#at least that’s how it was earlier in the year

[qualityqueenqueen]

💕

I love how Gerald was trying to keep Shadow from spoiling anything about the future meanwhile literally everything Shadow says and does around Maria is the biggest death flag ever

[paarksunghoon]

resignation (6)

SUMMARY: For the last six years, you’ve dedicated your career to ensuring Park Sunghoon never misses a day of work in his life. But you’re tired of endless days that seem to blend together, and seeing him living his fun, luxurious lifestyle makes you think about what else you might be missing out on. When Sunghoon finds your resignation letter on his desk, he does everything in his power to convince you to stay.

NOTES: life comes at ya fast…updates will come as I have more inspo and time to write. :) this is unedited

WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: cunnilingus, slight coercion (but is it really if she wants it?).

SERIES PLAYLIST + SERIES MASTERLIST

***

Midweek comes around slower than you’d like and it feels as though your days are dragging on the more you try to tie up loose ends and review resumes of potential candidates. 

Sunghoon has agreed to transfer some of the responsibilities onto the secretaries for the time being. They’ll be responsible for attending meetings in-office and other tasks that can be taken off of your plate as you focus on what’s at hand. 

“Are you any closer to finding me a new assistant?”

He asks this at least once every few hours. He’ll do it when he hears you typing away on your keyboard or when you’ve neglected to hear him call you from the door. Sunghoon says it with a smile that looks too playful for your liking. 

“Not any closer than I was since the last time you asked me.” 

“Shame. But perfection takes time, doesn't it?”

You roll your eyes. “Come in and close the door, will you? It’s hot as shit outside and you’re letting all of my cold air out.” 

“Maintenance is working on fixing the air conditioning in the main areas. My office isn’t as cold as yours, I’ll say that.”

“Maintenance likes me better.”

“Nuh uh.” 

You look up from your monitor. “What are you, a child?”

“Maybe.” You roll your eyes again and focus back on your work. “Any candidates I should know about?”

“Are you asking me because you’re interested or because you’re bored?”

“Is there any difference?”

“Yes. You either care about who’s going to take over my position once I’m gone, or you enjoy watching me suffer by being in my presence.” 

“The latter, actually. You’re cute when you’re angry at me.” You scowl at him. “See? Cute.” 

“I’m not cute.”

“You say that, and yet you are.” 

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re really cute, especially with my hand between your legs.” Your face grows hot and Sunghoon grins when he realizes he’s rendered you speechless. 

“If you aren’t going to be of any help, might as well go back to your office and do your job.” 

Sunghoon puts both hands up. “Alright, alright. I did come here with the intention of an update, though. Heeseung mentioned you’ve made some progress when I saw him earlier this morning.” 

“Some. I’ve been getting hundreds and hundreds of applications, and it’s getting hard to sift through all of them.”

“What kind of things are you looking for?” 

“Experience, mostly. Someone who meets half of these qualifications and won’t be an ass about it.”

“Got any contenders?” 

“I haven’t met with anyone yet, so I can’t be so sure right now. I’m in correspondence with some to meet at the office next week for an initial interview before I decide.”

“How many interviews?”

“Three. One introduction, a second so they can see the office, and a third with you.”

“With me?”

You roll your eyes. “Yes, you. I need you to like your assistant.” 

“The way I like you?”

You near your throat. 

“I surely hope not.” 

“You don’t have to worry about that. I just need an assistant who can handle the job and not complain about it too much.” 

“That’s the goal.”

“Who are you meeting with next week?” 

“Cho Miyeon’s coming on Monday morning and Kang Taehyun will be coming the same afternoon.”

“Yang Jungwon on Tuesday too, huh?” Sunghoon peers over your shoulder and stares at your calendar. “You’ve got a busy week.”

“I’m doing my best. My workload is being shared while I look for my replacement, so it’s not too bad. Don’t get any ideas and add things on my docket, though.”

“Well…”

You sigh. “Sunghoon, please. I’m trying to be diligent and do right by you, but you’re making me want to quit on the spot.” 

“Hear me out at least, okay?” 

Sunghoon sits on the edge of your desk and sees the top button of your blouse unbuttoned. It’s not enough for him to see your bra underneath, but his mouth runs dry thinking about it. 

“It’s our turn to choose a restaurant for the next quarterly dinner party. As you know, it’s important because we as a company build internal connections and reward those who work under us with an all expenses paid meal.”

“Plus quarterly bonuses from the respective employers.”

He nods. “Yes, plus the bonuses. Anyway, I’ve booked a reservation at a highly rated Spanish place that serves tapas style for tonight. Cool, huh?” 

“You cannot seriously expect me to drop my plans to work.” 

“You don’t have plans.”

“Okay, fair point. But Pochi, Sunghoon. And I don’t want to work!”

“We won’t be out until late into the evening, if you’re worried about feeding her. We’ll leave the office early and I’ll have you home before nine. And you won’t be working. Not really.” 

“Asking me to try food for a work event is considered work.”

“Just come with me, okay? If you like it, we’ll host the party there. If not, we try another one on the list.”

“What list?”

Sunghoon merely smiles but he doesn’t explain further. “Don’t worry about it. Get yourself hungry and we’ll leave at five.”

“You, leaving work at five…”

“Early, I know.” Sunghoon laughs. “So what do you say?”

“I say you want me to ignore all of my tasks and distract me with food. Why can’t you go with another assistant who actually gives a shit about this party?”

“Because I care about your opinion, not theirs.” 

“I don’t have time to entertain this when it’s not on my immediate priority list. You can bring Jongseong to dinner, for all I care. He’ll appreciate that more than me.” 

Before you know it, he’s on the floor and turning your chair to face him. 

“Sunghoon!” 

He situates himself between your legs and spreads them apart by pushing your knees away. His fingertips gently touch your skin and inch up the skirt you’re wearing, pushing the fabric up your thigh. Your resolve seems to crumble when you see him like this and look around hastily. 

“W-What are you doing?” 

Sunghoon doesn’t speak. He looks at you and smiles like he knows something you don’t.

“My window is open,” you say in a haste, trying to push his hands away from your legs. 

Sunghoon merely laughs and leans down to press a kiss to the inside of your knee while maintaining eye contact. You sit frozen in your chair as you watch him stand, eyes trained on his semi-hard cock outlined in his trousers. He makes no fuss and faces the windows to close the blinds before turning back to look at you.

“Better?” 

All you can do is nod. Sunghoon drinks you in with his eyes. His gaze starts at the bottom of your heels until you feel his stare drag up your body, locked in on the flesh of your collarbones until his eyes meet yours. It’s hard to keep eye contact with him when he’s looking at you like that, never mind the fact that the outline of his dick is practically at eye level. 

He brings his hand to his mouth and rubs his jaw, huffing something you can’t quite make out. He then resumes his positions on his knees and this time, you don’t complain when Sunghoon pries your legs apart. 

“Can I try to convince you?” he asks in a sultry tone. His voice might as well be made of soft velvet and you find yourself nodding. “Yeah? Can I have my way with you right here?” 

Sunghoon has his answer when you widen your legs before him and parts his mouth like he’s in awe. He observed the way your skirt rides up your thighs even more, then shifts his gaze to your covered cunt. Sunghoon looks like he might as well be high; his gaze is hyper focused between your legs and his well you panties mold to the shape of your cunt. 

His bottom lip becomes wet with his saliva and you’re almost positive that Sunghoon would start drooling the longer he looks at you. His hands delicately hold your ankles in place when you brush your thumb against the corner of your mouth. 

“You’re drooling.” Sunghoon looks up at you.

“I can’t help it,” he says, kissing the pad of your thumb. “You’re so perfect down here.” 

Your cheeks flush for the umpteenth time. Sunghoon’s hands move from your ankles to gently caress the outer skin of your calves before he brings one hand to push your skirt until it sits just below your waist. You lift your hips to help him and settle back down in your chair at a steep slouch. 

Sunghoon holds you there and you feel as if you’re being presented on a platter. Still unused to being like this in front of him, you resist the urge to close your legs to prevent yourself from being even more flushed than you already are. He pushes his face between your legs and gives one, long kiss to your covered slit. 

“So perfect.” Sunghoon mumbles against you, and you suck in a quick breath. He sticks his tongue out to taste the wet slick soaking from the fabric. “That’s really good.” 

Never in a million years would you have ever guessed how good Sunghoon looks on his knees. He’s brash and confident, proud and stoic. The ease in which Sunghoon fell to his knees knowing he’d see what you hide between your legs makes you feel like you’re on top of the world. Sunghoon, who stands down for no one, kneels on his knees for you. 

He pulls your body down and brings his tongue all over your covered cunt. The surface of his tongue makes you clench against him and buck your hips. Sunghoon chases after it, pushing against you harder than merely grazing like he was previously. He licks a confident stripe and laps at your panties like a kitten drinking milk. 

His ginormous hands and caresses your outer thigh like he’s trying to make you relaxed and unashamed of the pleasure he wants to give you. You’re reminiscent of how you felt the morning Sunghoon’s hands were on you for the first time—nervous, excited, and extremely horny. 

When Sunghoon pulls your panties to the side to reveal your lap to him, he groans and his warm breath makes a shove run down your spine. He admires the way your pussy clenches in front of him and kisses your naked slit like he’s trying to reassure you.

“Relax, love. It’s just me.”

“Kind of hard to relax.” 

“Why?” Sunghoon kisses your slit once more and you sigh in contentment.

“I’m not used to people looking at me like this.” 

He looks up. “Get used to me between your legs.” 

When you deal with Sunghoon’s demands during working hours, you’re a force to be reckoned with. He’s stubborn and loves to fight back until you frustratingly give up or until you’ve backed him into a corner. You’re used to his hotheaded tendencies and never back down if you can help it.

But Sunghoon’s hands keep you locked before him so gently that it makes you think you’ve got nothing to worry about. His fingers caress your skin in a way that makes you tingle with excitement and lust, and it’s been a while since you’ve felt this way about anyone. 

He can feel your body respond to him when you loosen the tightness in your hips and let your legs fall beside him. Sunghoon’s mouth kisses your outer lips and avoids your clit, but the feeling is all the same when you haven’t been in this position in years. He takes his time, moving his plush and moistened lips across your skin like he’s mapping out every inch of you.

Sunghoon’s head moves to your inner thigh and his hair brushes your skin. His eyes remained closed as if to savor the taste of your body. You can’t seem to look at anything but him like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you close your eyes and allow yourself to lose yourself in his touch.

Feeling so exposed is out of your comfort zone. You feel completely naked in front of him despite wearing a blouse and a skirt, technically. The sheer act of intimacy, even if Sunghoon walks away from you forever after he’s done kissing you between your legs, still feels like more than a mere hookup like your previous experiences. 

Sunghoon is still fully dressed and you wonder if he’s as hard as he was before kneeling. Your mind races when he switches legs and kisses all the way to the inner portion of your knee, dabbing gentle pecks that makes your heart race much faster than you would’ve ever anticipated. 

He must know by now you’re as inexperienced as a woman your age could be. It’s never for the lack of trying; men leave you disappointed and the pool of new lovers falls short when you aren’t the type of person to lose yourself in strangers who will never love you back. Sunghoon touches you like he’s more than somebody you’ve worked with for the last six years. It scares and excites you all at once. 

His breath ghosts over your cunt before he sticks his tongue out to lick a fat stripe. It feels like the entire surface of his tongue covers the entirety without a single inch being undiscovered by his mouth, and the sensation makes your toes curl in your heels. It’s enough to make your back arch slightly. Sunghoon watches you and puts both of his hands at the side of your hips to keep you steady before him. 

Sunghoon takes his time and doesn’t rush it like you think he will. He sounded so desperate to get you to agree to come with him to dinner tonight. You were sure he’d get on both hands and knees like a dog to beckon you to come. The sense of urgency seems to have been tossed out the window when he closed the blinds. Despite being in your office and hearing faint sounds of the copy printed from outside the doors, you feel like it’s just the two of you existing in the same space. 

His tongue moves up and down your slit slowly. Sunghoon’s eyelashes are long and dark, fluttering against his cheek with every pass. You wonder if this is what he looks like when you’re kissing him. It’s unfair how sexy he looks when his tongue is coated in your slick and when he’s sighing against your pussy like this is a meal that has finally satisfied his craving. 

“You’re so wet,” he murmurs against you the second he pushes his tongue past your folds. The vibrations continue to add to your pleasure and you buck your hips against his face. 

“S-Stop talking.”

He chuckles. “I think you like it when I talk to you like this.”

You shake your head stubbornly. Sunghoon hums like he doesn’t believe you. His fingers dig into your hips to pull you closer to his face instantly, latching onto your cunt with the urgency you anticipated beforehand. He shoves his tongue deep inside of you to the point where you grip the handles of your chair until your knuckles feel sore. Your palms have grown sweaty and you fear you’re losing your grip on both the chair and your sanity. 

He looks up at you before taking one hand and putting it in his hair. It’s like a foreign instinct takes over. Your hand grips his hair until you’re holding his head in place. His eyes flicker back to yours before focusing on lapping up your wetness, no doubt coating the lower half of his face in it. 

There’s no real method he’s adhering to. It’s messy and growing louder by the second with his saliva mixing in with your juices. Sunghoon slurps you up like he’s trying to taste all of you at once and flexes his jaw to accommodate shoving his tongue inside of your folds and thrusting. 

Your legs eventually wrap around his shoulders and Sunghoon can feel your heel digging into his suit jacket. He doesn’t mind. You’re sure this encourages him to fuck you like this harder because his tongue moves in circles inside of you when your thighs keep his head locked in place. His dark brown eyes open to look right at you and the moans you’ve been holding in escape. 

Sunghoon moans against you too. Your whimpers and short breath sent the blood straight to his cock, but he knows this isn’t the time nor the place to make you moan the way he wants you to. He’ll take what he can get, but that single, deep moan that came from his tongue bouncing over your clit makes him think it would be worth it for everybody to hear you come.

He looks so good with your thighs suffocating his face. Sunghoon doesn’t complain, he just puts his hands on your thighs and squeezes you to keep them there. Your hips start to chase his mouth when you feel your orgasm building and when Sunghoon sees your chest heaving off of the chair, he keeps his steady position and flicks his tongue across your swollen bud. 

You don’t even realize your hips are rolling against his mouth until you come against Sunghoon’s tongue. He doesn’t give you a second to breathe as he laps it up, opening his mouth as best as he can with your legs still wrapped around his face. He moans when he tastes all you have to offer and bucks his hips to grind against the tightness of his slacks when he sees your eyes wired shut and mouth gaping. 

The grip on his hair loosens when your body relaxes and so does the grip on your legs. Your breath feels much heavier than before and when you open your eyes, Sunghoon’s looking at you with a drunken smile on his face. Your cheeks instantly heat up and you try to pry your legs back down, but he keeps you steady there and moves his head to kiss you on each thigh.

“You look so pretty when you come.”

“S-Sunghoon…”

“Yeah, love?” 

You blush harder. “You’re just…” 

“I’m just what?” 

You avoid eye contact. “You looked really hot.” 

He laughs and you feel his eyes still staring at you. Sunghoon lets go of your legs and helps settle them back down on the ground before pushing your panties back in its proper place. He wipes his chin with the back of his hand and sits on the back of his knees to help you regain balance and sit upright in your chair as you fix your skirt in an attempt to look decent. 

“You did so well for me,” he says, pushing upwards to kiss you. Your taste lingers on his lips. Sunghoon braces himself on your thighs and his palms feel comforting. 

“I-I can’t believe I let you do that in my office.”

“Such a rebel, hm?” Sunghoon chuckles between kisses before pulling back to look at you. “Did that convince you to come with me tonight?” 

You nod shyly. “I don’t want you to think I’m the type of girl who can be bribed by sex, though.”

“I don’t think that of you. Matter of fact, I know I had you reeled in when I told you I’d take care of the details.” 

“Hmph.”

“I ate you out because I wanted to.”

Sunghoon kisses you again before standing up. The sheer size of it makes your mouth water and you see the small, wet stain left by his precum. He watches you with fascination and watches your hand reach out with hesitation, pulling back before you’ll do something you might regret. 

He doesn’t force you to touch him, nor does he ask you to do anything in return. You watch him with hooded eyes and the sight of you looking up at him while he stands will fuel his dreams for days to come. 

“You’re hard.” 

“That I am.”

“All that from eating me out?”

He laughs. “You underestimate how much I’m attracted to you.”

Your eyes flicker up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. So much that I ate your cute little pussy in your office.” 

You swat the side of his thigh and look away from him. “I…My pussy isn’t cute.”

“So cute and so tight. Felt it with my fingers and I felt it again with my tongue. Can’t help but wonder what it’ll feel like with my dick.” 

“Sunghoon!” 

“Too soon?” The blush on your face gives your desire away, but he laughs and backs off. 

“I have a pair of fresh slacks in my office. Let’s finish the rest of today and then we’ll head over for dinner, yeah?”

You raise your eyebrow. “You’re gonna walk out of my office while you’re hard?” 

“It’s like, two inches from yours.” 

“People could see.”

“Aw, are you worried about me?”

You huff. “Let people see how hard you get for me, for all I care.” 

Sunghoon smirks. “Atta girl. I think I just might.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Just how you like me to be.”

You don’t argue with him. You both know he’s right. He eventually makes his way to the front door and is about to leave before he comes back around your desk. Sunghoon takes you by surprise and leans down to kiss your lips once more before wordlessly exiting your office.

It takes a great deal of strength to stand up and open the blinds.

***

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[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for Jan behind the cut; “mistaken identities and interdimensional refugees”. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“No, man, I was talking to both of you. I mean he's hot but I have enough daddy issues of my own, thanks, I don’t need his too,” he says with a sigh. “I'm dating a different younger brother. Specifically one who is legal, legally adopted, and also is not actively murderous and did the least amount of time in the League of Assassins. Though apparently that’s just . . . not a thing here, I guess.” 

Dick and Jason stare blankly at him again. Even Jon stops sniffling into his shoulder long enough to give him a confused look of his own. Kon just tries to figure out how to explain literally anything about himself without having to say the word “clone” out loud in a reality that may not be all that clone-friendly. Said figuring does not “figure” very well. 

Or like . . . at all, really. 

Goddammit. 

“Who the fuck did any time in the League of Assassins?” Jason demands disbelievingly. 

“. . . don’t worry about it,” Kon says. “So like, uh . . . I can explain. Probably.” 

They all look at him again, up to and including Alfred, who somehow left and came back with tea without Kon even noticing and is now just barely raising an eyebrow at him. How the fuck he even made that so quick is beyond Kon. Doesn’t that shit need to steep or whatever? He feels like that shit needs to steep or whatever. 

“. . . okay,” Dick says slowly. “So when you say you’re not Superman, you mean . . . literally not Superman. As in, not Clark Kent.” 

“Bingo, World’s . . . eh, what’re you, Third-Greatest Detective, y’think?” Kon asks, cocking his head as he looks the guy over consideringly. 

“Bullshit, you look exactly like him!” Jason protests indignantly, pointing accusingly at him. It’s incredibly novel, as an experience, actually, given he’s not doing said pointing with the barrel of a gun. Like, whole new experience to be having with a version of Jason. 

“That is really not as rare a quality in the multiverse as you apparently think it is,” Kon says. “Actually it’s like . . . ridiculously common, in my experience.” 

“How?!” Jason demands, again like he just . . . what, thinks Kon’s gonna answer honestly? Like, genuinely appears to think that? 

Weird. 

“It is such a long story,” he says. “Or like, such a short story that I’d really prefer to see Batman’s immediate reaction to, just in case he feels like whipping out the kryptonite over it.” 

Technically this reality’s kryptonite shouldn’t work on him, but they’re all having a very weird interdimensional crisis right now and also it’s, like, the principle of the thing or whatever. Whether it works on him or not, when you get to the “whipping out the kryptonite” stage, you’ve kinda crossed the Bat-Rubicon or whatever. 

The bigger concern right now, though . . . well, like . . . 

“Wait, you’re not a version of my dad?” Jon asks uneasily, just barely tense in his arms. “You mean–not at all?” 

“Yeah, no, sorry,” Kon says, hoping that if he doesn’t make a big deal about it, the kid will at least, like . . . semi-match that energy. At least this version of Jon almost definitely hasn’t met an Ultraman, so . . . fingers fucking crossed, he guesses. He is being way too optimistic about this shit, frankly, but what the fuck else is he supposed to do with a literal ten year-old? “Thought you realized that earlier, and then the conversation got complicated.” 

“Then who are you?” Jon asks, looking even more uneasy. 

“I would love to have a concise answer to that question,” Kon says. “Like. Ever. Listen, I am sorry, kid, I wasn’t actually trying to pass for your dad. Hell, I wasn’t even trying to pass for their . . . also-dad, apparently, god that is so weird, I’m sorry.” 

“Bruce being our dad is weird?” Dick asks with a frown. 

“You specifically calling Bruce your dad is weird,” Kon clarifies, sparing him a quick glance. “Like, congrats on all the family therapy I’m assuming you did, seems like that worked out real well for you and all. Clearly did the work there.” 

“What?” Dick frowns, looking a little uneasy himself. Kon . . . probably should stop saying shit that’s going to make people associate, like, negative emotions and shit with his presence, considering. 

Like. Definitely he should, at this point. 

“Sorry,” he says again, then looks back to Jon. The kid hasn’t freaked out on him yet, at least, but he’s still pretty tense. Which . . . yeah, well, the kid saw him toss Killer Croc’s teakettle like less than half an hour ago, so probably he is feeling a lot less safe than he’s used to feeling right now. Especially a lot less safe than he’s used to feeling when he thought he was with his fucking dad. 

Kon really, really feels like an asshole over that. 

“Are you okay, kid?” he asks. “Like . . . you need me to put you down, or . . . ?” 

“I want my dad,” Jon says, abrupt and just barely cracked as he stares at Kon’s very El crest-less chest, his hands fisting in Kon’s jacket. 

“Sorry,” Kon repeats, trying not to visibly wince. “Like–listen, I meant it when I said I had you. And we are family, in my book. Like, I’m not your dad or even Superman, but I am a Kent. And an El, too. Though I’m assuming in your case you’re gonna care more about the ‘Kent’ part, far as I know my reality’s version of you’s never been all that concerned with, uh . . . any of the Kryptonian shit, gonna be honest. Which, like, I have a limited amount of dog in that race myself, just I was an ‘El’ first and–yeah, never mind. Sorry, rambling here. Uh. Do you need to put me down, or are you good right now?” 

“What’s your name?” Jon asks, rubbing anxiously at his big wet eyes, and Kon literally does not even know how to compute the question. It just . . . it is very much the last thing he would’ve expected the kid to ask him right now, he guesses. 

“Kon-El,” he says. “Conner Kent.” 

“. . . are you from Krypton? Like–from Kandor, or . . . ?” Jon asks hesitantly, and Kon . . . sighs, a little. He really did not wanna explain himself pre-Batman, but the literal ten year-old definitely deserves at least an explanation, at this point. 

Also he doesn’t want the kid to be worrying he’s from the fucking Phantom Zone, considering. So yeah. 

“Not so much, no,” Kon says.

[solarstranger]

a/n. my first migrated fic and this one's an oldie but a goodie (at least, i like to think so lmao). marriage, when it's not failing lol, is so romantic to me, and i wanted to encapsulate what it's like being married to bakugou in this fic. i hope you enjoy this! (0.9k)

c.w. fem!reader, pro-hero!katsuki, established relationship, aged-up (28 years old)

“i’m home,” you call out, haphazardly putting your keys back into your bag with one hand, the other cradling near your chest the mid-sized box you got from sato’s shop earlier that day.

you’re careful not to mess up the pastry that sits inside it.

“welcome home,” bakugou’s gruff voice echoes from the direction of the kitchen, the sound of which immediately soothes the tension you didn’t know you held in your shoulders.

it’s been a long day, you think to yourself.

excited to meet him after almost 24 hours of not seeing each other, you hurriedly toe off your shoes, noting to yourself to properly return them on the shoe rack later—lest your katsuki nags your ear off again (affectionately).

“hey,” you greet once more as you enter the room, cautiously placing the box on the table before striding towards him to wrap your arms around his middle.

he grunts in acknowledgment.

with your chin on his firm shoulder, you examine the impressive array of ingredients and some of your favorite dishes on the kitchen counter, as well as on the island behind you.

you decide to tease him.

“what’s all this for, babe?”

you can somehow feel more than see him side-eyeing you. “the fuck?”

as innocently as you can, you pipe up: “what?”

at your query, he shrugs himself from your hold and places the knife he was just using to expertly chop vegetables on the table before turning to face you, incredulous.

“whaddya mean, ‘what’?” he huffs, before continuing. “are you saying you forgot what day it is?”

you debate with yourself for a second whether or not to continue this ruse, ultimately deciding against it when you see the flash of hurt on bakugou’s face.

smiling, you reach out to hold his hands in yours.

he doesn’t shrug you off.

a frown still decorates his face, though.

“of course i didn’t, babe,” you say, squeezing his hand for emphasis. “how could i?”

“with how little sleep you’ve been getting ‘cause of how hard you work?” he retorts—rhetorically, based on his tone, “very.”

you only grumble in response as he turns back to continue hacking on the green onions on the off-white chopping board.

he wasn’t wrong.

after a few seconds of staring at his backside, you sigh in defeat, spinning to step toward the kitchen island.

“well, i got us something.”

“what,” he says more than asks, focus still directed towards slicing carrots now. you smile to yourself; you could practically hear the pout in his tone.

you tap on his shoulder, and at that, he finally turns to look at you, an eyebrow raised in question.

immediately, his gaze lowers to the box that you’re currently holding, and a whirlwind of emotions dances across his face.

“...‘happy 4th anniversary to us, champ’?”

despite yourself, you snort. he shoots you a glare, though it has no bite to it.

you gesture to the cake you’re holding. “i didn’t include ‘i love you’ because i knew that would embarrass you around sato the next time the class gets together.”

“yet you decided to use this weird as fuck pet name?” he shakes his head, exasperated. if you didn’t know any better, you’d think his cheeks are turning pink. “your dumbass making me sound like your kid.”

at that, you cackle, and a smirk manages to crack through the annoyed facade he’s trying to maintain.

you place the box back on the counter and step towards him again, coaxing the knife from his grip. you place it on the board before moving to circle your arms around his neck.

his hands automatically find their place on your hips.

you grin up at him.

“well, you do call me mommy, sometimes.”

now, you’re definitely not imagining the scarlet that’s creeping up on his face.

“shut up,” he pokes at your side, and you can’t help the squeal that erupts from you.

after a moment of him tickling you and you frantically begging him to stop all the while gasping for air, he finally relents.

he’s still red in the neck when the air between you falls into a quiet lull.

you reach up to comb his hair back with your fingers, tiptoeing to press a kiss on his forehead. when you pull back, you see that his gaze has visibly softened, and he’s now looking at you with what you’ve long identified as adoration.

longing, too.

four years of being married, and it still knocks the wind out of your lungs.

“happy anniversary, kats,” you whisper, before looking around your shared kitchen that’s filled with testaments of the effort bakugou puts into your relationship. “thank you for doing this.”

“‘s no big deal,” he mumbles, dipping his head to rest on the crook of your neck. he says this despite everything else in the room telling you otherwise.

when he lifts his head back up, you shoot him a knowing look, and he shoots you another right back.

one you know all too well.

one that says, ‘you know what i mean. don’t make me say it’.

four years of being married, and the giddiness and pride of knowing bakugou katsuki this intimately still hit you like a truck.

“i love you,” you whisper again.

“yeah, yeah,” he says dismissively, before dipping in to place a kiss on your forehead. “i love you, too, dumbass.”

˗ˏˋ while likes are appreciated, they don't do much on tumblr! if you want to support me and writers in general, reblogs, replies, and tags are the way to go. feel free to drop an ask, too—i'd love to chat. have a nice day! ´ˎ˗

[minakooo]

Miss me?

Idol! Yunho x Roommate! Reader

A.N: BOOM THE YUNHO FIC THAT HAS BEEN ROTTING IN MY DRAFTS

And they were roommates who would occasionally cuddle with each other

Living with an idol did seem like a dream in the past. But now you realised it was actually hell. Yunho was always playing video games and he would always wake you up because he was shouting cause he lost the game. The only good part was that he was nice enough to give you food in return or take you to meet his attractive members.

You two have been roommates for a few years now. You've seen him in his vulnerability and Yunho has been there for you in your time of need.

Now that he's popular, he's been leaving home for his tours or any other event he needed to go too. The apartment was all yours and despite the fact it seemed nice it did get lonely. Today was no exception.

A sigh left your lips as you walked in and took your shoes off: it had been a long day at work. Your boss had you stay overtime and it took longer to find a ride because of the stupid rain.

The apartment was quiet, it seemed so weird because you were used to hearing Yunho shouting because he lost at his game. You placed your laptop bag down on the couch and untied your hair while walking to your bedroom.

Once you closed the bedroom door that's when you started to change. Unbuttoning your shirt and throwing away your pants before grabbing your towel and heading over to the bathroom since you needed a warm shower after being drenched.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Yunho clicked his tongue surprised, letting out a 'Tsk', that you weren't here in the apartment. He came back from his tour a bit earlier than expected but he didn't mind. It wasn't like he hated performing but the fact he doesn't get to annoy you.

Maybe it's also the fact he did miss cuddling with you, though the guys have been telling him that him missing cuddling with you was suspicious. San and Wooyoung have made it their duty to tease Yunho making comments like "Oh, how's [name]? Don't you miss your girl?" Or "Aww, you sure you guys are just friends?"

He wouldn't lie, he knew he felt something for you he just didn't know how to explain it.

Moving to the present, Yunho went over to his bedroom and threw his suitcases and bags on the bed before he left out a sigh from exhaustion. "[Name] isn't here.. maybe they're in their room?" He muttered to himself as he changed out of his clothes and something more comfortable.

Once he was done he made his way over to your bedroom to check if you really weren't home.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

You were done with your shower and the exhaustion was hitting you harder than you expected. So with one quick move you laid down on your bed to get some rest.

You had no idea Yunho came back. He did tell you he would probably come back after three or four weeks which was a lot.

But as you close your eyes the sound of your door opening made you sit up in an instant. No one was home at least you thought no one was home so who was this?

"Sorry!" Yunho exclaimed as he saw the look of fear and shock on your face. "Uhm, surprise?" Yunho chuckled awkwardly as he walked over to your bed before he was roughly pulled in by you.

"When did you come back? Also, why are you even here?!" You questioned him because last you checked he wasn't supposed to be home. But you would be lying if you said you weren't happy he was home.

Yunho chuckled as he laid down next to you and wrapped his arms around you while he faced your direction.

"Yeah turns out there was some issue with the dates, the tour ended quickly. But what you don't want me around or something?" He faked a pout before he smirked as you playfully hit him. Yunho knew you missed him just as much as he missed you. He knew you were happy to see him.

"Yeah yeah, let's save the chit chat for later, Yuyu. I'm exhausted." You huffed and you didn't even realise the faint glimmer in his eyes when you said his nickname.

Yunho chuckled once more as he held you close before it died down low. The sound of the rain, your breathing, it was all so relaxing. He held you close and resisted the urge to nuzzle into as you drifted off.

It didn't take long for Yunho to pass out himself and there you two were. Roommates. Roommates that cuddle with each other. That miss each other dearly. The two roommates who enjoy each other's company more than friends would.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

FINALLY THIS IS OUT OF MY DRAFTS

[thehealthyfearofeverything]

The Kitchen Sink

SYNOPSIS: a change in perspective. 

Or because the batfam hasn’t been introduced yet have this.

Interlude || Beast of Burden. 

Warnings: mentions of death, implied child abuse, the reader is described looking like martha wayn but appearance is still vague. The reader is described as having her mother’s “coloring” sill no skin color is specified.

Barbara had seen a lot in her life. And unfortunately ‘ a lot’ includes what most couldn’t even fathom. Evil is spread thick through the streets of Gotham, tainting the air, water and dirt. It seeps through the cracks of the pavement overcrowding what could have been a beautiful place.

But a kid?

That Kid?

She had worked cases where children were involved, used as drug mules, or even as the product themselves. She has seen some things that the majority of people could even stomach.

But that kid. That girl was Bruce’s daughter, the child he didn’t even know he had, not only that but she looked like Martha Wayen, not in skin color, eye or hair color but in facial features. It was how Damian looked like Bruce, because Bruce looked like his father Thomas. But nobody looked like Martha, until that girl did. The girl was soaking wet, shaking from the cold and visibly bruised.

Gosh, the girl couldn’t have been no older than ten, seven if she had to guess, It was one thing when she noticed a stranger shuffling through the pamphlets— she had the card holder that come to her library memorized, and considering that hardly anyone ever comes to Gotham Public Library, that girl was easy to spot. But when Barbara finally saw her face, her heart broke.

She looked tired, too tired for a girl her age and she was scared. Maybe of her or just in general, or that she’d contact someone. The girl was jumpy, about to take flight at any second. She was standing with her weight leaning forward— one wrong word and the kid would be out the door.

Barbara had tried to get the girl to stay because she knew that form of trust would help her when she inevitably had to ask why the girl was at the library and not at a hospital or in some emergency housing. Did she run away? Did she feel unwelcome at the place she was at? Barbara’s blood boiled at the thought.

But she ran before she even said anything. And now she had to do things the hard way. 

Because there is no way she’s just going to let this go. She knew that Bruce was going to do things the legal way– or close to legal, because as soon as the girl was put in the system he was going to pull strings to get her in the manor. But that girl, if her hunch was correct, was going to the Wayne funded youth’s shelter, and that was going to make things complicated. Barbara took a minute to regain her composer before sending a message in the group chat

BAT CHAT

Babs: hey guys, i met the girl, she looks around seven years old, and carrying two bags.

Timbers: what girl and how is this relevant to this chat?

Babs: because she’s B’s DAUGHTER the one he just found out about after finding the body of his former hook up? Not only that but she was at the library and not in a hospital.

Timbers: Yeah, that sounds important.

Babs: i noticed that she was looking through the pamphlets after I helped Hood earlier, she was lingering on the Martha Wayne Youth Center so she might be there.

Babs: at first i didn’t recognize her, idk i thought that she was with a parent or something then i checked the cameras and she was the only one there. She had a couple of bags with her so then i thought that she was a runaway. Then she said that she was on a field trip.

Babs: i recognized her then, but when i gave her my name she looked terrified and ran, so she’s either on the streets or at the youth center i mentioned before. 

Dickie: in this weather? Sounds bad.like what if she gets sick?

Babs: At the very least i'm more worried about why she looked so jumpy when we talked. She sounded like a sweet kid, if not a little awkward. But what if her mother was abusive?

Timbers: that or she survived a joker attack and her mother died all in the same day, not only that but to her she’s an orphan, idk but im sure tha can fuck up any kid.

Babs: that is most likely, however we don't know what her home life was like.

Dickie: guess we just have to keep an eye out 4 her and take her somewhere safe if we do find on the streets

Barbara sighed in relief despite knowing that Dick wouldn’t even think about hesitating to help out. After all, once the shock and teasing died down ( cause really bruce another kid?) He was the most excited to have another younger sibling. She is also aware that Jayson was paying attention to the chat, even though he deynes it. He and the others would keep an eye out. 

 A shiver ran down your spine. You're sure that you weren't sick, but you felt a shift in the universe. Something happened, or is happening or is going to happen and it’s going to involve you.

That or this is the remnants of the hectic — for a lack of a better word— day. But you were too tired to linger on the day’s events, so instead you hugged the backpack that had your money to your chest and tried to go to sleep.

Tag List:

@jsprien213 @vxsire @sick2mystmch @not-aya @seemeee3 @wendee-go @mileskisser @cynniee

A/n: ask box and tag list is open!

A/n: I hate how Barbara's name is spelled it fuck with my dyslexic brain

PART 1—PART 2—PART 3—HERE— PART 4

[xylatox]

One In A Million || csb

The first spin-off of The Slow Surrender is here :’) After I was left literally going through it (I cried so hard and my heart broke multiple times), I am so glad to be back in this universe and even more ecstatic to read Soobin’s romance especially as the brother of the mc from TSS. Excited to see where exactly his story is interlaced with the original story or if it happens after the main events! A special congrats to Raya for reaching 800 followers as I’m reading this, so glad people are recognising and loving your work <3 Anyways, unto my thoughts!!

Before I even begin, I am always a sucker for flowers, their language, practically anything to do with them. The way you’re able to silently convey feelings through something as simple as a flower really just warms my heart.

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.

Is it too early to say I already love everything about her? Just from the way she thinks to her past, I cherish every bit of her. My heart breaks just seeing everything she’s been through (thankfully my tear reserves are dried up for now [we hope] so no crying today [again only a distant dream knowing myself]). It is heartwarming that despite everything at least she has her grandmother with her, I feel like that’s a relationship like no other.

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

Raya, I will always wish to see how you think.To me your mind is literally such a beautiful place, the way you seem to just flawlessly write the words down, its something I admire greatly.

And we find out where their romance begins :( I’m taken back to that moment with the MC from TSS and God, the pain was unimaginable, familiar and heartbreaking.

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?”

Something about this moment just gets to me, maybe its the hidden tension, maybe its something else, whatever it make be, it speaks to me. The way MC (rightfully) assumed it was Soobin’s wife that suffered a loss and then the way he still comes a year later, my god. Man, the moment she asked him out I smiled and giggled like an idiot, shes so cute, they feel like puppies who’re scared of going into the water right now and its so endearing.

I felt so bad when Soobin was late oh my god 😭😭 I had no clue what was going to happen but I’m so glad he eventually came (his reaction to her still being there was also so cute)

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.”

Soobin, god. The way this line alone actually sent me insane. I do love that despite the initial awkwardness/tension from Soobin being late, they have a kind of flirtatious banter going on; they eased into conversation so nicely. I love them :) 

“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.

I feel sick oh my god, oh to be viewed like this.

Man. The vulnerability, The kiss. The kiss. The kiss. (yes 3 times was very necessary). The moment was just so soft?? It took me by surprise.

"You taste divine," he breathed against your neck, the words threaded with awe and desire.

Raya, youre going to make me pass out.

“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.”

The instant reassurance?!?!? Goodbye.

“Just think of it as my way to say sorry… for making the prettiest girl wait so long.”

MAN. (I was trying so hard to have my thoughts match the vibe of the fic; very cute, very calm but I fear I’m losing it.) CHOI SOOBIN THE MAN YOU ARE.

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."

RAYA. I literally went like “Oh, fuck” out loud because I could not handle it, Jesus. On another note though, the sleeping pills have me sad :((( and also slightly anxious. Man, the way mc single-handedly made him not think about it oh my god. Hes so downbad.

“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.”

I love this Soobin so bad. He’s literally so in love with her oh my god.

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.

Did I forget about their mother who I absolutely dislike? Yes. I immediately remembered her from the beginning of TSS, and the distaste I feel is ever present

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.”

I fear this just made my dislike her so much more, the MC is so sweet please dont speak to her like that, she doesnt deserve it, no one does.

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.”

AND SHES HERE MY BABY :(((( My precious star, I missed her.

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?”

No. Raya you didn’t

“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 really do love the MC from TSS so bad, shes such a darling. Her and Soobin and such lovely examples of not feeding into the behaviour of the household that raised you (just focussing on the mother). Wait omg ::::::((((((( TSS’s MC is pregnant against oh my god :::((((((

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.

I just know he’s worried :(((((((( 

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

Oh god. Oh my god. I feel so bad for her what. I feel sick for her/

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

Oh this is a cute line 😭😭I didnt expect such cute words

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.

Nooooooooooo. Raya ::::((((( RAYA NOOOOOO YOU MADE HER MOVE TOO ;-;-;-;-;-;-; RAYA.

“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.

Oh my god.

"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.”

Noooo the dried up tear reserve is filling up :(((

“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.”

My heart clenched oh my god. Oh, To be loved like this.

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.

I giggled. Its always a Raya fic when the title is referenced in the end. It’s literally such a trademark of yours now and I always get to giddy reading it :). This was a remarkable first spin-off to the TSS series Raya. As always, I truly love your work, there are no amount of words that exist in this world to correctly describe how your works make me feel. Thank you for existing and thank you always for writing.

‎₊ ˚ ⊹ ིྀ 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

[somicawrites]

Shared Melancholy

Benjamin Poindexter x fem!reader

Summary: You and Dex have been neighbors for quite a while now, but never really interacted before. That soon changes when you enter the elevator, just wanting to get to your apartment as fast as you can after having a shitty day, but he invites you over for some tea as an excuse to keep you company.

Warnings: mention of stalking, manipulative parents, ¿angst?, comfort, NSFW

Word count: 2.6k

Bottling feelings up is usually as easy as putting clothes on. But for some reason, today you failed.

Well, at least you didn’t break down in front of your co-workers, that would've been embarrassing.

The cold night air hits your face the moment you step out of the building, finally done with work for the day. Your body is aching and your shoulders slump while you stand on the sidewalk for a moment and just stare into nothing.

You don’t mind the rain soaking you from head to toe, instead you embrace the cold drops hitting your warm skin when your head tilts back, and you take in a big breath to try and get rid of the stinging behind your eyes.

Unfortunately it's no use, and before you know it, the tears are rolling down your cheeks and onto the wet concrete, becoming one with the rain that's already pooling at your feet.

With a sigh you grip the strap of your bag and start walking home.

Your mind is running with the reason that caused you this state, but you ignore it, instead counting the clicking noises your heels make every time you take another step. 

You promised yourself you won’t let your parents make you feel guilty for leaving them anymore. That also includes not caring that your mom called you earlier today to complain about how hard it is without you home. A shitty reason to call, in your opinion.

Minutes later you push the familiar door open and step into your apartment building.

The lights casting a dim, nostalgic gloom over the empty hallway, one of them flickering as if holding on for dear life.

With slower steps, you walk towards the old elevator by the staircase and press the button with one hand while wiping your wet face with the other. Usually you’d take the stairs, but your feet feel too weak for that right now and all you wish for is to get in bed as fast as possible.

The doors slide open and your eyes are met with none other than your neighbour. Dex. He once introduced himself.

You step in, greeting him with a quiet hey while averting your gaze so he doesn’t see the redness surrounding your eyes from crying all the way home, and the mascara that you’re pretty sure is already everywhere but on your lashes.

After pressing the button to your floor, you step back and lean against the back wall – joining him.

You can feel him eyeing you, but just like your thoughts, you ignore it.

Until he speaks up.

“Rough day?” He asks, his voice calm and deep.

You just give a small nod and continue to stare at the glowing buttons by the doors as they keep switching from one number to another, until you’ve reached your floor.

The small ding pulls you out of your stance against the wall and you step out before him.

Shortly after, he follows and walks behind you as you both go down the hallway towards your apartments.

Sometimes, you find it a little awkward that his is just two doors down from yours because the two of you don’t talk much, only a few greetings every now and then and some small talk that has more silence than words.

You guess he’s just a quiet person, which you don’t mind, because so are you.

You’ve spent more years alone than you did with anyone, for as long as you can remember. So you totally get it.

It’s only when your brain reminds you of how lonely you are, that you actually feel bad about it.

The key twists in the lock as you push the door to your apartment open, but just as you put one foot in, you hear that deep voice again.

“Hey neighbour,”

You look to your left at him, not expecting him to call you out for a second time.

“You down for some tea?”

At first you blink, not sure you heard him right, but then without thinking, you just nod.

He gives you a small smile and unlocks his own door, stepping inside and leaving it agape.

You exhale and put your bag down by yours before closing it again and making your way over.

The first thing you notice when entering, is the fresh smell of clean laundry mixed with his cologne and..vanilla?

Your eyes close for a moment to take it in before the sound of a kettle snaps you back to reality.

With a soft push, you close the door behind you and look towards his kitchen where he’s standing with his right side to you.

“You sure it’s not too late for tea?” You wonder as your eyes dart over his apartment, looking for a clock that you can’t seem to spot. Last time you checked before your phone died, it was 11pm.

“It’s never too late for tea,” he replies as he pours the boiling water into two small, white cups.

You realize his whole apartment is pretty much that color. Mostly white, with some grey here and there while everything is clean and in order. Somehow matching his personality perfectly, you think.

The space isn’t too big either, perfect for one person at least.

You look to the wall beside the door on your left and spot a framed group photo that includes him and a blue sign mentioning the brooklyn suicide prevention center.

“Didn’t know you work there,” you blurt out.

He looks your way and takes a very short glance at the picture frame you're referring to.

“I used to. I work for the FBI now.”

You didn’t expect that answer, but you take it in. It does suit his lifestyle from what you’ve seen and heard so far.

He approaches you with the two cups and hands you one before making his way over to his couch. You follow.

The two of you take a seat and you make sure to keep a good distance between the two of you.

“Didn’t take you for a tea guy.” You stare at the hot liquid in your perfectly white porcelain cup before meeting his eyes.

“I drink it sometimes, when I run out of coffee. Helps with the tensions, you know.” 

You hum and look away again as you take a slow sip, careful not to burn your tongue.

“Alright, that was a lie. I don’t really like tea, I just thought it could lift up your spirits a bit.” He admits while putting his cup down and leaning back against the back of his couch with a slow sigh. His legs spreading.

“You didn't have to do this, you know.” You take another sip, still not looking at him.

“Yeah, but I wanted to. I know we don’t talk much, but you seem like you could use some company sometimes.”

This time, when you look at him, he’s already looking at you. His eyes holding something you can’t yet decipher.

“I never see you have anyone over. Not that it’s any of my business. I’m just assuming.”

For a moment you feel like the veil has been lifted and your mask has finally been peeled off, leaving you exposed.

Your silence answers his assumptions and his gaze softens. 

“You too. I don’t see you have anyone over either.” 

He nods, “I don’t. Besides, I see enough people at work.”

“Not even family?”

He shakes his head and asks the same question in return.

You pause for a moment before giving him the same answer he gave you.

“So we’re two loners then, huh.” You slowly set your cup down on the coffee table before you.

Something in the air shifted, the silence finally being comfortable instead of awkward, for once.

“What do you do to make it go away? The melancholy, I mean.” His voice is quieter, as if he’s afraid of ruining the moment.

“Nothing.”

You don’t know what else to say. You hate lying. And even tho you always do, this time you feel like finally being able to speak the truth.

Because he gets it.

Without realizing it, you’ve shifted closer to him, your knee almost brushing his.

“I’m a loser.” You let out a tired chuckle, “I go to work, come home, go to sleep and then repeat. It’s almost pathetic to have no switch up in this routine. Not that I couldn't. In fact, I could. I just...don’t.”

Your eyes stay on his, almost as if searching for the insults you tell yourself on the daily. Almost as if searching for that judgement others always give you.

But he doesn’t. He just looks at you like you’re his reflection.

Like you’re the first sacred thing he’s found in this lifetime.

His right hand reaches out for your cheek and you let him.

Even tho the two of you are technically strangers, you can’t shake the feeling that you know him. Which is absurd, because you don’t. But he does.

He’s the one that kept an eye on you ever since you moved in. He’s the one that follows you from afar to make sure you’re safe. Definitely not because he’s obsessed with you and needs you all to himself.

But of course, you don’t know any of that because he can’t lose you. And if he’d be honest with you, he would.

So instead. he keeps quiet and slips his hand from your cheek down to your nape, sitting up as he slowly pulls you in closer.

Moments later, your noses touch and your breath hitches while your eyes are glued to his lips.

You’re not the type to mess around. Especially not when you’re not in your right mind. But right now, you couldn’t care less.

So you close the remaining distance between the two of you and meet his lips with yours in a gentle kiss.

That softness is soon gone when his free hand sneaks around your waist and he pulls you to straddle his lap. Almost as if he’s been preparing for this.

He deepens the kiss, the hand on your nape crawling into your hair and gripping it gently to keep you in place while his tongue brushes against your lower lip as a sign to let him in.

Your hands wrap around his neck and your chest presses against his while allowing him into your mouth. His tongue immediately tangling with yours in a game of back and forth.

The moment you let out a soft whimper, both his hands move to your waist and he flips the both of you so you’re under him while he makes himself room between your thighs.

“You want this?” He whispers against your cheek before moving down to your neck and carefully sucking on the sensisitive skin.

You nod, your lips parting and your eyes closing, “Yeah..”

A small grunt escapes him when he hears your consent and his breath hitches while his fingers fumble with the edge of your pencil skirt, slowly pushing it up your thighs till its around your hip and your panties are visible through your black tights.

“Can I rip them?” His eyes meet yours for a second, his pupils wide.

You open yours and give another nod before looking down between your legs.

Without wasting time, he grips the thin material with both hands and with a harsh pull, the material tears and leaves a large hole, exposing your damp panties.

Your breath hitches at the sound, your eyes half lidded as you wait for his next move.

His fingers brush over the soft cotton, testing the state you’re in to make sure you’re ready before pushing it aside and exposing your slightly glistening pussy to the cold air.

A shiver runs down your spine and almost on instinct your thighs go to close.

“Don’t. You have no reason to feel ashamed.” He comforts, “You’re beautiful.”

You swallow since it’s been a while since you’ve heard that word being directed at you. Your thighs relaxing.

His eyes stay on yours as he unbuckles his belt and unzips his pants before pulling out a condom from his back pocket.

He breaks the contact to put the protection on, but your eyes stay glued to his face.

Something in your mind suddenly wondering if he’s done this before. If maybe he lied, and he does have people over, just not when you’re home.

Either way, that is none of your business. What’s happening now is probably a one time thing. Or at least, you think it is, because it doesn’t feel real.

But it doesn’t feel wrong either.

He lowers himself over you again and wipes the leftover mascara from under your eyes with his thumb, “I’ll give you a good reason to cry. Promise you’ll like this one more than the one your parents gave you.”

You blink, eyebrows drawing together in confusion as he mentions your parents.

“How did you-” You cut yourself off with a gasp when he slowly pushes in, stretching you at a maddening pace.

A whimper escaping you next as your head tilts back and your mouth falls open, forming a O.

“Fuck..” He props himself up with the hand he used to wipe your makeup while the other finds its way to your thigh and slowly pushes it further apart to open you up more.

His pace quickens the moment he feels your wetness increasing, and not long after, you feel that weird pressure you haven’t felt in months form in your lower abdomen.

The pleasure is overwhelming, almost comic like how he hits your G-spot immediately and constantly, making your eyes tear up from how good it is.

“Dex..” You pant out, fingers digging into the sides of his couch.

“C’mon baby, let go for me.” He pants back while his hand slides up your thigh to your clit, slowly circling it with his thumb.

That’s all it takes.

Seconds later your whole body tenses and that pressure snaps, your walls clenching around him tight as you let yourself go.

“That’s it sweetheart..” His lips find your temple and he places a gentle kiss against the sweat covered skin.

“You did so good.”

He pulls out and gets rid of the used condom before tucking himself away and reaching for the wipes on the coffee table, using them to clean you up before rolling your skirt back down.

“How..” you manage to speak up again after catching your breath, your body still trembling slightly from your orgasm.

“You can use my shower, if you’d like.” He offers, looking you over with admiration. His brain still processing the fact he finally got to touch you after waiting 8 months and a half.

You slowly sit up, your hair even more dishevelled than it already was from the rain before.

“Uhm..” You try to find your words. Would it be a bad idea to ask what this was? To ask if it meant anything or if it was just a quick stress relief?

“Would you like to meet up for coffee tomorrow?” He cuts in, as if reading your mind.

You stare at him with parted lips before closing them and nodding, glad he asked that.

After what feels like forever, you finally break eye contact and get up, waiting for him to do the same.

“I think..I’ll take a quick shower, if that’s okay.”

A genuine smile spreads across his face and he nods, guiding you towards his bathroom and letting you step in. Once the door is closed and he hears the water start to run, his forehead presses against the door.

Because now it’s official.

You’re not just the neighbour he watches from afar anymore. Now you’re his.

copyright ©️ 2025 somicawrites

[angelltheninth]

Vampire Boyfriend Gets Distracted by the Scent of Your Blood

Pairing: Male!Vampire x Fem!Reader

Tags: fluff, kissing, distractions, blood lust, teasing, established relationship, domestic fluff

Prompt: "Mhm, you smell good." - List

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: This prompt fit so well for vampires that I just had to write a little something for it. Enjoy, comment, reblog and all that good stuff.

Ever since this morning your boyfriend has been acting a bit strange. He walked by you quickly, he kisses you for just enough to make your lips tingle for more, he didn't breathe around you, and that last one was the strangest one of all. Normally he didn't need to breathe that much at all, he was a vampire after all, his heart wasn't beating, breathing was just a habit that was left over from when he was still human, hundreds of years ago.

He wasn't sick, at least you didn't so. Could vampires even get sick? And if he was he would have told you. You've been dating for a few years at this point, and have recently started living together. You told each other everything.

You caught him staring at you more than once today too, he would always look away, his ears downcast the tiniest bit. Then he would do it again, and so it went for the entire day. He was clearly hiding something from you, something embarrassing.

"And here we go, one romantic candle-lit dinner for my beautiful darling!" He carried the plates of food like an expert, having worked in the food service industry several times, with several identities. The food had a strong, almost overpowering scent spice and meat. It was making your mouth water. "Hungry?"

"When you're cooking, how can I not be?" You smiled at him before taking off your sweater, and the moment you did you heard a crash. Shattered glass and wine spilled all over the floor of your kitchen while your boyfriend just stood there, frozen.

"Fuck, I'll get the broom!" He yelled after a moment. For as long as you ate he cleaned. Odd given his superhuman speed, you knew he could have cleaned it up in less than a minute and joined you at the table.

At least he joined you on the couch, you were watching Nosferatu, the new one. It was a warm night so his cold arms were more than a welcome heaven.

"You're stiff." You commented, not taking your eyes off the TV.

"S-Sorry, that scene was really hot... I can move if you... oh..." He paused when he saw the raised eyebrow and your serious look. "You mean stiff as in not relaxed."

"You've been like that all day today. Whenever I get close to you it's like you freeze up, you stop breathing. Earlier you dropped the glasses and the wine bottle. You never do those things. Am I doing something to make you uncomfortable? This was originally your apartment, so if I'm overstepping somehow I want to know." You almost wanted to move away from him. If it weren't for him holding you and you wanting honest answers you might have.

He sighed heavily and took a deep breath, his pupils dilating as he did. "You didn't do anything wrong, sweetheart." His cold nose pressed against your neck and he took another deep breath. "You smell really good. It's becoming hard to ignore. Very distracting. I didn't know it'd be like this when we started living together. But I don't want you to move out! I love having you here!"

"Do you want to suck my blood? I'm not opposed to that, as you know." You rubbed your thighs together, remembering the bite marks that were still there, glanced down at your arms, also covered with more, all but faded marks. They take a long time to heal, which is why even though your blood tastes the best to him it's rare that he drinks it.

Only on special occasions.

"I'm not hungry exactly, it just gets me worked up. Not in that sense. It's gonna take some time to get used to this new living situation. I've never had a roommate that made me hungry in more ways than one." He kissed your neck, the fangs prickling at your skin for a brief moment. "I'll get used to it eventually. Hopefully with less and less incidents."

"You should have said so sooner! For a moment I thought you were avoiding me cause I was annoying you." As soon as the words left your mouth your boyfriend gasped dramatically, offended.

"You could never, I love living with you! I want to live with you until you're old and gray, and even beyond then." His cold lips found your warm ones, exchanging different temperatures, a cold tongue against a warm one. The two of you were fundamentally different, but together, you could always make something beautiful, no matter the obstacle.

Dividers by: @/cafekitsune

[9w1ft]

Okay okay set the scene-

champagne problems. 1 for the money (the first wedding)

2 for the show (the second highly broadcasted wedding featuring scooter Braun)

I never was ready (to come out?) so I watched you go (deeper into a bearding contract so that we can hide in plain sight and commit vigilante shit). I do belive that we were on for a public reunion and coming out before the masters heist.

anyways champagne problems making sense today.

oh yes and on a base level when we all first listened through evermore and got to champagne problems i would venture to guess that this was the prevailing thought for sure, but sort of in a dry humor way 🥴

also this!

one thing that i agree with that i sense from your interpretation is that (and this i feel is true about so much of folklore and i back this up with things taylor herself has written) is that it’s a mixture of feelings that arose over multiple moments and events, not a one to one thing that means only one thing. in other words, to me, champagne problems is not “someone got proposed to and got denied and therefore there was no wedding”. to me it’s more like using it as a metaphor for conveying the feelings she had around certain things. also i agree that i do think taylor was gearing up for some sort of coming out at the end of june 2019. but ultimately she changed course. and while i think that champagne problems can depict a certain feeling that she had and deal with things that happened that are wedding themed, in the sense of taking the temperature on the status of that relationship i always return to a song that feels chronologically newer, the lakes, and the line “i’m setting off, but not without my muse, no not without you.” when thinking about the overall arc of taylor’s moves post-june 2019. in retrospect, i also find the line “she’ll patch up your tapestry that i shred” to be similar to the motif of the banner found in other songs, “tore our banners down” and “years of tearing down our banners” — to me, champagne problems is representative of another time that taylor tore the banners down on something. that could be 2019, it could be earlier, like post-election 2016 maybe, but moreover, it’s one of a series of moments over time, not an end.

i thought i’d mention that the second wedding thing was positioned more like an extended reception for their business circles (scooter was her manager at the time). some family and friends came too but it had a distinct work friends vibe. a big dinner and activities. the first one was positioned more like a ceremony and intimate event with a smaller circle of friends and family. which i might add isn’t that weird conceptually (to have a smaller ceremony and then a bigger party later) or at least that’s how i went about doing my wedding years ago so 😆 like it was definitely sus (and silly!) of them to do two events, silly in an absurdist, god can’t we catch a break sort of way, but also not unheard of conceptually imo.

also if you could allow me a long tangent regarding one other tiny point that came to mind when reading your ask (and i’m sorry for getting particular about semantics and i’m mostly writing this because i’ve gotten a lot of newer followers lately so it’s not directed at you in particular nor am i sure you meant it that way but it did make me think something so here i go) it’s just that i think that it can be beneficial to us as observers of kaylor to consider a contract to be something that is signed and negotiated by two or more parties, and therefore, usually, it is a document that is considered balanced for all parties which is evidenced by approval through their signatures. that is to say, i think oftentimes we talk about adding marriage to bearding as going deeper into the closet and maybe we see the words ‘bearding contract’ and we talk about it like its a somewhat nefarious thing but, in spirit, a bearding contract is a document to facilitate the terms of something complicated and nuanced and important that shouldn’t be done on the fly. sometimes i feel like people think as if karlie and/or taylor were strong armed into some raw deal and that they are being bound and held captive to their true feelings, but i think that is a tenuous path to walk down. because when people see bearding as some sort of trapping mechanism to get out of, and then set expectations for what they want the girls to do in terms of how to get out of it, and their expectations do not get fulfilled, they tend to blame this on things which have been arbitrarily marked as unfair. and i think it often leads to people running to the concepts of blackmail, criminality, etcetera, as a catch all to explain and justify their ideals about how taylor or karlie should act. when we simply do not know the truth of the matter. and in terms of maintaining a healthy fandom community ecosystem, in my opinion, we ought to be able to amend our view of things with more ease and make the observation of kaylor a net positive in our lives as opposed to setting ourselves up to become angry or feeling perpetually disenfranchised at every turn based on the way we choose to define things. i am not saying we should not empathize with the complexity and tribulations of their situation or not hope for a future where we can all live life freely. i very much do. and i think there are hard times and sadness for them because of the realities of society. it’s just that, as a group, i think it is more useful or helpful for people like taylor to not have to worry about appeasing our feelings. she should have to spend time on us. in my opinion, in terms of priorities, we are behind other groups of people in her life and that’s how it should be. and so, i tend to avoid thinking about their situation as something bleak that they are getting buried under and may never get out of, but rather a uniquely complex situation that merits us extending some grace toward, in terms of setting expectations. and i think that the way we think about bearding or bearding contracts can affect our general mood and morale.

alright, thank you for allowing my tangent!

one parting idea for me is that, for example even in champagne problems, taylor was not ready personally to go through with something and that through the song she is acknowledging this hesitancy that came from her and how that might have ruined an envisioned version of things in a way, but that at the end of the day these are ‘champagne problems’ ie, problems that exist within the greater context of a situation of abundance. in a way, to me, taylor is saying, i know we have so much and at the end of the day maybe this hurt ought not to be compared to people in the world less fortunate, but i feel compelled to share this emotion anyway. there’s this tension in the song, for me anyway, between telling herself that her feelings aren’t important, and embracing and letting her feelings out (mostly the bridge). at the end of the song, reflecting on having torn down a banner, taylor hopes that her lover could find someone who could do what she could not in the moment, someone who recognizes how the bones are good, and she calls all her aforementioned feelings champagne problems. not that she necessarily believes that they are, nor is there magically some new person in the equation, but that she recognizes the difference in viewpoints between her and her lover and is wondering how to bridge the gap. i think in some ways that connects to the song happiness in the sense that taylor refers to her future self “all you want from me now is the green light of forgiveness, you haven’t met the new me yet, and i think she’ll give you that”

[cryingatwindermerepeaks]

Cg!Van x Little!Reader (me)

This is the most self indulgent fic you’ll probably ever read. So. Yeah.

Notes -> crying, lots of crying, negative self thought, the most brief mention of sh, she/they papa Van, fem little!reader (who has had a very bad day. Probably got yelled at by their principal or something, I wouldn’t know), a weird anecdote because im not used to this writing style.

Word count: 1034

The water is hot - burning really - where it had been ice cold only moments before. It had been a feeble attempt to calm your breathing, jolting your body with cold water to slow your heart. It’s a fact you learnt in 10th grade science, from your batshit crazy teacher who warbled on about genetic modification all year and quit with no warning. It worked for about ten seconds today before you were back to hauntingly achy cries. The tears - at least - don’t burn in comparison to the water you’d just shot up unthinkingly in temperature. They won’t leave tracks after you get out, either, the only worry you need to have right now is that you are being so loud and everyone can definitely hear. At least the thought of everyone knowing how much of a pathetic cry baby you are is distracting your mind from the real reason you’re here. The bone rattling, bower constrictor wrapping around your chest, levels of anxiety you’d felt today from only a simple miscommunication. One you hadn’t been able to explain because you were crying - loud and ugly in front of too many people who now all knew how wrong, and bad, and stupid you were.

You cry a little harder- simply because the thought of today is too much for you. Everything is - in this headspace - too much for you. At least that’s how you feel, when all you can do is tighten your arms around your shins and cry for your Papa. They aren’t coming, though, because Van is out at the shops and doesn’t know this is happening. You shouldn’t let the next thought in but you do anyway - even if they did know what was happening, they wouldn’t care. Because you’re a stupid, over dramatic, crybaby. Your body hurts, you feel sore and raw as you claw at your skin for some sort of solace. Nothing works. Water pools in your mouth, which you have to garble over to breathe. At least, you think, the snot is being washed away as you cry - unlike earlier today when a tissue box had been shoved into your hands because it was just awkward to watch how your face became so stricken with tears and snot and red, hot shame. No one’s watching you now, you have to remember, cry as loud as you want.

There’s a knock on the door - the kind of sound which feels unreal and you almost second guess its existence until it comes back accompanied by a voice. “Kiddo, can I come in?” It’s Van’s voice - sturdy and calm like it always is. You want to respond, but all that comes out is a pitifully desperate whine and another wave of pathetic tears. Van lets herself in anyway - because they know you need them right now, because even if you don't have words to ask for it you still deserve comfort.

“Oh, baby,” their voice is low and gentle as they crouch down by the side of the bathtub. Van rolls up the navy fabric of their sweater sleeve and stretches an arm out to hold against your bare back. “Poor thing,” she coos - and the gentle tone is enough to still your tears for a moment. Just long enough to notice the growing ache spreading across your forehead. Van’s hand rubs back and forth across your back - they don’t seem to care that the shower water is splashing up onto their clothes. You lean into the touch, desperate to be held and reminded that you’re still worthy of this gentle touch. “I need you to take gentle breaths with me baby.” You’ve stopped crying, yes, but your breath is still coming in and out with such speed you might inflate your lungs so much that you just float away.Van is breathing loud, and slow, she doesn’t tell you to copy her breathing but it’s there for you if you want it. And you do. You copy her slow breaths until yours match perfectly and your hearts are probably beating at the same time. You can finally jam your thumb into your mouth, that feels nice. “Let’s get you out and cozy,” Van hums. There isn’t any pressure in her voice, just a level of certainty which makes you feel not in charge for just this moment. It’s ok to let Van take control when you’re like this.

She lets you stand up on your own time, holding your arm tightly when you start to sway. Everything feels heavy and you want to drop back to the shower floor and start crying all over again. But you don’t, and you won’t, because Van is holding you and she won’t let you fall. “That’s it, you’ve got it,” she praises gently as you finally step out of the bathtub and onto the soft mat. Van is quick to wrap you in your towel - it’s pink and still a little damp from when you’d showered this morning. “Can I help?” Van asks, though definitely still in charge here, wanting to make sure you’re comfortable the whole time. You nod - words still feeling too far away - and let her dry you off and squeeze the remaining water from your hair.

“Such a good girl for me,” she hums as she works. You don’t think you’ve done anything particularly good today, or ever really, but the praise is comforting nonetheless.

Van takes you to her room, which is clean and grown up and warm. They tell you to lay down on the bed and you don’t fight because being a baby right now doesn’t feel bad or wrong. It feels like Van dressing you in a pair of her boxers and a jumper which is way too big, and that is undoubtedly good. She climbs up onto the bed next to you once you’re dressed, wrapping her arms tightly around your body and pressing her lips to the top of your head. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” she promises - a distant part of your kind wonders who told her what happened but it’s quiet and you don’t have the energy or words to press it now. “And even if you did - I’d still love you.”

[flowerwiththemachinegun]

For years I’ve passionately hated Imagine Dragons. Are my ears okay? Have I completely fried my brain?? Maybe.

Anyways I’m now capable of screaming lyrics at 5am like my life depends on it. Just when I thought my top artist for the year was secured by Tropidelic.

[da-janela-lateral]

Nuzzles YOU nuzzles youuuuu nuzzles. you

[navree]

"rhaenys could have ended the war by dracarysing all the greens right there" yes because a distant relation to the throne deciding to barbecue an anointed and publicly positively hailed king and his entire family who is well loved within the city and in multiple other parts of the country for the sake of the succession of a far-away princess no one was ever on board with who hasn't been seen by the populace in literal years, her psycho husband, her three obvious bastards, and two toddlers from the psycho husband would go over super well with westeros and especially in king's landing where scores of the still-cheering population were killed for no reason by that same dragon who would do the barbecuing, because when targaryens act unilaterally without thinking of how the people would react there's never any problem, which is why the storming of the dragonpit and robert's rebellion were actually just collective delusions dreamed up by readers who hate rhaenyra and not key parts of the story and house targaryen's history that directly contributed to their demise and are intrinsic to the plot

truly team black stans are made up of only the most genius and media literate amongst us

[cementcornfield]

Did you see the clip of Joe yesterday?

Is it a clip now? Oh lord....was it funny at least?

It was the first time he ever used the F word in a conference.

He cursed? Y'all lying...I be trying to get him to curse, he don't curse when I'm talking to him...

[macodoesstuff]

nothing else in my mind, just puffy skirts

More of her under the cut for your own pleasure. Mhm I know I know, I'm so nice