#jiwoo thread.

[virtualsangel]

"you liking mashed potatoes makes my tomodachi life game crazy accurate, because all i do is feed your mii mashed potatoes... and they like it too..." / @vvhimsicals

[yoohyeon]

𝕋𝕣𝕒𝕚𝕟𝕖𝕣 𝕁𝕚𝕨𝕠𝕠 𝕨𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 𝕝𝕚𝕜𝕖 𝕥𝕠 𝕓𝕒𝕥𝕥𝕝𝕖 ! 💝

Mine - Do not repost!

[superzstars]

╰   *  "i could bite my tongue trying not to say it." @volcarcnas

[luvdive]

jiwoo is no stranger to a blind date. she's been on more than enough ever since the first time her friend offered to set her up with a friend of her cousin. usually, jiwoo is on the hunt for someone bad. not only does she have a weakness for toxic men, she also gets a kick out of dating boys she knows her mom will hate ( call it a rebellious phase, her mother has only ever adored and supported her and jiwoo knows she doesn't deserve the shit she puts her through ). she barely remembers how she ended up on this date, though. the friend of a cousin of a friend of a nephew of someone's laundry lady or something like that. she's a little too dressed down for this kind of restaurant, but she still walks over to the table she's directed to like she owns the place. ❝ hyunwoo, right? ❞

@blackcardz

[superzstars]

╰   *  smirk appeared on her face when the other agreed to forgive her and move on. "okay, good," she hummed, reaching for her hand and pulling her into the direction of a restaurant she had heard so much about. "food on me."

“i—" well, that stumped her. if only for a moment. “i suppose i will forgive you,” she mused, as if jiwoo had even offered an apology, “we can spend time together and i won’t bring it up again…”

[littlejoyss]

𝓯𝓪𝓽𝓮 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽 2

“One single thread of gold tied me to you.”

Stray Kids - Felix x Reader

Red (golden) string of fate trope

Word count (so far): 17k

𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓾𝓼 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽 ← 𝓬𝓾𝓻𝓻𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽 → 𝓷𝓮𝔁𝓽 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽

Today you were going to vist the venue and your prep studio. It felt more real now, less like a dream clinging to the fog of jetlag and more like something solid. Tangible. Your designs were here. Your collection. Your name printed on the schedule of Seoul Fashion Week.

You stood outside your hotel that morning, double-checking the address Bora had sent you. Your blazer was crisp, your boots steady on the pavement, and your tablet hugged tight to your side like a lifeline.

The thread around your pinky remained still. Dormant, like yesterday. You ignored it.

The taxi ride was short. Bora had messaged she’d meet you directly at the venue.

It was a converted industrial building in Gangnam, once a textile factory, now transformed into a sleek, modern event space with steel beams and floor-to-ceiling windows. Posters from past fashion shows were framed along the walls inside, each one etched with legacy and grandeur.

You stepped forward slowly, your boots clicking softly against the polished concrete floor. It was still early, too early for the chaos of models and stylists, but the space already pulsed with motion. Tech crews moved with practiced ease, climbing ladders and testing rigging cables.

You turned in a slow circle, taking it in. The hush of the early setup, the skeletal hush of potential. This was the same space you’d seen in pictures, in magazines, in livestreams you watched during college with wide eyes and a notebook balanced on your knees. Now you were here. Standing on the floor where your designs would soon walk.

The main runway extended nearly forty feet, raised just high enough to cast long, graceful shadows beneath it. To the right, black curtains marked off the backstage quick-change zone. A few designers and assistants were already ducking in and out with measuring tape, fabric swatches, and the kind of controlled panic that came from realizing how little time a month really was.

You reached out, trailing your fingers along the edge of the platform as you passed. It was smooth. Cold. Solid.

Your tablet pinged softly with a notification, but you didn’t check it yet. Instead, you wandered toward the end of the runway and stood there a moment longer, looking out like your models would. The wall ahead was a clean white backdrop now, but soon it would be washed in color and music and flashes of light. Soon, it would become the first impression of your name.

“Not bad for your first real runway,” a voice said behind you, amused and familiar.

You turned, already smiling. Bora stood there in a tailored coat and heels that somehow didn’t make a sound on the concrete. Her dark hair was pulled back, sharp and sleek like the rest of her, and she had a badge around her neck that marked her as someone who belonged here.

“Intimidated yet?” she asked.

“Beyond,” you admitted.

“Good. If you weren’t, I’d worry.” She started walking without waiting, and you fell into step beside her as she motioned toward the backstage curtain. “Come on. You need to see what you’re working with.”

The moment you stepped behind the curtain, the energy shifted. It was louder here. Narrower. Organized chaos, humming like a beehive.

“This is the designer backstage,” Bora said. “Each designer gets a prep studio, yours is over here.” She wove through garment racks and folding tables like she’d done it a thousand times. “You’ll share this half of the space with Shin Jiwoo’s team. Be civil, even if they’re not. Jiwoo’s team tends to be… territorial.”

You caught a glimpse of someone adjusting a mannequin in the neighboring zone, eyes already narrowed in your direction. You looked away.

Bora stopped in front of your section, a long metal rack, a few temporary dress forms, an empty table, and a space just wide enough for you and a couple assistants to function.

“It’s small,” she said before you could. “But so is everyone’s. The real magic happens out there.” She pointed toward the runway. “Back here is just stitching, swearing, and sweat.”

You laughed under your breath, the sound slipping out easier than expected.

“There’ll be mirrors installed here next week,” she continued. “And better lighting. You’ll get your fittings schedule by tomorrow. Once your pieces arrive here, we’ll organize and tag each look. Stick to your order of presentation, no last-minute reshuffling, unless you want to give the stage director a panic attack.”

“I won’t change anything,” you promised, already imagining your garments filling the empty rack. They felt like ghosts right now. Half-remembered sketches. But soon…

Bora gave you a side glance, her expression unreadable for a moment. “You look like you belong here.”

You blinked. “I feel like I’m pretending.”

“Fake it until your first model steps onto the runway. Then you won’t have to fake anything.”

You nodded slowly. The nerves were still there, but now they tangled with something sharper. Determination. Purpose.

Bora smiled at your expression chane. “C’mon, have you had coffee this morning?”

You shook your head, a wry smile forming. “Not unless you count the two sips I had before nearly missing my taxi.”

Bora clicked her tongue in disapproval and gestured toward the exit. “Unacceptable. Come on. There’s a place two blocks down that doesn’t burn their beans.”

You followed her out of the building, the blast of cool morning air hitting your face as the door swung shut behind you. The noise of the venue gave way to the quieter hum of city traffic, early commuters, and the distant call of a street vendor setting up. It grounded you in a different way, like Seoul itself was trying to steady you.

You matched Bora’s pace, letting her confident strides set the rhythm. The thread around your pinky was still quiet, tucked neatly beneath your sleeve, your focus entirely on the day ahead, until it wasn’t.

You didn’t notice the first shift. Not right away.

It began as a warmth, a sudden flicker beneath your skin, like the first moment a flame catches a wick. You paused, mid-step, looking down.

And there it was.

Your thread glowed.

Not gently, not in that soft, idle pulse it sometimes offered at dawn.

No, this was bright. Vivid. Alive.

And then… It pulled.

You stumbled.

Not just a tug. A jerk. Like something on the other end had just realized you were here, really here, and had grabbed the cord like a lifeline. The force nearly spun you off the sidewalk, and you caught yourself with a hand to a nearby lamppost.

“Whoa,” Bora said, already reaching for you. “You okay?”

Your breath caught. “The thread-” you looked down at your hand. It shimmered gold, a radiant thread of light so bright you could see it even in the sunlight.

And it was tight. Pulled taut like it was straining to be followed.

Bora followed your gaze. “Shit,” she muttered. “Now?”

You nodded mutely, still braced against the lamppost.

“Direction?” she asked, voice clipped, professional.

You turned slowly, following the thread as it stretched left, down the street you weren’t even planning to walk down, disappearing around a corner like a beckoning whisper.

Your heart pounded. It had never done this before. Not like this.

Bora exhaled as she looked where you were looking. “We can reroute. Coffee’s that way anyway.”

You looked at her, stunned. “You’re not going to stop me?”

She gave you a dry look. “Please. Like I could. I can’t see your thread, obviously, but it looks like it’s ready to drag you down the street by the throat.”

You hesitated only a moment longer, then nodded.

You followed it. Past a convenience store with sun-faded signs. Past an alley that smelled of engine oil and garlic. Past a florist where bursts of peonies and baby’s breath spilled out into the street. The thread remained taut, glowing faintly even in the morning light, unwavering.

Bora kept pace beside you, silent now, eyes flicking between you and the path ahead.

You turned another corner, and stopped.

A crowd had gathered on the sidewalk ahead. Not tourists. Not locals. Paparazzi.

You recognized them instantly, cameras slung over shoulders, long-lens lenses pointed forward like rifles. A wall of flashing bulbs went off in waves, punctuated by the hiss of shutters and the sharp bark of names.

Bora swore under her breath. “Idols.”

The thread pulsed against your skin.

You stood on your toes, trying to see. Bora pulled you gently toward the edge of the sidewalk, out of sight for now. You craned your neck.

Eight men were walking toward a black van idling at the curb. Security flanked them, carving a path through the crowd.

You looked around, “One of these cameramen must be my soulmate!”

Bora gave you a look, half deadpan, half amused. “Really?” she said. “That’s your theory?”

You shrugged, trying to make light of it, trying to calm the sharp flutter in your chest. “Well, the thread’s pulling and they’re the only ones not moving. Maybe I’m destined to fall for someone who lives in a press vest and yells ‘over here’ for a living.”

Bora arched an eyebrow. “You think it’s a guy shouting for attention, not one of the eight men everyone is shouting about?”

“Pft. What are the odds of my soulmate being an idol?”

“In this city? Honestly? Higher than you'd think.”

You opened your mouth to toss back another joke, something about fate having a twisted sense of humor, but the words caught.

Because he turned.

Not all eight. Just one. Just him.

He turned toward the crowd with the casual sort of glance you’d seen a thousand times in fan cams and magazines, that half-second check of the scene before ducking into the van. But his eyes passed over the cameras, over the shouting fans, and landed, stopped, on you.

And he gasped. You saw it. The way his whole face changed in an instant. His expression cracked open like he’d been struck.

And then your thread stung. Not warm, not glowing. It burned. Like a sudden bolt of electricity through your hand, up your arm, through your ribs.

You flinched, breath catching as you clutched your pinky.

He stumbled. Not visibly, not enough for the cameras to catch it, but you saw it. That half-step falter, the way his hand instinctively reached toward his own pinky, hidden beneath the sleeve of a designer jacket.

He felt it too.

For the briefest of moments, you locked eyes. Neither of you moved. Neither of you could.

And then security surged.

One of the bodyguards stepped between you without even noticing you were there. Another hand on the idol’s shoulder, guiding, firm.

“No- wait-” he said, but it was too soft, too late.

They bundled him toward the van like a current sweeping him away, his body turning, his eyes still on you, wide and wild with disbelief.

You opened your mouth. You don’t know what you meant to say. Don’t go?

But the door slammed shut and the van pulled away. The thread tugged hard, like it hated being stretched. And then the pain dulled. Still tight. Still real. But no longer searing.

Bora, who had gone silent beside you, let out a slow breath. “Okay. That,” she said, “was not one of the cameramen.”

You could barely nod.

You stared after the van’s trail down the road, heart still hammering. “What do I do now?”

Bora tilted her head. “You go get coffee.”

You turned, incredulous.

“And then,” she said, “we figure out which member of one of the biggest K-pop groups in the world just imprinted on you like a drama protagonist. Cool?”

You blinked. “Cool.”

But the thread still pulsed against your skin. He was out there. And he’d felt it too.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

“So,” Bora opened her laptop at the coffee shop. “There aren’t a lot of eight member boy groups that are popular enough to have that much paparazzi. This should relatively easy to figure out. What did he look like?”

You sipped your coffee trying to calm your nerves. “Uh…he had blonde hair. And…freckles. That’s all I remember. I only saw him for a few seconds.”

Bora practically gasped.“Freckles?” she hissed, already typing fast. “Blonde hair and freckles? Are you joking?”

You blinked, startled. “No, why?”

She spun the laptop toward you, screen angled so the sun glare didn’t hit. “Because that narrows it down to, like… one person.”

You leaned in, heart thudding.

A video was paused mid-frame, clearly a fan-taken clip from the crowd during an event. But the one in the middle, slightly behind the others, head tilted as if searching the crowd, was unmistakable.

Blonde hair, catching the light. Soft jawline. A smattering of freckles over the bridge of his nose, visible even through the slightly pixelated footage.

You gasped. “That’s him.”

“Holy shit! Your soulmate is the Lee Felix!” Bora then covered her mouth and looked around, making sure no one heard her.

She exhales like she’s been holding her breath since the sidewalk. “All right, listen up, rookie. Idol soul‑links are messy. We need a plan before this blows up.”

You manage a shaky laugh. “A plan? I still haven’t processed that my soulmate is-”

“-one‑eighth of a stadium‑filling phenomenon, yes.” She snaps the laptop shut, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Which means everything from now on is important. You’re an incoming Fashion Week headliner; he’s global press bait. One wrong move, the tabloids eat both of you alive.”

You blink, heart pounding. “So what do we do?”

“First,” she says, ticking points off on perfectly manicured fingers, “you focus on your collection. Seoul Fashion Week is in four weeks, and Felix’s schedule is a black‑out wall of rehearsals, music shows, and live streams. Fate can’t trump deadlines.”

The thread under your sleeve gives a gentle throb, like it disagrees.

“Second,” Bora continues, “we gather intel the professional way, quietly. Stray Kids have a showcase taping tomorrow night at SBS Prism Tower. Industry passes are…get‑able.��� Her smirk says she already knows a guy.

“Alright. Focus on the show, but also try to see him again. I understand.”

tag list (comment to be added!): @hwangjoanna

[virtualsangel]

˖ ࣪ . 🧸 ࿐ ♡ ˚ . "now," jiwoo's hands were in front of her, as if she was holding them up in a state of surrender. "can you just put the craft scissors down, i'm worried you'll fling them at me and they'll do some serious damage." eyes wide, it not registering with her that the shears were plastic and couldn't do any damage to her whatsoever. she pushed the dried pasta shells over to the other. "i wasn't hogging them, by the way. spaghetti makes for a nice barn." jiwoo said, looking down at her masterpiece of artwork, craft night between the pair being a hit. she knew it would be! / @travelexe

[atzjieun]

hanging by a thread

summary | jieun’s emotions reach their boiling point when wooyoung refuses to talk

circa | august 4, 2024

contains | 3.3k words, angst, swearing, wooyoung is kinda an asshole, supportive bestie jongho

notes | the jiwoo fight that everyone’s been waiting for is finally here !!

Jieun had always been an observant person. 

It was both a blessing and a curse. While it allowed her to pick up on things that others sometimes didn’t, as well as made her really good at finding birthday presents, there were times when she found herself looking into things too much. Her mind had a tendency to look for problems that weren’t there, something she’d been working on for years but still occasionally struggled with. 

Hence why she didn’t originally question it when Wooyoung began avoiding her. It was subtle at first, with him declining when she’d offered to go out together or being disengaged in their conversations. Although she’d immediately noticed the slight shift in his demeanor, it was dismissed as simple fatigue from the tour. Given a couple days, they’d be back to talking as usual and the whole thing would be something she’d laugh about later on, knowing she’d just overanalyzed the situation. 

However, days turned into weeks and Jieun saw no change in his behaviour. If anything, it had only grown worse as their tour continued. They saw each other nearly 24 hours a day, 23 of which Wooyoung spent ignoring her. She’d notice how he’d walk over to the opposite side from where she was standing on multiple occasions, and whether it be through sheer coincidence or him purposefully avoiding her, they always ended up on opposite sides of the stage. 

She tried talking to him on multiple occasions, subtly at first, with simple questions about how he’d slept or how he was feeling that day. She asked if anything was bothering him, trying her best to let him know that she was there for him through whatever he was clearly dealing with. Though every time, her concerns were met with quick, dismissive replies that did nothing to relieve the growing fear in her stomach. 

Still, despite his treatment of her, she couldn’t help but worry, which was how Jieun found herself standing outside his hotel room at 11 at night. The hallway was eerily quiet as she waited in front of the door, dressed in only her pajamas that ironically included one of Wooyoung’s sweaters. 

Taking in a deep breath, Jieun raised her arm and knocked against the door. She just hoped he wouldn’t recognize her specific knock pattern and ignore her. 

After a few seconds of waiting, she heard the click of the lock followed by the door slowly cracking open. Wooyoung’s figure appeared in the small gap, dressed in his own pyjamas, his hair still wet. 

“What?” he asked with an impatience that made her heart lurch. 

Jieun took in a deep breath as she gripped the sleeve of her hoodie. “We need to talk.” 

“We’re talking right now, aren’t we?” 

“Not like this.” After staring at her for a moment, Wooyoung suddenly closed the door. She waited anxiously, though to her relief he reopened the door a second later after unhooking the latch, holding it open wide enough for her to walk in. 

Jieun walked past him as he closed the door behind her, taking a few steps into his room before turning back to the boy. He watched her with a tired and disinterested expression, letting out a sigh as she crossed her arms. Jieun’s gaze lowered slightly, too afraid to meet his gaze.  

“Wooyoung-oppa, what’s going on?” 

He raised his eyebrows in silent questioning, only adding to her frustration. 

“For weeks, you’ve been brushing me off and ignoring me, and I don’t know why.” Her tone of voice grew harsher as she spoke, causing Jieun to close her eyes and take a deep breath to calm herself down. After collecting herself, she spoke again. “I noticed you’ve been more distant lately and I’m worried about you, but it’s like I’m the only one you’re purposefully avoiding. Please, just tell me what’s wrong.” 

When she was met by silence, Jieun opened her eyes and stared directly at the boy, their gazes meeting. It was the first time they’d looked at each other eye-to-eye in days, yet she’d never felt so invisible as she stood in front of him. 

Wooyoung simply stood there with the same tired look he’d given her every other time he spared her a glance. She hated how she had become so accustomed to it. 

“If I did something to hurt you, I’m sorry.” Jieun knew how pathetic she must have sounded, but she had no options left. “But please, I can’t make things right if I don’t know what I did wrong.” 

Jieun waited, hoping he’d say something, anything, to ease her racing heart. If he had to tear her apart and explain every way she’d messed up, then so be it. She just needed something to pull her out of the complete darkness she’d been left in. 

However, minutes passed with the two remaining silent, Jieun’s pleading gaze resting on the older boy as his own eyes moved away, staring off into the distance like he was tired of the conversation. 

Eventually, she took in a deep breath, unclenching her hands. Her thumb ran over the shallow crescent-shaped marks that were left as her head lowered.

“I should probably go,” she mumbled, breaking the silence. “I’m going out with Hongjoong-oppa in the morning.” 

Wooyoung immediately stepped to the side, not meeting her gaze even as Jieun made her way towards the door. She hesitated for a moment as she reached for the doorknob, hoping he’d do something to stop her from leaving, though no more words were exchanged.

Defeated, Jieun opened the door and walked out of his room, stuffing her hands into her pockets as she made her way back to her own. 

Jongho was laying on his bed, absentmindedly watching a YouTube video that had popped up on his recommended feed, when Jieun walked into the room. He gave a quick greeting without looking up, though was met with silence as the younger girl didn’t respond. Instead, she walked right past him and immediately flopped onto her bed face-first, laying there unmoving. 

“You good?” he asked amusingly, sparing the girl a quick glance. 

Jieun let out a mix of a groan and a hum, remaining in her place. This caused Jongho to pause his video, fully turning his head in her direction. 

“Jieun? Everything alright?” 

When she didn’t respond, Jongho quickly pulled himself out of bed, placing his phone on the side table before making his way over to hers. He took a seat beside her, poking the girl in the shoulder. 

“Are you dead?” 

Jieun let out a sigh as she rolled over, looking up at him in defeat. 

“What should I do if I think I pissed someone off and now they won’t talk to me, but I don’t know what I even did in the first place and they won’t tell me why they’ve been ignoring me for weeks?” 

“Hold on, slow down a bit,” Jongho said, eyes widening. “First of all, who is it, and second, what’s going on?” 

Jieun closed her eyes as her hands dragged down her face. “Wooyoung,” she said, shaking her head. “He’s been avoiding me for weeks and when I try confronting him, he just shuts me out.” 

A small sigh escaped Jongho’s lips as he began to gently massage the girl’s shoulder in hopes of providing some comfort. He’d noticed the slight tension between the two a while ago, but chose to not get involved in hopes they’d be able to resolve things on their own. Upon seeing her deflated state, however, a part of him felt guilty for not stepping in sooner. 

“Did you just try talking to him?” he asked carefully, despite knowing the likely answer. 

“I did. I tried talking to him multiple times, and this time he wouldn’t even say anything.” Jieun suddenly sat up in bed and turned to the boy, the broken expression on her face tearing a piece of his heart out. “I feel like I’m going crazy. I don’t think I did anything wrong, but he won’t even tell me if I did or not. I just want things to be normal again but how am I supposed to do that when he won’t talk to me about anything?” 

Jongho’s hands slowly reached out to take hers, rubbing calm, smooth circles as he met her gaze.  

“Breathe, Jieun,” he said, not letting go of her hands. “Breathe with me. 1, 2, 3, 4-” Jongho took in a deep breath, which he held for four counts before slowly exhaling, nodding encouragingly as she copied his breathing pattern. “Good. Good job.” 

Jieun continued to copy his breath pattern, her racing heart soon calming down while he continued rubbing circles on the back of her hand with his thumb. Only after she had calmed down did Jongho speak up again. 

“Jieun, you’re not crazy,” he said firmly. “If I’m being honest, I don’t think you did anything wrong, but even if you did, it’s not fair of Wooyoung to just cut you off without giving a reason, especially when you’re still making efforts to talk to him.” 

Jieun exhaled shakily. “I’m sorry,” she said, almost in shame, her head lowering. “I’m just…This is stressful. Everything.”

“And you’re completely valid for that.” One of his hands reached up to rest on her shoulder. “Anyone in your position would feel the same way, but it’s not your fault. This is on Wooyoung for not communicating like an adult.” 

She nodded as she picked the skin around her nails, pausing for a couple moments before looking up at him. 

“What should I do?” 

Jongho’s mouth tightened into a straight line, carefully thinking of what to say.

“Honestly, I think you just have to leave him on his own at this point,” he eventually answered, a sigh escaping his lips. “As much as it sucks, it’s clear that he’s not going to open up any time soon. You know how stubborn Wooyoung can be.” 

This caused a faint smile to spread across her face, though it quickly disappeared as worry clouded her expression.

“I want to be there for him though,” she whispered. “If he’s going through something, then-” 

“Eun-ah,” Jongho cut her off, taking both her hands in his once more. He looked her in the eye. “Wooyoung’s emotions are not your sole responsibility. He’s old enough to communicate his emotions like an adult.” 

Another silence fell upon the two as Jieun considered his words. Logically, she knew he was right, but that didn’t stop the ache in her heart and the feeling of helplessness she couldn’t shake off. 

Jongho placed a hand on her knee and squeezed. “You should get to sleep soon. Aren’t you going out with Hongjoong-hyung in the morning?” he asked. Jieun gave a small, hesitant nod, her conflicted gaze not going unnoticed by the older boy. He tilted his head. “Want me to sing you to sleep?” 

She hesitated for a moment, about to decline when Jongho patted the pillow behind her. Jieun cracked a small smile as she laid down, pulling the covers over her body as Jongho moved to sit slightly closer. 

Gently, he reached over and began combing his fingers through her hair, his soft voice filling the room. He sat there for a while, going through the countless songs he had engraved in his heart as Jieun’s breath slowly stabilized. 

After ensuring that she was fully asleep, Jongho, as carefully as he could, rose from the bed, keeping an eye on her the whole time to make sure she didn’t wake up. Without taking his eyes off her, he began backing up from the bed and slowly made his way towards the door. He grabbed his keycard before opening the door as quietly as possible, making sure to turn the light off before slipping out of the room. 

Wooyoung felt like shit. 

He hadn’t felt particularly great the last few days, but the interaction he’d just had with the group’s youngest member didn’t help. It was a conversation, if one could even call it that, he’d been dreading for a while, but found himself unable to say anything in front of her. After she left, he decided to take another shower despite having already washed up, hoping the hot water would help ease his mind, though it made no difference. 

Wooyoung laid on his bed, staring up at the ceiling blankly, his body numb. Time slipped by unbeknownst to him, unable to focus on anything but the events that had just transpired. 

It was only when a knock sounded at his door that Wooyoung was broken out of his thoughts. He raised his head and stared at the door, wondering if it was worth it to go and open it. Another knock sounded, though Wooyoung continued to just stare at the door blankly. 

“Wooyoung, I know you’re awake.” To his surprise, Jongho’s muffled voice sounded from outside the room.

Begrudgingly, Wooyoung pushed himself off the bed and slowly made his way over to his door. A sigh escaped his lips as he unlocked it and pulled the door open, Jongho standing in front of him with a furious expression. 

“What are you-?” Wooyoung asked, unable to finish his sentence as Jongho stormed into his room, pushing past the older without asking. He was barely able to process all that was happening before Jongho began his tirade. 

“What is going on, Jung Wooyoung? And don’t try to bullshit your way out of this or whatever else you’ve been telling Jieun. Are you really that selfish? We’re on tour and you’re causing issues for the group.” Wooyoung stared at him with wide eyes, mouth left agape, but Jongho just scoffed as he shook his head. “I could tell something was off but I thought it wasn’t my place to say, but this is just ridiculous.” 

If looks could kill, Jongho’s gaze would have put Wooyoung six feet under the moment he stepped into the room. He didn’t care if he was being disrespectful to his elder, any respect he had for the older was lost the moment Jieun told him the truth. Even now, Wooyoung’s lack of response and his eyes being glued to the floor only further pissed him off. 

“Well? Aren’t you going to say something?” Jongho questioned. “Jieun’s distraught right now because you won’t talk to her, and you don’t even have the decency to tell her why.” 

A silence fell over the two, Jongho’s eyes burning into Wooyoung’s head as the latter continued to stare at the ground. Eventually, he shook his head. 

“I can’t.”

Jongho scoffed in disbelief. “You can’t what?”

“I can’t tell her,” Wooyoung said, his voice reduced to a whisper. 

“And why not? You know how Jieun thinks sometimes and making her suffer like this is just cruel-” 

“Because I like her!” 

Jongho paused, blinking at the older with a startled expression. 

“You…you what?”

Shaking his head, Wooyoung closed his eyes and took a deep breath, refusing to meet his gaze. 

“Since when?” Jongho asked, his anger starting to subside as shock filled him. 

“Since Oakland, maybe? I don’t know, it just…happened,” Wooyoung answered, shrugging. His head hung low, almost in shame. “I thought I could ignore it and it would go away, but it hasn’t. I can’t even look at her without thinking about how much I want to hold her and kiss her and-“

“Ok, I get it. That’s literally my sister, I don’t need details. Ew.” Jongho scrunched his nose, a disgusted look on his face. 

“I’m so fucked!” Wooyoung covered his hands with his face, letting out a groan as he walked back over to his bed and plopped down face-first. “This is the worst thing I could’ve done. Especially now, when we’re in the middle of a tour.”

Jongho was left standing in shock as he tried to process all the new information he’d just received. He watched from afar for about a minute before slowly making his way over, and like deja vu, Jongho took a seat beside the distressed member.

Meanwhile, Wooyoung continued to lay there in a puddle of his own emotions, clearly overwhelmed. On one hand, it felt nice to finally get the secret he’d been keeping for weeks off his chest- he hadn’t even told San- but the weight of the secret sat heavy on his shoulders. The more he tried acting like things were fine, the heavier the weight became, and with the added guilt of how he’d been treating Jieun recently, Wooyoung felt as though he was being crushed. 

After a while, Jongho placed a hand on the older’s shoulder, a sigh escaping his lips. 

“Hyung, you don’t have to tell her how you feel if you’re not ready,” he said, voice calm and collected. “But you do have to go and apologize.” When a conflicted expression crossed Wooyoung’s face, Jongho frowned. “You caught feelings, it’s not the end of the world. But like you said, we’re in the middle of a tour, and this won’t be fun for anyone if you don’t at least try to fix some of the mess you’ve created.” 

“I don’t know if I can,” Wooyoung whispered, shaking his head. “If she doesn’t hate me now, she probably will when she finds out.”  

“Is it really that bad if you like her?” Jongho asked. “Like sure, she’s a little sister to me, but I can understand why. She’s smart, hardworking, talented, pretty- I can see why you would.” 

Heat rushed to Wooyoung’s face as he peeked at the younger boy through his fingers, though glanced away a second later. 

Jongho sighed. “Jieun wouldn’t hate you over something like this, and I doubt she’ll ever hate you, but… she’s worried. She wants to be there for you and for things to go back to how they used to be.”

Wooyoung dropped his hands from his face, staring up at the ceiling with a blank expression. 

“They won’t. I can’t go back to how things were before.”

“Can you at least try?” Jongho nearly pleaded. “For Jieun’s sake?” 

Another silence fell over the two as Wooyoung continued to stare ahead, expressionless. As much as he hated admitting it, Jongho was right, and so was Jieun. This wasn’t how he wanted to look back on the tour. 

A sigh eventually left Wooyoung’s lips as he nodded. 

“Ok, I’ll do it.” 

Jongho gave a small, tight-lipped smile as he patted the boy’s leg. He stood up, waiting for Wooyoung to bring himself to his feet before allowing himself to be escorted out of the room. 

“I’ll talk to her tomorrow,” Wooyoung promised as he opened the door. 

Jongho nodded. “She’s going out with Hongjoong-hyung in the morning, but she should be back by the afternoon.” He looked back over his shoulder, giving Wooyoung one final pat on the shoulder. “Good luck, soldier.” 

Wooyoung rolled his eyes, shooing Jongho out of his room before closing the door behind him and locking it. Sighing, he turned around and made his way back to his own bed, allowing himself to be engulfed by the cold sheets. He reached over to the bedside table where his phone laid, quickly grabbing and unlocking it before scrolling through his messages. He opened his text conversation with Jieun, the last message sent being something she’d asked him about, though he’d never responded. 

Wooyoung’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, slowly typing out a message. 

Me: hey, what time will you be back tomorrow?

He shook his head, spamming the backspace button to delete the message. After a few more attempts at writing something he was satisfied with, Wooyoung accepted defeat and turned his phone off. He placed it back on the bedside table before pulling his covers up over his shoulders. 

He decided he’d text her the next day. Only now, it would be him waiting for her response, and even though he didn’t deserve it, he really hoped she would. 

taglist: @teezingsiyeon @moonkyeom [send an ask to be added to or removed from the the taglist]

a/n: this is part one to the jiwoo incident 🫠 i'll try to get part 2 out as soon as i can

[survivalscost]

link lit up like a christmas tree. he didn't play any part in putting the whole thing together, but it warmed his heart all the same to see the place he called home enjoy even a small moment of pure bliss. "omar deserves it either way, i can't picture this place without him." an argument could be made that he was just one person so his presence couldn't make that much of a difference, but link liked to think everyone who occupied the campus brought something special to it, something that would make the place feel not quite right in its absence. but maybe that was just the attachment and fondness that grew in the last two years speaking. "whatever brought everyone out tonight, it's nice to see. for a while there i wasn't sure if things would get back to this." he admitted, smile faltering for a moment. for years life seemed to revolve around survival rather than actually living life and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't worried that the infiltration wasn't going to force that lifestyle back on him. "if nothing else, it's a step in the right direction at least."

        me,  she  thought.  this  is  nothing  more than another day to me. jiwoo wasn't blind; she could see how important mr. williams was to every person here. all night she'd overheard people recounting fond memories they had with and of him. she bet her father had his own stories after knowing him for ten years. it made the knife twist in her chest. because mr. williams was a nice man, someone who had been nothing but kind to her since she'd arrived, but that was all he was to her. she shouldn't be here. ❝ everyone i've seen is having a good time. so it looks like you all succeeded. ❞   the corners of her lips moved slightly upward. jiwoo hated the stone of envy resting in her stomach. ❝ i'm sure. an excuse to drink must help too. ❞   she followed his gaze back to the group of people, talking and laughing, as if the world wasn't awful. she took a sip of her water in hopes it drowned the jealousy.

[honeylations]

SON JIWOO x FEM!READER

Prompt: You attend a party in celebration of exams ending, only to find your crush being cornered by her ex boyfriend

Warnings/Notes: uni au, drinking, kissing, mentions of cheating, suggestive at the end

———

“Chanelle! Y/n! Welcome to the party-“ Yeji interrupted herself upon seeing your outfit tonight. “Wohohoho look at you Kwon Y/n~ Is this really you?”

You rolled your eyes playfully, unable to hide the proud smile creeping your lips. Yeji was right though, you had decided to go all out with your look, wanting to impress everyone (more like SOMEONE) with your visuals.

“Nerdy architecture student Y/n?! No this is womaniser Y/n!!” Chanelle did jazz hands as if you were her successful experiment. Which is technically true.

Upon finding out your crush was going to be at this party, you cried to Chanelle on the phone about dressing you nicely like a doll. Of course, she was more than happy to help you despite the 3 hours it took of actually finding an outfit in your dull closet.

Chanelle was also right on the ‘nerdy architecture student’ title because every lecture, every brunch, every dinner, you stuck with the same purple Champion hoodie that Yunah got you for your birthday 3 years ago. The colour had faded and some threading came loose but you refused to wear anything else as you quoted: ‘I am attending a 2 hour lecture. Not a fashion show’.

Your friends tried to convince you by using Son Jiwoo, your campus crush, as an excuse to dress better but your buildings are on complete opposite sides of the University so what was the point? It didn’t matter.

Well now it did matter. You had your hair down for once, revealing the outgrown wolf cut that Ruka offered to trim and retouch, and Chanelle organised a simple black long sleeve button up and slacks to help scream ‘lesbian’.

She suggested for you to wear your contacts but you remembered doing that last time while being absolutely wasted and you ended up forgetting to remove them before you passed out in bed. Wasn’t a pleasant morning afterwards, having to deal with sore blood shot eyes for the week.

“You dressed her well, Chanelle. I feel so proud of our Y/n-ie!” Yeji fake cried before letting you fully step into the loud dorm. It was dark but the little neon lights allowed you to see just how many people were here, recognising a few from your classes.

“Jiwoo is in the kitchen if you’re wondering” Funa said in your ear, making you jump.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

The girl laughed and ran her hands from your shoulders down to your arms. “Wow you look great. So pretty but so handsome, rawrrr!”

What you didn’t notice was Jiwoo eyeing you from the kitchen doorway, shooting daggers at Funa who’s hands could not leave your shoulders. Taking a sip from her red cup, she walked back into the kitchen for more liquor.

“Are you drunk? You’re very handsy” You chuckled at Funa.

She gave your shoulders one last squeeze. “You work out so well, I’m jealous. And no, I’m not drunk”

You shrugged at her. “Gotta stay in shape or else the ladies won’t love me”

“Ladies? You mean Jiwoo” She winked. “Get yourself a drink, Y/n. You deserve it after studying so hard”

You nodded and bid her a goodbye before making a beeline to the kitchen that had lights on, being better for you compared to the dark noisy living room. Chanelle was already on her 5th cup, having a good chat with Minju by the drinks table. They both noticed your presence.

“Hey Y/n! I didn’t even recognise you!” Minju beamed, eyeing you from head to toe.

“I’m gonna get that a lot tonight, huh?” You smirked and poured yourself some vodka and sprite.

“Let loose Y/n-ie! Our future architect deserves a reward” Chanelle winked your way, being enough of a reason for you to chug your drink and pouring a second round.

For the next half an hour, the effects of the alcohol got you more extroverted than you usually are, talking with classmates to talking with strangers, most of them being pretty med students that marked you as their eye candy. But they weren’t Jiwoo so you turned down any offers of taking things upstairs.

Being on your god knows how much cup, you were leaning your back against the counter while chatting with Ryujin about your childhood together when Yunjin appears with her hand around Chaewon’s waist.

“Hey there, architect” Yunjin grinned.

“Hey lovebirds, enjoying the party?” You asked with a smiling Ryujin.

“Better question is, how come you’re not making any moves on Jiwoo, huh? You’re dolled up like this and not expecting to get laid?” Chaewon tilted her head at you mockingly.

“I don’t just go up to someone like that, Chae” You laughed.

The three started a whole new conversation when you looked over Yunjin’s shoulder and saw the girl you’ve been thinking of getting cornered by a guy. You sighed and took another big gulp out of your red cup, turning around to pour another. Ryujin slapped your arm

“Slow down there, Kwon. You’re gonna kill yourself”

“What’s the point. Jiwoo’s getting talked to by some dude that could’ve been me” you grumbled, drinking your new pour with ease, going straight for another.

They all looked at where Jiwoo was, Yunjin frowning as she realised the situation. “Uh, doesn’t look like she’s into it actually. She looks uncomfortable”

Throwing your eyes back to your crush, you could see Yunjin was right. Jiwoo had her shoulders up with a disgusted look while the guy was trapping her between the wall and his body.

“Isn’t that Hwan?” (OC character) Chaewon questioned.

“Didn’t they break up two months ago? What could he possibly want?” Ryujin questioned next.

“Look away” You simply huffed and set your empty cup down before walking your way to the two students.

“This is gonna be so good” Yunjin smirked, Chaewon and Ryujin joining in as a small audience.

“I’m back now, baby. It can be us again” Hwan whispered into Jiwoo’s ear, kissing at her ear before he got pushed away by your hand.

“Ever heard of consent?” You hissed.

Jiwoo could finally breathe, holding onto the back of your shirt while she hid.

“And you are?”

You gulped and thought of the first response that came to mind. “Her girlfriend. Is there a problem?”

Jiwoo’s eyes widened, clutching your shirt tighter as her heart rate quickened. Being called her girlfriend was something she dreamt of for way too long.

“Cut the bullshit. She needs a real man and I’m the closest thing to that compared to you” He jabbed a finger at your shoulder.

You took a step closer, killing him with a deathly stare that Jiwoo nor anyone hasn’t seen before, causing an uncomfortable aura around you. “Having a 3 inch dick doesn’t make you a man, Hwan”

His eye twitched before trying to reach around to grab Jiwoo but you aggressively pushed his hand away and grabbed at his polo collar. “Don’t you fucking touch what’s not yours” You growled.

Jiwoo gasped and was quick to grab onto your shoulder, trying not to distract herself from the yummy muscles she was feeling. The touch made you look at her.

“Y/n baby, please don’t. He’s not worth it”

Releasing a heavy sigh, you pushed Hwan away with your eyes piercing angrily into his. You snapped out of it when you felt arms slide up your neck, making you face Jiwoo who held you close. “Please don’t hate me for this” She whispered, not letting you question it the moment her lips pushed into yours.

Instantly closing your eyes, your hands went around her exposed waist while kissing deeply back. You opened your eyes briefly to lock eyes with an embarrassed Hwan as you squeezed Jiwoo’s waist. The man cursed under his breath and left the party.

Jiwoo gently pulled away, fixing your glasses that got wonky from the kiss. Your hands never left each other. “I’m sorry, Y/n”

“Don’t be, please. Just felt the need to save you. Who was he anyways?”

“My ex. He’s insane, don’t worry so much about him” She sighed and ran her hands over your strong shoulders.

“May I ask what happened between you two?”

“Cheated on me, that’s all. I don’t care anyways since I’m here with you. I’ve wanted you for a while now, Y/n” she smiled.

You were about to melt from the blunt confession. “Same here. I didn’t even know you knew my name”

“I’m mutual friends with Chaewon. The moment I saw you, I had to ask her for every detail”

“Stalker much” you joked, letting her head rest against your chest.

She went on her tippy toes to give light kisses under your jaw, marking it with her red lipstick. “You look so fucking good tonight. You don’t understand how crazy you made me, Y/n”

“Oh believe me, I’ve been worse”

She then placed lipstick marks on your cheek to the rest of your face. “Glad you’re out of that same purple hoodie you always wear” She giggled.

You looked at her shocked. “Hey, don’t be mean. I love that hoodie because Yunah gifted it to me!”

“If I buy you a new hoodie can you let that purple one go for once?”

“If it’s from you, I don’t mind anything”

Jiwoo shook her head from your cheesy words.

“Well Miss Son Jiwoo, how about we change this fake girlfriend thing to something real?”

She looked up at you and bit her lower lip. “Hm. If you make me forget everything tonight, I’ll consider it”

You noticed the seductive tone in her voice, easily intertwining your hands and walking towards Yeji’s spare bedroom.

“WOOOH YOU GO Y/N!” Ryujin yelled.

“GET IT BABY!!” Yunjin screamed afterwards.

A/N: Yes finally wrote for mommy Jiwoo :p I can write a smut part if y’all want😭

[katxtoonz]

Eleceed Voice Headcanons

I am absolutely obsessed with the Webtoon, Eleceed! I have read 324 pages in a few days and looking forward to more! This is a thread of what voices I imagine the characters in Eleceed would have. I'll add to it as I think of them, as there's a lot of characters and I quickly run out of ideas. XD

Jiwoo Seo with the voice of Gowther from The Seven Deadly Sins (English Dub). Jiwoo's personality is so sweet and sincere, I picture him having a consistently high voice.

Kayden with the voice of Jotaro from JoJo's Bizarre Adventure: Diamond is Unbreakable (English Dub). His voice is the same voice actor in all the seasons he appeared in, but I specify DiU because he's more mature in his mannerisms than in Stardust Crusaders.

Pluton with the voice of Kronk from The Emperor's New Groove. His personality definitely gives Kronk, but instead of being good at cooking, he takes pride in being impenetrable. :P

Subin Lee with the voice of Akito Sohma from Fruits Basket (English Dub). I think she would definitely sound like a tomboy. This actress yells just how I picture Subin sounds when she yells. XD

[kingofbodyrolls]

Songs of the Heart (m) | pjm | chapter 4

*this is a re-upload since I deleted my old account 🫣

In the quiet glow of a shared evening, you finally ask Jimin about Jiwoo, peeling back the layers of his heart while daring to reveal the scars of your own. You speak of the ghosts in your past, of love that hurt instead of healed, and he listens—truly listens—with the kind of tenderness you never thought you’d find. Jimin is everything you didn’t know your soul was yearning for, and now, in this fragile, shimmering moment, it feels like the universe is whispering that maybe, just maybe, you can do this. That love, real love, might finally be within reach.

→ Pairing: jimin x reader (female) → AUs: musician!au (not completely idol!au), single dad!au, slice of life!au → Trope: strangers to lovers / neighbors to lovers → Genres: slow burn romance / fluff / angst / smut / comedy → Rating: mature/explicit/R18  (this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact.) → Word count: 6.8k → Warnings + triggers: mention of illness, past character death (Jiwoo), mention of past domestic abuse (hitting), mention of past emotional abuse, FEELINGS 😭 → Read on AO3? [link] → Author’s note: Alright, brace yourselves—this one’s a rollercoaster of angst and sadness, okay? Like, grab your tissues sad. 😢 But I swear, hold tight because the storm does pass. You’ll get answers to all those questions we’ve been agonizing over, and while it’s emotional, it’s also unexpectedly soft—like a cozy blanket after a storm. 🌧️ All the raw, messy feelings are on display, but here’s the twist: healing is happening, and everything will be okay, I promise! 🫂 So let’s dive in, feel all the feels, and come out stronger on the other side! This whole story is for my dear friend @remmykinsff! I hope you’ll love it 💜

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The months slip by like sand through your fingers, swept away by the rhythm of work and the gentle pull of evenings spent with Jimin and his enchanting daughter, Hwa-Young. April has arrived, dressing the world in a delicate lace of blossoms, and with each petal that unfolds, you feel your own feelings for Jimin unfurl, tender and vibrant. Like spring itself, they bloom quietly, yet with an ache that demands to be felt.

And yet, you’ve kept your feelings hidden, a secret cradled close to your chest. Namjoon, ever the wise confidant, keeps urging you to tell him, to stop letting fear hold you back. “You’ll feel lighter,” he says, as though love isn’t a tightrope strung between hope and vulnerability. But the thought of laying your heart bare terrifies you. You’ve been down this road before, and the scars remind you that even the most beautiful things can break. Still, deep down, you know—Jimin is not like the others. There’s a gentleness in him, a quiet depth that sets him apart. Yet still, you tread cautiously, balancing between longing and fear.

Today, he’s invited you to his rehearsal—a glimpse behind the curtain of his world—and like the ever-supportive “friend” (oh, how that word stings now), you’ve come. From your spot in the empty venue, you watch him test his mic, strumming a few chords on his guitar before diving headfirst into his setlist. His voice, low and resonant, fills the space, spilling raw emotion into the still air.

You’ve heard these songs a hundred times before—on the radio, in quiet moments together, and the ones he’s been crafting these past months—but somehow, they strike a different chord tonight. Each haunting lyric feels like a thread, weaving something sacred, and his voice... oh, his voice. It reaches you in a way that words alone never could, wrapping around your heart, leaving you breathless and undone. 

Goosebumps ripple over your skin, and for a moment, you let yourself imagine—just for a moment—that the emotions he pours into his music might be meant for you.

As you watch him perform, lost in the way his fingers glide effortlessly across the strings, you find yourself wondering about the meaning behind his lyrics. What chapters of his life do they hold? What untold stories linger in the spaces between his words? Jimin is a mystery, and every haunting note he sings feels like a glimpse into a life he has yet to fully share with you.

“All right. With those sweet words of yours, you were doing your best to take every single thing from me. Look at yourself. Why don’t you want even more? You can want more. That suits you, babe. I hope you don’t change.”

His voice wraps around the room, raw and unguarded, and the lyrics cut through you, sharp and aching. There’s a truth in his words that stings, a vulnerability that feels too personal to ignore. It pierces your heart in ways you can’t explain.

A small part of you can’t shake the thought—these songs must be about Hwa-Young’s mother, no matter what he’s told you. He’s said they weren’t romantic, only friends, but these words… they feel too heavy, too deeply etched with sorrow and longing to be about just friendship. You can’t stop yourself from wondering if there are pieces of his past that are still too tender to touch, pieces he’s shielding even now.

And yet, as the melody rises, a weight settles in your chest. You remember what you told Namjoon months ago—that you weren’t ready to step into something complicated. And Jimin’s life? It feels like a song with too many verses, too many harmonies to untangle. The honesty of his voice, the rawness of his words—they’re pulling you in, but at the same time, the sheer depth of it all feels overwhelming. Why does love always have to feel so complicated?

You don’t even realize the tears streaking silently down your cheeks until you feel a small, warm hand wrap around yours.

“Y/N… why are you crying?”

The soft, curious voice pulls you from your spiraling thoughts, and you look down to see Hwa-Young gazing up at you, her big, concerned eyes watching you carefully. She’s been sitting beside you all along, a quiet witness to your unraveling.

You blink rapidly, trying to compose yourself, but the knot in your throat is hard to swallow. How could you explain this to her, this little girl who sees the world in innocent wonder? You can’t. You won’t.

With a shaky smile, you squeeze her hand and shake your head lightly. “I’m okay, sweetheart,” you whisper, your voice barely steady. But your heart clenches because you know the truth you can’t admit—not to her, not to Jimin, not even fully to yourself yet.

You’re falling, tumbling headlong into feelings for a man whose world is so much bigger than yours. And as much as you wish it wasn’t, as much as you long for simplicity, love never seems to come without its complications.

So, you settle on a simpler truth, wrapping it delicately in softness for her young heart to grasp. “Your dad is just so good at singing. It’s so beautiful, it makes me feel… sad in the best way.”

She nods thoughtfully, inching closer to you on the stools, her small shoulders brushing yours as if seeking silent comfort. “Daddy’s really good with words,” she says quietly, her voice carrying an innocence laced with wisdom far beyond her years. “He tried to make mommy happy with his words… but I think sometimes they did the opposite.”

Her statement lands like a whisper of thunder, quiet but resounding, leaving you staring at her. How could such a tiny soul speak with such weight? But before you can find a reply, she continues, her small voice carrying secrets as fragile as glass.

“When my mom got sick,” she murmurs, “he wanted to do everything for her…” Her words trail off, and instinctively, you lean toward her, drawing her into a gentle hug. Her warmth melts into yours, her resilience as humbling as her honesty.

“You know…” she muses after a pause, her tone lightening as her little legs swing idly beneath the stool. “Daddy never kissed Mommy.”

Her soft giggle catches you off guard, and you blink down at her, confusion flickering across your face. “Daddy never made love to my mommy either,” she adds with a grin, her words innocent yet jarring, sending heat rushing to your cheeks. You can’t tell if she fully understands what she’s saying, but her candor leaves your heart racing in your chest, your pulse hammering loud and unrelenting in your ears.

Your gaze instinctively shifts to the man she speaks of, and there he is—onstage, lost in his music, fingers coaxing melodies from his guitar, his voice weaving stories that feel like silk and sorrow all at once. If what she says is true—if Jimin never had that kind of relationship with Hwa-Young’s mother—then how...?

Questions bloom in your mind, wild and restless. And just as your thoughts begin to spiral, Jimin’s song comes to an end, and he looks up, his gaze locking onto yours across the room.

Time seems to halt.

The light casts a soft halo around him, his blonde hair glowing like threads of gold, his skin luminous under the stage lights. He looks ethereal, almost unreal, as if he belongs to another world entirely—a celestial being rather than a man who feels so deeply it hurts to watch.

And yet, it’s his eyes that anchor you, pulling you into the moment. They seem to see right through you, their warmth a balm and a spark all at once. Your breath catches, your chest tightens.

It’s in that instant you realize: you can’t keep dancing around these questions, these unspoken truths that hang between you like threads in a web. If there’s one thing you’re certain of, it’s that you can’t love a man while standing in the shadow of another. You deserve to know, to understand.

As Jimin gives you a wink, you feel the weight of the conversation you know you need to have. It’s time. Time to ask him about Jiwoo. Time to find out where she fits in his heart—and where you might belong in his story.

Jimin runs a hand through his hair, the strands clinging to his forehead where sweat beads at his hairline, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if it’s fair—how effortlessly breathtaking he looks, even like this, raw and unguarded under the stage lights.  

Beside you, Hwa-Young slips her tiny hand into yours, her warmth grounding you in a moment you didn’t realize you needed. “I like you, Y/N. You’re nice,” she says, her words simple but disarming, like sunlight breaking through a cloudy sky.  

A lump rises in your throat, and you feel the sting of emotion prickle your eyes. It’s as though this day is conspiring to undo you, one tender moment at a time. Pulling her into your arms, you hug her tightly, your voice soft as you reply, “Me too, sweetheart. Me too.”  

The rest of Jimin’s rehearsal blurs like an impressionist painting—notes and movements smearing together into a beautiful haze. Before you know it, the three of you are seated in his car, the hum of the engine steady beneath the weight of your thoughts. Jimin’s voice mingles with Hwa-Young’s soft chatter, but your mind is elsewhere.  

There’s something bubbling beneath the surface of your chest—an ache, a pull, an unrelenting tide of feelings that refuse to be silenced. They prickle at your skin, a mix of anxiety and anticipation, urging you to seize this moment. You know the talk you’ve been dreading is inevitable. You can’t avoid it any longer.  

The car slows to a stop in front of Jimin’s home. His home—a place that has slowly begun to feel like your own in a way that terrifies and comforts you all at once. You follow them inside, the air heavy with unspoken words.  

Jimin pauses, turning to you with a smile so soft it feels like it might break under its own tenderness. “I just need to put Hwa-Young to bed,” he says, his voice low and warm. “It’s way past her bedtime. Do you mind waiting here?”  

You nod, settling onto the couch, the silence of the room wrapping around you like a blanket, but before Jimin can lead Hwa-Young away, she giggles and steps forward, her sleepy eyes sparkling with playful insistence.  

“No, daddy. I want Y/N to read to me,” she says, her little voice carrying a hint of mischief, though the puffy redness beneath her eyes betrays her exhaustion.  

Jimin exhales a soft sigh, but his smile lingers, a look of affection flickering across his face. He gestures for you to follow, his voice gentle. “Looks like you’ve been recruited,” he says with a small laugh.  

You chuckle softly, your heart lightening despite the weight of the day, and rise to follow Hwa-Young into her room. The familiar rhythm of bedtime routines feels comforting as you help her brush her teeth, slip into her pajamas, and settle her under the covers. As you sit beside her, her eyes glisten with a warmth that makes your chest tighten.

There’s a sweetness to this moment, so simple and pure, yet it feels like it holds the weight of something bigger. As you help tuck her in, you can’t help but think of the life Jimin has built—the love, the care, the quiet strength—and wonder if you could truly belong in it.  

“I’ve never seen my dad so happy since he met you,” she says, her voice small but carrying a truth that lands heavy in the space between you.

It’s like a gentle punch to your gut, the words so innocent, so pure, and yet they shake you to your core. Your throat constricts, an unexpected lump rising, as if the weight of her words is just too much to bear after such an emotional day. But you manage to smile—soft, fragile—and reach out to caress her forehead, letting the gesture speak for you when words seem inadequate.

You don’t need to say anything, because deep down, you already know—his happiness is something you’ve felt, too. That quiet, simmering certainty that there’s something more between you and Jimin, something undeniable, even if it’s still untold.

Hwa-Young interrupts your reverie, her small finger pointing to a well-worn book by her bedside. “Can you read this story for me?” she asks, her voice a soft plea. You glance down at the title, something about a princess who has faced the harshest of trials—siblings’ jealousy, the loneliness of her crown, a prince who offers help, but she stands strong on her own... until a single moment fractures her strength.

What kind of children’s book is this? you wonder, a touch bemused. But you say nothing, opening the pages, and as you read, her eyelids flutter slowly, the rhythm of your voice pulling her toward sleep like a lullaby.

As her breathing slows, her little body softening into the warmth of the blankets, you run your fingers gently through her hair, the silky strands slipping between your fingertips like whispers of tenderness. “Sweet dreams,” you whisper, the words barely audible, but they feel like a promise.

And in that moment, as she drifts off into a peaceful slumber, you realize that perhaps this—these quiet, fleeting moments—is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever known.

Then you step out of Hwa-Young’s room, the door clicking shut with a softness that feels almost sacred. The quiet hum of the house settles over you like a fragile veil as you make your way back to the living room. Jimin is there, sunk deep into the sofa, his posture loose with exhaustion. Even in the dim light, the weight of the day clings to him, but there’s something comforting about his presence—grounding, like an anchor in a restless sea.

You sit down beside him, close but not quite touching, and it feels like your heart is trying to break free from your chest. It thuds relentlessly, a drumbeat urging you forward. Today has been emotional, raw, and unguarded—a day of truths—and you decide, in this rare moment of quiet, it’s time to seize your courage.

“Jimin?” you breathe, his name barely more than a whisper as it escapes your lips. His gaze lifts to yours, tired but warm, his eyes carrying that soft, unspoken affection that always manages to disarm you.

“Hm?” he hums, leaning slightly toward you, his exhaustion not dimming the kindness in his face.

You hesitate, searching for the right words, your thoughts a tangled mess. It’s not a question you want to rush—it feels delicate, like glass. Your fingers fidget with the hem of your shirt, an outlet for your nervous energy, and your eyes flicker around the room as if the walls might give you answers. Finally, you steady yourself and exhale.

“I was wondering about Jiwoo… Hwa-Young’s mother,” you begin, your voice trembling with hesitation. “If you could tell me about her?”

For a moment, the room feels suspended in time. Jimin’s expression shifts, softening further as an almost wistful smile curls at the corners of his lips. His gaze turns introspective, like he’s reaching into a box of memories he hasn’t opened in a long time. Then he leans forward, his hands sliding over yours, steadying them, grounding you.

“What do you want to know?” he asks, his voice gentle, like the beginnings of a lullaby.

You swallow, feeling the weight of the moment press against your chest. “Well… everything you feel like sharing.”

He nods slowly, his gaze dropping for a moment as he collects his thoughts. When he speaks again, his voice carries a warmth, a tenderness that wraps around the edges of his words.

“Jiwoo was my childhood best friend,” he begins, his tone both nostalgic and reverent. “We were inseparable. Through school, through everything. She was… home. We had this bond that I think only happens a few times in a lifetime. She was the kind of person who could make the world feel a little less heavy just by being in it.”

His words settle in the air between you, and your heart clenches. You nod, urging him silently to continue, even though a part of you aches at the depth of the love he’s describing.

“We were there for each other,” he says, his voice dipping lower, as though he’s talking more to himself than to you now. “In every way that mattered. She wasn’t just my friend; she was family. My constant.”

You watch him closely, the soft glow of the room casting gentle shadows across his face, and though his voice remains steady, you catch the faintest glimmer of sadness in his eyes. It’s as though he’s letting you into a sacred part of his heart, piece by fragile piece.

And as he pauses, the quiet stretches, heavy but not uncomfortable, filled with an understanding that doesn’t need words. You brace yourself for what comes next, your fingers still caught beneath his, his warmth anchoring you as much as your presence seems to steady him.

“One day, she went to her doctor for what she thought was just a routine checkup,” Jimin begins, his voice dipping into something heavy, laden with the kind of memory that lingers like a storm cloud. “But then she called me right after… crying her eyes out because they told her she had cancer.” His body folds slightly at the recollection, shoulders slumping under the weight of the past, and your heart feels like it’s sinking into a bottomless well.

He pauses, swallowing hard before continuing, his fingers unconsciously tracing over yours as though grounding himself in the present. “She started talking about everything she hadn’t done… about the life she hadn’t lived. She was terrified. You know, Jiwoo always talked about wanting kids someday, but she never found the right guy.” His lips quirk upward briefly, bittersweet, before the sadness returns to his gaze.

You nod softly, the room seeming smaller, quieter, as his words draw you deeper into his world.

“I tried to tell her… over and over again… that cancer didn’t have to take her dreams away. That she still had time. But she didn’t believe it,” he says, his voice breaking slightly, the cracks revealing the depth of his pain. He exhales shakily, squeezing your hands as though searching for strength in your touch.

“Then she asked me,” he continues, his voice almost trembling with the weight of the memory, “if I’d have a child with her.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and you watch as his eyes shimmer with unshed tears.

“And I—” he sobs gently, his vulnerability raw and unfiltered. “I wanted to do anything for her. Anything. She was my best friend, and this… this was the one thing in life she wanted the most.”

A lump forms in your throat as you see his pain laid bare before you, unguarded and achingly real. Your chest tightens as the truth of his words settles deep in your heart.

“So even though I’d never felt that way about her,” he says, his voice soft but firm, “I said yes. I agreed.” His hands clench yours a little tighter, as though he’s afraid of losing something even now. “I donated my sperm, and she had her eggs fertilized. That’s how Hwa-Young came to be,” he finishes, his voice quiet but resolute, the ghost of a smile barely brushing his lips.

For a moment, silence stretches between you, but it isn’t empty—it’s filled with unspoken emotions, grief, and love, all tangled together in a bittersweet symphony.

His tears fall freely now, and you realize your own are trailing down your cheeks, unbidden. You don’t know where his tears end and yours begin, as they mix and soak into your joined hands. The moment feels sacred, fragile, as though the two of you are holding not just each other, but also the echoes of Jiwoo and everything she left behind.

And though your heart aches for him, for her, and for the beautiful little girl asleep in the room beside you, it also swells—because this man, with all his pain and all his love, is showing you a part of himself he’s never shared with anyone before.

“So, she became pregnant,” he begins, his voice trembling, “and she managed to carry to term, but…” He pauses, running his free hand over his face, wiping away the tears that seem endless. “Her cancer… it got worse. And she… she didn’t want to get treatment while she was pregnant. She didn’t want to risk the baby.” He huffs out a breath, a sound too broken to be a sigh, drying his damp cheeks with trembling fingers.

“After she gave birth,” he continues, voice cracking under the weight of the memory, “they gave her the terminal diagnosis.” His hands clench yours tighter, as if holding on to the present will keep the past from pulling him under. “And all I could think… all I could do… was try to give her everything she ever wanted—the child, the life, everything she dreamed of.” His voice shatters on the last word, and he sobs openly, the years of sorrow spilling out at last.

You pull him into a hug, holding him close as his grief crashes into you like a tidal wave. His sobs are muffled against your shoulder, but his pain is louder than words.

“I know,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion, “I know people have always questioned my feelings for her. Wondered what we really were to each other. But she… she was like a sister to me. My best friend. My constant.” His words falter as he pulls back just slightly to meet your gaze, his tear-streaked face lit by the soft glow of the living room light. “I don’t know how to explain the bond we had. She wasn’t my lover, but she was my everything. And when she died…” His voice catches, and he lets out a shaky exhale, eyes shimmering with fresh tears.

“When she died,” he whispers, his throat tightening with every word, “Hwa-Young was only six months old. I was so young… so unprepared to be a father. And my career was just starting. The spotlight was on me, but I wanted to shield Hwa-Young from it all. I had to shield her. But it’s been…” He takes another shaky breath, his voice breaking again, “it’s been so exhausting—carrying it all. All the grief. All the questions. All the feelings.”

Your chest aches as you watch him, the weight of his story pressing into you like a stone. You nod softly, words failing you, because how can you begin to comprehend the burden he has borne? How can anyone?

You tighten your arms around him, hoping he can feel the warmth of your care, the silent promise that he’s not alone. Slowly, gently, you move back just enough to look him in the eyes. His gaze is raw, brimming with sorrow and vulnerability, yet there’s a flicker of relief in the depths of his brown irises.

“I’m so sorry, Jimin,” you whisper, your voice trembling but full of sincerity. “You’ve carried so much for so long. You’ve given so much of yourself.”

And in that moment, it feels as though the two of you are suspended in time, surrounded by an unspoken understanding—a shared fragility and a promise of healing.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper again, your voice thick with emotion. “I can tell how much she meant to you.” You pause for a moment, letting your thoughts form, delicate as flower petals. “If my best friend were dying, I’d do anything for him too—even giving him a child if that was his dream. I’d want to give him something to hold on to. Something to leave behind.”

Jimin looks at you then, and it’s as if the world stills around you. His eyes, swollen from tears, soften into something deeper—something like gratitude, like he’s finally been seen, truly understood for the first time.

“I think it’s beautiful,” you continue, your voice trembling, “what you did for her. The greatest gift you could’ve given her.” You reach out, drying the tears that continue to slip down his cheeks, your touch as tender as the words you’re trying to say. “And now you have her little piece of forever. A part of the love and the friendship you shared. That’s… that’s so precious, Jimin.”

Your voice cracks as the weight of his story settles deeper into your chest. You choke back your own tears, your breath hitching. “It’s really beautiful.”

And somehow, as broken as the moment feels, there’s a strange healing that takes root within you. His story pulls at your soul, stitching up places in your heart you didn’t even know needed mending. The depth of his love for Jiwoo, for Hwa-Young, only strengthens the feelings you’ve been carrying for him. And in this raw, vulnerable space, you no longer question his past or the bond he shared with her. No, now you see it for what it truly is—a love so pure, so selfless, that it only brings you closer to him.

Jimin’s breath catches, and then he sobs again, burying his face briefly in his hands before looking back at you. “Before she died,” he whispers, his voice breaking, “she made me promise her something.” He pauses, the air between you fragile and electric, like the calm before a storm.

You lean closer, your voice soft but steady. “What did you promise her?”

His lips tremble as he exhales, gathering the strength to say the words. “She made me promise that I’d find love,” he says, his voice heavy with the weight of years spent carrying that promise. “But I… I’ve never been able to. Not until…” His words trail off, and suddenly he moves closer, so close that your foreheads are touching.

You can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, the steady rhythm of his heart echoing in the quiet between you. Your chest tightens, and you inhale deeply, summoning every ounce of courage.

“Jimin?” you whisper, your voice barely audible, trembling like the edge of a song.

He sniffles, his voice rasping but soft. “Yeah?”

Your eyes meet his, and in them, you see everything—his pain, his hope, and something new, something meant just for you. You exhale shakily. “I think…” you pause, grounding yourself in the moment, “I think I’m falling for you.”

A stunned silence stretches between you, and then he exhales, his lips curving into the softest, most genuine smile you’ve ever seen. “I think…” he says, his voice almost breaking with emotion, “I think I’m falling for you too.”

The weight of his confession hits you both at the same time, and suddenly, laughter spills out between the tears. It’s unsteady and messy, but it feels so good—like the tension and sorrow of the past have finally given way to something warm and freeing.

You cling to each other, laughing and crying, your hands tangling in his as the world around you fades away. It’s chaotic, it’s raw, and it’s imperfect—but it’s yours. It’s the start of something neither of you can deny anymore. And for the first time, it feels like everything is exactly as it’s meant to be. Just right.

You wake to the soft prod of a small finger poking your cheek. A sleepy groan escapes your lips as you stir, shifting against a source of warmth beneath you. Blinking your eyes open, you’re met with Hwa-Young’s beaming face, her smile bright enough to rival the morning sun.

“Are you and daddy together now?” she asks innocently, her big, curious eyes studying you with a playful twinkle.

Confusion flutters through you until you glance down—and your heart stops. You realize you’ve been lying on top of Jimin, his chest a comforting pillow throughout the night. Heat rushes to your cheeks as you sit up abruptly, your movement jostling him awake.

“Wha—what?” Jimin mumbles groggily, his hair adorably tousled as he sits up too, looking at you with sleepy, startled eyes. His blush mirrors your own, painting his cheeks a delicate rose as realization dawns on him.

You laugh nervously, running a hand through your hair in a feeble attempt to ground yourself. Jimin chuckles too, rubbing the back of his neck, though his embarrassment doesn’t erase the tender smile tugging at his lips, “Muckin’ aren’t you up early?”

Hwa-Young, ever the morning sprite, shakes her head matter-of-factly. “No, no, you guys slept in. So, are you dating now?” Her voice is sweet, but her question lands like a thunderbolt in your chest, setting your heart racing.

How is it that a child’s innocent words can so effortlessly crack open your emotions, leaving them raw and exposed?

Jimin turns to you, his eyes wide with surprise, then softening into something deeper—something vulnerable yet sure. Your gaze drops to your hand, hesitantly reaching for his. When your fingers touch, his warmth steadies you, grounding your swirling thoughts.

You swallow the lump in your throat and look back at him. “If you want this,” your voice is barely above a whisper, “then I want this too.”

For a moment, the world stands still. Jimin’s smile grows, tender and genuine, his eyes brimming with quiet joy. “I guess… I guess we are,” he says, his voice carrying the kind of softness that makes your heart flutter.

Your eyes flick to Hwa-Young, her grin impossibly wide as she watches the exchange like she’s been waiting for this moment forever. “Would that be okay with you?” you ask her gently, your voice laced with sincerity. After all, this little girl holds a piece of Jimin’s heart, and you’d never want to intrude on that if she didn’t welcome you.

Hwa-Young’s response is instant—a squeal of pure delight as she throws her arms around you both. “Of course, it’s okay! I’ve been waiting for this to happen!” she cries, her excitement contagious.

Her small arms mash you and Jimin together in a tight, giggling hug, the three of you becoming a tangle of laughter and warmth. Jimin’s arm curls protectively around both of you, and you feel him press a light kiss to Hwa-Young’s hair.

Your eyes meet his over her head, and in his gaze, you see it all—the joy, the relief, and the quiet promise of something beautiful beginning. You’re a mess of laughter and emotions, but in this moment, wrapped in their embrace, everything feels right. Like the first rays of sunlight after a long night, you feel hope bloom in your chest, warm and endless.

The rest of the day unfolds in a blissful haze of warmth and laughter. With Jimin and Hwa-Young, it’s all simple joys—playing silly games, dramatic rounds of charades, and bursts of giggles during hide-and-seek. The house feels alive, filled with the kind of happiness that settles in your soul like sunlight after a storm.

When evening falls, Jimin takes over the kitchen, whipping up dinner with a grace that mesmerizes you, even in its simplicity. The meal is delicious, and afterward, Hwa-Young’s sleepy yawns signal bedtime. You offer to tuck her in once more, her tiny arms wrapping around your neck as you read her favorite story until her soft, even breaths fill the room.

By the time you find yourself nestled in Jimin’s bed, the world feels quieter, softer, like it’s holding its breath just for the two of you. You lie beside him, the dim light casting gentle shadows across his face. His presence is steady, grounding you in a way that feels both new and eternal.

Your gaze lingers on him, your chest swelling with emotions you can barely contain. Pride, gratitude, love—it’s all there, an unspoken symphony playing between your heartbeats. Slowly, your hand reaches out, your fingers brushing against the softness of his cheek.

“Thank you, Jimin,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. His eyes meet yours, warm and patient, as if he’s willing to wait forever to hear what you have to say. “Thank you for sharing the love you had for Jiwoo.”

His hand moves to cover yours, gently pressing it against his cheek. There’s something in his touch that feels like a promise—like he’s anchoring you to him, silently vowing to keep you close, to never let you go.

“You were really brave,” you continue, your voice trembling with the weight of what you’re about to say. “So I want to be brave too.” You blink, inhaling deeply, willing the courage to surface. “I want to tell you about my relationships.”

Jimin nods, his head sinking deeper into the pillow as his eyes remain fixed on yours, filled with quiet understanding. He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push—he just waits, offering you the safe space you need to unravel your thoughts.

“You’ve met my brother Yoongi, of course,” you begin, your voice soft but steady. “Both him and my best friend Namjoon… they’re very protective of me.” You pause, swallowing hard. “Because,” you sigh, your breath hitching as you press forward, “because I have a bad track record with men.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and raw, but instead of recoiling, Jimin shifts closer, his hand gently intertwining with yours. His touch says everything you need—it’s okay. Take your time.

You exhale shakily, your gaze flickering to the ceiling as memories resurface. “I’ve been with men who didn’t value me, didn’t see me for who I was. They took pieces of me, left me feeling smaller, like I wasn’t enough.” Your voice cracks, but Jimin’s hand tightens slightly around yours, grounding you. “It’s made me cautious, made me put up walls I didn’t even realize were there.”

You glance back at him, your voice softening. “But you’re different, Jimin. You’ve never made me feel small or unsure. With you, it’s like… like I’m finally breathing fresh air after years of holding it all in.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, his gaze unwavering, filled with something so tender it makes your chest ache. “You’re not small, Y/N,” he says quietly, his voice steady but rich with emotion. “You’re more than enough.”

His thumb brushes over the back of your hand, grounding you with the warmth of his touch as a tear slips free from your eye. He doesn’t speak, but the steady rhythm of his fingers against your skin tells you that he’s listening, that he’s here.

You inhale shakily, the words heavy on your tongue but begging to be said. “I don’t know why, but all the men I’ve been with—they’ve either been manipulative, cheating, or full of red flags I should’ve seen but didn’t,” you murmur, your voice trembling under the weight of memory. “The most recent one, Mark… this was a few years ago…”

You pause, closing your eyes as you brace yourself. His hand tightens slightly on yours, a silent assurance that you can take your time.

“He hurt me,” you continue, your voice barely above a whisper, “not just emotionally. He was cunning—so good with his words, so convincing. He made me believe every lie he told, every false promise.” Your voice cracks, and you force a laugh, though it’s brittle, hollow. “And then one day… one day, he hit me.”

The words hang in the air, raw and exposed, like a wound that never fully healed. You dare to glance at Jimin, and what you see makes your chest ache—a storm of pain, anger, and heartbreak swirling in his eyes, all for you. He says nothing, but the way he looks at you feels like a vow: No one will ever hurt you again.

You laugh softly, the sound tinged with bittersweet triumph as you add, “So… I hit him back.”

His eyes widen for a moment, and then a spark of something else—something close to pride—flickers in them.

“I don’t go around hitting people, I swear,” you say quickly, shaking your head with a small, self-deprecating chuckle. “But Mark? Mark deserved it. And then I left him. For good.” You let out a deep sigh, sinking further into the pillow, as though shedding the memory and its weight. “I haven’t dated anyone since. Not because I didn’t want to, but… I’ve been scared. Scared it would all happen again.”

Your gaze drifts to Jimin, and your hand moves on its own, your fingertips brushing against his lips. The softness of them makes you shiver, makes you feel something you haven’t felt in a long time—hope.

“But you…” your voice falters, your touch lingering against the plush curve of his lips, “you’re not like the men I’ve known before. You’re gentle, and kind, and so good—so good it terrifies me. And yet…” You pause, the confession tightening in your chest like a butterfly trapped in a jar. “And yet, I’m still scared.”

His lips part slightly beneath your fingers, a breath of warmth brushing against your skin as his eyes lock onto yours, steady and unwavering.

“Scared of this,” you whisper, your voice cracking with vulnerability, “of letting you in, of giving this—us—a chance.”

Your hand trembles as you pull away, but before you can retreat, Jimin reaches for you, his fingers curling gently around yours and pulling your hand back to his chest. You can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm, strong and reassuring.

“But I want you,” you admit, your voice barely audible, the words spilling out like a confession to the night. “I want to try, even though I’m scared.”

For a moment, the world holds its breath. His hand moves to cradle your face, his thumb brushing away the tear that lingers on your cheek. “You don’t have to be afraid,” he whispers, his voice soft but full of quiet conviction.

And when he leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, it feels like a promise—unspoken but unmistakable. The past may have left its scars, but with him, you feel the fragile beginnings of something new. Something healing. Something worth the risk.

He inches closer, the warmth of his body drawing yours like a tide to the shore, and the gap between you dissolves into nothing.

“Mark sounds like a fucking dick,” he murmurs, his voice low but laced with quiet fire. “I’m proud of you—proud that you stood up for yourself and left. And I swear to you,” his voice softens, trembles with a vow he’s desperate for you to believe, “I’d never do anything like that. Ever.”

He’s so close now, your noses brushing, the air between you charged and trembling, and it would take nothing—nothing at all—to close the gap and press your lips to his. But you hold back, caught in the moment’s fragile beauty, afraid to shatter it.

“You deserve so much more than what you’ve been given,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. His breath mingles with yours, his words steady and sincere, but then they falter. “And I… I just hope I won’t disappoint you.” He exhales shakily, his vulnerability like an exposed nerve. “I haven’t been in many serious relationships.”

You study him in the dim light, your gaze tracing every detail that makes him so heartbreakingly human. The tiny freckles scattered like constellations across his skin. The slight curve of his crooked teeth when he speaks. The crescent moon shape his eyes take when they crinkle, even when he’s this close to breaking. The ink that stains his finger and wrist, marks of stories and promises etched into his flesh.

Everything about him is imperfect. Everything about him is beautiful. And your chest tightens with the force of it all, the way his presence fills every hollow part of you without even trying.

“Maybe…” you murmur, the words catching as your eyes lock with his, “maybe we can figure it out together?”

Your breaths intermingle, his so warm against your lips it feels like a whisper of what could be. His eyes search yours, wide and shimmering with something fragile, something hopeful.

“I’d love that,” he breathes, his voice soft but sure, and then he moves—finally closes the distance.

When his lips meet yours, the world tilts and stills all at once. His taste is intoxicating, a delicate blend of something musky and sweet, like vanilla threaded with amber. It’s not just a kiss—it’s gravity, pulling you into his orbit, tethering you to him in a way that feels both grounding and weightless.

You wrap your arms around him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as though holding on to him could anchor you in this moment. His touch, the way his body molds to yours, feels like home. Like comfort. Like every shattered piece of your heart finally has a place to rest.

This—he—is what you’ve been waiting for. And as the kiss deepens, you realize he’s not just what you want; he’s what you need.

→ Requested series taglist: @13-manggaetteok, @mima795, @hnnnjm, @flaneuseonthestreets,  @miniesjams32, @graydolan12, @rinkud, @allie-in-the-moon, @pjmxxjmdipity,

→ Permanent taglist: @nora12379, @jeonsbabygirlsworld, @fancypeacepersona, @ktownshizzle, @pjmxxjm, @ajoonniice, @kookiewithluv, @mikrokookiex, @rapmonjoon94, @parkitrighthere,

→ Author’s endnote: okay, real talk—how are you holding up? Because oh my god, I was absolutely SOBBING while writing this. Like, ugly crying, tissues everywhere, red-nosed Rudolph levels of chaos 😭. But I swear on all that is good and fluffy, things are finally looking up now! No more gut-wrenching, soul-crushing angst (well, maybe just a sprinkle here and there for spice), but I promise, it’s time for healing 🥹 So grab your emotional support snacks, because we’re entering the soft era! 🫶

© @/kingofbodyrolls 2025 // Please don’t copy or repost! You are more than welcome to reblog it, leave a comment or ask me anything about the story 🥰

[superzstars]

╰   *  rolls her eyes almost instantly when he began to talk. she didn't want to give him a rise but it was hard for her to not react. "have you ever thought i need to 'behave' for my career now? there's eyes everywhere, even when you think there isn't. there is a guy at my agency that gets caught with a new girl every week and somehow is hanging by a thread with our ceo and i'm not nearly as experienced as him. don't you get it?" jiwoo asked, a frustrated tone to her voice.

" i liked you better when you knew how to have fun, " there's a teasing to his tone, but a seriousness behind it. " now it always feels like you're trying to get me to behave, put me on some righteous path. a waste of both my time and yours. " because he'll never change, was born chaotic and it's how he'll die. \ @superzstars

[littlejoyss]

𝓯𝓪𝓽𝓮 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽 4

“One single thread of gold tied me to you.”

Stray Kids - Felix x Reader

Red (golden) string of fate trope

Word count (so far): 17k

𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓾𝓼 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽 ← 𝓬𝓾𝓻𝓻𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽 → 𝓷𝓮𝔁𝓽 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽

You were preparing your prep studio for fittings. You decided you would just measure the models to make sure the new outfits would fit them perfectly, since your packages still haven’t arrived.

Bora, who was helping you set up, was all about the story you had to share about last night. She dropped her bag onto the table with a loud thunk and leveled you with a stare. “Okay. Spill.”

You blinked at her, a bit bleary-eyed from the four hours of sleep you’d barely managed to get. “Can I finish taping the measurement sheet first?”

“No,” she said, yanking the tape out of your hand. “You met your soulmate backstage at Prism Tower and exchanged numbers like a K-drama finale cliffhanger. You don’t get to act normal today.”

You sighed but couldn’t help the flutter in your chest as the memory replayed. The heat of the thread, the look in Felix’s eyes, the soft way he said your name like it meant something.

“He found me,” you murmured, organizing a pile of muslin samples as a way to avoid Bora’s eyes. “Or I found him. It’s kind of a blur now.”

Bora’s expression softened. “And he gave you his number?”

“Well. I gave him mine.”

She blinked. “You gave Lee Felix your number while he was on a time crunch, moments before going on camera?”

“I didn’t know what else to do! His makeup artist was yelling at him, and he looked like he was about to bolt or cry or both.”

Bora smiled. “No judgment! This is just so different than how I met my wife.”

You turned to look at her, half-curious, half-eager. “Wait. You’ve never told me the full story.”

Bora rolled up her sleeves and leaned against the edge of the prep table like she was about to launch into a TED Talk. “Okay, picture this: Seoul Metro. Morning rush hour. Everyone’s packed in like sardines, and I’m already late for a client meeting. I spilled two Americanos down my front trying to stop a kid from dropping his tablet. And I’m swearing under my breath, thinking I’ve hit peak embarrassment, when the thread yanks my hand so hard, I smack into the girl behind me.”

You raised your brows. “Your wife.”

“She looked like she wanted to murder me. But then she saw the thread. And I saw it. And…” Bora smiled, just a little softer than usual. “She offered me a napkin and told me I owed her a new shirt.”

You laughed. “Romantic.”

“She proposed to me two years later. In a laundromat.”

“Okay, that’s iconic.”

Bora grinned, then tilted her head at you. “So? Have you heard from him yet?”

You paused, lips parting, then frowned. “Not yet. But he said he would. He looked serious.”

Bora studied your face for a moment, then nodded, satisfied. “He will. And when he does, you better not chicken out.”

You scoffed. “I don’t chicken out.”

“Your hands shook when you stitched that bustier last night.”

“I was under pressure!”

“You were thinking about his hands.”

“Was not!”

“Yes, you were!”

“Was not-”

A groan roared from an assistant on Shin Jiwoo’s side of the prep studio. “Can we not talk about soulmates when we have a big show in less than a month?” The girl’s nametag said Hyejin. You’ve seen her here a few times.

Bora’s eyes widened. “Oh…we didn’t know you were in here! How much did you hear?” Bora looked at you, hoping Hyejin didn’t hear who your soulmate was.

Hyejin smirked. “I came in while you were talking about your wife.”

You let out a quiet breath of relief, and beside you, Bora relaxed her shoulders like she’d just dodged a flying needle.

“Oh, good,” she said, laughing lightly as she reached for a stack of marked-up mockups. “Then all you know is that I used to carry two Americanos like a clown every morning.”

Hyejin crossed her arms and leaned against a nearby rack. “You still do.”

You snorted, unable to hold it in.

Bora pointed a finger at you. “Traitor.”

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Your first model came in for a fitting later that day.

It was Seojin. She was tall and poised. She gave you a polite nod and a small smile before stepping onto the platform in the center of the room.

You tried to focus as you looped the measuring tape around her waist, but your hands betrayed you, just the slightest tremble at your fingertips. You could feel Bora’s smug gaze burning into the back of your head from across the studio.

“Bust: thirty-two,” you murmured, scribbling it down on the sheet clipped to your board.

Seojin raised an eyebrow. “Everything okay? You seem… distracted.”

You straightened, clearing your throat. “No, I’m fine. Just tired. Late night working.”

She nodded slowly, like she didn’t entirely buy it, but chose not to push.

The rest of the measurements went by in a blur of numbers and fabric adjustments. You pinned the mockup at her side, stepped back, frowned, and stepped in again, letting the rhythm of your work settle you. This was the part you were good at.

But then, just as Seojin was slipping off the mockup and you were making notes on the alterations needed, your phone buzzed on the corner of the table.

You grabbed it as casually as you could, checking the screen while pretending not to care.

Felix ❤️: Finished early. If you’re free, I’m heading to that coffee shop on 6th and Inge-ro. No pressure, just in case.

Your stomach flipped so fast you thought it might somersault out of your body. Bora must’ve noticed because she immediately whispered from across the room, “Is it him?”

You nodded, eyes still on the screen. Then you looked up at Seojin, who was lacing her boots back on.

“Hey,” you said, stepping closer. “Do you mind if Bora finishes your alteration notes? Something just came up.”

Seojin smiled up at you, “Of course!”

“Thank you so much!” You practically ran to grab your bag.

Outside, the city buzzed with its usual chaos, honking scooters, and the hum of crosswalk signals. Your nerves danced with every step you took, sneakers slapping the sidewalk as you made your way to 6th and Inge-ro.

The coffee shop came into view, nestled on the corner between a bookstore and a bike repair shop. It had big windows fogged around the edges and potted plants clinging to the sills like leafy spectators. You paused outside the door to catch your breath and fix your hair, running a hand through it like it might suddenly learn how to behave.

Then you walked in. The bell above the door gave a cheerful ding, and your eyes scanned the room instinctively, already tuned to the thread tugging at your finger under your sleeve. You expected him to stand out. To shine.

But… you didn’t see him. Your steps faltered as you made your way toward the middle of the shop, scanning each table. There was a man reading with his headphones on, a student typing furiously on her laptop, a couple sharing a slice of tiramisu in the corner, but no Felix. No glowing thread in sight. No gentle smile waiting for you by the window.

Your fingers curled around the strap of your bag as doubt crept in. Maybe he got held up. Or maybe he meant a different coffee shop. Or-

“Hey.”

You turned so fast that you almost knocked over a display of syrup bottles. And there he was. He was wearing a black bucket hat pulled low and a pair of round glasses that slightly magnified his already enormous eyes. His hoodie was zipped up to his chin, and his hair was tucked under the fabric like he was trying to be invisible.

Which… okay, made sense. Idol life and all.

But his smile was what gave him away. “Sorry,” Felix said, stepping closer, his voice quieter than you remembered but just as warm. “Didn’t want to draw attention, so I was kind of hiding in the corner.”

You blinked. “You were here the whole time?”

He nodded and pointed toward the back booth near the bookshelf, half-hidden by a potted ficus. “I waved when you came in, but I guess the disguise works too well.”

You laughed, relieved, flustered, and suddenly very aware of the way your thread had started to glow faintly beneath your sleeve. He was close now. Closer than last night.

“I almost texted you,” you admitted as he guided you toward the booth.

“I almost panicked and left,” he replied with a grin.

You slid into the seat across from him, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. Just sat there, smiling like fools, your threads softly pulsing between you on the tabletop.

“Hi,” you finally said.

Felix leaned forward a little, glasses slipping slightly down his nose. “Hi.” He then smirked, “Where have you been my whole life! When I did my length-measuring on my eighteenth birthday, you were like…forever away.”

“I could ask you that same question! That happened to me, too!”

Felix's eyes widened behind his glasses, a little spark of amazement flickering through them. “Wait, seriously? Yours went off the charts, too?”

You nodded, folding your hands around the cup the server had just set down. “I remember it shot all the way across the map. They told me my soulmate was ‘somewhere overseas’ and I should be patient.” You laughed softly. “Which is a nice way of saying, good luck waiting a decade.”

Felix whistled low. “I got told mine was on a different continent. My sister joked that I was gonna end up marrying a Martian.”

You snorted into your drink. “Close. I’m just from a different country. Came here for work.”

Felix’s eyes brightened with curiosity. “Oh? What kind of work brought you all the way here?”

“I’m in fashion design, actually. I’m here for Seoul Fashion Week.”

His eyebrows lifted. “No way. That’s incredible. I always thought designers must have the craziest schedules.”

You nodded. “It’s hectic, but I love it. Probably not as hectic as you thought.”

Felix chuckled, a soft sound that made your heart skip just a little. “You have no idea. Between rehearsals, recordings, and trying to keep a low profile, my days are pretty jam-packed. Sometimes I wish I could just disappear into a quiet corner like I did today.”

You smiled, feeling the tension from the past few days start to melt away in his presence. “Well, at least you have your secret hideout here now.”

He grinned, the way his eyes crinkled behind those glasses making him look impossibly genuine. He then looked you up and down. “I think I’ll be coming here a lot more.”

You blushed. “Ah, right. I kind of forgot the whole reason we’re meeting is because we’re soulmates.”

“Yeah, wild, isn’t it? One day you’re minding your business, and the next, the universe is like, ‘Here’s your person. Good luck not freaking out.’”

You grinned, tracing your finger along the edge of your cup. “You’re surprisingly chill about all this.”

“I’m not,” he admitted, eyes sparkling. “I’m trying really hard to act cool, but inside I’m kind of… spiraling in a good way? Like, you’re real.”

You tilted your head, touched by the honesty. “Honestly, same. When I first saw the thread glow, I thought it was upset I wasn’t trying to find you. But no, it means I did find you.”

He nodded slowly, then smiled that soft smile again. “But I’m glad it happened. I mean, I probably looked anxious as hell. I was going to be interviewed in ten minutes, and my thread was acting up… but I was just… hoping it was really you.”

Your breath caught slightly. “And now?”

Felix leaned forward again, just a bit. The glowing thread between you pulsed once, like a heartbeat. “Now I’m just hoping you’ll let me keep getting to know you. Coffee dates, late-night texts, the whole soulmate package.”

You smiled, the kind that felt too big for your face, too full for your chest. “You say that like I’d say no.”

“Hey, soulmates or not, I still have to win you over properly. I plan to be very charming about it.”

“Well, you’re off to a good start. But I’m warning you, I don’t swoon easily.”

“I like a challenge,” he said, reaching for his drink and lifting it in a small toast. “To finding each other. Finally.”

You tapped your cup gently against his.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Felix ❤️: I really enjoyed our date. My schedule is full for the rest of the work week. Are you free this weekend?

You: I’ll check my schedule and update you. Being a designer at Seoul Fashion Week isn’t for the weak.

Felix ❤️: Haha, trust me, I believe it. You’re out there running the fashion industry while I’m just trying to dance in sync.

You: Please, you’re out there performing in front of thousands. I’d pass out before the second chorus.

Felix ❤️: But you’d look incredible doing it 😏

You: Flirting won’t make me less busy 😌 …but it is working a little.

Felix ❤️: Good. I’ll keep it up, then.

You sighed and leaned back against your creaky hotel bed, phone still glowing softly in your hand. The thread around your wrist had dimmed now, like it trusted you’d come back to each other soon.

You set your phone down and attempted to sleep, however your mind wouldn’t settle.

Your outfits.

You sat up again, rubbing at your face with both hands. The shipment of designs, your custom pieces for the runway, was supposed to arrive yesterday. Yesterday. And now it was well past midnight, and still no delivery confirmation. No tracking update. Nothing but radio silence and an increasingly frantic string of emails marked urgent.

You grabbed your phone again, thumbing quickly through your inbox. Still nothing. You opened your messages with Bora, asking her about the shipment again.

You stared at the screen, willing a response into existence. Every hour the boxes were delayed meant more stress. More adjustments. Less time for fittings. Less room for error.

Your phone buzzed again, just not the message you were waiting for.

Felix ❤️: It says you’re still active. Did I make you nervous? 😇

Despite everything, a breath of laughter escaped you.

You: Not nervous. Just stressed. My outfits for the show still haven’t arrived.

Felix ❤️: Yikes. That sounds awful. If you need anything. A ride. Snacks. I got you.

You stared at his message a little longer than necessary. The thread at your wrist hadn’t moved, but somehow, you felt it again. Steady. Warm. Anchoring.

You typed slowly.

You: Thank you. Really. I might take you up on that. But for now, I’m going to try to get some sleep.

Felix ❤️: Deal. Dream about dresses arriving safe and sound.

You: You’re ridiculous. But okay. That actually helps.

You set the phone down again, this time with a shaky breath and a small smile. The worry was still there, still pressing at your ribs. But it was less painful now.

taglist (comment to be added): @hwangjoanna @shinygubbins @lizzygd @btch8008s @under--space @monniemons @chimmyn0chu @wickedbutlovely @hyunjinsculpture @beal-o @valkirymin @moonlitcelestial @wolfhallows4

[pupphe-additions]

✬Evie’s Relationship With NMIXX✬

Note: Evie calls NMIXX her babies and she adores all the members. She may not be super close to the younger girls but the love she has for them is very obvious anytime she is near them. Both Stay and NSWER joke that Evie is NMIXX’s mother. They will not be as detailed as the other groups but if you guys want I can update it in a couple weeks. In all honesty I'm still learning about NMIXX that's why they aren't as detailed but I love these girls sm so I had to include them now.

Evie x Haewon

Quote: “Friendship is the golden thread that ties the heart of all the world.” Dynamic: Rants, Listens

Haewon’s contact in Evie’s phone is “🎃Pumpkin🎃”

Haewon goes to Evie for advice a lot.

Evie enjoys hugging and playing with Haewon’s hair when they are able to see each other in person.

Evie calls Haewon “pumpkin” and “honey bear” a lot and prefers those nicknames for the younger girl. 

Haewon has proudly admitted that Evie is her favorite stray kids member.

Evie x Lily

Note: You can read more about her dynamics and friendship moments with Lily here. I do not want to repeat points so anything included in that post will be exclusive to that one and vice versa. 

Quote: “I do not see well without her. I do not hear as well without her. I do not feel as well without her. I would be better off without a hand or a leg than without my sister.” Dynamic: Soul Sisters

These two can sit on call for hours and not even realize any time has passed.

Content just sitting in silence doing their own things because just being in each other's presence is rewarding enough as is.

Evie enjoys rambling to Lily about her favorite games and anime and Lily always listens.

Evie enjoys teaching Lily about her games she plays.

Lily and Evie mainly speak in English together.

Evie x Sullyoon

Quote: “When the world is so complicated, the simple gift of friendship is within all of our hands.” Dynamic: The Sweetheart and The Scary Dog Privilege

Sullyoon’s contact in Evie’s phone is “🐰BunSull🐰”

These two are baking buddies. They always enjoy exchanging different sweets that they made when they get to meet up.

Evie is extremely protective of Sullyoon and would likely fight anyone who tried to hurt her in any way or who makes her cry.

Sullyoon enjoys when Lily and Evie have sleepovers because she gets to see Evie as Evie makes sure to visit with all of the girls before hanging out with Lily.

Sullyoon enjoys hugging and clinging to Evie whenever she is around.

Evie x BAE

Quote: “A friend is someone who gives you total freedom to be yourself.” Dynamic: The Extrovert and The Introvert

BAE’s contact in Evie’s phone is “🌻🐤SunChick🐤🌻”

Evie enjoys helping BAE with her English, she has stated it makes her feel like a teacher and it makes her feel useful.

These two are the least close of the group but Evie still adores her.

Evie and BAE often eat snacks when together.

They dance together sometimes.

Evie x Jiwoo

Quote: “A good friend is like a four-leaf clover: hard to find and lucky to have.” Dynamic: Family

Jiwoo’s contact in Evie’s phone is “🐶PupWoo🐶”

Evie has made a playlist specifically for Jiwoo. Jiiwoo will listen to it whenever she wants to feel energized as it has a lot of happy and fast beat songs on it.

Jiwoo has made perfume for Evie before, and Evie wears it on stage a lot.

Evie and Jiwoo are extremely close.

Jiwoo is the member that Evie is second closest to.

Jiwoo always takes whatever good advice Evie gives her and calls Evie her older sister.

Evie x Kyujin

Quote: “A sweet friendship is refreshing.” Dynamic: Mother Daughter

Kyujin’s contact name in Evie’s phone is “🐱Kitjin🐱”

Evie calls Kyujin her child and is overly protective of her.

Kyujin jokingly called Evie mom before and since then Evie has called Kyujin her child.

Evie is known to make Kyujin food when she is stressed.

Kyujin, Evie, and Lily all have a pair of matching pajamas.

When Kyujin has any problems she has a habit of going to Evie first to help figure out how she should go about solving them.

[lavenderbexlatte]

day 4: blindfolds

kard 1.1k words gender neutral reader insert Reader x Jeon Jiwoo NSFW

🖤 warnings: vague dom/sub dynamics, biting/marking, absolutely no kink negotiation at all but it's cool 🖤

🎂 happy jiwoo day~

kinktober masterlist

connect with me! / masterlist

She's a menace.

Some things never change, and Jiwoo's ability to throw you for a loop is one of those.

You inhale shakily as her long nails brush over the small of your back, a gentle touch. She might be standing behind you now. You really can't tell. You lost track of her ages ago.

"Still okay?"

Her deep voice is calm as ever, and you nod.

You'd come home from work late. Home to your apartment, but it's not rare to find her there without you, using her girlfriend privileges to their fullest. And tonight, that's exactly what she'd done.

You came home, and there she was, sitting on your couch. Still in her clothes from the day, baggy designer pants and a men's shirt that hangs so big, it looks like she stole it from someone twice her size (you have an idea of whom). Her face is bright and clear, makeup-free for once, and she's smiling.

"I got you something."

Admittedly, you'd stopped paying close attention to the goings-on when she kissed you, when she threaded those long nails into your hair, raked over your scalp.

Your clothes vanished, at some point. That's fine, though. You never mind putting on a show for her.

She teased you, loving gentle touches that only stoked your excitement. She complimented you until you were practically burning up with self-consciousness.

And then, somehow, you ended up like this.

"Traffic lights," she reminded you.

Her smile was small but victorious as she moved closer, and then...

Silky and lightweight, dark fabric.

The blindfold is luxurious, and comfortably snug without being too tight, but damn is it effective. It's big enough that you can't even see the hints of light coming in around the edges, can't really make out the folds of fabric right in front of your eyes.

You appreciated the reminder that you could safeword at any time (whoever transformed the traffic light colors into a baseline safeword system for forgetful and distractable people like you is a hero who you will never repay).

You also know that you have no intention of doing that.

"You should use your words."

"I'm okay," you say.

It's more of a croak, since you've been quiet for an inestimable amount of time.

Without your eyes, you're relying on your ears to track your girlfriend. She had slippers on for a while, the gentle shuffling of them against the floor serving as a great aid until she realized what you were doing and took them off.

You have to track her, because she's always on the move.

One side to the other, around you. A touch here, a kiss there. The tickle of her hair against the soft skin of your stomach as she leaned down and-

"How - how long?" you ask.

"How long what?"

She sounds way too amused.

You pout. "How much longer?"

Not that you want the game to stop, but you're sure that you're painting quite the picture right now.

Nude, in the center of the room, standing obediently. Feet shoulder-width apart. Hands clasped behind your back. The way that you should stand, if asked.

You're not supposed to touch her. You're definitely not allowed to see her. And of course, the anticipation is the point.

But you want her.

"How long do you think?" she asks.

You know what the right answer would be, if you wanted things to continue down this road. Get more extreme, really step into some roles. But you're tired, tonight. This is enough, as it is.

"Not too long."

Even to your own ears, your voice is small.

Jiwoo is a menace, but she's a menace who loves you.

She doesn't tease you anymore. She also doesn't make you do it by yourself, the way she might on another day, just to see your struggle without the use of one of your senses. No, tonight, she folds her hand into yours, and gently tugs until you take a step.

Two, three, four steps, and then her soft hands, the gentle press of her nails into your skin, as she guides you to sit. Your mattress creaks under you, a familiar and welcome kind of sound.

She has you lay down, too, on your back among your own pillows and bedcovers. It's gentle, and fond, and you can feel her oversized shirt and the ends of her hair as she leans down over you.

And then she bites you. On the shoulder.

Not hard. Not to hurt, of course. Not even to bruise. Just to switch it up. Just to hear the way that you gasp, like she knew you would, and to jolt back from the sudden warmth of her mouth, the dig of her teeth into the curve of your shoulder.

"Ow!" you protest, anyway.

"Oh, that didn't hurt," she says.

She's already licking a trail from the tingling spot where she'd taken a bite to the much more ticklish dip of your throat. 

"Can I touch?" you ask.

You're a little desperate to get your hands on her, after all this time. Sure, being horizontal is a welcome reprieve from the tightness in your muscles from standing prettily for her, but still. She's the one having all the fun.

"If you can find me," she teases.

Her mouth disappears from your throat, the warmth of her gone from your side.

"Unfair."

"Nobody ever said I was fair," she replies.

Ugh. Her voice is across the room, now. You should've kept your mouth shut. She's a menace, after all.

You listen carefully, for a moment. There's a squeak of a door, rustling fabric, and a soft kind of clatter, like wood or plastic hitting together.

"Wrinkled already," she mutters.

She's hanging up your work clothes.

"Right now?!" you ask, desperation making you snap at her more than you usually would in this position.

"They're wrinkled already," she repeats, like that settles it.

"But what about-"

"I might even have to iron this."

She wouldn't dare.

Except she absolutely would. Having you wait here like this while she does chores or some shit. Blindfolded, knowing that if you give up on her game, she won't give you anything at all. Knowing that if you hold out, she'll fuck you up in the best way, like she does every time.

And the thing is, you're so fucking turned on.

You have been this whole time, only getting worse the longer she lets the anticipation grow. You know she can see it, exactly how badly you want her.

You're so wrapped up in the possibility that she's going to walk out and make the game extend indefinitely that you don't even notice she's approached you again until she touches you.

One hand tweaks your nipple, and her teeth sink into your other shoulder. Like she's just trying to make them match.

"How long do you think you can last?"