#and those that are going on spaces and saying they are are living in the same world where Larry are married with children living HEA

[dawngyu]

‎₊ ˚ ⊹ ིྀ 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍

𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀: 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝖾𝖻𝗈𝗅 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗂 𝗌𝗈𝗈𝖻𝗂𝗇 𝗑 𝗆𝗂𝖽𝖽𝗅𝖾-𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

He stares at you, the glisten in his eyes that you've come to know whispers his truth. His shaking hands hold your wrists. Droplets slide from his hair, tracing the sharp angles of his face, mixing with the storm clinging to his skin as he stares at your face. You feel it before you hear it. You see it before he speaks. "Marry me." It's his last attempt to keep you from walking away.

𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌: chaebol au, strangers to lovers, angst, family issues, toxic societal norms, yearning, longing.

𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍-𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌: MDNI, multiple-smut scene, heavy make-out, body-worship, nipple-play, fingering, oral!fem receiving.

𝗐𝖼: 17.5k — playlist.

𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌: hi hello!! to clear things up, this is a spin-off of the main story but each txt male lead gets their own reader! (aka you, heh). other female leads might show up for the plot, but they’ll stay nameless.

(definitely read the first part if you haven’t — but you can read this as a standalone!) see the event 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄.

If there is one truth that time cannot taint in your life, it is your love for flowers. They bloom unburdened, much like the love you cradle for things that ask for nothing in return.

Perhaps you were a flower in your previous life — maybe that’s why people have always likened you to one. A flower is something delicate, something beautiful, something that marks in memory with its scent and colour. Yet if you were to tell the real reason why they call you that, it wouldn’t be for any of those things. It wouldn’t be because you were particularly graceful or charming.

It would be because you see the world through the eyes of a dreamer, a romantic, someone who clings to the smallest joys as if they were... lifelines.

You cherish the minuscule things, not out of whimsy but out of habit, because you grew up knowing that gratitude was not just a virtue but a necessity. You learned to say thank you for everything placed into your hands, whether it was something you longed for or simply something to fill the space on your plate. Even at nine years old, a meal was never just a meal... it was a gift.

You don’t blame your parents for leaving. People say you should be grateful — they gave you life, after all. And they did. But not even a year into your existence, they chose their own paths, carving out futures that no longer had room for you. And you never resented them for it, not really.

It doesn’t mean it wasn’t lonely.

No matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise, it’s hard so, so hard to grow up in a house that never truly felt like home. Hard to wake up each morning knowing there’s no mother to greet you, no father’s voice to remind you you’re safe. Hard to fall asleep at night, knowing that if a nightmare came, there would be no one there to hold you.

No one at all.

They're happy, somewhere out there. Twin sisters from your father’s side, three brothers from your mother’s. And you were happy for them, truly. They had their lives, their homes, their own worlds to tend to. They checked in when they could — once, maybe twice a month, just enough to remind you they were still out there. Just enough to keep you from forgetting... while you stayed with your grandmother.

And that was enough. Or at least, it had to be.

“Nana,” you sigh, “You just watched that yesterday. Are you sure you want to go again?”

“Yes. Mom.”

You continued to scrub the plate she ate from, forcing a smile. She’s called you Mom again. It happens often now. Some days, you’re her daughter. Other days, her niece, a friend. But most days, you’re her mother.

And that’s fine. It has to be fine. As long as there are still days when she calls you anything at all. Because the worst days, the ones that keep you up at night, are the ones when she just looks at you with empty eyes, searching your face like you’re a stranger.

You swallow hard and turn back to her. “Did you take your meds, Nana?”

"Yes."

You wipe your hands on the kitchen towel, glancing toward the small pillbox on the counter. Walking over, you flip open the lid, scanning the compartments. She took them. A quiet breath of relief escapes you.

“Thank you,” you murmur, closing the box. “After this, we’ll head to bed, okay?”

“Okay.”

You sink onto the couch beside her, adjusting the hem of your floral home dress—the one you tailored yourself, stitching distractions into the fabric on nights when the weight of it all felt unbearable.

Mama Mia plays on the screen, the familiar melodies filling the small space between you. It’s always been her favourite movie. Even after the diagnosis, even as the world around her blurred at the edges, she kept coming back to it.

As if, somehow, it was something she could still hold onto.

You glance at her, watching the way her lips move with the lyrics, her hands tapping against the armrest in time with the music. She remembers this.

“Can I hold your hand while we watch?” you ask softly.

Your grandmother turns to you with a soft smile, her eyes whispering at the corners. She’s seventy-five now, her hair thinner, her hands frail, but to you, she’s still the same. Still beautiful. Still her.

People told you to put her in a nursing home. Said it would be easier, that it was the practical choice. But how could you? How could you leave the one person who never left you? The person who held your hand through every scraped knee, every heartbreak. The only real family you have.

Her frail fingers squeeze yours gently. Then, just as you turn back to the movie, you hear it.

“I love you, Y/N.”

Your breath halts. You tear your gaze from the screen, eyes wide, heart pounding. It’s been months — months of her calling you by the wrong names, or worse, not calling you anything at all. But now, she’s looking right at you, remembering you. A lump sits in your throat as tears sting your eyes. You grip her hand tighter.

“I love you too, Nana,” you whisper, voice shaking.

And you do. More than anything. Even if one day, she forgets. Even if, someday, she doesn’t remember you at all.

You slide the key into the lock, your right shoulder weighed down by the new pots you picked up earlier. As the door swings open, the soft chime of the bell echoes through the quiet shop. Stepping inside, you nudge the door shut behind you and flip the sign to OPEN with a satisfied smile.

It’s 10 a.m., and the morning light spills in through the windows, casting a warm glow over the flowers on display. Running your fingers gently over delicate petals, you inhale their fresh scent, the fragrance mixing with the faint traces of paint lingering on the walls — your own handiwork, soft strokes of color bringing the shop to life.

You set your bag down behind the counter and power on the computer, scrolling through the day’s orders. Five minutes pass in a comfortable rhythm before the familiar chime rings again. The door swings open.

Someone’s here.

"Good morning!" You greet with a warm smile, but your voice falters just slightly as you take him in. He’s not the usual type to wander into a flower shop. Dressed in a sharp, black tailored suit, he carries himself with an air of quiet confidence. The glasses perched on the bridge of his nose add to his composed demeanor, but it’s his presence — towering in the doorway, making the shop feel smaller somehow, catches you off guard.

Still, you keep your smile, smoothing the surprise on your chest. "Are you looking for any particular flowers?"

He glances at you and gives a small nod — a quick acknowledgment that he’s heard you. It’s familiar. You’ve dealt with customers like this before, the ones who prefer to browse in silence before saying what they need.

You nod back slightly, a polite gesture, then shift your gaze back to your computer, trying to shake off the strange unease prickling at you. He hasn’t even spoken yet, and still, something about him makes your pulse tick faster.

Why?

“I'm looking to have a funeral arrangement made.” he says suddenly, making you blink and look up.

His eyes meet yours.

You cleared your throat, "I'm sorry for your loss." You try to follow the routine speech that you have. "Let me get my book and I'll assist you. Please, take a seat."

You point towards the table, a round wooden structure with three matching chairs, a small white vase holding a fresh boquet decorated the center. He quickly followed your instructions, pulling the chair as it scraped on along the wooden floorboards before they sit with a sigh.

You took a quick glance at him again, watching as he fishes out his phone, one of the brands that is you think the latest release, and you see a unique looking rolex in his wrists. You avert your eyes as soon as you did, and your eyes catch the black car parked in front of your store.

Your store.

Your small humble store that is stark comparison compared to everything this man have.

You cleared your thoughts as to why he chose this place to buy flowers. You turned around to gather your book filled with arrangements.

"Do you run this place by yourself?" As you reach for the leather spine of the book, you glance over your shoulder, meeting his eyes already on yours.

He didn’t respond, even as you took a seat across from him. Still, you could feel his gaze following you. You pushed the roses aside, their petals bruised from restless handling, and replaced them with the open book. Its pages, worn thin, exhaled the faint, bitter-sweet scent of aged paper — a comfort you almost resented tonight.

He stayed silent, his arms draped over the table, eyes steady. His presence bled into the air, heavy and warm, as though the room itself bent around him. You swore you could see it — something low and smoldering radiating off of him, a slow burn that clawed past the polished edges he wore so well.

You tore your gaze away before it could swallow you whole.

You tighten your grip on the pen. “May I have the full name of the deceased?” Your hand drifts across the top of the page, hovering over the empty space waiting to be filled, just as you wait for his answer.

When it comes, it lands harder than you expect.

“It… doesn’t have a full name,” he says quietly. Your eyes lift to meet his. “But we call him Moon.”

Your breath catches. There’s only one meaning behind words like that. A child. Your mind pulls back into dim memories; the parents who’d come to your shop before, searching for flowers with little else to offer but love for someone whose life never had the chance to unfold. Your lips part, but no sound comes. You drop your gaze, forcing it back down to the blank page. You’ve done this before — too many times — but it still finds a way to shake you.

Pushing through the heaviness in your chest, you press the pen to paper and write the name.

Moon.

“And what are you looking for in this arrangement?” The words burn as they leave you, bitter and dry, clinging to the back of your throat. You wait, feeling the seconds stretch thin between you.

“What do you think?”

You should know. This is what you do — what you’ve poured years into. Flowers have been your language longer than words ever have. But it’s always this question that unravels you. It pulls at the seams of whatever certainty you pretend to hold. Of course you have ideas. They come in flashes,but what are they worth?

What if it’s wrong? What if it’s not enough?

The thoughts spiral fast, like they always do. Familiar and merciless, burrowing deep where you can’t shake them loose. They weigh heavy in your chest, anchoring themselves into the cracks of a confidence too fragile to stand against them. You sit there, hollowed out and grasping for something to offer this man, something that won’t disappoint him, or worse, dishonor what he’s lost.

A baby. A mother greiving. And now this man, carrying his own mourning, offering no guidance to make the task easier. Your fingers twitch, restless and unsure. You have to give him something. Anything.

“Well, for funerals, people usually gravitate toward chrysanthemums,” you say, lifting your free hand toward the cluster of blooms sitting in their vases to the right. His gaze follows where you gesture. “Lilies are another favorite,” you add, motioning to the soft petals hanging to the left. “And people often ask for—”

“But what do you think?” His voice cuts through yours, making your words falter. Slowly, your eyes meet his, and he holds your gaze across the table. “What do you gravitate toward?”

“White roses,” you murmur, your gaze flicking away from him and toward the blooms resting quietly in the front window of the shop. “They symbolize… eternal love, and remembrance.” Your voice softens. “If it were me… someday… I think it would make me happiest to be remembered that way. To be loved like that, even after.”

When you finish, your eyes drift back to his, uncertain, before you quickly lower them to the blank page in front of you. “Sorry,” you whisper, flinching at your own rambling.

“No.” His voice is firmer this time, “Don’t be sorry. Tell me more.”

You swallow hard. Your heartbeat stirs faster in your chest, a throb blooming from the tender cut on your fingertip. You breathe through it.

“Forget-me-nots,” you say. “I suppose… I’d start with a base of hyacinths, then layer in forget-me-nots and foliage as filler. And maybe top it off with white roses.”

“Think you can have it ready in two days?” he asks, his gaze shifting toward the rosebuds waiting to be trimmed on the table. “That’s when the memorial service will be.”

You nod before the words even catch up to you. “Yes, yes. That’s no problem.” You lower your head and start to write, sketching out the arrangement you’d described, even as your hand strains to keep steady against the shake running deep in your chest.

“Here.” He sets a small black bag on the table. You don’t have to open it to know — from the weight, the way it sits — it’s easily a week’s worth of your shop’s earnings.

“That’s too much. It’ll only be —”

“It’s the least I can do,”His voice is gentle but leaves no room to argue.“I doubt many would have come up with something as thoughtful as yours.”

“Please… I can’t let you overpay.” Your hand rests on the bag, fingers curling around the edge as you begin to slide it back toward him but his hand meets yours, halting you. His fingertips graze against your skin.

His eyes catch yours, and the words die between your parted lips, caught somewhere too deep to reach. Slowly, he stands from his chair, his hand slipping away from the pouch. You watch him smooth out the front of his coat, before stepping toward the center of the table. His fingers reach for the rose in front of you. The stem just one thorn away from being trimmed. The same thorn that had cut you earlier. “I’ll take this too, then,” he says. “Is that alright with you?”

The nervousness clawing at your chest tightens, cinching your breath and locking the words in your throat. It burns — sharp and hot, like a brand searing them shut. You can only nod, managing the smallest smile before your eyes drop, trailing back down to the thorn that had drawn your blood.

You reach for your shears and rise from your chair, stepping toward him.

“I’d just started working on this one when you came in,” you murmur, lifting the sharp edge to the base of the stem. His fingers shift aside, careful and slow, as you steady the blades around the thorn. His eyes stay on you, not on the flower, not on your hands, but on the furrow of your brow as you focus.

You sense the moment he holds his breath.

With one clean motion, you clip the thorn away. “Thank you,” you say, your voice soft and thinner than you meant it to be.

“Thank you,” he echoes. His tone mirrors yours, but heavier somehow. “I look forward to seeing what you create.” He turns toward the door, tall frame gliding in that unhurried way of his, but he doesn’t touch the handle yet. His body shifts just enough to glance back. “By the way… I should get your name.”

“Y/N,” you answer. The name comes easy, but your breath feels uneven behind it. “And yours?”

You’ve never been like this before. Never so openly invested in someone you’d barely exchanged a few scattered words with. Never so quick to give away your curiosity. But here you stand; unmoving, staring, studying him more openly than you’d dare with anyone else.

He smiles. Barely. So faint you might have missed it entirely… if you weren’t so completely, foolishly locked on him. Enough of a curve to tug at the corner of his mouth. And there, a small hollow moves in his cheek. Does it get deeper when he really smiles? Does his smile reach his eyes?

Your throat tightens at the thought, inexplicable.

“Soobin,”

He came back two days later. Right when he said he would. When you handed him the arrangement, his eyes lingered on it longer than you expected. His face didn’t shift much, but you caught it, a flicker of surprise, as though he hadn’t entirely expected it to look the way it did. As though he hadn’t expected you to remember it so well.

“Thank you,” he said, voice low, steady. And before you could step back or fold the moment away, he spoke again. Another request. The same one. For next week.

And that’s how it started.

It became a pattern before you realized you’d memorized it. Every week, almost the same day, he returned. Always asking for the same thing. And it took so little, for you to start waiting for him. You didn’t need to admit you were. It was clear enough in the way your hands moved faster on the mornings you thought he might show up. The way you found yourself glancing at the clock more often. The way your breath shifted, when the bell over the door chimed and you hoped it would be him.

The weeks folded into months before you realized how quickly the time had passed.

“Your wife must be having a hard time,” you say quietly, watching him from behind the counter as his fingers brush along the edges of the newest arrangement vases you’d set out last week. Your voice tries to sound casual, light enough not to pry. “But she’s lucky to have you.”

It’s the only explanation that ever made sense. The one you’d quietly settled on back when he first asked for those mourning flowers. That was how you’d made sense of it. How you’d made peace with why the arrangements always felt so heavy.

He stops. “Wife?” His brow lifts, faint confusion softening the lines around his eyes.

Your throat pulls tight. “Uh… yeah,” you fumble, heat creeping up the back of your neck. “… How is she recovering?”

There’s a pause. His stare doesn’t waver. His jaw sets, just enough that you can tell he’s measuring something inside before letting the words go.

“It’s for my sister.”

Sister. All this time, you thought you understood. The flowers, the endless varieties he carefully chose week after week — they were for his sister. That’s what you told yourself. It made sense. She must be the one who lost a child. A grief so cavernous that even the brightest blooms could barely soften its edges. You could understand it. the tenderness of a brother trying to tether her to something gentle. The quiet, steady ritual of bringing beauty to someone drowning.

But one year have passed. One year, and still, he comes.

You watch Soobin now, and something inside you twists sharp and deep. Your throat pulls tight, a burn clawing up the back of your eyes, your heart thrashing in your chest like it’s frantic to be let loose. His fingers move across the petals with reverence, the kind of touch meant for something breakable, sacred. As though each flower is an apology too heavy to speak aloud. A brother so devoted, so relentless in his quiet offerings — and surely he has a life beyond this. A job. Responsibilities. People waiting for him. And yet here he is. Always here. Always returning, as though caught in some private penance only he can feel, rooted in your little shop like he doesn’t know where else to go. Every week, standing in the hush of your little shop like a man trying to repent for a sin he never committed.

The flowers… you’ve always loved them. They’re stitched with meanings you’ve memorized like scripture; hope, solace, rebirth. They ask for nothing in return, and still, they give so much. The burn behind your eyes sharpens as you watch him, your mind comparing him to one, your chest aching in places you thought you’d long since sealed shut.

You wrap the arrangement slowly, careful with each fold and knot. Your heart thuds against your ribs like it’s trying to outrun the thoughts crowding your chest. The ones you don’t say out loud. The thought unsettles you more than it should. It coils tight in your gut, sharp and sickening. Because part of you already knows — one day, the door won’t open. One day, he won’t come anymore. You hear his footsteps before you see him. He’s seen that you’re nearly done ,the bouquet he asked for, the one you’ve handled like it’s something sacred. You feel his presence before you meet his eyes.

You don’t know why. You can’t name it, not exactly. Maybe it’s the dread that coils in your stomach that there will be a day you wake on a day he’s supposed to come, only to find the hours slipping by, the bell above the door never ringing. And before you can stop yourself, before your good sense can catch up to your mouth, the words tumble out. “Would you want to go out sometime?”

You instantly regret it, the way your voice cracked, the way you can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry,” you say quickly, fumbling. “That was, I didn’t mean to put you in an awkward position. If it’s invasive or —”

“Yes.” You blink. His expression is steady, unshaken. “Yes,” he says again, softer this time. “I was going to ask you, too.”

Your breath stumbles in your chest. You nod, unsure of what to say, heart hammering loud enough to drown out everything else, but he goes on, “Next week. Same day, same time. Let’s do that.”

You nod again, this time slower. Something settles in your chest, light but anchoring. “And,” he adds, as he picks up the bouquet, “make another arrangement.” You glance at him, brows lifting in question. “Anything you want,” he says. “Doesn’t matter what it costs. Just… make something for me.”

You swallow the rush in your throat, the spark behind your ribs. You can already feel the stems in your hands, the petals under your fingers. You don’t know what you’ll make yet but you know it will say everything you can’t.

“Okay.”

You stare at the bouquet as it slumps at the edge of the table. The one you arranged so carefully, over and over again for days.

Dawn had already cracked the sky.

Now, the gloss on your lips is gone, long since faded like the sun. The coat you pressed at sunrise feels stiff, resentful, like it's been waiting just as long. Your spine aches from sitting too straight for too many hours, and your breath trembles in your throat, thin and cold.

He said he’d be here before lunch. He said he’d take you out.

He never came.

Maybe he got held up. Maybe it slipped his mind. Maybe something urgent came up. You tell yourself these things because it’s easier than the alternative. Still, the silence wraps around you too tightly. It hums in your ears, thick and heavy, until the only thing left is the dull thud of your heartbeat, knocking against your ribs like it’s looking for a way out.

Your eyes sting. Are you even allowed to cry over this?

“Well,” you murmur, voice thinner than you’d like, “let’s get you to a vase.” Carefully, you gather the arrangement, fingertips grazing the petals. You breathe in — soft, floral, faintly sweet — and hold it there.

Your movements felt slow. Deliberate, almost. Strange, when these steps had always come easy to you, and yet, you lingered. As if dragging out every motion might somehow buy him time to show. Your gaze settles on the bouquet now resting in the vase. You exhale, slow and shallow, but no words rise to meet the breath. There’s nothing left to say. Nothing worth breaking the quiet for. Turning to the door, your steps this time are steady, unhesitant. No more stalling. You did what you could. You waited. You hoped.

And now, it’s clear; he’s not coming.

You were just about to lower the blinds when a familiar car slid to a stop out front. Your breath caught, frozen tight in your chest. You didn’t move, didn’t blink, as the driver’s door flung open before the engine had even settled into idle. There he was, the tall figure who’d haunted your thoughts for months, carved into every restless night. Disheveled, frantic, a deep frown cutting across his face.

When his eyes found yours, he ran.

The air slammed back into your lungs so fast it almost hurt. The fog, the static that had smothered you for hours, gone. Blown clean away in one look on his face.

He's here.

“Why did you wait for me?” The words tumbled out the moment he pushed the door open, his gaze locking onto yours. His face, guilt etched into every line. “You waited for me,” he said again, quieter this time. The guilt cracked, crumbled at the edges, and in its place came something softer. His eyes didn’t waver. It was awe, unmistakable and unguarded.

It was as if he couldn’t believe you were real.

The car ride was quiet. His coat rested over your shoulders, warm and grounding, as the streetlights blurred past. Since it was already late, Soobin had offered his place. You didn’t argue.

“We’re here,” he murmured, unbuckling his seatbelt. You’d somehow already undone yours without realizing it, stepping out into the cool air just as he rounded the front of the car to meet you. His hand hovered near the door, but you’d beaten him to it. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you breathed, offering a small smile. Your eyes drifted past him, brows pinching slightly as you took in the skyline ahead —towering buildings stretching into the night. Your confusion flickered across your face before you could hide it. “You said your apartment, right?”

He hummed, his lips twitching into the faintest smile. He nodded toward the buildings ahead. “Come on.”

You walked, still puzzled, trailing a step behind him. Your eyes wandered, curious and cautious, as you neared the towering building. Inside, staff seemed to scatter and straighten the moment they caught sight of Soobin. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Postures snapped upright. The door swung open before either of you reached it.

“Late evening, Mr. Choi,” the security guard greeted, bowing deeply. The others followed suit, dipping their heads in swift, practiced motions. It felt surreal. Like you’d stumbled into the middle of a K-drama you used to watch. Like you were seeing something you weren’t meant to. Soobin didn’t slow. He didn’t pause at the front desk like everyone else did. He just kept walking, glancing back once to make sure you were still with him. When he reached the elevator, he pressed the button without hesitation. The panel lit up, and you caught the word just above it; Penthouse.

Your breath caught, but you masked it quickly, dropping your gaze. That’s when you noticed his hands, resting at his sides, relaxed. The silence wrapped around you again. You shifted your hand, hesitant, pinky inching toward his. You just wanted to hold it — just once. Who knew if you’d get another chance like this? Maybe tomorrow he’d decide you weren’t someone he wanted to see anymore. Maybe you’d bore him. Maybe he’d drift away like people sometimes do.

So just once. Just to know what it felt like.

Your fingers moved closer, careful, unhurried. Barely an inch away — Ding. The elevator chimed, breaking your focus. Your hand froze mid-reach. Soobin turned, catching you dead-on. His gaze flicked down, just fast enough to see the way you yanked your hand back, swatting it away like you’d touched something too hot. “Uh—” you blurted.

His brows lifted slightly, softening — not in mockery, but in surprise. “Stop acting so cute, will you?” he murmured, and his words only deepened the flush on your cheeks. “You’re making it harder for me.”

Before you could even piece together what he meant, his hand reached out. His fingers found yours, threading between them with an ease that made your breath catch. The touch was warm, grounding, and when he gently tugged, you startled just a little. He didn’t say anything about it. He only pulled you softly toward him and guided you into the elevator. The elevator closes, but everything feels distant.

And all the while, his fingers stay laced with yours, anchoring you gently as the world rose around.

“Do you drink?” he asks, his voice low as he approaches the couch where you sit. The bottle in his hands glints under the warm lights, dark glass wrapped in crinkled gold foil, the wine inside a deep, velvet red that swirls languidly as he moves. One glance, and you already know: it’s expensive.

His penthouse is sprawling, though you suppose all penthouses are. “On special occasions,” you admit, watching as he reaches for two crystal glasses.

“Would you call this a special occasion?” He sinks into the couch beside you, his back meeting the cushions.

“I’d say so.” Your answer draws a small smile from him as he leans closer. Carefully, he cradles a glass in each hand and offers one to you. You accept it, fingertips brushing the cool surface as you balance the bowl of the glass in your palm, the slender stem threading between your knuckles. You lift it gently, only needing the faintest tilt toward your nose to catch the aroma. Your intuition was right, this would be the finest drink you’ve ever touched.

You take a sip. The wine blooms sharp on your tongue, threading warmth down your throat.

“Tell me,” he says, lifting the glass to his lips. His bangs fall loose over his eyes, soft and unbothered, and you fight the quiet urge to reach over and sweep them aside. “How did you start your business?”

“Like most things in this world,” you reply, taking another small sip, the pungent taste stinging your palate. “A bit of luck and a bit of misfortune.”

Soobin shifts, turning more fully toward you. One arm drapes along the back of the couch, as though he’s subconsciously reaching closer. His glass rests loosely against his thigh, “What was your luck?”

“I received money. Enough to build the business.”

“And the misfortune?”

Your throat tightens slightly. You swallow. “It was because my grandmother… wouldn’t be able to take care of it anymore.” Your voice softens. “Or herself anymore.”

The quiet smile at the corner of his lips falters, folding into something more solemn. A flat line. His eyes don’t leave you, they track every flicker of your expression: the slight furrow of your brow, the quick blinks you can’t quite suppress, the faint, compulsive bite to the inside of your cheek. But he doesn’t press.

“Why flowers?”

You know the answer. It unfurls easily in your mind, sprawling and layered. But a flicker of doubt tugs at you. If I ramble, will he grow tired of me?

“I liked their meanings,” you say instead, choosing your words slowly. “How each plant holds its own importance, just by existing. It’s fulfilling. And it’s a beautiful thing… seeing the way even simple arrangements can affect people.” You glance down, your thumb brushing the base of your glass. The words settle in the air between you.

He doesn’t fill the silence or shift in his seat. His eyes stay fixed on you. The glass in his hand remains perfectly still. His gaze lingers like he’s reading something delicate between your lines, like you’re a puzzle he’s in no rush to solve. He watches without pressing, without judgment. You feel the heat creep into your cheeks despite yourself, and you lower your gaze, hoping it hides the way your pulse trips over itself.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a pause, his voice lower, gentler. “I feel like I’m bombarding you with all these questions. Would you like to ask me something instead?”

A dozen questions flicker through your mind, each vying for space. Yet one floats to the surface, steady and clear, eclipsing the rest. “Why did you ask me to make you that bouquet?” The words leave you smoother than you expected.

For a breath longer, he says nothing. And then — a soft, breathy laugh escapes him. His eyes crinkle at the corners, something warm spilling over his features, and you swear you feel your heart tighten in your chest.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him laugh. It’s the first time you’ve seen the hollows of his cheeks deepen, the dimples ghost into view.

“Well,” he says, clearing his throat gently, He leans forward slightly, setting his glass on the table with a clink. “I do have an answer. But it’s a long one… if you’ll bear with me.” You nod, something soft and weightless settling in your chest.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, voice steady, unflinching. “Every time I come to see you… you’re even more beautiful. And you take my breath away.” That ache—the one you’d fought to swallow down minutes ago—surges back with a quiet ferocity. Your bottom lip parts, breath hitching in surprise.

Soobin’s voice dips, even softer now, like he’s confessing something he’s carried for far too long. “I asked you to make me that bouquet because I knew you’d pour yourself into it. You’d try your best to make it perfect for me. And when I saw it… I knew you’d done exactly that.” He pauses, gaze never wavering from you. “I never planned to take it with me. That bouquet—it was always meant for you.”

He shifts closer, just a few inches, slow and unintrusive. You don’t look at him; your eyes drop away, blurred with the tears threatening to spill over. You hold them back with every ounce of restraint, blinking fast against the shimmer at your waterline.

“I could’ve gone to any florist,” he continues, his voice barely above a murmur, “bought flowers and handed them to you. But I didn’t want that. I wanted you to make them… for yourself.”

Your chest pulls tight, your breath shallow and quick.

“I wanted you to create something as beautiful as you are. That’s why I asked for the bouquet.” His words land soft, final. “Because you’re beautiful.”

You try to fight it. Your head lifts slightly, your gaze tipping upward as if looking higher might will the tears back in. But the moment you blink, they slip free, tracing a slow, unbidden path down the curve of your cheek. There’s no hiding it. Not from him. Soobin’s eyes track the tear’s descent, his expression open and unreadable.

“I…” You falter, biting down gently on your tongue as your throat burns, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says immediately, “Tell me.”

Your breath shudders out, thin and shaky. “It’s just… earlier, I thought you wouldn’t come back.” The fracture in your voice is clear, woven into every syllable. Soobin hears it as easily as if you’d shouted it. His focus sharpens, tender and intent, even as another tear slips down your cheek.

Without a word, he lifts his hand. His touch is featherlight, the side of his index finger brushes just beneath your eye, catching the tear before it can fall farther. The contact startles you; your breath catches, your eyes widening at the gentle weight of his skin on yours. Though he’d caught your tear, his hand lingers on your cheek. His skin is cooler than yours, a contrast that sends a ripple down your spine. Then his finger glides down the curve of your face, tracing a path to your chin. His touch is careful, as if he’s afraid you might shatter under anything less. His fingers cradle your chin gently, coaxing, as he tilts your face toward him. Your breath catches as your gaze is guided back to his.

He’s looking at you.

Your nerves spark like a live wire under your skin, a delicate ache blooming in your chest. You swear you’ll come apart if you move too quickly, if you breathe too hard. Your heartbeat drums mercilessly in your ears loud enough, to fill the silence between you.

He leans closer. Slowly, gingerly, he edges forward like he’s stepping through every invisible barrier you’d built, slipping past every wall you thought you’d carefully kept intact. You watch as his eyes trace the line of your lips. Is he feeling the same tremor, the same breathless ache threatening to consume you whole?

Your eyes mirror his, drifting down until they rest on his lips. You feel his breath first, warm and shallow against your mouth. Your eyes flutter shut, anticipation blooming low in your belly — an ache, a flutter, a trembling promise. The thought alone sends shivers down your spine.

His lips meet yours. It's soft.

You don’t dare move. His fingers remain at your chinr. And for the first time, you let yourself surrender completely, allowing someone else full, irrevocable control. You let him lead. You let yourself fall. Then, subtly, Soobin shifts. His lips part just slightly against yours, enough to press a second kiss, lighter than air, softer than thought. The faintest sound of it rings in your ears, delicate and clear, as if it’s the only sound left in the world. There is no one else. Nothing else. Only you and him.

When he pulls away, it’s slow. He creates space between you, his gaze dropping—gentle, searching. “I apologize,” he says softly, his voice drawing your eyes open again. His pupils are dark, downcast, uncertainty clouding their depths as his fingers slip away from your skin. “If I made you uncomfortable… if I overstepped — I’m sorry.”

Without a word, with your tears now stilled, you reach for him. Your fingers wrap gently around his wrist, the same hand that had so carefully traced your skin. You hold him. With a pull, you guide his hand back to your face. When his fingertips meet your skin again, a wordless relief unfurls in your chest.

He’s watching you. His eyes are locked to yours, dark and unwavering, tracking every small shift in your expression as if deciphering the meaning behind your touch. Your hand stays clasped at his wrist as you draw your lips inward, wetting them with a soft sweep of your tongue, a silent permission offered without a single breath of speech.

You see it instantly, the way his brow knits downward, a soft furrow of longing. His lips part slightly, a breath escaping that he doesn’t bother to rein in. The expression across his face is raw, unguarded, needy in a way that makes your stomach swoop, a sweet ache pulling low in your core. His gaze flickers downward, fixated on the subtle shift of your mouth.

Before you even can take your next breath, his lips are on yours again. His mouth meets yours with more urgency, yet still achingly soft. His free hand ghosts up your jaw, fingers threading into the hinge of your neck, You’re taken aback, quite literally as his mouth parts against yours, deepening the kiss in a way that makes your breath falter. Your head tips backward instinctively, but before you can drift too far, his hand is there to catch. His fingers tangle into the soft strands at the nape of your neck, cradling you.

You clutch tighter to his wrist, as if that alone could tether you. The moment dissolves into something weightless, and the sensation of Soobin’s kiss begins to eclipse everything else — until the world narrows to nothing but his lips, his breath, his touch.

Your lungs tighten. Your head spins just as you feel the graze of his tongue against your lower lip. With a soft gasp, you break away.

Cool air rushes between your lips as you pull back, your breath coming quick and shallow. Your fingers, once gripping tight at his wrist loosen, falling limp against his skin. His hand slides gently from the back of your head, fingertips gliding down the column of your neck before settling against the delicate curve of your throat. His thumb traces there idly, barely a whisper of contact.

His voice, when it comes, is hushed. “Are you alright?”

All your life, you had been pursued. Suitors with bright eyes and polished words circled like moths, eager to capture your hand, to fasten their futures to yours. They came with promises that echoed hollow against your ribs. They smiled too easily, spoke too sweetly and though you tried, how you tried to meet them halfway, something inside you always stayed untouched.

You had forced smiles you didn’t mean. Laughed at jokes that never reached your eyes. You wrapped yourself in false emotions like gossamer, hoping the weight of them would feel like belonging. But after every encounter, you only felt emptier. You never understood why.

Until now.

With Soobin’s kiss still lingering on your lips, with his hand resting against the tender line of your throat as though you were something precious, and easily breakable. The truth settles in you, your heart had never been wandering.

It had been waiting. Waiting for him.

It wasn’t that no one wanted you. It was that your soul had already made its choice long before your body could catch up. And after all the quiet, lonely years of not knowing what you were longing for, he had finally found you.

You are home.

"I…" Your voice is thin, threadbare with wonder. You search for words, but none seem big enough to hold what you’re feeling. "I’ve never… been kissed like that before."

He smile slowly, a laugh tumbles from him and the thumb resting against your neck drifts upward, grazing the curve of your cheek with such careful reverence it makes your breath catch. You don’t have time to react. He leans in before you can even think, brushing a kiss against your lips, so brief it’s almost weightless. Too fleeting, too quick, and when he pulls away, you instinctively lean forward, chasing the fading warmth.

"Is that better?" he murmurs, mischief softening the edges of his gaze.

You swallow thickly, your pulse fluttering wildly beneath his touch. "I didn’t…" Your voice falters, a smile tugging unbidden at the corner of your lips. "…say that I didn’t like it."

It was as if your words had unspooled something inside him, like you'd spoken a secret incantation only he could hear. The moment your words left your lips, he was on you — his mouth capturing yours with a hunger. His hands slid down at your waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, warm palms pressing against your skin as if he needed to feel every inch of you. His lips broke from yours only to travel lower, grazing the delicate line of your jaw before finding the curve of your neck. The first brush of his mouth there drew a sound from you, a soft moan. You felt him smile against your skin, a low, pleased hum from his throat as if your every sigh was a gift.

Without thinking, your arms wrapped tighter around him. You shifted, lifting your legs to curl around his waist, pulling him flush against you. The soft, unrestrained groan that escaped him at the motion sent a spark racing straight through you.

You had never felt so wanted as hands slid down, tracing the shape of your thigh before they dipped to the bend of your knee. You had never felt so treasured as he slowly, began to gather the fabric of your skirt, dragging it higher along your leg with unhurried care, revealing skin he touched as though memorizing you with each pass.

"You taste divine," he breathed against your neck, the words threaded with awe and desire. His lips trailed open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your throat, grazing you with teeth soft enough to make you shiver, as if he wanted to consume you completely yet worship every part of you. Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging gently as you guided him back to your lips. He met you eagerly, melting into the kiss as though he’d waited lifetimes for it.

“If you want me to stop… tell me,” he whispered against your mouth, voice rough and tender all at once.

You nodded unafraid, and in that quiet, unspoken agreement, you watched something flicker in his eyes. As if he was vowing to worship you fully but never without your permission. His hands moved, deft and gentle, helping you ease out of the thin barrier of fabric that separated you, his gaze never leaving yours as if even in this unraveling, your comfort was his compass.

His smile curves against the delicate line of your neck, breath fanning across your skin as his words slip through, velvet-soft and low, “You’re already so wet for me.” His tone is laced with adoration. “I didn’t know you’d be such a good girl for me.”

The world dissolves.

It shrinks and softens until all that’s left is him — Soobin and the press of his body against yours, Soobin and the way his voice drips honey and reverence into your ear, Soobin and the hands that worship every part of you like he’s learning a language spoken only through touch.

Every piece of clothing that falls away is marked by his mouth, kisses dragged slow across your lips, your jaw, the hollow of your throat, the slope of your collarbones. His lips move like he’s tracing constellations on your skin, as though, somehow, you hold the entire night sky within you.

His hands, large and steady, move over you with a duality that makes you ache. Greedy and gentle. Certain but tender. He touches you as though he’s starved for you, but terrified you might slip away if he’s too careless. His fingers map your curves, glide down your sides, ghost along the backs of your thighs, curling possessively.

The room is thick with something heavier than air. It’s breath; yours and his, tangled in rhythm. It’s the soft rustle of fabric sliding over skin, the quiet catch of a moan swallowed between kisses, the faint sighs that spill when his hands find somewhere new to caress. Everything slows because he slows it. He takes his time, like he refuses to let any detail slip by unnoticed.

It doesn’t feel like he’s simply undressing you.

It feels like he’s unveiling something sacred. Like every inch of you laid bare is a gift he’s longed for, and now that he has it, he won’t squander a second. His gaze drinks you in between every kiss, full of a softness that cradles the sharp edge of desire. His pupils blown wide, his lips pink and kiss-bitten, his breath shaky though he tries to steady it.

You’re cherished.

“Soobin,” you gasp, breath hitching as he pulls you effortlessly into his lap. His lips find the swell of your breast, as his hands caress you with tender precision — teasing. The soft drag of his tongue against your nipples pulls a shiver from deep within you.

“I’ll take you to bed, sweetheart,” — “Yes, please,”

His mouth meets yours again, slow and consuming, while his arms curl around you. Without breaking the kiss, he rises, lifting you as though you weigh nothing, as though carrying you is the most natural thing in the world. You don’t open your eyes. You don’t need to. Your hands stay laced behind his neck, your fingers threading through the soft hair at his nape. You surrender wholly, letting yourself be cradled in his care. His footsteps echo and then you feel it, the plush give of the mattress beneath you as he lowers you gently into the center of the bed. The sheets are cool against your back, but his gaze is molten, grounding you in a warmth no fabric could match.

“Soobin…” Your voice trembles, “I haven’t done this before.”

For a moment, his expression stills. Something softens even further in his eyes. His lips tilt into the faintest, sweetest smile before he leans down, planting a slow kiss on your lips.

“I’ll be gentle with you then,” he promises, voice so gentle it nearly breaks you apart. His forehead rests against yours as his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, his touch light as silk. “You don’t have to fear anything with me. We’ll go slow. You just tell me everything you want… everything you don’t.”

You gave him a smile, you reached up and kissed him. A simple peck. His eyes is open mid-kiss, like he couldn’t bear to miss a second of it. As though the feeling of your lips wasn’t enough, he wanted to see it too. “I trust you,” you whispered against his lips, “I do.”

You had never been blinded because of a smile before.

His lips press against your sternum, inching his way with slow pecks towards the plump skin of your breasts. And the second he finds your nipple, a sharp gasp leaves your throat as you feel his warm tongue caress the sensitive flesh. His hand moves to your navel, his palm lying flush to your abdomen as he holds you down to the mattress; continuing to glide his tongue over you. As Soobin lifts his lips from you momentarily, the chill of his saliva lingers on your breast, makes you softly squirm in his grasp.

He move to the other side of your body, slowly slowly repeating the process as he suckle at your hardened bud ever so gently. But this time, he use his teeth to bite the softest mark onto your nipple; the careful sting pulls your back into an arch. You whimper at the roughness, though it only lasts for a second, and as you process their actions, Soobin begins to trail down from your breasts, moving to the other one. His hands work, reaching down to caress your core which pulse between your thighs.

You try to control yourself as he went lower, to control your body, control the moans begging for release but the moment he place a kiss to your clit, the little control you have begins to slip. He starts gently, a kiss, a soft lick up your entrance, and gets back to give the most careful suckle at your clit. His gentle licks turn into passionate laps as he palce his tongue flat to your clit and allow the pressure of his muscle alone to spark up your spine.

You gasp at the feeling, your hands grip desperately onto the sheets by your sides.

With his hand still placed on your lower belly, Soobin outstretches his fingers towards his mouth latched onto your cunt. His thumb finds its place just above the hood of your clit, as he begin to add to the simulation causing your teeth to sink into your bottom lip. He swirl the wet skin, sucking, intervals of tender kisses in between as he feel you between his lips; as the squelching of his tongue against your soaked entracne takes over the silence of the night.

"You're being such a good girl for me," Soobin kisses the words onto you, "So fucking good." He use his freehand to pull your leg up and over his shoulder, your body willingly at his control. He lift his mouth from you only to place his lips inside of your thight, his fingers still simulating you even with the pause.

You can feel it brewing. The band threathening to snap at any moment. Your pleasure pleading for release as he return to lap at your cunt.

"S-Soobin," you gasp, "Wait, I-" your please turn into tight cries of desperation as they retrieve a smile from Soobin, who listens intently to you moaning his name.

"I know baby," he kisses your clit, his thumb giving you an experimental amount of pressure, "I know baby, you can cum on my tongue. I don't mind."

If it weren't for your orgasm now unleashing inside of you, you possibly would have laughed, but the only thing that comes out of you, among the essence leaking into Soobin's mouth, is the lewd noises breaching the shores of your pleasure. Your hips instinctively push into his mouth as it explodes.

Your legs twitch, faint tremors echoing long after the euphoria crests and slowly ebbs away. Your breath is uneven, your chest rising and falling in shallow pulls as your mind tries to fix itself again. The world feels distant, softened at the edges, but you feel him. You feel Soobin everywhere. You hardly register the trail of his lips scaling their way back up your body, delicate kisses pressed along your stomach, the hollow between your ribs, the curve of your collarbone; until his face hovers just above yours. His breath fans against your lips, warm and even, as though he’s been composed the entire time, despite the flush that paints the high of his cheekbones. And when you meet his eyes —

Adoration. That’s all there is. As though you hung the stars in his sky.

Your fingers, still faintly trembling, reach down to the waistband of his pants, a silent plea building in your chest to return the worship he’s lavished on you. But before you can so much as graze the fabric, his hand wraps gently around your wrist, and moves it away.

“Tonight is about you,” Soobin murmurs, voice low, coaxing you back into ease. A smile, soft and disarming, tugs at the corners of his lips as he dips forward to nuzzle the tip of his nose against yours. “Just think of it as my way to say sorry… for making the prettiest girl wait so long.” His fingers, those long, graceful ones you’ve become so attuned to, sweep gently through your hair, combing it back from your damp forehead as though you were something priceless. His thumb brushes the line of your temple before trailing down the curve of your jaw, feather-light.

You stare back at him, your gaze tender and unwavering, the reflection of your own adoration open across your features. Whatever he sees in your eyes makes something in his expression soften even further.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, his voice dropping as he nestles closer to your side. Instinctively, you open your arms for him, and he slides into the space as though it were carved just for him, his head resting gently against your chest.

“Nothing,” you whisper truthfully, your fingers threading into his soft hair as you tilt your head to study him. Wonder flickers within you like the soft flicker of candlelight, igniting gently as you take in the way the dim glow plays in his irises — deep brown kissed with honey, shadows and softness blending as if the universe itself tried to paint the richest portrait inside his gaze. “You’re beautiful,”

The smile that spreads across his face is breathtaking. His lips curve in that boyish, gentle way that squeezes your heart painfully tight, and then he laughs. Your own smile spills out in response, and soon both your laughs mingle, weaving together in the space between you like spun gold, before your lips find each other’s once more.

You woke with the sunlight brushing gently across your skin, the warmth pooling on the sheets.

His breath is steady against the back of your neck, his chest rising and falling. His arm is still draped over your waist, fingers laced together just under your ribs as if even in sleep, he’s afraid to let go. Every time you shift, even slightly, his hold tightens; subconscious, instinctive. As though his body has decided on its own that you belong nowhere but here. You feel the ghost of his lips at the back of your head again, a soft, unthinking kiss pressed into your hair. And then that murmur that drifted from him throughout the night, something wordless and sweet, as though he was dreaming of you and couldn’t help but let it slip into the waking world.

You are exactly where you’re meant to be.

You blink slowly, everything is softened by the white sheets. Warmth surrounds you, not just from the sun filtering through the windows, but from the comforting weight draped over your back. You shift slowly, turning in his embrace until you’re met with the sight that makes your heart swell.

Choi Soobin.

Your fingertips ghost along the curve of his cheek, feather-light, afraid you might wake him if you touched him too boldly. His skin is soft beneath your hand, still asleep. His lashes rest delicately against his cheekbones, his lips parted slightly, breath deep and even.

“Sleepy Soobin,” you whisper, your thumb brushes along the slope of his cheekbone and, instinctively, he leans into your palm, nuzzling against your touch. The simple action sends a tender ache spiraling through your chest. Your mind drifts back, to the way his hands gripped you with both hunger and patience. To the way his lips worshiped every inch of you. To the way he had cradled you afterward, not letting a single shiver escape him unnoticed, whispering soft words against your skin.

Your eyes drink him in, the soft rise and fall of his chest, the tousled strands of dark hair falling across his forehead. You lean forward, pressing the lightest of kisses on the corner of his mouth. You linger there, breathing him in, letting your lips stay against him like a silent thank-you whispered straight from your heart.

“I don’t think,” you murmur softly against his skin, your lips curving in a smile, “I’ve ever been this happy before.” And as if he heard you even in sleep, his arm around your waist tightens, pulling you closer.

Your phone buzzes. You move quickly, fingers curling around the device as you move yourself out of Soobin’s arms. You sit on the edge of the bed, the cool air brushing against your skin. His shirt hangs loosely off your frame, the fabric soft and saturated with the faint scent of him. You tuck a hand into the hem absentmindedly as you answer. “Hello?” Your voice is hushed.

“Oh, hi. I just wanted to check in about your grandmother. She took her meds.” Hana’s voice comes softly from the other end, the caregiver you’d called last minute yesterday when you weren’t sure you’d make it home in time.

Relief unfurls gently in your chest. “Thank you, Hana,” you murmur, a small smile touching your lips. “I’ll be back in the afternoon.”

There’s a few more exchanged words, small reassurances and thank-yous, before you end the call. The screen dims in your hand, but you don’t move just yet. You glance over your shoulder. He hasn’t stirred, not really, but his brows are slightly furrowed now, as if he noticed the loss of you in his sleep. The sheets dip where you’d been moments ago, and one hand rests, palm open, where your body had once been.

A soft smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. You want to crawl back to him already. But you know you can't.

Setting the phone down, your gaze drifted toward the bedside table. You remembered Soobin opening the drawer last night, tucking away both of your things. You needed your ponytail. You pulled the drawer open.

Your fingers falter for the the first thing you see. You hadn’t meant to intrude. Two large bottles, their labels slightly worn, tucked neatly in the corner of the drawer as if he’d kept them close, yet out of sight.

Sleeping pills.

Your lips press into a thin line as thoughts flicker behind your eyes — how gentle he’d been with you, how steady and warm his gaze had felt, how easily sleep had taken him last night in your arms. And yet… these. Did he take them every day? Your hand brushes over the edge, and finally, you spot your ponytail nestled beside his wristwatch.

You swallow gently, pushing the drawer close.

You hummed softly as you slid the fried eggs onto a white plate, the gentle sizzle fading as you set them down. This place is a wide, unfamiliar kitchen, but somehow your hands had found their routine effortlessly. Turning, you arranged the plate beside the crisp bacon and the golden slices of toasted, buttered bread.

Out of the corner of your eye, the bedroom door creaked open. "Good morning," you called, your voice laced with a smile that turned fully when you saw Soobin, no confusion in his sleepy gaze, no hesitation in his steps. He made a beeline straight to you.

Before you could even set down the last plate, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest with a soft exhale of relief. His lips found your hairline in a series of slow, affectionate kisses, "You didn’t have to make breakfast, baby. I could’ve called someone."

"I didn’t mind it," you replied, breathless with laughter as you tried halfheartedly to nudge him away. But he only shook his head, clutching you tighter, "Come on," you coaxed gently, tilting your head to meet his soft gaze. "Let’s eat."

At just those simple words, he loosened his hold, his hand sliding down to lace his fingers with yours.

“What is it?” Soobin asks softly, voice in curiosity as he chews his food. His eyes catching the question behind your gaze. “I did tell you… you can ask me anything, remember?”

You nod, your fork slowly tracing circles on the edge of your plate. “Yes…” You swallow, “I don’t mean to pry, I really don’t. I just… I just wanted to ask if you take those pills every day?”

He nods slowly. “I do,” he admits. “I’ve always had trouble sleeping.” Your lips part to speak, but before you can, he sets his fork down and leans in, elbows resting on the table as his hand slides gently over yours. His thumb brushes over your knuckles. “But last night…” A faint smile curls the corner of his lips,“Last night, I didn’t even think about them. I didn’t need them.” His voice drops, “You were here.”

Sitting at that table, sharing breakfast, you felt like you were learning him in layers, like pages of a book gently unfolding for you. You already had your suspicions the moment you first met Soobin. The cut of his clothes, the sleek car he drove; they all whispered of a life far from ordinary. But hearing it from his lips, hearing him confess that he was set to inherit and run an entire empire, sent a quiet shiver up your spine. A chaebol. How had someone like you managed to cross paths, let alone hearts, with someone like him?

He spoke openly, though gently, about the burden he had carried since he was just a teenager. How sleep had long been a stranger to him. How those pills had been his quiet crutch in the endless swirl of expectations, decisions, and responsibilities that clouded his nights. You tried your best to absorb every word. Soobin told you how he had found you captivating from the very first moment he saw you — how, despite that, he never had the courage to approach you.

“All my life,” he murmured, gaze dropping to the untouched food on his plate, “I watched my sister become trapped in a marriage. Watching her lose herself made me believe I shouldn’t chase anyone… or anything. But then, I saw you.”

It was unclear why he trusted you so deeply, why he felt safe enough to share such memories about his sister’s pain and the misplaced guilt he carried on his shoulders. But he did. He let you in. The shadows in his expression melted the moment you leaned in, your lips pressing a soft, reassuring kiss to his and your arms curling gently around him. Maybe that was why. Maybe you were his perfect match. You were the one brave enough to ask him out first; unknowing then, but somehow sensing what held him back.

You learned more little things about him that morning too. How he often misplaced his watch because he’d take it off absentmindedly and forget where he’d set it. How he liked his coffee with an extra spoon of sugar and a generous pour of creamer, because despite everything, Soobin had a sweet tooth.

And somehow, every one of these small pieces only made you fall for him more.

“I can’t wait to get back and see you,” his voice comes gently through the phone, smooth and warm like a whisper against your ear. “Just three more days, and I’ll be back. Okay?”.

“Okay,” you breathe, your voice softer than you intend. “Just make sure you’re eating well, alright?” You swallow gently, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “I’ll see you soon.”

His laugh drifts back to you, honey-sweet and effortless. You miss him already. “Okay, baby.”

And just like that, the line clicks silent.

You move quietly around your shop, fingers trailing along the shelves, straightening small displays here and there. You smile to yourself, a small, private thing, as memories of the past few days float to the surface. His touch. His laugh. Everything lately had felt… right. Almost effortlessly so.

The soft chime of the doorbell rings out, pulling you back to the present.

“Welcome,” you call, your gaze lifts and locks instantly with a pair of sharp, assessing eyes. A woman stands there, immaculately dressed, her age maybe in her fifties, though the confidence she wears makes her seem ageless somehow.

Her eyes sweep over you unblinking, as though weighing you against some invisible scale. “Are you the woman seeing my son?” A chill skips down your spine.

“Pack your things up,” she says crisply, her gaze drifting coolly over the small, carefully curated space of your shop. Her lips twitch, close enough to make your stomach twist. “Come have lunch with me.”

You blink, thrown off balance, your heartbeat picking up beneath your ribs. This… wasn’t what you’d expected today. “Uh—yes, ma’am,” you say, trying to gather yourself.

Her head tilts, something sharp glinting behind her expression. “Why did you stutter?” The question is too sharp for someone who doesn't know you. Before you can even try to answer, she lifts her hand in a small, dismissive gesture. “Go on. Change your clothes. Make it fast. I don’t like waiting.”

Your fingers twitch on your lap as you lower your gaze, lashes casting shadows over your cheeks. The seat beneath you feels too plush, too stiff all at once, as if you don’t quite belong in it. You’re somewhere deep inside this towering glass building — a restaurant so vast and pristine it feels like even your breath is too loud for the space. You try to inhale quietly, chest tight, as Soobin’s mother sits across from you, commanding the room with a presence that doesn’t falter.

You watched, silent, as she spoke crisply to the waiter. Her tone left no room for correction, no cracks for uncertainty to slip through. She didn’t ask what you’d like. She didn’t ask if salad was to your taste. She simply ordered it for you without sparing you a glance — as though she already knew what you should eat, or perhaps decided it didn’t matter.

The clink of glassware is sharp, and you jump slightly when she clears her throat. Slowly, reluctantly, you lift your eyes to meet hers. Her gaze is steady, dark and searching, the sort that makes you feel like you’re being turned inside out with just a look.

“What do you want—”

"Mother," a new voice drifts into the space; light, melodic. You turn instinctively, and there she stands: a woman so strikingly beautiful it’s impossible to mistake the relation. The soft curve of her jaw, the familiar gentle slope of her nose, she carries pieces of Soobin effortlessly in her features.

She moves toward the table with a grace that makes the heavy atmosphere ease, as though her very presence carries warmth where there was only frost before. Soobin’s mother’s stern face softens, her posture loosening subtly for the first time since you sat down and it’s clear this new woman holds sway over her in ways no one else has managed thus far.

The young woman settles beside her mother, her gaze drifting to you with a kindness that wraps around you like a soft blanket. No scrutiny, no sharp edges, it's curiosity. “I’m Soobin’s sister,” she says her name gently, her lips pulling into a smile that reaches her eyes. “You look even more beautiful than what he says.”

The sincerity in her voice disarms you. It feels like exhaling after holding your breath for too long, like finding a familiar light in a room full of shadows. Warm. Genuine.

“Th-thank you,” you murmur, voice small as your gaze drops shyly to your lap. The elegance she carries so effortlessly makes you acutely aware of every inch of yourself; of your softness, your simplicity. You steal a glance upward as she turns away, leaning toward her mother, her voice soft and fluid as she starts to recount her day.

Their hair, not a strand out of place, styled with a polish that speaks of salons you’ve never stepped foot in. The fine lines of their blouses, their tailored cuts, fabrics that drape as if stitched to their skin. Even their nails is perfectly shaped, coated in shades that gleam soft and subtle, unchipped. Their handbags resting beside them glint of understated luxury, the kind of leather that never creases, the kind of detail you notice only when you’ve never had it.

Your gaze falls to your skirt — the one you had sewn with patient hands from fabric you bargained for at the market’s edge. You’d chosen the material carefully, pieced it together with love, made it yours. But here… it feels smaller somehow. Less. You smooth your palms over your knees.

How long will you have to sit in moments like this? How long will you have to feel the weight of difference settle like a stone in your chest? The gap between their world and yours feels so wide it burns.

You don’t belong here.

You hadn’t even managed to lift your fork, “How old are you?” Soobin’s mother asked.

“Twenty-three,” you murmured, your tongue thick in your mouth. The number sounded too small as soon as it left you.

Her lips tugged downward. “Five years younger than him. Too young.” A pause, heavy. “Education status? What of your family?”

You swallowed hard. “I’m living with my grandmother.”

Her brow arched, unimpressed. “Since when?” — “Since I was a child.”

The air felt thinner now. You could feel your pulse in your throat, in your wrists, in the trembling tips of your fingers that curled tighter under the table. “Then how would you run a family if you don’t even have one?”

The sting behind your eyes burned fast. You blinked hard, but it did nothing to wash it away. You felt small, smaller than you ever thought you could shrink.

“Mother,” Soobin’s sister snapped, her voice tight with disbelief. You lifted your gaze to her, grateful and ashamed all at once. Her expression was shocked that her mother had gone that far.

But then the next blow landed. “Do you even know there’s a girl who’s supposed to marry him?” Her tone dropped, dripping with disdain as if she wanted to watch you crumble beneath it.

“Mom, stop it. Now.” Soobin’s sister, again. Firmer this time.

Your lips parted to answer — to say something, anything — but all that came out was fragile and thin. “We… we haven’t talked about it.” It was all you could manage. Your voice cracked just enough to make the shame crawl higher up your throat. Your chair scraped against the floor softly as you rose, every inch of your body stiff and burning. You forced a tight smile that felt more like a grimace. “Excuse me… I’ll just take the bathroom.”

Your legs carried you away before the first tear slipped free.

You gripped the sink’s edge so hard your knuckles ached, head bowed as silent sobs racked through your chest. You couldn’t catch your breath. Couldn’t hold it together long enough to even pretend you belonged here. Your reflection in the mirror blurred behind the sheen of tears; eyes glassy, cheeks flushed, lips trembling. Small. Out of place. A girl trying to fit in.

Of course she was right. You’d always known it, hadn’t you? You were someone born from absence. A child left behind by two people who couldn’t even stay for you, much less for each other. You’d spent so long tucking that truth away, convincing yourself. His mother didn’t have to scream to shatter you.

You wiped at your face uselessly, but the tears kept slipping, warm and bitter down your jaw. You didn’t want to ruin what Soobin had left with his mother, thin and cracked as it might be. You’d seen the strain in his eyes before when he spoke of her. You’d heard the weight when he talked about duty, legacy, responsibility; but you wouldn’t be the reason he chose sides. Maybe everything really had just been a dream. And maybe now…maybe it was time to wake up.

The door creaks open, and you flinch too late to hide the tears streaking your cheeks.

Soobin’s sister.

Her expression crumbles the second she sees you. “Oh, honey.” Her voice is soft, almost breaking, and before you can turn away or gather yourself, she’s already crossing the room. You shake your head, a weak protest caught in your throat, but it falls apart the second her arms wrap around you. You don’t mean to collapse, but you do. Your body folds into hers, trembling, your fingers clutching at the fabric of her coat.

“I’m so sorry,” she breathes against your temple, her voice rawer now, as if she can feel even a fraction of what’s tearing through you.

Your chest hurts. You can’t speak. You don’t trust your own voice not to shatter the second you try. So you just stand there, breathing uneven, tears soaking the front of her blouse.

“Don’t cry,” she whispers finally, pulling back, her palms warm against your damp cheeks. Her eyes search yours. Slowly, she slides a handkerchief from her pocket and presses it into your hand, her thumb brushing over your knuckles as she lets go. “My mother… she’s always been like this. I won’t tell you not to feel hurt, you should feel hurt. She doesn’t know how to soften her words, even when she should.”

“I came here because I heard she’d come after you the moment Soobin flew out for his trip,” she continues, “And about that woman… or whatever arrangement that was, Soobin never met her. Not even once. That was all our mother’s doing. If you want the truth, it’s best you hear it straight from him, hm?” Your fingers curl tighter around the handkerchief.

“I… I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice frayed at the edges, the apology slipping out even though you aren’t sure what you’re apologizing for— being here, being too small for this world, for falling for someone you were never supposed to have?

“Don’t be,” she says softly, her lips tugging into a smile. "You’ve done nothing wrong."

She reaches to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, “You can go home. I’ll handle her,” she promises. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t come near you again, not until Soobin gets back and sorts all of this out himself.”

Your throat tightens again, “Why?” The word falls out of you in a whisper. “Why are you doing all of this?”

“Soobin deserves to be happy,” she says, there's a glisten in her eyes. “And you… you make him happy.”

You sit still, hands folded tightly in your lap, nails pressing crescents into your skin as the hum of the engine vibrates beneath you. Through the window’s glass, blurred by your uneven breaths, you see them, Soobin’s sister and her husband.

Choi Beomgyu.

Even from here, even without sound, it’s clear. The way his eyes search hers, soft and intent. The way his hand brushes her cheek, tender and unhurried. And then, his palm drifts lower, resting on the curve of her stomach.

Your breath catches, an involuntary gasp escaping from your lips. You hadn’t noticed it before, maybe because you’d been too wrapped in your own thoughts, but there it is now; the small, rounded swell of her belly beneath her dress.

She’s pregnant.

Your eyes dart away. It sinks in heavier than you expect—the contrast of it. The weight of what you felt in that restaurant still gnawing at your ribs. You swallow hard, blinking fast. You shouldn’t be jealous. Not of them, not of their certainty, not of the way they fit together. You curl your fingers tighter.

Beomgyu slides into the driver’s seat, his eyes flicker to you in the rearview mirror, not invasive. “You okay?” His voice is gentle, low.

You swallow past the knot tightening in your throat. “Yes.”

He doesn’t press. He just nods once, slow, and leans back in his seat. His hands rest on the wheel but he doesn’t start the car. Instead, his eyes shift toward the building. You follow his line of sight and see her— his wife, walking toward the entrance.

Beomgyu stays still, waiting. His jaw flexes slightly, not out of impatience, but out of habit, you can tell. He doesn’t move, not until she disappears inside the building safely, not until the glass doors close behind her and she’s no longer in sight.

Only then does he release a small breath and turn the key in the ignition. The car starts.

You've never seen a love so whole.

You’d finally made peace with it all, to speak to Soobin when he returned. His sister’s promise had held true; his mother hadn’t darkened your doorstep again. For once, the silence felt like safety.

Only one more day. Just one, and he’d be back.

The sharp chime of the door snapped through the quiet. You turned instinctively, forcing a smile onto your lips out of habit.

Standing there was a woman. “Good morning,” you greeted softly, stepping behind the counter, trying to keep your hands steady.

“You’re Y/N, right?” Your stomach flipped, hands instantly cold. What is it this time?

“Yes,” you answered carefully, guarded. “How can I help you?”

She took a step closer, “I’m Aera,” she said smoothly, not a trace of hesitation. “Soon to be Soobin’s fiancée.”

Your breath stuttered. The smile fell clean from your lips. “I’m sorry��� what—”

“His mother told me about you.” The words barely registered before the woman dropped to her knees in front of you. The motion was so sudden, so desperate, your breath caught in your throat and your eyes went wide.

“Please…” her voice cracked as she folded her hands together, her head bowed low in a way that looked almost unnatural for someone like her; pristine, polished, composed. But here she was. Crumbling. “Please tell him to accept the proposal.”

Your chest constricted painfully. “No, no, stand up, you don’t have to,”

But she shook her head sharply, her shoulders trembling. Tears clung to her lashes, heavy and raw. “I’ll let you have everything you want. You can still be with him .I don’t care. I’ll just marry him in name. I’ll stay in a different room. A different house, even. I won’t touch him. Our family… we need his. Please, I’m begging you.” Her voice broke entirely on that last word.

Even she knew. Even she understood what his mother refused to admit; his heart was already in your hands.

You walk to the building, each step echoing in your chest. The elevator hums softly as you press the button, your reflection in the mirrored doors a stranger to you. When it finally dings open, you step out into the hallway.

Your hand hovers over the doorbell of his home. You take a breath and press the button. And then you wait.

You run over the speeches you carved into your heart all day, I’m sorry, but we need to break up. I’m sorry, I can’t do this anymore. But the moment the door opens, it all disintegrates.

He stands there, and for a split second, it’s as if everything stills. His eyes meet yours, rimmed with exhaustion so deep it settles into the lines of his face. “I’ve been waiting for you, sweetheart.” His voice is soft. Almost fragile.

And before you can think, before you can remember the careful goodbye you rehearsed a thousand times, he reaches for you.His fingers curl around your arms, and he pulls you into him. Into the chest that has always felt like home.

The door clicks shut behind you.

“Soobin, I—” Your voice barely breaks through the air before it’s swallowed by the heat of him; his lips finding the curve of your neck, hot and hurried, like a man starved. His body crowds yours effortlessly, the breadth of him making you feel small. His hands, large, trembling with restraint digs firmly on your waist.

“I fucking missed your voice,” he breathes against your skin, “I fucking missed you… I couldn’t even sleep.”

Your throat tightens, a lump clawing higher and higher as your heart caves in on itself. Coward. That’s what it feels like. Your heart, shrinking, curling away from what you came here to say. Because how could you speak of endings when he’s here, clinging to you like this? When he holds you like you were his last hope?

“I need you, baby,” he murmurs, his fingers slide to your blouse, undoing the buttons one by one, slower than his breath, slower than the pounding of your pulse against your ribs. His knuckles brush against your skin, “Did you miss me?”

You open your mouth. The truth swells painfully, desperate to tear out. I did. I missed you more than you’ll ever know. But all you manage is a breathless, broken, “I—”

His hot mouth sucks your nipple. “…Yes.”

It’s all a blur — his hands, his mouth, the way he whispered your name. You don’t remember how the clothes came off, how the sheets tangled beneath your bodies. You only remember the weight of him, the heat of his skin, and the soft drag of his lips along your body that made your breath catch.

The sharp stretch, the slow push of him sinking into you. Tears spill before you even realize they’re falling. It isn’t the pain that makes you cry. It’s the ache in your chest, the way your heart splits in two at the sight of him — Soobin, tired and unraveling, still so gentle. You were too scared to say no. Not because you didn’t want him, but because you did. Too much. You craved to erase the exhaustion from his eyes, even if it was only for one night.

Maybe you were fooling yourself into thinking you were giving something to him, when really, you were trying to steal one last piece of him for yourself.

His brow furrows as he stills inside you, the concern written all over his face. His thumbs swipe at your damp cheeks, his lips brushing against your skin in soft, frantic kisses. “Did that hurt? What’s wrong?”

You force a breath through the tightness in your throat, eyes locking on his, “No,” you manage to choke out, your voice cracking. Your hand comes up to cradle his cheek, thumb brushing the soft curve of his under-eye, tracing the shadows you wish you could take away. You swallow the sob clawing at your chest, and say it. You have to say it. Even if it’s the last time.

“I— I just love you.” His lips part slightly at your confession. His breath stutters, and something raw flickers behind his gaze; wonder, disbelief. His whole body goes still as if those words rooted him to the earth. “I love you, Soobin.”

"I love you. I fucking love you."

Warm hands find your waist, circling you with a gentle pull, long fingers tracing slow, reverent patterns across your bare skin. A soft squeeze follows, then warm, featherlight kisses trail from your neck to your ear, each one taking time to settle on your skin. Your name slips from his lips, barely more than a breath, before he tucks himself closer, body melting into yours.

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” he murmurs, “You’ve been asleep so long, I’m starting to miss you.”

You exhale a soft huff, but there’s no real protest in it. Just the lazy stretch of your arm as you roll toward him, pressing your face into the curve of his neck where he smells like him. Your voice comes out muffled. “Let’s stay like this for five more minutes.”

A smile ghosts against your temple. His hand slides to your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer. “Okay,”

You finally peeled yourself from the bed, soft sheets still warm with sleep and the weight of him. He trailed after you, tall and shadowing your every move around the kitchen as the morning light spilled in. You couldn’t help it, your fingers found his constantly. On his wrist as he buttered toast, laced with his as you poured coffee, curled around his as you sat across from him at the table. And for the first time, you saw it clearly: the way Soobin’s cheeks flushed pink under the weight of your affection, his gaze flickering down, shy and boyish, every time you touched him like you couldn’t stop.

Now, he stands by the mirror, freshly showered, crisp shirt hugging broad shoulders, hair damp and curling just a little at the edges. You’re sitting on the edge of his bed, watching him. He wanted you to stay here, in his penthouse. Wanted you here waiting when he came home.

You rise when you see him fumble with his tie, long fingers struggling with the knot. “Let me,” you say softly. Your fingertips brush against his as you take over, feeling the steady thrum of his pulse beneath his skin. He watches you, head tilted down, eyes steady and soft, drinking in every precise movement as you fold and tug the silk into place.

His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, “Thank you, baby,” he murmurs. He leans in, scattering kisses across your face — your forehead, your nose, your cheeks, your lips — each one light and full of that unshakable, boyish smile of his.

You walk him to the elevator, bare feet padding softly on the cool floor. He steps inside, glances back at you, and lifts his hand in a wave; a grin stretching wide, something childlike and unguarded lighting up his whole face.

All while everything was breaking your heart.

You moved quietly through his home. The morning hush wrapped around you like something delicate and suffocating all at once. You folded his clothes with shaking hands, smoothing out every crease, tucking each piece into its rightful place as if order could somehow soften what you were about to break.

His watch. You found it lying carelessly on the counter where he always forgot it. You fixed it gently onto the shelf beside his cufflinks and rings, aligning everything just so, because you knew he liked it neat, even if he never said it out loud. It was small, but you wanted to leave it perfect for him.

The kitchen was next. Your movements felt numb now, mechanical. You prepared everything the way he loved it: coffee beans ground just right, the sugar jar filled, the creamer where it belonged. You wrote it all down on a small scrap of paper; the exact way you made it for him, step by step and pressed the note beside the kettle. Your handwriting blurred through your tears, but you forced yourself to keep writing.

By the time you found a clean sheet of paper and sat at the dining table, your whole body trembled with the weight of it. The pen felt too heavy in your hand. Your tears hit the page before your words did.

You slowly, wrote your goodbye.

"Nana, this is your new room, okay?" Your voice is soft, careful not to crack as you push the door open, guiding her slowly inside. "It’s a little different, but we’ll figure it out. I’ll make sure we’re alright."

You smile, or something close to it, when she nods faintly, her eyes drifting over the unfamiliar space. The pale walls, the narrow window, the worn bed frame. None of it felt like home yet, but it had to be. You’d make it be.

Her fingers brushed against the edge of the dresser as she turned to you. "Why did we move so suddenly?"

You swallowed around the lump in your throat. "Oh," you answered lightly, "because we had to."

Your chest tightened when her gaze lingered on you a beat longer, as if peeling back layers you didn’t want exposed. And then, almost absently, she asked, "How about your man?"

You froze. The air seemed thinner, sharper. You weren’t even sure she remembered him clearly — just a distant echo of the day Soobin had shown up with that gentle smile, introducing himself with careful politeness.

"I… I broke up with him," you whispered. She didn’t react at first. Just nodded quietly, turning to sit on the edge of her bed. Her small frame curved gently as she smoothed the blanket beneath her hands, her movements slow and methodical.

You took a step back toward the doorway, trying to breathe steady. Trying not to crumble in front of her. But then, just as she rose again to cross the room, her voice drifted back to you. "Love will not fail," she murmured. "If it fails… it’s not love."

It was as if you’d just torn your own heart out with your bare hands.

Love will not fail. If it fails, it’s not love.

It had been days since you moved.

And still, no matter how many boxes you unpacked, no matter how carefully you folded your grandmother’s cardigans into drawers or wiped down every surface, this place didn’t breathe like the home you left behind.

The sky hadn't lightened once since you arrived. It hung heavy and bruised from dawn to dusk, a slate-colored weight pressing down on everything. You couldn’t remember the last time you saw sunlight crack through.

And then, the rain came.

You noticed it first in the shift of the wind. A few drops scattered across the concrete, and then it broke open all at once. Panic seized you as your mind jumped to the laundry. The sheets you’d washed them early this morning and hung them in the front of your lawn, hoping they'd dry before nightfall.

You bolted outside, breath shallow, feet slipping slightly against the wet pavement. Cold droplets clung to your hair, running down the line of your neck, soaking through your shoulders. Your fingers fumbled over the clothesline as you yanked the white sheets down frantically, heart racing as you tried to save what little you had.

And then — Your body stilled. Your hands slackened on the fabric as your gaze caught on a figure standing just past the fence.

For a moment, the rain softened around you, every sound falling away except the ragged beat of your own heart breaking all over again.

Choi Soobin’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles pale under the dim wash of the dashboard lights. His eyes flicked from one worn street sign to the next, cataloguing every turn, every corner, like a man tracing the edges of an old wound. Every so often, he let the car slow to a crawl. Stared a little too long at places that meant nothing to him, but might have meant everything to you.

It’s the town, the one his investigator pointed him to. The small, quiet town where the woman who tore through his world had disappeared into without a trace but with every piece of him still in her hands.

He’d already gone over everything twice. No. Three times. He couldn’t remember anymore. His chest felt tight, like something was sitting on it and daring him to breathe around the weight. He wondered if he should start all over tomorrow. Sweep the streets again. Retrace the steps he didn’t even know you'd taken.

Without meaning to, Soobin’s hands turned the wheel, guiding him down a road he’d circled too many times to count. Muscle memory, maybe. He didn’t know why he kept coming back.

The first drops of rain tapped against the windshield, soft and uncertain, like the sky hadn’t made up its mind yet. He let out a breath and dragged a hand down his face. He glanced right, thinking to turn back, to call it for the night. But then he saw it.

A figure cutting through the field, darting between rows of white laundry sheets billowing in the wind like ghosts.

He didn’t think. His door was open before he could catch the impulse, the car engine still on behind him as he bolted forward. He didn’t even shut the door. His feet hit the wet grass hard, slipping a little, but he kept running. Fast. Desperate. Like if he blinked, even for a heartbeat, you might vanish.

The way you vanished from his life when he turned his back.

If he’d stayed that day. If he’d ignored the meeting, called in sick, shut the world out, would you still be here now?

He saw you stumble back. Your shoulders tensed, then you turned to escape. And just like that, the breath punched out of his lungs. His heart cracked against his ribs, like thunder rolling too close to the ground. Panic clawed at his throat. His feet wouldn’t move fast enough. So he did the only thing left.

He called your name. Louder than he meant to. He shouted it. Frantic. You didn’t move at first. Just stared at him across the field, rain threading through your hair, clinging to your skin. When you spoke, your voice was sharp.

“Why are you here?” You asked, each word flung like stones across the space between you. Your jaw clenched. “Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I tell you I don’t want you anymore?”

Your voice cut clean but your hands betrayed you. They shook at your sides, fingers twitching like they weren’t sure whether to reach for him or push him away. The ache in your throat frayed the edge of every word. And Soobin saw it. He saw all of it.

Choi Soobin stares at you, the glisten in his eyes that you've come to know whispers his truth. He's now infront of you, eyes sweeping your face.

The storm isn’t just around him; it’s inside him, bleeding into the tremble of his hands as he reach and clutch your wrists, desperate. Rain seeps through his clothes, slides down his skin, but he doesn’t flinch. He just looks at you.

Because you're the only thing keeping him standing.

"Marry me." It’s his last attempt to keep you from walking away. “Marry me, and I’ll do anything you want. Anything. Just don’t—” His throat closed up, and for a second, it sounded like he forgot how to breathe. “Don’t walk away again.”

“I said—”

“Don’t lie to me!” The words snapped harder than he wanted, frustration cracking wide open in his chest. His hands curled into fists at his sides, not in anger but in helplessness. “Don’t make me feel crazy. Don’t make me feel stupid. My sister told me everything, Y/N. I know. I know everything.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. Your shoulders caved, the last of your defenses buckling under the weight of it all.

“I’m not fit for your world,” you choked, voice splintering as tears blurred your vision. Your hands fell limp at your sides, fingers tangled in the thin fabric of the laundry you’d long forgotten.

“I don’t have anything. I hardly even have myself,” you whispered, your face crumpling like it hurt to say the truth out loud. “And you — you deserve the world. You deserve more than someone who can’t even keep her life straight.”

Soobin’s chest hollowed at the sight of you crumbling in front of him. He didn’t care about the rain, or the mud soaking through his shoes, or the ache in his lungs. There was only one thing left he wanted to do. Fall to his knees if he had to. Beg, if that’s what it took. Beg for you. Beg for everything.

“I don’t want the world.” His eyes locked on yours, fierce and aching. “I never wanted any of that. Not once. I just… I just want you.”

His breath shuddered out, shaky, as if saying it hurt and healed him all at once. “I want to live with you. To grow old with you. To have your children. To wake up next to you for the rest of my life.” His words stumbled, his throat thick with the burn of unshed tears, but he didn’t stop.

Before you could slip farther away, Soobin reached for you, his arms wrapped tight around you, pulling you into his chest. His hand cradled the back of your head, fingers threading into your damp hair with a gentleness that almost broke you on the spot. His heartbeat thundered against your cheek.

“Don’t leave me,” he whispered, voice cracking on the plea. “Please, baby. Not when I finally found you. Not when all I want… is to spend the rest of my life with you.”

He felt you shift in his hold, felt your hands press against his chest like you were about to push him away. His stomach dropped but he didn’t let go. He couldn’t.

“I love you.” The words came out hoarse, frayed at the edges. Honest in a way that stripped him bare. He felt you still. The tension in your shoulders faltered. Slowly, slowly, you softened against him, all the walls you’d been gripping so tightly started to crumble in his arms.

You stopped pulling away this time.

“I love you,” he breathed again. His lips brushed against your temple, “I’ll fix everything for us. I swear it. You just have to trust me, baby. Please. Just trust me.”

He felt your arms loosen, the fight in them dissolving. Softening, giving your surrender — just as the rain itself began to ease, falling gentler, as though the sky had finally tired too. A breath punched out of his chest, relief so fierce it almost dropped him to his knees. His arms closed tighter around you, cradling you against him like he could tuck you safely inside his ribs, where nothing could ever reach you again.

When would he ever get a moment like this again?

A chance like this? To meet his soulmate. To meet the one person who could read the shadows behind his smile before he even noticed they were there. Who knew him better than he had ever dared to know himself.

What were the odds? If he hadn’t driven down that street that day. If he hadn’t wandered into your little flower shop with its peeling paint and sunlight pooling across wooden counters. If he hadn’t looked up and seen you and not known, right then, that he’d nearly lived his life without finding his missing half. And what were the chances you would’ve seen him?

He shuddered, blinking hard against the burn behind his eyes. His throat tightened as he breathed you in, the faint trace of wildflowers still clinging to your skin like memory. His heart clenched.

The odds of this… of you… out of all the people, all the cities, all the winding chances and missed timings, was one in a million.

taglist: ily @heesmiles , @lovingbeomgyudayone , @virtaideen , @hyukascampfire , @fancypeacepersona , @bamgeutori , @lilbrorufr , @beomieeeeeeeeeeees , @xylatox , @yunverie , @imlonelydontsendhelp , @moagyuu , @immelissaaa , @readinmidnight , @pagelets , @wonderstrucktae , @boba-beom , @seodami , @izzyy-stuff , @gyudollies , @i-am-not-dal , @page-isa , @tyunarisu , @s0urcherry , @prettypeachprincesz @zaynspidey @sxmmerberries @immelissaaa @definitelynotherr @fics-lovebot @missychief1404 @irishspringing @lovesickchoi @beomgyusluver @sumzysworld @usuallyunlikelyfox @soo-blue @younbeanz @storminacloud @bamgeutori @soobinieswife @prized-jules @soobmeongie @lostgirlysstuff @hoseocakes @fancypeacepersona @ke4s @lvlyhiyyih @aerangi @suneonu @ryuhannaworld @soheeunderthesun @luvleyylina @georgeweasleys-gf @marissariveraaaa

[dollishmehrayan]

# DIFFERENT BATBOYS LOVE LANGUAGES ── .✦ ( batboys but love languages towards s/o )

a/n: so I was of course brewing this up because uh why not, anyways this comes from my brain and not my friends or a anon this time (tsk tsk) but I’m working on a new masterlist which should be finished by maybe? Friday or Saturday because I’m kinda lazy ( it’s finals okay? ) tags : ( batboys x love language )

𝜗𝜚 © dollishmehrayan — ( all rights reserved to me. These works cannot be reposted, translated, or modified. Thank you for understanding dollies! )

 DICK GRAYSON ── .✦ Words of Affirmation + Physical Touch ( because he lowkey gives me those vibes )

Dick is your personal hype man™. You walk into a room? Boom. “Wow, how does someone like you even exist?!”

He’ll call you “babe,” “love,” “sunshine,” “angel,” and at least five other nicknames before breakfast.

He will send you encouraging texts randomly: “You’re doing amazing, sweetie” ( yes I had to do the Kris Jenner meme I’m sorry 😭😭) even when you’re just sitting in the living room next to him.

The man is a cuddler. Like, you sit down and suddenly he’s on top of you like a weighted blanket of love.

PDA? He invented it. Expect forehead kisses, back hugs, and casual handholding like it’s his job.

 JASON TODD ── .✦ Acts of Service + Quality Time

He shows love by doing stuff for you. You mentioned you were out of coffee once? He restocked your entire pantry with your favorite roast.

He acts like he’s grumpy about it though: “Tch. It was on sale. Don’t get used to it.”

If you’re stressed, he’ll silently hand you a mug of tea, rub your shoulders, and let you vent while pretending not to be emotionally invested (he is).

He’s a big fan of quiet companionship. Reading together? Napping in the same room? Sitting in silence while watching reruns? That’s pure love to him.

He won’t say “I love you” every day, but he’ll make you dinner, fix your leaky sink, and threaten your ex all in the same evening.

TIM DRAKE ── .✦ Quality Time + Words of Affirmation

Tim is busy™, but if he gives you his time, that’s his love language in action. You get his full, undivided attention... for like 10 minutes before he needs suddenly do some case.

He’ll always stay up late with you even if he's dead tired just to be in the same space.

His texts are oddly nerdy poetic: “Thinking about the way your smile short-circuits my neurons. Goodnight.”

Late-night cuddles with conspiracy theories are his go-to. (He enjoys any conspiracy theories whether it be SpongeBob or actual cases or gravity, he likes them because it gives him something to solve)

He may not always say “I love you” directly, but he’ll mumble things like, “You’re the only constant in my chaos” and honestly? That’s peak romance for him.

DAMIAN WAYNE ── .✦ Gift Giving + Acts of Service

His love language is doing things for you but with a “no big deal” attitude and dramatic flair.

If you say you like something, it becomes a part of your life forever. “You liked that necklace? Here are ten. Wear the gold one today.”

He may not say sweet things often, but he’ll quietly cut your food if you're distracted (or just have some sort of fear of knives like me) . Or fight someone who looked at you wrong.

If you’re tired, he’ll drag you to bed while still denying it: “You require rest. That is all. Now lie down.”

He shows love by protecting you even from yourself. You stub your toe? He’s ready to interrogate the table. “Who hurt you, the table was definitely microchipped to hurt you.”

[theonewiththefanfics]

Peace in the Darkness (one-shot)

Synopsis: Bob knows Y/N isn't one to go back on her words. So when she doesn't show up to go through with their plans, he starts to worry. Luckily for him, Yelena knows how to break-and-enter. And doesn't mind invading her personal space.

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x fem!Reader (ex-Black Widow)

Genre: fluff, lil bit of angst

Warnings: sickness because I've been sick this past weekend and life sucked, swearing, Bob being an anxious little bean, alluding to violence, but nothing else, really :)

Word count: 6623

All characters belong to Marvel. Also - Bob has my heart

If Bob paced any more behind Y/N’s door, he was sure to wear a track into the concrete floor.

            His hand had hovered over the panel separating him from whatever lay beyond, about twenty times in the past hour or so, yet just as his knuckles were about to meet it, he pulled back with a shake of his head and began his pacing once more.

            “I should just knock,” the man muttered to himself, blue eyes warily watching the door, hoping it would creak open without his interference, but alas, it remained as immovable as it had always been. “She’s not gonna mind. You’ve woken her up in the middle of the night before, and she wasn’t angry then. She won’t be angry with you.”

            And even still with those thoughts in his mind, Bob couldn’t get himself to do it, his anxiety overriding his motor skills.

            It wasn’t that he was incapable of action. He was. It was more so getting to the action where he faltered. His therapist, someone Bucky had helped him find, had told him even two steps forward and one step back was still a step forward.

            Like the first time he’d reached out for help after a nightmare, where he could feel the Void curling inside him, just waiting until his emotions reached a bubbling point so he could take over.

            “What did you do?” the therapist, a take-no-bullshit kind of woman, had asked. “To stop the Void from emerging?”

            Bob shrugged, knee bouncing up and down, not daring to make eye contact. “I uh – I went to Y/N. I just… I heard she was still awake and knew if the Void was gonna come out, someone had to… You know… be aware and take me – him – down.”

            “And who is Y/N?”

            Now that was a loaded question he wasn’t fully yet ready to answer, so he settled on the objective truth. “She’s my teammate. We live across the hall from one another.”

            “And how did she help?”

            “She…” Bob bit down on his lip. “She invited me inside her room and we just… talked. She had some music playing… I – I guess she helped me take my mind off it all and… stuff…”

            The woman hummed. “And why was she the first person you thought to go to when things got bad?”

            He wanted to say it was because she was the closest one to him, physically being right down the hall, that they were the only two people occupying the floor, but the truth spilt out before he could even contain it, “Because I knew she wouldn’t be mad at me. If – if I woke her up. She… she wouldn’t be upset I was there.” Because she was one of the few people who wasn’t afraid to touch him, despite his powers and the Void.

            But just because she hadn’t been upset with him those few times he’d sought her out, didn’t mean she wouldn’t be angry with him that specific day. Otherwise, why hadn’t she stuck to her promise?

            The previous week, right before Y/N had been shipped out to Malaga on a mission, she’d promised him that once she was back, the two would go to a bookstore together, Bob’s supply already dangerously low.

            Now, though, three hours had passed from the time they’d set last night, and Y/N was nowhere to be seen.

            He’d let the first hour pass by, thinking maybe she had to catch up on some paperwork the team had to file after a mission. When hour two had come and gone, Bob had started to become anxious, but still, he told himself she was probably just resting, no doubt exhausted by the mission, and he would never be one to take away time she could be using to heal. But as hour three had started to roll, Bob couldn’t help the nervousness entering his body, and that was how he ended up behind Y/N’s door.

            Gently, he placed an ear against it, hoping to hear the slightest sound, maybe a soft movement of her feet padding against the carpeted floor, but the only noise invading the silence was the echo of his heartbeat.

            Bob sighed, head hanging low and fingers plucking at the hem of one of his sleeves as he turned around, ready to go back and wallow in self-pity, when Yelena’s raspy voice made him look over his shoulder.

            “Bobik? Everything alright?” she asked, the nickname Alexei had bestowed upon him, making warmth bloom in his chest. Not ‘Bobby’, a name that made him flinch, but a soft ‘Bobik’, a name that made him feel cherished.

            The blonde was decked out in her combat gear, clearly just having arrived from a mission, so the fact that one of her first instincts was to check in on him made his body flush. He was still trying to get used to the fact that people actually cared about him, not as an experimental subject, not as a wannabe superhero, but just about him. About Bob.

            “Oh, yeah,” he stammered, giving Yelena a tight-lipped smile, but he couldn’t control the way his hands wrung together, betraying the anxiousness he was feeling. “Everything’s A-Okay.”

            For a second neither of them moved or said anything, and just as Bob was about to venture down to his room, Yelena crossed her arms, cocking her hip to the side and raising a single brow.

            All he could do was sigh. She was one of the few people it was hard to lie to, whom he didn’t even really want to lie to. “It’s just that… umm… Y/N and I were supposed to go to a bookstore a while ago, but she uh… well, I haven’t seen her all day… and when I asked around, nobody else has either. Ava even said she didn’t come up for breakfast, and she wasn’t in the kitchen for lunch, so…”

            “That does not sound like her.” Yelena’s nose scrunched as she went closer and knocked against Y/N’s door, a motion that came so easily to her, yet Bob had struggled for ages to even lift his hand. “Lubov moya,” she sing-songed in Russian. “Are you in there?”

             And once again, only silence responded. As the moment stretched, Bob slowly started to roll back and forth on his feet. God, why hadn’t he thought about how she could already have left the tower ages ago!

            But no, it wouldn’t be like Y/N to just leave him hanging or not let at least one person know where she was.

            Unless… unless she’d gone out to do something she didn’t want the others to know about… to tease her about… like maybe she’d gone on a date.

            “It’s – it’s alright,” Bob let out a strangled chuckle, as thoughts whirled inside his head. “She just probably forgot about it, or something more important came up.”

            But the ex-Widow just knocked again, ignoring Bob’s spiralling. “Legushka?” she called out, the nickname rolling off her tongue with a concerned yet teasing lilt.

            There’d been this one time John had called Y/N that, snorting as Alexei had translated the meaning of the word (froggy or little frog), and where usually she’d respond with an eye roll to Yelena or their sort-of-kind-of adoptive father figure, Walker received a bloody nose and grade-two concussion.

            Only Yelena had the privilege of calling her fellow ex-Red Room alumni such absurd names without any consequences. And, well, sometimes Bob could too, but he wrote it off on the fact that Y/N just tried to make him feel included, and no other reason…

            “Snookums? My little pookie-wookie?” Now, Yelena was just making things up as she went, no doubt hoping to get at least some sort of a response from Y/N, but when even that didn’t accomplish anything, with a grumbled, “alright, fine, be that way,” she crouched down, pulling out a picking set from her boot.

            Bob’s eyes widened in alarm, hissing at the woman, “What are you doing? Don’t do that!”

            “Well, we have to get in somehow,” Yelena just shrugged, the noise of metal softly scraping against metal invading his senses.

            “Not by breaking and entering Y/N’s room!”     

            The blonde let out a squeak of indignation. “I am not breaking and entering!” The lock clicked open. “For one – I didn’t break shit. And two – the door is open. Now it’s just entering.”

            “She is going to kill us, and I will not be coming to your rescue.”

            “Please,” Yelena replaced her picking tools back inside her boot. “We have too much history between us in the Red Room for her to decide this is the final drop. As for you…” Yelena smirked. “Let’s just say, I know things you don’t.”

            “Wait, what? What do you know? What things?”

            But she didn’t respond, only opened the door.

            Bob wanted to protest, wanted to say they shouldn’t be invading Y/N’s private space like that, wanted to shake Yelena down for whatever information she might possess. If it had anything to do with feelings he hoped Y/N might have for him. That most likely, there was a reason she wasn’t answering, even if she was there, and that most likely, she just felt bad about not wanting to hang out with him, but didn’t want to hurt his feelings by saying so, which he was totally fine and cool with and –

            Yelena poked her head inside, and where usually, Y/N’s place was brightly lit by the daylight, her curtains drawn back to allow it to be illuminated, pure darkness greeted them, as Bob, shame curling in his stomach at such invasion, peered over Yelena’s head to take a glance.

            He associated Y/N’s room with peace.

            Cream colored walls, dark brown curtains with a plush carpet, emerald settees resting atop it and a large bookshelf taking up a whole wall with softly glowing nightlights in the shape of sprouting mushrooms would be plugged in during the night, and plastic glow-in-the-dark stars creating real and made-up constellations on the ceiling – that was the space he considered his true home.

            Every free inch was covered in some knick-knack or a souvenir, as she had a tendency to collect small things, but she also had a tendency to gift them to others.

            She was kind. Caring. Thoughtful. She was Bob’s safe place.

            Yet now it was pitch black inside.

            Yelena was clearly just as worried as he was, because when she looked up from her still crouched position, confusion marred her face.

            “Malishka?” she called out as she stood, slowly entering the room, Bob following as their eyes adjusted to the lack of lighting.

            He shifted his gaze around only to settle on a large moving mound on the bed, so with Yelena as the lead, they moved towards it, when finally a voice rasped from somewhere beneath the ungodly amount of blankets. “Malishka is dead. Come back tomorrow with a warrant. Or a casket.”

            Every single doubt that’d permeated Bob’s mind vanished at the realisation of what was really going on.

            Y/N hadn’t forgotten about the plans they’d made. She hadn’t found something better to do with her time or decided he was simply not worth her while.

            Y/N was sick.

            And by the sound of it, badly.

            Bob’s heart clenched at the thought. They all seemed so indestructible, but it was moments like those, where he was reminded that some of them, especially Yelena and Y/N – the two people he’d grown to care most about in the weird little team he was a part of – were simply humans. And humans could get ill.

            Gently, Yelena sat down on the side of the bed, her fingers rooting around the coverings before an opening was made, a pair of Y/E/C eyes squinting at the intruders. “Can you please close the door? My eyeballs hurt.”

            “Oh, shit!” Bob cursed softly, padding to the door and closing it, once again plunging the room into complete darkness. “Sorry.”

            He wanted to rebel against the black that now surrounded them, he wanted to panic and spiral, to have at least one of those nightlights be turned on, but somehow, through a sheer sense of will, he steeled himself against the rising tide. Whether it was because he knew light would hurt Y/N, or whether it was because he felt safe with the two women, despite not really being able to see anything that wasn’t an inch away from his face, Bob couldn’t tell. Well… he could, but he wasn’t going to say it out loud, because that would make things real…

            “Can you please breathe quieter, Lena?” Y/N groaned from her cocoon. “My head’s pounding as is.”

            “Oh, sweetheart,” Yelena cooed, placing the back of her hand against the other woman’s forehead to feel for her temperature. “I think you might have the flu, huh?”

            Y/N sniffled. “I dunno what I have, but whatever it is, I blame Walker.”

            Bob looked at Yelena, the man still hovering by the bedside table, not wanting to invade the space between the two. “Has John been sick?”

            “Not that I’m aware.” Yelena ghosted her hand over Y/N’s cheek before standing up and going to what he knew to be the bathroom. After a quick second, she returned with a wet cloth, laying it over her friend’s forehead. “But we can always blame him.”

            A delirious smile appeared on Y/N’s face. “We can, can’t we?”

            “Of course.” Yelena nodded. “Would it make you feel better if I went and beat him up?”

            “I think it would, yeah… Can you stab him too?” Y/N asked as an afterthought.

            “Anything for you, legushka moya.” Yelena brushed a sweaty Y/H/C strand from where it’d plastered itself down against her cheek. Bob’s heart ached at the tender motion, fingers twitching at his side with the want to do the same, but he restrained himself. “But tell you what, before I go and seek revenge on Walker, how about I go and make you some soup, and Bob will keep you company. Sound okay?”

            Instantly, it was like someone had turned the light switch off, Y/N’s smile dropped, and she harrumphed. “Bob can stay, but no soup.”

            “Soup always makes everything better! Besides, Bob said you didn’t go to breakfast or lunch. You have to get something in you,” Yelena scolded the woman. Despite them being barely a month apart, she acted like an older sister to Y/N.

            The sick girl just whined. “I’m not hungry. I’m achy and icky and gross, and I just wanna rot away in my bed.”                             

            “Well, you need to get food in you,” the ex-Widow countered, hands on her hips. “Do not move. I will be right back. Bob, please keep an eye on her.”

            “As if I could go anywhere,” Y/N scoffed, but it fell only on Bob’s ears, as Yelena had already made her exit.

            On instinct, his fingers started fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, a nervousness taking over his body. After a moment of unsurety of what exactly he was supposed to do, a croaky voice whispered, “You should go, Bob. I know Lena said to stay, but I don’t want you to catch whatever wasting disease I have."

            An involuntary smile blossomed on his lips at her care about his well-being, despite being so sick herself. “I uh, I don’t think I can get sick anymore, so no worries there.”

            He noted the small frown on Y/N’s lips as she eyed him up and down. “Show off,” she muttered, but didn’t tell him to leave again, rather said, “ ‘M sorry about today, by the way. Should’ve at least gotten out of bed and told you I wasn’t fit to walk in civilised society. I’m sorry if I worried you.”     

            “No!” he said, trying to quell her guilt, sitting down onto the bed, and to his own surprise, brushing a finger down her cheek without even thinking. “No, no, no… you’re not feeling well, so don’t even worry about me. I’m just glad that, you know, you’re not bleeding out on the bathroom floor or something.”

            Bob’s whole being lit up when, despite Y/N being evidently unwell, she snorted, no doubt remembering how about a month prior when she’d returned to the Watchtower after a mission, she’d pretty much traumatized both Bob and John, as they’d found her half-dead on the kitchen floor, munching on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, blood pooling around her at a rapid pace.

            “Seriously!?” John had scoffed as he helped Bob lift Y/N up from the floor, the two men supporting as much of her weight as possible as they dragged her to the elevator and then to the med-floor. “PB&J? That was gonna be your last meal?”

            “Hey!” Y/N protested. “It was the only thing I could manage to make before the wooziness set in. You know, from having been turned into a walking-talking shishkabob.” She chuckled deliriously, looking at the man who had the biggest crush on her in the world, yet she didn’t even know about it, and now she could potentially die. “Huh. Shish-ka-Bob.” Then she booped his nose and promptly passed out.

            Safe to say, he’d spent the next few days hovering in the med-bay, and when Y/N had been discharged, off-missions for a while, but allowed to rest in her room, he’d hovered in the hallway behind her door, just to make sure the things he saw during his nightmares, the images that the Void tried to tell him were real, actually weren’t.

            But Y/N didn’t know that.

            She didn’t know the true extent of what went on inside Bob’s mind or heart, didn’t know the real depth of the feelings he had for her.

            She didn’t know how much the nights she allowed him to spend in her room meant to him.

            She didn’t know how much the little trinkets she brought back for him as a souvenir from whichever corner of the world she’d been sent to, mattered.

            She didn’t know that if the tower suddenly caught on fire and he could only save three things, he’d rush inside the flames to take the three little cat figurines sitting on his shelf.

            It had been after she’d returned from a solo mission in Japan, Bob having pretty much worried himself sick, only to have her bound up to him, still dirt-covered and bloodied, but the smile on her face was as bright as the morning sun. “Look!” She presented the white, red and gold porcelain cats. “It’s the three of us! Me, you and Lena! They’re so cute!”

            That night, he’d fallen asleep with the three little waving felines looking over him, golden night-light illuminating the statuettes.

            So, in a moment like this, where Y/N was the one who needed support, he could only hope and pray, she felt it from him.

            Gently, Bob brushed a palm against her forehead, taking off the wet towel that’d now warmed up to her skin temperature. But he hadn’t anticipated that, despite being bogged down by most likely the flu, her reflexes were still Black-Widow-quick, as her hand shot out from underneath the blankets, grabbing onto his wrist and pressing his hand against the skin of her neck. “Oh, you are so warm,” she sighed, cuddling the appendage.

            “S-so are you!” Bob didn’t necessarily know what to do. “Alarmingly so, actually.”

            “Yeah,” Y/N puffed a breath, still not releasing the death-grip she had on his hand. “That’s probably the 103 fever I have going on.”

            Instantly, his anxiety skyrocketed.

            He knew he ran warm. He pretty much always had the AC on in his room, especially at night, as he was a complete contradiction of a human – he was abysmally hot all the time, mainly thanks to the Sentry serum, but he was most comfortable in a sweater and sweatpants while swaddled up like a burrito in a blanket.

            His heart thudded in his chest as Y/N snuggled closer to his touch, while he worried he was doing her harm. Yes, a fever was the body’s natural way of fighting off viruses or infections and whatnot, but a too high a fever was also dangerous, and he'd never forgive himself if he made it worse.

            “Y/N, you’re really burning up.” Bob chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Can you please let me go? Just for a second,” he added on, as she whined when he tried to slip his hand away. “I’m just gonna get you a new cold compress. Please…”

            “But I don’t want you to leave!”

            “I’m – I’m not gonna leave,” he whispered, terrified that if his voice was any louder, any clearer, she might pick up on the emotion he was trying to suppress. “I promise, it’ll be just a second. I won’t even go outside the room.”

            For a moment, Y/N’s grip tightened on Bob, holding him closer than ever, but then, with a sigh of defeat, she released him.

            He was quick, just like he said he would. Even in pure darkness, his eyes having adjusted to the lack of light now, probably thanks to the Sentry serum, he dampened the cloth with cold water and wrung out the excess, getting back to her, in the time it took for Y/N to shift from lying on her side to being on her back.

            She’d somewhat untangled herself from the cocoon of blankets, and Bob had to stop mid-step as he noted what she was wearing.

            It was his sweater. Well, one of the many he had, but it was something of his nonetheless.

            And he could physically feel how something broken and cracked inside him got stitched together. Some deep, still-hurting part of Bob, that always managed to whisper a negative thought, how he didn’t matter, how washing the dishes and doing the chores was nothing compared to what everyone else in the tower did, fused back together, the Void’s incessant noise quietening. With just a simple glance at Y/N, who had found comfort in something of his when she was feeling bad, Bob felt a part of him heal.

            He didn’t comment on it, though, half-terrified if he did, she might think he was mad about it, when in reality it was the complete opposite. And an insatiable need had now settled somewhere in his chest, a want to see her in all of his clothes. And maybe nothing as well…

            “H-here,” Bob stammered out, before taking a deep breath and sinking down next to Y/N on the bed. Gently, he placed the towel along her forehead, and he couldn’t help himself as his thumb brushed along her jawline, tracing a small scar, no doubt from some mission. She leaned into his touch like a sunflower leaned towards the sun. “Is there anything I can get you?”

            “No,” she shook her head, and this time, when her hand met his, she intertwined their fingers, as if afraid he might disappear. “Just stay, please.”

            “Always.”

            And there really wasn’t anywhere else Bob wanted to be.

            The thought of spending the day at a bookstore, some ungodly sweet concoction that resembled a coffee only in spirit, in his hand, was only appealing because he would be going with Y/N there.

            “We’ll go when I get better, I promise,” she muttered, as if having read his mind while snuggling closer to the palm he’d placed on her cheek.

            “Books can wait.” Bob hoped his voice was low and soothing as he spoke, blue eyes still trained on the sweater that covered her body, his own feeling all fuzzy at the image. “Just rest.”

            When he didn’t get a response or even a little hum of acknowledgement, he looked up only to find Y/N’s features slack with sleep, her chest rising in slow and steady breaths.

            Bob wanted to curl up next to her, to have his hands wrap around her waist, and have her head rest on his chest as he buried his nose into her hair, because this was the highest degree of trust anyone could have in him. For Y/N to find peace and safety with him while she was in such a vulnerable state, catapulted Bob onto Cloud Nine. He knew darkness would always try to press in, try to find the cracks and strike when he was unawares, but this time he wasn’t afraid of what might be lurking in the shadows. Not when he knew he would have to be the one to step up, if only to protect the one he loved most in the world.

             He sat there like that, entranced with the sleeping beauty on the bed, a thumb softly grazing her cheek, making sure Y/N was as comfortable as possible. He was so attuned to her and her sleeping form, that when the door cracked open, he was startled by Yelena coming in, a tray in her hands as she blew on a steaming bowl of soup.

            “Okay,” once more the blonde sing-songed as she walked inside the room. “I have chicken-noodle soup for our little sick-bug.”

            There was some grumbling from Y/N as she was brought out from her slumber, but despite all her protests, she rose into a sitting position, Bob’s hand on her back a steady help. She eyed the bowl with suspicion. “Who made it?”

            “Do not worry, Dad was nowhere near the pot. He might be lurking for the leftovers now, but this!” She lifted the bowl above her head like it was a diamond, “is all from yours truly.”

            Y/N sniffed the air. “Well, I guess it smells edible… not that I can smell much.”

            “Then this is exactly what you need.” Yelena slid the tray to rest on Y/N’s knees while Bob helped her adjust against the backboard of the bed and was rewarded with the most gorgeous smile ever. “Here you go, legushka. Now, I’ll go get some paracetamol and VapoRub, and by the time I get back, I expect that bowl to be empty. It will do wonders for your sinuses, trust me.”

            She didn’t argue, just let out a resigned sigh and nodded, taking the spoon in her hand. “You know, back in the Red Room, Mistress Vera said the best kind of medicine is a good beating. Will get you right back on your feet.”

            “Yes, well, that is why Mistress Vera is six feet under.” Yelena fluffed up a pillow behind Y/N before nudging her chin up with a finger. “As is the whole of Red Room.”

            “I mean right now, I think I’d rather get a good beat-“

            “Eat,” Yelena interrupted whatever she was about to say.

            “Fine, fine, Jesus…. You’re worse than Mistress Vera…”

            Slowly, without moving her gaze from Y/N, Yelena stood to hover over her. Even Bob could feel the menacing aura she exuded – an older sister ready to torment her younger one. “And if you don’t eat every single noodle, every single piece of carrot and celery and chicken, you will be wishing Mistress Vera were here. Understood? Legushka moya?”

            Though Y/N was bleary and tired, she was unwavering as the two Black Widows engaged in a stare-off. Unfortunately for her, though, she was the first one to break, as she rubbed at her teary eyes, probably because of the light that was filtering into the room from the open doorway.

            “Damn it, Lena, fine! I’ll eat the stupid soup!”

            “Good.” The blonde straightened out, a self-satisfied smile on her face. “Because Bob will tell me if you don’t. Won’t you, Bobik?”

            His eyes turned so wide he was afraid they might fall out of his head.

            God.

            Oh god no.

            He was stuck between a rock and a hard place as Y/N glowered from below her lashes, sniffling, while Yelena cocked her head to the side.

            Ultimately, though, his loyalty to the blonde and wanting nothing but the best for the well-being of the woman he was in love with, no matter what she might say to counter the effectiveness of the soup, won out. “Yeah. I – I will.”

            Y/N scoffed, turning her head away from him as Yelena pressed a triumphant kiss to the top of her hair before leaving.

            “Traitor,” she muttered.

            Bob looked down at his hands, which he had resting in his lap as he worried the inside of his cheek. “I just want you to get better, Y/N…”

            “And I just wanna lie down and die, but neither of you is letting me.”

            “But who’s gonna go to the bookstore with me if you die?” He gave her a small smile, hoping to elevate her sour mood.

            “I dunno, John?”

            Bob gave her a look, their gazes meeting. “You actually think John can read?”

            If Y/N had been eating the soup, no doubt she would’ve choked with how she threw her head back in a loud laugh, as Bob tried to steady the tray, the broth sloshing a bit out of the bowl.      

            “I’m sorry,” she chuckled, their fingers brushing as she held the platter and pulled it closer. “Didn’t mean to make a mess.”

            “Don’t be.” The smile on his face was probably ridiculous, wide enough to make his cheeks hurt. “Laughter’s the best medicine or uh… something along those lines.”

            “You should tell Mistress Vera that. Might have to use a OUIJA board though.” Y/N winced as the hot liquid slid down her sore throat, slowly chewing on a piece of noodle.

            Admittedly, Bob didn’t know much about her time in the Red Room. He’d seen her shame rooms, just like he’d been privy to Yelena’s and the rest of the Thunderbolts’, as she’d been there when the Void had attacked New York, but once he came out of it, once they told him what he’d done, the feeling of having violated their privacy… he never asked either of them to talk about their time there.

            All Bob knew was that Mistress Vera had been Y/N’s handler, as she’d been trained separately from Yelena and her sister Natasha. Only after the original Avenger had broken her out of the trance induced by the mind-control serum used to keep the Black Widows under the Red Room spell, did Y/N join the two in helping them take down the organisation.

            “Oh… oh shit, I’m sorry,” her words of apology brought him back to the present, away from the thoughts of what she’d had to go through as a child, where a sore throat wouldn’t have been healed by a gentle touch, but a brutal beating.

            His brows furrowed as he looked around, thinking she might’ve spilt the soup, but there wasn’t anything there. “Whatever for?”

            “The dark!” she said, like it was a crime she’d committed. “Bob, you can put in some of the nightlights. They’re by the plugs.”

            “Oh, that’s…” He shook his head, for once happy to be surrounded by mostly shadows because that meant Y/N couldn’t see the furious blush covering his face, while his longish hair obscured his smiling features as he glanced down at his hands. “It’s okay. I don’t mind actually.”

            “But you don’t like the dark…?” The sentence was more of a question than the solid statement it used to be.

            Bob shrugged, pulling down the sleeves of his sweater. “This isn’t that bad… and if it helps you feel better, your eyes to not hurt, I don’t mind.”

            “I don’t want you to ‘not mind’ things. Bob, if you’re uncomfortable, you should put in at least one nightlight. Seriously. They’re not gonna boil out of my skull or something.”

            “My comfort isn’t as important as your health right now.” He shifted on the bed.

            “Of course it is!” The offended squeak Y/N let out would have made him smile, had it not turned into a violent coughing fit.

            After she was done hacking her lungs up, Bob’s hand running up and down her spine, hoping to at least somewhat soothe the ache, he lifted the warm bowl of soup closer to her. “Eat. Or I will tell on you to Yelena.”

            “Stukach,” Y/N mumbled in Russian, glaring at him as best as she could. Alexei and Yelena had introduced him enough to the language (mostly swearwords, which they said were the most important words) for him to understand she’d called him a snitch, but if being a snitch would motivate her to eat and get better, so be it.

            With a fond gaze, he watched as she finally got some food into her, and once she was done, he took the tray away, placing it on the nightstand, a hand of his acting on its own accord as he brushed a finger along her cheek. “Better?”

            “Yes. But don’t tell Lena that. She’ll just be insufferably smug about it.”

            Shaking his head, Bob helped Y/N settle back into bed, tucking the blanket under her chin, but before he could even move a foot, her hand shot out, curling around his wrist once more.

            “Bob?”

            “Yeah?” He looked where the woman lay against the plush pillows, head slowly sinking deeper into the down.

            “Could you… umm… and that is only if you really can’t get sick… could you maybe stay with me? Just until I fall asleep…”

            He was sure his heart had skipped a beat. Or maybe it’d done a full-blown gymnastics routine, somersaults and all, because it definitely wasn’t beating in its normal rhythm in his chest.

            “Y-yeah, of course, if that’s what you want.” Bob swallowed hard, nodding. “Just, uh… let me bring the tray to the kitchen, and then I’ll be right back.”

            And with a small “okay” from Y/N as his dismissal, Bob scurried out of the room like lightning.

            The hallway light was blinding compared to the darkness of the room he’d just spent about an hour in, but for the first time in his life, he craved it. Because in that darkness was safety and peace. In that darkness lay a body, curled up on a bed, covered in his sweater, waiting for him, hoping he’d help her get better.

            He barely acknowledged Ava or Bucky, who called out to him, asking if he was alright, as he grabbed a couple of water bottles from the fridge and some of the pretzels Alexei had stashed behind pots and pans, hoping to hide his hoard. He wouldn’t mind, Bob reasoned. Y/N was like another daughter to him, and if she’d eaten the soup, despite all her protesting, maybe her appetite was gonna be coming back sooner rather than later, and he wanted to be stocked up on snacks. Besides, he could just blame Walker if needed.

            When he returned, he was instantly enveloped by Y/N’s scent as if it were its own form of blanket.

            “Hey,” Bob whispered, not wanting to break the settled peace. “I’m – I’m back.”

            He mostly heard rather than saw shuffling on the bed, but as his eyes adjusted, he noted Y/N had moved to the side furthest from the door, opening up some space on the bed.

            She’d done so before during the nights his mind had been restless, but somehow this felt much more intimate than when insomnia forbade him from sleeping.

            Slowly, as if afraid this moment would be ripped from him if he moved any quicker, Bob placed the waters and pretzels on the ground, sliding in next to her, turning to face Y/N with one hand under his cheek, the other on the mattress between them.

            “Thank you,” she muttered, the ghost of a smile on her face as her hand slid from below the blankets and rested atop his. “For taking care of me.”

            “I–I mean, I didn’t –“

            “You did,” she interrupted his stammering, tightening the grip she had on him. Gently, he flipped it palm up so that her fingers could slide between his. “And you still are. So thank you.”

            And once again, like he’d said before, he simply replied, “Always.”

            With that single word spoken, Bob watched as Y/N’s eyes drooped closed, her breathing evened out, and once again she was deeply asleep. Yet even when in dreamland, her hold on him never wavered. Not when she twisted out from the cocoon and scooted closer to him, not as chills overtook her body and Bob held her through them, not as the fever broke and a small sigh of relief escaped, her body slowly returning to a normal temperature.

            For the first time in his life, Bob had found peace in the darkness, all because of the woman lying in his arms. And when it came to claim him too, he gladly fell, knowing that when he awoke, she would be there, much like she’d be in his dreams.

***

BONUS

“Oh my god! Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, this is so cute!”

            It was a harsh whisper-yell that brought Bob out of his slumber.

            He peeked an eye open, noting the unmistakable shape of Y/N’s form in his arms. She was still sound asleep, her body curled around his like that of a koala’s, head tucked below his chin, while one of her arms had a death-grip on his waist, a leg thrown over his hip.

            One of his own arms was underneath her, completely numb. From the feeling of it, it’d probably been there for ages, but if this position meant she was comfortable and could have a good sleep, he’d deal with the pins-and-needles a hundred times over if necessary.

            Turning to look over his shoulder, Bob found the culprit or rather culprits of the noise as he was met with the faces of Yelena, Alexei, Bucky, Ava and John all looking at them through a gap in the door, the Red Guardian with a phone in his hand, no doubt taking pictures of the two cuddling.

            “You guys,” he mumbled, a blush of embarrassment crawling its way all over his body. “Can you pipe it down? Y/N’s asleep.”

            “How is Legushka?” Yelena whispered into the room. “Did the fever break?”

            “Yes!” Bob hissed, turning away from the team and curling tighter around the body he had in his hold. “Now, can you all please leave? You’ll wake her up.”

            “Sorry.” Bucky raised his hands in apology. “I told them not to disturb you. Come on! Out, everyone!”

            Obviously, he more than Y/N, would get mercilessly teased about it, but he could take it, if it meant a bit more time with her in his arms, but just when he thought he’d gotten away with it, Walker just had to shout a loud, “Yeah, fucking get it, Bobik!”, making Y/N spring up.

            She took a confused glance around at the room before her eyes settled onto Bob who was on her bed, red-faced and mortified.

            “The toad did it,” Y/N said, her tone serious as a heart attack.

            Bob blinked once. Twice. “What?”

            “I swear the toad did it,” she mumbled, evidently delirious from sleep and the flu, but slowly moving back to lay down next to him, curling into the man’s body like it was where she belonged. “The toad ate the last strawberry. Damn thieving amphibian…”

            Come morning, he would ask about the toad and the strawberry and if it had anything to do with Yelena’s nickname for her, but for now, Bob just pressed a light kiss against Y/N’s forehead, eyes slipping closed, listening to the melody of her breathing.

            One day, he would tell her how he really felt.

            One day, he would give his heart to her.

            One day, he hoped, she would trust him with her own.

             But for then and there, Bob was content with his present. With the peace he’d found in the darkness.

Tags: Marvel tags: @nerissa98 @asguardiansoftheavengers @crazybutconfidentaf @pizzarollpatrol @desir-ae A/N: we are so back baby, Tower fics incoming! Bob, my love, my life... you bet your ass I'm probably gonna write something where OG Avengers are still alive and living in the tower with Thunderbolts*!!! The chaos that would ensue is giving me life Tags are always open

[butchcockiness2]

just a reminder that calling covid cautious people "paranoid" or saying we must have "undiagnosed OCD" or "severe anxiety" for spreading truth about the dangers of covid is not only incredibly condescending and literally (i do not use this word lightly) gaslighting, it corroborates fascist and eugenicist rhetoric. covid IS NOT "just a cold." covid reinfections DO increase your likelihood of long COVID and death, including immune system deficit that is not something that can be felt, here's 85+ studies on how covid deteriorates the body. rapid tests DO often and in fact most times give false negatives (taking 3 spaced out helps bridge this gap, and NAAT tests such as the metrix and pluslife have much higher accuracy, those two over 97% each), and masks DO work, particularly well-fitted respirators (kn95/n95/ffp2/3 depending on country; two-way masking is much safer than one-way masking which is why everyone who can needs to mask to protect their community, but one-way masking is still MUCH safer than no masking). masking resources

don't panic or assume your life is over if you have an infection, get as much rest as you can for 6-8 weeks post infection to aid recovery and lower long covid risk (especially do your best to avoid raising your heart rate; this includes watching your heart rate during masturbation and sex!), and do practice harm reduction rather than demanding perfection from yourselves, absolutely.

but do not use "perfect safety is impossible" as an excuse not to care for your community and yourself by masking, do not encourage antimasking by calling covid cautious people paranoid or OCD or mentally ill for putting forth basic truths on our and your reality. there is a conversation to be had about caring for mental health of activists, but gaslighting us and denying the reality we live in is going to make it worse, not better. you are playing into eugenicist rhetoric whether you intend to or not.

this post is a fantastic guide to staying covid safer in your sex life! w more information on safety measures including NAAT tests and how to start re-incorporating exercise and heart rate raising including masturbation after covid infections

to everyone still masking, sending love ❤️ to anyone who stopped, it's never too late to start again!

[endofthelinegang]

corner pieces

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  bob reynolds x fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  based on the prompt “I swear it was an accident.”

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  bob acts like a real person, Crippling pining, sensory indulgence, suggestive warmth, puzzle trauma

The room smells like bergamot and old books. It’s a warm scent, not overbearing—just enough to blend into the low hum of static between the two of you. The kind of scent that clings to sweaters and pillows. Lived-in. Safe. A comfort that doesn’t pester those who seek it. The single lamp in the corner casts a buttery glow across the floorboards, catching dust motes midair like stars hung in syrup. Outside the window, the city breathes in long neon signs, white and red streaks sliding across the wall through the half-open blinds. It feels like a scene out of a dream you forgot to wake up from.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the carpet in the middle of Bob’s room. The floor beneath you is warm from hours spent shifting in place. The puzzle box sits open between you both, its contents already claiming the entire space like spilled thoughts—disorganized, half-assembled, begging for attention. The picture on the box is a lakeside cabin in autumn. Orange trees. A little dock. Water is like glass. A peace neither of you have ever really known, but like to pretend exists in some corner of the world. 

You’re wearing his shirt.

It hadn’t been planned that way. It was just… there. Folded at the bottom of your drawer from the last time you borrowed it and forgot to return it. Or maybe you’d chosen not to return it. Maybe you like the way it feels—how soft the cotton is from wear, how it still holds the memory of him. It’s too big on you, dipping off one shoulder, swallowing your arms whole. But that’s half the point. It feels like being wrapped in something safe. 

And maybe he notices.

Maybe that’s why he’s been stealing glances at you all night—some subtle, some not. You catch the way his eyes linger, heavy and hesitant, every time your shoulder shifts and more of your skin is revealed. Or the way your squint at the puzzle pieces trying to figure out where any of them might fit because trying to build water was not a good time. 

He’s cross-legged, too—one knee bent up, the other stretched out lazily in front of him. His hoodie shrugged off his shoulders, sleeves pooled around his elbows. The t-shirt beneath is worn and soft-looking, hanging loose over the thick lines of his frame. His hair is slightly mussed, the result of both puzzle frustration and your fingers ghosting through it earlier when he realized this was going to be an entire night and made drinks for both of you. 

And now, he’s frowning at a puzzle piece. Specifically, a crooked little piece in his hand that looks like a misshapen bean. He had kept turning it in a circle between his fingers trying to understand how something shaped so strangely would go anywhere on this perfectly square shaped board.

“I’m telling you,” he says, eyebrows furrowed like he still was not entirely sure but had made up his mind just a little bit more than before,  “this is the corner piece.” 

You look at what he is showing you, the two of you had gone back and forth on issues similar to this all evening long. At one point you had been sitting side by side almost in each other's lap but then it got serious and you decided to tackle the issue as a two against one. The edges curve slightly, unmistakably. There’s even a puff of cloud on one end. You raise an unimpressed brow. “That piece is a cloud.”

He blinks at you, then looks down at it again like it betrayed him, he did not even think to look at the colors or he supposed the lack thereof.  “It has… a kind of corner energy.”

You snort looking back down at the piles of pieces you had sorted out. “You mean it doesn’t fit anywhere and you’ve given up.”

A beat. A stare at you. Then, grudgingly: “I’m a man of conviction.”

You reach out, the sleeve of his shirt falling farther down your arm as you gently pluck the offending piece from his hand. The tips of your fingers brush his in the process—warm, roughened by training, slow to pull back—and the contact sends a flicker up your arm like static electricity, subtle and impossible to ignore.

You study the piece like it’s under a microscope. “This does not have corner energy. This has lost-in-the-middle-of-the-sky energy.”

You drop it back in the box with a quiet plastic tap, and when you look back up, he’s already watching you. Head tilted. Eyes soft but unreadable. The kind of gaze that feels like it knows things. The kind that strips you bare without asking permission. His stare lingers too long on your mouth. He swallows once, slow.

“You always wear my stuff when you come in here?” he asks, voice dipped lower now—hoarse from a day of not talking much, maybe even rougher from whatever this moment is turning into. One of the reasons this had been taking so long was because this is what he had been really doing. Staring you down piece by piece. Your limbs, your face, your hair, your neckline, your accessories, and now your clothes. 

You glance down at yourself like you forgot what you were wearing only to see your favorite shirt in your drawer attached around your body.. “Only when I forget how cold it is in this place.”

You try to make it sound casual. But your voice wavers at the end. And he hears it. His eyes track the way your hand tugs the sleeve over your fingers again, a small, nervous movement. The silence stretches a little too long, and neither of you looks back at the puzzle. You try to pivot—reaching for another piece, something neutral, something to focus on—but your fingers find him again as you go for the same blue and white pile.

This time, neither of you moves right away. The contact is fleeting. Barely a second. But it lands with a weight that feels like gravity leaning closer. He shifts then, almost imperceptibly. His leg stretches out and nudges into yours—just barely—but it stays there. Pressed. Solid. The fabric of his joggers brushing the soft cotton of your pajama shorts. The warmth of his skin bleeding through.

You glance down, try to hide the way your breath catches. He then decides that this is not all that comfy and rather takes back to the position you had been in earlier, but this time he was the one initiating it. He was now sitting right beside you, his entire side touching yours. If you were to turn to your left your face would touch his. 

“You’re crowding me,” you say quietly, not looking at him but you nudge him jokingly with your arm as you continue to pretend to work on the puzzle.

His voice is a rumble against your ear. “I’m spatially efficient.”

You risk a glance. His lips are curved in a faint smile, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes because his eyes are too busy staring at you like he’s memorizing the way you sit, the way you breathe. You reach again—for something to break the tension—but your foot clips the edge of the puzzle board. And then everything topples.

The half-assembled top section buckles like a failed rooftop, scattering sky across the floor in a quiet chaos. Pieces slide under the bed, some bounce against the dresser, and one singular blue-and-white fragment drops directly into Bob’s untouched mug of cocoa.

You gasp, hands frozen midair. “Shit—”

Bob stares in stunned silence.

Then—he laughs.

It bursts out of him all at once, unfiltered and honest, chest shaking with it. The kind of laugh that makes his eyes crinkle, that shakes the hair from his forehead. The kind you never get to hear. Not really. Not like this. He puts his head on your shoulder as he does so.

You press your hand to your mouth, laughing helplessly along with him. “I murdered the sky.”

He wipes at his eyes, still chuckling. “You drowned it with the marshmallows.”

Your laughter fades into soft giggles as you both begin scooping pieces back toward the board, his hand brushing yours again and again—this time not pulling away. But as you reach too far, your knee slips, throwing off your balance. Your hand skids across the floor and you tip forward. And Bob catches you letting several pieces in his hand fall back to the floor.

One strong hand loops instinctively around your waist, the other steadying your wrist. You land half against his chest, your laugh dying out instantly as you realize the closeness of it all. His breath is warm against your temple. His heart is pounding. You can feel it, real and loud, against your side. And then… nothing. Stillness. His hand doesn’t move, just holds. Gentle. Like you’re something precious.

You wrestle in his grip a bit to face him, to look up at him, and the world slows. His pupils are wide. His jaw tense. His gaze drops to your lips and lingers, breath hitching like he’s waiting for permission. Waiting for a signal.

“I don’t want to go,” you whisper, the words slipping out like a secret. You had swore you were going to bed after puzzle time was done but you did not specify whose bed. Usually when the two of you did an activity you would leave and go to your room and stay up all night thinking about how much fun you had. You would get out your phone and type texts into your notes that you would never send him. But tonight you didn’t want that. 

His brow softens—just a little. His thumb drags slowly, deliberately, across the back of your hand.

“Then don’t,” he murmurs.

His voice isn’t desperate. It’s steady. Soft. Certain. It’s not a line. It’s a promise. He brings your hand to his lips, brushing your knuckles with a kiss so light it barely registers—except it does, and it sinks deep, curling behind your ribs like warmth in winter.

Your breath catches. “I don’t think the puzzle will ever forgive me,” you say, too quietly. You do not break eye contact but you are thinking about the piece that is probably disgusting and falling apart in his drink. 

Bob’s smile grows, crooked and slow, like sunlight easing through blinds. “You still owe me a new sky,” he says.

And you stay there in the quiet—one heartbeat away from spending the night.

[rebelssvy]

whipped ✧.*

bokuto x reader ⋆·˚ ༘ *

ੈ✩‧₊˚

summary: smut sex bokuto is your roomate and he is whipped by you. like in love.

bokuto has always been at your complete mercy. you two had been roommates for a year now. and bokuto has gone around and told everyone he knows that he is going to marry you one day. even as busy has he is as a rising star volleyball player, he always made time for you.

he always made time for you.

you knew bo had a little crush on you. the way he would make way in crowds with his tall figure, just for you. or when he would rub your back after long days. he did a lot of things that made you swoon. you never really considered dating him though.

well untill today. he had gotten home after his work out and was wearing only these short shorts. his abs, shoulders, back, all on sight for you to see. he had said hello to you and went to his room to shower. you then made both of you dinner. he ate all of it, gave you compliments and then did your dishes after. then he did somthing he never had before. he kissed your head. it was somthing so natural. almost like you were dating.

so here you were, it was very late at night. you just couldn’t sleep. you had been thinking about him doing crazy things to you for an hour now. it’s all really gotten to your head. first you thought about your life with him as your husband. and then him getting you pregnant and then all the things he would do to you. and it’s just now really really messed you up.

you glanced at the clock. it was about midnight. there was no way he was up. he was a semi pro athlete right now.

you were really horny.

despite all your efforts to stay in bed and rub yourself off you just couldn’t. you gathered all your confidence up and took it with you. you were gonna need it.

walking out of your bed room you entered your shared living space. it was really quiet. the lights were so dim you could barely see a thing. you finally made your way to his room. there was a tiny light that gave you hope he was still up. a voice in your head was saying ‘y/n turn around and go back to bed.’

pushing aside all your thoughts you pushed open his door without a knock. too your surprise he was still up. he sat at his desk with his headphones on. he was playing a video game.

“oh hey y/n! is everything ok?” he cheered seeing you. even in your disheveled state he still perked up seeing you.

“why are you up bokuto?” you asked him. casually as if you weren’t about to ask him to fuck you.

“just playing cod with an old friend…” he said turning his attention to the screen. just momentarily before turning it back to you. he gave you a full body glance. his eyes wandered up and down.

he looked so fuckable sitting there too. grey sweats, hair all messed up. no shirt. he turned his attention to the screen for the last time as he said through the mic “hey kuroo i have to get off.” and then he turned off all of his things.

he stood up and made his way over to you. “are you okay? why aren’t you asleep.” he questioned. all of the confidence you gathered earlier disappeared as you laid your eyes on him.

you sat in silence. he was waiting for you to say something. “bo..” you whispered. it was so quiet he had to bend over and ask you to repeat it.

“bokuto..” you started. “i.. i need you to fuck me. i can’t stop thinking about you and i just want you.”

…

…

you swore you heard the crickets outside. you didn’t even have to say anything. you took his silence as a no. you turned around and grabbed the door. you were half way out the room when he spun you around face to face.

“baby i need you to say that again just so i can be sure i hear that right.” his eyes had gone half litted. your words had clearly gotten to him.

“i want you to fuck me bo…”

with those words he grabbed your face and brought it to his. kissing you with a delicate touch. slowly mixing saliva you moaned into his mouth. the delicate touch was thrown out the window as soon as you started making noises. bokuto broke the kiss, picking you up and throwing you onto his bed.

“just tell me what you need and i’ll do it. i’m at your mercy y/n.” he was so hot like this. he had the strength to do anything he wanted to. but he whined for your attention.

even your positioning. he had you sitting at the foot of the bed while he crouched on the rug in front of you. you giggled at bud mannerism.

he peaked his head up at the sound of your laugh. it was one of his favorite sounds.

“bo… just make me feel good.” you watched as his face flushed a deep red. he shook his head and sat next to you on the bed.

almost like he was savoring you he tilted your head to the side, parting a way to your neck. he slowly kissed at it, starting at your ear and moving to your collar bone. he stopped only once to look at your flushed state. before he continued.

“can i?” he asked prodding at your tshirt. you nodded before pulling it off yourself. he gawked at your naked chest. you hadn’t been wearing a bra. you also hadn’t noticed you were holding your breath. nervous of what he was going to think.

“you don’t know how long i’ve dreamt of this..” he said softly, almost like he was taking to himself. the took both your boobs delicately into his hands. playing with them before he licked at him. the sensation of his tounge onto your hard nipples settled the urge in your core for a moment.

you groaned letting your head fall back “mmmbokuto yes..” you whispered.

his head bolted to yours in an instant like he was starved. mushing his lips to yours all of this restraints shattered at the sound of your words.

you gasped into his mouth as he made quick work of you. positioning you flat on your back, his hands still found your breast.

he parted to stare at you. you sat underneath him. he didn’t say a word, moving in silence to your pants. undoing them with a pace that might kill him. slowly he took your pants off to reveal your sopping pussy. you hadn’t had on any underwear.

his cock grew in his pants. he took a sharp breath in. you noticed your effect on him. slowly you opened your legs for him to get a better view. he got lightheaded from the sight.

his eyes shifted to yours. instead of lust he found love. the way you nodded at him was a sign of affection. the moment he had always waited for was here.

he broke the mutual silence. “are you sure this is okay baby? i mean fuck.. can i please touch you?” his head was screaming at him to just take you. but there was no way he wasn’t going to savor this.

“bo i already told you.. i just want you…” you spoke as you moved around, bringing your hand in a seductive manner, you pinched your breast and moved slowly down your torso. finally reaching your wet cunt you spreaded your folds for him to see.-“ i just want you to make me feel good.” you finished your sentence.

bokuto was ravenous. flipping you to hkm he propped your feet onto his chest. he moved his hands in a face pace to your wet cunt. he spread your pussy all for him to see.

at this moment he realized his pants were still on. he got up to take them off. coming back to you he slapped his cock onto your stomach. you mouth dropped.

“kou… your too big.. i don’t know if it’s gonna fit..” your tone was laced with concern. but the pride bokuto got out of that was inhuman.

“y/n.” he said, “i’m really trying to contain myself but you can’t say stuff like that.” he moaned. he moved his cock through your folds. your body jerked at the touch. he watched as you twitched, your eye brows scrunching up while he collected your slick on his cock.

he slowly pushed himself into you. you pulled him into you. your pussy clenching and spasming around him.

he had to stop himself from plowing into you. he leaned forward to bottom out. coming face to face with you he dropped his head to your ear and whispered. “your taking me so well. funny how you new i would fuck you.. i’ve liked you for so long.” you gasped at his words. he was talkative in bed as well..

he slowly started rolling his hips against you but not once did he move. every inch of him was in you and only going farther.

“i just really want to make you feel good but it’s hard to.. not lose myself when i think about you.”

your arms wrapped around his broad shoulders, his words were too much- until he brought a hand to your tummy.

you felt like you could feel everything. even your juices slowly flowing out of you. the ones that were creaming around the base of his cock. you could feel everything.

“mm fuck- i can feel myself in you. such a good girl taking my cock like this”

his words were pushing you over the edge. your nails dragged crossed his back as a warning. you were close. he moved from his skin to skin position, “y/n i just wanna make you feel good..” he blabbered out. je snapped his cock into you with a harsh that went straight to your core. you arched into him, grabbing at whatever you could. you mumbled ‘fucfyckfuckfuck’ as he pounded into you.

you snapped orgasming around his cock your body shook. your waves crashed over you, you moaned his name but your brain went fuzzy. you came around his hard cock. it was too much for him.

he stayed inside you until you came down from your orgasm and he pulled out and came on your tummy. his cum dripped down you.

as soon as he caught his breath he said the first words that came to mind.

“let me marry you.”

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:··:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:··:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

[specific-dreamer]

thinking about there being a tension in the curtis house that’s been building for a few days and over dinner one night grouchily pony says “jesus darrel it’s like you hate us or something” and darry, who is so completely not here here bc he’s trying not to holler or do something he’ll regret, accidentally says “god if only” in the most wistful tone that has both his brothers snapping their necks to look at him

and soda, in a low voice that sounds like it’s taking everything in him to not panic, asks “what does that mean?”

eyes widening darry forces a laugh out and a fake smile that hardly reaches his cheeks let alone his eyes. “i didn’t mean to say that”

ponyboy waits, “but you did, so.” his voice is steady in the way that only a fresh teenagers could be; ready to be angry, better yet, ready to force his actual feelings down because it’ll be easier to hit and holler than feel upset. “what the heck does that mean”

there’s no escaping. he knows this, which might be part of why darry huffs through his nose and leans back in his chair. they’re silent for a moment as darry looks around; soda’s looking down at his plate, obviously having lost his appetite. the clock says it’s 6:36 pm, a later dinner than usual but eating dinner as a family isn’t a tradition that’s supposed to go away anytime soon. ponyboy’s doing his best to stare darry down, but darry knows his baby brother well enough to know that the kid’s staring into space in an ill attempt to not feel anything.

unfortunately, he’s done the same thing too many times to be able to do it again tonight. “i’m not saying i do hate yall, i just think it’d be easier if i did.” and he probably shouldn’t add the next part, but it’s only fair to be honest. “at least that way i wouldn’t be working myself into a stupor for feeling guilty.”

“what are you guilty of?” soda asks in that same melancholy tone he’s been harboring all week.

darry doesn’t want to admit this, but he’s been having these dreams where he’s still in school and the boys aren’t anything more than an afterthought. if he’s truthful those are one of his favorite dreams because it’s the only time he ever wakes up with a smile.

but then, once he gets out the bed and starts getting ready for the day, reality sets in and he’s quickly disappointed. and then he gets those chest stabs that always come along with guilty feelings.

all because he felt disappointed. because shouldn’t he be waking up with a smile everyday since his brothers aren’t living in a foster home with random strangers? shouldn’t he be happy that he got to keep his brothers even if he had threw all his goals away? even if he did “throw it all away” he’s got them and that ought to count for something right?

“it’s not fair,” he ends. “it’d be a lot easier if i did hate yall because id be able to just walk away, guilt free. but that’s never gonna happen,” he adds. darry’s started collecting their plates before he catches sight of ponyboys quivering lip and the shininess of sodapops eyes. “because i don’t hate yall. i love you. both of you. and that ain’t never gonna change no matter how much i wish it on a bad day, hear?”

he feels that guilt creeping up again when pony gives him a look that he hasn’t seen since the kid was five years old and darry shoved him away to go play with the big kids. his eyes are all squinty and his mouth is frowned and he’s taking shallow breaths like it’s all he can do to keep from sobbing. “you promise?”

a quick glance tells him soda ain’t fairing no better. he’s got his head laid on the table, not even bothering to wipe the tears cascading down his face.

darry sighs and leaves the table to put the plates in the sink. turning the tap on he says, “you know, when you were born soda cried his eyes out.”

“really?”

“mhm. that christmas, he made me write santa asking to exchange you for a real pony.”

he can hear pony’s wet gasp and the distinct sound of someone’s chair getting kicked. “soda!”

“darrel!”

it takes everything in him not to laugh yet as he scrubs the plates. “yeah, he told mama he hated you and wasn’t gonna love you unless you became a real pony.”

“darry, you said you wouldn’t tell him-“

“it’s alright though,” he says when he turns around and sees the crestfallen look on ponyboy’s face. “cause i said the same thing when soda was born.”

“you did?” they ask at the same time.

“yeah, i followed daddy around everywhere right? and when they told me they were pregnant with soda, i said i didn’t want a brother because then i’d have to share daddy. fast forward, im holding a baby soda in my arms and i look at his tiny face and say ‘i didn’t want you’ then mama asked why and i said ‘cause i hate him!’ and you know what mama did?”

he’s never seen them both so silent and still, but they’re clearly enraptured by his story because neither make an attempt to answer. “she laughed right in my face. she laughed and she’d said ‘no you don’t. you can dislike him all you want, but sodapop is family and you don’t hate family.’ mama was right, of course. later that night daddy said he found me in the crib with soda, both of us knocked out but i had let you use my arm as a pillow.

and christmas day, pones, you spat up all over my new sweater and soda ‘bout laughed himself silly declaring he loved you and you were his new favorite.”

the plates are drying on the counter with darry takes his seat again. both the boys have shiny eyes but also have a small smile attempting to grow.

darry doesn’t mean half the shit he says when he’s feeling stuck. he’s changes his mind on things every second of every day, because this his first time being a real adult or a guardian, but the only thing he hasn’t changed his mind on is loving his brothers.

even though he wishes he were still in college, darry hasn’t for a second regretted loving them enough to give up his dreams to be their legal guardian and keep them all together.

sometimes he has to remind himself that he doesn’t regret it, and sometimes he has to remind them, but that’s alright. because at the end of the day, they’re all together. at the end of the day he’s got both his brothers and (if he takes the time to spray their perfume and cologne on their pillows) it’s almost like he’s still got his parents too

[cinnasite]

no (guitar) strings attached?

꩜ pairing: band!au ellie williams x female reader

꩜ warnings:  explicit content, language

꩜ word count: 2.3k

꩜ synopsis: you and ellie have never gotten along. from your bands’ rivalry to years of snark and insults, you’ve always clashed. but when you join ellie’s band as the new bassist after your own group dissolves, the tension only intensifies. the unspoken history between you simmers beneath the surface, leading to an explosive confrontation that leaves you both reeling.

You're the first one to the garage again.

The familiar scent of sweat and guitar polish hangs in the air—something lived-in and loud. You let your bass case slide off your shoulder, landing with a satisfying thunk onto the worn rug as you stretch your fingers. You soak in the tranquility, feeling exhaustion seep into your bones. The quiet makes the space feel heavier somehow. Even heavier when the door creaks open and Ellie steps inside, stopping dead in her tracks when she sees you. The relaxation you savoured five seconds ago disappears.

She blinks. "You've got to be fucking kidding me."

"Nice to see you too, Williams," you sigh, not bothering to look up.

Ellie exhales sharply, kicking the door shut behind her with excessive force. "You're early."

"So are you."

You finally lift your gaze. She's wearing a ratty band tee with the sleeves hacked off, her guitar slung across her back, hair slightly damp like she sprinted here. You wonder if she hoped to arrive first to avoid you. Too bad.

She's still staring like you're a mistake nobody had the courage to erase.

The day you joined the band hadn't exactly gone smoothly. Dina and Jesse had kept it quiet—intentionally so. You weren't stupid. They knew Ellie wouldn't agree if they told her beforehand.

"You’re a damn good bassist," Dina had said, cornering you outside some café with a latte and a promise. "And we coincidentally need one. Seth left."

You'd hesitated. "You know Ellie and I—"

"Exactly," Jesse had cut in. "You push each other. If you ask me, that kind of fire is good on stage."

Ellie hadn't seen it that way. At the first practice, she'd nearly walked out. Called you "the devil in a leather jacket." You'd smiled sweetly and asked if she was scared of being replaced. Now here you are. Two weeks deep with no peace treaty in sight. Just eye-rolls, verbal jabs, and that spark that neither of you are brave enough to name.

Ellie picks through her pedalboard like it personally offended her. You sit on the amp, methodically unpacking your bass. "They running late?" 

She doesn't answer. You pluck a few strings to fill the awkward gaps, testing the tuning.

"You know," you say after a moment, not looking at her, "if you hate me being here that much, you could just, I don’t know, kick me out."

Ellie murmurs a profanity, bitter. "Would if I could, smartass."

"But?"

She hesitates, as if it physically pains her to utter her following choice of words. "But you're good." 

You look at her then. Really look. She's flushed—not just from the heat, you contemplate in surprise. From you.

"That sounded like a compliment."

"Don't get used to it."

You smirk, rolling your shoulders. "Are you always this grumpy before practice? Or just with girls who play better than you?"

Her eyes snap up, previous amiability gone. "You don't play better than me."

"Oh, honey," you hum, cocking your head. "That sounded personal."

And it is. Everything between you two always has been. Ever since your old band and hers used to go toe-to-toe at dive bars and basement gigs, swapping setlists like insults. You remember those nights like bruises you never stopped purposefully pressing—seeing her across the crowd, guitar slung low, lips curled in disdain.

Don’t get it twisted, you never kissed.

But once, after a show... you almost did. You'd both been tipsy, sweaty, vibrating with stage adrenaline. She'd cornered you outside, said something about your stage presence being "obnoxious as hell," and you'd called her a "prick with less-than-average solos." She'd looked at your mouth. You'd leaned in.

Then her ride showed up and the tension collapsed as quickly as it had built. Here in the garage, the ghost of that moment bleeds between you like an open wound.

"Why are you really here?" Ellie asks suddenly, standing.

You shrug nonchalantly. "We've been through this. You lost your bassist, my lead singer bailed on the band life, and now I play with you. Congrats on winning the lottery, by the way."

She steps closer, deliberate and slow. "Bullshit. You could've joined anyone. So why us?"

Your throat tightens at the implication. Because you were aware of what she was hinting at. Because it was her band.

Some masochistic part of you wanted this. Wanted to be near her, to see if the hate could burn hot enough to transmute into something else. Instead you say, "I like pissing you off."

Ellie huffs a dry laugh, then stops just inches from you.

"You're insufferable," she mutters. "Loud. Arrogant. Needy."

You tilt your head. "And you're a control freak with commitment issues."

Her jaw tightens. "God, I can't stand you."

Your smile is all teeth. "Then stop thinking about me when you touch yourself at night, Williams."

The taunt hangs between you for one electrically charged second before something in Ellie's mind shatters.

"You fucking—" She doesn't finish. She's across the room in two strides, shoving you against the wall so hard the amp slides with a screech against concrete. Her face is inches from yours, breath coming fast and ragged.

"You don't know a goddamn thing about me," she hisses, voice dropping to something dangerous.

"I know enough," you challenge, refusing to back down even as your heart hammers against your ribs. "I know you've been watching me since the first time we shared a stage. I know you write songs about the things you hate because it's easier than admitting what you want."

"Shut up." Her grip grows maddeningly dangerous.

"Make me."

The dare feels akin to a lit match over gasoline.

"You think everything's a game," she says, voice cracking slightly. "You walk in here, take over my band, my space—"

"It was never about the band," you cut in, reaching up to grab her wrist, not to push her away but to hold her there. "It was always about this."

Something flashes across her face—anger, fear, want—all of it jumbled together.

"This?" she echoes, barely audible above the blood rushing in your ears.

"Us," you breathe. "Whatever the fuck this is."

Ellie's mouth crashes into yours without warning—hungry, possessive, all spit and teeth and months of tension finally exploding between you. There's nothing gentle in it; she kisses like she's trying to devour, punish, and claim you at once. You gasp into her mouth then kiss her back harder, fingers twisting in her hair, pulling just enough to make her growl against your lips.

Her thigh wedges between yours, pressure immediate and sharp. You rock against her instinctively, a whimper escaping before you can swallow it back.

"You're such a fucking brat," she rasps into your skin, one hand abandoning your shoulder to grip your waist like she's trying to trap you, the other sliding up to grasp your jaw. Her fingers press into your cheek, forcing you to look at her.

"You've been dying to fuck this brat since '23," you spit back, yanking her hair hard enough to make her hiss, satisfaction coursing through you when her eyes flutter briefly closed. "Admit it."

She laughs darkly, pressing her thigh harder between your legs, "You wish."

"You think I didn't notice?" You grab her hips, pulling her closer, refusing to be the only one coming undone. "The stares? The songs you covered just to get my attention? The way you'd always find a reason to be where I was?"

Her teeth graze your neck, biting down with the intention of leaving a mark. "You’re so self-absorbed. You make everything about you."

"You're the one pinning me to a wall, baby," you chuckle sinfully as her hand slips under your shirt, nails dragging across your ribs.

"What did you expect?" she groans against your ear. "Coming in here, playing like that, looking at me like you've been looking at me for years—" Her voice breaks off when your hand slides between your bodies, pressing against the front of her jeans. "You're such a mouthy little—"

"If you're so fucking tired of hearing me talk," you challenge, "do something about it."

Her touch, encouraged, sneaks through your underwear, fingers rough and confident. You moan, bucking into the pleasure.

"Thought so," she mutters. "You act tough, but you're soaking. Bet you've been wet since I walked in."

You grab her forearm, pressing her harder against you. "You're all bark and no bite, Williams."

No sooner than you say that, she quite literally does bite you.

It's messy. Desperate. You end up tangled against the wall, shirts half-off, fingers under waistbands, sweat slicking your skin. She talks you through it—filthy and relentless. "This what you needed?" Ellie murmurs against your neck, her fingers working inside you with precise, devastating strokes. "Me putting you in your place?"

Your head falls back against the wall, eyes squeezed shut as your orgasm builds relentlessly at the base of your spine. "Shit, h-harder," you gasp, roughly fisting her hair.

She obliges immediately, increasing the pace and pressure while her thumb circles exactly where you need it. Her mouth is hot on your throat, sucking on your sensitive skin.

"Look at me," she demands, her free hand tugging your hair just hard enough to make you open your eyes. "I want to see you fall apart."

You struggle to keep your eyes open, to maintain that last shred of control even as everything inside you winds tighter and tighter. The intensity of her gaze nearly undoes you—those green eyes dark with desire, pupils blown wide, watching you with such focused ravenousness it steals your breath.

"Still think you're in charge, princess?" she pants into your ear, curling her fingers inside you in a way that makes your entire body arch against hers. You try to answer but can only manage a loud, broken moan as the tension coils impossibly tight. Your hips move frantically against her hand, chasing release.

"That's it," she encourages, voice rough with lust. "Come for me. Now."

Whether it's the command or the way her canines sink into the sensitive juncture of your neck and shoulder, something snaps. Your climax crashes through you in overwhelming waves, body shuddering violently against hers as you cry out her name. Your vision blurs at the edges as she works you through it, drawing out each pulse of pleasure until you're trembling uncontrollably in her arms.

"Fuck, you're so gorgeous like this," she whispers, almost reverent, as the aftershocks ripple through you.

When it's over, you're boneless, pinned between the wall and her body. Your chest rises and falls against hers in perfect unison, both of you panting as though you've run for miles.

You laugh weakly. "So... you do think about me."

Ellie leans back just enough to smirk, lips swollen. "You’re impossible to ignore."

Before you can retort, the garage door groans open.

Dina's voice cuts through the haze. "Sorry, sorry, traffic was a bitch. I hope y’all didn’t kill each—oh. Oh."

You scramble to fix your shirt, suddenly conscious of your disheveled appearance. Ellie doesn't move. Just raises an eyebrow like she couldn't care less, though you notice her subtly adjusting her collar to hide the marks you've left.

Dina stands frozen in the doorway, eyes darting between you two, taking in the scene—your flushed faces, bitten lips, the amp knocked askew. A knowing grin spreads across her face.

"I knew it," she says, not even trying to hide her satisfaction.

You scoff, embarrassed, still catching your breath. "Knew what?"

"Don't play dumb," she says, backing toward the door. "Jesse owes me twenty bucks." She points accusingly at Ellie. "And you—you could've just admitted you had a thing for her instead of being a pain in everyone's ass for three months."

Ellie's expression hardens. "I don't have a 'thing.'"

You feel something cold settle in your stomach at her words, even though you'd expected exactly this response. Dina rolls her eyes. "Whatever you say. I'll tell Jesse we need another hour before practice." She backs out, adding, "Use protection!" before slamming the door shut.

Silence returns, more dense than before.

Ellie's still staring at you, but her smirk has faded, replaced by something guarded and uncertain. You hate that look—it's too close to vulnerability, too risky for whatever this is between you.

"Anyway," you say, reaching for your familiar armour of sarcasm, "I guess we found a new way to resolve creative differences."

She doesn't laugh. Instead, she takes a step back, running a hand through her tangled hair. "This complicates things."

"Only if you let it."

Her eyes narrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

You shrug, fighting to keep your face neutral despite the tightness in your chest. "It means we can fuck and still hate each other. No big deal."

Something flickers across her face—disappointment? Relief? You can't tell.

"Is that what you want?" she asks, uncharacteristically quiet.

It's not a question you expected, not from her. Not when you both excel at pretending not to care. "What I want," you say carefully, "is to play in a band that doesn't implode. What I want is to not get kicked out because we couldn't keep it in our pants."

Ellie nods slowly, considering. "Right, this was..."

"A one-time thing," you finish, even as something protests inside you. "If that's what you want."

She studies you for a long moment, beautiful eyes searching yours. Then she does something out of the blue—she reaches out and touches your hand. Not grabbing. Not demanding. Just her fingertips grazing your knuckles, light as a question.

"And if it's not?" she asks, the challenge in her voice softened by something foreign but not unwelcome.

You look down at her hand, then back to her face. Her signature smirk is nowhere to be found. Only Ellie, waiting for your answer.

You turn your palm up, letting her fingers slide between yours. "Then I guess we figure it out," you say simply. "Day by day."

For once, she doesn't pull away. She simply stands there with your hands interlocked, a truce as fragile and unanticipated as the solitude between songs.

Neither of you knows what comes next. But for now, this—this tentative connection, this moment of honest touch—is enough.

[thevoidstaredback]

Part 2

Danny had counted himself lucky that no one had been in the Manor when he'd arrived. It gave him time to stew in the silence about his unwilling occupation of the apartment sized room he'd be staying in. As soon as Alfred and Damian had left earlier with a threat to come and get him for dinner, he'd locked the door and pushed the dresser and bed in front of it.

Just because he was stuck there for the next three months didn't mean he had to interact with anyone. He'd live up to his half status as a ghost and be nothing more than a passing thought for the whole summer.

Now if only everyone else had gotten the memo to stay away.

Apparently, at some point between his arrival and where he now finds himself, Damian and/or Alfred had announced to the rest of the household - former and current - who Danny was and that he'd be staying with them. Luckily, they'd been so kind as to give him a room far away from the others. Unfortunately, that meant that he was only a floor above them all.

Someone had tried to open his door barely and hour ago, calling to be let in so he could introduce himself. Danny ignored him, not saying a word. Eventually, the guy left. About ten minutes later, someone else tried to get in through one of the windows. Danny hadn't been able to do much more than lock those and close the blinds. Though, he had to admit that Bruce Wayne spared nothing on his home security.

Ever since, he'd had several people come to his door, calling for him to open it, that they just wanted to say 'hi'. He studiously ignored all of them, even going so far as to lock himself in the walk-in closet. It wasn't too big a space, thank god, but it was just enough for him to comfortably curl into the fetal position in the back corner of the top shelf.

Being a clone gave him the advantage of having the same memories as whoever he'd been cloned from. While that didn't extend to muscle memory, that had been easy to rectify, Deathstroke and Talia had both made sure of that.

Being half dead gave him the extra advantage of powers to hide better.

Ever wonder why, in the stories and myths, people are almost never able to see a ghost by looking head on? It's because ghosts don't like to be seen. They use a mix of intangibility and partial invisibility to redirect attention from themselves. Rattling chains, opening and closing doors, pushing things off shelves, that's all just to get attention away from them so they can hide.

So, Danny's hidden himself in the farthest corner on the top shelf in a medium sized closet with the lights off and the door closed. The room proper has the windows locked and covered, the door locked and blocked.

He doesn't need to eat, so long as he stays a ghost. And if he doesn't consume anything, then there's no waste for his body to get rid of. And, because he's comfortable, he could totally just sleep the entire summer away.

That is, if he can get himself to relax enough to actually close his eyes for more than a blink.

One of the windows shattered, likely spreading glass all over the floor.

"Danny?" While all the others had been male voices, this one was female. A smooth alto. "I broke your window."

He almost snorted. How very observant of this person.

They, because he wasn't going to assume based solely off of how their voice sounds, were getting close to the closet. "That's a good hiding place you have there. Though, blocking the door was a bit much. Why'd you stick around if you so obviously don't want to be here?"

Because he'd rather not have the League of Assassins on his trail for leaving his 'vacation' early, thank you very much. He didn't say that, though.

The door cracked open. "Y'know, I used to hide in the closet in my room all the time. From what Dick tells me, so did the others." They giggled. "It's kinda like a rite of passage."

Danny cringed, though he didn't move. This was nice spot, no matter what Alto over there was implying.

The door opened fully, revealing the person who'd broken in. They had black hair cropped to their chin, a blue tank-top and black leggings. "My name's Cassandra, but you can call me 'Cass'," they said, "Can I come in?"

They weren't looking at him, but he shook his head anyway. They'd found him, so they could probably see through walls or some shit.

They closed the door, sitting on the floor with their back to it. "Damian told us that you're his brother-"

"He is not my brother," he hissed, "Not in the way they want us to be."

Cassandra leaned her head against the door, looking up but not at him. "Hm. Want to explain?"

He didn't speak.

"Okay. You don't have to." A pause. "Do you want something to eat?"

"Piss off," he growled.

"Okay, okay," their tone aggravated him. Why weren't they getting angry? They didn't leave.

Danny settled deeper into the corner. He'd spent way to long waiting to be beaten at a contest in stall tactics.

Though, even he knew when to recognize a good competition. This was going to be a long night.

Part 4

[artsninspo]

Penname: Delta Wise -3- [Sinners]

⇠ previous part

「 ✦ mbj's charcter archive✦ 」

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authors note: this one is longer than my usual update so I hope those of you who always ask for longer fics enjoy. Not too much on the summary - I don't want to spoil anything but I promise its a ride 🌪️ This Chapter has multiple POV's. summary: What if you make a fortune from a harrowing tale that affected your family? What if it had supernatural elements that only you and few others believed to be true? What if nearly 100 years later those truth's start finding you? This is Knotty James story, better known as Delta Wise. word-count: 5.6K

THREE

Knotty

I can't stop staring at Eli, trying to piece the puzzle together, trying to make sense of what I know. A love spell gone wrong and a night of horrors has a man that shouldn't be alive and breathing in my company. If I was a drinker I’d need a shot. I try to sew the seams of my memory together, finding pieces of the mosaic that make up the face I see now. Mississippi Eli had braids, he was slim, not so muscular and his voice was higher if memory serves me correctly. He was stern, holding back smiles for when we didn't have an audience then deep dimples would appear. I was as infatuated with Eli as I was with my grandmother's stories back then. I look down and see I have goosebumps. I blink away the reveries of the past and ground myself in the present at this event with my parents. I take a deep breath trying to be the charming daughter but it goes away when I turn and see Eli watching me from across the room. His expression is serious but his eyes soften as he raises a brow - like he’s asking me if I’m alright. I force a smile nodding curtly and he half smiles slightly before nodding. My mother’s perfume ends the moment.

“He’s handsome isn’t he?” Ma says following my line of sight over to Eli as she misinterprets my staring for the same wide eyed wonder I had for him as a child. She stands straight brimming with pride for her rediscovery of the only boy I’ve ever really gotten along with.

“That’s not why I’m staring” I mutter killing her vibe.

“Then why are you staring?” She asks.

Sighing I look into my glass. “It’s a long story”

“I have time,” Ma smiles.

“You and daddy need to stay in after dark and be very careful who you invite into your home” I tell her and she closes her eyes. 

“Not this again” she sighs. “My mother created a very vivid world and an intricate story in order to live with her mother’s abandonment of her” Ma says and it hurts me, so I know it hurts Granny.

“She never lied about anything else” I quip.

Ma sighs. “I don’t judge her for it”

“So Her mother just absconded?” I ask.

“Knotty…”

“Ma…” I respond

“So you believe her tales?” she asks with a huff.

“If I go missing out of the blue just know I didn’t abscond” I tell her.

“Knotty” she snaps as I walk away. “Knotty James” she continues reaching for me but I keep going. “Don’t make me say your name” she warns and I stop not wanting it uttered in this space.

“You’re too superstitious” she snaps, taking my hand and walking me out of the ballroom. She’s furious as am I.

“When have I been a liar?” I ask and she sighs.

“So Pearline was turned into a vampire and died at sunrise?” She asks with a mocking tone. “I’ll keep your father and I indoors and remind him not to invite anyone in the house” she relents only out of her love for me: she doesn’t believe it. Nor does she understand the conundrum Eli poses. While he’s human his mirror image is a bloodsucker.

“I’m gonna leave now” I swallow wiping my runaway tears caused by overwhelm.

“Knotty” my mom sighs, her tone turning maternal as she reaches for me.

“Is everything alright?” A concerned Eli asks with a cigarette in hand.

“Fine” I lie wiping my tears away.

“You really shouldn’t smoke,” Ma tells him.

“I know” he nods, sparing her a glance before looking at me with another raised brow.

“Let me walk you out,” Ma says, taking my hand.

“It was nice seeing you again Elijah” Ma smiles politely.

“You too Mrs. James, Knotty” he says.

“Likewise” I nod following my mother’s lead.

“Knotty please if you’re worried or scared about something tell me and we can get you help” she says trying to be supportive but it’s insulting.

“I’m not crazy” I insist.

“I don’t think you’re crazy but this time of year is always hard for you. You and mama were so close” she says and I sigh.

“I’ll be at Merin’s” I tell my mother and she tenses. She could tolerate me wanting my grandmother more than her but Mama Meringue is where she draws the line. 

“Knotty, why don’t you come home. I can leave now with you we can go home and spend some time together” Ma offers and I sigh.

“Merin knows I’m not crazy or superstitious enough. Take care” 

“Then I’m coming with you,” Ma says, opening the passenger door. She’s as stubborn as a mule.

Pearl (Knotty’s Mom)

I don't remember the last time Knotty and I spent real quality time together just because. I don't remember the last time we hung out without it being put into either of our schedules and as I watch her drive it pains me. She’s been so self sufficient these past few years that I’ve seen less and less of her. Even I was closer with Ma, in spite of our differences. I remember coming home from my first date with Knotty’s dad John with stars in my eyes and telling my mom all about it. Knotty never tells me anything aside from what she’s sure I want to hear and it’s my fault. I text John that I’m with Knotty before setting my phone down in my purse so I can be present for our not-so-little-girl.

I look her over again, wondering what’s going on in that head of hers. It was easier when Ma was still alive. Ma was a fortress and I trusted her more than anyone else with Knotty. Their bond was otherworldly and there was nothing Knotty would keep from her so I always knew when and when not to worry. Ma’s passing hit Knotty the hardest and until a few years ago she worried me. Nothing made her genuinely happy no matter how much she smiled to put us at ease. I thought at the very least Ma’s passing would make Knotty and I closer but it’s been the opposite. It’s like she needs me less and less and her patience for my skepticism has thinned into nothingness. 

“Did you tell dad to stay in after dark?” Knotty asks.

“I’ll text him right now” I tell her and she holds the steering wheel tight before letting go.

“You can tell me anything Knotty” I assure her.

“But you don’t believe me” she says with judgement absent from her tone.  She’s always been more measured with me. Ma and even Merin got the bubbly inhibited version of my child. When she was with me she wanted mani pedis and shopping. When she was with Ma she wanted to dance in the rain and pick whatever fruit was in season.

“Why don’t we make plans to go pick strawberries and raspberries before the season ends” I propose.

“Ma”

“What”

“It’s late september.” She says matter of fact.

“So how do I spend time with you? Do I book some time and help you at the shop?” I ask, trying to make the effort.

“Ma, I’m fine,” she says, sounding exasperated with me.

“You’re a grown woman, who’s alluding to vampires being real. Either you’re unwell and this is serious OR you’re perfectly sane and this is serious. Either way - I’m involved now. You’re my kid and whether it’s supernatural or psychosis I am here” I affirm. Knotty lets out a deep sigh like she could ever understand what it is to bring life into this world and love a child with every essence of your being. 

“You still don’t believe me,” she says, sounding more disappointed than anything.

“Are you telling me they are real? Not just some symbolism from southern folklore?” I ask and she grips the wheel again. She doesn’t answer me, instead she cuts the radio on. I turn it down.

“So you’re staying in, making your favorite - garlic knots, all silver everything, wooden stakes, cinnamon sweeping to keep the energy clear, staying in at night, not responding to voices calling our names in the forest” I list to show Knotty I’m right here with her and we were raised by the same woman. Her expression softens.

“Colloidal silver cream when you leave out at night, jewelry on all the accessible artery points. Garlic tea prep before nights out” She says taking Ma’s warnings very seriously. Knotty’s heart is so pure she’s always believed what people tell her.

“Did mama ever tell you who Pearline was fooling around with in the juke that night?” I ask knowing the story my mother believed to be true. Knotty looks at me and nods.

“She never told you?” Knotty asks me.

“No” I admit and she smiles.

“What do you know then?” she asks.

“That Pawpaw was hard on her, he was older and their marriage was unhappy. She would dress up and go out and sing whenever he was cheating or being neglectful. They had a fight the night before she disappeared”  I tell Knotty.

“She tried to get back home that night, she fought, not for Pawpaw but for her kids. Like any mother would” Knotty says as convinced as my mother was. “Ask yourself this, if Pearline was such a bad mother. Why was Granny such a good one? Why would she name you after her mother? Why?” Knotty asks.

“I don’t know” I tell Knotty and she takes a breath. “Enlighten me” I ask and she shakes her head like I’m a lost cause. I look up and see Merin’s house. My mother’s surrogate daughter. Knotty exits and Merin moves off the porch into the house fanning the flames of my daughter’s superstitious episode.

“Pearl, nice to see you!” She smiles from behind the screen door. “Knotty didn’t tell me you were coming, I only set the table for two”  she says.

“I’ve already eaten thanks” I force a smile heading in behind my daughter. If I believe in anything supernatural it’s that Merin’s a witch. There’s no other explanation for how she burrowed herself too deep into my mother and daughter’s affections. A trusted advisor and confident to both of them. Mama Meringue, what a fucking ridiculous moniker.

“How are you, baby?” Merin asks, taking Knottys arms. Without a word I watch my daughter remove a bangle. Something unspoken passes between them and Merin’s eyes double in size.

“I’ll set you a place Mom” Knotty says, turning to me as Merin disappears.

“What was that?” I ask Knotty.

“Merin made my favorites - I don’t think there’s anything for your diet”

“I’ll have the same fried fish as you.” I respond and Knotty serves me. Dinner is cordial and then Knotty leaves us to have a bath leaving Merin and I together.

“She needs you Pearl,” Merin says, overstepping as usual.

“Why do you think I’m here?” Impatience seeps from my tone.

“She needs you to believe her”

“She needs you to stop indulging her, She’s vulnerable right now” I snap but it has no effect on Merin.

“She’ll always be yours, she loves and trusts you more than you know. She just needs me because you don't listen” she says, working on my nerves.

“I listen, I just don’t believe in these stories. It’s nonsense!” I tell her frankly.

“Shame isn’t it? Your mother always believed in you, even when she didn’t like it. But I guess as children we choose when our parents are worth believing” she says, talking in circles.

“What’s Knotty worried about?” I ask.

“Why’d you invite Knotty to the fundraiser? Was it the boy from Mississippi?” Merin asks.

“Yes because she’d be better off if she settled down with a nice man and stopped with all this woo woo stuff”  I snap.

“Because you’re a mother and you know what’s right for Ivy” Merin says and it unsettles me. I know these lot are superstitious about the connection names have to spirit.

“Knotty” I correct, not liking the sound of her name being uttered by this charlatan. 

“She’s gonna need you P, I won’t make it thanksgiving” Merin says and it hits me. 

“What’s wrong?” I ask, wanting her alive in spite of our differences.

“My time here is coming to an end,” Merin says, talking in more circles.

“Why? There are too many doctors in the family for you not to have a second opinion on whatever it is” I tell her but she frowns shaking her head and sighing. She takes my plate heading to her kitchen.

“Knotty freaked out today because the man you hope she connects with has a brother who is dangerous and capable of bringing you harm. Harm gated communities can’t protect from. Harm Knotty would never survive. It isn’t psychosis - it’s love. You need to stay with her, especially when she’s with Carmen. Be present. I’d go if I could but outside this house it’d be clear I was sick Knotty would notice and worry. There’s no time for that” Merin says. As much as I mistrust her I know she really does genuinely love my daughter, the same way she did Ma. I see in her eyes that she is sick. Her typically bright hazel eyes are weary and she is thinner now that I focus on her frame. I hear footsteps and turn to see Knotty in a bubu ready for bed. She looks more at home here than she does at my house. 

“What are you two discussing?” She asks.

“You” Merin says, earning an eye roll from Knotty.

“My mother thinks I’m psychotic.”

“No she doesn't, she's just afraid of what believing you will mean.” Merin says I don’t correct her as Knotty gets comfortable on the couch. “I’m gonna shower, I’ll look for something for you to sleep in P. Sun is setting, so you can leave in the morning.” 

———

Eli (Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore)

When I ran into the James' and they told me Knotty would attend this fundraiser it was the first time I felt excited in years. That summer in Mississippi was hell until she showed up and then it was a different type of headache. She was the greenest kid I’d ever seen - something about that made her precious. She had no fear or a self-conscious bone in her body. She was like a ray of sunshine bouncing around in the summer heat untouched by the weight of the history. I met her grandmother first. I was bringing her water as Knotty was drawing and singing too loud. The old woman saw the look on my face and smiled. “She’s their wildest dreams” she had said and it stuck with me. It was clear she was privileged. Two parents that loved each other, money, family, a happy child under no threat. Knotty has always been a little odd but she was never sad orr composed. 

I know people change when they grow up but something wasn’t right with Knotty, it was like she was afraid. The girl without fear. I feel the need to check up on her even though I wouldn’t do this shit for anyone else but Knotty’s always needed protection. I make the turn the GPS advises and stop in front of Bonnie’s Apothecary. I hop out and check my surroundings before heading in. The bell rings as the door opens and Knotty is rearranging items on a ladder. She waits looking me over for a moment before climbing down. The store's ambiance is clean and modern, not exactly the Knotty I remember.

“Eli?” she says but there’s a question in it.

“Who else would it be?” I ask and she nods.

“Right, what do you need?” She asks, looking around.

“This all you?” I ask and she nods. I see silver link bracelets hanging and remember the one she made with reeds of grass as kids. I chose a blue one with a silver coin. I can’t make out the coins design but it makes her smile as she comes over to me smelling divine.

“Protection”  she says taking the bracelet when her hands brush mine there’s an electric shock. She looks down at her footwear. “Sorry I’ve been dragging my feet around” she apologizes in shoes that are definitely a choice. Fur lined loafers.

“What’s wrong?” I ask like it’s my place after all this time. She smiles looking into her hands. Silver polish pops against her deep brown skin. I’ve never liked many people but Knotty was different. I watched her for a week after meeting her Granny. Knotty was always laughing, screaming and giggling like her world was new as she tried to fly kites, chase bubbles and decorate the pavement with chalk. It was silence that made me look for her. Silence and the congregation of her boy cousins. Then I found her in the river with a net searching for clams. If they weren’t patrons of my uncles business I would’ve fucked those little niggas up for playing with baby girl like that.

Knotty doesn’t respond, placing the bracelet on me and tying the  threads into a knot.

“My business isn’t failing, if that’s why you’re here” she says.

“I don’t think it would. People always need something to believe in. This is a second opinion and alternatives” I tell her looking around.

“Don’t mock me” she warns, stepping back. 

“Why are you so wound up?” I ask and she swallows, getting serious again.

“It’s more ridiculous than trying to find pearls in the river so I’ll save myself the judgement and scolding from a stranger” she says, cutting me.

“I’m not a stranger” I correct. “I listened to you talk everyday nonstop for six weeks” I remind her and she smiles. “You were gonna open one of these and find Atlantis and become a writer. Is it Atlantis?” I ask and she smirks.

“You’re mocking me again” she smiles.

“No I’m not. I came here to patronize your shop and pick up the book your pops said you wrote about natural healing … and figure out what’s wrong with you?” I ask and she walks around the island in the center of the store with tills. She picks up a book and hands it to me.

“Maybe you can put some in your gun range. In case you patronize the outdoorsy type. A lot of stuff in here can keep them alive in the wilderness” she says being the Knotty I remember. 

“How much will that run me?” I ask.

“I’d have to go home and run the numbers” she winks playfully.

“No lifesaving discounts?” I ask and she smiles for real this time. She looks at me again like she can’t believe I’m real. If I didn’t know her as well as I did for those six weeks I’d think she was checking me out like most women.

“That can be arranged” she shrugs, turning away from me and going to grab glass jars of herbs. She makes up a concoction.

“Drink this every morning” she tells me, placing a loose leaf tea bag set in front of a blend. “This at night” she says, taking a sharpie and drawing a sun and a moon on each beg instead of spelling out morning and night.

“What’s it gonna do for me?” I ask and she looks me over again.

“Make you feel better, protect you from lead exposure from your gun range” she says being sweet and the bell rings. A woman that doesn’t quite look right comes in with a smile.

“Your order is right here Mrs. Pace” Knotty says, stepping back into the center island of the store but I feel her hand slip into mine pulling me in with her as she latches it shut. She doesn’t skip a beat bending to find the order as I look at the woman who stares back at me with glassy eyes.

“Here you go,” Knotty smiles, pushing a brown paper bag across the counter.

“Good day Knotty” the woman says with a scratchy voice. 

“Good day.” knotty says and the bell rings again as she leaves. “Don’t ask,” she says, turning to face me again for a moment before getting a bag for my order.

“What if I’m allergic to something in this?” I ask.

“Call 911” she mutters sarcastically. An alarm sounds just as the bell rings again. This time a woman that is well placed walks in looking between Knotty and I.

“Hey Knotty, sorry I’m late”

“No worries Dora” Knotty smiles.

“Who’s this?” Dora asks.

“Old …. Friend” she says. Knotty puts the bag of my items against my chest stepping out from behind the  counter. 

“Look after her well, this morning was a red dawn. You know what they say” she tells me.

“I’ll be fine Dora, he’s not invited” Knotty says to the women.

“I didn’t pay” I remind Knotty.

“Lifesaver discount” she says, fanning me off. She heads into the back leaving me and her coworker. My hands tremble and I need a smoke.

“Meditation is good for those,” the woman says, pointing to my hands.

“Thanks” I tell her as Knotty emerges holding a garment bag. 

“I’ll walk you out” I say, relieving her of the bags. “What’s in here?”

“My cousin is performing tonight at a showcase. I got her a dress”

“I thought singing wasn’t safe?” I ask and she stops smiling.

“So you listened to everything I said?” She asks. “And you still remember?”

“Wilder tales have never been spun” I tell her and she smiles some more popping her trunk.

“Thanks for helping me and stopping by” she says trying to get rid of me.

“Where’s this performance happening?” I ask.

“You really have nothing better to do?” she asks.

“I figure it might be good for business” I shrug but she doesn’t buy it. 

“Do you have a nickname?” she asks.

“In the military they called me Smoke” I tell her and her eyes close. 

“That’ll do,” she says serious again.

“You really hate killing don’t you?” I ask.

“Give me your phone number. I’ll go ahead and help my cousin set up. You text me when you’re there. In the meantime khakis won’t cut it. Jeans a black tee, a watch. Whatever you have. Think rapper or actor if you want to fit in” she instructs.

“You don’t like my outfit?” I ask her.

“I care about character. Carmen cares about clothes and I don’t want to make her look bad” she explains as I hand her my phone. She sends herself a message and then tells me the time and place. 

“Send me some pictures so I can figure it out” I say before I know why. She pulls out her phone, taking screenshots and sending them to me. 

_____

Knotty

I try to shake the feeling gnawing at me, try to ground myself in the moment instead of the realm of possibilities. Carmen’s worked too hard  for me to tell her not to sing so I’m doing the next best thing - bringing her an outfit that can double as protection to put my mind at ease. Which it was before Eli came in, his larger than life aura and his protective stare. I wonder how I missed it back then, how close he was to Smoke of the Smokestack twins. His name Elijah is the same and he never seemed to smile. I learned quickly the meaner his glare was at me the more he was fighting, setting his dimples free. He was patient with me then and somehow that same patience has carried over to now. How we’re both in the same city again at this time is beyond me. The proximity of today's date to the 15th and 16th of October is another unnerving reality. Merin has answers but they aren't ready for me yet. I check my messages from her before exiting the car. I see sunsets in a little over and set a timer to be out before then.

I feel like a bag lady as I enter the venue. I’m so preoccupied I almost don’t notice the energy of this place. Thankfully security is kind enough to take the garment bag and suitcase off my hands so I can present Carmen with flowers. Her name is on the door and she answers in a moment after I knock. Her hair is pin curls and her make up is almost done by the looks of it. She’s bright today and light too with strong energy.

“Thank you” I smile as security sets down what I’ve brought. Carmen takes the flowers from me with a smile.

“You wouldn’t believe the last time someone bought me flowers,” she says.

“Aren’t you always dating?” I ask, surprised.

“Clearly I don’t date gentlemen. Speaking of - you smell like cologne” Carmen says awfully quick. “Not the expensive kind.” She frowns, making me laugh.

“My parents are trying to set me up again but I don’t think the guy knows he’s being used as a pawn”

“Knotty, you’re gorgeous. The sound engineer and producer both wanted your number. If he doesn’t know he’s still there for the same reason” Carmen says but I’ve never liked the gorgeous compliment on its own.

“Tonight’s all about you but he’s stopping by”

“Knotty bringing around a nigga. Must be special” she says, pouring herself a shot.

“It’s not like that. Do you remember the summer vacation we spent in Mississippi as a family?” I ask Carmen.

“Who could forget it, I’m not sure how Granny survived childhood with the bugs, the reptiles and the heat” she says.

“Remember the boy that saved me from the gators?”

“One with the braids?”

“Yeah”

“It’s him” I say and she smiles.

“What I remember is he didn’t play about you. He had the boys in line. It was good, they feared a country asswhoopin’” She recalls with accuracy, amusing herself in the process. “Is he fine?” She asks and I roll my eyes.

“Carmen…”

“Come on, talking about this is way better than me getting nervous about performing” she says and so I respond.

“Yes that’s being perfectly objective” I say and she grins like the Cheshire Cat.

“I thought earthy girls knock ‘em down the same as the rest of us” she asks winking as she takes up her palette but I know better. He’s someone else’s and wore that mojo bag for at least seven years straight. She’s all over him.

“I got you something for your performance” I change the subject and she giggles.

“Stop being so uptight Knotty” she turns perfecting her makeup look.

“I’m not uptight, Carmen I’m just not thinking of having sex right now”

“Or ever”

I sigh. “I have a lot on my plate.” 

“Like”

“You’re going on stage” I remind

“Like Knotty come on tell me” she says and I pull out the dress that looks like a chandelier. Her eyes bug out.

“Oh my fuck-“ she stops looking at it and covering her mouth. “It’s gorgeous, where'd you find it?” She asks.

“The earthy girl store” I tease as she takes it from me.  She holds it against her frame in the mirror and I get the slip lining options for it.

“And you matched my nude perfectly?” She asks to pick the shorts jumpsuit option that matches her skin to go under the dress.

“Sex sells” I wink.

“Knotty,” she says, hugging me tight. “Thank you for being here and going out of your way for me” she says. 

“That’s what family is for” I remind her but she scoffs.

“My parents scorn me and my brother is ashamed of me too.” She says. I squeeze her tight.

“Josh is- I don’t want to put my mouth on him” I stop myself. “You aren’t missing out on anything and your dad and my mom are from a different time. What do they know about the present they’re in their own worlds more than me. “Block out all the nerves and perform.” I smile, handing her one of my bracelets. She puts it on and there’s a knock on the door.

“You need to be backstage in five” security said and it takes exactly that to get her in the dress and to fix her hair. She looks ethereal when she opens the door. We separate and I go to find a good vantage point of her performance. The venue is one level with the exception of the stage but my heels are a helping hand. When Carmen is announced as Melo, I smile and when she starts I get goosebumps. It’s her poise and presence that’s captivating. I sway knowing the words already and see a message from Eli telling me he’s here. I don’t respond, not wanting to stop the video recording until Carmen’s finished. I get the subsequent applause and her thanks on video. I stop recording the same moment arms wrap around me from behind. My skin crawls. As alarm bells go off. The cologne is expensive and decadent.

“If it isn’t Delta Wise enjoying a griot sing” Stack says pulling my hips against his groin and whispering by my ear. I elbow him and he chuckles letting me go. I move through the crowd quickly, ceased by panic. I try to keep an eye out for Mary but it’s hard in the dark. I make it backstage as another text from Eli comes through. My heart races for his safety. My phone is snatched by a manicured hand only for it to be dropped when I look up Mary is hissing with her fangs out. I pick up my phone.

“Don’t you dare” I hear Stack say from behind me I freeze but when Mary’s fangs retract I realize he’s talking to her.

“Stack, why the fuck are you always flirting with women when you have crazy here out of the asylum?!” I hear Carmen say. She pulls me to her. “I perform at your spot and bring all this good business and your bitch is fucking with my people!” She continues. All the warnings I have for her are lost in my throat.

“Your people?” Stack asks and I cover her mouth.

“Carmen, we have to go now!” I snap knowing the sun has yet to set. When I turn I see Stack’s wearing gloves and full sleeves. I understand why he was able to get so close. Thinking fast I slide the bracelets down  locking them in place around my knuckles as a ball a fist. Stack’s eyes track the gesture and he steps forward like a lion who plays with their dinner. I look to my left and see a fire alarm. Before Stack can read my plans I pull it. The sprinklers start and chaos ensues. I take a clear path holding Carmen’s hand. We make it to a hall with a clear path out when I’m grabbed again. Stacks hold tight.

“Stop fighting” he snaps, growing impatient. I punch him in the face, searing his skin with the silver and making him withdraw. I make it back to Carmen who’s stopped looking confused. A man is in front of her. I know it’s Eli when he reaches for me with concern.

“Her teeth fucking grew. Her teeth!” Carmen screams at the door when I feel the three of us be yanked back. I fall hard but scramble to get my bearings and when I do Smoke and Stack are face to face for the first time in nearly a hundred years. Both of them freeze. Eli’s chest rises but he holds his arms out to keep Carmen and I behind him ever the protector as he pants. Stacks teeth retract as his eyes bug out. I open the door to see it's nearly sunset but Stack doesn’t wince as daylight scorches him, searing his russet skin. I pull Eli back outside with me as he stares at his twin. Spirit knowing what this iteration of his brain doesn’t. Stack watches closely walking towards the light to keep eyes on his brother until his skin begins to bubble. Carmen screams and I let the door go. I don’t have to check her for a bite. Her dresses links are all silver.

“We need to go quickly before the sun sets” I tell her and she nods. I catch my breath and find Eli dazed. He looks down at me.

“Go where?” He asks.

“Follow me” I tell him.

“I didn’t drive,” Carmen snaps.

“Come with me” I tell her getting in my car.

“I’m not leaving you” Eli says, opening the driver's door. I hand him my keys.

“KNOTTY WHAT THE FUCK!!!!!!” Carmen asked inside. “Smokestack twins” she says chest heaving.

“Seatbelt” Smoke says and we both obey as I turn to face her. Tears are streaming, streaking her make up ruining her day.

“How do you know Stack?” I ask and she looks dazed and confused.

“When I used to dance. He owned one of the clubs” she says. “And he’s a vampire, and vampires are real? And what the hell is he!” She screams pointing at Eli as I set our destination into the gps. 

“Knotty” he says and because I don’t have words I swallow hard connecting my phone to the car and telling them everything I know the best way I know how.

“Club Juke by Delta Wise - chapter one” the audiobook reads.

______

Authors Note: Soooooooooo this was a lot! Hope the multiple POV's weren't too much I know it's outside my norm but I think it's necessary for this story.

What do we think of the following:

Knotty's Mom?

Merin? (Mama Meringue)

Eli 'Smoke' and Knotty's relationship?

Carmen a griot?

What does Stack want?

Smoke and Stack seeing each other again?

What happens next?

Sound off in the comments. DOn't forget to reblog, comment, tag and leave a like.

_____

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[lostwysteria]

(Part 14! Not much to say rn. ily all so much, tho!)

Masterlist

Ling finagled a grocery run out of Nice. A solo grocery run. Somehow. 

He checked his bag of holding and made sure the card for household expenses was in there. He had the lanyard with his Hero Tower Pass and Hero ID around his neck and was ready to go. Wreck was sitting on Nice to stop him from trying to go along anyway. 

…

Ling had to stop from reacting as he spotted the classmate he saved four years before. He was standing next to E-Soul at Mei-jie’s desk. He just walked on by and smiled to himself. Hopefully those two got their act together.

Shang Chao had always been a bit of a hopeless, pining, romantic.

…

Shang Chao did a double take. It couldn't have been? Could it? 

“Hey, was that who I think it was, A-Cheng?” He quietly asked his companion for all things.

Mei-jie answered first.

“That was, as of this morning the ranked 318 hero, Homemaker. He’s Nice’s personal assistant.” she informed them. “He is also living with Nice.” 

That was all Shang Chao and Yang Cheng needed to hear. They rushed outside, trying to catch up, but Lin Ling was nowhere to be seen.

…

It was a few hours later and Ling was wt a cafe getting a light lunch.

A vaguely familiar person entered and after ordering, waved at him. “Hi. I’m Bai Yuzhou. From around Hero Tower.” he said after sitting at the table next to Ling’s.

“Oh! I remember you. I’m Homemaker.” He remembered to use his hero name as his introduction.

“I know. I am surprised to see you alone. You normally have someone with you. It must be cool being the personal assistant to a top 20 hero.” Bai Yuzhou said with an easy grin.

“It is! So what do you do at the Tower?”

“I am general operations. I do just mundane officework.

The two chatted for a while before parting ways.

…

X smiled to himself. Lin ling was a truly interesting person.

…

As soon as Lin Ling entered the apartment he was being checked for anything wrong by Nice. He was fussing and fretting like crazy. 

“Calm down! Give the poor guy some space. He needs alone time, too.” Wreck pulled Nice away from the poor harassed man. 

“I was just worried!” Nice defended himself with a hiss.

“He’s fine, kitten” Wreck growled a little at the end.

Ling felt his face heat a bit. Shit. They were both unfairly attractive.

He rushed to the kitchen and started putting away the groceries. He waved the two away when they tried helping. He had a system. He’d already, with Nice’s permission, rearranged the kitchen to suit his needs. His arrangement had actually settled Nice’s OCD! 

The hero had been overjoyed at that. Honestly, his OCD hadn't been as bad lately. Much to the white haired man’s joy.

He was relieved that Nice was happier. An honest spark of life was back in his once dead eyes. They shone more than they had for a while now. It made his instincts as Homemaker purr in satisfaction. He was doing a good job taking care of his charges. 

Wreck seemed happy, too. Soon there would be a Thread connecting him to Homemaker as well. Three(!) whole permanent wards. The most he’d ever had was five. His parents and three classmates he’d spent the most time with. He placed a hand over the scar on his side. His parents had died the day after he’d been hurt. Car accident. The Threads connecting his classmates to him had snapped from not seeing them afterwards. He’d had to transfer to a cheaper college after. 

Losing all five connections in less than half a year had been so painful. That gad been the worst year of his life. He’d never fully recovered.

He wondered how Xia Qing was doing these days?

[puck-luck]

first off i’d like to say i cant believe how far you’ve come in the year of having your blog! it has been an amazing journey even as a reader to see you grow as a writer, i think i can speak for all when i say we’re all so appreciative of the time and effort you put into your fics. congrats on a year ms andy🫶🏼

for your celly✨

can i please get a chai latte with cinnamon and whipped cream with nico hischier :)

(overstimulation) (dom x sub!nico or other way round if you’re more comfortable writing it that way)

this is so sweet!! thank you so much for saying all of those kind things and i hope this lived up to your request! sub!nico is definitely ALLOWED.

Nico’s cum streams from his tip, billowing down his shaft. There’s a patch of dried cum on his stomach, leftover from the first time he shot off today with your hand wrapped around his cock. His abs are flexing, jumping with his breath. A hand rests on his chest, just between his pecs, and the other scrubs over his face. 

Nico curses under his breath. “Baby, that’s…”

“What, Ni?” You’re kneeling between his legs, back on your heels, and your pace has slowed but not stopped. You’re going to make him come until he’s dry.

He takes a deep breath, sighing heavily on his exhale. “Feels great,” he finishes. His body moves like a wave, rising and falling in steady motions. His hair falls into his face and he moves it back, blinking his eyes open. “Gonna keep going?”

“Until you’re shooting blanks,” you confirm. You lean forward and peck his frenulum, flicking your tongue over his slit after. A bead of cum oozes from his cock and you massage it into his skin with your thumb. “Everything feel okay?”

“Feels great,” he repeats. “Are you going to use your mouth?”

“Want me to?”

“Wanna fuck it,” Nico says. He thrusts his hips into your touch, your bottom lip nudged by his cockhead. 

You grin, then hollow your cheeks around his length. “Like this?” you ask in a muffled way, tongue flat against the underside of his cock. 

“Hmm, more than that,” Nico tells you. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and bucks another inch into your warm mouth. “Do your worst.”

You almost laugh as you go down on him. You stroke Nico’s base and cup his balls, rolling them in your hand. You dig your thumb into the space where his shaft meets his testes, hearing Nico let out a soft moan. He sinks into the mattress, thighs clenching and catching your attention.

As you drink up the splashes of cum that wash over your tastebuds, you scratch Nico’s thighs with your fingernails. His downy hair bounces back once your touch leaves it, but you continue to pet through it. It’s rewarding to feel his bodily reactions, the little twitches and thrusts and involuntary shivers. 

His hand finds your head, guiding you up and down his length. He encourages you to take him deeper, as deep as you can, and he rolls his hips into your mouth.

You push his hand away and lace your fingers together, moving faster and slurping around Nico’s cock. He stuffs your mouth full, gagging you on his shaft. You tongue over his veins, documenting the details.

His third orgasm was hard to pull from him. This one takes less effort, somehow, with Nico swiveling his hips and leaking cum constantly, practically milked. Your tongue curls around his tip and swirls around it, stimulating the sensitive nerves that are abundant there. 

His stomach is tight, the veins in his forearms popping in time with his curling toes as he nears a fourth climax. He curses again, mumbling your name and squeezing his eyes shut, fingers wrapped around yours. His grip is tight and unrelenting, nearly making you cramp. All of that is worthwhile when a shaky stream of cum flies from his tip, just a couple of strips landing on your tongue. He’s almost washed out– you keep pumping him. Two more, you think, then he’ll be shooting blanks. You can’t wait to see Nico spasming on the bed, overtaken with pleasure and pain, but no proof to show for it.

[aventurineswife]

Requesting Reader having trouble sleeping (nothing angsty, they’re just more of a night owl) so they’re just like “welp, might as well be gaming” and whoever finds them in their room catches them playing something like Animal Crossing, Resident Evil, or Nier: Automata.

…Now that I’ve typed this, I think Silver Wolf would be perfect. Just late night gaming buddies. 😆

“The night is still young, but we're not sleeping”

Tags: Silver Wolf x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Stelle x Reader, Gaming, Late-Night Vibes, Casual Bonding, Comfort, Friendship, Lighthearted.

It’s already well past midnight, the usual quiet hum of the ship broken only by the soft clicking of buttons in your room. You lean back against the pillow, eyes glued to the screen, the soft glow illuminating your face in the otherwise dark space. Your controller moves with expert precision in a game of Resident Evil, the latest challenge being to outsmart hordes of zombies.

You could barely get comfortable in bed, so why not indulge in a bit of gaming?

Suddenly, the door creaks open, and a shadow stands in the doorway. You glance up and meet the cool, calculating eyes of none other than Silver Wolf, arms crossed and eyebrow raised as she observes your midnight hobby.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” you ask, not missing a beat.

Silver Wolf leans against the doorframe, the usual smirk tugging at her lips. “You’re up late,” she says, her voice almost teasing. “I didn’t take you for a gamer.”

You shrug, pausing your game with a dramatic sigh. “You know, sometimes it’s just one of those nights. Can’t really sleep, so might as well be doing something fun.” You flick your controller again, and Silver Wolf’s gaze moves to the screen.

“Huh. Resident Evil, huh? You’re really just going to take on zombies in the dead of night?” She smirks again, clearly amused. “Let me guess, you’re the type who keeps a cheat code handy?”

Silver Wolf steps into the room, drawing closer. “Mind if I join in? I can help you break through the tricky parts.” Her voice is playful, almost challenging. You gesture to the space next to you on the bed, and she sits, pulling her legs up with her usual casual grace. Before long, you’re both working your way through the game together, Silver Wolf seamlessly taking over the controller with an expert touch.

You grin and wink. “Of course. Gotta keep it interesting.”

"Guess I’m not the only one who loves a good challenge," you remark, half amused and half impressed.

She tilts her head and gives you a sidelong glance. “The universe’s a game, after all. Every level’s just another thing to conquer.”

It’s the middle of the night, but you’re wide awake, your thoughts spinning in circles. Unable to fall asleep, you give in to the temptation to fire up the console. You settle in with a game of Animal Crossing, the peaceful music and calming tasks offering a distraction from your wandering mind.

Not even five minutes into the game, you hear soft footsteps approaching your room. Sunday, with his usual composed demeanor, appears at the door, his eyes soft and almost too perceptive.

“Ah, I see you're still awake,” he says, voice gentle, as if he already knows the answer.

You glance up with a half-smile, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, sleep just isn’t happening for me right now. So, I’m playing Animal Crossing. You know, trying to escape reality.”

Sunday takes a step into the room, his wings fluttering slightly in the confined space. “I see. The quiet, peaceful life... a comforting choice, I suppose.”

“Yeah, exactly. Just... planting some flowers, fishing, and, you know, living the island life,” you reply with a playful shrug, turning the controller over to him. “Wanna join? I could use some help decorating my island.”

He smiles softly, sitting down next to you, his long fingers lightly brushing over the controller. “I’ve always found solace in simpler things. Perhaps I could add a few items that reflect... balance and peace?”

You can’t help but smile at his offer, his tone inviting yet carrying a sense of profound calm. The two of you settle into a comfortable silence, designing your island as Sunday occasionally offers thoughtful commentary on your choices.

“I suppose sometimes, escaping into a world like this isn’t such a bad thing after all,” he says quietly, his voice tinged with a note of introspection. “Though it’s also important to return to reality when the time comes.”

Stelle’s soft footsteps creaked across the floor as she entered your room, having heard a faint hum of your game from down the hall. The door was slightly ajar, and she peeked inside, only to find you engrossed in Nier: Automata, your focused eyes on the screen as you slashed through enemies.

She leaned casually against the doorframe, arms folded. “Yo, you up this late?” Her tone was cool, but there was a playful undertone to it.

You glanced up, surprised by her sudden appearance. “Yeah, you know how it is. Can’t sleep. Figured I’d get some gaming in instead. You ever play this one? Nier is wild.”

Stelle raised an eyebrow, stepping into the room with that signature coolness of hers. “Nah, never really got into it. But, I respect the grind.” She glanced at the screen as a new wave of enemies approached. “You’re pretty good at this.”

You shrug, tossing her the controller with a grin. “You think so? You should give it a go, though I gotta warn you, it’s not for the faint of heart. It’s intense.”

Stelle smirked and took the controller, her fingers effortlessly gliding over the buttons. “It’s whatever. As long as I don’t have to fight any of those weird robots with human heads. That stuff is freaky.”

You laugh at her response, completely at ease with her presence. “Yeah, that part’s... definitely out there. But hey, what else would you expect from a game like this?”

As she played, her usual stoic expression softened into one of amusement. “Okay, I kinda see the appeal now. It’s not just about the battles... it’s about the whole vibe. Like, the way the world feels. Kinda deep, y’know?”

“Exactly!” You reply, your excitement matching hers. “It’s all about questioning what it means to exist. Kind of hits you right here,” you say, pointing to your chest.

Stelle smirks, handing you back the controller after a few moments. “You’re deep, I’ll give you that. Maybe I’ll stick around for a bit. Just don’t expect me to lose to you.”

With a shared look, you both fall into the rhythm of the game, tackling it together in the quiet hours of the night.

[partly-cloudyskies]

it's not like, new, how gundam is all about themes of freedom and violence but damn gqx really is about freedom and violence and how adolescence is about thrashing and biting at the things that tether you to childhood as you struggle with what comes next.

you've got your machu who on the outside doesn't have a problem in the world. good school, good mom, popularity, but she strains at every single one of these things, no idea what she wants other than being free.

your nyaan who has none of those things and scurries in the dark running contraband and getting harassed by cops, living a proscribed life because that's all side six has to offer someone like her.

and shuji who is just kind of this fey creature who seems to have no childhood to speak of, seemingly made from whole cloth to be a vessel for his red gundam's desires like i don't think there's enough 'him' in him to express any needs of his own beyond hunger. in that sense he's already free but it's like, ego-death free.

which i guess is why he's the first of the three to go and kill someone because all he is-for now-is the will of the red gundam and the red gundam says killing is okay, it's chill. then nyaan follows up, with all her frustration and anger and a universe that never showed her an ounce of mercy suddenly opened up and gave her all the control she never had.

these kids get their taste of freedom in gundams made for the purpose of incredible violence and with the newtype state being common to all of them, violence and freedom and connection become rolled up into this hot messy ball of teenage hormones that's set to explode.

and it goes beyond them. there's side six itself, just a big tin can in space packed tight with people who barely understand each other between the refugees and the military police and the citizens who know they aren't really free as zeon stomps all over them and threaten to drag them into a civil war that's got nothing to do with them. like it's protests now, but it's gonna break violent from one side or another and when it does, it's gonna be whatever connections they have with each other that's going to determine what their lives look like after the fact.

that machu hasn't yet made the leap from freedom to violence to killing makes me curious if she will and, in that moment, gets the freedom she thought she wanted and in the process completely breaks the things she percieves as restraints (in which case, rip her mom in gundam tradition). guess we'll see where shit goes but man, what a show

[legacygirlingreen]

A Larger Conversation,

Today marks two years to the day since I presented one of my master’s theses, and it still feels surreal. What began as a way to complete one of two overlapping master’s degrees (a path I highly do not recommend) ended up reigniting my engagement with fandom spaces in ways I never expected. Through that project, I came to deeply understand what participatory culture really is—and what it means for the communities that thrive within it.

I gained insight into the immense responsibility that weighs on creators, a burden I hadn’t fully appreciated before. I came to see just how ethically and emotionally damaging plagiarism and imitation can be in these spaces—plagiarism as outright theft, and imitation as anything from mildly annoying to intentionally harmful.

And all of this? I dove into before the widespread debates about AI began. I don’t have the bandwidth to unpack everything AI means for creatives right now, but I will say this: I worked in film long before the writers’ strikes of 2023, and the sense of collective defeat we felt on those picket lines—just waiting for assurance that human talent wouldn't be replaced by machines—was crushing. Trying to re-enter the industry at the height of that uncertainty was no easy feat.

There’s a common argument—especially on this platform—that passive engagement, such as liking a post, isn’t “enough” in participatory spaces. And I get it. As a writer, seeing comments and reblogs means a lot. But at the end of the day, I share my work because I genuinely enjoy it. Even if a piece goes largely unseen, that’s okay. We’re all engaging with the same texts and ideas, pulling out our own meanings, and generating our own interpretations. That’s the beauty of fandom: it’s a living, breathing form of participatory culture, and we all contribute in our own ways.

As for the arguments around plagiarism and imitation, I’ll admit: I used to turn a blind eye when it came to my own work. I held tightly to the idea that “imitation is the sincerest form of flattery,” and convinced myself it wasn’t worth addressing. But over time, as I’ve come to fully embrace what it means to be a creator—someone who pours their limited free time into something they genuinely care about—that mindset has shifted. It’s disheartening to see elements of my work—my aesthetics, phrasing, even the structure of my posts—lifted, reworded, or repackaged without even the courtesy of acknowledgment or engagement. When that happens, especially by people who remain silent observers, it doesn’t feel flattering. It feels frustrating.

So, I’ll put it plainly: my style, my art, my characters, and the way I run this blog are not open-source material for replication through artificial means or otherwise. I may not own the canon characters of any franchise, but I do own my ideas, my time, and the years of education, training, and effort that go into crafting what I share here.

Fandom spaces operate under their own sets of ethics—self-regulating, ever-evolving, and often slightly different from one another. Yet, in all the fandoms I’ve been part of over the past 12 years, there’s a shared, unspoken agreement: knowingly passing off someone else’s work as your own is wrong. And beyond direct plagiarism, imitation without engagement—without even so much as a conversation or acknowledgment—is ethically murky.

When we observe what resonates with a creator and then replicate it without reflection or interaction, we shortchange not just them, but ourselves. Every creator on this platform learns—often slowly and through trial and error—what works for them. Skipping that process by mimicking someone else's approach might seem like a shortcut, but it ultimately stunts your own creative growth. The real value comes from finding your voice, not copying someone else’s.

My characters are manifestations of parts of myself—reflections of both the best and the most difficult aspects of who I am. They are deeply personal to me, and the stories I tell through them are crafted with a level of intentionality and care that some might consider excessive. But for me, every decision I make in storytelling is rooted in a complex understanding of canon, woven together with my own interpretations and emotional insight.

Take Rex, for example. I have extensive documents dedicated to tracking his personal growth throughout The Clone Wars, The Bad Batch, and Rebels—detailing his slow disillusionment with his programming and the profound selflessness that defines him. These notes have shaped the way I write him: as a man who struggles to believe he deserves kindness, especially from himself, when there’s always more work to be done. For him, learning that self-love isn’t selfish—that he is worthy of rest, of affection, of peace—is a story worth telling. And that’s just one example of how deeply I engage with the characters I write.

My participation in fandom isn’t about tossing content into the void and hoping it resonates. I approach it as a scholar first and foremost. That’s the lens through which I create—deliberate, structured, and grounded in both research and personal connection.

Of course, others may take a different approach, and I think that’s a beautiful thing. But the way I build my work—the structure, the presentation, even the aesthetics—is something I take immense pride in. It reflects not only my creativity, but my dedication to this craft.

All of this isn’t meant to shame or directly call out anyone I've seen imitate aspects of my work. I won’t go so far as to label it plagiarism—others might, but I’m not someone who throws around accusations or puts people on blast. Instead, I want to use today as an opportunity to reflect and invite others to do the same—to really think about what it means to be part of a fandom.

I’m a media scholar. I hold two master’s degrees, one of which is in Media Studies, and I spent over two and a half years immersed in the field of fandom studies. I’ve dedicated myself to understanding these spaces, not just as a participant, but as someone who studies them academically and critically.

And honestly, fandom can be such a beautiful, powerful thing. It’s a space that fosters community, creativity, and connection. It’s where I met my best friend in the entire world. It’s brought me into contact with incredible people I speak to every day. It’s shown me the resilience of fellow scholars and creators who continue to fight for their work and their right to be seen, respected, and valued.

I love this space—truly. So, if sharing this reflection helps me turn the frustration I’ve felt lately over uncredited imitation into something constructive, then I’m at peace with that. I just want us all to think more deeply about how we show up here, how we support one another, and how we can grow—not just as fans, but as creators, thinkers, and members of a larger community.

If you’re interested in exploring fandom from a scholarly perspective, here are a few readings I’d recommend:

Honestly, any and all work by Henry Jenkins is such a great starting point, but "Textual Poachers: Television Fans & Participatory Culture" is where I would for the writers and "Convergence Culture" for others.

"Understanding Fandom" by Mark Duffett

"Theorizing Fandom: Fans, Subculture, and Identity" by Harris, Cheryl, and Alison Alexander

"Fan Cultures" by Matt Hills

And to those amazing people who support me, inspire me, and just continue to be genuinely kind, thoughtful humans—I’m endlessly grateful. Thank you for sticking with me through what started as a reflection and turned into a bit of a mushy rant. I stay because of you.

@strawberrypinky @leenathegreengirl @heyitszev @writing-intheundercroft @crosshairs-dumb-pimp-gf @returnofthepineapple

[demonicelovator]

Okay so this is a bit dark, and I’m kinda hesitant to post it, but when the finale episodes were first coming out me and me friend talked about what would happen if Chase and everyone except for Buddy died and I came up with a sort of Ghost Chase au. I don’t have the motivation to do anything else with this idea but heres a drawing and little story based around it.

The story’s below the cut

....

He's dead.

Theyre all dead. Theyre dead and noone else cares except for me.

Its their own fauly. Chase shouldve just handed over his key when he could, if he had he could be living a normal life.

…

If he did buddy wouldnt have gotten attached. So attached that hes sat in his poor excuse for a room, desperatly trying to keep himself from crying so loud that he alerts the members of ex libris that hes back, getting comfort from his key of all things, and mourning the loss of the boy who onve inhabited the corpse currently slumped against him.

Buddy was pathetic, he shouldn’t have let it get to this point. He should have just gotten the heroine key and done his job before chase could find new keys, before Deacon and Prunella could start completing stories as well, before Buddy got close enough to Chase for him to feel a need to apologize to buddy, before they got trapped in a book that was being ruined somewhere in the real world, before Prunella and Deacon died, before Chase died, before-

“Hey!” Shouted violet, shaking him from his spiral of thoughts “Are you even listening to me? You need to pay better attention when people speak to you ***** the members won’t be happy with you if you space out like this in conversation!”

“R-right sorry..” it was hard to not sink into his own mind right now.

Violet huffed, changing to look a bit more sympathetic. “I understand that this is a lot for you, and that you want to greive the loss of this… boy.. but you need to at least pretend to act the same as usual! If they catch onto you…”

“I won’t let that happen”buddy whispered

“Good. Now you need to wipe those tears and make yourself presentable alright?” Violet put her hands on her hips, looking very stern. “You are going to go to ex libris, and say that the keyholders got trapped in a damaged book, rendering their keys useless, and you will turn me in to them. Under no circumstances will you mention the corpse in your room. Do you understand?”

“Yes, i understand. Can i just- can i have a moment first?”

“You’ve already had a moment *****!”

“Buddy.”

“What?l

“Call me Buddy.”

“Goodness, fine, just don’t ask the members to call you tha-“ Violet paused as Buddy pushed the miniature letter Chase gave him towards her. “What? What is this?”

“It’s a letter, for you.. Chase gave it to me, said it was from silver.”

“Oh.. Thank you.. Buddy.”

“You’re welcome, take your time.” Buddy began to lean against the bed frame, hands falling onto his lap. “Once your done I’ll get ready”

“Alright..” whispered violet, she seemed lost in her own world, absorbed by the small envelope she’d been given.

Buddy tilted his head back, resting it on his bed and staring up at the ceiling. He felt numb.

As Buddy was beginning to space out, he heard a voice whispering to him. Turning his head to try to find the source of the voice, he noticed a familiar face. Buddy jumped forward spinning around to look at the face.

“W- what the hell…” buddy whispered

“Wait! Hang on you can actually see me?” Chase said as he floated out from behind the bed, moving to float just over the edge. “Woah, thats awesome Buddy!”

“You- You’re supposed to be dead!”

“I am dead, thats literally my corpse right there dude.” He pointed as he began to sit.

“But- Chase, how can you be-“

“Ever heard of ghosts?”

“Buddy!” Violet interrupted “who are you talking to!?”

“Wh- you cant see him?”

“See who? Whatever, I’ve finished reading my letter, thank you for delivering it by the way, you need to get ready to meet with ex libris.”

“Yeah Buddy! Quit procrastinating and do your job!” Teased the ghost

“Leave me alone, you didn’t just cry for almost half an hour” Buddy mumbled as he walked towards the bathroom.

“Fair enough”

Buddy couldn’t understand how he could be so calm about this.