#I never say no to people trying to make meaningful names like

[bonefall]

In the case of cats who have verbs as part of their names, does the tense ever change when they rank up?

For Example (and this is my first translation job, forgive me if I get it wrong): Flutterpaw’s clanmew name is Afafpwyr. When they get their warrior name, they’re named Flutterstorm for coming into their own as a graceful fighter. Would they still be Afaffharrl (Storm Will-Flutter) or could the leader decide Afafafharrl (Storm Is-Fluttering) is more fitting and name them that instead?

Yep! That's something that can absolutely happen!

It's definitely something that some particular leaders would be fond of, changing the tense of prefixes along with awarding suffixes. I'd even chance that some leaders will go as far as to change the prefix itself; like turning Caterpillarpaw into Butterflyclaw.

Leaders have full and total authority over names, even if they decide to be cruel or unfair with that privilege. What holds them back the most is common decency, OR the threat of making their Clanmates so angry they revolt. It's totally up to the characterization of that leader.

[barnacles34]

My Greatest Joy

IVE Yujin x Male Reader

16k words

'A single person is missing for you, and the whole world is empty.' — The Year of Magical Thinking

18+ smut

The Birth Crisis. The Great Vanishing. The Specter of Demographic Collapse. The media couldn’t decide on a name, only that it was happening. Some said Korea would be empty in a century. Others, ten years. Twenty-five, if they were feeling generous. A hysterical pendulum swing between denial and terror, between think-tank white papers and government campaigns urging citizens to bureaucratize what was once spontaneous: love, sex, reproduction.

But in Dunsan-dong, no one talked about it. Not really. Not in any meaningful way. The village shrank in slow motion. Affairs stopped happening—nobody had the energy, or the audience. The local divorce lawyer quietly removed ‘Infidelity’ from his services, then shut down altogether. Playgrounds grew ghostly. The corner food stands, once territorial battlegrounds for unruly teenagers, went bankrupt one by one. ‘Kids these days grow up too fast,’ one ajumma said, as if that were the whole explanation.

And yet, in all this entropy, two were born. A statistical error. A miracle.

Miracle is not hyperbole. In two decades, the birth count had been three. The bureaucratic failure of Love—yes, Love, capital L, the thing that was supposed to be instinctual, inevitable, the thing people built whole religions and K-dramas around—had finally completed its slow bureaucratic death. Love was no longer a force. Love was paperwork.

Except for two people.

For them, Love was everything.

—

'One move and you'll split open like a badly wrapped present.' ‘Is that your professional opinion?' 'That's my twenty years of keeping-you-alive opinion.' She's biting her lower lip, the way she always does when she's trying not to smile at your stupidity. 'And I really don't want to explain to some emergency room doctor why I have a boy bleeding out in my room at 2 AM.'

The gash should hurt more. Six inches of red spite across your forearm, but all you can focus on is how Yujin's looking at it—like she's found something breakable in a world made of steel.

'I really fucked up.' 'Did you?' Her touch finds your good arm, barely there. 'Or did you do exactly what you meant to?'

The lamp makes everything soft. She's wearing your t-shirt—the one you left here that summer when the AC broke. Cotton worn thin enough to catch shadowy curves underneath. Silk pajama bottoms that whisper secrets when she moves. You try not to notice. You notice everything.

'This might need stitches.' 'Are you volunteering?' 'Shut up and hold still.' But there's laughter in her voice, the kind that makes your chest tight. 'Some of us are trying to work miracles here.'

The first-aid kit looks wrong in her small hands. Those hands that used to patch up your scraped knees, that still know exactly where you're breakable.

'Remember that time in third grade?' Her fingers ghost over your skin. 'When you tried to convince me you could fly?' 'I could've.' 'You broke your arm.' 'Minor setback.' She laughs, soft and close. 'Nothing's changed, has it?'

Everything's changed. The way moonlight catches in her hair now, how her perfume makes your head swim, the careful distance she keeps even when she's touching you. But you say, 'Not the important things.'

Her breath hits your arm in warm little puffs as she works. Clean movements. No hesitation. Like she's mapping something she never forgot.

'Almost done.' Her thumb traces the edge of the bandage. 'Next time try not to bleed on my carpet?' 'Yujin-ah.' 'Mm?' 'Thank you.'

She looks up. Those eyes crack something in your chest. Then she smiles and whatever was cracked turns to stardust.

'So how'd it happen? And don't say you just slipped, because I know all your clumsy excuses by heart.' 'Just slipped.' 'Onto what? Did some wandering samurai leave their sword in Dunsan-dong?' 'You never know what you'll find these days.' 'Hey.' Her voice goes quiet, the way it used to when she'd tell you secrets at midnight. 'Tell me? I promise to not scold you…much.'

Face to face now. The universe narrows to this: her eyes on yours, her hands still on your skin.

'Okay.' You gesture with your good arm. 'Window.' 'What did you—' Her voice catches. 'If you've done something wild—'

Then you smile.

You watch her shoulders drop. It's a small thing, being able to do this—turn her static to quiet. Not exactly Superman stuff, but it's the only superpower you'd keep if they were dealing them out.

She knows. You can see it in how she moves—little half-dance steps to the window, taking your words as is—hopefully, something good. The curtain whispers. You don't watch. Can't. Your skin's electric with her lingering smell—something you'd bottle if you could, except that'd ruin it, the particular way her skin holds the perfume.

The silence stretches until you think you might snap. Then—

'What am I supposed to be looking at? Because all I see is Mrs. Kim's cat trying to fight a streetlight again, and—' She stops. 'What's it say?'

'Let me make sure I'm reading this right.' She's still facing the window, but you can hear the smile breaking through, eyes transforming into pure joy. 'Because either someone's confessing to me via Christmas lights at 2 AM, or the neighborhood's having a very very specific power outage.'

'These past years—' 'Wait.' She spins around, eyes catching lamplight. 'Did you seriously string up every Christmas light in Dunsan-dong just to—' She takes three quick steps toward you, stops. 'The lights outside the convenience store. The ones from the coffee shop. Even the ones from—' Her eyes go wide. 'You didn't.'

'Old Mr. Park drives a hard bargain.' 'His birthday lights? The ones he's kept since forever?' 'To be fair, they were already purple. Worked with the aesthetic.' 'And what exactly did you promise him?' 'Just my eternal servitude. And maybe repainting his fence.' 'The whole fence?'

'Both sides.'

She shakes her head, but her smile could light up the whole neighborhood. 'You're insane. Completely insane. Do you know how many people I had to convince about your mental well-being?'

'Had to?'

'Have to. Present tense.' She's between your knees now, playing with your shirt hem like it's suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. 'Though I guess now I'll have to change my story to "dating a lunatic who steals Christmas lights and nearly loses an arm trying to spell out love confessions."'

Your heart stumbles. 'Dating?'

'Well,' her borrowed shirt slips further, showing more shoulder. 'I mean, you did just write my name in stars.'

'They're Christmas lights.'

'Same difference.' Her fingers trail up your arm, careful of the bandage. 'Very romantic Christmas lights.'

'Does that mean—'

'It means anyone crazy enough to risk tetanus and Mr. Park's wrath deserves at least dinner.' A pause, then softer: 'Maybe breakfast too, if they play their cards right.'

'Just breakfast?'

'Don't push your luck.' But she's smiling that smile—the one that's always been just for you.

'Yujin-ah.'

'Mm?'

'All these years, did you ever—'

'Every day.' She doesn't let you finish. Doesn't need to. 'Every single day.'

'Can I—'

Her mouth finds yours: the way her lips part like flower petals at dawn, soft and inevitable. Her breath mingles with yours. There's the perfect arch of her spine, the way her breasts press warm against your chest through thin cotton, how her hips seek yours with an instinct older than thought. The taste of her, sweet milk tea and something darker, something that makes your blood sing. Her hands flutter at your neck, startled, before finding home in your hair, and there's that smell of her—woody, floral, fruity—that makes you dizzy, makes you forget where you end and she begins. Delicate sounds escape her, primal and pure, vibrating through both your bodies like a struck chord. Then she's pulling back, but her body stays honest—trembling, burning: alive with new knowledge.

'Sorry,' she whispers. 'Got carried away. We should probably wait until your wound is healed.' Her smile is so reassuring, masking the softest disappointment that her eyes couldn't hide. 

But she was in luck.

Your fingers circle her wrist mid-fret, right as she's about to check your bandage for the seventh time. Her skin is cool against yours, pulse like a hummingbird.

'Stop fretting.'

'I'm not fretting.' But she's barely holding back a smile, eyes bright with something more than just lamplight. 'I'm calculating how many years Mr. Park's going to make you repaint his fence.'

'Already negotiated.' You tug her closer, feeling the way she pretends to resist. 'Two coats, both sides, and my firstborn child.'

'Bold of you to negotiate with children that don't exist.' She settles between your knees anyway, like she's found her way home.

'Yet.'

Her borrowed shirt—your shirt—slips further off one shoulder. 'You're impossible.'

'Impossible enough to steal every Christmas light in Dunsan-dong.'

'Borrow,' she corrects, fingers playing with your collar. 'We're calling it borrowing. Sounds less felonious.'

'Look who's being responsible.'

'Someone has to be.' But she's leaning closer, breath warm against your mouth. 'Since you've apparently lost your mind.'

'Lost it years ago.' Your thumb traces her lower lip. 'Right around the time you started wearing my clothes.'

She makes this sound—half laugh, half something else entirely. 'Smooth talker.'

'Only for you.'

Her hands find your chest, but there's no real resistance in it. 'If you tear those stitches—'

The kiss swallows her warning. This one's different—deeper, like you're trying to taste every year you've waited. She makes a sound that turns your blood to starlight, fingers curling into your shirt like she's afraid you'll disappear.

'That's cheating,' she whispers when you break apart.

'Is it working?'

The lamp catches gold in her eyes. 'Always will.'

Your hand finds skin at the small of her back. She arches like a cat stretching into sunlight.

'You're staring.'

'Can't help it.'

'Try.'

'Make me.'

She kisses you this time—soft, sweet, dangerous. When she pulls back, her smile could outshine every stolen light in the neighborhood.

'We should probably—' she starts.

'Probably.'

Her fingers find the hem of her shirt. Your shirt. Details.

What follows is an exercise in creative problem-solving. One functional arm between you, too much cotton, not enough coordination. Her hair gets caught. You both laugh. The shirt wins the first round.

'Left,' she instructs.

'My left or your left?'

'Wait—here… I got it.'

The second attempt goes better. The shirt surrenders its hold, and suddenly there's just Yujin—all golden skin and starlight. Her bra's simple beige cotton, but the way it holds her could make Michaelangelo weep.

'You're staring again.'

'Still can't help it.'

She kisses you quiet, hands on your shoulders, pulling you closer. Everything soft and warm and perfect.

'Can I—' your fingers find her back, trace lace.

'Yes.' Another kiss. 'Please.'

The bra falls away like a secret finally told. You forget how words work.

The air hums with the weight of revelation—her body an altar, every contour a psalm. Your breath tangles as you drink her in: the bronze aureoles, the arch of her ribs like a vaulted sanctuary, the pulse fluttering at her throat like a caged sparrow. She shivers beneath your gaze: the raw vulnerability of a soul laid bare.

Your palms ascend her sides, mapping the smoothness, the glory of it all—each sigh, each hitch of muscle, a dialect you ache to memorize. She tips her head back as your thumbs brush the underswell of her breasts, a whimper dissolving. ‘More,’ she murmurs, not a demand but a prayer, a beg; her fingers knotting in your hair as if you might slip away like smoke.

You oblige, slow as honey, mouth tracing the salt-sweet hollow of her collarbone. Her skin blooms beneath your lips—petal-soft, fever-warm—as you chart a path lower, lower, until her nipple grazes your tongue. She gasps, back arching. Her hands clutch at you, anchor and plea, as you worship her with unhurried devotion, savoring each tremor, each stuttered breath.

When her legs part—a silent invitation—it’s your turn to shudder. The heat of her radiates through the last fragile barrier, a molten promise. You press closer, the rigid heat of your unclothed shaft straining against her thigh, a visceral counterpoint to her softness. She rolls her hips, deliberate, and you groan as her warmth grinds against you, friction sparking like flint.

You linger there, foreheads pressed, breaths mingling, the world narrowed to the space between heartbeats. Her eyes lock with yours, galaxies swirling in their depths. ‘I want to feel you,’ she whispers, voice trembling. ‘All of you.’

You move as tides do: inevitable, reverent. Her thighs cradle your hips as you guide yourself to her entrance, the head of your shaft slick with Her. The first breach is a shared gasp—a threshold crossed in tandem. She tightens around you, velvet heat clenching like a fist around your length, and you still, trembling, sweat-slicked and spellbound. Her nails score your shoulders, anchoring you to the agony of slowness.

‘Slowly,’ she breathes, and you obey, each fractional advance a pilgrimage. Her fingers trace your jaw, your lips, as if memorizing the shape of this moment. When you’re sheathed fully, time suspends. Her lashes flutter closed, a tear escaping as she whispers, 'Yes.'

You move in thrusts. Her sighs crest into whimpers, into chants of your name, each syllable a spark in the gathering storm. Her breasts sway with the rhythm, nipples brushing your chest, while your hands grip the flare of her hips, guiding her into the tide. Around you, the room dissolves: there is only her skin, her scent, the liquid pull of her around your shaft—a mosaic of need and nectar, each fragment a revelation.

You kiss her deeply, tasting the salt of her surrender, as the world fractures, reforms, and fractures again.

—

Sheets tangled like an afterthought. A leg hooked over yours, pinning you in place with the quiet authority of someone who has long since decided where they belong. The desk fan ticks through its slow, mechanical arc, stirring the air, stirring her hair, making it brush your chin in the softest, smallest way possible.

She shifts, just enough for her ribs to press against yours. You feel her breathing. Deep. Slow. Listening.

‘I have an audition next week,’ she says, voice barely above a whisper.

‘For what?’

‘Community theater. Spring show.’ A pause. Then, quietly, ‘It’s dumb.’

‘You don’t do dumb things.’

She laughs. A real one. The kind that scrunches her nose a little, that makes her shoulders shake just enough to jostle you.

‘Except this,’ she murmurs. Her fingers trace slow circles on your chest.

‘This was a strategic decision.’

‘Oh?’

‘Carefully calculated.’

She laughs again, softer this time. Her breath is warm where it spills against your collarbone. You could live here. Right here, in the space between her voice and her warmth and the way her hair tickles your skin.

She props herself up on one elbow, looking down at you. The Christmas lights outside flicker purples and blues across her face, her skin, making her look like something caught between a dream and waking. Her smile is quiet. Not big, not blinding. Just there. Something she’s forgotten to hide.

‘Hey,’ she says.

‘Hey.’

Her fingers tap lightly against your chest. ‘Remember when you proposed to me behind the school?’

‘Which time.’

She grins. ‘The time I lost the play to Wonyoung and cried so hard I got a nosebleed.’

‘Ah. I told you it didn’t matter because you’d always be the lead in my story.’

She groans, dropping her forehead to your shoulder. ‘You were so corny.’

‘Still am.’

‘Yeah,’ she murmurs. ‘You are.’

You feel her smile against your skin.

The fan clicks on again, stirring the night, the space between you. The crickets outside hum in harmony with the distant sound of a train—faint, but there. The whole world is slowing down. Breathing with you.

She shifts again, nestles closer. Her lips brush your skin—your collarbone, then just above your heart.

‘I can hear you thinking,’ you say.

She sighs, slow and steady. ‘Just… happy.’

You don’t say anything. Just hold her tighter. Like keeping her close might keep the moment from slipping away.

She pulls back, just far enough to see you, really see you. Her hair is a mess. Her lips are still swollen. The Christmas lights turn her eyes into something impossible, something endless.

‘I love you, you know,’ she says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like she’s never known anything else.

You smile. ‘I know.’

She kisses you. Slow, deep, soft. Like a secret. Like an answer.

The fan ticks. The lights flicker. The night stretches on.

—

It was supposed to be small. A local theater gig, a footnote in her life story. Something that kept her busy while she figured out the rest. That was the plan.

Then a casting director walked into the wrong show on the right night. A single scene, a single line delivered with the kind of weight that makes people stop chewing their popcorn. Two weeks later, she’s everywhere.

At first, it’s just murmurs. Articles in the culture section. Buzzwords like promising, raw talent, the next big thing. Then the billboards go up. Magazines with her face—half-laughing, half-serious, eyes catching the camera like they know something you don’t. The first time you see one, it’s plastered on the side of a bus stop you used to share, back when the only lines she rehearsed were whispered promises and badly sung pop songs.

Now she’s too big for Dunsan-dong.

Not just big. Seismic.

Korea’s sweetheart, the industry's new obsession. Agencies circle like sharks with briefcases, smiling through teeth polished for negotiation. They offer her everything—money, sponsorships, a life where she doesn’t have to wait for the subway or count change at convenience stores. And she takes it, not because she’s greedy, but because this is what she was always meant to be.

You watch it happen the way people watch slow-motion car crashes. Helpless. Horrified. A little bit in awe.

Because here’s the thing they never warn you about when you love someone who's destined for greatness: fame isn’t a door. It’s a chasm. You can’t walk through it holding hands.

At first, you convince yourself nothing’s changed. You still talk, still text. But her replies come slower, her voice more rehearsed. The calls happen between set breaks, her voice filtered through exhaustion and bad reception.

Then the interviews start. The talk shows. The press tours.

She gets good at the answers, the little smiles, the artful dodges. The first time someone asks if she’s dating anyone, she hesitates. Just for a second. Just long enough for the internet to notice.

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. That she’s protecting you. That this is just part of the machine.

But a few weeks later, you see a headline:

‘The Nation’s New Star: Who is Yujin’s Mystery First Love?’

And for the first time, it hits you—really hits you—how easy it is to be rewritten.

The tabloids build their own history, constructing boyfriends from old classmates, exes from co-stars. They don’t name you. They don’t have to. Because in the world they’ve built, you don’t exist.

And maybe, you start to think, maybe you never did.

Maybe love isn’t enough when it’s up against the weight of the world. Maybe you were naive to think you could be something more than a footnote in her legend.

Maybe you were never really two. Maybe it was always just her.

Moving forward. Rising higher.

And you—

You’re just the idiot standing still, watching her disappear into the stars.

—

Yujin called you up.

The night was cutting: cold, unrelenting Snow blew sideways, a thousand tiny knives catching on your exposed skin, but you sat there anyway—legs crossed, hands in your lap, all polite.

The bench was old, paint curling at the edges, the kind of place people only sat when they had no better options. You smiled at the irony.

You’d met Yujin in worse places. Loved her in worse places.

And maybe, just maybe, lost her in worse places too.

Then she emerged from the fog, a silhouette first, then a shape, then a person.

Five benches away. Maybe six. Distance had become an abstract concept, like time, like certainty, like the idea that love—real love—was enough to hold the weight of the whole goddamn world.

She didn’t sit. Didn’t hesitate.

‘Let’s break up.’

The words didn’t belong to the girl who used to steal fries from your plate, who used to call you at 2 AM because she saw a cat in the street and thought you needed to know. They belonged to someone else. Someone who had spent hours, maybe days, rehearsing.

Her voice was final. Her eyes were final. Everything about her, from the way she stood to the way the wind refused to touch her, was final.

You should’ve said something.

Anything.

But the air left your lungs in one sharp exhale, stolen by the weight of three syllables arranged in an execution sentence.

The snow caught in her hair, in her lashes, in the hollow curve of her collarbone, and she looked—god, she looked—like something from a dream you had once, the kind you woke from gasping, reaching for someone who wasn’t there.

And then she wasn’t.

She turned. Walked away. Snow swallowed her whole.

You could’ve chased her. Could’ve fallen to your knees, begged, pleaded, made a scene, made a fool of yourself. Could’ve grabbed her wrist, reminded her that you were not just some chapter to be closed. Could’ve thrown every memory, every quiet moment, every touch, every whispered I love you in her face like proof of something sacred.

But you didn’t.

Because Yujin never spoke like this. Not unless she meant it.

And that’s what gutted you most.

You sat there long after she was gone, staring at the place she used to be, like if you looked hard enough, you could rewind time, unbreak whatever fragile thing had finally snapped between you.

The sky stretched empty above you, stars sharp against the ink. You tried counting them. Tried counting anything to stop counting the ways you’d just lost her.

One star. Two. One mistake. Two. Three years. Four. Five benches away.

Maybe six. The wind howled, and you let it.

—

The beer’s flat, but that’s not why it tastes bad.

You lean against the bar, watching foam dissolve into something thin and lifeless, the way good things always do. Three years distilled into neon lights and a tab you don’t remember opening.

She’s 24 now. You keep count because she was impossible to avoid—billboards, subway ads, every damn screen flashing her face like she owns the world. And maybe she does. The brightest star, the nation’s darling, the girl who left and became.

You should be proud. You tell yourself you are.

But pride doesn’t feel like this. Doesn’t sit heavy in your ribs like grief. Doesn’t twist like a blade when you flip through channels and land on her.

The latest drama. Friends-to-lovers, some rom-com fluff. A special kind of hell, watching her fall for someone else, even if it’s scripted.

And the kiss—god, the kiss.

Over and over. Different angles, different takes. The guy has trepid shoulders and a weaker mouth. You want to reach through the screen, grab him by his stupid collar, shake him until he understands: You don’t get to kiss Yujin like that unless you mean it.

The beer in your hand swirls, a storm in a pint glass. You watch it spin, thinking about how everything these days seems determined to drown you.

Then Roach walks in.

Roach—half philosopher, half walking disaster. A man with too many past lives and a prosthetic eye that glows faintly under bar light, making him look part machine, part ghost.

‘That recovery group, they’re solid,’ he says, by way of hello. His voice is like chewing on gravel. ‘Might’ve been able to quit if I stuck around.’ ‘4.8 stars on Google, right?’ ‘Right. Wait. How’d you know that?’ His synthetic eye sits there while the real one narrows. ‘Been there.’ ‘What?’ ‘Been there. You recommended it.’ Roach laughs, short and sharp. ‘That was the review forum.’ ‘Memory’s fuzzy.’ ‘Fuzzy? You’re getting soft.’ ‘All those reviews read like discount novels, Roach.’ ‘Why the hell would I write reviews?’ ‘Same reason you do anything—to feel something.’ He smacks your chest, hard enough to make you look up. ‘Yujin broke you. Plain as day.’ Your throat tightens. The name alone feels like a switchblade. ‘It’s not like that… anymore.’ ‘Sure looks like it.’ ‘How’s that?’ ‘You’re on the leaderboard in this bar. They’re bleeding you dry, and you’re letting them.’ You don’t argue. Just take another sip. ‘Don’t deserve this money anyway.’ ‘Then give it elsewhere. There’s an orphanage across the street.’ ‘Don’t play saint with me.’ ‘It’s just a block away.’ ‘Fuck off.’ ‘Just a block—’ ‘Fine.’ You press your glass against the table, like the condensation might hold you steady. ‘I’ll think about it.’ Roach grins like he’s won something. ‘Ever watch her show?’ he asks, tilting his flask toward you. You hesitate. ‘Not really.’ ‘Bullshit. Saw you yesterday. That rain scene.’ Your grip tightens around the glass. The rain scene. You were there. Back when “we” still meant something. Holding her coat between takes, watching her shiver between scripted heartbreaks. ‘She always cried pretty,’ you murmur. ‘Even back then.’ Roach nods, takes a sip. ‘Tell me about it.’ You do. You don’t mean to, but you do. ‘Nothing to tell,’ you start. ‘I was nobody. She was becoming somebody. Simple math.’ ‘That’s not what I heard.’ ‘Yeah? What’d you hear?’ ‘That you proposed. Night before Seoul.’ The beer sours in your mouth. ‘Who told you that?’ ‘Does it matter? True though, isn’t it?’ You let out something that’s supposed to be a laugh. ‘Got the ring from my grandmother. Vintage Tiffany, art deco. Yujin loved vintage.’ ‘And?’ ‘And she cried. Not the pretty kind.’ You see it now, clear as the night it happened—her shaking hands, the way she pressed the box back into yours like it burned. ‘Said she couldn’t. Said she wasn't ready. I guess that was the foreshadowing: she broke up with me just a week later.’ ‘A choice between you and fame?’ ‘Between real life and the life she’d dreamed of since she was six. No contest, really.’ Roach doesn’t speak for a while. Just stares at the bar like it’s holding the right words. ‘Where’s the ring now?’ You smirk, but it tastes like blood. ‘Pawned it. Bought a week of blackout drunk and a ticket anywhere else.’ Roach exhales, long and low. His eyes flick to your watch, but nothing gold can compare to what you lost. ‘And here you are.’ ‘Here I am.’ Bass pulses through the walls, someone screams about love on the dance floor, and the bartender slides another drink toward you like it might fix anything. Roach downs the rest of his flask, claps a hand on your shoulder. ‘Well. Good luck with that. Got a missus waiting. Let me know when you find one.’ You don’t look at him. ‘We might never speak again.’ ‘Doubt that.’ A pat on the back, one final grin. Then he’s gone. You scoff. If ever. And you leave.

—

Seoul in summer is a thing that sticks. To your skin, to your thoughts, to the spaces between breath. Heat rises off the pavement, thick and wet, settling in your lungs like something permanent.

The city is wide awake, but softer at this hour. Convenience store fluorescents hover in the humidity, blurring edges. Subway vents exhale something metallic, ghostly. The crickets don’t know they live in a city. They just keep singing.

You walk. Not home, not anywhere. Just walking, because it’s better than stopping.

Stopping means remembering.

Every street corner holds a version of her. The Yujin who stole fries off your plate, who could sleep through a fireworks show, who once convinced you that every ice cream cone tasted better if it was half-melted. She’s there, tucked into flickering billboards, frozen mid-laugh on subway ads, threaded between the chords of songs you don’t mean to hear.

You take the long way. Five, six corners. Maybe more.

Then the bus stop appears.

Half-forgotten. Almost overgrown. A bench with its paint peeling like old skin, weeds curling around the edges like they might swallow it whole.

You sit. Elbows on knees. Hands folded. Thinking. Not thinking.

The streetlight buzzes. The air is thick with waiting.

Then—

A shadow falls across your feet.

A shift in pressure. Not wind, just something. The moment before a storm, before impact, before memory collides with the present and makes a mess of everything.

‘What are you doing here?’ Soft. Not a blade, not a wound. Just a question that lands like an old habit.

You don’t need to look. But you do. Because some habits don’t break.

Yujin stands there, framed by sodium light, hands tucked into the pockets of a hoodie that looks too soft to exist. No cameras. No entourage. Just her.

And god—just her is enough to knock the breath out of your chest.

‘Hiding?’ Soft. Like the question isn’t a question, just something to fill the space between heartbeats.

You don’t look up right away. You know the shape of her. You’ve spent years knowing it. The way she stands, weight slightly to one side. The way her voice lands, gentle, edged with something only you ever got to hear.

But you look anyway. Because it’s her. And some rules of the universe don’t change.

Yujin.

Not the Yujin on billboards, the Yujin on magazine covers, the Yujin who belongs to a nation that adores her.

Just Yujin.

Hair a little messy. Hoodie swallowing her frame. Hands tucked into the sleeves like she’s bracing against a cold that doesn’t exist.

And—god. Her eyes. Still warm. Still familiar. Still Dunsan-dong in their quiet, endless way.

She tilts her head. Smiles. The kind of smile that makes you feel seventeen again, like you just said something stupid and brilliant in the same breath.

‘Hiding?’ she repeats, softer this time.

‘Hiding implies I have something to hide from.’

‘And do you?’

A pause. Then—

‘Maybe.’

A hum. A small shift in weight. Then she sits. Just like that. No asking, no hesitation. Just sits, close enough that her knee brushes yours, like muscle memory, like the past hasn’t completely given up on you yet.

The air smells like street food, like summer. Somewhere, a neon sign hums its last flickers before shutting off for the night.

She bumps her shoulder against yours.

‘Missed you, you know.’

You turn your head. Blink. She’s watching you, like the sentence wasn’t a trap, wasn’t something heavy. Just… true.

You swallow.

‘Yeah?’

She nods, pulling her sleeves over her hands. ‘Yeah.’

The night stretches. Not awkward. Not tight with something unspoken. Just easy. Just… there.

‘How’s life?’ she asks.

‘Oh, you know. Full of bad choices.’

‘Any good ones?’

‘Still deciding.’

She breathes out a laugh, soft.

You glance at her, at the curve of her nose, the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear like she’s done since she was a kid.

‘You look…’ she starts, then tilts her head.

‘What?’

‘The same.’

You huff a laugh. ‘That’s a lie.’

‘No.’ She nudges your knee again. ‘You’re just… still you.’

And it’s so simple, the way she says it. So casual, like she hasn’t just pulled the breath from your lungs.

You don’t answer. Not yet.

She leans in slightly.

‘Still drink too much coffee?’

‘Still sleep through earthquakes?’

Her grin widens. ‘Still remember that?’

‘Some things don’t change.’

‘Some do.’

A small shift. A glance. A fraction closer.

And the city moves around you, oblivious.

But you?

You stay still.

You stay here.

Yujin sighs, long and soft, tilting her head back, watching the streetlight cast flickering halos through the humidity.

‘Seoul’s different at night,’ she murmurs. ‘Seoul’s different all the time.’

She hums, half in agreement, half just because she likes the sound. You forgot about that—the way she used to make tiny noises when she was thinking, little musical notes that filled in the gaps between words.

‘Feels slower now,’ she says. ‘That’s just you.’ She turns to you, eyes warm. ‘Yeah?’ You nod. ‘Everything moves too fast for you these days. You forgot what slow feels like.’ A small smile. ‘Remind me?’ Something tightens in your chest. She doesn’t mean it like that. Doesn’t mean it like anything more than what it is—a quiet moment, a quiet ask. But still. You shift, leaning back against the bench, stretching your arms across the top like you own the night. Like it doesn’t own you. ‘Alright,’ you say. ‘Lesson one: sitting still.’ She huffs a laugh but follows your lead, sinking deeper into the wood, legs stretching out. Her foot knocks against yours. ‘Like this?’ ‘Yeah.’ A beat. ‘And then what?’ ‘Nothing.’ She raises a brow. ‘That’s it?’ ‘That’s it.’ She exhales, slow and thoughtful. ‘You always made things feel easy,’ she says, voice quiet, like she’s afraid of disrupting the moment. You glance at her, and she’s not looking at you—just at the night, at the city, at something only she can see. ‘Not sure that’s true,’ you admit. ‘No, it is.’ She pulls her sleeves over her hands again, eyes flicking toward you. ‘You made me feel easy. Like… breathing.’ Something inside you curls at the edges. ‘Yujin—’ ‘It’s okay.’ She shakes her head, soft, smiling like she’s telling you not to carry it too heavily. ‘I’m just remembering.’ The city hums around you both. A distant motorbike rumbles past. Somewhere, an old radio plays a song you half recognize. You look at her again. Hair slightly mussed. Eyes bright, soft, familiar. Like she was never gone at all. She shifts, tucking one leg under the other, hands still hidden in her sleeves.

‘You ever think about calling?’ Her voice is light. Not demanding. Not accusing. Just... wondering. You let out a slow breath. ‘You ever think about picking up?’ A small laugh, exhale-soft. ‘Yeah.’ You glance at her, and she’s already looking at you, chin propped against her knee, smile barely-there but real. ‘But I figured you needed time,’ she says. You swallow. ‘Did I?’ Her fingers twitch against the fabric of her hoodie. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I just told myself that so I wouldn’t call.’ The honesty knocks something loose in your chest. You don’t say anything for a moment. The city moves around you both, neon humming against the wet pavement, the smell of night air thick with too many things. Then, quietly— ‘Three years is a long time, Yujin.’ ‘I know.’

She shifts, slow, careful, like she’s turning over a fragile thought in her hands. ‘But I never wanted it to be forever.’ Your throat tightens. You want to ask her then why did you leave like it was? But you don’t. Because you already know the answer. Because she was always meant for something bigger. Because she was scared, because you were scared, because maybe—just maybe—back then, love wasn’t enough to hold everything steady.

Instead, you say, ‘You look good, you know.’ Her lips curve, soft. ‘You do too.’ You scoff, tipping your head back against the bench. ‘Liar.’ ‘I never lied to you.’ That shuts you up. For a moment, you let it sink in. The weight of her voice, the way she says it like it’s a fact, like it’s something you should’ve never doubted. Then, softer— ‘You really never called?’ she asks. ‘I really never called.’ She doesn’t look away. ‘Why?’ You inhale. Let the air sit heavy in your lungs. ‘Because I thought you’d be better off without me.’ The words land, quiet and unpolished. Yujin blinks. Then— ‘You idiot.’ And then she’s moving, shifting closer, her fingers finding your sleeve, gripping just slightly, just enough for you to feel her there, to feel her warmth against the fabric. ‘Do you know how many times I almost showed up at your door?’ she says, voice soft but steady. ‘How many times I wanted to tell you that I was still here? That I—’ She stops. Exhales. Looks away, looks back. ‘That I missed you?’ You swallow. She’s close now. Not quite touching, but nearly. The air between you charged, something slow, something waiting. Your heart does something complicated in your chest. ‘You missed me?’ you murmur. Yujin smiles, small, fond. ‘Of course, you idiot.’ The city hums. The night exhales. And you— You don’t move away. Yujin stays close. Close enough for you to count her breaths, to feel the warmth of her body radiating through the space between you. You should say something. You should do something. Instead, you just sit there. And Yujin—Yujin lets you.

Her fingers stay curled into your sleeve, loose but certain. Like she’s testing gravity, checking to see if you’ll stay, if you’ll shift, if you’ll remind her that you’re real. She tilts her head, watching you the way she used to—like she’s memorizing you, like she’s trying to fit you back into the version of her life where you were always supposed to be. And maybe she is. Maybe she’s wondering how you look the same but feel different. Maybe she’s cataloging the way your shoulders have set a little heavier, the way your mouth curves in thought before you speak. Or maybe she’s just looking. Like she never stopped. ‘So,’ she says, voice light, careful. ‘What now?’ A question too big for this moment. A question you can’t answer, not yet. So you do what you always do. You deflect. You lean back, arms stretching across the top of the bench, looking at her out of the corner of your eye. ‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that?’ She lifts a brow. ‘You were always the planner.’ She snorts. ‘Hardly.’ ‘Oh? I seem to remember someone who had color-coded schedules for summer break.’ ‘That was one summer.’

‘Still counts.’ She exhales a laugh, tipping her head back against the bench, looking up at the sky. ‘Okay, fine. Maybe I was a little obsessed with plans.’ ‘A little?’

She shoots you a look, but it’s all warmth. All familiarity. ‘You liked it,’ she says. ‘It was efficient. It was cute.’

You hesitate. Just slightly. But she catches it. Of course she does. Her smile softens.

‘You can say it, you know.’ You tilt your head, pretending to be confused. ‘Say what?’ ‘That you missed me too.’

Something about the way she says it makes your stomach pull tight. Not teasing. Not fishing. Just true. You turn back to the street, watching the way the neon catches in the puddles, turning them into something like galaxies.

‘You already know.’ Yujin hums. ‘I want to hear it anyway.’ You exhale.

Three years of distance. Three years of silence. Three years of trying to unwrite the part of your life where she belonged.

‘Yeah,’ you say, voice quiet. ‘I missed you.’

Yujin doesn’t say anything right away. Then—

Her hand slides fully into your sleeve, warm against your wrist. A small thing. A quiet thing. But it’s enough.

‘Good,’ she murmurs.

You sit there like that for a while. Neither of you moving. Neither of you pulling away. And for the first time in years—

The silence between you doesn’t feel like an ending. It feels like a beginning.

Her hand stays there. Not gripping. Not holding. Just resting, warm against your wrist, like it belongs there. Like it never left.

You let out a slow breath. Three years. Three whole years. And somehow, this—her, the quiet press of her skin against yours, the way she’s just here—feels so natural it makes your ribs ache.

‘What are we doing, Yujin?’

Soft. Not accusing. Just—just needing to know if she feels it too, if this night is supposed to mean what you think it does.

She tilts her head, slow. Her hair slips over her shoulder, catching the streetlight in its strands. ‘Talking?’

A small, careful smile.

You huff. ‘Is that what this is?’

She hums, shifts a little closer, foot knocking against yours. ‘I don’t know. Feels nice, though.’

Nice. Nice, like it isn’t everything. Nice, like you aren’t suddenly breathing her in again, like your body hasn’t been on high alert since the moment she walked into your orbit tonight.

You roll your wrist slightly, just enough so that your fingers brush hers. She doesn’t pull away.

The city hums. The night exhales. And then—

‘Do you want to go for a walk?’ she asks.

It’s an easy question. A simple one. But something about it knots itself into your chest, makes your throat tight. Because that’s always how it was with her. Yujin never asked for big things. Just small ones, one after another, adding up to something impossible to resist.

Do you want to get ice cream? Do you want to climb onto the roof? Do you want to watch the rain with me? Do you want to stay?

And you had always said yes.

You glance at her now, at the way she’s watching you, hopeful but not pushing, patient in the way only she could ever be. A walk. A moment. A step toward something you don’t quite know how to name.

You exhale, slow. Then you stand.

‘Lead the way.’

Her smile—god. Her smile.

She slips her hand fully into yours, easy, thoughtless, like muscle memory. Like no time has passed at all.

And you— You let her.

The street hums around you, the last traces of night shifting toward something softer. The vendors have mostly packed up, but the scent of grilled meat and frying oil still lingers, floating warm through the thick summer air.

Yujin’s hand stays in yours. Not tight. Not hesitant. Just there. Like it was always meant to be.

You walk without direction. Just moving, side by side, the way you used to. Her footsteps match yours easily, a quiet sync neither of you planned.

‘Where are we going?’ you ask, voice low.

‘Nowhere,’ she says.

It makes you smile.

A few years ago, that answer would have annoyed her. Yujin, the girl with color-coded schedules, with plans so detailed they might as well have been carved into stone. But now she just says it like it’s enough. Like it’s the whole point.

She swings your hands slightly, absentminded. ‘You always walked like this,’ she murmurs.

‘Like what?’

She shrugs. ‘Like the city doesn’t own you.’

You breathe in, slow. The neon of old convenience stores, the occasional flickering of a streetlamp. ‘I guess I never let it.’

She hums. ‘I did.’

You glance at her. ‘Yujin—’

‘It’s okay,’ she cuts in, smiling. ‘I wanted to. I just—’ She exhales, presses her lips together for a moment, then shakes her head. ‘I forgot how good it feels to walk like this. Without thinking.’

You squeeze her hand just slightly.

She notices. Her thumb brushes the edge of your palm. Not an accident. Not a mistake.

The city stretches ahead of you, quiet. ‘You ever think about coming back?’ you ask.

She doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers tighten around yours, just a little.

‘I used to dream about it,’ she says, voice softer now. ‘I’d wake up thinking I was still in Dunsan-dong. That I’d step outside and find you waiting, like always.’

Your throat goes tight. She turns her head, studies your face in the flickering light.

‘But I was scared,’ she says, gentle. ‘What if you were different? What if I was?’

You don’t look away. ‘And now?’

A breath. A small, small smile. ‘I think I was scared of the wrong thing.’

Your heart stumbles.

She slows, pulling you toward the edge of the sidewalk, toward a tiny park that barely qualifies as a park—a patch of grass, a few trees. The kind of place nobody notices. She stops. Turns to face you.

You should say something. You should say everything.

But she beats you to it.

‘You were always the best part of my life,’ she says, voice steady, firm, like she’s decided something for herself.

Your pulse jumps. ‘Yujin—’

‘I just needed you to know that.’

She’s looking at you like she’s bracing for impact. Like she’s not sure what you’ll do with this thing she’s handing you.

So you take it. Carefully, quietly, the way she deserves.

You lift your hand—the one she’s not holding—and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Her breath catches.

‘Yeah?’ you murmur.

She nods.

And then, softer—

‘I think you were always mine.’

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Because the next thing you know, her hands are on your face, and your mouth is against hers, and the whole city dissolves around you.

She tastes like everything you remember. Like fine tea and something sweeter, something that was always just hers. She presses closer, hands slipping down to your collar, holding you there like you might disappear.

You won’t. Not this time.

When you pull back, she’s breathing fast, forehead resting against yours. You smile.

‘Still walk like the city doesn’t own me?’ you murmur.

She laughs, breathless, and pulls you back in.

Yujin kisses like a memory you never let go of. Like muscle memory, like breathing. Like the space between your ribs was always meant to make room for her.

She pulls back, just enough for her nose to brush yours. Her breath is warm, uneven. Her hands are still curled into the collar of your shirt, holding, gripping, keeping.

You open your eyes. She’s already looking at you.

Not like the girl on the billboards, not like the actress on screen. Just Yujin. Soft, real, right here.

Her lips are pink and kiss-bitten. She blinks slowly, dazed, like she’s trying to piece together what just happened. And then—

Then she laughs.

Not a big laugh. Not loud. Just this tiny, incredulous little sound. Like she can’t believe it. Like she can’t believe you.

‘What?’ you murmur.

She shakes her head, smiling, fingers still resting against your collar. ‘I don’t know.’

‘That’s a first.’

She huffs. ‘Shut up.’

‘Make me.’

A flicker of something in her eyes. Amusement. Mischief. Something else.

She tilts her head, considering. Then, in one slow movement, she leans in—

Not kissing you, not quite. Just close enough that her lips barely graze yours. Close enough that you can feel her smile.

‘Tempting,’ she murmurs.

Your heart stumbles.

But then she pulls away, slipping her fingers from your shirt, stepping back onto the sidewalk, like she’s giving you space to breathe.

You don’t need it. But you let her.

The city hums around you, the distant rumble of a car engine, the occasional flicker of neon against damp pavement.

You watch as Yujin tilts her head toward the sky, stretching her arms out, exhaling like she’s just remembered how.

‘I forgot what this feels like,’ she admits.

‘What?’

‘Not thinking.’ She lets her hands drop to her sides, flexing her fingers. ‘Not planning every second of my life in advance. Just… being.’

You shift, watching her.

‘I don’t think I’ve done that in years,’ she says.

A pause. Then, softly—

‘Stay with me.’

Your heart does something complicated in your chest.

She looks over, a little hesitant now, like she’s not sure how the words sound out loud.

‘I mean—’ she starts, but you shake your head.

‘Okay.’

Her lips part slightly.

Like she expected you to hesitate. Like she thought she’d have to convince you.

You step closer. Just enough that the space between you disappears again.

‘Okay?’ she echoes.

You nod.

Then, quieter—‘Anywhere.’

Yujin’s face softens.

And god, it’s so easy, the way she looks at you. Like you are something known. Like she is something understood.

She lets out a small, breathy laugh, reaching up to brush her thumb against the corner of your mouth.

‘You’re so stupid,’ she murmurs.

‘You love it.’

‘Yeah,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Yeah, I do.’

She slips her hand back into yours, fingers threading together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like she never left. Like you never let her.

And the city stretches ahead, wide open, waiting.

You should take a taxi. That would be the smart thing. A quiet, unremarkable way to disappear from the city before someone notices Korea’s brightest star walking hand-in-hand with someone who isn’t famous, isn’t scripted, isn’t anything but hers.

But Yujin shakes her head.

‘Not yet,’ she says.

So you walk.

She keeps close, hood pulled low, fingers curled into yours. The streets are thinning out, the city exhaling into its quieter hours. The air smells like fried oil and pavement, the ghosts of dinner service still hanging in the air.

She bumps into you once, then twice.

‘Are you always this bad at walking?’ you ask.

She grins, breathless. ‘I think I forgot how to do it with company.’

Company. Company.

You’re not sure if you’re relieved of that; that she was too busy to even meander through lazy lovers.

You squeeze her hand. She squeezes back.

Your place isn’t far, but when you reach it—when Yujin stops at the entrance, tilting her head back to take it all in—something shifts.

‘Huh.’

That’s all she says.

You fight a smirk. ‘Huh?’

She makes a small noise, arms crossed, like she’s trying not to look impressed.

‘You kept acting like you lived in a shoebox.’

You raise a brow. ‘Did I?’

‘Yeah.’ She gestures vaguely to the high-rise, the massive glass windows catching the city lights. ‘I was expecting something small. Modest. Maybe a bachelor pad with an ugly couch and a tragic little coffee table.’

You scoff. ‘What do you take me for?’

‘A very humble man, apparently.’

You shake your head, leading her inside.

The elevator is empty. Too bright. Too quiet.

She rocks on her heels. ‘So, do I get the grand tour?’

‘I don’t know,’ you say, pretending to think. ‘You might not be able to handle it. Very overwhelming.’

She elbows you in the side, laughing. ‘Shut up.’

The doors slide open.

She steps out first, into the hallway, waiting while you fish your keys from your pocket.

She glances over. ‘I still can’t believe you live here.’

‘Why?’

She shrugs. ‘It’s just weird.’

‘Weird how?’

She scrunches her nose, like she doesn’t quite know how to explain it. ‘I don’t know. You just never cared about stuff like this.’

You unlock the door.

She steps inside.

And immediately—

‘Oh my god.’

You roll your eyes, shutting the door behind you. ‘What now?’

She turns in a slow circle, taking everything in. The high ceilings, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the soft lighting that spills across the polished wood.

‘Are you kidding?’ she says, spinning toward you, mouth open in faux outrage. ‘This is beautiful.’

You snort. ‘What, you thought I was sleeping in a broom closet?’

‘Yes.’

‘Wow. Faith in me is strong, I see.’

She grins, moving toward the living room. ‘No, it’s just—’ She shakes her head, fingers brushing over the back of the sleek, perfectly chosen couch. ‘You were always so… comfortable with less. I figured, even if you had money, you’d still live like some struggling artist in a shoebox.’

You scoff, kicking off your shoes. ‘What does that even mean?’

‘Like, I don’t know, sleeping on a mattress on the floor. A single sad chair. Stacks of books everywhere.’

You raise a brow. ‘So your image of me is basically a broke philosophy major?’

She shrugs. ‘It suited you.’

You exhale a laugh.

‘But this,’ she gestures around again, ‘this is… grown-up.’

‘Was I not grown-up before?’

She grins. ‘No.’

‘Wow.’

‘But,’ she continues, stepping toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, where the city spills out in front of her like a living, breathing thing, ‘I like it. It feels like you.’

You pause.

Not expensive. Not fancy. Not over-the-top.

It feels like you.

You scratch the back of your neck, looking away.

‘Yeah?’

She nods. ‘Yeah.’

She turns back to the glass, resting her fingers lightly against the frame. ‘You can see the river from here.’

You step up beside her.

It’s a view you see every day, but somehow, with Yujin here, it looks different.

She breathes in. ‘It’s nice.’

You breathe her in.

‘Yeah,’ you murmur. ‘It is.’

She turns.

And then she kisses you.

Not careful. Not planned.

Just Yujin.

She tilts her head, presses up slightly on her toes, and meets your mouth with something warm, something easy.

It’s not perfect.

She misses, just slightly. Laughs into the kiss. Her hands fumble for your collar but find your wrist instead.

But god—

It’s real.

You breathe her in. Hold her waist. Feel her fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt like she’s trying to pull you closer, closer.

She hums against your lips, smiling.

You grin. ‘You missed.’

She exhales a laugh. ‘Shut up.’

‘Make me.’

She does.

The kisses are clumsy, messy, soft. The kind that happens when two people are trying to remember, trying to relearn each other in real-time.

She tugs at your shirt.

You trip over the edge of the couch.

She gasps.

You land in a heap, tangled together, breathless.

Silence.

Then—

She laughs.

Bright, full, head tipped back against your chest.

You groan, letting your head fall back against the cushions. ‘Unbelievable.’

She grins, shifting so she’s straddling your lap. ‘I don’t know, I think it’s fitting.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah.’ She leans in, pressing her forehead against yours. ‘Clumsy love suits us.’

Your breath catches.

Then, softer—

‘Yeah,’ you murmur. ‘It does.’

She cups your face, fingers warm against your jaw.

The city hums outside, unaware.

And you—

You stay here.

With her.

You don’t know who says it first.

Maybe her. Maybe you. Maybe neither of you—maybe it’s just implied, wrapped up in the way she’s still sitting in your lap, fingers absently tracing patterns over your collarbone, skin warm against yours.

But at some point, between the teasing and the breathless little ohs that slip between kisses, it just becomes a fact.

You’re both too warm.

Too sticky from the night air, from walking too long through humid Seoul streets, from the thick summer heat pressing against the glass of your windows.

‘Shower,’ she murmurs.

You’re not sure if it’s a request or a declaration, but either way—

‘Yeah,’ you say.

And then you’re moving.

Yujin laughs when you lift her off the couch, stumbling slightly as you navigate through the apartment. She doesn’t let go, arms slung loosely around your neck, breath warm against your ear.

‘Are you always this dramatic?’ she asks.

‘You love it.’

She hums, not denying it.

The bathroom is bright, too bright, the kind of brightness that makes everything feel a little more real than you’re prepared for. But Yujin doesn’t hesitate—just pulls her hoodie over her head, shakes her hair out, steps closer like she’s done this a thousand times.

Like she’s never left.

You watch as she turns toward the mirror, tilting her head slightly.

‘Haven’t been in a place like this in a while,’ she muses.

‘A bathroom?’

She snorts, shoving you lightly. ‘No, this kind of bathroom.’ She waves a hand vaguely, indicating the open shower, the marble walls, the soft lighting. ‘It’s fancy.’

You roll your eyes, reaching for the faucet. ‘You act like you don’t stay in five-star hotels every week.’

‘That’s different.’

‘How?’

She steps behind you, pressing her chin against your shoulder. ‘This feels like you.’

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you don’t say anything at all.

The water warms between your fingers, steam rising slowly.

Yujin hums, stepping forward, slipping her fingers under the hem of your shirt. ‘Come on.’

You don’t move.

She looks up, amused. ‘What, suddenly shy?’

You scoff, shaking your head, but your pulse jumps when her fingers skate lightly against your stomach.

She grins. ‘Cute.’

‘What is?’

‘Three years apart, and you’re still so you.’

You exhale a laugh, finally pulling your shirt over your head. She does the same, tossing her clothes into a messy pile, and then—

Then it’s just you and her, standing too close, bare skin meeting for the first time in what feels like forever.

Her breath catches.

You hear it. Feel it.

And god—

She’s so beautiful.

All golden skin and soft curves and the kind of warmth that could make the whole city feel like home.

She watches you, expectant, waiting.

You don’t make her wait long.

You reach for her—

And she lets you.

Lets you pull her in, lets you kiss her slow, deep, careful, like you’re memorizing her all over again.

She sighs into your mouth, hands trailing up your arms, curling into your hair.

‘Come on,’ she whispers.

And this time—

You listen.

The water is hot, almost too hot, but neither of you care.

Yujin steps under first, exhaling as the warmth rolls over her skin, tilting her head back so that her hair darkens, slick against her shoulders.

You’re distracted.

Too distracted.

Because—

Because she’s standing there, all bare skin and soft curves and Yujin, looking at you like she already knows exactly what you’re thinking.

‘Are you going to keep staring?’ she teases.

You swallow. ‘Maybe.’

She laughs, stepping forward, reaching for the shampoo.

You should move. Should help. Should do something.

But instead, you just—

Just watch.

The way she hums under her breath, the way she lathers the shampoo into her hair, fingers massaging small circles against her scalp.

You’re so lost in it, in her, that you don’t even realize she’s finished—

Until she suddenly turns, tilts her head, and smiles.

‘Come here.’

You don’t hesitate.

She tugs you forward, fingers threading through your hair, working shampoo into your scalp like it’s something sacred, something worth taking her time with.

And god—

God, you forgot how good this feels.

Forgot what it was like to just be, to just exist under someone’s hands, to let yourself be cared for in a way that doesn’t feel heavy, doesn’t feel like a transaction.

Her fingers move slowly, carefully, her nails scraping lightly against your skin.

You close your eyes.

Breathe.

Let yourself lean into it.

Let yourself lean into her.

And she—

She lets you.

She’s still rinsing when you reach for her.

‘What—’

You shush her, hands skimming up her sides, guiding her under the water’s warmth.

She lets you.

Lets you tilt her chin slightly, lets you press a kiss just below her ear, lets you work your fingers into her hair like she’s something holy.

Her breath catches.

You hear it, feel it, let it sink into your bones.

‘Close your eyes,’ you murmur.

She hesitates—just a fraction of a second—then obeys.

The water slides down her face, over her lips, down the elegant curve of her throat.

You watch, transfixed.

Then you move.

You reach for the shampoo, work it between your hands, and Yujin’s confused—’Again?’—but when your fingers find her scalp—

She melts.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen her this undone.

Head tilted slightly, mouth parted, body soft beneath your touch.

She hums, a small, quiet sound, like she’s just remembered something she’d long forgotten.

You barely breathe.

Just keep going, keep moving, keep tracing slow, deliberate circles, letting your fingers tangle through her hair like it’s something sacred.

Because it is.

Because she is.

Yujin, the girl who never stopped moving, who never let herself stop thinking, who planned every step of her life down to the last decimal—

She’s still now.

Still, and warm, and yours.

You rinse the shampoo carefully, letting the water do the work. Your fingers trail down, down, past her neck, past her shoulders, past the delicate slip of her collarbone.

She sighs.

Leans into you.

Lets herself fall.

And god—

You’ll catch her.

Every time.

You reach for the soap next, work it slowly over her back, over her arms, over every inch of her that you can touch.

She exhales, barely above a whisper.

‘Feels nice.’

You smile.

‘Good.’

You don’t rush.

Not when she’s like this. Not when she’s letting you do this, letting you love her with something as simple as this.

Your hands trail lower, down her spine, over the dip of her waist. She shifts slightly, breath hitching just a little.

You pause.

Press a kiss to her shoulder.

She shivers, but not from the cold.

‘This okay?’ you murmur.

Her fingers curl around your wrist, stopping you.

For a moment, you think she’s going to pull away—

But instead—

She guides your hand lower.

Presses it against the soft warmth of her stomach.

Holds it there.

She exhales, slow and deep. ‘Don’t stop.’ You don’t. God, you don’t. You let your hands move slowly, carefully, exploring her the way you’ve always wanted to—like she’s something to learn, something to understand. And Yujin— Yujin lets you.

She lets you wash away the last three years, lets you trace something new into her skin, lets you relearn every inch of her with soap and steam and careful, careful hands.

She turns in your arms, pressing her forehead against yours. The water slips between you, catching at the spaces where you don’t quite meet. She’s smiling. Soft. Sweet. Yours. You cup her face. She leans into it, eyes fluttering closed. For a long, long moment, neither of you move. You just stay. Right here. Right now. Like this. Like always. Then— She opens her eyes. And she kisses you.

The water trails down her spine in slow, careful rivers, catching in the dips of her back, rolling down the curve of her waist. You follow its path with your fingers, mapping her skin like something sacred, something known.

She doesn’t move. Just lets you touch. Lets you care.

You start with her back, palms gliding down the slope of her shoulders, the delicate stretch of muscle beneath warm, damp skin. Your thumbs press gently into the knots there, kneading, coaxing, working out tension she probably doesn’t even realize she’s holding.

She exhales, long and slow, tipping her head forward. ‘Mmm,’ she murmurs, voice thick with something close to sleep. ‘That feels good.’ You smile. Press your thumbs in a little deeper. Let your hands drift lower, following the curve of her spine, tracing each ridge, each shadow, each memory pressed into muscle. You smooth circles over her lower back, fingers pressing into the dimples there, trailing down— She shivers. Your hands pause. ‘Ticklish?’ you murmur.

She huffs a quiet laugh, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. ‘A little.’ You grin, but you don’t tease. Not now. Not when she’s letting you do this, letting you love her in the simplest, softest way. You reach for the soap, work it between your hands until it foams, and then— Then you really start. You start with her arms, sliding your palms over smooth, damp skin, tracing the delicate lines of muscle beneath. You lift her wrist, turning it over, running your fingers along the pulse point there. Her breath catches. You watch, mesmerized, as water beads along the inside of her forearm, trailing down to the soft bend of her elbow. ‘You’re so careful,’ she murmurs. You hum. ‘You deserve careful.’ Something flickers across her face. Something soft. She lets her fingers curl around yours. You smile. Run your hands over her stomach next, tracing the subtle rise and fall of each breath, the warmth of her, the realness of her. She shifts slightly, the movement pressing her closer, pressing skin to skin, pressing warmth to warmth. You exhale. Let your hands drift lower, over the curve of her waist, the dip of her hip, the length of her thigh. You take your time. Because she lets you. Because she wants you to. You kneel then, water rolling down your shoulders, down your back, pooling against your skin. You press your lips to her hip. She exhales, shaky, fingers threading into your hair. ‘You don’t have to—’ ‘I want to.’ You slide your hands over her legs, smoothing your palms down her thighs, over her calves, down to her ankles. She watches, breathing slow. You work the soap into her skin, rubbing warmth into her, sliding your thumbs up the backs of her knees, over the gentle curve of her calves. She sighs. Soft. Deep. Content. You let your fingers skim up again, over the dip of her waist, the gentle swell of her stomach, up— Up— To her chest. Her breath stutters. You pause. Look up. She’s already looking at you. Eyes dark, lips parted, cheeks flushed from the heat of the water. She lifts her hand, pressing it against yours. Guiding you. ‘Go on,’ she whispers. And you do. God, you do.

You cup her, trace the delicate slope of her, run your thumbs over warm, wet skin, over the soft peaks of her breasts, watching the way she reacts, the way she shivers under your touch.

Her lips part.

Her fingers tighten in your hair.

‘You’re—’ she starts, voice barely a breath, barely a sound. ‘You’re so—’

You stand.

Tilt her chin up.

Kiss her.

Not hungry. Not desperate.

Just deep.

Just certain.

Just her.

And when you pull back, pressing your forehead against hers, she exhales a laugh.

‘This is dangerous,’ she murmurs.

You smile. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

She lifts her arms, looping them around your neck, pulling you in, pressing against you, warm and wet and perfect.

And you—

You let her.

The steam rises. The water beads against her skin, gliding down slow, tracing paths over the soft slopes of her body, catching at the delicate points where warmth meets shadow, where light bends just so, where she is golden and bronze and endless.

You follow it.

With your eyes first, then with your hands.

Fingertips grazing along the soft valley of her stomach, skimming over her ribs, pressing gently into the places where she is most tender, most real. You watch the way the droplets gather at her collarbone, suspended for just a moment before slipping down, down, disappearing into the delicate dip between her breasts.

It feels unfair, almost, that something as simple as water gets to touch her like this before you do.

So you take its place.

Your lips find her collarbone first, brushing against the damp skin, warm and reverent. She exhales, tilting her head slightly, letting you have her like this, letting you take your time.

You do.

You always do.

Your mouth trails lower, following the path of the water, tracing its descent. You press a kiss against the gentle swell of her chest, right where her heart beats beneath, steady, certain, alive. You linger there, letting the moment stretch, letting yourself feel it, letting yourself remember what it’s like to love someone in a way that has nothing to do with time or distance or the years lost in between.

She breathes in, slow and deep, her fingers threading through your hair, nails scraping lightly against your scalp. Not pulling. Just holding.

And then you go lower.

The water clings to her, catching at the nipples, glistening like liquid gold against the dark-bronze warmth of her nipples. It drips, slow and deliberate, down the soft curve of her, over the places where she is most tender, most beautiful.

You chase it.

Your lips press to her sternum, then lower, following the water as it rolls over the swell of her breast, catching it before it can disappear.

She makes a sound then, a soft, breathy thing, like something breaking open inside her, like something unfolding, something giving way.

And god—

You love her like this.

Love the way she lets you worship her, the way she lets you press your mouth to her skin like it’s something sacred, like it’s something worth kneeling for.

You take your time.

You kiss along the curve of her, letting your tongue flick against her skin, letting yourself taste the warmth of her, the salt, the sweetness, the Yujin of her.

She trembles. Not much. Just a little. Just enough. You kiss the the peak of her breast—nipple, lips closing around the dark, glistening bronze of her, taking her between your lips like something meant to be savored. And she— She gasps. Soft. Sharp. Her fingers tighten in your hair, her back arching just slightly, just enough to press herself further into your mouth, to offer herself up like this, to let you take her in a way that feels like praise. The water slips between you, forgotten, but you don’t need it anymore. She is all the warmth you will ever need. And you— You are drowning. But you don’t mind. Not one bit.

You don’t know how long you stay like this—your mouth on her, your hands tracing slow worship into her skin, your tongue moving against the dark-bronze pebble of her like you’re tasting something sacred, something forbidden, something you never stopped craving.

She doesn’t rush you.

Just feels.

Just lets herself be felt.

Her fingers tremble against your scalp, gripping just enough to keep you grounded, to keep herself from falling apart entirely. The water sings against the tiles, drowning the rest of the world out, leaving just the sound of her soft gasps, her breath catching, the delicate whimper when your teeth graze over where she is most sensitive.

‘You’re—’ she tries, but the sentence breaks, dissolving into something else entirely.

You hum against her, half-smirking, half-dazed.

‘Say that again?’

She exhales sharply. Then, in a voice softer than the steam curling between you—

‘You’re ruining me.’

You smile against her skin.

‘Good.’

But then she’s moving.

Slow, steady, deliberate—sliding her hands down to your jaw, guiding you up, forcing your mouth away from her skin so she can see you again.

You lift your head, meeting her gaze, and god—

She looks like something devotional.

Like she’s burning and melting and breaking and remaking herself in the same moment.

And then she cups your face.

Runs her fingers down the sharp edge of your jaw, down your throat, down the planes of your chest like she’s trying to learn you all over again.

‘My turn,’ she whispers.

You exhale. ‘Yujin—’

But she’s already pressing her lips to your palm.

A slow, wet kiss against the skin there, warm and reverent.

You tense, watching the way she does it—how her mouth lingers, how her breath spills against your hand like she’s praying into it.

Then another.

And another.

Each kiss deliberate. Each one softer than the last.

Your fingers twitch.

Your heart stutters.

And Yujin—

Yujin just smiles.

Like she knows what she’s doing to you.

Like she knows the effect of her lips, her mouth, the heat of her pressing into you like this.

Then she goes lower.

Tracing fire against your wrist. Down to your forearm.

She’s taking her time.

Like she knows what’s coming. Like she wants you to feel every second of it before she even starts.

Softly, she lowers herself to the shower floor, folding her legs beneath her like someone praying—like someone preparing for something sacred. Water cascades over her, tracing the delicate angles of her face, slipping down her shoulders, clinging to her lashes. She doesn’t blink it away.

She looks up at you instead.

‘Just so you know,’ she murmurs, fingers curling around your thigh, pressing just hard enough to make you feel it, ‘I haven’t had this for three years.’

Your breath catches.

‘You poor thing.’

She hums, tilting her head slightly, eyes flickering with something playful, something edged with heat. ‘If only you called.’

Her grip tightens on your shaft—subtle, knowing, cruel.

Your pulse slams into your ribs.

‘Regretting everything as we speak,’ you manage, voice rough, because god—three years of waking up alone, three years of knowing what her body felt like against yours and still having to live without it, three years of not having this—

Yujin presses her lips to your hip, slow, warm, reverent.

‘Don’t,’ she whispers, breath ghosting over your skin. ‘From now on, let’s not waste a single breath.’

And that was that.

No more lost time. No more distance.

She presses another kiss, right below your navel. Cheating.

Your entire body tenses, twitches, a sharp current running through you.

She notices.

She smiles.

‘This is punishment,’ she murmurs.

Your fingers twitch against the tile. ‘For what?’

She looks up at you, lashes wet and mussed and dripping, lips parted just slightly—ruinous.

‘For almost forgetting me.’

Your jaw tightens. ‘That’s blasphemy.’

‘Is it?’

‘Every waking moment, every—’

Her hand slides along your wet shaft. Tight. Destitution incarnate.

You stumble against the back wall.

She grins, a little smug, a little knowing, a little dangerous.

‘I don’t want excuses,’ she says softly.

And then—

Then she presses another kiss, open-mouthed, slow, dangerous, right where on the tip of your cock—collecting whatever desperation you had bottled up.

You let out a slow, shaky breath.

She hums against you. Then, another kiss.

‘This,’ she says, hands curling against your hips, ‘is mine.’

And god, you believe her.

You always have.

Her mouth forms a tight ring right on your tip. She’s sucking everything out of you. Caring not for a single second how much this ruins you, how your knees intend to buckle.  

The cool wall slides against your back, and her mouth gentles now—less tight, slower, deliberate. Her lips part, wet and swollen, spit-strung as they glide over the flushed head of you. A slick sound escapes her, obscene and tender. You feel every ridge of her tongue, every warm drag, the way her saliva pools and drips down the length of you. She moans softly, and the vibration travels straight to your gut.

‘Easy,’ you rasp, fingers threading into her hair—not to push, but to feel. To guide her rhythm, your thumb brushing the shell of her ear. ‘Just like that…’

She obeys, but not meekly. Her eyes flick up, dark and gleaming through her lashes, her lips a glistening ring around you. The head glistens under the shower’s spray, spit-slick and ruddy, and when she pulls back just to breathe, a thin strand of saliva stretches between her bottom lip and your tip. She watches you watch it snap.

‘Yujin—’

‘Shhh.’ Her breath ghosts over the wetness she’s made, cooling the heat. ‘Let me.’

Her tongue swipes the slit, slow, too slow, and your hips jerk. She laughs—a soft, husky thing—and catches the bead of precum with her thumb. Holds your gaze as she sucks it clean.

‘All those years,’ she murmurs, nuzzling the inside of your thigh. Her voice is a frayed ribbon. ‘You let this ache. Let it go untouched. Why?’

You tighten your grip in her hair, not harsh, but present. ‘You know why.’

She hums, lips pressing to the vein throbbing beneath the skin. ‘Tell me anyway.’

‘Because it was yours.’ The admission tears free, raw. ‘Even when you weren’t.’

Her breath hitches. For a heartbeat, her composure cracks—lips parting, eyes glassy. Then she surges forward, taking you deep, deep, until your tip brushes the back of her throat. Her nose presses into your pelvis, her cheeks hollowed, and the wetness is overwhelming. Spit spills down her chin, drips onto the shower floor. You watch, wrecked, as she works you with a reverence that borders on worship.

‘God—Yujin—’

She pulls off with a gasp, lips swollen and slick. ‘Look at me.’

You do. Her face is flushed, water clinging to her lashes, hair plastered to her neck. Ruin has never looked so soft.

‘Never again,’ she whispers, palm cradling your jaw. ‘You don’t starve yourself. Not of this. Not of me.’

You nod, breathless, and she smiles—a fragile, aching thing—before bending again. Her mouth is softer now, languid, savoring. Every suck, every lick, pours honey into your veins. You let her take you apart, let her rebuild you, until the world narrows to her lips, her hands, the spit-slick sounds of her devotion.

The climax coils, inevitable—a wildfire in your spine, a tremor in your thighs. You feel it there, the precipice, and your hands fly to her shoulders, gripping hard. ‘Yujin—wait—’

She resists at first, brows furrowed, lips sealed tight around you. But you tug her back gently, your cock slipping from her mouth with a wet pop, her lips swollen, glistening. Her confusion flickers only for a heartbeat before you fist your cock, rough and hurried, and the first hot stripe of release paints her cheek.

She gasps, eyes fluttering shut as the next pulse hits her chin, her throat, the tip catching her collarbone. Thick, pearly streaks splatter across her skin—her eyelids, the bridge of her nose, the bow of her top lip. A ragged moan tears from you as you empty yourself onto her, the mess pooling in the hollow of her throat, dripping down her sternum.

For a moment, she’s perfectly still, breath held, face tilted up as if in prayer. Then her tongue darts out, just once, catching the spill on her lip—not to taste, but to feel, to savor the proof. Her eyes open slowly, lashes sticky, gaze molten.

For a second, she just blinks.

One eye.

The other one is… well.

You watch her process it in real time.

Her lips part slightly, her breath still uneven, chest rising and falling as she takes in exactly what’s happened. Your release is everywhere—everywhere—glossing her cheekbones, slipping down the slope of her throat, pooling in the dip of her collarbone like some kind of offering.

She tilts her head. Blinks again.

‘Oh.’

Then she laughs.

A breathy, disbelieving sound, half-amused, half-are-you-kidding-me?

You’re still pressed against the shower wall, still trying to function, your brain short-circuiting between the mess you’ve made of her and the fact that she’s actually—laughing.

‘You—’ she starts, touching her cheek, then stopping, fingers hesitating before they smear through the mess, ‘—you got it in my hair.’

She looks up at you then, eyes bright, glistening—partly from you, partly from water, partly from the sheer absurdity of this situation.

You swallow, still breathless. ‘Uh.’

She blinks. A slow, lazy flutter of lashes.

Then her mouth quirks.

‘You should’ve warned me, you beast.’

You can’t help it—you laugh, too, scrubbing a hand down your face. ‘I tried. You didn’t stop—’

‘I was busy,’ she huffs, wiping at her cheek again. ‘And now I’m busy. Because look at me.’

You are.

You really, really are.

‘I mean—’ you gesture vaguely to her face, her throat, the trail of evidence marking everywhere she’s been—‘I think it’s a good look.’

She glares.

‘No, seriously. We could brand this. “Dewy Glow” or something. Sell it in high-end skincare stores. “Celebrity Secret.”’

She snorts, shoving at your thigh. ‘You absolute menace.’

And then—

‘Oh, wait.’

She freezes.

Her smile vanishes.

Her expression shifts into something far more serious.

‘Oh no.’

You blink. ‘What?’

She doesn’t say anything.

Just slowly, slowly, slowly raises a hand to her right eye.

You know what’s coming before she even speaks.

‘Oh my god, I can’t see.’

You wheeze. Actually wheeze.

She jabs a finger into your thigh. ‘Don’t—don’t laugh. This is serious. This is—I might never recover—’

‘Yujin.’ You’re still dying, but you reach for her anyway, cupping her face with both hands, thumbs swiping over her cheeks, carefully wiping away what you can. ‘Baby, blink—’

‘I am blinking.’ She’s being so dramatic about it, blinking furiously, tilting her face up to the water like it might cleanse her soul. ‘Oh my god. Oh my god.’

‘Okay, okay, come here—’

You guide her fully under the stream, hands in her hair, rubbing circles at her temples as she half-laughs, half-groans against your chest.

‘Three years, and this is how it goes?’

‘I mean,’ you murmur, fingers tracing down her jaw, ‘technically, this is a good thing. This means I really missed you.’

She gasps, smacking your chest. ‘That is not how this works.’

‘No, no, it is. You should be flattered.’

‘I am blinded.’

‘Listen, some people pay a lot of money for facials like this.’

‘Oh my god, shut up—’

She’s laughing now, still rubbing at her eye, still squinting slightly, but you tilt her face up, press your lips to her forehead, her nose, the water-warm curve of her cheek.

‘Here,’ you murmur, ‘let me see.’

She lets you, tilting her chin up, letting you wipe at her lashes, the bridge of her nose, the soft hollow under her eye. Your fingers are gentle, your touch slow, careful, as you rinse the last of it away.

Her hands find your ribs, gripping lightly, grounding herself.

‘I’m keeping score, you know,’ she murmurs, voice softer now.

You kiss her temple. ‘Yeah?’

She hums. ‘You owe me for this.’

You grin, pressing a kiss to her cheek. ‘I owe you?’

‘Mhm.’ Another soft blink, this one slower, more considering. ‘Big time.’

You exhale, pressing your forehead to hers. ‘I’ll make it up to you.’

She pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes warm, searching.

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

A beat.

Then she grins, pressing a quick, mischievous kiss to your lips.

‘Good.’

And then—

‘Now help me get this out of my hair, you absolute monster.’

You laugh, tilting her back under the water, already reaching for the shampoo.

You barely make it out of the shower before Yujin is already reaching for a towel, scrubbing at her hair like she’s trying to erase all evidence of your existence.

You watch her, arms crossed, towel slung lazily over your shoulder. ‘You know, I could help with that.’

She gives you a look. A very specific you-are-the-reason-I’m-in-this-mess look.

‘You’ve helped enough,’ she mutters, aggressively drying her face.

You grin. ‘Want me to dry your back?’

‘No.’

‘Sure?’

‘I don’t trust you.’

You press a hand to your chest, mock-wounded. ‘I am offended by this blatant accusation.’

‘You are plotting something. I know that face.’

‘I literally only have one face, Yujin.’

‘Yeah. And I know it.’

She sighs, shoving her towel at you. ‘Fine. You want to be useful? Dry my hair. But no funny business.’

‘Define funny business.’

She glares.

You chuckle, grabbing another towel, stepping behind her. She exhales as you gently towel-dry her hair, rubbing slow, deliberate circles into her scalp.

Her head tilts slightly, unconsciously leaning into your touch.

You knew she’d enjoy this.

She hums, closing her eyes. ‘Okay. Maybe you can be trusted.’

‘Told you.’ You press a kiss to the crown of her head. ‘I am a professional.’

‘A professional nuisance.’

‘A professional lover.’

She snorts. ‘Oh my god, shut up.’

You grin, setting the towel aside, reaching for the hairdryer.

She shifts slightly in her seat. ‘Wait—’

‘Hm?’

She peeks up at you, tilting her head back, cheeks warm. ‘...I like it when you do it slow. With your hands.’

You pause.

Look down at her.

Oh.

Oh.

You set the hairdryer aside. ‘You should’ve said so earlier, baby.’

She exhales, smiling, closing her eyes again as your fingers slip into her hair, raking through the damp strands, slow and careful.

This is— This is intimacy in its simplest form. You, standing behind her, fingers combing through her hair, working through knots with gentle patience. Her, sitting still, trusting you, letting herself be taken care of. ‘You’re soft,’ you murmur, pressing another kiss to her temple. ‘Mm.’ Her shoulders relax completely. ‘Just don’t mess up my parting.’ You chuckle. ‘I’ll do my best.’ It takes a while—because you like taking your time with her—but eventually, her hair is dry, loose waves tumbling down her back. She stretches, arms overhead, and that’s when you realize— She’s still wearing your shirt. The one she stole post-shower, hanging off her like it was made for this moment.

You stare. Your thoughts are not wholesome. She catches you looking. Her lips curve. ‘You’re plotting something again,’ she says, amused. ‘Maybe.’ ‘You need to control yourself—’ ‘Nope.’ She laughs, batting you away when you attempt to grab her. ‘No. No, sir,’ she warns, scooting to the bed. ‘You said you’d be good.’ ‘Did I?’ ‘Yes. You did. You explicitly said you’d behave.’ ‘And you believed me?’ She pauses. Then groans, rubbing her face. ‘God, I’m an idiot.’ You grin. And then you pounce.

She yelps, barely managing to roll away before you trap her under you, laughing as she dodges your grabby hands.

‘No,’ she gasps between laughs, ‘we are doing the normal nighttime routine first!’ ‘This is the routine.’ ‘No it is not!’ You chase her across the bed. She giggles, swats at you, then suddenly—miraculously—manages to flip you over, straddling you with a triumphant grin. ‘HAH.’ She plants her hands on your chest. ‘Got you.’ You blink up at her. Pause. Then smirk. ‘Yujin,’ you murmur, voice low. ‘Baby.’ Her smile falters. ‘…What.’

You cup her waist, slowly sliding your hands up, over the fabric of your shirt, over the nothing she’s wearing underneath.

She realizes. Her eyes widen. ‘Wait—’ And then you flip her back over. She gasps. ‘Noooooo—’ You laugh, pinning her down, watching as she squirms, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with warmth and amusement. This. This is the routine. Laughter. Teasing. The way you move around each other like gravity has always existed between you. She exhales, chest rising and falling beneath you, fingers curling around your wrists. Her voice, when she speaks, is softer. ‘You win,’ she murmurs. You press your forehead to hers. ‘I always do.’ She sighs dramatically. ‘Ugh. Fine. Manhandle me, then.’ She’s still beneath you, chest rising and falling, fingers curled loosely around your wrists where you’ve pinned them. Her breath is quick, her pulse erratic, and you know it’s not just because of the weight of you pressing her into the mattress—it’s everything. The warmth between you, the years leading to this, the understanding that what’s about to happen isn’t just want, isn’t just release—it’s reclamation.

She swallows, lips parting slightly, pupils wide and dark in the low light. The dark strands of her hair are fanned across the pillow, tangled from your hands, a mess you’d memorize blindfolded. There’s a flush blooming across her chest, creeping up the column of her throat, a heat that you feel mirrored in yourself.

You watch her, watch the way she shifts slightly beneath you, pressing up just enough to remind you she’s waiting, waiting, waiting. You could draw this out forever. But that’s cruelty. Or maybe, maybe, that’s worship.

You press your lips to the tip of her nose, then her cheek, then down, trailing a path over her jaw, her throat, the faint dip between her collarbones. You can feel the hum of her laughter before she even releases it, a small breath of amusement, her fingers twitching against your hold'

‘You’re teasing,’ she murmurs, voice wrecked already. ‘No,’ you answer, dragging your mouth lower, tasting the salt of her skin. ‘I’m remembering.’

Because you are. You’re remembering the way her body curls into yours when she’s overwhelmed. You’re remembering the tiny, trembling exhales she makes when your hands slide over the slopes of her ribs. You’re remembering that she loves when you take your time, that she loves to be adored, that she wants to feel every inch of you.

And she is so easy to adore.

You shift lower, your hands tracing slow, lazy patterns down her sides, feeling the way her muscles twitch beneath your touch. The shape of her—long lines, soft curves, skin warm and impossibly smooth beneath your lips.

Your name escapes her in a breath, a barely-there sound that settles somewhere behind your ribs, inside your chest, like it belongs there.

You kiss lower. Down, down. Your fingers slip between her thighs, ghosting over her bare glistening pussy, and her breath stutters, a sharp intake that punches straight through your gut. ‘Look at you,’ you murmur, dragging your knuckles up the inside of her goosebump-ridden thigh. ‘Fidgeting.’ She doesn’t answer. Just glares, lashes damp, lips parted, so achingly beautiful you feel winded.

‘Is that frustration?’ you tease, dragging your mouth back up, scraping your teeth over her hip bone. ‘It’s—’ She exhales, trying for control. Fails. ‘It’s you taking too long.’ You hum. ‘I thought you liked it slow.’ ‘I do,’ she grits out. ‘But I also like it when you—’

Her voice catches as your fingers press a little harder into her. A single stroke, just enough to make her body jolt, enough to make her curse under her breath, enough to feel the sticky wetness of her—inside.

Then you do it again. And again. Until her hips are moving against your touch, until her nails bite into your shoulders, until her breath is a series of broken, unsteady exhalations, ‘Yes, yes, oh fuck~’

You kiss her then. Hard. Deep. Drinking in every shiver, every sound, every breathless plea she won’t voice but you understand anyway.

And then— Then, finally— Her thighs part wider, welcoming you; knees hooking around your hips, heels digging into the small of your back. You press your shaft along her golden-soft navel, hard enough to get her whimpering under the heat of your shaft. You drag slowly along her soft—yet firm—navel, coursing the map lower and lower—until the nub responsible for her heat—all swollen and beautiful and pink—meets your tip. She lets out a sudden whimper; She glares, and you press a kiss on her temple once again—sorry baby, sorry. At the end of the map, you feel the slick heat of her cunt against the head of your cock, her entrance fluttering, pulsing, as you grind around the clit in slow, torturous circles. Precum smears her folds, mingling with her arousal, the glide obscenely wet. ‘Fuck,’ she hisses, nails raking down your spine. ‘Stop—stop toying—’ You catch her wrist, pinning it above her head again. ‘No.’ Your other hand grips the base of your cock, guiding it through her slit, the swollen head catching on her clit with every pass. She jerks, a broken moan tearing free, her hips bucking—but you hold firm, denying her friction. ‘You wanted slow. This is slow.’ Her cunt weeps, glistening, her inner lips swollen and flushed. You watch, transfixed, as your cockhead nudges her entrance, spreading her open incrementally. A single inch sinks in, the velvety grip of her walls clenching reflexively, and you groan through gritted teeth. ‘Christ’ She whimpers, her clit throbbing against your shaft as you retreat, dragging your tip through her folds again. ‘Please—’ Her voice cracks, tears spilling down her temples. ‘Just—fuck me—’ You lean down, lips grazing hers. ‘Where?’ She glares, chest heaving. ‘You know—’ ‘Say it.’ ‘Inside—’ ‘Inside what?’ You press forward, another inch sheathed, the stretch burning sweet. ‘Use your words, Yujin.’ Her thighs tremble. ‘My—my cunt.’ ‘Good girl.’ You sink deeper, the thick ridge of your cockhead massaging her front wall, that spongy patch of nerves that makes her sob. Her cervix yields, soft and pliant, as you bottom out, hips flush against hers. Her cunt clenches, a vice of slick muscle, and you swear, forehead dropping to her shoulder. ‘You’re gonna milk me dry—’ ‘Move,’ she demands, her ankles locking behind your back. ‘Move or I’ll—’ ‘You’ll what?’ You pull out almost completely, leaving just the tip seated, her clit rubbing against your shaft. ‘Beg?’ She keens, back arching, breasts pressed to your chest. ‘Yes—yes, god, please—’ You snap your hips forward, sheathing yourself in one brutal thrust. Her scream is muffled by your palm as you clamp it over her mouth, your other hand sliding between you to circle her clit. ‘Quiet,’ you growl, grinding deep. ‘You’ll take it. All of it.’ Her cunt ripples around you, fluttering in erratic pulses, her clit swollen and pebbled beneath your thumb. You fuck her with shallow, punishing rolls of your hips, each stroke dragging your cockhead over that sweet spot, her thighs shaking, her breath coming in ragged, choked gasps. ‘Look at me,’ you snarl, removing your hand from her mouth. She obeys, eyes glassy, lips bitten raw. ‘Whose cunt is this?’ ‘Yours—’ ‘And whose cock?’ ‘Mine—’ You slam into her, hilt-deep, your balls slapping her ass. ‘Louder—’ ‘MINE—’

The word cracks through the room, ragged and raw, and you reward it by slamming into her hilt-deep, your pelvis grinding against her clit as you still inside her. Her cunt clenches, a vice of slick heat, and you hiss through your teeth, your grip bruising on her hips. ‘Again,’ you demand, pulling out until only the swollen head of your cock remains lodged in her entrance. Her inner lips cling to you, reluctant to let go. She whines, back arching off the bed. ‘Yours—your cunt, your everything—’ You thrust back in, slow, savoring the way her walls ripple to accommodate you. ‘And what do you want?’ 'You,’ she gasps, nails carving half-moons into your shoulders. ‘Inside me—claiming me—’ 'How?' You drag your cockhead over that spongy patch of nerves again, deliberate, watching her thighs quake. 'Cum,' she begs, tears streaking her temples. 'Fill me—mark me—' You still, your hand sliding up to grip her throat—not restricting air, just owning. 'Ask nicely.' Her breath hitches. 'Please—please, I need it—need you to paint my insides white, need to feel it—' A dark thrill curls in your gut. You lean down, lips brushing hers. 'Since you asked so sweetly.' You start a brutal, precise rhythm—deep, grinding thrusts that punch the air from her lungs. Each snap of your hips drags her clit against the base of your cock, each retreat leaves her clenching around nothing. Her cunt weeps, arousal slicking your shaft, the obscene slap of skin on skin echoing off the walls. 'Look at me,' you snarl, tightening your grip on her throat. Her eyes fly open, hazy but obedient. 'You take me so well,' you murmur, your free hand sliding between you to circle her throbbing clit. 'This greedy cunt—my greedy cunt—sucking me in like you were made for it.'

She sobs, her walls fluttering. 'Yours—always yours—'

'Prove it.' You pin her wrists above her head with one hand, your other still working her clit. 'Come. Now.'

Her orgasm rips through her violently—back arched, cunt spasming, a scream tearing from her throat as she soaks your cock. You ride it out, fucking her through the pulses, your thrusts turning jagged, erratic.

'Mine,' you growl, feeling your balls tighten. 'Say it—say it—'

'Yours—god, yours—'

You slam into her one last time, hilt-deep, and hold. Your release surges—thick, hot ropes of cum flooding her cervix, painting her walls in stripes of white. She whimpers, oversensitive but greedy, her cunt milking every drop as you grind your hips in slow, possessive circles.

'Take it,' you grit out, watching her stomach quiver with the force of your spend. 'All of it.'

She nods, dazed, her thighs trembling around your waist. You collapse atop her, still buried inside, your lips finding the sweat-damp hollow of her throat.

—

Yujin’s lashes flutter against your chest, and there’s a moment where she seems to wrestle with something—embarrassment, vulnerability—but it dissolves when she feels your fingers tracing gentle circles against her back. She shifts, propping herself up just enough to look at you, her eyes dark and soft and entirely too honest.

‘You know,’ she whispers, voice almost shy, ‘I used to dream about this. You and me, like this. Just… here.’

‘Here?’ You brush a damp strand of hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. ‘In bed, sweaty and gross?’

A soft laugh escapes her, warm and tender. ‘Yeah. Exactly this.’ Her fingertips graze your jaw, light as the touch of a memory. ‘I’d think about waking up to you, about how it’d feel to fall asleep in your arms. It’s stupid, I know—’

‘Not stupid,’ you murmur, cutting her off with a kiss—soft, lingering, like you’re trying to pour every unspoken word into it. ‘Never stupid.’

Her gaze softens even further, and she buries her face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent like it’s something she needs to breathe. You feel her lips press against your pulse, a delicate kiss that sends warmth flooding through you.

‘I don’t want to let you go,’ she confesses, voice muffled. ‘Not tonight. Not ever.’

‘Then don’t.’ You trail your fingers up and down her spine, feeling the subtle curve of her back beneath your touch. ‘Hold on to me. I’m not going anywhere.’

She shifts, looping her arms around your neck, pressing her body flush against yours. The contact is warm, grounding, and you let yourself sink into it, let yourself feel the weight of her, the steady thrum of her heartbeat against your chest.

‘You’re too good at this,’ she mumbles, the faintest hint of a pout in her voice. ‘Making me feel safe. Like I belong here.’

You tighten your hold on her, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. ‘You do belong here. With me. Always.’

Her breath shudders, and you feel her fingers clutch at your shoulders, like she’s afraid you might slip away. You press another kiss to her forehead, then her temple, then her cheek, each touch softer than the last.

‘Yujin,’ you whisper, and she looks up at you, eyes wide and glistening. ‘There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.’

She smiles—a real, unguarded smile—and you feel the weight of it settle in your chest. She lifts herself up just enough to press a kiss to your lips, lingering, tender, unhurried. It’s a kiss that feels like a promise, like something that doesn’t need words to be understood.

When she pulls back, her face is flushed, her expression open and raw. ‘I love you,’ she says softly, the words so simple, so devastatingly sincere.

You cup her face, thumb brushing over her cheek. ‘I love you too. More than you’ll ever know.’

She settles against you, fitting herself into the curve of your body, her head resting against your chest. You stroke her hair, feeling the tension melt from her frame as she presses one last kiss to your heart.

The room is warm and heavy with the scent of you both, with the quiet weight of something real and unbreakable. You feel her breathing slow, her body growing heavy with sleep, and you let your own eyes drift shut, content to let the world narrow to the steady rise and fall of her breath.

And then—nothing. Just the two of you tangled together, warmth and closeness and the certainty that this, right here, is home.

—

a/n: Experimenting yet again. Hopefully the last sex scene wasn't too mortifying. But I really enjoyed writing this—Yujin's personality meshes really well with with the dialogue I was aiming to do (hopefully I succeeded). This was a half-finished draft that I managed to finish (through merging other drafts, other idols, et cetera et cetera), and now I don't have a single draft remaining; sooo... I don't know how this fares for the next fic (hopefully not too long..... haha..heh..he).

a/n 2: Much love for all the support: they never go unnoticed!!! <3333333

[bittergoldeneyes]

-Life’s Sweetness-

Asaba Harumasa x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Just fluff. A Valentines at the office. (Lol, and I’m 2 days, almost 3, late to the party)

Word Count: 3.5K

Valentine’s Day, a day where people showed their affections for others through chocolates, flowers, or other obnoxious gifts. It was a holiday to poach money from people to persuade them if they didn’t somehow buy a gift for their lovers, their significant other didn’t care as much. A random act of kindness was much sweeter than any chocolate given on Valentine’s Day due to tradition or obligation.

But… you weren’t completely immune to falling into the scheme of buying gifts for the people you care for. Something small, but meaningful. Eacpsilly for a certain ebony haired man that just so happened to be your deskmate and partner.

Your sneakers made barely any noise as you stepped lightly through the H.S.O. Headquarters. A small fabric bag full of gifts slung on your shoulder and applying pressure to the muscles of your back from how heavy it was. Stepping around a corner, you noticed most of the desks in the office were already full of gifts already. Numerous bundles of flowers, plushies, and sugary sweets.

A small smile etched across your lips, and you walked into the quiet office before coming around to observe your desk. The white surface was bare, not a single gift or sickly sweet in sight. It shouldn’t affect you much, you were probably the most unpopular out of Section 6. Many people, especially Harumasa’s fans, disliked the idea of you being a part of Section 6. It was as if the public viewed you as an average among elites. You were still a rookie after all, but you always seemed to work best with Harumasa, which is why you were paired as partners a little while after your transfer.

Ignoring the bareness of your desk, you stepped over to Harumasa’s desk, which was -as you had predicted- the fullest of any other members. His fans were… what we like to called “unhinged.” There were numerous letters, some of which you could see had numbers in them, some with pictures, and even some with paragraphs upon paragraphs, likely pouring their heart out in hopes to ignite some parasocial relationship with him that was never going to happen. Hell, there were even plushies and fan drawings of him in some of this pile!

With a shake of your head, you dig around in your fabric bag, finally finding the bottle you were searching for. You placed a bitter gourd juice on his desk and a small bar of 99% cocoa dark chocolate. It was a far shot getting a chocolate bar, but you only hoped he would at least try it, seeing as it was one of the most bitter chocolates out there. A warmth blossomed on your cheeks seeing your gift differing so dramatically from others, surely he’d get suspicious. He was observant like that after all.

You couldn’t spend much time reminiscing, or else you would take back your gifts out of utter embarrassment and fear of getting found out. Before anyone else arrived, you went around to the other members desks, placing personalized gifts on their desks, pausing at Yanagi’s which was just as similar as yours, almost completely empty save for a few cards or sweets that splotched the space of her desk.

Once Yanagi arrived, you had already started on everyone’s coffee. A cup already made specifically for her ready with her name written prettily on the thick plastic holder with sharpie.

“Oh, (Y/N). Good morning.” She gives you a small smile, a stack of papers and a folder neatly pressed against her chest in her arms. “You’re here early?”

“Oh, good morning, Yanagi. I decided to come early to make everyone’s coffee. Thought it would be a nice start to the day.” Your expression remained cool and neutral, not giving away that you had come early to give everyone gifts. You handed her the coffee, watching her take a satisfied sip before sighing in bliss.

“It’s perfect. Thank you.” She says and places a gloved hand over your shoulder as a kind gesture of appreciation. Her glasses gleaming off the light of the lights above.

The other members of Section 6 filed in shortly after. Miyabi was practically drooling over the melon left on her desk, her eyes ignoring anything other than the voluptuous fruit. She wasted no time cutting into the juicy sphere and placing a slice into her watering mouth. Her ears shuddered in happiness, her eyes closing in bliss. Soukaku just devoured any snacks that sat on her desk, but especially enjoying the spicy snacks you had left her.

And last but not least, fashionably late as always, Asaba Harumasa. His slender frame walked through the entrance, his hands already crossed behind his head with a small yawn already leaving his mouth. Drowsiness blinked from his eyes as the glimmering gold of his eyes focused on the mountain of gifts and accessories laid practically covering his desk space.

“Oh? What’s all the fuss about? You shouldn’t have guys~” His lips tugged into a teasing grin, his frame shadowing behind you before he came to investigate the objects occupying his space. “Didn’t know I was so popular. It’s about ten or twenty gifts more than I got last year.”

Was he… seriously bragging right now?

“Well, ‘Mr. Popular’ your coffee is in the pot over there. Still warm.” You interject, pointing your finger over to the coffee machine, pure black coffee brewed to perfection from an intelligent machine sitting in the pot simmering.

“Awe~ just for me? I knew you liked me somewhere deep down!” His hands clasped together dramatically, bringing them to press against one of his cheeks while his mouth upturned into a wide appreciative smile. “You don’t seem as popular. Want some of my gifts? I’m not going to touch most of this just from a quick glance.”

“I want it!” Soukaku raised her hand wildly, sitting up from her desk.

“Hey! I was offering them to (Y/N) first!” Harumasa argued back, pouting as you beckoned Soukaku over without a seconds hesitation. “You know, now I’m starting to think you actually hate me…”

“Oh don’t be dramatic, Harumasa.” You scold lightly, rolling your eyes at his dramatics as you let Soukaku pick and choose what she wanted from Harumasa’s mountain of sweets and snacks. “I would much rather Soukaku enjoy them than me. I can always buy my own valentines stuff. I’ve done it before.”

Harumasa was oddly quiet after your comment, but you didn’t think too much about it.

Once Soukaku went back to her desk with a newfound spark of happiness with her newly acquired food, you sat back down with a sigh before looking at your thick stack of paperwork. Your fingers held your favorite pen loosely, wrist fluidly gliding over the wooden desk as you signed off and detailed your boring reports.

Every now and then, you would glance over at Harumasa. Of course, he wasn’t doing any paperwork whatsoever, and the due dates had long since past. His eyes were instead skimming through some of the obnoxious valentines gifts hoarding his space. A plethora of colorful expressions crossed his face, ranging from horror, disgust, and light hearted smiles. There was even one point he practically slammed a card closed with a red blush on his cheeks, obviously something he didn’t want to have seen or read.

After some time passed, Harumasa was shredding almost every card or picture he’d gotten. His fans really were unhinged. The only few he kept were either from kids or genuine words of appreciation and admiration from fans. Sugary sweet candies and chocolates were tossed in the trash, plushies given to Soukaku or if there was one of himself, offered to you with a flirtatiously teasing wink and a mischievous smile.

It was almost as if he had saved your gift especially for last. His gloved hands picked up the bitter chocolate you’d gotten him, inspecting it curiously before flipping it to the back to read more of the nutrition facts and ingredients. Curiosity got the better of him, and he decided to open the bar and break off a small piece of from the corner. The piece disappeared behind his soft plush pink lips, jaw moving slowly, savoring the bitter richness of the chocolate. A second piece was then broken off and slotted between his lips once more, his eyes closing in concentration.

And the ever clever mind of Asaba Harumasa was just that, clever.

He never really opened up much about himself, especially to the press or any fans or social media posts. He kept his personal life locked behind iron bars only few had the privilege of glimpsing inside. Section 6 was one of those privileged few, as well as the siblings that ran Random Play. It narrowed down his suspicions on who sent these gifts.

The letter gave you away.

‘May the bitter tastes and flavors make life feel sweeter. Your life deserves the sweetest things.’

How cheesy. Only you would think of something that cheesy and heartfelt to write in a card accompanied by gifts he would enjoy. The letter was signed by a straight line, precise and strict, almost as if you were drawing a line you didn’t dare want to cross no matter how much you or him edged it.

Harumasa didn’t acknowledge you for the gifts you’d gotten him, much more interested to see what you would do next. Would you admit you were the one who placed them there in the wee hours of dawn? Would you remain anonymous, treating him the same as always, but locking your heart tightly away in fears of having him slip through your fingers too soon as he eventually would.

The next day came similarly to the last. Gifts appeared on the desks of Section 6, all except for yours. Yanagi got an expensive bottle of her favorite hair product and a new sleeping mask for small breaks in the office. Miyabi got a multitude of new brushes for her woven scrolls and another melon, this time bigger and flavored a bit differently. Soukaku got some new art supplies for her doodles in the office and some stickers.

Lastly, Harumasa got a new choker, an ink stamp of his signature (ahem, for his lazy nature to help with paperwork), and an expensive leather archery glove, much better than his current one that looked worn and tattered at the edges. The choker was a smooth and crisp leather, narrowed slightly where his Adam’s apple would press flush against the material. A yellow gem sparkled under the light, shimmering a similar shade to his smoldering golden eyes.

“Oh, that looks nice, Asaba.” Yanagi comments, papers hugged to her chest per usual as she adjusted her glasses and looked over the gifts he’d gotten. “Someone clearly admires you strongly.”

“It seems that way.” Harumasa comments, looking over the gifts with a strangely conflicted yet heartfelt expression. His deft fingers toyed with the choker in his hands, running a smooth thumb over the expanse of the light leather inked black. “Did you get some too, Tsukishiro?”

“I did.” She answers swiftly. “Everyone’s gotten very unique gifts these past two days. I suspect it’s someone from the agency. They’re all very carefully selected for each of us.” Her glasses shine off the light as her dark pink eyes shifted to your empty desk. “The only one who hasn’t gotten one of these gifts is (Y/N). She has been arriving early these past few days.”

Harumasa shifted his gaze to your desk, clean and empty albeit a neatly stacked pile of papers and a picture sat diagonally to your computer of you, him, and the rest of Section 6. Your chair sat vacant, as it had for hours as you helped out a different section with their reports and management of files.

A frown etched onto his pale pink lips, dark ebony brows furrowing as he thought to himself. Now that he had confirmed to himself that it was you giving him and everyone else these personal gifts, he needed to get you something right? His conscious (and heart) wouldn’t let your kindness go unpaid. After all, the gifts you got weren’t cheap by any means.

You were too kind for your own good sometimes. Always taking care of his gruesome paperwork when he was on sick leave or just too tired or lazy to do it. Making his coffee in the morning along with any other member that hadn’t been there at the office yet. Giving away any of your food or medical supplies to Soukaku or him in hollows when you yourself needed those things too. And even now, helping another section get out of whatever mess they’ve caused themselves with their files.

The day before valentines was no different than the last two, gifts once more on everyone’s desks. Except there was one thing different. There were flowers on your desk. A small vase full of tulips, roses, carnations, and hydrangeas. It was something you weren’t expecting at all, but it wasn’t something unpleasant you didn’t welcome. The card attached to the thin transparent plastic piece read ‘Thanks for helping Section 4, I owe you one. Let me know what you want ;).’ The note had the second in command of Section 4’s phone number signed with a winking face and his name on it, very clearly implying he had taken an interest in courting you somehow.

Your cheeks blossomed with warmth after reading the small letter card attached to the bouquet. It was at this time, Harumasa walked in, earlier than normal he might add. His eyes were immediately drawn to the decently sized object obscuring your desk. Naturally, his sharp golden gaze didn’t miss the tint of pink coloring your cheeks, a foreign feeling twisting in his gut.

“Oh? Who’s this from? You got a secret admirer or somethin’?” Harumasa inquires, a faux smile on his face as he leaned over you to snatch up the card from the thin plastic stick. Despite your protest, he turned himself around from you to keep your arms at bay from snatching it back before he finished investigating. “The guy from Section 4? Heh, how cute, he even left you his number. Such a gentleman!”

His tone was bitter, almost as bitter as the medicine he pocketed in his mouth on a regular basis. The expression he was making didn’t match the intensity his eyes shown. A teasing grin pulled taut over his mouth, but his brows creased and twitching ever so slightly, golden irises having a darker glint in them than their normal mischievous shine. It didn’t help his stomach was knotting up more and more and his heart was beating firmer against his ribcage.

“Don’t be mean, Harumasa!” You finally pulled the card out of his strong gloved hands and fitted the card back between the thin flimsy plastic in the vase of flowers. “I don’t need him to owe me anything. I was just doing my job. I am appreciative of the gesture.”

“In that case, want me to walk down and tell him you won’t be calling him then? I’d be more than happy to do that for my wonderfully kind partner!” His attitude perked up, gloved hands coming to rub together evilly, eager to shoot down a man’s flirtatious gesture towards you. He did have a knack for pissing people off.

“That… won’t be necessary, thank you.” You replied wearily, confused by his sudden change in behavior. “Oh!” Your eyes flickered to his throat, a new choker adorning his slender neck. The yellow gem gleamed in the light, brightening up his already pale skin and accentuating the features of his neck. “That new choker looks really good on you, Harumasa.”

“You think so?” The way he smiles makes you regret even saying anything. He raises his right hand, his new archers glove wrapped snuggly around. His fingers trailed suggestively down his Adam’s apple, down to flick the small gem before trailing his fingers down to the edge of his buttoned shirt. Your eyes couldn’t help but follow his pretty fingers, and he seemed to know that. “It does doesn’t it? An admirer of mine got it for me~ I’m so lucky~”

“That you are, Harumasa.” Your smile faltered slightly, your cheeks flushing as you finally tore your gaze away from his neck and half exposed clavicle “it’s nice to be admired from time to time.” Your fingers reached out to gently run the pads of your fingers over the petals of some of the roses that sat in a small corner of your desk. “Lets you know that someone cares enough to show it to you through small acts of service. Or words of praise and appreciation. Or even gifts. Though I much prefer something like that on a random non-special day than a holiday or occasion.”

Harumasa listened to your words intently, liquid gold eyes watching your fingers tenderly touch the flowers another man had gotten you. The first gift you’d gotten for the upcoming Valentine’s day. His cheeks puffed into a pout, strong yet thin arms coming to cross over his tone chest.

When Valentine’s Day officially arrived, Harumasa came into the office on time, frankly a little early. An incredibly large and obnoxious bouquet of flowers in tow as he sat it on your desk loudly, startling you out of your focused daze of paperwork. It startled the other members of Secruon 6 too, especially Harumasa arriving early! The flowers took up practically the entire space in front of your desk! You didn’t even believe they made bouquets that big!

“H-Harumasa what is this?” You ask bewildered, eyeing all the pretty flowers perfectly arranged to accentuate all the species of flora in their own aspects. Roses were the most common among them, varying in color and size. “I-it’s so big!”

“Well, I couldn’t just let someone show me up in getting my partner a gift can I?” He replies proudly, triumphantly picking up the bouquet of flowers you received yesterday. “There’s no need for these anymore right? I’ll help you clear them out!”

Without giving you any time to protest he dropped the other flowers into the garbage can, a sly and victorious smile plastered over his face. It was then you noticed a small red ribbon clipped to his inky bangs, sparkly with a little cat pendant in the middle. His hands placed on his hips proudly, holding his nose high.

“Besides! Your best gift is right in front of you.” He placed a dramatic hand on his chest, slender digits splaying over the expanse of his chest. “Having me as your ever so trustworthy, hardworking, dashing partner!” You couldn’t help but laugh at his sudden change in behavior. He was acting like a child, exaggerating himself for your praise and favor. “H-Hey! I’m trying to be serious here!”

You adored the way a gentle pink dusted his pale cheeks, his arms instead coming to cross over his chest with his lips puckered in a kiddish pout. His gaze was averted, ebony locks slightly obscuring the visage of his golden eyes. A warm hand came into contact with the exposed flesh of his arm, making him jump, but soon relax once he realized that warmth was coming from you and your tender touch.

“Harumasa.” You say his name gently, sweetly, almost as if you were addressing him as your lover. You squeezed against his forearm lightly, a genuine and incredibly warm smile painting over your lips. “Thank you. I’m very lucky, to have a partner like you. I wouldn’t want anyone else.”

Harumasa’s eyes widened, face exploding in blossoms of red that rivaled the roses on your desk. He pulled away from your touch quickly, coughing lightly before covering his mouth with a gloved hand, his other hand coming up to put some distance between the two of you.

“Ahem! Uh, it’s hot in here isn’t it? I’m going to grab some fresh air for maybe an hour or so, maybe I won’t even come back now that I think about it.” He turned on his heel, footsteps quick as he approached the entrance. His ears peeked out from beneath his dark hair, flushed just as red if not redder than his face. “Anyways! You guys got this without me, right? See ya!”

And just like that, Harumasa was gone. The office was quiet, everyone having witnessed the exchange between the two of you due to his boisterous entrance. Yanagi didn’t even try to stop him when he decided he was going to leave. You couldn’t help but think about what an odd, yet wonderful devoted companion he was. You truly were lucky to have him.

Your gaze suddenly caught the sight of a card nestled between some of the stems of the flowers, small and barely noticeable. Carefully extracting the card, you flipped it open carefully, Harumasa’s surprisingly neat and beautiful penmanship decorating the white paper. Your eyes widened slightly, a blush dusting over your cheeks before they closed with a shake of your head. You pocketed the card, a reminder to yourself to thank him. Your heart hammered against your ribcage, butterflies fluttering around in your stomach as you replayed the words written on the paper to yourself again.

‘Life is already sweet enough with you by my side. -Harumasa, your ever devoted partner ;3

“Done reading? Why don’t you take a break! Relax~ I’ll still be here when you come back.”

[formylovetodaryldixon]

"Flower." Daryl Dixon Imagine.

(Not my gif)

Summary: Daryl has been looking for ways to propose to you. However, something simple but meaningful is always best.

A/N: This is like a second part of "What it means to me" but you don't have to read it first. I stole Daryl and Carol's scene and the flower in Sophia's name, but I haven't slept in almost three days so I feel my attempt at explanation is garbage, but I tried hard, really, so here it goes. Thanks to everyone for liking and sharing my stories!

“How many times?”

“What?”

“How many times did you plan to propose to (Y/N) this week?”

“3.”

“And how many times did you waste?”

“3.” Daryl lets out a grunt of frustration, one that comes from the back of his throat, and he crosses his arms to shield himself from Carol’s words.

The music in the house shared by some family members isn’t loud for obvious reasons, but the people Daryl knew from the beginning are there, enjoying each other’s company. There are glasses and bottles, laughter and smiles you haven’t seen or heard in a long time, all of you together on a night that deserved to be celebrated after feeling fear and lost for so long.

“How the hell ya expect me to do it if y'all are always on top of her? There’s never a moment when ya leave her alone, and when ya did, someone showed up.”

Carol finds the double meaning that Daryl never intended to make, so she covers her lips with the back of her hand to stifle the sound of a laugh.

“Excuse me but I assure you that you are the only one on her.”

A blank expression spreads across Daryl's face.

“Ya ain't helpin'.”

Carol shrugs apologetically, quickly silencing her laughter.

“Okay. Okay, the first one was our fault, but you had (Y/N) all to yourself out there at the lagoon twice and you didn't say anything to her. When I asked her how everything went she said you looked like you were about to pass out.”

A sharp ache grips Daryl's heart, a reflection of the pain of a missed opportunity.

“I tried but y'know I suck with words, an' I can't find 'em when m' with her. Everythin' disappears when m' with her—the noise, the words, everythin'.”

Carol smiles slightly, seeing Daryl's eyes and the way he inadvertently used his words to speak about you, and she looks at him fondly like she always did.

"You're good with words, Pookie, it's just that you're so dazzled by her that it still makes you feel shy to be around her, like when you met her in the camp. Her gaze that's warm and deep when she looks at those she loves, all of it intimidates you still, even if you say it isn't. What i mean is: you’re in love, Daryl Dixon, that's why you feel that way."

Daryl swallows, stealing a glance from you sitting next to the high granite kitchen table in the dining room of the room next door. The wild journey outside had ended when the group found refuge within the walls of Alexandria, trying to adapt back to normalcy until you all finally did, even Daryl Dixon who had come a long way since that new, blood–stained world had risen (more than the others)—growing as a person, going from the loner, the outcast, the one who survived best alone, to one of the most fundamental pillars of the family, one who would silently give his life for someone else.

He had found a family.

But if someone had told Daryl Dixon in the past that he'd find you and have everything when he'd always had nothing (a wife if you said yes, a house if you wanted to start a family on your own with him), he probably would have sent them to hell for lying, or shot them in the face for making fun of something he thought he'd never have. A warm, real home was a crazy, inconceivable and unimaginable idea to Daryl, who always believed was better off alone until he found you. Daryl was never one to commit to anything or anyone until you came along, and now he can’t imagine his life any other way. Now he even wanted something that would tie you to him, something that would tie him to you.

There, an idea of ​​how to ask you appears in his mind, with a light so blinding it dazzles even him.

"Fuck it. Wish me luck." Daryl whispers before leaving his place in the living room, with Carol smiling at him.

It's a nice party, and he doesn't want to be out of place in the conversation so Daryl stands next to you, his side pressed so naturally against yours that, while sitting away in a corner, no one notices that he hasn't stopped caressing your skin under your shirt since he arrived (with you feeling the warmth of his calloused fingers) while Rick tells you all a story from his past, finally without a trace of sadness in his voice. And it's endearing for you to hear him speak, imitating his smile like Rosita and Glenn.

"Meet me at the picnic table outside in 5." Daryl whispers, before walking away again.

Confused, you do so. With a minute to 5, you excuse yourself to go to the bathroom, walking straight toward the back door of the kitchen, the one that connects to the backyard. Amidst the green grass still holding a few drops of dew, the wooden table has two rectangular chairs on either side, but there's something about Daryl's deep gaze as he watches you the whole way over there, sitting with each leg on either side, too.

Like a hammer hitting the head of a nail, your heartbeat seems to pick up that intensity when Daryl slides himself down the wood just a little, so that his knees and yours touch.

"You're scaring me." You laugh nervously, tugging slightly at the collar of your t–shirt that seems to stick to your skin until it suffocates you. "Are you okay, love?"

Love. That blessed word that always came after your honest concern for him, way back when it all began and when the others were always tempted to get rid of the burden he seemed to represent.

“I am, Peach, s' just…” Daryl swallows as he slides his nervous hands over the fabric of his pants, still holding your gaze, but he hates that is happening again, the way he chokes on his own words, like a barrier blocking his ability to speak. “Shit.”

“Do you… want to break up?”

There's no emotion in your voice, just a weighty question that makes his body shrink back a millimeter.

“What?” He blinks and his heart gives him no respite or warning, and it starts pounding like Daryl’s on a marathon toward the end of the earth. “Y–ya wanna break up?”

The one second–fear is painful, more than the bullet when he was shot.

“No, of course not.” Even through his long hair, the strands covering part of his eyebrows, and the dimly glowing nightlight, you can see his brow furrow in worry, fear. “It’s just, you’ve been on edge this week, and every time we’re alone, it seems like you want to say something, but you don’t dare, and that’s not promising, you know?”

Daryl starts to shake his head, his eyebrows trying to knit together in an expression of real pain.

“Peach, no, shit, m' so sorry. I never meant to worry ya or make ya feel like I didn’ want ya anymore 'cause s' the complete opposite.” He takes a silent but deep breath, allowing the air to find places to fill them and to continue living for a moment, or maybe a lifetime to spend with you. “I wanna tell ya a story, but please listen to it 'til the end an' then give me an answer, okay?"

You nod at the unknown even if it makes you feel you are walking blindly; at the overwhelming feelings this evokes in you.

Daryl reaches into his front pants pocket and pulls out a small piece of paper the size of his palm, only to place it between you two of you, on the wood: there's a flower drawn with a pen in messy lines.

“S’ a Cherokee rose.” Daryl clears his throat, his gaze fixed solely on the image, but his voice deepens slightly in the night and with the weight of his words. “The story is that… when american soldiers were movin’ Indians off their land on the trail of tears… the Cherokee mothers were grievin’ an’ cryin’ so much cause they were losin’ their lil’ ones along the way to the exposure, disease, starvation. A lot of ‘em jus’ disappeared, so the elders… they said a prayer, asked for a sign to uplift the mother’s spirits, givin’ ‘em strength, hope. An’ the next day this rose started to grow right where the mother’s tears fell… an' I wanna believe that somewhere… one grew when I met ya.” When Daryl raises his head and his gaze catches yours, the intensity forces you to hold your breath for a moment, as if with a quick, sharp breath, the air could also carry away the overflowing emotions too fast. “What m' tryin' to say is… ma mom used to say this flower grows after someone’s pain an' s' funny to think how ya appeared jus' when I couldn't bear any more pain.”

Daryl smiles softly, and his gaze softens too even through the past he still feels, but even in his own darkness that blends with the night, there’s still beauty to be seen in the dim light.

“Does it still hurt?”

Your question glimmers with your own pain, causing your voice to crack slightly, but that little spark of concern is extinguished when Daryl shakes his head.

“Nah. The scars will always be there, but it all stopped hurtin' a long time ago.”

You nod, but the pain in response to his abuse reached you at a supersonic level, so fast it violently settled inside you.

“I’m glad. Honestly.” You laugh embarrassedly as you feel tears welling up in your eyes, so you slide your fingers from the edges outward in a failed attempt to keep them in line. “I’m sorry.”

“Shit. No, m' sorry, Peach.” Daryl leans forward until his fingers can cup the soft skin of your face and his thumbs can wipe away the first tear that falls from either side. “Didn't mean to make ya cry, I jus' want ya to understand that yer the reason m' here. Ya saved me from myself. Ya always felt like the home I never had, an' I wanted to keep that with me almost selfishly an' all the time. Why ya think I followed ya everywhere?” Daryl lets out a short but heartfelt laugh, and you manage to imitate it with less intensity. “Yer ma home, Peach, yer everythin’ to me, that's why right now I jus' need ya to be honest with me, okay?”

He pulls away, and the wind brushes and chills the skin where his warm fingers had been, but you nod, watching as Daryl reaches into his pants again, making a fist to hide whatever he's holding, until he places a ring over the drawing. Like lead, you feel a weight on your heart trying to drag it down with the sudden nervousness, perhaps heavy with all the emotions that have gathered there.

When you look up again, Daryl smiles sideways, a little with his own nerves.

"Would ya lemme be yer husband?"

[azrielbrainrot]

Hey! I was thinking — "being overprotective of them in front of prospective partners" or "sharing cloths in a totally friendly way" with Cassian?

I think that's a cute print for him, and I'd love to see it ❤️

I love your writing and stories by the way!! 🥰

Say the Words

Pairing: Cassian x F!Reader

Word Count: 1k

A/N: I'm not sure this is what you had in mind and it turned out a bit angsty for some reason, but I hope you enjoy! Thank you for sending this in and I'm so glad you like my stories 🩷

The frigid winter air hits your burning cheeks, breath turning to mist as you walk away from the bar, but even if it was cold enough for the streets of Velaris to be mostly empty on a friday night, it's still not enough to calm the anger swimming through your body.

You had tried to decline Mor's invitation to come out tonight, preferring to sleep off the tiring week instead of drinking and dancing it away. Ultimately your blonde haired friend had gotten her away yet again, managing to bring everyone along to Rita's for a night out. You were doing your best to enjoy it despite your initial reluctance to come, drinking and dancing with your friends like you usually did.

A very well dressed and admittedly charming male started talking to you when you went to get another drink, his intentions more than clear behind his honeyed words and saccharine smile. You had no plans of going anywhere with him, only trying to choose your words to let him down easy, he hadn't been bothering you too much after all, but Cassian had suddenly showed up at your side, wrapping his arm around you in a possessive manner, scaring the poor male away with just a few words. You think you even saw him puff up his wings. All this to drop his arm as soon as he walked away, turning to go back to your friends like nothing had happened, making your temper rise at an alarming rate and prompting you to walk straight out of the bar, uncaring of the cold or the people calling your name.

The two of you have been toying with the line between friendship and more for years, lingering eyes and meaningful touches crossing it a bit more every day. It seemed that every time you tried to cross it, he took a step back though. You've gotten somewhat used to the push and pull by now, but, maybe because of your already dull mood, it reached a breaking point today.

Heavy footsteps sounded behind you, a sigh escaping your lips. Of course he had followed you outside, he would have followed you to the end of the earth. Knowing that a confrontation would be unavoidable, you slow your pace, sitting on a bench by the river, eyes trained ahead even when he stops by the bench, watching you.

“It's too cold for you to sit here,” he murmurs, voice uncharacteristically serious but as caring as always.

“I don't want to talk, Cassian.”

Except you did, it was probably the only thing that would make you feel better right now. You were just tired of pretending, and it seemed like he insisted on it. You were starting to wonder if he knew how to do anything else.

You can see him nod at your words in the corner of your eye, looking down at the heavy jacket in his hands before taking another step and draping it over your shoulders, his scent enveloping you instantly. You had to close your eyes for a moment, telling yourself not to give in.

“Don't stay here too long, you'll catch a cold.” His hand lingers in the air, looking like he wanted to reach out, but he doesn't, he never does. “You can keep the jacket.”

No sooner the words had left his mouth than he turned around. It makes you look up at him at last, facing his back, wings curled into his back as he walks away slowly, braving the cold in favor of leaving you warm as you stubbornly stayed outside instead of winnowing home. You couldn't understand him at all.

“What are you doing?”

He pauses, body visible tensing as he hears the defeat in your voice. “You said you didn't want to talk.”

“So you'll just leave?” Some of the anger returns, standing up and walking closer to him, waiting for him to turn and look into your eyes, almost daring him to. “What was all of that for then?” Your heart skips a beat when your eyes finally meet, the hazel showing all the things he wouldn't say like they always did, but you were tired of reading them for yourself, you wanted to hear everything from him.

“I was just trying to help.”

“Help?” You can't help but scoff, swallowing down the burning in your eyes, the headache that was creeping in. “If you will not make me yours then you can't act like I am.”

“That wasn't-”

“Since when have you been such a coward?”

“I'm not a coward.”

“You're sure acting like one.”

“What do you want me to say then?” His voice was rising in volume, eyes sharp as he took you in. Good. “That I didn't want him anywhere near you? That I almost ripped off his arm when he reached for your hand? That I don't want anyone else touching you? Is that what you want to hear?”

His hazel eyes burned into yours but you weren't going to back down, not now after finally getting something out of him. You would end this game tonight, one way or another.

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Why don't you want anyone touching me?”

Cassian lets out a breath, eyes moving over your head to watch the river for a moment, gathering his thoughts as you push him into a corner. You were about to repeat the same question, or even throw a few choice words at him when he reached for your neck, bringing your face in closer as he bends down, his touch gentle despite the storm raging inside him.

His lips linger over yours for a second longer, maybe giving you time to push him away, as if you ever would, but his patience seemed to be wearing thin as he kisses you at last, lips moving over yours as his hands hold your waist, pulling you closer into him. Your arms wrap around his neck, getting lost in him before your mind catches up to you, making you reluctantly pull away so you could look into his eyes.

“Say it,” you whisper against his lips.

“Because you're mine.”

A smile breaks out on your face. If it hadn't been for the cold biting your skin, you might have thought this was a dream. Cassian's face mirrors yours as he kisses you again, lifting you up into his arms as you winnow you both home, your mouths only pulling apart when your back hits the mattress.

[wbbfannnnnn13]

Almost, Always // Chapter 7

paige x azzi fic

Previous chapters: Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6

A/N: Alright, for real this time, I feel like this is just straight fluff :) this is a bit of a filler chapter, but I think it's important to draw those connections as to why the characters act the way they act... maybe I've just gone too deep on this whole writing thing, so if that didn't make any sense, just ignore me and enjoy lol.

WC: 2.7k+

Warnings: None

Chapter 7 – The Parts They Pick Apart

It started with a headline. One article. One photo. One moment that was supposed to feel like progress—something brave, something real—turned into a spiral she couldn’t stop.

Paige stared at her phone, eyes locked on the screen as her and Azzi’s names trended, not because of her triple-double or Azzi’s 30-point game, but because of a photo. A moment of vulnerability turned spectacle. Azzi's jersey on her back. The world saw it. And now the world wanted more answers, proof, and exposure.

Her chest felt tight, breath shallow. It wasn’t panic exactly; it was worse. It was familiar. That creeping dread wrapped itself around her lungs and squeezed until her thoughts blurred. A thousand what-ifs echoed in her head, loud and unrelenting. What if this was a mistake? What if it all crumbled now? What if Azzi saw the cracks in her she was trying so hard to hold together?

She tried not to let Azzi see it. She smiled when Azzi looked over. Shrugged. Made a joke. But inside, her heart thudded hard and loud, like her body knew she was lying. Like every beat was a warning bell.

She wasn’t fine. Not even close.

I’m fine, she told herself. I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine.

But the words were hollow, brittle things, crumbling under the weight of her fear.

Because this was what she had feared all along. The noise. The attention. The invasion. Not just of their love, but of their lives.

She slipped into the bathroom under the excuse of needing a shower, closed the door, sat on the edge of the tub, and let her head fall into her hands. Her chest rose and fell like she’d just finished a sprint.

This wasn’t about Azzi. This was about her. About everything she’d never fully unpacked. Everything she thought she’d buried.

The flashback came hard and fast—the first time she truly felt the pressure.

Her freshman year at UConn had been a whirlwind. She had come in with hype, but no one could have predicted how fast her name would spread. Suddenly, she was everywhere. Headlines, endorsements, commercials. Her face became synonymous with women's college basketball, and that pressure was intoxicating and suffocating all at once.

The accolades piled on. She smiled through it all, signed autographs, posed for pictures, and delivered perfect postgame interviews. But beneath the surface, she was struggling. There were nights she’d lie awake staring at the ceiling, wondering if she’d already peaked. If the world only loved her because of the narrative—not the real her.

Then came the ESPYs.

She wanted to say something meaningful. Something that mattered beyond the box score. Her speech had been short but heartfelt, a few lines acknowledging the trailblazing Black women in sports who had inspired her, who deserved more of the spotlight.

The backlash was immediate.

Too political. Out of line. Just stick to basketball.

She remembered sitting on the edge of her dorm bed, scrolling endlessly through Twitter, reading cruel comments until her stomach ached. It was like a slow-motion unraveling—each swipe another blow to her confidence. Even messages from people she trusted, people she thought would always have her back, gently suggesting she ‘tone it down,’ chipped away at her resolve. Friends, former coaches, family members—they all meant well, but every carefully worded message felt like another way of saying, 'Be smaller. Be quieter. Don’t rock the boat.' The praise she’d lived on turned sharp, cold, conditional. Suddenly, it felt like she’d stepped too far out of bounds—not as a player, but as a person. Like her voice, her choices, her existence beyond the game was too much. And that realization carved a hollow space in her chest she didn’t know how to fill.

She pulled back. She started choosing safer words. She started letting others speak first. She dimmed the light she’d once carried so boldly because boldness had made her a target.

Practices became her only escape. She’d train longer, push harder, thinking if she could just stay perfect on the court, maybe the noise off it wouldn’t matter so much.

Until Coach Geno sat her down.

She’d walked into his office that day exhausted, burned out from a spotlight she couldn’t escape. Her limbs felt heavy, like she was dragging the weight of every headline, every expectation behind her. Her eyes were rimmed with fatigue, her hoodie pulled tight around her frame like armor. She hovered in the doorway for a second longer than necessary, hoping maybe he wouldn’t notice just how close she was to cracking. But Geno always noticed. He hadn’t even looked up from his desk right away. Just gestured for her to sit with that calm, commanding presence that made her feel both exposed and comforted all at once.

"You’re spiraling," he said flatly.

She shrugged. "I’m just tired."

He looked at her then, eyes steady. "You’re not tired, you’re scared."

She blinked, trying to find a rebuttal.

"They’re gonna talk regardless," he continued. "So you might as well give them something worth talking about. You didn’t get here by staying small, Paige. Don’t start now."

She’d held his gaze, a lump forming in her throat. For a moment, she felt seen—not as a player, not as a brand, but as a person trying to navigate a world that didn’t always feel kind.

He leaned back in his chair, voice softer now, but still firm. "Listen, Paige—you don’t have to apologize for being who you are. You think everyone’s gonna like it? They won’t. That’s just how this goes. But you can’t live your life waiting for everyone else to get comfortable. You play your game, you speak your truth, and you love who you love. If they’ve got a problem with it, that’s their problem—not yours. You didn’t come this far to play it safe now."

She hadn’t said much after that. Just nodded and left. But his words stuck. They burrowed deep, even if she wasn’t ready to believe them then. She’d tucked them away, a whisper she’d return to on the hard days.

And now, years later, she could still hear his voice echoing in her head.

And this time, she didn’t want to tuck it away. She wanted to live by it.

She’d nodded, tried to believe him. And for a while, she did. She walked out of his office with those words echoing in her head, trying to let them settle beneath her skin, to believe that she could hold onto herself no matter how loud the noise became. But the fear still lurked in corners she never fully cleared, quiet but present, like a shadow cast by a light she wasn’t yet brave enough to shine at full strength. It would creep in at the most inconvenient moments, catching her off guard in the middle of a press conference or when scrolling too long through comment sections. And no matter how strong she tried to be, there were always those slivers of doubt that whispered maybe she’d never be enough.

Now it was back. And this time, it had Azzi’s face tangled in it. That made it worse—so much worse. Because it wasn’t just Paige’s anxiety anymore. It wasn’t just her career, her name, her spotlight. Now, every headline twisting their story, every comment dripping with speculation or judgment, had the power to hurt Azzi too. And that terrified Paige in a way she couldn’t even express. Loving Azzi so openly meant exposing her to the same scrutiny Paige had barely learned to endure herself. And what scared her most wasn’t that people would talk—it was that they’d say something cruel, and Azzi would begin to believe it.

So she did what she hadn’t done in far too long—she called Geno. The one person who had seen her at her highest and lowest, who never sugarcoated the truth but always knew how to anchor her back to herself. It wasn’t just a call for advice—it was a lifeline, a need to hear the grounding voice of someone who still saw the real her beneath all the noise.

He answered on the second ring. "You’re alive. I was starting to think you forgot about me."

She laughed, but it sounded thin. "Hey, Coach. Got a minute?"

"For you? Always. But don’t tell me it’s nothing, because I can already hear it in your voice. What’s weighing on you, kid?"

She hesitated. "It’s… complicated."

"Let me guess—you let the outside noise get in your head again, didn't you? The headlines, the speculation, the comments from people who don't know the first thing about you or what really matters."

"You forgot the part where I’m trying to be a good girlfriend while my past trauma tries to eat me alive."

Geno chuckled. "Ah, that old song and dance. You know, you kids today get more rattled by tweets than by missed free throws. But alright, let’s hear it. Don’t hold back."

She did. She told him about Azzi. About the photo. The headlines. The internal tug-of-war. The fear she didn’t want to name but couldn’t ignore. How she didn’t want to fail Azzi. How she didn’t want to fail herself.

When she finished, the line was quiet for a beat.

"You love her," Geno said.

"I do."

"Then don’t run from it. Fight for her. You think it’s supposed to be easy? It’s not. But love isn’t about hiding. It’s about choosing each other, every damn day, even when it’s messy. You’ve already walked through the fire before, and you came out the other side. The only difference now is, you’ve got someone standing in it with you. Don’t push her out because you’re scared she’ll get burned. Let her in. That’s what real love looks like."

Paige felt her throat tighten. She nodded, even though he couldn’t see.

"Thanks, Coach. I needed that."

"Sure. Now stop overthinking it and just be who you’ve always been."

When she hung up, she felt lighter. Not weightless, but stronger. Like she'd finally let go of something she hadn't realized she’d been clutching for years. Her chest no longer felt like a pressure cooker. The air around her wasn’t quite so heavy. There was still fear—there would always be fear—but it felt quieter now. Manageable. Something she could walk beside, not something she had to outrun.

She’d still be scared. The noise would still be loud. But she wasn’t going to let it drown them out. Not anymore. Not when she finally remembered what it felt like to breathe.

She’d start with one step.

A post.

A caption.

And then maybe, eventually, a love out loud.

Still, even after that call, the anxiety clung to her like static. It lingered in the way her fingers hovered over the 'share' button, in the way her breath caught before she hit send. She’d picked a photo—one snapped by a media photographer during the game. She was courtside, dawning Azzi’s jersey, caught mid-cheer, hands clapping and smile wide as Azzi sank a three-pointer on the court. The photo had gone viral for all the right reasons, but Paige knew exactly what it implied—and she didn’t care. It was honest. It was real. And it felt like the right place to start.

Her caption was simple: “Guess I’m just a really passionate fan.”

She turned her phone face-down the moment it posted.

Paige walked back into the living room, where Azzi was curled up under a blanket with a book, a mug of tea on the table beside her. Her presence was calming, like always. Paige paused in the doorway for a second, just watching her. The way her fingers moved along the page, the way her brow furrowed as she concentrated, the way she always unconsciously tucked her knee up against her chest. She was beautiful—painfully so—and Paige felt that familiar ache of wanting to be good enough for her.

Azzi looked up, sensing her watching. “Hey,” she said softly, setting the book aside.

“Hey,” Paige said, walking over, sitting beside her and tucking herself into her side. She let her head rest on Azzi’s shoulder. “You feel like home, you know that?”

Azzi smiled, resting her cheek against the top of Paige’s head. “Good. Because you are mine.”

She paused, then added softly, “I know you’re trying,” Azzi said, her voice low and thick with emotion. “I'm sorry for putting so much pressure on you, I can see how much fear you're carrying. You’re doing your best to push through it, and I see that now.”

Paige lifted her head slightly, eyes meeting hers, something soft and searching between them. She reached for Azzi’s hand, threading their fingers together. “You had every right to want more from me,” she said gently. “I get it now—really get it. You weren’t asking for too much. You were asking for what you deserved. I’m sorry it took me this long, but I promise I’m not going anywhere.”

Azzi’s eyes glistened just slightly as she squeezed Paige’s hand. “I know, P. Sometimes I get scared too. Thank you for showing up, for fighting through the fear, for choosing me.”

Paige leaned in, brushing a soft kiss to her temple. “Always. I’ll keep choosing you, Az. Every time.”

Azzi smiled, leaning forward to rest her forehead against Paige’s. "I love you," she whispered, letting the words settle between them like a balm. It was simple, but it was everything. Paige closed her eyes for a moment, breathing her in, letting the warmth of that truth anchor her. When she opened them again, all she saw was home.

For a while, they just sat there, wrapped in each other and the quiet.

But even as Paige felt comforted by the warmth of Azzi’s body next to hers, that old pressure still pulsed in her bloodstream. She knew it wouldn’t go away overnight. She knew fear didn’t vanish with one decision or one caption. But she also knew that healing wasn’t about the absence of fear—it was about showing up despite it.

Azzi glanced at her phone and raised an eyebrow as a notification lit up her screen. “You posted? What did you tag me in?”

Paige nodded, moving her hand to rub small circles on Azzi's back. “Yeah. Just a little something.”

Azzi opened the app and found the photo instantly—Paige in her jersey, cheering from the sidelines. She stared at it for a beat, and Paige could see the way her expression softened. There was warmth in her eyes now, something tender and shining beneath the surface. A look Paige wanted to see for the rest of her life—pride, affection, belief. Azzi didn’t say anything at first, but her smile said enough. Paige had moved forward, and Azzi could feel it.

Azzi tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly before a slow grin tugged at her lips. “Wait a second… didn’t you say you were going to shower like an hour ago?”

Paige’s brows lifted, sudden realization she had been caught. She smirked. “I got distracted—important fan duties.”

“Sure you did,” Azzi said with a teasing laugh, nudging Paige’s hip gently. “You’re really committed to this ‘passionate fan’ role, huh?”

Paige stepped closer, their bodies almost brushing, a playful glint in her eyes. “Maybe I was waiting for some company,” she said, her voice low and suggestive, the tension between them thickening in the space of a heartbeat.

Azzi raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh, is that so?”

“Mm-hmm,” Paige hummed. “Thought maybe you’d like to join me.”

Azzi’s grin deepened, her gaze dropping just briefly before locking back onto Paige’s. “Well, I wouldn’t want to disappoint my number one fan.”

Paige reached for Azzi’s hand, gently pulling her up from the couch with a sly smile. “Then come prove it,” she murmured, backing toward the bathroom and tugging Azzi along with her, their fingers intertwined as the teasing glint in her eyes deepened.

Azzi followed without hesitation, the bathroom light flicking on behind them as the door clicked softly shut.

[redpill-tfs]

Red Wave

January 1st, 2025

Yo, so I started this Red Wave trial thing today. The docs said it’s supposed to, like, make your brain work better or something. Was told to track my thoughts in this journal thing. Honestly, I’m just here for the cash. I’m not buying into any of their science-y shit. Took the first pill this morning. Feel normal so far. Guess we’ll see if this stuff actually does anything.

Since I was told to describe myself a bit, I guess I might as well if I want that cash they promised. Name's Blake. I'm 26 and work at a local manufacturing company in the finance department. It's a pretty chill gig. Don't gotta wear a suit either which is good. Didn't even wear one to my graduation and I don't plan on starting now.

Anyway bro, I'm also a proud atheist. Never got into politics, but I guess I'm more liberal. I mean, just let people do what they want, right?

February 10th, 2025

Alright, not gonna lie, I’ve been feeling kinda sharp lately. Like, my head’s clearer, and I’m getting more stuff done at work. My boss Emily even said my presentation didn’t totally suck, which is rare. Oh, and I actually ironed my shirt today before work. Don’t know why—just felt like I should look decent. Weird, right? Maybe these pills aren’t total BS. I don't know why, but I've been thinking of wearing a tie to work...

March 12th, 2025

So get this, man: I bought a suit over the weekend. A whole grownup suit and a tie to go with it. I dunno know why, but I just felt like stepping up my game for my presentation at work today. And man did I look good. I got so many compliments on my fit. It honestly felt really good. My bros thought it was weird and so do I, but now that I have it I guess I'll use it at another presentation in the future.

April 15th, 2025

Something weird is going on. I heard some chick at work talking about her church today. Instead of scoffing and rolling my eyes, it made me, like, think a little. Like I got curious about it. I don't know what's going on, but I might have to check it out sometime.

Speaking of work, I've been wearing a tie more and more. It feels... right. People seem to notice too. I get so many compliments about them. I went back to the store and pick out a whole bunch of different colors. I may be the only guy in the department wearing one, but standing out isn't a bad thing I guess.

May 18th, 2025

Alright, so… I went to church today. Yeah, me. Blake, the proud atheist. Walked past St. Mark’s on the way to grab Starbuck's, and something just made me stop and go in. The music was kind of awesome, and the pastor’s talk about purpose hit me harder than I expected. I don’t even know what’s happening to me, but I’m starting to think there’s more to life than what I’ve been living. I might go back next week to see what I've been missing, but I'm not sure yet.

June 30th, 2025

This morning, I prayed. Like, actually prayed to God. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it, but it felt… good. I’ve also started reading bits of the Bible over the past week. There’s some deep stuff in there. Work’s going great, too. I’ve been mentoring one of the new guys, and Emily says she’s impressed with my leadership. Suits are now my everyday thing. Who knew dressing sharp could feel so right?

July 23rd, 2025

I’ve been pulling away from my old friends. Their whole sarcastic, edgy vibe just doesn’t sit right with me anymore. Instead, I’ve been hanging out with people from church who share my interest in self-improvement and faith. I’m even thinking about joining a volunteer group at the church. Life feels more meaningful now. My mind still feels so clear too. I don't know what this pill is doing to me, but it's working.

August 11th, 2025

I’ve been reflecting on some big ideas lately: responsibility, tradition, family values. They make so much sense now. I’ve also started watching a few commentators online who align with these views. Their logic is compelling. Honestly, I don’t know how I didn’t see it before. It’s like a veil has been lifted. Why should abortion be legal? Why should we violate the second amendment with gun control laws? Why do gays think thy can decide how the rest of us live our lives? So many questions I'm learning the answers to. I never paid much attention to politics, but maybe I should.

September 7th, 2025

Sunday service has become the cornerstone of my week. I’ve officially joined St. Mark’s and volunteered for their community outreach. Pastor Williams’s guidance has been invaluable. I’m entirely committed to this new path. My wardrobe, my habits, even my worldview have all transformed. I’m proud of the man I’ve become. I've said this a million times already, but it just feels right.

October 20th, 2025

Today is my birthday, and reflecting on this past year astounds me. My former self seems like a stranger. I’ve embraced faith, order, and purpose, and it just feels right. I got my hair cut to be a lot shorter than I once had it as a special birthday gift to myself. It feels more appropriate for my new image.

I had some friends from bible study over for a small party. I wore my best suit for the occasion. We played games, ate good food, and prayed of course. There was a riveting debate on the role of faith in politics. All in all, it was a good time. I can't believe how much my life has changed just in 10 months.

November 30th, 2025

Today was the final day of the trial. The scientist leading the study asked me all sorts of questions, from my conservative views to my faith in God and my new sense of style. I'm not sure what it all has to do with a mental focus pill, but I didn't feel like asking questions. I'm sure they know what they're doing. Anyways, I better get going. St. Mark's is having an event today to celebrate God and all of His glory. I wouldn't miss it for the world.

December 1st, 2025

The Red Wave trial has concluded with a 100% conversion rate among participants. Subjects exhibited profound and permanent shifts in personality, behavior, and worldview. Pre-trial skepticism and liberal inclinations were entirely replaced with conservative, faith-based identities. This case highlights the pill's efficacy in aligning individuals with structured, traditional conservative values. Further research will examine long-term societal impacts of widespread application. More subjects needed.

[barrel-crow-n]

I was just thinking about how Kaz built this heartless persona for himself and how everyone falls for it to varying degrees: He's widely regarded as a monster and as "not made right"; Inej thought he wouldn't come for her and that once she was useless to him that he would discard her; Jesper never knows where exactly he stands with him; Nina "doesn't want to know what dark hole he crawled out of"; Wylan calls him "the most vengeful creature he had ever met"; Matthias believes he's a demon. But in reality his true motives for most things are love and grief and loss of family.

Kaz only wanted money for revenge, he didn't want to try and build a meaningful connection with Imogen because she would distract him from pursuing his vengeance, he only mentions how Pekka conned them out of money to explain how they ended up on the streets, how it was never about the money but about Jordie.

Kaz says that he and Jordie were such easy marks because they missed their dad. Kaz's biggest gripe was not just the loss of Jordie but the illusion of a home and family that Pekka had snatched away before the plague snatched Jordie away too.

It all always leads back to Jordie and his loss and avenging him and about never wanting to be that vulnerable again. Kaz created Kaz Brekker to protect himself, to hide his vulnerabilities. His grief is hidden behind a fake name, his naivety is hidden behind violence, his touch aversion is hidden behind the gloves.

Kaz pushes people away because he fears what will happen if he lets them in. He gets mean when he's vulnerable to hide said vulnerability. He did it in the clocktower, he did it in the bathroom. After he accidently calls Jesper Jordie he lashes out verbally and physically, when Inej asks about Jordie and Pekka's involvement in what happened he recounts how he tortured someone. In both incidents it's again Jordie that he's hiding, that is causing him to be vulnerable. It always leads back to Jordie. Even with Van Eck! He's again angry that he fell for what he fell for before, the thing that made him lose Jordie making him temporarily lose Inej.

In both the Jesper and Inej examples he hides behind violence - by brawling with Jesper and recounting a time when he tortured a young boy. He does this because he loves Inej and Jesper, and it scares him, and he doesn't know what to do with it. Because everyone he's ever loved has died in horrible ways (his father was torn apart by a plough, his brother died from a horrible sickness) and he doesn't want to go through it again - especially since he still hasn't let go of Jordie, although it has been eight years.

Kaz is a person who loves so deeply. Who is mainly motivated by love. Who, when Pekka asks him what he wants, replies "Bring my brother back from the dead." because he never cared about money, nor power, nor anything else. He just wants his brother. All he wanted this whole time is his brother, and since he no longer has him he lashes out, all hurt and grieving. He's hurting so badly that he destroys everyone even mildly involved in what took Jordie away from him. But he only did that because he loved Jordie. It wasn't revenge for the sake of money it was for the sake of love. It was for the sake of Jordie.

Kaz loved Jordie so much that he became the most feared person in Ketterdam, that he took down the King of the Barrel and a merchant from one of the oldest families in Ketterdam (because even if his gripe with Van Eck was unrelated, it's because of Jordie's loss that life snowballed into their interactions and the consequent betrayal and destruction of everything Van Eck held dear). Kaz loved Jordie so much that it changed the entire course of the narrative.

If not for Jordie's loss the heist wouldn't of happened, all of the Crows lives would've been different, some of the Crows would even most likely be dead, and this extends even further to much more major things. The King of Ravka managed to steal the titanium because of his help which will aid Ravka in wars, the path to jurda parem is no longer in the hands of the Fjerdans and a cure is being safely developed in Ravka because Kaz rescued Kuwei, Wylan took over the Van Eck empire because Kaz tampered with Van Eck's will and papers, Inej is working on taking down the slave trade which is only possible because Kaz freed her from her indenture, Nina became the queen of Fjerda because of things that Kaz started (her joining the Dregs instead of being indebted to the Dime Lions, him freeing Matthias, him organising the heist, Matthias dying in the aftermath, her going to Fjerda to bury Matthias and the results which ended up being her and her new lover on the Fjerdan throne trying to fix prejudice against grisha, and women, in the most conservative country).

All of it leads back to Kaz. And he did all of it for Jordie. It all always leads back to Jordie. Jordie and Kaz's love for his big brother and his grief over having him snatched away from him.

[thebreakfastgenie]

I'm not anti-vote or anything, but I think some of the liberals on here greatly overrate how much damage a bunch of bored kids (most of whom probably can't even legally vote) talking shit on social media can actually do to the Democrats. So what if they turn out braindead "Genocide Joe" memes by the thousands per week? No meaningful voter would pay attention to those, and anyone who does never had a vote worth chasing in the first place.

The problem is that it's not just a bunch of bored kids. It feeds a larger social media ecosystem. Remember "cancel culture?" Remember how that became a right wing talking point that conservatives whined about in mainstream settings? That has its roots on tumblr. If you ever doubted that fringe social media movements affect mainstream politics, 2024 should have been the final nail in the coffin. JD Vance has very signifcant (and, frankly, underreported) ties to online far right communities (known as "groypers" to the terminally online) and it absolutely influenced his campaign and now he's bringing those interests to the vice-presidency. Elon Musk (the owner of twitter) and Vivek Ramaswamy want to run a government office named DOGE after a meme. We're sharing the internet with the people in power; we're all playing with live ammo. It's often a ripple effect or butterfly effect, so it's very difficult to predict what memes and posts from "bored kids" will make it to real life politics and how they'll be transformed along the way. Because it's so hard to predict, we need to be aware of the possibility and act with care. "Genocide Joe" memes contributed to a general feeling of dissatisfaction with Biden that, intentionally or not, played into the Trump campaign's "everyone hates Biden" narrative. A similar thing happened with Hillary in 2016.

Elections are also won and lost on the margins. Campaigns spend billons on ground games that persuade a very small percentage of voters, but it's better to persuade that percentage than not to. If you don't know if something is going to make a difference, you act as if it is when the stakes are high. Is the drag from a constant negative social media narrative going to hurt a campaign? Maybe, and either way it's definitely not going to help, so it's better not to have it. 2016 and 2024 were both very close elections.

Liberals also tend to interpret bored kids' posts as statements of action. If someone says they don't want a Democrat to win, will try to stop it, and will tell other people not to vote for that candidate, liberals are going to object to that.

It's usually not "meaningful voters" who decide elections. It's low-information swing voters who make up their minds on the way to the voting booth. These voters are, consciously or unconsciously, often influenced by perceived popular opinion. A lot of people don't have deeply held values that they've spent time examining, but have moral compasses more akin to "if everyone I know thinks this, it must be right." The danger of social media is that is also distorts the meaning of "everyone I know." Your meme about how you hate Joe Biden finds its way into an algorithmically-generated bubble and someone says "gee, it seems like everyone I know hates Joe Biden, I generally trust my social circle, he must be really bad." And it's self-reinforcing. They start sharing it or making similar posts of their own and it spreads to their contacts in their own bubbles.

I don't think the exact mechanisms or limits or this phenomenon are fully understood yet because social media is still too new, but it's very real.

[fandomnerd9602]

First Glance

Iris x Reader

Was it the loneliness that made you click that link to Empathix? Maybe.

You never really clicked with people. It was hard more often than not. You never really had many face to face interactions, not that it wasn’t something you yearned for. The most meaningful interaction was with your food delivery drivers. Being diagnosed with depression and high anxiety didn’t help much either.

So you found yourself waiting for the delivery. Then came the knock at the door. A friendly looking Empathix employee read your name aloud for confirmation. You could only nod and show your ID card as an answer.

Next thing you knew, the employee wheeled in a metallic box with two portable hangers of clothing.

Then the metallic container opened, revealing her. She looked so sweet, so kind, even in power off mode.

“So Iris?” The technician asked

“Y-Yes,” you responded with your head hung a little low, barely making eye contact, “i-its one of my favorite songs and…”

“No worries. It’s a good name” the tech handed you an iPad, “sign here and here”

You dragged your finger across the screen, signing your signature. Millions of questions raced in your mind.

“Will she need food?” The first question that came to mind

“Her processing unit can ingest food and convert it into energy but it’s not necessary. I wouldn’t recommend peanut butter though.” The tech says with a laugh.

“Does she know? A-about being a-?”

“She’ll be so wrapped up in you, she won’t have time to think about it” the technician waved their hand nonchalantly.

Another technician positioned her on your couch. Her hands were folded in her lap.

The technician snapped their fingers, “may I see your tablet? I need to run an authentication on the app”

You quickly handed them your tablet. Your eyes wandered to Iris. You had heard tales about companion bots. The world may have only seen a robot, but you already saw someone worth protecting.

“Alright” the technician shoved the tablet back into your hands, snapping you back to reality. “You’re good to go. Last steps are up to you. Good day!”

And with that, the technician and their team left your small apartment. You breathed a sigh of relief.

You walked cautiously up to the companion bot you named Iris. You opened the app.

“State your name” a slightly robotic feminine voice came from Iris.

You jumped back a little before taking a deep breath.

“Please stand in close proximity” she spoke again, her eyes being mere reflections of galaxies.

You obey her command and sit right in front of her.

“Please state your name”

“(Y/N)” you manage to say, “(Y/N)(L/N)”

“Thank you (Y/N)(L/N)” she smiles at you. Her head turns slightly, looking away from you.

The tablet buzzes as a pre-recorded video begins to play. On the screen you saw your meet cute.

A supermarket. You accidentally spilled oranges while trying to talk with her. This version of you seemed a little more confident.

“I’m (Y/N)”

“I’m Iris”

It was like watching your own movie. You couldn’t help but smile a little.

The video turned off. And then Iris’ galaxy like eyes faded into their default blue.

“Hey you” Iris smiled at you, a little giggle in her voice.

“H-Hey” you tried to say. You never really held a conversation like this. Or had someone smile at you like that.

Her demeanor changed to a bit of worry. “What’s wrong, baby?”

“N-Nothing.” She took your hand and looked to you with a gentle smile. “I-I’m sorry…I’m not the best person at talking and-“

“I know. Anxiety can be a terrible feeling but I’m here for you” she gently reassured you.

“A-And im here for you”

Iris couldn’t help but blush. “Thank you baby. I know. And I really appreciate it” iris gives you a playful giggle.

“We’ll look out for each other” you gave her a genuine smile.

“I like the sound of that” she giggles, “and look! You’re smiling! I love your smiles”

“Before you,” you looked into her eyes, “I was alone.”

“So was I, (Y/N)” she replies with a small smile, “but I got you now”

Yeah. She’s got you and you got her.

[strawberryblue-blog]

Can u do an SFW alphabet for balde and pedri 🤭

A to Z —Pedri González.

Summary: request.

Warning: None. Cute, soft, fluff.

Words count: +900.

A - Affection.

He has a warm character and always treats others well. He likes to make people feel comfortable and with you he is even more special. Hugs, kisses, words, caresses, glances. He's a true romantic.

B - Best friend.

If he were your best friend, he would be the person you can always rely on. No matter the situation, he will always support you.

C - Cuddling.

He loves to cuddle against your chest or on top of yours while you cuddle in the comfort of your home. He could stay like this all day.

D - Domestic.

He doesn't leave things half done. If he starts something, he makes sure to finish it and that also reflects in the relationship. He is always there when you need him for any errand.

E - End.

If the end of the relationship were to come, he would try to do it in the best possible way. He does not want to leave unnecessary wounds or bad memories, much less if it is with a person he loved.

F - Fiance.

He takes his commitments seriously. He is not someone who plays with feelings or takes lightly the future with the person he loves. If he really loves you, he will ask you to marry him when you are old enough and have enough time, no hesitation, no buts, he will do it.

G - Gentle.

He is one of those people who, no matter how you feel, always finds a way to bring a smile to your face. He is caring and gentle, he likes to give you the love you deserve.

H - Hug.

He likes hugs and being at home with you. Enjoys simple moments, like cooking together or just watching the rain from the window.

I - I love you.

He doesn't say "I love you" easily, but when he does, he says it from the heart and in a meaningful moment.

J - Jealousy.

Doesn't get carried away with unreasonable jealousy. He trusts you but if something makes him uneasy, he will talk about it up front without unnecessary drama. Although he would be jealous of his brother (in a healthy way) if you pay more attention to Fer than to him.

K - Kisses.

He loves stolen kisses, especially when you least expect it. He likes to kiss you on the nose and temple.

L - Little one.

He has a natural connection with children. Doesn't mind playing with them and secretly he would like to have one soon (If you wish it too)

M - Morning.

He usually wakes up early but he would stay up with you talking around or cuddling until you have to run out of bed but at least you woke up next to you.

N - Night.

Nights with him can be quiet or full of deep conversations or kissing and cuddling, depending on the mood. He doesn't mind staying up late if it means spending more time with you or waking up early even if he didn't get much sleep.

O - Open.

It's a little hard at first, he has a hard time like everyone else but if he's in trust with you and feels that talking to you will help him, then he'll do it anytime.

P - Patience.

He has patience and does not give up easily. If there is a problem in the relationship, he will look for a way to solve it with you.

Q - Quizzes.

He remembers things that matter to him, like the date of the first date or the name of your first dog. Sometimes he forgets minor details but he always tries to make up for it.

R - Remember.

Your favorite moment was the first time you stood together in silence without it being awkward, just enjoying each other's company as you laughed shyly and your faces got closer until you kissed awkwardly but in the best way possible for your hearts.

S - Security.

Likes to protect you but never overprotect you or take away your right to stand up for yourself. He knows when to step in and when to let you figure things out on your own.

T - Try.

Strives to make you happy, whether with small details or unexpected grand gestures, accompanying you and understanding you. Growing together while learning and loving each other.

U - Ugly.

Sometimes he is a bit absent-minded, leaves things out of place or forgets to answer messages, even sometimes forgets things you ask him in the morning but then remembers and tries to make it up.

V - Vanity.

He cares about his appearance, but the basics, not for others but for you. Likes to be seen as attractive and will sometimes ask for your opinion on his clothes or style.

W - Whole (With You).

Although he is independent, he knows that his life is better with you. He's not someone who needs someone else to be well, but with you everything feels more complete.

X - Xtra.

He likes to use cute nicknames when he's with you and close family, he might even use it when they're with friends even if they make fun of him.

Y - Yuck (What He Hates).

Hates lies and indifference. Prefers to be told the truth, even if it's hard to hear.

Z - Zzz (Sleep).

He is quite light to sleep because he likes to wait for you to fall asleep first while he strokes your hair or back, then he will fall asleep peacefully.

[linkspooky]

Love your JJK metas - apologies if I missed it, but any thoughts on Gojo feeling that he was "left behind" and has to "catch up" to Geto before slaughtering the higher ups?

I don't think the impact Shibuya had on him was really explicitly explored, except for that one panel where he said it was his responsibility, but him internally seeing it as following Geto's path in a way surprised me - it makes sense to me, but it doesn't at the same time.

This is a question I really wanted to answer, but delayed for a long time because I wanted to think it over. When the exhibition changed and Gege released his original draft for this scene, it helped clarify a lot of my thoughts on this scene.

"If you want to kill me, kill me. I wouldn’t mind if it were by your hand. But make sure mine is the only life you take.”

These lines become more meaningful if you think of them in the context of earlier events in Hidden Inventory. It sheds light on a lot of scenes from the flashback arc.

In particular this scene.

In his post-enlightenment high Gojo could kill the entirety of the Star Plasma Cult and feel nothing about it to punish them for Riko's death, but he lives the ultimate decision up to Geto.

In that moment Geto convinces him that killing these bystanders would be pointless, because society has other methods for punishing the members of this cult. Specifically he tells Gojo that it's not their job as Jujutsu Sorcerers to punish these people. He basically confines Gojo to the morality of a Jujutsu Sorcerer. Sorcerers kill curse users yes, but they never use their curse techniques on other people like the members in the crowd who don't fight back. Jujutusu Sorcerers aren't a part of the japanese justice system, they exist for one job and that is to deal with curses and curse users in order to prevent them from hurting normal people.

So Geto's lpong explanation to Gojo to talk him down from slaughtering the crowd that's applauding for Riko's death amounts to "That's not our job." He also emphasizes how killing these people wouldn't accomplish anything, because the group was going to disband anyway, and these are just rank and file believers the leaders of the cult are already gone. So in total two reasons, 1) it's not our job, 2) this murder wouldn't accomplish anything.

In the KFC breakup, Gojo parrots Geto's own arguments about killing right back at him. Notice that when they're having their argument Gojo never brings up the fact that killing is wrong, but that killing non-sorcerers is pointless because the sheer amount of number of people you would have to kill is so enormous it's impossible.

Geto's methods are wrong not because they're immoral but because they're impractical. It's not whether or not killing is right or wrong. It's meaningles killing vs. killing with a purpose. Geto's goal is completely impossible for him to accomplish, so all the people he killed in name of that goal died for no reason.

Gojo and Geto are specifically arguing about methods, not morality. Gojo is especially troubled because he's trying to appeal to Geto using the morality that Geto taught him, obligation as a sorcerer, justice, killing with purpose, but now it's all falling on Geto's deaf ears. I think it's poignant Gojo at this stage in his life can't really form a moral argument of his own just repeat Geto's words back at him, it shows how much Gojo was using Geto as a guidepoint.

Gege even says in the databook the reason Gojo stopped himself from killing the cult is that he was using Geto's moral reasoning and not his own.

So in a way, it's Geto's words that prevented Gojo from being a monster all the way back in Hidden Iventnory. Yet, we see in premature death Gojo's completely unable to talk Geto down from the ledge he was standing on.

Even though the words he's using are Geto's words. Perhaps, because the words he's using are Geto's words. Gojo's faith in Geto as a partner and a moral guidepost was so unshakable he's not capable of reconciling with the fact that the person standing in front of him right now slaughtered a whole village.

Geto leaves, and Gojo lacks the words to make him stay. However, in spite of the fact that this scene is called the KFC breakup this, Geto and Gojo aren't ending their relationship. In Jujutsu Kaisen Zero, Geto is surprised by the fact that Gojo still trusts him and feels the same way years later. In Gojo's dying dream, he states that he would have been satisfied losing to Sukuna if Geto was there to wish him good luck before he left. The Geto he pictures is the one in his Gojo-Gesa, the corrupted adult Geto, and not the one he used in childhood.

This is also after Geto expresses jealousy that Gojo wanted to provide a challenge to Sukuna and force him to go all out, because Gojo understood Sukuna's isolation from being the strongest. Because Geto and Gojo's relationship began from the fact that Geto was the only other special grade in their year and therefore the only one able to understand Gojo by being just as strong as he was. Only for Gojo to immediately say that he wasn't satisfied going all out against Sukuna, because Geto wasn't there. It wasn't Geto's power he needed, but his presence.

Geto wasn't leaving Gojo. He was leaving Jujutsu Society. However, since Gojo is such an integral part of Jujutsu Society, it's essentially the same thing. They're not breaking apart because their no longer friends, but because their morals are so different. Even if his attempts at reform wasn't so radical as killing all human beings, Gojo still wouldn't be able to leave with Geto because without Jujutsu Society there is no Gojo Satoru.

Gojo doesn't believe that massacring half the world is possible, but in a way he probably wouldn't believe even a less extreme reform is impossible as long as it was accomplished from the outside. Gojo has always been an internal reformist while at the same time being a radical. Gojo stated this early on he can just kill the people on top but that would make him a monster.

Remember what I emphasized above, Geto convinced Gojo not to slaughter the members of the Star Cult because it's not a Jujutsu Sorcerer's job to punish people like that. If he crossed that line he'd no longer be a Jujutsu Sorcerer. Gojo not only lives to be a sorcerer, but the time in his youth when he was with Geto was the only time he ever felt understood and that there was someone he could rely on.

Geto crossed that line and when he killed the people of Nanako and Mimiko's village (the way that Geto wanted to kill Riko's murderers that day), he was no longer acting as a sorcerer. Geto stopped being a sorcerer, but Gojo couldn't follow him because Gojo lives to be a sorcerer.

Gojo's plan is therefore create sorcerers strong enough that they can support each other the way that him and Geto should have. Create strong allies so that in the next generation no-one will be left behind.

Gojo's belief is that what he needed was stronger allies, not a systemic issue. When his attempts at reform fail, and he wakes up to see that all of his students have had execution orders placed on them by the higher ups he finally gives up on the notion of internal reform.

Gojo eventually ended up committing a mass slaughter for his perceived greater good. The same kind of mass slaughter that Geto prevented him from doing that day he avenged Riko's death. By doing that, he stopped being a sorcerer.

Now that we've finally come full circle I'm going to explain what I think Gojo means by "I can't do that. That day I was left behind, so I have to catch up."

The most direct interpretation is that Gojo is echoing Yuta's sentiment. Geto became a monster all on his own and left Gojo behind. Now, years after the fact Gojo is realizing that Geto's violent action was necessary and he's essentially leaving his role as a sorcerer to become more like Gojo. He's finally understood why Geto did what he did, years after the fact, and far too late.

In one sense Gojo is becoming Geto in this scene. In another sense, he's recalling how he felt years before when he watched Geto walk away. Geto is the one who kept Gojo from being a monster and kept him on the path of being a sorcerer, only for Geto to go off that path himself. Not only that though, but in their final conversation, Geto made sure to still try to keep Gojo on that path.

Remember this line from the original draft:

"If you want to kill me, kill me. I wouldn’t mind if it were by your hand. But make sure mine is the only life you take.”

This line is essentially the same as this, but look at the paneling.

Gojo is about to unleash a hollow purple on Geto, but when Geto disappears into the crowd of people he stops. In order to kill Geto, he would have had to kill several innocent people in the crowd so Gojo hesitates.

The original draft lines indicate that Geto did this on purpose. He told Gojo to be sure only to kill him and not kill anyone else because he still wants Gojo to remain a sorcerer. Geto was resolved to become a monster on his own and didn't want to drag Gojo down with him.

Geto is leaving and he doesn't want Gojo to become with, because Gojo is the happiest when he's a sorcerer.

In the Hidden Inventory Gojo is playing the role of Yuta, begging Geto not to become a monster alone only to be left behind. In the future Gojo resolves to become a monster like Geto. Even though he's finally trying to understand his friend, he's a year too late. Geto is dead and he can't catch up now.

[thoughtsonkm]

Goodbye, for now

BABY? HONEY? BOYFRIEND SHOT? Jikook you're too much!

This episode was truly the best way to end the show, maybe even the best episode of the series. (Neck in neck with episode 2 of course) The way they enjoyed it so much but were also so sad it was over. The hot tension all around, the soft boyfriends mood who can't stop flirting and name calling each other with the most low-key couple-like sweet names. They could not stop laughing, they could not stop touching and they couldn't stop being hilarious without even trying.

~

SK Spotify daily chart end of November 2023 :

Jimin Jungkook Jimin Jungkook Jimin Jimin

~

It would be such a full circle moment if Jimin posted the boyfriend photo (which won't happen). Would almost be like a soft launch of some sort.

Not the underwear too?? Gosh I love my little gay freaks!! (didn't understand why Jimin would quote their 'yet another inner joke meme' right at that moment but I've learned to not question their inner workings)

~

Sorry but i have to be pretty one last time and say that I kinda had enough of seeing so much from the crew around or even in Jikook's shots and angles. It breaks the fourth wall a little too much and ruins the whole bubble idea. Ok I'm done lol

~

Returning to the issue at hand, the "seeing the beds for the first time" scene keeps getting funnier and funnier. As if they don't already have designated sides of the bed 😏

~

Ah the never ending bickering gives me life. Peep the half korean half english talk when they playfully get on each others nerves 👀😂

I better not speak on the scuzzi jacuzzi shenanigans cause otherwise.. Let's just say the photo speaks for itself..

NO YOU KNOW WHAT IMMA SPEAK. We all know that jacuzzi time is always intimate, relaxing and personal for people that's why I wish Jikook had enjoyed it fully without cameras. Yes I'm pissed on their behalf, that they had to film the whole thing with 382929 different angles. lol

His face is literally saying "oh so you're really gonna make me do it huh? if I was in your place I would've folded immediately and would've never let you go through with it!!" 😂

~

No one ever:

Jikook every 2sec : HONEY OH HONEY

(I was actually listening to the song while writing this and idk why it's so funny to me even tho it's a sad love ballad)

~

They must've loved getting the chance to at least see one episode of the show, plus the idea of watching it together..

Jungkook being so entertained by it meanwhile Jimin being mortified about half of the things that happened. HILARIOUS

HAHAHHAHAHA all parties were concerned if they'd be able to pull it off, I can't

BEST BELIEVE they're always gonna find a way to touch. Consciously or unconsciously.

~

This show made me realize that my favourite thing ever is Jk making food for Jimin, then making him hysterically laugh and therefore getting to hear Jimin's adorable giggles.

~

"Hello it is I the one and only, the only one who can touch Jimin's head ble ble ble ble" - JK

Jk was like: How can you imagine Jimin without me in your dream? Are you crazy? What is this delusional dream world you live in Jin hyung??

~

Tbh it's so meaningful and a huge thing saying that these trips were literally the best trips of your life. I think the statement almost went over people's heads.

I can't get enough of Jimin looking pretty and cuddly and Jungkook's immediate thought being: I HAVE TO FILM YOU

Them saying they can do a reboot when they come back gave me some hope that maybe just maybe this is not the end of AYS 😭

The ending bonus clip left me fulfilled but also sad and with goosebumps all over.

Thank you Jimin & Jungkook for letting us peek into this trip and getting to witness some of your precious moments.

Signing off, J&J 🥹

Ps. So I'm guessing the 52 minute video that comes with the photobook is probably the 3 bts videos combined that they've been reviewing for 48392 months right?

[damnbigguy]

In Distance

Hobie Brown, Pavitr Prabhakar, and Miles Morales [1610] (separate) in a long-distance relationship [whether for years or weeks]. Gender-Neutral references to reader, reader never named, 2nd pov.

Hobie Brown

It could be you're from another Earth (he wouldn't admit that he's from a different dimension), another country, hell, he could make it work if you were from a thousand years in the future. He's not letting anything stop him.

Distance doesn't matter much to him, the idea that people can't have a meaningful relationship because they can't see each other? Pushed by capitalism so they can make you feel guilt until you get an expensive enough gift for your partner - not that he doesn't send gifts, the post office is probably the one and only thing he likes that connects even somewhat to the government, but most of his gifts are his own clothes that he wants to see you in or a little trinket he found (though he tries to send the little things in batches, because paying for shipping five times in a week is "bloody criminal.")

He doesn't constantly stick to his phone, but he has a special noise for when it's you texting or calling, and he'll pause anything he's doing, or just punch harder to get whatever fight he's in over.

When you two do get on a call, he'll wander. He'll start at the docks and end up on the rooftop of some bank, barely remembers to hide his face when walking up the side of a building because he's more focused on remembering everything you said.

Sometimes you're just talking about your day, about something stupid your coworker or classmate said or how you can't believe someone microwaved fish again, and he'll hum in the right places, toss in a "they sound like a twat" here and there, but mostly, he just listens. Because he wants to. He likes the way your voice changes when you're excited, the way you breathe out when you're tired.  Sometimes you fall asleep mid-call. Doesn’t matter the time difference - he keeps his earbud in, volume low. Just listens to your breathing, the occasional shift of blankets, maybe a little sleep-talk he teases you about later.

Hobie doesn’t do schedules or routine, but for you? He'll try. If you say you're free at nine, he's stretching his arms and looking for a place with decent reception ten minutes before.

You once asked if it was weird or strange, if he really wants to be with someone who can't be by his side, and he said, "nothin's weird about anything, weird is something they made up so people fall into the right lines-" and you fell asleep to him ranting, not that he was boring, he just went on for that long.

He was just happy you fell asleep to his voice.

Pavitr Prabhakar

You probably knew him and even started dating before it became long distance, but if you hadn't started dating, then he'll wonder why he's thinking about you so much. He'll be finishing his homework only for his mind to go; 'I wonder if they're any good at math' and he'll pause, shrug and finish it (Not before thinking 'I'd look so cool if I helped them, I bet').

That's how it would go for a while, sending you messages whenever he happens to have time and remember he has a 'super close friend' in another part of the world, until one day everything's been too tough. Being Spider-Man is too much, being a nephew is too much, being Pavitr is too much, and all he can do is call you and babble on about his awful week. At the end of it, he straight up asks to be your boyfriend.

And now he's constantly making time for you, a call, text, but his favourite is anything he can see your face on - and his because he is very expressive, and it's easier to see he's listening than him going 'hm' every few seconds. He props his phone up on his bed, lying on his chest with his legs kicked up, pretty much unable to stop being painfully obvious he's far too invested in whatever you're saying.

On rough days, when he's bruised and tired and maybe a little frustrated that you're not close enough to just lean on, he doesn't say much. He'll just lie there, camera on, eyes half-lidded, listening to you talk. It's like your voice stitches him back together. He doesn't tell you that part. Not yet.

He absolutely wants to see you in person, but Pavitr is nothing if not stubbornly, gloriously optimistic. He sees it like a temporary obstacle in a very long movie - this is just the montage part, where you two are apart, but growing stronger. There's music over it, in his mind. Probably a violin solo at some point. And when does he picture seeing you again? He grins so wide he has to shove his pillow over his face to hide it.

He'll send you selfies and pictures whenever, and it's almost as if he's trying to get them as ridiculous and blurry as possible. He is. He's doing mirror selfies where he's trying to one-up his last pose every time, sending photos of his meals (ones he's not sharing with anyone, he tell you after but he likes being in the moment still) where it's obvious he was shaking his phone when taking it, and sometimes it's just his outfit.

He likes sending his outfit after you have, likes wearing the same colour if he can too.

There's a little photo of you, maybe from a call, maybe one you sent him, tucked behind his mirror. He looks at it every morning while fixing his hair. It's not weird, he swears, it's just… comforting.

Miles Morales

He yearns, that's the type of person he is. He sends you whatever, whenever, usually getting the 'isn't it 5 A.M. for you??' in response.

Draws you constantly, most of the time he means to, but there are rare times when he gets distracted in a test and doodles your eyes to the best of his memory, or he's riding the last wave of exhaustion before he passes out, waking up to find your name, your face, your hands, whatever popped into his mind. The latter usually ends up with Ganke looking at him with concern.

He misses you in little ways, like when he hears a new song and his first thought is, They’d love this. Or when he sees someone wearing your favourite colour on the train and it pulls his chest a little tighter. The distance is weird, it stretches him - makes him feel like he’s walking around with a piece of him somewhere else. Somewhere safe, yeah, but not here. Not where he can introduce you to his friends as his partner, his love, his babe. His. Not where he can show you all of his art in person, hold your hand as he leads you through the maze of transit to get to his favourite places, until he gains the confidence to hold you while swinging. Not here.

He loves calling you after a long day. You're the cool water to his overheated mind. He lies on his back, one arm behind his head, the phone screen tilted just right, watching you talk about your day. You don't have to say anything profound. Just hearing you complain about the bus being late or how the vending machine ate your money makes his whole week. It makes things feel normal. Real. Especially after being thrown into a situation he wanted no part in, one he can't even tell his parents about.

He's got a map above his desk with a little pushpin in your part of the world. Ganke says it's corny, but Miles doesn't care. He says it helps him know which direction to look when he says goodnight.

He tries not to be clingy. But the truth is, he's been checking flight prices. Every couple of weeks. Just in case. He doesn't say anything about it. He doesn't want to make you feel bad. But the tab is always open, always refreshed. He doesn't have solid plans to go; he still has school, and Spider-Man is an unpaid position, but hey, if the tickets did get cheap, he'd probably panic and get them (with the little money he gets from odd-jobs, a gift from family and family friends on his birthday because he begged them, just once, do not get art supplies and they had little idea what else to get, and whatever he's saved up). He'd tell you, of course, probably in full caps because he's scared and nervous, but he's more scared of the idea of telling his parents.

Still, he's excited to see you.

[andy-wm]

i'm wondering how your thesis of "idols will come out when they want" fits into your insane shadow analysis attempting to prove jimin and jungkook fucked in the middle of their travel show (amongst other things)? like do you get joy out or trying to drag someone out of a closet they might not be in? or is it something else? just curious! 😀

Hey wdcmaxy

Since you have the guts to use your name I'll respond :)

So, you read my thesis?

*Sips whisky*

Cool. And you read my insane shadow analysis too?

Hmmm... do you come here often?

Let me answer your question then.

I think we both know the shadows analysis isn't really insane - it's based on very basic earth science. Shadows grow longer as the day progresses because of the rotation of the earth on its axis. You sound reasonably literate so i assume you know this already.

I guess your description of my shadow analysis ( I think I'll name my next racehorse 'Shadow Analysis') as insane is an attempt to discredit the idea that a fair bit of time passed while Tae was out of the house? But that was kinda silly on your part. Even children know that shadows change as the day passes.

Nothing insane about it.

He was gone for hours, no debate.

Now let's move on to the fucking part, and when and how idols choose to come out.

This is actually worth discussing.

As flattered as i am that you think my tiny insignificant blog could be a game changer for anyone, let's be real.

How many people, besides yourself, do you think read my blog?

Serious question.

I'm estimating maybe 100. Double that on a good day. Maybe 300 if i write something REALLY profound which doesn't happen often.

I am way less excited about my impact on the world than you are, because I'm a realist.

BUT if by some strange twist of fate my blog came to the attention of someone whose opinion mattered (I'm not counting you, don't worry) do you think they would take it seriously? Do you REALLY imagine a random tumblr post about shadows could make someone believe that an idol was gay if they didn't already believe it?

Here's a great example of how that wouldn't happen:

You, dear reader.

You're my example.

You came here to tell me I'm speaking shit and that I should pull my head in, correct? My insane shadow analysis hasn't changed your beliefs at all. You're here, throwing a tantrum on my page, because you don't agree with what I'm saying, not because you suddenly believe it.

Or ...

Perhaps you suspect it's true and that scares you. Maybe you can't be absolutely sure I'm wrong and that's why you need to yell at me? Could that be it? Time for a bit of self reflection?

Either way, it's not going to make an iota of difference in the grand scheme of things.

We are all just dust motes floating through time and space, my friend. You dont need to worry so much. The universe is unfolding exactly as intended.

However... There are a couple of things we should agree on:

The fact is that the shadows grew long and therefore, time passed. And Tae was out for several hours. Maybe he went out for a bit of afternoon delight himself? Maybe Jimin and Jungkook played Pokemon Go all afternoon, or prayed, or practiced their English, or braided each other's hair.

Regardless of whether they did or didn't fuck, or how many times, or on what surfaces, the time still passed.

And whether I write my blog or not, people will believe what they believe. And they will be gay or they won't be gay.

And even though I never mentioned anything about them fucking in that post, whether you like it or not Jimin and Jungkook might be fucking right now, as you read this.

One last thing...

Please bear in mind, through all of this, that fucking is not the be all and end all of life. Sure its a lot of fun if you do it right but the notion that it's more meaningful than sharing your innermost thoughts and feelings, or giving someone your time and energy, is bullshit.

You can have a roots-deep love for someone and never even think of fucking them. Or you can meet someone in a public toilet and have at it, and leave without even knowing their name.

Sex does not equal love. Fucking is not that big of a big deal.

Unless...

Unless you're fucking someone the patriarchy doesn't want you to fuck. Then its a major issue.

Hear me out.

The need to control who we fuck is based a patriarchal need to control material wealth.

To control material wealth, the patriarchy needs to control reproduction (so they can be sure their wealth stays with their bloodline, because wealth is built over many generations) and to do THAT they need to control womens' bodies.... and to do that, of course they need to control who women fuck. And who men fuck too!

Do you know what the ACTUAL issue is with men who like dick? They don't automatically buy into the patriarchal way of life. (where's the solidarity, lads?)

Why don't they?

Because lifelong monogamy and marriage and nuclear families don't matter as much when you're not equating love with sex, and sex with reproduction. When your goal isn't to accumulate wealth and pass it down to your children.

Same thing applies to women who love women. They aren't focused on being demure and pleasing the men in power. They aren't focused on making themselves wife material. They will challenge the status quo and maybe even (shock! horror!) decide not to have children. How the heck do you make sure your money and power stays in the family, how do you build an empire, when the women are perfectly happy having sex with each other and don't want to love, honour and obey??

And whose fault is all this?

Its got to be the damned queers, right? They're making people think there might be other ways to share your life with those you care about! That's why its important to squash down gayness whenever you can, right, wdcmaxy?

Look at them destroying the fabric of society!

If Jimin and Jungkook ARE fucking every chance they get, good for them. I hope they're balls deep and breathless, hitting all those sweet spots for each other having a really good time.

And if they're not fucking, it actually doesn't matter to me because the way they support each other and share their hearts is beautiful. (I do think they are fucking though)

Truthfully, whatever they're doing, as long as they're happy I'm happy.

Can you say the same, wdcmaxy?

Peace.

[papillon-stories]

Go Eunhyuk x reader ꕥ General bf headcanons ꕥ

This wasn't a request, just an idea that crossed my mind. As I do it, I realize that we all need Eunhyuk. So if you're not Eunhyuk, there's no need to introduce yourself to me.

No warning, just a lot of fluff and broken English

Happy reading !

He was very confused when he realized his feelings for you. Despite his cold attitude, Eunhyuk is someone who thinks a lot.

He ended up confessing his feelings without really doing so. He showed clear signs that he had fallen in love - apparently obvious to everyone except you.

Eventually, he told you directly in an unexpected moment. You were studying, and he couldn't help but watch all the little quirky things you did without realizing it, which he loves, and then he blurted out "I love you".

It was spontaneous, and he didn't even realize it. He became a blushing mess, hiding his face with the back of his hand and looking away.

On your side, it wasn't any better. It took a few good seconds for you to realize what he had just said to you.

You were even more red than him, and you had been waiting for this moment for so long (you didn't think his feelings were mutual, so you at least wanted to stay friends).

After the confession, your relationship didn't change much because without realizing it, you were already in a pre-couple stage.

The only thing that was new for both of you was the more intimate part of your relationship.

In public, he's not a fan of PDA, but he will always touch you in one way or another, by brushing against you when you pass by, holding hands under the table, stealing a kiss when no one is looking - these are small gestures that mean a lot to him.

He loves to see you blush or be flustered when this happens and you try to act like you can handle it - he sees through you like an open book.

But in private, it's a different story. He always has his arms around you.

He's definitely he big spoon, even though he secretly loves it when his s/o takes care of him in their arms.

He loves to kiss you unexpectedly, even in private, but the difference is that he takes his time. He loves to feel close to you, and this poor boy is hungry for your love.

If you stroke his hair while his head rests on your lap, he'll melt on the spot and might even fall asleep.

Another thing he'll never admit is that he loves feeling intimate and connected with you. In those moments, he clears his mind, and nothing else matters.

One of his love languages, in addition to the small meaningful gestures and touches, is spending quality time together.

He'll always take you on spontaneous or planned dates, as long as you're together, he's winning.

He's not a big fan of pet names, but in private, he likes to call you "Babe". Overly sweet names are not really his thing.

However, he doesn't mind if you call him by cute nicknames in private. In fact, he loves it.

He's very protective of you, and he'll always keep an eye on you in situations where you're around a group of people.

He's a huge moral support and always on your side.

But if he thinks there's a situation where you acted wrongly, he'll tell you, but only in private. (capable man u.u)

He always makes you feel special and doesn't hesitate to show you that you're his priority.

Eunhyuk doesn't make a big deal out of his personal feelings, even though they are important to him, but with you, he lets his guard down.

He has told you about his childhood and stories about his father and mother.

He confides in you because he trusts you, and you should never break that trust because it's hard to earn.

He appreciates that you are a great support for him, even though he acts like everything is fine. But you know him as well as he knows you, and you know that he downplays his situation, so you'll be there for him no matter what he says because you can read it in his eyes.

You didn't really need words to understand each other.

Your ability to read each other's emotions and thoughts without having to express them explicitly is an indication of the deep bond and connection you share.

It's a testament to the trust and understanding you have built over time, and it's one of the things that makes your relationship special and strong

He always has small gestures for you, but he'll act like they're not a big deal.

For example, if you fell asleep in class due to lack of sleep, he'll go buy you an energy drink during the break and place it on your desk because "you look pitiful".

Or if they serve your favorite dessert in the cafeteria, he'll give you his portion because he "isn't hungry anymore".

Or if you forgot to do your homework, he'll never copy it as quickly as he does for you.

And if you mentioned a pair of shoes the other day, it'll be your next gift.

He'll always wait for you to finish what you're doing, and he'll never leave you alone or hanging.

These are all small things that he does for you, but they show how much he cares and how attentive he is to your needs.

He likes to walk you home after class or every date, you'll never have to walk alone.

He's very observant and listens to everything you say, but he acts like he's not really interested - you know he's actively listening.

HE'S JEALOUS! He has a hard time with his own character trait, he hates being jealous.

If he sees you talking to another guy, he won't make a big deal out of it and will let it go, even though he'll feel - against his will - a twinge of jealousy.

However, if he sees you uncomfortable or if the other guy is too insistent, he'll simply come from behind and wrap his arms around you as if nothing is wrong. "Everything okay here?" he won't wait for an answer, and he'll simply wait for the guy to get the message and leave - especially with the deadly glare he gives him.

He cherishes every little thing you give him, even if it's a ridiculous trinket or a simple lollipop.

You have matching keychains, and sometimes you like to match your shoes or clothes.

You have a piece of jewelry in common, a necklace with the first letter of each other's name.

He spoils you a lot, so if you want to invite him or pay for one of your dates, you'll have to be cunning because he's always the quickest to pay.

He loves to make his s/o happy.

He's grateful to be in a healthy relationship with you, and he hopes it will last a very long time (until death do you part...?).

In essence, Eunhyuk is a caring boyfriend who knows how to listen to you, protect you, and be a moral support.

He always encourages you in your projects (yes, he's perfect).

With time, you've learned to read between the lines in his seemingly cold attitude. He loves you, but sometimes he just doesn't know how to express it - but you know it.

You probably fell in love first, but he definitely fell harder.

Thank you for reading ღ Do you want more ?