[haksgirl]

──── BE MY NEXT MISTAKE Ი𐑼

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆. n. 16+ ONLY she/her woonhak's bbygrl

ᴠͥɪͣᴘͫ WANNA NAVIGATE ME ? ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ masterlist ୨ৎ taglist ⋆⭒˚.⋆

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genres ✶ tragedy thriller fantasy slowburn after dark yaoiyuri

[haksgirl]

ONCE UPON A WISH I

🎤︎︎ Once upon a time, a knight fell in love with a woman he could never keep. But this story does not begin with armor, or crowns, or the slow shatter of a wedding bell. It begins, as all impossible things do, with a stolen afternoon—and a boy who did not know how to bow.

knight!taesan x princess!reader ──── forbidden love, childhood friends to lovers, forced/arranged marriage, no happy ending. (wc 3.3k)

✎ thank you to my lovely munchkin @niiqv for the beautiful header!

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ Chapter 1: The Boy with the Wooden Sword

You are eight years old the first time you learn that loneliness has a taste.

It is the flavor of cold porridge eaten in a dining hall built for forty. Of honeyed tea gone tepid because there is no one to drink it with. Of the silence that follows your own footsteps through corridors too vast for a child so small.

Your mother watches you from a gilded frame above the fireplace, her painted eyes kind and forever frozen. Your father is a king before he is a parent— you see him at feasts, at councils, at the distant end of long tables where his crown catches the candlelight and you are not allowed to run to him. Your brother, the crown prince, is away at military academy, learning to be the man you will one day serve.

The castle swallows you whole.

It is a beast of gray stone and stained glass and a thousand rooms you have never entered. Turrets claw at the sky like fingers. Tapestries whisper old battles when the wind blows through unsealed windows. The servants call you Your Highness in voices that never quite reach their eyes, and the ladies-in-waiting arrange your hair like you are a doll they are dressing for a shelf.

No one calls you little one.

No one calls you sweetheart.

No one asks what you dream about when the candles burn low and the moonlight paints silver stripes across your bedroom floor.

So you wander.

You have mapped most of the castle by the time you are six. By eight, you have begun searching for the places the maps forgot— the narrow staircases that lead nowhere, the walled-up doors that hide forgotten chambers, the corners where the dust settles thick and undisturbed and the world seems to hold its breath.

The garden behind the stables is one such place.

It is not a proper garden. There are no manicured hedges here, no marble fountains carved into the shapes of weeping maidens, no roses bred to bloom in colors that do not exist in nature. Just weeds and wildflowers and a single gnarled apple tree bent sideways by decades of wind. The ground is uneven, patched with mud and the ghosts of old footprints. The knights use it for training drills, which means it is usually scattered with broken practice swords and dented shields and the fading echoes of gruff laughter.

Your governess would collapse into a dead faint if she knew you went there.

That, you have decided, is precisely why you keep going.

On this particular afternoon— a Tuesday, you think, though Tuesdays have a habit of bleeding into Wednesdays into Thursdays into a blur of identical hours— you slip away during your embroidery lesson.

It is laughably easy.

The lady-in-waiting, a woman named Elara whose corsets are always too tight and whose patience is always too thin, has dozed off over her sewing. Her needle hangs suspended above a half-finished rose, a silver thread trailing from its eye like a spider’s silk. Her breath comes in soft, rhythmic puffs.

You set down your own needle. You rise from your cushion. You step over the discarded threads and the scattered pins and the small, sharp scissors that Elara would die if she knew you touched.

The door opens without a sound. You have learned how to make it do that.

And then you are running.

Your slippers whisper against the stone floors. Your braid— tight, immaculate, the work of twenty minutes and seven hairpins— begins to unravel behind you like a banner. The corridors blur past: portraits of ancestors you have never met, suits of armor standing sentinel over nothing, windows that spill rectangles of sunlight across the floor like spilled honey.

You do not stop until you reach the stables.

The smell hits you first— hay and leather and the warm, animal musk of horses dozing in their stalls. A stable boy looks up from a bucket of oats, recognizes the silver embroidery on your dress, and promptly forgets how to speak.

You press a finger to your lips.

He nods, wide-eyed, and goes back to his bucket.

You slip past him, through the narrow passage behind the tack room, and out into the garden.

And that is when you hear it.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

The sound of wood striking wood. Rhythmic. Relentless. A heartbeat with a blade.

You slow, pressing your shoulder against the rough stone wall. The garden opens before you, drenched in afternoon gold. The apple tree casts a crooked shadow. The weeds sway in a breeze that smells of distant rain.

And there, in the corner—

A boy.

He is maybe twelve years old, though you are not good at guessing such things. He is all sharp angles and too-long limbs, the kind of gangly that suggests he grew three inches over the summer and hasn't figured out what to do with them yet. His hair is dark— black as wet stone, black as the space between stars— and it falls across his forehead in unkempt waves that he keeps shoving back with an impatient hand.

He is wearing a tunic of plain brown wool, patched at the elbow with a stitch so crooked it must have been his own work. His boots are scuffed nearly to ruin, the leather cracked and stained with old mud. There is dirt smeared across his cheekbone and a fresh scrape on his knuckles and a smear of something that might be grease or sap across his collar.

He is holding a wooden sword.

No, not a sword. A stick. A rough-hewn piece of oak, splintered at the hilt, wrapped in fraying leather that has seen better decades. He swings it at a battered training post— an old stump hammered into the earth, scarred with a thousand previous impacts— and the impact jars up his arm.

He stumbles back. Corrects. Swings again.

He is not good at this.

His footwork is clumsy. He overcorrects, throwing his weight too far forward, then wobbling as he tries to recover. He holds the sword too high, then too low, then too high again. His jaw is set with the particular stubbornness of someone who has been told he is not good enough and has decided to prove the world wrong through sheer, bloody-minded repetition.

A bead of sweat traces a path down his temple. Another follows. His breathing is heavy but controlled— he has been at this for a while.

You should leave.

You should turn around, go back to your embroidery, pretend you never saw him.

Instead, you step forward.

A twig snaps beneath your slipper.

The boy whirls around, wooden sword raised, his dark eyes wide and immediately wary. He scans the hedge, the wall, the gap where you are standing with your silver-embroidered dress and your half-unraveled braid.

You step through the gap.

"You're doing it wrong," you say.

The boy stares at you.

You stare back.

The afternoon holds its breath. Somewhere in the stables, a horse snorts. The wind rustles the apple tree, sending a few sour-smelling blossoms drifting down between you.

"You're not supposed to be here," he says finally. His voice is lower than you expected— not quite a boy's, not yet a man's, hovering somewhere in the middle like a bird deciding whether to land.

"I'm not supposed to be anywhere," you reply.

It is the truest thing you have said all week.

He blinks. His eyes drop to your dress— blue silk, deep as midnight, embroidered with tiny silver flowers that catch the light and throw it back in fractured sparkles. The kind of garment that costs more than most people see in a year. The kind of garment that announces royalty before a single word is spoken.

Something shifts in his face.

You have seen this before. The recognition. The calculation. The moment when a stranger realizes exactly who you are and decides exactly how to behave.

But this boy does not bow.

He does not stammer.

He does not avert his eyes or back away or call you Your Highness in a voice thick with fear.

He lowers his wooden sword, tilts his head, and studies your face like you are a map he is trying to read.

"You're the princess," he says.

It is not a question.

You lift your chin. "I am."

He looks at you for a long moment. His eyes are very dark— the color of wet earth, of old forests, of secrets kept too long. They move across your face: your braid, your stubborn chin, the small scratch on your cheek from the thorn bush you pushed through yesterday.

Then he says, "You're short."

The world stops.

You have been called many things in your eight years of life. Graceful. Precocious. A credit to your bloodline. The kingdom's greatest treasure. A flower blooming in winter.

No one has ever called you short.

No one has ever called you anything so simple, so honest, so unvarnished.

You should be offended. Your governess would be scandalized. Your father would have the boy whipped for insolence.

Instead, you laugh.

The sound startles you— bright and unexpected, cracking through the quiet like a stone thrown into still water. You clap a hand over your mouth, but it is too late. The laughter spills out anyway, bubbling up from somewhere deep in your chest, a place you had forgotten existed.

The boy's eyes widen. He wasn't expecting that.

"You're bad at that," you say, pointing at the training post. The laughter is still trembling in your voice, making your words wobble.

His jaw tightens. "I'm practicing."

"You're going to hurt yourself."

"I'm not—" He stops, defensive now. A flush creeps up his neck, reddening the tips of his ears. "How would you know? You're a princess. You've probably never held a sword in your life."

"I've read about swords."

"Reading isn't the same."

"Then teach me."

The words fall out before you can catch them. They hang in the air between you— impossible, ridiculous, the kind of thing no princess has ever said to a strange boy in a ruined garden.

He stares at you like you have grown feathers.

"Teach you," he repeats flatly.

"That's what I said." You step forward, already reaching for the wooden sword in his hand. "Show me how to hold it. And then show me how to do it properly, since you're clearly doing it wrong."

He pulls the sword back, clutching it to his chest like a lifeline. "I can't teach a princess to fight."

"Why not?"

"Because—" He fumbles, words tangling. "Because you're a princess. You're supposed to embroider things and dance at balls and—"

"And die of boredom before I'm thirty?"

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

You plant your hands on your hips. "I don't want to embroider. I want to learn how to hit things."

The words hang there, absurd and glorious.

The boy looks at you.

You look at him.

The afternoon light filters through the branches of the apple tree, dappling his face in shifting patterns of gold and shadow. He is still dirty. Still wary. Still holding that stupid wooden sword like it is the only thing in the world that belongs to him.

But there is something else in his eyes now. Something curious. Something almost warm.

"You're strange," he says slowly.

"So I've been told."

"For a princess."

"I don't know how to be anything else."

He considers this. His thumb traces a splinter on the sword's hilt. The wind lifts his hair, revealing a small scar above his eyebrow—a thin white line, old and silvered.

Then, with a sigh that seems far too weary for someone who cannot be older than twelve, he holds out the wooden sword.

"Fine," he says. "But when you fall on your face, I'm not carrying you back to the castle."

You grin— wide and unguarded and utterly, gloriously unladylike.

"Deal."

His name is Taesan.

You learn this an hour later, after you have fallen on your face approximately seven times and he has laughed at you approximately fourteen.

"The grip is too tight," he says, circling you like a hawk circling a very confused mouse. "You're strangling it. It's a sword, not a chicken."

"I've never held a chicken either."

He pauses. Blinks. "You've never—" He stops. Shakes his head. "That explains a lot."

You stick your tongue out at him.

He raises an eyebrow but does not scold you for it. You get the sense that he does not care much about propriety— that he has spent his life outside the careful dance of courtly manners, and he sees no reason to start bowing and scraping knees now.

He steps behind you. His hands close over yours on the hilt— not tentatively, the way the older knights touch you when they must guide you down a staircase, but firmly. Like you are just another trainee and not the king's only daughter.

His palms are calloused. Warm. Slightly rough against your soft, uncalloused skin.

"Loosen your shoulders," he says, and his voice is closer than you expected, right by your ear. "You're holding all your tension here." He taps your shoulder blade with one knuckle. "You'll wear yourself out in five minutes."

"How do you know so much about swords?"

He is quiet for a moment. The only sounds are the wind dancing through the leaves of the apple tree and the distant clang of a blacksmith's hammer from somewhere beyond the stables.

Then: "My father was a knight."

"Was?"

"He died."

The words fall flat. Unadorned. He does not look away when he says them, and he does not add the usual but it's fine or don't worry about it that adults always tack onto grief like a bandage over a wound that will not close.

He just says it. A fact as solid as the stone walls of the castle.

You do not know what to say. No one has ever spoken to you so plainly about loss. The adults in your life wrap their grief in velvet and store it in dusty rooms where no one has to see it.

So you say the only thing you can.

"I'm sorry."

He shrugs. It is a small movement, barely a twitch of his shoulders, but you see something flicker across his face— gratitude, maybe. Or surprise. Or the particular ache of being seen when you expected to be invisible.

"I'm going to be one too," he says. "A knight, I mean. That's why I'm here. The captain took me on as a squire." He nods toward the training post. "I have to get better."

"You will."

He looks at you. "How do you know?"

You think about it. About the way he kept getting up every time he stumbled. About the focus in his eyes when he swung— not anger, not desperation, but something quieter. Something like promise. About the dirt on his face and the calluses on his palms and the stubborn set of his jaw that reminds you of your own reflection.

"Because you're still here," you say. "Even when no one's watching."

The words land somewhere soft.

His expression shifts— a crack in the armor he did not know he was wearing. Something raw and young and achingly vulnerable passes through his dark eyes, there and gone so quickly you almost miss it.

Then he reaches out and ruffles your hair.

Your braid, already half-undone, gives up entirely. Strands spill across your face. A few hairpins ping to the ground.

"You're still strange," he says.

But his voice is warmer now. Softer. Like honey left too close to the fire.

And when you push the hair out of your eyes and smile up at him— shameless, unafraid, unreasonably happy—

He smiles back.

It is the first time you have seen him smile.

It changes his whole face. The wariness melts away. The sharp edges soften. He looks, for one breathless moment, like a boy instead of a soldier. Like someone who might laugh at your jokes and catch you when you fall and stay, just because you asked him to.

You do not know it yet.

But you will spend the rest of your life trying to see that smile again.

You go back to the garden the next day.

And the day after that.

And the day after that.

Each time, you find him there, practicing his swings against the old training post. Each time, he pretends to be annoyed to see you. "Don't you have princess things to do?" Each time, he hands you the wooden sword without being asked.

He teaches you to stand without wobbling. To swing without closing your eyes. To block, though your arms ache and your palms blister and your governess asks why you keep sneaking off to "explore the library" with a strange, secret little smile.

You teach him, in return, without meaning to. You teach him that not all nobles are cold. That loneliness wears the same face whether you sleep on silk or straw. That there is a difference between being alone and being lonely, and you have been both for longer than you can remember.

You teach him that the princess is not just a crown on a cushion.

She is a girl who laughs too loudly and falls too often and asks too many questions.

She is a girl who, for reasons she cannot name, feels safe when he is nearby.

He teaches you, in return, without trying. He teaches you that strength is not the absence of fear but the refusal to stop swinging. That grief does not have to be loud to be real. That the best conversations happen in silence, side by side, watching the clouds drag their shadows across the distant mountains.

He teaches you that the heart does not wait for permission.

It simply wants.

And yours, small and eight years old and utterly unprepared, has already begun to want him.

That night, you lie in your vast bed, staring at the canopy above your head.

The castle is silent. The servants have tucked you in. The guards have bowed at your door. The candles have been extinguished one by one, leaving only the silver wash of moonlight through the window.

Everything is exactly as it should be.

But something has shifted.

You close your eyes and see him. The boy with the wooden sword. The dirt on his cheek. The roughness of his palms. The way he looked at you when he smiled— not at the princess, not at the crown or the title or the weight of a kingdom's expectations—

But at you.

You do not know his last name. You do not know where he sleeps or what he eats for breakfast or whether he misses his father as much as you miss your mother's voice. You do not know that one day, his name will be the first thing you reach for in the dark, or that his absence will feel like a hole in the world.

You only know that when you are with him, you do not feel lonely.

And that, you are beginning to understand, is the most dangerous thing in the world.

Because princesses are not allowed to keep the things that make them happy.

Princesses are allowed to keep kingdoms.

And a boy with a wooden sword, a boy with dirt on his face and calluses on his palms, a boy who looks at you like you are a person instead of a position—

He is not a kingdom.

He is something far more precious.

taglist: @moesthinking ℘ @taestulipss ℘ @tsanho

credits: lace, sparkle line, line and glowing stars by @cursed-carmine, chapter divider by @honeyluvsw, header by @niiqv

want more scripts? visit the masterlist! want to be a vip? visit the taglist!

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ filmed on 16th may.

[haksgirl]

WEDDING BELLS

🎤︎︎ Jaehyun is marrying a good man. Sung Hanbin is a good man. Sungho, her best friend and secret heart, is zipping up her wedding dress. In a decade that forbids their love, all they have left is this one quiet room, a few untouched buttons, and the devastating knowledge that letting go is the only way to keep each other safe.

fem!jaehyun x fem!sungho ──── internalized homophobia, compulsory heterosexuality, closeted queer relationship, unrequited (mutual) love, no happy ending. (wc 1k)

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• for @coriihanniee

The scent of wilting gardenias hung heavy in the bridal suite, a cloying sweetness that did nothing to mask the sharper tang of nerves and hairspray. Park Sungho stood behind her best friend, her hands hovering over the delicate row of satin buttons that ran down the spine of the white wedding dress.

Myung Jaehyun stood motionless before a three-paneled mirror, her reflection fractured into a dozen versions of a bride she never thought she’d become. Her dark hair was swept up, a few deliberate tendrils framing a face that was all sharp, anxious beauty. She was staring at herself, but Sungho knew she wasn't really seeing the lace, the pearls, the future.

"Breathe, Jae," Sungho murmured, her voice a low, steady thing she didn't feel. She took the first button, slipping it through its silk loop. Her knuckles brushed against the warm, bare skin of Jaehyun’s back. It was a touch so familiar it was a second language, and yet today, it burned.

Jaehyun inhaled shakily. "I'm breathing."

"Like a drowning woman," Sungho countered softly, moving to the next button. One. The mirror caught her own gaze— sharp, tired, dressed in a dusty rose chiffon that felt like a costume. The maid of honor. The best friend. The secret keeper.

Two. She thought of all the mornings that led here. Lying on Jaehyun’s twin bed in 1971, a transistor radio humming Carole King's 'Where You Lead I Will Follow', their knees touching. Jaehyun had traced the lines on Sungho’s palm and whispered, "Do you ever think about running away? Just... getting in a car and driving west until the ocean stops us?"

"Every day," Sungho had answered, and she’d meant it. Meant it as a life with Jaehyun in a little cottage by the sea, where no one knew their names and no one cared who they held at night.

Three. She thought of the night last spring. The night everything broke. Jaehyun had come to her apartment, rain-soaked and trembling, not from the cold. Her parents had introduced her to Hanbin, a banker’s son with kind eyes and a safe, solid future. A good match.

"He’s nice," Jaehyun had choked out, her back against Sungho's door. "He's so nice, Sungho. And when he looks at me, all I can think is... he isn't you."

Sungho had crossed the room in two strides. She had cupped Jaehyun’s face, wiping rainwater and tears away with her thumbs. "Then don't do it," she had pleaded, a raw, desperate sound she’d never allowed herself before. "We can go. Tomorrow. West. The ocean. I don't care if we have to sleep in the car."

For one devastating, suspended moment, Jaehyun had leaned in. Their foreheads touched. Their breath mingled— cold rain and hot coffee. Sungho felt Jaehyun’s fingers clutch the fabric of her cardigan, pulling her closer. She tasted the salt on Jaehyun’s lips a second before they even met. It was a kiss that was less a beginning and more an admission of a truth they had been writing in invisible ink for years.

Then Jaehyun had torn herself away. "We can't," she had sobbed, the words scraping her throat raw. "They’ll destroy us, Sungho. Your teaching license. My family. We'd have nothing. We'd be nothing."

"You'd be everything," Sungho had whispered against Jaehyun's lips.

Four. Sungho’s fingers stalled on the next button, right at the small of Jaehyun’s back. The only sounds were the distant clink of champagne glasses from the garden below and the ragged, unsteady rhythm of their shared silence.

"You're thinking too loud," Jaehyun said, her voice barely a thread.

"You're standing too still," Sungho replied. She finished the button and reached for the next, but her hand didn’t move. Instead, she laid her palm flat against the small of Jaehyun’s back, feeling the frantic flutter of a pulse that matched her own. She let herself have this one, final touch. Their last secret.

"Sungho." Jaehyun’s voice cracked on the name.

"I know."

Sungho looked up. In the mirror, their eyes met. Jaehyun’s were glassy, a universe of unsaid things collapsing behind them. Her lower lip trembled, the careful pink lipstick doing nothing to hide the way she was silently, actively falling apart. Sungho saw it all— the apology, the terror, the love so big and so forbidden it had to be disguised as friendship every single day.

And Jaehyun, looking back, saw the same devastation mirrored in Sungho’s unwavering gaze. She saw the girl who held her hair back when she was sick, who defended her against cruel rumors, who knew the exact pressure of her hand in the dark. She saw the life they would never have. The wife Sungho would have been, in a better world.

Sungho finished the last button. The dress was closed and the lie was complete.

"There," she whispered, stepping back. The space between them was now an ocean. "You're ready."

She moved to the vanity and picked up the veil— a cascade of ivory tulle. As she turned, a single tear escaped and traced a hot path down her cheek. She didn't wipe it away. Let it be a witness.

Jaehyun watched her approach, her own tears finally spilling over. She didn't lift a hand to stop them.

Sungho carefully settled the comb into Jaehyun’s updo, arranging the veil so it fell like soft water over her shoulders. Her fingers lingered for a heartbeat on the fine hairs at Jaehyun’s nape.

She leaned in, her lips barely brushing the shell of Jaehyun’s ear. Not a whisper, not a promise. Just an exhalation of everything they couldn't say. I love you. I'm sorry. I miss you.

"Just breathe," Sungho said again. But this time, it wasn't a command. It was a goodbye.

From the hallway, a cheerful knock. "Ten minutes, ladies!" Hanbin’s mother’s voice, bright and unknowing.

Sungho stepped back, her hands falling to her sides. She picked up the small bouquet of white roses and handed it to Jaehyun. Their fingers touched, a spark of static electricity, sharp and brief.

Jaehyun looked at her one last time. A question. A plea. An eternity.

And Sungho, the best friend, the maid of honor, the secret heart of the bride, gave her a smile so beautiful and so utterly broken that it would haunt Jaehyun’s every anniversary, every quiet midnight, every time her husband asked her what she was thinking about.

"After you," Sungho said, and opened the door to the rest of their lives.

taglist: @moesthinking ℘ @taestulipss ℘ @tsanho ℘ @lovehakie

credits: lace and glowing stars by @cursed-carmine

want more scripts? visit the masterlist! want to be a vip?visit the taglist!

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ filmed on 16th may.

[haksgirl]

JUST ONE HIT OF YOU

🎤︎︎ Taesan shows up at Leehan's door with a speech prepared— he's done with their friends-with-benefits arrangement, done with the cycle of wanting and waiting and never being enough. But Leehan takes one look at him and sees right through the act. Because Taesan didn't come here to leave. He came here to be convinced to stay. And Leehan has never been the kind of person who lets go of something he wants.

leehan x taesan ──── super suggestive, explicitly obvious that they're gonna fuck, friends-with-benefits, emotional manipulation, kinda toxic rs, power play, coercion, dom!leehan i'm gonna freak you so hard, 16+ only (wc 5.4k)

♬.ᐟ never be the same by camila cabello.

The word stop had been sitting on the tip of Taesan's tongue for weeks now, a bitter and necessary pill that he knew he needed to swallow even though every fiber of his being seemed to rebel against the very thought of it. He had rehearsed the conversation in every possible setting— in the reflection of his bathroom mirror while the water ran cold from the sink, in the driver's seat of his car with his forehead resting against the steering wheel, in the quiet moments before dawn when Leehan would inevitably text him a simple 'you up?' and all of his carefully constructed resolve would crumble to ash before he could even type out a reply. 

This cycle had become exhausting in a way that ran deeper than physical exhaustion, eating away at something inside him that he hadn't even realized he'd been protecting until it was already too late to build the walls back up, and the worst part was that Leehan knew it. He could see Taesan's desperation written in every shaky breath and every late-night text, and he wielded that knowledge with a casual cruelty that Taesan pretended not to notice because noticing would mean admitting that he was allowing himself to be used in ways that had nothing to do with the arrangement they had agreed upon and his ego was too inflated to allow such a conclusion to come to light.

But tonight, he had made it all the way to Leehan's front door without turning back, and he was trying desperately to convince himself that the hardest part was already over, that he could say what he needed to say and walk away and finally reclaim whatever piece of himself he had lost somewhere between Leehan's bedroom and his own empty apartment.

Leehan opened the door with a soft, sleepy smile that Taesan knew all too well, his hair mussed from what might have been a nap or might have been the casual way he always ran his fingers through it when he was alone, and he was wearing a thin white t-shirt that hung loosely off one shoulder in a way that felt almost deliberately distracting. The warm amber light from the living room spilled out into the dark hallway behind him, wrapping around his silhouette and pulling Taesan forward like a tide that he had never once been able to resist, no matter how hard he tried to plant his feet and stand his ground. 

There was something in Leehan's expression that suggested he already knew exactly why Taesan was standing there, had probably known before Taesan had even made the decision to come, because Leehan always seemed to be several steps ahead when it came to the delicate mechanics of taking Han Taesan apart.

"Hey," Leehan murmured, his voice still carrying that slight rasp that suggested he might have actually been asleep before Taesan texted him, and he stepped aside with a lazy sweep of his arm that was less an invitation and more a command dressed up in polite clothing.

Taesan didn't move from the threshold. Instead, he stood there with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his leather jacket, his shoulders set in a straight line he hoped conveyed more conviction than he actually felt, and yet he could already feel the familiar pull of Leehan's presence working against him, softening the edges of his determination before he had even opened his mouth to speak. There was something about the way Leehan leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed and his head tilted that made Taesan's steady-not-so-steady resolve crack like a glass window when hit by a rock named Kim Leehan.

"We need to talk," Taesan said, and the words came out flatter and heavier than he had intended, landing between them with a weight that immediately changed the atmosphere of the entire hallway, and he watched Leehan's expression shift from lazy amusement to something sharper, more focused, like a cat that had just heard something interesting rustling in the grass.

The shift in Leehan's expression was subtle but unmistakable— his easy smile flickered for just a moment, replaced by a flicker of curiosity that gradually sharpened into something more alert, more predatory, as he let his gaze travel slowly down Taesan's body and back up again in a way that made Taesan's skin prickle with awareness. He didn't look hurt or surprised, exactly, and that was part of the problem— Leehan never looked hurt, never looked like any of this cost him anything at all, which meant that Taesan was always the one left carrying the weight of this fragile thing that had grown between them, always the one who cared too much and showed it too clearly and made himself too available for Leehan to pick up and put down as he pleased.

"That's a 'come in and break my heart' kind of tone, not a 'come in and hook up' kind of tone," Leehan observed, and there was something almost bored in his voice, like Taesan's emotional turmoil was just a mildly interesting diversion from an otherwise uneventful evening. "But you're still standing there with your hands in your pockets and that look on your face, so I'm guessing whatever speech you've prepared isn't going the way you wanted it to."

Taesan's jaw tightened at the accuracy of the assessment, because of course Leehan would see right through him— he always did, and that was part of the problem, the way Leehan could read him so easily while Taesan himself was left fumbling in the dark, never quite sure what any of this meant to the other man or if it meant anything at all beyond the convenience of proximity and the comfort of familiar hands in familiar places. There was something cruel in the way Leehan said it, something that acknowledged Taesan's weakness without pretending to care about the reasons behind it, and Taesan felt the familiar burn of shame settle into his chest alongside the want that never seemed to leave him alone.

"That's the point," he said quietly, and he finally stepped inside, brushing past Leehan into the living room without waiting to be led toward the bedroom like he usually would have done, because if he went toward the bedroom he would never say what he needed to say, and they both knew it.

He stopped in the center of the room, where the city lights from the floor-to-ceiling windows painted long silver and gold shadows across the hardwood floor, and he could hear Leehan close the front door behind him with a soft click and lock that felt more final than any door closing had ever felt before. The silence that settled between them was heavy and expectant, filled with all the things Taesan had been trying to say for months and all the things he still didn't know how to put into words even now that the moment had finally arrived, and when he turned around to face Leehan, he found the other man already watching him with an expression that was impossible to read, dark eyes half-lidded and lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.

Leehan didn't rush him, didn't offer any of the usual teasing remarks that might have broken the tension or given Taesan an easier way into the conversation— he just leaned back against the door he had just closed, his arms still crossed and his head tilted slightly to one side, and waited with the kind of patience that felt more like a trap than a kindness. There was something almost clinical in the way he observed Taesan, like he was waiting to see how this would play out, waiting to see how long it would take for Taesan to break and say what he actually meant instead of what he had rehearsed.

"This thing between us," Taesan started, his voice rougher than he wanted it to be, and he gestured vaguely between them like he could somehow encompass the entirety of their arrangement in one sweeping motion of his hand. "The friends with benefits thing, or whatever we've been calling it to make ourselves feel better about the fact that neither of us has wanted to admit what it actually is."

Leehan's eyebrows rose just slightly, a flicker of genuine interest breaking through his otherwise composed expression, but he didn't interrupt— he just waited, and the weight of his attention was almost unbearable, pressing down on Taesan's chest and making it hard to breathe.

"It's too much for me," Taesan continued, and the admission came out shakier than he had planned, his voice catching on the words in a way that made him sound far more vulnerable than he wanted to sound right now. "It's not what I signed up for, or maybe it is and I just didn't realize what I was getting myself into until it was too late to back out without losing something I didn't even know I had to lose. Either way, I can't do this anymore, Leehan. I need us to stop."

The words landed in the space between them like stones dropped into still water, and Taesan watched Leehan's face carefully for any sign of what he might be thinking, any crack in the composed facade that would tell him whether this conversation was hurting the other man even half as much as it was hurting him to have to say it. But Leehan's expression remained frustratingly unreadable, that same half-smile playing at his lips, and when he finally pushed off from the door and started walking toward Taesan, there was something in the deliberate slowness of his approach that made Taesan's stomach clench with a mixture of apprehension and the familiar, sickening pull of wanting that he could never quite suppress.

Leehan didn't stop until he was close enough that Taesan could smell the familiar combination of his laundry detergent and the faint clean scent of his skin, close enough that Taesan had to tilt his chin up slightly to maintain eye contact, close enough that all the carefully rehearsed arguments he had prepared started to blur and fragment in his mind. He didn't touch Taesan— not yet— but he was close enough that Taesan could feel the warmth radiating off his body, close enough that the tension between them had nowhere to go, close enough that Taesan had to consciously stop himself from leaning forward into his space and giving up on this entire conversation before it had really begun.

"So you're quitting," Leehan said, and it wasn't a question— it was an observation delivered in that low, even voice that always made Taesan feel like he was being seen more clearly than he wanted to be seen, all his defenses stripped away by the simple weight of Leehan's attention. He tilted his head, studying Taesan the way he might study something mildly interesting under a microscope, and there was something in his expression that might have been amusement or might have been contempt or might have been some combination of both that Taesan didn't have the clarity to untangle.

"I have to," Taesan replied, and he hated how small his voice sounded, how much it sounded like he was asking for permission rather than making a declaration, like he was presenting his case to a judge who had already made up his mind.

"You sound like you're trying to convince yourself more than you're trying to convince me," Leehan observed, reaching out to let his fingers brush against the edge of Taesan's jacket sleeve in a touch so light it was barely there at all, a tease of contact that made Taesan's skin prickle with the desperate need for more. "And you came all the way here to tell me no—you could have sent a text, you could have just not shown up tonight and let me figure it out on my own, which would have been the easier way to do it if you actually wanted to end things. But you're standing in my living room at one in the morning instead, wearing that jacket I like, with that look on your face that you only get when you've been thinking about me too much, which makes me wonder whether you actually wanted to end things or whether you wanted to give me one last chance to remind you why you keep coming back."

The logic was a trap, and Taesan could see it as clearly as he could see the faint smile playing at the corner of Leehan's lips, but knowing it was a trap and being able to resist it were two very different things, and he had never once been able to resist Leehan when he was looking at him like this—like he already knew the outcome of the conversation, like Taesan's attempts at resistance were nothing more than a formality to be observed before the inevitable surrender.

"I wanted to say it to your face," Taesan said, and even to his own ears the words sounded hollow, a flimsy excuse that couldn't possibly hold up under the weight of Leehan's scrutiny, and he could see from the way Leehan's smile widened that the other man could hear the lie in his voice as clearly as he could hear the truth underneath it.

"Did you really?" Leehan murmured, and there was something almost indulgent in his tone, like he was humoring a child who was pretending not to want a toy that was sitting right in front of them. His fingers found the zipper of Taesan's jacket and pulled it down with a slow, deliberate motion that made the metallic sound seem unnervingly loud in the quiet room, and he didn't look at what he was doing, kept his eyes locked on Taesan's face the entire time, watching for the reaction that he already knew he was going to get.

Leehan pushed the jacket off Taesan's shoulders with a kind of casual authority that made Taesan's breath catch in his throat, letting it fall to the floor with a soft thud that neither of them looked down to acknowledge, and then his hands came up to thread into the hair at the nape of Taesan's neck with a touch that was light and patient and absolutely maddening in its restraint. His fingers curled slightly, just enough to tilt Taesan's head back, just enough to expose the line of his throat, just enough to remind Taesan exactly who was in control of this interaction and always had been.

"Or did you come here hoping that I would give you a reason to stay?" Leehan continued, his voice dropping to something softer, something that might have been mistaken for tenderness if Taesan didn't know better, didn't know that Leehan's softness was just another tool in the arsenal he used to keep Taesan exactly where he wanted him. "Hoping that I would do exactly what I'm doing right now, so that you wouldn't have to be the one to make the choice? So that you could tell yourself that you tried to leave, that you were strong enough to say the words, and it was me who didn't let you go, which means it's not your fault that you're still here?"

Taesan's heart was pounding so hard against his ribs that he was certain Leehan could feel it, could probably see it in the way his chest was rising and falling with each shaky breath he took, and he knew that this was the moment— this was where he had to be strong, where he had to push Leehan away and repeat the word stop and mean it this time, because if he didn't do it now then he never would, and he would be right back where he started, trapped in a cycle that was slowly consuming everything he thought he knew about himself. But there was something in Leehan's eyes that told him it was already too late, that the moment he had walked through the door he had already lost, and everything that had happened since then was just the slow, inevitable march toward the conclusion they both already knew was coming.

"Tell me to stop," Leehan whispered, his face now inches away from Taesan's, and his eyes were half-lidded and dark, holding that dangerous, knowing glint that had undone Taesan more times than he could count. His fingers tightened in Taesan's hair, not enough to hurt but enough to make his scalp prickle, enough to remind him that Leehan could pull harder if he wanted to, that Leehan had pulled harder before and Taesan had let him, had asked for it even, had begged for it when the mood was right and the boundaries between them had blurred into something that didn't have names anymore. "Look me in the eye and say it one more time. Tell me you don't want this, tell me you don't want me, and I'll let you walk out that door and I won't text you again. But you have to mean it, Taesan. You have to actually mean it, and we both know you don't."

There was a cruelty in the way he said it, a casual dismissal of everything Taesan had just tried to tell him about needing to stop, about this being too much, about the way it was slowly destroying something inside him— it was all reduced to nothing, invalidated by the simple fact that Taesan's body was betraying him, that his breathing had gone shallow and his eyes were fixed on Leehan's lips and his hands were already twitching with the need to reach out and touch. Leehan saw all of it, catalogued it with the same detached interest he might have applied to any other data set, and found it wanting in the only way that mattered to him.

Taesan opened his mouth, and the word was right there on his tongue, shaped and ready to be spoken, the single syllable that would free him from all of this if he could just manage to push it past his lips. But Leehan's fingers were in his hair and Leehan's body was pressed against his and Leehan's mouth was right there, close enough to kiss, close enough that Taesan could feel the warmth of his breath against his lips, and the word died in his throat before it could become anything more than a whisper of air.

Leehan smiled, slow and satisfied, like he had just watched Taesan make a choice that had never really been a choice at all, and then he closed the remaining distance between them with a kiss that was nothing like the frantic, desperate kisses they usually shared when they were already halfway to the bedroom with clothes coming off before the door was even fully closed. This kiss was slow and deep and devastatingly patient, Leehan's lips parting against his with a soft, searching pressure that sent a jolt of pure electricity down Taesan's spine and settled somewhere deep in his chest, and when Leehan let out a quiet, satisfied hum against his mouth, it was like being offered a drug after weeks of trying to go cold turkey, like every cell in his body was crying out in relief at being given what it had been craving, and the worst part was that Leehan knew it, could probably feel it in the way Taesan's entire body sagged against him, all the fight draining out of his limbs in the space between one breath and the next.

All the resistance that Taesan had been clinging to dissolved in an instant, all the carefully constructed walls he had spent weeks building up and reinforcing crumbling to dust as his hands came up to grip Leehan's hips, fingers digging into the sharp jut of bone there as he pulled him flush against his body, needing him closer, needing more of the warmth that was flooding through his veins and erasing every coherent thought from his mind. A sound escaped him— something low and helpless and humiliating in its honesty— and he felt Leehan smile against his lips, a victorious curve that made his head spin even more than the kiss itself, because Leehan was smiling like he had won something, like Taesan's surrender was exactly what he had been waiting for all along.

"There we go," Leehan murmured against his lips, the words barely more than a breath, and there was something in his voice that might have been satisfaction or might have been affection or might have been some combination of both that Taesan was too far gone to parse. "There's the truth."

Leehan's fingers tightened in his hair, tilting his head to deepen the angle, and he walked them backward slowly, deliberately, guiding them around the coffee table and over the discarded jacket with the kind of unhurried confidence that spoke to someone who had never doubted how this was going to end. Taesan went where he was pushed, his body moving on instinct, his hands still gripping Leehan's hips like they were the only thing keeping him upright, and when the back of his knees hit the arm of the couch, he didn't resist when Leehan pushed him down onto the cushions, didn't resist when Leehan climbed into his lap without breaking the kiss, his thighs bracketing Taesan's hips and his arms winding around Taesan's shoulders in a way that made him feel simultaneously trapped and entirely, utterly claimed.

The kiss finally broke, but only barely— their foreheads rested together, breath mingling in the small space between their lips, and Taesan's hands had somehow found their way underneath Leehan's shirt, his palms pressed flat against the warm, bare skin of his lower back, feeling the slight tremor that ran through him when Taesan's fingers moved experimentally against the base of his spine. His mind was nothing but static now, every rational thought he had brought with him replaced by the singular overwhelming sensation of Leehan's weight in his lap, Leehan's hands in his hair, Leehan's breath warm against his lips, and somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that he had lost something in this moment, that he had given up more than just this argument, that Leehan had taken something from him that he wasn't going to get back. 

"You were saying something," Leehan murmured, his voice thick and satisfied, and he pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the corner of Taesan's jaw before trailing down the side of his neck, lips dragging against the sensitive skin there with a patience that felt almost cruel given how desperately Taesan's pulse was racing under his mouth. His teeth grazed lightly against the curve of Taesan's throat, not hard enough to leave a mark but hard enough to send a shiver down his spine, and Taesan could feel him smiling against his skin, could feel the satisfaction radiating off him like heat.

Taesan let his head fall back against the couch, his eyes fluttering shut as Leehan's lips found the spot just below his ear that he had always been too good at exploiting, and he knew he should be angry— at Leehan for knowing exactly which buttons to push, for being so confident in his ability to undo Taesan with nothing more than a kiss and a whisper and the weight of his body, for treating Taesan's attempts to leave like they were nothing more than a game to be won. But mostly he was angry at himself for being so pathetically, inexcusably weak when it came to this particular person in this particular context, for walking into this apartment with every intention of ending things and leaving as himself, only to be reduced to this within minutes of Leehan touching him.

The word stop had been incinerated somewhere between the first press of Leehan's lips and the moment his thighs had settled around Taesan's hips, and there was no getting it back now— there had never been any getting it back, not really, not when Leehan knew exactly how to take it from him every single time.

"Leehan," he breathed, and his voice came out as a wrecked whisper that didn't sound like his own, a sound of pure surrender that made Leehan pull back just enough to look at him with something that might have been triumph or might have been tenderness, or might have been some combination of both that Taesan didn't have the clarity to parse right now.

Leehan's face was flushed, his lips reddened and slightly parted, and he reached up to cup Taesan's face in both hands, his thumbs stroking slow, gentle arcs across Taesan's cheekbones with a tenderness that felt more devastating than any of the rougher, more desperate touches they had ever shared. The contrast between the gentleness of his hands and the weight of his thighs, between the softness in his expression and the lingering satisfaction in his eyes, was doing something to Taesan's chest that he didn't want to examine too closely, something that felt dangerously close to the emotions he had been trying to protect himself from by ending this arrangement in the first place.

"There's no need for speeches," Leehan said quietly, his voice low and certain, and there was something almost kind in the way he said it, which made it worse somehow, made Taesan feel like he was being managed rather than comforted. "You don't have to pretend with me, Taesan. I know what you need, and I know you're not going to find it anywhere else. So why don't you stop trying to convince yourself that you want something different and just let yourself have this?"

He said it like he was doing Taesan a favor, like he was offering him a gift rather than drawing him back into something that Taesan had just spent weeks trying to escape, and the worst part was that Taesan couldn't tell if Leehan believed it or if he just knew that saying it was the fastest way to get Taesan to stop fighting. Maybe there was no difference between the two, maybe Leehan's confidence in his own rightness was so absolute that the distinction didn't exist anymore, and Taesan had been tangled up in it for so long that he had stopped being able to see where Leehan ended and his own desperate wanting began.

Leehan leaned in again, but this time he didn't kiss Taesan immediately— he stopped with his lips barely brushing against Taesan's, close enough that Taesan could feel the warmth of his breath, close enough that the anticipation was almost unbearable, and he stayed there for a long, agonizing moment, waiting, letting Taesan feel the weight of his own need pressing against his chest.

"Tell me what you want," Leehan whispered against his lips, and there was a challenge in his voice, a dare that he knew Taesan wasn't going to refuse, not now, not when he was already trembling with the effort of holding himself back from closing the distance. "I want to hear you say it."

Taesan's hands tightened on Leehan's hips, his fingers pressing into the warm skin there with a desperation that he couldn't hide even if he wanted to, and he could feel the last remnants of his resistance crumbling away, could feel himself giving in to the inevitable with the same kind of hollow resignation that had become familiar to him over the past several months. He had come here to end things, had stood in this very room and said the words out loud, and now he was going to ask for what Leehan wanted him to ask for, was going to say the words that would keep him trapped in this cycle for another week, another month, another however-long Leehan decided he wanted to keep him around.

"Please," he said, and his voice was barely audible, a broken whisper that he would have been ashamed of if he had any shame left where Leehan was concerned. "Please, Leehan."

Leehan's smile was slow and satisfied, a predator watching his prey finally stop struggling, and he closed the remaining distance between them with a kiss that was deeper and more demanding than the first one, his tongue sliding against Taesan's lower lip before Taesan even had time to catch his breath. His fingers tightened in Taesan's hair, pulling just hard enough to make Taesan gasp against his mouth, and he swallowed the sound like he was claiming it, like he was claiming all of it, like Taesan's surrender was exactly what he had been waiting for from the moment he opened the door.

"Good boy," Leehan murmured against his lips, and the words sent a shiver down Taesan's spine that he couldn't suppress, a reaction that Leehan felt and smiled into the kiss, and Taesan hated how much he wanted to hear it again, hated how much those two words made his head go blank and his hands shake and his body press closer to Leehan's like he was trying to disappear into him.

Leehan pulled back just enough to look at him, and there was something in his expression that Taesan couldn't quite name— satisfaction, certainly, but something else too, something that might have been possession or might have been fondness or might have been the particular brand of cruelty that only came from knowing someone well enough to take them apart completely. He ran his thumb along Taesan's lower lip, pressing down just slightly, watching the way Taesan's breath caught and his eyes fluttered half-shut, and he looked like he was savoring something, like he was committing this moment to memory so he could come back to it later when he wanted to remind himself of exactly how much power he held over the person in front of him.

"Come on," Leehan said, and his voice was low and certain, leaving no room for argument, no space for Taesan to pretend that he had any choice in what was about to happen next. He slid off Taesan's lap with a fluid grace that Taesan had always envied, but he didn't let go of his hand, his fingers wrapped around Taesan's wrist with a grip that was firm enough to be a command and light enough to be a promise. "I think we've talked enough for one night."

He pulled Taesan up from the couch, and Taesan went without resistance, his body moving on autopilot, his mind still caught somewhere between the remnants of his earlier resolve and the overwhelming reality of Leehan's hand around his wrist and the direction they were heading. He knew where they were going— he had walked this path enough times to recognize the turn toward the hallway, the soft glow of the bedroom light spilling out from the half-open door, the way Leehan's grip tightened just slightly as they got closer, like he was making sure Taesan didn't change his mind at the last moment, like there was any chance of that happening now.

Leehan paused at the threshold, turning back to look at Taesan with an expression that was impossible to read— dark eyes half-lidded, lips still reddened from the kiss, hair falling across his forehead in a way that made him look softer than Taesan knew he was capable of being. He didn't say anything, didn't need to say anything, because the question was written in the tilt of his head and the curve of his smile and the way his hand was still wrapped around Taesan's wrist, steady and certain and completely inescapable.

Taesan looked at him— at the sharp line of his jaw, the knowing glint in his eyes, the way he stood in the doorway like he was waiting for something, like he already knew what Taesan was going to do before Taesan knew it himself— and he understood with a clarity that settled deep into his bones that he had never really had a choice, not tonight, not any of the other nights he had told himself he was going to end this, not ever. Leehan had seen through him from the very beginning, had known exactly how this would go before Taesan had even knocked on his door, and the worst part was that Taesan couldn't even bring himself to care anymore, couldn't find the part of himself that was supposed to be fighting against this, because Leehan's hand was around his wrist and Leehan's eyes were on his face and Leehan was looking at him like he was something worth keeping, even if only for the night.

Leehan pulled him forward, across the threshold and into the bedroom, and Taesan followed.

taglist: @moesthinking ℘ @taestulipss ℘ @tsanho ℘ @lovehakie

credits: tiara by @anitalenia

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꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ filmed on 26th mar.

[haksgirl]

ONCE UPON A WISH MOODBOARD

“I had spent my whole life learning how to stand unshaken before war, before death, before kings— but nothing had prepared me for the quiet moment I had to bow as they placed another man’s ring on your hand, and pretend my heart was not breaking beneath my armor.”

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[haksgirl]

ALL FOR YOU

🎤︎︎ Leehan has been watching Taesan all night— the sharp tongue, the attitude, the game of pretending she doesn't care. Taesan wants to be chased. But Leehan doesn't chase. She waits, she watches, and when the tension finally snaps, the only thing that matters is who breaks first.

fem!taesan x fem!leehan ──── brat taming?, possessive behavior, light hair-pulling, biting/marking, public-ish make out, alcohol consumption, 16+ only (wc 1.4k)

The bass from the speakers was a low-frequency thrum that settled in the hollow of Taesan’s chest and vibrated against her ribs. The house was packed, a humid crush of bodies and the cloying sweetness of cheap vodka and expensive perfume. She was pressed into a corner of the living room, a red plastic cup that her fingers wrapped around, the liquid inside long gone warm and forgotten. Her hair clung to the nape of her neck, slick with sweat and hyperaware of the eyes on her.

She was watching her.

Leehan was across the room, dressed in a black dress that caught the eyes of passerbys and the white light of the overhead lights turned her blonde hair into a halo o fgold. She wasn’t dancing, not really. She was holding court, a lazy smile on her lips as she listened to someone Taesan didn’t care to identify. But her eyes— a piercing hazel pair that looked almost gold in this light— weren’t on the person talking. They were on Taesan. They had been for the last twenty minutes.

It was a gaze that didn’t just look; it assessed. It peeled back layers, found the frayed edges, and pulled on them with deliberate, maddening patience. Taesan knew this game. She was the one who usually started it, a sharp comment, a roll of her eyes, something to spark the fire. But tonight, Leehan had been silent, wielding her attention like a scalpel, and it was working. The tension was a coiled serpent in Taesan’s gut, tightening with every casual flick of those gold-tipped eyes.

Finally, the taut thread snapped— not in a rush, but in a slow, deliberate pull. Leehan excused herself from her conversation with a murmured word, her movements fluid as she began to navigate the crowd. She didn’t walk directly toward Taesan. Instead, she moved like a shark, cutting a slow, arcing path that let her brush past her, so close the scent of her perfume— bergamot and something smoky— cut through the stale air.

A single finger, cool and deliberate, trailed along the inside of Taesan’s bare forearm. It was a ghost of a touch, a question posed in the negative space it left behind. Leehan continued walking, towards the stairs that led upstairs to the bedrooms, without so much as a glance back.

It wasn’t an invitation. It was a summons.

Taesan’s jaw tightened. The brat in her, the part that lived for the friction, screamed to stay put, to make her come back and ask. But the rest of her, the part that was already thrumming with anticipation, set her cup down on a shelf. Her feet followed before her pride could mount a proper defense.

She found Leehan at the end of the hall, leaning against the doorframe of a dimly lit study. The party noise was a muffled roar up here, the air cooler, charged with an almost tangible electricity. Leehan’s arms were crossed, but it wasn’t a closed-off posture; it was one of containment, as if she were physically holding herself back. Her blonde hair fell over one shoulder, and she tilted her head, a slow, predatory movement.

“You’ve been staring all night,” Taesan said, her voice coming out sharper than she intended, a defense mechanism kicking in. She leaned against the opposite wall, exhibiting nonchalance that she was far from feeling. “Couldn’t resist?”

Leehan’s lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Those eyes were focused, intense, drinking in the sight of Taesan with a hunger that made her stomach flip. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was watching to see how long it would take for that bratty little act of yours to get old.”

It was a direct hit, and they both knew it. Taesan’s eyes narrowed. “Act?”

“Mm.” Leehan pushed off the doorframe, taking one slow, deliberate step forward, then another. Her heels made no sound on the old wooden floor. “The pout. The way you keep checking your phone even though you have no one to text. The way you’ve been sitting in that corner, waiting for someone to come give you the attention you’re too proud to admit you want.”

She stopped just a breath away, close enough that Taesan could see the faint shimmer of highlighter on her cheekbones. Taesan’s back was against the wall now, her earlier bravado crumbling under the directness of Leehan’s presence. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No?” Leehan’s hand came up, her index finger tracing the line of Taesan’s jaw with that same infuriating slowness from before. The touch was light, barely there, a whisper of intent that made Taesan’s breath catch. “Then say that again. Tell me you haven’t been wanting this. That you haven’t been thinking about my hands on you since I walked in tonight.”

The challenge hung in the air. “Say that again,” a command disguised as a question. Taesan’s pride flared, a last, valiant stand. She lifted her chin, her dark eyes meeting Leehan’s pale ones. “You’re delusional.”

Leehan’s smile widened, and it was sharp, victorious. “There it is.”

Her hand moved from Taesan’s jaw to the back of her neck, fingers threading into the dark silk of her hair. The touch was no longer a suggestion. It was a claim. She pulled, just enough to tilt Taesan’s head back, exposing the pale column of her throat. The shift in power was soswift, so absolute, it made Taesan’s head spin.

“You’re so loud from across the room,” Leehan murmured, her lips hovering just above Taesan’s ear, her breath a hot brand on the sensitive skin. “All that attitude, all those little looks. But now that you have my full attention, you have nothing to say?”

Taesan’s hands, which had been clenched at her sides, moved of their own accord. They found the cool, bare skin of Leehan’s waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh above the hip of her dress. It was a grip meant to ground herself, but it also pulled Leehan closer, eliminating the last sliver of space between them. She could feel every line of her, the firm press of her thigh between her own, the soft give of her stomach against her knuckles.

“Maybe I wanted to see if you’d make the first move for once,” Taesan breathed, the words a final, defiant spark. She let her own lips graze the corner of Leehan’s mouth, a teasing, fleeting touch. “Took you long enough.”

A low, dangerous sound rumbled in Leehan’s chest. It wasn’t a laugh. It was a growl of pure, unadulterated satisfaction. Her grip in Taesan’s hair tightened, pulling her head back further, and this time there was no hesitation. She closed the distance, and the kiss was anything but gentle.

It was a collision, all pent-up tension and unspoken words given brutal, breathtaking form. It was deep and consuming, Leehan’s tongue sliding against Taesan’s with a practiced dominance that made her knees buckle. Taesan gasped into her mouth, and Leehan swallowed the sound, using the hand in her hair to hold her steady, to control the angle, the pace. This wasn’t a negotiation. It was a conquest.

Taesan’s nails raked down Leehan’s back, a silent retaliation, a plea for more, a demand for less control—she wasn’t sure which. Leehan broke the kiss, but didn’t pull away. She rested her forehead against Taesan’s, both of them breathing hard, the air between them scorching.

“There,” Leehan whispered, her thumb stroking the sensitive spot behind Taesan’s ear, a gesture so tender it was almost obscene against the fire of the kiss. “Was that so hard? All you had to do was stop running your mouth for five seconds.”

Taesan’s eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, searched her face. The fight hadn’t left her, it had just transformed, simmering now into something deeper, more willing. “Don’t get used to it,” she managed, her voice a husky rasp.

Leehan laughed, a low, breathless sound that vibrated against Taesan’s lips. She leaned in again, but this time the kiss was slower, a deliberate, languid exploration that promised a long, drawn-out night. Her hands slid from Taesan’s hair down her sides, her thumbs tracing the dip of her waist, the flare of her hip, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” Leehan murmured against her mouth, her fingers finding the hem of Taesan’s top, slipping just beneath to press against the burning skin of her stomach. The touch was possessive and a silent declaration that this was far from over.

taglist: @moesthinking ℘ @taestulipss ℘ @tsanho ℘ @lovehakie

credits: lace and glowing stars by @cursed-carmine

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꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ filmed on 21st mar.

[haksgirl]

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[haksgirl]

SWEET THINGS DON'T LAST

🎤︎︎ You love him. You love the warmth of his skin, the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your palm, the way he smiles when you tell him to close his eyes. He should have run when you warned him. Love has always tasted sweet to you. He just never realized how sweet.

victim!jaehyun x cannibal!reader ──── obsessive love, implied cannibalism, psychological horror, possessive behavior, biting, unhealthy dynamics, established relationship, dark intimacy, disturbing themes, suggestive content. PLEASE DON'T READ IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH ANY OF THE STUFF MENTIONED ABOVE! 16+ only (wc 5.5k)

♬.ᐟ cannibal by kesha.

You have been together long enough that his room no longer feels like a place you are visiting. Your hair tie lives around the base of his desk lamp. One of your sweaters hangs over the back of his chair as if it has always belonged there. There is a faint smudge of your lipstick on the rim of a mug by his bed that neither of you has bothered to wash yet. Three months is not forever, but it is enough time for habits to settle into the spaces between you, enough time for him to reach for your hand in his sleep without waking, enough time for you to know the exact rhythm of his breathing when he is relaxed.

The late afternoon light spills across the room in long golden slants, turning the air warm and suspended. He is lying on his back on top of the covers, one arm folded behind his head, the other resting loosely over his stomach, looking at you with that familiar, open expression that always makes something in your chest tighten in a way you cannot quite name. You are propped on your elbows beside him, studying his face as if there is something written there that only you can read.

He catches you staring and smiles in that easy way he does, the corner of his mouth tipping up first before the rest follows. “What?” he asks, amused. “Do I have something on my face?”

You shake your head slowly, letting your gaze drag over him without apology. There is something almost indulgent about being allowed to look at someone this closely without being questioned, without being feared. You trace the line of his collarbone with your eyes, the soft hollow at the base of his throat, the faint pulse fluttering just beneath the skin there. You have noticed it before. You always notice it.

“You’re really pretty today,” he says suddenly, as if the thought had been circling in his head and finally decided to land.

The word settles into you like a stone dropped into still water. It does not ripple outward in warmth or embarrassment the way it probably should. Instead, it sinks deeper, heavier, lodging somewhere low in your stomach where it spreads into something sharp and insistent. Your tongue presses unconsciously against the back of your teeth. You smile because that is what he expects, because smiling is easier than explaining why your body reacts to affection the way it does.

“Today?” you ask lightly, though your voice feels slightly thinner than usual.

“Every day,” he corrects without hesitation, the faintest blush rising along his neck.

Your eyes drop there instinctively. The flush makes his skin look warmer, more alive, and you have to swallow before speaking again. It is a small motion, almost imperceptible, but it feels enormous inside you.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you murmur.

He laughs softly, the sound unguarded. “Why not?”

You don’t answer him right away. Instead, you shift closer, sliding one leg over his hips until you are straddling him. The mattress dips under your weight, and he instinctively places his hands at your waist to steady you, his thumbs brushing lightly against your sides through the thin fabric of your shirt. The contact is warm and grounding. It should calm you. It does not.

“I’m serious,” he says, still smiling up at you. “You’re distracting when you stare like that.”

You lean down as if to kiss him, and you do. Slowly. You let your mouth settle against his with practiced familiarity, gentle at first, almost absentminded, before deepening it just enough to draw a soft sound from him. He responds easily, tilting his head, pulling you closer, trusting the rhythm you have established over the past months. His lips part beneath yours, warm and pliant, and you let yourself linger there longer than usual, tasting the faint sweetness of whatever he had earlier.

When you pull back, you do not go far. Your mouth drifts along the line of his jaw, down the side of his neck, feeling the heat of his skin through the thin barrier of air. He exhales slowly, his fingers tightening slightly at your hips, and you can feel the way his pulse quickens beneath you. The sound of it fills your ears, steady and alive, and something inside you answers it instinctively.

“You’re in a strange mood,” he murmurs, though there is no real concern in his voice. Only curiosity. Perhaps even anticipation.

You hum in response, letting your lips brush the place where his neck meets his shoulder. His shirt collar has slipped just enough to expose more skin, a pale stretch of warmth that feels almost deliberately offered. You pause there, hovering, your breath fanning across him. The scent of him is clean and familiar, soap and cotton and something unmistakably his, and the closeness makes your teeth ache faintly.

“Did you hear me?” he asks softly.

“Yes,” you say, and then you let your teeth press down.

It is not violent. It is not meant to be. The pressure is firm but measured, a slow, deliberate imprint through fabric and into warmth. His body reacts before his mind does; he tenses beneath you, a startled sound escaping him as his hands tighten reflexively at your waist.

“Hey—” He laughs, breathless. “Did you just bite me?”

You lift your head slowly, watching his face with careful attention. There is surprise there, and confusion, but no fear. He searches your expression as if expecting to find a joke written there.

“Maybe,” you reply.

“That hurt,” he says, though his tone lacks accusation. It is more bewildered than anything.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him as though assessing the effect of something experimental. “Did it?”

“A little,” he admits, rubbing at the spot through his shirt.

You lean down again immediately, pressing your lips over the same place in a gesture that could almost be mistaken for apology. The warmth seeps into your mouth, and you have to close your eyes briefly to steady yourself. Beneath your touch, his pulse flutters faster, reacting to the proximity, to the sensation, to you.

“There,” you murmur against his skin. “Better?”

“Yeah,” he says after a second, his voice softer now, less amused.

You remain there longer than necessary, your mouth resting against him, your teeth barely grazing the surface as if testing the boundary between affection and something else entirely. When you finally pull back, there is a faint impression visible where the fabric dips slightly from where you pressed down. It is subtle and harmless. Something that will fade.

He shakes his head at you, smiling in that familiar way that always undoes you. “You’re weird.”

“I know,” you say quietly.

He reaches up and brushes his fingers along your cheek, the tenderness of the gesture so uncomplicated that it almost hurts to receive. He looks at you like you are something soft, something deserving of care, and the weight of that perception presses against your ribs.

“You’re still pretty,” he adds, stubborn in his affection.

The word hits you again, sharper this time, and before you can think better of it, you lean down and bite him once more. This time the pressure lingers a fraction longer, your teeth sinking more deliberately before you release him. His breath stutters in surprise, and his fingers curl tighter into the fabric at your sides.

“Okay,” he laughs, a little breathless now. “I get it.”

You smooth your palm over the place you marked, feeling the warmth radiate beneath your hand. “You bruise easily,” you observe, almost to yourself.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you reply, and bend down to kiss him again as if the moment has already passed.

He does not question you. He does not pull away. He only draws you closer, completely unaware of the way you are memorizing the rhythm of his pulse beneath your fingertips, the shape of his shoulder beneath your mouth, the taste of warmth that lingers faintly at the back of your throat long after you have stopped.

When he tells you he loves you later, as the light outside fades and the room turns dusky and blue, you kiss him in answer. Your teeth graze his skin again, softer this time, but deliberate enough that he inhales sharply.

He laughs, still unsuspecting, still open.

You smile against him.

And somewhere deep inside you, the hunger settles in, patient and growing.

That night, after he falls asleep, you stay awake longer than you mean to.

His arm is draped lazily over your waist, heavy with trust, his face turned toward you in the soft blue dark of the room. The curtains are parted just enough to let in a thin ribbon of moonlight, and it catches along the slope of his cheekbone and the curve of his mouth. His breathing is slow and even. Unaware.

You lift his arm gently and slide out from beneath it, careful not to wake him. The mattress shifts slightly, but he only exhales and settles deeper into the pillow.

You sit beside him and look.

There is something different about studying someone when they cannot study you back. Something quieter. More honest. His throat moves faintly with each breath, the pulse there steady, tireless. Your fingers hover over it before you let them rest lightly against his skin.

Warm.

Alive.

Yours.

You trace downward, following the line to his shoulder where earlier you had pressed your teeth through fabric. Even in the dim light, you can see the faint bloom beginning to surface beneath the skin — a soft shadow that will darken by morning. The thought makes your chest tighten, not with guilt, but with a strange satisfaction you don’t bother to name.

He shifts slightly in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible, and instinctively turns toward you. Even unconscious, he seeks you out.

You press your palm flat against the mark and feel his heartbeat against your hand. It answers you. It always does.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you whisper softly, though he cannot hear you.

In the morning, he notices it.

He is standing in front of the mirror above his dresser, shirt half-buttoned, head tilted as he examines his reflection. You are sitting on the edge of the bed, watching him with open curiosity.

“Did you see this?” he asks, touching the faint bruise forming near his shoulder.

You rise and cross the room slowly, peering over his arm as though you are only just noticing it yourself.

“Oh,” you say lightly. “That?”

“That,” he repeats. “You bit me harder than I thought.”

There is no accusation in his voice. Only mild surprise. You step closer, brushing your fingers over the discolored skin, feeling the warmth beneath.

“It suits you,” you murmur.

He gives you an incredulous look through the mirror. “It’s a bruise.”

“It’s proof,” you reply without thinking.

“Proof of what?”

That you can leave something behind. That you can take something small and keep it.

Instead, you smile and press a soft kiss just beside it, careful this time, almost tender. “Proof you’re mine.”

He laughs at that, embarrassed but pleased, and reaches back to squeeze your hand.

He does not notice the way your eyes linger.

Over the next few days, the biting becomes something almost habitual. It begins playfully enough— quick nips at his jaw when he teases you, a press of teeth to his collarbone when he pulls you into his lap— but there is a shift, subtle and creeping. The marks begin to last longer. The pressure deepens.

You watch the skin change color as though observing a slow transformation. The way faint pink gives way to deeper violet. The way his warmth flares beneath your mouth when you linger.

“Are you trying to brand me or something?” he jokes one evening when he catches sight of another mark, lower this time, just beneath the edge of his shirt.

“Maybe,” you say, your voice too soft to be entirely playful.

He doesn’t press you. He never does.

Sometimes, when you are alone, you press your fingertips to the fading bruises, tracing their shape, remembering the exact moment your teeth sank down. You replay the sound of his breath hitching, the way his hands tighten in reflex before relaxing again. You tell yourself it is just affection turned slightly sharp.

But the hunger does not feel like a habit.

It feels like something waking.

One afternoon, as you sit beside him on the couch, his head resting in your lap while he scrolls aimlessly through his phone, you lean down and bite him again. This time there is no laughter afterward.

He stiffens beneath you, a quiet sound escaping him as your teeth press more firmly than before. You feel the warmth surge beneath the surface, the rapid flutter of his pulse responding to the pressure.

“That one hurt,” he says, not accusing, just stating.

You pull back slowly, studying the faint indentation your mouth left behind. “Sorry,” you murmur, though you do not sound particularly remorseful.

He looks up at you, searching your face in a way he hasn’t before. “You’ve been doing that more.”

“Doing what?”

“Biting me.”

You run your thumb over the mark, smoothing it gently as if to erase the evidence. “You don’t like it?”

He hesitates, and in that hesitation you see something flicker— uncertainty, perhaps, or the first faint glimmer of awareness that this is not entirely normal.

“I don’t mind,” he says eventually. “It’s just… intense.”

The word makes something inside you tighten again.

Intense.

You lean down and press your forehead to his. “You can tell me to stop,” you say softly.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he shifts upward and kisses you, slow and deliberate, as if trying to prove that whatever edge has entered the space between you can be dulled by familiarity. His hands slide up your back, steady and warm, grounding you in something that almost feels like love in its simplest form.

But even as you kiss him back, your thoughts drift lower, to the steady beat beneath his ribs, to the warmth pooled under his skin, to the way he never pulls away.

That night, when you lie awake beside him again, the hunger is louder.

It no longer curls quietly in your stomach. It stretches, restless and aching, as if it has tasted something and found it lacking.

You roll onto your side and watch him sleep.

His mouth is slightly parted. His breathing slow and deep. There is a faint shadow where the bruises have begun to fade, replaced by new ones layered over old.

You reach out and trace the line of his jaw with one finger, following it down to his throat. Your touch is feather-light, but his pulse reacts anyway, quickening even in sleep.

“Pretty,” you whisper, testing the word on your tongue.

It feels different now.

He shifts closer to you instinctively, seeking warmth, pressing himself against you without waking. His trust is absolute. Unquestioning.

You close your eyes and breathe him in.

And somewhere beneath the softness of the sheets, beneath the warmth of shared skin, something inside you begins to wonder how far you could go before he finally says no.

By the time the marks start to show properly, it’s already too late for him to think of them as warnings.

It begins with his collarbone. He notices it in the bathroom mirror one morning while brushing his teeth, head tilted, foam at the corner of his mouth as his eyes narrow at the crescent shape darkening against his skin. It isn’t just a hickey. It isn’t even close. The bruise is layered, deep violet fading into sickly yellow at the edges, and at its center are the faintest indents— not sharp enough to break skin, not violent enough to bleed, but unmistakably teeth. Your teeth. His fingers hover over it uncertainly before pressing down, testing the ache, and the slight wince that follows makes something flutter warm and satisfied low in your stomach as you watch from the doorway.

You do not look ashamed. You look fond.

He laughs it off at first because that’s what people do when they don’t want to make something real. He calls you intense. Says you get carried away. Says he doesn’t mind. He says it like he’s proud of it, like being wanted that badly makes him special, and you step forward with that soft, almost shy smile, fingertips trailing up his back, resting at the base of his neck where the pulse beats steady and trusting beneath your touch.

“I just like you,” you murmur, pressing your mouth gently over the bruise you made, soothing it with your lips as if you hadn’t been the one to create it. “You know that.”

You taste him even through skin that isn’t broken. Salt, warmth, something that feels almost sweet because it’s his. Your teeth graze the mark again, lighter this time, but not light enough. He inhales sharply and laughs under his breath, calling you dramatic, and you laugh too, though yours sounds different — quieter, edged with something private.

The hunger is worse now when he compliments you.

He tells you you’re beautiful while you’re straddling his lap on the couch, hands settled on your waist, thumbs brushing small circles into your hips in that absentminded, affectionate way he always has. He says it like he always says it, like it’s natural and easy and not dangerous at all, and your stomach twists so violently you have to grip his shoulders to steady yourself. You kiss him hard to silence him, your mouth swallowing the praise before it can bloom fully in the air between you, and your teeth sink into his lower lip before you can stop yourself.

This time you taste blood.

It’s barely anything. Just the faint metallic warmth blooming against your tongue, but it hits you like a spark to dry tinder. Your entire body goes still. He pulls back, startled, touching his mouth with confusion, then chuckling when he sees the smear of red on his thumb.

“Jesus,” he says softly, amused more than upset. “You’re gonna eat me alive one day.”

The joke lands wrong.

You smile anyway. You kiss him again. You swallow carefully.

After that, you start choosing places that won’t show unless someone looks closely. The inside of his shoulder. The slope between his neck and jaw. The curve of his hip where his shirt rides up when he stretches. You tell yourself you’re being careful, that you’re still in control, but you leave clearer impressions each time. Not enough to break him. Not yet. Just enough to soothe the gnawing ache that tightens in your stomach whenever he smiles at you too sweetly.

He begins to notice patterns.

There’s a moment one evening where he’s changing in front of you, back turned, and he goes still. Your eyes fix on the exposed line of his spine, the dip above his waistband, the way his skin shifts as he breathes. His hand lifts to his shoulder blade, fingertips tracing something you know is there.

“These are definitely teeth,” he says slowly, not laughing this time.

You don’t answer immediately. You cross the room instead, sliding your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades as though you’re simply being affectionate. Your lips brush the mark he’s touching.

“They’re mine,” you say softly, and there is no apology in your voice.

There’s a silence that stretches longer than it should. He shifts slightly in your hold, not pulling away but not fully relaxing either, and when he turns his head to look at you, there’s something new in his expression. Not fear exactly. Not yet.

Awareness.

“You’re kind of intense lately,” he says carefully.

You hum in agreement, fingers splaying over his stomach, feeling the warmth of him beneath your palms. “You don’t like it?”

He hesitates. That hesitation is sharp. You feel it like a blade.

“I do,” he says eventually. “It’s just… you’ve been biting harder.”

You could lie. You could apologize. You could promise to stop.

Instead, you lift your head and meet his eyes in the mirror across the room, and the look you give him is slow and deliberate, pupils blown wide, lips slightly parted like you’re already tasting something only you can sense.

“I can be gentler,” you say.

It isn’t a promise. It’s a question.

He doesn’t answer right away, and in that pause something shifts permanently between you. The air feels heavier. Thicker. Like it’s pressing in from all sides. He turns fully in your arms and kisses you first this time, almost as if he’s proving something — that he isn’t afraid, that he still wants you, that whatever this is hasn’t crossed a line.

But when your teeth press against his throat, right over that steady, delicate pulse, he freezes for half a second too long.

And you feel it.

The hunger flares, bright and vicious, because now there’s something new mixed in with his warmth and sweetness.

There’s fear.

You pull back before you do anything irreversible, resting your forehead against his, breathing him in, memorizing the way he smells, the way he feels, the way he trusts you even when he shouldn’t. Your hands slide up into his hair, gentle, reverent, almost loving in a way that makes the darkness underneath feel even worse.

“Close your eyes,” you whisper experimentally, just to see what he’ll do.

He does.

And for a moment, you simply watch him— relaxed, exposed, waiting for your next move— and the realization that he would let you do almost anything settles over you like a warm blanket.

You kiss him softly instead.

But your teeth press down just a little harder than before.

The final night arrives softly, disguised as something almost domestic, almost gentle, and that is what makes it unbearable.

You cook for him.

Not because you need to— you rarely do— but because you want the ritual of it. The slicing of vegetables under steady hands, the simmering pot breathing warmth into the kitchen, the quiet hum of the stove filling the space between you. He sits at the counter watching you with that fond, open expression he always wears when you focus on something. His sleeves are rolled up, and there are faint yellowing crescents along his forearm that he hasn’t mentioned in days. He looks a little thinner than he did a month ago. A little paler. The sharp line of his collarbone shows more clearly when he leans forward on his elbows, chin resting in his palm as he studies you like you’re the most fascinating thing in the room.

“You’re spoiling me,” he says, smiling, and there is no suspicion in his voice anymore. Whatever awareness he had before has softened into trust again. He has decided, somewhere along the way, that if this is intensity, then he can live with it.

You glance at him over your shoulder, smile small and private. “You deserve it.”

The words taste strange in your mouth. He deserves something. That much is true. The question has always been what.

You make sure he eats. You watch him carefully, the movement of his throat as he swallows, the way his lips press together thoughtfully between bites. He tells you it’s good. He tells you you’re amazing. Each compliment tightens something inside you until it feels like your ribs are wrapped in wire. You stand between his knees when he pulls you closer, his hands warm and solid at your waist, and when he kisses you, he tastes like salt and heat and something unmistakably his.

The hunger is unbearable tonight. It doesn’t flicker or tease; it roars, steady and consuming, a low animal hum beneath your skin. Every inch of him feels amplified— the warmth radiating through his clothes, the pulse beating at his throat, the softness of his mouth against yours. When you bite him this time, he gasps, but he doesn’t pull away. He never pulls away.

“You’re worse today,” he murmurs against your lips, breath uneven but amused. “What’s gotten into you?”

You almost laugh.

If he only knew.

You move to the couch with him eventually, the lights dimmed low, the room wrapped in the golden hush of evening. There’s a stillness in the air that feels deliberate, like the world itself is holding its breath. He stretches out and pulls you down with him, your body draped over his, his fingers combing lazily through your hair. You rest your ear against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm there. It is such a simple sound. Such an innocent thing. You close your eyes and let yourself imagine, for just a second, that you could live inside that rhythm forever without ruining it.

But the hunger does not negotiate.

It has never negotiated.

He tilts your chin up so he can look at you properly, and something in his expression falters when he sees your face. Not because you look monstrous. You don’t. You look almost luminous, flushed and soft-mouthed and devastatingly in love. That’s what makes it worse.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod, brushing your thumb along his jaw. You trace the curve of his cheekbone as though memorizing it, then lean down to kiss the corner of his mouth. Your lips travel slowly — his jaw, his throat, the hollow beneath his ear— and each touch lingers just long enough to feel reverent. He exhales beneath you, hands tightening slightly at your hips.

“Close your eyes,” you whisper, voice barely louder than the hum of the room.

He smiles faintly. “Why?”

“It’s easier that way.”

There’s a pause. Not long. Just long enough to register. Then he does it. His lashes lower obediently, trustingly, and his body relaxes under yours like he’s surrendering to something soft instead of something sharp.

You hover there for a moment, looking at him. You take in the shape of his mouth, the faint crease between his brows that only appears when he’s concentrating, the slow rise and fall of his chest. You press your palm flat over his heart and feel it thud steady and sure against your skin. You wonder if he can feel how your own pulse stutters in response.

“I love you,” you say quietly.

It is not a lie.

His lips curve even with his eyes closed. “I know.”

The hunger surges so violently it almost feels like grief.

You bend down slowly, pressing a kiss to his throat, right over the place where his pulse is strongest. Your mouth lingers there, warm and gentle, and for a fleeting second you let yourself imagine stopping. Letting him open his eyes. Letting this night dissolve into something survivable.

Instead, your teeth press down.

Not playfully. Not teasingly.

Firm.

He inhales sharply beneath you, body tensing in confusion more than pain, and your hands slide up to cradle his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones as though you’re soothing him, comforting him through something he doesn’t yet understand. The room feels smaller suddenly, the air thicker, every sound amplified— his breathing, your breathing, the faint creak of the couch beneath shifting weight.

“Shh,” you murmur softly against his skin, biting down harder. “It’s okay.”

His hands tighten at your waist now, not playful anymore, not entirely relaxed. There’s a tremor in his breath. His eyes don’t open. Maybe he trusts you that much. Maybe he’s afraid to.

You hold him like something precious. Like something breakable. Like something already lost.

The lights flicker faintly as a car passes outside, shadows shifting along the walls, and in that dim golden haze the two of you blur together — your hair falling forward to curtain his face, your body curved over his like an embrace that has nowhere to end.

The last sound he makes isn’t a scream.

It’s your name.

After that, the apartment is very quiet.

The week passes by like it always does, pale and indifferent, sliding between the curtains in thin, diluted strips of light. The world outside continues without hesitation. Cars pass. A neighbor’s door shuts. Somewhere down the street, someone laughs. The air carries the faint scent of rain that never quite fell.

Inside the apartment, everything is almost perfectly in place.

The kitchen still smells faintly of last night’s cooking — garlic, herbs, warmth now gone stale. Two plates sit in the sink. One glass remains on the coffee table beside the couch, a faint crescent of dried condensation marking where it rested too long. His shoes are still by the door, slightly uneven like he kicked them off without thinking. His jacket hangs over the back of a chair, one sleeve brushing the floor.

It looks like he’s still here.

It feels like he should be.

This morning, you wake slowly, not startled, not panicked. Your body is heavy in a way that feels deeply satisfied, like you’ve slept after something exhausting and intimate. The sheets are twisted loosely around your legs. The space beside you is empty but still warm beneath your palm when you press it down experimentally, as if testing a memory.

You lie there for a long time staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of the refrigerator in the other room. There is no frantic energy in you. No regret. Just a strange, spreading fullness that settles low in your stomach and radiates outward, steady and calm.

When you finally sit up, your movements are unhurried. You smooth your hair back. You stand. The mirror across the room catches your reflection and for a moment you pause, studying yourself carefully.

You look the same.

Maybe softer. Maybe glowing faintly from the inside, like you’re lit by something private and warm. There’s a tenderness in your expression that wasn’t there before. Your fingers drift to your mouth unconsciously, brushing over your lips as if recalling the shape of something.

“I love you,” you murmur to the empty room, testing how it sounds without him there to answer.

The silence that follows is thick, but it does not feel hollow. It feels complete.

You move through the apartment slowly, touching things as you pass them. The back of the couch. The kitchen counter. The sleeve of his jacket. You lift it gently, pressing your face into the fabric, inhaling what lingers. It’s faint already, fading into the neutral scent of detergent and air.

Nothing dramatic marks his absence. There is no overturned furniture. No shattered glass. Just space. Just a subtle wrongness in the geometry of the room, like something essential has been carefully removed.

Your gaze drifts toward the couch.

For a moment — just a moment — you see it as it was last night: him beneath you, eyes closed, breathing slow, trusting. Your hand over his heart. Your voice in his ear. The softness of his name on your tongue.

You swallow.

The hunger is quiet now. Not gone. Just resting.

You kneel on the floor beside the couch and press your palm flat against the cushion where he lay. The fabric dips slightly under the weight of your hand. You imagine you can still feel warmth there, still sense the echo of a heartbeat absorbed into the air.

“You should have run,” you whisper, though there’s no mockery in it. Only something like fondness. “I told you.”

Outside, a siren wails distantly, passing through the neighborhood without slowing. The sound fades as quickly as it came.

Later, when his phone begins to buzz on the kitchen counter — friends asking where he is, a missed call from someone labeled Mom — you glance at it briefly before turning away. The screen lights up again and again, persistent, confused, demanding explanation.

You let it ring.

By afternoon, the apartment feels different. Lighter. As though something heavy and restless has finally settled. You open the windows to let fresh air in, watching the curtains billow gently inward. Sunlight spills across the floor, illuminating dust motes that drift lazily through the space where he once stood.

You stand in that light and close your eyes.

For a fleeting second, you swear you feel arms around your waist from behind. Warm. Familiar. The phantom pressure of a body that used to fit so perfectly against yours. You lean back into it instinctively, a soft breath leaving your lips.

When you open your eyes, there is nothing there.

Only you.

Only the quiet apartment.

Only the steady rhythm of your own heartbeat now, unaccompanied.

And somewhere deep inside you, beneath bone and skin and satisfied warmth, something shifts contentedly, as if finally, finally full.

taglist: @moesthinking ℘ @taestulipss ℘ @tsanho ℘ @hasiwasi

credits: lace and glowing stars by @cursed-carmine, line by @chrisssiren

݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆ director's comment: would've made the actual cannibalism part longer but like... would you guys read that?

want more scripts? visit the masterlist! want to be a vip? visit the taglist!

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ filmed on 28th feb.

[haksgirl]

yaoiyuri writer on tumblr spotted oh twinski i love u already

thank you sweetpea.

[haksgirl]

BOUND BY FANGS AND SIN MOODBOARD

“I’ve loved you in lifetimes you don’t remember, and watched you die in ways I can’t forget. Every time I find you again, I swear I’ll let you live this time— but the moment you look at me like you already know me, I remember why I never do.”

vip viewers: @moesthinking ℘ @taestulipss ℘ @tsanho ℘ @lovehakie

[haksgirl]

I COULD BE A BETTER BOYFRIEND.

🎤︎︎ Woonhak wasn’t looking for anyone; until Taesan watched, waited, and made it impossible to look away. One kiss, one touch, and nothing will ever feel the same.

fem!woonhak x fem!taesan ──── possessive undertones, emotional vulnerability, jealousy, fixation, party/alcohol setting and themes of cheating and leaving an inattentive partner, 16+ only (wc 2.6k)

♬.ᐟ boyfriend by dove cameron.

The bass is loud enough to blur the edges of everything, a steady vibration that travels up through the floor and into Woonhak’s bones until it feels less like sound and more like pressure. Light spills across the room in slow pulses— violet dissolving into blue, blue flashing into white— turning faces into fragments and bodies into silhouettes that blur together whenever the crowd shifts. The air is warm and heavy, thick with overlapping perfume and the faint metallic tang of spilled drinks drying on the floor. Someone laughs too loudly somewhere behind her. Glass clinks. Music swells, drops, swells again. Everything feels slightly unreal, like the room is breathing around her while she stands still inside it.

Woonhak leans one shoulder against the wall near the edge of the dance floor, her phone glowing in her hand as she scrolls through messages she isn’t really reading. Her thumb moves automatically, opening and closing conversations, checking the time even though she has already checked it several times in the past few minutes. Her boyfriend had said he would be right back. That was almost half an hour ago. She tells herself she doesn’t care. She tells herself she’s used to it. Still, her gaze drifts toward the crowd every so often without permission, searching without quite admitting that she is searching at all.

She exhales slowly and tips her head back against the wall, letting her eyes close for a moment. Maybe she will leave soon. Maybe she will slip out quietly, call a ride, go somewhere quieter where the noise doesn’t sit so heavily against her skin. The thought barely finishes forming before a strange awareness prickles along the back of her neck— subtle, but immediate, like warmth gathering in a single concentrated point. It takes her a second to recognize the sensation for what it is. Being watched. Not casually. Not vaguely. Directly.

Her eyes open before she consciously decides to move. She scans the shifting crowd once, twice— and then she finds her.

Taesan stands several meters away, partially shadowed by the slow pulse of colored light, completely still amid the constant motion around her. She isn’t dancing or talking or looking at anyone else. She is simply watching Woonhak with an intensity that feels almost physical, like attention with weight to it. Their eyes meet, and something tightens unexpectedly in Woonhak’s chest. Taesan doesn’t look away. She doesn’t smile or acknowledge being caught. She simply holds the gaze, calm and steady, as though she has been observing for a while and has only just decided to make it obvious.

Woonhak is the one who looks down first, her thumb tapping her phone screen even though nothing new appears. Heat creeps slowly up the back of her neck. She tells herself it’s the crowded room, the lack of airflow, the closeness of too many bodies in too small a space. But when she glances up again, Taesan is already moving toward her.

She doesn’t rush. She never rushes. She walks with the kind of quiet certainty that makes people shift around her without thinking, as though space rearranges itself naturally in response to her presence. She weaves through the crowd without hesitation, never breaking stride, never glancing aside, her attention fixed entirely on where she is going. On who she is going to. Woonhak feels herself straighten slightly without meaning to, her shoulder lifting away from the wall as Taesan approaches.

When Taesan stops in front of her, she stands close enough that Woonhak can see the subtle reflection of colored light along the curve of her cheekbone, close enough to notice the faint warmth of clean fabric and something softer beneath it. She says nothing at first. She simply looks at her— not casually, not politely, but with focused attention that feels almost like being examined, like something about Woonhak is being carefully considered and understood piece by piece.

Woonhak shifts her weight, suddenly aware of how still she is standing. “What?” she asks, her voice quieter than she expects it to be.

Taesan’s gaze flicks briefly to the phone in Woonhak’s hand before returning to her face. “He left you alone again.”

There is no accusation in the statement, no curiosity either. Just calm certainty, as if she is pointing out something obvious and observable. Woonhak scoffs lightly in reflex, the sound coming out more defensive than dismissive. “He’s with his friends.”

Taesan hums once, a soft sound that carries no argument and no agreement, only acknowledgment. Then, without asking, she reaches out and gently takes the untouched drink from Woonhak’s other hand. The motion is smooth and unhurried, leaving no space for interruption.

“Hey—”

“You weren’t drinking it,” Taesan says simply, placing the glass behind her on a nearby surface without looking. The matter-of-fact tone makes it sound less like a decision and more like an adjustment that was always going to happen.

Woonhak opens her mouth, then closes it again. Something about the quiet certainty in Taesan’s movements makes resistance feel strangely unnecessary, like objecting would only highlight how little she actually wants the drink back.

Taesan steps closer, closing the remaining distance until Woonhak becomes aware of the warmth radiating from her body, the steady rhythm of her breathing, the way her presence fills the small pocket of space between them. “Are you having fun?” she asks softly.

The question is simple, but the directness of her gaze makes it difficult to answer casually. Woonhak swallows before responding. “Yeah.”

The silence that follows stretches long enough to feel deliberate. The music pounds around them, but inside that small shared space, everything feels muted, as though the world has lowered its volume just enough to make the quiet noticeable. Taesan tilts her head slightly, waiting without prompting, without pressure— but the expectation is there nonetheless, subtle and steady.

Woonhak feels the urge to explain herself rising unexpectedly. “…It’s just loud,” she adds quickly. “And crowded.”

Taesan watches her for another moment, then nods once, slow and deliberate. “I thought so.”

Her hand lifts toward Woonhak’s collar, fingers smoothing fabric that doesn’t actually need adjusting. The gesture is small, but the brush of her fingertips along the side of Woonhak’s neck is unmistakable— warm, slow, intentional. The touch lingers just long enough for sensation to settle fully into awareness before fading.

Woonhak forgets to breathe.

Taesan notices. Of course she does. Her gaze drops briefly to the quick movement of Woonhak’s throat when she swallows, then returns to her eyes.

“Your boyfriend doesn’t pay attention to you,” she says quietly.

The words land without sharpness, spoken in the same calm tone one might use to describe the weather or the time of day. Woonhak lets out a small, unsteady laugh. “You don’t know that.”

Taesan leans slightly closer, their shoulders nearly brushing. “I know he isn’t here.”

The warmth of her voice near Woonhak’s ear sends a shiver down her spine. Taesan’s gaze flicks to her lips for the briefest moment before returning to her eyes.

“Come with me,” she says.

The invitation feels less like a suggestion and more like the next natural step in a sequence already unfolding. Woonhak blinks. “Where?”

Taesan doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, her hand slides gently but firmly around Woonhak’s wrist, her thumb settling over the rapid flutter of her pulse. “Somewhere quieter.”

“…Why?”

Her thumb traces slowly, measuring rhythm, grounding without restraint. “Because you want to.”

Woonhak shakes her head slightly, breath uneven. “I didn’t say that.”

“No,” Taesan agrees softly. “You didn’t.” A small pause. “But you aren't pulling away either.”

And she’s right. Woonhak hasn’t moved at all.

When Taesan finally releases her wrist, it is only to shrug off her jacket and drape it over Woonhak’s shoulders. She adjusts the fabric carefully, aligning seams, smoothing the collar, her fingers lingering near the base of Woonhak’s throat. The warmth of the jacket settles around her like an extension of Taesan’s presence.

“Better,” she murmurs.

Woonhak’s voice comes out almost unrecognizable to her own ears. “…Taesan.”

Taesan smiles slightly, something quiet and knowing softening her expression. She steps back just enough to look at her fully, then extends her hand, palm up, waiting with patient certainty.

Woonhak hesitates only briefly before placing her hand in Taesan’s. Taesan’s fingers close immediately, secure and steady, and she turns toward the exit without looking back.

The music fades gradually behind them, replaced by the cool rush of night air when the door opens. Outside, the world feels quieter, the distant hum of traffic replacing the pounding bass. Taesan doesn’t release her hand. She leads her a few steps away from the building, then stops and turns to face her beneath the soft glow of a streetlight.

Her free hand lifts, tucking a loose strand of hair behind Woonhak’s ear, her fingers lingering briefly along the curve of her jaw. “You were going to leave anyway,” she murmurs.

“…Maybe.”

“I know.”

Their foreheads hover close enough to almost touch. Taesan’s hand rests lightly at Woonhak’s waist, not pulling, not pushing, simply present. Waiting.

“Tell me to stop,” she whispers.

Woonhak’s lips part, breath trembling.

“…Don’t.”

Something warm flickers in Taesan’s gaze as she closes the remaining distance slowly, deliberately, like time has stretched just for them.

The quiet outside settles around them gradually, like the world is still adjusting to their presence in it. The air feels cooler here, thin and clean compared to the dense warmth inside the party, but the chill barely registers against the heat lingering beneath Woonhak’s skin. Her awareness has narrowed so completely that everything else feels distant— traffic somewhere far down the street, muffled music behind the closed door, the faint rustle of leaves overhead. None of it reaches her fully. What she notices instead is proximity. Warmth. Breath. The steady, unmistakable presence of Taesan standing close enough to feel without touching.

The hand at her waist hasn’t moved, but Woonhak feels it more now than she did inside. Maybe it’s because nothing else is competing for attention. The pressure is light but certain, resting just above her hip, warm even through the layers of fabric between them. It feels grounding in a way that makes her strangely aware of how unsteady she might otherwise be.

Their faces are close— close enough that she can feel the faint warmth of Taesan’s breath when she exhales, close enough that every small shift in posture changes the distance between them. Woonhak realizes she is holding herself very still, not because she’s trying to, but because movement feels too loud somehow, too disruptive to whatever fragile tension has gathered between them.

Taesan doesn’t rush to close the space. She simply remains there, watching quietly, her gaze moving across Woonhak’s face with unhurried focus. It’s not an intense stare in the dramatic sense— there’s nothing sharp about it— but the attention is steady enough that Woonhak feels it almost like touch. It makes her aware of things she wouldn’t normally think about: the way her lips are slightly parted from uneven breathing, the faint warmth still lingering along her cheeks, the subtle tremor she can’t quite stop in her fingers where they rest lightly against Taesan’s shoulder.

Taesan’s thumb shifts against her side— not a deliberate stroke, more like a small adjustment of position— but the movement draws Woonhak’s attention instantly. The warmth of that touch seems to spread outward beneath her skin, slow and disorienting, making her inhale a little too sharply. She feels Taesan notice the change in her breathing without needing to look down. The awareness passes between them quietly, acknowledged without words.

When Taesan finally leans closer, the movement is gradual enough that Woonhak feels it happening before she consciously registers what’s changing. The distance shortens little by little— the warmth between them deepening, the shared space tightening until even breathing feels mutual.

Their noses brush lightly, the contact soft and brief but enough to make Woonhak’s breath falter. She feels Taesan pause at that reaction, not pulling away, just adjusting slightly, her head tilting with careful precision as though making sure nothing about the moment feels accidental.

Then her lips meet Woonhak’s.

The contact is warm and gentle, but what strikes Woonhak first is how still it feels. Taesan doesn’t move immediately after the first touch. She simply remains there, letting the sensation settle fully, as though allowing Woonhak time to understand exactly what is happening. The softness of her lips, the quiet warmth of shared breath, the subtle steadiness of the hand at her waist— everything exists at once, layered and present.

Woonhak feels something loosen in her chest, something that had been held tight without her realizing it. Her eyes close slowly, not out of instinct alone but because the sensation feels easier to experience without distraction. She becomes aware of how warm Taesan’s mouth feels against hers, how steady the contact is, how grounded it makes her feel in a way she didn’t expect.

When the kiss begins to deepen, it happens gradually, guided more by response than intention. Woonhak shifts slightly closer without meaning to, her body leaning toward the warmth, and Taesan follows that movement naturally, adjusting the angle of her head, letting the contact become fuller without ever becoming hurried.

The hand at Woonhak’s waist slides just slightly higher, settling more securely along the curve of her side. The touch is slow enough that she feels the path of it through fabric, a steady warmth traveling upward until it rests in place again. Her thumb moves once, a small grounding motion that seems to anchor Woonhak exactly where she stands.

Woonhak’s fingers shift from Taesan’s shoulder to the back of her neck, tentative at first. Her fingertips brush warm skin, then rest more fully when Taesan doesn’t pull away. The contact feels steady, reassuring, and the kiss responds to that closeness— not intensifying sharply, but deepening in a way that feels natural, like breath slowly evening out after something startling.

There is no sense of urgency in the way Taesan moves. She kisses with quiet attention, responding to every subtle change— the way Woonhak’s breathing softens, the way her fingers press slightly more firmly at the back of her neck, the way her body relaxes into the warmth instead of holding tension.

The world narrows without feeling overwhelming. The moment simply becomes complete enough that nothing else seems necessary.

When Taesan eventually begins to pull back, the change is gradual enough that Woonhak feels the warmth fading before the contact fully breaks. Their lips separate softly, lingering close, and Taesan’s forehead rests gently against hers as though the space between them is still too small to widen all at once.

Her hand remains at Woonhak’s waist, thumb moving slowly in a small, absentminded stroke that feels more soothing than possessive now. Their breathing is still uneven, still shared in the narrow space between them.

Woonhak doesn’t open her eyes immediately. She stays there, feeling the warmth lingering across her lips, the steady presence in front of her, the quiet hum of sensation settling through her body in slow waves.

When Taesan finally speaks, her voice is soft enough that Woonhak feels the vibration of it through proximity more than sound itself.

“You’re coming with me.”

There’s no question in the words. Just quiet certainty.

Woonhak swallows, her fingers still resting lightly at the back of Taesan’s neck, her pulse still unsteady beneath the lingering warmth of the kiss.

“…Okay.”

Taesan’s hand slides down to lace their fingers together again, firm and steady, and when she steps back this time, it’s only to guide her forward.

Woonhak follows without thinking about why.

taglist: @moesthinking ℘ @taestulipss ℘ @tsanho

credits: lace and glowing stars by @cursed-carmine

want more scripts? visit the masterlist! want to be a vip? visit the taglist!

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ filmed on 23rd feb.

[haksgirl]

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 ···································· DIRECTOR'S DIRECTORY ˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀

PARK SUNGHO

˗ˏˋ ꒰ kiss me baby one more time ꒱ ˎˊ˗ ᵎᵎ tragedy

˗ˏˋ ꒰ meddle about ꒱ ˎˊ˗ ᵎᵎ after dark

MYUNG JAEHYUN

˗ˏˋ ꒰ what we can't be ꒱ ˎˊ˗ ᵎᵎ tragedy

˗ˏˋ ꒰ bound by fangs and sin ꒱ ˎˊ˗ ᵎᵎ fantasy, slowburn

˗ˏˋ ꒰ sweet things don't last ꒱ ˎˊ˗ ᵎᵎ subtle thriller ⤷ You love him. You love the warmth of his skin, the steady rhythm of his heart beneath her palm, the way he smiles when you tell him to close his eyes. He should have run when you warned him. Love has always tasted sweet to you. He just never realized how sweet.

LEE RIWOO

˗ˏˋ ꒰ tag, you're it ꒱ ˎˊ˗ ᵎᵎ thriller

HAN TAESAN

˗ˏˋ ꒰ cigarette daydreams ꒱ ˎˊ˗ ᵎᵎ after dark

˗ˏˋ ꒰ once upon a wish ꒱ ˎˊ˗ ᵎᵎ tragedy, fantasy

KIM LEEHAN

˗ˏˋ ꒰ the one who got away ꒱ ˎˊ˗ ᵎᵎ tragedy

KIM WOONHAK

˗ˏˋ ꒰ we can only wish ꒱ ˎˊ˗ ᵎᵎ tragedy, fantasy

˗ˏˋ ꒰ lovely girl ꒱ ˎˊ˗ ᵎᵎ thriller

YAOIYURI

˗ˏˋ ꒰ may the best teacher win ꒱ ˎˊ˗ ᵎᵎ teacher rivals! sungho x jaehyun

˗ˏˋ ꒰ broke boys should never lie ꒱ ˎˊ˗ ᵎᵎ rich bf & broke bf! sungho x jaehyun

˗ˏˋ ꒰ mr purrfect ꒱ ˎˊ˗ ᵎᵎ kitty hybrids! sungho x taesan

˗ˏˋ ꒰ when did you get hot? ꒱ ˎˊ˗ ᵎᵎ childhoodbsfs! leehan x taesan

˗ˏˋ ꒰ just one hit of you ꒱ ˎˊ˗ ᵎᵎ fwb! leehan x taesan ⤷ Taesan shows up at Leehan's door with a speech prepared— he's done with their friends-with-benefits arrangement, done with the cycle of wanting and waiting and never being enough. But Leehan takes one look at him and sees right through the act. Because Taesan didn't come here to leave. He came here to be convinced to stay. And Leehan has never been the kind of person who lets go of something he wants.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ wedding bells ꒱ ˎˊ˗ ᵎᵎ fem!sungho x fem!jaehyun ⤷ Jaehyun is marrying a good man. Sung Hanbin is a good man. Sungho, her best friend and secret heart, is zipping up her wedding dress. In a decade that forbids their love, all they have left is this one quiet room, a few untouched buttons, and the devastating knowledge that letting go is the only way to keep each other safe.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ all for you ꒱ ˎˊ˗ ᵎᵎ fem!leehan x fem!taesan ⤷ Leehan has been watching Taesan all night— the sharp tongue, the attitude, the game of pretending she doesn't care. Taesan wants to be chased. But Leehan doesn't chase. She waits, she watches, and when the tension finally snaps, the only thing that matters is who breaks first.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ i could be a better boyfriend ꒱ ˎˊ˗ ᵎᵎ fem!woonhak x fem!taesan ⤷ Woonhak wasn’t looking for anyone; until Taesan watched, waited, and made it impossible to look away. One kiss, one touch, and nothing will ever feel the same.