#snsd fic | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

miorrtae · 3 months ago

Text

⋆.˚☕︎ 𝐂𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐆𝐄

❀blurb A soft, slow-burn story about connection, quiet moments, and the language that lives between silence and understanding. ❀duo Taeyeon x F!reader ❀tags fluff, slowburn, comfort romance, mutual pining, sign language

❀ read now ❀

Taeyeon didn’t know why she stopped.

The café wasn’t new. The street wasn’t special. And yet, there she was—halfway through a chilly March afternoon, coffee already in hand, lingering in front of a wide glass window fogged at the edges.

Inside, something caught her off guard.

It wasn’t the cozy lighting or the hum of quiet music—it was the way a group of people sat around a table, laughing without a sound. Their hands moved quickly, deliberately, expressions shifting with every gesture. No one spoke. Not with their mouths, anyway.

That was what made her pause.

In a city where conversation was everywhere—on the street, in cafés, on phone calls too loud to ignore—this quiet, fluid form of communication felt… different. Not silent, exactly. Just… unfamiliar.

Her eyes drifted to one person in particular—someone with a messy bun and a lopsided grin, their hands alive with motion, eyes bright with something Taeyeon didn’t understand but felt drawn to anyway. They leaned in toward their friend, signed something sharp and fast, then laughed—not with sound, but with their whole body.

Taeyeon stayed longer than she meant to, the wind tugging at her coat, her coffee growing cold in her hands. She couldn’t explain what held her there—only that something about the moment asked her to slow down. And for once, she listened.

She watched the way their shoulders moved when they laughed. The way their friends responded without hesitation, like conversation didn’t need volume to be heard. It was choreography, almost. Musical, even in its silence.

When the group began to gather their things—coats shrugged on, bags slung over shoulders—Taeyeon blinked, shaken slightly back into herself. She turned away before they could see her watching. Before that one—messy bun, bright eyes—could look up.

She didn’t remember walking the rest of the way home. Just that the noise of the city felt a little louder after that. A little messier.

Inside her apartment, she set her coffee down untouched. The cup had gone lukewarm, the lid damp with condensation. She sat at the edge of her couch and stared out the window, eyes unfocused, thinking not of her to-do list or the email she’d been avoiding—but of hands in motion, of laughter she’d never heard but could still feel. Without thinking Taeyeon opened a new tab on her laptop.

She didn’t know what it was called.

All she knew was that they hadn’t spoken—not out loud—and yet somehow, they’d said so much.

After a moment, she typed:

“Korean hand communication no talking.”

She didn’t expect much. But the search results surprised her.

Sign language, the screen read. Korean Sign Language. KSL.

She clicked one of the links, then another. There were videos—some old, some newly uploaded—people signing slowly to the camera, patient and expressive. One showed how to say hello. Another taught the alphabet. Her coffee had long gone cold, but she didn’t move.

It felt like stepping into a new language made of light and motion—like learning how to listen with her eyes.

And for reasons she couldn’t explain, Taeyeon kept watching.

She watched the first video three times.

The fourth time, she tried to follow along. Fingers stiff. Movements hesitant. Her reflection in the dark screen grinned sheepishly back at her when she fumbled. It was ridiculous—this tiny compulsion she couldn’t explain. But it was hers, and it lit something inside her that hadn’t flickered in a while.

Taeyeon practiced one sign over and over until it felt like a secret. Wanting a conversation even if she didn’t know your name yet.

Across town, Y/N hadn’t noticed the woman outside the window.

Didn’t feel the eyes lingering at the fogged edges of the glass. If they had, maybe they would’ve waved. Maybe they would’ve pulled a face, like they always did when they caught someone watching—something stupid and exaggerated to make their friends laugh. But they didn’t. Not that day.

They were too caught up in the rhythm of things.

Mondays were always café days. A standing tradition. A quiet rebellion against the week’s chaos. The table by the window was theirs, unofficially but always, and they filled it the way they knew best—hands fast, full of sarcasm and stories, the ebb and flow of a language that never needed sound to be heard.

Y/N had been mid-joke when the wind outside rattled the windowpane. They’d barely noticed it—just enough to glance up at the movement beyond the glass. A shape. A figure. Gone before it registered.

They signed the punchline anyway.

Laughed until their chest ached.

And when the day was done, and the table was cleared, they didn’t know they’d left anything behind. A trace. An impression.

Not in the seat or the steam-fogged glass.

But in someone’s mind.

It became a habit before Taeyeon realized it.

She didn’t mean to walk that way every Monday. Didn’t plan her schedule around it. But somehow, she found herself turning the same corner, clutching a coffee she didn’t really want, passing by that window just as the group inside began to settle in.

Sometimes the one with the messy bun wasn’t there. Those days felt oddly disappointing—like showing up for a song only to find the melody missing.

But when they were there—head tipped back in silent laughter, signing so quickly Taeyeon could barely keep up even though she tried, always tried—it felt like something just�� clicked into place. Like a note only she could hear.

She started learning more.

Just a few signs at first. Then full phrases. Then grammar. She found a tutor. She watched TV shows with the captions off and her hands poised, mimicking each motion like she was learning choreography. And maybe she was.

“I learned how to say this in sign language,” she practiced in the mirror, fingers fumbling at first, then steady. She repeated it over and over, proud of herself every time it came out clean. As if it were some magical phrase that could summon the person who inspired it.

She didn’t even know your name. But she was getting closer.

Mondays had become something else—no longer just the start of another routine, but a quiet pull she didn’t question. This one felt different. The air had a crispness to it, not quite cold, but sharp enough to feel new. Taeyeon rounded the corner with her usual slow care, fingers wrapped around a warm cup, heart already beating a little too fast.

And there you were—inside, as always.

The group gathered at the low table by the window, mugs scattered between hands, notebooks open like stories mid-sentence. The space buzzed with motion, the easy rhythm of a language Taeyeon still didn’t understand, but had begun to feel in her chest.

She paused outside the glass, practiced fingers twitching in her lap as she waited for the right moment. Her breath fogged the pane, but she dared not wipe it—didn’t want to erase the barrier too soon. Today, she reminded herself, would be the day she used that “magical phrase” for real.

Across the room, Y/N sat with their back to her, shoulders moving in that effortless rhythm. Taeyeon’s chest tightened: a mixture of nerves and exhilaration she hadn’t felt in years. She took a slow sip of coffee, let the warmth spread, then set the cup down with deliberate care.

Inside, Y/N shifted, glanced up as if sensing her presence. Taeyeon held her breath. She raised her hand, clenched then released, palm facing the glass—an echo of the “hello” sign she’d practiced until her knuckles ached. Fingers traced the shape she’d memorized: thumb brushing the chest, then a gentle outward wave.

For a heartbeat, the café held its breath, too. Then Y/N’s head turned, messy bun and all, eyes flicking to the glass where her hand hovered. They frowned in that curious way she’d always pictured—eyebrows arching, lips twitching at the corner. Then, almost without thinking, Y/N pressed their palm against the other side of the window, mirroring Taeyeon’s gesture. A silent invitation.

Taeyeon’s heart landed somewhere between her throat and chest. She exhaled, lifted both hands to attempt the full “May I join you?” sign—fingers tracing the pattern from memory: right hand flat, fingertips brushing the center of the heart, then moving outward and down to beckon, palm up. She wobbled in the cool March air, but the motion was clear.

Inside, Y/N’s friends paused mid-sip, mid-laugh. Y/N looked to her, shrugged, then stood and moved toward the door, sliding it open with the casual grace of someone who’d done this a thousand times—for everyone else, countless café days; for Taeyeon, a single, shimmering moment.

Taeyeon stepped back—half in self-protection, half in awe—as Y/N crossed the threshold and stood before her. The hum of the espresso machine and the muffled street noise faded, leaving only the two of them and that small tidal pull of electricity between outstretched hands.

Y/N offered a smile that was both surprised and warm. “Hello,” they signed slowly, as if savoring a new word in a foreign song.

Taeyeon mirrored, voice caught: “Hello.” Then quieter, she added in sign, lips moving in tandem: “I’m Taeyeon.”

Y/N’s smile deepened. “I’m [Y/N],” they signed back, voice soft, filling the space with its own quiet resonance.

Y/N tilted their head, eyes scanning Taeyeon’s face the way one might read a page—curious, deliberate, open. Then their fingers moved again, slower now, careful: “You sign well.”

Taeyeon’s face flushed, a soft laugh escaping her before she could stop it. She shook her head and signed, “Still learning. Very bad.”

Y/N grinned, a flicker of something like pride crossing their face. “Not bad,” they signed, then added, “Brave.”

Taeyeon’s chest fluttered at that—brave. It wasn’t a word she wore easily, not for something like this. She hadn’t fought a war or jumped from a plane. She’d just… followed a feeling. But somehow, Y/N made it feel like that was enough.

She smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling. Her hands moved again—slower now, more sure. “You’re kind.”

Y/N raised their eyebrows at that, then replied with a shrug and a teasing tilt of their head. “Maybe,” they signed, playful. “You don’t know me yet.”

Taeyeon mirrored the grin before she could stop herself. “I’d like to.”

There was a pause. Not awkward—just still. Like the moment itself was stretching out space for something new. Y/N studied her again, that same curious patience in their expression, like they were watching a story begin and didn’t want to miss the first line.

Then, with the faintest tilt of their head, Y/N signed, “One coffee?”

Taeyeon hesitated, and then—smiled. Not the polite kind, not the automatic kind she’d offered a hundred times a day. This one reached her eyes. Reached deeper.

She nodded.

Inside, the café had resumed its rhythm—machines hissing, milk frothing, the occasional clink of ceramic against wood. But around them, something quieter settled. The kind of quiet that doesn’t demand filling. That lets breath stretch a little longer. That lets new things begin.

Y/N turned and led the way back in, brushing through the door Taeyeon had only ever looked at from the outside. The table welcomed them without ceremony—just enough space for a new chair, a new person, a new page.

Taeyeon sat, fingers twisting slightly in her lap before settling.

Y/N placed a fresh cup in front of her, something warm and sweet, though she hadn’t ordered it. Taeyeon looked up in surprise.

Y/N just shrugged, signed simply: “You looked like you’d need it.”

Taeyeon laughed—really laughed this time—and signed back, “Thank you.”

The laughter softened something inside her. Loosened a knot she hadn’t realized was there.

She wrapped her hands around the new cup, fingers brushing the warmth like it might steady her. Y/N was already leaning back into their seat, casual and calm, but their eyes flicked toward Taeyeon every few seconds—checking in, maybe, or just curious.

Taeyeon took a sip. Sweet. A little unexpected. Exactly right.

“Delicious,” she signed, stumbling a little on the fingerspelling but pushing through it. Her cheeks flushed again—out of effort, out of nerves, out of hope.

Y/N nodded, approval in the twitch of their mouth. “Favorite,” they signed. “Thought you might like it.”

Taeyeon smiled, and for a few moments, they didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

The group around the table had folded the moment in gently, giving it space. A few of them exchanged glances—smiles hidden behind mugs. One nudged another under the table. Someone signed something quick and teasing, and Y/N rolled their eyes with a grin before turning back to Taeyeon.

“Why?” you asked, hand tilting side to side in that familiar questioning gesture.

Taeyeon hesitated, head tilting slightly in return.

“Why learn?” Y/N clarified—two fingers tapping their forehead, then pointing gently toward her.

Taeyeon’s hands hovered for a moment. Then, slowly, she signed, “Window. Saw you.”

It wasn’t perfect. She knew that. The words felt clumsy, not quite in order—but her eyes stayed on Y/N, hoping the shape of the truth was enough.

Y/N’s brows lifted. “Me?”

Taeyeon nodded, a small breath catching in her throat.

“Didn’t know… what it was. Just hands. No sound. But it felt… warm. Alive. I wanted to know.”

She could feel the heat in her cheeks, unsure if any of it had come across clearly. But Y/N was smiling—soft, surprised, touched in a way that made the moment feel less uncertain.

For a beat, Y/N didn’t respond. Then, wordless, they reached over and gently tapped two fingers to their own chest. A sign Taeyeon didn’t yet know. She didn’t ask—not yet—but something about the motion felt personal. Grateful.

They signed again, slower this time: “That’s a good reason.”

The café didn’t fall silent, not exactly—but the edges of sound softened around them, like the world itself knew to hush for what came next.

Taeyeon watched as Y/N’s hands stilled, resting loosely on the table. Their expression had shifted—still warm, still curious, but touched now with something quieter. Something vulnerable.

Taeyeon felt the tug of that silence and mirrored it, letting herself simply be for a moment. She hadn’t expected this. The connection. The ease. The way her nervousness had slowly unspooled into something else—something steadier.

Y/N finally broke the pause with a small, almost shy smile. “Want to learn more?” they signed, head tilting slightly in that now-familiar, gently teasing way.

Taeyeon answered before she had time to think—just a nod, fast and certain. Then, after a breath, her fingers moved, careful but confident: “Yes. Please.”

Y/N grinned like it was the easiest answer in the world. They reached across the space between their mugs and brushed their fingers along the tabletop—softly, like sketching invisible lines between them. Then they signed, slow and deliberate: “Let’s start with this.”

Taeyeon leaned forward, eager, heart thudding in a rhythm she no longer resisted.

Y/N signed a phrase—familiar words strung together in a way Taeyeon didn’t yet understand. She frowned, watching closely.

“Slower?” she asked in sign, feeling the stumble on her palm as she did.

Y/N obliged without hesitation. Slower now. Breaking it into parts. Fingers gliding through the air like choreography again. They added the words in soft voice, too, not for need but for clarity: “Nice to meet you.”

Taeyeon’s face lit up with recognition. Her fingers mirrored the phrase, slow and unsure at first. “Nice… to meet… you.”

Y/N nodded. “Better.”

Taeyeon laughed—quiet but full. “You’re patient.”

Y/N shrugged, smiling. “You’re no hard to teach. Makes it easy.”

Their gaze held then—longer than before. Neither of them looked away.

And in that space between signs, between coffee cups and half-finished sentences, something bloomed. Small but certain. Not just interest. Not just intrigue.

Recognition.

They didn’t know what came next. Didn’t need to. For now, it was enough to sit there—shoulders turned toward each other, hands speaking in halting sentences, eyes soft with something unspoken but deeply understood.

Taeyeon reached for her coffee again, the warmth of it grounding her. Y/N watched, then signed slowly: “Same time next week?”

Taeyeon smiled so wide it hurt. She signed back: “I’ll bring the coffee.”

Y/N tilted their head, eyebrow raised. “Your turn?”

Taeyeon nodded, and this time, her fingers were sure. “My turn.”

And just like that, a new tradition began—one that started not with sound, but with stillness. With a window. A wave. A hand pressed gently to the glass.

Taeyeon didn’t sleep much that night.

Not because she was restless, or anxious—but because her mind wouldn’t stop replaying the soft rhythm of that afternoon. The weight of the coffee cup between her hands. The warmth of Y/N’s gaze. The way fingers moved like brushstrokes, painting meaning into the air between them.

She kept mouthing the words, hands dancing clumsily over the bedsheets. Nice to meet you.

Then, Same time next week.

Her chest swelled every time she remembered Y/N’s smile.

It had been so easy. And yet, somehow, monumental.

The next morning, she found herself up early—too early for work, too early for anything but impulse. She sat at her kitchen table with her laptop open, surrounded by notes, tabs, and a half-eaten slice of toast. She signed phrases to herself in the reflection of her phone camera, checking the angles, correcting the mistakes.

Later that week, her tutor noticed.

“You’ve been practicing more,” they signed, eyes sharp and knowing.

Taeyeon looked sheepish, nodded once. “I met someone.”

A pause. Then the tutor grinned wide. “Someone?”

Taeyeon flushed. “Just… someone.”

But it wasn’t just someone. It was the person who had quietly rearranged the shape of her weeks. The one who made her feel like she was learning a language not just to communicate, but to connect—with the world, with herself, with possibility.

When Monday came again, she was already waiting near the corner before she realized she’d walked too quickly. The March wind had softened, traded its bite for something gentler, like spring was starting to lean in.

She clutched two cups of coffee in a cardboard holder, heart thudding louder than the city around her.

Inside, the café buzzed. Y/N was there, seated at the table like always, tucked into a spot that now felt… shared. They were mid-conversation, hands moving fast and full of expression—but this time, Taeyeon didn’t linger behind the glass.

She took a breath.

Stepped inside.

The chime above the door was soft. Y/N’s friends turned first, curious, warm. Y/N followed their gaze, and when they saw her—Taeyeon, holding two cups and trying not to visibly shake—they smiled. Wide and real.

They stood, just enough to meet her halfway. And when Taeyeon offered the coffee, Y/N took it with a quiet nod of gratitude.

“Your turn,” they signed.

Taeyeon beamed. “I remembered.”

Y/N motioned to the seat beside them. “Sit?”

She did.

Their conversation was slower that day—clumsy in the best way. Laughter between signs. Clarifying gestures. Pauses to write things down on napkins. A few slips, a few shared looks when one of them misunderstood and the other exaggerated wildly just to make the point clear.

They learned how to navigate the gaps. The stillness. The smiles.

Y/N taught her a few new signs—favorite, curious, learning.

Taeyeon showed off the ones she’d practiced—friend, coffee, happy.

Y/N corrected her handshape once, and she laughed at herself until her cheeks hurt.

Somewhere in the middle of it, Taeyeon looked up and realized something.

She wasn’t watching from the outside anymore.

She was here. In it. With them.

By the end of the hour, the coffee was gone, the laughter still lingering.

Taeyeon tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and signed, “This was nice.”

Y/N nodded, then added, eyes soft, “I’m glad you came in.”

Taeyeon hesitated—just for a second—then signed slowly, “Me too.”

Outside, the wind danced through the street, tugging at old leaves and winter dust. But inside, everything felt new.

They lingered at the door this time, reluctant to part. The rest of the group had gone ahead, waving goodbye, giving them space. Y/N stood with one hand tucked into their coat pocket, the other brushing a curl back behind their ear.

They signed something then, eyes searching Taeyeon’s.

“Maybe next time… we stay longer?”

Taeyeon’s smile could’ve lit the room.

“Yes,” she signed.

Taeyeon walked home in a daze, the leftover warmth of Y/N’s smile pressed like a thumbprint on her chest. Her hands kept repeating signs without her meaning to—small gestures in the empty air. “Yes.” “Next time.” “Stay longer.”

She felt like she was unfolding, piece by piece. Not quickly. Not all at once. But something inside her was changing—softly, steadily. Not because she’d planned it, but because she’d followed a thread, one thin strand of curiosity that led her to a person with hands like poetry and a gaze that seemed to see right through noise and pretense.

By the time she got home, her phone buzzed.

A message from her tutor.

“Tomorrow still okay? I have something new for you.”

Taeyeon stared at the screen for a moment, then replied quickly:

“Yes. Teach me something I can say to a friend.”

The reply came with a winking emoji and a single word:

“Friend?”

She didn’t answer that. Just smiled.

⸻

The next week, the café was quieter than usual. Rain dusted the windows, catching in the corners of the glass like it was trying to listen in. Taeyeon stepped through the door already smiling, coffee balanced in one hand, her fingers twitching with half-formed greetings.

Y/N was already there, a notebook open, a thumb brushing the rim of their mug. When they saw her, something in their face lit up—not startled this time, not surprised. Just… pleased.

Taeyeon set the coffee down. “Hi,” she signed. “Rainy day.”

Y/N laughed softly and mirrored her. “Perfect day for coffee.”

They fell into rhythm quickly—slow, yes, still full of pauses and corrections and “what did you mean?” looks—but rhythm all the same. Y/N taught her the sign for “storm.” Taeyeon taught them how her name meant something like “calm.” They both laughed at the irony.

Midway through the conversation, Y/N tapped her wrist. “You remember what day it is?”

Taeyeon furrowed her brow. “Monday?”

Y/N grinned. “One month.”

Taeyeon blinked. “Since…?”

Y/N tapped the table. Then the air, where she had once stood outside the window. “Since you waved.”

Taeyeon’s heart tugged.

She signed slowly: “Feels like longer.”

Y/N nodded. “In a good way.”

Then they reached into their bag and pulled out a small card. Plain on the outside. Inside, a sketch—a quick pencil drawing of the café window, fogged at the edges. A tiny figure just beyond the glass. Hands lifted in greeting.

Taeyeon’s throat tightened. She looked up, blinking hard.

Y/N signed, “I draw. For memory. That moment felt… important.”

Taeyeon traced the edge of the card with her fingertip. “It was.”

There was a beat of stillness again. Not awkward. Just full.

Y/N’s fingers moved again, more tentative this time. “Can I teach you a new word?”

Taeyeon nodded, heart thudding.

Y/N leaned forward. Their hand moved to their chest, fingers splayed, then out—twice, gently.

“Like.”

Taeyeon repeated it.

Y/N smiled. “Good. Now this.”

They brought their index finger up, circled it near their face, then pointed toward Taeyeon.

Taeyeon hesitated. “What does it mean?”

Y/N’s voice was low. “You’re beautiful.”

Taeyeon’s cheeks flushed.

For a second, her hands didn’t work. Her breath caught. Then she laughed—quiet and breathy and full of something new.

She signed it back.

“You’re beautiful.”

Y/N didn’t look away. Didn’t joke this time.

They just smiled. Soft and slow. The kind of smile you remember even after you turn away.

Outside, the rain fell harder. Inside, Taeyeon leaned a little closer.

“Teach me more,” she whispered.

And Y/N did.

#gxg fluff #kpop gg #snsd #taeyeon x f!reader #taeyeon #taeyeon wife #kim taeyeon #fluff #deaf character #kpop gxg #kpop fanfic #slow burn #comfort fic #cafe aesthetic

49 notes · View notes

seullieverse · 2 years ago

Text

we fall in love every weekend and swear it's forever

It’s a once-a-year-every-year summer-esque relationship they have going on. Taeyeon knows close to nothing about Sunny—she’s pretty sure, though, that Sunny knows more about her than she shows. They always cross paths at the week-long festivities at the small coastal city, being it completely accidental

(It’s the second time Sunny’s ever been to the festival at this city, Taeyeon’s glad she’s able to spot her in the middle of the crowd. She has an awfully improvised, falling apart mermaid costume; her face, shoulders and belly: all fully bare and full of silver and blue glitter, blue cellophane envelops her legs—Taeyeon knows everything will fall apart within minutes as she dances in the middle of the street, Sunny also knows this, she’s wearing a bikini top and shorts to prevent further problems.

Taeyeon lets the crowd lead and take her to Sunny. They fall into place, bodies glued and dancing together, too close than normal and without sharing a word, save for the lyrics being screamed from the top of their lungs. It’s all it takes before they fall again into their strange weekend-only once-a-year relationship where they exclusively kiss each other and spend their time together in Taeyeon’s small apartment and sharing her bed before going back to the street party and live shows.

However, every time Taeyeon sees Sunny so free in the crowd, dancing and singing with a cold beer in hand and sweat falling from her neck, she can’t help but wonder who she truly is outside of this context—Sunny’s day-to-day life, if she works or studies, works and studies—and every time Taeyeon forgets to ever ask about private lives, too busy enjoying the moment and each other.

By the last day, when Sunny enters the transfer bus to go back to her city, Taeyeon feels empty as she walks alongside the shore, regretting everything she couldn’t find it in herself to ask—phone number, social media accounts, if she likes her back—, only hoping to see her the next year.),

or programmed beforehand

(“Next year,” Sunny says, laughing a tad bit too drunk to remember even the next day. Pink-glittered body glowing under the moon and streetlamps at two in the morning, music still bumming behind them at the main square. It’s their last night together, walking side-by-side back to Taeyeon’s place, “let’s meet at the bar we first met. But only at the third day.”

Taeyeon can only laugh at Sunny’s slurring, she stopped doubting Sunny’s memory not long ago—after they met by chance at the fourth day and, in a drunken haze, saying she waited for her for two hours. She laughs bitterly now, meeting on third day means having their fun before the annual pretend relationship for two days.

It always reminds Taeyeon they’re strangers.

“Are you sure about it?” Taeyeon’s less inebriated, sober enough to not slur her words, drunk enough to talk without thinking, “You can always come before the carnival begins and we can spend time together.”

Sunny falls to her knees from laughing, holding her stomach as she tries to grasp the new idea, “But what’s the fun in it? We should enjoy the carnival as much as we can!”

They’re too drunk to properly think about it, Taeyeon only laughs, “You’re right, let’s just enjoy the moment,” they might forget about this night tomorrow, or at least pretend they never had, “How long has it been since we met?”

“Five years?” Sunny says as she opens her hostel’s door, they share a quick peck, “Or four, I don’t know.”

They wave goodbye and Taeyeon goes back to her small apartment alone.).

It’s always the same situation sooner or later: Sitting at the beach together, sharing a moment before going back to their respective lives and forget about this relationship. Their cosplays are falling apart around them, white feathers are missing from Taeyeon’s costume and sprinkled all over Sunny’s shoulders and stomach, sitting side by side on the sand.

They’re tiring faster, drinking less than what they used some years ago, it means more time being just the two of them without screams around. Taeyeon’s looking at the waves softly coming to the sand, all the sweat and glitter making them shine strangely. Sunny thinks about taking the feathers off her, but her arms hurt too much to make any effort.

“You’re not from here.”

Sunny’s brows furrow, “You already know that.”

“No, I mean,” Taeyeon stumbles, “where are you from? The big city?”

“Yeah,” Sunny answers, Taeyeon feels Sunny’s stare on her, she wonders if they’re going to kiss now, “why, though?”

They won’t, Sunny’s already on edge.

“I don’t know, curiosity,” Taeyeon pretends nonchalance, “you live in the capital, then?”

Sunny’s just confused now, “How do you know?”

Taeyeon draws shapes on the sand with her fingers, “You don’t know how to walk in the sand, it’s funny to watch you run.”

“Is it that obvious?” Sunny laughs along.

“A lot, actually!” Taeyeon raises from her place and dusts herself, “I’m tired, we should head back and sleep. I’ll have work tomorrow.”

Sunny accepts Taeyeon’s hand, and they organize their stuff to walk together, Taeyeon to her apartment, Sunny to her hostel. it’s close to each other, but Taeyeon makes the effort of walking three more blocks just for the company.

Taeyeon takes a deep breath as they near Sunny’s stop, “Don’t you think it’s time we share phone numbers?”

“If we meet tomorrow, we can,” Sunny turns to her, lazy smile on her face, “I’m not with my phone now. You know where I’ll be.”

“You’re not gonna invite me in?” Taeyeon jokes a little desperate—she knows, if they don’t sort whatever they have by now, Taeyeon will not be able to reach Sunny after her work, and another year will pass and they’ll only meet next March, and it’ll stay the same as the past years, “Don’t you wanna spend the last night together at least once?”

Sunny smiles sweetly. She looks down at the sidewalk, understanding everything that Taeyeon wants, “Do you really wanna have a long-distance relationship? I like how it is, a carnival fling.”

“But what if we want to take it somewhere else?”

Sunny gives her a sad smile, “This is just a carnival thing, we don’t need to make it something big, we enjoy each other every year and stay like this.”

“It ends here, then?” Taeyeon doesn’t know what she expected, she feels a void in her stomach, but there’s nothing of the raw feelings that tear her up from inside.

“You know that if I ever find someone, I’ll stop showing up.”

“Okay,” Taeyeon’s voice is strangely small, “it ends here, then.”

this is an old fanfic i wrote once, loosely based on Jão's song amor pirata

#dandyu #sunyeon #brazilian carnival themed #snsd fic #mentions of alcohol #my writing

1 note · View note