#would you like with me and just forget the world

[dailygihun]

day 6 || this era lasted like 2 minutes but i love it anyway

[dawngyu]

‎₊ ˚ ⊹ ིྀ 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍

𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀: 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝖾𝖻𝗈𝗅 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗂 𝗌𝗈𝗈𝖻𝗂𝗇 𝗑 𝗆𝗂𝖽𝖽𝗅𝖾-𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

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

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

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

𝗐𝖼: 17.5k — playlist.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It doesn’t mean it wasn’t lonely.

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

No one at all.

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

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

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

“Yes. Mom.”

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

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

“Okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you, Y/N.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Someone’s here.

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

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

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

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

Why?

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

His eyes meet yours.

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

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

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

Your store.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When it comes, it lands harder than you expect.

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

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

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

Moon.

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

“What do you think?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s too much. It’ll only be —”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sense the moment he holds his breath.

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

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

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

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

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

Your throat tightens at the thought, inexplicable.

“Soobin,”

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

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

And that’s how it started.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s for my sister.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay.”

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

Dawn had already cracked the sky.

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

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

He never came.

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

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

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

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

And now, it’s clear; he’s not coming.

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

When his eyes found yours, he ran.

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

He's here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And the misfortune?”

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

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

“Why flowers?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your chest pulls tight, your breath shallow and quick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s looking at you.

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

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

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

His lips meet yours. It's soft.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until now.

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

It had been waiting. Waiting for him.

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

You are home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The world dissolves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re cherished.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You had never been blinded because of a smile before.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are exactly where you’re meant to be.

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

Choi Soobin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sleeping pills.

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

You swallow gently, pushing the drawer close.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And just like that, the line clicks silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you want��”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t belong here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Soobin’s sister.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Choi Beomgyu.

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

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

She’s pregnant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You've never seen a love so whole.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The door clicks shut behind you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I love you. I fucking love you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All while everything was breaking your heart.

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

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

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

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

You slowly, wrote your goodbye.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It had been days since you moved.

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

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

And then, the rain came.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because you're the only thing keeping him standing.

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

“I said—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stopped pulling away this time.

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

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

When would he ever get a moment like this again?

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

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

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

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

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

[pomegranatelifethis]

I won

The hum of Gotham’s streets was a lullaby you’d long grown used to, a gritty serenade that cradled your reckless spirit. At sixteen, you were the youngest of the Wayne family, a footnote in a sprawling saga of heroes and vigilantes. Damian, your older brother, was the closest in age, but even he seemed light-years away, his world consumed by the mantle of Robin and the weight of being the "true heir." You? You were just… there. A shadow in the Wayne Manor, flitting through its cavernous halls, unnoticed by the family that was too busy saving the world to remember you existed.

It wasn’t always this way. You vaguely recalled nights when Dick would ruffle your hair or Tim would help you with math homework, but those moments had faded into the fog of time. Now, the Batfamily was a machine, each cog turning with precision—Bruce with his mission, Dick with his charm, Jason with his rebellion, Tim with his genius, Cass with her silence, Steph with her fire, and Damian with his blade. You didn’t fit into their puzzle. So, you stopped trying.

High school was a blur of half-hearted attendance and naps in the back of class. Gotham Academy’s teachers had given up on contacting your family years ago; the Wayne name was a fortress, impenetrable and indifferent. You’d skip entire days, sneaking out to the edges of Gotham where the city’s pulse beat wilder. That’s where you found the races.

Illegal car races were Gotham’s worst-kept secret, a haven for thrill-seekers and outcasts like you. The roar of engines, the screech of tires, the electric buzz of danger—it was the only time you felt alive. You weren’t a driver, not yet, but you’d wormed your way into the scene, charming mechanics and betting on racers with the pocket money you swiped from Bruce’s study. You were good at it, too, with an easy laugh and a disarming smile that made people forget you were a Wayne.

Tonight, the air was thick with exhaust and adrenaline. You leaned against a chain-link fence, a cherry slushie in hand, your oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder. The race was about to start, and the crowd was a sea of restless energy—shouts, laughter, and the occasional clink of beer bottles. Your eyes scanned the lineup of cars, picking out your bet for the night: a sleek, modded Supra driven by a guy named Rico who’d never lost a race.

“Yo, kid, you in or what?” Rico called from his driver’s seat, grinning as he revved his engine.

You smirked, tossing your hair back. “Hundred on you, Rico. Don’t make me regret it.”

He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound. “Never do, princess.”

The nickname made you roll your eyes, but you didn’t correct him. You liked the way the racers treated you—like you belonged, not like you were some fragile heiress. You sipped your slushie, the cold stinging your teeth, and turned to watch the flagger prep the start.

That’s when you felt it. A prickle on the back of your neck, like someone was watching you. Not the usual curious glances from strangers; this was heavier, sharper. You scanned the crowd, but no one stood out. Just hoodies, leather jackets, and the occasional drunk stumbling through. Shrugging it off, you turned back to the race, chalking it up to paranoia. Gotham had a way of making you feel like prey.

The flag dropped, and the cars screamed forward, a blur of neon and chrome. The crowd erupted, and you whooped, jumping onto a crate for a better view. Rico’s Supra was holding the lead, weaving through turns with a grace that made your heart race. You were so caught up in the moment, you didn’t notice the figure slipping through the shadows behind you.

☆☆☆☆

Jason Todd wasn’t supposed to be here. He’d told himself he was just scoping out the races for intel, tracking a lead on some smuggler who’d been funneling cash through Gotham’s underground. But that was a lie, and he knew it. The truth was messier, uglier. He’d heard rumors—whispers of a girl who sounded too much like *you*, throwing herself into the kind of trouble that got people killed. He hadn’t believed it at first. You were the baby of the family, the one they all assumed was tucked safely in bed, too soft and sweet for Gotham’s underbelly. But the more he heard, the more he couldn’t shake the gnawing dread in his chest.

Now, watching you from the edge of the lot, Jason felt his stomach twist. There you were, all reckless laughter and bright eyes, perched on a crate like you owned the damn place. You didn’t look neglected, not in the way he’d imagined—starved or broken. You looked *alive*, vibrant in a way that made his chest ache. But you were also sixteen, alone, and surrounded by people who’d sell you out for a quick buck. The thought made his blood boil.

He pulled his hood lower, blending into the crowd as he moved closer. You were cheering for some guy in a Supra, your voice cutting through the chaos like a bell. Jason’s jaw clenched. Did you even know these people? Did you have any idea what kind of danger you were in? He doubted it. You’d always been too trusting, too quick to see the good in people. It was why he’d kept his distance after he came back, why he hadn’t reached out. You were too pure for someone like him, stained as he was.

But this? This was different. You weren’t supposed to be here, in this world of speed and sin. And the fact that no one—not Bruce, not Dick, not even Damian—had noticed you slipping through the cracks? That lit a fire in him he couldn’t smother.

The race ended with Rico’s Supra crossing the line first, and you leapt off the crate, whooping like you’d won the lottery. Jason watched as you darted toward Rico’s car, tossing your empty slushie cup into a pile of trash. You were all smiles, high-fiving the driver and collecting your winnings with a grin that could’ve lit up the night. For a moment, Jason almost smiled, too. You looked… happy. Free.

Then he saw the guy next to Rico, some sleaze with a neck tattoo and a leer that made Jason’s fists itch. The guy was looking at you like you were something to be won, and you didn’t even notice, too caught up in the moment. Jason took a step forward, his instincts screaming to drag you out of there, to lock you in the manor where you’d be safe. But he stopped himself. Not yet. He needed to be sure.

You laughed at something Rico said, oblivious to the eyes on you—both Jason’s and the sleaze’s. The night was young, and Gotham’s streets were hungry. Jason melted back into the shadows, his mind racing. He’d keep watch for now, tail you until he knew you were safe. But this wasn’t the end. You were his sister, and he’d be damned if he let you slip away again.

☆☆☆☆

Back at the race, you pocketed your cash, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing in the shadows. The night was perfect—loud, chaotic, yours. You didn’t need the Wayne name or the Batfamily’s approval. You had this, and for now, that was enough.

But as you turned to head back to your spot by the fence, that prickle returned, sharper this time. You paused, glancing over your shoulder. Nothing but darkness and the flicker of neon. You shook your head, laughing at yourself. Gotham was just messing with you, as always.

If only you knew how close the shadows were, and how tightly they were closing in.

☆☆☆

The neon haze of the race lingered in the air, a fading echo of engines and adrenaline. You stuffed the crumpled bills from your winnings into your hoodie pocket, your sneakers scuffing against the cracked asphalt as you made your way through the dispersing crowd. The night was still young, but the thrill of the race was ebbing, leaving you restless. You didn’t want to go back to the manor—not yet. That place was a mausoleum, all cold marble and colder silences. Instead, you decided to head to your favorite dive, a greasy 24-hour diner on the edge of Gotham’s Narrows. It was the kind of place where no one asked questions, and the coffee was bad but cheap.

You slipped into the night, unaware of the shadow trailing you. Jason Todd moved like a wraith, his boots silent against the pavement, his red hood a stark contrast to the gloom. He’d watched you all night, his chest a tangle of anger and something softer, something he didn’t want to name. You were so careless, so *fragile* in this world of predators, and yet you strutted through it like you were untouchable. It infuriated him. It terrified him. He’d lost too much to let you become another casualty, another name etched into Gotham’s endless gravestone.

He kept his distance, blending into the flicker of streetlights and the shuffle of late-night stragglers. You didn’t notice, too busy humming a tune under your breath, your hands shoved deep in your pockets. Jason’s jaw tightened as he watched you dodge a group of drunks stumbling out of a bar, your laughter bright and unburdened. Did you even realize how close you’d come to trouble? How many eyes lingered too long on you in that crowd?

You reached the diner, its flickering sign buzzing like a dying insect. The bell above the door jingled as you pushed inside, and Jason hesitated, slipping into an alley across the street. He could see you through the smudged glass, sliding into a booth with the ease of someone who’d done it a hundred times. You were a regular here, he realized, and that only deepened the ache in his chest. How much of your life had he missed? How much had they *all* missed?

Inside, you waved at the waitress, a tired woman with a smoker’s rasp named Bev. “Usual, kid?” she called, already pouring you a cup of sludge-like coffee.

“Yup,” you chirped, slumping back in the booth. You pulled out your phone, scrolling aimlessly, your other hand drumming on the table. The diner was a bubble of warmth, a stark contrast to the chill of Gotham outside. You liked it here—the chipped Formica tables, the hum of the jukebox, the way no one cared who you were. It was yours, a slice of freedom in a life that felt increasingly like a cage.

But freedom was an illusion in Gotham, and Jason knew it. He leaned against the alley wall, his eyes never leaving you. He was torn, caught between the urge to storm in, grab you by the arm, and drag you back to the manor, and the need to stay distant, to understand just how deep you’d fallen into this reckless world. He settled for watching, for now. But his patience was fraying, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold back.

☆☆☆☆

Back in the diner, you sipped your coffee, wincing at the bitter taste. Bev slid a plate of fries in front of you, and you grinned, tossing her a mock salute. “You’re a saint, Bev.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered, but there was a fondness in her eyes. “Don’t stay too late, kid. Streets ain’t safe.”

You shrugged, popping a fry into your mouth. “I can handle myself.”

Bev shook her head but didn’t argue. She’d seen you come and go for months, always alone, always with that same easy smile. She didn’t know you were a Wayne, and you liked it that way. The less people knew, the less they could use against you.

You were halfway through your fries when your phone buzzed with a text. It was Rico, the racer from earlier.

*Rico: Yo, princess, you up for another round tomorrow? Got a big one. Double or nothing.*

You smirked, thumbs flying over the screen. *Count me in. Better not choke, Rico.*

His reply was instant. *Never do. Bring cash, kid.*

You leaned back, satisfied, already imagining the roar of engines and the rush of the crowd. The races were your escape, a way to drown out the emptiness that clung to you like damp rot. You didn’t need the Batfamily. You didn’t need their rules or their pity. You had this.

But as you stared at the flickering jukebox, a flicker of unease crept in. That prickle from earlier, the sense of being watched—it was back, stronger now. You glanced at the window, but all you saw was your own reflection, pale and ghostly against the dark. You shook it off, blaming the late hour and the shitty coffee. Gotham was just like that, always whispering danger in your ear.

☆☆☆☆

Outside, Jason’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, a message from Tim lighting up the dark.

*Tim: Patrol’s quiet. You good?*

Jason’s thumb hovered over the reply. He could tell Tim he’d found you, that you were out here playing street rat while the rest of the family thought you were asleep in your room. He could blow the whole thing open, force Bruce to deal with the fact that his youngest was slipping through his fingers. But something stopped him. Maybe it was the way you’d looked tonight, so alive in a way he hadn’t seen in years. Maybe it was the guilt gnawing at him, the knowledge that he’d been part of the machine that left you behind.

He typed a quick reply. *Fine. Just checking a lead.*

Then he pocketed the phone and pushed off the wall, his eyes locked on the diner. He couldn’t keep this up forever, tailing you like some ghost. Sooner or later, he’d have to act. And when he did, he wasn’t sure if he’d be saving you—or breaking you.

Inside, you finished your fries and tossed a few bills on the table, waving to Bev as you headed for the door. The bell jingled again, and you stepped into the night, pulling your hoodie tight against the chill. You didn’t see the figure across the street, didn’t hear the soft creak of leather as he moved. But Jason was there, and he wasn’t alone in watching you.

High above, another shadow crouched on a rooftop, silent and still. Damian’s green eyes glinted in the dark, his katana sheathed but his mind sharp. He’d followed Jason, curious about his brother’s late-night wanderings, and now he saw you—his little sister, the one he’d dismissed as weak, unimportant. You weren’t supposed to be here, in this filthy corner of Gotham, surrounded by scum. His lip curled, a mix of disdain and something darker, something possessive.

Damian didn’t know why you were out here, but he didn’t like it. Not one bit. And as he watched you disappear down the street, he made a decision. You were a Wayne, his blood, and that meant you belonged under his protection—whether you wanted it or not.

The shadows of Gotham were closing in, and you, oblivious, walked right into their embrace.

[tiny-space-platypus]

A King and a Prince

Danny screamed.

He screamed and screamed, using his ghostly wail until his voice shattered and his throat was raw with the echoes of his own agony. He wailed even after the battle was won. After the last of the GIW had fallen, even after Vlad’s final, gasping breath had faded into silence. He wailed as Amity Park crumbled around him, as the last flickering lights of his home were swallowed by ruin.

It didn’t matter.

No one was left to hear him.

No one left to be farmed by his despair.

He had outlasted them all—the Guys in White, Vlad, even Pariah Dark himself. He had survived, clawing his way through blood and betrayal, only to realize, too late, that survival was the cruelest fate of all.

He had lost everything.

His home—reduced to rubble. His friends—gone and buried beneath the wreckage of the school. Their last standing ground from the GIW's control or maybe blissfully scattered to the winds. His family—torn apart, mom and dad dead by his hands. Not purposely but they had picked their side. Jazz dead by theirs attempting to protect him. Their laughter, the happy family they were, now just a ghost in his hollow chest. His city, his obsession, his afterlife—all ashes, all dust. And what had he gained? A crown of thorns, a throne he never wanted. The title of King Phantom, ruler of the dead, sovereign of a graveyard empire.

He built a council. He forged a government. He crafted a system that could run without him—because he could not rule, not when every decree tasted of blood, not when every whisper of his subjects sounded like the voices of the lost. Not when he was so lost.

So he vanished.

Not in triumph, not in secrecy—but in surrender. He would sleep. Finally really sleep. He would sleep for centuries, for millennia even, until the worlds forgot his name. Until the stars themselves burned cold. Until even the memory of his suffering was nothing more than a sigh in the dark. And maybe, just maybe, if he slept long enough… he would forget, too.

Fate, it seemed, had other plans.

Danny awoke to crying.

Not the wailing of the long-dead, nor the hollow sobs of forgotten spirits—but the raw, shuddering pleas of someone new. A voice too young, too broken, gasping between tears:

"Please—"

"Dad, I’m sorry—"

"B, you promised—"

Danny blinked slowly, his limbs heavy from his long sleep. His mind swam in fog, his body sluggish, as if moving through deep water. But the sound, a sound too familiar to ignore, pulled him forward, guiding him through the mist of his own exhaustion until he found the source—a boy.

A small, bloodied thing in a torn costume of green and red and gold, hunched over his own grave.

Danny’s chest ached.

Oh.

A newly dead. A child. One so much like him, once. Danny watched him for awhile. Days maybe? It had been such a long time since he had needed to keep track of time... He stepped closer, his voice soft as settling dust. "Hey."

The boy jerked upright, his masked face streaked with inky tears. "You—you can see me?"

Danny huffed a quiet laugh. "Oh, so he does talk."

The boy stared, trembling, his breath hitching. Danny knelt—not too close, not too far—and tilted his head. "My name’s Danny. What about you?"

The boy opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "My name? My name is… My name is…?" His voice cracked, panic rising like a tide. "My name—my name—?" He didn't remember. Not many ghostlings did.

"Hey, hey," Danny murmured, reaching out—not to touch, but to offer. With a thought, he summoned a little blob ghost, its form wobbly and bright, and placed it gently in the boy’s lap. The creature nuzzled against him, purring like a gooy contented cat. The boy’s hands stilled. Then, hesitantly, he began to pet it.

Danny smiled. "A name doesn’t have to be a name," he said softly. "It can be anything you’d like."

The boy swallowed. "...Robin," he whispered. "I’m Robin."

"Robin," Danny repeated, like it was something precious. "It’s good to meet you, kid."

A beat of silence. Then, small and scared:

"Am I dead?"

Danny’s core clenched. He let himself float just a little, settling cross-legged in the air, making himself smaller, lesser. "You are," he admitted gently. "I’m sorry, Robin."

The boy—Robin—choked on a sob. "Is that why Dad wouldn’t—why he didn’t—?" Danny didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Robin crumpled.

Without thinking, Danny reached out and gathered him close, tucking the boy against his chest the way Jazz had once held him so very long ago—after bad nights, after bad fights, after the world had been too much. "I know," he murmured, rocking him slightly. "I know. It sucks. It’s not fair. But you’re not alone, okay? Never alone." Robin shuddered, his tiny fists clutching Danny’s cloak of stars. Danny felt the threats forming, a soul bond. He had had one will Elle, with clockwork, with few others. A bond of trust.

Danny didn’t hesitate. He let his ecto unwind, warm and golden green and royal, and carefully, so carefully, began to mend the fractures in Robin’s soul. The pain, the fear, the jagged edges of a death too soon and too violent. The death of someone trying to be a hero—he took them into himself, replacing the hurt with quiet, with safety. Slowly, Robin’s breathing evened. His weight grew heavy against Danny’s shoulder.

Asleep.

Not that ghosts needed sleep. But children did. Danny exhaled, looking around the graveyard—at the other small, lost shades watching from the shadows. His chest tightened.

…He could help them.

Just for today. Just for now. He could make Gotham a little lighter. And maybe, just maybe, it would help Robin, too—to have something familiar.

Robin followed Phantom like a shadow—or, more accurately, like a small, determined firefly, darting after the king’s trailing cloak as he moved through Gotham’s gloom. Honestly the child was a little beacon of light. Bright like a little firefly.

At first, he simply watched.

Phantom moved like a whisper between worlds—guiding lost shades toward peace, nudging lingering spirits toward unfinished business, even coaxing the living, stubborn bleeding-hearted vigilantes, into just the right places at just the right times. They never knew they were being helped, of course. But Robin saw.

And slowly, he began to copy.

A nudge here—a whisper there. A flicker of movement to draw a grieving widow’s eye to a hidden letter. A gentle tug on a cape to steer a batarang just wide enough to avoid a fatal blow. Gotham, ever so slightly, began to brighten.

And so did Robin. So much brighter than the dead boy Danny had met. He had even taught the boy to change his form from his one in death to a Robin in life. He was so much brighter not covered in blood and debris..

Phantom watched, warmth curling in his core, as the boy—his little prince—blossomed. Robin laughed as he flew, spinning through the air like a fallen leaf caught in the wind. He chattered to the other ghosts, coaxing even the shyest shades out of their hiding spots. He guided lost souls with a patience that belied his age, his voice soft but steady—"It’s okay, you’re safe now"—and when they finally faded into peace, he turned to Phantom with stars in his eyes.

"Did you see! I did it on my own!"

Phantom ruffled his hair. "Yeah, kid. I saw."

And oh, the way Robin glowed.

He was happy here. Happy to help, happy to fly, happy to tuck himself under Phantom’s arm after a long night and murmur about all the things he’d seen, all the people he’d saved. Gotham was still dark. But now, there were pinpricks of light—like stars or tiny, stubborn sparks—where before there had been none. And at the center of them all, brighter than any ghost light, was Robin.

[writingbluerose]

TWST DRABBLE #19

Ace and Deuce who are your friends, and the only ones that call you by your name

You've been Prefect for so long, you quickly realized no one would see you as nothing else but that. It's always 'Hey Prefect!' 'Can you help with me this Prefect?' 'How are you Prefect?' You got used to it faster though, after all, if it's at least Grim and the ghosts who call you by your name that's more than enough for you

Until that night

The day someone else saw you for something else but the oh so attentive Prefect you always were, and those, were your first friends

Ace and Deuce always stuck to you, even more after the abandoned mine incident, you've soon come to realize that that was the starting point of your friendship. But at first, they were the same as others : when you stepped on those rusty stairs of the Ramshackle dorm in the warm morning, you always heard the same thing : “Mornin' Prefect!” and it had been like that for a long while, the name that was bestowed upon you was the only thing that came out of their mouths ; Until it wasn't

You don't remember when it started, sometime perhaps after a short while of the second overblot happening maybe. You took that a little harder than Riddle's ( speaking of which, who was attentive to you and looked out for you to be in your best health ) and had gained a scar thanks to Leona's powerful unique magic. You had forgave him though, ( as much as you could ) that's what you always did, forgive and forget, after all, even Crowley said so himself 'It is better that way! Holding grudges does nothing to satisfy you!' so he said

One night, you were sitting with the two in the living room of the dorm, Grim snoozing away on the couch you were all sitting in front of, in a warm makeshift tent, with pillows, lights and whatever else you could find around. Nothing could be heard in the room except the laughs and chatting of the three of you. Ace and Deuce were having a blast, you were tired, but you never let it show, after all, this time was precious for all of you, you were friends were you not? that's what you think after all, even if it might not be true. Their voices started getting muffled and your vision got blurry, were you falling asleep or simply just passing out from exhaustion? You didn't know, maybe these two overblots really did leave a mark that went deeper than you thought

It was when you heard a voice did you snap out of it, a call, something you never thought you'd hear while in this unknown world “Hey, Y/N you okay? You seem ot of it” A warm hand on your shoulder “If you want to sleep we don't blame you, after all there's no way these overblots didn't leave a mark. We'll be quiet, promise” It took you a few seconds to register the words, and after you did it was the first time you felt it “Hey!-wh- why are you crying!? Did we say something wrong?!” Deuce was the first one to react, a funny reaction, you'd laugh if you could, Ace was second, as he shifted over to you and patted you on your back“Hey Y/N it's okay, we understand, we got you, you can let it out” Again that damned name of yours, did they really saw you as something else but the Prefect who cleans up after everything and everyone? Were they true friends? Will they stay?

And after you felt their warm bodies close to yours, hugging you tight, you realized that yes, they will stay, you know they will

© writingbluerose 2025

[dragoneyelashart]

just friends 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

authors note: sorry to twist the knife twice, i looove angst

warnings: angst, love for someone in a relationship

you think about her more than you'd ever admit.

not in the obvious ways, not in the blushing, giggly, teenage-daydream kind of way. no—your love for billie sits deeper. it’s tucked into the corners of your bones, resting beneath your ribs, pressed tight and hidden like something shameful. like something sacred.

every time you text her “i love you,” you mean it like a scream underwater. muffled. desperate. never loud enough to breach the surface. never meant to be heard in the way your heart intends it. she always texts it back—"love you more 💕"—like it’s easy. like it doesn’t tear anything open.

you wonder what she’d do if she knew. if she saw the way your hands shake when her name lights up your phone. if she knew how many nights you’ve fallen asleep picturing what her mouth might taste like between i love you and goodnight.

today is one of those days where you’re trying to forget. you’re doing errands. folding laundry. pretending you’re fine. and then her text comes through:

billie 💕: come over?

your heart drops.

you don’t even hesitate. everything else evaporates.

you: "rn? ok give me 5"

you throw on the first hoodie you find, barely register the color. it's hers—she lent it to you months ago and never asked for it back. it still smells like her. you don’t let yourself think about that too long. you just grab your keys, tell someone in your house you’ll be back soon, and leave. you don’t know what you’re going over for, but it doesn’t matter. it never matters. when it’s billie, it’s always yes. always.

the drive feels like nothing and forever all at once. your fingers tremble on the wheel. you’re trying to calm your breathing, trying not to imagine her answering the door in a tank top and sleepy eyes, the way she always does. you try not to imagine what it would be like if she pulled you in by the collar, whispered something soft and wrecking against your cheek.

you hate yourself a little for it. for wanting more. for being so goddamn pathetic about her.

you pull into her driveway, and your stomach sinks.

her girlfriend’s car is already there.

you swallow it down. no. you don’t get to be upset. she’s allowed to be happy. she’s allowed to love someone. it’s not your place. it’s never been your place.

you put your best smile on—it feels like pressing broken glass into your cheeks.

billie opens the door with that same grin, the one that used to make you feel like the world was okay. like maybe she was your safe place. she’s barefoot, hair in a messy bun, skin glowing. “hey!” she beams. “you got here so fast.”

“you said come over.” you shrug, try to laugh it off. “you know i’d drop anything.”

her girlfriend’s on the couch. you recognize her—pretty, sharp-jawed, the kind of girl who always knows what to say in a group. she waves politely and offers a tight smile.

you smile back, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

they're watching some show, talking about nothing, laughing in the way couples do. you sit off to the side, legs tucked under you, trying not to shrink into yourself.

billie tosses a blanket at you like she always does, like she knows you're cold even when you don't say it out loud. it should feel like home. instead, it burns.

at some point, her girlfriend gets up to use the bathroom. billie turns to you immediately, eyes narrowing.

“okay,” she says quietly. “spill.”

your heart jumps. “what?”

“don’t play dumb. i’ve known you my whole life, y/n. something’s up. you’re breathing weird. are you okay?”

you almost say it.

you almost say, i can’t stand watching you love someone else.

you almost say, i’m in love with you and it’s killing me.

instead, you shake your head. “nothing’s wrong.”

“bullshit.” she leans in closer. you can feel the heat of her next to you, the way your body reacts on instinct, like you’re drawn to her by gravity alone. “you always get this look when you’re upset. like your heart's too heavy for your chest.”

you want to cry.

you want to grab her by the shoulders and scream. tell her that she’s everything. that she’s the reason you get out of bed some mornings. that no one’s ever made you feel more like yourself and less like enough all at once.

but instead, you say, “i’m just tired.”

she stares at you for a second too long. like she’s trying to read between the cracks. like she’s waiting for something.

“you sure?” she whispers.

you nod.

you think your lungs might collapse.

she reaches out and squeezes your hand. just a second. just a flicker of touch. but it wrecks you.

you look down at your knees, suddenly too aware of how your hoodie smells like her. how it still feels like something sacred and stolen.

her girlfriend comes back and billie pulls her hand away, just like that. like it never meant anything.

because to her, it didn’t.

the three of you sit there for another twenty minutes. laughing. making dumb jokes. pretending this isn’t hell. and when you finally stand up to leave, your legs barely hold you.

“text me when you get home,” billie says. “you know i worry.”

you nod again. you can’t speak. if you open your mouth, something might come out that you’ll never be able to take back.

you get to the door. her girlfriend’s in the kitchen. billie follows you, just for a second, hand brushing your wrist.

“hey,” she says softly. “you know i love you, right?”

it hits you like a truck. she doesn’t mean it the way you do. she never has.

you force a smile. it feels like something’s breaking.

“yeah,” you whisper. “i know.”

you turn to go, and she says it behind you—

"thank you, y/n. you're such a good friend to me."

you don’t remember walking to your car.

your feet move but you’re not in them. your body goes through the motions—unlock, slide in, start the engine—but your head is somewhere else. still on the doorstep. still in her eyes. still in the echo of that fucking sentence.

“thank you, y/n. you’re such a good friend to me.”

you’ve heard her say i love you a hundred times. sometimes in texts. sometimes whispered during late-night phone calls. sometimes at sleepovers when you were half-asleep and warm under the same blanket. it always meant something.

but tonight—it meant nothing.

or maybe it meant everything.

just not the kind of everything you wanted it to.

you pull out of her driveway too fast. you’re shaking. the streetlights blur. your vision goes glassy. you blink hard, but it’s no use.

you’re crying before you’ve even turned the first corner.

not the loud kind. not the sobs that shake your whole body. this is different. it’s quiet. it’s shameful. it’s all your ribs caving in at once. it’s your throat closing up like it’s trying to save you from speaking the truth out loud.

you drive in silence.

no music.

no noise.

just the sound of your own breath stuttering in the dark.

you don’t go home. not yet. you can’t. you wouldn’t know how to walk into your house and pretend you’re okay. not like this. not when everything inside you feels like it’s splintered.

you pull into the parking lot of some random grocery store. leave your engine running. sit there in the dim orange glow of a flickering streetlight, clutching the sleeves of the hoodie like it’s a lifeline.

her hoodie.

her scent.

her warmth.

her name pounding in your chest.

you press your forehead to the steering wheel and finally let it all go.

the tears come harder now. like your body’s been waiting. like your heart’s had enough of holding everything in. you sob into the silence, mouth open, breath hitching, hands trembling.

why did you have to love her like this?

why couldn’t it just be enough to be her friend?

you would’ve done anything for her.

anything.

but you never stood a chance. not against someone like her girlfriend. someone beautiful. someone bold. someone who could touch her in all the ways you weren’t allowed to. someone who didn’t flinch when billie leaned in close. someone who didn’t fall apart every time she said i love you like a knife disguised as kindness.

you squeeze your eyes shut and try to rewind it all. try to pretend you never came over. that you stayed home. that you never saw the way billie’s hand fit into her girlfriend’s so easily. that you didn’t hear the words that finally killed the last stupid hope you were clinging to.

“you’re such a good friend to me.”

you’ve been her friend your whole life.

and now, it feels like a prison you built yourself.

you want to hate her. god, it would be so much easier if you could. if she were cruel. if she strung you along on purpose. but she didn’t. she just… loved you the only way she knew how.

and it wasn’t the way you needed.

your phone buzzes beside you. you already know who it is.

billie 💕: did you make it home safe?

you stare at the message for a long time. thumbs hovering over the screen. there’s a pressure building in your chest like a scream you’re not allowed to let out.

you type.

you: yeah. thanks.

you don’t say i love you. not this time.

you just toss your phone onto the passenger seat and let your head fall back against the headrest. your eyes are still wet. your heart’s still breaking. your hands are clenched into fists around the fabric of her hoodie like maybe, if you hold on tight enough, you won’t completely come undone.

taglist: @amara-eilish @bilswifee @iamnicoke @jayjaywetforbils @bittersuitekim @bxllxebxtch @ifnot-foryou @giannaeilish @ijustlovemaths @ilovealiceosemann @bilssturns | send me an ask or comment if you want to be added or removed from my taglist!

[raindearreindeer]

Where did I say that the USA is not that bad or the worst!? Point it out now!

I am saying that it's stupid and delusional to act like America has brainwashed European citizens into being bloodthirsty (or other first-world countries for that matter) when Europe was already murderous and violent to begin with; all imperialist nations are, they have always been this way because it benefits them, not because they were forced into it by some higher power! How can one imperialist nation brainwash another if they both already believe the same thing????

Like I said, it's basic world history. America and all the violence that existed after its official creation are because of Europe, and that's something you cannot change; it is cause and effect; Europeans are the Frankensteins who created this monster; they are two sides of the same coin to me. So don't come over here and say the reason why Europe and other imperialist nations are so racist, hateful, violent, and far right is because of America. Don't bullshit my black ass.

If you are a victim of European colonization, why are you trying to defend them? Why are you licking their boots? Europe colonized South America first, which you cannot deny. Do you honestly think that just because the Americans won the war against the British, they ceased being European, and everything that happened beforehand is null and void?

So what about the Europeans who immigrated to America even after the Revolutionary war ended? Did they, too, magically become Americans? Were they not just Europeans continuing their colonization and imperialism?

Just because the Americas are not a part of Europe anymore does not erase their history of ongoing imperialism and violence that they perpetuate, past or present, and that America is a result of that shit.

Natives live in North America, too, not just South America and experienced mass colonization just the same. However, people like you always want to forget about them when they try to paint the USA as the sole evil that popped up out of nowhere.

Motherfucker all the Americas were colonized by most of the world not just South America and it was done by Europeans; that's my goddam argument, America would not have existed otherwise. Once again, why are you defending them???

Also, what about the Scramble for Africa? The effects of that shit is still present and ongoing to this day. Was America a major player in that, or was it Europe?

You all want to pin it on America and make it the boogie man without trying to figure out how we all got here in the first place and why other countries are quickly going to the far right, because I assure you it isn't just because of America.

However, I guess this mindset, too, is a result of American-centrism. It's all America, America had no help becoming the creature it is today. America single-handedly spread its evil influence to other countries; it wasn't because the citizens of these countries already previously believed this shit to being with and used America as their blueprint to carry their heinous acts and justify their already prepositioned awful belief. Nope, it is America whom have brought this rot, and all the other imperialist nations had no choice but to follow suit.

“These countries that already had a previous track record of being evil genocidal imperalist were not that bad until the U.S. was created 🥺”. Oh, give me a fucking break, stop UwUfying and babying these genocidal colonizing freaks. America did not create fascism; they perfected it! And even if it perfected it, that still wouldn't absolve Europeans for bringing it here in the first place.

“We're focusing only on America,” you can't because America is not the Super-villian mastermind, it is not the final boss; it's a manifestation of the capitalist, imperialist, white supremacy, patriarchal, colonizer mindset that has been present and ongoing long before its creation. Trying to act like it's the sole champion of these things is dishonest.

How old do you think this hellhole is? I assure you it's not older than Europe, and you are trying to blame it for why Europe and other imperialists are sliding into fascism.

You are trying to absolve all other imperialist nations and their citizens of their history and hand in the rise of the far right and facism by blaming any fucked up shit a citizen from another imeperialist nation does or say on U.S. presence as if they are occupying the area as we speak and holding a gun to these people's head when we know that's not true. You are under a delusional impression that every single country outside of the usa is suffering from some form of U.S. imperialism, when some are A—committing their own and B. Benefiting from it so greatly to the point that they support the usa and other imperialist nations through any means. You honestly believe Europeans are victims of America? That's so fucking pathetic; they are allies; come the fuck on.

Once again, BFFR, if the USA fell tomorrow, another would take its place instantly; America isn't exceptional, like you people seem to believe. It's about time you people start to think about how your government and others contribute to your oppression; because watching people like you get on your knees to suck other imperialist dick and make excuses for them just because it isn't America is getting old. I swear you people would let any imperialists conquer you as long as they weren't American, and you would thank them.

BTW why the fuck are you advocating for the destruction of someone's home and culture? This land was also fucking stolen by the Europeans and people were brought here against their will. The word you are looking for is Landback.

Any land stolen or conquered should be returned to the people it originally belonged to, not destroyed. It's not the native people of the U.S. fault that the Europeans lost control of their beasts and made this place an even bigger hellhole. WTF is wrong with you!?

americans are the most bloodthirsty, rabid, sick, depraved, disgusting, murderous, cancerous tumor on the planet. an 18 year old kid was murdered for ringing a doorbell and nearly every comment is like this. anyone pointing out you shouldn’t murder someone for ringing your doorbell regardless of the time of day are being shut down and called stupid. i hate this fucking timeline. everyone has turned into a fucking miserable monster who doesn’t even flinch at death.

[tacoguacamole]

ANOTHER TIME | JJK - 4

Summary: All you wanted was time. Time to love your husband. Time to feel him love you back. To see his smile again, not shadowed by grief and resentment. Time to share laughter instead of silence, warmth instead of distance. To feel his arms around you, not the cold of where he used to be. Time to hear “I love you too” before it’s too late. Time should’ve been simple.

But somehow, it always slips through your fingers just when you need it most.

[Pairing: Creative Director!Jungkook x Ceo!Female Reader]

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Major Angst, Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Smut, Mature/Explicit Language, A lot of fluff, Romance, Slowburn]

[Older JK, Older OC, Older Bangtan, Lawyer Seokjin and Namjoon, Doctor Yoongi, Event Planner Hobi, Solo idol Jimin, Secretary Taehyung, Brief cameos of Seventeen Mingyu, GOT7 Mark, Kook's a jerk and mean for the earlier chapters]

[Status: Ongoing]

[Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Chapter Word Count: 8k+]

[Note: Several time jumps. OC is finally getting back at him. Somehow. Bringing in Hobi and Jimin! I know there are a lot of unanswered questions but I promise it'll all make sense later. What do you think is going to happen to JK? How about OC? Let me know. Keep dropping your comments and theories. I love reading them! 💜

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

The soft drizzle falls around you, the light mist catching the edges of your blazer and the hem of your skirt. You pull the collar up a little higher, the cool air a contrast to the warmth of the house you’d just left behind.

Behind you, your mother’s voice calls out, reminding to take your car keys and drive carefully. You turn back, offering a quick smile, but shake your head. No need for the car today. Not when the rain feels just right, and the familiar walk to the store is all you need.

The streets shine faintly from the rain, puddles holding broken reflections of streetlights and neon signs. A bus rumbles by, sending a damp breeze that smells of wet pavement and far-off fried food. Somewhere close, a bike chain rattles, and a quiet laughter drifts from an alley.

Jeongguk’s already waiting by the convenience store, umbrella tilted enough to keep the rain off his shoulders. The pavement’s slick, but he stands like he’s been there a while—shirt crisp, slacks pressed, shoes untouched by the puddles gathering near the curb.

“Did you walk?” No ‘hi’s or ‘hello’s’, he greets you with a questioning look.

“Unless I was dumb enough to drive with the sunroof open in this weather, then sure.” You say, wiping your face with the cuffs of your blazer like it would make a difference.

“You’ll get sick.” Before you can even react, he pulls you under his umbrella, arm around your shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Should’ve taken your car,” he mutters, and you almost miss the small, teasing glint in his eyes, “Or at least a raincoat, genius.”

“That would’ve ruined my outfit.”

“And it isn’t already?”

“Was aiming for that dramatic, soaked-to-the-bone, movie scene vibe—like something straight out of one of your old short films.” Jeongguk doesn’t laugh. Only tightens his grip a little on your shoulder.

“Let’s go inside before you turn into a puddle,” he says, almost quietly, as he begins steering you toward the convenience store.

It’s a familiar chaos inside – the old freezer rattling in the back, faded posters on the walls, narrow aisles that make you stand too close. You both slip into the old routine without thinking — wandering to the snack shelves, fingers brushing when you grab the same bag of chips, quietly arguing over ramen flavors in front of the shelves.

“Seafood again?” he murmurs when you toss two packs into the basket. “That’s gross.”

“You have gross taste.”

“I married you. You’re far from gross.”

You blink, a little thrown off, and for a second, you forget about the ramen in your hands. The playful remark catches in your throat, his words hanging in the air longer than they should.

“Going to get coffee. Put some ice-cream in that basket, will you?” You avoid his gaze. “And none of that mint choco shit, please.” Walking away, you hoped he doesn’t catch the way your heartbeat’s just a little bit faster.

Jeongguk snorts under his breath. Reaches for his usual spicy pick. Pauses over the pack. Sets it back quietly. Picks up the same flavor as yours instead.

The soft hum of the store surrounds you as you both sit by the window, ramen cups warming your hands. The rain taps against the glass in a steady rhythm that blends with the quiet between you. You take your time with each bite, the steam rising gently, mixing with the faint scent of the store’s dim lighting.

Every so often, a laugh escapes—when Jeongguk almost loses a fishcake or mutters under his breath about the heat of a bite still too much for him.

He blows on another spoonful, glancing around. “You could’ve picked anywhere,” he says, not quite looking at you. “Why here?”

You shrug, spoon tapping lightly against the rim of your cup. “Felt like ramen.”

“There’s a million places for ramen.”

You take a slow sip of broth, eyes fixed on the rain sliding down the window. “Yeah, but not all of them have that loud freezer in the back,” you say, nodding toward the buzzing from behind. “Music to my ears.”

Jeongguk huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Right. Music.”

You nudge his foot with yours under the table. “Don’t act like you didn’t miss the suspiciously sticky floor.”

He smiles. Doesn’t say anything else.

The conversation wanders, light and easy. You complain about your mother’s terrible playlist from earlier at the house; he tells you about a messy photoshoot he has to redo with a rookie group who kept striking anime poses. The laughter between you softens.

Across from you, Jeongguk leans back a little, his shoulders no longer drawn so tight, and for a moment, everything feels a little lighter.

In between bites of ice cream, you catch him looking – nothing grand, just quick glances when you’re busy wrestling with a stubborn scoop. His eyes follow the way your brows pinch in concentration, the smudge of vanilla clinging to your chin.

Jeongguk doesn’t say anything. Just wipes the mess off you, goes right back to his own cup. You keep your eyes on your ice cream, but your next bite comes a little slower.

The cups end up stacked between you, half-melted, sticky around the edges. Neither of you says much as you stand, wiping your hands on stray napkins, and straightening your clothes as if it was another routine.

By the door, the rain is still coming down—not hard, but enough. You hesitate, eyeing the gray outside, the sidewalk gleaming wet. The cold’s starting to get to you, starts seeping into your bones but there’s no regret with your choices this morning. Just thoughts on how you were going to get to work.

Jeongguk shifts beside you, umbrella already in hand. “I’ll drive you.”

You shake your head, pulling your blazer a little tighter. “I’m good. It’s not far.”

The air outside feels lighter than it should, like the morning forgot to wear its usual weight — and maybe that’s why you’d rather walk.

He doesn’t argue. Just presses the umbrella into your hand and steps back. You glance down at it, then back at him, brows raised.

“No gifts,” you remind him of the list that’s been dangling around, messing with reality.

“It’s just an umbrella. I’ll get it some other time,” He’s already turning toward his own way. “Just—don’t do the dramatic rain scene again. Once was enough.”

You smile, barely. “No promises.”

The office buzzes with its usual tension—the kind that builds before a storm of deadlines. Fashion week team is about to leave, and it feels like you're nowhere near ready to give them what they need. You’re starting to regret asking your mother to let you focus on this last project instead of the rest of the pending things needed to be taken care of. You've been stuck at your desk for hours, scrolling through model updates, fabric delays, and endless revision requests.

The conversations outside your office, the clatter of keyboards near the desks nearby, fades just enough for your eyes to drift to the black umbrella leaning against the corner of the room. It leaves a brief comfort in your chest amidst the office chaos but you quickly push the thought away before focusing back to the never-ending tasks on the table.

Mark’s voice cuts through the noise like caffeine. “Are you planning to blink today or should I hire a personal assistant to turn your head every few hours?”

You roll your eyes, tapping at your tablet. “If you bring me one more intern who can’t tell crepe from chiffon, I’m replacing you with AI.”

“Please. Even an algorithm wouldn’t put up with your mood swings,” he mutters before sliding into the seat across from you. He barely gets comfortable before he squints at you. “You walk here or swim?”

You don’t look up. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Sure. And I’m Miss Korea.” He leans back, head tilting slightly. “You’ve got that look—like one of those soaked leads in a drama who says they’re fine five minutes before fainting in the street.”

You finally glance at him, unimpressed. “I’m not going to faint.”

“Yet,” he adds, already pulling a file from your side of the desk like he’s about to manage your life himself. “Next time, toss on an extra coat. Or maybe wear a waterproof personality.”

You try not to smile, focus snapping back to your screen.

Mark flips through a few pages, then mutters like an afterthought, “Can’t even pick on you properly when you look like a sad dumpling.”

The hours stack on top of each other. Your inbox keeps refilling no matter how fast you clear it, and the tablet screen glares back like it’s judging your posture. Every time you blink, there’s a new message, a change in schedule, a missing sample no one can seem to track down. The morning calm feels like a different lifetime.

At some point, Mark slides a protein bar your way without looking up from the papers scattered. “If you pass out now, I’m not carrying you. My back’s already had enough this week.”

“For the hundredth time, no one’s passing out.” You huffed. “And don’t blame me for your old bones.”

“Take that back.”

You don’t.

Mark doesn’t say much after, just stands and disappears for a while—something about checking prints downstairs, or maybe he never said at all. You’re too deep into revisions to notice until his chair squeaks again.

Not long after, the office door creaks open. You don’t look up at first, expecting another intern with bad timing and worse questions. But then a voice breaks through the static in your head.

“You still squint at the screen like that? Thought Mark Hyung would’ve bought you glasses by now,” comes the familiar lilt.

Another joins in, teasing and warm, “She only listens to lectures if they’re wrapped in a compliment.”

You blink. And there they are—Hobi and Jimin. Hobi looks like he stepped out of a launch party, and Jimin, hoodie up, cap low, like he’s dodging both fans and responsibility. One of them’s already holding a takeout bag, the scent of something greasy and fried curling through the air like a bribe.

Jimin raises an eyebrow. “You eat today or just survive on sarcasm and spite?”

Hobi grins, leaning his elbows on your desk like he’s got all the time in the world. “Someone said you needed rescuing. And voilà, the rescue party has arrived.”

Jimin plops down in the chair beside him, pulling his cap a little higher. “Not like we needed the call. But if we didn’t show up today, you’d probably talk to your fabric suppliers till later and not even squeeze in a call to deliver bread at least.”

You snort, setting your tablet down with a sigh. “If I had known I was going to get a course on how to stay on track today, I should’ve left the office, gone to the mountains for a hike.”

Jimin raises a brow. “Bold of you to assume we wouldn’t follow.”

“You’d get lost halfway up and complain about not having Wi-Fi,” you mutter, but the corner of your mouth is already lifting.

The smell of fried chicken and bulgogi fills the office as the five of you settle into the small lounge area. The takeout containers are spread out like a battlefield, half of them already picked through, the other half still piping hot.

Hobi leans back in his chair, balancing a bottle of soda between his hands. “I still think you should let me do a rebrand on your office look. Maybe a neon sign with your name in it. Just to hype this place up.”

You roll your eyes, feeling a laugh bubbling up. “A neon sign in this place will make my company look like a club instead of a luxury fashion line.”

Hobi’s grin widens. “Man, I miss clubbing. Like an actual party where I don’t have an earpiece with staff panicking and asking what comes next.”

You shake your head, chuckling despite yourself. “You and your partying ass. Get over it.”

Jimin, who’s been quietly observing the banter, leans in with a teasing smile. “It’s not that bad. Though I bet Hobi Hyung would love an excuse to throw a real party here. We could call it ‘Fashion Week: The After-Party Edition.’”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Don’t encourage him.”

Hobi shrugs innocently. “What? A little bit of fun never hurt anyone.”

You laugh, finally feeling like yourself again.

Jimin’s expression turns a little more serious. “It’s been a while since we caught up. Really caught up, you know?” He’s smiling, but there’s a quiet edge behind his words. “You good?”

You shift in your seat, avoiding his gaze for just a moment. “I’m fine,” you say, a little too quickly. “Just... busy.”

Hobi isn’t having it, though. Leans forward, narrows his eyes at you. “You sure? Because from where I’m sitting, you look like a walk-in freezer that’s been running on empty. I don’t know what’s worse—watching you survive on coffee or seeing you avoid the topic every time someone asks.”

Mark shifts, his gaze flicking between you and Hobi, before cutting in lightly, “Hobi’s just mad because he doesn’t get to plan your next ‘catch-up’ event. But yeah... ‘fine’ is not the word I’d use.”

Jimin sighs, a little quieter now. “You’ve been through a lot. If you want to talk about it—”

You shake your head, a half-hearted smile trying to escape. “It’s nothing. Just work and... you know other stuff.”

Hobi watches you closely, the corner of his mouth twitching in a subtle frown. “I get it, you’ve got a lot on your plate. But... seriously, how are you holding up? Other than—” you give him a look that makes him stop. “Jeongguk, how are things with Jeongguk?”

Your lips part, but nothing lands right away. “We’re... civil.” It’s all you say.

You don’t mention how you’ve been pretending to be fine with how things are, even when it’s harder than it should be. You don’t mention how you’ve offered yourself to your soon to be ex-husband’s shoulder to cry on when he shares his troubles with the woman, he’s replaced you with. You don’t mention how you sometimes catch yourself wanting to ask him things you shouldn’t.

“Civil,” Jimin echoes, unconvinced, breaking the silence.

“He’s civil. I’m civil. He’s keeping to the terms.”

“Civil’s overrated. Bare minimum” Hobi crosses his arms, drifting his attention to the office windows. “He’s still fucking married to you. Supposed to be giving you these things without it being printed on some damn paper. You don’t have to play nice for anyone.”

You stiffen slightly but keep your expression neutral. “It’s complicated, Hobi.”

Hobi raises an eyebrow, not backing down. “That’s your polite way of saying you’re letting someone walk all over you?”

Before you can respond, Jimin cuts in gently, giving Hobi a warning glance. “Take it easy.”

Hobi leans back, giving a mock sigh. “Told you from the beginning, I never liked that list.”

You smile faintly. “You also said we were the couple that’d never fall apart.”

“I still lose sleep over my wedding pep talk for you.”

“Loved that pep talk. Probably would’ve run away if it weren’t for that.”

“Good,” Hobi replies dryly. “You should’ve.”

Jimin shakes his head with a half-smile. “Hyung, let it go. Jeongguk’s important to her, she loves him and that means we have to tolerate him.”

Mark, who’s been pretending to focus on sorting samples, chimes in. “As long as he doesn’t mess with her deadlines, I don’t care who she loves.”

You snort, grateful for the shift. “Touching.”

“I try,” he deadpans, then sets a fabric swatch book down with a soft thud. “Now, if you three are done reliving heartbreak, someone needs to sort these model cards before I start mixing up shoe sizes with waistlines.”

Hobi stretches with a groan but grabs a stack anyway. “Alright, boss man. But I’m only helping if you admit I make this office look good.”

“You’re literally in a hoodie,” Mark replies.

“It’s Louis,” Hobi grins, already flipping through cards.

Jimin moves beside you, peeking at your tablet. “I’ll take over this round of approvals. You look like you’ve forgotten how to breathe again.”

You don’t argue. Instead, you lean back, letting them fall into your chaos like they’ve always known how. For the first time that day, the weight on your shoulders feels a little lighter.

The sounds of clicking keyboards and soft rustles of fabrics fills your office. Hobi’s made himself at home by the mood board, offering unasked-for commentary on color pairings while Jimin plays assistant, flipping through lookbooks with exaggerated seriousness.

“Please tell me this model isn’t walking the finale in suede,” Jimin mutters, squinting at a printout.

“She’s not,” Mark replies dryly. “Unless you’re volunteering to carry her down the runway when she slips.”

“Depends—do I get a signature Seora tux?”

You just listen, fingers moving slower over the tablet screen. Hobi's voice floats nearby, filling the room with something lighter than what usually hangs in the air. Even Mark’s tension has eased.

Your phone buzzes once, face down beside the tablet. Absentmindedly, you flip it over.

An Instagram story—Jeongguk’s username in soft gray at the top.

You tap before you can think. It’s a video, no more than five seconds. A woman in the passenger seat, laughing at something, her voice muffled by the hum of the road. The camera shifts slightly—Jeongguk must be holding it—then settles on her smile. The caption reads nothing but a small white heart.

The video ends. The screen stays still in your hand. Something in you stills with it—like a thread pulled too tight.

Around you, the others are still talking, still moving. Jimin’s flipping through a file, Hobi’s complaining about fluorescent lighting, Mark is reaching for the stapler.

You clear your throat, folding the tablet shut a little too gently. “We should go out.”

Jimin looks up. “Now?”

“Now,” You’re already reaching for your coat. “Need something stupid. Loud music. Tequila. Bad choices.”

Mark doesn’t move right away. “You hate drinking.”

“I hate being bored more Besides, Hobi said he misses the club.”

He squints at you, like he’s trying to see what’s beneath your voice, then shrugs. “Fine. But if you start handing out hair ties instead of cash again, I’m not pitching in for the bill.”

Hobi chokes on his drink. “You what?”

“She tipped a cab driver with pastel scrunchies once,” Mark says, deadpan. “Three of them. Said they were limited edition.”

“They were,” you mutter, grabbing your bag.

He grins. “She blinked twice and called him a national hero.”

“Did not.”

Jimin’s already pulling you toward the elevator. “Definitely something you’d do.”

By the time the city wraps itself in night, you're walking into a bar – walls pulse with bass-heavy music, sticky tabletops, all neon haze and lights smearing across floors. It smells like citrus and vodka, crowd packed in and pressed close. The music thrums deep in your chest—loud enough to make you forget why you needed to come here in the first place.

Mark secures a booth near the back, but it’s barely enough to keep the group together. Hobi’s already nodding along to the beat, shoulder-rolling with someone from another table.

Jimin returns with drinks, grinning like a thief. “Don’t ask what’s in these. Just trust me.”

You take the glass, the cold damp against your fingers. Sip, cough, and laugh—too sharp, too quick.

Mark watches you over the rim of his drink. Doesn’t say anything, just clinks his glass gently against yours, like a nudge. Like he knows.

The music’s heavy with bass pulsing through the floor and bodies moving like they’ve got nowhere else to be. You’re tucked in a booth with the others, nursing something that tastes vaguely like lime and trouble. Your cheeks are flushed from the heat, maybe the alcohol — hard to tell.

Jimin’s off in the crowd, still dancing, his shirt clinging to his back. Hobi’s yelling at the bartender about the injustice of watered-down whiskey. The chaos keeps spinning around you.

Mark returns with a bottle of water, sliding it in front of you without a word.

You give him a look. “No more fruity disasters?”

“Your face is pink, and you’re blinking like the lights are talking to you. Figured hydration might be smart.”

You crack a smile, fingers curling around the cold bottle.

“You good?” he asks, all teasing disappears in the air.

You nod, too quick. “Having fun.”

His eyes linger on you for a second longer than they should, but he doesn’t say anything else. Just leans back, letting his arm rest on the back of the booth, fingers tapping along to the beat — slow, relaxed.

“Still can’t believe you’re out drinking,” he says after a beat. “Thought you swore off alcohol after trying to tip that cab driver with your hair tie stash.”

You groan. “I thought they were coins.”

“You tried to convince him you were paying in ‘emotional value.’” He’s laughing now, full-bodied and loud, and you can’t help but laugh too.

“Still think he should’ve taken the deal.”

“Yeah, well. I think he did out of fear.”

He bumps your knee gently with his. No big deal. Just enough to remind you you’re still here — not stuck in your head or somewhere else entirely.

The tray keeps refilling, and so does the laughter. Something about the loud music, the spinning lights, and Hobi trying to choreograph a dance routine with two strangers at the bar makes everything feel distant, easier. Lighter.

You’re halfway through a very passionate explanation about why mozzarella sticks should be a food group when you decide — loudly, proudly — that it’s time to get your life together.

“Okay, okay, wait—shhh,” you hush the table like you're about to deliver breaking news. You dig through your bag like there’s treasure buried beneath the receipts and lip balm. “I need to call Jin. Like, right now. I’m making big-girl choices.”

Mark side-eyes you. “You’ve had three drinks in the past thirty minutes and tried to high-five a coat rack.”

“I meant to,” you insist, already tapping at your screen. “No more waiting. No more maybe-this, maybe-that. We’re finalizing the divorce. I’m done.”

Hobi nudges the bottle of soju away from your reach. “I vote we give it till tomorrow, when you’re not quoting Taylor Swift between shots.”

“Thought you wanted me to get rid of Ggukie?” Your cuteness usually does the trick of easing your friends. Guess mixing it with drunkenness was not as effective as you thought it’d be.

“Babe, that’s enough.” Jimin tries taking the two shots you’ve stolen from Mark but you’ve already drowned it before your thumb scrolls past half your contact list. You squint. The letters blur a little. It start’s with a ‘J’. That’s good enough. Green button. Press. Done.

It rings once.

Twice.

Then clicks.

“Hello?”

You don’t wait for confirmation.

“Jin! Listen to me. I’m ready. Let’s just finalize it. The divorce. The thing. You know. The huge emotional mess I’ve been dancing around like it’s a part-time hobby?”

There pause on the other end encourages you to go on.

“No, seriously, like—what am I even doing anymore? It’s been dragging on and on and now I’m out here at Seoul Clubhouse, in case you need to send backup—and I’ve had, like, three drinks and a fry that might’ve been someone else’s, and I’m just—tired, Jin.”

You tap your nail against your glass, looking anywhere but at your friends. “It fucking hurts. Pretending everything's okay fucking hurts.”

Hobi watches you closely. Mark pretends not to. Jimin’s stopped trying to grab the phone from you.

“Thought I was stronger than this. This was supposed to make me happy,” you mumble, softer now. “But here I am, making emotional speeches to my lawyer like a rom-com extra.”

You pause for breath, lifting the phone to say more—maybe something about closure, or freedom, or how weirdly loud the DJ’s playlist is tonight—but all you get is a click.

The call ends.

The blurry call log stares back at you, vague and impersonal. You drop your phone into your bag, reaching for another drink as Mark leans closer, steering the conversation back toward something safer.

The lights blur like streaks of color, and the bass is thudding through your shoes. You don’t even feel your legs anymore. Just warmth—in your cheeks, in your chest, maybe in your throat, too, where the last round of drinks is still trying to settle.

You’re laughing at something Jimin said, though you’re not sure what it was, and your body leans a little too far to the side. Mark catches you with a steady hand on your back. He says something, but the music swallows it whole. You don’t hear him. Just feel the steadiness of him.

Your hand finds his. Without thinking, you lace your fingers together like it's nothing. Like it’s normal.

Mark stiffens a little, glancing at you—but you don’t meet his eyes. Just leaned your head against his shoulder, letting your fingers rest there in his. He doesn’t move away. Your breath is warm against his neck, and then your hand is brushing his jaw as you lift your face. The space between you pulls thinner. You lean in—

He pulls away before your lips get too close.

"Nope," he says, half-laughing, half-sighing. "Don’t go handing out kisses like drink coupons. I’m flattered, but also not trying to get sued by future you. Plus, you're not going to be like him."

You squint up at him. "You’re no fun."

"I’m plenty fun. Just also not a complete idiot."

He smiles at you, but his eyes say something softer. Excuses himself to get more napkins from the bar before you notice anything. Or maybe you’re too far gone you’re seeing things.

Jeongguk’s not sure what made him come. Maybe it was the call. Maybe it was the silence that followed. Maybe it was your voice on the other end, slurring things he didn’t know would break him.

His eyes adjust slowly to the dim lights and flashing neon. The music hits him first—loud, messy, alive. Then he sees you.

You’re at a booth, slumped a little, smiling faintly, blinking slow. Your makeup’s a little smudged at the edges. Mark’s sits beside you, arm draped across the booth behind your shoulders. Casual, but close.

He leans in to say something near your ear and you tilt your head, eyes closing like it’s the only way to stay balanced.

Jeongguk watches from where he stands near the door, half-hidden behind a group laughing on their way out. It should be easy to walk away. You’re surrounded by friends. You look… happy. Or at least like someone trying to be.

But his jaw tightens, and something keeps his feet planted.

Hobi spots him first. There’s no welcome in his stare. Just the faintest wrinkle between his brows. A silent question. Or maybe a warning.

Jeongguk nods once, barely.

And then your eyes find him. Even through the haze, something sobers in your face.

“We’re leaving,” he says once he’s close enough. His voice cuts through the haze like a thread—steady and low.

You blink, slowly. “We are?”

“Let’s go,” he replies simply.

“I came with them.”

Jeongguk looks at the group. Hobi’s arms are crossed, unreadable. Jimin’s chewing on his lip. Mark’s the last to glance up, his jaw clenched.

“She’ll be alright,” Mark says, but it lacks conviction.

“Respectfully Hyung, fuck off.” Jeongguk says, gaze flicking toward him. “She called me. This conversation is between me and my wife.”

“She’s your wife now?”

That pulls a shift in the air. Everyone exchanges glances, and it hits you with a wave of confusion.

“I didn’t…” you trail off, brows pulling in.

“Go,” Jimin leans over, pressing his palm to your back. “You’ll feel better if you talk.”

You look back at Jeongguk. His face isn’t angry. Isn’t soft either. Just still.

Your mouth opens to argue, but Hobi already helping you stand. “Call us if anything happens.”

Jeongguk takes your coat from the booth, drapes it gently over your shoulders. The moment you step into the cold air outside, it bites at your skin, but the tension in your chest is sharper.

You’re not sure how Jeongguk’s here. How he even knew where to find you. Not sure why your friends wanted you to do this as if they knew it’s something that the two of you needed right now.

But you’re walking beside him anyway, under the streetlights, your steps unsteady but sure enough to follow.

Jeongguk drives out of the city, past the closed shops and quiet streets, until the lights thin out and the tress start replacing buildings. You don’t know where he’s taking you at first. Just know that you want to get out of the seat that was occupied not too long ago by someone you wish you never get to see in this lifetime.

But you don’t smell that awfully familiar expensive, sweet, citrus fragrance that usually made your stomach churn. Then again, you’re too drunk out of your ass to know which of your senses were functioning right at the moment.

Jeongguk parks at the edge of an overlook, an old, tucked away spot you haven’t seen in years. A place people go to when they need to escape the harsh reality.

“Used to come here,” you murmur, eyes on the city lights below. “When the world felt too loud.”

“I know,” he says, leading you to the bench that’s still around. “You brought me here once. After your first runway show. Said the noise didn’t follow you up this high.”

Dropping onto the bench, you look up to the sky. “No one ever comes here this late.”

“That’s the point, right?”

Beyond the trees, a breeze stirs the leaves, brushing through the branches like a careful whisper. A few crickets sing from the grass nearby, soft and steady, like they’re keeping a quiet rhythm for the moment. The single lamppost nearby, casts long shadows that barely move. Everything feels like it’s waiting—for what, you’re not sure.

Jeongguk observes you, like he’s trying to find something in your expression he hasn’t seen before. “Any reason you chose a night of partying instead of dinner with me?”

“Thought maybe tequila, mojitos and shots of soju would help with forgetting – better than some truffle pasta that’s not even made with real truffle. And some noodles they probably boiled in the microwave.”

“Excuse me,” Jeongguk scoffs, then chuckles under his breath, trying to ease the tension between you. “That restaurant is Italian-owned. Verified and approved by Taehyung. You know how picky he is.”

You groan, your head falling back in laughter, nearly tipping off the bench—until Jeongguk catches your arm and pulls you close to his side. “Don’t make me add another regret to tonight.”

Jeongguk doesn’t say anything—just keeps his arm around your shoulders, steady and quiet.

“I’m sorry you had to come here,” you whisper, hoping he hears you over the wind starting to pick up. “Sorry if I messed up your plans for tonight.”

He exhales softly. “My plan was to take this beautiful woman to a little place called Eatanic Garden,” He glances down at you, voice playful. “She was supposed to have her favorite truffle pasta and a wine that was way too expensive for what it tasted like. Maybe laugh at my awful attempt to be the next best comedian in Korea.”

You smile, eyes barely open. “Sounds like she dodged a bullet.”

“Hope she didn’t,” he says, tugging your jacket gently. “She’d love that truffle pasta.”

You don’t answer. Just stare at the city beyond you. Jeongguk looks at you then, and his voice comes softer this time. “You okay?”

You nod, too fast. “Yeah… just a little foggy. Think I said some really dumb stuff earlier.”

“Yeah?” he asks, casual—but not really. You sense there’s something behind it, just couldn’t pin point what.

Shifting closer to Jeongguk, your body instinctively leans into his chest like it’s the only stable thing in your spinning world right now. “Last I remember, I picked up the phone. Meant to call Jin…probably to yell at him about paperwork or whatever.”

Jeongguk goes still like he’s holding his breath. You’re not sure. You’re too far into your head to name it.

“Didn’t even check if I dialed the right number,” you mumble, fingers now twisting in the hem of your sleeve. “Might’ve said things I didn’t mean…”

He swallows, his voice coming quieter than before. “Remember anything you said?”

You shrug against him. “Not really. Just that feeling like I was ready to... burn something down. Start over, maybe.” You laugh, but it comes out hollow. “Bet I sounded like a mess.”

“You didn’t sound like a mess.” Jeongguk says. Shrugs off the surprised look on your face, looks away with a forced kind of ease. “I mean…I can just imagine. You’re not really the screaming type, rambling maybe, but never yelling, even drunk. Probably just another sad and dramatic episode of yours.”

You narrow your eyes at him, half-joking. “Wow. Thanks.”

“Must’ve been a weird conversation, though. For the person who picked up, I mean.”

“Yeah. Wonder if I even got through Jin.” You tried looking for your phone in your bag, eyes still clouded. Relieved you got to find it quickly. Only for Jeongguk to snatch it away from you. You frown, not expecting him to take it. “Hey—”

“Maybe don’t check it right now,” Jeongguk holds the phone just out of reach. His voice is gentle, almost coaxing. “You’ve had enough for tonight.”

You blink up at him, confused. “What? Why?”

He hesitates. “Because I don’t think you’ll like seeing the call log.”

Your stomach dips.

He doesn’t hand the phone back.

You look at him suspiciously, your senses suddenly coming together when you start to move away from him. “It was you, wasn’t it? I called you.”

Jeongguk taps against the phone once. Doesn’t answer.

The ripple in your chest feels like a shoot set has collapsed. “That’s why you’re here. Fuck, I called you. What did I say?”

He hesitates, shakes his head, thinks he can keep the truth from you. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Gguk.”

There’s a long pause but he couldn’t keep up with the way you were looking at him. “You said you were done holding on. That it was time.” His voice cracks there, so faintly you almost miss it. “You didn’t say my name. Didn’t have to.”

Silence pools around you. The wind brushes past your cheek, cold now. “I was drunk.”

“You sounded sure. Of finally letting go.”

You pause, glance at him with a tired smile. “That'd be a relief for you. Your final freedom.”

There’s a flicker in his expression—gone almost instantly, but you catch it. A tightening around the eyes. “Sure, whatever you say.”

“I’m sorry for whatever other stupid shit I said.”

His fingers twitch slightly where they still rest near yours, like they want to reach for you again but think better of it. “You said what you felt. That’s not stupid.”

You observe how composed he looks, how carefully he holds himself together. It strikes you, strangely, how calm he is right now. Or rather, how hard he’s trying to look like it.

“You’re being weird,” you mutter, resting your head against the back of the bench.

“I’m always weird,” Jeongguk says, but there’s no bite to it. Just quiet. A stillness too long between his answers. “Come on,” he says gently, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “Let’s get you home.”

The air is too warm, too still. The silk sheets tangled around your legs feel like they’re trapping heat instead of offering comfort. Light cuts through the curtains in soft gold streaks, but there’s nothing gentle about the weight pressing against your chest.

Your skin’s damp — not from sweat, but from something deeper, like your body’s been fighting a quiet war all night and lost.

Every breath feels heavier than it should. Your limbs ache, not the kind that disappears after stretching, but the kind that lingers under the surface. Dull. Faintly buzzing. Like a warning that’s easy to ignore until it isn’t.

Somewhere downstairs, you hear muffled footsteps. A door opens, closes. Then silence again. Must be your mother leaving for grocery errands. You hoped it was. Wouldn’t want her seeing you like this again.

You shift onto your side, half hoping it’ll ease the tightness in your head, but it doesn’t. Instead, it sharpens — a pulsing reminder of everything you poured into last night like it wouldn’t matter come morning.

Your phone vibrates against the nightstand. Once. Twice. You painfully reach for it. Read the messages through hazy vision.

Tuanzy 👴🏼: You alive? Or did Soju win?

🌞💛: Barely. Think I’m actually dying.

Tuanzy 👴🏼: Joke like that again, and I’m firing you.

🌞💛: Can’t fire me. I’m the boss. Just not today. Think you can handle off-site alone?

Tuanzy 👴🏼: Already on it. Sending help. Hate me next time.

You don’t argue. Don’t have the strength to. Just go back to sleep at some point before the heat becomes worse. Not from the blazing afternoon sun. No, you love those. Loved how it’s a comforting warmth on your skin. This time, it burns from the inside. Your bones feel like they’re melting and freezing at the same time.

The knock is soft when it comes. Two taps and a pause.

“Let me guess,” you mumble hoarsely. “Doctor delivery service?”

The door opens. Yoongi steps in — long black coat, silver chain peeking beneath his collar, a familiar bag slung over his shoulder. “You look awful.”

“Always know how to greet an old friend huh?”

He drags a chair to your bedside, sinks into, starts pulling things from his bag. “I should start charging Mark Hyung at this point.”

“I’ll pay you in cough drops and poor life decisions.”

“Pass.” He checks your pulse first, fingers cool against your wrist. His brows knit slightly. “Heart’s too fast.”

“Guess it missed you.”

Yoongi doesn’t smile. Just presses a thermometer under your tongue and sets his watch.

“Thought I felt bad last night when I got home.” You mumble. “Turns out that was just the preview.”

“Didn’t even change out of your clothes.” His tone’s flat, but still gently works the blanket over you. “That’s not ‘preview’ bad. That’s post disaster.”

“Was cold. Too tired to change, to do anything else.”

The thermometer beeps, and he checks it with a short sigh. “High. Not dangerous yet, but pushing it.” The stethoscope goes against your chest next. “Breathe.”

Shallow breaths. Deeper. Again. Yoongi listens for too long. Finally, he pulls back and leans in his chair, rubbing his jaw. “You’re paler than usual.”

“Thanks. Been trying this new foundation—thought we could use it for the Paris models. Not for my skin though.”

Yoongi doesn’t even blink. “Well, your new foundation’s reading a 41.2°C and counting.”

You groan and drop your head back into the pillows. “Maybe I’m just glowing.”

“If by glowing you mean burning alive from the inside out, sure.”

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the blanket. “It’s just a fever.”

“You’ve had three in two weeks.“

“I danced in the rain and drank poison. What else do you want from me?”

Yoongi leans back, crosses his arms. “To stop being reckless hoping the damage resets overnight.”

You look away. “It didn’t. So boo me.”

Yoongi shifts forward, reaching for your wrist again to check your pulse a second time. “I’m prescribing rest, fluids, and for you to stop pretending this is fine.” He begins repacking his bag slowly but doesn’t leave.

“Not pretending.”

“You are,” he reaches over and brushes the damp hair away from your forehead. “Can’t keep burning both ends. Sooner or later, it’s going to catch up.”

You pretend not to hear him. And he pretends not to notice.

Then Yoongi's gone. The silence that follows is louder than anything he left behind.

The gym smells like metal and sweat — the kind that sticks to your skin, soaks into your clothes, and clouds the mirrors. Jeongguk moves through his warm-up before the sun is even visible, breath steady, arms coiled tight under the weight of the barbell. The plates clink against each other like a metronome. Clean. Predictable. Easier than the mess in his head.

He lifts until his muscles burn and his palms sting. Until the thoughts go quiet.

Across the room, Mingyu waves, a playful grin on his face. They slip into an easy back-and-forth — set for set, sweat for sweat — until the hours pass, and they’re both leaning by the water cooler, shirts stuck to their skin, hearts still pounding.

“Bulking again?” Mingyu jokes, flicking his towel at Jeongguk’s side.

Jeongguk just shrugs, glancing away. “Just staying busy.”

Mingyu smirks, eyes unreadable. “That’s a lot of protein powder for someone who’s just passing time.”

Jeongguk doesn’t explain. Wouldn’t know where to start if he tried.

By the time he gets home, the sun’s high enough to throw soft shadows across the hardwood floor. He lets the gym bag fall by the stairs. The house greets him the same way it always does now — too still, too neat. Like a place where nothing lives anymore.

His eyes land on the scuff mark on the wall — the small dent from when you’d tried to carry that too-big box upstairs, laughing as you bumped into everything. He always said he’d fix it. Never did.

The fridge clicks open, cold light spilling over shelves lined up too neatly. No jars of sauce shoved in the corners. No half-empty cartons of almond milk pushed to the back. Just neat rows of containers he doesn’t remember filling. He shuts it again, the sound sharp in the quiet air.

A purple tulip sits on the counter in a slim glass vase — yesterday’s, technically, but the petals still hold their shape. His fingers graze the stem as he walks by. He changes the water. Watches it settle.

The streets of Seochon hum with life. Rain from the night before clings to the stone, and the scent of something sweet drifts from the café on the corner. Jeongguk walks beside Taehyung, listening — mostly — to a monologue about some artist who paints sadness in nothing but blues and grays. Taehyung calls it moving. Jeongguk can’t decide if it sounds lonely or honest.

His thoughts keep slipping sideways. To the curve of your shoulders under his jacket. To how small you felt, pressed against his side. To the way your voice cracked — just once — when you said you were ready to let go.

“You’re distracted,” Taehyung says, lightly shoving the younger to the sidewalk.

Jeongguk lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “I’m okay.”

“Sure,” Taehyung drawls, but he doesn’t push. That’s the thing about old friends — they know when to let the quiet be.

They stop beneath a green awning, where a street stall overflows with peonies, ranunculus, and there, bold and bright — purple tulips. Jeongguk goes still, the movement small, almost easy to miss.

Taehyung leans in, his voice low. “Coincidence?”

Jeongguk doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to.

There’s a shop tucked behind the record store — tiny, too warm, a little cluttered. He trails his fingers along the edge of a display until they stop on a postcard. Tulips, faded and bleeding at the corners like a memory that won’t stay whole. It’s just a card. Just paper. He keeps telling himself that as he brings it to the counter, as he slips it into his pocket.

Back home, it rests between his fingers longer than it should before he tucks it into a book you loved. The Little Prince. Right at the part with the fox —the part you always stopped at, smiling softly when you read it out loud.

Somewhere in between folding the laundry too neatly and fixing the bookshelf for the third time, the stillness starts to feel heavy. His eyes drift to the window — to the sky that stretches wide and quiet. He doesn’t name the feeling, but it tightens in his chest. It’s not longing. It’s not regret. He doesn’t know anymore what it is.

It’s nothing, he tells himself. Just the pull of an open day.

Almost without thinking, Jeongguk grabs his keys. The tulip on the counter watches as he walks past. The door clicks shut behind him. Though the house doesn’t speak, it feels like it knows exactly where he’s gone.

The afternoon drapes itself softly over the garden. You tip the watering can, slow and steady, watching droplets gather on the leaves, the scent sharp and familiar. Somewhere near the trellis, a bee hums lazily through the air, darting between lavender blossoms, unbothered by your presence.

From the veranda, your mother’s voice floats across the stones, light with amusement. “Careful — you’re going to drown that poor basil.”

You glance back, lips curving, the sun catching in your hair. “I’m practicing moderation,” you call, the words lilting, playful.

She steps onto the path with practiced grace, linen robe brushing her ankles, arms folded loosely in front of her. “You’ve been out here all morning.”

“Figured I owed the basil after nearly drowning myself with cocktails the other night.”

Her brow arches. “Drowning yourself and calling the wrong number, apparently.”

You don’t answer, just lean over to pat soil around a drooping sprig, movements a little too careful.

Your mother watches you for a moment longer. “You know, sweetheart, it’s okay to rest. You don’t have to work it off like penance.”

“I’m not,” you say quickly, too quickly. “I’m just—”

“—fine,” she finishes, a faint smile at the edge of her lips. “You always say that when you’re not.”

You blink down at the planter, pretending to check the stems again. Your hands smell of thyme and dirt, and there’s a tight pull in your shoulder that won’t quite stretch out. “It was one stupid night.”

Her hand brushes your hair back, a mother’s touch — practiced and full of quiet worry. “You walked in the rain in a blazer too thin for the season. Skipped meals if it weren’t for your friends. Then burned through your tolerance like you were nineteen again.”

You huff, a little defensive. “I’m only thirty-three. I’m still allowed to be a mess sometimes.”

Her thumb smooths over your temple. “Not this kind of mess.”

The words land heavier than you expect. You try to brush it off with a laugh, reaching for the watering can again. “Come on. You said I needed fresh air. This counts.”

“You’ve had enough fresh air,” she says, fingers curling gently around your wrist. “Let the gardeners do the rest.”

“I’m not fragile,” you say, too soft for it to sound convincing.

“Never said you were.” But she holds your wrist a moment longer before letting go.

You sit back on your heels, breath coming thinner now. The sun is warm, but there’s a faint chill that clings to your spine, like it knows something you don’t. Still, you press a palm to the planter’s edge and slowly push yourself to your feet.

“I’m fine,” you repeat, forcing a smile. “Just went overboard a little, that’s all.”

Your mother doesn’t press further, but her eyes flick over you once more — the way your skin looks slightly paler today, the subtle flush that’s not from the sun. She lets it go, for now.

“You’ll come in soon?” she asks.

“In a minute,” you promise, already turning back to the herbs.

She nods once, then makes her way back toward the house, her robe trailing softly behind her.

The wind shifts. A breeze filters through the garden, carrying the scent of earth and rosemary, and something else — a hint of something familiar. You don’t notice it at first. You’re too focused on getting the soil just right, on grounding yourself in this routine that feels easier than thinking.

But then — the faint creak of the garden gate.

You glance up, startled.

Jeongguk stands at the edge of the path, the sun catching on his dark hair, a paper bag in one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of his coat. He looks like he wasn’t sure he’d find you here. Like he wasn’t sure he should’ve come at all.

You straighten slowly, heart thudding, unsure if the warmth rushing through you is from the heat or something else entirely.

He lifts the bag slightly, something sheepish in the tilt of his mouth. “Brought croffles.”

“It’s Sunday.”

His gaze flicks over you, pausing at your flushed cheeks, your hands smudged with soil. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I know.”

[scoupsakakitty]

I’ve been seeing engagement proposals all through my fyp, news feed, yt reels, even vlogs and I’ve been keeping this on my mind for a while, my request is: how would Seventeen members propose to their S/O? Like the location, would their families be present? Will it be a funny disaster? Or a romantic moment? I’m dying to know, please do it. . I am willing to wait, don't worry.

How SVT would propose

S.Coups

Cheol would make it deeply emotional and meaningful. He’s the type who values stability, love, and family more than anything. He plans a quiet rooftop dinner, filled with soft lights, a playlist of your favorite songs, and maybe even a few old photos of the two of you placed around. He holds your hands, his voice slightly shaking, and tells you how much he wants to be by your side for the rest of your life. You can tell he’s been rehearsing it in his head for days but in the moment, it’s all heart. After the proposal, he surprises you by having both families waiting nearby to celebrate together. He probably tears up before you do.

Jeonghan

Jeonghan’s proposal would be full of playful mischief but end with sincere emotion. He pretends to forget an important date maybe your anniversary or birthday just to keep you off track. He acts completely casual, even a little distracted. But by the end of the day, he takes you to a quiet spot, maybe a park or a place filled with shared memories, and suddenly pulls out the ring like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He says something like, “I could joke around forever, but I’m serious about this will you marry me?” It’s funny, confusing, and heart-melting all at once.

Joshua

Joshua goes for classic, timeless romance. He picks a beach at sunset, maybe somewhere in California close to his roots. It’s quiet just the sound of waves and the glow of fairy lights strung around a private little setup. He sits with you, plays a song on his guitar that he wrote just for you, and right as the last chord rings out, he kneels down. His words are calm, thoughtful, and poetic. He talks about love, faith, and choosing each other over and over again. Your families aren’t there right away but he makes sure they’re the first ones to know, probably through a sweet group video call or dinner afterward.

Jun

Jun’s proposal would be a little offbeat, but incredibly heartfelt. He plans something that feels like an inside joke between the two of you maybe a scavenger hunt through your favorite places, or a date that includes all your shared hobbies. He’s a little nervous, trying to play it cool, but you can tell he’s been thinking about this for a long time. When the moment comes, it’s quiet, personal, and soft. He says something unexpectedly poetic in a mix of Chinese and Korean, then slips the ring out with the shyest smile. It’s not grand or flashy but it’s perfectly, unforgettably Jun.

Hoshi

Hoshi’s proposal would be an adorable mess in the best way. He tries so hard to plan the perfect day maybe a flashmob, a dance-themed surprise, or a performance just for you but something inevitably goes a little wrong. He forgets the cue, gets overly excited, or starts crying halfway through his speech. But that’s what makes it perfect. He probably ends up blurting out “Will you marry me?!” earlier than he meant to, holding the ring upside down, while grinning with tears in his eyes. It’s chaotic, emotional, and 100% Soonyoung. You’ll both laugh and cry the entire time.

Wonwoo

Wonwoo keeps things incredibly simple and intimate. He chooses a quiet place a bookstore, a café, maybe even your shared living room on a rainy day. He doesn’t do anything flashy, but you’ll feel the weight of every word he says. He holds your hand gently, looks you right in the eyes, and says something like, “I want to spend all my quiet days and loud ones with you. Will you marry me?” There’s no audience, no performance just you, him, and a moment you’ll remember forever.

Woozi

Jihoon would stress about it for months. He’d want it to be perfect but not obvious, romantic but not cliché. In the end, he composes a song just for you one that says everything he can’t quite say aloud. He plays it in a studio or a private space, just the two of you, and as the final note rings out, he turns to you with a nervous smile and says, “I meant every word. Will you marry me?” His voice cracks a little, but his eyes are so full of love you’ll melt on the spot.

DK

Seokmin’s proposal would be full of sunshine and joy. He plans something with lots of laughter maybe a picnic in a field, or a goofy day at an amusement park. He tries to keep it casual at first, but when the moment comes, he suddenly turns serious in the softest way. He looks at you like you’re the only person in the world and says, “You make every day brighter. Will you let me be the reason you smile forever?” He probably sings after the proposal, just because he’s overflowing with happiness.

Mingyu

Mingyu goes all out. Think fairy lights, fireworks (if he can get them), a chef-made dinner under the stars, the whole works. He wants everything to look like a movie set, because he wants you to feel like the star of one. He’s nervous, though you’ll notice him fumbling with the ring box, trying to keep cool while his heart is racing. When he finally kneels down, he says something like, “You’re the most beautiful part of my life. Let’s make every day beautiful together.” After the proposal, he hugs you so tight it’s like he never wants to let go.

The8

Minghao’s proposal would be artistic, intentional, and very him. He probably plans it during a trip abroad, maybe somewhere with quiet scenery or meaningful art Kyoto, Venice, or a peaceful mountain village. He leads you to a spot he picked just for this moment. He doesn’t say too much just looks into your eyes with a calm smile and tells you that being with you feels like peace. Then he brings out a ring he might’ve designed himself. It’s elegant, thoughtful, and unforgettable like something out of a dream.

Seungkwan

Seungkwan’s proposal is pure emotion. He tries to keep it cool, maybe even cracks a few jokes at first to cover up his nerves but the second he starts talking about how much you mean to him, his voice starts shaking. It might be at a quiet dinner or your favorite place from a past trip together. He pours his whole heart out probably tearing up and making you cry too. His words are warm, sincere, and filled with love: “You’re my best friend, my home, my everything. Marry me?” It’s deeply personal, and no one could love you louder than him.

Vernon

Vernon keeps it low-key, but meaningful. He plans something super personal like taking you to a place that means a lot to both of you, maybe where you had your first real heart-to-heart. He doesn’t overthink the words he just says exactly what he feels, probably something like, “I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.” He might have a song playing in the background that you both love, or something he made himself. There’s no pressure, just quiet love and a strong, steady promise.

Dino

Dino goes the thoughtful, young-romantic route. He choreographs a short dance for you something sweet and full of love, with little references to your story together. He pretends it’s just for fun, but at the end of the routine, he turns serious, takes your hands, and gets down on one knee. His voice is full of hope and pride when he says, “I want to grow up and grow old with you. Will you marry me?” It’s creative, full of heart, and totally unforgettable.

[twst-aceofhearts]

🔆anon

Can you make a story with an oblivious reader who says something like “you’re cute” as an offhand statement? Any character is fine though maybe Azul or Riddle

Terms and Flustered Conditions

𝖆/𝖓: This was really fun to write for a first request teehee :>

~no tw, just flustered zul~

𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: azul x oblivious!reader

𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉𝖘: 1670

taglist: @luxaryllis @thegoldencontracts @waterthatsmoe @oya-oya-okay

Azul prided himself on two things: his contracts and his composure.

Tonight was no exception. He stood behind the counter at the Mostro Lounge, overseeing operations with his usual calculating smile, adjusting his glasses every now and then like he was always in control. Floyd was off somewhere (causing problems, probably), and Jade was handling a VIP table, so that left Azul as the face of service.

You strolled in, humming to yourself, clutching a clipboard of deliveries for the Lounge.

“Hey Azul,” you said cheerfully, barely noticing the low lighting, the faint jazz playing, the dangerous glint in his eyes that usually put most people on edge. “I dropped off the supply list in the back.”

Azul looked up, his smile sharp and professional. “Ah, thank you. Ever the dependable one, I see.”

You leaned your elbow on the counter casually. “Mhm. Also, you’re kinda cute when you’re in work mode. Like, ‘merchant but make it adorable.’ Y’know?”

Azul froze.

The world stopped.

You blinked. “Anyway, I gotta head back to Ramshackle. Later!”

You turned and left before Azul could even start a reaction.

His pen slipped from his hand. Clattered to the floor.

Azul stared at the spot where you had stood, glasses sliding slightly down his nose, mouth slightly open in stunned disbelief.

Jade appeared silently beside him, placing a fresh tray on the counter like nothing had happened.

“…Did I hear that correctly?” he asked smoothly.

Azul didn’t answer. His brain was frantically short-circuiting, replaying the exact cadence of “you’re kinda cute” over and over like a cursed spell.

“Adorable,” Azul muttered, nearly choking. “They called me adorable…”

Jade hummed, far too amused. “How fortunate. Not everyone gets complimented by the oblivious type. Though I wonder… should I warn them what they��ve just unleashed?”

Azul grabbed his handkerchief and tried (in vain) to cool his face down. “Absolutely not. I need time. I need—negotiation tactics, leverage—damage control.”

Jade chuckled quietly. “Or perhaps, a contract offering one ‘free date’ in return for a second compliment?”

Azul choked on air.

Azul had prepared.

He’d reviewed social scripts, coached himself in the mirror, and even had Jade run mock conversations with him using your exact inflection. He would not be flustered again. This time, he’d have the upper hand.

You walked in holding a box of new menu supplies, completely oblivious to the psychological warfare Azul had been conducting in his own head all day.

“Hey, Azul!” you chirped.

He smiled, composed and calculated. “Ah, welcome. Back with another delivery?”

You set the box down. “Yup! That and a couple updated drink cards. Oh, and I got you something.”

You pulled a small bag from your pocket and handed it to him.

He blinked. “What… is this?”

You shrugged. “Saw a little octopus charm at Sam’s shop and thought of you. Kinda looks like a chibi form of you. Cute, right?”

There it was.

That word again.

Azul’s soul momentarily vacated his body.

You were already unzipping the box, oblivious. “Anyway, Sam said it wards off bad business deals or something. You should hang it near the register—ah, this one’s leaking, oops—”

Behind the counter, Azul’s hands twitched. He was gripping the little charm with all the delicacy of someone holding a live bomb. His face? A slow-burning shade of red creeping up from his collar to his ears.

He managed to speak. Just barely.

“…You—you bought me a charm. Because it’s cute.”

“Mhm,” you said, busy sorting menus. “You say ‘customer satisfaction’ like ten times a day, but you forget self-care, y’know? Gotta protect that soft heart of yours.”

You said it like you were discussing the weather.

Azul nearly collapsed.

Jade, ever the specter, appeared at his elbow with a tray of sparkling drinks.

“Azul,” he said with dangerous calm, “your heart rate just spiked. Shall I fetch the emergency potion?”

Azul wheezed, “No—no potions. I’ll recover. I’m fine.”

You peeked up. “Huh? You okay? You look kinda pink.”

Azul gave you a strained smile that looked like it had been stapled onto his face.

“I am perfectly fine,” he said, voice a full octave higher than normal. “In fact, would you—ah—consider signing a contract?”

You blinked. “What kind of contract?”

He fumbled for his notebook. “A-ah, well, hypothetically… one where I provide you with free menu samples, and in return, you… perhaps… say that word again. Just once. As research.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Which word?”

He swallowed. “The one that starts with a c and ends with—”

“Croquette?”

Jade actually turned away to hide a laugh.

Azul buried his burning face in his hand. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

You just tilted your head. “You’re acting weird today. Kinda cute though.”

Azul.exe has stopped responding.

Azul was suffering.

Every time you walked into the Lounge, something happened. A stray compliment, a casual smile, a devastatingly innocent, “You’re so reliable, Azul!”—it was all too much. He was spiraling, and unfortunately for him, the Leech twins had noticed.

Which is why tonight, after closing, he was cornered in the VIP lounge by the two eels.

“So when’s the big confession?” Floyd asked, draped over the couch like a lazy predator. “You gonna tell Shrimpy you’re in looooove, or should I?”

“I am not—!” Azul started, face already heating up. “I am not in love. I simply… appreciate their company.”

Jade sipped his tea. “Mm. You’ve ‘appreciated their company’ so much you rewrote a contract proposal twelve times because they called you cute.”

Floyd grinned wickedly. “Azully’s got a cruuuuush~”

“Stop saying it like that!”

Floyd, naturally, did not. “C’mon, why not just tell them? Be like, ‘Hey, I like your dumb smile and your cute voice and—’”

“I am not calling their voice cute!”

At that moment, the door creaked open.

“Azul? You still in here?” you called. “Sam said I left my notebook, and I figured—”

The scene you walked in on:

Azul frozen mid-sputter, flushed and holding Floyd’s sleeve like he was trying to drag him into a volcano.

Floyd smirking like a shark on its lunch break.

Jade very politely sipping his tea, totally composed.

“…Am I interrupting something?” you asked, confused but amused.

Azul tried to recover. “N-No! Not at all! I—uh—Floyd was just—”

“I was helping Azully confess his feelings,” Floyd said brightly.

Silence.

You blinked. “To who?”

Azul made a strangled noise. “Don’t say it—”

Floyd pointed straight at you. “You.”

Azul immediately went into cardiac arrest.

You tilted your head. “Wait, me? Like, romantically?”

Azul was redder than a boiled shrimp. “I—it’s not—! That is to say—I may have some interest, b-but it’s entirely conditional! Professional! Not—not that you’re unattractive, in fact you’re very attractive, I just—!”

You blinked. “Huh.”

Azul waited for the ground to swallow him whole.

Then you smiled.

“…That’s cute.”

Azul nearly fell over.

Floyd cackled. Jade, still sipping tea, gave you a nod of approval.

You handed Azul your forgotten notebook. “Well, if you ever want to talk about it, I’m around. Don’t stress too much, okay? You’ll wrinkle.”

And then you left.

Azul sat in stunned silence.

“…Did they just compliment me again?”

Jade patted his shoulder. “Yes. Yes, they did.”

Floyd flopped over him. “Ooooh, they’re gonna ruin you.”

Azul, dazed and doomed, just whispered, “I think I want them to.”

For once, the Mostro Lounge was quiet. No crowds, no clatter of dishes, not even Floyd terrorizing a freshman.

You walked in, waving as usual. “Hey, Azul. Got the last invoice from the alchemy club.”

Azul stood behind the counter, perfectly groomed, hands folded neatly, like he’d been waiting. Which, in fact, he had been. For hours.

“Ah,” he said, his voice unusually calm. “Thank you. Actually, before you go… I have something for you as well.”

You paused. “Oh? Is it tea?”

“…Not quite.”

He reached below the counter and pulled out a single scroll, tied with a navy ribbon and sealed with wax bearing his personal sigil.

You blinked. “Did you write me a contract?”

“Yes,” he said, too quickly, then coughed. “I mean—technically. But it’s… different. Please, read the terms.”

You unrolled the scroll.

Contract Proposal Recipient: [Your Name] Terms of Agreement: In exchange for continued emotional support, offhanded compliments, and existing in a manner Azul Ashengrotto finds extremely flustering endearing, the undersigned proposes the following: - One (1) date at a mutually agreed-upon time and place. - One (1) opportunity to confess his genuine romantic intentions without being interrupted by Floyd. - Optional: hand-holding, future compliments, and/or further shared activities of a couple-like nature. Signatories: Azul Ashengrotto (pre-signed) [Blank space left for you]

You stared.

“…You wrote a confession contract.”

Azul looked like he wanted to curl inside his octopus pot and hide until he was eighty. “I thought it might be… efficient.”

You started to laugh—not cruelly, but warmly, delighted.

“This is so you,” you grinned. “You actually drafted a romance agreement.”

Azul cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses in a doomed attempt to look composed. “If you don’t wish to sign, that’s perfectly—”

You picked up the pen and signed your name with a little smiley face and heart at the end.

Azul froze. “Y-You agreed?”

“Of course I did,” you said, handing the contract back. “Honestly, I thought you didn’t like me because you always get weird when I say nice things.”

“That’s because you keep calling me cute,” he muttered, scandalized. “In public. Repeatedly.”

You beamed. “Yeah. I’m gonna keep doing that, by the way.”

He made a soft, strangled noise.

“Anyway,” you said casually, leaning over the counter, “so when’s our date, octoboy?”

Azul’s face went fully red. “…How’s Saturday?”

“Perfect.”

Floyd leaned around the doorway, grinning like a cat with a mouthful of canary. “Ooooooh, Azully’s got a sweetheart~”

Azul sighed dreamily, holding the signed contract to his chest.

“…And they called me octoboy.”

Jade set down a tray, completely deadpan. “Shall I prepare the wedding registry?”

Azul didn’t even argue.

credit to @enchanthings-a for divider

[beatlblog]

#😳#well im turned on abt it lmao#i actually think he's grabbing his own thigh but i don't fkn care to be honest#ima keep pretending because WHY NOT (via ourladylennon)

#again whoever sat them next to each other........ is both a fool and a genius (via muzaktomyears)

^#god#Paul’s entire shoulder just on top of John (via scurator)

#basket of puppies#fussing (via dovetailjoints)

#Paul experiencing all the emtions available#in four gifs (via inspiteallthedanger)

#gay shit (via notgrungybitchin)

^#seriously (via scurator)

#guys everyone is watching#under the table#john and paul#mclennon confirmed#baby george answering questions earnestly (via got-ticket-to-ride)

#if they're not touching in public tgey start to panic#emotional support songwriting partner (via backbenttulips)

#bonded pair. must not be separated#❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ (via ernest-shackleton)

#i forget this exists#then i remember and like (via scurator)

^#ok (via wronglennon)

^^#2nd gif looks like john pulled paul’s arm forward by his sleeve#to cover something up?#literally this haunts me (via thegirlwiththeaxe)

#is the front of that table open to the world? (via i-am-the-oyster)

^In the pic showing under the table you can clearly see Paul’s bare shin where John has pulled his trouser leg right up so I don’t think it was a crotch grab but a cheeky grab of his thigh causing his trousers to ride up (via doctorbeaker)

#I too would use paul’s little cock like a fidget toy if I was john lennon (via big-barn-bed)

#favorite forever#girl ik what your hand is doing (via menlove)

Personal space doesn’t exist in the Mclennon dictionary ❤️ (via angelicabr)

#i dont truly believe the popular theories here but objectively whats going on is erotic and homo (via paulscunt)

^^^#prev tags#ok but what really gets me is in the second gif#i have to explain this set of gifs and the conspiracy about it for the uninitiated:#so right before this moment paul pranked john by moving his chair right when he went to sit down right? making john almost fall#so in the first gif john had just sneaked his hand under the table and looks meaningfully at paul and paul looks back at him#and makes what almost looks like a pained laugh and squirms and elbows john like he's trying to move away without causing a scene#it could ALMOST be taken for a coincidence to me except for the fact that john also looks kinda evilly concentrated and if you look close#he's sort of leaning into paul and his arm moves along with paul's leg in the second gif....#and then if you watch the video paul just keeps looking dopier and dopier and is like coughing into his fist#and then even starts twirling his hair lmao#i mean ARE THEY DOING SOMETHING under the table for real i dont know but god it's funny to imagine that they are (via 13eyond13)

#moment of all time#wish the fic I wrote for this day did it more justice but hey ho#whatever you’re doing johnny… paul says to cut it out (via javelinbk)

#everyone needs their comfort object <3 (via mchole)

#..........#“and the other one? — 2 queers. [crowd applauds]” (via fbi-smoking-pot-members)

#this fucking interview i swear#paul elbowing him in the arm coughing into his fist squirming in his seat#johns face of concentration#awful (via slutty-oranges)

#something was going on under that damn table idk (via lesbianbeatles)

^#John’s either using his little dick as a joycon or his prostate as a trackpad#good for him (via big-barn-bed)

John’s public mask slips and —- (via whizzoqualityassortment)

#paul is such a pick me girl ... (via oicuperp)

John and Paul during the Beatles press conference in Atlantic City (September 9, 1964)

[pukefactory]

hello! i recently got into dream bbq ena and adore all your writing with her. it scracthes my brain so nicely im shakign her around in a jar

i was wondering how you think ena would be with a reader who likes to talk a lot? maybe they like to ramble about their home, things that reminds them of ena or whatever thought that appears in their head. a certified yapper if you will (this isn't meant to be a request, just a silly curiosity if youre willing to indulge me)

•☽────✧˖°˖ OVERABUNDANT WORD VOMIT ˖°˖✧────☾•

★ Summary: A Compilation Of Headcanons Featuring Salesperson ENA X Reader Who Talks A Lot

★ Character(s): Salesperson ENA (ENA: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

☆ ENA does not interrupt you. She catalogues you. Mid-ramble, while you’re passionately explaining the significance of a weird statue back in your hometown (“and it kinda looks like you from the back, I swear!”), ENA leans in, nods once, and chirps: “Interesting. You correlate me to public art. Does this reflect societal placement or aesthetic longing? I’m flattered either way.” She doesn’t understand all of it. She wants to. Meanie, on the other hand, squints. Taps her temple like it’s full of bees. “You talk like you’re auditioning for a friendship contest and flunking the quiet round.” But she never leaves. She stays. Always.

☆ You’ve rambled about your favourite cloud shapes for seven minutes straight. ENA, taking your words with the solemnity of a divine pact, starts pointing out clouds shaped like you. “There. That one resembles your hair curl pattern. Mark it. That’s ‘Talker Type VII.’” You laugh. ENA smiles softly and spins her sales cap backwards, like she’s about to sell you a sunbeam.

☆ Sometimes your chatter overwhelms her. Not in a bad way. Just… Too many words. Too many feelings. You’re talking about your grandma’s cooking and how the smell of burnt sugar reminds you of safety and then of death and then of her, and she gets this faraway look. Her voice lowers. “Ping me in some moments.” She walks off. Breathes. Comes back fifteen minutes later and wraps you in the world’s most complicated hug. Arms askew. Head tilted. “Repeat the part about safety. I want to write it down.”

☆ When you talk about her, ENA listens with one side while pretending not to with the other. Salesperson beams and poses: “Yes, yes, I am devastatingly cool in moonlight! Say more!” Meanie growls: “STOP MAKING ME FEEL ALL…TWINKLY! That’s a violation of workplace boundaries!” You assure her there is no workplace. There is only love. She glitches mid-scoff. Blushes in binary.

☆ You once compared her laugh to the sound of a broken music box mixed with a champagne cork pop. ENA immediately adopted it as her LinkedIn bio. “Broken music box. Champagne cork. Let’s pop off, business darling.” She starts practicing her giggle. Not to impress you—To match your poetry. To deserve it.

☆ Your voice grounds her. That’s the weird part. She expects to be annoyed. She isn’t. You’re babbling about the shapes of shadows or how this dream-sky tastes like mint and wet marble, and she—She lets go. Salesperson chuckles and says: “The ambience you provide is profitably therapeutic.” Meanie mutters: “I could nap in your sentences and forget the Boss exists.”

☆ Sometimes you talk too fast, and she can’t follow. So she starts mimicking you—word for word, tone for tone, like a glitching parrot. “AndthenIsaidnoandtheywerealllikeBOOM—BOOM—andIwas—” “BOOM! And I was! And you were!” You both collapse into giggles. You’re never embarrassed. She never wants you to be. Your joy is the only thing she doesn’t try to “optimize.”

☆ During “quiet” missions, she physically covers your mouth with her clawed hand. “Shh. Hush-hush. There are spies in this hallway. We’ll get audited by existence itself if you keep discussing lentil soup.” But she forgets to let go. You’re talking into her palm. She’s blushing through her hat brim. You whisper: “…I’m still talking about you.”

☆ You speak like your voice is trying to rebuild the world. She stares at you like she’s reading a map of a place she’s never been. Sometimes you ramble just to fill the silence. She knows. And she lets you. Always. Because silence to ENA isn’t absence. It’s danger. It’s static. But your words are anchor codes. They keep her here.

☆ Eventually, ENA starts mimicking your chatter habits. She fumbles at first—“So. Uh. My favourite chair is…also kind of about you. Because it’s broken but still very…very present. I-I don’t mean you’re broken, just—AH—STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT—“ You grin. She frowns. Then smirks. “Fine. We’re both broken. And beautiful. AND obnoxiously talkative. High-five me, noisebox.” She loves every syllable you spill. Even the ones about toothpaste brands and your neighbor’s dog. Especially those.

[raekensluver]

"He holds me in his big arms, drunk and I am seeing stars, this is all I think of' - lana del rey

If you could write something like this with george I would pass AWAY

so so adorable omg

contains: established relationship, intoxication, slow burn

george clarke x fem!reader

it’s late, the room half-lit by the soft glow of the streetlight seeping through the blinds. the world outside is distant, quiet. but in here, the air’s thick with something slower. heavier.

you’re in his arms, tangled up, the weight of him a comforting, solid thing you never want to move away from. he’s not sober—not by a long shot—but his grip on you is steady, like he knows exactly where you are, like he knows you need him right now, in this space.

his breath is warm against your hair, steady, like a lullaby. you can feel the rise and fall of his chest under your cheek, slow and deep, and it’s all so grounding.

his voice is low, a little slurred, but it makes you smile anyway. “you okay?” he asks, the question a little lost in the haze of whatever drink he had too many of. he’s barely holding himself up, but you don’t mind. you like this version of him—the one who forgets himself for a while, the one who lets you pull him down to earth, makes him soft for a moment.

“i’m perfect,” you whisper back. you let yourself sink into him, eyes fluttering closed, the stars in your mind swirling and merging with the warmth of his body. it’s almost too much.

he laughs softly, his hands wandering, fingers tracing little circles on your back like he’s reassuring himself that you’re still here, still close. “you make me feel like i’m in a dream,” he murmurs, voice rough from alcohol and something softer. “all i want is to keep you here. just like this.”

and for a moment, you wonder if you’ll ever feel anything quite as perfect as this—caught somewhere between sleep and reality, between his warmth and the quiet of the world outside. this, all of it, is everything you never knew you needed. his big arms around you, holding you together, as if nothing could ever break this.

“don’t go anywhere,” he says, a little breathless, the words muffled against your hair. he holds you tighter, as if the universe might shift if he lets go.

but you know. you’ll never want to leave. not when he’s like this, not when it’s just the two of you, drunk on each other’s presence, on this feeling of being tangled in his arms, his heart beating beneath your cheek.

and you can’t help but think, this is everything.

you’re seeing stars, and you never want to stop.

[magical-awesome-kid]

Chronomancy. The fabled art of time manipulation.

It was theoretical, at best, in most circles. Some believed that spells like Haste and Slow impacted time around a person, and it was therefor considered Chronomancy. Others scoffed and pointed out that it was an obvious mental and physical manipulation.

This guy, though? His spell was the real thing.

Time had slowed to a near stand still. Darwin was mid-swing, suspended in the air with his war hammer. Cass had a spell rocketing from her hands. Dave was, well, Dave, but he was frozen in all his Dave-ness.

The spell caster crackled, so sure of his victory… until he saw me stalk forward.

He stopped laughing. “Impossible! How can you still move? My spell stops time!”

True. It did. Sadly, he’d never done his homework.

Because while my compatriots were of this dimension, bound to it, I had… a looser grasp on physics in comparison.

There were facts of this universe that simply did not apply to me. I had no mana in my blood, and I had needed to collect artifacts and learn from the ground up how to do things that the average child of this world could do easily.

At the same time, this world had a lighter grasp on me when it came to gravity, friction eased, and I was able to slip past magical barriers that would stop anything living with Mana.

And this time spell seemed to pray on that.

I could see now. He stumbled back, sparks on his finger tips, but this spell must have been holding all his power hostage.

I grinned, gripping my staff. The mana did not flow through it, I could tell, but a metal staff could still whoop this idiot’s skinny ass.

“Yeah, that’s the problem right there, buddy. You created a spell that stops time...”

I rushed forward, staff coming around as the guy screamed. He tried to scramble away, but I was faster.

“…when you should have made a spell to stop me.”

Darwin looked around, confused, as his battle cry suddenly cut off. The target he had been aiming for was just… gone.

A blast hit the far wall, and Darwin spun to see Cassandra looking confused. “Wait, what…?”

“Over here!”

Darwin turned to see their other warrior, Fir, standing by the doorway they had just entered through. Besides them, the crazed mage William was tied and gagged, beaten to a pulp. His minions were all tied up alongside him in further states of defeat.

Also, Fir was sipping coffee, looking much like they had rolled out of bed not an hour prior from a long rest.

Fir was an odd one. They had a natural resistance to anything mana related, for both good and bad. Things that most people could interact with simply, such as a magicraft self-heating pot, would not activate when Fir used it with their bare hands. They had forged their gear to specifically channel mana, to work where they failed. Still, healing spells often failed to fuse flesh back together and wounds did not heal as quickly on the warrior.

Still, they armed themselves and fought. In some ways, they lacked, but their skills alone made them great.

Beyond that, they were a fine friend.

Dave appeared next to Darwin, looking confused. “What did you do?”

“Hm? Oh. Not much.” Fir sipped their drink. “Beat and tied everyone up. Took a nap. Made some coffee.”

“We are in battle!” Cassandra waved her staff. “How?”

“Oh, right, that was hours ago…” Fir stretched. “Yeah, the idiot over here,” they gestured a thumb at William, “cracked the code on Chronomancy. His spell lasted long after I kicked his ass, though. Took care of the goon squad, which was super easy considering none could hit back. Then I got bored and tired. Found the bed chambers and made myself comfortable. He’s got a good stash of coffee.”

Darwin opened his mouth to comment, but his jaw moved without letting any words out.

“That’s impossible. Chronomancy is theoretical.” Cassandra pointed out.

“Pick his brain over it.” Fir shrugged. “Or maybe we can use that weird mind-spell thing. Probably can’t make him forget the whole spell process, but fuck up a bit of it? Probably not good to let that spell loose in the general public.”

Darwin found his words. “But… it was a time spell? Wouldn’t you have also been affected?”

“My mana thing was a loophole.”

Cassandra continued to pick away, shaking William and trying to get the blacked out wizard to answer as she also kept at Fir. Dave had disappeared, but Darwin was sure that their little mischief maker was either looking for outstanding traps or gold.

Darwin sighed, just sitting down. The report to the Guild would be a pain to explain…

"Impossible! How can you still move? My spell stops time!" "Yeah that's the problem right there buddy. You created a spell to stop time when you should have created a spell that stops me."

[paulyenvol6]

No Worries In The World

Harry Castillo x f!reader

So I know the context of the kiss in the new trailer is totally different, but the way his lips crash against hers just did something to my brain and I had to write it as if they were in an argument. Enjoy :)

Contains: smut, fingering, unprotected sex, p in v, breeding kink, dirty talk, Harry and reader being down bad for each other, nicknames like princess and baby, some fighting in the beginning, angst, flluff, sweetness, talking of children, jealousy, possessiveness

Wordcount: 4,730

Masterlist

"Oh come on, you're not even gonna say anything about it?"

"What am I supposed to say? I told you already – "

"You told me nothing, Harry. What, did you not want me to find out about it?"

He sighed and god how you hated that sigh. It sounded like he was disappointed in you although he was the one that – "I didn't hide anything from you. I just didn't think it was necessary to mention it because it meant nothing to me. I forgot about it the second it happened."

You crossed your arms over your chest and leaned against the corridor wall as the blood pounded in your ears, rumbling so loudly that you could barely hear the words coming out of his mouth. Tears were burning in your eyes and you wanted to blink them away so badly, not showing him how much he had hurt you, but at the same time, what did it matter? Perhaps you should just show him and make him feel awful.

"Why the fuck did you do it then? You could've waited 10 minutes and we could've danced. I – I just don't fucking get it."

Harry ran a hand through his curls and then approached you, his hands reaching for yours but you refused and lightly pushed against his knuckles to spare yourself the pain of his close presence.

"Baby," he said, waiting for you to give him your attention, but you were focused on fumbling with his hands so he would let go of you.

"Baby," he said again, louder this time and firmly squeezed your hand so you had no choice but to accept your fate and flash your eyes at him, showing your anger in a different way.

"I love you," he whispered which involuntarily made your heart flutter, but no, you wouldn't just let it slide because he happened to have such a pretty pair of brown puppy eyes and looked especially handsome in his suit tonight.

"You didn't answer my fucking question," you hissed, moving your hands that were still clasped in his until he eventually let go and sighed out as he took a step back.

"Jesus… I don't know. I don't know, she's an old friend and we talked for a bit and I liked the song that was playing so I asked her if she wanted to dance. As I said, we're old friends. Nothing more."

You angrily chewed on your bottom lip and although you wanted nothing more than to be hugged by him and forget this whole stupid thing, you just couldn't. You were hurt, and you knew that if you just pretended nothing had happened, you would go to sleep and wake up tomorrow with a bitter taste in your mouth, and this thing would haunt you until it finally caught up with you, eating you alive and making the inevitable fight even worse.

"We fucking met this way, Harry," you pressed through clenched teeth, pushing against his chest while you felt a single tear run down your cheek.

"Did you think for a second that it might hurt me to see you dance with a woman exactly the way we did six months ago? I thought that – that… I don't know that it was our fucking thing."

Your eyes painfully burned watching Harry rub over the lower half of his face, cursing something that you couldn't understand and then he straightened up, his jaw tense and his chest heavily rising.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to tell you. We were dancing. I'm not going to stop dancing with any woman for the rest of my life because we met this way. I'm sorry that it hurt you and I don't know how many times you want me to say it, but it meant nothing to me."

You tilted your head and swallowed as you defiantly raised your chin and then hugged your own body with your arms.

"Then I think you're insensitive."

"What?" he scoffed, narrowing his eyes as he put his hands on his hips.

"Yes. I'm asking you of something because it's fucking important to me and it wouldn't be a big deal for you to do me the favor."

You refused to let him doubt your statement, your head held high and your posture straight as you watched Harry sigh again, his nostrils flaring before he took a step towards you and suddenly pressed his lips to yours. It was messy and passionate, aggressive almost, but so heated that you kissed him back without thinking too much about it. He gently pressed you against the wall, his hands firm on your waist and a knee between your legs so you could rock your core against him while he devoured your mouth like it was the last time he could. And somehow your mind went blank. Somehow you were able to put all of your frustration and anger in the kiss.

He pressed his lips to yours with such force that his nose rubbed against yours, wrinkling and creasing as he seemed to be trying to reduce the distance between you until you melted together.

"Harry," you breathed, your hands at his shoulders. You tried to pull down his jacket, but by now your hands were shaking so you had problems gripping the fabric properly which evoked a quiet chuckle in him.

"Need my help?" he whispered, smirking as you stubbornly shook your head and eventually succeeded.

His jacket fell on the floor and was soon joined by your coat that Harry peeled off you with quick and skillfull hands. His lips were still on yours, the sound of teeth clashing agains teeth echoing against the high ceiling, the air around you thick with tension and you almost felt drunk on him. Drunk on his aftershave, on his familiar scent, his presence.

He rolled the fabric of your tight black dress between fingers, giving you a painful pre-taste of what was going to come, but you needed so much more. No thought was flickering behind your forehead, no urge to finally work out your conflict. Perhaps there was a part of you left that felt stubborn and defiant, your hands on his shoulders just a little bit rougher than usual, but you didn't care about talking anymore. What you wanted was to talk this through with your actions and his touch on your body.

Harry's wishes didn't seem to fully align with yours, as you soon figured. He made no attempt of stopping, but he didn't shut up neither.

"S'what you need, huh? Needed me to push you up against the wall to be satisfied, isn't that right?"

You moaned, but it sounded more like a cry and felt your eyelids flatter as he traveled down your chin and your neck until his hot breath lingered at your collarbone. You buried your hands in his hair, gently tucking, but Harry paid no attention to where you wanted him anyway. His touch was more determined than usual, more clear in what he wanted. Uncompromising, but you didn't mind at all.

"Tell me, baby," he whispered and moved his hands up until they were right below your breasts, lightly - like it was a test - brushing over the swell. "Tell me that you wanted this."

Your grip in his hair tightened, your head dropping back so it was comfortably resting against the wall and you could let Harry take full control.

"I… I fucking wanted this…," you said under breath, your voice higher than normal.

"Yeah? I just haven't given my princess enough attention, have I?"

He gently nibbled at your skin which sent shockwaves through your body and as time went by, your hold on your own feet progressively worsened, your knees weak and wobbly as Harry left wet kisses on your cleavage.

"Yes. I just… I missed you."

His next kiss was tender. It was a response to your complaint and you moaned in satisfaction when you felt his mouth trail a line up your neck until he stopped at your mouth again. Harry softly sucked in your bottom lip, creating divine pressure and goddamnit, he was just so good at it. Making you feel valuable and sexy and… seen.

Maybe that was the reason why seeing him dance with her had hurt you so much. He was always showering you with love and affection, his eyes on you at all times even if you were with a big group of people and now, if he didn't pay attention for a mere second you already felt neglected because it was such a grave contrast to his usual behavior.

"I'm sorry, princess," he murmured against your lip, causing you to whine in relief. "I know it's on me. I know it's 'cause I have to show my princess how much I love her all the time. Have to show her that she's the only one I care about 'cause otherwise she'd be sad."

He cupped your face, gently caressing the area under your eye.

"And I can't make my pretty girl sad."

Perhaps his words would have sounded mocking to anyone else, but a glance at his face told you how much he meant them. It told you that he was truly sorry for neglecting you and making you suffer, even if it was just a single tear you had shed.

"Fuck me," you breathed, becoming aware of the effect of your words when Harry's jaw clenched and his eyes flashed with sheer hunger.

"Yeah? Is that what you want?"

"Yes. Fuck me hard."

Before you could utter the last syllable, you shrieked as Harry grabbed your hips and lifted you into the air, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

"Whatever my princess wants…," he whispered in the curve of your neck and then proceeded with covering every inch of skin he could reach with kisses.

You chuckled and giggled, your heels digging into his back as he carried you to his familiar bedroom where he carefully tossed you onto the bed and opened the first buttons of his shirt while you made yourself comfortable on your back. The silky fabric of the pillows felt cool and soft against your smoking head, and you felt that cosy, bubbling warmth in your belly that always appeared when you thought of all the magical things he was going to do to you.

"Don't move an inch," Harry whispered while carelessly throwing his shirt behind him and then moved to the edge of the bed, kneeling on it with one knee and giving you this mischievous, yet soft smile.

"You look so pretty like this, babygirl."

You shrieked in surprise when he grabbed your ankles and pulled you a little towards the edge of the bed, then climbed onto the bed and hovered over you with one knee between your legs. You giggled and writhed, your body screaming for him and your insides dancing with joy as you not only had a perfect view of his toned chest, but felt the anticipation crashing over you like a magnificent wave ready to swallow you whole.

"I need you," you breathed and put your hands on his shoulders.

"And I need you." He leaned in to kiss you and while you were still getting used to the weight with which his lips crashed against yours, he was already fumbling with the zip of your dress at your back, pulling it down painfully slowly and making you whine in frustration, yearning for a cooling brush of cold air across your body that seemed to be in flames just by his mere presence.

Eventually he redeemed you though and pulled your black dress over your shoulder and then down your body, his hands not shy to follow a trail down your front until the piece of clothing was gathered up around your knees. Now that he had access to more skin he drew backwards, releasing your lips with a plop and took in your bare front that wasn't covered by a bra which caused Harry to hum in satisfaction.

"You're a dream. My perfect princess," he whispered, his eyes cloudy as he seemed to be mesmerized by the sight.

"Should've never even just looked at anyone else at the party. You're the only one I care about anyway."

He pressed wet kisses on the swell of your breasts and each felt like a promise. His beard created delicious friction against your sensitive skin and soon your breathing went in hitches, your heart rapidly pounding in your chest and your mouth agape as you bent your neck to stare down to him.

Now his lips were around your nipples, tracing the outline with the top of his tongue and knowing how much you liked it, he occasionally carefully took them between his teeth until you squirmed away and he released them with a wet noise. But he always made sure not to neglect your other breast that wasn't taken care of by his mouth; when his tongue worked on your left breast, his hand kneaded and toyed with the right so that you were soon overwhelmed with sharp and sweet pleasure, sometimes bordering on pain in the best way possible.

"Harry," you whispered, your hands in his hair and your legs closing around his broad torso. "Please, Harry… fuck, I need more."

He gently nibbled at your skin, careful, so it wouldn't sting too badly, but with enough force so it might leave a mark.

"Where do you need it, huh? Is your sweet little pussy aching for me? Does she need me to take care of 'er?"

You threw your head to the side, your body buckling when Harry pressed his knee against your center with more intensity so that you felt pressure on your clit.

"Yes. Yes, I need it," you panted and gasped when he slipped a hand between your legs, cupping your pussy and rubbing his palm against your throbbing clit through the fabric of your panties. In the force and eagerness with which he had done it, you sensed that he was struggling to hold back himself, his grip on your pussy firm like he didn't just want to make you feel good, but claim you and that very part of your body.

"Mhmm… There you go. Let me hear you, princess. Let me hear how good it feels."

A croaked moan left your throat and you closed your legs around his wrist as if you wanted to trap his hand between your thighs.

"Please. Please, feels so good, Harry."

Your underwear was soaked and you could hear it in the damp sound his skin made against your wet panties, but Harry was soon to comment on it anyway.

"You're soaked, princess. You need it that badly?" he whispered against your earlobe, his left hand coming up to cradle your face while you struggled to bring out an intelligent sentence.

"Yes. I really want you, Harry, please…"

Your lips formed a pout as you arched on the bed, pressing yourself against his broad body and wrapping a possessive arm around his neck.

"You're mine," you whimpered and although it didn't sound very dominant with your quiet and weak voice, you had meant every part of it. In response your boyfriend lowly chuckled and leaned in to capture your lips in a deep but slow kiss.

"Someone's gotten a little jealous tonight, right? I didn't know this side of you, baby."

He pulled away to caress the corner of your mouth where a small drop of drool leaked out and you bit your lips, your eyes flashing and your chest heaving rapidly under his play on your pussy.

"You're mine. No one else's. I want you to show me."

Harry's lips twisted and he lovingly brushed your hair back until his hand came to a stop on your temple.

"You want me to show me that I'm yours, babygirl?"

"Yes," you moaned and gently tucked on some of his strands of baby hair in the back of his neck.

Harry gave you a wry grin and then, faster than you could react, you were on your stomach, letting out a loud gasp. You felt two large hands lift your hips until you were forced to support yourself on your hands and knees, your dimples protruding as you turned your head to look over your shoulder and meet Harry's gaze.

He was on his knees as well, and now gently slapped your bottom before running the palm of his hand over the area that was beginning to redden.

"You look so goddamn pretty like this. What am I even saying, you always look pretty, and I still can't believe I'm that lucky…," Harry whispered, running a hand from the crease of your ass up your back to your neck where he gently combed through your hair.

He looked almost dreamy as he watched your back and then snapped back to reality. He pulled your underwear down with swift and trained hands until the fabric was around your knees, following your dress, and then parted your knees and stepped closer to you, the fabric of his pants creating a cool contrast to your heated skin.

Another slap landed on your ass and you let out a whimper, your body jerking forward while Harry already comforted you and then you finally heard the clank of his belt and you knew it was a matter of seconds now until you would finally be filled by him. You bit your lips, staring ahead of you in anticipation and then almost whined in relief as he ran his tip through your folds, smearing your wetness all over your dripping cunt and sighing when you arched your back.

"Jesus… honey…. You don't know what you're doing to me…"

"Please Harry. Please, I need it so badly."

Your hands closed around the bedsheets when you felt his tip circling your entrance, your whole body tense and ready to take him in if only he would finally give it to you –

"Fuck!"

Your head dropped, your forehead hitting the mattress and your nerves prickling as your body adjusted to his length. Harry was far from being small and although you were more than wet and he had fucked you more times than you could count, there was a slight stretch every time, especially when he entered you in one go. You focused on your breathing, your pulse loud in every part of your body and then you turned your head as Harry ran a hand over your shoulder blades.

"Are you alright, princess? Need a moment? Or do you want me to pull out and prepare you with my fingers?"

Tears welled in your eyes only that it wasn't from the pain, but his sweet words, the fact that you knew you could always rely on him and that he would always take care of you. God, how you loved him.

"No. You can move, I'm fine," you answered and prepared yourself to feel his thick cock moving inside of you, but you frowned as it still didn't happen. Instead Harry caressed the curve of your ass, his fingers drawing tight circles on top of your skin.

"Gonna give you a moment just in case, okay? Sorry, maybe I went a little too harsh and should've made you cum on my fingers first."

Without turning your head you shook it and blindly reached behind you for his hand or his wrist or in fact any body part of his. You heard him laugh, a deep and low sound and then he grabbed your hand and squeezed it before he carefully pulled himself out of you. You regretted it immediately, your knees shaking as you wanted nothing more than to feel every single vein of his cock and fortunately Harry didn't hesitate when he thrusted back in although he was much slower this time.

"Oh fuck," you hissed nevertheless, your fingers clenching around the sheets and so did your pussy when you felt Harry's tight grip on your hip.

"Fucking christ… You feel perfect. You're perfect. So good to me, princess, fuck…"

He now started to fuck you at a steady pace, his hips and balls slapping against you with each thrust, while his hand on your hip made sure to pull you back to him. Soon his free hand moved from your ass up to your head to draw your hair into a makeshift ponytail and to use it as leverage while he picked up the pace.

"Nghhh fuck, Harry," you whimpered and shut your eyes as he repeatedly hit your cervix with his huge cock.

Your reactions were music to his ears and to enhance them and elicit more of your sweet noises, he glided a hand between your legs to rub your clit that was stiff and swollen, throbbing as it had awaited the rough pat of Harry's finger.

"Yeah there you go… My sweet princess only deserves the best, doesn't she? Wanna make you cum all over me until you believe me when I say that I'm yours and I only wanna dance with you at any party. You hear me, honey?"

He lightly tucked at your ponytail, his teeth gritting as he bent his back to come closer to your ear.

"I love you and I don't want you to ever worry about that again. I don't want you to have a single worry in the world."

You loudly moaned and that was the moment your arms gave away and you dropped head first on the bed. Harry scoffed and stroked the back of your head before flipping you onto your back again, your eyes popping open as he did so.

"It's alright, I got you," Harry whispered as he adjusted your body.

He parted your legs again and removed the sweaty hair out of your face before slamming back into your exhausted body, his thumb on your clit again after you had rolled your hips in a desperate attempt to fight the pulsing tension in your pussy.

"You wanna cum for me? Wanna make me real happy?"

"Yes," you replied, your legs spread wide for him and your hands in his neck again to toy with his hair.

"Please," you murmured, pulling him closer to you until you sighed in enjoyment feeling his lips on your chin. "I wanna cum so badly. But I wanna cum with you. Please. Need it inside."

Harry's eyes darted up to you, a suspicious and concerned sparkle in them, but there was also something excited and disbelieving.

"I don't know if we should…," he whispered, watching you precisely to judge whether you were too fucked out to act responsibly, but not slowing down either.

"Please, Harry. Give it to me, I… Maybe I wanna… Why not take the risk, it wouldn't be the worst thing, right?"

His teeth sank down on his lower lip, blind and profane desire clouding his mind, but he had to act rationally now.

"Picture me carrying your child, honey," you whispered and took his face in your hands while panting heavily at the tight circles he drew over your clit.

"Picture me all round with your child. Your child, Harry. Wouldn't you like that? You would be reminded that I'm yours every moment of your life 'cause I'd be living proof that you knocked me up. That you fucked me hard and deep and everyone would see it. Everyone would know that I'm yours."

Fuck it. The thought flickered behind Harry's forehead for brief second and while you were still pleadingly glaring up to him, he had already made his choice. Maybe he was just way too fucked out to act responsibly too, but what did it matter now? The thought of filling you up and getting you pregnant, his cum so deep inside your perfect warm pussy that would suck his seed in, your belly round with his child...

He let out an animalistic growl and then came so hard, it knocked all the air out of his lungs and made his head spin. Harry could only hear your own squeal from a distance, white lights dancing across his vision as ropes of cum spurted from the tip, filling you to the brim. He grunted again, sweat pooling on his forehead that was slowly running down his temple and then he looked down at you, who was just coming down from the aftermath of your high.

"Harry," you whimpered and rested your brow against his broad shoulder.

"I know, princess," he panted, his hand reaching behind your head to cradle it, but he couldn't hold himself up on his elbows much longer and gently lay you down while burying his face in the soft skin beneath your ear.

"Oh jesus… You're so amazing," he praised you and ran a hand up and down your arm to calm your rapid panting.

"You did so wonderful. So, so perfect, my beautiful princess."

Your hands grasped at his bicep, your body completely flat and powerless under his weight as the two of you slowly began to realise the possible consequences of your actions. Had the two of you been careless? Had it been stupid? Harry didn't feel that way, but he had to check in to see whether you felt the same.

"So…," he started once he had lifted his head again and now drew soothing patterns over your cheek with his thumb.

"Were you serious with what you just said?" he asked, a little smile lingering on his lips that you were happy to return.

"Yeah. I mean I think so, I don't regret it right now. Do you?"

"No I don't," he truthfully answered and propped himself on his knee so he wouldn't crash you beneath the weight of his body.

"But I mean, if you change your mind, I can go to the pharmacy and get the morning after pill, all you have to do is say the word, baby."

You chuckled and connected your hand with the side of his face.

"I don't think I will. If that's what you want too."

"It's what I want. I love you and I love this between us. And I think these are the best conditions to have a child, right?"

Your heart was pounding in your chest, making you feel like you had just run a marathon. But Harry wasn't done yet.

"And I wanna see you happy. I don't know, princess, but I think it's become my life's obsession. Making you happy and giving you anything you want. I wasn't kidding when I said I don't want you to have a single worry in the world. It's all I want and it's all I'm ever gonna want. Making you happy and making you smile and loving you."

His voice was so incredibly low, but it was enough. It was enough to make the butterflies in your stomach do somersaults, enough to make you feel as if you were drunk with love, and to make your pulse race into infinity.

"I love you, Harry," you answered and although you felt that you had to say more and express how much you loved and appreciated and needed him in every detail, Harry already seemed content with your answer. Maybe it was better that way because you believed once you started telling him you wouldn't be able to stop.

He kissed the corner of your mouth sloppily, both of you too exhausted and tired to seal your confessions with a deep kiss, but it didn't matter. You understood each other blindly and giggled as Harry crawled off you and lay down next to you.

He instantly reached for you and you were happy to snuggle up against his side, his arms sliding around your back to hold you close while you rested your head on his chest. That way you could listen to his steady heartbeat, your eyes closing as the purest form of contentment and happiness flooded your system.

"I love you," you whispered again, already close to drifting off to sleep, but you still heard his answer.

"And I love you, princess. So, so much."

[writeriguess]

this is like really specific but can you do eijiro from mha x fem reader and theyre bsfs but theyre like rly tight and everyone ships them and one night theyre in the common room and r super tired and end up deciding to stay there and cuddle tg (or something. idrk how it would work but i wanna cuddle w eiji..) and then like maybe they get caught at the end? idk writers freedom. thank you!!

Warmth in the Common Room

The common room was quiet, save for the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the occasional crackle from the fireplace. It was late—way too late—but you and Eijiro had lost track of time, as you always did when it was just the two of you.

"Alright, alright," you mumbled through a yawn, stretching your arms over your head before flopping dramatically onto the couch. "I'm calling it. I’m officially dead."

Eijiro laughed, his voice warm and rich. "Nah, c'mon, you got more in you than that," he teased, nudging your leg with his foot as he sat cross-legged on the floor in front of you. His red hair was a little messy, and his usual energy had dimmed into something softer, sleepier.

You groaned. "Nope. Gone. Brain melted. I am but a shell of a person."

He grinned, resting his arms on the coffee table. "That’s tragic. Guess I'll have to carry you to bed."

You cracked an eye open. "You would do that."

"Duh," he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You're my best friend. Plus, you're tiny. Barely even a workout."

You gasped in mock offense. "Excuse me! I am a perfectly average height."

"Yeah, if average means short."

You flicked a pillow at him, which he caught with ease, laughing. But the movement drained what little energy you had left, and with another sigh, you curled onto your side, pressing your cheek against the couch cushion.

It was peaceful like this. The kind of quiet that only existed when it was just the two of you. It wasn't the first time you'd stayed up talking about everything and nothing, but tonight, exhaustion was settling deep in your bones, and you didn’t have it in you to move.

Eijiro let out a long sigh, tilting his head back against the couch. "Man, I'm beat."

"Then sit down," you mumbled, patting the empty space next to you.

He hesitated for a second before shifting up onto the couch, sitting beside you. His warmth radiated through the fabric of his sweatpants, and something about it made you want to burrow closer.

Your eyes fluttered shut. "Mm. You're comfy."

Eijiro chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "You’re just saying that ‘cause you're half asleep."

"Am not," you grumbled. "You're all warm and solid and—" A yawn cut off your words, and you tucked your arms closer to yourself.

A beat of silence passed before he murmured, "You wanna, uh, I dunno… just stay here?"

Your brain was too sluggish to process what he was actually asking. "Here?"

"Yeah. Just for a bit. I mean, if you wanna crash, I could stay, too. Keep you company."

Your lips curved in a lazy smile. "That’s cute, Eiji."

He groaned, face turning pink. "Forget it. I'm gonna—"

You grabbed his wrist before he could move. "No, no, I wanna. Stay." You blinked up at him, your fingers wrapped loosely around his. "Stay?"

His eyes softened, the hesitance melting away. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Okay."

You scooted over, making space for him to lay down next to you. There wasn’t much room, so you ended up pressed close, his arm tucked beneath your head like a pillow. The heat of his body seeped into yours, his slow, steady breaths lulling you into something close to sleep.

His voice was barely a whisper. "You good?"

You hummed in response, shifting just enough to rest your forehead against his collarbone. His heart thumped steadily beneath your cheek.

Eijiro let out a slow exhale. "Everyone's gonna lose their minds if they see us like this."

You grinned sleepily. "Let 'em."

For a while, neither of you spoke. You just existed, wrapped up in warmth and exhaustion, his fingertips tracing absentminded circles against your back. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation, or maybe it was just him, but you felt safer like this than you had in a long time.

You were half-asleep when you heard it.

A stifled gasp.

Then a whisper—loud enough to break through the quiet:

"I knew it!"

Your eyes snapped open. Standing in the doorway, eyes wide and victorious, was Mina.

Behind her, Kaminari had his hands clapped over his mouth to contain his laughter, and Sero was nudging Bakugo—who looked so unbelievably done with all of this—like he'd just witnessed the biggest scandal of the year.

Eijiro groaned, burying his face against your hair. "Oh, come on."

Mina grinned like she’d just won the lottery. "This is the best day of my life."

You sighed, resigning yourself to your fate. You knew this would happen eventually.

And honestly?

It was worth it.