees the living room, sees the drawers pulled out, the papers on the floor, the spilled coffee on the table, the overturned laundry basket… and then he’s sprinting again, calling your name louder now, almost begging. you’re still on the floor when he bursts into your bedroom, breathing hard, looking like he’s about to be sick until his eyes land on you. and when yours lift, you meet the expression that splits across his face. you don’t think you’ll ever forget it. the recognition. he doesn’t ask what you found, he doesn’t have to. he knows that box. he knows exactly what was inside. and you see it hit him all at once. “fuck,” he whispers, barely audible. when you don’t answer, he takes a step inside, tentative, and for a moment you think he might actually drop to his knees, just to be on your level. but he doesn’t. he just stands there, hands twitching at his sides. “it’s not—” he tries, but he doesn’t even finish the sentence. because what is it, really? what the fuck is it supposed to be, when you’re sitting on the floor with a bag of his pills in your lap and the knowledge that the man you love has been lying to your fucking face? what the fuck is he supposed to say? so he just stands there, shame written in every inch of him.

“go ahead,” you bite out, voice sharp and trembling, “finish the sentence.” he flinches. “no?” you scoff, dragging the back of your hand across your cheek even though it does nothing to stop the heat burning its way down. “then let me guess. it’s not what it looks like? it’s not yours? it’s not a big deal? pick one, subong. fucking pick one.” he shakes his head, takes a small step toward you. “baby, i just—please.” “don’t call me that.” his mouth snaps shut like you’ve slapped him. and you kind of wish you had. maybe then he’d look as hurt as you feel. “how long?” you ask, standing up slowly. “how long have you been using?” you already know the answer, but you want him to tell you. you want him to be honest for once. but instead: “why the fuck does it matter?” you can’t believe he still has the fucking audacity to say something like that, after everything. “are you serious? it matters because you’ve been lying to me! i don’t even fucking recognize you anymore!” he runs a hand down his face. “i didn’t want this! okay? i didn’t want you to find out like this. i was gonna fucking tell you—” “when?” you cut in. “when they kicked down the door and dragged you out in front of me? or were you gonna wait until you fucking overdosed?!” his mouth opens, but nothing comes out. of course. you’ve dragged the lie out into the daylight where it can’t be ignored and there’s no fucking escape hatch he can slip through now. “yeah,” you snap. “that’s what i fucking thought.” “i didn’t fucking mean for this to happen.” “oh, spare me the tragic little story, subong! you chose this! you fucking chose it!” his eyes flash. “i didn’t choose shit!” “you took the pills!” you scream, your whole body trembling now. “you bought them, hid them and lied to my fucking face! for months!” “yeah? well maybe i fucking had to! maybe if you weren’t always breathing down my fucking neck about everything i do—” he jabs his finger in your direction and you slap it away. “oh, sorry i love you!” you snarl. “sorry i trusted you! sorry i fucking worried for you every single day! how fucking stupid of me!”

you’re out of the room before he can finish another excuse, feet carrying you on instinct to the living room. subong follows—calling your name. but you don’t answer. don’t look at him when he stops behind you, breathing hard. “i was gonna stop,” he mutters, like it’s some kind of offering, some kind of band-aid for the fucking wound he ripped open. you scoff. “yeah?” “yeah. that’s why i didn’t say shit, okay?” you turn your head to glare at him. “you promised.” “i know.” “you promised me,” you repeat. “before i moved. you said you were done with that shit. you said you wouldn’t do it again.” “yeah, well, shit changed, didn’t it?!” he snaps, throwing his arms out. “i didn’t fucking want this. shit just got outta hand!” “got outta hand?” you laugh, disbelieving. “jesus, subong.” “what, you fucking perfect now?” he shoots back, voice rising. “you never lied about shit? never fucked up? never kept something to yourself ‘cause you knew how the other person would react?” “no, actually! i would never do this to you.” he just shakes his head, scoffing. “yeah? sure about that?” “don’t—don’t fucking twist this, subong! i would never lie to you about something this serious—” “the fuck you wouldn’t.” “i wouldn’t!” you shout, stepping closer, finger jabbing into his chest. “you know why? because i would’ve never done this in the first place! i wouldn’t have broken a promise i made to you! and i sure as hell wouldn’t have lied to you for who knows how fucking long!” “yeah, yeah, right. you’re a fucking saint, huh? miss flawless.” “what? that’s not—“ “i guess you’re some kind of fucking angel now—” “i didn’t say that!” “you don’t have to say it, it’s all over your fucking face!” “are you fucking kidding me?! i’ve been here, every night, waiting for you to come home—” “yeah, to bitch at me about every little thing—” “i was just trying—“ “to control me?” you huff, offended. “to help you, you fucking asshole! i’ve never—” “acting like you know what’s best for me, like you’re some goddamn savior!” “could you stop interrupting me?!” “you do the exact same shit, man!” “because you’re not listening to me! i fucking care about you, subong. that’s why—“ he interrupts again. “you’ve got a funny way of showing it! going through my fucking shit like a fucking cop—” “don’t do that.” “don’t do what?” “try to twist it—put this shit on me! i wouldn’t have gone through your shit if you hadn’t been hiding anything in the first place, genius!” “i’m not—you’re not fucking better than me, girl!” your mouth opens, but all you can manage is, “stop, okay? i never said i was. don’t turn this a competition—” “then stop looking at me like that!” “like what?!” “like i’m a fucking failure, that’s what,” he snaps. “like you pity me or some shit—waitin’ for me to fuck up so you can say ‘i told you so.’” “what are you even fucking saying? do you even hear yourself right now? i’ve done nothing but love you while you lied to my fucking face—and for what?! so you could bring that shit into our home?! so random men could show up banging on our door ready to fuck me up?!” “they weren’t gonna do shit—” “you don’t know that! you don’t fucking know that, subong! you don’t get to gamble with our fucking safety like that! they scared the fucking shit out of me, motherfucker!”

his face twists. “what the fuck did you just say to me?” you’re crying now, barely keeping yourself standing, but you don’t take it back. “you heard me,” you whisper. “you—you let them come to our fucking door. i thought—” your mouth clamps shut, shoulders heaving, “i thought they were gonna—i thought they were gonna get in here and—” you can’t even finish the sentence due to the lump that has formed in your throat. “i didn’t know they’d pull that shit, alright?” he shouts. “but you gave them a reason to! you gave them a fucking reason! you’re the one who owes them, the one who brought this into our life!” you sob, tears streaming freely now. “you’re so selfish… you only ever think about yourself. how long did you think you could keep doing this without it coming back around, huh?! how long before it got me hurt, too?!” “oh, get off your fucking high horse—” “no, fuck you!” you spit, so loud that it stuns him into silence for a moment. “you selfish, lying piece of shit! fuck you! i gave you everything—i fucking moved here for you! i changed my whole goddamn life for you, and all this time, you were out there getting high and playing gangster with a bunch of lowlife freaks while i sat at home thinking you were fucking working—” you can’t even see his expression properly anymore, your vision too blurred by tears, your voice cracking on every syllable, choking on the weight of every word coming out of your mouth. “—thinking you were tired or stressed or just—fuck, i don’t—i don’t know! i made up a thousand excuses for you. i fucking trusted you! i… i trusted you, subong.”

he opens his mouth, probably about to say something cruel to shove the blame back onto you, but you don’t let him. you step forward, eyes blazing. “everything makes sense now. i should’ve known. god, i should’ve known. i thought i was going crazy—thinking i was too clingy, too emotional, too needy! but it was you, subong. it was always you! you left me in a city that isn’t mine, with no one but you, and then you weren’t even fucking there! you left me here alone, every fucking day. while you were off getting high, choosing that shit over me! and i was here like a dumbass, waiting, worrying… do you have any idea how fucking alone i’ve felt since i got here? and now? now i find out you’ve been hiding fucking drugs in our apartment? getting involved with—i don’t even know! some psycho gang of criminals who showed up ready to kick the fucking door down?! you don’t fucking get it, do you? you put us in danger! you fucking asshole!”

whatever self-control he had left snaps, and you don’t even have time to react before your back hits the wall, the force of it rattling your teeth, his body right there in front of you, all chest and anger and spit flying from his mouth. “fuck you!” he yells, voice cracking with rage. “you think you can talk to me like that?! like you better than me?! fuck you, bitch! you don’t know shit about what i’ve been through!” your eyes widen, hands instinctively coming up between you and him. but he doesn’t touch you, just slams his palm into the wall right next to your head, so hard the picture frame beside you shakes. “subong—” your voice shakes with fear. “i never fucking asked you to move here, girl! you did that! you decided to drop your whole fucking life to be with me—” “subong, please.” “—and now what? now i’m the fucking problem?! huh? did i ruin your perfect little fantasy, baby? well, fuck that—welcome to the thanos’ world! i’ve always been this guy!“ his mouth keeps moving, hurling venom with every breath, eyes blown wide and frantic. he even starts talking in korean—things you don’t understand, but you know they’re mean. what a fucking coward. your voice cracks through, small and trembling. “you’re scaring me—” it’s so quiet he almost doesn’t hear it, but you say it again, louder this time. “stop! subong, you’re—you’re scaring me. please—” his body freezes. your arms are trembling, your chest is heaving, and your eyes—your perfect, pretty eyes—they’re wide with something subong never wanted to see pointed at him: fear. his hand drops from the wall and he takes a step back, then another, horror slowly crawling over his features as his brain catches up to what his body just did. “fuck,” he breathes, more to himself than to you. “shit. no. no, baby—fuck, no. i didn’t wanna—” you flinch again when he moves, just barely, but it’s enough to twist the knife in his chest. “i didn’t mean to scare you, i swear—baby, i swear. i just—fuck.” he runs a hand through his hair. “i would never—i would never hurt you, baby.”

you slide down the wall, chest caving in so tight it feels like someone’s kneeling on it. you can’t breathe. your hands claw at your throat and your sobs are coming in choked little bursts, your whole body shuddering from the inside out, and all you can hear is your own panicked gasps and the blood rushing behind your ears. your lungs won’t open, your throat won’t work, and your hands are shaking so bad you can’t even press them to your chest properly. “baby,” subong says, worried. “baby—fuck—what do i do?” your body curls forward and a broken sound slips out of you, desperate. “subong—” even though you’re terrified, your arms still reach for him. he drops to his knees the second he sees it. “fuck—shit, baby, hey, hey—” his arms wrap around you immediately. “you’re okay. you’re okay, i’m here—breathe for me, yeah?” he’s rambling now, a panicked whisper against your ear as he pulls you into his chest. your hands are clumsy, grabbing onto him. your fingers knot in the fabric of his shirt and you’re trembling so hard your teeth knock together, your shoulders jolting with every gasp. “i can’t—i—” your voice cuts off into another sob as your head drops against him. “i got you, baby. i got you,” he keeps saying, his grip tightening. “i’m so sorry. shit, i’m so sorry. please breathe, please—please, baby—” his own eyes start to water, while he kisses the side of your head and swears under his breath, over and over, cursing himself for letting it get this far. he’s scared too. of losing you. he can’t stop thinking about the look in your eyes, the fear that flashed there when he raised his voice, when he slammed his hand into the wall, when he lost control. it keeps replaying in his head, and he hates himself harder with every second that passes.

when your breath finally starts to slow, and your heart stops trying to jump out of your ribcage, you pull away. you get to your feet on shaky legs, wiping your cheeks with the back of your hand. you don’t even look at him when you speak. “i’m done with this.” you don’t even realize how much it stuns him until you’re halfway to the bedroom and his voice comes from behind you. “the fuck does that mean?” you don’t answer. “wait— wait. baby—” he rushes after you, practically tripping over his own feet, hand reaching for your arm… but you quickly pull yourself free from his grip, turning around to look at him. “who are you?” he frowns. “what?” “who are you?” you repeat. “what do you mean—” “i don’t know you anymore. you’re not the guy i met—the one i fell in love with two summers ago.” your lip quivers, but you keep going. “that boy was kind. sweet. funny. he made me feel safe. he would’ve never—never—lost it on me like that. he’d never scream in my face. he’d never leave me alone for nights on end and come home high off his ass and lie about it.” your voice cracks but you keep pushing, even though it hurts. “and the worst part is… you don’t even see it, do you? you think this is still you. but it’s not. you let that shit change you, subong.”

he knows you’re right. the words don’t even surprise him, because they’re true. because he’s been thinking them every fucking night. subong knows what he’s become. he’s known it for a while now. but hearing it from you… it’s humiliating. “listen, i—” you don’t give him time to talk. you turn back around and walk into the bedroom, leave him standing there with that glassy look in his eyes. subong hears the drawer open first, then it’s the rustling of clothes, the clatter of a hanger falling, the hollow thud of the closet door swinging open and slamming back into the wall. for a second, he doesn’t get it—his mind still stuck back there in the living room, where you were crying and shaking and tearing into him. but then he hears the distinct sound of wheels dragging against the floor. the realization hits him. that’s your suitcase. the one you hadn’t touched since you first unpacked it a year ago. he stumbles toward the bedroom. “the fuck you doing?” it’s stupid, because he knows what you’re doing. you don’t answer. you’re too busy grabbing whatever your hands land on—shirts, charger, underwear, your earrings from the nightstand... “hey—hey, talk to me.” “there’s nothing else to say.” you don’t even look up. “what do you mean there’s nothing—are you seriously leaving me right now?” you pause for half a second, hands frozen over the tangled mess of your t-shirts, and that silence alone almost kills him. “yo—fuck, stop—what the fuck are you doing?”

he’s on you in two steps, eyes darting between your suitcase and your face. his hands are on your stuff before you can stop him—hand yanking a pair of jeans straight out of the suitcase. “you’re not fucking doing this.” “get off,” you snap, trying to push him away with your elbow, but he doesn’t budge. “man, fuck that,” he growls, already reaching for more, grabbing a handful of shirts. “you’re not fucking leaving me like this—” “stop it!” you slap at his hands, pushing him away, trying to grab your things faster than he can take them. “fuck off, subong!” you shout. “don’t touch my stuff!” “don’t fucking do this, then, girl! acting like you’re actually gonna fucking go!” he snaps. “yeah, because i am!” you keep throwing things into the suitcase and his fingers wrap tight around your wrists in an attempt to stop you. “look at me. just—fucking stop, okay?! stop packing for a fucking second and talk to me—” “let go of me!” you rip your hands away with a curse. without even thinking, he grabs the suitcase by the handle and flings it off the bed, everything tumbling out at your feet. “there,” he spits. “you gonna pack now, huh? go ahead. pack it off the fucking floor.” you stare at him, stunned, blinking through tears. “what the fuck is wrong with you?!” you scream, launching toward the pile. “what the fuck is wrong with me?!” “yes! yes—what the fuck is wrong with you?” “you’re the one trying to fucking leave! after all the shit we been through—fucking bitch.”

you freeze. your fingers curl around a balled-up shirt but you don’t move. your pulse thuds in your ears, all the heat in your face dropping down to your stomach. “don’t call me that,” you whisper, hands shaking as you grab at the scattered clothes on the floor. he scoffs. “what, you get to say whatever the fuck you want, but i can’t say shit back? fuck off, bitch—” “don’t fucking call me that!” you explode, standing up. “say it again, i fucking dare you—say it one more time and see what the fuck happens.” subong opens his mouth, defiant as ever, and you cut him off before he can get the word out. “fucking junkie,” you spit. his jaw clenches, and his eyes go dark. “the fuck did you just call me?” he steps forward and you flinch without meaning to, but you don’t back down. your chin stays lifted even as your fingers shake. “i said what i fucking said. you’re your dad’s fucking son after all, right? apple didn’t fall far at all! only difference is, your mom got stuck with him. i’m not gonna be that fucking stupid.” “you fucking bitch,” he snarls, stepping into your space without a single care. “you ain’t fucking shit, let me tell you that!“ you roll your eyes and ignore him, crouching down to zip up your suitcase. “fucking crazy—bringing my mom into this? my fucking dad?!” you grab the suitcase handle and start toward the door, but he blocks it. his hand jabs out, two fingers tapping hard against your temple like he’s trying to knock some kind of sense into you. “you’re not fucking special, alright? you’re not. get it through that pretty little fucking head of yours. i should’ve fucked one of those girls after the show i gave in busan—” your hand flies out, shoving his chest so hard he stumbles back a step. “don’t fucking touch me,” you snap. “don’t ever fucking touch me again. you disgust me.”

he sees it in your face. how the words cut deeper than anything else ever could. subong knows you’ve probably thought about it before—wondered if all those nights he came home late were because he was with someone else. he remembers the way you used to wait up for him, how your voice would turn smaller when you asked where he’d been, trying not to sound jealous. and now, saying that shit out loud—throwing those other girls in your face—he knows exactly what it does to you. and he wants it to hurt. “i could’ve been balls deep in a fan after every fucking show,” he continues. “could’ve been getting my dick sucked every fucking night, girl! they would’ve let me do whatever the fuck i wanted. would’ve saved me the fucking headache—“ “then go fucking do it! go get your dick sucked by every desperate fan who thinks you’re some kind of god—matter of fact, go ruin someone else’s fucking life for once! because i’m done.” you shoulder past him, yanking the bedroom door open with your free hand while dragging the suitcase behind you. you didn’t even get half your stuff, but you don’t care, you just need to get out. “yeah? fucking go, then!” he shouts after you, voice echoing down the hallway. “walk the fuck out that door, bitch! get the fuck outta my place!” you want to laugh at this point. at the way he’s calling it his place when he used to call it our home. isn’t he embarrassed? “you think i give a shit?!” he barks, following right on your heels now, his steps loud behind you. “go! go back to your fucking country and fuck off! i don’t fucking need you, girl! and don’t you fucking dare come back to me when you realize no one else is gonna put up with your bratty ass—” this time you can’t help it—you laugh. “as if i ever fucking would! you’re so pathetic.” subong’s desperate. he doesn’t want to lose you but he also doesn’t know how to stop that from happening. that’s why he says the worst things he can think of: “yeah? i’m gonna burn all your shit! every last thing you left in my closet!” as if that’ll to make you turn around and care. as if that’ll make you stay just to stop him. it’s selfish and stupid and he knows it won’t work, but he’s never been good at watching people leave nor letting go without dragging his own heart down with it. and he’s so, so disappointed and hurt by your indifference… “you hear me?! i’m gonna light it all the fuck up! don’t even think about coming back for it—” your hand’s already on the door when he screams that, fingers around the knob. you stand there for a second before you twist it, push the door open and let the stale hallway air hit your face. you glance back at subong over your shoulder, tears still streaking your cheeks, but your expression’s flat and empty now. “do whatever the fuck you want,” you mutter. “i don’t care.” and then you’re gone, the door swinging shut behind you.

the hotel is nice. the girl at the desk doesn’t ask questions when she sees your red eyes and the way your hand shakes when you pull your card out to pay. she just gives you the keycard and a weak smile right before you take the elevator up, in which you stand in silence, trying to soak in everything that has happened between you and subong. then you’re inside the room, thinking about the way he yanked your clothes out of your hands, about how he called you a brat, a bitch, how he looked at you when you said the word junkie, how he shoved his fucking fingers into your temple and slammed the wall inches away from your head. and you cry. you cry because you love him… you love him and you hate him too right now. and you think: how the fuck did i end up here. you used to know him. or you thought you did. and now it’s like every memory is gaslighting you. maybe you imagined the softness and he was always this cruel and you were just too in love to see it. now he’s proving your point in real time—not even an hour after you left, he’s already blowing up your phone with calls and texts, the same petty shit as always.

pick up the fucking phone

tf do u think u are girl

ignoring me

fucking coward

leaving me like this

after everything i’ve done for u

i don’t need u bitch

shoulda fucked someone else when i had the chance

leave me alone

and grow up

u r a selfish bitch

if you’re going to keep insulting me, at least expand your vocabulary!

it’s getting repetitive mf

shut the fuck up

always thinking u r so fuckin smart

istg im gonna fucking overdose

im gonna take all those fucking pills

if u dont answer the phone right tf now

im being fr

n give me my fucking shirt back

bet u r still wearin it rn

no, dw :)

it’s in the trash

yk what

hope it fuckin rots there

just like u

you spend a few days in the hotel, trying not to look at your phone too much. you haven’t told anyone what happened, but you’re already checking flights back, scrolling through the cheapest options to get the fuck out of here, wondering what the hell you’re even supposed to do next. your whole life here was built around him. and now? now you have nothing. subong is still being swallowed whole by whatever pride and rage cocktail he’s been nursing for the past year, and you refuse to speak to him like this. hell no. not when every word out of his mouth is sharpened into a knife and flung at you like it’s your fault he can’t stand the sight of his own reflection. it’s honestly insane, the way he tried to flip everything back on you. as if you hadn’t just caught him red-handed lying to your face, hiding shit, using, doing who knows what the fuck behind your back while you sat at home thinking you were too needy or just too much for him. the fucking audacity. but subong hasn’t given up. he’ll say he has—he’ll run his mouth like he always does, throw out every cruel sentence he can string together, try to convince you and himself that he doesn’t give a fuck. that he’s better off without you. but he’s not fooling anyone, least of all himself. he wants you. he misses you so bad it eats at him, makes his stomach twist and turn, and he’s too much of a coward to say it but it doesn’t make it any less true. he needs you. more than he’s ever needed anyone. he loves and adores you. he talks big, but he’s never had anyone like you. he’s not sure he’s ever lasted this long with someone before. hell, he’s not even sure he’s ever wanted to! you’re the first person who’s made him think about things like future and forever, he used to laugh at people who said they found ‘the one’, rolling his eyes like that shit was a fairytale. now look at him, swallowing all that back… let’s be for real, he even bought a fucking ring. a ring… subong… like what?

and now he can’t stop picturing your packed suitcase and your teary eyes and the way your voice wavered when you told him you were done. that’s all he sees, every time he blinks. he regrets every single fucking thing that came out of his mouth. and that’s saying something, because subong doesn’t usually regret shit. he can’t sleep, can’t eat, can’t write... can’t even jerk off without thinking about you, and that pisses him off more than anything. he knows that if he doesn’t fix this, doesn’t get his shit together, doesn’t do something soon, you’re gonna be on the next flight out of korea and gone for good. and he can’t let that happen. he’s already ruined too much. so he starts moving, because time’s not on his side and every second that goes by feels like it’s dragging you farther and farther away from him. he’s racing the damn clock, fighting against the ticking sound. he needs money, fast. because his career’s in the fucking gutter, his rep is tanking, and he still owes kyungho more than he can count on both hands. he needs to come clean, clear the debt, make you feel safe again—not just with him, but around him, in the space you used to share. that’s the first step. and yet… how the hell is he supposed to make that kind of money in so little time?

he feels so fucking pathetic, slouched over his laptop at some godforsaken hour when even the drunks have gone to sleep, sitting there in the dark with nothing but the blue light burning into his face. he’s typing dumb things like how to make money fast in korea or side hustle ideas, like a teenager who’s maxed out his mom’s credit card and needs to fix it before she wakes up. except he’s not a teenager. he’s a grown-ass man, almost thirty-one already, sitting on a floor covered in dirty clothes and energy drink cans, shirt reeking of sweat and weed, hair greasy, trying to act like he’s got any fucking control left in his life. which he doesn’t. he watches hours of straight trash. clickbait garbage with thumbnails like ‘i made 1 MILLION won in 24 HOURS’ and ‘this changed my LIFE (no scam),’ and every single one of them leads to the same bullshit: a sketchy ass link to a survey that pays you two hundred won (if you’re lucky) and signs you up for spam emails. it’s humiliating. it’s so fucking humiliating. and yet he keeps clicking, because what else is there?

until he sees it. one night, when his brain is fried and his eyes are bloodshot—mg coin. it’s the first video he’s come across that doesn’t look like it was edited by a fourteen-year-old. no fast-talking, no neon thumbnails—just this one guy, smug, sitting in a sleek office and explaining things that subong can barely follow, but it doesn’t matter, because the guy sounds smart. really fucking smart, actually. one video turns into two, then seven, and by the time the sun starts bleeding through the window and his laptop battery’s down to 3%, subong’s fully indoctrinated. mg coin is talking about this new shit—dalmatian, whatever the fuck that means—and he’s saying it’s the next big thing. that now’s the time to invest. and subong? he’s got nothing else to lose. he’s already lost the love of his life, his dignity, and whatever tiny bit of peace he had left. what the fuck’s one more risk? fuck it. he pulls up his bank account, stares at the sad number left, and throws it all in. all of it. and then the unthinkable happens: it works. within a few days, he’s staring at his screen like it’s the second coming of christ. his balance doubled. which gives him enough to finally pay off kyungho and breathe without feeling like someone’s got a fist wrapped around his lungs. for the first time in a long ass while, he doesn’t feel like a complete fucking idiot.

the first step was paying kyungho back. good, he can check that out now. the second step—arguably harder—was texting you. subong waits another full week. not out of pride, but out of pure fear. fear that you won’t answer, or worse, that you will and it won’t be what he wants to hear. but eventually, after pacing the length of the apartment for over thirty minutes, he types it out:

im sorry

i mean it bby

paid everything off

n i been clean

swear on my fuckin life

i know i fucked up baby

but i fixed it

i love u

talk to me señorita

i miss u so fuckin bad

my girl

i didn’t mean to hurt u, u know that

but im gonna change for u

because i want u girl

i only want u

it’s u n me bby

always

please

told u i would make u my wife n i will

pls let me see u

one time

if u hate me after that i’ll fuck off forever

just one time pretty girl

please

god. you really tried not to reply. tried so hard. but the timing of it, the way your chest had already been aching with the weight of him right before his name lit up your screen, made you text him back faster than you meant to. you send him the hotel’s address.

here

but don’t try anything

you’re lucky i even agree to talk to you

because you don’t deserve it

after the way you treated me

u r right baby i dont deserve it

im sorry

sorry isn’t and won’t be enough, let me tell you that subong

i was about to buy a ticket back home

this apology should’ve come sooner

i know

but i didnt wanna come back to u empty handed

i been tryna fix my shit first

and three hours later, there’s a knock on the door. when you open it, he’s standing there, holding flowers—fresh ones, tied together with a ribbon. but it’s his face that gets you, the way his eyes go soft the second they meet yours. you thought you’d feel stronger seeing him again, but you hate how fast your chest fills up with that dumb aching love that refuses to fucking die, no matter how many times he’s stomped on it. subong starts talking the second the door shuts behind him, apologizing profusely. you let him talk, let him trip over himself, because it’s the first time you’ve seen him beg without ego. and suddenly he’s dropping down—knees hitting the hotel’s carpet with a soft thud. his arms wrap around your legs, his forehead presses against your thigh, and then it comes—those broken, shuddering breaths. oh, god... he’s fucking crying. “please,” he says, over and over against you. “please, baby. i’m sorry. i know i fucked up—i know i fucked up so fucking bad. please, i can’t lose you.” you don’t look at him, but your hand finds its way into his hair anyway, and you hate yourself for it. hate how your fingers start brushing through the soft purple strands, slow and shaky, hate how your other hand ends up cradling his cheek like you’re the one trying to comfort him now. you should tell him to get the fuck up and leave and go cry to someone else. but damn, you’d be lying if you said that watching him cry and beg to you like that doesn’t get to you a little. he looks so fucking good… clutching your legs, hands squeezing your left thigh, pressing his face against your hip…

you don’t know how it happens after that. just know that you end up on the bed, lying back against the pillows, your thighs spread open while he’s between them, still on his knees on the floor, mouth buried in you trying to make up for every awful thing he said with the way he licks. you should be telling him he can’t just do this and expect everything to be fine, but your hands are in his hair and your hips are lifting off the bed because your body’s already made its decision for you. subong latches onto your pussy, and he’s sloppy with it too—tongue everywhere, spit and slick all over his chin, both hands holding you down, knowing you’re gonna start squirming the second it gets too much, which you do, always, because subong eats you out so insanely good… and he groans against you like he’s the one getting off. it’s overwhelming—his tongue, his hands gripping your thighs, the fucking look in his eyes when he glances up at you through his lashes… he knows he doesn’t deserve any of this but he’s still gonna take it if you’ll let him. you cum fast, too. with a cry so loud you wouldn’t be surprised if someone calls reception. and he doesn’t stop until you’re grabbing at his hair, voice breaking, from how good it feels and how much you missed it—missed him. “still mine,” he mutters when he finally pulls away, hoarse. he swears he’ll fucking die if you don’t say yes. and god help you—“yes.” you whisper, completely out of breath. “yours.”

the thing about investing—and actually making money off it—is that it gets fucking addictive. especially for someone like subong, who’s always been wired for extremes, who doesn’t really know how to pace himself or think long-term most of the time. so yeah, the moment that first payout hit his account—double what he’d thrown in, just like mg coin said it would—it lit something up inside him. and now, with the high of having you back, and the low of whatever career collapse is brewing beneath him (because let’s be real, losing the battle fucked him, and no one’s calling anymore), he leans deeper into it. dalmatian coin becomes his obsession. he watches mg coin religiously—dude drops a new video and subong’s already clicking on it, nodding along, studying the man like he’s his long-lost big brother—even though, as far as you can tell, subong’s probably older. he trusts him blindly, like an idiot. like a kid. and you notice, of course. you live with him. the amount of money he’s getting is absurd, especially considering the fact that he hasn’t gotten a single call from his manager in ten whole days, hasn’t stepped foot on a stage in over a month, and keeps brushing it off like he doesn’t care. and you can’t help but wonder—how much is he fucking investing?

your concern’s been simmering for a while now… sitting there, in the pit of your stomach and growing heavier at the back of your mind. you’ve been swallowing it, biting your tongue, telling yourself it’s fine because he seems happy again and he’s been good. until one night, when he’s laying in bed with his phone in his hand and mg coin’s voice droning from the speakers like some kind of cult sermon, you say it out loud: “are you sure you know what you’re doing, subong?” he takes a slow drag from his vape, exhales, and tilts his head lazily in your direction. “what do you mean?” you’re by the closet, pulling on an oversized tee, before you sit down at the edge of the bed, facing him. “this crypto thing. you’re putting in more than you’re getting out, aren’t you?” he scoffs, like you just accused him of being bad in bed or something. “baby. you think i’d be makin’ this much money if i didn’t know what the fuck i was doing?” and there it is. that tone. defensive, making you feel stupid for even doubting him. you frown, exhaling through your nose as you shift a little closer to him on the bed, your voice gentler this time. “okay,” you say, carefully. “i’m not—i mean… just…” you glance at the phone still glowing beside him, mg coin’s pixelated face frozen mid-sentence. “just be smart about it, yeah?” “baby,” he says, reaching out to hook a hand around your wrist and tug you gently toward him, “i am being smart. i’ve been learning and doing my research. it’s okay.” you lean in, pressing your sweet lips blissfully against his in a small peck, even though the tension’s still sitting in your chest. “but i’m serious, subong. it’s not like we’ve got a safety net... you’re not performing, you don’t have steady income right now. if this goes south…” he cuts you off before you can finish, peppering kisses along your cheek and jaw. “it won’t, baby.” “you can’t know that.” he continues, kissing your neck before leaning his head on your shoulder, the weight of it warm. “you don’t have to worry, girl. i promise. thanos’ got this.” you nod slowly, but your hands are still curled a little too tight in your lap. “okay.”

‘thanos’ is stupid as fuck, to say the least. for one, your advice flies right over his head. he thinks, what would she know? she’s not the one watching all these videos. she’s worried because she doesn’t understand how this shit works. and he’s money-hungry, always has been—but can you blame him? he’s lived his whole life in straight up poverty, watching his mom beg loan sharks and pray rent wouldn’t go up. so now that he’s finally found a way to make money from the comfort of his couch, by just… clicking buttons? of course he’s gonna chase that shit like a starving dog. saying he’s investing all of his money would be a lie. right… because he’s not just investing his money. he’s investing yours too. your monthly rent payment is going straight into the crypto app, hand in hand with his, every single time. and it keeps working, always doubling. no exceptions. and that steady return finally gives him the excuse he’s been waiting for—the one thing he’s been wanting to do for months now: propose. you would’ve never expected to hear the words “would you marry me, baby?” coming out of his mouth for at least another five years. but there he is, on a random friday morning, down on one knee with a little ring box open in front of you. and you say yes before you even think. the word fiancée tastes strange in your mouth as he stands back up and kisses you, slipping the big fat ring he promised onto your finger.

but of course, subong’s liability strikes again not even three weeks later. he just doesn’t fucking learn, does he? he starts consuming again. little by little. easing his way back in, testing the waters—like he didn’t already almost drown last time. he gets on kyungho’s good side again, somehow, despite all the screaming and threats and close calls they shared when subong was neck-deep in debt. and if you were to ask him why the fuck he’s back on that shit, the answer would be as dumb as it is predictable: he doesn’t fucking know. but he does. oh, he fucking knows. he’s a junkie. like you once told him. he’s an addict who refuses to acknowledge it, refuses to name it, refuses to say it out loud. in his head, it’s anything but what it is: drug addiction. and he won’t ask for help. he won’t even bring it up. not the way his body starts to ache without it, the little voice in his head whispering on repeat: just take it. snort. lick. you’ll feel better. he’s weak. withdrawal always had the upper hand when it came to subong. it always wins. and he finds the dumbest, flimsiest excuses to justify himself to feel a little less guilty for doing this behind your back again, after he promised he wouldn’t. he’s caught in a loop. a loop of lies and guilt, of loving you so much he can’t bear to lose you… but still doing the one thing that already made you leave once.

so imagine his absolute terror when the cryptocurrency proved to be a hoax, and everyone who had invested in it, including himself, lost billions of won when dalmatian's inventors took the money and fled. subong sat there staring at his screen, refreshing the app every two seconds even though the balance wasn’t changing, wasn’t coming back, and wasn’t ever going to. first he felt confusion. then panic. then the realisation that everything he’d put in—his money, your money, your fucking rent—was gone. and all he could think was: how the fuck am i supposed to tell her? that was what made his hands start shaking. because it wasn’t just his fuckup. it was yours too, now. it was your life he’d gambled. your trust, your rent, your future… and you had no idea. on top of that—and the fact that everything would come crashing down the second the monthly payment bounced and you realized the rent hadn’t gone through—he also owed kyungho again. the moment dalmatian tanked, he thought about calling him, in an attempt to hold him over until he figured something out. and the second he thought it, he knew it wouldn’t work. last time, subong got lucky. this time’s different, because this is after he promised he’d never fuck him over again. and knowing kyungho, he wouldn’t be as merciful this time. subong’d always known this was where it was gonna end up, he wasn’t built for stability nor success. he was built to self-destruct.

it’s around 3 a.m. you’re cold, pulling the comforter tighter around you, but it’s not enough to warm you up. you turn over in bed, eyes still closed, scooting toward subong’s side in hopes of stealing a little of his body heat—stretching your arm out lazily, expecting the familiar weight of him sprawled across the sheets. but your hand touches nothing. his side is cold. you frown, still half-asleep, fingers patting around the mattress like maybe he’s just shifted out of reach, hiding somewhere under the blanket. but of course he’s not. you blink slowly, letting your eyes adjust to the dark. “subongie?” you call out, voice a little hoarse. no answer. with a soft groan, you sit up, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders as you climb out of bed. the floor’s cold under your feet and the apartment is quieter than usual. you shuffle to the light switch near the hallway and flick it on—but nothing changes. he’s not home. confused, you grab your phone from the nightstand and send him a quick text:

baby

where are you?

but when ten minutes go by and there’s still no sign of life from him, you decide to call. the number you have dialed is not available at present. please leave your message after the beep, says the robotic voice on the other end, flat and emotionless. your frown deepens as you call again—same outcome. your confusion slowly starts to shift into something heavier. panicked worry creeps up your spine as your brain starts running through a dozen different scenarios, each one worse than the last. what the fuck could subong be doing right now, while you’re sitting here on the couch with your heart in your throat? the first thing that crosses your mind is the same thing it’s always been—he’s being unfaithful. it’s not exactly new. that ugly, gut-rotting thought has circled your head for months, especially on the nights he’d disappear into the studio for hours. and it hasn’t changed, it’s still the first thing you think. is he with someone else? but then you shake your head. he wouldn’t be that fucking stupid. right? he wouldn’t throw all of this away just to fuck around. you’re not just dating anymore, you’re literally engaged. you have a ring on your finger. so you try to push that thought out. discard it—reluctantly and bitterly—trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. so there goes your second thought: maybe he’s using again. and you don’t even know which is worse. but what you do know is that you can’t stay here. you’re not gonna let whatever’s happening keep happening while you do nothing. you’re not gonna let him make a fool out of you for a second time.

you feel kind of stupid, honestly. standing outside club pentagon, shivering in your hoodie while you stare at the neon sign. it’s the only place you could think of. the only place that made sense. not because he told you, obviously, but because months ago, when those guys showed up knocking—no, banging—on your door, demanding money and scaring the shit out you, one of them mentioned this place. and it stuck. you’re not even sure this is the right club, though, but you’re still here, trying not to overthink how out of place you look, since everyone outside is in heels and tight clothes. still, when you approach the bouncer and explain—tell him you’re looking for your fiancée, show him your phone with the lockscreen photo of you and subong—he lets you in. “ah. thanos,” he nods. “he’s inside.” the confirmation makes your stomach drop and settle all at once. like, okay. at least he’s alive.

inside, the club is loud as fuck and everything’s flashing. you squint, trying to adjust as you push through the crowd like a baby deer on ice, getting shoved around from all sides by strangers who don’t even glance your way. he should be easy to spot, you think, heart pounding. not many people have purple hair. and he’s very tall. but even with that advantage, you don’t see him. you head toward the bar and approach the first guy behind the counter. “hey, sorry—” “i’m not bartending,” he says with a thick accent, without even looking up. you pause. read the name tag ‘namgyu’. “promoter. talk to him if you’re thirsty.” he adds, gesturing toward another guy without much interest. “no, i—i’m not here for a drink,” you say, pulling your phone out again and flipping it toward him. “have you seen this guy?” he looks. he recognizes him instantly, you can tell. his expression tightens, just for a second, brows furrowing slightly like he���s trying to figure out what this is. maybe why you’re here asking. maybe whether he should even answer. after a bit of coaxing, he sighs and gives in. “he went out the back a while ago. to smoke with friends.” your stomach drops. friends. right. you nod. “thanks.” your pulse is in your ears now. and as you push your way through the crowd again, one hand gripping your phone and the other shoving bodies aside, you already know—before you even reach the door—that something’s gone very, very wrong.

the cold bites at your skin again as you push the back door open and step outside, straight into the stillness of the alley. the air stings when you breathe it in. and nothing prepares you for what you see just a few feet away, at the very end of the alley, almost swallowed by the shadows—if it wasn’t for the sad little flickering streetlight barely hanging on, you might not have noticed him at all. subong. on the ground. you can’t really see his face—not his body, even—but you recognize the sneakers. they stick out just slightly from under a wall of bodies, a group of men surrounding him like fucking vultures. they’re stomping on him, over and over. one of them steps on his hand with his full weight, twisting his foot, testing how much pressure it takes to snap something, while another one drives his heel straight into subong’s ribs, again and again. there’s no hesitation in their movements, just pure, relentless violence. someone spits on him between kicks which makes another one laugh, this dry, joyless sound that scrapes down your back. and all you can really see is the way subong’s body jerks each time they land another blow, the way his legs twitch even though he’s already out cold. “subong,” you whisper, frozen in place, blood draining from your face all at once. your feet take off, each step heavier than the last, everything inside you tightening up. your chest starts to close in on itself, lungs shrinking with every breath until you can barely even get air in. “subong!” you scream this time. the first sob rips out of you without warning, panic settling in. you reach them fast, shoving the closest guy with everything you have. “get off him—what the fuck are you doing?!” they step back, amused. they were already done, and you showing up is just a mildly inconvenient. they say something you don’t understand but don’t need to—because whatever it is, it makes the others smirk as they start to walk away.

you see it then. his face. or what’s left of it. completely covered in blood, eyes swollen shut, skin split open in so many places you can’t even tell what’s dried and what’s fresh, what’s his real face and what’s just bruising and torn flesh layered on top of it. you drop to your knees without thinking, arms trembling as you lift his head from the concrete and pull it onto your lap, staining your clothes instantly, the warmth of his blood soaking through the fabric like ink. and you don’t even care, can’t bring yourself to care, because all you can think is this isn’t real, this can’t be fucking real, this can’t be happening. “subong,” you whisper, shaking him gently, your voice breaking. he doesn’t respond. not even a sound. his lips are parted slightly, but nothing comes out, and it’s the quiet that terrifies you the most. you start crying harder before leaning in closer, bringing your ear to his face, trying to listen for any hint of breath, anything at all, but it’s useless. you can’t hear anything. your ears are ringing and your heartbeat is pounding too loud to be sure. “no,” you whisper. “no, no, no, no.” your voice is shaking now, your mouth barely able to form the words. “baby, please—” you fumble for his wrist, grabbing at his arm with shaking fingers, pressing down where his pulse is supposed to be, where you hope it still is, but there’s nothing. nothing under your touch, just cold skin and the terrifying sense that you’re already too late. “subong!” you yell, like screaming might reach him wherever the fuck he’s drifted off to. “fuck—don’t fucking die on me, you idiot! please—just hold on, okay? please, don’t do this to me, don’t—” your eyes dart to his hand and that’s when you see his fingers. bent at unnatural angles, knuckles swollen and split, two of them so clearly broken it makes your stomach turn. they don’t even look like fingers anymore. and the sight of them, already starting to purple, makes your throat tighten even more. “help! someone help—please!” you reach for his neck next, your fingers slipping on his skin and pressing into the side where his pulse should be, and for a second you feel nothing… but then, there it is—the smallest flutter beneath your fingertips. the relief that hits you is so immediate you choke out a sob. your hands shake as you scramble for your phone, pulling it out with fingers soaked in red, the screen smudging immediately, slippery under your touch as you punch in the emergency number with all the desperation in the world and hit call. and while it rings, you look down at him and say, “stay with me, okay? i-i got you, i’m right here—you’re gonna be okay, baby.”

it’s been three days of subong being unconscious in the hospital when you find out the truth. you haven’t left his side. barely moved, really—just shifted from chair to chair. you’ve been watching the same slow drip of fluids into his arm for hours, watching machines beep and blink and stay steady while he does absolutely nothing, not a flinch, not a shift, not even the twitch of a finger. they’d stitched up most of his face and wrapped his hand so tightly you can’t see the fingers underneath. but he hasn’t opened his eyes. so when a nurse taps lightly on the doorframe and says billing would like to speak with you whenever you have a moment, you nod without really thinking about it, it’s probably just paperwork, something you can sign and walk away from. they lead you into a small office. the woman behind the desk is polite, middle-aged, tapping at her tablet when you walk in. you sit down across from her, and she gets right to the point. “are you a spouse or immediate family member?” “fiancée,” you answer. “okay,” she nods. “we’ve been trying to process the patient’s insurance but the information we had on file was incomplete, and there was no active policy under his name. sometimes these things lapse, or people forget to update their records. we see it a lot. we also tried the emergency contact, but the number doesn’t seem to be in service anymore.” you just stare at her. “normally in these cases we’d discuss payment options directly with the patient, but given his current condition…” she trails off, tilting her head gently, like she’s trying to be considerate. “are you aware of any prior hospital visits? or outstanding balances tied to his name?” you shake your head. “no, i—i don’t know. he never said anything.” “mmh.” she nods again, eyes glued to the tablet. “there’s no outstanding balance under his name,” she says, “no history of extended stays or billed treatment. but… there was one incident.” she scrolls, finds something, then stops tapping. the pause says enough. “it’s from about a month ago. not an official admission, more of a flagged intake. he came into the er alone, walked up to the desk and gave his name, said something about heart palpitations and chest pain. he wouldn’t give id, but they got his name down in triage.” “he—he what?” “the nurse on shift noted that he was visibly under the influence. possible opioids, though we can’t confirm—we didn’t get far enough for a tox screen. he refused treatment, got agitated when asked to sit down. started yelling. the staff tried to calm him, but he escalated quickly… so security was called and he was escorted out before we could assess him.” you’re in shock. you thought he was doing better. you believed he was doing better. and yet here it is, clear as day, handed to you by a stranger… the fucking proof that everything he swore to you was a lie. again. “there’s nothing else on record,” she adds gently. “but i thought you’d want to know.” you nod, unsure of what to say. “you’re listed as the emergency contact now, since you’re the one who brought him here. we updated the file.” “okay.”

you’re waiting for subong’s sister to arrive on the fourth day. she’s been living out of the country for the past year, based in atlanta for work, and the two of you have only met in person twice… but she was always kind to you. and when you called her that night, explaining haltingly through your tears what happened, the words unconscious and hospital tumbling out—she booked the next flight to seoul. she also promised to talk to their mom, which was a relief, because you’d tried, god knows you’d tried, but the language barrier between you and her made everything harder. to pass time while you wait for his sister to land, you leave the hospital room for the first time in hours, telling yourself you just need coffee. you feel too many things at once—anger, mostly. but also this deep, gnawing sadness. you’re mad at him, yes, at subong, for lying, for hiding, for doing all the shit he swore he wouldn’t do again. but you’re also mad at yourself, for being so blind. for trusting too easily. for loving him so much that you let it all slide, and now he’s lying here with a swollen face and broken bones and tubes coming out of his skin. you sigh through your nose, the sound sharp in the empty hallway as you make your way back to the room, clutching the vending machine coffee hoping it scalds some clarity into you. the chair squeaks in protest as you sit down again, your bones aching from the fourth sleepless night in a row, your back ready to file a complaint. you mutter under your breath, “these fucking chairs are gonna kill me,” and you’re mid eyeroll when his phone starts ringing on the nightstand beside the bed.

it’s the first sound that’s come from it in days, and it jolts you upright. you glance at the screen, and your first instinct is to let it go to voicemail, but something about it nags at you, so you end up reaching for it. you press answer and lift it to your ear. “hello?” you say, unsure, cradling the phone between your shoulder and your ear as you reach for the edge of the nightstand to steady yourself. there’s a voice on the other end immediately, polite, but it’s in korean. you blink, startled. “oh—sorry, um… i don’t… i don’t understand korean very well,” you mumble. “i’m—i’m subong’s fiancée.” there’s a pause, then the voice switches languages. “ah, miss, thank you for picking up,” they say, now in accented but clear english. “we’ve been trying to get in contact with mr. choi regarding a pending matter tied to his housing account. is this a good time to speak?” you glance at his motionless body in the bed. “he’s—he can’t come to the phone right now. he’s in the hospital.” “oh.” another pause. “i’m sorry to hear that. we don’t mean to intrude. it’s just—we’ve issued multiple notices regarding the delinquency on unit 302, but we haven’t been able to reach anyone. this is our last courtesy call before further action is taken.” what? “delinquency?” you echo dumbly, your voice cautious. “i—i don’t understand. i sent the rent money. i always do. i send it to him, and he’s supposed to… he’s the one who handles it because it’s under his name, but—” “i understand,” the person says gently. “we’re not authorized to go into too much detail with anyone not on the lease, but we do have records of the unit going unpaid for the past two months. there’s no automatic withdrawal on file, and the last successful rent payment was processed… let me check… mid-february.” you press the phone tighter to your ear. “what—are you sure? two months?” “yes. we’ve also flagged unusual financial activity linked to the bank account on file… repeated large withdrawals routed to external cryptocurrency platforms. unfortunately, at this point, the account is severely delinquent.” what the actual fuck? “thank you,” you manage. “thanks for calling, i… i need a second.” you hang up.

you’ve avoided doing this so far because it felt invasive. you told yourself that you’d respect his privacy, that you were above snooping, that he’d tell you everything when he woke up. but now? fuck that. you unlock his phone and swipe through the home screen, and there it is—the crypto investment app. you tap it and it loads painfully slow, as if the phone itself is reluctant to show you what you’re about to see. and then the number appears in aggressive, glowing red: -₩1,190,000,000. you blink. for a second you think you’re reading it wrong, that maybe the comma’s in the wrong place or the negative sign is a formatting error or some stupid bug, maybe an update broke the display. but then the rest of the interface fills in, the full dashboard sliding into view, and you see the red line charting the value of the account: a steep, violent drop. a billion. more than a billion. in debt. actual, contractual, inescapable fucking debt. you scroll. the app’s cheerful ux design makes it worse somehow, and in small gray text, a disclaimer bar you almost miss: ‘dalmatian coin has been delisted. trading permanently suspended. please consult your issuing financial institution for debt reconciliation.’ your hand clenches the phone tighter just as you find the transaction history. the first thing you notice is the consistency. it’s sickening, how routine it is—subong sat down every month, probably around the same time you were wiring him the money for rent, and opened this exact app like it was his job. the entries start small, from when you two had broken up. neat rows of numbers: ₩50,000, ₩120,000, ₩340,000, all spaced out like he was dipping his toe in. and then, without warning, the amounts spike. ₩3 million. ₩7.2 million. ₩12 million. the pattern’s still there, but now it’s frantic. an addict pressing the same button over and over. you keep scrolling, your thumb shaking but steady enough to keep going. there are dozens of entries. all of them marked with the same exchange ID, the same nauseating little dalmatian coin logo next to each transfer. then your rent—clear as fucking day. same amount you send every month, logged here like it was nothing. all of that, he was using it to gamble. without telling you.

your thumb hovers over the last transaction, the one that pushed the account into the red. the screen says it was processed successfully. and then the collapse. you almost laugh. it bubbles up in your throat but never makes it out, just sits there, acidic and mean, curling around your vocal cords. your hands are trembling now, in disgust and disbelief. you have no idea how long you sit there staring at the screen, but when you finally look up—at him, lying unconscious, bruised, stitched-up and impossibly still—it’s like you’re looking at a stranger. how could he? how dare he? you need to sit down. your legs are shaking, barely holding you up, and your vision goes blurry for a second under the nauseating, unbearable weight of the truth. what the fuck was he thinking? you sink into a chair, retracing everything in your mind—every time he brushed off your concern with a kiss like you were overthinking and he had it handled. how could he do this to you?

you’re tired of the lies, of the blind trust you keep giving him like it doesn’t cost you anything, of the way love has become synonymous with anxiety in your body. it wasn’t always like this. there was a time when loving subong felt like the easiest thing in the world… but now it just feels bitter and corrosive. you never noticed when it started to curdle—when sweetness became suspicion, when comfort turned into dread—but it’s there now, undeniable, clinging to every part of your life with him. you sit there, the phone still in your palm, and all you can think is that this love, whatever’s left of it, is sour. spoiled by every broken promise, every little thing he did behind your back, every time he looked you in the eye and chose to lie anyway. and the worst part is that you can’t even summon rage anymore, just this miserable resignation. you wanted to believe he’d changed, you needed to. but now all that belief feels like another kind of foolishness, like you were complicit in your own undoing. and maybe you were. perhaps that’s what love does, when it sours—it asks you to keep holding it, even as it poisons you.

the ring is beautiful. obscenely so. you hold it between your fingers, the metal cool against your skin. it’s mocking me, you think. it knows i swore i’d be his forever, when he slipped it on my hand that friday morning. you keep rolling it between your thumb and index finger, watching how the light catches on the stone, glinting. you haven’t put it back on and you’re not sure you ever will. his sister didn’t stay long the night before. barely an hour after she arrived, you told her what you’d found, the full rot of it, all that debt and deception and cowardice packed into numbers. she left without saying much, just mumbled something about going to their mother’s, about needing to fix this before it gets worse. but you know better. you know there is no fixing this. this isn’t a mistake, it’s a pattern. and you’re tired of pretending it isn’t.

he’s awake now. the nurses crowded him, checking vitals, adjusting lines, poking and prodding his body. they asked you to step out while they did their work, and you did, without argument. there’s no desperate need to stay by his side anymore, no aching urgency to be the first thing he sees when his eyes open, because you’ve already made your decision. when they allow you back inside, he lifts his head the second he sees you—sluggish, but the warmth is there, that familiar flicker in his eyes that used to undo you so easily. “hey, señorita,” he rasps. “you stayed.” “mmh.” you nod. that’s all you give him. just a nod, and the chair scraping softly as you pull it closer and sit. he doesn’t seem to notice it at first, how your presence no longer leans toward him like it used to. instead, you sit with your hands in your lap, folded neatly. subong smiles, probably thinking this is the part where you cry with relief or crawl into the bed beside him or at the very least, kiss him and whisper that it’s over now, that he’s safe, that everything’s going to be okay. but you don’t move. “how long?” he asks after a beat, blinking up at the ceiling before dragging his eyes back to you. “how long was i out?” “four days.” he whistles softly, or tries to—it comes out more like a wheeze. “shit. that long?” “yes.” he shifts slightly, winces at the pain. “did… did you call my mom?” “i tried to… then i called your sister. she came, but left yesterday to see your mom. she’ll be back.” his eyebrows pull slightly, and you can tell he’s trying to figure out what’s off, why your voice sounds different. “you okay, baby?” your eyes trace the bruises on his face before you ask, “are you?” and the way it comes out—almost rhetorical—makes something flicker in his expression. he’s starting to get it.

he clears his throat, shifts again, and you can see the way it costs him. “look, if this is about… i mean, if you figured it out, the reason they came after me, why it got that bad, it’s not—” he pauses, because the words are heavy in his mouth. “i wasn’t doing that shit regularly. i swear. just—it was getting hard to sleep, baby, and i didn’t want to worry you so, you know, i thought if i just—” “subong.” he stops, mid-ramble. his eyes search yours, desperate to find something soft in them—some familiar flash of tenderness, or even pity. but there’s nothing. “you don’t need to explain,” you say. “it won’t change anything.” he opens his mouth again anyway, because he doesn’t know how not to try, not when it’s you. “no, no, baby—you gotta believe me. i was gonna tell you, but i—” he sees it mid-sentence. his voice falters, crumbles into silence as his gaze drops to your hand. “wha—where’s your ring?” you glance down at your hand, where it used to sit. for a second, you almost lie. almost tell him it’s at home, that you took it off to shower and it’s safe somewhere. but you don’t. you just say, “off.” his face twists in disbelief. “off? what you mean ‘off’?” you shrug. “it didn’t make sense to wear it anymore.” he lets out this breath, something pitiful lodged in the back of his throat. “so that’s it?” he says, and there’s this sharp edge creeping into his voice now, brittle and defensive. “why? because i messed up again? because you found out before i could explain anything? jesus, baby—” you would slap him across the face right now if it wasn’t so bruised already. “when?” you ask, your voice almost gentle in its cruelty. “when were you going to tell me you were in fucking debt, subong?” shit. he freezes—the question catching him off guard completely. all you can hear is the steady beep of the heart monitor behind him, stubbornly unfazed by the absolute wreckage of the moment. “what?” he says, but he already knows what. “1.19 billion won,” you answer, enunciating each syllable. “and you didn’t just lose your own money… you used mine. every transfer i made for rent.” his face drains of whatever color it had left. you don’t know if it’s the shock, the shame, or the weight of getting caught.

but then there it is. that same infuriating, jerk attitude you’ve seen too many times before. the one that shows up whenever he feels small, cornered, like a child trying to puff out his chest and pretend he’s not the guilty one. “okay, and?” he scoffs, all false bravado, even from that goddamn hospital bed with his face torn up and a fucking iv sticking out of his arm. “you sent it to me, didn’t you? you wanted me to handle it. so why’re you going through my shit?” he mutters, like that’s the offense here. “what, you think you’re entitled to every fucking thing just ‘cause you sent me money?” you just stare at him, stunned. not because of what he said, but because of course that’s where he’d go. deflection, arrogance and pride. “are you serious? you lied to me, subong. again!” he shifts upright in the bed with a groan, eyes flaring. “i was tryna fix it, okay? for us. so we wouldn’t have to worry about shit anymore once we get married. i didn’t know th—” “you told me the bills were paid—” “i didn’t wanna stress you out,” he counters, eyes darting toward the blanket. “don’t say that like you were doing me a fucking favor. you didn’t want me to know because you knew exactly what the fuck you were doing.” “baby, c’mon—” “don’t,” you say, quick and clean, the word slicing through whatever lie he was about to conjure. “save it.”

you stand slowly, smoothing your hands down the front of your jeans. his voice turns softer, trying to course-correct. “you’re mad… i-i get it. but you’re not really gonna throw everything away over this, are you? i fucking love you, girl. you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. my fucking future wife and mother of my babies. please, we—we’ll get out of this. we could… i don’t know. i don’t know, but i promise—” you shake your head. he still doesn’t get it. “stop making fucking promises. i don’t believe you anymore… and i’m certainly not marrying you.” his jaw goes slack. “the fuck you mean you’re not—” “i mean i can’t do this anymore, subong,” you cut in, your tone unflinching. “i can’t keep loving someone who lies to me constantly. who uses me, drains me, breaks me, and isn’t even sorry.” “i am. i am sorry—i am, baby,” he insists, struggling to sit up straighter in the bed despite the groan it pulls from his body. “no, you’re not. you’re sorry you got caught. that’s not the same thing.” “you think i knew they were gonna fucking scam me? that i knew it was fake? they lied, not me. they took the money and ran. i’m the one who got fucked over here—” “no,” you snap, feeling the fury start to push past the exhaustion, slicing through the ache in your chest like glass through gauze. “you got fucked over because you’re a fucking idiot, subong.” his mouth opens, about to throw something back at you, but you don’t stop. “i told you to be careful. i told you to think before doing anything stupid—do you remember that? you didn’t listen! you never fucking listen. and now you want me to feel sorry for you? like this wasn’t your own fucking fault?” “i just wanted to give us a better life. i didn’t mean to—” “you never mean to! you never mean to hurt me. but you do it anyway, over and over. and then you sit there and act like it’s the universe conspiring against you, like you’re just the poor, misunderstood victim who can’t catch fucking a break.” you swallow hard. “but you made this mess. you did this. you.”

his eyes go wide when you reach into your pocket and pull out the ring. you hold it for a second in your palm. it means nothing now. just a pretty, glittering promise that never had a fucking chance. you hold it out to him. “take it.” he flinches. “what the fuck are you doing?” “what does it look like?” your voice is calm, and it makes him angrier. “i’m giving it back.” “no.” he shakes his head, the wires at his wrist pulling tight when he tries to push your hand down. “no, fuck that! i’m not taking it. you’re not—you can’t just leave because shit got hard—” “this isn’t just hard, subong. it’s toxic!” “i’m in a fucking hospital bed!” he snaps, like that’s the only context that matters. “you think i don’t know i fucked up? you think i don’t feel like shit already? and now you wanna leave? now?! what kind of fucking person does that?!” you clench your jaw. “what kind of person does that? you’re really asking? be so fucking for real!” he throws his arms out, desperate. “what? look at me, girl!” he gestures. “and you wanna fucking abandon me!“ “stop trying to make me feel guilty,” you hiss. “you’re the one who lied and stole, and gambled away the fucking roof over our heads.” “and you wanna fucking leave me after i almost died! that’s some next level heartless shit, bro!” “you almost died because of you,” you bite back. “because you chose to keep getting involved with those people.” “that’s not—” he starts, defensive, already gearing up to twist the narrative again. “i thought you were dead when i found you,” you continue. “do you even get what that means, subong? do you? i had to check your neck and wrist for a pulse, with your blood on my hands, and there was nothing. you weren’t breathing. your head was in my lap, and you were just… gone. and in that second, i swear to god, i thought i was gonna have to watch you die. and i was there, wondering who i’d have to call first—your family or a fucking funeral home! do you know what that does to someone?” you fight back tears. “to stand over the body of the person you love and think: this is it. this is how it fucking ends. and i know it’s gonna happen again. one day… one day it’ll be real, and you’ll be fucking dead for good. because you don’t care about your life, subong. so tell me… why the fuck should i?” he stares at you, breathing heavy, but there’s no apology in his eyes. just the selfish kind of panic that only cares about what he’s losing, not what he’s done. “you said you’d never leave me. you said—” “and you said you’d stop lying,” you snap. “that you’d never do drugs again. you said so many things, subong… so keep it.” you shove the ring into his hand, even as he fumbles to force it back into yours. “sell it, pawn it, melt it down and invest in another scam for all i fucking care. just don’t ever speak to me again. it’s over.”

subong, in all his deluded hope and terminal denial, convinced himself that it wasn’t really over. that after the heat of your anger wore off, you’d remember how much you loved him. he told himself it was just a matter of time, weeks at most. that you’d remember who you were to each other. and that no matter how bad it got, you’d still choose him. but reality hits hard the moment he tries to message you and realizes he’s been blocked. everywhere. and that’s when it sinks in—that you meant every single word. the rage that comes next is something new. he wants so badly to blame you and curse your name, call you heartless for how you left him when he needed you most. but no matter how hard he tries to twist the story, the truth keeps bleeding through. because even through the haze of anger and self-pity, he knows. he knows this is what happens when you treat the one person who gave a shit about you like he did. he knows you walked away because you had no choice, not because you stopped loving him, but because loving him had become impossible. and he hates you for that now, in the same exact way he still loves you. he hates that you’re right. that he’s every bit the coward and the liar you accused him of being.

he should’ve learned. everyone would expect that a man who nearly died in a back alley, would use that as a wake-up call, get clean and seek help to try to find his way back into something like dignity. but not him. no, every time subong says he’s ‘fixing it,’ what he really means is that he’s finding new ways to bury the damage deeper. he’s still taking pills, and now that he’s got nowhere to go—not after his mother shut the door in his face, and after losing you and the apartment—he crashes on friends’ couches. it’s never been clearer. he ruined it. all of it.

so after months of living in unrelenting misery, trapped in guilt and shame, with no hint of light at the end of the tunnel… subong’s mind starts circling darker and darker thoughts, until it lands, almost comfortingly, on the idea of ending everything once and for all. because really, who would miss him? who would cry for him? his mother won’t even speak to him, his sister’s too tired, and you… shit. he’s the only one missing people. missing you. missing himself. and every single day that goes by without hearing your voice the world feels colder. he’s tried to reach you through burner accounts, through friends, through songs you’ll never hear. but you’re gone. not just physically—though he knows, somehow, you went back to your country—but in the way that matters most. you’re out of his life. and you’re not coming back.

that’s why, one night, when the weight of it all finally sinks so deep he can’t shake it off… he walks to the han river. the same place where you spent one of your first nights together, laughing like idiots with convenience store snacks and nothing but stars overhead. now he’s alone. crying and high out of his mind as he starts climbing up onto the rail of the bridge. and as he stares down at the water, thinking of how quiet everything would be if he just fucking let go, a shadow falls over him. a man in a black suit. subong blinks, dazed. someone’s come to do the job for me, he thinks. he must be a debt collector. “yo, back the fuck off, man. i swear to god if you try anything—” but no. the man smiles, kindly, and says, “sir… do you have a minute?” “the fuck you want?” subong spits, voice slurring from both the cold and the chemicals still in his blood. “can’t you see i’m fucking busy, bro?” the man tilts his head, stepping a little closer. “would you like to play a game with me?” subong squints at him, trying to see if he’s hallucinating. “yo, are you deaf?” he snaps, the wind catching his voice. “i said fuck off, man. i’m not in the mood to buy your religion shit or whatever the fuck this is.” the guy reaches into his sleek black briefcase, as if they’re in some kind of business meeting instead of standing ten steps away from a very public suicide attempt. he pulls out two square pieces of paper—one red, one blue—and holds them out. “ddakji. play with me,” he says, “each time you win, i’ll give you 100,000 won.” subong scoffs, shoulders twitching with disbelief. “nah. fuck no. you think i’m stupid? you think i’m falling for that shit again? you got the wrong guy, man. i’m not gonna fucking—” subong’s words die in his throat when his eyes land on the banded bills packed tight inside the briefcase. he stares at the money, at the wind lifting the edge of one of the bills and making it flutter gently. “play with me,” the man repeats. “each time you win, i’ll give you 100,000 won.” subong laughs bitterly. “yeah? and what, you gonna fucking tax me if i lose?” the man’s smile widens a fraction. “if you lose… you pay me 100,000 won.” “what the—i’m fucking broke.” subong’s snaps, frustrated. “i don’t have shit to give you, man. what, you gonna take a kidney? my shoes? fuck off.” “you’ll find a way. people always do.” who the fuck is this dude? subong’s eyes flick down to the money again. he hasn’t seen that much cash in years. it’s probably more than he ever had even at the peak of his fake crypto high. he licks his lips, teeth grinding. “one round,” he mutters. “and i’m not paying shit if you cheat.” the man nods once, that same eerie, collected expression never slipping. “one round.”

can you guys tell i wrote half of this while sleep deprived and drowning in uni work?💀 anyway, this was so long i nearly gave up multiple times. i even had to cut a few scenes because it was getting way too long (and honestly, it still is). but i hope you enjoyed it!💗 (idk, but i feel like if you made it this far, we should kiss rn… just a thought)

regular taglist: @kaerasti49 @breakmeoff @sherrayyyyy @infinetlyforgotten @bettelaboure @scream-queen-25 @flwerangii @sherxoo @isssaaaa2111

this fic’s taglist: @thanosspills @loonybunny1

[sharky-teeth]

top dean/bottom sam fics that perfectly exemplify why bottom sam is the best (the list got kind of super long because i'm just too passionate about this topic):

take the things you love by hathfrozen: i think everybody and their grandma knows this one but i had to include it, this is our gospel. literally changed my life.

mommy dearest by tradwifesam: if you don't like feminization, read this and see the vision.

Softly, as a morning sunrise by LaughableLament: one of my go-to authors for fun and short PWPs.

Noise Complaint by formalizing: a lesson on how to make a thousand words count!

Coast On Through by philalethia: this actually contains switching, but when i tell you it has some of the best samdean scenes ever...

Feel About the Same Most Every Day: pining that you can feel in your bones.

Like a Machine by ani_coolgirl: camboy!sam perfection.

Untouchable for Life by Sintari: another one for my camboy!sam enthusiasts.

Undertow by Molly: starts out angsty and ends with psychic sex vibes, what's not to love?

Birthday Boy by DickBaggins: sam's ass is dean's birthday present, need i say more?

Keeping it Clean by themegalosaurus: swesson filth <3

this thing, for which we break by orbiting_saturn: intense and intimate, as PWP as it comes.

Sweltering by WhoopsOK: brothers with benefits done right. slutty sam as a treat!

weecest:

With A Bit Of Spit And Luck by elsi: in my top 5 weecest of all time, which is saying something because the competition is crazy.

Bulletproof by road_rhythm: gunplay! incredible characterization, if you have a kink for guilty dean who's unable to stop himself, and pushy sammy, this is the one.

Heart of Worms by Ninni: very moody, and beautifully written.

Petulant by formalizing: another short read that hits all the right spots and leaves you wanting more.

and all is right in Dean's world by ladygizarme: loved dean's characterization here, he left me feeling unsettled.

for those like me who need some jokes with your p*rn:

The Koala Conundrum by De_Nugis: (mentions of switching) to this day, one of the most unique & refreshing stories i've read, an absolute masterpiece.

the one with aphrodisiac: this one managed to be hilarious and hot in equal measure, an amazing feat.

Incidentally, It Was Christmas by ani_coolgirl: one of my favorite fics of the year! ani's humor is impeccable! if you also believe in the sam-sexual dean truth, this is a must read.

Tongue-Tied by ADeedWithoutaName: cursed!dean unable to speak, and sam speaking for both of them, you know where this goes...

Dicks in a Box by fictionallemons: buried alive and how do sam and dean decide to spend their time? it ain't cuddling!

Versatile, Tender and Delicious by themegalosaurus: improper use of a zucchini. read and find out.

for my omega sam lovers:

Five Weeks & its sequel Three Weeks Too Late by rei_c: probably my favorite wincest a/b/o of all time! i could've read 100k of this universe, loved the details put into it.

A Blind Fool's Luck by hellhoundsprey: this is also a favorite! i remember the tension in this fic had me dizzy. this author has an incredible way with descriptions, vivid and unique writing style.

Phantom Pain by hellhoundsprey: weecest! love their dynamic here so much, great blending of a/b/o traits while keeping them in character.

Clover by hellhoundsprey: perfectly done late seasons getting together! with the right amount of schmoop. clearly this author is very dear to me lol

know the feeling by sammyatstanford: this is the longest work in this list, around 40k words, and so worth it! really enjoyed the worldbuilding.

now to my favorite flavor (bottom sam with a side of delicious angst):

Lesser Evils by Dyed_Red: [non-con] not for everyone, but definitely for me. if you love samdean at odds and suffering, this will push all the right buttons. life-changing fic.

Is It Tomorrow (Or Just the End of Time) by elsi: the angst here is so glorious. from beginning to end it's angst, angst, then more angst. there is no resolution to their issues, and i love that.

Collision Course by lovetincture: one of the most believable first time stories i've read, spot on characterization and raw descriptions. didn't shy away from the ugly side of incest.

You can run away with me any time you want by Trojie: sam leaving for stanford fic! oh this one hurts like a motherfucker. there's a line in here that's so beautiful, it lives in my brain.

his skin barely keeping him inside by hathfrozen: another banger by hathfrozen, i have a weak spot for first time in a long time stories.

No such thing as Forgiveness by hellhoundsprey: lawyer!sam getting his life sent off track when big brother comes back to the picture... the unhealthy dynamic here is to die for.

Blood sacrifice sex magic type of thing by Goshen: sam performing ritual sex to cure his demon brother... as he should.

Worship Not These False Idols by killabeez: ruby fucking sam while pretending to be dean. as amazing as it sounds.

Circles of Light by WhoopsOK: there is a "Magical Healing Ass" tag. enough said

end of list! i tried to only include works with less than 10k hits here, so someone might find something they haven't read before. i didn't include warnings, so definitely check out the tags first. all these fics are seriously amazing, i hope more people will read these gems <3

[vexwerewolf]

why is it that we only have like two licenses from any mech producer that’s a good guy? For a game where like there are clear good and bad guys (even if who you play isn’t necessarily linked to that) it seems strange to me that the only loot and XP you get is… more benefits from the bad guys

I can tell you the answer, but to do so, we're gonna have to talk about a completely different TTRPG.

If you've read @makapatag's truly excellent Filipino martial arts TTRPG Gubat Banwa (and if you haven't, here it is), you may notice that every single character class description (with one notable exception) ends with one of these babies:

I am not Makapatag, and I cannot write with quite as much grace and eloquence as he can, but I will try:

If you choose to become a Lancer, ask yourself why you mock the name of peace with these weapons of war. You call yourself a saviour, but your steed was forged from the murder of a world. You stride across the sky in a colossus built in your own image, so why are you too cowardly to give it your face? Why do you believe these machines of death can preserve life?

It is important to note that the admonitions in Gubat Banwa are not just there to make you feel bad; they are there as legitimate questions. The Sword Isles have seen so much blood, death and tragedy. Wars are not glorious and killing is not a game. So, knowing all of that, why have you taken up this discipline - no matter how noble and virtuous it might claim to be - to shed more blood, to bring more death, to write more tragedy? What could possibly drive you to this? What need is so great that you must kill?

The thing with Gubat Banwa is that there are legitimate answers to these questions! There are bad people doing bad things, and some of them will not be stopped with words or kindness. Sometimes, as sorrowful as it is, killing is the correct choice to prevent greater suffering and deeper tragedy - but adding less misery and death to the world is still adding some amount of it. Even the most necessary wars will drench the ground in the blood of the innocent.

A sword is a tool meant to kill humans; while it can be used for other things, it is not well-suited to anything other than this. A mech is, in its most basic essence, just a very complicated sword: it's usually used on things larger than a person, but it's still a tool built to kill.

So why have you taken up this path? Humanity was saved from the brink of extinction and has created wondrous technologies like printers, cold fusion and mind-machine interface, and yet you use them to play soldier in a giant metal man. Why do you choose to take up this machine of death, built by the greedy and pitiless? Why do you think these machines can ever make things right?

Because sometimes, despite everything, they can.

Warhammer 40K shows an awful world full of monsters and monstrosity, and in the darkest moments of its history, Lancer's world looked just as bleak, but Lancer's world differs in one crucial way. Warhammer's world has long given up trying to be better, but Lancer's world never did. Lancer's world kept insisting a better world is possible, and it used what tools it had to make it so.

Sometimes the correct choice, no matter how bitter it may seem, is to kill someone. When you need to do this, a sword is a perfectly good choice for the job.

If you find yourself discomforted by the fact that all the people you can buy mechs from are corrupt and immoral - good! You have correctly engaged with the text. You have understood that the sort of people who would make giant walking death machines and sell them for profit are not good people. But you still have a job to do, and you need the correct tools, and those people have them.

Lancer is not a game about a perfect world - it is a game about a deeply flawed and imperfect one that does not let its imperfection stop it from trying. You have to try to make a better world, even with imperfect tools made by unpleasant people.

[hannie-dul-set]

나비 / NABI — ONE.

SYNOPSIS. in which you’re trying your damned best to willfully ignore your feelings for your friend of over twenty years, but— as always— life seems to have a different plan paved out for you.

PAIRING. choi beomgyu x female! reader. GENRE. childhood friends to not quite friends (derogatory) to not quite friends (endearment) to lovers, romance, humor, hurt/comfort but more on comfort, coming of age, slowburn, college! au, “it’s always been you” trope, pining, tons of denial, beomgyu is the only man ever, featuring a large ensemble of idols from various groups. WARNINGS. swearing, explicit language, alcohol consumption, rumors as a plot device, mentions of sex, a few minor injuries. WORD COUNT. 9k (out of 40k).

NOTE. hehe...it’s here. this first part is a little short and slow, but things are gonna start picking up from here! please let me know what you think so far 😭😭 half my soul was injected into writing the entirety of this i will never be the same again 💔 also, i recommend listening to beomgyu’s covers while reading this and the upcoming chapters HAHA anyhow, please enjoy!

모기 / MOGI — ONE — TWO — THREE

YOU STILL DON’T LIKE CHOI BEOMGYU. Ever since you and he reconciled and publicly became friends again, your life has never known quiet— all thanks to the countless insects constantly buzzing around him, and by consequence around you, every damn day. And it’s not like you can keep avoiding him. Choi Beomgyu has made the executive decision to take advantage of the guilt you’ve been feeling, so for the past month, you’ve been a slave to his whims. 

Responding to 3AM ice cream runs even though you’re swamped with assignments. Going to parties hosted by people you don’t know the fucking names of because he keeps calling you a boring loser. And, the cherry on top, having to deal with Lee Heeseung’s even more annoying presence, just like how you’d predicted he’d behave if he ever finds out you and Beomgyu are friends.

Which he did. Much to your despair and agony.

“Beomgyu, your girlfriend’s here to see you.”

Case in point. You spare him nothing but an eye roll when he lets you in the clubroom of the, ahem, coding club. You’re here because Beomgyu texted you to fetch him a matcha latte and since you’re playing as his slave at the moment (and until your patience runs out), you obliged out of the kindness of your heart, only to get a truckload of teasing in return.

“Oh, hey, what’s up,” Yeonjun throws you a peace sign from their worn out sofa by the door the moment you enter. He’s accompanied by a good number of chip bags on the cushions.

“Hey,” Hanbin greets you as well when you pass by their alleged meeting table. Which, by the way, has stacks of leftover takeout containers and some empty, some half-empty plastic jugs of water. “Beomgyu is on the computer.”

“Thanks,” you tell him. This clubroom is a fucking gremlin hole.

“You know what.” Your path towards Choi Beomgyu is interrupted by Hyunjin, suddenly popping out of the half-wall separating the lounge area from the computers at the back. You jump, because what the fuck? “My heart races everytime you come here. I still get flashbacks from the day you threatened to wreck our safe haven. I think you gave me PTSD.”

Ah, yes. That day. That was eventful. It was the first time you’ve seen Choi Beomgyu cry.

“Serves you right, gossip snorter,” you say. “Out of the way, I have business to deal with.”

Hyunjin indeed gets out of your way, and there he reveals a row of four computers lined up against the wall with their assigned nerds mashing on the keyboards and yelling profanities at matching game screens. You zero in on the one on the far left corner. Surprisingly, Beomgyu is relatively calm compared to the others. You tap on his shoulder. He turns his head around.

“Oh,” he says, pulling his office chair back from out of the desk with a swivel while removing the headphones from his ears and letting them rest around his neck. You notice Jeongin seated beside him, who looks up at you only for a moment only to flinch back to the screen. “You’re here?”

No, shit. You jangle the latte in front of his face, head cocked, and he reaches out for it. But then you quickly jerk back your hand before he can snatch it from you. “Nuh-uh. Pay up.”

“Tch,” Beomgyu clicks his tongue and shoots you a bitter look. “Hyung, can you toss me my jacket?”

Someone from behind does indeed toss him his jacket, and at that very moment as well, Heeseung decides that it’s a great time to indulge in his newly founded hobby. “Hey, how about me? Why didn’t you get me a drink?” He joins the already crowded crevice in the back and swings an arm around your shoulder. “You get a boyfriend and forget all your friends. Have you forgotten that you two got together because of me? I’m hurt, I’m so hurt.”

Your face scrunches up. “Literally, how many times do I have to tell you he’s not my boyfriend.” You elbow Heeseung off, eliciting another whine from him. When your eyes snap back at Beomgyu, you see that he’s preoccupied with going through wallet. You kick his chair. “Say something, dipshit.”

Beomgyu hands you a bill and exchanges it with the matcha latte. You wait for him to speak. He takes a long sip, pulls his face away from the straw with a grimace, hands back the drink to you, then says, “What she said.”

You look at him, drink now back in your hands.

“What the fuck?”

“Keep it,” he says, putting his headphones back on. “Don’t you have class?”

Your jaw clenches. Fucker made you run an errand for nothing. He gives you an asshat smile of goodbye then spins his chair back to his computer. You scoff and smack the back of his head, causing his headphones to slip off. “Bye.”

“Hey!”

“Later,” Heeseung bids you off, and it’s followed by a chorus of goodbyes from the inhabitants of the testosterone infested, stinky gamer cave. Seriously, every time you drop by here, you feel an ounce of your soul shriveling up and rotting away. Yeonjun very politely opens the door for you. You hear one of them yell out before you leave.

“Come over tomorrow. Hanbin hyung’s treating us to pizza!”

And with that, you’re finally free, matcha latte in hand and a desire to breathe in some fresh air because you’re pretty sure the air is polluted in there. But still. It’s been a lot easier to breathe recently than when you two weren’t on good terms.

“Saved you a seat.”

You make it to class two minutes before the schedule. Minjeong proudly taps on the seat next to her, and you take the invitation. “As you should,” you hum, taking out your notes from your bag, and not long after Sungchan arrives and lands on the spot next to you.

It’s the week before finals. Prof Shin starts the class and decides to fuck all of your study schedules by giving a last minute assignment due next week as well. 

“Does this guy want to give us depression before the summer or some shit?” Minjeong complains the moment your professor leaves the lecture hall.“I swear to god, if another prof gives us an assignment due over the break, I’m killing myself.”

“You two have plans over the break?” asks Sungchan, slinging his backpack over his shoulder and the three of you head out for lunch, funneling out into the hallway along with the rest of your blockmates.

“I’m going home,” says Minjeong.

“I have summer classes,” you answer.

Sungchan stops in his tracks. “You serious?” 

“Yup.”

“You bet on it.”

He looks at the both of you like you’re a bunch of withering old ladies and he’s very much unimpressed. “Make some time for the last week. I’m throwing the wildest summer rager and you two can’t miss it.”

You’re pretty sure you replied with something along the lines of an agreement, but you’re not quite sure. The thought completely slips out of your head throughout the next week because, well, finals. And before you know it, your first semester of uni comes to a close, and summer comes crashing in at full swing.

#1: YOU STILL DON’T LIKE HIM FOR WASTING SO MUCH OF YOUR TIME. It’s eight in the morning. Monday. You’re standing in front of Choi Beomgyu’s door.

Knock, knock, knock.

It’s the start of your summer semester so you thought you ought to make something healthy just to kick things off on a good note, but as you were scavenging ingredients for fried rice, you realized you were out of salt so that’s why you’re here. You knock on his door again, three times, and you manage to finish watching five more Instagram reel clips before Beomgyu finally answers the door.

Creak.

“Took you long eno—”

You’re caught off guard by the mop of shaggy hair greeting you, clearly having just woken up. His eyebrows are knitted together while he lets out a yawn. He’s in a tank top. It rides up a little when he stretches his arm to reach for an itch on his back.

“What?” he rasps with a grunt, squinting at you after he’s finally settled himself into reality. “Why the hell are you up so early?”

You clear your throat. “Got any salt?”

Beomgyu blinks at you, processing your words. Then he steps back, points a thumb towards his kitchen, and nudges his head in the same direction. “Go crazy.”

With that, Beomgyu lets you monopolize his kitchen cupboards while he flops onto the sofa. You laugh seeing him practically melt into the cushions. He’s never been a morning person. You’re pretty sure he fell asleep like three hours ago.

“I’m gonna steal some of your chives too,” you inform. Beomgyu makes a muffled noise that you assume is a yes, so you go ahead and take the liberty. When you pop out of his kitchen area, you see him in a not very spine-healthy posture on the same sofa while scrolling through his phone. “I’ll drop off some bokkeumbap later.”

Beomgyu’s eyes flit up from his phone and he wiggles into a more normal position. “Do you have plans today?”

“Class,” you answer on your way back out.

“It’s summer?” he says. “Did your dumb ass get your calendars mixed up?”

You roll your eyes, stopping right before the door with your hand on the knob and turn your head to face him. “I thought I could use the early credits so I won’t have to take too many classes in my fourth year. So I could focus on my internship and all.”

There’s a pause. You can see the three dots slowly appearing in succession above Beomgyu’s bedhead. “Oh,” he says. There’s a drop in his voice. Only for a second. “Well, have fun, nerd.”

You stick your tongue out and leave his apartment with your borrowed goods, returning once more after you’ve finished cooking to give him a portion. Honestly, without the food your moms send over, you’re pretty sure he’d be living exclusively off of takeout.

Anyhow, you head to campus for your first summer lecture, and— for the first time god knows how long— your entire day is spent with a lingering, and almost unusual echo of quiet.

“That’s it for our syllabus. We’ll be starting our full swing of classes next week. See you.”

When you exit the lecture hall, the hallway is near empty. The courtyard too, with only a few students littered about underneath the midday sun. It’s so quiet, it’s weird. Around this time, you’d usually be having lunch with Sungchan and Minjeong, sometimes Beomgyu, sometimes Heeseung, but that brat’s not around right now either because he’s on vacation. 

Not having anything to do, you decide to stop by the campus cafe— Horangnabi. You don’t go here often, committed to the shop near your apartment because, well, it’s more convenient for your morning coffees, but you weren’t able to grab one earlier since you cooked breakfast. Might as well get a latte before you leave campus.

“Hi, welcome!”

You’re greeted by the barista, and like most of campus, it’s pretty empty inside as well. "A spanish latte, please. Iced.” While making your order, a sign on the counter catches your eye.

Part-timers, now hiring. You blink, letting it settle for a moment. Maybe for too long of a moment, because the whir of the milk frother snaps back your attention. 

“Are you interested?” 

The barista slides you your drink over the counter with a smile. You take it and press your lips together in a moment of thought. 

You only have classes on Mondays and Wednesdays, and it’s too inconvenient, not to mention expensive to go home, back and forth from Seoul to Daegu and vice versa, on the days in between. Most of your friends are on vacation or went back to their hometowns over the break so you have no one to hang out with over the summer. And you could use the extra money.

“I don’t have any experience, though,” you tell her.

“That’s fine. You’ll get a few days of training,” she answers.

Tempting. You’re almost convinced. “What if I just want to work for the summer? Can I quit when the next semester starts?”

“A lot of students do that,” she hums. You see her take a square of tissue paper from the display, jotting down a series of numbers before sliding it over to you as well. “Julie. Call me if you wanna take the bait.”

You spare one more second to ponder. Then you take the number from under her fingers and carefully stuff it into your pocket. “Thanks.”

The heat has finally settled the moment you exit the cafe, a little bell jingle trailing you from behind, and you take a mental note to bring an umbrella with you from this day forward. Their coffee is good, you have to admit. If you work there for a good month or two, maybe you’d even end up saving cash by making your own drinks instead of having to buy them.

You decide to take the path through the parking lot to make your exit. There’s more trees around, meaning more shade because it’s really freaking hot. It’s very bare in the lot. You pass by a few cars, of which you assume belong to faculty and staff, until one of them honks at you, and you flinch to a halt.

Another honk. Your brows furrow. Looking around, you try to find the culprit, but you end up moving your head in just the right direction for the sun to beam its light directly into your eyes, blinding you temporarily, and you wince. God damn it. You hear another honk again, and you feel yourself start to get irritated. It’s coming from behind you. You spin your heels, vision still muddy from the direct sun attack, but nevertheless you start walking.

“Seriously, who the hell keeps fucking— oh!”

You bump into someone. You feel them balance you by your shoulders.

“You should’ve seen how dumb you looked.” You hear a snicker. Of fucking course, it’s Choi Beomgyu. Who else would it be? “But hey, you make a pretty good pigeon jerking your head around like that.”

“Fuck you,” you jab his arms off. “What are you even doing here?”

Beomgyu notices your coffee and takes a shameless sip from it before answering, “Get in the car. It’s so freaking hot out, jesus.” 

You don’t really have a choice because he practically shoves you into the passenger’s seat. So gentle. You nearly spill your drink all over when your ass lands on the leather cushion. 

“I was just about to sleep again after you dropped off the food earlier,” he explains while starting the car, and you watch him intently. Whenever your schedules matched, you’d sometimes go to and from uni together. But you can’t seem to get used to the image of your friend acting like a responsible adult. It’s fucking with you a bit. “But then I got a message from Prof Kim, asking if I could come by the office today.”

He pulls out of the parking lot, and the cool air finally settles into your skin. “For what?” Beomgyu lets out a groan. Must’ve been for a not great reason.

“The EMC department is hosting a conference of some sorts this year and he asked if I could be a volunteer facilitator, ask a few others from the department to help and join along too.”

“Oh? You gonna do it?”

“Ugh. I don’t know.” You pass through security out the main gate and start heading back to your apartment. “I wanted to come home over the break but the working days for this thing will apparently last throughout the summer. Prof Kim did say this will be minused from my volunteer hours, but I don’t know.” Beomgyu then gives you a side eye all of a sudden. “Speaking of. You undutiful daughter.”

“What?” you leer.

“Your mom hoped that you’d be home for the summer, too. Why didn’t you ask her first before enrolling for summer classes?”

“Why the hell do you two keep talking about me behind my back?” You’re shriveling up. Seriously, why does your mom contact him before you? This is getting ridiculous. “And I’m doing all this so I can graduate early and find a job early, by the way. I don’t even have a full week of classes so I can still come home the first week of July.”

Apparently, you two argued for long enough to finally reach your building. 

“Tell me when you plan on going home,” he says, leaning against the wall beside your door watching as you key in your passcode to your unit. 

“Obviously,” you roll your eyes, smiling. The door unlocks. You push it open. “You’re my free ride after all.” 

Now, your expected response from that is another retort from him, how you’ve been exploiting his kindness and whatnot and you’d have to snark back as well. But for some reason Beomgyu just stays quiet. He says nothing, an unreadable look on his face as he looks at yours. You raise a brow.

“What is it this time?”

Choi Beomgyu says nothing. He lifts up an arm, points his index finger near your face, and jabs his finger straight into your forehead.

“I’ll send you a review of your bokkeumbap later.” He laughs at your appalled expression.

“You’d be shocked to find out it’s better than my mom’s,” you say back, a hand tending to the spot he just attacked unprompted.

“You wish.”

“Eat shit.”

“Oh, I definitely will.” 

You send him a kick, which he dodges before fleeing into the safety of his apartment. Slippery bastard. Anyhow, you call it a day and settle into your own place. Few hours later, Beomgyu indeed sends you a review of your cooking with a photo of an empty dish attached. Three out of five, he says. Slippery bastard turned ungrateful bastard.

The next day, you’re at Horangnabi again. The night prior, you called Julie’s number and gave her the news that you’re in, and she told you to come an hour before opening so they can get you settled.

You come in with a greeting, and you see Julie look up from behind the counter to wave you in with a smile. “You’re here! Hanbin, come meet our new part-timer.”

At the mention of Hanbin’s name, you immediately double take, and emerging from the door to what you assume is the storage area is indeed the Hanbin you know from the coding club. 

“You!” you immediately shriek, almost feeling a hint of betrayal because this is the first time you’ve seen him in daylight, because their clubroom is always so fucking dark. And in something other than the god damned flannels everyone in their club is always so fond of wearing like it’s an unspoken uniform. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, so it is you!” Hanbin happily exclaims. “I thought it was just someone with the same name.”

Julie was delighted to find out you two already knew each other. You skip all the necessary introductions and jump in head first into getting acquainted with the equipment instead.

“We’ll go through all of the drinks first. I also have the recipes printed out over here in case you need reference.”

Having a familiar face in an unfamiliar workplace is indeed a pleasant surprise, but there’s also a familiar sense of dread to have one of Beomgyu’s coding club buddies in here. Granted, he doesn’t annoy or tease you as much as the others, but those guys have already given themselves a label in your head, and Sung Hanbin is no exception to your collective bad impression.

“And then you twist the handle— just like that.”

You’re in the middle of your first latte, the espresso machine up and running. After which, Hanbin teaches you how to use the milk steamer without any difficulty, and you pour the milk into the same cup as the espresso you made earlier. “Wow,” Hanbin remarks. “You’re pretty good at this.”

“I think it’s all thanks to the caffeine I’ve ingested,” you say. “Skill buff. Or whatever you guys say.”

Hanbin laughs and compliments your latte once more. Needless to say, it doesn’t take long for your discomfort to completely disappear because at this point in time, Beomgyu’s friends would already start asking you about him— where he is, why isn’t he with you, etcetera etcetera. But his name has not left Hanbin’s mouth even once, and it’s already the end of your first day.

“It’s always slow here, except on rare occasions, so you’ll be able to handle it with no problems,” Julie says before sending you off. “Anyway, Hanbin and I will be around during your shifts, so you can run to us in case a particularly grumpy student comes to order.”

Hanbin gives you a thumbs up and a bright grin. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

And that’s how you established your new routine for the rest of the summer. It’s just like Julie said. Things are pretty slow. The only notable thing that happened on your second day at work is Beomgyu sending you a very unflattering, low-angle selfie under the blinding lights of the faculty office glaring behind his head with the text message that he said yes to volunteering for the conference. Sad face emoji included. 

On Thursday, Julie taught you how to make a damn good waffle. On Monday next week, you got your first shitty customer. Finally on Friday, you decided to open your skeleton closet to Hanbin, because not once since your a little over a week of working here has he asked you about the whereabouts of Choi Beomgyu.

“You and Beomgyu are friends right?”

There aren’t any customers except for the regulars from Bio that are almost always found in the corner of the cafe until closing. Hanbin is wiping the already squeaky clean counter because there is nothing to do. “Yes?” he answers, a smile on his face, but with a tone that’s evidently confused. “So are you?”

Christ. Now you’re the one bringing that bastard up. “Right. It’s just a little odd.” There, you bring up what you’ve observed so far since working here, and the fact that you and him have shared actual conversations not involving your old friend, and how it’s pretty surprising to you. “One time, I thought someone was going to confess to me. Turns out he just wanted me to convince Beomgyu to help him rank up in League.”

“Well, I don’t really need any help in that area.” Hanbin laughs, shaking his head. “Sounds like you and him have been friends for a long time.”

Neither of you have told anyone about your history. No reason in particular. Beomgyu just never found the need to tell his friends that you’ve known each other from birth, and neither have you. But Hanbin’s presence, when separated from the rest of his friends, just feels like a blanket of comfort, and you find yourself spilling your guts to him— including the previous three to four month cold war you caused and the reasons.

Hanbin is patient. He listens the entire time with an attentiveness you can only compare to a saint. “I guess being a social butterfly has its unintentional consequences. I’m just happy to hear you two made up.”

“I probably would never regularly step foot in your dungeon hole otherwise.”

He laughs. “The guys in the club also tease you a lot, don’t they? Doesn’t it bother you?”

You press your lips together. “Yeah, but at this point it’s just white noise to me now.”

Hanbin looks at you. “That doesn’t mean you enjoy it either.”

Well. He’s not wrong. 

Your conversation gets cut short with the cafe bell signaling the entrance of customers. You look at the door. It’s a whole stampede of people. It’s Choi Beomgyu and his friends and you can’t even go on a day of talking about them without them showing up.

“Whoa, I’ve never been here before.”

“Dude, you’re in your third year. Where the hell have you been?”

“Doesn’t Hanbin hyung work here—”

“Yeah, let’s ask him to give us free cookies.”

“Hyunjin, buy me a drink.”

“Buy your own drink, nerd.”

“Hi, I’ll have an iced americano, and a— o-oh, my god.”

You’re face to face with Yang Jeongin who nearly pisses himself upon the recognition that it’s you behind the corner. It dominoes to the rest of the group. You don’t know why they’re being so dramatic. You let out a huff and a sigh. “An iced americano and…?” 

Jeongin doesn’t get to answer. Beomgyu unwedges himself from the group and squeezes his way to the counter. “You work here now?” 

You cock a brow. “Uh. Yeah.”

“Since when?” he immediately follows up. You’re a little taken aback.

“Since last Tuesday,” you answer after recounting. Beomgyu makes a face that burrows a pit in your stomach.

“You didn’t tell me.”

Okay. Now you’re very taken aback. There’s a cough from the crowd. And then a very intuitive, not-so-hushed remark from one of the boys. “Holy shit. They’re having a lovers’ quarrel.”

It hits a nerve. Hanbin quickly dissuades anything before you could open your mouth. “So, what are you guys ordering?”

The amount of drinks to make and pastries to bring out gets you busy for a while, but you still keep an eye on Beomgyu, watching as he settles back to normal joking mode with his friends while you try to find an opening to talk to him. You and Hanbin finish making all their orders, so you ask him if you can be excused for a moment. He tells you to go ahead and you make your way to Beomgyu, who’s sitting on one of the ends of the three conjoined tables in the more spacious corner of the store.

He’s talking to Yeonjun. When Yeonjun notices you approaching, he immediately quiets down, so you take this as permission to interrupt. You tap on Beomgyu’s shoulder. “Hey.” He turns around and looks up. “You good?”

Beomgyu opens his mouth, about to say something— “Ahem,” — but then Yeonjun clears his throat, accidentally catching the attention of the rest of the boys, and they’re suddenly popping out their heads like meerkats in your direction. “Should I give you two some space?”

“What’s going on?”

“They’re having a moment.”

“Oh my god.”

“Do you guys sell popcorn?”

You’re used to their teasing. You’re used to their bullshit, really. You’re fine if they pull on your hair strands inside their clubroom, but for fuck’s sake this is a public space. Heeseung isn’t even around, but it seems like all his clubmates caught his disease. Your bio regulars are sneaking a few glances at the commotion. There are other customers too. You’re visibly annoyed and embarrassed— which doesn’t go over Beomgyu’s head, because he notices. And he also looked like he’s getting irritated. 

“Hey, you two should just apologize and make up!”

Beomgyu gets up. You see his jaw clench. Oh no. You quickly grab his arm with a tug before he can do anything— only for Hanbin to show up with a tray, setting it down on their table in a less than gentle manner. They flinch. They shut up. Hanbin sets down a few plates with a chilling smile.

“We don’t have popcorn, but here are your fries,” he says. Wow. “Do you guys want to add anything else?”

There’s a single squeak from the group. “No, we’re good.”

Hanbin hums in acknowledgement and retrieves the tray from the table— not without sending you a thumbs up, to which you mouth a thank you in return. He smiles and nods before going back to the counter, and there you feel Beomgyu removing your hold on his arm from a while ago, and you quickly flit your attention back to him, fearing that you might’ve upset him. Again. Like last time.

“Wait—”

“Are you trying to slack off?” he jeers. You look at him, a little surprised. Beomgyu nudges his head to the counter and you see a few customers filtering in. He did remove your hand from his arm, but he’s still holding it. “I’m not upset because you didn’t tell me you started working here. Well. I was. A bit. But not anymore.”

You feel his thumb run through your knuckles, going over the bumps of each joint, followed by a gentle squeeze.

“It must’ve been heaven for you to get some peace and quiet for once. But then I had to bring these losers around,” he wrinkles his nose. You feel a load get off of your chest. Beomgyu lets go of your hand. “If you told me beforehand, I would’ve steered them away from here.”

“Well it’s fine as long as they don’t cause a scene.” You say the last part a little bit louder than conversational-volume. From the corner of your eye, you see Hyunjin cough on his fry. “Anyway, I gotta get back to work.”

“No shit. Go do what you’re paid for, slacker.”

He lands a smack on your back and you’re pushed off to do your job. Gosh. Hanbin welcomes you back to the station and the both of you are kept busy for the time being, up until late afternoon strikes, and Beomgyu says he can’t drive you home today since they’re still needed back at the faculty office.

“Your girlfriend can get home just fine! Prof Kim’s looking for us, hurry—”

And just like that, he gets lugged out of the cafe. Jeongin laments about returning to “printing hell,” whatever he means by that, and the walls of Horangnabi are once again returned to their original state— peace and quiet.

The bell jingles. You hear nothing but the metronomic melody from the speakers. “Your friends are so draining,” you tell Hanbin.

He just laughs. “They’re quite energetic.”

You should’ve appreciated the serenity and calmness of your first couple of days working here because for the next few weeks, the coding club has decided that the campus cafe is going to be their regular hangout spot from now on. Or until their summer volunteer work finally ends.

“You know, you’re so pretty.”

It’s the end of June now. You’re wiping off some spilled milk from the counter when Julie suddenly decides to dote on you. She’s on the other side of the counter, face between her palms, and your wiping stops, face flushed.

“I—I’m sorry?”

“You’re like the prettiest flower in a garden and I’d fend off all the other bees and butterflies just to have you for myself,” she doubles down. You release a laugh, mildly forced because holy shit, this is a new kind of attention. “No wonder you have all these guys buzzing around you all the time.”

Julie thumb-points at the corner the coding club guys usually occupy. You hear Hyunjin losing his shit over something—

“I think he’s the one they keep buzzing around, seonbae.”

—something Choi Beomgyu very likely said considering the grin he has on his face, and how Yeonjun is also collapsing on his shoulders. You watch as his grin disappears into a cup, taking a sip from the lime soda he ordered. Then he notices you staring. He settles down the drink and gets up. 

“Oh no, he’s coming over.”

“What?” he says after reaching the counter, taking the spot next to Julie. “Are you talking shit about me again?”

“Hey, not everything is about you, insect,” answers Julie. Those two have gotten pretty close too. “I was talking about how pretty our new barista is. She’s a breath of fresh air. A rose among the truckload of weeds sullying the pretty interiors of our dear cafe.”

Beomgyu snorts at the comparison. You give him the stink eye.

“I get what she means,” Hanbin slides into conversation. He hums and passes you the milkshake Jeongin ordered. It’s still missing the whipped cream on top. You fetch a container from the fridge and walk back to your station, only to be met by a sudden debate on what kind of flower you are now.

“No, no. She’s not a rose,” you hear Yeonjun interject. “Appearance wise, she’s like a daffodil. Personality wise, she’s a venus flytrap.” A few of them chortle and laugh. You roll your eyes and start shaking the container.

“You’re wrong, she’s a hydrangea!”

“Aren’t they poisonous?”

“Exactly.”

A few more give their pitches. Honestly, you’re pretty impressed by the amount of knowledge these gamer gremlin boys have. You finish Jeongin’s milkshake and give it back to Hanbin for delivery. Beomgyu is quiet throughout the whole debacle, until Hyunjin eggs him on to give his pitch. They need to hear the expert’s verdict, he says. Beomgyu just brushes them off until he notices you looking at him expectantly. He pauses. He’s actually thinking about it. You’re pleasantly surprised at his sudden thoughtfulness— that is, of course, until he actually opens his freaking mouth.

“You’re a milkweed.”

It’s like a ball gets punted into your head. It bounces off and lands on the ground. You hear a wheeze from the boys. You give Beomgyu the middle finger.

“A weed! Not even a flower!”

“Hey, they are flowers! Go look it up!”

Beomgyu can’t redeem himself anymore. You’re already looking at him with bitter disgust and Julie proceeds to call him a piece of shit.

“It really is a flower!” 

He still defends, pleading his case to you even after the topic has shifted. Julie has left to clean up some tables. Beomgyu remains in his spot on the other side of the counter until you decide to believe him and his alleged substantial botanical knowledge. 

“Sure, whatever,” you deride. Beomgyu is still pouty. “Anyway, your conference thingy is this weekend, right? We’re going home right after?”

“Yeah,” he says, still sounding a little bitter and you bite down a laugh. His eyes flutter down, noticing something on your chin, and offhandedly wipes off what you assume is some stray whipped cream from earlier with his thumb. “Do you wanna leave in the morning or afternoon?”

“Oooooh.”

Lee Heeseung suddenly rears his head near the counter to return their empty plates. He’s back from vacation and now he’s here to reclaim his rightful spot as your number one annoyance. “Get a room,” he says with a shit eating grin that you want to wipe the floor with.

“Why’d you even come back early?” you leer at him. “Weren’t you supposed to be island hopping until the end of July?”

He sticks his tongue out. Beomgyu just laughs. “I can’t miss Sungchan’s party. You’re going, right?”

Right. The alleged wildest, most epic summer rager Jung Sungchan mentioned before parting ways with you and Minjeong over vacation. He texted you about it again last night. You couldn’t leave him on read because he called you immediately after.

“Unfortunately,” you lament. “Sungchan’s gonna throw a tantrum if I don’t show up.”

“You know Sungchan?” Beomgyu suddenly asks. 

You give him a pointed look. “Duh, obviously. We’re in the same major.”

It’s like a lightbulb materializes on the top of his head. “Ah,” he says. “I forgot you had other friends.”

You quickly retaliate by attacking him with the nearest thing you can get your hands on: a dish towel. He lets out a very fake, very dramatic yelp of pain and tells on you to Julie noona for abusing your customers and that you should be fired. 

“You’re no customer, you termite.”

“Ack! Noona! She’s hitting me again!”

“Is this how the youngins flirt nowadays?”

Both of you freeze in frame— him trying to yank your weapon from your hands and you with an arm up ready to throw a punch— and turn your heads towards Heeseung, who has a very smug smile playing on his face. You shoot Beomgyu a glare before roughly tugging the dish towel from his grasp. “Shut your mouth, Hee. How’s it going with your compsci girlie, anyway. You’ve stopped bragging since last month.”

Heeseung’s smile stiffens. He breathes out a ‘haha,’ before starting to turn away. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Serves him right. After a while you routinely bid them good riddance since they have to leave for volunteer work again. The weekend comes rolling, they finish the conference, and, with summer vacation coming to a close, you also bid your part-time job here at Horangnabi farewell as well after two-months of service. 

“It’s not like she’s never coming back here,” Beomgyu huffs. You two decided to stop by before leaving off to your hometown, Monday after their conference. Julie refuses to stop squeezing you. Beomgyu tugs on your shirt sleeve, but you don’t budge. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Coming from the guy who’s spending the entire week with her,” Julie spits back. “You better bring her back here in one piece, you bug.”

Choi Beomgyu succeeds in retrieving you this time. The container carrying two cups of coffee swings in your hand as an arm hooks around your neck, tipping you back, and the top of your skull hits Beomgyu’s chin.

“Hanbin, we’re heading out.”

“Drive safe!”

You’re only spending a little over a week in Daegu. You two still need to come back to Seoul in time for Jung Sungchan’s, cough, epic summer rager. He hasn’t missed a day in reminding you about it. You’re out for a joint-family dinner with Choi Beomgyu and his family and your phone buzzes only to see Sungchan’s text saying [three days. i better see you there 🫵🫵🫵]. 

“Your classes don’t even start until September.”

It’s the third week of August. Your mom decides to walk you to Beomgy’s car. “I still need to enroll and register for my classes,” you tell her. “I’ll call you when I arrive.” You pause. “And if you want to know what I’m up to, just ask me directly for god’s sake. Quit asking that guy.”

That guy wrinkles his nose at you. “Auntie, don’t listen to her. She’s just being jealous.”

“Wait until I tell your mom about how you nearly set fire to your kitchen.”

“Say a single word and I’m never letting you in my car anymore.”

Jung Sungchan’s party is at their vacation home in Eunpyeong District because his parents aren’t in the country. There’s a pool (gross). He promised you and Minjeong exclusive room access to escape to in case of emergencies (nice). It’s late afternoon. Beomgyu is already there because, well, he’s Choi Beomgyu and everyone’s obsessed with him. You’re still at Minjeong’s apartment, getting ready and borrowing some of her accessories.

“You sure you don’t want me to drive you guys here?” he asks over the phone. You can barely hear him with the noise in the background. “Taxi fare’s expensive.” 

“Yeah, it’s fine.” Minjeong makes a face from the foot of the bed while she irons her hair. “I’ve saved up a lot of pocket money thanks to you being my personal chauffeur anyway. And Minjeong doesn’t like you. She thinks you’re a douchebag.”

“I don’t even know her!”

“Bye.” You hang up. Minjeong still has a look on her face. “What?”

“I think he’s stringing you along,” she says bitingly.

You let out a huff. “How can he string me along when I don’t even like him?” Minjeong simply says that Choi Beomgyu gives her bad vibes, whatever the fuck she means because the only vibe Beomgyu exudes is the vibe of extreme annoyance. You hop off Minjeong’s bed and change into the outfit you brought, opting to put on this very big, droopy sunhat you once bought at a flea market as extra protection. It’s stupid hot out. You steal some of Minjeong’s sunscreen as well before finally heading out.

“Did Sungchan invite everyone at uni or something?”

A foot into his gate, it’s already so crowded. Like really fucking crowded. There’s music blasting somewhere. You can’t find Sungchan anywhere in the yard so you and Minjeong squeeze your way into the house, and there you find him with Heeseung. Minjeong yells for his attention, and he spins around with a big smile. “Hey, you made it!” Sungchan hurls himself at you with a bone crushing hug. “It feels like it’s been ten years since I last saw you.”

“Quit being so dramat— ack! Tap out, tap out! I give!”

He finally releases you, and you grunt. “Here you go.” He tosses the keys to the room he promised. 

“Have fun partying.” Minjeong snatches it into her hands immediately. You scan the area for a bit. You see Hyunjin and Jeongin in the corner of the living room.

“Boo, you’re so lame,” jeers Sungchan, to which Minjeong just ignores and tugs your arm.

“How about you?” she asks.

You shift your gaze back to her. “I’ll go look for Choi Beomgyu’s round head first then hermit up there with you.” Minjeong makes a gagging noise before going off for the staircase. You’re ready to take out your phone to shoot Beomgyu a text, but you feel a sudden weight on the top of your head, so you look up, brows knitted.

“Your boyfie’s out in the back, sunshine,” Sungchan says while attempting to snatch your hat. 

“Not my fucking boyfriend.” You swat his hand away and readjust the hat on your head. “But thanks. Later.”

The thing about your longtime friend is that no matter how crowded the place, no matter how flooded an area is with people and people and people— he’s generally very easy to find. Just look for a crowd, look for bodies circling around each other and whoever is at the epicenter, at the eye of the storm, is more often than not Choi Beomgyu.

Your trick is proven to be effective this time around as well. When you leave the living room through the glass doors to the backyard, you spot him instantaneously sitting on the ledge of the other side of the pool, feet dipping into the water as he laughs along with the large group surrounding him. It’s bright out— the sun’s rays bouncing off from the water’s surface to glitter the underside of his face. Even the sun has his attention. It’s so comically ridiculous that you almost roll your eyes into a scoff. That is until you see him see you, and within a moment’s notice, he’s up on his feet and is departing from the crowd to walk up to you.

“You’re here.”

The first thing he does is swipe the sunhat from your head, adding it to his obnoxiously colored outfit: a bright pink buttoned top with neon orange flowers, the color matching the necklace he’s uncharacteristically wearing. He’s also got a pair of square framed sunglasses perched on his nose. “Is this your highlighter cosplay?” you ask, snickering. 

He shoots you a glare. “Fuck off. What took you so long, anyway? Thought you got lost or something.”

“I wish I did,” you grunt. There’s a holler and a splash from somewhere. You feel a few droplets hitting the skin of your feet. Beomgyu tugs you by the arm a little farther away from the pool. “This is way too noisy for my liking. And I thought I’ve been desensitized by you and your friends.” 

“Yeah, but—”

“Beomgyu!”

A third voice suddenly barges in from behind you. Beomgyu’s eyes leave your face for a second when you feel someone brush past your shoulders. “Hey!” Beomgyu greets back, giving who you assume is one of his friends a high five before the guy runs off again, then his gaze flits back to you. “Anyway—”

“Hey, kid, haven’t seen you in a while!”

A more familiar face shows up and greets Beomgyu with a slap on the back, once more fishing away his attention. You’ve seen him at Horangnabi before, you think. “Hyung, I’ll get to you in a sec!” he says. When Beomgyu looks at you again, his smile quickly drops into a pursed huff. “Ugh.”

You laugh. “You were saying?”

Beomgyu smacks his tongue in distaste, tugging you even further into a corner in the backyard, right next to a bush-lined fence under the shade. “I was trying to say— it’s good to get out of your comfort zone once in a while, you know. Your mother would cry tears of joy to hear that her hermit of a daughter is at a party.”

“Why do you always bring up my mother when you want to make a point?”

“Extra leverage,” he grins. “There’s drinks in the cooler. Want me to get you one?”

“Nah,” you say. “I’m gonna hole up in Sungchan’s room in about—” you check the time on your phone. “Ten minutes. Minjeong’s already in our sanctuary.”

You receive a pinch on the nose from Beomgyu for that. You try to elbow him off, and just as he’s about to say something again, you two hear his name being yelled out from somewhere in the area. “Choi Beomgyu! Pool volleyball, stat!” Beomgyu pauses, arms dropping to his sides and his shoulders slump in defeat. A single breath of wind, he’s gonna fall over.

“God fucking damn it.”

It’s very funny seeing him like this. “Off you go,” you push his limp body out of the shade, the sun hitting you both once more. Beomgyu makes a grunt of protest. “Go, butterfly, go. Your people are waiting for you.”

Beomgyu gives you a look of awful judgment, but starts unbuttoning his shirt anyway in preparation to take a dive. “You’re not gonna swim?” he asks.

“In that water?” you grimace. “Want me to catch a disease or some shit? You’re on your own, pal.”

“Drama queen,” he huffs, fully removing his shirt now and you’re like whoa there— eyes away, eyes away. A screeching voice calls from his attention. He looks behind to yell back, “Shut the fuck up, I’ll there in a minute!”

“Hand me your phone,” you tell him, holding out your hand. Beomgyu turns around, looking at you with his atrociously bright shirt hanging on his forearm. You clear your throat. “And clothes. Ask Sungchan for directions to his room to find me later.”

“You sure?” he asks, digging into his short pockets.

“Yeah. Go have your fun, loser.”

Beomgyu hums and takes your offer, handing you his phone, tossing his shirt to your face, putting your sun hat back on top of your head and making sure to ruin your hair in the process. He’s so fucking annoying. “I’ll be back after I kick their asses.”

The shirt drops from your face and falls, only to hang on your arm. “Hey. I don’t really care,” you say. Beomgyu doesn’t find that response satisfactory. He makes a face before running off, slow at first before breaking into a sprint once he’s near enough the pool, before jumping straight into the water with a loud splash!

His head emerges from the water, largely grinning with his hair sticking to his skull. It doesn’t take long for him to be swallowed by a group of people. You take this as your cue to leave.

“I know you hate it when people assume you’re dating. But seeing all that, I really can’t blame them.”

“Holy shit— Minjeong,” you jump, meeting face-to-face with your friend the moment you spin your heels. She’s got her arms crossed, looking at you like she’s massively unimpressed. “When did you get here?”

“I thought you died or something,” she shrugs. There’s a splash from the pool, you two getting hit as collateral damages and Minjeong makes a gagging noise. “I can’t believe I left home early for this mess.”

You make a noise of agreement. It’s around four right now, the number of people isn’t getting any smaller, and the music is yet to get louder. Choi Beomgyu’s shirt and phone are still on your person. Said phone buzzing incessantly in your hold. “I’ve been out here for a good ten minutes,” you say. “I think that’s enough.”

“Good call. Let’s go upstairs.”

On the way to the room, you bump into Heeseung, who ropes you in to taking two jello shots before setting you free. You also greet a few people that you know for uni here and there, but you can barely hear them over, well, everything. It’s so chaotic, you’re beginning to wonder how the hell Jung Sungchan is going to clean up the aftermath of this. Or maybe that’s why he was so desperate to have you and Minjeong over. So that you’d help him clean up. 

Minjeong seems to agree with your theory. You two key in the door to the room he gave you while cussing him out. “That bastard. Of course, he’d have ulterior motives.” The door opens. Minjeong lets herself in and immediately throws herself face-first onto the bed. “I’m gonna nap.”

“You dressed up all cutely just to sleep at a party,” you say, scanning around the room for a place to put away Beomgyu’s things. 

“Hey, my ten minutes of screentime needs to be worth it,” she replies, voice muffled by the mattress. “Night, night.”

With how pretty the interiors look, you’re pretty sure this isn’t a room Sungchan frequents. A guest bed, maybe. There’s a large window on the opposite wall revealing a vivid backyard view, sheer white curtains filtering the sun. It’s very bohemian. Tasseled rugs, rattan decor hung all around. You notice the round, wicker seat next to the bed with a patterned cushion. You toss Beomgyu’s belongings there and walk up to the window.

Peeling back the curtain, you look down to see a flood of people scattered all about the yard, muffled music and noises leaking into the cracks of the room. Choi Beomgyu is still splashing around the pool. You watch as he throws a beach ball overhead, eyes following it fly across the water, until it ultimately bounces off the pool ledge and hits someone from behind. He looks pretty happy with the stunt. You let out a huff, a tug on the corners of your mouth, and let yourself sink into the soft rug in between the bed and the windowsill, laying down.

You hear Minjeong squirming from above. Damn, she’s actually sleeping. You’d get up there and join her too, but the floor is already comfortable, and you’re already yawning, so you feel yourself starting to doze off, lulled by the distant sounds of people from the outside.

When you open your eyes again, it’s orange.

You open your phone. Almost six in the evening. The sunset leaks into the room through the sheer curtain, painting shadows on the floor as you blink and regain your consciousness.

Then you hear three sharp knocks from the other side of the door.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Coming.” It takes a while for you to reconnect the wires in your brain. You let out a yawn as you make your groggy steps towards the door, seeing Minjeong wedged into the upper corner of the bed in a way that’s definitely going to wrinkle her outfit. There’s a few more knocks on the door. You twist the knob open and lo and behold—

It’s Choi Beomgyu.

“Oh, thank god, I found the right room this time.”

Half-clothed. With a very evident, painful red mark on his left cheekbone.

“Holy shit. What the hell happened to you?”

You’re wide awake now. Beomgyu answers with a sheepish grin. “Well. You see. A little accident occurred.” 

He flinches back and looks away guiltily with tightly pressed lips the moment you nudge your face closer. It’s swollen. You take a step back with a sigh. “Explain,” you say, grabbing him into the room. You tip the door close with your foot and bring him to the foot of the bed, careful not to wake Minjeong up in the process.

“Some of the guys got a little too tipsy,” he starts as you sit him down onto the mattress. You kneel onto the bed stool, sinking into the loose blanket draped on the cushion just next to his outstretched legs while he continues yapping. “There was a surfboard involved. Don’t ask. But with alcohol-induced lack of coordination, and then there’s me who was by the pool ledge at the wrong place at the wrong time— I think you can get an idea of what happened.

He leans back, sinking his hands into the cushion. You dip forward. “That’s nothing to brag about.” Yeah, he’s gonna need some ice. 

“I think I bumped my head a little too.”

You feel a breath escape. He’s smiling. How many beer cans has he downed already? “Beomgyu. Seriously. What the fuck?” His face is irritating you, so you grab it and yank it down to get a good look of his big, round head. “Where?”

“Ack! Gently! Do it gently!” he complains, and you feel his right hand coil around your left wrist. “It’s father in the back, I think—”

“Quit grabbing—”

“Ow!”

You do manage to find the bump, but you accidentally press on it a little too hard, causing Choi Beomgyu to yank your wrist in surprise, jerking you forward out of balance. Now, that’s fine and all, but at the same moment, you hear two unfamiliar voices speaking in hushes approaching the door. Your eyes widen.

“Are you sure this room is empty?”

“Yeah, it’s empty, just—”

Swing! 

You try to get up. But your knees slip on the blanket on the stool and you stumble forward upon hearing the door slam open.

It’s a domino effect. Your palms are pressing against the soft mattress. Choi Beomgyu’s bruised face is looking straight at you in alarm. From underneath. You’re on top of him. On the bed. You snap your head towards the door and it’s wide, wide open with two people, half inside, and a few more heads poking in and zeroing in on you as the realization that you forgot to fucking lock it dawns upon you and soaks into your bones.

This. This isn’t a favorable position.

God damn it all.

“Sorry!”

And the door is slammed shut once more. That doesn’t matter. The damage has been done. You feel your face starting to burn and your strength attempting to escape from your body.

“Uh.”

The voice from below you reels your attention back in. You blink. Shit. You’re practically pinning Choi Beomgyu against the bed right now and his face is just a few inches away from yours. The heat is rising to your head. You want to move, but your arms won’t budge— seemingly temporarily locked into place by the shock of the sight underneath you.

His eyes are wide open, reflecting the orange tinted light from the ceiling, flushing his skin with a light shade of auburn, the tint deeper on his cheeks and nose. You see his throat bob, muscles contracting. 

The thing is, you’ve known him for a good twenty years or so, give or take. But you’ve never seen his face this close before, and you have to admit—

“C—can you move?”

Choi Beomgyu is kind of pretty.

Even with an ugly bruise forming underneath his eye.

“Hey. I don’t think this is gonna help kill any of the rumors.”

You look up to see Minjeong further up on the bed, very, very awake. You forgot she’s here. You toss yourself to the side with a squeak, practically hurling yourself off from the bed. “It—it was an accident!” you start. Minjeong simply shakes her head with sigh.

“I know. I saw everything. I was already awake the moment you sat this fucker’s ass on the bed.”

Hot. Your face is very hot. But Minjeong is also very right because god— you’re not sure how far things are gonna escalate. How many people saw that? Five? Maybe Six? Gosh, you don’t fucking know. The only thing you’re sure about is the fact that Lee Heeseung is gonna have a field day once he hears about this. You are royally screwed.

나비 / NABI. © hannie-dul-set, 2024.

[the-kingshound]

Temporarily coming out of hiding to say that I am doing very good, and that actually I am proud of myself that the demo of The King's Hound is now 50k words long. I know it's not a lot compared to other IF authors, but for an author like me, who for the majority of the time struggles to write consistently, is such a good feeling.

With 50k total words (excluding code), the demo also has an average playthrough of around 40k words, which is more than 2 hours of reading time!❤

[athenagc94]

Bat Family x Reader Master Post

So, I'm not sure yet if I plan to write any other Bat Family x Reader fics, but I think I'd at least put my current fic in an easily found post that I can update as I update chapters.

I tend to write longer fics within the range of 30-40K, so I'm by no means fast with these projects, but who knows?

Jason Todd x Reader

Dear Daddy Long Legs - Jason Todd x Fem!Reader

Status : Complete - 100,086 words

Inspired by the novel Daddy Long Legs by Jean Webster. Jason Todd saves you from getting mugged one night and ends up being your mysterious benefactor, funding your college experience. Featuring awkward "zero rizz" Jason Todd and several members of the Bat Family.

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24 | Chapter 25 | Chapter 26 | Chapter 27 | Chapter 28 | Chapter 29 | Chapter 30

Show Me How You Like It

Status: Complete - 2,254 words - 18+ MDNI

Jason was less certain about this part. In which you and Jason experience his first time together.

Tim Drake x Reader

Currently in the Works. Stay tuned!