#because it's not the WORST place to have it

[thewritingfairy]

↪ 13. Damian attempts self-reflection

PREV PART trigger warning: medical + physical + emotional neglect, name is officialy fucking done and they'll make it known, Name is no longer hiding that they want to leave, Damian centric chapter, short filler  main m.list       series m.list

You are about to kill a motherfucker, and that motherfuckers name is Damian. Not only is he following you, he continuously attempts to place trackers and to get your medication to give to Bruce. And after your latest shift, you were done. Robin was now spying on you while you were working, and you are absolutely fucking done.

So when you see him at the dining table you couldn’t contain your anger. “You and I are going to have a talk, privately,” you hiss at him, smacking a bag of broken trackers on the table. “or so help me, and I actually get a fucking restraining order against you.”

This sure as hell got his attention, and he nods and follows you to the kitchen. You need a room that can be trashed, and in the kitchen you have more shit to throw. “You are out of line,” you say, looking at him with a stare that one could describe as threatening, enraged and calculating. “if you do this again I’ll be sure to fuck Robin up the next time he comes to visit me at work.”

You didn’t want to play your cards out, they have no need to know that you know. Of course Duke knows, but he’ll always be the exception.

Damian laughs, he can’t help it. You think you can fuck up Robin? Please, he didn’t know you had a sense of humour. What a delightful surprise.

At least he has enough sense to stop laughing when he felt your stern gaze become a glare. Truly, you aren’t like Bruce a lot, but your stare… your stare is purely Bruce. “Why do you think you being followed by Robin has anything to do with me?” he asks, genuinely curious. He just hopes you won’t put all the clues together, he’s quite relieved with the fact that your pain keeps you oblivious. Unable to use all of your intelligence.

“Nightwing and then Robin, it’s obvious they are in Bruce in pockets,” you say trying to make it seem like you weren’t omitting something. But Damian did notice a slight change in your body language, but he’ll dismiss it for now. “get him to back off, or I will file a formal complaint of stalking against him. Wouldn’t be so good for his already shitty reputation, right?”

Seems like you hit a nerve, Damian looks away ashamed, regretful and at the same time grateful. Good, let him think you’re oblivious, the more he underestimates you the safer you will be. A boy like Damian is even more dangerous than a man like Jason, Damian was raised to kill, but Jason just copied the aggression he learned. And when he lost his joyful nature, he became the monster he is today. You take Damian’s silence as compliance. “Do me a favour and tell Brucie that I will be at Maria’s for the rest of the week,” you say as you turn around, ignoring how he takes a sharp breath. “I don’t want to see your face until I return.”

Damian knows your hyper independent nature is due to their actions, due to what they’ve done to you. But he can’t help but feel bitter, he didn’t know better. He didn’t understand your side, and he wants to be your brother. He always wanted to be your brother.

From the moment you defended Tim he knew that he wanted you to defend him like that, that he wanted you to love him like that. But after Jason’s attack he learned how your family treated you, and he wanted nothing to do with you. Fearful of losing his father’s approval, and you don’t know about their life. Involving you would lead to you being kidnapped and at worst killed.

He knows he could have had a civilian relationship, but after he chastised you for your anger towards Jason he knew he no longer had a chance. He knew, so he didn’t try.

He didn’t try because he didn’t understand.

So now, as you pull away from them instead of them pulling away from you Damian doesn’t know what to do. He wants to be your sibling, he wants the bond you seemed to have with Tim (a bond he now knows doesn’t exist), he wants to be loved by you. And he wants to protect you.

Can’t you let your brother protect you?

You’re the older sibling, shouldn’t you do anything to make your younger siblings happier?

NEXT PART guys, I know this is short, but listen, I wanted this out because I keep having Damian being a gremlin brother thoughts and not in a good way. also I keep seeing one specific username that is such a typical name where I am from that I'm like; shit do I know this person?

taglist CLOSED!: @prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue, @bunniotomia, @devotedlyshamelessdetective, @princessbonnie-bell, @seemee3, @pix-stuff, @venomsvl, @amber-content, @stove-top96, @frank-vanderboom, @leeiasure, @1abi, @shadowytravelerlover, @chericia, @lithiumval, @lingxio, @cssammyyarts, @marsmabe, @foolishseven, @kore-of-the-underworld, @bunbunboysworld, @homeless-clown, @miashico, @alwaysholymilkshake, @1cxndy, @kittzu, @rtyuy1346, @exactlynumberonekryptonite, @hopingtoclearmedschool, @artistwithcreativeburnout, @alishii, @vanessa-boo, @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni, @91-kya, @ryuushou, @jjsmeowthie, @justthere1956, @depressed--therapist, @xzmickeyzx, @cheappremingerfromdelululand, @plsfckmedxddy, @itsberrydreemurstuff, @trashlaternfish360, @leogf, @dirtydiavolo, @lilyalone, @welpthisisboring, @kenman00001, @nxdxsworld, @icefox8155, @ironsaladwitch, @holderoflostmemories, @asillysimp, @wisefuncherryblossom, @eyeless-kun, @marina27826, @muggleloveralways, @ironsaladwitch, @shyenemyperson, @iamaunknownsecret

[dawngyu]

‎₊ ˚ ⊹ ིྀ 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍

𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀: 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝖾𝖻𝗈𝗅 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗂 𝗌𝗈𝗈𝖻𝗂𝗇 𝗑 𝗆𝗂𝖽𝖽𝗅𝖾-𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

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

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

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

𝗐𝖼: 17.5k — playlist.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It doesn’t mean it wasn’t lonely.

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

No one at all.

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

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

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

“Yes. Mom.”

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

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

“Okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you, Y/N.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Someone’s here.

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

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

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

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

Why?

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

His eyes meet yours.

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

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

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

Your store.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When it comes, it lands harder than you expect.

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

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

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

Moon.

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

“What do you think?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s too much. It’ll only be —”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sense the moment he holds his breath.

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

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

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

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

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

Your throat tightens at the thought, inexplicable.

“Soobin,”

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

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

And that’s how it started.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s for my sister.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay.”

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

Dawn had already cracked the sky.

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

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

He never came.

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

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

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

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

And now, it’s clear; he’s not coming.

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

When his eyes found yours, he ran.

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

He's here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And the misfortune?”

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

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

“Why flowers?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your chest pulls tight, your breath shallow and quick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s looking at you.

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

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

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

His lips meet yours. It's soft.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until now.

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

It had been waiting. Waiting for him.

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

You are home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The world dissolves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re cherished.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You had never been blinded because of a smile before.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are exactly where you’re meant to be.

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

Choi Soobin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sleeping pills.

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

You swallow gently, pushing the drawer close.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And just like that, the line clicks silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you want—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t belong here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Soobin’s sister.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Choi Beomgyu.

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

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

She’s pregnant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You've never seen a love so whole.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The door clicks shut behind you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I love you. I fucking love you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All while everything was breaking your heart.

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

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

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

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

You slowly, wrote your goodbye.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It had been days since you moved.

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

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

And then, the rain came.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because you're the only thing keeping him standing.

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

“I said—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stopped pulling away this time.

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

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

When would he ever get a moment like this again?

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

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

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

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

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

[thechthonicherbalist]

Dwagon! :3

I'm gonna use this reblog for a small status update real quick bc I don't have energy for anything else today.

Today was a heckin long day full of appointments at a hospital 3 hours away from me. Cancer checkups. Blood taken, MRI and ultrasound and ultimately also a gastroscopy with the result that yes, chemo is working well, but I've also been having some flares again since late February/March and ofc I've been also trying to have foods again in accordance with the cancer and IBD therapy plan and well. I grew another stomach ulcer. 😐

No big reason for worries, after all I do have a chronic inflammatory GI disease that commonly results in ulcers during flares and the only thing I can do is to avoid factors that cause them as much as possible. Plus not every ulcer is malignant ofc. So I'm getting treatment with acid neutralizers and then some atm and hopefully all will be good. Back to cold liquids and increase of IV fluids for a while. But it's still progress. I've still made a ton of progress battling this illness since September.

I'm so tired and in a truckload of pain rn (since weeks actually because of the flare). But I'm also at a point of recovery I didn't even hope I'd reach anymore for many months last year. I was genuinely just preparing to die under the worst circumstances, with no more peace, no more happiness and no more safety in my life for many months due to immense intentional violations of my limits and boundaries around my health and capacities that persisted for a year. I had given up all hope to escape these circumstances after many failed attempts and unheard begging. And I'm honestly grateful that things took the turn they did, even if it was painful, but I'm in a much better place since then, with new people in a healthier environment and with all important areas of my life disconnected from anyone and anything that was involved with these things that troubled me so much.

So I'll just go to bed happily after hitting post on this and wish kindness and calmness and peace upon the world and its people.

The Sea Foam Dragon

[motthe]

there's no death here | robert "bob" reynolds [part ii]

warnings: childhood trauma, bit of blood, secondhand embarrassment maybe???

《masterlist》

Bob didn't know what to expect when Bucky mentioned a friend of his being able to help with his “weird mind power stuff.”

Said friend being a woman, Bob wasn’t sure if that made things easier or not. Opening up to anyone felt forbidden these days. That and the team knew how to deal with his bad days. He would have to see someone react to him for the first time all over again.

One thing Bob was sure about was that he would feel a hell of a lot worse hurting a woman if this training didn't go well.

Then you walked off the elevator, and he quickly realized he couldn't save face around you. For one, you held yourself like every other hero in his life. If there was a weakness, he couldn’t pinpoint it, and you held more confidence in one finger than he’d ever had in his entire life.

And second, you were beautiful. It had been a fact even from a distance, but then you held his hand without fear, and you’d smiled bright enough it blinded him for a good second.

Training the psychic side meant you were going to see every molecule of shit that ever existed in his head. There was nothing he was going to be able to hide from you. But if you weren’t running for the hills after everything you’d heard in his head the first day, then maybe there was a chance.

Bucky also mentioned all the lowlives you’d had to needle your way through to get evidence for detectives. When you said you’d seen the worst of the worst, you had meant it, and while Bob never once thought of himself as a good or even useful person, he could at least feel a bit better about himself when compared to a serial killer.

He had done bad things, but he'd never wanted to do them intentionally.

‘“So, h-how is all of this going to work?”

It was his second day meeting with you and after the storm of introductions with the rest of the team, one too many comments from Walker, and a strange look of respect passing between you and Yelena, this was the first time he’d ever been alone with you. There was no Bucky to look to for second opinions, no one to step in if something went wrong—

“Nothing is going to go wrong.”

His attention zipped to you as you sipped from a to-go coffee cup. “Um, can you warn me when you’re going to…you know?”

“I’m not reading your mind,” you said, tongue catching a stray drop on the corner of your lips.

Thank God, he thought and you winced like someone had blasted music in your ears. You made some vague hand gesture before the line in your brow relaxed.

“You’re projecting,” you said. “I told you, you're loud. But I can block you out. It just takes some fine tuning I don’t usually have to do with others.”

“So I’m just shouting everything?” he whispered, horrified.

You shook your head. “Not always. It’s bits and pieces. When you’re worried or excited the volume builds. It's like if you were ranting about something, y’know?”

“Can we work on that first?” he begged.

“First,” you said, clearly amused, “we have to get comfortable with one another. When I skirt around your head, you’re guarded in some places and open in others. You have to get used to being completely open with me before I can teach you to close yourself off.”

“I’m sorry,” he sighed. “You’re going to have to see a lot of messed up stuff. I know you already have but still.”

“I’ll apologize as well,” you laughed, “because it’s going to go both ways. You’re going to see as much of me as I will of you, but that’s part of the process of building mental shields.”

“But if I’m able to get in—”

“You've done a great job keeping it under control so far,” you told him. “From what I read, you only see glimpses before you or your target breaks away.”

“I don’t want to even do that, though.”

“Well, in order to learn how to not do that, I have to see how you even do it in the first place.” You lifted your hand, palm facing up as you twiddled your fingers at him. “Let’s see what you bring out.”

He shook his head, sinking further into his chair. What happened to building up to his despicable magic trick? This was only day two. “I don’t think that's a good idea. Aren't we supposed to meditate or build the whole mind barrier thing by imagining bricks?”

“We’ll get there,” you promised, sipping your drink again. “For now, let’s level the playing field. You’re embarrassed and scared of all the things I know already. This will let you learn about me a bit.”

“What I make you see—” he tried again.

“I know. Trust me, I can handle it,” you swore, eyes hardened with certitude. “Now, come on in, Bob. The door’s open.”

He wasn’t going to pretend he wasn’t curious about what shames you had floating around in your past, but baring yourself open as easily as you were… How were you okay with that? Would he learn where that came from while you were teaching him?

He closed his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek. He didn’t want to put you through the worst times of your life.

“Please, Bob. You trusted me to try yesterday. I need that again.”

“I know,” he whispered, straightening his shoulders as he looked you in the eye. “I just don’t want you to be afraid of me.”

There was that smile again. Radiant, he thought and you huffed on a laugh. Shit.

“I’m not afraid,” you promised.

He swallowed and reached out a hand. “You will be.”

A wall of darkness crashed over your mind. The ground fell out from under you, sending your heart off rhythm. Your first reaction was to ground yourself, but you fought it, allowing Bob’s presence to wash over you and drag you into whatever memory his power clung to.

Opening your eyes, you sucked your teeth at the sight of that old, wooden dining room table. You were four, doing your best to get around the food on your plate as your mother sat opposite of you. The dining room had that powdery smell of youth.

“Fuck,” you whispered, eyes watering as the grief claimed you. She was alive and breathing again and you were about to see the beginning of her spiral. But you had prepared for that.

“You don’t have to hide, Bob,” you called, sensing him nearby. “Come here.”

He stepped up on your right, eyes glued to the scene before looking at you. “You’re so young.”

“I was,” you agreed, frowning at the expressions flickering over your mother’s face. She looked a mess, clothes ragged on her frame and eyes darting around the room before settling on you, scowling at your plate.

“Baby, eat your food, please,” she called quietly.

“Don’t want to.”

You drowned the conversation out as you turned to Bob. “Your powers seem to pick shame from the beginning.”

“Never this young,” he whispered, eyes round as he looked at your toddler self.

“I was born with my powers. I couldn't control them back then,” you explained, wincing as your mother began to yell. You held a hand up, silencing the scene.

“How did you…?” He looked between your hand and the environment in awe.

“You can’t block my powers even when I’m in the midst of yours. That's interesting,” you hummed. Your heart squeezed in your chest as your mother threw herself to the floor, clawing at her head as your child self ran to her, tears streaming down your cheeks.

“What happened?” he asked, voice shaking.

“I projected a lot. Like you do now,” you explained, grabbing your upper arm as your mother’s hand found the butter knife on the floor and slashed. “She thought she was going insane and then she did.”

Bob turned away as your toddler self began to bleed, crawling away and screaming into silence. “I don’t want to see this.”

“Then don’t,” you told him. “Pull out of it.”

“I can’t just do things like you can!” he said, panic rising.

“Focus. Take a breath.” You eyed the scene as it started over from the top. Another thing to note. “You latched on to this memory. Let it go.”

“How?” His breath was picking up.

“Can I touch you?” you asked. The question seemed to confuse him for a second before he nodded. You grabbed his arms and turned him away from the dining room, getting his full attention on you. “Feel my hands?”

“Uh, yeah,” he murmured, bobbing his head.

“You’re feeling that with your mind. This isn’t real.”

“It was real," he breathed, watery.

“And now it’s done,” you stated gently. “Can’t be changed. I'll always regret what I did to my mother, but I was a kid. There was nothing I could do.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, hands folding back over yours as he took a slow breath. “Okay.”

“Feel the floor under your feet. You’ve grounded yourself to this memory. Now you just have unground.”

He looked down, expression pinching as he fought to focus. You couldn’t help but laugh as he jumped.

“With your mind,” you repeated.

“This is my mind!” he said, voice shrill and eyes wide as he met yours. “God, what if we’re stuck?”

“We’re not stuck,” you promised, squeezing his hands. “Here, I’ll do it. Maybe you’ll be able to feel it.”

Honing in on the sensations around you, you followed them back to your core, centering your focus on yourself and Bob. With a slow breath, you let that shield snap over the two of you, forcing the darkness back.

There was a split second as you trailed out of Bob's mental snare. You couldn't be sure, but somewhere on the horizon of your consciousness melding with his there was a…mass. A dark blotch.

And when you noticed it, there was no way to hide when it noticed you back.

A gasp of air split your lips. Back to reality, you two were still at the table in the Watchtower. Bob blinked opposite of you, his fingers skimming your palm. The shield you'd propped over both of you was still intact—that mental bond pulsing.

“How did she do that?”

Lots and lots of practice, you answered him, making yourself known in his head. Feel this? That’s how you’ll know I’m in your head.

He made a distressed expression that had you snorting. His head turned from side to side, reminiscent of a cat with a medical cone on for the first time. He wasn't sure what to do with a second presence melded to his. “Oh, weird. Okay. That feels so weird. I don't know if I like this.”

Yeah, not very comfortable. You want me to leave?

“Yeah, just, well, lemme try to get used to it for a second. So weird, what the fuck?”

You covered your face with your hand to try to find a semblance of professionalism, but it was impossible with the faces he made and the stream of thoughts filtering through.

I'm sorry, I shouldn't be laughing.

“I'd rather you be laughing than running, screaming out of the room. It's embarrassing, but it's not the worst.”

If it makes you feel any better, I'm not a professional in any shape or form. Bob's head tilted as he stared through the table. There was a brush against your mind. I'll make mistakes trying to figure out the best way to teach you what I know—oh, hi. That's me.

“You’re warm,” he replied aloud, squinting as he zeroed in. You made a point to retreat back a bit in case you ended up back in a shame room. His eyes flickered up to yours. “I feel you moving around. Is this how you see stuff?”

You nodded, a bit flustered at the feeling of his consciousness circling yours. He learned fast. “I’m not actively looking right now, just making my presence known. Careful, you press any further and you'll get my subconscious thoughts again.”

He shuddered as you pulled away from his mind completely. Your mind barrier went up for both his privacy and yours.

"Sorry, I should’ve warned you.”

“No, its fine, just...so weird.” His nose wrinkled as he said it.

“Yeah, I've heard that before,” you scoffed, smiling into your drink. The way he grinned back, it weighed in one corner—the same side he turned into to avoid eye contact. “You have any questions for me after all that?”

“Yeah,” he muttered, that sweet smile dropping as he bit at his lip. “You…felt something when we left the shame room. How did I feel that? And what was it?”

“My shield connected us. I wanted to bring you out with me instead of pushing you out. Would've been a bit rude since I asked you to show me.” You fiddled with the cup sleeve, leaning back into your chair. “As for what I felt, I don't want to assume anything but seeing as I sensed it as much as it sensed me…”

“Did it scare you?” he asked.

“No, but I didn't expect to run into Void this soon. Does it always sit on the outer edges like that?”

Bob shrugged. “On good days, yeah. But he's always around. A voice in the back of my head.”

“Tell me about him,” you murmured. “I've read what others think of him, but I want your input.”

“He's just…bad.” Bob shook his head, hands rubbing over his jeans. “Everything messed up or wrong in me, he feeds on it. He spits it back out on the bad days and tries to overwhelm me? I guess?”

“Does he try to get out often?”

His hair swayed as his head shook again. “More like when I'm weakest.”

“Weakest mentally? What about physically?” Bob shrugged, looking put off by the questions. “I'm not trying to overstep, I just need to understand as much as possible. They say he's your alter ego, that he's separate from you.”

“I mean, that's not wrong but I don't know if that's right either.”

You made a mental note. “Would you call him a parasite?”

“No.”

You raised a brow, amazed at the certainty. “Why? You said he feeds on you.”

There was a twist in his face, a flash of molten something in his eyes as he shook his head. “Sorry. Um, I don't know. I, uh…”

You slowly reached back out to his mind, gentle as you weighed against him. It's okay. We can stop here for today.

“Sorry,” he breathed, shoulders sinking. “He's louder now. I think we pissed him off.”

“Yeah, that'll probably be happening a lot from now on,” you chuckled, standing to throw your empty cup away. There was no trash can in your immediate view. “If you ever need help, I'm good at blocking things out for a time. I don't know if that would make things worse, but it's worth a shot, right?”

He surprised you with a weak laugh, clearing his throat as you turned. “Sorry. I know you said you weren't a professional, I just didn't expect this to be casual.”

You weren't sure how else you could have been. The stuff you both would be dealing with, well, you'd be getting personal with a whole lot in a very short amount of time. That's why you and Wanda were so close as well as Nat. One wanted you to learn your powers on a spiritual level, and the other wanted you to be able to steel your mind when chaos came knocking.

Hopefully, with Bob you could be that anchor they had become for you.

“I'm definitely not the strict and unemotional type,” you agreed with him. “As dangerous as all this could be, it's a breath of fresh air compared to what I was doing, so. Thanks for wanting me to help.”

There was that shy little grin of his again. You hoped, maybe after a few weeks or less, it wouldn't be as rare to see.

[akalyndraw]

It's a little late but happy Mother's Day! I take this opportunity to introduce LeoYur's future babies, twins Laia and Lia and little brother Jul. I'll take the opportunity to write about them ^^

It's a good time to remember that Yura's eye color is brown 🤎 the olive green is actually contact lenses (she doesn't see well far away)

Yura and Leona's children:

Twins - Laia (🐆) & Lia (🌺):

Age: 9 years old

Birthday: June 15

Birthplace: Sunset Savanna

Eye color: Esmerald

Hair color: Dark Brown

Favorite Food: Meat (🐆) Lasagna (🌺)

Hobby: Training (🐆) Singing (🌺)

Dislike: Salad(🐆🌺) and insects(🌺)

Younger brother - Jul (🐾):

Age: 7 years old

Birthday: October 8

Birthplace: Sunset Savanna

Eye color: Brown

Hair color: Dark Brown

Favorite Food: Beef liver

Hobby: Read

Dislike: Noise and people talking behind one's back

The twins are a bundle of energy that came into 🌼🦁 life when they least expected it on one of their trips, but it was the greatest joy for both of them. Both have outgoing and curious personalities, Laia can be the more whimsical one. She likes to tease her brother and father, plus she has fun doing little mischiefs here and there, however this gets her in trouble almost every time. On the other hand, Lia is kinder although she follows her sister in her mischief, she is the “voice of conscience” (which Laia never listens to)

They are the female version of their father in appearance.

🐆: She is very smart and strong for her age. She enjoys watching her father's and the rest of Sunset Warrior's workouts. Occasionally she trains by imitating the movements of others, she likes adrenaline and is surprisingly good at leadership (in the future she becomes leader of the Sunset Warrior) Despite her personality she has a good heart.

🌺: cheerful girl, she will always greet you with a smile. Like her sister she is quite intelligent however she prefers to avoid physical training and instead rehearse her singing in the palace gardens next to her mother while she draws. She excels in creativity and perseverance, she often gets into trouble with her sister but you couldn't be too angry with them for too long, you won't resist her puppy look.

The arrival of the little princesses at the palace was a joy for everyone. Cheka and Falena were constantly dropping by as babies to bring them presents. Leona is a bit protective of them so she tries to get them to leave quickly. They are the darlings of the place, if any cookies are missing from the kitchen the chefs already know who they were. Kifaji even let out a few tears when he saw them and they both took his fingers in their little baby hands. Whenever she gets the chance she will spend time with them and tell them stories about their father.

🐾: Unlike his sisters, he has a calm personality and a normally stoic expression. He wants to grow up fast and be like his father, whom he admires a lot because of the stories his mother used to tell him. Despite the admiration and love he feels for his father, he is more attached to his mother, although he tries to act more mature, he is still a child. His ears and tail always give away his true emotions even if he seems disinterested in something.

He secretly asked Kifaji to teach him how to play chess so that he could play with 🦁 later and surprise him. You can find him in the royal library or somewhere quiet reading/studying

He is a polite little gentleman but if he sees his sisters nearby he will run away quickly (they like to bother him, often interrupting his study time)

His magic took quite a while to show up, which made everyone worried since 🌼 lacked magic and they thought he couldn't use it either. It was basically his worst moment, as he always wanted to use magic since he was little and even started hiding to practice more hours.

However, one day he heard some employees talking bad about his mother and since Leona could choose someone better, then he got angry and his magic woke up, making a mess of the surroundings (unintentionally because he still didn't control it).

Yura was left alone with him tending to the small wounds on his arms and they talked. Jul never blamed or felt resentment towards his mom, more than anything, he wanted to be strong to defend her and his sisters. To be a reliable brother and son. Little by little, although it was hard, he practiced with Leona until he mastered his magic power.

I've gone on quite long 😅 but here I leave the basics, I have the story of the three brothers overdeveloped in my mind hehe

As a spoiler they enter NRC in the future!

[kiss-me-muchoo]

𝐓𝐨 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐳𝐞… || 𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary_ Joel and you find comfort while going back to Jackson and after killing Nora, Ellie overhears Jesse and Tommy telling Dina that you and Joel might be alive.

warnings_ age gap (late 20s/joel’s age in s2), pregnant!reader, angst, fluff, fallacy references, canon divergence, SHORT PART,no proofreading

Notes_ next week we’ll get so many joel crumbs omg

「 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐫: 𝐃𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 」

♫ ♪ the worst playlist 4 Pedro

✰ Index (+ fics here)

୨ৎ───୨ৎ───୨ৎ———୨ৎ───୨ৎ

Wrong.

“What do you mean wrong? I’ve been trying for two fucking goddamn hours?” Ellie yells tiredly, throwing her hands out in disbelief.

“Because yer hand is still too rigid,” Joel answers her, taking the guitar off her hands.

“I’m not done for today!”

“Yeah, I think you are.” Ellie turns to see you standing in the door, baby Cerise snuggling in the crook of your neck.

Ellie smiled at the sight of you, fresh out of the shower, your hair wet and wearing a tank top and sweatpants.

“When did you get home?” The girl asked.

“Maybe half an hour ago,” you say, entering the room.

“Darlin’… stop being sneaky,” Joel says.

He stands up to greet you with a kiss and then grabs Cerise from your arms.

“You stop being paranoid,” Cerise babbles as she starts pulling Joel’s hair and making you laugh. “See, even your daughter is scolding you”

Ellie looked at the sight in awe, she was just past a year old, her look every day resembling Joel’s more and more.

She was happy, her birthday was in a week, and so far, she felt at home.

Ellie had found her family. Her safe place and everything she never thought she could’ve had.

“Go and let Cerise play in the kitchen while we cook dinner,” Joel nods at your words as you smile at him.

Looks really speak; and you and Joel rarely said I love you out loud, but every look you two shared screamed how in love you were.

Ellie watches as Joel and Cerise leave towards the living room, downstairs.

“So… a week for your birthday, huh?” Ellie sighs with a smile, nodding at you. “I’m warning you, I’ll sing you ‘happy birthday’!”

“Fuck you, god no” both of you start cackling and she finally stands up.

Hands on her hips, just like Joel.

To your surprise, Ellie hugs you.

“I’m kidding. But you don’t have to do anything for me,” you hug her back, brushing her hair.

“Shut up or I’ll make Maria gather everyone to hear me sing for you.”

Soon, a lot of sound starts coming from downstairs, Cerise screaming and laughing while Joel curses.

“I NEED HELP DOWN HERE!” Ellie hears your husband yell, and both of you laugh again.

“Let’s go help your old man,” the girl says as you pat her back.

Ellie loved you very much. And she couldn’t help but feel like you felt the same way.

You were silently her mother, helpmate, and one of her best friends.

When she opened her eyes, she rubbed them and sighed, feeling the cold breeze of the morning.

It was just a dream; you and Joel were gone.

She was in Seattle.

…

You can’t move.

Moving feels heavy, breathing isn’t enough.

You lift your head, and there is the woman in a braid.

She is about to kill Joel…

A few years younger than you, possessing an undeniable rage, she hits Joel's skull with a golf club once, twice, and you lose the count. Your vision gets blurry thanks to the tears. His moans of extreme pain make you cry and scream to the woman to stop.

The blood stars are running down his temple. His eye was so swollen he couldn’t open it. You weep harder, doing everything you can to get free from the embrace of two strangers.

To kill that woman and let your husband live.

But it’s too much blood.

“WAKE UP, Y/N!” Joel yells.

Until there isn’t.

You open your eyes and understand it was a nightmare. Product of what you saw at the ski lodge.

“What?” you ask, still half asleep.

Joel is there, kneeling in the old, creaky bed, firmly gripping your shoulders and looking very worried.

“You started crying asleep,” he says. “And then, you started screaming.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you okay?” Joel asks, ignoring your apologies.

“Yes… just- what happened at the ski lodge playing with my head” his heart pang in pain at your words.

“C'mere, darlin’…” and you do, you snuggle in the arms of your husband like a baby. “I’m not goin’ anywhere”

Joel holds you tightly, scared to let you go. Both of you are swimming in the same queen-sized bed, but pressed against each other. Joel understands that if they had switched the roles. If it were him seeing how you were beaten to death, Joel wouldn’t have survived.

Let alone now that you told him about the pregnancy.

He tries to tame his fears. It wasn’t the first time after all.

But still, you were his wife, the woman he couldn’t breathe without. Joel knew he would get obsessed with trying to protect you all the way from Arlington to Jackson.

It was safe to close his eyes, so he did, succumbing to sleep with you in his arms.

…

Joel wakes up to a cold on, left side of the bed. He sits up worried, then hears a shot, his sensitive leg is long forgotten as he runs outside the room, towards the entrance of the house. He looks around and finally sees you with his rifle and a hare in hand. Joel lets out a relieved sigh.

“Are you insane? You scared me to death,” he says as you step up to the old porch of the house.

After seeing him so worried and scared, you quickly wrap your arms around his neck, dropping the dead hare.

“I’m sorry, Joel,” you whisper in his ear.

As much as both of you tried to continue your lives, the trauma of the ski lodge and Denver remained haunting your memories.

“Let’s go inside, baby,” you nod at him, letting him guide you inside the house.

After making it to Arlington the day before, Joel and you found an abandoned neighborhood. It reminded me a lot of the descriptions he and Tess shared about Bill and Frank’s home. Until you visited the house of the late couple in 2023 and confirmed it by yourself.

The woods around it had grown so much that the abandoned place and there was no trace of infected or people living nearby. Joel suggested staying the night, so the horse you two had could also rest and eat something.

You fell asleep feeling hungry, making it harder to not go out to hunt something to eat.

The least you could do was to find some food for your husband and the baby.

The truth was slowly sinking in. You hadn’t been able to process the fact that you were pregnant again. Hours after getting the diagnosis, Masiel almost got you, and then the hospital was attacked.

But a new life was growing in your womb. And once again, you were out in the wild with Joel, just like the first time.

You place the hare on the dining table and turn to look at your husband. With the same clothes of the day before, disheveled hair, and eye bags showing how tired he was.

Joel looks up and down at you, he places his hands on his hips, and tries to formulate a decent sentence.

“So… we’re expecting again,” he says, and you simply nod. “How far are you?”

“Almost eight weeks,” god knows why, but suddenly the conversation feels awkward.

You cross your arms, leaning against the old dining table.

“You can’t be out here anymore,” Joel starts, already showing his uneasiness on the issue. “It’s not safe.”

“This ain’t my first rodeo, Joel,” you remind him as he sighs and rolls his eyes. “I knew the risk, but it’s not like you pulled out each night, and despite being at a hospital, condoms are not a trend anymore.”

“The sooner we get to Jackson, the sooner I’ll stop being a burden for you.” Turning around, you start to skin the hare.

“That’s not what I meant,” Joel explains.

“But that’s what it sounded like,” you say, venturing inside the kitchen without looking at him. Your eyes prick with tears, and you do your best to swallow the painful lump in your throat, threatening to come out with a loud sob.

Joel sighs once again, dropping his head back and taking a deep breath.

But you did understand, Joel. He was tired, dealing with ptsd. The least he wanted was more pressure. And you tell him his wife is pregnant? Yeah, he was stressed out.

But in the mind of a woman gestating, your emotions were a little out of control. And you were afraid of indeed feeling like a burden before going home. Where more issues would lurk since nobody knew Joel, and you were alive.

…

A family of four lived inside the house. Two teenagers, mom and dad. They had too many pictures together, framed on the dusty wall in the hallway that connected all the rooms on the second floor.

You enter the master bedroom, completely untouched. The living proof that the world was once fine. The shame of wandering through a stranger’s belongings was long gone. The woman of the house had been tall, frail, and had a shy face, but was very pretty. Still, her clothes fit you, and she had a lot of expired makeup.

Your hands fold three tops to put inside your backpack when the door creaks open, and it makes you alert and startled.

It was Joel, fresh out of the shower. You went first, and the water was flowing brown for the first three minutes.

“You scared me,” you say, returning to fold the clothes.

“I’m sorry,” Joel states, but you just shrug.

“It’s okay, this house is old as hell.”

“No, I mean I’m sorry about me being an asshole before” you look up at him.

“It’s not like the first time. I’m just… shocked,” he admits, taking a seat in the bed where you were folding the clothes. There’s a little expression of awe on your face as you listen to him.

“I get it, Joel,” from the bottom of your heart, you mean it.

“I just want to protect you and make sure we make it back home.”

“I think the worst is over. We were with the enemy for months, and we didn’t know,” Joel nods.

“So WLF?…” he asks, sighing.

“They can go and fuck themselves” you say with a bitter smile. “I don’t think they’ll go back to Wyoming. Their policies only apply in big cities where they can afford the risk of making a settlement.”

“Yeah, but what if?- “You grab Joel’s hand to stop him.

“What? They return to the ski lodge to see that our bodies are gone? Or Ellie goes after them for revenge?” Both of you chuckle. “We’ve already taken too long; we need to go back. I can’t keep going to sleep knowing they think we’re dead.”

“I know, darlin’. We are very close…”

Unbeknownst to you and Joel. Not many good things were happening back in Jackson. And certainly not in Seattle.

“So… you are making me a dad again? At the ripe age of 61?” You chuckle at his comment, letting him grasp your hair. “We’re insane, aren’t we?”

“We’re kinda jinxed,” you admit.

“We are. But I don’t mind as long as we’re together,” Joel says, making you unable to not pretend his words didn’t touch your heart.

“Give me a kiss,” you say, stepping between his legs. He smiles amidst the kiss, feeling his chest relax and trying to be optimistic. Just for you, as always.

Drops of rain start tapping against the window, and both of you look at it.

“We’ll leave tomorrow in the morning,” Joel states firmly, you only nod, retuning to kiss him just a little more.

…

The breeze was humid, hot, and you knew you shouldn’t be wearing a dress when you’re out in the wild. But you don’t care, the isolated street in Arlington had proved to be safe enough.

“What are we exactly looking for?” Joel asks, kneeling beside you. Both of you ignore the loud crack of his bones. Mainly because you won’t want to worry.

“Anything that can give us energy or boost our immune system,” you answer with a little smirk.

Your hands dig into the bushes, spider webs gone thanks to the rain that had been pouring for the last two hours.

“I dunno, darlin’… seems like there’s no such thing” at your husband was killing your hope, you shushed him right after grasping something. “What?”

“Oh my god, Joel…”

Fresh raspberries. You were collecting raspberries. You had never tasted them before.

“I had never tasted raspberries in my life,” you say, pulling out your hand from the bushes, at least four raspberries rested in your palm.

Joel smiled at the sight. Seeing you so happy about something so meaningless as finding raspberries reminded him of what the world had reduced to.

And at the same time, he found himself also enjoying the moment. Because anything that made you happy also made him happy.

“Give some water, please.” he hands you a glass with water he had been drinking inside the house.

You rinse the berries, and soon you are handing him some. Joel smiles at you before taking a bite along with you.

The moment feels surreal. Like a deep breath that you had been holding since the day at the ski lodge. A sense of hope that in a couple of days you’ll be in Jackson and everything will be fine again.

Then… birds flying away, scared.

“What was that?” Joel stands up first.

When you do, you see a lot of birds flying away from a trail of dark smoke coming from the south in the woods. “Change of plans, we need to leave now.”

“But we have our-“

“No… y/n, we are leaving right now,” Joel says with a stern look.

You nod, following him with hurried steps inside the house.

You grab your rifle, the food was packed, and the clothes tucked inside the backpacks.

“Fucking hell” you say as you stand in the porch. Joel follows you and stands.

“What?”

“The horse, Joel… is gone,” you say, pointing at the door of the garage.

Your husband sighs tiredly.

“Doesn’t matter. We’ll get a car once we enter the city again; we need to leave.”

You look back at the smoke, looking fainter than before, mixing with the orange sky of the sunset.

You start following Joel with quick steps., your hands holding the rifle as your fingers barely grasped the trigger. Then you see how the large street of old houses starts looking farther and farther, until it disappears from your sight and both of you enter the woods again. To the north…

…

Ellie stands in the darkness, her heart is beating fast, blood rushing with the adrenaline flowing all over.

Some of Nora’s blood was splattered on her face. But her shaky hands gripped the door frame as she watched Tommy bandage Dina’s leg, and Tommy started an improvised meal for her.

“She’s taking longer than expected,” Jesse says.

“She’s coming back, we know it,” Dina bolts to answer him. Ellie knew they were talking about her.

“This was a bad idea,” Tommy adds.

“Tommy. She doing this for”

“For Joel and y/n. I know…” the man glared at Dina.

A heavy silence fell upon the old room.

“She saw all of it. Joel screaming, y/n crying, and-“ as Dina was speaking, Ellie closed her eyes, forcing herself to avoid remembering.

“They might be alive,” Tommy reveals.

Dina seized talking, Ellie gasped, covering her mouth as tears started to roll down her cheeks.

“What?” Dina asks with a broken voice, face full of surprise.

Jesse eyed her with shame. Ellie realized he probably already knew.

Tommy moved away, sighing before standing up and preparing the right words.

“When the horde came, we were out of reach for weeks; we didn’t do patrols,” Dina nodded, urging him to keep talking. “After the reconstruction of Jackson, the snow fell heavier, and we couldn’t reach the ski lodge to collect the bodies. Until the spring arrived, Maria sent Jessie to look again with others.”

Tommy and Jesse eye each other, building tension.

“And?” Dina asked.

“There were no corpses… their backpacks were gone as well,” Jesse said.

Dina sighed, rubbing her eyes.

Ellie almost fainted. Her view turned blurry, and panic flooded her.

The rage she had been containing completely out. She hated even more Nora, her death being proof of her pain. All the trauma, all the suffering… because of that braided woman.

Ellie knew she had to kill Abby.

…

The sound of the river was loud enough to make you almost yell.

Ellie knew she was dreaming. This time, she was aware it was a memory.

She was still in Utah. Joel was leaning against the SUV, rifle in hand, as you were with the girl.

Both of you are still in hospital gowns, splashing water on your faces after hours of being sedated.

“There was no cure, right?” Ellie asks. You shrug, looking at the water flowing.

“Even if there was a cure. I think we would’ve died, Ellie.”

“You have Joel, you have someone waiting for you.” You turn to look at her with a frown. “I don’t. It would’ve been correct for me to make the sacrifice.”

“Ellie… you’re my family,” you firmly say. “You and Joel are my whole world.”

She only eyes you with awe, not knowing what to say. Maybe it was because of the reaction to the sedative.

“I would kill anyone who made me separate from you two,” you admit.

Evidently, the words sank further as time progressed.

__________________________

Short part bc I’m tired, but I’m done with finals so expect longer parts from now on <3

imma start sharing my tw acc bc I’ll gladly be friends with any babe who wants to be moots there, I mainly post about pedro, both in english and spanish so yeah… im @kissmemucho and I have the same pfp as here <3

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭_ @just-mj-or-not @mmkkzz @hiroikegawa @nosebeers @glitterspark @annulmaelae @heartpatch @doodlebob-mp3 @ennvsco @isabella-rose-trastamara @chewie-bars @bypurple @umadirectioner @mrsbilicablog @yvonne-dump @hannah9921 @maystyles @minifresas

[minalover]

alright friends and enemies, gather round, it's time to talk.

first of all, looks like we're a little fuzzy on the term gaslighting. so, to refresh your memory:

Gaslighting is a form of manipulation that often occurs in abusive relationships. It is a covert type of emotional abuse where the bully or abuser misleads the target, creating a false narrative and making them question their judgments and reality.

good. now that that's out of the way.

i got triggered by a post today, floating around the side of the fandom that doesn't cross my dash that often, that i didn't expect to hit that hard. see, that's the thing about triggers. most of the time, they're not big, scary, overall concepts. most of the time, they're very small. very specific. words, actions, tones. and i didn't expect this one to hit me. but it did. so hard that i've been trying not to cry for the past hour or so and inspired me to write this down. because it's unbelievably clear, due to the behavior over the last few days, that we need to talk.

eddie's behavior in the kitchen fight in 8x17 was not abusive. point blank. and calling it so is disingenuous. this was a painful and very realistic fight between two people who love and support each other and, due to outrageous circumstances, cannot fight clean. eddie cuts buck to the quick. buck does the same to eddie. the hand on the shoulder and pointer finger is the same behavior we've seen from eddie multiple times, ranging from goofy (bachelor party) to vulnerable (post-tsunami) to supportive (when buck comes out to eddie). this one was done in rage and grief. of course it doesn't look the same. of course it feels different. (from a cinematographical perspective, if they had wanted it to read as abusive, they would have shown it to us. but they didn't. so make your own conclusions if you're able.)

eddie does not have a history of violent or abusive behavior. if you're about to lean on the he almost killed a guy in fight club, yeah. he did. are you also talking about lena bosko, who got him into the first club, in the same way? do you want to talk about how eddie was using it as the world's worst coping mechanism to avoid grief? or how he immediately worked to save the man's life, call for help, and quit? no? okay. you know how else i know he doesn't have a history of violent behavior? because no one is afraid of him. not his son, not his aunt, not his parents, not his coworkers, not his girlfriends, not his wife. so go ahead and wrap that up.

eddie bringing chris and pepa home wasn't love bombing. again, let's go through definitions - [l]ove bombing is an attempt to influence another person with over-the-top displays of attention and affection. so just right off the bat, not the same. what eddie did was apologize to buck in the way he can hear it. we've been talking about love languages and, even though they come from a heteronormative and religious place, they're still helpful in this conversation here. eddie is always supporting buck with words and buck is always supporting eddie with actions. in this moment? eddie realizes that what buck's been struggling with is that lack of family (shown to the audience as the lack of family meals compared with pre-bobby's death). so to apologize and show his love, he brings family together to share a meal. just because it didn't sound like an apology to you doesn't mean it didn't sound like one to buck.

just because it isn't racist to you doesn't mean it doesn't come from racism. as we walk through white fragility 101 together, there is a difference between hey you're racist and hey that thing you said comes from a racist and problematic place can we break it down. holding a character of color (chimney and, in this case, eddie) to different standards than white characters (bobby and buck) is derived from racist ideology whether you intend for it to be or not. so take a step back and look at why you seem to be reacting in this specific way to this specific behavior by this specific character. i can't ask you to unravel every implicit bias you've ever been taught, but i can ask you to take a look at your actions if a bunch of people are pointing it out.

there is gaslighting happening here, but not how you think. the way some folks in this fandom have been posting and reacting to the buddie 8x17 kitchen scene have truly made me second guess everything i'd been seeing. the constant, vitriolic reaction to something i didn't find that upsetting made me go back and watch again and again. did i miss something, am i not able to see it, what's going on? and, here we go kids--what's happening here is gaslighting.

it is a covert type

of emotional abuse

where the bully or abuser misleads the target

creating a false narrative

making them question their judgments and reality.

finally, let's look at what you're specifically not saying. by saying that eddie is abusive, that it looked like he was going to come after buck with a knife, that buddies are sick for romanticizing the behavior (which i haven't seen but okay we'll go with it for now), you're implying that the people who support (or don't actively stand against) eddie's behavior in this episode are no better than abusers themselves. that's your underlying message. by spinning his non-abusive behavior as abuse, taking that narrative for truth, and putting everyone who doesn't agree with you on the opposite side of that argument, you're calling us abusers. and i, frankly, take issue with that.

i need you to understand the difference between uncomfortable and unsafe. i need you to understand that this was not inherently romantic, but emotionally vulnerable. and i need you to understand that clinging to your morally superior high horse will not save you in the real world.

if you want to come yell at me, by all means. anon is off, so you gotta do it with your whole chest. i'd much rather talk about it. i'm here to do white fragility 101 if you need it.

[abbotjack]

when would jack stutter, have to catch his breath? whether it be something he sees, hears, smells. what makes him take pause?

Jack Abbot doesn’t stutter for effect. He doesn’t lose his words in arguments or get flustered in tension. He was trained—trained—to speak clearly through chaos. To radio for medevac while pressure-wrapping a wound with one hand. To give the date, time, and morphine dose to a nineteen-year-old he was holding together by sheer will while bullets cracked overhead. Words, for Jack, have always been tools. Precise. Tactical. Controlled.

So when Jack stutters, it’s never performance. It’s never dramatics. It’s malfunction. It means something short-circuited so violently inside him that all his practiced scripts—the field medic instincts, the ER attending cadence, the gallows humor—all of it collapses under the weight of something real.

It’s not trauma that makes him pause. He’s acclimated to that. It’s gentleness. It’s earnestness. It's the things no one ever trained him to survive.

It starts small.

You’re in his kitchen one morning, still in sleep clothes. No makeup. You open the fridge and mutter, “We need more eggs.” Not he needs. Not you need. We.

Jack freezes.

Just for a second. Just long enough that the corner of the coffee filter burns.

Because he’s spent years learning how to survive alone. Alone is safe. Alone is math he can do. But we? We is dangerous. We has loss baked into it.

So when you say something that sounds like permanence without even realizing it, Jack looks down at the mug in his hand like he forgot how it got there.

“You okay?” you ask, still rummaging.

“Yeah, I just—” He exhales, blinks. “I—uh, it’s—fine.”

It’s not the word he’s fumbling over. It’s the feeling.

Then it escalates.

You wear his sweatshirt to the grocery store and complain about the sleeves being too long. You say it in passing—no agenda, no performance. Just an offhanded “How the hell do your arms fit in this thing?”

Jack laughs. He nods. He goes quiet.

And later, when you’re brushing your teeth, he stands in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you like he’s never seen anything more disarming.

“You know you, uh—” He pauses. Swallows. “You look good in that.”

And that stutter? It’s not nerves. It’s not lust. It’s ache. It’s how dare you look like home in my clothes when I never thought I’d have one again. It’s him tasting the fact that someone might love him with the lights on. With the ghosts still in the room.

But the worst of it—the deepest malfunction—is when you touch the part of him he hides.

It’s a Tuesday. You’re lying in bed. Jack’s out of the shower, towel around his waist, residual steam curling off his shoulders. You’re half asleep when he climbs in, careful, always careful. The prosthetic is off. His right leg ends below the knee, the skin there pale, uneven in tone, scarred in a way that doesn’t fade with time.

You don’t flinch. You never have.

You roll over, press your face into his chest, and—without thinking—run your hand down his thigh and stop at the point where flesh becomes absence. Where history lives in muscle memory.

He draws in a sharp breath—sudden, ragged—like it knocked the wind out of him.

“Sorry,” you whisper, pulling back.

But he grabs your wrist. Not to stop you. To ground himself. To hold the moment in place.

“No, I—” His voice cracks. The words don’t follow. “It’s not—I just—” He blinks fast, jaw twitching. “I wasn’t—expecting that.”

Because what you touched wasn’t just skin. It was the thing he’s ashamed of needing love through. The thing people look at and get polite. The thing strangers pretend not to notice. The thing he never believed could be part of desire. And you just touched it like it was his. Like it was safe.

That’s when Jack stutters.

When you make the part of him he’s spent years compartmentalizing feel not just accepted—but wanted.

But maybe the most dangerous kind of stutter—the kind that ruins him—isn’t even about touch.

It’s when you fight.

Not over something petty. Something real. Something that threatens the fragile trust he’s learning to build. Maybe you accuse him of shutting you out again. Of pulling back every time things get too close. And you’re right. You’re so right it guts him.

He raises his voice. Snaps something defensive. His default. Control the room. Win the logic. Out-talk the fear.

But then you say it.

“Jack, you don’t have to be perfect to be loved.”

And that sentence? That sentence breaks him.

Not because of what it is.

Because of what it isn’t.

It isn’t a demand. It isn’t a plea. It’s grace. Unconditional. Unflinching. And it makes no goddamn sense to a man who’s only ever been valued for what he can fix, what he can endure, what he can sacrifice.

So he stares at you.

“You don’t—” His voice falters. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do,” you whisper.

And he stutters. He turns away. Rubs his jaw. Blinks hard.

Because he wants to believe you. More than anything. But his nervous system doesn’t know how to file that truth under anything but threat.

He says, “I just—” and never finishes.

Because he can’t.

Because it’s too much.

Because your love is louder than his guilt, and that is a sound Jack Abbot doesn’t know how to live through.

That’s when he stutters.

When you say something that unravels the wire he’s been holding himself together with since the war. Since the job started asking more than he had to give and he gave it anyway.

When you look at him like he is not a burden. Like he is allowed to stay.

That’s what makes Jack Abbot forget how to speak.

Not blood.

Not death.

But the unbearable mercy of being loved anyway.

[undeadentropy]

Got my fucking chance one time at steak n shake when some bitter old white woman tried to rudely interrupt me helping this nice black lady. I mention race because it's exactly what you think (interruptor was not at all polite about it, she was winding up for a karen rant. Sunday afternoon church shift. You get the best and worst those days). Shut that shit down in no uncertain terms. Can't remember exactly what I said but I was shaving the line on being professional about it. I made it clear she was not entitled to my immediate help and I would be with her when I was done helping this other customer. I took my sweet time and even chatted for a while. She was all smiles by the end. But what made me sad was that she was surprised at all I stood my ground and helped her first. She was trying to step back and let me deal with the karen first. She shouldnt have to deal with that shit so often that being treated right came as a surprise. My first direct exposure to racism in the food industry but certainly not the last. I'll do it again any time, i don't give a fuck. I already have with worse customers (you can get away with a lot if the shift always falls apart without you and the GM is decent). I love putting entitled shits in their place. It gives me life in a soul crushing job.

[prisonhannibal]

Yesterday, Ahed @ahdanqar told me that he, his wife, and his brother went back to his old house to check on it because he believed there would be a pause in aggression from the IOF for some hours due to the release of another hostage. When he got there, his house was destroyed, but they started searching through the ruins to find some of their old possessions that might be left in the rubble. He said that then IOF soldiers started firing at them, and they barely escaped.

This is the reality of his life in Gaza. He has been displaced many times in different places on the Gaza strip, and once he was able to return there was barely anything left. Ahed is a father of three young girls aged 9, 6 and 1, who could have lost both of their parents.

Ahed has a fundraiser to support his family and make sure he can feed his children. It’s every father’s worst nightmare to see his children live in such dangerous circumstances and go hungry every day. This fundraiser is moving very slowly and has only received four donations in the past week, the last one was three days ago.

If you have anything to spare today, please support Ahed and his family ❤️🇵🇸 If not, please share it so it can reach people who can donate

€14,032 / 40,000

@tamamita @rhubarbspring @heritageposts @dirhwangdaseul @neechees @butchniqabi @feluka @socalgal @finalgirlabigailhobbs @darthteeth @newporters @pikslasrce @vampiricvenus @danlous @loumandivorce @jackiedaytona @deepspaceboytoy @autisticmudkip @nashvillethotchicken @femmefitz @pitbolshevik @innerchildabortionclinic @omegaversereloaded @hotvampireadjacent @boobieteriat @mens-rights-activia @ot3

[wondrluv]

୨୧ in need ; af35

➪ summary: when you and your contagious happy energy weasel your way into azzi's life, she's hesitant to tell people. but after a bad day, all you want is her, and nothing's going to stop you from getting to her, not even the crowd of teammates at her place

➪ warnings: reader has a bad day, mentions of hiding relationship

➪ word count: 1.4k

➪ emma's notes: ahhhh my first azzi fic! i came up with this idea like in the middle of the night last night when i couldn't sleep so here this is. i'm so excited to write more for her, but for now, this is what i've written! i hope you guys enjoy as always :) i do have a new taglist system, so if you want to be added, feel free to check out the form at the bottom of this post!

© wondrluv ; do not copy, repost, or translate my work and designs on any other website or here

You were always told you had this effect on people. The kind of effect that if someone was having the worst of all days, one look at you would make it all the better. 

You got used to this, everyone saying that you had this glow about you that just made them want to smile, but you never believed it. Not until you met Azzi Fudd.

Azzi Fudd was the kind of girl that always looked like something had upset her or someone had pissed her off just moments before you looked at her. Though for you, you never thought it was because of that. From the second you met her, you knew there was another layer to Azzi that no one else knew about, hell, maybe even her closest friends and family didn’t even know about. And you were determined to figure out what it was.

So, when the opportunity arose, you sat next to her on the first day of one of your classes, grinning at her like you just won the lottery. She gave you a skeptical look, eyeing you up and down, appalled at the fact that you were so happy on a Monday at 9 in the morning. 

You just introduced yourself, your smile never wavering, even when all she did was nod and turn back to her phone, music still playing through her headphones. And for a few weeks, that was all it was. You saying hi and her giving a less than committal response before sitting in silence for the rest of the class. 

And almost two weeks of having classes with her every Monday and Wednesday, before she said something back. Four classes weren’t a lot, but maybe it was your effect, the effect you had to nuzzle your way into her heart, warming it every time you even glanced at her. 

You weren’t expecting it in the least, the small ‘hey’ she all but whispered when you gave her your beaming smile, but that only caused you to smile wider. And with each passing class, she would say more and more, and that was when your relationship with Azzi Fudd started. The sunshine girl and the black cat girlfriend.

ﾟ+*:୨୧:*﹤

Six months later, the two of you had been dating for four, and she had yet to tell anyone about the two of you. Maybe it was because she was scared of admitting she found a soft spot for someone and she would get teased relentlessly for it, or it was because she was protecting you from the teasing she knew you would get once her friends saw her with you. 

You didn’t mind, not in the slightest. You were happy to keep your relationship private if that’s what she wanted. All you wanted was her, no matter the format. But now? Now it didn’t matter if the whole world was watching the two of you; you needed her. 

This had to have been the longest day you’ve ever experienced. From almost running into class late, to the missing reports you had lying on your desk that you needed for your project, to the twisting of your ankle on the walk back to your apartment, down to the coffee you spilled over yourself in the middle of the cafe. 

To be frank, you were over it, your mind was scattered, your body was worn, and all you wanted was to curl up on your girlfriend’s chest and forget about today. So with the rest of your willpower, you bundled up in a pair of sweatpants, one of Azzi’s sweatshirts, tied your hair up in a ponytail with your phone and wallet in your hands, and headed out the door. 

The walk to Azzi’s wasn’t long, but the slight chill in the air made it seem like it went on for longer than 10 minutes, coupled with the exhaustion setting heavy in your bones. You pulled your sleeves over your hands as you walked up the stairs to her place; the elevator being broken was just another layer to your day. 

Your mind was so focused on Azzi’s comfort that you barely noticed the people surrounding you as you walked into her place, kicking her shoes off and bee-lining it to where she lay spread out on the couch, collapsing on top of her, burying your head in her chest. 

Everyone froze; KK’s hand stopped inches from her mouth, holding a piece of pizza, Paige’s eyebrows quirked, water bottle in hand, Ice glanced over from where she was fiddling with the TV remote, Aubrey looked up from her phone, and Sarah’s mouth hung open just slightly before she closed it, her attempt to mask her confusion and amusement futile. 

But Azzi paid no mind to them, her arms wrapping around almost like second nature, one hand coming to play with your hair as the other rubs soothing circles across your back, slipping beneath your hoodie. She murmured something low in your ear, a soft, “I got you,” and nothing else, holding you tightly against her. 

She pressed a soft kiss to your temple, her movements never wavering as she focused all of her attention on you. Your legs tangled with hers as you tried to push yourself closer against her, causing her to let out a tiny laugh that left everyone else exchanging glances. 

You felt safe being surrounded by her, almost like your own personal blanket that you were dead set on keeping. You gripped her hoodie, clutching it in your hands as if letting go would make her disappear. This was the only thing you needed after a long day. 

No one knew what to do, watching you, someone they didn’t know, curl up with their teammate, someone they did know who wasn’t one for physical affection or showing any signs of what they were feeling besides being annoyed. It was odd.

“Uh, Azzi-”

“Shh.” Azzi cut KK off with a simple sound, holding you tighter like she was protecting you from her friends’ words. 

Despite the circumstances, Azzi’s lips turned into a soft smile, not caring that her friends were seeing her like this, she loved having you in her arms, it was her favorite thing in the world. The feel of you against her, providing warmth both physically and emotionally, the way you looked so adorable with your face smushed against her chest, the soft snores you sometimes let out if you stayed in that position for one too many minutes. She was sure there was no better feeling than this. 

It didn’t take long for you to drift off, not even the slightest bit put off by the five or six other people staring at you as you made yourself comfortable. As long as Azzi was with you, you could fall asleep anywhere. 

A few minutes after you dozed off, Paige cleared her throat, eyes flickering between your face and her friend’s, “So…”

Azzi looked up, her previous blissful expression falling off, and a hardened one took over, “Yes?”

“Who’s this?” Paige’s face was all but amused, her lips turned into a teasing smile, a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

“None of your business.”

“Oh, c’mon, Az. She waltzes in here like she owns the place, doesn’t even bat an eye at who’s here before practically jumping on you, and then falls asleep with your arms around her. We’re dumb, not stupid.”

She just rolled her eyes, her gaze softening as she looked back down at you, brushing your hair behind your ear, away from your face. She sighed softly before nodding, “Fine. What do you want to know?”

“When did you meet her?” “What’s her name?” “How long has this been going on?” “How’d she get you to-” 

She glared at them as you shifted, their overlapping voices too loud for you to ignore. They shut up quickly at her stare, watching as your head turned to lie on the other side before your breathing evened out once again. 

“One at a time and be quiet.”

“What’s her name?”

“Her name’s y/n.”

“When did you guys meet?”

“We met six months ago when classes started, she’s in my finance class.”

“When did you-”

“Four months ago.”

“How-”

“She has that effect on people.” Azzi’s voice murmured, peering down at you again, fingers running through your hair to further calm you down as you slept. 

No one spoke again, watching their friend’s actions with small smiles on their faces. They were never really sure they would see a soft side to Azzi Fudd, but now that they met you - if you could even call it a meeting -, they were sure that would change. 

AF35 ; WBB MASTERLIST

TAGLIST ; NAVIGATION

[oddlylovingaddiction]

; Coming Full Circle

Part 1: Here , Part 2: Here , Part 3: You’re here!

CW: Reader is pregnant BUT is gender neutral only being referred to as you, if you don't have the ability to get pregnant you do now (in this series). Neglected reader x (platonic.) bat family. Reader is probably around in your 20s (21 - 25) and is the 5th(??) oldest.

TW: Past abuse in the form of emotional neglect/abuse, pregnancy, panic attacks and angst

After passing out from the emotions of the shopping trip you woke up to your warm bed. It seems someone (other than Damian, he was too small to carry an adult.) had placed you on your bed, removed your shoes and removed anything that would snag or choke you in your slumber as well, it seems they also left your shopping bags at the foot of your bed. You were starting to wonder if that shopping tripped really ending up helping you because now it’s 12:32 at night and you’re texting your husband you were supposedly not talking to and you felt unbelievably drained from all that crying you did. Usually you’d cry in his arms while he comforts you so perhaps that’s why your reaching out to him.

You:

I’m fine. And I’m safe just need some space

Him:

I want to give that to you but I’m just nervous not knowing where you are.

You can feel a headache coming on, perhaps from the crying, the fact you were still in your day clothes and from the fact he was so insistent on your location, fair enough, you disappeared with almost nothing on you and also, in his eyes, randomly one day with no signs that you would be away from him for so long. You choose to turn off your phone and just lay there. Honestly it’s all too much. These hectic phew days seeing your family again has been overwhelming. You can’t lie and say you aren’t enjoying the attention but at the same time you feel this gnawing feeling in your chest. The lingering in the back of your mind being ‘Is this all real? Was the years of neglect real or did I imagine it all? Has everyone always cared I didn’t notice?’ and arguably the most significant reason to you ‘what was the reason for it all?’

You can feel your mind start spiralling and you begin to feel sick. You hate it all. Hate being aware of everything all at once. Hate the almost never ending unanswered questions.

You quickly get up shaking your head gently refusing to let it completely overwhelm you, grabbing some PJs you change into as you do. They smell like your him, you both use the same detergent so it always reminds you of each other. You then slide on your slippers as you walk to the kitchen to get a late night snack. You’ve been have some pregnancy cravings but nothing super weird surprisingly, like pickles and peanut butter.

In the kitchen you search for some of your favourite snacks to eat lately, unfortunately there’s none left so you settle for some fruit you like, not as tasty like the ones you have at home but decent enough. The moonlight comes through the kitchen window making you think once again as you bite into the succulent fruit while you lean against the marble kitchen counters. The night is quiet, perfect for unwelcomed overthinking.

‘I wonder what would’ve happened if I stayed here?’

‘What would’ve happened if I never had gotten pregnant?’

The worst thought of all though was; ‘is this sudden affection from everyone in this manor only because of the baby?’

You love your baby you do but you’d hate for all this affection to be just for the child. You are your family’s child first and all you want is for them to love you as you and not for the child you carry.

You feel a slight buzz in your pyjama pocket. You’ll have to deal with your true family before your second, and right now part of your true family is worried about you.

Him:

Please talk to me, my love.

You pause sighing, perhaps if you were raised in a healthy family you could’ve grown up to handle conflict better. Maybe you would still be there with him in your shared home. No point in lamenting about it though.

You:

I’m here sorry I needed to take a break, I was getting overwhelmed.

Him:

Thats okay I’m sorry… I’m just scared

Your husband has always been kind and patient with you even when you found even yourself difficult. Of course he makes mistakes, but he never hurts you and he would never emotionally abandon you like this cursed family did and yet here you were abandoning him, thinking about that makes you wince slightly.

You:

That’s fair… I’m sorry.

Ever since our last argument I’ve been struggling a bit. I know it seems minor but the fact we disagreed on something so small but important around our child is scary. Because what happens next?

All your thoughts spill out as you type, like an overflowing fountain, speaking of fountains you can feel your eyes fill up with tears as you type.

Will we continue to argue about every small thing, like on how to parent our child? Will you get tired if we just continuously disagree and fight? What happens when the baby comes, if I’m like this now will I really be a good parent? Can I even love when I was raised without it?

Your sweet husband knows everything about your childhood and you know everything about his. He never once judged or blamed you for the trauma you endured, he was always on your side.

Him:

I know you’re scared, my love. but one disagreement doesn’t mean our marriage will fall apart, raising a life can be scary but that’s why we are doing it as a team and not as individuals.

I’ll never get tired of you, I intend to stay true to our marriage vows and love you in sickness and in health. I’ll never be tired of you and I won’t be tired of the baby because I love you both. Also you will be a good parent, I know it. Just because you may have been raised without love and care doesn’t mean you can’t love and care anymore, you’re married to me and you love me just fine.

Don’t doubt yourself so much. Thinking so big about everything all at once is bound to get you overwhelmed.

You can almost hear his naggy voice lecturing you towards the end making you giggle softly.

You:

Youer right I’m sorry. I love you so much ♡

God I feel like a fool right now.

Him:

My fool ♡

Now go to sleep I can tell you’re about to pass out because you spelt you’re wrong

Also I bet the reason you stayed away from me for so long is you were too embarrassed

Shit! He caught you. You should’ve known better but he can practically see through you sometimes so you don’t know why you’re surprised. You laugh softly and hang your head slightly at the fact you can still feel the connection when you’re both apart. It’s a testament that you both are truly blessed with one another.

You:

Will do, love you again. Also your bet was right, I’ll text you my location tomorrow so you can pick me up.

Him:

Looking forward to it ♡

You yawn after he sends his last text for tonight, he was right all anxiety has left you with a giant puddle of sleepiness. You eat the last slice of your fruit, wash your hands in the kitchen sink, then finally you walk back to bed.

You’ve never walked around so late it’s almost eerie how quiet it all is, when you were younger you were afraid monsters would get you as sometimes you heard weird noises when you did try to venture outside your room.

Perhaps you should’ve looked around at night more because then you wouldn’t be lost, wandering around a large manor in a sleepy haze, desperate to get back to bed. “Office…?” You mumble looking into rooms for the staircase so you could get to your room to no avail.

Somehow you end up in Bruce’s study, that he once expressed you weren’t supposed to go into at any point, normally you’d listen, it was just an office after all but the sleep made you bold as you step in.

The room in your sleepy vision was normal.

Minus the bookcase behind the desk which was moved to the side to reveal a staircase going down. The shock of the weird bookcase and stairs going down sobered you up from your sleepy haze.

“Wait.. we had a basement?”

You crept down the dark stairwell, the only way you knew where you were going is because of the small lights that lined the walls as you descended. The stairs and the walls weren’t old and rickety for a secret passage, they were what looked to be sold black iron all around minus the matching black carpet going down the middle of the stairs.

“This isn’t weird at all…” you mumble sarcastically to yourself.

You can’t decide what would be worse a creepy old staircase that looks like it lead to a dungeon or a staircase that looks like it would lead you to something like a room for experiments. Either way it felt like you were about to witness something you shouldn’t have seen.

If only you knew how right you were.

Finally you reached the end of the stairs, if you were even still a tiny bit sleepy that terribly long walk down got rid of it. You walk a wide corridor, what looks to be different entrances to rooms line the walls. You want to open one and check but your body pushes you to continually walk forward.

Once you reach the end you see two see-through automatic doors, when you step past one you panic as you’re sprayed down with what you can only assume are chemicals. One you step through the other, you’re greeted with a very large cave.

A cave full of shit you’d never find in a cave, like cars and, sitting in the middle of the very big cave, what looks to be a giant computer.

Alarm bells ring in your head, this definitely wasn’t for you to see. But those alarm bells and everything else in your head quickly dies when you see Bruce, Dick and Alfred walking towards you talking amongst themselves.

You wouldn’t feel this sudden horrifying pit in your stomach if that was it.

No. If that was it you’d be fine. But instead Dick and Bruce were in costumes.

Not just any costumes but Batman and Nightwing costumes.

‘No.’

‘There’s just no way.’

‘This is a joke.’

But you knew it wasn’t when Alfred looked ahead and met your eyes, his face paling at the realization of you standing there and that’s all you needed to turn and run.

You run back to the see-through doors, down the black hallway and up the black stairs. You are pretty sure you can hear yelling but you can’t hear it over the sound of your own breathing as you hyperventilate.

Everything you knew about your family has come crashing down. What was real? Who else knew? No, they all must’ve known. It makes sense that everyone in this family knew but you. Which other superhero was secretly your family member?

Your vision blurs from tears. They were superheros. Saving EVERYONE. EVERYDAY. But they could forget your birthdays, they could forget your existence. Watching your brothers and sisters celebrate their birthdays all together as a happy family and Bruce, your DAD, YOUR BIOLOGICAL DAD couldn’t find time to get you a different gift each year.

Everywhere feels unsafe, all you could do was run to the living room before you could feel the air in your throat get stuck from how quick you were breathing. The tears blurring your vision.

You quickly pull out your phone and quickly open your messages, your hand shaking as you click on your husband’s contact before sending him your location along with a single line saying ‘help’. You need to leave here fast no where feels safe. Everything feels fake.

As this is all happening you hear people call your name, through your tears you could make out Bruce and Dick.

“Hey hey hey let’s just calm down… it’s not a big deal! And what you saw wasn’t what it looked like.” Dick starts his own voice sounding unsure.

“N-not a- A BIG DEAL?” You manage to choke out and scream.

“Don’t be this way.” Bruce coldly glares at your reaction.

“DON’T BE THIS WAY?” You yell again, you’re pretty sure the entire manor is awake now from your cries. “You… you don’t get to tell me that.” You hiss through tears.

“Tell me, Bruce Thomas Wayne. Who else knows.” You ask slowly and carefully, voice full of spit.

There’s a silence before Bruce speaks up, “the… entire family knows.”

You go to laugh but before you can he adds on, “Because they’re all vigilantes too, we never told you because we wanted you to live a normal life...”

His voice fades away as the world around you shatters, a seemingly innocent illusion of a neglectful family has cracked and revealed a family who purposefully isolated you from themselves because they decided to choose for you that you’ll live a life full of wondering what you did so wrong to deserve this.

Your own father decided to tell the kids that aren’t even related to him to become heroes with him but here you were his biological child and yet he decided you weren’t worth it all.

You gently crumpled onto the floor.

Right before your husband decides to make a flashy entrance by shattering the living room window.

[princesscolumbia]

So I'm writing a major sci-fi project that I'm expecting to take several years, if not upward of a decade, to complete. Part 1 takes place in a timeline where fascism has already set itself in place and is managing to dig in so deep that it'll take some very, very extreme measures to pull out the roots. In part 2 I visit a parallel timeline where fascism is getting its hooks into a galactic power and trying to go all "Earthgov in Babylon 5 season 2-4."

In both cases I'm having to dig into the cause of fascism and what causes entire groups of people to willfully step into situations where their own best interest is being actively worked against. What is it about fascism that makes it so appealing to large populations that they look at history and say, "...nah, it won't happen that way this time."

And I'm having to struggle against my own presupposition that humanity is fundamentally always looking out for the best way forward and actually learns from the mistakes that litter the past.

Fascism is so stupid! So much of the implementation of fascism in the early days relies on people being absolutely brick stupid. "I have precisely one way of effecting major change on the nation/world I live in...but I'm le-tired, so I'm not going to vote." "I haven't read a single book since I got out of high school," (said proudly, as though this is somehow an achievement). "History is just a bunch of boring dates about dead people, but by god World War 2 was the greatest moment in all the record of all the world! What do you mean, how did it start? Pearl Harbor, duh!" "What do you mean, we need to protect the rights of trannies and illegals?! They're criminals, they don't deserve rights! What'd'you mean I gotta prove it?! Just look at 'em, you can always tell!"

The worst part is there's no "Evil fascists playbook that we're going to pass down to our children's children," it's just the worst parts of base human nature that are repeated generation after generation. Over and over again throughout history good people have done their damnedest to codify the sorts of behaviors and cultural practices that would stop fascism, but so often the efforts are made with the idea in mind that there is some secret cabal of people that are orchestrating the complete, catastrophic downfall of mankind to prop up only one (1) central ruling body, and if we can just stop those people then that'll stop evil for sure this time!

There's a reason we look at movies like Idiocracy and have this bone-chilling reaction that this is what our future will look like. Even a cyberpunk dystopia would be better than the truth because at least we could commit crime to steal from the wealthy and powerful what should be ours by protected right, such as healthcare or even water. But the truth is so viscerally terrifying because there is no dictatorship that will result in the upward spiral of humanity advancing to the next stage of evolutionary existence. There's no technological leap that will push us to being better than we were that can be enforced by a single hegemony. Fascism and tyranny are fear responses to a world that's bigger than one person can control and understand. Whenever a fascist state rises, its fall begins the moment it stabilizes from the ruins of the nation it replaces. In every case, the fascist country was already in the process of collapsing by the time its neighbors began the process of fighting back and containing it. The Third Reich was going to collapse before a decade was out whether the Allies did anything to stop them or not because the foundation it was built on was white supremacist fairy floss and paranoid wishes. The Soviet Union shattered because an empire founded on misinformation and violent intimidation couldn't scale to the degrees they were attempting. Even the PRC is being eaten from the inside by movements that are inherently more humanitarian and forward thinking.

The drive to be better to your fellow people is simply going to cause any fascist state to topple because 'being a better person' is an internal drive to each individual and 'subsume yourself to the state' is inherently opposed to it. The fascist state cannot abide individual excellence, people are born with the desire to grow and excel beyond their circumstances all the time. Fascism is inherently temporary, inherently self-destructive, and inherently a dead end.

This isn't to say it shouldn't be fought. Fascism is CATASTROPHICALLY destructive! Even a proto-fascist state like present-day (at the time of this writing...please tell me this will be out of date in two year's time!) United States of America is capable of doing massive amounts of irreparable harm in it's infantile flailing as it struggles to get its feet under it. Fascists need to be stopped. They need to be put down so hard the only thing needed for a grave is to fill in the hole from dropping them so hard. They need to have the fear of every god and goddess ever revealed, conceived, or imagined put in them and done so with a massive neon sign that can be read for the rest of human history that will tell fascists loud and clear what WILL happen to them if they ever try that shit again.

But the thing is; the fascists only seem to be working from the same playbook! Pick any evil empire throughout history that matches the definition of a fascist state and you'll see the exact...same...pattern, every single time. And it's not like these people read! They don't sit down and pour through documents looking for all the best ways to oppress a population and destroy the Earth, they just do it because fascism is stupid! If they actually read books and studied history they'd see that what they're doing, how they're behaving, and the way they're thinking is a failing formula. They will NOT be regarded as heroes! They will NOT be the great founders of a continent/world/solar system/galaxy spanning nation! They will be hated and reviled and hunted while they're alive and their deaths will be celebrated in ways that make the people celebrating Scrooge's death in A Christmas Carol's dark future timeline look like the most sentimental of mourning wakes. They will have their names listed with Haman and Caesar and George and Hitler and Pol Pot and Stalin and Regan as "People to find a way to make a pact with the devil to resurrect just so you can kill them again EVEN HARDER!" Their families will be ashamed of them. Their freaking mustache style will become known as "History's Worst Fashion Not" for men. They will be the butt of jokes about how the world could only be better without them in it.

THEY WOULD KNOW THAT THEY ARE ON A DEAD END PATH IF THEY JUST LEARNED FROM HISTORY!

But they don't read. And they don't want you to read. Not because they have this clever plan or ploy to ensure you don't get any ideas, but because just the thought that you might be smarter than them hurts their pwecious widdle fee-fees.

And, honestly? That's just so galling!

Like, we want Hitler to have been some magically charismatic individual who managed to superhumanly hypnotize an entire generation of Germans into becoming mass murderers. We want a generational cabal of secret elders in obscenely wealthy families who rigorously trains their children in the art of oppressing the lower classes. We want Trump to be this unstoppable business mogul with the entire world's wealthiest oligarchs in his pocket, ready to wield unspeakable power to shatter hundreds of years of progress in pursuit of human betterment.

We want these people to be megalomaniacal masterminds because the thought that all this damage and destruction and fear and terror and murder happening because a bunch of paranoid, infantile morons who you suspect would wet their own pants if they thought it'd be the next popular trend and secure them more power is just an insult to you. It's an insult to the people of [insert your country here]. It's an insult to the entire human race. It's an insult to all our daughter species that (universe willing) we'll eventually create to succeed us. To think that a whiny, pathetic, wet rag of a human being should manage to capture enough people's attention that they'll just hand over their rights, liberties, and freedoms in exchange for transparent lies makes anyone with a brain and a conscience recoil in atavistic horror.

What’s really occurring is an attack on the American mind. Ignorance is the handmaiden of tyranny.

[dollbrbie]

the last thing dabi ever imagined was having you as his girlfriend. you’re the furthest thing from him, a girl dressed head to toe in pink with makeup so perfect that it makes you look like a barbie doll.

you’re so girly while he’s… definitely something. he didn’t necessarily intend it, but he’s got that edgy emo look that you have a guilty pleasure for. black boxed dyed hair paired with his usual black clothing and purple scars - you found it weirdly hot. weird for you anyway, your girlfriends think you’re doing charity work with dabi. but he couldn’t really care less about what anyone had to say about him. it’s not like they’d actually say it to his face.

but dabi honestly loves how much of a bitch you could be. he secretly loves when you call him out, muttering degrading words under your breath that cause his pants to grow ridiculously tight. maybe he has a degrading kink buried deep down, or maybe he just loves how you’re not afraid to put him in his place. you’re a whole lot to handle, but you’ve never been a problem for dabi who’s not exactly a piece of cake either.

you balance each other out weirdly well, the pair of you knowing exactly how to put the other in their place. it’s definitely given you the freakiest sex life you’ve had - the both of you fighting for who’s in charge with mutually degrading and praising words. it’s made you realise a lot about yourself. especially with how much of a lover for pain dabi is, loving whenever you wrap your hands around his throat or whenever you land a slap on his scarred cheeks. there’s always that cocky smirk on his face, followed with a “do that again.”

but he’s not about to act like too much of a bitch in front of his girlfriend, edging you like crazy whenever you do take the bait and give him what he wants. no matter how much you beg or how much you writhe beneath him - if dabi doesn’t want you to cum, you won’t. there’s no room for arguments when your body is trapped under his, your orgasm ruined for the nth time that night.

but god forbid you ever do, your body convulsing with overwhelming pleasure and the tut of dabi’s tongue, he’ll say, “you wanna cum so bad, huh? ignore my fuckin’ orders? fine, then i’ll make you cum so much you’ll be in tears.”

your stomach twists at his words, because dabi isn’t the one to bluff. he’ll most certainly overstimulate you until your cheeks are soaked in tears and your throat can only release choked hiccups.

it’s lucky your boyfriend has such a soft spot deep down, because afterwards he’ll make sure his bratty girl is spoiled with aftercare and affection until she’ll rolling his eyes at him with those red stained eyes that turn him on while also making him feel like the worst boyfriend alive, kissing your swollen lips with a mutter you can only barely make out.

“m’sorry.. love you..”

© dollbrbie | don’t plagiarise or translate any of my work

[malsmind]

antisocial!reader 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 vampire!matt 𝐚𝐭 𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲

✰ - content warnings: ✦ underage drinking ✦ mentions of social anxiety ✦ mentions of injuries & blood ✦ pet names ✦ a LOT of tension ✦ male masturbation ✦ getting caught ✦

wc - 3.2k

the party was loud. too loud. bodies packed into some random kid’s house like sweaty sardines, music shaking the walls, the sticky scent of cheap beer and perfume making your throat itch. you’d been trying to keep your distance—stuck close to your best friend while chris hovered nearby, trying to keep a lid on matt’s temper before shit inevitably exploded. and it was already close. you could tell. you were leaned against the kitchen counter, plastic cup in hand, watching it all from across the room. matt was all sharp edges tonight. jaw clenched, hands fisted in the pockets of his hoodie, his stare practically burning holes into the side of some douchebag’s face across the room. you didn’t even know what set him off, but he was on edge—restless, dangerous, way too close to snapping. every little thing seemed to piss him off. his lip twitched when people got too close. his knuckles were white.

chris was already trying to calm him down—had been for the past twenty minutes, whispering shit to him with an annoyed look—but matt wasn’t listening. hadn’t even spared you a glance. not that you expected him to. not after that night. you hadn’t spoken since. hadn’t texted. hadn’t even looked at each other at school or when you studied with your best friend. it was easier that way. pretending nothing happened. pretending you didn’t kiss him. that he didn’t let you. that the heat in your chest from that moment didn’t still flicker up at the worst possible times.

but tonight, that flicker turned into full-blown flame. because not even five minutes later, you heard it from the living room. loud. angry.

“oh yeah? why don’t you shut the fuck up before i give your fucking face a redoing?”

you turned your head so fast you nearly spilled your drink.

matt.

your stomach dropped when you pushed through the crowd, chris already halfway in between them, trying to hold matt back, but it was too late. matt lunged—shoved the guy hard enough for him to stumble, and then fists flew. people gasped, pulled back, drinks spilled. you felt your heart in your throat.

fucking idiot.

your social anxiety evaporated with the rage that took its place. before you even realized it, you were grabbing matt’s arm—tight, firm—yanking him back from the chaos.

“come the fuck on,” you hissed, ignoring the mess of voices around you. he jerked at first, trying to resist, but you weren’t having it. your grip was unrelenting. “dude, stop,” he snapped, trying to pull away. “get off—”

“no. shut the fuck up and move.”

he blinked at you, caught off guard. but you didn’t give him time to recover. you dragged him out of the house, past gawking faces and hushed whispers. you could feel his eyes on you as you stormed toward your car, yanked the door open and shoved him into the passenger seat like a damn toddler.

“jesus christ,” he muttered, breathless. but he didn’t stop you. didn’t argue when you started the car and peeled out of there.

the silence was thick. the kind of quiet that made your teeth grind. you didn’t speak, hands clenched on the wheel, heart pounding too loud in your chest to think. and matt didn’t say a word either. which was weird. for him. he only looked at you, and kept looking. even when you pulled into your driveway, even when you stepped out and slammed your door. he followed like a shadow. no protests now. you threw open the door to your house, letting him in without a glance, heading straight for the bathroom. he didn’t sit until you pointed at the couch like you were dealing with a dog. he sat. you came back with the first aid kit, slamming it down on the coffee table. his lip was split. cheek scratched. knuckles bruised. stupid fucking boy.

“don’t move,” you snapped.

he raised an eyebrow. “what the hell is this, the ER?”

you pressed a cotton pad to his lip and he flinched hard. “jesus—ow, fuck. you’re hurting me, dude.”

“well fuckin’ stop squirming like a little bitch and we’re good,” you muttered, pressing harder. “could’ve just kept your stupid mouth shut and none of this would even happen. fuckin’ dickhead.”

he went quiet. mouth shut. eyes on yours. for once. finally. his breathing shifted. heavier now. more deliberate. you noticed, even if you tried not to. your hand hesitated just slightly, hovering near the cut on his cheek.

“why’re you nervous?” you muttered, voice low. “the fuck’s all that attitude gone now?”

his cheeks flushed. just faint, but enough.

he swallowed. “i dunno. you’re all up in my fucking face… who wouldn’t… get nervous…”

your breath caught. you pulled back slightly, trying to ignore the way your hands shook. “just relax, matt, please.” your voice was quieter now. raw.

you bit your lip. old habit. always did it when you focused. hard enough this time that you tasted blood. and that’s when everything changed. his pupils dilated. breath hitched. he tensed—every muscle in his body pulled taut like a bowstring. his eyes weren’t on your face anymore. they were locked on your lips. and not in a horny way. in a dangerous way. your heart stopped.

“…matt?”

his eyes snapped back up. he blinked. twice. like trying to shake something off.

“you’re bleeding,” he muttered, voice thick. not quite his own.

you licked your lip out of reflex, the taste of iron sharp on your tongue. “yeah, it’s nothin’. i do that sometimes—”

“don’t,” he cut in quickly. sharply. his voice cracked, like it hurt him to speak. “just—don’t.”

you stared at him, silent. frozen. he turned away. dragged a hand down his face. shook his head like it might clear the fog.

“i should go,” he said after a second, standing too fast. but you caught his wrist before he could bolt.

“wait.”

he froze.

“just… just sit for a second. please.”

he turned, eyes narrowed, expression unreadable. still flushed. still tense.

“why?” he asked. and it wasn’t sarcastic. wasn’t smug. it was almost soft. like he needed the reason.

you didn’t know how to answer that. because you didn’t want to be alone tonight? because something about him made you feel less… cracked? because when you looked at him, all angry and broken and bleeding, it made something inside you ache in a way that wasn’t painful, just familiar? you looked up at him, unsure what he saw in your eyes. but whatever it was, it made him sit back down without another word. you finished patching him up in silence. and when it was done, he didn’t move. didn’t speak. you didn’t either. you just sat there. both of you bruised in different ways. both of you pretending not to feel whatever this was. whatever it was becoming.

the blood was still there. matt’s eyes hadn’t left your mouth in minutes. dried now, but stark against your skin—this tiny, dark smear across your bottom lip where your teeth had broken through earlier. and it shouldn’t have mattered. it was barely anything. but to him? to what he was? it might as well have been a full-course fucking meal. he was trying. fuck, he was trying not to look. jaw tight, hands clenched into fists in his lap, shoulders drawn up with the strain of it. but the scent of it—metallic, warm, yours—lingered in the room like smoke, and his fangs ached just below the surface, a dull, familiar throb that scraped against every inch of self-control he had left.

you were still so close. crouched in front of him on the coffee table, legs tucked under you, your fingers stained with a little of his blood from the cleaning, your lip still bitten, your face so damn soft in the low light. and you were looking at him like that—like you weren’t scared. like you trusted him not to do anything stupid. he was going to lose it. but then—

“you’re staying the night.”

his head jerked up. “what?”

you just blinked at him, flat, unimpressed. “what what?” you echoed, like he was the dumb one. “knowing you, you’d go back there and beat that guy’s ass. again. you’re staying.”

he blinked. once. twice. that soft flush returned to his cheeks, and he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, glancing toward the door like maybe if he looked hard enough it’d open and he could ghost out of here before he did something stupid.

“and your parents?”

you rolled your eyes. “not home.”

he was silent. for a long beat.

you stood up, stretched a little, then disappeared down the hallway—leaving him alone in the quiet hum of the living room with the smell of your blood still hanging in the air, and the echo of your command in his head. you’re staying. it shouldn’t have gotten under his skin the way it did. shouldn’t have made his stomach twist with something warm and uncomfortable. but it did. it always did, with you. the way you talked to him. like you knew him. like you didn’t buy his act.

he heard your voice again after a moment, muffled from the hallway. “you want something to wear, or are you gonna sleep in your bloodstained hoodie like a psycho?”

he snorted, loud. “i am a psycho.”

you padded back in with some oversized t-shirt in your hands. one you probably slept in, he guessed, and that thought alone made him feel something tight settle in his chest.

you tossed it at him. “shower’s down the hall. towels under the sink. don’t bleed on my sheets.”

he raised an eyebrow. “you planning on tucking me in too, sweetheart?”

you gave him a blank look. “you wish.”

he huffed a laugh, caught the shirt, and stood—shoulder bumping yours as he passed. your lip was still stained. and he still couldn’t look away. he didn’t move for a second. just stood there in front of you, holding that old, stretched-out t-shirt in one hand, the other still balled into a fist by his side. the space between you throbbed—full of something he couldn’t name, like a pulled wire ready to snap.

your lip. still stained red.

and fuck, it wasn’t fair. you were standing there, all casual and stubborn, in your little tank top and shorts, like you hadn’t just dragged his ass out of a party like a pissed-off girlfriend, cursed him out in your living room, cleaned up his mess like you cared, and told him to stay the night like it didn’t mean anything. like it wasn’t driving him insane. matt wasn’t used to being looked after.

especially not by you.

and now, here you were. blood on your mouth. still touching his skin in places—his jaw, his temple, the side of his neck where your thumb had pressed in too hard. and you didn’t even seem to notice. but he did. god, he fucking noticed.

“matt,” you said finally, voice a little more cautious now. like you could sense the shift. “go shower. you’re gross.”

his lip twitched, but he nodded, saying nothing, and moved down the hall. he wanted to leave the bathroom door cracked, needing the faint sounds of the house to stay grounded. needing the space, but he closed it anyway. the water ran hot, nearly burning, but it helped. the sting reminded him to stay in control. reminded him he was still human enough to pull it back. barely.

𖤓

you knew he’d been in there too long. at first it didn’t register—just the sound of the water running behind the closed door while you sat on the edge of your bed, half-heartedly pretending to scroll through your phone. your fingers were idle. your mind wasn’t. you kept replaying it. his face. that stupid fight. the way he let you drag him out like he wasn’t twice your size and full of rage. the way he sat still and let you clean him up, even when you weren’t gentle. especially when you weren’t gentle. the way his breath stuttered when you snapped at him. when your lip bled and he couldn’t take his eyes off it. he hadn’t said much since. just listened to you mutter and nodded, eyes dark.

but now it was pushing thirty minutes, and the sound of the water hadn’t stopped. you blinked down at your screen again. a minute ticked by. another. your stomach twisted. you didn’t know what the hell possessed you to get up. maybe it was just genuine concern. maybe it was that same stupid tug in your chest you felt every time he looked at you too long. or maybe it was the part of you that needed to know—needed proof that you weren’t just imagining the way he was staring. like he wanted to bite. like he wanted to fuck.

your feet were quiet on the hardwood, like you were doing something wrong. your breath caught a little when you got close enough to hear it—not just the water—but him. low, quiet sounds slipping through the half-cracked bathroom door. you froze. his breathing was uneven. heavy. labored in a way that had nothing to do with steam. you stepped closer, barely. heart in your throat now.

then you heard it.

a soft curse. the distinct sound of skin on skin. a sharp inhale. a low groan, almost swallowed by the water pressure. you should’ve walked away. fuck, you should’ve.

but you didn’t.

you stood there, knees weak, face burning, biting down on the inside of your cheek hard enough to sting. you imagined him leaning against the tile, water pouring down his back, head tipped forward. imagined his fingers around his cock, jaw tight, lips parted, thinking about—fuck.

you turned around so fast you nearly tripped over your own feet, stormed back to your room and slammed the door a little too hard, heart hammering, thighs clenched, pulse between your legs. you sat on the edge of the bed again, tried to breathe through it. but your mouth was dry. your whole body was buzzing. you could still hear him in your head—those sounds. that voice. quiet and fucking desperate in a way he never let anyone see. you didn’t know how long it was before the water stopped. you didn’t know how long it took before you heard the bathroom door open, the sound of his footsteps in the hall, the faint creak of your door as he pushed it open without knocking.

your eyes snapped up. he was standing there, towel low on his hips, hair wet, chest rising and falling like he’d just been through hell. his eyes locked with yours. and you knew. instantly. he knew you’d heard.

you could see it in the way his mouth twitched, in the way his pupils were blown wide, like he hadn’t really finished what he started.

“couldn’t find the clean towel,” he said, voice rough. teasing. but low. darker than usual.

you didn’t say anything. couldn’t. just swallowed hard and looked away, blood rushing in your ears.

“you good?” he asked, stepping a little further into your room. towel still barely holding on. water dripping down his chest.

you nodded, still not looking at him. “fine.”

matt let the silence stretch. let the tension crackle like a live wire between you. and when he finally spoke again, it was low. almost soft.

“you heard me.”

your eyes snapped to his.

“i—”

“it’s fine,” he cut you off. but his voice was tight now. jaw clenched again. not angry—something else. restrained. careful. “fuck, angel. it’s not like i don’t want you to know.”

you stared. breathless.

he smirked, tired and wrecked. the kind of smirk that wasn’t smug—it was desperate. worn down. his eyes raked over you, slow. “you gonna tell me to get dressed, or you want me to stay like this?”

you didn’t answer. and he didn’t move. you stared at him—dripping, flushed, towel hanging too low on his hips, eyes dark and pinned to you like you were something worth sinking his teeth into. and maybe you were. god, maybe you wanted to be. your thighs clenched involuntarily at the look on his face. like he wanted to devour you. like you were the reason he’d been in the shower so long, with the water turned all the way hot and his hand moving over his cock, head thrown back against tile while your name probably slipped past his lips like a fucking prayer.

“matt,” you breathed, throat dry.

he took another step forward. slow. deliberate. his smirk was gone now. whatever bravado he walked in here with? it cracked beneath the weight of the silence between you, thick and humming.

“come here,” he murmured.

your heart stuttered. “matt…”

he leaned down, towel shifting a little with the movement. his fingers ghosted over your jaw, barely touching, but it was enough to make your skin light up like a struck match.

“we both know you want me too, baby.” he said, voice low, breath brushing your lips now. “you’re looking at me like you’re starving.”

you were. and he wasn’t wrong. but that didn’t mean—

you turned your head, jaw tensing. “you’re drunk.”

he exhaled sharply through his nose. like he expected that. like he hated that you were right.

“i’m fine.”

“matt.”

“i know what i’m doing,” he insisted, fingers tilting your chin back toward him. “and i want you. have wanted you. even when you drive me fucking insane.”

you stared at him. at the honest desperation in his voice. at the sheer want he wasn’t bothering to hide anymore. and god, it was tempting. every fiber in your body screamed to give in, to feel his mouth against yours, to drag that damn towel off and crawl into his lap, into his skin, into whatever the fuck had been building between you all summer long.

but no. not like this.

you pressed your hand to his chest, firm. “matt. you’ve been drinking. and you just fought someone. and you jerked off in my fucking shower.”

he blinked. laughed once. kind of breathless. “you weren’t supposed to hear that part.”

“i know,” you said, trying not to let the warmth creep up your neck. “but i did. and you’re still dripping water all over my floor.”

“you’re changing the subject.”

“yes,” you snapped, hand still on his chest. “because i’m trying really hard not to do something really fucking stupid.”

his gaze flickered. softened a little.

you swallowed hard. “don’t make me be the responsible one right now.”

for a second, neither of you moved. his fingers were still near your face, your hand still pressed to the heat of his chest. the air between you felt like it might snap. but then matt exhaled. slow. pulled back a little. ran a hand through his wet hair, muscles tight with restraint.

“you’re right.”

you didn’t expect him to say it. you just blinked at him.

he dropped onto the far end of your bed with a heavy sigh, towel hitching up slightly but thankfully not abandoning ship. he dragged a hand over his face. groaned softly. “fuck. i hate when you’re right.”

you tried not to smile. your heart still hadn’t slowed.

“get dressed, asshole.”

“yes, ma’am,” he muttered. “wouldn’t want to ruin your precious self-control.”

you rolled your eyes. turned toward your dresser, mostly to hide your face. but deep down, you were already dreading how much harder it was gonna be to pretend nothing had shifted between you. because it had.

you both felt it. and next time?

next time, you weren’t sure you’d be able to stop it.

dividers by @issysh3ll

[clownmilkshake]

As someone who mostly likes driving, other drivers are THE FUCKING WORST. I got stuck in a part of town i wasn't used to with no speed limit signs, so I stuck to the usual 50 (km/h, I'm from Canada). Right away, this person behind me is UP MY ASS. I stop because some guy is parked in the middle of the road and they HONK at me (I started swearing at this point). I'm still going 50 and movin along, and this motherfucker is still absolutely inside me. Trying to reach my mouth through my ass. Knowing me carnally. And as I turn off to the place I was going (the voting station), I notice a sign saying the speed limit was 30.

MOTHERFUCKER? I WAS GOING 20 OVER AND YOU WERE STILL TRYING TO CLIMB INSIDE ME? WHAT IF I SUDDENLY HAD TO STOP FOR A CHILD?

seriously. when i'm driving i'm making sure i'm going a safe speed, using my signals, making turns mostly carefully (hit a curb once, oops), and generally obeying traffic laws. and my hometown is so small it has one passing lane and no stop lights, so the few times i've driven in the city have been slightly more nerve-wracking, but honestly i found people were more well-behaved out there? maybe it's because they actually HAVE cops.

also they need to stop making trucks so big. not only are they a nuisance and a hazard, but i cannot imagine parking is easy. parking in cities is why i love my small car; she fits in little spots so well <3

i hate driving. here are the laws! if you break them there will be consequences! except youre also expected to break the law just a little bit. people will get mad at you if you dont. you dont have right of way but the person who does is waving you forward for some reason. here's the speed limit! it's not the speed limit, the actual speed limit is that plus ~5-10. the light is green but you're in the turning lane. can you go? should you have gone just then? the person behind you is honking at you. there's a weird noise coming from your engine; if you try to do the right thing and get it checked out, will you get scammed? you are driving a 1-2 ton metal machine rocketing at speeds unknown to humankind for most of history. around a million people die in car accidents every year; that's about one person every thirty seconds. if you take that seriously and try to drive safely then people get mad at you.