#but still...wonder what they did about that

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

I did Daniel Boone for my wax museum project in fifth grade and I still have my in-character presentation memorized to this day (I have to spend a few minutes dredging it up but it’s in there lol).

@kaleidoscopr @allthesecottoncandyskies @symurgist @poormeowmeowcollector @redd956 @redwingedwhump

(screw it what's a fun fact about yourself also @ people I'll go first I'm allergic to myself

@escapetheslaughter

@ugly-astral-taurus

@bees-official

@gremlininthedark

@bloodmoon-da-idiot

@multifandomcutie13 )

[syluss-littlecrow]

sweet

<Sylus x fem!reader>

where you let Sylus know you're missing him with a nice shower video when he's in the middle of his little business meeting.

genres/warnings: smut, pwp, very Sylus heavy pov, so much fluff, sending Sylus a showering video--nudity description(?), unprotected sex, light nipple play, breeding, size kink

a/n: first of the LADS x cigarettes after sex series ✨ hope you loved reading it as much as I loved writing it. And happy valentine's day to all of you lovely people 🩷

w/c: 2.2K

Sweet.

A taste that Sylus never thought he’d experience once more, until he met you, again. 

Even then, you had him taste bitterness the second time he met you, and he'd wonder to himself–did he do something wrong in between? He resented you for a while, wondering what turned you like that. 

He resented the idea of having to start over again. He resented that it was as if you never knew him at all, especially when you spent so much time with him before.

Ironically enough, he still tried, and the resentment softened, way quicker than he'd thought. The realisation hit him like a freight truck one night when he watched your chest rise and drop slowly beside him–he could never resent you. 

In Sylus’s eyes, you are the same person before and now, and it dawned on him that he'd still fall in love with you over and over again. 

The day is dragging on at an agonising pace. He still has business to deal with. It's one of those days where you've slipped into the crevices of his mind, and suddenly, all he's craving is to have you wrapped around him, in his tight embrace. 

The coin twirls aimlessly around his fingers. His ears are listening to the empty words of his business partners accompanying the sounds of poker chips and cards strewn across the table, but his mind is filled with you, you, you. 

As if the universe had infiltrated his mind, the phone in his pocket buzzes. He contemplates ignoring it but something in his mind is bugging him to check.

So he does. 

He fishes out his personal phone from his pocket, and the second he notices your name on his lock screen, he immediately unlocks his phone. 

[Kitten sent a video.]

A soft smile spreads across his lips. He wonders if you've sent him more media of you catching cats, or doing the utmost to torment Mephisto. 

But the moment he opens the preview, his smile immediately drops. 

It's a video of you, in nude, in his bathroom. The glass panels of the shower are fogged up–you’re using his hot water. You're lathered in his soap (how did you manage to reach it?), the foamy bubbles sliding down the curve of your ass down your thighs, to the floor. A huge lump of soap lather covers your nipples. 

Sylus feels both his fist and pants tighten. 

Kitten: stole some of your new body soap 😛 come and punish me for it~ 

He knows he shouldn't be watching this, other than it being slightly inappropriate, but mostly because he doesn't want anyone to know about this side of you. 

But the video continues to play. 

The light bounces off your skin when you turn to the side, your curves highlighted under the warm lights. You stand back further, letting your face come into view, the cheeky grin splayed across your lips. It makes Sylus subconsciously touch his. 

Of course, your hair is soaked wet, drips of it falling off the ends, splattering and disappearing onto your body. 

Then you walk further from the camera. Sylus’s eyes follow your movements–the way your ass jiggles at every step, the way your hips move so enticingly. 

The water runs, and the soap is washed off instantly. Sylus watches the soap slide off your body, leaving droplets of water to sit on your skin. If you’d bend over any further, your pussy would be bare all for him to see.

Instead, you turn around, your perky nipples coming into full view since the soap was rinsed off. Sylus feels himself swallow hard. 

And at the final 10 seconds of the video, you turn around once more, and bend over, fully enough that your glistening pussy comes into full view. 

You don't say anything throughout the whole video, and Sylus is thankful you didn't, because if you had uttered a single word, he would have burst right there and then. 

“What's your decision, Sylus?”

The man before him asks. 

“Fold”, he curtly replies. He dumps the remainder of his chips, throws the cards and leaves, taking his jacket with him. 

There are no speed limits in N109, Sylus recalls telling you. And right now, every single traffic light that turns red is pissing him off. 

When he bursts through the doors of his mansion, you're there–lounging on his black leather couch, wearing nothing but his black dress shirt. He sees that your hair is still slightly damp. 

“You're back already, Sylus? I thought you'd be taking awhile”, he hears you say. Your voice is driving him insane. 

“Have you eaten yet?” 

He doesn't bother answering that question, at least, not yet. He, instead, carries you into his arms, and he's silently relieved that you don't resist. 

“Not yet. How'd you know? I’m starving, kitten.” 

Your arms wrap around his arm, keeping Sylus impossibly close to you, and you press a kiss on his jaw. 

“Welcome home, my love.” 

Sylus hopes he isn't being rough when he has you under him on his bed. He adores the way you're eye fucking him when he unbuttons his shirt, then un-buckling belt and then his trousers. 

“Aren't you staring too much, sweetie?”

You'd tilt your head and scoff playfully, as if you heard the most ridiculous thing.

“I was given eyes for a reason, Sylus.”

He groans at the way you’d lick his cock and tease him through his underwear, as if his precum wasn't enough to soak the fabric. The sensation of your tongue pressing and teasing the base of his cock makes him bite his lip a little harder. 

“I should punish you for that video you sent, hm?”

You look up at him, feeling his slender fingers run through your hair, the wetness between your legs making you clench even more.

“What did you think of it?” 

“Plain evil, kitten.” 

Sylus pushes you back onto the bed, and your head is dizzy with anticipation when he forces your legs open and leans in closer.

His fingers undo the button of your shirt in less than a split second, and he continues south until he realises that you're literally wearing nothing underneath.

Sylus joins you on the bed, his knee intentionally pressing up against your wetness, and it makes you squeeze your legs, trapping his knee. 

His thumb is on your chin, grazing your bottom lip.

He knows you look away when you get shy, so he ensures he traps you to fix your gaze onto his. He doesn't need to use his aether core to bring out your desires. Maybe, he’s the one who has his desires bleeding out of him, all out for you to see. 

“Open for me, sweetie.”

Your fingers rake through his locks when you yank him towards you. He could never get tired of your taste. 

“Sylus…please. I don't think I can wait”, you whine, your hips grinding against his knee. 

He chuckles softly at the way you're begging for him. He likes it when you're feisty with him, and he adores it when you beg for him like that. 

Just a little longer. “Be patient, kitten. Good girls get rewarded.” 

To you, it's teasing. To Sylus, maybe it is teasing, but that's on top of wanting to feel your body, to elicit pretty reactions out of you. 

He traces your skin, your curves, your rawness with his fingertips. He feels the way your nipples have hardened under the fabric, and he uses his thumbs to flick them, savouring the moans you give him. 

“How does it feel?” 

“You're teasing me again…”

“I'm not, sweetie. You know how much I adore listening to you tell me what you like.” 

He switches over to rubs by applying pressure–and the pleasure sparks through your body.

You've yet to even cum, but you've begun staining his sheets already. 

He presses his tongue on your clothed nipple, his tongue rubbing soft circles. He feels you tug his hair, rolls of your moans washing into his ears, begging him to do more.

Sylus really likes it when he gets you wet and sticky for him, before he even starts fucking you. He likes playing with his prey before he devours them. 

The sound of your pussy squelching when his fingers enter you is another thing he loves. He likes watching the way your pussy sucks them right to the knuckle, the fluids going from clear to white and creamy. 

“Sylus ... please, please. Fuck.”

Do you know what you're even begging for?

Sylus has one of your legs rest against his shoulder, giving him a better opening of your soaked little hole. He fucks himself with his hand, then lines himself to your entrance, and thrusts in.

He watches you fist the sheets and your back arch, your pussy perfectly tight for him, your soft walls devouring him in soft pulses. 

He lets you adjust, and shifts a pillow under your lower back to support you. He watches you relax against the pillow. 

Sylus can't get enough of the way you struggle to fit him. When he sees his bulge in you, it turns him on. 

“I'm gonna start moving, kitten.” 

His rhythm always starts off steady, mostly for you to adjust to his fat cock. He'd bite and kiss your calves to distract himself from how tight you are. 

Your moans start off soft, and they grow more needy and lewd, just how Sylus likes it. 

When the tension builds, Sylus gets a lot greedier. He’d fold your legs and push them against you, his cock completely sinking deep into your cunt, and he knows it drives you nuts when he does that–forcing himself into your hole. It feels so fucking good. 

“I love it when you do that.” He knows. Sylus loves it when you say that. 

You let him touch you all over when he fucks you when the pace accelerates–his hands are all over you. He thinks it's a waste to leave any patch of your skin untouched. After all, you're his.

When your thighs start trembling, Sylus knows your body like the back of his hand. 

“You're cumming soon, kitten?”

Your eyes would be watery from the pleasure by then, nodding desperately. 

“How close are you?”

He watches your abdomen contract when his fingers rub your clit.

“Fuck. So fucking close. It feels so good. You feel so good, Sylus.”

He loves undoing you like that–making you reach to your high–the way your voice climbs in octaves when you're screaming that you're cumming on his thick cock, your eyes rolled back and shut, your cunt so wet that friction barely exists there. 

He pauses and rests his tip in your hole, his breathing growing heavy when he watches you visibly cream on his dick, the way your pussy convulses and squeezes him uncontrollably forces him to use all of his restraint not to burst in you, not yet. 

The overstimulation when he continues to fuck you through your orgasm makes the pleasure all the more so delicious. 

“Keep fucking me like that, please”, you moan into his palm. How could he not want to?

“You're so cute when you’re like this, all fucked out for me”, you hear the slight strain in his voice. He plants more kisses across your lips to your cheeks, to your jaws, to your temples. 

White spills into his vision while he spills into you, his cock throbbing and filling you up. The way he would shut his eyes and furrow his eyebrows, while red dusted his cheeks. He squeezes whatever body part of yours he had his hands on. 

Breeding you full is easily his favourite part. 

He thrusts himself into you a couple more times, letting you milk him completely dry, so that when he pulls out, he can see his pretty creation leak out of you in loads.

Sylus never forgets to kiss you after fucking you. You would giggle or sigh when he does, and he'd clean you up before fetching a glass of water to cool down. 

You're surprised his shirt stayed on you for the whole duration of it. Not that you were complaining. 

Sylus sits up against his pillow slightly, pushing and tucking away strands of hair from your face.

“You know, Sylus, you’ve ruined intimacy for me.”

He scrunches his eyebrows in confusion. His heart drops. 

“What?”

You pout, cupping his face with your thumb and fingers. 

“I said, you've ruined intimacy for me”, you repeat. 

Sylus isn't following. Why tell him this now? He tries to ignore the sting in his heart, and the myriad reasons why he's ruined it for you. Suddenly he's prepared for you to leave.

Instead, you glance downwards to his lips and press yours against his. 

“Because I don't think I can do it with anyone other than you.”

Sylus grits his teeth, not because of stress, but because you always have ways to get under his skin like that, and he knows he wouldn't mind otherwise. 

“Scared you a little, didn't I?” And you still have the cheek to giggle at him.

His palm presses against your forehead in retaliation, and you squeal in surprise. 

“Do that one more time and see what happens, kitten.”

You stick your tongue out at him. Then you're swept into his arms, and it catches you by surprise.

“Where are we going?!” 

“You're showering again, sweetie. This time with me.”

He tops his words with a kiss on your jaw. 

It's so… sweet. 

Knowing that he loves you, you don't have to say it to each other, sweet. 

[philosians]

ɪɴᴅᴜʟɢᴇɴᴄᴇ

a three week paid-vacation provided by your captain gave rise to the opportunity to finally show you the gift sylus had gotten you. and no, it isn’t the yacht you’re on—but he wouldn’t be opposed to giving you that either.

[ !! ] — mdni | established relationship, smut, breeding kink, pregnancy mention, fingering, oral (female receiving), praise kink, mating press, unprotected sex, sylus is soft in the bedroom okay now hush ;; alcohol mention (sylus drinks whiskey), fluff. oh did I mention soft! sylus?? uhhh maybe more tags than this idk there’s a lot going on lmao. unedited af I know that’s a warning. if y’all see cut sentences just know it’s a brain glitch >.< lol

a/n: Happy Valentine’s Day! phew i got this out before it ended hehe just in the nick of time. I do wanna forewarn everyone I don’t actively write smut so I deeply apologize for any sort of repetitiveness or just it being inaccurate and rushed overall, my apologies. but please enjoy reading! bc i wanna curl up and die and delete this after writing it actually lmao I’ll probably never write anything like this again haha

word count: roughly 4.8k

The starry expanse of sky moves quickly outside of the window of the car, nothing but a blur of cosmic colors. Where you’re going you’re not quite sure, with all the secrecy from Sylus and the twins. It’s something Sylus has clearly planned for awhile, from the way he wanted you to dress tonight, but you’re still unable to put your finger on it.

At the very least, you’re glad that Kieran is the one that’s driving instead of Luke.

“Are you two going to tell me where we’re going yet?”

“Afraid not, Miss,” Kieran replies. “That’d be against orders from Boss.”

“Are we at least almost there yet?” you ask.

“We have about ten more minutes,” Luke chirps. “Then you’ll finally get to see Boss, don’t worry.”

You’re stunned into a mild fluster and look at your hands in your lap. You heard the twins snicker and you can’t help but shake your head incredulously. Oh well. You’re almost to your destination anyway.

After the last two months of an increase in Wanderer appearances, you could most certainly use a break. It’s been nothing short of hectic, battles here and evacuations there and the occasional dumbass that doesn’t want to listen to the warnings given out that an area is too dangerous to go into.

You softly sigh. You really shouldn’t be thinking about work.

You tug the large coat on your shoulders over you further, closing your eyes and sinking into the warmth and the smell of the man it belonged to.

Whatever in the world Sylus had planned must be big, even so that he couldn’t be bothered to tell even the twins exactly what he had in store. All the three of you knew was that he had a surprise, and the two brothers were more than happy to have the opportunity to have the base to themselves.

You just wish you knew where you were going.

“Is this it?”

“I think so. Ah, there’s Boss.”

Oh, already?

True to word, you open your eyes and see a familiar patch of silver against the darkness of the world. And you also happen to see a very, very large yacht not far from him.

A marina? You blink incredulously. A private fucking marina. Good lord, how much money does this man really have?

Upon stopping, you watch as Sylus turns his head slightly to the car. Luke quickly jumps from the passenger side and opens the door for you, ushering his hand outward dramatically and says, “After you, Miss.”

The heel of your shoe clicks against pavement as you step out, holding Luke’s hand for stability until you find your balance.

“Thanks, Luke.”

“Not a problem! Enjoy the honey— Uh, vacation!”

Luke jumps back into the car, more than likely to save himself from your questioning eyes. You can’t help but shake your head and make your way toward Sylus and the man in uniform, more than likely the captain of the yacht.

“Ah, Mrs. Sylus,” greets the captain with a tilt of his hat. His eyes blink as he does a once-over on you and then laughs. “I was wondering what kind of woman would tie such a man down, and now I understand. Please, come aboard.”

Your brows raise at Sylus as the captain pivots and boards the yacht. “Care to explain that?”

Sylus, in all his audacity, simply shrugs and smiles. “Nothing to explain, sweetie. He came up with that himself after I told him my lady would be joining me.”

You scoff in disbelief, but can’t help the small smile that falls to your lips. You take Sylus’s arm, wrapped your hand in the crook of his elbow as he leads you onto the ship.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, gazing around as he takes you to the deck. And you could only imagine what it would be like when you went out to sea.

“I figured you would like it,” he murmurs. “Glad to see my instincts weren’t wrong.”

You don’t miss the way his red eyes look to you, knowing he’s waiting for your words of affirmation. You laugh behind your hand, because yeah, he’s right.

You hum, taking his hand in your own. “Thank you for considering me.”

You also don’t miss the way his large fingers eagerly twine with your own, nor the way his eyes soften and blend with devotion and affection.

“Always.”

Thirty minutes pass before the ship takes off into the open sea. You barely feel it until Sylus has you stand to take you back outside from the dining area.

“So, where are we going?” you ask, gazing up at him.

Sylus’s mouth twitches into a smirk. “It’s a surprise.”

You grumble, humoring the man. “Of course it is.”

Sylus’s coat never leaves your shoulders the couple hours you’re both out on the deck. He seems to enjoy that, too; you wearing his clothes sparks something behind his eyes that you’re all too familiar with. The thought itself has your cheeks warming and thighs pressing together.

He flicks his wrist to check his watch when a timer beeps twice. You can’t help it when your eyes linger on his hand. You’ve always had a fixation on his them—on how big and warm they are in comparison to yours, on how his long fingers stretch across your body, and how they gently wrap around you and pull you close like he’d die without touching you. Those hands that had once forced you to attempt to resonate with him for three days had become soft, remorseful and loving. And he’d more than earned your forgiveness.

“Dinner should be ready.”

You grin. “You brought your chef?”

“Just for this trip,” he retorts, standing to full height. “Come.” His hand outstretches to you and you take it without hesitation.

You don’t miss the way his eyes briefly light up at the way your fingers immediately interlace with his. It’s a small joy to you, but to him it means everything—a testament to how far the two of you have come.

Dinner, as always, is perfect. Dessert even more so. You’re not too full, but more than satisfied. You give your compliments to the chef, who in turn happily skips back to the kitchen like he’s on cloud nine. And you can’t help but look at Sylus and smile as he downs his whiskey like it’s water.

“You don’t compliment your chef enough,” you comment. “One sentence from me and he acts like he’s never heard praise.”

Sylus hums as his brows raise, humored. He chuckles with the whiskey in his mouth before swallowing it to retort, “He knows his cooking is excellent. I suppose I just have a limit to how many compliments I can give out in a day.”

You place your chin in your hand. “Oh, really? Then how many do I get to have in a day?”

Adoration fills his ruby orbs. “As many as you want, my beloved.”

His hand reaches for your left over the table. Sylus’s thumb rubs over your fingers, resting atop your ring finger.

“Have I told you that you look exquisite tonight?” he whispers.

“You haven’t,” you reply cheekily. “I think you owe me a few more, don’t you think?”

The soft music in the background dies as you begin to hear your heart thunder in your ears. You do hope that Sylus can’t hear it pounding away like you can.

“Seems like I do,” he says in an exhale, leaning back in his seat but not letting go of your hand. His eyes have changed—once filled with adoration, now filled with a fire that makes heat rise to your cheeks and desire burn between your legs. “I don’t think I’ve shown you the bedroom yet, have I?”

You grin. “You haven’t. I’d like to see it.”

But what you don’t anticipate is your man standing and abruptly lifting you into a one arm carry. Your sharply inhale in surprise, arms immediately weave around his neck for support, but you know he’d never drop you anyway.

You trail your nose under his jaw, pressing a long kiss to his skin by his ear. Your fingers dig into his shoulder, the subtle presser making him hasten his long strides.

“Sweetheart—” Sylus gulps as you press two fingers to his mouth to silence him.

You pepper slow kisses down his neck, nipping at the skin every other kiss. It’s when you reach his collarbone you hear the click of a door. And seconds later you find the plush fabric of blankets underneath you and Sylus’s firm hand cradling the back of your head as he tilts your head back to capture your lips with his.

Between each heated kiss you attempt to catch your breath, only for your lover to devour your mouth with his own again and again.

“Mmmh— Sylus, let me—” another kiss “—catch my breath.”

He has a hard time pulling away. Sylus rests on one knee at the edge of the bed, hands grasping at the back of your bare calves as he catches his own breath and tries to pull himself back to his senses before he finishes himself off early.

While you toss your head back and close your eyes, trying to let oxygen catch up to your brain, Sylus lifts his head to look at you. He drinks in your appearance—the starry night sky sewn into the strapless obsidian dress (one that he had specially made for you) accentuated your body exactly the way he envisioned.

As he watches your breasts rise and fall with every breath, he feels his pants tighten even more. He’s so painfully hard just from simply kissing you—a testament to what you do to him, how deeply you affect him.

He rests his head against the plush of your thigh. As he trails his hand down your leg, he realizes you still have your heels on.

Your head snaps up at the feeling of one heel coming off, then the other.

“Sylus, what— Oh, shit.”

The momentum of him lifting your body further up the bed and hiking your dress up catches you off guard. His mouth latches to your thighs, kissing and biting all the way up until he reaches the fabric of your panties—the only thing between him and what he wants.

“Such a dark red, darling,” he hums. “Was this for me?”

“It might’ve been,” you tease.

As his finger loops around the red fabric covering you, Evol ready to help rip it off, your hand makes its way into his hair and tugs, forcing his eyes to attention.

“Rip these, I’m okay with that. Rip the dress, and I’ll kill you,” you say, half-joking. But damn did you really like this dress.

He chuckles, eyes glazed with lust. “Understood.”

As soon as he tears them away and hikes your dress even further around your hips, Sylus’s mouth does nothing short of devour your pussy. You let out the loudest, wanton moan you’ve ever heard from yourself as his tongue buries itself in and against your folds. Your head falls back against the pillows, hands moving to grip the sheets beneath you to maintain some semblance of being grounded as Sylus eats you out like a starved man. Your legs are over his shoulders, allowing him the best access to your womanhood.

“Oh— Fuuuck, Sylus. Ohmygod, please don’t stop,” you beg, threading one hand through his hair again, grip tighter than earlier.

His reply comes in the form of him pushing his thick middle finger inside of you and mouth sucking on your clit. You wail, bucking your hips into his mouth. His ring finger promptly follows, stretching your cunt and sinking deep inside of your walls. Tears of overstimulation line your eyes as you grasp at then pillow behind your head.

Both hands twine into his silver locks of hair, pressing him deeper into you. What you miss amidst your own haze of ecstasy is Sylus grinding himself against the mattress to find some sense of relief. His mind is at war, wanting nothing more than to cum right then and there versus wanting to watch his seed spill from your hole. It takes every ounce of self-control of his own body to not climax while he simultaneously loses his mind while his mouth is attached to your cunt.

“Don’t— Please— Sylus! Sylus, I’m gonna—”

Your back arches off of the bed, and you can’t help but press him further into you and grind against his face. Sylus’s arms wrap around your thighs, holding you steady. The deep groan of his satisfaction that leaves him only spurs you on further and further and further until your thighs clench around his head and you cum. Hard.

And Sylus more than enjoys sucking and licking away at your release as you climax, prolonging it as much as he can. He lifts your lower body into the air as he continues his onslaught of your pussy with his mouth and tongue, the pressure of your thighs on either side of his head making him dizzy. Your essence coats his chin and nose, your scent driving all his senses wild and pulls the remainder of his blood down to his cock.

He gains a free hand as you tighten your legs around his shoulders. He unbuckles his belt and slips it off with practiced ease before moving to unzip and unbutton his pants, tugging away at them.

When your hips stop shaking is when Sylus grabs your thighs with both hands and sets your body back down on the mattress. He hovers over you once again, taking in your disheveled appearance and partially-lidded eyes. His long fingers brush your skin and cradle your jaw.

“Still with me, sweetheart?” he asks.

You pant and gaze up at him. “Barely.” You swallow. “That tongue of yours is brutal.”

Sylus laughs. It’s almost enough to make him forget about the painful fact that his cock is straining against his pants. Until your knee brushes against it when you lift yourself from the bed and he groans.

You giggle as his head presses against your shoulder.

“You really shouldn’t neglect yourself like that,” you hum, wrapping an arm around his shoulder.

Sylus’s lips meet your neck opposite of your arm wrapped around him and presses a long kiss to your sweaty skin, murmuring hotly into your ear, “There’s no one to blame but you, beloved. And I highly suggest you take responsibility.”

You moan and arch into him as his hands work on your dress, unzipping the back entirely and lowering it just below your breasts. You arch your back so he can undo the bra, and as soon as it’s on the floor, his mouth is on your chest. Sylus sucks and bites at your nipples, worshipping them and your breasts as he grinds his clothed erection into your bare pussy, soaking his dress pants in your juices.

You begin unbutton his shirt through the haze of your desire… before you slip your hands through the remaining buttons and fully rip his dress shirt apart, exposing his thick torso. You both chuckle at the sound of the buttons hitting the floor.

“Impatient?”

“Like you aren’t,” you remark.

Sylus shrugs off his shirt in a fluid motion and tosses it to the side from one arm. You manage to slide off your dress within a few moments, just as Sylus manages to get off his pants and briefs and… Oh…

You’d almost forgotten how big he is. Sure, the two of you have spent a couple more… sensual evenings together since you had him use your place as a safe house (and then him bringing you to his), but it always makes you shudder when your eyes land between the apex of his muscular thighs.

His tip weeps with precum, heavy cock red and flushed and—

Sylus’s breath is hot against your ear as he asks, “Like what you see, darling?”

—goddamn it you need it inside of you.

Your nails dig into his bicep, your other hand wrapping around his neck to pull him into a heated kiss, and Sylus is more than happy to oblige. His kiss is deep and reverent. A small moan escapes him as you two briefly pull apart for air before diving back into one another.

Everything is hot; your cheeks are flushed with the heat of desire and your pussy aches to have Sylus buried inside of you.

You pull him down on top of you with the arm around his neck, your other hand grasping his cock and positioning it at your entrance. Sylus hisses, hips bucking slightly as his fingers clench at his attempts at restraint.

“Fuck,” he pants. His red eyes clear for a moment, turning into a gentleness reserved for you as he asks, “You think you can take it?”

“I think you ate me out enough earlier I’ll manage,” you joke. Then your nails dig into the meat of his back, the sensation making him softly hiss again. “But if you don’t I’ll be doing it for you then.”

Sylus chuckles, nose dipping to your collarbone.

“My beloved is always so greedy, isn’t she?”

There is no retort from you—only a loud moan as Sylus’s tip enters you fills the room. He stops after that though, and as you look up to him to ask him why he stopped, you’re stunned at the sight before you.

Sylus is flushed red, panting and sweating as his muscles flex.

“Sylus?”

“Don’t,” he warns, shaking his head. “Give me… a moment. You feel… too good.”

The implication is clear. Sylus’s head falls as he inches himself a little further, delighting in hearing you gasp as he sinks more and more inches of himself inside of you. It takes all he has not to just cum at the feel of you; every ounce of self-control he has is being tested. He’s never been harder in his life, and being inside of the woman he loves—who feels like heaven wrapped around his cock—only proceeds to spiral him into a deeper pit of pleasure.

“Sylus… Sylus, more, please,” you hears you beg.

He’s halfway in, trying to take his time and let the romance of the evening last. But at that, and the sensation of your nails digging into his back, he finds himself a goner and lets his hips fall into yours, sinking the remainder of his fat cock into the depths of your wet pussy. A deep shudder passes through him, bliss running through his body.

“Fuck. Fuck, you feel divine,” Sylus says in a deep exhale.

“You’re so big,” you gasp, eyes clouded with the haze of lust. “Oh, Sy, you feel so good.”

The praise goes to his head immediately. He drags his cock back out slowly and a whine escapes you, hating the emptiness. But when Sylus places your legs over his shoulders and leans over you, it’s over for you both.

Your eyes roll into the back of your head as Sylus rolls his hips, sliding his full length back into the warm expanse of your pussy. His head falls back, and the pace he sets proceeds to bury you both alive underneath overwhelming ecstasy.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he pants, clenching his fist into the sheet. “How I feel every time I look at you? Utter perfection is all I see. Do you feel what you do to me, darling?”

All you can feel is Sylus’s weight on top of you and the feel of his heavy cock inside of you as he stretches you open on him, carving your pussy into the shape of his cock. His pelvis rubs against your clit deliciously, spurring you on further. As much as you want to drive your hips up to meet his thrusts, Sylus has you pinned down into a mating press and all you can do is take what he’s giving you.

The papping noises of your bodies meeting filled the room, sending your thoughts into an even dirtier place. He feels so good reaching so deep inside of you, tip rubbing against that special spot perfectly, like you’re made to be perfect for each other. You clench around Sylus at another thought and he inhales sharply.

“What’re you thinking about?” he questions.

You shake your head. “N-Nothing.”

His long fingers grab your jaw gently. “Tell me.”

And then he slows his pace. “No, Sylus—”

“Then tell me what my beloved is thinking in that pretty head of hers,” he murmurs into your ear. “Or else.”

“I was thinking… about… Uhm…” Sylus rolls his hips back into you, his heavy balls pressing against your ass as he awaits your answer.

“Well?”

“I, uh— A baby.”

At the word, you shy away into your arm. But Sylus doesn’t say anything, which makes you confused. After a couple seconds, you gaze back up at him. His eyes show how stunned he is, pupils blown as no doubt the word also revolves around his own mind.

“Sylus, I— Oh, fuucckk.”

His body weight presses your body into the mattress further, leaving you at his mercy as Sylus’s pace becomes brutal, like he’s let his base instincts take over. His big hand finds yours and twines your fingers together as he drives his cock into your pussy over and over and over again, the squelching noises only growing louder and louder in your ears.

“My kitten… wants a baby then?” He hums into your ear. “She wants me to cum inside of her and carry my baby, is that right?”

“It was… just a thought.”

He laughs as your pussy clenches around him more at his words.

“Seems like it’s more than just a thought.”

Sylus’s mouth meets yours in another kiss, powered by something more than just lust. Your brain turns fuzzy and hot, reality beginning to finally blur as another climax ascends from the depths of your core.

Your eyes shut as his mouth finds the sweet spot on your neck. He sucks and nips at the skin with his teeth and you’ve no doubt that there’ll be plenty of love bites scattered across your skin for days after tonight.

When he nips at your ear, you squeak and clench around him again. Sylus groans into your ear, “Do that again.”

You oblige, clenching down on him and making him piston himself in and out of you faster. Every thrust turns into one that pushes the air from your lungs. All you can see, all you can feel is Sylus—feel his body heat as he presses your body down with his; feel the thickness of his cock stretch you open and the weight of his balls as they slap against your ass.

And it feels so good. The shlick and pap noises are getting to you. The coil that’s been winding up all night finally feels like it’s about to burst. Your back arches off the bed, breasts pressing into Sylus’s firm chest.

“Ohmygod, Sy, gonna cum, gonna cum fuckfuckfuuucckkk!”

He nips at your earlobe, biting down on it gently before whispering into your ear, “Indulge, my love. Indulge and I’ll fulfill every single one of your desires tonight.”

At long last, the coil snaps. Euphoria pilots itself to your brain and all across your body. You shake from the intensity, having to wrap your arms around Sylus to ground yourself as you reach your high.

Your orgasm sends him over the edge. He thrusts a few more times before he finds himself pressing himself as deep as he can possibly go and releasing his seed inside of your pussy. It’s almost too much, even for him. He doesn’t think he’s ever cum harder than tonight.

Your bodies rock together as you both fall from the heights of cloud nine. Sylus peppers your sweaty skin with kisses, across the bruised love bites he’d left earlier.

It’s only when he feels himself soft enough to slip out of you does he ask, “A family?”

Sylus’s voice is soft. So soft in fact that you barely hear him. You take a moment to reply, only to find yourself being easily lifted from the bed and onto Sylus’s chest.

“It’s… Something that’s crossed my mind a few times,” you admit bashfully.

Silence fills the air for a moment before he asks again, in the same, quiet tone he’d just used.

“With me?”

Your smile stretches across your face instantly. Your lips meet his chest, right over his heart. Your eyes meet his—uncertainty meeting unconditional love.

“And no one else.”

The next three days after are filled with you and Sylus partaking in all the activities that his yacht has to offer (plus more intimate times across the boat and it’s other rooms). He’d told you at one point that he would’ve just used the one he sails on regularly. But due to him wanting to spend more time with you than anything, and for you to have fun during the trip, he’d bought another and hired the captain to ensure safe passage.

Tonight however, was the night that you both were supposed to be arriving at your destination. You tried to help the anxiety and giddiness inside of you, trying to flatten it under a cool demeanor but Sylus just saw right through you.

Of course he would.

“There’s no reason to be nervous. It’s not like I’m taking you into enemy territory,” he jokes, gaze flicking to you from the stars in the open sky.

“I know that. I just can’t help it,” you mutter.

You shiver from the cold breeze, and Sylus shrugs off his leather jacket and places it over your shoulders. He leans down and zips it partway, resting his chin atop your head.

“Those hunter instincts of yours need to settle down,” he hums.

“I wish they would— Sylus!”

A hearty chuckle leaves him as you bounce away from his hold. Your eyes narrow at his treachery.

“What? Did I do something wrong?”

“Don’t you try and tickle me,” you warn playfully. You slip your arms through the sleeves of his leather jacket, trying to pull the sleeves back from over your palms to point at him. “Or I’m gonna tickle you back.”

Sylus smirks and rubs his fingers together. “Is that a challenge?”

“Mr. Sylus, Mrs. Sylus,” greets a familiar voice.

Embarrassment makes you duck your head away from the captain for a brief moment before you look at him.

“Just thought I’d come and let you know we’ll be docking soon.” The captain takes his hat off and bows before you both. “Thank you for allowing me the chance to sail you both for the last three days.”

Sylus nods his head in acknowledgment “Thank you for giving us safe passage, Arthur.”

Arthur nods, reapplies his cap and heads back to steer the ship into the upcoming port.

You don’t get to watch as he disappears since Sylus wraps his arms around you, pulling your chin to his chest. He presses a sweet kiss to your temple and murmurs, “I do believe we’re here.”

The distraction of the captain was long enough that the scenery before you had changed into the moonlit sea into a large landmass illuminated by the full moon above.

Your jaw drops open at the sight, eyes lighting up as you get closer and closer to the port where the ship would dock.

“Sylus, where are we?” you ask quietly.

“It’s an island,” he states. “One that I bought awhile back and was making… renovations for.”

“Renovations? For what?”

He laughs softly and looks at you like you’re a goddess. “For whom, you mean.”

Your eyes widen into saucers. Is he…? Could he seriously mean…?

“Sylus, you bought me an island?” you inquire, utterly flabbergasted.

“I can’t exactly un-buy it, so I do hope you’ll like it,” he replies. To your ears and yours alone you can hear his wavering tone, like he’s awaiting your disappointment. You can’t have that.

You cup his cheeks and force him to look at you again.

“Sylus, I love it; even if it’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever been gifted, I love it. It’s just going to take me time to get used to it,” you tell him. Then you step on your tippy-toes and give him an eskimo kiss. “Thank you. I love you.”

You kiss him there at the front of the ship, wrapped in his warm, protective embrace, momentarily oblivious to the world and your surroundings.

What you’re also oblivious to, and have been since the start of the trip, is the fat diamond ring that’s been tucked away, hidden in Sylus’s bottom drawer to his dresser. And also to the fact of his other reason of being nervous.

To him hoping that you’ll say “yes” when he gets down on one knee to ask you to marry him.

But he’ll save that for later. Right now he intends to indulge and savor your lips on his and you being tucked into him, safe from the world to be loved and worshipped by him.

And hopefully, for the rest of this lifetime.

[sooniebby]

an idea; a (bottom) male reader who’s apart of an indie jpop boy group. The members are just you, a childhood friend, and three other people you met through college/random events. Your group was lucky one of the members comes from a rich family that doesn’t mind spending some money to help you guys out—waiting until a company finds interest and asks to manage you.

The first month or so is rough so you all find part time jobs in the mean time. But regular jobs just don’t interest you so it takes you awhile to even apply for any… mostly getting fired after the first week or so because you end up showing late all the time.

You’re left wondering what to do when you come across a website of camboys and camgirls. Some of them show full nudity while others stay dressed for the most part.

It intrigues you enough but you don’t do it without running it through your members. They’re mostly shocked you even want to do that… but other than that, they just tell you to not speak and wear a mask.

Easy peasy. You chose a simple and almost silly name, “Shy Usagi” since your mask resembled a rabbit.

The first stream is awkward, you had to figure out a way to talk. Surprisingly, a few of the people that dropped in were intrigued by your refusal to talk. You had expected them to immediately want you naked but it seemed you attracted people that liked the teasing aspect of camboys.

Though you were 99% sure it was only men watching you. The first few weeks, you only wore skimpy clothing and did anything they requested. The most sexual thing you did was suck a dildo.

Occasionally you’d masturbate on live and that would always garner more attention. But there was always one person who would tip you no matter the stream.

“Hitachikoi”

You were sure he was probably an old man but you didn’t care, money was money. He knew how to flirt so you never felt weirded out with his attention.

Things were going reasonably well until after your group’s performance at a little festival. You had spilt away for a second to look around when you bumped into someone. He had his face covered with a mask and baseball cap.

You were going to apologize and go about your way when you caught that he was holding a poster of your group. He didn’t say anything as he simply held up a marker.

It took a second before you finally realized what he wanted. “Oh! Sure.” You were a bit excited, having never really signed anything before. Your signature was a bit messy but still legible.

“Here you go, thanks for coming to see us!”

“I only came to see you.”

“Hm?” You leaned in closer, wondering if you had heard him right. Only you?

The man let out a laugh as he reached up and pulled down his mask, leaning down so you could get a clear look at his face. “Mhm. Only you… (Name)… or ah,”

His hand reached up and cupped your face, his thumb pressing on your bottom lip. It was only when he pulled off his cap that you got a good look at his face.

He… he wasn’t some random guy. He was a famous actor… a famous actor knew about you?

“Shy Usagi? It’s nice to see your entire face… that mask never hid your lips.”

You could stare as he pushed his thumb into your mouth. The only thing you were thinking of was if he was about to ruin your career before it even took off? But why would he care? Why was he even—

“Don’t worry your pretty little head. Someone like you isn’t made to think so hard,” he said, a slight frown on his lips. “I just, well I got tired of watching behind a screen. I wanted to touch you…”

His other hand moved to rest on your hip, pulling you closer as he pressed his lips against your ear.

“To be inside of you instead of that dildo… I mean, I’m paying you so much money, it’s only fair I get to have you, right? Mhm? I can have you, yea? I’ve thought of fucking your mouth for days now.”

“(Name)! Where are you?”

He pulled away, rolling his eyes. You only watched as he slipped back on his mask and cap, pulling your shirt back down. “You’ll stream tonight.” He said, as if he was giving you an order, not asking.

“I’ll see you tonight, baby. Wear something red tonight… that’s my favorite color.”

With that he left you standing there, mouth agape just as one of your members walked over to you.

You… were so fucking screwed.

In more ways than one.

Tag list: @the-ultimate-librarian @secretivemessenger @chill-guy-but-cooler @star-3214 @tehyunnie @remdayz @cherry-blossoms-187 @tomoeroi @mello-life25 @kiiyoooo @ofclyde @smellwell @iwishtobeacrow @euthymiko @rhetorical-conscience @mooncarvers-world @love-kha1 @anchoredphoenix @yuzuukix @bensontrechic

I already made a face claim lol.



[miniaturesuitgladiator]

Yandere platonic Batfam x

Child Girl scout reader!

Notes: reader is a child in this.

Warnings ⚠️: mentions of kidnap and reader is low class. Not proofread. Please do not judge my girl scout logic I am not a girl scout and have never been one!

🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀

The manor was as dull as ever lately. The big fancy walls of the place only felt colder as time went on.

Dick had broken up with Kori for the umpteenth time that month and was living at the manor ,or more like mopping at the manor..

On rare occasions Cass would stop by. And if they were very lucky jason would stop by and say hi every now and then.

Bruce was as cold as ever not being able to catch the joker and being behind in alot of meetings.

Duke was frustrated with his over all high-school experiences.

And Cass was pretty sure she was going through a mid life crisis despite her still being young.

Pretty soon Tim would graduate high-school and Bruce new he'd be off to living his own life.

Now damian was still pretty young but he didn't really count for a kid. Atleast not in Bruce's eyes. Damian lacked that child imagination. That childish spark. And bruce will admit he is partially to blame....

But on a particular lucky day they had met you!

Or more like Alfred had met you first. And that began the overly possessive vigilanty family to fall absolutely in love with your cute self!

You were about seven never having been blessed with a high class life but your mama sure did try and give you her best!

You oh! so desperately wanted to be a girl scout!

And who was mother to break your heart and tell you she didn't have the money?

So she worked extra shifts at the hospital. Her being a nurse meant that most of her time she was at the hospital working.

But that never stopped her from dropping you off in some of the richest and hopefully safest neighborhoods in gotham so you could sell your cookies for the girl scouts.

She hated leaving you alone but she just couldn't resist your cute puppy dog eyes as you promised you'd be safe....and she really didn't have time to argue or should she'd be late to work, agian!

So with a kiss on the cheek from you and a smile she left. Leaving you on the richest street in gotham.

Sure being low class in gotham was hard but you never saw it that way. You always tried to be kind.

Because in your mother's words, 'in a world where you can be anything, be kind.'

So kind you were. Even to the stuck up little girl scouts who didn't like you because you were poor.

But you didn't pay them any mind! You loved being a girl scout! The other girls were probably just jealous you sold more cookies then them!

Atleast that's what your mama told you.

You smile and skip your way down the street pulling your wagon full of boxes of cookies behind you.

Walking up to each house with a smile on your face most bought some because how could they deny such a cute thing with chubby cheeks?

Sure they'd probably never eat the cookies from a low class kid but they couldn't find it in their cold, spoiled, hearts to say no to you! (They saw it as charity.)

Finally with your last boxes of cookies you pull your wagon with you as you walk up the long drive way and surprisingly the gate was open!

Stepping up to the big door you knock exactly three times.

Alfred being as confused as ever stops cleaning and checks the cameras only to not spot anyone on the footage.

Hesitatently he begins cleaning playing it off as his ears playing tricks on him. But he hears the knock agian. So he doesn't even bother with the camera.

Opening the front door his harsh gaze immediately softens at the sight of you!

Ofc the cameras wouldn't see you! You were to small to be seen on the ring camera!

Your just so cute with your little sash and badges! And your smiles so bright something that the old butler hasn't seen in a while...a genuine smile.

You have that child like wonder that's still in your eyes and by your little dirty shoes the butler knows you traveled a long way to get here.

"Hello sir. I'm here to offer you some of the best cookies in gotham. Girl scout cookies!" You say with one of the biggest smiles and happiest eyes!

"It's five dollars for a box or two boxes for nine! I only have chocolate chip and blueberry left." You say giving your speech like you've done a million other of times.

But this time it would change your life completely.....

To your complete surprise he hands you a hundred dollar bill and you hesitatently take it giving him your last two boxes.

"I don't have change sir....." You say trying to give him back the money to which he just shakes his head.

"Keep it...as a tip." He says his voice holding no pity like the others.

"Really?" You say your eyes shinning with excitement.

And by seeing your happiness Alfred knows you deserve it. So he nods and you take the old spy by surprise by hugging him.

"Thank you so much!" You say as you pull away jumping on the balls of your feet.

"I'll be back every Saturday to give you a box of cookies until I repay you!" You say skipping off with your wagon in tow.

Alfred looks at you with puzzled look did you not know what recieving a tip meant?

Well he wasn't going to stop you from coming back. Especially as you shoot him your absolutely adorable smile as you walk down the driveway and wave goodbye shouting a cute and kind.

"Have a blessed day!" As you leave.

Have a blessed day....Alfred definitely hasn't heard that in a long time..especially in gotham.

You were definitely diffrent...

But you had kept your word coming back every Saturday at 1pm sharp never missing a Saturday!

And each time Alfred would give you a hundred dollar bill saying it was your tip. And you'd give him a hug and tell him you'll be back every Saturday until you repay him!

Alfred doesn't exactly know what about you made him become so attached to you. Maybe it was your hugs? Or your sweet smile?

Either way he didn't mind because he'd wait by the door at 1pm sharp every Saturday waiting to see you walk down the driveway with your little red wagon and big toothy smile.

Eventually he did learn your name and how old you were and you learned quite a bit about him too.

Until one day the he had gotten so caught up in cleaning the manor he didn't even realize that he was about to miss his favorite part of the week!

There was a knock on the door exactly three times just like there always was on Saturday at 1pm for the past few months.

But this time it wasn't the sweet butler you had come accustomed too. No, now it was a big fancy looking man with blue eyes.

"Hello?" He says his voice much softer then it would look like he'd sound like.

Your puzzled eyes search his looking for your dear friend.

"Hi?" You say as tilt your head still searching for your favorite costumer.

Bruce's eyes take you in... your far to young to be out here alone. Where are your parents? He wants to ask but more importantly who are you looking for?

"I usually come by here at this time....do you know where Mr. pennyworth is?" You say your eyes still searching around for the older man.

Bruce looks at you confused how did you know Alfred? Bruce eyes scan you seeing if your a threat but by the way you nervous fiddle around with it your sash as he continues to look at you he deems that your just a harmless child.

"He's inside...do you want to come see him?" He says his voice now much softer and his eyes aren't as cold as they once were. But you take a step back.

You might have been a kid but you aren't that stupid.

"My mama says I can't go in strangers houses.." You say as you look at him clearly looking for a place to hide.

Bruce nods as he sees your nervous deamor.

"Well I suppose I could bring him out to you." Bruce says and your eyes light up with excitement at the thought of seeing your dear friend agian.

And oh.... how bruce envies the old butler by how just the mention of him makes you smile.

Why was Alfred so important to you?

Bruce goes back in but Alfred is already on his way to the door finally remembering his favorite part of the week.

Bruce watches the interaction closely as you smile when Alfred gives you the money. And how sweetly you hug Alfred.

Bruce had initially thought you only came for the good money Alfred was giving you but the way you smiled was kind...and very adorable.

The whole interaction was definitely wholesome and bruce couldn't help but want to be apart of it...he so desperately wished someone would hug him as happily you hug Alfred...

Bruce being the jealous man he is started to be the one opening the door every Saturday at 1pm enjoying your happy smiles and childish jokes you would tell him as you waited for Alfred to come to the door.

And just like Alfred Bruce always made sure he'd never be busy on Saturday at 1pm because rain or sunshine you'd be at their door.

Eventually it was raining very hard and your mother not checking the weather app before you left had left you alone in the rain with no way to contact your mother.

You do your usual houses ending up at the manor at 1pm and despite the hash rain you still had that cute toothy smile on your face that they loved seeing.

"Hi Mr, Wayne!" You happily say...always so happy.

Bruce smiles you always call him Mr. Wayne even when he tells you not to. You must have very good manners or are just very forget he thinks to himself.

"Hello sweetheart." He says. He's called you sweetheart since the second time he had met you.

Now bruce wasn't that into nicknames but for you the nickname really matched. You were just too sweet.

After you do your usual talking with Alfred and bruce you turn to walk back in the rain.

"You can't possibly walk back in that rain, sweetheart." Bruce says his voice edged with worry and concern.

But you dismiss his concern with a shrug and a smile.

"I've walked in worse.. plus my mama is gonna pick me up soon!" You say happily giving them their two boxes of cookies and walking a way.

But they don't smile back this time when you yell. "Have a blessed day!" Like you always do.

No, their eyes circle around everything about you. About the rain. How harshly it's hitting your skin. How wet your hair is getting. How heavy your little red wagon must be for you as it continues filling up with water.

They watch as you slowly disappear down the long driveway their hearts still longing to help.

But altimately they decide that they can't do anything. Your not their kid. They can't offer you a ride because they know you'd never accept.

They don't even know the name of your mother let alone her number. How were they supposed to verify if your mother was really going to pick you up?

Or were you just going to walk home in the rain?

You'd surely get sick... and after after about five more minutes the two men come to the conclusion that.....fuck the rules you were definitely not going to be walking alone in the rain.

So with Alfred handing bruce the keys bruce quickly took off in his black Mercedes.

You continue walking down the street trying not to feel scared as the lightning strikes agian. And when a black and very nice car pulls up beside you you walk faster.

You knew how much your mother worried...the last thing she needed was for you to get kidnapped!

But the car kept up with your pace and the window rolled down and as much as you tried not to you couldn't help but turn your head to see who was driving the car.

You immediately stop walking as you see the driver.

"Hi Mr. Wayne!" You say smiling and bruce can't even register a real smile as he takes in how your soaking wet from head to toe. And he just knows that those old shoes are probably hurting your feet.

"Hey sweetheart......how about I give you a ride?" He says his voice pleading as he pulls the car to a complete stop.

You look at him and tilt your head and bruce has to stop himself from just getting out the car and picking you up and putting you in himself.

Your adorable confused motions give away your response. So bruce speaks up agian.

"Just one ride to your house." He says still pleading but in his mind you don't really have a choice you are going to let him give you a ride.

"You won't kidnap me right?" You question and instead of bruce feeling offend or angry at that he smiles and shakes his head. You were trying to be safe. But that wasn't exactly a good question to ask.

Atleast not to the richest man in gotham who didn't have to necessarily kidnap you to keep you.

Reaching over and open the passengers seat for you Bruce shows you a award winning smile; a smile that not even the paparazzi has caught him with in years.

"Of course not sweetheart....come on get in."

And plus it's not considered kidnapping when you legally adopt someone right?

Thanks for reading!

Likes Comments and reblogs are appreciated!

[sonrium]

After seeing the boy shoot what look like star bolts and green beams from his eyes, Starfire is convinced he is a lost Tameranian.

Thankfully, he doesn't seem to be hostile once he finishes with a strange piece of technology that sucked in a glowing creature while speaking a language Starfire had never heard before. Starfire flies over to him, excited at the prospect of meeting another from her planet, but as she approaches, he backs off, eyeing her wearily in the air. She tries speaking in her native tongue, but his weariness transforms into confusion.

She understands the problem immediately. He must be from one of the distant regions of Tameran. "Kiss. Kiss. For language, you must kiss." Starfire points at her lips, tapping them.

There was no comprehension on his face, but he moved closer, clearly curious at what she was trying to say. He must have been from the truly isolated tribes to not know such a basic skill.

Deciding a demonstration would work best, she takes his hand and leads him back to the top of Titans where the rest of the Titans are waiting.

Hearing Starfire speaking in Tamerainian, they keep silent and wait. This is when Starfire pulls Robin forward, kisses him the way she had when she first arrived on earth to learn his language. She points for the floating boy to do the same.

The boy is taken aback even backing up a little in shock, but Starfire repeats everything while gesturing more emphatically with each repetition.

Until the boy approaches Robin and Starfire, clearly absolutely lost and bewildered with the situation, but willing to go along with it. Before anybody can react, he grabs Robin by his shirt and kisses him. Everyone is momentarily stunned by the action.

Pulling back, he asks in perfect English, "So... why did I need to do that?"

"Why is it always him?" Beastboy crosses his arms, "Why can’t I be the one to get a little smooch action from a cute alien? Save some for the rest of us Boy Wonder." He grumbled.

Robin, cleared his throat, "It was for you to learn English so we could communicate."

"Huh? Why didn't you just ask? My English is fine despite what my grades say. I just didn't have a clue what she was saying.” The mysterious boy pointed at Starfire. “I still don’t get what the ‘kissing’ was about."

Raven facepalms without a word. Honestly, she should have expected that.

"You are a Tameranian, are you not?"

"What's a Tameranian?"

Huge shit-eating grins spread across Beastboy's and Cyborg's faces. They look at each other and not in sync. Arm in arm they start singing. "Boy Wonder and Wonder Boy, sittin' in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G~"

Starfire clasps both of her hands over her mouth with a gasp. "I give you many sorrows, dear Robin. I believed him a Tameranian and intended to be the participant of the language transfer."

"No. It's okay." Robin tries to salvage what was left of his dignity, but it was somewhat undermined the red spreading on his cheaks and the laughter behind him. Turning to the newly dubbed Wonder Boy, he inclined his head. "I'm sorry for the confusion. We should have checked before subjecting you to such embarrassment."

A wide grin spreads across Wonder Boy's face, "I wouldn't call that kiss an embarrassment, but it definitely needs work. Try using more tongue next time."

Cyborg and Beastboy collapse to the floor in howls of laughter. They were going to be great friends.

The Wonder Boy, who they learned was named Danny, turned out to be a pretty cool dude. He had a truly insane number of powers, but he never joined in their battles. He mostly came by to hang out occasionally.

But his impact was always felt even when he wasn't around. Every time any of the titans spotted something flying, be it hero, villain, meta, alien, flock of birds, chunk of miscellaneous debris, one of them had to ask Robin if he planned on kissing this one, too.

Raven was the only one to pare him from this torture. That was until two months after the incident. They all lay in the debris field of one of their most difficult battles yet. It had been an incomprehensible mass of tendrils and colors their brains couldn’t understand from beyond reality that drifted across the city. They were all too exhausted to do much more than breathe and stare up at the reddening sky as the sun set.

The silence was eventually broken by Raven, "You should have used tongue this time."

Robin buried his face in hands letting out a sobbing groan. 'They have to get tired of this eventually.' He told himself. It was his only comfort and salvation.

They never did.

(the above is based on mine and a few other people's comments on the original post. I just fleshed it out a little :)

Starfire can learn any language via kissing someone. This is great news as the glowing specter teenager in the Titans Tower is speaking in a language no one can understands (ghost speak). Bad news: The team does their best to explain to the ghost this so they can communicate with him easier and Danny is VERY confused.

[whos-the-seme]

okay but I kinda need read a fic where Shen Yuan is wife plotted (AGAIN) by some random papapa plant (dammit Airplane--) and he basically falls into a floating coma or something. on a hunt for some rare herbs with liu qingge, he's lured by the sound of his Binghe's (his lost little lamb) voice and ends up ensnared.

okay, imagine that he's being held high in the air by these vines, just asleep, and nothing can wake him, even after liu qingge cuts the monster plant down to get him. he's just sleeping, rosy-cheeked, unwakeable.

peak lords panic, and start trying to figure it out what this rare plant is. sqh wracks his brain somewhat and somewhat remembers this plot line.

they come to the conclusion that its the everlasting dreams flower or some shit. basically traps the victim in their dreams while it sucks out their qi until the person dies of dehydration/starvation or qi loss, whichever kills them first (sometimes, its not the latter, and if the person is a cultivator, they can last a while before their qi is fully drained enough that they can no longer practice inedia but also haven't died yet). meanwhile, the person won't even care because their dreams are so sweet, that they don't want to leave.

the only way to cure it? true love's song. someone who truly knows and loves the sleeper needs to sing something from the heart, and if it's pure enough or something, it can pierce through the pleasant dreams of the person and wake them up. yqy and lqg instantly become flustered, but both of them can't help but secretly wonder how it would feel to have Xiao jiu/shen-shixiong wake up at their song.

they confer with the rest of the peak lords a little outside of shen yuan's resting rooms on the Qian Cao peak, and yqy decides to sing a little lullaby he used to sing to Xiao jiu when they were still on the streets. he goes in, his voice is a steady but a bit nervous, but he croons that shit out. airplane can't believe his fucking ears. yqy could honestly be an idol its not fair wtf-- only, sqh knows he can't dance to save his fucking life, so.

when yqy finishes, he waits, but his heart sinks when Xiao jiu doesn't so much as stir. he hurries out of the room but sqh notices how the tips of his ears are red in embarrassment. of course, even when he still had his memory, Xiao jiu wanted nothing to do with him, why did he think it would change now, he just--

lqj goes in next. he murmurs a song that he constantly hears sqq sometimes strumming on his guqin, thinking that means sqq must love the song. he's not sure what else he can do, he doesn't know how to sing from the heart, but the feelings he has for his shixiong... he has to at least try to wake him.

he doesn't wake. lqj walks out in defeat.

airplane who has been wracking his brain all this time because he was trying to think of requirements for awakening so he wasn't paying attention suddenly jumps up. he doesn't mind the startled glances that the other peak lords give him.

he just remembered!

the song didn't have to be a romantic song or anything. the love for the sleeper didn't have to be romantic love, at all! he remembered this plot line that he added about binghe trying to wake one of his wives, but it was one of the wives' sisters that woke her, because she truly loved her sister deeply. causing binghe to realize that his love was becoming shallow, in that it wasn't enough anymore or blah blah blah. he scrapped that plot line and that plant after he got a ton of bad reviews for even suggestion that lbh's love (pillar) wasn't big enough and so he had lbh fix it with papapa, but whatever!

he shivered.

anyway, the story has been so warped over time that its only told that it has to be a romantic lover. but it didn't have to be.

he had an idea. he loved Shen Yuan! despite the rocky start, their shared transmigration and experiences led them to form a closer relationship, and Shen Yuan was his best friend. he knew him wholly, both in his bitchiness of Cucumber-bro of their old lives, and in the snarky-masquerading-as-pretentious SQQ he was in their new lives. He knew him as a whole of Shen Yuan, not as Xiao Jiu, or as the original goods.

and also, both he and Shen Yuan had discovered they both liked some similar songs during one of their weekly private meetings a few weeks ago, while Shen Yuan was there under the guise of planning their eventual escapes, but was actually just drinking up all his wine and ransacking his snacks.

he's got this! (he hopes.) (he would quite not like his bro to die from an unwakeable coma.)

confidently, with incredulous stares following him, he walks into the room and sits at shen yuan's bedside. and proceeded to sing, as smoothly as he could, a vocaloid love song. if nothing else, it might shock Shen Yuan awake to hear a random ass vocaloid song in his dreams. the lyrics are actually pretty sweet and soft, but he can't stop imagining the music behind it, making it funnier than it should be to sing it.

[Shen Yuan, whose dreamscape has become completely synchronized to his current living conditions and so he dreams of the serene bamboo hut: *sitting at his table with binghe pouring him more tea* *sudden hatsune fucking miku disturbing the atmosphere*

Shen Yuan: 👁️👄👁️]

while he tries not to giggle as the song comes to an end, the stares of the other peak lords boring into his back from the doorway (he can just hear them thinking, "yqy and lqg couldn't wake him up but you think you can?" but maybe that's just his imagination. or maybe they think the song is shitty, what does he know--), shen yuan's eyes flutter open.

airplane, who didn't think this would actually actually work (though he hoped), gapes at him. Shen Yuan, eyes half lidded from sleep, gazes back.

"uh..."

"The everlasting dreams flower, really? That was a really good plot line, can't believe you, ah," Shen Yuan yawns, "dropped it in favor of more papapa as always, you shitty author." He can't catch a break. Why did he wake this guy up again?

"he's awake!?" multiple voices cry out.

THUMP. yqy has fainted.

they both have forgotten their audience. liu qingge has goes outside to punch a tree. the other peak lords are in various states of disarray, disbelief, and discomfort. liu minyan has appeared out of nowhere to take notes. mu qingfāng rolls his eyes and comes in to check shen-shenanigans's meridians.

"Can't believed that shit worked, honestly," Shen Yuan says, eyeing one of the older disciples try to drag YQY to a cot. he is starting to rouse. "hatsune miku, really?"

"aw! well now you know how deeply and purely I love you, shixiong!"

THUMP. YQY has fainted again.

more sounds of breaking trees from outside. mu qingfāng warily calls out a warning to avoid his good medicinal trees, thanks.

after a while of conversation, with eyes closing a bit once more, from exhaustion, rather than the plant poison, Shen Yuan gives Shang Qinghua a small smile. As his eyes flutter shut again, he says, "I love you too, bro."

[sidekick-hero]

“You think I should bring some roses to the date?”

Steve looks beautiful in his moss-green button-up, and Eddie wants to scream into a pillow. Not just because he can correctly name the color of Steve’s clothes now, but because the man he’s been crushing on for months is about to go on a date with someone who isn’t him.

And of course, it has to be today. Valentine’s Day.

Steve’s first date since Nancy, his long-time girlfriend, broke up with him. Eddie had wanted to wait before asking him out himself—afraid it was too soon, that Steve was still hurting. That he’d be the rebound at best.

And now, Steve was going out with Spencer. On Valentine’s Day.

God, he hates everything about it. But he loves Steve, more than he’s in love with him. So—

“He’s not going to know what hit him when he sees you, Stevie. You don’t need flowers when he won’t be able to look at anything but you.”

The brilliant, sunshine smile Eddie gets in return is worth the aching in his heart.

“Thanks, Eds. I’d better get going, don’t wanna be late. I’ll see you tomorrow—if everything goes like I planned.” Steve winks, all confidence and charm, and Eddie swallows around the lump in his throat. He’s glad to see Steve like this again. He just wishes it was for him, not some random guy who doesn’t even know that Steve always leaves a tiny sip in all his cups and glasses.

He forces himself to wish Steve fun and good luck. As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, he calls Robin.

“Uggghhhhh,” he groans into the phone as soon as she picks up.

Robin, the traitor, laughs. “Get a grip, Bambi. I already told you—man up and tell Steve how you feel. Stop whining at me.”

“You’re mean.”

“And you’re pathetic. Seriously, why can’t you just tell him? You’ve been head-over-heels for him since the day I met you.”

Eddie groans again, rubbing a hand over his face. “Because I love him, Robs. I want him to be happy.”

Robin’s voice softens. “You make him happy, you idiot. You always have. I was really worried about him after Nancy, but you pulled him out of his slump. The first time he smiled again after the breakup? That was because of you.”

Eddie doesn’t reply, because honestly, what’s there to say to that?

Robin sighs. “Just think about it, Eddie. We both love him. We both want him to be happy. I believe you can make that happen. Do you?”

After they hang up, Eddie sits in silence, Robin’s words echoing in his head. We both love him. We both want him to be happy.

Was she right? Could he make Steve happy?

No. No, he can’t. Eddie’s never had a relationship that lasted more than a few weeks. And Steve deserves better. He deserves someone worthy of the wonderful man he is. Someone who loves him loudly, carries him on their hands. Someone who knows Steve hates his birthday because he was always alone on them as a kid. Someone who doesn’t just tolerate his weird habits but loves them, because they make him Steve.

Steve deserves someone who isn’t afraid of commitment. Someone successful and put-together. Not a guy who still lives with two roommates, slings drinks at a bar, and clings to the dream that his band might one day make it.

The beeping of his phone startles him out of his thoughts. He sighs, expecting Robin, but—

It’s Steve.

Spencer’s still not here. You think he stood me up?

Eddie’s entire body tenses. That stupid son of a bitch.

If he did, he’s even stupider than his name. He types while yanking open his closet, grabbing for the one good shirt he owns. You want me to come get you?

The three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.

Fine. That’s fine. It gives Eddie time to throw the shirt on, shove his feet into his boots, and grab his keys.

Finally, Steve’s reply pops up.

No, it’s fine. I’ll wait some more. You know how traffic can be.

Eddie clenches his jaw. He can practically hear Steve making excuses, trying to be understanding. Trying to believe in someone who doesn’t deserve it.

Screw this.

Eddie doesn’t think. He just moves.

Keys in hand, he’s already out the door.

Good thing he knows what fancy restaurant Steve wanted to take his date to. If it were him, he'd take Steve to their favorite Italian restaurant, the one with the handmade pasta and the handmade tiramisu.

Maybe they can still go there.

The second Eddie pushes through the restaurant doors, his eyes land on Steve immediately.

He’s sitting at a small table by the window, drumming his fingers against the stem of his untouched water glass, his lips pressed into a tight line. His date is nowhere to be seen.

Eddie strides over like he should be here—because, honestly? He does.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he greets, dropping into the chair across from Steve like this is their date. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic, you know how it is.”

Steve startles, blinking up at him. “What—Eddie? What are you—?”

“You weren’t answering your phone,” Eddie lies easily, tossing his keys onto the table. “Figured you were either kidnapped or too nice to walk out on that douchebag, so here I am. Your knight in shining leather.”

Steve huffs a laugh, shaking his head, but there’s something soft in his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you look way too good to be sitting here alone.” Eddie leans back, eyes sweeping over him, exaggerating his admiration. “I mean, damn, Stevie. If I’d known you’d clean up this nice, I would’ve asked you out ages ago.”

He means it as a joke. Mostly. But something shifts in Steve’s expression—his fingers tightening slightly around the glass, his smile faltering just a little.

“…You’re serious.”

Eddie swallows. Shrugs. “I mean… yeah?”

Steve exhales sharply, shaking his head again, but this time, he’s smiling. A real one. One that makes Eddie’s chest feel too tight.

“You’re unbelievable,” Steve mutters, reaching for his jacket. “Come on, if you’re crashing my Valentine’s Day, you’re at least buying me dinner. At our restaurant.”

Eddie grins, hopping to his feet. “Now we’re talking. Babe, you know I’m the cheapest date in town.”

Steve snorts, bumping their shoulders as they head for the door. And yeah, okay—maybe Robin was right.

Because Steve looks happy. And Eddie could get used to that.

[thatonegreyghost]

Jayce is a sap. But everybody knows that. It's not a shock to see Jayce getting flowers and chocolates during the week leading up to St. Valentine's feast day, but no one questions it much. Jayce is a handsome man, it makes sense that he'd be picking up some nice wine and scented candles and massage oil. The ladies giggle and gossip, wondering and whispering about who his "secret" lover could be. Everybody talks about how lucky that person must be, to be spoiled by the genius who changed Piltover.

No one expects Viktor to be a sap.

He's snippy and irritable, sarcastic and sharp, short-tempered and cold-hearted. So the first year Jayce is spotted buying chocolates, everyone is shocked to see Viktor in the corner of the shop, tucking a rather pricey box under his arm before he picks out a stunning bouquet. and again the next year. And the next. Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, three times a pattern. By the beginning of the fourth year, one of Ximena Talis' friends has enough courage to approach and ask Viktor who he was buying all that for. Viktor laughs in her face, and shuffles off to pay for the flowers he's acquired.

The next year, Viktor is nowhere to be seen, but Jayce is found buying an entire bag of rose petals and a horrendously overpriced bath bomb. This time, it's a jealous young lady asking invasive question about who that's meant for. "It's for my partner!" Jayce replies with a confused smile.

He refuses to elaborate further.

The sixth year, something strange happens. Plenty of talk has been going around already about the boys' strange habits, but when they're spotted at dinner together, at a rather well-known if lower class restaurant, on the day itself, ...well, the rumor mill doesn't spin itself. The story is halfway around the city by noon the next day. For both those young men to lose their partners, at the same time, on Valentine's day no less! It's nothing short of a tragedy.

Mel mentions it in passing, cooing softly about how disappointed Jayce must have felt.

"What are you talking about?" Jayce laughs. "I had dinner with my partner at a restaurant we both love, and then we got to cuddle and listen to a new record together. I had the best night!"

Mel puts two and two together and immediately dismisses the conclusion. It's none of her business anyway.

The next year, Jayce is found at a gala thrown at the Kiramann estate. Viktor is also there, glaring over the edge of a champagne glass any time Jayce is not by his side. As the night wears on, people lose track of Viktor, and then they lose track of Jayce.

It's Caitlyn who finds them on the balcony, tipsy and laughing at each other, Viktor holding a bouquet of stunning Noxian roses in his hand as he cups Jayce's cheek, kissing them slowly.

"What the fuck?" Caitlyn shrieks, because she isn't above swearing when her fucking older brother gets caught kissing his lab partner.

"Cait, some privacy?" Jayce huffs.

"Language." Viktor quips.

"You two are fucking making out!" Caitlyn shouts.

The whole of the gala has stopped to stare out the doors at the commotion. Whispers fly around the room, and the gossips tell their friends about what they can hear from their perfect spot next to the door.

"Cait, will you chill? We weren't doing anything gross, Vik's just not a huge fan of PDA." Jayce protests. "I would still rather be at home. Your mother had to host the stupid gala on Valentine's?" Viktor concurs. "Since when is this a thing?" Caitlyn yelps. "Since, like, 7 years ago? Cait, you were there."

"Honestly, Miss Kiramann. You would think you would know better." The gossips giggle amongst themselves, but more and more young ladies turn away with crestfallen faces. 7 years of romance is nothing to sneeze at, after all, and to think all this time, Jayce Talis has been giving his heart to someone- a man, no less! "You've been dating this whole time?" Caitlyn groans. "Why didn't you say anything?" "Well, um, actually..." "We're married." Viktor laughs. "And we did tell you. You just didn't listen." The gala goes dead silent. All whispers cease, and even the gossips go still. Did he just- there's no way he meant- he couldn't have possibly just said- "MARRIED?" Caitlyn screeches. "See, this is why we didn't tell you." Jayce snarks.

Unplanned Valentine's Day art because I cannot stop drawing them 🥰

[billionairebratenergy]

Forever Sounds Good

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes had been called a lot of things in his lifetime—soldier, assassin, hero—but when you called him your husband, everything else ceased to exist.

───────────────────────────────

The compound was quieter than usual, save for the occasional hum of voices from the common area. You and Bucky had settled onto the couch, your legs draped over his lap as you scrolled through your phone, the warm glow of the TV casting soft shadows across the room. His vibranium fingers traced absentminded patterns along your calf, a subconscious habit whenever he was near you.

It was peaceful. Domestic, even.

And then Sam walked in.

"Hey, lovebirds. You two gonna join the rest of us for movie night, or are you too busy being disgustingly in love over here?"

You smirked, not looking up. "Bucky, what do you think?"

Bucky, who had been perfectly content in his own little world, blinked up at Sam like he hadn't heard a single word you just said.

You tilted your head, waiting for him to answer. When he didn’t, you sighed dramatically and turned to Sam. "Guess my husband and I will have to think about it."

Bucky stiffened beneath you.

The silence stretched, and you glanced back at him, only to find him staring at you. Wide-eyed. Lips parted slightly.

He wasn’t breathing.

"Buck?" you prompted.

Still nothing.

Sam, who had been in the middle of making some smart-ass remark, paused and squinted at Bucky. "You good, man?"

Bucky swallowed thickly, jaw tightening, but the color in his face betrayed him. His ears were turning pink.

And then—he grinned.

Not his usual smirk. Not the teasing, cocky one he gave Sam when they were bickering. Not the polite one he sometimes gave strangers out of courtesy. No—this was something different. Something real.

It was soft. Shy, almost.

Like you’d just given him something precious and he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it.

"Yeah," he said finally, voice rough, but there was a warmth in his eyes that made your stomach flip. "Yeah, I’m good."

Sam narrowed his eyes, looking between the two of you like he was missing something. But when Bucky made no move to elaborate, he just scoffed. "Weirdo."

As soon as Sam was gone, you turned back to Bucky.

"What was that?" you asked, amused.

Bucky shifted beneath you, avoiding your gaze. "What was what?"

"Oh, I don't know. You looking like I just told you I was carrying your child or something."

He huffed out a breath, shaking his head, but that small, secret smile never left his face.

"Just wasn’t expecting it, is all," he murmured, almost to himself.

"Expecting what?"

His thumb brushed over your knee absentmindedly. "You calling me that."

Husband.

You bit your lip. "Did you not like it?"

His head snapped up. "No—God, no. I—I mean, it just caught me off guard."

You watched him for a moment, the way he fidgeted slightly, the way his grip on your leg tightened just a fraction.

"You’re still thinking about it, aren’t you?" you teased.

"Absolutely."

The way he admitted it so easily made your heart swell.

You leaned forward, resting your forehead against his. "Should I say it more often?"

His breath hitched.

He closed his eyes for a brief second, then exhaled, a little shaky. "You tryna kill me, doll?"

You grinned. "Not at all, husband."

His ears were definitely red now.

"Jesus," he muttered under his breath, but there was a kind of wonder in his expression that made you soften.

"Bucky Barnes," you whispered, brushing your nose against his. "Are you telling me you like the idea?"

His fingers curled around your wrist, holding you there.

"Wouldn’t mind it," he admitted.

It was quiet for a beat. Then:

"Wait, are you proposing right now?"

He laughed, the sound vibrating between you, and you couldn’t help but join in.

But later that night, as you lay tangled together beneath the covers, his fingers tracing over your ring finger absentmindedly, you wondered if maybe—just maybe—he was thinking about it just as much as you were.

⚝──⭒─⭑⚝──⭒─⭑⚝──⭒─⭑⚝──⭒─⭑⚝──⭒─⭑⚝──⭒

[amywritesthings]

your only, hopefully.

pairing: caleb x f!reader (love and deepspace) word count: 4.3k summary: You get stood up on your very first Valentine's Day date. Caleb, as always, manages to save the day.

rated mature // pre-main story, valentine's day fluff, psuedo-incest, use of 'gege' (big brother), unresolved romantic tension, a sprinkle of angst, a ton of yearning, first kiss, foot massage, virgin!caleb credit: dividers by @/saradika-graphics

( READ ON AO3. )

  [INCOMING MESSAGE] : Sry, can’t make it tonight :( 

You’ve read the text message at least a dozen times.

The thirteenth still has yet to register in your mind, though the belated anger, the confusion — the shame — creeps in like a cold sweat on the back of your neck.

Everything was almost perfect. You’d just set your makeup with a misting spray. One foot remains in a nude-colored high heel while the other foot remains on the fuzzy rectangular rug below, slanting you at an uncomfortable angle.

What once fit you perfectly now feels too tight.

Gran said buying a Valentine’s Day dress was special, that it could carry a lot of sweet memories, yet you find yourself disgusted by the crimson red hugging your body.

(Should you have known? Did you miss a sign between the lines?)

There is a knock on your door, but your brain doesn’t register the gentle wraps.

Jazzy saxophone and gentle drums, your romantic pre-game ambience, now croons morosely on your laptop; songs about love and finding the one and all that—

All that bullshit.

Hours.

You spent hours getting ready for a romantic evening that wasn't even happening now.

Your nostrils flare with the settling irritation in your belly when you grit your teeth, the feeling so overwhelming that you act without thinking:

Shrieking silently behind your pressed red lips, the sound muffled, you kick to launch your unsecured heel towards the door—

“Whoa!”

As if by divine fate (or misfortune) you watch in budding horror as Caleb darts out of the way of the offending shoe, crouching to the floor with his hands over his head.

Gege — formerly the most popular boy at school, now the golden wonder boy of the skies. Every person who has ever met him has wanted to know him, let alone date him, and you cannot blame them.

He's effortlessly kind, funny in his own right, and the type of classically handsome people think about when they dream up a hot-shot pilot with a bright future ahead of him.

He’s supposed to be out by wining and dining all of the amazing girls he’s met while away from home, yet he’s somehow standing — no, crumpled — at your bedroom door in a casual muscle tank-top and gray sweatpants.

“Caleb!” you exhale in shock.

(The text is forgotten, if only for one precious second.)

Remaining crouched, he continues to keep his eyes closed. 

“Could’ve warned me with a think fast, pipsqueak.”

 “I’m — shit, I’m so sorry,” you rasp as you rush over to him. “I didn’t think you’d be home.”

With that cocky smirk tugging at his lips, Caleb reveals a playful violet eye before freezing.

The other eye opens slowly, the confidence all but wiped off of his face when he stares at you.

The facade erases as fast as a passing cloud.

“...whoa.”

Stopping in your tracks, your brows knit. “What?”

“Where’d you get that?” he asks after a beat, voice a little tighter than before.

His gaze flicks down, then up to the crown of your head, then only a fraction lower as if willing himself to keep his eyes focused on your face and your face alone.

“I don’t remember that being in your closet.”

“That’s because I bought it earlier this week,” you state, matter of fact. You look down at the sparkling red dress with disdain. “Not that it matters now.”

Finally standing at full height, you watch Caleb’s throat bob before he steps into the threshold of your bedroom.

“Uh… why? Your friends cancelling for a night in? Makes sense. Saves money.”

Giving him a knowing glare, you cross your arms over your chest and sigh away the creeping embarrassment. “Not quite.”

“Cancelling in general?” he tries again, mirroring his arms over his broad chest. The motion accentuates his naked biceps.

(Huh. They look bigger since he last visited.)

“Worse,” you conclude. 

“Worse?”

“I got stood up by a guy in my hunter class, so that’ll be awesome to kick off Monday with.”

Before he can hide it, you see it: his jaw clenches, tight, and a dark shadow passes over his expression.

The playful boy you’ve grown up with disappears in a flash.

“Who’s the asshole?” he asks flatly. “Does he live nearby?”

“Caleb.”

“Was he going to come pick you up?”

“Caleb.”

“I have privileges now, pipsqueak. You point me in the right direction and I’ll—”

“Gege! Enough."

The old name of endearment you’ve retired when he turned eighteen, buried with the rest of your bizarre family memorabilia — one that’s only stayed in your mind and never exited your mouth ever since — slips.

Caleb’s eyes flash with discontent until you reach for his face, sandwiching his cheeks between your palms.

In an instant the heat is snuffed out, and he relaxes without any further debate.

You know how he gets.

Not quite jealousy, not entirely overprotection.

I’d fly to the sun and back for you, pipsqueak, you know that.

(You do. You know he would.)

Caleb will blindly step out of this home to go find whatever man scorned you on Valentine’s Day and take whatever repercussions arrive, no questions asked.

His affection for you has always run deeper than the familial title Gran suggested when you were both so very small.

Caleb, you protect your mei mei by any means necessary.

He took that vow seriously, even now when you’re both adults.

“It’s fine,” you reassure him — and yourself. “It’s stupid anyway. Valentine’s Day is barely a holiday.”

Brows furrowed, Caleb raises his hand to meet you, eclipsing your own. His skin is always so warm, soft despite the callouses from his vigorous workouts.

The softness of this gesture melts away the rest of your rage into an evaporating puddle at your feet.

“It’s not stupid,” he states. “You were excited about going out, and some punk took for granted the best girl in Linkon City.”

His eyes widen briefly before his fingers curl over yours.

“Nope. Uh-uh. The night has barely begun.”

When he tugs you towards your bedroom door, your first step stumbles. “Wait, what?”

“We’re going out.”

Are you hearing things?

“We — huh?”

“Go wait for me in the living room, alright?” he states, briefly kissing the back of your hand before letting go. “I’m sure Gran kept some of my presentable stuff hung up in my closet. Shouldn’t take me that long to get ready. A buddy of mine’s brother owns a restaurant in the shopping district.”

“But Caleb—”

“Ah-ah, nope.”  

His lips pop the ‘p’ purposefully.

Caleb turns in a semi-circle to you, his boyish black hair skating over his eyes as the cockiness returns in a grin. 

“Actually — might wanna grab your that shoe you tried attacking me with and its twin, then go wait for me in the living room. Can’t have you runnin’ barefoot on the sidewalk. You catch colds too easily.”

.

.

.

.

.

In true Caleb fashion, he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

But you have better things to do than placate me!

(It isn’t placating if I want to do it, pipsqueak.)

But you probably have to return super early in the morning!

(Don’t care. I’ve pulled all-nighters worse than this.)

Caleb, you really don’t have to—

(Don’t finish that sentence.)

So you don’t.

Words cease to exist the minute you see Caleb walk out of his bedroom wearing his original Deepspace Aviation Administration dress uniform. You’ve only seen it once before at his graduation, all buttoned up in properly pressed olives and golds.

He walks towards you with that signature smirk of his, the one that makes just about everyone in Linkon City — and now Skyhaven — swoon no matter where he goes.

He looks beautiful.

(He should be out spending this holiday with a proper girlfriend, not you.)

It’s the mantra on your mind the entire way to the restaurant.

The way he holds the door open for you.

The way he pulls your chair out and makes sure you’re properly situated at a candlelit table.

The way he reaches across the table to squeeze your hand as if to reassure you—

Or himself—

That it’s not weird.

It isn’t, right?

Being here with the person who knows you best after all these years when you were meant to be sitting across from a damn near stranger; it isn’t like anyone in this restaurant knows your unusual upbringing, what you mean to one another.

So you squeeze back, and you see it: the tension in Caleb’s shoulders fades away.

For what it’s worth, his friend’s restaurant is far better than whatever you were going to have with your ghost.

The two of you share a bottle of wine and have the longest conversations you’ve held since he left for the academy.

Like the old days.

The ones where you’d spend countless hours in the summer heat enjoying the fireflies. 

The night skies littered with stars and swallowed by light pollution — that never stopped Caleb from telling you all about the planes passing over your heads.

Infectious; the sheer excitement to think of a new tomorrow waiting at the end of today.

And like two kids who didn’t know any better, you fell victim to speaking like the other would be an important part of that very tomorrow.

Video calls nightly, reduced to phone calls.

Phone calls weekly, reduced to texts.

Texts to… well, surprises like this.

Now, in the present, he’s still important. He’s still your gege, even if that title is a square piece trying to fit in a circular hole. 

No person will ever fill the Caleb-sized hole left in his absence as he reaches for the stars he so desperately wished to seek.

(And the wine’s beginning to taste like he needs to know that.)

.

.

.

.

.

“C’mon. Hop up.”

You’re several blocks from the restaurant walking in silence when Caleb is the first to break through the silence. 

Ordering any and all desserts off the menu that your heart desires, demanding the check to pay completely on his own dime — he’s spoiled you and then some tonight. 

I’ll take care of you, remember? That was my promise.

Except this is Valentine’s Day.

(Don’t you understand the importance of Valentine’s Day, gege?)

The question lingers on your tongue with venomous self hatred. Caleb has always been quick to act as your savior, putting your needs above all else, but this was the one night where you wanted something special. 

You can’t be special to the man walking beside you, not in the way the holiday suggests.

Too many problems.

Too many implications.

(We’re not joined by blood, only wine.)

That very wine turns sour the longer your heels irritate your feet in this slow, silent trek back to Gran’s house.

It’s when his melodic voice snaps you out of your mental spiral, causing your eyes to meet a softening violet gaze.

Winking, he assumes position: the taller man playfully squats with his hands low and at the ready to catch you mid-flight.

“What?” you finally blurt, trying to catch up to where this came from.

“C’mon, you’ve been wobbling on those heels for two blocks,” Caleb states, nodding once and nearly knocking his aviation cap. “Get on up here.”

“You want to carry me?”

“Does it look like I’m proposing anything else?” he retorts. “Don’t get big and brave. Big and brave means we’ll be dealing with blisters.” 

When you hesitate a second more, his voice drops to a gentler tone. 

“You’re overthinking, pipsqueak. I don’t want you hurting your feet. You got a city to keep safe in the morning, remember?”

Damn it.

He’s not wrong.

Relentling as you sling your small purse over your shoulder, you assume position with your arms wrapped around his neck.

When you hop up, Caleb effortlessly catches you without so much as a grunt from the added weight.

“Thatta girl. See, was that so hard?”

“I don’t have my hunter’s license yet,” you answer instead, combating his earlier sentiment as you relax against his back. He’s always been strong, but you're surprised by the sheer muscle nestled against your chest. “I’m not saving any lives right now.”

“You never know,” he states as he easily maneuvers across the street to stay the course leading to Gran’s house. “You’re smart. Capable. Strong. Who’s to say you don’t graduate early?”

“Oh, har-har,” you grumble as you drop your cheek against his back. Even if you can’t see it, the low chuckle he emits helps you envision a growing grin. “I won’t be graduating tomorrow. Early, maybe, but definitely not tomorrow.”

“How’s it going, by the way?”

“Mm?”

“Hunter school, duh.”

“Oh, you’re asking now?”

Caleb turns a corner, giving him a momentary pause. “You didn’t seem like you wanted to talk about it at dinner.”

No, you didn’t.

(It’s so irritating, being seen sometimes.)

“Besides getting ditched for a date?” you inquire. “Not bad.”

Biceps tense against your sides.

“You didn’t get ditched,” he corrects, airier than before. “You made better plans.”

“Technically you told me to grab my shoes, so I didn’t make anything,” you argue in return, the wine adding a boldness to your tongue. “I just followed your orders.”

With a tsk, tsk, tsk under his breath, the fingers around your thighs squeeze the bare flesh as a teasing warning to knock it off.

Caleb finally crosses the street to Gran’s front door, only setting you down to fish the front door key from his uniform pocket.

As soon as he has the door opened, however, he props it with his knee and loops an arm around your back.

Using the hand curled around your upper arm, he pushes you backwards and straight into his arms. He scoops just under your knees in a bridal style carry through the threshold of the house.

Your shriek twists into a bewildered cackle at the abruptness of his gentlemanly reprise, your arms scrambling to hold his neck for dear life.

He carefully maneuvers you both into your bedroom. “What?” he asks with amusement peppering his tone. “Something up?”

“Yes!” you laugh as he gingerly sets you down on your bed. “Or — I guess not anymore.”

Caleb grins as he drops to a knee, his slender fingers deftly working on the loops of your heels.

“Haven’t heard you laugh like that since high school.”

“No?”

“Nah,” he states, sliding the shoe off with caution — avoiding any possible blisters they may have caused while simultaneously searching your heel and toes for blemishes. When satisfied, he starts on the second heel. “It’s nice.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“I’m being serious, pipsqueak,” he replies, brows knit together with another huff of amusement. “I was afraid hunter school would’ve wiped off your sense of humor or something. The pros in the field always seem so… serious.”

His fingers absently rub along the arch of your foot, pressing into the tender muscle with the pads of his thumbs.

Your eyelids flutter from the sheer pleasure of such a simple movement.

Just as you’d hoped that maybe he’d continue tending to the weary soles of your feet, Caleb freezes.

His hands remain where they are, but his eyes drop to your lap to avoid yours.

Something feels… off.

Like there’s something on the tip of his tongue — something maybe lingering on yours as well — but the silence engulfs the telepathic conversation warring in your minds.

So you break it, skirting past the tension.

“This is the best Valentine’s Day I’ve ever had,” you admit under your breath, earnest and appreciative.

Caleb’s chin lifts without hesitation this time, his violet eyes wider.

The muscles in his cheeks twitch, suppressing a smile before it can fully surface, before speaking just as softly.

“Your only — hopefully.”

“Not my only, no.”

When his face falls, you cheekily follow up with a growing smile of your own.

“Technically you used to always be my Valentine, back in the day, so I've had Valentine's Days to remember before. Don’t think I forgot the baskets you used to make up for me so easily.”

It takes a second, but life eventually returns to his face in screaming color.

If the room wasn’t so dark, you’d swear the man kneeling before you was blushing.

“Damn, you remember those crappy things?”

“Do you seriously think I’d forget my after school Valentine’s Day baskets, Caleb? Really?”

“It’s been a while,” he argues, letting go of your foot to rest both palms on the ruffled sheets on either side of your hips. “We were just kids.”

“Yeah, but it meant something.”

Just like tonight.

Caleb has always gone above and beyond for your comfort.

(Your praise.)

Always putting your needs before his; always sorting out solutions that benefit you the most; always coming in last for eating, for sleeping, for taking showers, for…

Everything.

Even tonight, so long as it means it makes you happy.

Yet even if the wine loosens your secrets, you don’t expect him to confess why he spent so much of his waking hours catering to you and you alone.

(Square space, meet circular abyss.)

His eyes crinkle as he smiles up at you, admiring what sits in front of him.

The look makes your stomach somersault, heart yearning to reach for him — to touch the warmth of his skin and bask in an endless summer —

“You look deep in thought, pipsqueak.”

Caleb’s voice takes you from the dreamlike fantasy, short-circuiting the directive to never speak about what’s right in front you.

“You said this was a date, right?”

The question falls out of your mouth faster than intended.

Still all smiles, you note the furrow in Caleb’s brow.

“Sure, why?”

“And it was good?”

“I mean, I thought so,” he states. “We didn’t even come home with leftovers, so I can’t imagine you’re gonna tell me that you hated the restaur—”

“Don’t good dates usually end with a kiss?”

Every ounce of heat in this room vanishes in a flash.

The playful smile remains, but the intent shifts from earnest to disingenuous in a flinch. 

A mask; micro-movements in the muscles of his face show a new story about the night, one not as innocent as his knight in shining armor may have originally displayed.

You can only hope you aren’t reading between the wrong lines.

When your question isn’t met with an answer, rejection squeezes your stomach mercilessly.

You didn’t read between the lines, no — you crossed them, possibly to a degree you may never recover from.

“It’s fine,” you blurt immediately, waving your hands wildly in front of your chest. 

Caleb’s face falls in worried despair, and you find that this new onslaught of adrenaline is making you nauseous.

“Wait—”

“Forget I said that. Whoops, the wine—”

“Hey, no, don’t hide from me.”

Before you can press your palm to your forehead, those same warm hands curl around your fingers to tug it down. 

“C’mon.”

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

Stupid.

Stupid, stupid, stupid—

In an attempt to create some distance, you push yourself back onto your bed and swing your bare feet out of Caleb’s orbit, side-stepping him completely.

Standing to take to a pace, you don’t have the willpower to ask him to leave.

“It’s fine, seriously. Thank you for the nice night,” you keep going, trying to talk yourself out of the panic you feel eroding your belly.

Crying would just make this worse.

“Pipsqueak, don’t.”

“You said you had an early morning, right?”

Finally turning to face him, his image is watery at best.

You blink as fast as you can to eliminate the tears brewing in your eyes, but they seem to be working faster.

Caleb’s eyes grow impossibly wide at the sight of your struggles, as though your confliction hurts his very goddamn soul.

His long legs take one stride, another, a final until his large hands imprison your face to stare right into his.

You realize too late that he’s leaning in.

Dipping down.

—and a pause.

What was once covered in ice is thawed, and soon the warmth — the heat — of the most important man of your life returns. 

Those violet eyes stare down at your nose, dipping lower, cursed to stall.

You don’t move.

Couldn’t, not when your lungs have seized with confusion; anticipation.

“Tell me not to.”

His voice doesn’t sound the same — once cocky and confident, walking through life with everyone adoring his Midas touch, now withers and dies as a broken plea.

His breath mixes with yours.

You can still smell the red wine on his tongue.

“...Caleb?”

The pinkish flecks of his eyes flicker when he raises his attention.

In the dim light of the window, he looks boyish here.

Scared.

“Tell me not to,” he weakly repeats. “Just tell me not to and I won’t.”

Oh.

Now you’re the one at a loss for words.

“If you didn’t mean to ask,” he clarifies, tone trembling, “if you want to rewind to five minutes ago, then I’ll go to my room. I’ll leave in the morning, but if you —”

Stopping himself, the man looks physically pained when his eyes close, inhaling slowly as if to settle his budding nerves.

The tension in his jaw bubbles, clenches, until he exhales through his nose as steadily as he can.

“But if you say yes, I won’t be—” 

“Please?”

The word — the request, the plea — escapes faster than intended.

So does Caleb’s restraint.

Both hands holding your face drag you forward, your bare feet sliding along the floor, until you feel a gentle pressure on your lips.

Your hands grab the front of his uniform, balling the fabric between your fists as you decidedly press back.

His makes a noise of surprise against your mouth, melting into the reciprocation.

You notice as you both exhale, parting for only a moment before pressing lips against lips once more, that his hands are shaking.

Maybe you’re shaking, too.

Because it should feel wrong. Every time you’ve fantasized about being the girl he takes to a formal, the woman his eyes linger on for too long from across the bar, you’ve been struck with the immense shame in the back of your mind. 

Wrong, like he was ever truly blood.

Wrong, like the fates laughed in the face of undeniable desire.

Wrong, like you would ever love anyone more than Caleb. 

Nothing has ever felt more right.

All you can focus on is the way he smells, like woodsy cologne and red wine; the way he touches you so preciously, his thumb absently running along your cheekbone the longer you kiss in the middle of your bedroom; the way he sounds with every press and pull, gutted with pure arousal and want.

Your name, fluttering against his tongue, before it glides along your lower lip.

You don’t deny him.

He groans as if your refusal to stop could ruin him, but there is a sharp inhale before a chill passes against your glistening lips.

Caleb pulls away to find a purchase of air, violet eyes as dark as deepspace while regarding the haze of affection he’s met by your fluttering eyes. 

“Hey.”

The greeting is shy.

Small.

Swallowing to coat your dry throat, you weakly reply. “Hey.”

“You good?” he murmurs, petting the crown of your head affectionately.

A dam has broken — for the next few minutes, you have Caleb at his most raw.

Gone is the guarded expression you’ve learned to live with, replaced with radiating affection.

Despite yourself, you nod.

“Should I ask where you learned to kiss like that?”

He huffs, shaking his head. “I didn’t.”

Wait.

Your expression smooths with recognition. “What do you mean—?”

A smile, euphoric and unabashed, breaks out.

“What, you think I’m busy kissing aliens or something when I’m out flying?”

Scorned by his playfulness, you bump your fist against his broad chest.

“Caleb.”

“What?” he teases. “You asked — but, ah… no. That was—”

His brow knits for a moment, a blush creeping up his neck to his ears.

“My best effort at my first. Why, couldn’t tell?”

You.

His first kiss happened with you.

Your lips tingle with the shock — the sheer satisfaction — of holding that title.

“Don’t go back to your room tonight,” you softly state instead, reaching for his hand to squeeze it. The blush on his face only intensifies, so you let out a tiny scoff. “To cuddle, genius. I’m not looking to check off all of the boxes in one night.”

Caleb makes a tsk sound with his tongue before tilting his head.

“Preserving my honor, I see.”

“Uh-huh, sure.”

Even if you’ve gone past the point of no return—-

Even if you’re crossed the line—

Somehow he’s still Caleb, and you’re still you.

You thought that if one day you both took the impossible, forbidden leap of faith, that it would destroy the very foundation of what you’ve been since you were children.

Yet it feels like it was meant to always be this way — as if it’s as catastrophic as a rogue breeze on a summer night.

Taking his hand, you pull him back to your bed. 

As you slide onto the mattress to get comfortable, Caleb shrugs out of his uniform jacket, leaving him in a white tee.

He crawls alongside you the way he used to during thunderstorms, scooping you close to his chest while his heavy arm settles around your waist.

Protective.

You settle against him just as you always have, eyes closed.

Only the feel of his heart racing against your back remains.

For a moment you both lay here, basking in what’s happened — what will never be the same — before his voice murmurs against your neck.

“If you ever wanted to check off all of the boxes—”

His nose nuzzles your skin, humming at its scent.

“—they’ve always been yours to take.”

.

author's note: caleb gripped me tight and raised me from season depression perdition and i owe him my life (dramatic but true). this is my first ever lads fic despite being a week one player so tysm for reading !! i hope to write more in the very near future. happy valentine's day, tumblr friends. xoxo amy

[dawngyu]

RAIN LILIES

pairing: soulmate idol choi beomgyu x soulmate fem!reader

Sitting at parties surrounded by lovers, a silent third wheel at movie nights, the friend holding the camera at weddings—your hands are always... alone in the spaces where others are full.

Were you an error in the grand scheme? An anomaly? A glitch in the unforgiving script? Or maybe, he simply doesn’t really… exist.

That’s how you ended up here, standing beside your korean-pop-obsessed friend who practically dragged you out and swore you’d love the show. It all became a blur when your eyes met his.

He’s on stage, gripping the mic impossibly still, staring down back at you like he feels it too.

He shouldn’t be real.

warnings: red-string au, strangers to lovers, reader is two years older, normal society norms, waiting, anxiety, doubts, sasaengs, insecurities, hasty decisions, drunk-in-love beomgyu. pov switching. everything written is a work of fiction. let me know if I missed anything.

smut-warnings: MDNI, explicit-descriptions, missionary, fingering, oral!fem receiving, dom beomgyu.

wc: 20k — playlist.

notes: fighting both my delulu and my demons while writing this. 😭 Might just be the fic I enjoyed writing the most—I hope you love it just as much! so glad to be part of this beautiful event. a big thank you to @killa-1009 for beta reading this. ilysm.

1/5 part of the valentine event with talented moas! see the full masterlist here.

If fate promised you something so certain, how could you not long for it?

Since childhood, you’ve heard the stories. The way people speak in hushed voices, weaving fate into riddles, how somewhere out there, it's waiting—a single red string, unseen until the exact moment it’s meant to appear.

The rules are simple: the second your eyes meet theirs, a delicate crimson thread will wrap and tug around your ring finger, stretching across, tied to the one who is destined to love you.

You watched it happen to everyone else. From playground giggles in elementary school to whispered confessions in high school hallways, to late-night talks in college dorm rooms. You listened as your friends spoke about finding their own soulmates, the feeling—the pull, the process. It's everywhere. In the way, your parents fit together like pages of the same story. On the way your younger sister—still so new to the world found her match.

When you’re told your whole life that destiny is waiting for you, how could you not ache for it?

The universe doesn’t make mistakes. And yet, your hands remained... stringless.

And now you wonder if it did—with you.

"One, two, three, smile!"

You press the shutter, capturing the way they look at each other. You lower the camera, but they don’t even notice—they’re too caught up in their own little world, whispering sentences only they’ll ever understand. They laugh, eyes soft, bodies leaning in just a little closer.

How does love do that? How does it make someone shine like they’re carrying sunlight beneath their skin? Like just standing beside the right person is enough to set them alight?

And why, no matter how long you wait, does that light never seem to find you?

There are days you curse it—this cruel design, this aching uncertain certainty. You tell yourself it would be easier not to know, to live without the quiet hope that somewhere, someone is meant to find you, or that fate had already written your name beside someone else’s.

And then there are days you fear it.

What if they don’t want to find you? What if that’s why you’re still alone? What if they got it wrong, skipped over your name, and he simply… doesn’t exist?

You're an anomaly. A glitch in the well-made script.

You lost count of how many times you wished it was never made this way. That love shouldn’t be a promise. Yet in the deepest hours of the night, you found yourself—gasping, trembling, and sobbing to your palms. The feeling of—

How can you miss someone you've never met?

You want to reach for a hand you’ve never held. You long for a voice you’ve never heard, a scent you’ve never breathed, a shadow you’ve never chased. And more than anything, you wish you had a name to whisper, to give you hope.

You swallow, forcing a smile as you turn back to the couple. "Congratulations," you say, "It’s a beautiful wedding."

"Thank you, Y/N!" Ha-rin squeals, practically glowing as she steps forward to hug you. "And thank you for being our photographer—I know you must be busy."

"You’re welcome," you reply, adjusting your camera strap. "It’s what I do, after all."

Ju-won steps in then, reaching for Ha-rin’s hand like he can’t stand even a moment of space between them. "Thank you, Y/N," he says, his eyes never straying far from his wife.

They were your high school classmates. You remember the day they met—first year, first morning, when their eyes met across the classroom, and just like that, the red string appeared. They grew together, from awkward introductions to effortless friendship, and now, here they were, husband and wife.

A picture of everything the universe had promised them.

Ju-won leans in, pressing a kiss to Ha-rin’s cheek like it’s the first time, like they haven’t spent years by each other’s side. The look in their eyes is so easy, so full of love, that you have to look away.

You can't look.

"Uh, I’ll get some drinks," you say, forcing a smile that feels as out of place as you do. You don’t wait for a response. You just turn, your heels clicking against the polished floor, head spinning as you try to count how many weddings you’ve attended this year.

Or no. You’ve lost count.

Everyone you grew up with—your friends, your classmates—have already found their soulmates. Most are married now, some already raising children.

Your heels dig into your feet with each hurried step, but you don’t slow down. You just keep moving, past everyone. You know exactly where you’ll end up. The same place you always do.

Alone at the sidelines.

You grab a drink, bringing it to your lips a little too quickly, hoping the cool burn will settle the unease twisting in your stomach.

"Hey! It’s been a while!" A voice cuts calls out, familiar—but not familiar enough. You turn to see a girl skidding towards you, her face vaguely recognizable. A former classmate? A clubmate? Someone who once sat next to you in a lecture hall?

"How have you been?" she asks, taking a drink for herself.

"I’m fine, thanks," you reply, forcing an easy nod before taking another sip.

A second passes, and then another girl joins the conversation, breathless with laughter. "Beom-seok finally let me go," she teases, tilting her head toward the man across the room—her soulmate. "The guy’s obsessed."

"Of course he is," the first girl grins. "He’s your soulmate." She swirls her drink before adding, "Mine just got back from overseas. He’ll see me tomorrow once he’s in the city." And there it is again—circling back to the same topic, the one you can never take part in. You nod, offering a small smile, pretending to listen.

Because what is there to say when everyone else has something you don’t?

"Y/N?" Your name pulls you out of your thoughts.

"Huh?"

"Did you meet yours yet?" The question hits like a slow, squeezing ache in your chest.

"No," you say, reaching for another drink. It's embarrassing that everyone knows you're empty. "I haven't."

"That's… weird, right?" The first girl tilts her head, genuinely puzzled. "I mean, we sat through those lectures together. Didn’t the studies say most people find their soulmate before twenty-five? That’s what the records say."

There’s no malice in her voice, just matter-of-fact. Like she’s pointing out a statistic, saying out what’s already been made painfully clear to you. it’s the same tired reminder, the same unspoken question: what’s wrong with you?

You’re used to it by now.

"Yeah," you say, unwilling to argue. What’s the point? Your mind slips back to those reckless high school days—the days when older girls, too cool and too cruel, mocked you for not having a soulmate. You remember snapping back, pretending their words didn’t sting.

Later, the tears came on the bus ride home—carving rivers down your cheeks as you sob. Strangers offered tissues, soft words, awkward kindness, but none of it could stitch you back together. You remember your mother's words after seeing her home. To stop them from hurting you, you have to accept all of yourself.

But how do you accept the whole of you, when it doesn’t even feel like you have all of you?

From the corner of your eye, you catch the second girl nudging her. "Don’t mind her, Y/N," she says quickly. "She doesn’t always think before she talks." Then, after a beat, she adds, "Have you tried dating in the meantime? You know, while you're waiting?"

You blink at her, taken aback.

"I mean, it's not like it’s cheating, right? Since you haven’t met them yet."

You set your drink down, your fingers suddenly cold. "Why are you suggesting something you wouldn’t even do?" Your voice is calm, but it makes her shift uncomfortably. "Or did you? Does your soulmate know?"

Neither of them speaks. Guilt in their expressions. You don’t wait for an answer. You're done for tonight.

It’s time to go.

You turn away, not bothering to look back. No one needs you here—your part is done. Your role here is over. You pull out your phone, quickly typing out a polite apology to the bride before slipping it back into your pocket.

The drive home is silent, and the buzz of the engine is the only company you have. Your hands grip the wheel a little too tightly, your thoughts drifting despite your best efforts to keep them at bay. When you finally reach your small apartment, you step out, clutching yet another wedding souvenir in one hand a meaningless token of a night that wasn’t yours to celebrate.

You lock the door behind you and lean against it blinking, exhaling shakily. "I guess today wasn’t the day either," you murmur to no one in particular, wiping away the single tear that managed to escape. "What's taking you so long?"

No matter how often you whispered this question, it never hurt any less.

"What's taking you so long?"

Beomgyu groans from under the covers, trying to burrow deeper into the warmth of his bed. The sudden tug of his blanket makes him blindly reach out, attempting to grab it back. "You shi—"

"Beomgyu, you're the last one. We're all almost ready to go," Soobin says, adjusting his belt in the mirror. "Look at this little child."

Beomgyu stretches with a dramatic yawn. "I'm up, I'm up," he mumbles, sitting up sluggishly and blinking against the light. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, feet landing on the bedside table. Soobin shakes his head but doesn't stick around—his job is done. Beomgyu is finally awake.

Minutes later, Beomgyu trudges into the living room, hair a mess, voice still deep with sleep. "Are we eating there?"

The entire room turns to look at him.

"You woke up late, and that’s the first thing you care about?" Yeonjun teases, shaking his head with a laugh.

"Well, I didn’t eat last night," Beomgyu grumbles.

"Oh?"

"Liar," the maknae pipes up from the couch, casually applying lip balm. "You literally snuck out to eat."

"You snitch," Beomgyu gasps, feigning betrayal. "I didn’t raise you to turn on me like this!"

"You? Raise me?" Kai scoffs. "Soobin hyung’s the one who raised me, what are you talking about?"

Soobin smirks and chucks Beomgyu’s towel straight at his face. "Exactly. Now go shower, you idiot."

Laughter erupts around the room as Beomgyu groans, trudging toward the bathroom. "Shower quick, hyung," Taehyun calls out.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever."

Beomgyu’s slightly damp hair clings to the back of his neck. He hadn’t had time to dry it properly before they rushed out of the dorm—there was no room for delays today. A broadcast for their comeback. Another promotion. His stylist would handle it in the green room anyway.

They pile into the van, the usual quiet settling over them. Despite being fully dressed and ready, exhaustion hangs heavy. One by one, his members drift off, heads resting against windows, bodies slumped in their seats. Only Kai remains awake, lost in his own world, music pulsing through his earphones. The maknae was so engrossed on his phone, obviously texting with a small smile on his face.

Beomgyu sighs, pressing his forehead against the cool glass, his breath slightly fogging up the window. Today would be a long day. Rehearsals, performances, a challenge video, taping. He missed this. He missed MOAs. The rush of the stage. The high of performing. And then—

Oh.

The van slows at a red light, and his gaze drifts absentmindedly to the sidewalk. His chest tightens.

A couple walks by, laughing, hands intertwined, completely lost in their own world. The way they move together, effortlessly in sync. In love. Content. Happy. He stares longer than he should.

He can't look away.

His throat feels tight as the van lurches forward again, pulling him out of his thoughts. He blinks hard, shifting in his seat. The image stayed, pressed into the back of his mind.

All four of his members had already found theirs—their soulmates. The one they could lean on when the world became too loud. Beomgyu was happy for them, of course, he was. He remember how he was when Kai blushed when he met his soulmate recently, right after his 23rd birthday.

Everyone teased the maknae relentlessly for weeks.

Beomgyu had been too busy his whole life, training since he was just a kid, running full speed toward a dream. His mind is busy to the point he sometimes forgets it. He does not mean to. It's just that—he never let himself dwell on it for too long. Pushing it aside became second nature, the same way he’d forget to eat when he was too busy, too distracted.

But every year, without fail, when the room dimmed and the birthday candles in front of him, his wish was always the same.

His soulmate.

It didn’t matter how many years passed or how much he achieved—when the glow of those tiny flames danced in his eyes, it was the only thing his heart whispered.

Beomgyu exhales shakily, his fingers curling into his hoodie. a quiet sigh slipping from his pouting lips.

Where are you?

The stark white walls of the hospital room loom over, mocking your awkwardness.

"There's nothing wrong with you, dear," the woman in front of you says, her lab coat lending a sense of authority to her words. Her voice is gentle, reassuring, but it barely soothes the unease twisting in your chest. "Soulmates do tend to find each other early, statistically speaking. But that’s just a pattern, not a guarantee."

You swallow hard. The lump in your throat stays put. "Is there… any chance this is a mistake?" Your voice is quieter than you intend, fragile in a way you hate. "That someone could go their whole life without one? That—" you hesitate, your chest tightening, "that I’m just… meant to be alone?"

Something flickers across her face—pity, maybe. You’re not sure. "I’ll look into it, I promise," she says after a moment. "I know twenty-six feels late, and I know it’s frustrating. But… trust in destiny a little longer. If you want, I can also recommend a therapist. I know the pressure can get to you."

Her words are meant to be comforting. They only make the weight in your chest heavier. You shake your head, managing a quiet “thank you” before slipping out of the room, the door clicking shut behind you.

“How was it?” Da-hee’s voice reaches you before you even look up. She’s already on her feet, eyes scanning your face, searching for an answer. “What did they say?”

“Nothing I haven’t heard before.” You sigh, walking past her. “I told you I should not do this.”

She huffs, crossing her arms as she falls into step beside you. “You never tried it,”

Your best friend doesn’t argue anymore, following you to the counter in silence. The cashier barely looks up as they say, “That consultation is $120 total, plus taxes, bringing it to $145.86. Card or cash?”

You catch Da-hee reaching for her wallet, but you gently push her hand away. “Don’t,” you murmur. “This was for me.”

You hand over your card. A quick swipe, a faint beep. And just like that, you’re down nearly $150 with nothing to show for it but a sinking feeling in your stomach.

That much money for a consultation. A conversation. No treatment, no tests, nothing tangible. Soulmate doctors are expensive. Too expensive. And health insurance? Useless. They don’t cover something as rare, as unquantifiable, as soulmate problems.

Because to them, it’s not a real sickness, proving that you are—once again—the outlier.

Perfect.

“Come on,” you say, nudging your still-guilty-looking friend. She follows you out of the hospital, quiet and pouting.

At the car, she pulls open the driver’s side door. “Let me at least drive?” she offers, voice softer now.

You chuckle at her persistence, shaking your head before tossing her the keys. “Okay.” Sliding into the passenger seat, you reach for the radio, as she pulls out of the parking lot.

"Let's hang out at your place," Da-hee says, and she grins as she sees you nod your head.

Music played softly through the speakers, blending with the casual flow of conversation. The air is light, and easy—until your car rolls past a towering black building.

HYBE.

Funeral wreaths. Trucks. Massive banners.

Your brows furrow as you take it in, the sight so jarring that it silences you for a beat. The road ahead clogs with slowed traffic, people lingering to gawk at the scene.

“What the fuck?” Da-hee mutters, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter, eyes darting across the scene. The traffic slows as more people crane their necks to look. You do the same, stomach twisting at the sheer scale of it. "This is insane."

“What’s going on?” you ask, still trying to piece together the meaning behind it all.

She exhales, lips pressing into a thin line. “Lee Heeseung. An idol,” she starts. “News got out that he recently went out with his soulmate.” Her voice dips, sadness flickering across her face. “And now… now, people want him out of the group.”

Your stomach twists. “What?”

You strain to read the bold, angry messages plastered across the banners:

GET LEE HEESEUNG OUT OF HYBE.

APOLOGIZE, LEE HEESEUNG.

EXPLAIN THIS, LEE HEESEUNG.

ENHYPEN IS NOW ONLY SIX.

IDOLS WITH SOULMATES ARE NOT IDOLS.

The messages feel suffocating, each one worse than the last. Then you see it—one of the trucks, its LED screen flashing an image like a public execution.

A man, young and striking, caught mid-laughter as he eats ramen with a girl beside him. She’s smiling too, her expression warm, content. The matching caps on their heads make them look like any ordinary couple, but the grainy, long-lens quality of the photo gives it away. Someone had been watching. Someone had been waiting to expose them.

Your stomach turns.

“It’s worse when so many fans are… young,” Da-hee murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. “Most of them are stringless.” She says the last word carefully like she doesn’t want to offend you.

But you almost hear what she isn’t saying.

Stringless people can’t understand the soulmate bond. And when it comes to idols, that misunderstanding twists into darker. As insane as it sounds, they feel entitled. Possessive. Like their devotion should be enough. Like an idol’s life—who they love, who they belong to—should be theirs to control.

It’s the only explanation, isn’t it?

The car inches forward, and your eyes drift back to the scene outside. Security guards push against the surging crowd, their faces strained. The banners wave wildly, like battle flags in a war meant to punish.

You swallow hard. “I don’t get it.” You don’t know him. You don't need to know him to know the injustice of it. “Why treat him like he committed some kind of crime? He’s meant to have someone. He’s a person, not—” You gesture vaguely at the protest, frustration bubbling up. “Not their property.”

Da-hee sighs. “That’s why idols who are caught with their soulmates—especially the ones who confirm it, get cancelled. Fans turn on them. They lose everything.” She shakes her head, voice laced with exhaustion and resignation. “It’s sad that they have to hide it.”

The thought of society hating someone just for loving who they’re meant to love makes your chest feel tight. How could something meant to be beautiful turn into this?

You guess your own situation isn’t the only cruel, unfair thing in this world.

The two of you make it back to your apartment, settling in for a movie with a bowl of popcorn between you. The glow of the TV flickers across the room, a comfortable silence stretching between you—until Da-hee suddenly squeals, nearly knocking the popcorn over in the process.

“Oh my god,” she gasps, shoving the popcorn bowl off her lap as she scrambles to her feet. “OH MY GOD.” She starts stomping in place.

You glance at her, unimpressed. “I want to wipe that ridiculous grin off your face.”

She just giggles and shoves her phone in front of you. “Joon bought me VVIP tickets. I’m going to die.” She pumps a fist in the air, bouncing on her toes like a kid who just won the lottery. “And there’s two. He can’t go—oh my god. Please, please, I am begging you to come with me. It’s next week! That sneaky bastard didn’t even tell me he bought them ages ago.”

You hesitate, already feeling the excuse forming on your tongue. “I don’t think—”

“Come on, Y/N.” She grabs your arm, shaking it dramatically. “Look at me. I have a soulmate, and I still thirst over Tomorrow X Together.”

You nearly choke on your drink. “That’s a long-ass name.”

“They’re my babies,” she says, clutching her chest like she’s been personally blessed by the gods. “You’ll love the show, I promise. And maybe—you’ll be like me. While you wait for your soulmate, it’s harmless to fangirl a little. OMG, what if you become a MOA? That’s my dream. Imagine us going to cafés with photocards, buying merch, collecting albums—”

“Okay, first of all, they are grown men. Not babies.” you cut in before she spirals. You know from experience that once she starts talking about her fangirl life, she never stops. “Anyways, okay, I’ll go. But don’t expect anything.”

Da-hee lets out another excited squeal before launching herself at you, wrapping her arms around your neck and squeezing way too tight.

“You won’t regret this!”

You already do.

It was your turn to trail behind Da-hee like a lost puppy, weaving through the sea of fans decked out in carefully coordinated outfits. Everyone is well dressed. So prepared. Keychains and accessories dangled from their bags, the sound of clinking metal filling the air.

"Look at them," Da-hee suddenly stopped, pulling out her phone. You followed her gaze to the massive banner hanging outside the arena.

TOMORROW X TOGETHER

They... didn’t look bad.

"My husbands," Da-hee sighed dreamily spinning turning to you with wide eyes. "Let's take a selfie!"

Before you could protest, she yanked you in, holding her phone high. The two of you posed—her grinning ear to ear, you looking like a reluctant daughter humoring her overexcited mom.

At the ticketing section, an attendant handed you both event wristbands and ID laces. You're about to shove yours into your pocket, but Da-hee looped it around your neck like a medal.

“So you don’t lose it,” she said firmly.

You sighed, adjusting the strap as you followed her toward a merch booth. Fans swarmed the display, eyes gleaming as they scanned the shelves stacked with albums, shirts, and accessories.

"Everyone's so hyped," you muttered, glancing around. "I can see a lot of Da-hees here."

"Of course they are," Da-hee said ignoring your last comment with a dramatic sway of her hand. She skimmed the display. "This comeback is a masterpiece."

You frowned. "What are we even doing here?"

"You need a picket." She says. "And don’t even think about saying no. I’m still heartbroken you refused the lightstick, so at least take this. We’re gonna be right at the barricades, you can’t just stand there empty-handed. Pick one."

You groaned, "Fine."

Your eyes sweep over the options, scanning each face printed on the glossy boards. You won’t say it out loud—not yet—but you’ll admit it now. They’re all… ridiculously handsome.

And one of them stands out.

Soft brown eyes. A small, almost knowing smile. Something about his face makes your breath hitch. "Uh..."

Da-hee leans in, brow furrowing. "What are you picking? Wait. Are you okay? Why are you so red—"

"I'm not," You quickly pointed at the picket, avoiding her stare like your life depended on it. "This one."

A slow, mischievous grin spreads across her face. "Oh-ho." She turns to the waiting merch seller, smiling some more.

"One Beomgyu, please."

You followed her... once again.

You didn’t have much of a choice. But this time, your steps felt… lighter. Movements are less reluctant than when you first arrived.

You weren’t sure why. Maybe it was the way the heat had finally eased, the golden glow of late afternoon settling over the pavement. Maybe it was the way MOAs—total strangers—smiled at you like you belonged, their warmth making you feel strangely at ease. Maybe it was the fact of not hearing the word soulmate even once. That you don't feel the odd one out.

Or maybe—just maybe—it was the picket you now held carefully in your hands.

You didn’t know how it happened. How you went from teasing Da-hee about her obsession to clutching a piece of laminated paper like it meant something. But the more you looked around, the more you understood.

It wasn’t just about the idols printed on banners or the music playing faintly in the background. But also, it was about them. These people who glowed with excitement, who found joy in simply being here, in loving unapologetically.

You were sceptical of it at first, seeing the front of HYBE last week. The protest. But just like everything, you saw it. The good side of being a fan.

How they shined—not only because of who they adored, but because of how they adored. How happy they were to love, and to share that love with everyone around them.

And somehow, standing here among them, you felt a little brighter, too.

"Where are we going now?"

"MOAZONE," Da-hee answers without hesitation, pulling you toward yet another booth. The concert doors won’t open for another thirty minutes, but she’s on a mission. The funny thing is—she doesn’t really need to drag you anymore.

Something has settled in your bones. You’re going to see this through, stay until the last song fades. And maybe—you’ll find yourself here again next time.

"It’s a booth where you can pull a concert-exclusive photocard," she explains further, eyes shining with excitement.

You nod, letting her lead the way. The line is long. When it’s finally Da-hee’s turn, she gasps, then squeals so loudly people around her chuckle. "Yeonjun!" she cries, clutching the card to her chest like it’s the most precious thing in the world. "I got him!"

Then, it’s your turn.

A row of face-down cards is laid out before you. You don’t think too hard about it—you just point to one.

The staff hands it over, and when you flip it, your breath catches.

"You got Beomgyu?!" Da-hee shrieks, bouncing on her toes beside you. You barely hear her. Because there he is.

Elbow propped up, chin resting on his hand, that same small, knowing smile—only this time, it’s wider.

Fucking hell.

Da-hee grabs your arm, shaking you. "Girl, you are officially a Beomgyu magnet. I'm unfriending you if don't start liking them,"

Beomgyu.

Beomgyu. His name loops in your mind, over and over. And for some reason, it fits. His name suits him.

You tried your best not to break a smile. "Come on,"

If you had told yourself a year ago that you’d be here—crammed into a packed venue, surrounded by screaming teenagers—you would’ve laughed. Hard.

And yet, here you are, laughing. Not at the absurdity of it, but with it. Caught up in the moment with Da-hee, the crowd’s energy vibrates as hundreds of voices chant their names.

“It’s soundcheck first,” Da-hee leans in, her voice barely cutting through the noise. “Then the main concert.”

You nod, still grinning. “Okay.”

Then, the opening notes of a song play through the speakers. The crowd erupts. “Oh my god!” Da-hee shrieks, “It’s Deja Vu!”

The five of them step onto the stage. It’s a blur—lights flashing, voices screaming. Your heart pounds against your ribs as the music swells, wrapping around you like something alive.

It’s beautiful.

A tall man—easily the tallest—moves toward your section, waving with an easy smile, deep dimples carving into his soft-looking cheeks. It reminds you of bread. The warmth of it is infectious, and before you even realise it, you're waving back, grinning at someone whose name you didn’t even know this morning.

Then, the song begins to wind down. And that’s when you see him.

Beomgyu.

His steps are slower than the others, like he’s taking his time, scanning the crowd with careful eyes. You tell yourself not to look. Not when he gets closer. Not when that strange, restless nervousness twists in your stomach. You clench your fists and stare at the ground. Why? Why does this feel so overwhelming?

Around you, voices grew. The energy shifts, and you know it’s only a matter of time before you give in. You look up, unsure.

The mic is at his lips, his voice singing into the melody—until suddenly, he stops.

All because his eyes meet yours.

Everything else fades. The crowd, the shake of Da-hee beside you, even the music that was supposed to be loud. All that’s left is the pull—a red thread stretching between, searing itself into your vision, blinding in its intensity—demanding to be seen.

On stage, he stands impossibly still, his fingers gripping the mic like he sees it too.

It can't be real.

“We're trending again,” Taehyun says, flopping onto Beomgyu’s hotel bed with a sigh. “What the hell?”

Beomgyu leans back against the headboard, “How much time do we have?”

Taehyun checks his watch. “Practice is in… oh. Hours.” He exhales, shaking his head in awe. “This is actually happening. A sold-out stadium, Beomgyu. Can you believe that? Remember that tiny, run-down building we used to train in? The cracked floorboards, the growing mushrooms?” He laughs, eyes distant.

“When Yeonjun used to sneak his soulmate in, trying to show off like he was already famous? As a trainee. And now—now, we’re here.”

Beomgyu snorts. “In that practice room, too. I still don’t know how his soulmate put up with that. Or how Yeonjun didn’t get kicked out.”

“Yeah. They just couldn’t let go of each other.” Taehyun laughs, shaking his head. “And I don't think Big Hit will let go of him too."

It had been one of the first rules drilled into them during training—no soulmates. No... searching. And if they already had one? They had to tell them. Have the conversation. An agreement that would turn everything into a secret.

Soulmates were inevitable, unstoppable. Beomgyu still remembers the contract in his hands, the way he read every word over and over, heart pounding. As if somewhere in the fine print, there was a clause that might hurt his soulmate. In the end, he signed.

If he ever found his soulmate, no one could know. Not until everything was over. In other words, disbandment.

"I'm missing her like crazy these days."

Beomgyu doesn’t respond right away. He just shrugs, tossing things out of his suitcase—a hoodie, a toothbrush, whatever his hands find first. He had noticed how restless Taehyun had been, the way he kept his phone glued to his hands, typing, hesitating, typing again. But what was there to say? What could he do about it?

The others were good at pretending. Hiding. The quiet hotel meetups, the stolen hours between schedules. But if Beomgyu was being honest, he could count on both hands the number of times any of the four had actually been with their soulmates since debut.

The fear of getting caught kept them all in line. Not just by the company, but by the fans. The horror stories weren’t just industry rumours—some were ancient, some recent.

If this doesn’t work out, I don’t know if I can take it. Taehyun had said that once. This career was everything. He wasn’t going to risk it. He wasn't ready. And Beomgyu understood. Everyone understood. He could already picture the protest trucks outside the company building if anyone ever slipped up.

"You heard anything from Heeseung?" Taehyun asks, his voice careful, his fingers tightening around his phone. Beomgyu knows him well enough to catch the shift—the way his mind drifts, went from missing his soulmate to remembering the latest scandal in their world.

Heeseung, the newest idol thrown into the fire.

He, who got caught with his soulmate.

"Yeah," Beomgyu says, swallowing. "He's okay, but… his soulmate is taking the worst of it."

Taehyun stills. The thought of his own soulmate being dragged into something like that—starts to burn at the back of his mind. What if it were her?

"Hey, don't overthink it," Beomgyu says because he sees it. He sees it in all of them. The quiet way they carry it, that they aren’t supposed to want. In their world, the idea that you should be free with your soulmate is just that—an idea. Or maybe worse. A peril. A risk too big to take.

He remembers Soobin crying once, blaming himself for wanting this life—this job. And how, in the end, the only person who could calm him down was his soulmate. The same person the company treated like a liability. Yet, the only one with the power to bring their leader back to himself.

The irony.

He also remembers the night he sat with his dad, asking him how he knew Mom was his. He had tilted his head, recounting their encounter, before he said one thing that stuck with him.

"Before I even saw the string, I knew… it was her."

Beomgyu used to cringe at that. Now, he wonders if he'll ever get the chance to feel it.

“Did you see everyone? Insane.” Yeonjun says, eyes wide as they sit in the salon-like chairs. “They’ve been out there since last night.”

Kai glances at him as much as he can without moving his head, his makeup artist carefully blending eyeshadow. “Yeah, I saw them. MOAs are bundled up out there, and it’s freezing. It's worrying me.”

"I feel like I'm about to throw up. I'm nervous,"

Playing a stadium—a sold-out one, this is the dream. The one every trainee chases, the one Beomgyu used to stare at the ceiling imagining, too afraid to believe it could ever be real. And yet, here it is.

His mind pulls him back to the past. The long nights, the aching muscles, the quiet sobs muffled into his pillow. The moments of doubt, the voices—his own, the other's—telling him he wasn’t enough. He remembers how hard they worked. How hard he worked. How many times they shared one meal because they couldn't afford another one. And still, somehow, they held on.

He knows he earned this, and fought for it with everything he had. But standing here now, bathed in the price of it all, it still doesn’t feel real. He stares at his hands once his stylist is done with his eyes. There’s something else tugging at him, a strange feeling that’s been lurking since morning.

What it is, he can’t quite say.

Beomgyu's eyes sweep over the big space. The kind of big that makes his head spin if he thinks about it too much. In a few hours, this place will be much packed. He’s been—on stages just like this, under lights just as bright but somehow, it still knocks the wind out of him.

It's soundcheck. He likes it because, with the lights up, he can actually see everyone. It was one of the rare moments he could see faces. He likes it as much as the offline fan signs. They move through the set, running back and forth across the stage, but his feet keep pulling him toward one side—like an instinct.

Beomgyu likes looking at MOAs. It feels good. Familiar, almost. Sometimes, he even recognizes a face— it was a feeling like a reminder of home, a classmate from school, someone he’d seen before. And then there’s the simple joy of it all. The way someone’s face brightens up because of him. It never gets old. It never stops making him happy, too.

But then, he notices one weird thing.

It’s strange. He’s right here. He could understand if you were looking at another member—fans have their favourites, after all. But you’re not looking at anyone. You're staring at the floor?

You’re not looking at all.

He tilts his head, trying to see better—to get a curious glimpse, and suddenly, his whole world shifts. His heart slams to a stop. It’s so sudden, so overwhelming, he almost stumbles forward, yanking him toward the barricade. "What?"

And then—you move, as if you heard his thoughts.

Just the slightest turn of your head, your face lifting, eyes locking onto his. He stops breathing. His fingers go numb around the mic. Everything slows, softens, blurs at the edges until there’s nothing but this moment. Just the two of you, staring.

The closeness of Beomgyu makes the crowd shift, bodies pressing closer—but you don’t move. You just stand there—still, steady—while the rest of the world shifts around you. Like the last grain of sand in an hourglass, holding on as everything else rushes past.

He swears he would’ve stayed like that forever—frozen, staring, lost—if not for the firm hand on his shoulder. A small tug. He blinks, the spell breaking just enough for reality to slip back in.

"Beomgyu? What's wrong?" Soobin. His leader gives him a look of worry and urgency, and that’s when he hears it, the music. He closes his agape lips, and clears his throat. The song is still playing. Right. He’s supposed to be—

But then his gaze flickers back to you.

It’s nothing, he tells himself. You’re just so so pretty. That’s all. Maybe it was your eyes or your hair or the way you did it. It was just fucking cute. It doesn’t mean anything. And—

His breath falters. He sees it.

He hadn’t noticed before. He had been too busy looking at you. Too caught up in the moment that he missed it entirely. Something all of the members have. Something Beomgyu had waited for his whole life.

The thread.

Thin, and so impossibly red. A string stretched between, glowing faintly under the stage lights. He looks down at his hand—at his ring finger— it's tied there. His eyes trace its path. To you. His chest tightens.

"Before I even saw the string, I knew… it was her."

Soulmate.

You’re his. After everything—after all this time—

He finally found you.

The dressing room is a blur of movement, stylists rushing, last-minute adjustments being made, and voices overlapping but he just sits there. Staring at the floor.

He’s dressed. He’s ready. He should be used to this by now, the pre-show jitters, the nervous energy that always sits in his chest before he steps on stage. But—his soulmate is out there. Somewhere in the crowd. And the thought grips him so tight it almost hurts. What if he never sees you again? What if you’re gone before he can find you?

Your face lingers in his mind, vivid and haunting. The way the lights hit your dress, the way you looked at him—it knocked the breath right out of his lungs. He was completely unprepared for it. You were so beautiful that he almost forgot what he was doing.

He’s never been shaken like that before. Not in his personal life. Not as an idol. Not in school, at the company, on stage, meeting seniors, at award shows—never.

Waiting for the music queue, he finally lifts his head.

Muscle memory takes over. His body knows what to do. He’s trained for this, conditioned for it. Every movement, every note, every expression—it’s muscle memory now. His instincts take over before his thoughts can catch up. This is his life. His career. The one thing he chose, out of everything he could have been. How many people in the world get to do this? To stand under those lights, to hear thousands of voices calling his name, to live a dream most wouldn’t even dare to chase?

Would he trade it all, just to see you again?

His feet move—before he can stop them, despite his thoughts, his heart pulls him stronger toward your section. It's a force beyond his control. When he finally sees you again, it feels like a miracle. You’re still near the barricade, still close enough that he doesn’t have to search.

He keeps up, waves, and makes faces—things for MOAs, things he’s done a thousand times before. But his mind isn’t on them. It’s on you. And you’re just standing there again, frozen in place like you don’t trust yourself to move.

He waves again, but this time, it’s for you. Directly. You tilt your head, hesitant, and then—an unsure wave back. It’s so small, so subtle, but it makes him smile. His grin spreads before he can think twice.

Got you, beautiful.

He pumps his fist in an exaggerated show of triumph, like he just won a game only the two of you are playing. He watches as your eyes go wide, and if the lights weren’t so blinding, he swears he’d see the warmth rising to your cheeks. He fists his hand, trying to hold back from reaching out to you.

He crouches, and the fans around you surge forward, eager to be seen, but you don’t move. And then, he sees it—your eyes kept flickering downward, tracing the thread again and again, like you were making sure.

Yet you see it perfectly too.

You smile—small, hesitant, like you’re not sure this is really happening. Then, as if on impulse, you lift your hand, forming a careful, uncertain hand heart.

He doesn’t even wait a second before returning it.

His eagerness made you laugh. A breathless, disbelieving kind of laugh. He can’t hear it, not over the noise of the crowd, but he sees it in the way your shoulders shake, the way your eyes crease at the corners. His chest aches.

You're even more beautiful when you laugh.

He tosses a few kisses out into the air, but he gives his last kiss, the last one to you. You hesitate for only a second before sending one back. His response is instant—dramatic, ridiculous—clutching his chest like you’ve just shot him straight through the heart. He stumbles back, clutches at his clothes, so completely gone for you.

It’s meant to be a joke, but it isn’t.

Because you do have his heart, don’t you? And the strangest thing is, he doesn’t even know your name. Has never heard your voice. But right now, none of that matters. Maybe he’d stay here forever if he could, but the next song cut through the air, pulling him back to the present. His feet move, leading him away—away from you.

Before he joins the centre, just for a second, he looks back. A second to meet your eyes again, to make sure you're watching him.

And you are.

"Hyung," he breathes out.

Soobin turns, both of them standing still as stylists tug their sweat-drenched shirts off, replacing them with fresh ones.

But Beomgyu isn’t thinking about the show anymore.

He’s looking at Soobin. Waiting. Searching for the right way to ask without anyone else catching on. He doesn’t want them to hear. Doesn’t want them to know.

Not yet.

Soobin frowns slightly. “What? You've been looking distracted since earlier. Are you okay?”

“Your soulmate…” His eyes flicker down. He hesitates, searching for the right words. The right way to say this. "At—Tokyo? How did you…?"

He doesn’t need to finish the thought. How can the older forget the only time he managed to sneak his soulmate backstage? Soobin stares at Beomgyu. The latter's face is practically screaming his questions. How did you do it? How did you get them backstage? How did you make it happen?

Beomgyu has to see you. In front of him. Next to him. Because what if you disappear? What if he lets this slip through his fingers, and suddenly—you’re just gone? And what if this is his only chance?

The room moves around him—zippers, voices, fabric rustling—but all he can hear is his own ragged breathing. He moves his eyes. And there, watching him is their leader who knows him better than anyone—with that equally knowing look on his face.

"Let's talk. Just the two of us."

Beomgyu is your soulmate.

The boys just disappeared backstage, their song still ringing in your ears, but your hands won’t stop shaking. Your chest is tight, your throat burns, and there’s a sting at the corners of your eyes.

You're not a mistake. He’s here. He saw you.

His eyes, his smile. The way he moves, the faint dimple that appears when he does. The thought is too much—it makes your knees weak, and forces you to grip the barricade to keep yourself upright.

"Girl, I swear Beomgyu kept looking over here," Da-hee says, nudging you, completely oblivious to the storm unraveling in your chest. Then she catches sight of your face—at your trembling fingers, at the way you can’t seem to catch your breath.

“Y/N?” Her voice softens. “What’s wrong?”

The words leave your lips before you can even think. "I saw my soulmate."

Your voice shakes, barely above a whisper, but Da-hee hears it. Her eyes go wide. "Wait, what? Oh my god—where is he? Is he a MOA? Is he—”

She doesn’t even get to finish the thought before she freezes.

It clicks.

Then, slowly, her face shifts—from confusion to shock to absolute disbelief. The finding out, then the realising. She stares at you, her mouth slightly open, her hands hovering in the air like she doesn’t know what to do with them.

“Oh my fucking god.” Her hands fly to her mouth, like she needs to physically stop herself from screaming. Then she grabs her hair, like that’s going to help her process this.

“Is he—is Beomgyu—” She cuts herself off, whisper-shouting now, eyes darting toward the stage, toward the place where he just was. “Is that why he kept coming back over here?”

Her grip tightens on your arm, searching your face, waiting for you to confirm what she already knows. But you can’t say anything. All you can give is a small nod.

Minutes pass. The music swells and fades, song after song drifting through the speakers.

Da-hee stays by your side, rubbing soothing circles on your back, whispering reassurances you can’t fully process. At some point, you catch her sniffling into her hands, wiping away her own tears.

Sixteen years.

Sixteen years of friendship, of growing up together, of knowing each other better than anyone else ever could. She’s seen every version of you—the messy, the broken, the parts of you even you struggled to accept. She’s cried with you, cried for you, carried your grief like it was her own. Even after finding her own soulmate, she never left you behind. Never made you feel like you were missing something, like you were less.

And now—now she’s the reason you’re here.

She’s the reason you met him.

You think of every birthday candle she ever closed her eyes for, every whispered wish she made on your behalf—because she believed that if two people wished for the same thing, the universe had to listen.

And maybe she was right.

It doesn’t matter if he never speaks to you. If the lights were too bright, if the crowd was too big, if he never even saw the thread at all.

It doesn’t matter. Because you saw it.

And that means you were never a mistake. Never some error in the grand design.

He exists.

Da-hee squeezes your hands, grounding you as a woman in staff uniform approaches. Her eyes lock onto yours, scanning your face, your outfit—like she’s confirming, making sure. Then, she stops directly in front of you. “We need to check some information on your tickets.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. You’re not stupid. You know what this is. You know they wouldn’t say it outright, not here, not in front of all these people.

“I—I have a friend with me,”

The staff member hesitates, studying you for a beat too long. Then she nods. “She can come with you, but she’ll have to wait in the holding room.”

You turn to Da-hee, and she’s already looking at you, her eyes wide and glassy. For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then she forces a wobbly smile.

Let's go.

You’re going to meet Beomgyu.

The walk was terrifying. Your hands clench tighter with every step, nails digging into your palms, but it does nothing to steady you. Every passing glance burns into your skin—people sneaking curious glances—staff members, crew, people who know exactly why you’re here.

Da-hee had to stay behind in the outer lounge. Now, it’s just you and the staff member leading you deeper into the backstage hallways. The air is thick, suffocating, and you force yourself to breathe through it.

Then she stops. A white door stands in front of you. Dressing Room is printed neatly on a sign, but the words blur as your mind spins.

She knocks. Opens it.

Panic rushes in. What if he doesn’t want this? What if he only let you come here to reject you—to tell you, to your face, that even if the universe says you’re meant to be, he doesn’t want you? What if—

The thought vanishes the second you see him.

Beomgyu.

He’s mid-step, like he’s been pacing. He removes his hands from his face, his eyes widening just slightly before he clears his throat. “Come in,” he says, voice softer than you expected. It’s meant for the staff member, but his gaze never left yours.

The staff steps aside, gesturing for you to enter. Heat crawls up your neck as you force yourself to move, hyper-aware of the way he’s watching every step.

“You have 60 minutes, Beomgyu,” she says before closing the door behind you.

Beomgyu stares at you, and you stare back.

For a moment, neither of you move. Just standing there, eyes locked, as if the world has paused just for this. To anyone else, it might look awkward—but you can't look away as he does.

Your eyes traces over his face, bare and fresh like he just washed up. The soft curve of his cheekbones, the freckles and moles scattered like constellations—proof that the universe took its time with him. Perfect in a way that makes your chest ache.

He blinks, and your eyes catch on his lashes—delicate, dark, fluttering against his skin like something out of a dream.

How can someone be made this perfect?

The question lodges itself in your throat, and before you can stop it, your vision blurs. Tears threaten to spill, but you blink them away. You don’t even know if he wants this yet—

"What’s your name?" Beomgyu asks, his voice quieter than he expected. He watches the way you blink, the slight parting of your lips like you hadn’t expected him to speak first.

His hands curl into fists at his sides. The urge to reach out—to cup your face, to feel your skin—is overwhelming. But he holds himself back.

Beomgyu has never considered himself the kind of person to take the first step. But not this. Not with you. He wants to start a conversation, anything—to get you talking, to hear your voice, to know you.

"Y/N." The sound of your voice stills him. It settles in his chest, not as something new, but as something he swears he’s always known—like a song he’s heard in a dream, waiting to be remembered. His lips twitch into a small, almost dazed smile.

Your voice is so pretty, he thinks. So pretty that it hurts.

He repeats your name, slower this time, rolling it over his tongue like he’s memorizing the way it feels to say it. And when you smile—just the faintest curve of your lips—his own smile widens into a grin.

"So, uh, hi?" Beomgyu says, and it pulls a laugh from you. His heart stumbles over itself at the sound, warmth blooming in his chest. It’s ridiculous, really, how easily you affect him.

"Did you come here alone?" he asks, trying to steady himself.

"I was with a friend," you say, and his eyes flicker—just for a second—to your lips before settling back on yours. "She’s outside."

"Hm." Beomgyu nods slowly, as if letting the thought settle. Then, slowly, he reaches out—his palm open, facing up, an unspoken invitation for you to give your hand out.

Your breath catches. Hesitation flickers for just a moment before you place your hand in his. Beomgyu feels warmth creep up his neck the second your skin meets, a flush he hopes you don’t notice. His fingers curl gently around yours, testing the weight of your hand in his own.

"Come on," he says, his voice softer now. He tugs you forward—careful, gentle, afraid he's hurt you in any way if he pulls too hard. "You should sit. You must be tired from standing out there."

"I could say the same," you murmur as you both sink into the couch. Beomgyu turns slightly toward you, his knee brushing yours, but he doesn’t let go of your hand. His thumb traces absentminded circles against your skin. "You danced and ran around the stage all night," you add, tilting your head at him.

He chuckles, the sound low and a little breathless. Your eyes drift around the room—clothing racks, scattered bags, the quiet remnants of a space that had been buzzing with energy just minutes ago.

"Yeah, I was pretty tired," he admits. Then, after a pause, softer this time, when you look at him again, he’s already staring. "But not anymore."

Beomgyu takes in everything—your lips, the way the light catches in your eyes, the soft of your hand in his. He doesn’t even think before he speaks, before the thought that’s been looping in his head since he first saw you finally slips past his lips.

"God, you're so beautiful."

Beomgyu watches as your cheeks flush, the warmth creeping up your skin like the slow bloom of dawn. He knew—you were his soulmate. Fates stitched together long before this moment, yet nothing could have prepared him for the way you looked right now. He never imagined that watching you blush under his words would feel this intoxicating.

"You’re the one who’s beautiful," you murmur, barely above a whisper. The words feel foreign on your tongue, yet true in a way that unsettles you. You clear your throat, trying to mask the way your heart stumbles over itself, but Beomgyu only tightens his grip on your hand.

You wonder how you even got here. This morning, you woke up with no idea that by evening, you'd be sitting across from your soulmate, flirting like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He chuckles—Beomgyu has heard the word beautiful more times than he can count. It’s been thrown at him in passing, whispered through screams from fans, printed in glossy magazines. But somehow, from your lips, it sounds different.

The next few minutes passed in easy conversation. Beomgyu had already pieced together bits of your life—you were only here because Da-hee dragged you along—he’d been hoping to meet her too, if only to thank her.

He knew you worked a corporate job, that photography was your escape. That you were two years older than him, a fact that he immediately latched onto, whispering noona in a teasing lilt just to see the way you’d roll your eyes laugh and swat his arm. But the truth was, he didn’t want to call you that. It was your name he wanted to say. He felt like he’d already spent a lifetime missing it, and now that he knew it, he never wanted to stop saying it.

You had learned things about him, too. That he’d loved music since he was a kid, that he picked up a guitar before he fully understood its chords. That he was cast as a trainee before he even hit the climax of his teenage years, and that six years had passed since he debuted. Things you could have easily searched online, or you could have read every article, and watched every interview, but nothing made your heart flutter quite like the way he told his own story.

The contrast between your lives was undeniable. Maybe that’s why it took so long for fate to push you toward each other.

While you were drowning in homework, he was in a practice room, chasing a dream. While you sat through lectures and worried about exams, he was in a studio, recording songs that would echo through stadiums. While you cried over a failed job interview, he stayed up until dawn, running through choreography again and again until his legs gave out. Your society—were parallel lines moving in different directions.

But sitting here, watching him scrunch his nose in laughter, none of that seemed to matter. Two people from different worlds, felt like it had faded into one—just by being next to each other.

He hadn’t once let go of your hand for the past hour.

"No, I just—I didn’t know where else to put it, so I stuck it there." You fumble for an excuse, cheeks burning as Beomgyu grins at you. He had spotted the photocard of him tucked into the back of your phone case, and he hadn’t let it go since.

“And it was random,” you add quickly, feeling your face heat up. “You have to randomly pick it.”

The truth is, Beomgyu knows. He knows it was a random selection. He knows you’re flustered. And he loves it. Loves the way you try to explain yourself, loves hearing you ramble, loves the way your face heats up under his stare. And to be honest, if it had been another member’s face staring back at him, no matter how petty it sounded, he also knows he wouldn’t have been too thrilled about it.

He’s in deep.

"Beomgyu, it's time to go." The same staff member says, pulling you both back to reality. You didn't even hear the doors opening. Her eyes flicker to your joined hands for a second, but she doesn’t say anything—just turns and steps outside.

You glance at Beomgyu, and he’s pouting. "We’re flying to Japan tomorrow morning, Y/N."

"Oh." The thought hadn’t even crossed your mind. You just met your soulmate, and by morning, he’d be gone. "Okay."

You stand up, expecting him to do the same, but he doesn’t move. Your hands dangle between you because he still hasn’t let go. "Beomgyu?"

"I’ll see you as soon as I get back, okay?" His voice is softer now, like he’s trying to find the right words. His gaze lingers on you, unreadable for a moment, before he finally stands. He squeezes your hands gently. "It won’t be too long."

"Alright… we have each other's numbers, so… text me."

"Just know your phone might be buzzing non-stop,"

"Got it." You roll your eyes, smiling. "I’ll survive."

"And wear warm clothes—it’s winter."

"You too."

"Eat on time."

"You’re the one doing concerts. I should be the one saying that."

He ignores your deflection, pressing on. "Sleep well. Lock your doors properly. You live alone, so it’s dangerous. Don’t go out too late. And if you do, call me, okay? Actually, I’d prefer if you didn’t go out too late at all. Please—make sure you don’t—"

He doesn’t get to finish. Before he can say another word, you reach up, sliding your arms around the back of his neck, pulling him into a hug. His words cut off instantly, replaced by a soft inhale—like he hadn’t breathed since he started speaking. Your heart squuezes over itself at his endless concern, spreading through your chest. Blinking rapidly, trying to push away the tears threatening to spill.

For the first time tonight, Beomgyu lets go of your hand—only to wrap both arms around you, one firm around your waist, the other reaching up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair.

"I’ll see you soon, Beomgyu," you murmur.

You feel him tilt his head slightly before pressing a fleeting, warm kiss to your temple. "I’ll see you soon."

Elevators terrify you. It scares you because it feels like everything could come crashing down at any second. Why would you trust something that rises so quickly—too fast?

It can't last, doesn't it?

You feel him snuggle to you more, and you chuckle, pressed against him, his scent, his arms around you, holding you safely—his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek, as if whispering that the fall you fear will never come.

Elevators terrified you.

You wish you could have captured Da-hee’s face when she saw you walking over with Beomgyu beside you, his hand resting firmly on your back. Her eyes widened, mouth slightly agape, before she shot you a knowing look.

Beomgyu offered her a quick thanks, the paper bag with your heels swinging from your hands, and you stood there in the fresh pair of sneakers he’d somehow found in your size—because he wanted to. His eyes met yours for just a second longer before he turned to leave.

The second you stepped into the parking lot, Da-hee lost it. She let out a squeal so loud you had to clamp a hand over her mouth, laughing as she practically vibrated with excitement. "What just happened?!" she whispered against your palm, her eyes sparkling.

That night, as soon as you got home, your phone rang. His name lit up the screen.

It took only a second before answering.

It was awkward at first—neither of you really knowing what to say—but before you knew it, you were talking about everything and nothing, voices laced with exhaustion but neither willing to hang up first. He was leaving in a few hours, and you had to be the one to convince him to sleep, reminding him—more than once—that he had a flight to catch.

You had just curled up in your blankets when your phone buzzed again. Dozy, you reached for it, thumb swiping across the screen.

Choi Beomgyu I’m sorry for making you wait. I promise we’ll make up for all the time we lost. Sleep well, beautiful.

Even as sleep pulled you under, the smile on your lips never faded.

You wake up to the relentless ringing of your doorbell. A groan slips past your lips as you burrow deeper into your blankets. It’s Sunday. No work. No alarms. Just sleep—at least, that was the plan.

The doorbell rings again.

With an exaggerated sigh, you drag yourself out of bed, doing the bare minimum to look somewhat presentable. Your hair is probably a mess, your face still puffy from sleep, but you don’t care. Whoever decided to disturb your well-earned rest better have a damn good reason.

You glance at the clock on your way out. Oh. It’s not even early—it’s almost 1 PM.

Squinting against the bright light as you crack the door open, you’re met with a sight that instantly wakes you up. A delivery man stands there, arms full, holding the biggest bouquet of red roses you’ve ever seen. The sheer number of petals is overwhelming, a deep sea of crimson spilling over the edges of his grasp.

"What—" Your brain struggles to catch up, and then it clicks. Beomgyu. He asked for your address yesterday.

"Y/N?" The man confirms, struggling under the bouquet.

Your eyes widen. "Damn, just how many are in there?"

"Three hundred and fifteen roses," he says, barely holding onto the mass of flowers. "Please sign here."

Three hundred and fifteen. You’re smiling as you take the pen from him.

You stumble slightly, still half-dazed as you carefully set the massive bouquet down, trying not to crush a single petal. Your fingers tremble as you reach for the small card nestled between the roses, your heart already beating a little too fast.

315 months of not being with you. This won’t make up for it, but I hope it makes you happy.

You inhale sharply. Your chest tightens. 315 months. He counted. Beomgyu counted the exact number of months you’ve been alive—how does he even think like this? Tears prick at your eyes before you can stop them. He’s ridiculous. He’s thoughtful in a way that completely undoes you.

Before you even realise what you’re doing, you’re running. Not walking—running. Because suddenly, every second without hearing his voice feels like a second wasted.

Your fingers fumble as you dial his number, pressing the phone to your ear. It barely rings once before the line clicks open—like he had been waiting for this call all along. “Beomgyu—” your voice comes out uneven, breathless.

He chuckles softly, “So… I take it you liked it?”

It’s already 3 PM.

Somehow, you lost track of time, carefully splitting the bundle into smaller arrangements, placing them in vases around your apartment. Now, your living room and kitchen are drenched in the scent of roses—not that you’re complaining.

Beomgyu had stayed on the phone with you the entire time, talking about his morning, his voice in the background as you worked. That is, until someone called for him on the other end, reminding him he had things to do.

You sighed when the call ended. It's sunday, and his sunday is like the worst day of your week. And you're here, resting.

Now, fresh out of the shower, droplets of water still clung to your skin as you stepped onto the cool tile. A shiver ran down your spine as you grabbed a towel, pressing it to your face, inhaling the soft, familiar scent of fabric softener.

Dressed in cozy clothes, you curled up on the couch, remote in one hand, a bowl of yogurt and berries resting on your lap. Television played softly as you mindlessly scrolled through channels, enjoying the quiet.

Until your phone buzzed. You unlocked it, eyes immediately landing on the message.

Nut-job Da-hee. Girl! He's extra glowy today!! OMG <link>

You tapped the link, expecting a video to pop up, but instead, it directed you to download an app. You went along with it, quickly signing in and typing out a cheeky username.

The video loaded—Soobin and Beomgyu, in a hotel room. A small table sat near the camera, cluttered with food containers and drinks. Beomgyu was on the bed, lounging comfortably but still close enough to be part of the frame.

And Da-hee wasn’t exaggerating—he looked good. The black shirt fit him just right, his dark hair falling effortlessly, lips tinted a soft pink. A phone in hand, completely unaware of just how stunning he looked.

An idea sparked in your mind.

"It's not barley tea, MOA," Beomgyu laughs, shaking his head as Soobin insists otherwise. No matter how many times their leader repeats himself, the comments keep flooding in, doubting him.

"Choi Beomgyu really traumatized you, huh?" he teases, eyes crinkling with amusement.

"What do you mean?" Beomgyu argues, but Soobin is already moving on, reading a new comment aloud. "Barley tea is healthy,"

Just then, Beomgyu’s phone buzzes. He glances down at the screen.

My Y/N Live?

His back immediately straightens. Shit. You’re watching? He’s about to type out a response when another message pops up.

You look handsome.

Beomgyu presses a hand over his mouth, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. He wants to—

"Beomgyu, MOAs are asking what you're doing," Soobin interrupts, his eyes full of silent curiosity.

"Nothing," Beomgyu says too quickly. "Kai sent a meme." He shifts closer to the camera, Soobin right beside him. With his phone in his hands, he types a message, fully aware that Soobin is peeking at his screen. They probably look ridiculous—both of them staring down at their phones while thousands of people watch.

You're watching?

A few seconds pass before your reply pops up.

Yes.

Beomgyu inhales, trying to focus as Soobin keeps talking. His fingers move instinctively.

I'm shy.

Why? You look good.

A pause. Then another message.

Wait, stop looking at your phone. Let MOA see you? Username: 315flowersmyass.

Beomgyu chokes on a laugh. His lips curl up as he locks his phone and holds it up to the camera, as if to prove he’s done. As if to prove that he followed your words.

"So cute," he sings, the words slipping out without thought. The chat erupts, MOAs spamming hearts and messages.

Then he catches it.

315flowersmyass kekekeke -

His grin stretches wider. He closes his face on the screen. "Hi, MOA." He giggles.

This—this is cute. He’s always enjoyed going live, but now he knows you’re watching, he discovers a love for it he never even knew was possible.

The live eventually comes to an end. As soon as it does, Soobin turns to Beomgyu with a knowing smile. "I'm happy you finally found her," he says simply. Beomgyu doesn’t respond right away—just smiles, warmth spreading through his chest. Then his phone buzzes.

He checks it, and the moment he does, a gasp slips past his lips.

It’s a picture. You.

A snack is held near your face, your expression relaxed. You’re in cozy clothes, looking effortlessly beautiful, breathtaking. The picture made Beomgyu wish he could fly back to you right there and then. Over his shoulder, Soobin leans in. "Is that her?" he asks, then grins. "She's pretty."

Beomgyu doesn’t look away from his phone as his lips curl into a smile.

"She is," he murmurs, almost to himself.

"She’s here."

Ji-an’s voice pulls you from your focus. She’s standing beside your desk, phone pressed to her ear, while you scan last week’s finance report. Your eyes flick over the spreadsheet, catching an error in a formula, but before you can fix it, Ji-an calls your name. "Y/N, there’s a delivery for you. They’re at the door."

"Oh," you murmur, pushing your reading glasses up the bridge of your nose. Contacts felt like too much trouble today. "Thanks."

As you stand, a familiar warmth spreads through your chest. Outside, the delivery man hands you a bouquet—this time, white roses.

You peek at the note while walking back, the click of your heels filling the space. Your way back to your desk by the window. The skyline stretches endlessly beyond the glass, a vast expanse of city lights and open sky.

Ow! I fell! Fell for you~ —bg <3

A laugh escapes before you can stop it—he's so silly. One of the things you realised recently.

"That's the fourth bouquet this month, Y/N," Ji-an muses, a teasing smile playing on her lips. "I know you just met your soulmate, but flowers every week? That’s next-level sweet. I’m jealous—mine isn't really a flowers kind of person."

You return her smile, "Yeah, he's the sweetest."

It’s been a month since you met Beomgyu. A single day—that’s all you had together. And yet, in the weeks that followed, he never let distance become an excuse. Even with his tour in full swing, miles stretching endlessly between you, he still found ways to reach you. A call in the middle of the night. A voice note filled with sleepy laughter. And these flowers—his way of saying, I'm here. I'm coming back to you soon.

Ji-an leans against your desk, eyes glinting with curiosity. "So… when do we get to meet him?" she asks, wiggling her brows. "You know the drill—everyone meets everyone’s soulmate. It’s basically tradition. At least one or two quick bond drinks a year, right?"

The playful edge in her voice makes your stomach twist. Because as much as you want to laugh along, to pretend that everything is as simple as it should be… you know the truth.

They can’t meet him. Your friends, your family—none of them can. Maybe not now. Maybe not ever. You don’t even know when you will see him again.

You swallow, forcing down the sudden tightness in your throat. The warmth you felt just moments ago, thinking about him, is now laced with something heavier.

"He's—he's busy," you say, hoping your voice doesn’t betray you. You glance at the bouquet on your desk, fingers tracing the petals as if they hold an answer you don’t have. "Maybe next time."

The day finally ends, and you’re grateful Ji-an didn’t push for more.

You clutch the bouquet a little tighter as you step into the elevator, the faint scent of roses lingering in the air. By the time you make it to the parking lot, exhaustion weighs on you—but then you remember.

You forgot to send a text. Pulling out your phone, you type: I’m heading home now.

The message sends, and a small smile tugs at your lips. Beomgyu is probably fast asleep by now, lost in a time zone opposite yours. He won’t see it for hours, but you text him anyway—because you can already hear his voice in your head, playful and pouty. You forgot to tell me again, he’d whine. Can you please let me know?

You’ve learned a lot from him in such a short time. How simple it is to make someone feel remembered. How easy it is to reach out. How even in the busiest moments, there’s always a second to say, I haven’t forgotten you.

Because that’s what he’s been doing for you all along.

You slip your phone back into your pocket, ready to head to your car when someone stops you. Your steps slow, brows knitting together as your scan lands on a girl—sitting right on the hood of your car.

Your car. She’s perched there like she belongs, fingers idly tracing patterns against the metal.

"Hey," you call out, keeping your voice even. "It’s not really polite to sit on someone else’s car, sweetheart."

Her head lifts, eyes locking onto yours with disdain, "Don't sweetheart me, you slut."

The venom in her words knocks the air from your lungs. Your breath catches, shock flashing through you as she stands. She’s young. Much younger than you.

"Excuse me?"

"Are you fucking deaf?" she snaps.

Your instincts flare—this isn’t normal. You take a step back, "Leave. Now. Before I call the police."

But she doesn’t move. Instead, she tilts her head, and smirked. "You’re Beomgyu’s soulmate, aren’t you?"

Your body locks up. How does she know? Your fingers tighten around the stems of the flowers, the thorns pressing into your palm. You want to speak, to deny, to do something, but the words won’t come.

Because you know—whatever you say next could make this worse.

She clicks her tongue, taking a slow step toward you. "Do this while I’m still being nice," she says, voice eerily light. "Stay away from him. Or I’ll destroy everything." She tilts her head again, a slow blink. "I’d rather see him ruined than with you, unnie."

She steps past you then, her shoulder knocking into yours just hard enough to make you stumble back. Your hands cold, heart hammering against your ribs. She doesn’t look back. Not until she’s a few feet away.

"Don’t think I won’t do it," she murmurs. "Just think about how I knew. Your name. Your workplace. Your parking spot."

She smiles, "Don’t test me."

I’m heading home now.

Beomgyu rubs the sleep from his eyes, his fingers fumbling for his phone the moment he wakes up. Checking for your messages has become second nature—his first instinct, before he even fully shakes off sleep.

The corners of his lips curl into a soft smile as he reads your text. You remembered.

God, he misses you.

When he gets back, he’s not letting you out of his sight. He’ll beg his company if he has to—anything to steal just a little more time with you. He wants to spoil you, to show up with flowers every single day just to see that shy smile of yours. He’d buy you things you didn’t even know you needed, take pictures of you at every chance, make playlists for you, drag you into late-night game sessions just to hear you laugh and call him ridiculous. Love is effort. That’s what his parents always told him. He’d give it—all of it.

Maybe one day, he’d convince you to visit Daegu with him. Introduce you to his family, let his mom fuss over you, watch his brother tease him relentlessly. And Toto… Would you like Toto?

The thought makes him chuckle as he taps your contact and presses call. It rings. Once. Twice. Three times. His smile falters.

Then, voicemail.

His brows knit together. He tries again. Straight to voicemail. The phone feels heavier in his hand now.

It’s the first time you haven’t picked up.

He’s in the van now. It’s been hours.

Beomgyu grips his phone, scrolling through his notifications, eyes darting to every new alert. His heart lifts for a second—only to sink just as fast when he realizes it’s not you. The screen dims in his hands, but he doesn’t put it down. He can’t.

"You still haven’t heard from her?" Soobin asked. He’s the only one still awake, eyes heavy but observant. Beomgyu hadn’t meant to make it obvious, but he’s never been good at hiding things—not to his members.

"No," Beomgyu mutters, shaking his head. His throat feels tight. "We always talk before she falls asleep."

Soobin exhales, tilting his head back against the seat. "She probably crashed as soon as she got home. Long day, maybe?" He keeps his tone easy, reassuring. "Just focus on later's concert. She’ll probably be awake by then."

Beomgyu nods, forcing a small smile. "Yeah. You’re right. Thanks, hyung."

Soobin claps a hand on his back. "Don't think about it too much."

Beomgyu did his best to push thoughts of you aside during the concert. He smiled, he sang, he danced—gave everything to the stage like he always did. But the second he was backstage, drenched in sweat and breathless from the high of performing, his hands were already reaching for his phone.

Still nothing.

Back at the hotel, Soobin and Yeonjun made sure he ate. He forced down a few bites, just enough to keep them from worrying. Now, fresh from a shower, exhaustion settles deep in his bones. His muscles ache, the weight of the night pressing down on him, but sleep won’t come.

His phone sits beside him on the bed. You’re probably asleep. He tells himself that. He should leave it alone.

But knowing doesn’t stop him from pressing call. It rings.

Once. Twice.

He’s about to give up when the line clicks.

“H-Hello?” Beomgyu stutters, his voice unsteady. No response. His heart pounds as he pulls the phone away, checking the screen just to be sure. The call is still connected. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

“Beomgyu.” The way you say his name makes his breath catch.

“Are you okay? I’ve been—”

“Beomgyu.” You cut him off again, your voice softer this time. “Yeah, I’m… okay.” He hears you take a shaky breath. “I’ve just been thinking for the past couple of hours, and…” His grip on the phone tightens.

"What is it?"

“Maybe we should lie low for a bit? You’re busy, and you’re at the peak of your career.” A pause. “It’s not that I’m going away,” you add quickly, “I’m your soulmate, after all.” The last part is barely a whisper.

Beomgyu shoots up from where he’s sitting, running a hand through his hair, fingers pulling at the strands. He feels cold all over. His pulse pounds in his ears.

“Where is this coming from?” His voice is raw, edged dangerously close to panic. “What happened, Y/N?”

“Nothing, really,” you say too quickly. “It just… crossed my mind.” There’s a pause. A beat of silence that feels like a lifetime. “It’s late there. It’s 2 AM. Please sleep.”

His chest tightens. “Are you breaking up with me?” The words feel foreign in his mouth. His voice drops to a whisper. “Do you not want me? Do you not want this?”

“Beomgyu, please.” You voice wavers. “Our fate is certain. But right now… I just feel like it’s not working.” You exhale slowly. “You should sleep, okay? Let’s talk again… soon.”

And then the line goes dead.

Beomgyu stares at his screen, his fingers frozen, his mind racing to process what just happened. His chest caves in, breath shaky as he stumbles back onto the bed. And then—he breaks.

His hands cover his face, shoulders trembling as it all crashes down on him. He had a feeling when you didn't answer his call. A whisper of doubt, an inkling of fear.

And now, it’s real.

4 AM, and Beomgyu still hasn’t slept. His eyes burn from exhaustion, but his mind won’t shut off. He’s been texting you, calling you—over and over—but every attempt goes straight to voicemail. At some point, your phone must have died, or worse, you turned it off.

He lies on the stiff hotel bed, staring at the ceiling. It’s unfamiliar. Cold. But then again, when was the last time anything in his life felt familiar? Felt like home?

His phone dings.

He scrambles for it, heartbeat hammering, but before he can check the notification, an unknown number flashes across the screen. It’s stupid to answer an unknown call at this hour. Their managers had given them talks about it. But something—something in his gut—tells him to pick up.

“Hello?” His voice is hoarse.

“Beomgyu.” A pause. Then— “It’s Da-hee,”

His breath catches.

“She’s going to be angry if she finds out I called you,” Da-hee says, voice hushed, urgent. “But I can’t just sit back and watch this happen. Just listen to me. I’m going to tell you everything—from the start.”

"Please."

"Don’t think I won’t do it," she murmurs. "Just think about how I knew. Your name. Your workplace. Your parking spot."

She smiles, "Don’t test me."

You take another sip of whiskey, curled up on the couch, knees drawn to your chest. The tears won’t stop. No matter how many times you wipe them away, they keep coming, slipping down your cheeks, burning just as much as the liquor sliding down your throat.

Your thoughts won’t stop either.

Beomgyu.

He has everything—his dream, his career, a future so bright it could swallow you whole. He has the world at his feet. And you? You’re just… you. Not worth the risk. Not worth the detour. Maybe this was always how it was supposed to be. Maybe that’s why your paths were never meant to cross in the first place. You saw the consequence, felt it when you passed the Hybe building, that heavy reminder of the impossible divide between your worlds.

It should be enough. Enough that you got to know him, enough that he even knows your name. Enough that you get to see him on a screen. It should be enough.

But is it?

“Fuck,” you choke out, voice breaking. You press the heel of your palm against your eyes, as if that could stop the ache. “Just when I finally saw you… What a joke.” You shake your head, wiping your face with the sleeve of your sweater. “The universe is a fucking idiot for ever thinking we were meant to be.”

You take another drink, and it burns.

“Y/N.”

You blink up, vision swimming, to see Da-hee standing in the doorway, concern etched across her face.

“I’ve been ringing your doorbell,” she says, stepping closer. “I used the spare key—why are you crying?”

You don’t respond. You just stare at her, eyes glassy, cheeks wet. She moves toward you, eyes flickering to the near-empty glass in your hand. You’ve been drinking for hours. You already called in sick to work—there’s no way you could function like this.

"Oh, honey," She sighs, reaches for the glass, and you don’t fight it. You let it go. "What happened?"

“Fate is already taking back what it let me borrow.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, but Da-hee hears it. She your holds your hand.

“What are you talking about?” she asks. “Explain.”

You swallow hard. Your throat feels tight, like every word is fighting to stay buried. But you force them out.

“A sasaeng,” you murmur, watching as Da-hee’s eyes widen in alarm. “She found out about me. She knows everything, Da-hee. Where I live, where I work, my family—everything.” You suck in a shaky breath, blinking back fresh tears. “And the worst of it, she fucking said she’s going to ruin Beomgyu.”

The moment the words leave your lips, your resolve shatters. You cry—like a child finally breaking after being scolded in front of everyone, holding it all in until no one’s around to see. Da-hee pulled you into her arms as you sobbed. You cling to her, hands fisting her sweater. “I have to let him go,” you choke out. “I can’t do this to him. To them. They don’t deserve this.”

Da-hee pulls back, her hands firm on your shoulders. “No,” she says, shaking her head. “You don’t have to do this alone. We can go to the police. We can tell Beomgyu—”

“And then what?” you cut in, voice hollow. “What can they really do? Stop her from telling the world? Keep every single person quiet? Even if she gets caught, the damage will already be done.”

Da-hee doesn’t answer. She just sinks onto the couch beside you, eyes shining with unshed tears, because she knows you well. She knows you too well—knows that the emotional version of you wouldn’t be able to hear her, not right now. Not until the sobs quiet down and the pain in your chest eases just a little. So, she just holds you.

Your phone screen lights up between you. Another call.

Beomgyu. He’s still calling. Still trying.

"I don’t think it’s best to answer it right now—"

But you don’t listen to Da-hee’s warning. Your fingers tremble as they hover over the screen. You have to end this. Now. While you still have the strength. Because deep down, you know—

If you wake up tomorrow, you might not be able to let him go.

“H-Hello?” He stutters on the other line, his voice unsteady. Your breath catches in your throat. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

Everything. Everything is wrong.

“Beomgyu.”

I miss you. How can I go on without you?

“Are you okay? I’ve been—”

“Beomgyu.” You cut him off again, your voice softer this time. “Yeah, I’m… okay.” You take a shaky breath. “I’ve just been thinking for the past couple of hours, and…” You hesitate.

I’m not okay. I’ve been thinking about you, only you, and how my existence could ruin everything you’ve worked for.

"What?" His inhale is sharp, laced with the beginnings of panic.

“Maybe we should lie low for a bit? You’re busy, and you’re at the peak of your career.” You pause, fingers trembling. “It’s not that I’m going away,” you add quickly, desperate to believe your own words. “I’m your soulmate, after all.” The last part is barely a whisper.

I should be replaceable. And I shouldn’t be your priority. You press a hand to your mouth, as if you can keep the words from spilling out—keep the truth from bleeding through.

“Where is this coming from? What happened, Y/N?”

My heart is breaking. And you’re too far away to hold it together.

“Nothing, really,” you say too quickly. “It just… crossed my mind.” You pause, swallowing. “It’s late there. It’s 2 AM. Please sleep.”

Please sleep. And forget about me.

“Are you breaking up with me? Do you not want me? Do you not want this?”

I want you more than anything. That’s why I have to do this. If I can save you from losing everything, I’ll do it. Even if it means losing you.

“Beomgyu, please.” You voice wavers. “Our fate is certain. But right now… I just feel like it’s not working.” You exhale slowly. “You should sleep, okay? Let’s talk again… soon.”

You press the end button.

The sobs rip through you, shaking your whole body and stealing the air from your lungs. You curl in on yourself, pressing your fist to your mouth, as if that could stop the sound, as if that could stop the pain. How can love be this cruel? How can the same thing that made you feel so alive now leave you feeling so hollow?

But this is for him. You tell yourself that over and over, like a mantra, like a prayer, like a desperate attempt to make it hurt less.

You’ll do this for him. Even if it destroys you.

Da-hee wipes at her eyes, sniffling as she looks at you—curled up in the fetal position, your body tense like you’re bracing for impact even in sleep. She managed to get you into bed, but it doesn’t feel like enough.

She’d do anything for you.

Carefully, she tiptoes to the bedside table and picks up your phone. Her heart pounds. If anyone’s watching me, I’ll beg for forgiveness later. But right now, she comes first.

She types in your usual password. 8888. Incorrect. She frowns, thinking. You changed it? Then, almost without realizing it, her fingers move on their own. 0313. The screen unlocks.

Beomgyu’s birthday.

Da-hee lets out a small, disbelieving laugh. “You idiot,” she whispers, shaking her head. “You love him so much, and yet you’re willing to walk away. How can you be this selfless?”

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she scrolls through your contacts, searching for his name. Her thumb hovers over it for only a second before she types his number on her own phone.

You’ll be furious. You might never forgive her. But if there’s even the slightest chance this stops you from making the biggest mistake of your life—she’ll take that risk.

Someone has to tell him the things that you can’t.

The line connects, and Da-hee inhales. “She’s going to be angry if she finds out I called you, but I can’t just sit back and watch this happen. Just listen to me. I’m going to tell you everything—from the start.”

She’ll prepare her apology later—more than that, she hopes Beomgyu will fight for you.

"I want to go home." Beomgyu’s voice is firm, but his hands are clenched into fists at his sides. His manager looks up from his laptop, brows furrowing.

The door bursts open. Soobin stumbles in, slightly out of breath—he must’ve run after him. Beomgyu doesn’t care.

Beomgyu already knows everything—Da-hee told him. Every sickening detail. And now, standing here, he has no idea how to fix this. No idol has ever come out of this unscathed. But none of that matters right now. His only priority is getting to you.

His manager sighs, already exasperated. “You’re flying back home in a few days, Beomgyu.”

“No,” he says, jaw tightening. “I mean now. I need a few days. To rest. To handle something personal.”

“You know your schedule is packed—”

“Then move everything,” Beomgyu interrupts sharply. He feels Soobin’s hand on his shoulder, hears his name spoken softly, but he shrugs it off. No one is stopping him from getting to you.

His manager sighs again, firmer this time. “We can’t do that.”

“You won’t even try?” His voice wavers between frustration and desperation. “You won’t even let the management know?”

“We can’t make last-minute changes like this.”

Beomgyu lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Right. Of course.” He clenches his fists. All his life, he’s done everything they asked. Pushed through exhaustion, smiled through sickness, showed up even when his body begged him to stop. “I won’t follow you on this,” he says, voice steady. “I can’t do this. Not this time. If you won’t let me go, I’ll still leave.”

“Beomgyu, let’s talk about this when you’re calm,” Soobin says gently, patting Beomgyu’s back. “Please.”

Beomgyu turns to him, his eyes dark with frustration. “I love MOAs, hyung. I love all of you. They gave me everything.” His voice wavers, but he pushes through. “But Y/N… she is my everything.” His breath hitches. He can't even explain it properly. How badly he needs you. “You’re lucky. All of you. Your soulmates—"

“So this is about your soulmate?” The manager exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “Don’t you see? She’s making you choose between her and your career.”

“No.” Beomgyu’s voice breaks, his chest tightens, and the lump in his throat is unbearable. “She’s not making me choose. She’s already choosing for me.” His next breath is shaky. “She’s leaving. Can you let your own soulmate leave?”

The room falls silent. Soobin watches him, stunned. He’d never seen Beomgyu like this before—this angry, this desperate. And the question stings the older.

Beomgyu turns away, blinking rapidly, trying to keep the tears at bay. Explaining further is useless. He’s already said everything that matters. Nothing is going to stop him now. When he steps into the hallway, he sees Yeonjun standing there, leaning against the wall.

He’s been listening the whole time.

Yeonjun immediately reaches out, tugging at his arm. “Yah, Choi Beomgyu, come on,” he says quietly. “Let’s talk with everyone.” Beomgyu exhales shakily. If there's anyone he owes an explanation. It's them. His brothers.

So Beomgyu told them everything.

About the sasaeng. About the threats. About how you were walking away to protect him. About how he refused to let that happen. And just like he knew they would, the four of them listened—not as bandmates, not as colleagues, but as brothers.

No one understood him better than they did.

They didn’t tell him to reconsider. They didn’t tell him to stay. Instead, they held onto him, arms wrapped tight, as if they could shield him from the storm that was already brewing. They prayed—not for him to change his mind, but for the world to understand.

Kai was the first to break. His voice barely above a whisper, “Is it really worth it… if the world doesn’t want us to have soulmates?”

It shattered something in all of them.

Beomgyu didn’t answer—not with words. Because what kind of world was it, where love had to be hidden? Where choosing your own heart felt like a betrayal?

With the help of his members, he managed to slip through the cracks, securing a last-minute flight. Now, as he sat on the plane, adjusting his mask, pulling his cap low, he caught his own reflection in the window.

Maybe it was time. Time to stop pretending. Time to stop hiding.

Because an idol in love isn’t supposed to be shameful. Because having a soulmate shouldn’t be treated like a scandal. Because loving you would never make him love his dream any less.

He just had to believe in MOAs. In the people who gave him everything. What he has with them, he treasures so much that the thought of baring his heart isn’t impossible.

And he would.

Completely.

He would trade it all, just to see you again.

The pounding in your head hasn’t let up, a dull, relentless throb that even the hot shower couldn’t wash away. You pop an aspirin, sighing as you press your fingertips against your temples, willing the ache—and everything else—to disappear.

Then the doorbell rings. Right. The food.

Dragging your feet toward the door, you barely think as you swing it open—then freeze.

Choi Beomgyu.

His face bare, a backpack slung over his shoulder. A car idles in your driveway, but you barely process it. Your eyes lock onto the messy strands of blonde peeking out from under his hoodie, his gaze searching yours. He looks at you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks.

“Y/N—” The door slams shut in his face before he can say another word.

Your breath stumbles. Your pulse pounds. The damp strands of your hair cling to your neck as you press your back against the door, fingers gripping the handle like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. Shit. He fucking looks good with his new dyed hair— wait. Don't think about that. What is he doing here?

“I’m parked out front,” his voice comes through the door, muffled but you hear it. “I just want to talk.” A shaky inhale. Then softer, “Baby, I’m here. When you’re ready, just open the door.”

His footsteps retreat.

You start pacing, your heart ricocheting against your ribs. He’s here. He came all this way. After everything you stupidly said. You hurt him yet—

The doorbell rings again.

You yank it open, “Wait, my ass—”

“Chinese takeout for Y/N?” The delivery guy blinks at you, holding up the bag.

“Oh.” You blush, embarrassed. You fumble for your wallet, signing the receipt with shaky hands. Your eyes keep drifting past him, toward the car still parked in front of your house.

Just like what he said. He's there.

The hours slip away unnoticed, morning fading seamlessly into afternoon. Every time you steal a glance through the curtain, he’s still there. Evening creeps in as you start making dinner. Without thinking, you plate portions for two. Your hands hesitate over the dishes, your heart heavy. When you check the clock, it’s 8 p.m. He’s been outside for twelve hours—silent, waiting.

Just like he promised. He never knocked again. Twelve hours. Your hands tremble as you turn off the stove. He must’ve just come from another gruelling day, looking like he’d stepped off a plane after hours in the air—rumpled, drained, and still without rest.

Why did you let him wait this long?

You don’t stop to think anymore. You grab your keys, shove your feet into your slippers, and head straight for his car, blinking back the tears that blur your vision.

He must see you coming because, before you even reach him, the car door swings open.

And there he is.

His hoodie is pushed back now, his hair slightly dishevelled like he’s run his hands through it a hundred times. His face is drawn, exhausted. His eyes—red-rimmed, heavy, like he’s been crying for hours. You swallow the lump in your throat.

“Come inside,” Your voice cracks, but you don’t stop. You just turn around and head back toward the door. You don’t have to look back to know he’s following.

He steps inside, his tall frame filling the space as you quietly shut the door behind him. Your apartment looks small with him around. When you turn, your eyes meet, "Beomgyu—"

You barely get his name out before he’s on you. He can't stop himself anymore. It’s how you looked outside, so effortless—your hair pinned up, the simplicity of your everyday clothes, and yet, you somehow seemed untouchable. He envisions a life with you, a routine, your soft smile waiting for him when he comes home, you looking like something angelic—his hands grip your waist, pulling you flush against him, his body heat searing through your clothes. His lips crash into yours—hungry, desperate, like he’s been starved for you. His mouth moves against yours, claiming, taking.

His fingers thread through your hair, tilting your head back as his tongue slides against yours. His hands roam down, gripping, pulling, making sure you feel every bit of him. He grabs your wrists, lifting them, wrapping your arms around his neck as his lips move to your jaw, then to your neck, his breath ragged as he nips your sensitive skin. "I missed you," he murmurs. Another kiss—hotter, deeper, his body pressing your back against the wall. "I got fucking scared you'd never open the door."

His movements were hurried, frantic, as if he were afraid you’d disappear if he let go. In one swift motion, he lifted you, his steps unsteady as he carried you to the bedroom. Your bedroom. The air felt heavy as he laid you down on the mattress.

"I get it. I know you don’t mean it—that you really believe this is for the best." His voice softens, almost breaking. He presses his crotch to yours, eyes seeking yours. "But did it ever cross your mind what I want? What I think is best for me? For us?"

“I'm sorry,” you said weakly, your hands clutching at his shirt, your voice trembling as much as your resolve.

"I'll always forgive you." His hands moved to your shoulders, then slid down to your waist, pulling you to him. He grinds desperately to you. You never knew that lips could talk without uttering a word as he captures your lips again and again. "Because your words could never hurt me as much as your leaving does."

You surrendered to his touch, your body softening beneath him. Your hands gripped his shoulders for balance as he pressed you deeper into the mattress, which groaned under your shifting weight. You reached for Beomgyu’s lips, catching him off guard as you kissed him with everything you had, tongues colliding in a heated frenzy. His hand slid between your thighs, cupping your middle and sending a shiver through you. But even in the haze of his taste, a heavy guilt settled in your chest. "Gyu,"

"I need you, baby. Or I'll go crazy." His breaths were ragged, syncing with your every moan as his tongue tangled with yours. Your fingers tugged at the hem of his shirt, pulling him closer, urging him on. His body pressed against yours, grinding to yours, while his hands roamed over your skin, igniting every nerve he touched. His lips trailed downward, leaving soft kisses that melted into your flesh, a path leading straight to your core.

He stripped you of every barrier, leaving you bare under his gaze. His eyes shimmered with adoration and awe as they traced your body. You hadn’t realized how powerless you were against him until your legs parted, welcoming him. He's on top of you, looked at you like you were sacred, like you were his entire world.

Beomgyu's eyes never left yours as his fingers found your hand, seeking the place where the string was tied. The red thread appears, and he lifts it to his lips. A kiss—featherlight, reverent—pressed against the place where destiny tied you to him.

“It's going to be okay…” he whispered between kisses, his voice breaking in a way that made your heart ache. Tears pricked your eyes because you wanted to believe him. You needed to believe him. His hands explored further, his fingers shakily reaching for your clit, pinching softly then roughly rubbing, coaxing sounds from your lips that you didn’t know you were capable of.

"I'll fix it for us, for you." He looks at you—wanting to see every expression you make. He’s going to fuck you until you cum all over his dick and then he’ll do it again. Until you won't be able to think about leaving him anymore. He goes down further—kisses down and the smell of you is divine.

His face hovers and with his fingers he spreads you apart. He swallows—salivating. He sticks his tongue out, lightly licking your clit. You taste so—He buries his face in, tongue inside, hands on your hips. "Shit, you were really gonna leave me? And I was gonna miss this?" He groans, lapping up, sucking the arousal out of you. He moves up, nose bumping on your clit then he suckles more. His cock throbs with every taste of you, the way you melt against his mouth driving him insane. He feels you slick against his chin, but he doesn’t stop—doesn’t leave a single inch of you untouched by his warm, greedy mouth. It was as if your body had been crafted for his lips alone, flesh and heat meant to be devoured at his leisure.

When you tug hard on his hair, he groans against you, finally pulling back. His lips glisten as he moves up your body. He crashes his mouth onto yours, the kiss deep and hungry, and you taste yourself on his tongue—messy, desperate, a mix of him and you, blurring the lines between who’s devouring who.

“I love you,” he murmured as he positioned himself, slowly sliding into you. A low, guttural sound escaped him as he felt you, tight and warm, pulling him deeper. He's sure he'll come right there and then. His face buried itself in the curve of your neck, and his words spilled out—"I'm sorry it took this long."

"You feel so so good, don't ask me to stop, please." His touch was gentle even as his thrusts inside you grew more desperate. He cradled your head, kissed away your tears, and pressed his lips to your cheek. “I’m in love with you, Y/N,"

“I love you,” you replied, capturing his lips in a desperate kiss as you both unravelled together, bodies trembling in unison. Your thighs clenched tightly around his waist.

"Beomgyu, I— It was selfish of me—" You whispered his name and it made tears well up in his eyes. His hand gently pushed the damp strands of hair from your face, and he pressed tender kisses along your cheeks, your temple, and your jaw.

“Shh, no,” he whispered, pulling you against his chest, holding you like he was afraid you’d slip away. His lips brushed the crown of your head. "None of this is your fault," he murmurs. "But you have to trust me now."

All the horrors inside you dissolve with every kiss he presses to your skin, each one stripping away the fear, the doubt, the self-imposed distance. He kisses you like he’s rewriting everything, like he knows exactly where every shattered piece of you belongs. As if he’s memorized the map of your ruin and decided, you were always meant to be whole.

And you let him.

Because now, in his arms, with his lips claiming yours over and over, only pulls away when breathing becomes a necessity—his forehead pressing against yours for a fleeting second before his mouth finds yours again, as if letting go for too long might break him, you realise the truth—it was foolish of you to think that pushing him away would solve it all.

It was foolish to ever believe you could ever live without him.

Waking up with Beomgyu’s arm draped over your bare waist felt like something out of a dream.

The second you tried to slip away, he pulled you right back in, burying his face in the crook of your neck with a sleepy rough hum. His grip was loose but unwilling, like even in sleep, he couldn’t bear to let you go. He filled your morning with lazy kisses, tangled limbs, and muffled laughter, his fingers tracing over your bare skin.

You could live a lifetime like this and still never believe it was real.

Now, you sit at your vanity, dressed for work, fastening an earring as Beomgyu, fresh from the shower, tugs on a clean hoodie. He catches your eye in the mirror and grins as he walks over. “What are you doing baby? Dolled up and all.”

“Drying my hair,” you say, “I’m actually early today. Da-hee is dropping by later too, by the way.”

“Okay. I’ll drive you.” He leans down, eyes flickering to the hairdryer on the desk. He picks it up, flipping it on. “I know how to do this.”

You give him a skeptical look. “Oh, really?”

“Uh-huh. I could probably do your makeup too.” He presses a teasing kiss to your cheek, making you giggle.

The warmth of the dryer was against your scalp as he carefully runs his fingers through your hair, drying it with surprising patience. His touch lingers even after the dryer clicks off, his fingers gently gathering strands of your hair.

“I used to braid my mom’s hair when I was younger,” he murmurs. “I want to do yours too.” You nod, watching him through the mirror, watching the way he looks at you with so much quiet devotion it nearly steals your breath. "It will be an honour to do this every day for you, you know."

And just like that, you fall in love all over again.

You sit in the passenger seat, your hair loosely braided—the proof that he wasn’t just bluffing. His fingers lace with yours as he drives, his thumb idly tracing circles against your skin. Every time the car slows at a red light, he lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. “I love you,”

He grins, that same cheeky, heart-stopping smile. "Love you more," he replies.

You let out a quiet breath, leaning your head against the window, watching the world blur past. But then—out of the corner of your eye—you see it.

And your breath catches in your throat.

Rain Lilies.

Flowers that shine the brightest in the wake of the storm.

It looks out of place. You remembered last night’s rain. It had come down in furious sheets, drowning the streets, washing everything away. The pavement is still slick, puddles reflecting the grey morning sky. And yet—there it is.

Small. Alive.

In the middle of a city that never stops, where people rush past without a second glance, too busy to care about a thing so insignificant, so easily overlooked—it stands, untouched. A quiet defiance against the cruelty that tried to take it.

It looks out of place, and it's beautiful.

If something this fragile can survive and still bloom—maybe, just maybe, so can you.

"Hyung!" Beomgyu’s laughter rings through the air as he runs straight into his brother’s arms. They embrace, laughing like they’re kids again, the older one attempting to lift him off the ground. Behind them, his parents rush to catch up, smiles stretched wide across their faces. The house, with its endless stretch of green, looks like out of a memory—soft, a paradise.

Beomgyu turns to you then, his hand resting gently on your back. His eyes soft when he speaks.

"Mom, Dad," he says, "This is Y/N."

You bow politely, but before you can even rise fully, his mother pulls you into a hug. "I’ve wanted to meet you for so long, dear," she murmurs against your shoulder.

When Beomgyu’s father steps forward, you feel your chest tighten. He smiles, and for a second, it’s like looking at Beomgyu in the years to come. His hug is just as warm, just as safe.

Lunch is a blur of laughter and stories, of hands brushing, of Beomgyu sneaking glances at you when he thinks you aren’t looking.

His parents laugh along with your stories—the one about meeting his sweet members, and how Da-hee had begged to meet them in person. You describe her pale face, wide-eyed and on the verge of fainting the entire time, and how Beomgyu grew irritated every time Yeonjun jokingly flirted with you, insisting he should be your favorite.

But it’s the story of Beomgyu meeting your family last week that really gets them, how he’d been so polite, yet adorably nervous, his hands fidgeting in his lap as he tried to make the right impression.

His mom grins, her eyes bright with excitement. “I’ll have to meet them soon,” she says, already making plans in her head, as if you’ve always been part of the family. At some point, Beomgyu tells them you’ll be staying for the week. They are overjoyed, and Toto, takes an instant liking to you.

Beomgyu sits on the porch, it's evening now.

This deck—he’s spent years here—on this very step, staring out at the world, wondering when he’d find you. Wondering if he ever would.

His fingers tighten around the handwritten letter on his phone screen, the words waiting to be sent out into the world. His heart pounds. What if they don’t understand? What if this changes everything? What if—

Laughter drifts from inside the house, yours mixing with his mom’s, his brother’s. It was the only assurance he'd ever need.

He exhales sharply, thumb hovering for only a second longer before he clicks post. It loads. He doesn’t watch. Just locks his phone and sets it aside as the front door creaks open.

"You’re trying to escape me, cookie?" Your voice is playful, arms crossing as you step toward him. Beomgyu only grins, shaking his head at the nickname his father gave him. He slips an arm around your shoulders as soon as you sit down, pulling you while he presses kisses on the side of your head.

"Never," His fingers find yours, a new habit of his—thumb caressing over your ring finger. His thoughts slip to the diamond ring hidden in his dorm, the one he bought after a week of meeting you. He just needs to find the right moment, the right words. Because even now, after everything, you still make him nervous. The way his heart races when you walk into a room, how everything seems to stop for a moment when you look his way.

He meets your smile with one of his own. Would he ever be this lucky in another life? To find you, to love you—not by destiny’s design, not by some divine script, but by choice?

Even without a soulmate mark, even without fate—

It would always be you.

Maybe in another world, the sky is burning, the world is ending, an apocalypse, and he still falls in love with you. Maybe in another life, he is a man undone, a husband who shatters more than he mends, but even then, he would spend eternity piecing himself back together just to be worthy of you.

Beomgyu knows this much: no matter the lifetime, no matter the universe, he will love you. Again and again, without hesitation, without end. As if loving you is written into the very fabric of his existence.

His fingers graze your cheek, and you lean into him like you were always meant to—like the universe has been bringing you back to him for centuries. Your smile reaches your eyes, soft and certain. His missing piece. The better half of him.

Beomgyu looks at you, and to him, you are something that comes after the rain—the hush of the earth reborn, the golden light breaking through the clouds, the promise that even the chaos was worth it.

He can’t help himself. Not when you’re looking at him like that. Not when your smile is the only thing he ever wants to see.

So he leans in.

The phone sits forgotten, lighting up with messages—teary words, heartfelt congratulations, the world calling for him. But none of it matters.

Because right now, you are in his arms. Right now, he is kissing the soft of your addicting lips. And right now, that is all that ever was, all that ever is, all that ever will be.

THE END.

taglist: I love you @beombunni @lovingbeomgyudayone @virtaideen @hyukascampfire @fancypeacepersona @bamgeutori @lilbrorufr @beomieeeeeeeeeeees @xylatox @imlonelydontsendhelp @yunverie @baekberrie @soobabby @hyunelixbun @kejingken @blossommi @sumzysworld @tyunningstar @filmnings @channieismylove @frankghgr @missychief1404 @fatbixchwithanopinion @saejinniestar @brrytears @sbnslver @hoefororeo @pagelets @urlocal-moa @ewsnup @moagyuu @melmochii

[swampgallows]

Transcription:

Wearing a mask was not political, but they made it political, so now wearing a mask is an act of resistance. I don't care how stupid that sounds to you and I'm gonna be very transparent, my goal here is to try to get you to wear a mask. So I need you to take whatever I'm about to say, pick the thing that resonates with you the most, and then have that be what drives you to wear a mask. Trump pulled the U.S. out of the World Health Organization and he instructed the halt of all communications from public health agencies. This includes the CDC, the NIH, the FDA on recalls, so we are even more in the dark than we were before on how bad things are right now. If you've been sick recently, you might know what I'm talking about. Flu A, COVID, Norovirus, all high—high transmission—but now with the halt of communications we are not gonna know what's going on. The CDC already sucked on that—I'll get to that shortly. All across the country, cities have called for and/or enacted bipartisan mask bans. Do you want to know what led to these mask bans? Well, it was anti-genocide protests. They don't want you to be able to hide your face because then you're easier to target. But what is the side effect of this? Going after people who mask to protect their health and the health of those around them. They don't like our calls for a free Palestine. One of these people who called for that was mayor of L.A., Karen Bass, and now that the fires have been raging, of course the city didn't have any stockpile of PPE for all the people who are inhaling ash, and wildfire smoke, and asbestos, and all the other chemicals that are burning with homes in the fires. No, that fell to mutual aid groups, specifically, anti-COVID and clean air groups. In the age of AI under fascist regimes, both Biden but especially Trump, when facial recognition technology can be weaponized against anyone, masking is an act of resistance. And finally, and most importantly, the number one core reason is because COVID still rages on. Wearing a mask is an act of resistance when corporations and billionaire CEOs can lobby the government to shorten COVID isolation periods, and then Biden does so. Since the very beginning of the pandemic when they said, "No, it only affects this group of people", and so we said "Okay, yeah, no, that's not me. We don't have to protect them." They tried to get you to not care, further harming disabled and high risk individuals, and lying to your face in the process because we're all high risk. In 2024 we got to see COVID rip through the Olympic Village. What we did not hear so much about is all of the athletes that didn't make it to the Olympics despite their training all of their lives because they were disabled by COVID. A recent study showed that 1 in 4 U.S. Marines that got COVID met the criteria for Long Covid. Wearing a mask is an act of resistance when COVID cases persist. When you feel sick all the time and everybody is having brain fog and you wonder why you are so tired, when they didn't bother clearly communicating that COVID is airborne, and that it moves like smoke, and that a lot of spread is asymptomatic or pre-symptomatic, meaning you don't feel sick, you don't know you have it, but you're spreading it.

Wearing a mask is an act of resistance when the World Health Organization told us that 10 to 20% of COVID cases result in Long Covid, and that doesn't account for consecutive infections. When that Long Covid can be mild, like the POTS [Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome] that I got from my COVID infection while being a previously healthy individual, or it can be severely debilitating and leave you bedbound. Wearing a mask is an act of resistance when you get sick and they want you back to work and they gut worker protections—in a country that provides no universal healthcare, so you're left either in debt or without options, untreated, in a country that loves its Big Pharma and counts on you getting sick. Wearing a mask is an act of resistance when all of this is in the name of capitalism. They do not care if you get sick. They want you betraying your disabled and immunocompromised community members. They do not care that you want to protest for a free Palestine. They do not care that you want to protect your identity from their AI surveillance. They don't care that the general population is sicker than ever. They want you to ignore it, and they want you to attack the people who still wear masks, like myself. They want you to attack the messenger. They do not want you questioning the premature declaration that the pandemic had ended because then they don't have to atone for this: the wastewater data that shows how prevalent COVID still is in our lives. And when you think about how many COVID cases lead to Long Covid, they don't want you thinking about how they allow for the general population to become disabled, because that would mean that it costs them something to prevent it, that would mean that they owe you. By the way, with Trump's halting of communications we can count on this [wastewater data] to go bye-bye because the CDC can't give us that data anymore. Biden gave that "pandemic is over" premature declaration after the Democrats had an internal memo declaring that they would do so because it earns them political points. It would be cheaper to not provide you with what you need and it would score political points by declaring the pandemic a victory on Biden's part. I don't want this video to be too long even though I could go on, but take whatever I just said that resonates with you and have that be what drives you to wear a mask. It is the easiest way to care for your neighbor and simultaneously give Trump the finger. Because we can't do anything if we're all sick, we can't do anything if we're constantly disabling each other. Lock in. [End of transcription.]

"Mask" here refers to a KN95, KF95, or N95 respirator, not a cloth or surgical mask. A cloth or surgical mask is better than nothing, but they are nowhere near as effective at preventing airborne transmission as a well-fitting respirator. The goal is to form an airtight seal against the face so that all incoming and outgoing air you breathe is filtered through the respirator.

If you need access to free or low-cost masks, testing, air purifiers, and more, get in touch with your local mask bloc. Find one near you at CovidActionMap.org.

Listen to her. Please.

[dekariosclan]

I’d love your thoughts on the gale romance endings like your thoughts on the proposal and the romance endings eg going back to waterdeep or going adventuring - thanks 💕💕

Note: This was the perfect Valentine’s Day ask! It’s uhh now the day after Valentine’s Day, but I did write most of this ON Valentine’s Day, so we’re going to say it still counts 💜

Anon, thank you for setting me up so perfectly to gush about Gale’s romance endings! Here is everything I love about them:

I love the whole entire proposal scene

I love that Gale is so down bad for Tav that he can’t even wait until their Hundur sauce dinner date before he proposes

I love Gale being so excited he wakes up first and just lies there thinking about marrying Tav

I love this part:

I love how, back when they were in the Stormshore Tabernacle to meet Mystra, Gale says he’s always wondered ‘what it’s like to be nervous’, and then when he proposes to Tav the dev notes say this:

(I also love how even the dev got nervous and misspelled ‘proposing’ as ‘promosing’)

I love the fact that Gale’s proposal isn’t polished & practiced & smooth, but instead, heartfelt and genuine and imperfect and sweet

I love the way Gale melts with relief when Tav says yes

I love how the romance goes full circle from this:

To this:

I love that they didn’t end the scene with Gale down on one knee, but instead ended it with Gale and Tav standing equal to one another

I love that Gale’s proposal remains 99% the same if Tav is an Illithid

I love that when Illithid Tav questions whether Gale really wants to marry them in their present condition, Gale replies: “Your ‘present condition’ is that you’re the one I love,” and he absolutely 100% means it

I love Gale’s entire epilogue dialogue

I love that Gale will happily stay in Baldur’s Gate to help rebuild, or go adventuring to other places, or start a book club in the Underdark, or go to Avernus, and no matter where he goes he’s happy because he’s with his beloved:

I love how if Gale and Tav go back to Waterdeep, Gale gets to be a Professor of Illusion and he adores it

I love how even as an esteemed Blackstaff Professor he still gets involved in (or directly causes) various wizarding shenanigans

I love how Gale is still a little bit insecure:

AND a more confident flirt:

I love Gale’s kiss and nose boop SO MUCH

To summarize: I absolutely freaking love the proposal and romance endings and everything about them

And YES OF COURSE I love Tara I could never forget that!

[uhdrienne]

the embodiment of grace and deviousness

⛓️ pairing: seungcheol x f!reader ⛓️ genre: sfw, fluff, angst, mafia au, soulmate au ⛓️ word count: ~8k ⛓️ warnings: mentions of violence, weapons, open wounds. do not interact if it can be triggering! there's going to be cursing too because seungcheol is a grumpy one :") ⛓️ summary: as an author, it's almost poetic that your soulmate tattoo would be a flower. actually... half a flower. a snapdragon, to be exact. the petals on your arm, the vines on seungcheol's. it's even more cliche when you meet him on valentine's day. to you it means grace, but for seungcheol, he still has zero idea on what flower his tattoo is. he'd be lying if he said he wasn't curious at all, but during this season of love, you're about to figure out exactly what this all means for you and him, the leader of the city's most dangerous mafia.

author's note: suuurprise! to commemorate my first valentines' on this platform, here is a fic, part of @ddeonghwa-s Secret Cupid Event 💌 thank you so much to @ddeonghwa-s for putting this event together, and of course to the wonderful @kpopflowerfield for giving me this opportunity to write for you, i hope you like this as much as i did💘

here is the event masterlist! do support the works of all other authors too, all of them are so so amazing <3 happy valentines' day!!

depending on the POV, italics signify either the author's writing or Seungcheol's thoughts <3

"Territory 13 is acting up again, sir."

"Are they?"

"They're giving trouble. Threatening to cut off our chain supply in the north."

“Hm.”

“We’ve lost a few men fighting them for the past few days. The situation doesn’t seem to be de-escalating, so we reported to you.”

“Nowhere else we can push to weaken them?”

“They seem to have it figured out, sir. They outnumber us at every turn.”

"Well, we can't have that, can we?"

"No, sir."

"You have three hours till dawn. Take the men you need and get it settled. It won't be pretty if I don't get better news by then."

"Yes, sir."

"Go."

He swings his chair around to the fading sky of the night, nursing his glass of amber. He looks down to his full sleeve of black, red, and blue ink. Zinnias, dahlias, rhododendrons, and in the centre, like the highlight of a Naturalism painting, a whorl of vines and small, green leaves, linked to the vines of other flowers. He has no idea what it means, has had no idea since the day he got it. Ever since, all he's focused on is getting it covered, blended in with other flowers on his skin.

What is the point of such a mark on his skin, he wonders for the umpteenth time as he runs his hands over the permanent imprint, if the universe won't show me what it means?

He glances at the corner of his screen. 1:30am. 14 February. Hm.

He looks away.

"I'm sorry, I don't think we can proceed with cover design and vetting for you, ma'am."

"Oh... Not possible? At all?"

"I'm afraid not, ma'am. Your drafts weren’t given the green light from our Head of Publishing, and our team can't exactly spare the manpower to help you right now."

"...I see. And there’s no one else I can look for? Or….. any contacts you may have?”

“We can try, ma’am, but we can’t promise anything. It’s busy period for us publishers at the moment.”

“Ah. Well, thank you anyway. I hope we can work together in the future."

You put your phone down and sink back into your chair, covering your face with your hands. Your most recent creative co-director pulled out two days ago, another graphic design deal fell through, and now this publishing company. At this rate, you don't know if your book will even ever reach the local bookstore across the street.

You blow out a breath, look down at the only black ink on unblemished skin, the one that's been there since the day you turned 20 years old.... the petals of a snapdragon.

Your phone lights up with a text from a friend, and as you unlock it, the date catches your attention.

14 February. Happy Valentines' Day to you.

Your final straw comes when you're walking home from your office the next night. You rub your tattoo, which has been irritated the whole of today. You have no idea what it means, just that it can't be good for your soulmate bond. But you've never been concerned for him, not the slightest bit, since the day you got the tattoo. Because he's not something you're looking for right now.

Then you hear scuffling, a familiar thing here in the rougher area of town where you live. Your only intention is to walk past and ignore everything. From prior experience, that's the best survival tactic you have: Don't go looking for trouble, and it won't find you.

A man appears on the sidewalk and walks towards you. You walk faster, calculating the distance it takes. Two hundred metres and you'll be under the safety of the street lights. One hundred and fifty. One hundred. The man seems to be getting closer.

You hear a thud. Fuck. What was that?

You squeeze your eyes together and turn around. It sounds stupid, but you'd like to at least see the face of your captor before you see darkness. You read novels about this. When a character gets out of a captor's grasp, they can never tell the police what the kidnappers look like. If now is your time, you won't go down making the same mistake.

Except there isn't a captor nor a body bag. It's just another man, hands in pockets, bending down to survey the unconscious lump on the concrete ground just behind you. He looks at you, the exact moment that you too meet his eyes. And you feel it. At the worst possible time in your life, ever, for crying out loud.

Hundreds, maybe thousands of volts of electricity. A rising and a pop in your head, a sizzling burn on your forearm. Who knew a soulmate bond snapping into place could be this painful? You choke out a gasp as the pain sears, brands itself into your arm. The outline of the flower appears in full glory, the vines entwining itself around your arm as it links with the petals. It's beautiful and horrifying, and you watch as the flower you've been waiting for finally, finally blooms.

Before long, the bloom appears on your forearm. A snapdragon.

The man seems to feel the same thing, as he doubles over in pain, pupils dilated in shock and clutching his arm. His face is covered by his hood so you can't see what he looks like, but he turns and runs, and before long he's disappeared into the darkness.

A few minutes pass before the pain finally subsides, and in its place comes a wave of exhaustion. You sink on the concrete, careful not to stir your unconscious stalker, who's still lying on the ground motionless.

You've found your soulmate. On the day of love.

You touch your mouth when you feel a smile creeping up your face.

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

Seungcheol opens his door, barks an order to his guard outside not to disturb him unless "someone is bloody dead", sinks down on a couch and grabs a whisky. He downs it, the burn of the alcohol close to nothing as compared to that of the flower sitting oh-so-innocently on his forearm. He'll never forget the way the snapdragon petals appeared, as if they were burnt into his skin.

He stares at it, remembers the girl who gasped in pain just as he did. He never meant for this to happen. He was only passing by and saw a man from one of the local, problematic gangs sneaking up on you. He only meant to get the man away as he usually would for anyone else, because his principles, despite his rough line of work, never permitted him to disrespect women. He only meant to do one thing and go on his way. He only felt his arm burning right before he turned onto that damn street.

He glares at his arm, like the ordeal is its fault. His hand is shaking. It never shakes.

He didn't mean to feel his bond snap into place, never meant to meet you. He takes another long swig. This is the worst timing ever, he thinks darkly.

Meeting your soulmate on Valentines' Day can't be pure coincidence. If there wasn't a sign before that this was your chance, there very well was now. The next day you come up with a mission plan.

Find the man who is apparently my soulmate

...........

And that's when you sit down and have a good think. What are you even going to do when you do find him, anyway? Get together with him purely because he's meant for you, as the universe dictated? What if he's a rude jerk? What if he's ugly? What if... oh god, what if his breath stinks?

What if... he doesn't like you?

You continue writing on your notepad, absently, mindlessly writing sentences and paragraphs like word-vomit. Before long, you look down on the page to see almost a full journal entry, like you always do when you're anxious or stressed.

"Great," You mutter. "May as well write a book about this."

You enter the bookstore, waving at the little old lady who runs it.

"Good morning," She hums. "What are you looking for?"

You smile, thumbing through the different books on the shelf. "Morning. Something about flowers, maybe? I'm doing research... for a book I'm writing."

She nods. "Perhaps a book that explains the flower on your arm?"

You chuckle. Nothing could ever get past her eyes. "You caught me."

The lady laughs in return. "That," she says, hobbling out from the counter to rummage her inventory, "is a snapdragon. Yours is lovely -- a nice shade of red."

You smile. "Does its colour represent something, too?"

The old lady pulls down a thick book, flips through it and sweeps off the dust on the cover. "Every colour has its representation, but it's also your choice to decide what it means to you." She passes you the book. "In Chinese culture, it means prosperity. It's a lucky colour. For others, it could mean passion and love. It could also mean danger, perhaps courage..."

"Wow," You mumble, flipping through the book. "One colour and thousands of meanings?"

The old lady shrugs. "Colours and nature existed way before we did," She takes the book from you and goes to wrap it up in construction paper. "Is that the tattoo that brings you to your other half?"

"So the world says," You shrug, as you pay for the book. "I had the petals first, so the stem and leaves appeared when I met him, but I don't know where he is... or even what he looks like."

The lady nods in understanding. "I wouldn't worry. You'll find your way back to each other. I'd think that's what the tattoo's for."

"Do you know about them? What do they do?"

"Some stories say they help soulmates detect when one is in danger. Other stories say the closer you are, the warmer it feels... I've never tried."

Huh. You nod. "Thank you. So very much."

There is a soft shimmer of fascination in the old lady's eyes as she waves you goodbye. "I have faith that what's meant for you will come to you in due course, dear. Have a good day now."

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

Seungcheol hasn't stopped glowering at his tattoo all day. It looks... out of place. The petals aren't supposed to be there. It looks like an outsider, a strange feeling he can't place. If this is the bond acting up, he surmises, it fucking sucks.

He needs coffee to cure the pounding headache building up.

He orders someone to get his coffee, and as he sits to wait, he taps at his keyboard impatiently, trying to figure out how the tattoo had built up.

The petals came later, he thinks. Is that supposed to mean something?

When his right-hand man, a freckled, tan man comes in with the coffee, Seungcheol is still none the wiser on the phenomenon. So he lowers his guard (for once, he thinks bitterly, for a soulmate bond of all things), and asks the man who's currently laying his coffee cup down. "Lee."

Lee looks up. "Yes, sir?"

"What do you know about soulmate bond tattoos?"

Lee looks visibly excited. "Did you get yours, sir?"

"Asking for a friend," Seungcheol deflects immediately. "So, what do you know about it?"

"I have one, sir," Lee says, and rolls up his sleeve to reveal a... half-faded anchor tattoo. "I was so.... it felt so strange to meet my other half."

"Strange. What was it like?"

Lee shrugs as he sets down a serviette. "Can I speak freely?"

Seungcheol waves at him to go ahead. He's usually the man who acts like he has a stick up his ass, but this time, he wants to find out everything he can about having a soulmate. Just so I don't drag the poor girl down with me for no good reason, he reasons to himself.

"It wasn't all good feelings," Lee explains thoughtfully, hands pausing mid-air. "My soulmate... he was an underground weapons dealer. And you know people in our circle, we don't do feelings. They're liabilities, it's another thing enemies can use against us." He chuckles bitterly. "That was one of the only things we had in common."

Seungcheol doesn't miss the way he's speaking in past tense. "You don't have to explain yourself," He says cautiously.

"No, that's okay," Lee says. "It was a while back. See, I have fading scars to prove that."

"What did it... feel like?"

"It started fading and it hurt so much, I knew something was wrong." Lee shows his arm again.

"What happened?"

Lee shrugs. "He died in an underground turf war. One of those."

Seungcheol makes eye contact. "Did you at least have good days with him?"

Lee looks at him, then looks away. "We did. Almost left the circle for each other, but..." He shrugs again. "Time just wasn't on our side."

"No," Seungcheol agrees. "It wasn't."

His fists clench. So this is what could happen to both parties who were in the circle, nevermind a civilian. He nods. "Thank you for telling me."

Lee gives him a half-smile. "So is this about your tattoo?"

"Y- No, for my friend," Seungcheol replies, cursing himself at the slip-up.

"I see," Lee says, the mischievous glint in his eyes returning. Seungcheol knows Lee doesn't believe him. As his right-hand man for years, how could he not see through Seungcheol? He starts walking towards the door. "Well, tell your friend that if there's anything I learnt, it's that time is a bitch. There's going to be a lot of fear, and it won't be pretty. But... take it from me," He smiles sadly. "It's going to feel worse when you don't treasure time and lose them. After all...." He opens the door. "I lived to tell the tale."

When the door closes behind him, Seungcheol leans back into his chair and rubs his temples.

"Some soulmates you find in the lecture hall of your school. Some you find along the way of life. Some... are pre-ordained by the universe, in the form of a snapdragon tattoo.

But are these... pre-meditated, pre-planned people meant to stay?"

You put down your pen.

You're curious. At the world, for giving you a person. How that system came about. About your soulmate. What he's like, what he looks like.

But there's no straightforward way to find him. No instruction manual that tells you where to go and what to do.

You decide to take a walk that evening. No distance limit. Just wherever your feet takes you.

And it brings you to this cafe on a street you've never been, with soft music and oak furniture, and a smiley, freckled and tan man behind the counter grins at you. "Welcome to Choi's."

"Hello," You say, smiling a bit. "Could I get a latte, and... that croissant? It looks amazing."

"Of course," He says, before turning to another burly staff that just appeared. "Get her a latte, will you?"

The staff nods, and disappears behind the coffee machine.

You take a seat, and hum as you wait. When the pastry and drink appear on your table, you thank the staff and look down to see the milk foam in the shape of a heart. Mmm. You take a sip, already feeling a lot better.

The bell jingles, and a man steps in, hands in his pockets. and heads for the counter. By force of habit, you look up and send him a cursory glance. And then you freeze. The man has rolled up his sleeves as he speaks to the staff, as if they already know each other, and on his arms....

A full tattoo sleeve of flowers. Zinnias, dahlias, rhododendrons, and in the centre, a whorl of vines leading to the most prominent flower. It looks fresh, like it was inked in a mere five minutes earlier.... in a shade of brilliant red... a snapdragon.

It's him.

The man must have excellent situational awareness because he acutely notices someone staring at him and he turns to you. Your shell-shocked face, your trembling hands... and his eyes fall on your forearm.

Choi Seungcheol had never felt this thunderstruck, not even when he found out half his men had been bought over by rivals years ago. He knows he'll never forget this feeling.

So he does the next best thing. He excuses himself from his staff and leaves.

So you get up and run after him.

Seungcheol's in the middle of cursing himself and the world out when he hears your voice calling for him.

"Sir...?"

He can pretend he doesn't know you're calling him. Sure. He can do that. Keep on walking, Seungcheol.

Until he hears running, and a tap on his shoulder. Ah.

He swallows, closes his eyes, and turns around. "Yes?" He asks coldly.

Ah. So he's not in the habit of making conversation, you think. "I'm really sorry about this, but can I...."

"Can you what?" Seungcheol replies, even though he already knows what you're going to say.

"Can I see your arm? For a second? I just wanted to make sure I wasn't seeing wrongly."

"No, you may not."

You cringe. Silence dwindles between both of you. "Uh... right."

Seungcheol reaches for his car key. "Why do you want to see my arm, love?" He casts a cursory glance at your arm. "To see if I'm your soulmate?"

You look down, then at him. "...Yeah. I got this tattoo, and I don't know what my soulmate looks like, so..."

"So you're trying to find him in me, huh?" Seungcheol doesn't mean to be rude, but this is the only way to get you off his back, at least until he knows how to move forward. The least he can do is to warn you. "News flash, love. I'm just a man who enjoys flowers. But me as your soulmate?" He chuckles and presses a button. From a distance, his car makes a beeping sound and unlocks. "I highly doubt it. You'll need to know who we are before you enter our world."

"And who are you?" The words come out before you can stop them.

Seungcheol supposes it doesn't hurt to establish who he is, just so you'll have enough sense to stay away.

"The mafia, love," He says softly, as he walks towards his car. "I'm the leader, here. I'd advise you to stay away from me, soulmate or otherwise."

When his car pulls away, you sigh and look at your tattoo.

The biggest joke the universe could have pulled on you. Making a mafia leader, out of 8 billion other people, your soulmate.

When he reaches home, Seungcheol reaches for his phone. When Lee answers, Seungcheol gives him a long list of things to do, for the cafe and for the mafia.

"Has anyone caught on the cafe yet?" He asks.

"Nope," Lee answers. "It was a good front to keep track of the public, but it seems like a normal cafe to them. So I'd say everything's fine, boss."

"Good."

"Anything else?" Lee says.

"....One more thing." Seungcheol says, sighing through his nose. "A girl came to the cafe tonight."

"...Uh-huh."

"The girl in the white cardigan and jeans."

"Right."

"Warn her not to divulge who we are and what the cafe really is. With any luck, she'll figure out that the cafe is protecting us."

"Protecting us..." Lee gasps. "Sir, you told her who you are? Why?"

"To get her to leave me alone," Seungcheol mutters. "Anyway, just tell her to zip her mouth. I don't care how you do it."

He regrets the words once they exit his mouth. "Just don't hit her or anything. We're not in that business."

A soft laugh comes over the phone. "She your soulmate or something, boss?"

Seungcheol pinches his nose. "So she thinks. Just because we have a matching..."

An idea hits him. "Do me another favour."

"Name it, boss."

"Find out where she was last night. Just to make clear something for me."

"You got it."

A knock on your door sounds in the middle of the night. When you open the door, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, you flinch when two burly guys flanking the same freckled, tan man from the cafe last night step in your doorway.

"Uh...you're from the cafe, aren't you?"

"I thought a familiar face might help matters," The freckled man says. "My name's Lee. And you?"

You introduce yourself cautiously, but you look at the two men. "So... what the man said yesterday was true? You're not really a cafe, are you?"

Lee shrugs. "Nothing you need to concern yourself with, anyway." He nods to the men. "We just came here to give a little warning."

You have a feeling you already know. "What warning?"

"Don't pry, and don't tell," Lee says, still smiling, but you sense the underlying threat within. "I don't know what business you have with us, but it should end now." He nods at you. "For both yours and our good."

The burly man on the left makes a point of nodding towards your home. "We know where you live, and we can find you no matter where you go. Don't complicate things for yourself. You won't like what comes next."

And they leave, leaving you shaking in the doorway. Anger courses through you. Your soulmate sent people after you to push you away.

You don't know everything about soulmate bonds, but what you do know is that soulmates are drawn to each other: to protect, and to take care of. Either your soulmate is very, very clueless; or he just doesn't want anything to do with you. You have to find out which answer it is before you decide whether to let go of him or not.

Alright, Mr. Mafia Boss, you clench your teeth. I don't have to deal with your mafia directly to get an audience with you. Let's see how far this game can go.

Moonlight slants through his ceiling-to-floor windows. Seungcheol grits his teeth as he watches the surveillance that Lee found for him. You, walking home the night of 14 February, around 10pm, going faster and faster as that son-of-a-bitch followed you. His arms rest on his chair as he sees himself appear and knock the guy out cold.

He sighs. So it really was you. He'd recognise that face anywhere.

He looks at his tattoo once more, hating how perfectly it entwines with the rest of his tattoos. So much for covering it up. He turns his arm around again and again. It's exquisite, but it lies there like a burden.

And it picks the perfect timing to start burning. Seungcheol grunts in pain, clutching his arm as it burns, sears with the same pain it did that night. He doesn't know how the system came about, but what he knows is this: You're in danger. And as annoyed as he is about this whole situation, he has to find you. If only to make the pain stop.

He reaches for his telephone, and when the other line picks up he hisses: "Find her. Now. Scour all the surveillance in the city. I don't care what you have to do, but find her."

He can hear his man barking out orders in the background, and he shakily puts the phone down. Lee comes bursting into the room, grabs Seungcheol's arm to check on him. Normally, Seungcheol would have the head of anyone who dared to touch him without permission, but given Lee's position in this predicament, he allows him to.

"Is it supposed to be like this?" Seungcheol groans out. "It hurts like hell."

"Yup," Lee mutters. "It is. Looks and seems exactly like mine whenever Bri got into danger."

"Danger--" Seungcheol scowls and tries getting up. "You mean she's injured?"

Lee shrugs. "I don't know if it extends to normal minor situations, but whenever Bri got into a fight, I'd feel my arm burning."

"Her, fight. Don't make me laugh," Seungcheol scoffs, then grunts again as another wave of pain hits him. "She looks like she couldn't hurt a fly."

"We've located her, boss," Another man comes into the room, holding a laptop towards him.

"Where?"

When silence answers him, he hisses. "I didn't ask you this question for you to not fucking reply. I asked where?"

"The border of Territory 7, sir."

"What the hell is she doing there? Is she an underworld member, too?" Lee wonders out loud.

Seungcheol pushes himself up off his seat, wincing as his arm throbs slightly. "Fuck if I know. But I guess I have to find her if I want this pain to stop."

"I'll get men and go with you," Lee starts, but Seungcheol waves him off. "No need. We don't need to stir up a fuss, not when the territories are already misbehaving these few weeks. I'll get her, and... figure it out later."

You're tapping your foot as you wander the edges of the city's largest turf. It's well-known that civilians shouldn't pass by here if they want to get home alive and well, but with the recent news of unrest stirring in such turfs, you figure that it's the best way to seek Seungcheol out. It's stupid, but it's your best bet. Plus, you figure that the nearer you are to

You must be near a group of militants on patrol duty, because you can hear hushed orders and boots crunching. You sigh and look at your watch.

"Are you actually stupid?"

You raise your head. "So it worked. So nice of you to join me this evening."

Seungcheol storms towards you. "So you tricked me?"

"Wasn't a trick." You mutter. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"You are a nutcase," He seethes, as he grabs your arm and starts dragging you away. "Do you have any idea what would happen if anyone caught you? These few places are red-light districts now. You're not supposed to be here."

"I wouldn't know. You came anyway."

Seungcheol lets you go and huffs at you. "Go home, and don't get any more stupid ideas. Yes, I'm your soulmate. Yes, my tattoo is also a snapdragon, and I guess I can sense when you're in places you shouldn't be because my arm fucking burns, okay? Got your answer?"

"No," You say defiantly. "I haven't found out one thing. Why were you so desperate to deny that you weren't my soulmate? But you still came running anyway."

"This," He hisses, stepping closer to you, "is a pain in my ass. I can't work if my tattoo's going to start hurting every half hour. So for god's sake, please stay out of anything that doesn't concern you. Do not run into a lion's den to get an audience with me."

"So you're going to give me a way to contact you?" You shrug. "Sure, if that will keep me from making rash decisions."

Seungcheol furrows his brows. "What gave you that idea?"

"Well, you can't think I'm going to let you go after all of this, do you?"

What??

"Did I not make myself clear en-"

"Oh, you did," You say. "Like you said, you came running because you could sense I was somewhere I shouldn't be. So you can't stay away no matter how much I piss you off, can you?"

"I nev-"

"That's how soulmates work, Mr. Mafia Boss." You say smugly. "We can't stay away from each other, like a moth can't stray from the light."

Seungcheol scowls at you and then proceeds to maintain a ten-second glaring competition until he blows out a breath.

"Ten more reasons why I hate this bond so much," He mutters, before pulling out a business card and shoving it into your hands. "I've got ground rules. Don't call me for stupid reasons. Do not call to ask me out privately. Do not give my number to anyone for any reason. No exceptions, unless you want a bullet through your brain."

"Did you just threaten to shoot me...." You peruse the business card. "Choi Seungcheol?"

"Yes, and what about it?"

"You know nothing about being a gentleman."

"Never said I was one. Get in the car."

"You''re going to shoot me in there? With the expensive leather?"

"I will if you don't keep your mouth shut and start moving."

You zip it and follow him.

Success. You've met your soulmate. (You're sitting in his car, too.)

He said you couldn't call. But texting exists, so.... You're determined to bug him until he takes notice.

"It's me."

He leaves you on read.

The next day you add another message. "I guess I'll write to an empty chatroom. I'm doing good, I just had a sandwich for breakfast and I'm going to continue writing now."

5pm: "I'm done with my next chapter. Trying to find an illustrator for the cover. I'm craving soup."

11pm: "goodnight! hope your work or whatever's going well. You can't tell me anything about what you're doing?"

And so it continues, for a full three days, with silly texts about a sentence error you wrote, or a funny thing you ate, or asking him what he's doing at work, until you get a single response from him that has you rolling your eyes: "Be quiet."

You do not, to Seungcheol's chagrin, keep quiet.

He didn't think you could talk so much to someone who never replied. In a week he'd all but figured out your life pattern: wake up, eat, write (he had no idea what you were writing), find publishers and illustrators, take a walk maybe in the late afternoon, eat again, and write until it was time to sleep. You lead an awfully idyllic life compared to him, he thinks as he closes your text.

You also seem to have a love for soup, he realises. The weirdest fucking craving.

And croissants from his fake cafe. You sent him photos of it across the week, and he wonders how you never get tired of the damn thing. Your food cravings change from soup to something else every now and then, getting more bizarre with each one. (Pasta with pickles? Really?)

It was cute. (He cursed himself out after thinking about it.)

And so it goes for two more weeks until Seungcheol decides this has to stop. He texts you back for once, and you're elated as you read his text.

"Be ready Saturday night. Zip it for now, will you? I'm trying to work."

You're waiting outside your house when he pulls up. You already know that he knows exactly where you live, so you never bothered texting him your address. You get in once he stops the car, his grumpy face still on full display.

"Thanks for taking me out," You say, smiling at him, and he grunts as he pulls out and steps on the accelerator. "Isn't that exactly what you wanted?"

You shrug. "And you gave in. Is that a soulmate thing?"

"I will drop you off right this second if you say 'soulmate' one more time." He threatens.

He rubs the sleeve covering the skin on which his tattoo lies, and you frown. "Is it causing you trouble? I haven't gone anywhere weird recently, though."

"No. And you better not have."

He doesn't say much after that, simply drives about twenty minutes to a sleek, al fresco restaurant. The neon lights, warm-looking space draws you in, and when you read the menu outside while waiting for him to park...

"Soup? So you did read my texts!"

"You won't shut up about it. A little hard to miss it even if I wanted to."

You chuckle and flip through the menu. "So what're you getting?"

"You pick, you're the one craving soup of all things," He mutters absently. "Don't really care. Just came to get a message across."

"What is it?"

"Sit first before I tell you."

And so you do. He lets you get tomato soup and grilled cheese, pasta and a soda, and says absolutely nothing. He eats a little, rolling his eyes at the amount you inhale. Finally, you put down your fork. "So what did you want to tell me?"

He swallows his water before putting the glass down. "Just one thing."

You cock your head. "I'm listening."

"Why are you contacting me personally, so often? I'm sure I said not to do that."

"You said not to call," You reply, smiling. When he looks like he's about to protest, you smile again. "So I texted."

"You're fucking impossible," He mutters.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"Nothing. Anyway, stop that. I'm a busy man."

"I know. That's why I text, like, three times in a day. It's not a lot, is it?"

His hand comes down on the table, not loud enough to cause a scene but firm enough to catch your attention. "I don't have the time to entertain you, Miss Y/N. You know who I am, and that was my fault, and I think it would do you good to remember that."

"Pulling the mafia leader card on me, again?" You sigh and shake your head. "I don't know what you do, and you won't tell me. I write about people like you and mobsters. You're exactly what I write in my books."

"I am not one of your little book characters," Seungcheol hisses back. "I am not a work of fiction or something you pull out of your imagination and twist about like your plaything. I am real, and I am someone who can hurt you if I want to. And I don't owe you any information. Stop bothering me, got it?"

"Is that why you brought me here?" A surge of confidence and defiance grips you. He couldn't have taken you out to somewhere he knew you'd enjoy for no reason.

He scowls. “I can go wherever I want. Don’t read too much into it.”

You grin. “Sure.”

He nods.

“So can I continue messaging you?”

He groans. “Did you not get any of what I just said?”

You shrug. "Guess you’ll have to tell me a few more times.”

He sighs loudly, and his fingers drum the table as he seemingly goes deep into thought. The scowl is almost becoming a permanent fixture on his face, you think.

After a long moment, he groans and utters: “Next Sunday. 6pm.”

He takes you out two more times. The next Sunday, to a small restaurant you chose. This time he ate better, the consistent strain in his forehead almost easing as he bit into the lasagna.

He answered your questions, albeit grumpily, and when you got off his car that night, you thought, as you opened your journal up again, that he was finally, finally warming up to you.

But the next time he brings you out, he is visibly in a stormy mood, barely making conversation and stabbing his meat with his fork.

“Is there something wrong?” You ask.

“No.”

And there the conversation ends.

As dessert rolls in, you try one more time.

“So… how’s work lately?”

“Fine.”

“Ah.”

Please talk. Please.

“You know, I always wonder what a mafia boss does,” You pick up your spoon. “Like, order kills or something?”

Seungcheol picks up his glass. “I remember telling you not to ask about what I do.”

“And you don’t have to give me a full answer,” You shrug. “I’m just asking for a general idea. I thought it’d be nice if I got to know what you do.”

Seungcheol sits back in his seat. "Don't read too much into what I do, love." He takes another sip of water. "You can't honestly think I'm interested in you enough to reveal myself after a few meals. You said you're a writer. You shouldn't be this easy to lie to, you know that?"

Yeah, screw this.

Any confidence you had sizzles out. Easy to lie to. He thinks you're a gullible, small girl eating up every morsel of attention he deigns to give you when he feels like it. Red-hot, burning humiliation and shame rise in you.

After a long pause, you nod. "Alright. Fine. I get it. I apologise for occupying your time."

He surveys you for a second, then nods, like he just made a good business deal. "Just so we make things clear with each other."

"Crystal," You reply, no warmth in your words. "I think I finally got what you wanted to say. I thought you just weren't used to this... idea of having a soulmate, so I wanted to warm you up to it. But now I see you never wanted one in the first place."

Seungcheol furrows his brows just a fraction.

You push your chair back. You're careful not to look or seem angry, in part not to show him you're affected, and also to just... save face. He already embarrassed you. No need to do it again in public. "Take care, Mr. Choi. Thanks for putting up with me, anyway. It won't happen again. I’ll get the bill."

Soulmate, my ass.

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

It wasn't supposed to be like this. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

It wasn't supposed to turn out this way.

Glass meets the plaster of the wall. His tattoo lies there, barren, lacking its usual warmth even though nothing was taken away.

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

Ladies and gentlemen, this is perhaps how the story goes. He pushed her away, and she realised how the universe’s plan, this whole concept, had utterly failed. There were never meant to be pre-ordained people. People change, and oftentimes they disappoint…

The journal remains open, the last sentence discontinued.

T w o M o n t h s L a t e r

Soft, oozing vocals of Clara Bow fill your apartment as you pack your writing materials. You're done writing for the day.

You glance at the clock. Nine p.m. In time for a snack and TV before you head to bed.

When you turn on the TV, the news catches your attention. Another territory struggle, another turf battle for control. You shake your head and switch the channel. Typical.

As you settle down into the cushions with chips and a glass of white wine, sudden searing pain, hot and white and agonising, shoots down your arm. You gasp and grasp it in your other hand, almost keeling over at how painful it is.

Something is wrong. Very, very, wrong.

You sink to the floor, clutching your arm and sweat starting to bead your forehead. It hurts, your arm hurts, everything hurts.

Is Seungcheol in trouble?

His name card. Right. You can just find out for yourself, and if he asks, you could just say the tattoo's causing you a lot of pain. Yes. That's it.

You stagger to your drawers to find his card, messing everything up in the process. You fumble for your phone and dial his number, again and again and again, but all you’re greeted with is a beep and an automated voice instructing you to leave a message.

You don’t know what to do. No emergency contact, no one you can find… hell, you don’t even know where he is. As you’re standing, getting ready to run out and search, there's a pounding on your door.

You barely make it to the door and open it, and there stands the freckled, tan man whose name you never got. He looks awkward, eyes racing to your tattoo. "I'm sure you must be in a lot of pain," He says. "Mr. Choi ordered me to check on you."

"Check on me?" You almost wheeze. "What's going on that my arm hurts this badly?"

Lee shakes his head. "Not right now. We will talk in the van."

"Of course you can't say." You snap, patience wearing thin, temper as riled up as the pain in your arm. You're done with his secrets. "I can't know what he's doing, I can't know where he is, or if he's alive or dead, even if the pain he's causing may very well kill me too."

"You won't die," Lee says, a little more kindly. "If this comforts you, my soulmate's gone, and I'm still here."

Your anger evaporates a fraction. "I'm sorry about that."

"No need to be." Lee sighs, then reaches his own arm out. "Hold on to me, I won’t do anything weird. I'll take you to him. He's going to be a bitch when he sees you, but... I think it would be good for both of you. More often than not, distance breaks things apart."

"He's enough of a bitch even when I'm around," You mumble, but you take his arm anyway as he helps you out.

Without much effort, he gets you into the van he came in, and barks out an order to the curious men inside to drive into what he calls "The Heart".

"What's the Heart?" You ask, as he passes you a canteen of water to drink from.

"It's what it sounds like. The heart of our territory." Lee explains, eyes trained in front. "Mr. Choi's there when we... have scuffles, and that's usually the place where security is tightest, so he can be near to us to get updates and give orders, and still not get into danger."

"So he is a leader."

"He is, and one of those you wouldn't want to cross. He's quick with his work, and he can resort to getting his hands dirty if he has to. His network and connections are... frighteningly impressive, to say the least."

"Funny how I'm hearing it from you and not him," You huff as you lay your head back, trying not to think about the pain.

"He hasn't had the experience of telling people about his life, Miss," Lee chuckles. "But I figured you'll know eventually, so better sooner than later, right?"

"Sooner than later?"

"You're meant to stick around him, Miss. For the good and bad. You're his soulmate, after all."

"I don't know if we'll get there." You sigh, and close your eyes. "Is he badly hurt? Will me being there even help matters?"

Lee shrugs. "We'll find out."

Lee gets six men to flank you both as he walks you in. Up ahead, there's a building seemingly made of unforgiving steel, it's blank canvas looming in the dark red, streaked sky.

"That's the Heart?"

"That’s the one. Unpenetrable, Miss. Let's go in."

You pray for all your sakes it really is as Lee takes you up into the elevator. When he opens one of the (almost) hundreds of similar doors to lead to an empty, cell-like room, and inside sits Seungcheol, with a red fabric pressed---

"You're bleeding," You blurt. The pain in your arm subsides just a fraction, perhaps jarred by the sensation of finally, finally, meeting him.

He looks up, eyes twisting in furious shock as he glares at Lee, and then you (you don’t know why). "Exactly which part of my order did you not understand, Lee?"

Lee bows his head in apology. "I'll never take away a chance to meet your soulmate away, you know that, sir."

Seungcheol scowls hard, and you're almost afraid he's going to shoot Lee there and then.

"Get out."

Lee smiles, ushers you in and walks out. "I'll be back in half an hour to report. I'll call for the doctor again."

You bend and peel aside the fabric. Once white, it's now soaked red, it's warmth unsettling. There's blood, so much of it, and on his once unblemished skin now contains a mess of open flesh, blood, and a...

A bullet.

"A gun." You mumble.

"Try not to throw up." He replies, ever-so-gently nudging you away. "This is Armani."

"You jerk."

His face twists in surprise. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." The anger is returning. "You say all sorts of fucking nonsense to keep me away, and we meet again months later because you're shot. And that may be a normal day for you, Mr. Choi, but us civilians don't go about our day-to-day expecting a bullet hole to appear in our skin."

His hand clenches up.

"This is why I said everything I did," He snarls in return, putting more pressure on his wound. "I knew I would never want you to try to handle what I am!"

"You never let me try," You hiss. "You refused to tell me anything, to let me see what your life was like. No, you chose to shut me out! And don't you dare tell me what I can or can't handle."

He huffs. "I see no reason in dragging you, or anyone else, in when it isn't needed."

"Yet Lee brought me here tonight." You point out. "He knows something you clearly don't."

"Lee is a nosy fucker." He snaps.

"He's someone who's experienced it all. His soulmate is gone, Seungcheol."

"And look at the pain it caused him. At least if anything happens to me, it's no love lost for you."

"Shut up."

"What?"

"I said shut up. Sometimes people want to help you. Sometimes people wouldn't actually mind, I don't know, going into this Heart place to check on you. Sometimes, you need to get it into your thick skull that I actually want to be here, to make sure you don't die while this stupid snapdragon is burned into me!"

His eyes meet yours.

"But you won't get it!" You chuckle. "You send men to check on me when I’m in pain, but I doubt you have any intention of finding me after all this gets better."

"You think I wanted to?" He shoots back.

"And you think I had it all settled for me? That I was better off not knowing the person that was meant for me, this whole time?"

"I never wanted that." Seungcheol insists hotly. "Look at my world, it's a mess, a violent place, a--"

"And there has to be a reason I'm the one picked out!" You defend. "Do you have any idea what snapdragons stand for?"

When he doesn't reply, you continue. "It stands for grace and strength. I can handle all of this. I'm not meant to measure up with your headstrong personality anyway."

"Then what are you meant for?" He asks, tone now soft, dejected.

"To complement you," You reply. You've never been this sure in your life. "To make up for the traits you lack. I'm not supposed to be as strong, or as fierce as you are. I'm meant to... ground you. That's what soulmates are. To... allow each other's strengths to shine and make up for what they don't have yet."

Seungcheol goes quiet.

"And you?" He asks, after a long pause. "What do I complement you in?"

You survey him again. "That's something I can't discover yet, because you won't let me."

“So what do you suggest?” He continues.

“No more hiding. Show me who you are. No restraint, I don’t need you to keep anything secret.”

“What if you end up like Lee?”

“Then it would have been a life well spent, at least.”

Seungcheol grunts with effort as he leaves his seat and stumbles to you. "And if I obeyed, and let you in?"

You look at him square in the eye. "Then it would be my honour to stand with you... or in the shadows, or wherever you make me stand."

"This sounds a lot like an induction of one of my men," Seungcheol murmurs. "I don't want that."

"Then what do you want?" You ask softly.

Seungcheol looks down at you, emotions warring in his eyes. After a while, he slumps and turns away. “Fuck. I can’t do this to you.”

“Tell me what you want, Seungcheol,” You say quietly. “You order people around for a living. I’m telling you to be honest with me, too.”

"…You. With me. Wherever you, or I, want to be."

You shrug a little as he cups your face. "I can live with that."

"You better," Seungcheol mumbles, as his mouth finds yours at last, burning more than any wretched tattoo, warmth spreading to your fingertips. "After everything you just said... I don't imagine you're going anywhere for a while."

February 14, 2026

The doctor came to patch him up. His hand squeezed yours hard as the bullet was finally pried out of him.

It's honestly a blur to you now when you think about it, but all you remember is his eyes boring into yours, his unwavering, callused grip on your hand.

"The snapdragon symbolises strength and grace reflected in their tall, strong stems, blooms and resistance to colder temperatures. Others believe they also represent deception and deviousness.

She embodied grace. She was his missing piece, the trait he needed to complement his headstrong nature. But he also needed someone strong enough to stand with him, through every obstacle his work throws him in. And she... she needed his courage and unwavering will to stand with her through it all."

You put the pen down. Mmm. Not too bad for a closing chapter. You send a text to the new publishing house that you contacted two weeks ago. They had seen your draft, and they loved it. Two weeks from now, when everything is settled, you promise yourself, you will show Seungcheol. He'd been curious for a while now about what holed you up in your writing room.

"Love?"

You look up from biting into your croissant. "Well, look who's back from Sicily. How did the meetings go?"

Seungcheol smiles and opens his arms. "Not too bad. I suppose the love you share for novels, along with the Don's* wife, was a selling point. She was most keen on sending you," He cocks his head to the pile of books at his feet, "this. She said it'd make a good Valentines' gift, since I've been poor at accompanying you these few months."

"That sounds perfect. We're both suckers for romances."

As you sink into his embrace, the tattoo once again burns, but it's not the passionate, red-hot zealous heat. It's warm, comforting, like a hot chocolate in winter.

He sighs. "Happy Valentines', love. I'm going to lose my girl to a bunch of fictional mafia men again?"

"You know it."

"I still don't understand why. You have one right here, next to y-"

"Softer! Do you want the whole town to hear you?"

fin.

*Don = the highest role in an organised crime family

thank you for reading 💟

[inbabylontheywept]

Kartchner Caverns

The first time I traveled to Tucson I was in a car full of zooted children. I would've preferred being one of those children, but alas, any medication that makes me sleep also makes me sleepwalk. And after an incident where I tried to climb out of the car while it was still going sixty (thank God for seatbelts), I was condemned to a childhood of car trip sobriety: No more poor-man's time travel. No more ambien. One less morally ambiguawesome parenting decision from my crazy-ass dad.

I was talking with him when it happened.

I can't remember exactly what we were talking about - something to do with our final destination in Mexico. But at some point, we woke up my little brother. 

(Nothing good happens from waking the dreamer. Best case scenario, the dream ends. Worst case, it doesn't.)

I remember starting when I felt one of his small cold hands reach up to grab my shoulder. Our dad did the same, and it jerked the car a little bit - startling someone whose hands are on the steering wheel has its risks. Dad and I both turned to look at him, but he wasn't even looking at us. He was leaning over the console, staring into the red and purple sunset ahead, watching the rolling skyline of Tucson like it was drowning in dreams. Like he was drowning in dreams. 

We waited for him to speak. It took a while. Normal social conventions don't apply to people when they're unconscious. The fact that he could talk was just some broken line code in the fabric of the world. 

"Wow," he said at long last. 

"Beautiful, isn't it?" my dad replied. And my little brother shook his head like he just heard the silliest thing in the world. 

"It's terrible," he said. "Awful. Is Mexico always like this?" 

"We're still in America," my dad said back. 

My little brother squinted into the sunset, doubt and derision etched into his face. After a few seconds, both emotions softened, and he nodded in wonder. 

"Eagle feathers," he said, chuckling softly. Like he'd just solved some clever little riddle. Then he fell like an angel into something deeper than sleep. 

𓆙𓆙𓆙

(There is a word for angels that fall.)

𓆙𓆙𓆙

The second time I went to Tucson, I hid from the sun. 

You'd be surprised how easy it is to do down there. Society accommodates it in ways you just won't find anywhere else. When it's 109 outside with single digit humidity, of course you stay indoors. Of course the outdoor markets open at 6 pm, and of course they don't close until 11. Of course. You make the sun mean enough, and everyone becomes a vampire. 

So I roamed the streets at night, kicking up red gravel, watching coyotes wander in between the sea of strip malls. Strip malls are such an Arizonan atrocity. Nobody bothers to build up because there’s nothing to be gained from density. The city will never be walkable, because the problem isn’t infrastructure. It's the sun. And you can't solve the sun, so you might as well lean into driving. Mash the whole city flat and crawl through the dust like rattlers. 

(I met a man once, by the canals, that said the strip malls were some sort of American curse upon the inheritors of Johnny Appleseed. There's one God in this world, he said, and it's the god of don't-eat-apples. But then we invented apple pie and gave it to everyone. So this is our hell.)

Still. It made the days long down there. Lurking at night and hiding all day gives you something like cabin fever. I needed something to do outside. Something that was outside, but also, somehow, inside. What's inside and outside at the same time? What kind of klein-flask ouroboros nonsense fits that bill?

Kartchner caverns. 

𓆙𓆙𓆙

I wouldn't say the caves were like walking into Dante's hell - more like finishing the journey. At some point in my life, I'd blown past limbo, lust, gluttony, greed, and anger. I'd spent two decades plus change living in the fires of heresy. Every layer past would only get colder. 

And each step into that cave did. 

My tour guide and psychopomp was a friendly old man. Familiar in the way that all old people feel familiar to me. I view the world more as a pile of metaphors. He viewed it primarily as water-soluble minerals. 

It was a good work dynamic. 

"These here," he said, gesturing to a long, slender series of impossibly frail stalactites, "are called soda straws."

They were beautiful. I can wax poetic at the keyboard, but in real life, my exclamation of wonder is primarily Hot Damn.

"Hot damn," I said, and he nodded good naturedly. 

"They're pretty fun aren't they? Took a few eons to make 'em but I think it was worth the wait."

I was charmed by the way he talked. I knew it was just a fluke of tenses, but there was something funny about the way he described them - as if he personally oversaw each of the dainty little spires. We went further, and he pointed out more formations as we came across them. 

"Behold!" he said just a few feet further. "Fried eggs!" 

And I had to admit: There were fried eggs. 

"Behold!" he said further still. "A shield!"

And lo, there was a shield. It didn't look terribly shieldlike, but who knows - maybe he made the shields first and got better as he went along. The eggs were beautiful.

We kept walking, deeper, and deeper into the cave. At the surface, it had been hot enough for my sweat to dry into a stinging white powder. Down there it was cold enough to see my breath. The feeling of descending into hell was replaced with the feeling of being swallowed by some ancient, fossilized snake. 

"We call this serpent-stone," he said, gesturing to an expanse of wall. 

And then all I could see was the snake that was swallowing me. 

Now, I want to bring something up right about now. At this point, you might be tempted to write off the unease that I was feeling as claustrophobia. Which would make sense - caves unsettle a lot of people. But not me. I'm borderline claustrophilic. When I was a child, I didn't feel comfortable reading until I was wedged somewhere. Behind a shelf, or in a cabinet, or even underneath the beanbag my parents had intended for sitting. Those were my happy places. I liked being crammed into tight spaces. 

I did not like that cave. 

The section of serpent-stone narrowed the further we went. The room started off maybe six feet wide, but eventually it narrowed down. First to five, then four, then three. Two. And it didn’t stop at one. 

The old man put me in front at that point. Said that if I got stuck, he could just push me forward. Didn't occur to me until I'd gone another hundred feet forward, sideways, that maybe getting dragged out would be better. But I was strangely reluctant to bring it up. I’d already let myself get cornered. There was nothing to be gained from letting him know my thoughts. 

But the only way to keep them secret was by going forward. So I poured myself through the crack, slick as slip.  

There's a grain to the scales of serpent-stone, both in the shape of the formations and in the texture of the individual pieces. They're metamorphic, but there's enough sediment left to ‘em that they have a grain. They bite when you go one way, and slide when you go the other. It felt like I was ratcheting myself in. Even if I could slip forward more, I didn't think I could go back. Not without wearing myself down into something skinless and screaming. 

Water began to pool up in sections. It was cold enough to avoid the stink that still waters normally carry, but things stranger than algae festered in the waters beneath my feet. The puddles felt thick, almost slimy. A dozen steps later I saw little ropes of the stuff trickling down my feet. 

Eventually, it got so narrow I couldn't turn my head. I could still hear the old man behind me, but only through little things - the occasional sharp inhale, or steps just an eighth of a beat off from my own. But never words. I remember stopping at one point, just to get pushed, just to know he was there. And he refused. All I heard for fifteen minutes was his breathing behind me. 

He'd called my bluff. There was nowhere to go but forward. 

𓆙𓆙𓆙

I don't know why it took so long to get dark down there. I wasn't carrying a flashlight, and if the old man had been carrying one, I'd have seen it bob with his steps. There was a sort of soft glow to everything but that had faded hour by hour. Eventually it didn't matter that I couldn't turn my head sideways - I wouldn't have been able to see the man if he'd been two inches in front of me. I walked, and I walked, and I walked, and just when I was about to get stuck for real - stuck in a way where I wouldn't be able to step forward, where I'd have to be pushed (or dragged back along the sharpness of the scales) - I popped out of the serpent stone crevasse like a cork from a bottle. 

Plunk. 

I can't tell you the relief that I felt at that moment. It didn't matter that I didn't know where I was, or how I got there. I'd never been claustrophobic in my life, but at that moment, I couldn't stand even the proximity of the crevice. I scrambled forward, stumbling over the rough cave floor, desperate and eager to find the next wall. To get some sense of where I was. 

I never did. Even as I calmed down, even as the relief of being free of that infernal vice sat upon me like a crown, I never found another wall. Anywhere. I walked until fear made me crawl, as low and blind as any worm. I crawled until my pants tore and my knees bled and my spine ached. 

And I found nothing. 

When the vastness of the space truly sank in, when I realized that leaving that first wall had been a mistake, I turned back. But some choices can't be unmade. There were no walls. Not anymore. No matter how far I crawled, how hard I tried, there was no end. There was nothing but perfect darkness, broken stone, and endless snaking trickles of cold cavern water. 

I dipped a finger in one of the rivulets. Just to feel it. Just to ground myself in something. I felt the waters slither past, and I found something like sight in their motion. 

Water always goes down. Whatever else I lacked down here in the stone, in that moment, I knew up and down. And for the first time in hours, I had a choice. A real choice. No instinct or panic or too late realizations: Up or down. 

I went down. 

𓆙𓆙𓆙

I’d visited a rope factory once. Watched the threads dance and spin and weave into something mighty. I got a blind man’s sense of that from my trickle. I felt it meet more of its kind, braiding into them like thread. I liked pretending it was still my rivulet, but eventually, I had to admit it was lost in the mess. Picking out one thread from a rope would be easy, compared to picking out one trickle from a river. 

Funny how water can drown in itself. 

The first contaminant to the water was iron. I could smell it in the air -  strong as blood. It should have unsettled me, but I’d smelled water like that before. My grandpas well-water stained everything it touched rusty red. His sinks, his showers, his fields. Even his teeth. He was wealthy enough that he could've wiped the stains off decades back, but he told me once that he liked the way it made other people uncomfortable. The way it reminded everyone who saw him smile that by sacrament or soil, they too drank of god. 

The next contaminant was the thick water from before. Apparently, the stagnant pools weren’t as still as I’d thought. Somehow, over strange eons, they too could seep through the stone and make their way into this deep river. It was scentless, but I could feel it catch around my ankles on some steps. It seemed like a memory from a different life. I just didn’t feel like the same person that crawled through the serpent-stone crack. I was just some stranger wearing his shed skin. 

Then at long last came a smell of deep sulphur 🜏. It was an odd contrast with the sharply cold air, and the strangely warm waters. It was the least pleasant of the bunch, but I endured it well. I followed until the tears streaming down my cheeks felt as normal as breathing. Until the rush of the river was replaced by the pounding of waves. 

I’d arrived on a beach. I couldn’t see the ocean in front of me, but I could hear how vast it had to be. There was a terrible stench, worse than the sulphur - the smell of some vast death. Godly carrion. A wound in the world long left to fester. 

I sat there on the beach of that ocean. Afraid to let those dark waters touch me. Thinking and waiting and worrying about what would happen next. 

A voice spoke just twenty feet behind me. I recognized it. I never would’ve recognized it before, but there was a knack to the way this place wore me thin. Like a razor getting sharpened instead of a shirt going ratty. 

“You’re very close,” the old man said, and I remembered him from all those years ago - sitting cross-legged in the moonlight by the bank of the canal. Looking up at me, eyes dark, and calling me over to tell me a secret. 

There's one God in this world, he said then. One God. And it's the god of don't-eat-apples. But then we invented apple pie and gave it to everyone. 

So this is our hell.

𓆙𓆙𓆙

I turned around. I don’t know why. I shouldn’t have been able to see him. I shouldn’t have been able to see anything. But I could see the outline of where he was on that shoreline. Not as a  bright thing, but as a darker shade of absence. A little hole in the dark. 

I could have run. But that would’ve required taking my eyes off him, and at that moment I couldn’t bear the thought. He was the only thing to see down there. The only reason I had eyes. But somehow, more important than the joy of seeing was the feeling that as long as I kept my eyes on him, he was trapped. Pinned to this world like a butterfly on cork. 

There was a half second pause. The voice was a memory, but seeing through the gaps was new to me. The thing in front of me wasn’t an old man. It wasn’t even good at pretending. I was oddly embarrassed that I’d ever been fooled by it. What I was looking at was something older than this cave. Something trapped down here so long it could not bear the thought of light. The dream of something dead. The sloughed skin of a snake. 

The first apple eater. 

I could see shades of absence. More than the hole in the dark. I could look at the thing and feel the place where its wings should have been. Its first ones, at least. 

It lunged for me. 

I’d forgotten it could do that. 

It slammed into me like the water from the bottom of a dam. The power was nothing compared to the cold. I couldn’t see a thing, but what I could feel made bile climb up my throat. 

It was melting. Running down itself in little streams, like snow melting in the sun. Like the river I followed all the way down here. A hand ran over my face and I could feel it pouring into me, and in my fury I did the only thing I could think of: I reached up, and I wrapped my hands around its neck, and I clenched so hard that I could feel the tendons in my wrist sawing up through my skin, taut as piano wire. 

It was like squeezing wet clay. It deformed under my touch, stretching longer and thinner and smoother even as the muscular length of his impossibly long body wrapped around me. At some point the fists beating on my chest turned into wings. Stolen wings, to replace the ones that were stolen from it, and there was a scream in the cave it was so awful that it wasn’t mine. 

It was a terrible race. We were killing each other the same way. There was no question about someone dying here in front of the empty throne of god. I just didn’t want it to be me. 

Eventually, it could stretch no more, and my hands could crush more than just nightmare and shadow. The wings beat on me weaker, and weaker, until eventually some cartilage in its great neck snapped under the pressure of my thumbs.

It was like cracking a glow stick. There was a flash of light, brief as thunder, and I could see the waves in front of me. An ocean of rotting meat and bones. The outline of some great, dead serpent, fifty feet tall. And a tower of dead bodies, stretching back to ages that I could not recognize. The only corpses I could recognize were those at the top, with their strange helmets and iconic breastplates. 

Conquistadors. 

When the light went out, the body went with it. Most dreams don’t leave anything behind. Even when they’re made by gods. 

𓆙𓆙𓆙

I don’t know how I left the cave. 

I followed the river up. At some point, it stopped being the river I followed down. The tributaries feeding into it spread out like a fan, and fool that I am, I kept picking left. It shouldn’t have worked. Part of me wonders if I somehow bent the river to my will. Filled in for the dead thing bobbing in the lake, or the echo that I strangled on that starless shore. 

Or maybe I just got lucky. 

I can remember finally breaching the incline and seeing an exit into the desert. Not the one I stepped in through, but good enough. I can remember getting closer and closer, before stepping out into the burning sun. I thought it was finally over.

I thought wrong.  

I can remember looking into the bright blue sky and seeing exactly what my little brother saw on that drive all those years back. 

I don’t know what I killed down in the cave. Some dead thing in the dark, dreaming it was alive. An altar of blood and bone, designed to hold a fragment. 

But the real thing sat there in the sky. Curled up so tight and so smooth, you could mistake it for a ball. Waiting, and watching, and hating. Alive but dreaming death. The mould that stamped out the form of what lay in the cave. 

Quetzalcoatl, I learned later. The feathered serpent. 

I moved the month after that. Went somewhere north, somewhere cold, somewhere that a snake wouldn’t follow. Most days now, I look up, and I just see the sun. A flaming ball of gas. A little, red, star. 

But only most.

𓆙𓆙𓆙

𓆙𓆙𓆙

𓆙𓆙𓆙

𓆙𓆙𓆙

𓆙𓆙𓆙 𓇳

Thanks to @qsatisfaction and @foldingfittedsheets for being my editors on this piece. And thanks to @dr-robert-chase-apologist for providing the prompt.