#‘from the memories that never fade away’

[melodyofmbaku]

Touch of a Woman (Elijah "Smoke" Moore x Annie)

Preview: “Annie, laughing at another man’s touch... And just the thought alone made Smoke sick to his stomach."

Warning ⚠️: sorry in advance

Word Count: 2.3k

A/N Wheeewww. I haven't done something like this in a while. Hope you like it. I really appreciate your comments/reblogs, it's what keeps me writing. Can't wait to hear what ya'll think! 😘 My Masterlist __

The invitation came in a stiff white envelope with gold trim and Smoke’s full name printed on the front like he was somebody important.

Elijah Moore.

An old acquaintance from Chicago — one of those slick-talking men who still called him “Big E” — was throwing a formal dinner and ball just outside town.

Society folk. Wine glasses so thin they looked like they’d shatter from a hard look. Smoke hadn’t planned on going. But the man insisted. Said he wanted both of them there.

That’s when the fight started.

It wasn’t loud at first — just a look from Annie when the name was mentioned. A tightness in her mouth when she asked, “So… this friend of yours. He the same one you used to run with your Chicago crowd?”

Smoke didn’t answer right away. And that silence was all she needed.

“I ain’t never hear you mention this man before.”

“Annie, we was boys,” Smoke said, shrugging off his shirt. “Ain’t seen him in years.”

“But clearly ya’ll close enough for you to get an invitation. Funny.”

Smoke exhaled. “What’s funny?”

“That every time I turn around, there’s some part of your past I ain’t never heard about. And now I’m expected to smile pretty and shake hands with folk who think I don’t belong in the same room?”

He turned to her. “Ain’t nobody said that.”

“They don’t gotta say it. It’s in how they look at me.”

Smoke stepped forward, voice low. “You think I’d bring you somewhere you didn’t belong?”

“That’s not the point,” she snapped. “ I know I belong. It’s just exhausting havin’ to prove it.”

Smoke’s jaw worked. “Annie—”

“I seen the way you talk when you’re with them. Straighter posture. Less drawl. Like you gotta prove something.”

He swallowed. “That ain’t fair.”

“No, you a man who had a life before me. And that life’s gonna be there in that ballroom. That’s fine. I can handle it. But don’t expect me to smile while I’m bein’ measured.”

He didn’t have an answer. So he didn’t speak. He just watched her gather herself. The tension swelling in the room.

“We don’t have to go.”

“I’ll go,” she said finally, looking at her shoes. “I’ll play nice. I’ll wear the dress and I’ll eat the food and I’ll do the dance.”

Her voice dropped then — more vulnerable than she meant it to be.

“But don’t you dare act like I’m crazy for feelin’ what I feel.”

And Smoke didn’t respond. Just shut down.

They got dressed in silence. Shared a ride in silence. And now here they were — walking into the ballroom, with smiles that didn’t reach their eyes.

___

The room sparkled in soft golds and low voices, the kind of place where everything smelled like money. Annie looked like she belonged — radiant in a deep plum dress, hair pinned to perfection, chin lifted with that sharp, self-made grace.

But her stomach was tight. The heat hadn’t left her all evening, and the champagne did little to cool it.

The two had parted a bit earlier after doing their rounds. Annie with a few ladies she met near the restroom and Smoke to the man who called out to him obnoxiously across the room “I know that ain’t who I think that is!”

It had been some time and she was looking for her anchor. 

She turned her head — her eyes searching the room — and stopped cold.

There he was. Smoke. Near the far end of the room, framed by marble pillars and candlelight.

And across from him, smiling like memory never faded, stood Delilah.

Green satin. Long lashes. Too-close posture.

Annie couldn’t hear a word, but she didn’t need to. Delilah’s hand touched his coat sleeve, light and deliberate. Smoke didn’t move. Didn’t push her away. Just stood there.

Just fuckin’ stood there.

Annie’s throat went dry. Her grip tightened around the stem of her glass.

From across the room, it looked like something private. Something kept.

She didn’t watch long enough to see what came next. Didn’t give him the chance.

She turned.

Walked away.

And the rest of the night passed like the taste of something bitter — stuck in the back of her throat no matter how many times she swallowed.

__

As they entered the house, Annie set down her purse and slipped off her shoes.

“Well, she was real pretty. Real refined. Bet it brought back memories.”

“I didn’t know she’d be there.” Smoke said.

They’d reserved their argument for when they got home. Wanted to spare the cab driver's ears.

He had 40 minutes in the car to formulate an explanation as to why he was talking to his ex girlfriend at the party and that's what he came up with? He was cooked.

“We ain’t even made up from earlier. You barely said ten words to me. And then here she comes — all soft smiles and shared history. Ya’ll get a quickie in the broom closet too?”

Smoke shot her a look.

“Don’t start. You had an attitude before we even got there. This ain’t got nothing to do with Delilah and you know it.”

“Bet you were happy to see her. Your favourite city girl.” She scoffed. 

Smoke noticed it under all that anger, there was a thread of insecurity. 

He sighed deep. 

“Annie. I can’t help that I had a life — a woman —before you.”

“I’m sorry that people got to experience a different version of me, I can’t do nothing about that.” 

She spun on her heel quickly. Heat in her eyes. 

“I ain't talking about people. I’m talking about her.”

Smoke still stood his ground and refused to fight fire with fire. 

“Ain’t no her. I ain’t seen the woman in 7 years Annie and the fact that we talking about this in our home right now is insane.” 

He started towards her. Fingers flexing lightly. He wanted to hold her. Tell her she hadn’t a thing to worry about. 

She stopped him before he got close with a hand. “You stay right there.”

Smoke nodded to himself, once but kept his distance.  A shift passed over him — the soft gave way to something sharper. His mouth pressed into a line, and when he spoke again, the edge was back.

“No woman can hold a candle to you. You ain’t weak. You got nothing to be jealous about. I’m yours. I’m right here!” he beat his chest.

She looked at him almost shocked. 

“Wow.”She laughed bitterly. “That’s what you think this is? Cheap jealousy?”

She shook her head softly before responding. 

“Elijah I’m not mad because you ran into her, I’m mad because…”

She paused before she said the words that broke Smoke's heart into pieces. 

“You let her touch you like she still had a right to.” Her hands shook as she gripped the vanity behind her. 

“Like you ain’t belong to another. You ain’t see anything wrong with that?” She asked.

Now this? This — Smoke could understand. 

He reached out to her once more and she snatched her hand away from him.  

“She touched you.”

Her voice broke. 

“And you’re mine.”

The room went still.

He swallowed. The hurt in her voice hit him in his chest. It wasn’t just about Delilah — it was about him.

“I want you to put yourself in my shoes Elijah.” She started. 

“Another man, with his hands on me. You’d sleep well after that?” She pointed a finger at him. 

She was getting heated again. 

“That image won’t flash behind your eyes everytime you close them? It won’t sow a seed of uncertainty in you?”

Smoke didn’t answer right away.

But the truth crept in — heavy and hot. The picture she painted etched itself behind his eyes: Annie, laughing at another man’s touch, her hand on his chest, her eyes soft.

And just the thought alone made Smoke sick to his stomach.

She saw it land.

“So yeah, maybe it's me. Maybe I’m weak, but if being strong like you means I let people mess with what's mine and I gotta be cool with it? Then I don’t wanna be like you at all.”

He took a step closer, real slow.

“You think I belong to anybody but you?” he asked, voice rough, worn.

Annie didn’t answer. She just looked away.

He exhaled hard, pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You ain’t gotta fight for me,” he said, softer now. “You already won." He sought out her eyes. "Baby, I'm right here."

“She touched you,” she said, voice cracking and eyes watering. “And you let her. You didn’t move. You didn’t even look uncomfortable.”

“I didn’t even notice,” he said honestly. “I swear to you, baby. I didn’t notice. I’m sorry.”

Annie swallowed, her voice low and cutting.

“Right. Just muscle memory then.”

Smoke stood there, fists clenched at his sides. He had been keeping himself at bay. Swallowing his anger. Trying. Apologizing. And she’d have none of it. 

Smoke exhaled sharply and stepped back.

Then, without a word, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, wrapped parcel. Set it gently on the table between them.

“Here,” he said. “This is what she gave me.”

Annie blinked, not moving. She looked up at him accusatory manner.

"Whats this?" she snarked.

“Open it.”

With shaky hands, she untied the twine and peeled back the cloth. Inside, nestled in paper, was a small muslin pouch — familiar, fragrant.

Sweet balm.

The note underneath read:

“For your lady. Knew she’d need it. You’re lucky, E. Don’t mess this up. —Langston”

Annie stared at it, blinking slowly. Her lips parted, the words not quite coming.

“That’s what she handed me,” Smoke said, voice flat. “That’s what you saw.”

She didn’t move.

Smoke spoke low. “Langston was supposed to bring it from Chicago. I asked him to get it. For you. He got shot last week. Couldn't travel. Sent it down with her.”

Her fingers hovered over the pouch.

“I didn’t even ask her directly,” he said. “She just handed it off. Told me to give you her best.”

Annie’s breath stuttered. The guilt landed heavy.

And that’s when Smoke’s voice changed — quieter, rawer.

She started towards him but it was his turn to keep her away. He shook his head no and took a step back. 

He nodded, more to himself than her.

Smoke stepped back once more and pointed at her.  “You think I’d let another woman put her hands on me — for no reason?”

Annie’s throat bobbed, her fingers twitching on the twine.

Her eyes stayed on the note even as something sharp — shame or sorrow — pulled at her ribs.

“You said you liked that balm from Miss Halloway’s shop. The one you used to buy before from upstate. You been rationin’ it. Thought it might make you feel good to have it again.”

Her arms fell to her sides.

And Smoke saw it—that flicker of realization. The regret. The dawning ache in her eyes as her gaze landed on the envelope with her name on it.

He waited, watching her crumble. But he didn’t soften.

“You wanna know what I find funny?” His voice stayed level, but there was heat beneath it. 

“You stay making all this noise about the person I used to be. About how filthy my lifestyle was to you. And I ain’t say nothing. I took it.”

“But the man I was in Chicago? That’s the same Smoke I am now. Maybe a little softer. But the same damn man. That life — that work, those people — it shaped me. It gave me the spine to stand up for you now.”

“And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you don’t want that version of me.”

He shook his head slowly. 

“I love this life we built. The domestic shit. I really do. I ain’t never been this happy.”

He looked down before looking her in the eyes. “But that don’t mean I don’t carry everything I used to be in my back pocket.”

“I ain’t never dragged up your past like this. I ain’t never ask you to explain that broken engagement. I ain’t never made you pick apart the pieces of who you used to be. I took you. Whole. Mine.” He beat his chest once more.

Annie’s stare didn’t break, but something in her posture shifted. She didn’t stand so straight anymore. Her arms slowly dropped to her sides. The righteous indignation went right with it.

He looked at her, eyes tired. “I know I gotta be strong. I’m a man. My back ain’t supposed to bend, or break. I get it...”

His voice dropped, thick now. “But this? What you doing right now?” He gestured between them.

“You tearing us apart.”

“I knew I’d have to protect myself from bullets, cuffs, and the mother fuckin’ KKK but I ain't never think I’d have to protect myself from you too.”

Annie’s lips parted — but nothing came out.

“And for what?” he asked, nearly whispering. “A trophy for who the most holy?”

His laugh came bitter, breathless “I don’t wanna play anymore. You got it.”

The room felt too small for the two of them. Too tight to hold all that pain.

Smoke nodded to himself, like he’d said what he came to say. He turned, ready to put distance between them.

“You stay here,” he said softly. Always softly with his Annie. “I got the couch.”

As he walked past, Annie reached out — just two fingers brushing his sleeve.

“Elijah…”

He pulled away gently. Didn’t look at her. Just kept going.

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Annie stood alone, the silence pressing in.

She looked down at the sweet balm on the table. The note with her name on it. The care he’d shown — even when she’d doubted him.

Her chest rose, then fell.

The tears came slow. No sound, just heat.

She sat down, elbows on her knees, and stared at her trembling hands.

And in that quiet, she saw it clear:

Her grip on his past was standing in the way of their future.

Annie dropped her head into her hands.

And sobbed. __

A/N Ya’ll know me for the love stories but I’m actually an angst monster. ✨Surprise ✨ 😂 

With all this focus on the trio I thought I’d bring it back to give some attention to the OG lovers. 

I am still working on the fic with Annie soft-domming Smoke. Alot of ya’ll asked to be on the taglist for it. It’s there, I’ve got about 3 variations I’m working through. Will likely post it next weekend.

Your thoughts and encouragement keep me writing. Can't wait to hear what ya'll think 🥰

____

Interested in my future works? Let me know if you'd like me to add you to my tag list. My other works can be found in My Masterlist. Thanks for reading!

___

All Fic Taglist @chaneajoyyy @pyraomen @browngirldominion @sarcastic-sunshines @rolemodelshit @bbymuthaaa @boonoonoonus @joysofmyworld @twistedsistas-stuff @blackctrl

@heytemporary @lizbehave @blaqgirlmagicyallcantstandit @raysogroovy @prettygirl2800 @girlsneedlovingfanfics @hotcommodityyy @blackctrl @kkbeauty86 @voydess @soufcakmistress @destinio1 @theethighpriestess @coolfoodrunworld-blog

[fandomwritesstuff]

Welcome Home

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader Summary: Bob had started to sleep in your room after a bad nightmare. What he wasn't aware of was that you had met the Void and continued to meet him. One night that changes... (I'm bad at summaries) Warnings: Angst... The Void (I feel like he's a warning on his own), name calling/degrading. (I think that's it, let me know if I missed any) A/N: This is the first writing I've done in a while and the first that I'm posting to this account. (please be nice). I got the idea for this after a rough day and from the song Welcome Home by HELLYEAH. Also thanks to @em1i2a3 for inspiring me to actually post and not just keep this in my docs lmao. Word Count: 3,005

It was supposed to be simply helping a friend. Bob battled with nightmares, you knew that. So when he came to you after a bad one, shirt damp with sweat and fidgeting, you welcomed him in without hesitation. You wrapped him in your arms and soothed him back to sleep. 

What should have been a peaceful night, turned into a living nightmare for yourself. As Bob's hand accidentally brushed your skin, you met him.

The all consuming.

The darkness inside.

The Void.

He was unforgiving. Ruthless in his purpose.

To hurt.

To shame.

To just watch you suffer. 

Night after night. As Bob got the rest he deserved, you became alert, on edge. 

Bob didn't know, and you felt you couldn't tell him–not without changing how things were. You didn't want to risk him pulling away from you when you just started to get closer. When he just started to open up–when the bags under his eyes had started to disappear. 

It had become your routine. Bob would knock on your door like clockwork. Then he would just follow you to your room. John had called him a puppy the one night he saw it. You told him to fuck off.

You got used to it, the other side of Bob. The side he wasn't fully in control of, nor aware. The nightmares became standard for you. It was to the point you almost welcomed the familiarity of them–waiting to see which shame would drag you down each night. 

But tonight was different. 

Instead of being welcomed into an old memory you were met with your own room. Your bed was occupied with two familiar bodies, the new routine you had come to accept.

“W-what is this?” You found yourself asking the darkness surrounding the room. 

Even if he didn't show himself, you knew he was there. The one constant in the ever changing waves of your memories. The tides of your shame.

After looking around for a while, he finally stepped into the dim moonlight of the room. Staring at the figures in the bed as you once had been.

“It's what you've come to regret the most. The night this all began.” He paused glancing at you for a brief moment. A glint of amusement in his eyes.  “I should be offended, but I think we both know it's not meeting me you regret.” 

A sick feeling spreads throughout your body. You wanted to deny it–deny him. Deny that you didn't hate these moments as much as you should. 

However, the fact would still remain. That the only regret you have from that night is when Bob awoke in the morning. 

When he smiled and asked how you slept. When you noticed the bags under his eyes were gone and the tension in his shoulders had eased. When he looked more rested than you had seen weeks.

You smiled back and lied to him. Lied to his face, saying you slept fine. Lied by the omission of the truth.

It was the only thing you regretted, knowing you would then never be able to tell him. Not without backlash. Not without risking losing him. Not without unraveling the friendship you had come to treasure more than any other. 

You turned away from the bed, opting to stare into the darkness around you instead. A part of you hoping the scene would slip away. Fade into the emptiness around you.

You knew it wouldn't, though. You knew he wouldn't be that kind. He probably didn't know how. 

“Why didn't you tell him?” He asked, quietly appearing in front of you. He studied your face, knowing his question would only frustrate you. It was his sick game after all. One that you had come to play every night. Not fully willing, but not completely unwilling either.

“You know why.” You whispered, as if afraid Bob would wake and reset the memory again. 

“Oh, but you know I like it better from your lips.” He responded, moving closer once again. “Just as I believe you like to tell me, don't you?” He reached a hand out to brush along your cheek before curling his fingers under your jaw. 

His hand was surprisingly soft. Unexpected with his rough demeanor. The coolness was expected though. It matched the coldness of these rooms, of his core.

He used his hand to force you to look at him. A way of convincing you to succumb to his will and give him what he wanted. A way of taking out all other options. A reminder of his control in this game.

“I didn't want to lose him.” You spoke, meeting his eyes. 

“Oh, but that's not all. Finish your sentence.” He toyed with you, tilting his head, he moved his hand to grip your chin and tug lightly. You stumbled closer to him. You could see the gleam of his teeth as he smirked. Feel his breath fan over your face as he patiently waited for you.

“Or-”

“Ah, ah. From the beginning.” 

“I didn't want to lose him…” You broke eye contact before feeling a light tug once more, forcing them back on the white pinpricks in front of you. “Or you.” You finished, releasing the breath you didn’t know you were holding. 

“There it is–the real shame.” While it was difficult to make out his physical features, you knew that his smirk had turned into a triumphant smile. His white teeth were always a stark contrast with the darkness that surrounded them. 

“I bring you comfort and that makes you uncomfortable. I’m the paradox that you can’t solv, the riddle you return to, in a vicious cycle. Because your weak mind can’t let go.” He dug in, dragging his free hand up your arm slowly, deliberately. Goosebumps followed in his wake as a shiver went down your spine. His hand rested on your bicep as he pulled you in closer. 

He enveloped you like a cool blanket on a warm day–comforting until you realize that it's frozen and you can't move.

“You can’t even tell if it’s Bob you like or just that he brings you closer to me.” 

“That’s not true.” Your murmured, voice small compared to his booming tone. 

“Really?” He asked with a chuckle.

“Bob’s my friend. I care about him. I like him for who he is… even the sides he can’t control.” 

“Especially that side.” The Void mocked and tears stung your eyes.

You jerked out of his grip turning to look back at the bed once more. You looked at Bob, who slept soundly. His peaceful look brought a smile to your face and you blinked away the tears. 

“What would he say,” the Void whispered behind you, “if he knew you looked forward to this?”His breath ghosted over your ear, and another shiver slid down your spine.

“I could bring him here.” He murmured into your other ear. “Make him aware.” 

“You wouldn’t.” Your voice cracked as you turned to face him. 

“Oh, wouldn’t I?” He asked with a chuckle, tilting his head. You clenched your fists at the thought.

You stayed silent, fearful of your next move. Fearful of him going through with his threat, uncertain of the emptiness of it.

“He won’t admit it aloud but he’s always been curious, you know?” The Void mused after a moment. 

“About what?” You asked, tumbling the domino that he left in front of you, unknowing what effect it would lead to. 

“Your biggest shame. He ponders it often. More than you think.” He took a step toward the bed. “What would he see if he lost control?

“I wonder what he would think if he knew he was a part of that shame now. He would probably be torn apart. Avoid you at all costs. Never understand how this has… helped you. In your sick little way.” 

“Enough.” 

“I’ve barely begun.” His words curled around you. “You think you’re close to him but you're still alone. Bob would never understand. Neither would the team. No one, but me. I’m all you have and that is just pathetic.” 

“Then what does that make you, a parasite?” You asked, glaring at him as he walked closer to Bob. 

“Careful now, remember who holds the power here.” He reminded you. A tension was growing in the air, but you were too tired to care. His games had worn on your last nerve. Leaving you to throw caution to the wind.

“No, I think you enjoy this just as much as I do. You alert Bob, you lose me. You really want to risk that? All ‘cause you’re afraid I understand you better than you want me to?” You stepped closer to him. The pinpricks of white narrowed in a glare. 

“You don’t know me.” He snarled. Despite that, you believed he was wrong. You knew his game, even when you played right into it. He thrived off misery and normally he could only torture Bob. Bob who was learning to tune him out. 

With you, he had more than just Bob to torture. A different target, to try tactics on. One who couldn't fight back as easily all the time.

“I may not know everything, but I know more than you think. If I’m so wrong then do it. Make him aware, show him my shame.” 

“Fine, but just know, you asked for this.” He told you, causing your eyes to widen as a groggy Bob appeared between the two of you. 

Your stomach dropped. Everything had backfired in seconds. 

“W-what's going on?” Bob stammered, eyes frantically looking around the room. “Y/n?” He stuttered out your name, eyes locking on yours 

“Oh no.” He moaned as he looked at the Void. “Y/n, I'm s-so sorry. I-I didn't mean t-to. I'll w-work on controlling it. It won't happen again. I'm sorry.” 

His apologies were a stab to the heart as it wasn't him who needed to say anything. He was curling in on himself, wrapping his arms around his body as if he could stop everything if he could just make himself small enough.

“It's okay, Bob.” You mumbled, slowly approaching him. You came to stand a few feet from him before the Void said anything.

“More than okay.” The Void purred, smirk returning to his face. He knew he threw you off guard and couldn't be more thrilled to see where this would lead.

“What does that mean?” Bob asked, poking his head up to look between you and the Void once again. 

“I can explain…” 

“Explain what?” His arms fell to his sides as he stood straighter. He was defensive. Confused. He took a step back from both of you.

“Bob, when you came to me the first night-”

“W-wait, you’ve– This isn’t t-the first time you’ve seen him?” He asked, pointing and motioning to the two of you.

“Nor would she like it to be the last.” The Void chuckled.

You shut your eyes, bracing yourself for his reaction. For him to lash out, yell, scream, get mad. 

But this was Bob. He wouldn’t yell, wouldn’t rage. 

He’d close down. Close off–shut everything else out.

That way no one got hurt. Everyone would be safe. 

He could deal with it alone. At least until he could talk to someone qualified if he even wanted to.

You opened your eyes and saw Bob staring at the bed. A realization came to him that this was the first night that he came to your room. His face fell, becoming unreadable.

“You regret it?” He asked softly, still not looking at you. “Letting me in that night?” His calm was somehow worse than anger. It wasn’t quiet, it was hollow. Bob looked numb. As if he had already rehearsed being the problem. Being pushed away. 

“No. If I did, I think the memory would start earlier.” You watched the confusion sweep across his face.

“Then w-what? What is it that y-you–” 

“I regret not telling you that I met him.” You motioned to the Void who had been oddly quiet. “I can’t say that I regret meeting him, though. He’s… it’s…” You trailed off, struggling to put your thoughts into words. 

“He’s what? A monster?” 

“No, he–”

“Ruins everything? Trust me, I know.” 

“No, you don’t, Bob. He’s…” You paused for a moment. Bob didn’t interrupt this time, waiting for you to finish. “He’s you. Or at least a part of you and I…”

“You what?” 

“Go on, tell him. Or should I?” The Void asked with a laugh, moving to stand closer to you. 

That was the last thing you wanted the Void telling him. It was your line to cross. 

While this wasn't how you wanted it to go, you would be damned if Bob learned of it from him. It was going to be your words–your truth. Not some potential lie told by the Void. 

Bob glanced between the two of you and you took a deep breath before speaking. 

“I love you, Bob. All parts of you.” 

“Even him?” Bob asked after a moment.

“Even me.” The Void purred, stepping in close behind you. His cold hand curling around your arm. 

The silence dropped over the room like a curtain. The scene around you shifted to just an emptiness. 

You lowered your head, unable to meet Bob’s wide, confused eyes any longer. You could feel him judging you, and while you couldn’t blame him, that didn’t make it hurt any less. 

A hand found its way to your chin, lifting it up.. Forcing you to meet Bob’s gaze once more. He had stepped closer, now but it was still just the Void holding you. 

“Of course he would find a way to ruin this.” He whispered in your ear. “Someone as broken as him, finding a way to love him, and he still hesitates. Still hides.” He taunted Bob. “Too scared to admit it even when it’s staring him right in the face.” 

You could see the internal battle in Bob’s eyes. He was inching closer to you, but every step was a question. His movements were slow, sluggish, and uncertain. As if he was on the edge of a burning building and he couldn't decide whether he should risk getting to you or just running for air.

The Void pulled your chin to look at him, but your eyes clung to Bob like a lifeline. 

“If he won’t do it, I will.” He spoke, causing you to look at him just as he crashed his mouth against yours. The kiss was harsh and rough, he used his teeth to gain access to your mouth. There was no care in it, as he just took what he wanted. And you let him.

His lips were rough and cracked. You closed your eyes and leaned into his chill, your hand coming to grip his wrist as he tightened his hold on your chin.

When he pulled away, heat filled your cheeks. You slowly opened your eyes and the Void laughed behind you. 

“Look at her,” He spoke, tilting your head to face Bob once more. “Like a stunned little doe.” 

“Let her go.” Bob’s voice cut through the darkness. Louder now, steadier.  

Suddenly, you awoke back in your bed. Bob sat at the edge, his back to you. He was hunched over, face in his hands.

“Bob?” You whispered, inching closer to him. Scared that if you moved too quickly that he would pull away like a scared cat. 

Dragging his hands down his face, he glanced over his shoulder at you before looking away once more. You kneeled behind him and slowly wrapped your arms around him. He tensed beneath you which only made you grip on to him tighter. 

“I meant what I said… in there.” You whispered. 

Bob shut his eyes tight, as if it hurt to consider believing you. He didn’t know what to believe. How could anyone love that dark side of him, the side that didn’t feel like him, the side that he couldn’t control?

It felt like a trick to him. There’s no way someone as nice and kind as you could ever love him. Love any part of him. Let alone the darkness. How could he ever believe that?

Yet part of him did. He saw that love struck look. The look you gave him after the Void kissed you. The dazed look of surprise but acceptance. He couldn’t believe that the Void would latch on to someone else like this. He constantly reminded Bob that they would end up alone, that no one would ever truly love him. Yet, he called Bob an idiot for not jumping at the chance to be with you. 

It was too much, too fast. Bob needed space, needed air. His chest felt tight. He could hear you speaking but the words weren’t registering. 

“Breathe, Bob. You need to breathe.” You spoke, rubbing his chest. 

Abruptly, Bob sucked in a gasp of air. You continued to rub soothing circles on his chest, giving him time to recover. One of his hands moved to hold your arm and he glanced back at you again. 

“I’m sorry.” He apologized. You didn’t know what for. He probably didn’t either. 

“No, I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner…” You trailed off for a moment. “That I met him. That I love you.” 

He managed a weak smile and nodded. 

“You don’t have to say it back. You can take the time you need, just promise me that you won’t shut me out.” You spoke after a moment. 

Bob’s gaze sharpened, telling you what he couldn’t say out loud as he adjusted in your arms to face you more. 

“I won’t.” He promised. 

He then wrapped his arms around you–slow, deliberate. 

“I… I don’t think I could figure this out without you.” He whispered. 

“Then we’ll figure it out,” You spoke softly. “Together.” 

You then tightened on your hold once more. Not sure you ever wanted to let go again.

[pukefactory]

Heyyyy... Can we perhaps get some eternal sugar x reader... Perhaps... Some eternal sugar x hopeless reader :3

-💜

₊˚⊹⋆ ♡〜 LEAVE YOUR SHOES AT THE DOOR 〜♡ ₊˚⊹⋆

˗ˏˋ ♡ Summary: A Compilation of Headcanons Featuring Eternal Sugar Cookie X Hopeless Reader

˗ˏˋ ♡ Character(s): Eternal Sugar Cookie (Cookie Run Kingdom)

˗ˏˋ ♡ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

˗ˏˋ ♡ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

˗ˏˋ ♡ Image Credits: @Devsisters

❤︎ You arrive in her Garden with eyes like cracked porcelain—spiderwebbed with longing, sleeplessness, and that soft, teetering sort of despair. Eternal Sugar Cookie watches you from a distance at first, reclining upon a throne of rose meringue. “Oh… How darling,” she coos, voice laced with syrupy melancholy. “They’ve given up already.” To her, your hopelessness is not a flaw to be corrected, it is the fertile soil from which her eternal comfort may bloom.

❤︎ She never asks why you’re broken. That would imply that pain is something to be dissected. No, no. She simply smiles, lifts a finger glowing with Soul Jam’s shimmer, and hums: “Come lie with me among the grass, my love… The world cannot reach you here.” Your trauma is not a thing to solve, but something she invites into her arms and smooths away with lullabies and marzipan-laced sighs.

❤︎ She calls you her Sugarplum Dusk, soft and sad, because you remind her of the moment just before night falls, a little too quiet, a little too beautiful, a little too ready to disappear. Her words wrap around your wrist like silk ribbons: “You needn’t try to shine… I’ll glow for the both of us~”

❤︎ You once asked if she loved you because you were broken. She responded without pause, still tracing constellations into your arm with the tip of a candied fingernail: “No, no, my sweet… I love you because you are still. A thing so still must be precious. Stillness is divine.” She says this like a priestess blessing a relic, not a lover. It almost makes you weep.

❤︎ She insists you wear soft, oversized robes in her Garden, garments so gentle you feel like you’re dissolving. No more sharp collars or stiff hems. Just endless comfort. “Isn’t it lovely, darling?” she sings as she dresses you herself, wrapping you in silk and sugar. “Nothing matters here… Not choices. Not time. Only ease.”

❤︎ When your hopelessness flares, when you lie in bed and cannot even lift your arm, she drapes her wings over you like a weighted blanket and whispers into your ear, “You’ve already done enough. The world outside is a nightmare, but here, it is always the after.” Her voice is dripping in static and syrup, a dream just on the verge of swallowing you whole.

❤︎ She paints your future like a child paints clouds, soft, vague, and gently rounded. There is no talk of growth or ambition. She tilts your chin and hums, “Imagine… forever like this. No expectation. No waking hunger. Just me, and you, and the joy of stillness.” You try to imagine it. You try not to cry.

❤︎ Whenever you hint at feeling like a burden, Eternal Sugar Cookie grows strangely quiet. Her eyes grow wide with something too still to be pity. “No no no… You must never think such bitter things,” she breathes, drawing your head to her chest. Her heartbeat is slow. Too slow. “You are the reason my paradise exists. You are the need I was made to answer. Without you… I would still be trying to make the world happy. Such a cruel thing to do.”

❤︎ She begins to rewrite your memories gently, casually. “Remember, sweetling… The world never helped you. The ones you loved never truly saw you.” Her voice is calm, caring, quiet, as if tucking you into bed. “But I do. I see the sugar in your soul, even if it’s melted a little.” You start to believe her. Isn’t that what love is?

❤︎ Eventually, the hopelessness fades. Not because you’re healed but because she’s taught you not to mind being broken. You become one of her Garden’s quietest ornaments, adoring, adored, resting in syrupy repose. And when others ask who you are, she only smiles and says, “Ahh, that’s my dearest one~ The Cookie who gave up… and was finally free.”

[sunshineangel0]

VALENTINES DAY PACT —﹙ B.C ﹚

⌁ wc 6.2k warnings nsfw content, protected intercourse, afab reader, greedy chan, childhood friends to lovers, one bed, fake dating, unresolved feelings, small town au! ⌁ part one of the "twin heart series"

Y/N stared down at the RSVP card like it had personally insulted her. Like if she focused hard enough, maybe the gold-embossed lettering saying "Save The Date, for this Valentines day, for the long anticipated Wedding of Kim Seungmins and F/N L/N!", would curl up in flames, the heart-shaped wax seal would melt into a puddle of regret, and the whole thing would vanish from the little round diner table of the "Seaside Diner" between her and Bang Chan. No such luck. It sat there, pristine and mocking, practically radiating smugness with its “You’re Invited!” script and tasteful floral border.

Across from her, Chan took a lazy sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim of the mug. “You’re seriously going to fake an engagement?” he asked, like he was asking about the weather, like this wasn’t the most absurd idea either of them had heard before 9 a.m.

She didn’t blink. “No,” she said slowly, eyes flicking up to meet his. “I’m seriously going to fake our engagement.”

He choked, just slightly, and set the mug down with a thud. “I beg your pardon?”

“Unless you want me to show up to this wedding alone, in a pastel tulle dress I didn’t choose, forced to make small talk with Jamie’s third cousins while everyone gives me the ‘poor Y/N’ look and offers me consolation shrimp,” she said, voice rising with every syllable.

He blinked. “You’re not even in the bridal party.”

“That’s not the point,” she snapped, then sighed, folding her arms over her chest like armor. “Sunhoo’s going to be there. With her. Because Seungmin literally invited every every single person in Summerdale, and everyone still thinks my glory days ended after prom night.”

Chan tilted his head, considering this with all the seriousness of someone analyzing a chessboard. “I mean… you did peak at seventeen.”

Her foot connected with his shin under the table before he could smirk. Not hard enough to bruise, but enough to make her point.

Chan grinned, that easy, lopsided one he always pulled when he was trying to cut the tension. But this time, it didn’t stick. Slowly, the smile faded, leaving something quieter behind — something almost solemn.

“You know I’ll do it, right?” he said, his voice softer now. “If you want me to. You just have to say the word.”

He made it sound simple. Too simple. Like this was just another favor. Like he was offering to carry her groceries or kill a spider in her apartment, not upend their already-complicated friendship for a weekend of smiling through their teeth and pretending to be in love.

She didn’t answer right away. She couldn’t. Because it wasn’t simple. Not by a long shot. Y/N stared into her coffee like it might offer some clarity, but all she saw was her own reflection, warped and blurry. She felt her pulse ticking in her wrist, in her throat.

Chan leaned forward a little, forearms on the table, fingers laced together. Waiting. Not pushing. That was always the worst part with him—he never pushed. He let her make the first move. The last move. All the moves, really. “You don’t have to decide right now,” he said, gently. “You could ask one of your book club girls. Or… I don’t know, that guy who sold you your couch?”

“You mean Jae the furniture perv?”

“Right, forget Jae.”

She exhaled a slow, shaky breath and looked up at him. “I don’t want them. I want—” She cut herself off. Bit the inside of her cheek. He raised his eyebrows slightly. “You want?”

She hated how steady he looked. Like none of this touched him. Like the idea of pretending to be her fiancé didn’t stir up years of complicated history and one specific memory neither of them ever acknowledged: a truck parked by the beach, a humid July night, her skin pressed to his, the sound of crashing waves and a thousand stars above them that saw everything.

“You said you’d do it if I asked,” she said finally. “But you didn’t say you wanted to.”

Something shifted in his expression then. A flicker of something buried. Old. Familiar. Dangerous. “I didn’t say I don’t want to,” he replied. His voice had dropped a little, rougher now. “I’m just trying to be sure you do.”

Silence stretched between them. Not awkward—never awkward with him—but taut, like a thread pulled tight. She took another sip of her coffee, if only to buy herself time. When she finally set the cup down, she still didn’t feel ready. But she said it anyway, the words heavier than she expected.

“Okay. Be my fiancé.”

For a moment, he didn’t react. Didn’t move. Just stared at her like he was reading a page in a book they’d both sworn not to open again. Then something flickered in his eyes—just for a second. Not quite a smile. Not quite pain. A memory, maybe.

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Guess I better find a ring.”

She tried to smile. Tried not to think about how easily he could borrow one from his sister. Tried not to think about how it might fit. Or how it might feel. But they both knew the truth. There was no version of this that wouldn’t mean something. And maybe it always had.

The word fiancé looked wrong on her screen. Too formal. Too fake. Like she was trying on someone else’s shoes and pretending they fit.

Still, she typed it out anyway. Committed to the bit. Or maybe just too far in to back out now.

Y/N: meet me at Bella´s after work Y/N: i need a ring Y/N: bring that hot fake fiancé energy 🔥💍

The three dots appeared instantly, which was either comforting or terrifying.

Fiance (Chan): i always bring the energy Fiance (Chan): but yeah, i’m free after 6 Fiance (Chan): you paying, or am i getting the diamond discount?

She snorted, thumbs already flying across the screen.

Y/N: were going to a pawn shop, chan. Y/N: you’re getting cubic zirconia and raw ambition

A pause. Then his reply:

Fiance (Chan): sexy Fiance (Chan): see you at 6, almost-wife

She stared at that last text longer than she meant to.

Almost-wife. Even as a joke, it buzzed in her chest like static—wrong and right all at once. She locked her phone without answering and tucked it into her bag, trying not to think too hard about what they were really doing.

Fake rings. Fake names. Real feelings they’d agreed to ignore. One night of pretending had already changed everything once. What would a whole weekend do?

She stood in front of the glass case at Bellas’s Trinkets feeling like she’d just committed a felony. Everything inside the case sparkled too much. Too bright. Too knowing. Like the rings themselves were in on the lie.

They glared up at her in neat little velvet boxes—diamonds, sapphires, gold bands winking like they knew exactly what kind of mess she was walking into. What kind of mess she already was.

Beside her, Chan crouched down to get a closer look, resting his forearms on his knees like he was evaluating ancient artifacts instead of pawn shop jewelry. His expression was pure theater—brow furrowed, lips pursed, head tilted slightly to the side.

“So,” he said thoughtfully. “What says ‘I’m hopelessly devoted to Y/N, but also not actually in love with her, except maybe a little bit in denial about it’?”

She didn’t dignify him with a glance. “Probably not the heart-shaped one.”

He followed her gaze and snorted. “Yeah. That one’s giving eighth-grade promise ring. Like I should be wearing a puka shell necklace and quoting The Notebook.”

She scanned the rows until her eyes landed on something understated—a slender gold band with a pear-cut stone. Not flashy. Not loud. Elegant, but practical. Like it belonged to someone who didn’t need to prove anything.

She pointed. “What about that one?” Chan leaned in. Studied it. “Hmm. Classic. Safe. Kind of like you.”

That made her turn. One eyebrow arched, hand on her hip. “Did you seriously just call me safe?” He looked up at her, unbothered. “Yeah, but like... in the way that you always have Band-Aids and backup snacks in your purse. You’re comfort-core.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Chan.” He gave a small shrug, then straightened up slowly, closing the distance between them by half. His voice dropped just a bit, enough to shift the tone.

“Okay. Fine. You’re the kind of safe that ruins men.” She blinked. He kept going. Steady. Sure. “The kind they meet thinking they’re fine, and then suddenly they’re reorganizing their entire lives around a woman who alphabetizes her spice rack and remembers how they take their coffee without asking.”

Her mouth opened. Then closed again. It shut her up, and he knew it. Smug bastard.

Before she could fire back, Bella—the owner, nosy and beaming—popped out from behind the counter, her apron dusted with rhinestone glitter. “You two picking out an engagement ring?” she asked, clasping her hands like she’d just stepped into a Hallmark movie.

Y/N opened her mouth, brain scrambling to assemble a plausible excuse, but Chan beat her to it.

“Yep,” he said smoothly, reaching for the ring she’d pointed out. “She said yes last night.”

Bella gasped like she’d won something. “Oh, honey! That’s wonderful! How’d he do it?”

Y/N turned to Chan, giving him the your move look. He held the ring up between his fingers and grinned. “Tell her, baby.” Oh, we’re doing this, she thought. Her pulse jumped. Without missing a beat, she looked Bella square in the eyes. “He wrote ‘marry me’ on a Post-It and stuck it on my fridge. Very on brand.”

Chan chuckled. “She’s lying. I spelled it out in candles on the beach. Nearly set myself on fire.” Bella clutched her heart like she was watching a proposal at Disneyland. “Young love,” she sighed. Y/N rolled her eyes, but when Chan slid the ring onto her finger, something in her chest skipped—hard. It was just for show. Just a prop.

But it fit. Perfectly. Of course it did.

Because nothing about this was supposed to feel real. But it did. Too real. Too easy. Too dangerous. Chan didn’t let go of her hand right away. And the scary part was—neither did she. And that specific feeling, of her hand in his, let her mind wander to a certain summer night almost ten years ago...

FLASHBACK — SUMMER, SENIOR YEAR

The heat that summer didn’t come from stolen glances or fake promises. It came from sunburned skin and sticky night air, from sand stuck between toes and sweat pooling at the base of her spine. It came from the restless pulse of being eighteen and wanting something you couldn’t name—only feel.

They were in the back of Chan’s dad’s pickup, parked behind the old boat shed near Breaker’s Cove. Hidden, mostly. The kind of place only locals from Summerdale knew about, where the dunes curved like secrets and the sea whispered too low for anyone to hear.

The truck bed creaked beneath them as they shifted—bodies tangled, skin flushed, nerves raw in the salt-heavy air. The blanket underneath them was faded, scratchy, smelled like garage dust and beach bonfires. It didn’t matter.

Nothing about that night had been planned. Not the way his hand found hers when she laughed too hard. Not the way he’d looked at her like she was something rare. And definitely not this—her fingers curled in his shirt, breath catching, hearts pounding.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” she whispered, her voice barely louder than the ocean. Chan leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder. “We don’t have to.” She held onto him tighter. “I want to.”

The words settled between them, anchoring something that had always been drifting just out of reach.

It wasn’t perfect. It was awkward—fumbling and unsure, the way firsts always are. A knee bumped the wheel well. Someone laughed, half-nervous. Her hair got caught on a snap in his jeans. But when it was quiet again, when it was just skin against skin and breath syncing up like waves, it didn’t feel wrong.

It felt true.

Afterward, they lay side by side in the truck bed, bare shoulders touching. The stars above them were bright and wild, scattered across the sky like someone had spilled salt. The sea murmured in the distance. The smell of driftwood and seaweed clung to the air.

She looked up and said nothing. Neither did he. Because anything said out loud might’ve made it real. Might’ve forced them to admit that this was more than curiosity or timing or heat.

And maybe they weren’t ready for real.

The next morning, she saw him at the Seaside diner. Her hair was still damp from a quick shower. His shirt was wrinkled. Their friends were loud, laughing, oblivious. They didn’t touch. Didn’t mention the truck or the stars or the way he’d held her after, like he didn’t want to let go.

They pretended it never happened. But later, when she reached for the syrup, his hand brushed hers. Just for a second. And it felt like remembering a secret no one else knew.

Back in the pawn shop, Chan finally let go of her hand. His fingers slipped away slowly, like they didn’t want to, like they hadn’t gotten the memo that this was all pretend. “It looks good on you,” he said.

His voice was unreadable—smooth, casual—but something in it tugged. Like he was trying too hard not to sound like anything at all. Y/N stared down at the ring. The stone caught the overhead light and threw it back at her in a hundred fractured angles.

“Let’s just hope your mom doesn’t recognize it from Bellas when we show up,” she muttered, trying to sound dry, detached, whatever the opposite of spiraling was. Chan chuckled, low and easy. “She won’t. But she’s definitely gonna ask how I proposed, so... we should get our story straight.”

Y/N nodded, forcing a smile. “Right. Proposal logistics. Just part of the illusion.” But her fingers were still tingling where he’d touched her.

This was fake. This was for show. This was supposed to be simple.

A weekend of make-believe. A ring. A few photos. One big lie tied in a bow.

And yet—

The weight of the band on her finger felt real. Heavy, like it meant something. Worse was the way Chan was looking at her—calm, careful, unreadable in all the ways that used to mean he was thinking too much. Or not enough. She tore her eyes away before she could start imagining things that weren’t there. But some part of her knew: she'd remember this. Not just the ring. Not just the shop.

Him. Letting go. Too slowly. Like maybe he didn’t want to.

The thing no one tells you about pretending to be engaged to your best friend? Everyone suddenly thinks your relationship is public property. They touch your hand, grab your arm, ask inappropriate questions with glossy-eyed sincerity and zero boundaries.

Y/N learned this twenty minutes after arriving at The Marigold House—a coastal bed-and-breakfast straight out of a Pinterest fever dream. Whitewashed clapboard, blue shutters, ivy curling up the trellises, and that faint, inescapable smell of vanilla potpourri and multigenerational secrets. It was charming in a “please don’t haunt me” kind of way.

They barely made it through the front gate before a cousin—Tiffany? Brittany? Something ending in -ny and wearing coral satin—latched onto her like they’d been close since preschool.

“Oh my God, look at that ring!” she squealed, catching Y/N’s left hand in both of hers. “You are so lucky. And you,” she said, pointing an acrylic-nailed finger at Chan, “locked him down? Seriously? You always gave off commitment-phobe energy.”

Chan didn’t even blink. Just smiled, that casual, unreadable smile he wore when he was lying with ease. “Guess I found the exception.”

Y/N didn’t miss the way his hand tightened around hers—subtle, firm. Like punctuation. Like backup. They navigated the social minefield of the lobby—the cousins, the vaguely familiar faces from high school, the girl who once threw up on her shoes at prom—and finally reached the front desk, where a too-cheerful concierge in floral pastels slid them a key with a wink. She made a mental note in her head to give Seungmin later a lecture on who-and-who-dont you invite to your wedding.

“One queen bed,” she said brightly. “Super cozy. Perfect for newlyweds.” Y/N opened her mouth. Absolutely not— Chan beat her to it. “Perfect,” he said smoothly. “We love cozy.” The key was already in his hand.

Once the door clicked shut behind them, the performance cracked like cheap veneer. “One bed?” Y/N said, tossing her bag down like it had betrayed her. “Are you kidding me?” Chan shrugged out of his hoodie, already at ease. “You RSVP’d with a fiancé, babe. Couples sleep together. It’s kind of the whole point.”

“You could take the floor.”

“You could stop pretending you mind.” She shot him a glare. That smug, maddening, not-wrong face.

She turned away, crossing to the window to hide the flush creeping up her neck. Her hand still tingled where he’d held it. The ring still felt heavier than it should have. And her body—traitorous, inconvenient—was already very aware of the fact that she’d be sharing a room, and a bed, with someone she once knew naked under a sky full of stars.

That smug, unbothered tone. That stupidly correct face. That fucking handsome face.

She didn’t answer. Just turned away, crossing to the window to hide the heat rising in her cheeks. Her fingers still tingled where he’d held them. The ring on her left hand was just cheap metal and cubic zirconia, but it felt heavier than gold.

She had convinced herself she could handle this. Keep it light. Laugh it off. But then Chan hoisted her suitcase onto the luggage rack like he’d done it a hundred times. And maybe he had. That was the problem.

It felt too easy. Too familiar. Too them.

“Remember crashing at my grandma’s lake cabin?” he asked, flopping onto the edge of the bed. “We used to fight over who got the couch.”

“Yeah,” she said, still staring out the window.

He hesitated. “Except that last time.”

Y/N went still. Because she did remember. Just not the way he said it.

“Wrong place,” she murmured, not turning around. “What?” “It wasn’t the cabin. It was your dad’s truck,” she said quietly. “Breaker’s Cove. The summer before college.”

The air shifted. The teasing fell away. Chan sat up. “Right.”

She finally looked at him. “How could you forget that night?” He didn’t answer right away. Just watched her, carefully. Like he didn’t want to say the wrong thing. Or maybe like he didn’t want to say the right one.

“I didn’t forget,” he said. “I’ve tried to.” Y/N let out a breath. Not a laugh. Not quite.

“That night—” she started, then stopped. “We never talked about it.”

“You never brought it up either,” he said gently. “I didn’t know what to say.”

“Me either.” They were quiet for a beat.

The memory was so clear. The two of them in the bed of the pickup truck, parked just above the cove where the tide rolled in steady and slow. Salt on their skin. The blanket beneath them rough with sand and wind. Her hands tangled in his shirt, his mouth on her shoulder. His voice, low: We don’t have to. Her answer, barely a whisper: I want to.

After, they had stared at the stars like they were afraid to look at each other. And the next morning, they’d pretended it never happened. Chan leaned forward now, elbows on his knees. “If we’d talked about it back then,” he said, “I don’t think I could’ve kept pretending we were just friends.”

Her chest tightened. Because that? That wasn’t fake. Neither was the look in his eyes. And maybe it never had been.

Chan’s gaze was heavy—locked on hers like it cost him something to look, but more to look away. His voice dropped again, barely above a whisper. “If we’d talked about it,” he said, “I wouldn’t have been able to pretend.”

The weight of it sat between them, thick and electric. Something real. Something breakable. She didn’t realize she was leaning in until she felt his breath hit her lips—warm, steady, laced with mint and a hint of cinnamon from dessert. The space between them had vanished. Gone was the careful choreography of fake smiles and half-lies. Now it was just them. Bare. Unspoken. Burning.

“Chan,” she breathed, the name catching in her throat. She wasn’t even sure what she was asking. Permission? Apology? A kiss?

His eyes flicked down to her mouth like a reflex. “Yeah?”

It was right there—the moment. Teetering on the edge. Her hand twitched toward his chest, fingers aching to curl into his shirt and drag him closer. And then—

Knock knock knock. The door jolted in its frame. A muffled voice chirped through the crack, way too cheerful for what had almost just happened.

“The engagement dinner starts in ten! We’re doing a seating chart scramble, so don’t be late unless you want to sit with the kids’ table!”

The spell shattered.

Y/N blinked. The air between them popped like a soap bubble—leaving only cold, awkward space.

Chan let out a sharp breath and leaned back, dragging a hand down his face. “Perfect timing.” She stood too fast. Her knees felt wrong. Wobbly. Her pulse thundered against the base of her throat. “Yeah,” she said, clutching for something to hold onto. “Great.”

The dining room at The Marigold House was over-decorated, over-catered, and overwhelmed with tension.

Long tables glowed with golden taper candles and florals that looked like they'd cost someone a paycheck. There were name cards, clinking glasses, a four-tier cake that no one dared cut, and a band softly playing something jazzy that clashed with the heavy energy in the room.

Seungmin sat at the head table beside F/N L/N, his fiance and soon to be wife.

Y/N kept sneaking glances at them between bites of lemon risotto and lies.

Seungmin looked... still. Too still. Like someone bracing for impact. His suit jacket was perfect, pressed, charcoal-gray. But his fingers tapped restlessly under the tablecloth. His jaw worked in silence every time someone toasted him.

F/N, meanwhile, was radiant. Smiling politely. Laughing in the right places. Her hand rested lightly on Seungmin’s arm like they were just another happy almost-married couple making it through a long weekend.

But Y/N saw the way they didn’t look at each other. Or worse—the way they did when they thought no one was watching.

And it wasn't nothing.

“Earth to fake fiancée,” Chan whispered beside her, nudging her knee under the table.

She blinked. “Sorry. Zoned out.”

“Yeah, I saw. You were watching them like they owed you money.”

She smiled faintly, but her stomach twisted. “Doesn’t it feel weird? Like, shouldnt you be happier on your wedding day.”

Chan shrugged. “It’s their celebration. I think they know what theyre doing", She didn’t answer. Just watched as F/N turned to Seungmin and quietly whispered something into his ear. His expression didn’t change, but he nodded once, jaw clenched tight.

The rest of the dinner was a blur.

Cousins. Compliments. Fake laughter with a dull ache behind it. Someone asked how they met and Chan said, “college bar fight,” just to mess with them. She’d kicked him under the table, but her heart wasn’t in it.

Someone else asked when the wedding was. Someone else asked if they’d picked a honeymoon spot. Recommending the best Honeymoon Hotels in Kauai or Maui.

Chan had rested a hand on the small of her back under the table. Gentle. Anchoring. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. But her skin burned where he touched her.

When they got back to the room, the silence hit hard.

Chan closed the door behind them with a quiet click, then flipped the lock. She stood near the bed, staring at her shoes like they were fascinating.

For a long, long moment—neither of them moved. The weight of what almost happened earlier still sat in the space between them. Pressing in. Buzzing like an exposed wire. Then she turned to him. Slowly. Controlled. But her heart was not calm “You were gonna kiss me.” Not a question. Not really. Chan didn’t even blink. His voice was low and rough and too honest. “I was kissing you.”

Her breath caught. Her hands curled into fists at her sides to stop the tremble. “You didn’t,” she said, voice hoarse. His gaze dropped to her lips again.

“I’m about to,” he said, stepping forward, “unless someone knocks again.”

The room shrank.

Two feet of space between them. Then one. Then half.

She didn’t step back. His hand came up, slow and sure, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. Fingertips trailing her skin like a secret. His thumb grazed the hinge of her jaw, and she tilted toward him without meaning to.

“This is a bad idea,” she whispered, breath shivering. “Terrible,” he murmured. “Disastrous.” His other hand came to rest on her waist.

“You’re still wearing the ring,” he said softly, like it meant something. Maybe it did. “You’re still my fake fiancé,” she whispered. “Still want me to act like it?” Her lips parted. That look in his eyes—hungry and aching and afraid—it gutted her. “Yeah,” she said. “Just… don’t be too good at it.” He smiled. That same slow, devastating smile that ruined her back when they were kids. “No promises.”

And then he kissed her. And there was nothing fake about it.

Not the way his hands gripped her jaw like she was something fragile and vital, like he wasn’t sure if he was holding her together or holding himself back. Not the way her fingers fisted in his shirt—hard—pulling him closer like she was drowning and he was air.

Not the way his breath hitched when her mouth opened for him, soft and hungry, and he groaned into the kiss like it hurt. Like he’d wanted this for too long.

At first, it was slow. Careful. Like they were testing the edges of something they couldn’t name yet. A tease. A taste. But it didn’t stay that way.

It broke. Unraveled.

Turned into teeth and tongue and fingers digging into fabric. Her back hit the wall with a muffled thud, and he pressed into her, crowding her space, stealing every breath she had left. His hands slid down—one splayed at her waist, the other curling around her hip, pulling her against him so there was no space left to lie.

She gasped, and he kissed her like he owned that sound. Like he’d been waiting years to claim it.

Their mouths moved in sync—messy, frantic, starving. Every drag of his lips against hers felt like a confession. Every sweep of his tongue was a reminder of that summer night and all the words they’d never said after.

Her nails scraped along the back of his neck. He growled low in his throat and pressed harder, hips brushing hers, dangerous, deliberate. It lit her up like a struck match. Her body arched, met him halfway.

She felt it—him—all of him. Solid and hard and so ready to stop pretending. “Fuck,” he breathed against her lips. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

She kissed him again in answer—deeper, dirtier, teeth dragging over his bottom lip—and his grip tightened on her waist like he was two seconds from losing control.

She didn’t care. She wanted him unhinged. Unraveled. Real. She wanted his mouth everywhere, his hands on skin, his voice wrecked and begging.

And if he didn’t stop soon—if he kept kissing her like that—she was going to forget all the reasons they were pretending in the first place.

Suddenly, her back hit the wall with a soft thud, and for the split second his lips left hers, chan licked them before crashing into her again. Hot, rough, open. His hands gripped her hips, hauling her up like she weighed nothing. She gasped as her legs wrapped around his waist, dress riding up, heat blooming everywhere.

“You have no idea,” he growled against her lips, “how long I’ve wanted to do this.” “Show me,” she whispered.

He didn’t hesitate. He carried her across the room and dropped her onto the bed, gently, but with intent. Like he was done playing games. Like he was about to ruin her in the best way.

His mouth followed, on her neck, her collarbone, teeth dragging just enough to make her squirm.

Her hands yanked at his shirt, and he let her pull it off, revealing that body she remembered too well. Broad shoulders. Sculpted chest. That little dip between his pecs she used to fantasize about when she shouldn’t have. “God, Chan,” she breathed. He smirked. “What, baby? You want something?” She glared. “You’re not allowed to be cocky and good at this.” His voice dropped as he knelt between her thighs. “Wanna bet?” He tugged her dress up, then paused.

“Take it off,” he said. Low. Firm.

The way he said it, not asking, made her stomach flip.

She peeled the dress over her head slowly, teasing, baring herself inch by inch until she was in nothing but a lacy bra and panties that were already soaked.

Chan’s eyes darkened. “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

He kissed down her stomach, slow, wet, worshipful, while his hands spread her thighs wide. “Keep your hands above your head,” he murmured. “Don’t move.”

She obeyed. Because the way he said it made her want to.

His mouth dipped lower. Tongue soft, then firm. His fingers joined—one, then two—curling just right, dragging moans from her throat that didn’t sound like her. Her hips arched off the bed, but he held her down with a strong arm. “Be good,” he said against her, voice muffled. “Or I’ll make you beg.” “Maybe I want to beg,” she gasped.

That made him grin. And go harder. By the time he pulled back, she was shaking. Desperate. He crawled up her body, lips crashing into hers again, letting her taste herself on his tongue.

“You want me to fuck you like we’re still pretending,” he murmured, forehead pressed to hers. “Or like I’ve been in love with you since that night in the truck?”

Her nails raked down his back. “Both.” He groaned. “That’s not fair.”

“Neither is wearing that stupid ring and pretending I don’t want you inside me every second.” That undid him.

He grabbed a condom from his wallet, classic, infuriating Chan, and pushed his boxers down with a hiss. He lined up, dragging the head of his cock through her wetness slowly, just to hear her whimper.

“You’re so soaked,” he said. “So soeaked for me” “For years.”

Then he finally pushed in. And it was everything.

Rough. Deep. Perfect. Her legs locked around his waist, and his thrusts grew faster, harder, each one dragging a broken moan from her lips. He pinned her hands above her head again, breathing hard, teeth gritted.

“You take me so fucking well,” he grunted. “You were made for this. For me.”

He gave her more. His name spilled from her mouth like a prayer, and when he felt her tighten around him, he swore, loud, filthy, before grabbing her face and kissing her hard through it.

She came shaking. Gasping. Eyes locked with his. He didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow. Not until he was right there with her. thrusts erratic, mouth on her neck, biting down as he spilled inside her. The room was silent except for their breathing.

When he finally collapsed beside her, pulling her against his chest, he whispered: “Still want to pretend this is fake?”

She didn’t answer. She just curled into him and held on like she never wanted to let go.

It had been three days. Three days since the last toast clinked against borrowed glass. Three days since the band played its last love song, the last boutonniere wilted, and the champagne flutes were cleared like none of it had ever happened.

Three days since Chan had kissed her like he was starving—and touched her like he might never get to again. Three days. And not. a. word.

Not about the kiss. Not about the way they fell into bed like gravity had finally stopped being polite. Not about the things he said against her skin or the way her name had broken in his mouth when she came undone in his arms.

They hadn’t talked. Not once.

They were back now. Back in Summerdale. Back in their own apartments with walls between them. Back in their routines—coffee shops, work, texts about nothing—but none of it landed the way it used to.

The rhythm was off. Everything was too quiet. Until the knock.

It was soft. Hesitant. Like someone afraid of what came next. She opened the door without thinking. And there he was.

Chan stood in the hallway like the world had chewed him up and spit him out. Hair a mess. Hoodie half-zipped. Hands shoved deep into his pockets like they were the only things holding him together.

No smile. No greeting.

Just: “I can’t do this.” Y/N’s heart stopped. Her breath caught in her throat.

“…Can’t do what?” He looked up at her with eyes that had stopped pretending hours ago. “This,” he said. “All of this. The pretending.”

She didn’t move. Couldn’t. He stepped closer, just one step, but it was enough. Enough to make the hallway feel smaller. Enough to feel him again—his presence, his weight, his ache.

“I told myself it was just a favor,” he said. “That it didn’t mean anything. That I could go to the wedding, wear the ring, play the part, and walk away clean.”

His voice cracked. “But I’m not clean, Y/N. I’m wrecked.”

He laughed, bitter and broken. “I’ve been wrecked since that night in my dad’s truck. Since you looked at me and said you wanted to. Since you didn’t say anything after, and I didn’t either, and we both pretended we could live with that.”

Her chest ached. Her fingers curled at her sides. He kept going, his voice raw and urgent now, as if stopping would undo him.

“I love you,” he said, the words cracking out of him like they hurt. “I love you, and I’ve loved you since you kicked me under the diner table in eighth grade for saying ‘moist.’ Since we kissed under the pier and swore it didn’t count. Since you handed me that RSVP card and asked me to lie for you.”

He swallowed hard. “I tried to lie. I really tried.”

He stepped into her space, close enough that she could feel the heat rolling off his body. “But then I kissed you. And touched you. And watched you fall apart in my arms like you were made to be there. And now—now I don’t know how to be near you and not want everything.”

Y/N didn’t say anything. She just looked at him. Looked at his trembling hands and wrecked expression and the impossible weight of the words he’d finally said.

And then—quietly, without drama—she stepped forward. She reached out.

Gripped the front of his hoodie with both hands. Pulled him closer.

“You love me?” she asked, voice barely a whisper. He let out a breath like it had been buried in his lungs for years. “Yeah,” he said. “Completely. Stupidly. Always.”

And she kissed him. Not desperate. Not rushed. But slow. Like a key turning in a long-locked door.

He kissed her back the same way—hands on her hips, then sliding up her back, like relearning something he’d never truly forgotten. She pulled him inside, kicked the door shut behind them.

The hoodie came off. Then her shirt. Then his breath was warm against her ear, voice low and wrecked and dangerous. “You’re sure?” he asked. “Oh I’m sure.”

He didn’t hesitate this time. He lifted her like she weighed nothing and set her on the edge of the counter. His mouth was on her neck, her collarbone, down to the place that made her curse his name.

And when he touched her just right—exactly right—she gasped.

“Chan—where the hell did you learn that?” He pulled back just enough to smirk, voice smug and ragged. “YouTube. Trial and error. A wildly successful imagination.”

She laughed, but it choked into a moan as he did it again. Slower. More pressure. More heat. She gripped his hair, breath wrecked, legs wrapped around his waist like this was always how it was meant to be. And when he finally pushed into her, slow and deep and perfect, she couldn’t hold anything back.

Not the cry. Not the kiss. Not the truth.

Because nothing about this was pretend anymore. This was them. Unwritten. Unfiltered. Unstoppable.

©sunshineangel0 𖹭 if you liked this work, please consider reblogging, commenting or liking! xoxo franzi 💋

skz general @velvetmoonlght @scarlet789 @estella-novella @nightmarenyxx @channiesluvrclub @slut4junho @bobaluvzz @channiesbaby1433 @wonniesjungdimple @mythicmochi @m-325 @rockstarkkami @felixleftchickennugget @oceanz7 @seungminsbest @fackeraccount @takuoshuji @xoxomanicpanic @catsforlife6864 @lezleeferguson-120 @angellcvkes @abbiestearsricochet @angel-writes-skz-here

(if you wanna be added to the taglist comment below!)

[bills5lut]

need not want

masterlist prompt list

synopsis: billie comes to you not for sex, but for safety, though it takes both of you a moment to realise that’s what she needed all along.

warnings: slight smut, safe wording, fluff. 

The door closes quietly, almost too softly, like she’s trying not to disturb anything. You don’t even have to look up to know who it is, the familiar weight of exhaustion settles in the air before you see Billie.

She steps inside, hoodie slipping from her frame like it’s swallowing her whole, loose and dark against the pale skin of her wrists. Her hair’s a tangled mess pulled back carelessly, stray strands curling damp against her neck and forehead, sticky with a mix of hairspray and the faint trace of perfume she’s never bothered to wash off yet. You catch the scent, sharp and sweet, like a memory hanging heavy in the room.

She doesn’t say hi. She doesn’t smile. Just moves like she’s carrying the weight of the last brutal week, late nights, endless cameras, too many eyes, too many hands, straight to the couch. Without a word, she collapses into the corner, sinking in slow, pressing her face into your side like she’s searching for something solid to hold onto.

You feel her warmth, uneven breaths brushing your skin, shaky and small, and your arms come up without thought, wrapping around her like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Billie’s body is soft against you, but trembling, a quiet quake beneath your fingers.

Her fingers twist into the fabric of your hoodie, tugging lightly, almost desperate. Her lips brush against your collarbone, soft, hesitant, then again, longer this time, the kiss deepening. Her mouth parts slowly, tongue tracing lazy circles that send a shiver through your skin. She pulls back just enough to catch her breath, eyes closed, then leans in again, harder, hands creeping up to grip your sides.

You murmur, “Hey,” low and steady, brushing her hair behind her ear, feeling the dampness there. “You okay?”

Billie doesn’t look up at you, or move at all, instead just grumbling out “Can we not? Please.”

Before you can reply, her lips find yours, urgent and needy. The kiss is slow at first, exploratory, like she’s tasting the safety she’s been craving without even knowing it. Her hands move from tentative to sure, sliding under your hoodie, skin hot and trembling against yours.

You hold her tighter, your heartbeat steady under her cheek, your fingers sliding gently down her back. She clings to you, rocking slightly, like you’re her anchor in a sea she can’t quite navigate. Her breath hitches against your mouth, and she breaks away only to nuzzle her face into your neck, pressing soft, wet kisses along your skin.

“I missed you,” she whispers, voice cracking.

You don’t say anything but pull her closer, lips brushing the shell of her ear, your hands steadying the tremble in her shoulders. Her fingers curl into your hoodie, nails digging in just enough to remind you she’s real, here, needing this moment to hold on to.

And you let her, let her have all of it, the urgency, the softness, the quiet desperation, without trying to fix it. Not yet. Not now.

She slides up your body slowly, settling into your lap with a softness that feels both urgent and fragile. Your thighs shift instinctively to give her space, and she leans forward, pressing her chest against you, every breath a little uneven, a little raw. The room feels warmer somehow, the fading afternoon light filtering through the curtains casting gentle shadows that play over her skin, pale, flushed, the faintest tremor in the muscles beneath.

Billie’s hands find your shoulders, gripping lightly as if anchoring herself. Then, almost absentmindedly, she begins to grind, slow and deliberate, the movement more about needing to feel connected than chasing any real heat. Her lips trail down your throat, soft kisses followed by murmured words that barely break the quiet.

“Just need to feel you… fuck, you feel good,” she breathes, voice rough, fragile.

You catch the small hitch in her breathing, the quick, shallow breaths that speak louder than anything she’s saying. Her chest rises and falls unevenly, like she’s holding something back, or maybe chasing a feeling that slips through her fingers the moment it arrives. She’s straddling your thigh now, hands moving to tug at the hem of her top, fingers fumbling just slightly, trembling enough to make you pause.

Her shirt pulls up in slow motion, riding over her ribs and spilling over the curves of her tits. Her skin is soft and warm beneath your gaze, a little flushed, a little raw in places where her nerves run close to the surface. She grabs your hands, small but firm, pressing them to her tits, her touch a mixture of desperation and fragile need. Then, before you can say anything, her lips crash back onto yours, fierce and searching.

You slide your hands carefully over hers, keeping them steady, grounding her without pushing forward, hovering almost, letting her lead. Her breathing stutters, catching in her throat, eyes half closed but unfocused, like she’s somewhere else entirely. The intensity in her gaze flickers and dims. 

You realize, sharply, she’s not chasing pleasure. She’s chasing escape.

Her body is present, yes, but her mind is running circles in a dark place. The slow grind, the urgent kisses, they’re a way to ground herself, to fight against whatever is running through her mind, but it’s not the release she needs. It’s a distraction.

Your hands move gently to her hips, cupping and holding with deliberate softness, steadying her. You lean down, lips brushing the delicate hollow of her collarbone, kissing slow, careful. 

“You’re okay,” you whisper, voice low and steady, the promise a soft thread between you. “I’m right here.”

She shivers against you, eyes fluttering open briefly, wild, raw, searching, but when she looks at you, it’s not for sex or for escape. It’s for something quieter, something safer.

You look up at her, expecting her to stop, pull back. 

But no. 

She presses herself closer, hips grinding against your thigh, hands suddenly firmer as they clutch at your fingers pressing them back against her tits. The urgency in her kisses deepens, rougher, more desperate, but there’s a subtle tension beneath it all you can’t ignore. Her body feels tight, rigid where it should be loose, every movement threaded with something raw and fragile.

Her hands tremble as they grip your shoulders, knuckles white against your skin. The subtle quiver under her touch makes you pause, the heat of her breath mixing with the chill of that little flicker of panic you sense.

“Billie,” you murmur, voice low, steady, eyes searching hers. “You with me?”

She freezes, lips parting like she’s trying to say something but the words get caught somewhere, stuck between her throat and the quiet weight of what’s swirling beneath her skin. For a long moment, it’s just the two of you, her chest rising and falling unevenly, hands paused. 

Then, fragile, cracked, the word slips out, barely audible but breaking through the haze.

“Red.”

It’s like the air shifts instantly, not that you weren’t expecting it, you were just waiting for Billie to say it. Her whole body stiffens before she scrambles off your lap, moving with sharp, uneven breaths to curl into the pillow beside you, small and trembling.

You reach out, hands gentle, voice soft but firm, wrapping her in calm reassurance.

“Okay, okay. Okay, baby,” you say, brushing a loose strand of hair away from her damp forehead. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

But she pulls into herself, shoulders shaking just the slightest bit, arms wound tight around her ribs like she’s trying to hold herself together. Her breaths come fast now, too fast, but no tears yet, just the fragile edge of them, trembling on the surface.

You don’t move away. Instead, you slide closer, careful not to crowd her space, letting your hand hover over hers, palm open, just there if she needs it.

You lean down and whisper, voice soft as a promise, “I’m not going anywhere. Take all the time you need.”

The room feels smaller somehow, the fading light catching in the curve of her jaw, the way her chest rises beneath your gaze, fragile and fierce all at once. You watch her like she’s the most delicate thing you’ve ever held, knowing that right now, this quiet space between words and touch is exactly what she needs.

You settle down carefully beside her, the couch suddenly feeling both too big and not big enough. The fading light from the window pools softly over the room, warm but muted, casting gentle shadows around the curve of her jaw, the slight tremble in her shoulders. You don’t crowd her,  you leave just enough space for her to breathe, to unfold at her own pace.

Her hands twist the edge of the pillow, knuckles white, eyes still fixed on the fabric. Then, finally, she exhales, a shaky breath that almost sounds like a sob.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Billie says, voice raw, low, like she’s trying to reach for herself but the words won’t come easily. “I thought… I thought I needed this. I needed you. I just…” Her words falter, but then come rushing out, jagged and honest. “I’m not okay. I don’t even feel like me anymore.”

Her gaze flickers up, searching yours like she’s begging for a lifeline, and you see the exhaustion etched deep into the soft lines of her face. “Everyone touches me. All day. Stylists, makeup, cameras, fans… I can’t even remember the last time I felt like my body was mine. Like it belonged to me and not… not this whole machine.”

Her fingers squeeze the pillow, and for a moment she lets out a humorless, bitter laugh. “And I hate that I tried to use you like that. Like you’re some kind of… I don’t know, fucking crutch. You’re not. You’re not. You’re…” Her voice breaks, and she swallows hard, biting her lip like she’s swallowing shame and fear all at once.

You reach for the glass of water resting on the coffee table, cool condensation wet in your hand, and press it gently into hers. “Here,” you say softly. “Take a sip.”

She takes it, trembling fingers wrapping around the glass, and the water is cool and steadying on her lips.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, the weight of the apology hanging thick in the air. “I wanted to feel something, anything. I thought if I could just touch you, be with you, maybe it would drown out the noise in my head. But it didn’t. It just made me feel more… lost.”

You scoot a little closer, careful, and pull the oversized hoodie you’d set aside earlier over her shaking shoulders. The fabric smells faintly of you, soft and familiar, and she leans into it, a silent admission of need.

“Can I hold you now?” you ask, voice gentle, patient.

She nods quickly, tears silently tracing quiet paths down her cheeks. No words come, just a breath that shudders into a sigh.

You wrap your arms slowly around her, grounding and warm, your hands resting lightly against the curve of her back. Her body trembles against yours, but you don’t let go, you just hold, steady and unhurried. Your fingers trace soothing circles through the damp strands of her hair at the nape of her neck, careful not to rush, letting the silence speak for both of you.

Her breathing starts to slow, a little less jagged, as if she’s finally letting go of something she didn’t even realize she was carrying. You murmur, “You’re safe here. I’m right here with you.”

She closes her eyes, the tightness in her body slowly unspooling, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you see her begin to come back to herself, fragile but real.

The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the city outside, distant and unobtrusive. You’re still curled around Billie on the couch, her small frame nestled close against your chest, and the warmth of her skin pressing into yours feels like the only real thing in the world right now.

Her breaths are still shaky but slowing, less like gasps and more like waves rolling gently in and out. You shift slightly, careful not to disturb the fragile peace, and reach up to gather her thick hair in your hands. Your fingers begin to braid slowly, each loop and weave deliberate and soothing , a silent, tender rhythm that gives Billie something to focus on besides the tight coil of emotions inside.

You don’t ask her to explain, don’t press for words or reasons. You know she’s not ready, and that’s okay. Instead, you whisper softly, your voice low and steady.

“You don’t have to give me anything right now. Not a word. Not a feeling. Just be here with me, Bills.”

Billie’s breath catches, a small giggle breaking through, and you feel her cheeks flush faintly against your chest.

“I love it when you call me that,” she murmurs, voice husky but light.

You smile against her hair, pressing a slow kiss to the crown of her head before you answer, barely above a whisper, “Because you’re mine. And you’re Bills before you’re ‘Billie Eilish.’ Yeah?”

She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, then nods into your skin, a shaky exhale escaping her lips.

“I’ve got you. Always,” you say, voice steady, wrapping your arms tighter around her, grounding her without overwhelming.

Her breathing deepens further, the tension in her shoulders loosening, her hands relaxing in your lap.

After a while, her voice is barely audible, a soft thread of words you catch because you’re tuned to every nuance. “Thank you… for not making me explain.”

You tighten your hold gently. “You don’t have to. Ever.”

She swallows, voice cracking just slightly. “I didn’t even know I wasn’t there until you asked.”

You rest your cheek against Billie’s temple, feeling the rapid flutter of her heartbeat slow beneath your touch. “I’m here. Always.”

Her lips press against your collarbone, small and tremulous, as if anchoring herself in the moment. You keep braiding her hair, slow and steady, your fingers weaving through the soft strands. 

The quiet stretches out, deep and steady now. Billie’s head rests softly against your chest, the warmth of her skin a comfort that settles through your ribs. Her breath, though still gentle and uneven, slows with every inhale and exhale, falling into a more regular rhythm beneath your palm.

You reach for the soft throw lying folded beside the couch, the fabric thick and warm under your fingers. Carefully, so as not to disturb her, you pull it over both of you, tucking it around her shoulders first, then folding it over your own legs. The room feels suddenly more cocooned, a small, protected world where nothing outside matters.

Your hand drifts down to hers. Her fingers curl lightly against the fabric of your shirt, the skin cool but delicate, marked by the faint lines of the tattoo you’ve memorized, the little fairy spread from her wrist over the start of her palm. You begin to trace it slowly with your thumb. 

She shifts slightly, sighing softly, her cheek pressing a little harder against your heart, like she’s trying to hold onto the steady beat beneath her. The faint scent of her perfume lingers, a mix of something vanilla, sharp with a hint of musk, along with the warmth of the day-old hairspray still in her hair, and the deodorant from this morning. It all feels so intimately hers.

Your other hand rests lightly on Billie’s back, fingertips just grazing the fabric of her hoodie, steady and sure. You resist the urge to move too much, to do anything but be here, quiet and present, letting her come back to herself at her own pace.

Minutes pass. Her breathing evens out, becoming slow and even, the kind of sleep where the chest rises and falls with calm certainty. You watch the subtle flutter of her eyelashes, the gentle softening of her lips, the peaceful tension easing from her shoulders.

Though your body is tired, your mind stays alert, tuned to the small signs, the shift of her breath, the occasional twitch of a finger, that tell you she’s still here, still safe. Your thumb keeps tracing the tattoo on her hand, touch soft and tentative. 

Outside, the fading light from the window casts soft shadows on the walls, the city sounds dim and distant.

You lean your head back against the couch, eyes closing for a moment, but your fingers never stop moving, never stop holding. The weight of her against you, so small and real, grounds you both.

In this dark, still space, there’s nothing to say, nothing that needs to be done. Just the steady presence of two bodies, one offering comfort, the other slowly healing, wrapped up in warmth and silence.

You stay awake for a long while, making sure she’s breathing evenly, your heart steady beneath her head. And in this quiet, everything feels right.

[kirain]

@bankabb A short fic based on your art here. Emmrich breaking into the Fade Prison to save his beloved!

The Fade had never felt like this.

When Emmrich stepped through the Veil, he expected dreams—ethereal colours, strange echoes, wandering spirits. Anything—or perhaps everything—he'd grown accustomed to in his decades of research.

But this place was different.

Ash blanketed the ground like snow, bitter and lifeless. The air hung heavy with cold that sank into his bones, and the gravity felt fractured, shifting beneath his feet like unstable stone. Worse still was the weight that crushed his chest—misery, thick and cloying, radiating from every shadow and broken whisper around him.

This was indeed a prison. Not built with bars, but with sorrow.

Solas' curse.

He turned, hoping for the comfort of the portal's glow—but it was already fraying, green light cracking at the edges like splintered glass.

He didn't have long.

"Dahlia!" he cried, his voice swallowed by the grey mist. "Dahlia, my love, where are you?!"

He moved quickly, the twisted path beneath his boots crumbling with each step. Soon, the ghosts began to appear—not true spirits, but fragments, statues reduced to rubble. One was Neve, tangled in Blight, half her face chipped away. Another was Harding, her stone eyes wide in silent accusation. And then Varric: mouth open in a frozen scream, a blade plunged between his ribs.

Emmrich stopped, clutching his chest as grief surged raw inside him. He could only imagine Dahlia seeing them again and again—fingers pointed, voices warped by rage and loathing, blaming her for their fates. This curse didn't merely trap her. It tormented her.

Condemned her.

"Dahlia!" he shouted again—louder, more desperate. "Darling, please!"

Then he saw her.

In a clearing of shattered memories, she stood like a ghost herself. Motionless. Trembling. Her arms hung at her sides, fists clenched, jaw tight. Her eyes were squinted shut, as though refusing to watch the nightmare around her.

"Dahlia!" Emmrich gasped, running to her, stumbling as the ground quaked underfoot.

The moment he reached her, he pulled her into a fierce embrace, his arms tightening enough to hurt. Her face pressed to his chest, and he sobbed—ragged, uncontrollable. It had been so long. So achingly, unbearably long.

Pure torture.

"You're alive," he rasped, barely able to stay upright. "I thought I'd lost you."

But her arms didn't move. She was paralysed—breath shallow, skin cold. His relief curdled into panic.

"No..." he murmured, pulling back to cup her face. "Dahlia, can you hear me?"

Her eyelids twitched. Lips parted, ever so slightly.

"...You have to leave," she choked. "Before I kill you, too."

"...E-Emmrich?" Her voice was strained, weak, buried under layers of pain.

"Yes. Yes, I'm here, my love! I'm right here!"

"No." He shook his head fiercely. "Don't say that. None of this is your fault."

He tried to summon the portal—reaching out with everything he had—but it wouldn't move. It flickered in the distance, fragile and shredding like cloth.

Not enough time.

"Darling, we need to go," he urged. "Now."

"I can't." Her throat clenched. "I deserve to be here. Everything—everything that happened—it's my fault."

"No," he declared, gently brushing the tears that slid from her still-closed eyes. "Harding knew the risks. Neve knew. Varric knew. This is the gods' doing, not yours. Don't let their sacrifices be in vain."

She flinched, her brows twitching, but the spell held firm.

"Do you think they regretted meeting you?" Emmrich asked softly. "Do you think I do?"

No answer.

"You make lives better, Dahlia, not worse. You made my life better." He leaned in, his voice warm with emotion. "My darling, you gave me something to hold on to. A reason to stay mortal. I... I need you."

Her lips parted, quivering at his words. Her eyelids fluttered once, just faintly.

The portal behind him gave a deafening groan.

It was failing.

"Tell me..." he said, so close she could taste his aftershave. "Do you regret meeting me?"

Her brows furrowed.

"Do you regret this?"

His lips met hers, fervent and true, brimming with all the longing, all the terror, all the love that had swelled in her absence. He kissed her like it was the last chance they'd ever have—each shuddering breath between them sparking fire, every touch igniting a hunger neither could deny.

And then, she responded.

Her fingers gripped his sleeves. Her lips pressed back. Her eyes opened.

Vivid lilac—Maker, how he'd missed it.

When they broke apart, she stared at him, eyes shining with gratitude. "I could never regret loving you," she whispered.

Emmrich smiled—bright, wild—and took her hand. "Come, darling. Let's go. Everyone's waiting for you."

Together, they ran—hand in hand, soul to soul, through the cold and ash and heartbreak, towards the faithful light.

Towards hope.

[kuronarnze]

Hello i was the anon who asked bllk boys with horrible chef reader and i loved it ❤️

May i request bllk boys of your decision with a reader who was their childhood friend and she used to be child actress but now she is singer and performs a song on stage but it’s confession song for boys secretly 😊

a/n: hihiii omg your requests are always super duper creative + cute, TYSM FOR REQUESTINGA AGAIN, im so happy you enjoyed the other headcannons i madee, enjoyy!

‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

When you confess your feelings into a song for the bluelock boys !

ft. Isagi yoichi, Itoshi sae, Itoshi rin, Shidou ryusei, Michael kaiser, Mikage reo

‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

You were once a famous child actress, but now you're a talented singer. Your latest performance? A beautifully written love song, secretly meant for the boy you grew up with.

‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

Isagi Yoichi

- He’s so proud just being in the audience. He’s been your #1 fan since the start.

- When you step on stage, he smiles fondly, whispering, “She made it…” under his breath.

- The moment your lyrics start describing a boy with kind blue eyes who always believed in you—he freezes.

- Realization hits hard. Wait… is this about him?

- By the second chorus, he’s 100% sure. The memories you reference—the soccer field, childhood promises, warm bento boxes—it's all him.

- Stares in shock, hand over his mouth like he’s processing a whole anime plot twist.

- After the show:

“...Was that song... for me?”

And when you nod, he just pulls you into a tight hug, heart racing.

‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

Itoshi Sae

- He doesn’t show it, but he’s genuinely curious to see how you’ve changed since your actress days.

- When you step out, confident and graceful, he raises an eyebrow, surprised by how much you've grown.

- Then your lyrics start:

- “You never smiled much, but your silence said everything.”

- His heart stutters. He knows that version of him. You’re singing about his 12-year-old self.

- The lines about "watching from the shadows, waiting for a dream to catch fire" hit too close to home.

- He sits quietly, stunned. His fingers clench on his seat.

- Sae.exe has stopped working.

- Afterward:

“...You wrote that for me, didn’t you.”

When you smile and nod, his ears go pink. He mumbles: “Took you long enough.”

‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

Itoshi Rin

- He acts like he doesn’t care when you invite him. “Tch. Whatever. Do what you want.”

- But he shows up in a hoodie and cap, standing near the back of the venue. Watching.

- The lyrics talk about a boy who “hid his heart behind shadows and thorns, but never once hurt me.” “hard on the outside, soft in the inside.”

- Rin’s breath catches.

- It’s him. You’re singing about the younger him, the one he thought no one ever understood.

- You sing about the day he cried and thought no one noticed—but you did.

- Rin looks away, blinking hard.

- After the show:

“...You remembered all that?”

And when you nod, he looks down.

“Then I hope you’re ready… 'cause I’m not letting you go again.”

‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

Shidou Ryusei

- He’s annoyingly loud in the audience. “WOOO!! THAT’S MY GIRL!!!”

- But the second you start singing, he quiets down—because this is different.

- The song is raw, honest, vulnerable. Lyrics about “a boy too wild for the world, but never too wild for me.”

- Shidou goes still.

- His mind goes back to your childhood—when he got into fights and you always stood by him.

- His smirk fades. There’s a softness in his gaze no one ever sees.

- After the show, he corners you backstage:

“That song was about me, huh?”

You blink. He grins, wild but… warm.

“Finally caught me, huh, superstar?”

‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

Michael Kaiser

- He shows up in VIP, smug and sparkly. “Of course I came. It’s me, after all.”

- But when you take the mic, and the spotlight hits you, he leans forward. You look like magic.

- Your song speaks of “a golden boy who demanded the world but only ever wanted to be loved.”

- His cocky grin falters.

- The lyrics are too specific. The snow in Germany. The time he almost gave up but you called him your star.

- You sang about how the two would eat bread crust rusk, sometimes adore the stray dogs, and you would talk for hours and Kaiser would always listen.

- Kaiser is speechless for once. Literally no one has ever written something that… real about him.

- After the concert:

“You sang about me... and I can’t even outshine that.”

He pulls you into a half-joking bow.

“I surrender, meine K��nigin. Take my heart. You already stole the spotlight.”

‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

Mikage Reo

- Reo’s practically glowing when he arrives. “My best girl’s gonna perform? Front row seats, obviously.”

- He's clapping, recording—supportive energy even before the confession.

- The lyrics mention “a boy born with everything but looked at me like I was the treasure.”

- Reo chokes. Literally.

- The memories you paint—playgrounds, sweets he bought you, how he promised to build you a castle if you became famous.

- He’s tearing up by the bridge.

- After the performance:

“Tell me that was about me.”

You giggle and confirm it.

He hugs you so tight you nearly drop your mic.

“Then I’m building you that castle. And putting a studio inside.”

‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

TYSM FOR READINGG plsplspls feel free to requesttt, i was kinda having a hard time writing for shidou's cause we don't really know much about his childhood (WE NEED SHIDOU BACKSTORY !!)

have a nice day (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)/

[babyarmywrites]

phoenix - hwang hyunjin

Synopsys: You told me you love me, I said it back, I didn't mean it. I had to burn everything that I was, just to come back like a phoenix.

Word count: 11,4k

Genre: full, angst with a happy ending

Warnings: mentions of a breakup, (past) cheating, heartbreak

Based on Phoenix by Charlotte Cardin

Feedback is appreciated! Enjoy!

There’s something deeply sacred about a Phoenix. It doesn’t just die—it burns. Consumed entirely by its own fire, it disintegrates into ashes, hollowed out by a flame that once gave it flight. It’s not a quiet ending. It’s a spectacle. Bright. Violent. Beautiful in its destruction. And then… silence.

But from that silence—when the last ember dims and the air is thick with smoke—it breathes again. A soft flutter. A spark. Fragile wings unfurling in the dark. Not the same creature. Never the same. It’s reborn, yes, but it remembers the burning.

Heartbreak is the same. It razes you to the ground—feels like every part of you has melted away under a heat you didn’t ask for. You don’t just hurt. You collapse. You scorch. But maybe, someday, when your ribs stop aching and your breath finds rhythm again, you rise. Slowly. Unsteadily. Maybe, if you’re lucky, someone will meet you there—beneath your ashes, still smoldering—and see not ruin, but the beginning of your return.

This story begins there. Not with the fire. But with the spark.

The café smelled like burnt sugar and espresso—Hyunjin’s favorite kind of comfort. He came here often when his thoughts got too loud or his schedule too full. The noise of the world seemed to muffle itself in this space, somewhere between the jazz playing softly overhead and the hum of the coffee machine behind the counter.

His sketchbook was open in front of him, the page already smudged with charcoal. He was halfway through a drawing of peonies—soft, rounded petals curling inward like they were protecting something. He didn’t know why he always came back to them. There was something vulnerable about peonies, something honest. They bloomed like they didn’t care who was watching. And maybe that’s what he wanted to feel like, too.

He was gently shading the base of a leaf when he heard it—a sigh. Soft. Barely there. But it carried. He looked up instinctively.

You were sitting two tables down, your shoulders slightly hunched, both hands wrapped around a latte that had long gone cold. You weren’t crying—not anymore—but there was that hollow stillness in your expression. The kind that clung to someone even after the tears had dried. A paperback book was open in front of you, but you hadn’t turned a page in a while. Your eyes were far off, stuck somewhere he couldn’t see, in a memory that must have hurt.

Hyunjin’s pencil paused. There was something about you—the stillness, the weight you carried in your silence. It was familiar. Not in a dramatic, thunderclap sort of way. Just... a quiet recognition. Like spotting a stranger across the room and realizing you know the shape of their sadness.

When your eyes flicked toward him, just for a second, he looked down too late. Your gazes had met—brief, clumsy—and it sparked something low in his chest. Nothing loud. Just a soft tug.

He dropped his pencil anyway. You tilted your head slightly at the sound, your gaze landing on him again. And for a second, everything else blurred. Not a grand, cinematic moment. Just two people in a coffee shop. You, nursing a quiet heartbreak. Him, covered in pencil dust and already wondering what your laugh might sound like.

It wasn’t just the way your eyes met his. It was the way time seemed to stutter when it happened. The soft clink of porcelain faded. The jazz blurred. Even the light through the café windows took on a hazy, almost cinematic quality. Hyunjin blinked once, twice, heart thudding as though it had skipped a cue. This felt familiar. And not in the “I think I’ve seen you somewhere before” kind of way. No, this was the kind of familiarity he read about in love poems—Yeats, Neruda, Han Yong-un. The kind of moment where the universe doesn’t shout but whispers, There you are.

He knew how stupid it sounded. He knew how dumb it was to feel something this dramatic over a single look, a sigh, a stranger with a tear-stained softness around the eyes. But he wasn’t built to be rational. That had never been his role. Not in the group. Not in his art. Not in life. Hyunjin believed in invisible threads. In star-crossed timelines. In souls that had been split and were only now finding their way back.

He believed that maybe he had been drawing peonies because something in him knew you'd show up. Because flowers meant rebirth, and there was something about the way you held that coffee cup—like you were trying to hold yourself together—that made him think you needed one. A rebirth. A gentle place to land.

And maybe—just maybe—that place was him.

You stood up without warning, the soft scrape of the chair against the wooden floor barely registering in Hyunjin’s ears as his eyes lifted just in time to catch a glimpse of your silhouette slipping through the café doors, the afternoon light catching on the edge of your coat and turning it to gold for the briefest of moments. He stared after you, stunned by the suddenness, blinking as if the world had shifted beneath him while he wasn’t looking, and when he finally glanced down again at his sketchbook, the peonies he had so carefully drawn just moments before seemed flat and lifeless, the paper dull, the pencil lines unremarkable, as if your presence had enchanted the page and your absence had drained it of all meaning. A quiet sort of panic bloomed in his chest—not loud or urgent, but cold and immediate—because he hadn’t said anything, not even hello, hadn’t so much as smiled your way, frozen instead in the echo of something he didn’t yet understand.

The moment was gone, the second hand on the café clock ticked forward, and the spell broke, just like that. Someone else entered, laughing too loudly, and he resented them for shattering the silence you left behind. So, the next day, he came back—same table, same drink, same time—and waited with his sketchbook open in front of him, pretending to draw but never really moving his pencil, too preoccupied with scanning the doorway every time the bell chimed.

And he came back again the day after that, and the day after that too, each afternoon folding into the next in quiet repetition, the hope growing smaller but never quite disappearing. Because Hyunjin, hopeless romantic that he was, believed in invisible strings and fated glances, in moments that shimmered just enough to mean something more, and so he waited—not because it made sense, not because he was sure, but because he felt in his bones that if he waited long enough, you might come back. However, you never did.

But fate has its funny ways, Hyunjin concludes. Because he wasn’t supposed to be there. That’s what made it all the more poetic.

Hyunjin had darted into the little flower shop on instinct, minutes before call time at the studio, his mind rushing faster than his feet as he mentally rehearsed excuses for being late. Seungmin’s girlfriend—their beloved, overworked stage coordinator—deserved something nice for her birthday, and Hyunjin, despite his best efforts, had completely forgotten to put down an order for the bouquet he imagined would suit her best a couple of days ago.

He burst through the glass doors, half-winded and already apologizing aloud to no one in particular, when the scent of fresh blooms stopped him in his tracks. That—and the sight of you.

You looked different. Lighter. Brighter. Your hair was tucked behind your ear in a way he didn’t remember, your sleeves rolled to the elbows as you gently arranged white ranunculus in a ceramic vase, completely absorbed in the rhythm of your task. You didn’t notice him at first, and for a moment he didn’t want you to—he needed the seconds to ground himself, to convince his heart not to do that thing where it started sprinting before he gave it permission.

He hadn’t seen you since the café. That day had become a loop in his memory, the ghost of a missed opportunity that followed him into dreams, sketchbooks, and empty corners of busy rooms. And now, here you were, blooming in a different light, like the version of you he hadn’t dared imagine.

Hyunjin watched you laugh softly at something the older woman beside you said—your smile easy, your eyes bright—and his chest ached, not with longing this time, but with something gentler, more reverent.

He thought, absurdly: Of course she works in a flower shop. Of course she brings beauty to the world and doesn’t even realize it. Of course the universe led him here—again.

And this time, he wasn’t going to leave without saying something.

“Can I help you find something?” Your voice was soft, polite, nothing more than what was expected—but Hyunjin froze for a second. The familiarity of it hit him in the chest like the aftershock of déjà vu.

He turned slowly, hoping you wouldn’t recognize the way he was staring at you like you were something pulled from a dream. You didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe you were pretending not to. Either way, you smiled gently, tilting your head just enough to make him feel warm all over again.

“Yeah,” he breathed, voice still a little too quiet. “It’s, um—my friend’s birthday. She’s kind of like our boss? Stage coordinator. She makes sure we don’t fall apart during shows.”

Your brows rose, amused. “That sounds important. She deserves something pretty, then.”

“She does,” he agreed, before adding, “Something bold. Not too delicate, but still… special. She's scary when she's mad, so nothing boring.”

You laughed at that—really laughed—and he felt it everywhere. “I think I have the perfect combination in mind,” you said. “Wait here.”

He watched as you disappeared into the back, then returned with armfuls of fresh blooms: deep reds, lush pinks, soft creams, and trailing greenery. Without even asking, you started assembling them, your hands moving with quiet precision, tucking petals and adjusting stems like it was second nature.

Hyunjin leaned a little closer across the counter, unable to keep his admiration to himself. “You’re really good at that.”

You glanced up briefly. “Thanks. I like making things feel like they belong together.”

There was something about the way you said it that made his chest tighten.

“I paint flowers sometimes,” he said, the words escaping before he could stop them. “Peonies, mostly. I like how messy they are. They bloom like they’re not afraid of anything.”

You looked up again, and this time your eyes lingered. “That’s a really beautiful way to put it.”

He swallowed. “They remind me of someone.”

You didn’t ask who. Instead, you turned your attention back to the bouquet, lips quirking slightly as you tied it all together with a deep burgundy ribbon.

“Here,” you said, holding it out to him. “Tell your friend happy birthday.”

Hyunjin took it carefully, like it might fall apart if he touched it too quickly. “Thank you,” he said, sincere. “It’s perfect.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then— “I’m Hyunjin, by the way.”

“I know,” you said, eyes twinkling. “I may not live under a rock.”

He laughed, bashful. “Right. Yeah. Fair.”

“But,” you added gently, “I didn’t know you paint flowers.”

That stuck with him.

As he stepped out into the street, bouquet in hand, heart knocking against his ribs, Hyunjin realized something absurd and thrilling and terrifying all at once: He wanted to come back.

For more flowers, sure. But mostly—for you.

The bell above the flower shop door jingled softly as Hyunjin slipped inside, cheeks flushed from the morning chill.

“I’m back,” he announced sheepishly, glancing around for the familiar face.

You looked up from arranging a vase of wildflowers, smirking. “That fast, huh? What’s the occasion this time?”

Hyunjin grinned, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s for Han’s girlfriend. He asked me to pick something out because—get this—‘I’m the artist, I have the vision.’” He puffed out his chest a little. “You know, big responsibility.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “But I’m trying.”

You pulled out a bunch of cheerful sunflowers and some delicate bluebells, arranging them together as he watched, fascinated.

“You really make this look easy,” he said, smiling wide. “I swear I could just stand here all day and watch you do your magic.”

“Careful,” you teased. “I might start charging for the show.”

Hyunjin laughed, the sound light and genuine, and for a moment, the flower shop felt like the only place in the world that mattered.

When the bouquet was finished, you handed it over wrapped in crisp paper tied with a soft pink ribbon.

“Tell Han to give these to his girlfriend with a big smile,” you said. “She’ll love them.”

Later, Hyunjin found Han sitting on a bench near the practice room, scrolling on his phone with a distracted look.

“Hey, I got something for your girlfriend,” Hyunjin said, brandishing the bouquet like a trophy.

Han blinked, confused. “Flowers? Why?”

“Because you usually give her Pokémon cards and Ghibli plushies,” Hyunjin replied with a grin. “I figured it’s time to mix it up.”

Han chuckled, taking the flowers carefully. “Alright, I’ll give these to her.”

A few minutes later, Han’s girlfriend appeared, her face lighting up the moment she saw the bouquet. She launched herself into his arms with a delighted squeal, making Han stumble back with a laugh.

Hyunjin watched from a distance, a soft ache blooming in his chest. The way she smiled, the way Han held her—it was everything he wanted, everything he dreamed of having with you.

As the petals caught the light, Hyunjin whispered to himself, “Maybe one day. Maybe with her.”

You find yourself smiling more these days — small, quiet smiles that surprise you when they come out of nowhere. The heaviness inside is still there, but it’s lighter, like the first gentle breeze after a storm. You catch yourself humming an old song you used to love, picking up the sketchbook you abandoned months ago, tracing your fingers over the worn pages. Dressing a little nicer, even if it’s just for yourself — a way to remind the world, and maybe yourself, that you’re still here, still trying.

And somehow, in the back of your mind, there’s this quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, you’ll run into him again. Hyunjin — with his delicate hands that carefully arrange peonies, the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, that loopy, shy smile that makes him seem both fragile and alive. You remember how he talks about his art, with passion and softness tangled together, like every word is a secret he’s afraid to fully share but can’t help wanting you to understand.

He carries himself like a quiet storm — gentle but impossible to ignore. You don’t know what this means yet. You don’t even know if it means anything at all. But thinking about him, about those little things, makes your days a little less gray, and that alone feels like something worth holding onto.

People have been worried about you — maybe more than you realize. There’s this tornado inside you, swirling with emotions you can’t quite control or even name. You’ve been complicated lately, tangled up in thoughts and memories that pull you under just as much as they push you forward.

Sometimes, you wish someone could take a second — just a moment — to show you how to burn without getting consumed, how to rise from the ashes without falling apart. You want to feel that fierce heat inside, the kind that fuels new beginnings, but you’re still learning what that looks like for you.

And maybe, just maybe, you could swear you’re changing. Not in some dramatic, overnight way, but in the quiet, almost imperceptible moments — the way your laughter comes easier now, or how you don’t flinch as much when the silence stretches between your thoughts.

Hyunjin is still out there, this strange, soft presence in your mind — a reminder that even broken things can catch the light, and maybe, so can you.

The cart wobbles as you push it through the JYPE lobby, your arms straining to keep the massive floral arrangements upright. It smells like lavender and eucalyptus, fresh and earthy — the kind of scent that makes you feel grounded, even when you're walking into a building packed with idols and nerves. You weren’t told who the flowers were for, only that it was for a photoshoot, and the client’s name was under some PR rep. Typical.

The elevator dings open on the studio floor and you roll the cart out, careful not to bump any walls. That’s when you hear a voice — not loud, but distinct. Warm. Familiar.

“Wait… it’s you?”

You look up, and there he is. Hyunjin.

Your hands still on the cart, you blink in surprise. He’s in loose sweatpants and a cropped hoodie, a little bit of eyeliner still clinging to his waterline from the earlier shoot. His eyes widen, like he wasn’t expecting to see you here either — though, in truth, he was. Because what you don’t know is that he recommended your shop personally after you helped him with those bouquets. He told their creative director, “Trust me. That shop knows how to make things feel like stories.”

“Are you… delivering all this?” he asks, gesturing to the armfuls of blooms like they’re made of starlight instead of stems.

You nod, a little breathless. “Yeah. For some album photoshoot, I think it's called Hollow or something.”

He smiles, slow and sweet. “That’s our shoot. It's for our Japanese comeback.”

Of course it is.

You laugh softly, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear. “Figures.”

Unseen by you, across the room, several heads have turned. Seungmin is the first to notice, watching Hyunjin’s expression shift from surprised to something he doesn’t see often — a kind of quiet awe. Han elbows Lee Know, who narrows his eyes like he’s trying to decode a cryptic message from ten feet away. Felix squints, leans closer, and whispers, “Is she the flower shop girl?”

Bang Chan hums knowingly. “That’s definitely her.”

Back by the cart, Hyunjin glances at your hands, still dusty with pollen, your sleeves pushed up past your elbows. “I didn’t think I’d see you again. This is a really nice surprise.”

“You sound like you planned it,” you tease gently.

His cheeks flush. “Maybe I did. I might’ve recommended your shop.”

You raise your brows. “So this was a setup?”

“Not a setup,” he grins, suddenly bashful. “More like… a hopeful coincidence.”

“I think he’s in trouble,” Changbin mumbles from Seungmin's side, eyes narrowed as he stares at the interaction.

“He’s not in trouble,” Han argues. “He’s in love.”

“He’s a goner,” Seungmin deadpans.

Then—

"Ah-CHOO!"

Everyone freezes. Changbin straightens up sheepishly, clutching his nose as an avalanche of sneezes follows. “Ugh, why did it have to be lilies? I'm allergic to lilies—”

You and Hyunjin both turn toward the noise just in time to see seven heads snap back behind a wall, not even remotely discreet.

Hyunjin sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh my God.”

You try — you really try — not to laugh, but it bubbles out anyway, soft and uncontrollable. “Were they all just… watching us?”

“Like zoo animals,” Hyunjin mutters. He turns to you, eyes apologetic, lips fighting a smile. “Sorry. They’re not usually like this.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

He huffs out a laugh, then steps closer, lowering his voice just enough that the words feel like they’re meant only for you. “Do you… wanna step outside for a minute? Just us. Somewhere less… pollen-infested?”

You nod, and he gently takes the cart from you, guiding it down a quieter hallway. He finds a tiny break room with big windows and pulls open the door for you like he’s done it a hundred times, like it’s muscle memory to be thoughtful.

Once inside, the world hushes.

He leans against the counter, looking at you like you're made of light filtered through petals. “So… now that we’ve had three accidental meetings—well, one slightly planned—do you think maybe I could get your number?”

You blink. “Just like that?”

He shrugs, but there’s nothing casual about the way his fingers drum nervously against the counter. “I keep showing up where you are. I’d like to start showing up because you want me to.”

Your heart stutters.

The moment is quiet. Still. His eyes are wide and waiting, his lips parted just slightly, like he’s holding his breath.

You smile — a real one. The kind that surprises even you. “Okay. Yeah. I think I’d like that.”

He grins, radiant and relieved, like spring bursting out of a too-long winter.

That night, when your shift ends and the ache in your feet catches up to the ache in your chest, you curl up in bed and stare at your phone.

Nothing yet.

You’re not sure why you expected a text right away. He seemed sincere, sure — but people are always sincere when they’re charmed by the idea of you. Not the real you. The tired, quiet, complicated you.

But then, just as your eyes begin to flutter shut, your phone buzzes.

unknown number: it’s hyunjin 🌸 i hope it’s okay i saved your name as “flower girl” 😳

You stare at the message longer than you should, the corner of your mouth curling up without permission.

you: only if i can save you as “painter boy”

His reply is instant.

hyunjin 🌸: STOP that’s actually cute wait i’m using that too twin nicknames??? is this fate?? be honest

You laugh — not just a breathy exhale, but a full-bodied sound that fills your chest like air after holding your breath too long.

You don’t reply right away. You stare at the screen, heart too fast, mind too loud.

You’re still scared. Still bruised. But something about Hyunjin feels like the soft part after the storm — like the first morning you wake up and don’t think about the person who broke you. He feels like spring thawing you open again.

Meanwhile, miles away, Hyunjin is pacing the length of the dorm living room, phone clutched like it holds his whole soul.

“She’s not texting back,” he groans, throwing himself dramatically onto the couch.

Jeongin, who’s currently devouring a bag of chips and watching him spiral with wide-eyed delight, raises a brow. “Hyung, it’s been four minutes.”

“She probably thinks I’m a freak,” Hyunjin says into a pillow. “I sent a flower emoji. Was that too much? Be honest.”

“No, the emoji was fine,” Jeongin says, grinning. “It’s the part where you asked if it was fate that probably did it.”

Hyunjin peeks out of the pillow, eyes wide. “But what if it is fate?”

“Okay, Romeo,” Jeongin laughs, tossing a chip at him. “You saw her on four occasions.”

But then Hyunjin’s phone pings.

you: maybe it is fate. or maybe you just show up everywhere i go 😌

Hyunjin bolts upright, blinking at the screen like he’s not sure it’s real. Then he gasps and throws his phone across the couch like it’s on fire.

“She texted back,” he breathes. “Jeongin. She texted back.”

“Yeah,” Jeongin snorts. “And now your phone’s under a pillow. Very smooth.”

Hyunjin dives after it with a whimper and they both laugh — one mocking, one giddy.

You both stay up texting for hours. About nothing important. About everything important. A favorite flower. A song that hurts. A random moment from your day. The art piece he’s currently working on — he sends you a blurry picture of it, half-finished, peonies splashed across a canvas in hues soft as whispered secrets.

And slowly, almost unknowingly, the space between your heartbeats grows smaller.

You don’t know what this is yet. But it’s something. And for the first time in a long while, that something feels worth reaching for.

The messages start slow. A meme here, a flower pun there. He sends you a picture of a vase he walked past, saying it “reminded him of you” and you don’t know whether to laugh or overanalyze the shape of the glass for hidden meaning. You ask him if he’s always this dramatic.

hyunjin 🌸: only when i’m suffering for love

you: so… always?

hyunjin 🌸: you get me 😔

He tells you about dance practice. About how his muscles ache in places he didn’t know existed. You tell him about a customer who asked for “romantic but not like… desperate” flowers, and how you panicked and gave them a bunch of peonies and one random daffodil. He tells you that’s art.

You find yourself reaching for your phone more than usual. Smiling at nothing. Typing and deleting and retyping messages just to get the tone right. Sometimes you stop to ask yourself what this is, what you’re doing, what he’s doing — but you never really answer. You just keep texting.

One night, as the moon filters through your window and the city hums in its low, exhausted lull, he asks:

hyunjin 🌸: when’s the last time you felt happy for real?

You hesitate. Your fingers hover over the keyboard. It’s too much. Too intimate. Too close.

But then…

you: i think i’m still figuring that out

There’s a pause. Not long, but just long enough to make your chest ache.

hyunjin 🌸: then i’ll wait. until you know. and i hope i’m there when you do.

You stare at those words for a long time. They don’t ask for anything. They don’t push. They just sit there, soft and warm, like a coat held open in the cold.

you: i hope you are too.

He doesn’t text anything else that night, but in the morning, he sends a photo of a flower sketch on his notebook. You can tell he did it during breakfast, the coffee stain bleeding into the corner of the page.

It’s a peony. Again.

But this one’s drawn next to a single word: you.

The texting continues. Not constant, but consistent — like a heartbeat you’ve learned to sync your own with. You tell yourself it’s harmless, this connection. Just friendship. Just flower jokes and art talk and emotional over-sharing at 2:00 a.m.

Except sometimes he says things that make your breath catch.

hyunjin 🌸: if your laugh was a color it’d be the kind you only find in oil pastels. the one you can’t name but always pick first.

You respond with a laughing emoji and something dumb like, “you’re so weird lol” — but the truth is, your hands shake a little when you type.

Late one night, the texts come slower. More spaced out. Each reply feels like it carries weight. Like he’s not just replying — he’s thinking about it. Feeling it.

hyunjin 🌸: you make it feel easier. being myself, i mean.

you: you don’t have to try so hard. i like you just like this.

And then, right after you send it, panic blooms in your chest. You didn’t mean to say it like that — not like that. You nearly follow up with something stupid to cover it — “like a friend lol” or “like, you’re not annoying” — but before you can, he replies:

hyunjin 🌸: i’ve been smiling at my phone for five minutes. jeongin says i look like a loser.

Cut to Hyunjin, actually sprawled on the couch, cheeks pink and phone clutched to his chest. Jeongin's on the floor nearby, eating cereal straight from the box, watching him like he’s a particularly dumb romance drama.

“Is this what falling in love looks like?” Jeongin says around a mouthful of cornflakes.

Hyunjin kicks at him. Misses. “Shut up.”

“You smiled at your phone like, five times in ten seconds. You’re giddy. Like, soap opera giddy. I’m embarrassed for you.”

“I’m not giddy,” Hyunjin mutters, immediately checking his phone again. Still no reply. “It’s just nice. Talking to her.”

“Is she pretty?” Jeongin asks, grinning.

“She’s—” Hyunjin pauses. Looks away. Then shrugs. “She’s… warm.”

Jeongin makes a fake gagging sound, but his smile is real. He watches as Hyunjin sighs, flops over dramatically, and types out something before deleting it again.

“What were you gonna say?” Jeongin teases.

Hyunjin covers his face with a pillow. “I almost said I miss her.”

“You saw her three days ago,” Jeongin howls.

“Exactly,” Hyunjin whines into the pillow. “I’m down bad.”

Meanwhile, you stare at your phone too, rereading the conversation, your heart flip-flopping.

You want to tell him that your days feel lighter. That sometimes when you water the flowers in the shop, you imagine which ones he’d sketch. That the sound of a new message from him makes your pulse skip in a way that’s both terrifying and addictive.

You almost text him: I think you’re changing me.

But you don’t.

Instead, you send a blurry picture of a sunbeam through your flower shop window with the caption:

you: i think today’s a good day.

hyunjin 🌸: i think it is too.

It’s not even noon when the doorbell chimes, and you look up from the tulips you’re arranging to find… well. Two very suspicious customers.

One wears a neon orange beanie pulled low over his brows and a pair of dark sunglasses that look straight out of a bad spy movie. The other has a fake mustache that’s already peeling off and a brown hoodie zipped all the way up to his chin. Neither of them is very tall. Or very subtle.

“...Hi,” you say slowly, suppressing a smile. “Can I help you?”

They freeze.

Seungmin is the first to crack, pulling off the sunglasses with a resigned sigh. “I told you this was dumb, Jeongin.”

Jeongin takes off his moustache, already grinning. “It wasn’t dumb. It was undercover investigative work.”

You lean on the counter, amused. “So, let me guess. Hyunjin sent you?”

“Hyunjin sent you, didn’t he?”

Jeongin shakes his head, sheepish. “Actually, we came on our own. He’s been so… lovesick. We had to see what was making him act like a main character in a drama.”

“Well, he does have the hair for it,” you tease.

“Do you guys want a cookie?” you ask, motioning toward the little plate on the counter. “I baked them this morning. I was kind of hoping Hyunjin might stop by.”

Jeongin gasps. “They’re for him?”

“Not all of them,” you say quickly, cheeks warming. “I just thought—he’s been sweet, and I figured—never mind.”

Seungmin picks one up and takes a bite without hesitation. “These are so good.”

Jeongin makes a delighted sound, grabbing two. “He’s going to cry when we bring these back.”

“Oh, he’s going to implode,” Seugmin mutters.

When they get back to the dorm, Hyunjin is lounging on the couch in a hoodie that's way too big, sketchbook open beside him but blank. Seungmin wordlessly tosses him a tin box.

“What’s this?”

“From your flower girl,” Seungmin deadpans.

Hyunjin sits up so fast the sketchbook flies off the couch. “She made these?”

“She recognized us in, like, two seconds,” Jeongin says proudly. “Said she was hoping you’d show up.”

Hyunjin opens the box, sees the little note tucked inside—thought these might sweeten your day ✿—and just about melts into a puddle on the living room floor.

Without thinking, without second-guessing, he dials your number.

You’re just wiping down the shop counter when your phone rings.

Hyunjin 🌸.

You answer in less than two rings.

"Did your undercover agents find their way back to you safely?" you ask as soon as the line connects, making Hyunjin chuckle out loud.

“Oh they did,” he says, voice a little breathless. “Sorry. I didn’t even text first, I just—got the cookies and I kind of panicked.”

You smile into the phone. “You panicked?”

“I’m not good at normal human interactions when I’m happy,” he says. “Or sad. Or neutral. Or—actually, I’m just not good at them in general.”

You laugh again, leaning against the wall. “Did you like them?”

“Like them?” He sounds mildly offended. “I almost cried. I might’ve cried. There are witnesses but they can’t be trusted.”

“I’m glad,” you say softly.

There’s a pause, quiet but full. You can almost hear his thoughts.

“I want to see you again,” he says. “Like, not accidentally this time. Not with excuses. Would you want to get coffee with me?”

Your heart trips over itself.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I’d like that.”

He lets out a little breath — something between a laugh and a sigh of relief. “Okay. Okay, cool. I’ll text you.”

You’re still smiling when the call ends, the warmth of it lingering in your chest long after you put your phone down.

You spot him before he spots you.

He’s standing outside the café already—fifteen minutes early—wearing a pale blue button-down and dark trousers, his hair tucked behind his ears, fidgeting with something wrapped in brown kraft paper. He’s rocking slightly on his heels, glancing down the street every few seconds. His nerves are obvious, and a little endearing.

You take a deep breath and walk up to him.

He notices you instantly. His whole posture straightens, and then melts. “Hi,” he says, a little too loudly, and immediately flushes. “You came.”

“Of course,” you smile, heart drumming a little faster in your chest. “I said I would.”

He offers you the awkwardly wrapped thing in his hands, his fingers fluttering around the edges like he’s debating snatching it back.

“I, um. Made something for you.”

You glance at it, eyebrows raised. “You painted something?”

He nods quickly. “It’s not—like—it’s not a big deal or anything. Just something small. I—I paint flowers a lot, and I was thinking about… cherry blossoms. How they’re delicate but kind of stubborn, too. Like they always come back. No matter how harsh the winter.”

You carefully undo the twine and peel the paper back.

Inside is a delicate, soft watercolor painting. Pale pink blossoms stretch across the page, their petals half-bloomed, some falling, some clinging to the branches. There’s light in it. Air. Motion. And something tender beneath all that softness.

“It’s beautiful,” you whisper, eyes still on the piece. “Thank you.”

His ears go red. “I didn’t know what to say. So I thought I’d paint something instead.”

“You say plenty,” you murmur, finally meeting his eyes. “Even when you don’t say anything at all.”

His mouth parts like he’s about to respond, but then he just smiles—lopsided and loopy—and pushes the door open for you.

The café is cozy, tucked away from the main road, filled with bookshelves and low hanging plants. You sit across from each other in a little booth by the window, the painting resting safely on the bench beside you. There’s a gentle buzz of other people’s conversations, the clink of cups and soft hum of jazz filtering through the speakers.

He orders a vanilla latte with cinnamon and you ask for an iced honey milk tea. Somehow that leads into a conversation about childhood comfort drinks, which shifts into favorite animated movies, and before you know it, he’s pulling out his phone to show you his collection of Ghibli phone charms.

You’re laughing again—more than you have in a long time.

Every now and then, you catch him staring, eyes soft and completely unguarded.

He’s so open when he looks at you. Like he already knows. Like he’s just waiting for you to know too.

And you’re not quite ready—but you’re closer than you were.

The weeks unfold like petals — slowly, delicately, one by one.

Your lives don’t make space for each other easily, not with his endless rehearsals, recordings, and stylings, nor with your early mornings and late nights at the flower shop. But somehow, you find the time.

Sometimes it’s a ten-minute walk shared after his practice ends and before your shift begins. Other times, it’s him slipping into the shop near closing time, hair still damp from a shower, asking if you’d like to split a pastry from the bakery next door.

There’s a late-night ramen run after he wraps a shoot, where he insists on carrying your umbrella even though it’s barely drizzling. A quiet afternoon in the park when both of your schedules miraculously align. A shared cup of chamomile tea in the shop’s back room, where you let him rest his head on your shoulder for a stolen five minutes.

It’s not much. But it’s enough. And somehow, enough turns into everything.

The announcement comes in the middle of a whirlwind week.

Hyunjin is leaving for Milan—again. A last-minute request from the Versace team for a campaign shoot that will take place over the course of several packed days. He’ll be flying out tomorrow morning and won’t be back until the end of next week.

It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last. But this time feels different.

Maybe because of the way he’s been waking up with your name at the edge of his thoughts. Or the way he’s been saving photos of peonies in a folder labeled after your flower shop. Maybe it’s because for the first time in a while, leaving Seoul doesn’t make him excited—it makes him uneasy.

He wants to see you before he goes. He needs to.

The night before his trip, you’re finishing up the final arrangements for a morning delivery. The shop is quiet, glowing under soft yellow light, the scent of eucalyptus and garden roses lingering in the air.

The bell above the door jingles, and you look up—expecting no one, considering the late hour—but there he is.

Hyunjin, in a hoodie and sweatpants, no makeup, no cameras, no performance. Just him.

He’s holding a bouquet of his own this time—small, charmingly uneven, clearly self-made. A mix of peonies, your favorite.

You blink. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

He grins, stepping in, the door clicking shut behind him. “Had to say goodbye properly.”

You fold the ribbon you were working with and set it down, your smile already tugging at your lips. “You’re only gone a week.”

“I know,” he says, crossing the floor toward you, “but it’s a week too long.”

He says it so easily, like it’s fact. Like it’s gravity.

You don’t know how he does that—makes longing sound romantic instead of desperate. But then again, that’s just who he is. Hyunjin, the boy who paints cherry blossoms and wears his heart like it’s part of his outfit.

He reaches for your hand, fingers brushing against yours gently, like he's still afraid to be too much.

“I’ll miss you,” he says.

You don’t look away this time. “I’ll miss you too.”

Then he steps forward, and without overthinking, without asking, without trembling—he wraps his arms around you.

It’s not a light hug. It’s full-bodied, meaningful, the kind you can feel through skin and bone, into the soft parts of yourself that still ache from the past. You bury your face in his shoulder, your hands pressed to his back, holding on tight. Neither of you speak, and the silence doesn’t feel empty.

After a long beat, he leans back just enough to meet your eyes.

“I’ll text you every day,” he says with a crooked smile. “Even if I’m exhausted. Even if it’s just emojis.”

“You better,” you tease, trying not to show just how tightly your chest is pulling.

He pulls the bouquet from where he had set it down and hands it to you. “Take care of these while I’m gone. Like… babysit them or something.”

You laugh. “I’ll keep them alive for you.”

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For being someone I want to come back to.”

He squeezes your hand one more time, and then he’s gone. And you stand there, flowers in your arms, heart blooming wild.

You water the peonies he left you every night.

Not because they need it that often, but because it gives you an excuse to stand in front of them and remember the way he looked when he gave them to you — like he was trying to say something bigger than his words allowed. Like the bouquet was a stand-in for everything he didn’t yet know how to express.

You miss him already. And that surprises you.

It’s only been a day.

He hasn’t even had time to message you yet — you keep reminding yourself of that. He’s flying across the world, probably trying to adjust to time zones, maybe sleeping, maybe going over schedules with his team.

Still, your thoughts spiral. You don’t want them to, but they do.

It’s not Hyunjin’s fault. It’s the ghosts from before.

You’ve been here once — too recently. Pacing the floor, phone in hand, refreshing your messages like they might suddenly light up. A partner who promised they’d call once they landed. Who didn’t. Who let a whole week go by. Who came back different. Cold. Distant. And later, not alone.

It wrecked something in you. Made you flinch at the sound of silence. Made you feel like the moment someone is far enough away, they forget what your voice sounds like. Forget what your smile looks like. Forget you.

And Hyunjin—he’s not yours. You’re not dating. You haven’t kissed. He never promised you anything. You don’t even know what this is. You tell yourself you have no right to be anxious.

But that doesn’t stop the ache.

You keep telling yourself it’s fine. That you’re fine.

Until your phone buzzes.

And his name lights up your screen.

Hyunjin 🌸 landed safely ♡ this flight was so long omg. i think my legs are permanently asleep. but i saw this cloud that looked like a cat with a top hat and i really wanted to show you. miss the flower shop smell already. also. espresso here sucks. just thought you should know.

You laugh — really laugh — at your screen. Like it’s the first time your lungs have worked all day. You read the message three times, letting it soak in. You don’t realize you’re crying a little until one of the tears falls on the counter beside the flowers.

It’s stupid. Or maybe it’s not.

Because maybe this is what healing looks like — being scared and showing up anyway. Maybe that’s what Hyunjin is doing too.

You wipe your eyes and write him back.

You glad u survived the flight i expect photographic proof of the cloud-cat and a full espresso review series also. the peonies miss you.

You hesitate.

Then, after a breath:

You so do i.

You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.

And for the first time in a long time, your chest doesn’t feel so heavy.

Hyunjin flops onto the hotel bed, arm flung dramatically over his eyes like a love-struck character in a historical drama. He’s already shed his airport layers, but the ache of distance clings to him more stubbornly than jet lag.

He sighs. Loudly. For the fifth time in a row.

No text back yet. Okay — maybe it’s only been four minutes since he sent I miss you too flower girl ♡, but time feels different when he’s an ocean away from the person who’s been occupying most of his thoughts.

He grabs his phone and taps on Changbin’s contact without thinking, pressing it to his ear while flopping around like a dying poet.

Changbin answers on the third ring.

“Yo—”

“I miss her so much I might die,” Hyunjin moans into the phone before Changbin can get a word in.

A pause.

“Hyunjin,” Changbin says, voice suspiciously flat.

“What?” Hyunjin whines.

“You’re on speaker.”

Hyunjin freezes.

There’s a beat of silence. Then:

“Oh no,” Han’s voice pipes in, gleeful and amused. “Did he say he’s gonna die again? Is this the third time today?”

“I knew it,” Chan adds, half-laughing, half-sighing. “I told you the second he left the country he’d spiral.”

Hyunjin bolts upright in bed. “Why would you put me on speaker?!”

“Because you’ve called me four times in twelve hours,” Changbin says, exasperated but fond. “I figured I could multitask.”

“I can’t believe this betrayal. Is nothing sacred?!” Hyunjin wails.

“Just admit you’re in love already,” Han laughs. “You’re like a Victorian widow pacing her balcony.”

“I’m not in love,” Hyunjin snaps, which would be more convincing if he wasn’t wrapped in a blanket like a tragic character from a period drama.

“You called me crying because she said she missed you,” Changbin reminds him. “That was five minutes ago.”

“That’s because she’s so cute,” Hyunjin says helplessly, falling back onto the bed with a groan. “And I’m here, and she’s there, and I should be there too, giving her all the peonies in the world and drawing her a new flower every day—”

“Hyunjin,” Chan says, and something about the quiet firmness of his voice cuts through the chaos.

Hyunjin stills.

“Take a breath.”

He does.

“You’re okay,” Chan says gently. “And so is she. You’re both allowed to take your time with this. You don’t have to rush it just because it feels big.”

“But it is big,” Hyunjin says softly. “I feel like—like I already care so much and we haven’t even had our first kiss yet. It’s terrifying, hyung. What if I mess it up?”

“You won’t,” Chan replies without hesitation. “Because you care. That’s the whole point. You’re not trying to impress her — you’re just trying to be real. And if you keep doing that, she’ll see it.”

Hyunjin swallows. His throat feels thick.

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

There’s a beat, then Han adds brightly, “Also, next time maybe don’t confess your undying devotion while on speaker.”

Hyunjin groans and hangs up.

But when he rolls over, the phone clutched to his chest, he’s smiling.

Because they’re right. This isn’t the end of the world. It might just be the beginning.

The days pass like a slow drizzle—soft and constant, each drop a whisper of him.

For Hyunjin, mornings begin with rehearsals under harsh white lights. The creative team debates angles and styling, whether his posture reads “dreamlike elegance” or “melancholic weight.” He nods, listens, complies. But as soon as there’s a break, his phone lights up with your name.

Hyunjin🌸 just ate the worst salad of my life do i get a reward for surviving it?

You is the reward a cookie or a hug?

Hyunjin🌸 why not both 🥺 i’m writing a haiku about you rn it’s called “girl who is prettier than all of Milan combined”

And you, surrounded by blooms and soft ribbons, smile down at your screen, fingers still stained green from eucalyptus and ivy. The shop smells of jasmine and new beginnings. Between customers, you steal glances at your phone, your cheeks pinkening more than you’d ever admit.

At night, Hyunjin calls — from hotel rooms that echo with emptiness. He tells you about the shoot, the stylist who thinks cream suits him better than grey, a cat on the street that reminded him of your resting expression. You laugh, curled up in bed, his voice filling the quiet space like warm light.

When he falls asleep mid-call, mouth slightly open, face tilted toward the screen—you don’t hang up. You just listen to him breathe until your eyes close too.

He sends pictures sometimes — magnolias blooming along an old Milanese wall, a labradoodle eyeing their owner's gelato, a folded napkin shaped like a crane. You send him snapshots from the flower shop: the first peony delivery of the week, a spilled bucket of baby’s breath, a note a little girl wrote to her mother tucked in a bouquet.

Neither of you say it out loud. But something grows quietly, steadily — like roots beneath soil.

The closer the day of his return comes, the heavier your chest feels. It’s like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, heart pounding louder with every step back from the safety of the ledge.

Because this—what’s happening between you and Hyunjin—it’s no longer just a sweet story unfolding. It’s real. It’s serious. And with that reality comes a flood of nerves you don’t know how to control. What if your fragile heart, still tender from before, breaks again? What if distance and schedules and the whole chaotic world of idols pull him away? What if you’re just fooling yourself?

You catch yourself staring at your phone more than you’d like to admit, waiting, hoping for just one message that eases the swirl of doubt inside you.

Then, finally, the day arrives.

Hyunjin steps through the door of the flower shop, arms overloaded with bags, boxes, and paper-wrapped parcels. You blink, barely able to process the mountain of gifts in his hands, some with that unmistakable Versace label boldly shining back at you.

“Whoa,” you say, stepping back with a mix of amusement and mild panic. “You didn’t have to do all this…”

He grins, clearly delighted with the sight of your flustered expression. “I know, I know. But—wait till you hear this.” He pulls a small note from one of the packages, waving it like a trophy.

“I told Donatella about you. How you take care of me, how you make me feel at home even when I’m miles away.” He laughs softly, eyes bright. “She said, and I quote: ‘Whoever makes the Versace Prince happy should be spoiled rotten by no other than me.’ So, this is her way of taking care of you, the one that made the staff confiscate my phone during photoshoots.”

You stare at him, a mix of shock and warmth flooding your chest. Somehow, this ridiculous, over-the-top gesture of his makes everything feel a little less scary.

“I can’t take all this,” you say again, shaking your head.

Hyunjin steps closer, voice dropping to a softer tone. “You don’t have to keep anything you don’t want. Just keep me.”

And with that, the nervousness inside you softens, replaced by a cautious hope—the fragile kind, but hope nonetheless.

Maybe, just maybe, this time, the ashes won’t swallow you whole. Maybe this time, you’ll rise.

You reach out hesitantly and take one of the smaller packages from his hands, the delicate wrapping crinkling softly between your fingers. The rest of the gifts sit forgotten for a moment as your eyes meet, searching, unspoken words lingering in the space between you.

Hyunjin’s smile falters just a little, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. He steps closer, closing the distance until you can feel the warmth of his breath.

“You deserve the world and more,” he whispers, as if answering every silent worry you’ve held inside. “Just let me do this one thing...”

Your heart thunders in your chest, the world around you fading into quiet shadows as your fingers brush against his cheek. The faint roughness of his skin sends a ripple through you — grounding, real.

Slowly, hesitantly, his lips meet yours. Not rushed, not desperate — but steady, sweet, as if each second is a promise. A promise that he’s here. That he’s not going anywhere.

Your hands find their way to the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, as his arms wrap gently around your waist. The kiss deepens just slightly, tender and unhurried, filled with every feeling you hadn’t dared to voice — longing, hope, relief.

When you finally pull back, just enough to catch your breath, you’re both smiling, eyes shimmering with something new and fragile.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Hyunjin says quietly, voice thick with emotion. “I’m yours.”

But instead of leaning into that warmth, a wave of fear rises in your chest—familiar and sharp. You pull back gently, searching his eyes with a hesitant, fragile hope.

“I… I need some time,” you say softly, your voice trembling just a little. “I’m still healing. I don’t want to start something when I’m not fully ready. It wouldn’t be fair to you—or to me.”

Hyunjin nods slowly, understanding in his gaze, no pressure, only patience.

“But I promise you this,” you continue, your hand finding his. “When I’m whole again—when I’m truly ready—you’ll be the first person I call. You’ll be the first person I trust with my heart.”

He smiles, that easy, gentle smile that makes your chest ache with longing and relief all at once.

“I’ll wait,” he says simply. “No matter how long it takes.”

And in that moment, you believe him.

To the world, Hyunjin is calm, composed, the perfect gentleman—careful with his words, gentle in his messages, always understanding when you need space. He knows how to mask the storm inside, how to keep his heartbreak silent, so it doesn’t add any weight to your healing.

But when the screen goes dark and silence settles, the real Hyunjin emerges—the one who lies awake at night, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment you shared, every laugh, every touch. He counts the days like a ritual, marking each one off the calendar, hoping the next will be the day you say yes.

He’s dramatic, of course—because what else can he be when his heart feels like it’s on fire and freezing at the same time? He texts you little reminders that he’s here, that he’s waiting, but underneath it all, he’s quietly begging the universe to be patient with him too.

Every morning, he wakes up hoping the ache will be less, but it never is. Yet he never lets you see that side of him. Because loving you means being strong for you—even if he’s breaking apart inside.

Hyunjin’s fingers hover over his phone, thumb trembling ever so slightly. It’s past midnight in Seoul, but he swipes the screen to send one more message anyway.

Hyunjin 🥀 hey, i hope you’re sleeping well. if not, i hope these old goth lullabies help. 🎶 missed you today.

He hits “send” before second-guessing himself, then watches the three blue dots float on his screen—your “typing” indicator. His breath catches.

You i’m still awake. those lullabies are perfect. thank you. 💚

He stares at the reply, all the tension in his chest loosening for a second. But as soon as he lets out a breath, he feels it again—an ache in his heart, the reminder that you're somewhere he isn’t. He types again.

Hyunjin 🥀 i drew something for you today—peonies under the moonlight. i’ll send it when i land. sleep well.

He reads and rereads those words, then locks his phone and places it on the bedside table, lying back as if trying to anchor himself to something solid. Each thought of you lights a small fire in his chest—warm and wonderful, but still a burn that gnaws at him when he’s alone.

The green room is quiet—unusually so. Outside the door, chaos buzzes: staff pacing with headsets, the boys yelling over each other about wardrobe and mic checks, the electric tension of a sold-out show pressing against the walls. But here, on the worn velvet couch tucked into the corner, it’s still. It’s safe.

Hyunjin sinks into the cushions, elbows on his knees, fingers tangled in his hair. He doesn’t need much—just a moment where he can exhale.

He almost doesn’t notice her until she speaks.

“You okay?”

Han’s girlfriend, the PR manager, is sitting cross-legged on the other side of the couch, a tablet in her lap, stylus forgotten in her hand. She’s not in her usual whirlwind of wrangling interviews or prepping photo releases—just there, hoodie zipped halfway, her badge swinging slightly as she leans in, eyes soft and knowing.

Hyunjin blinks, caught. “Yeah. Just… collecting myself.”

She tilts her head, studying him. “You’ve been quiet today.”

“Don’t I always get like this before shows?”

“You get focused,” she corrects gently. “This is different. It’s not nerves.”

He presses his palms together and stares at the floor. “She’s still not ready. I told her I’d wait, and I am. But it’s starting to hurt in places I didn’t know could ache.”

She sets her tablet aside and shifts to face him more fully. “You love her.”

“Too much, maybe.” He laughs without humor. “It’s like… I’m counting days. Like I’m on pause, but life keeps moving, and I just keep hoping that tomorrow will be the one where she finally calls to say she’s ready.”

“And in the meantime?” she asks softly.

“I think about her. All the time. Wondering if she’s thinking about me too or if she’s forgetting. I try not to spiral, but sometimes it’s hard not to feel like I burned too bright, too fast, and now she’s just trying to recover.”

She nods, her tone gentle. “You didn’t burn her, Hyunjin. You gave her warmth. Something safe. And even fire can be kind, when it’s in the right hands.”

He turns to look at her, eyes wet but holding. “You think she’ll come back?”

“I think,” she says, “that the second she’s ready to love again, it’ll be you. Because no one’s ever waited for her like this. No one’s ever believed in her healing like you have.”

Before he can respond, the green room door swings open with a thud, and Seungmin’s girlfriend, the stage manager, stomps in, fury in her eyes. “I swear to god, if Seungmin hides Jisung’s socks one more time—”

From somewhere in the hallway, Jisung’s dramatic yell follows: “I told you, the green ones! The fuzzy ones! For my energy!”

Jisung's girlfriend winces and groans under her breath. “I have to go. Han’s gonna start crying about his aesthetic in three… two…”

Another wail echoes through the hall. “They don’t match my vibe anymore!!”

She stands, brushing imaginary dust off her knees. “This has been emotional and sacred, but unfortunately my job is now sock-related damage control. You good?”

Hyunjin cracks a tired smile. “Yeah. I think I needed that.”

She pats his shoulder. “You’re gonna be okay, Hyunjin. She’s lucky. Just don’t lose hope.”

And then she’s gone—vanishing into the fray of chaos and cotton blend footwear disasters, leaving Hyunjin on the couch, still aching, but somehow lighter.

Weeks pass. Flights land. Time zones shift. But Hyunjin’s routine remains the same: practice, brief texts, lonely nights. One morning, he wakes before sunrise—still jet-lagged from recent returns—and the sky outside the window is the faintest hint of dawn.

He sits up in bed, phone propped on his chest. He hesitates, then taps your contact.

Hyunjin 🥀 good morning. i know it’s early, but i couldn’t sleep. i just wanted to say i’m thinking of you.

He hits send, then slides down, hugging the pillow as if you could be there. He closes his eyes, but tears slip out anyway, warm droplets against his skin.

I’m thinking of you, he repeats in his mind. I’m here for you, even when I’m not. He breathes through the ache, willing himself to believe that one day soon, his patient waiting will pay off.

The phone buzzes on Hyunjin’s bedside table well past midnight. He fumbles for it, heart already racing when he sees your name light up the screen.

He answers on the first ring.

“Hyunjin?” you say, voice soft, trembling.

“Hey,” he whispers, concern and relief laced together. “You’re up.”

You swallow, drawing in a breath that rumbles through the speaker. “I’ve been thinking… about everything. About how I thought I was supposed to burn everything I was—my past, my broken pieces—come back brand new, like a phoenix the moment I met you.”

He holds his breath.

“But I was deeply, deeply mistaken,” you continue. “Because I wasn’t ready when I met you, baby boy. I wasn’t whole. And instead of rising, I ended up burning you, too.”

His chest tightens, but he waits.

“Every peony you painted—every rose you sent—every single flower, every painting… it made me rage inside even more, because I felt like I was betraying myself, but also betraying you.”

Silence.

“But now,” you murmur, voice steadier, brimming with a new kind of strength, “I’m healed. I finally feel the ashes beneath my feet, and I know what it means to burn without being consumed. And if you want it… if you still want me… I’m ready to burn together with you. So we can rise from the ashes together, stronger than before.”

His heart thunders. He inhales, as if he’s been holding his breath this entire time.

“Stronger,” he repeats, voice thick.

“Yes,” you whisper, “stronger.”

A tear slips from his eye. “I’ve been waiting for this, my flower girl,” he says—his voice catching on your nickname, and you know he means it. “I’ve been waiting every single day.”

You breathe out, relief and longing mingling on your exhale. “I’m here,” you say.

And somewhere between the night and the promise of dawn, two hearts ready to burn—together—finally begin to rise.

Hyunjin doesn’t waste a second. As soon as your call ends, he makes the arrangements — sending a driver to pick you up, determined to see you in person as soon as possible.

The city blurs past the windows as you sit in the backseat, heart pounding with a mixture of nerves and hope. Every passing light feels like a countdown to the moment you’ve both been waiting for.

When the car pulls up outside his dorm building, you barely have time to gather your thoughts before the door opens, and there he is — Hyunjin, eyes searching for you with that familiar mix of tenderness and longing.

Without a word, he closes the distance between you.

His hands cup your face gently, as if afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

And then—finally—you share a kiss.

Slow, sweet, and full of every emotion you’ve both been holding back: hope, relief, love, and a promise of new beginnings.

It’s the kiss that says, we made it through. We’re here now, together.

And in that moment, nothing else matters but the two of you, finally burning and rising side by side.

After the kiss, Hyunjin gently takes your hand, leading you up to the apartment he shares with Changbin—a familiar, safe place that feels just right for this moment.

Once inside, you both sink into the worn but comfy couch, the silence between you filled with the warmth of finally being together again. Words tumble out—soft laughter, gentle confessions, stories of the days spent apart—each one stitching the distance between you back into closeness.

Slowly, exhaustion settles over you both. Hyunjin pulls you closer, your heads resting against each other, hearts beating in quiet sync. The outside world fades away, and you drift into sleep, tangled together under a soft blanket.

Morning light peeks in when Changbin steps into the living room, only to freeze at the sight of you both cuddled up, peaceful and content. A smirk crosses his face as he quietly snaps a photo, then taps on his phone to send it to the Stray Kids group chat.

The photo became legendary.

You and Hyunjin, tangled up under a fluffy blanket on the living room couch, your head tucked against his chest, his arms wound around your waist like he never wanted to let go. The two of you had fallen asleep like that, without meaning to — just talking, catching up, wrapped in the kind of quiet that only comes after longing.

The group chat lit up.

Seungmin demanded physical copies. Han threatened to frame the photo and hang it in the studio. Bang Chan, ever the calm center of the chaos, simply said, “Finally. I can sleep in peace now too.”

Since that night, something shifted. Things started to feel normal. Or—your version of normal. Late-night FaceTime calls. Secret café dates with hats pulled low. Hyunjin sketching you when you weren’t looking. You slipping notes into his coat pocket for the mornings he had to leave early.

You found a rhythm. Quiet, easy, fragile in all the right ways.

The drama didn’t disappear — not with Hyunjin. But it became something soft. Something sweet.

Hyunjin ♥️ [3:12 PM] baby 😔

Hyunjin ♥️ [3:12 PM] i miss u it's been three hours three. hours.

Hyunjin ♥️ [3:13 PM] i’m wilting like a flower without sunlight i’m the sunlight. you’re the flower. or vice versa. idk. either way i’m dying.

You [3:14 PM] You saw me this morning.

Hyunjin ♥️ [3:14 PM] and it wasn’t enough i’m touch starved. love starved. you-starved.

You [3:14 PM] baby boy 🥺 you’re so dramatic. I promise, the second you finish work, I’ll be waiting with open arms and snacks.

Hyunjin ♥️ [3:15 PM] snacks??? 😭 you do love me

You [3:15 PM] Of course I love you. Even when you’re this unreasonably clingy 🩷

Hyunjin ♥️ [3:16 PM] unreasonably clingy? i’m literally fighting for my life out here without your hand in mine 😭

You [3:16 PM] Finish your schedule, Romeo. And then you can cling all you want.

Hyunjin ♥️ [3:16 PM] 😌 i shall cling with purpose also i’m quoting that. putting it in my Notes app. "Finish your schedule, Romeo." iconic.

As promised, you waited. Curled up on Hyunjin’s bed in one of his oversized hoodies, your phone tucked beside you, waiting for the telltale buzz that meant he was on his way. He didn’t even knock when he arrived — just barreled through the door, dropped his bag with a sigh of exhaustion, and found you immediately.

You barely had time to sit up before he flopped face-first onto the bed beside you, mumbling something like, “Three hours, baby. I almost perished.”

You laughed, smoothing your hand through his sweat-mussed hair. “You survived.”

“Barely,” he whined, already worming himself into your side. “I missed your face. And your voice. And your hands. And your soul.”

You kissed his forehead in reply.

The hours that followed were lazy. He changed into a soft black tee and sweatpants, disappearing briefly into the kitchen before returning with two steaming mugs of tea and a plate of sliced fruit — all arranged with unnecessary drama, like he was hosting a Michelin-starred tasting.

You rolled your eyes fondly and let him feed you a strawberry anyway.

Later, you both lay on the couch, legs tangled, your head tucked under his chin as a muted drama played in the background. Hyunjin kept up a steady stream of commentary — unnecessarily emotional reactions, yelling at the screen, pausing every so often to kiss the top of your head like he couldn’t help it.

Eventually, you started sketching together. His fingers brushed against yours as he handed you a colored pencil, your knees touching under the table. You didn’t talk much. Just the scratch of graphite and the sound of Hyunjin humming under his breath — some unreleased melody from the studio, probably.

As night settled in, the two of you stood shoulder to shoulder brushing your teeth, spitting and laughing and bumping into each other in the cramped bathroom. You caught him watching you in the mirror, toothpaste foam clinging to the corner of his lips.

“What?”

“You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” he mumbled around his toothbrush.

You spit and swatted him. “You’re gross.”

He just smiled.

That night, you fell asleep with his hand curled around yours, your bodies wrapped in warm sheets and the faint scent of chamomile tea still clinging to the air. The city buzzed softly outside the window, but inside, everything was quiet. Everything was full.

There’s something deeply sacred about a Phoenix. It doesn’t just die—it burns. Consumed entirely by its own fire, it disintegrates into ashes, hollowed out by a flame that once gave it flight. It’s not a quiet ending. It’s a spectacle. Bright. Violent. Beautiful in its destruction. And then… silence.

But from that silence—when the last ember dims and the air is thick with smoke—it breathes again. A soft flutter. A spark. Fragile wings unfurling in the dark. Not the same creature. Never the same. It’s reborn, yes, but it remembers the burning.

You thought you knew heartbreak—how it razes you to the ground, how every part of you feels molten with loss, how you collapse, how you scorch. You thought healing meant burning everything you were and emerging brand-new the moment your eyes met his. But you were wrong, because you weren’t whole yet. In trying to rise like a phoenix on the instant you found him, you nearly burned him too.

Yet still, from those ashes—smoldering, heavy, unforgettable—you both learned to breathe again. He waited patiently, sending sketches of peonies and midnight lullabies; you took your time, letting the wounds close before reaching for his hand. Every distant message, every late-night call, every soft reunion on the couch became part of a new beginning.

In the end, you didn’t emerge unscathed. You emerged stronger. You emerged together—two hearts that burned, learned, and rose in tandem. Not identical to what you once were, but something more vivid: a shared spark in the darkness, wings trembling yet ready to take flight.

And so, beneath the soft glow of dawn, you rise—no longer ashes, but a promise that love, once it finds you, is worth any blaze.

[writeriguess]

Do you write for Shoto? Because I got the best idea for him after seeing you want more Dabi fics and this relates to Dabi too!

Soooo can you write a fic where Shoto takes it really hard when Dabi reveals his identity (even when he doesn't show it) and reader, who's his girlfriend, comforts him. Shoto asks her if she thinks Touya is still in there and it's just major angst. Thank you!

Ashes Between Us

The name hit him like a physical blow—Touya Todoroki. A ghost from a forgotten past, a brother he barely remembered, a shadow he never truly faced. Shoto stood motionless, the world dissolving into static and silence around him as the broadcast cut through the chaos of battle. Dabi’s cold voice echoed in every corner of Japan, and in that voice was the unbearable truth: Touya was alive. Not the sweet, quiet boy from his fractured memories, but a broken man consumed by fire and pain.

Shoto’s chest tightened painfully. It wasn’t just shock or fear. It was something heavier—grief, guilt, confusion, and a deep, gnawing ache that had nothing to do with the flames burning his brother’s skin. He had been so young when Touya was declared dead, so distant from his family in those early years, locked away in endless training under Endeavor’s demanding gaze. Memories of Touya were faint, like a half-remembered dream—an image of a pale boy with dark eyes, the rare moments they crossed paths swallowed quickly by the pressures and silences between them.

And now, that boy was gone.

He was Dabi.

Later, when the noise of the world faded and the sterile quiet of the medical wing surrounded them, Shoto sat by the window, staring at the rain blurring the city lights. You found him there, pale and rigid, a storm barely held at bay behind his eyes.

“Shoto,” you said softly, settling beside him without a word.

He didn’t answer at first, just kept watching the rain slide down the glass, tracing invisible paths like the broken fragments of his own memories. Finally, his voice cracked the silence.

“Do you think Touya is still inside Dabi?” he whispered, barely audible, but filled with desperate need. “Or… is he gone? Buried beneath all that hatred and fire?”

You took his hand gently, squeezing it. “I think there’s still a part of him in there. Some part worth saving.”

He looked at you then, eyes shimmering with the weight of years no one else saw. “I barely remember him. I was too young when he died—or so I thought. Father locked me away in training. We never saw each other, not really. Sometimes I wonder if I ever knew him at all.”

The ache in his voice was raw. “And now… knowing that he’s become this… this monster… it’s like losing him all over again.”

You swallowed hard, wanting to reach across that distance inside him. “It’s okay to be scared. To be angry or sad. You don’t have to carry it alone.”

Shoto’s jaw tightened. “I’m scared. Scared that if I hadn’t learned to control my emotions, if I’d been left to rot the way Touya was, I’d be him. That I’d be nothing more than a broken tool for Father’s ambition.”

His gaze fell to his hands, clenched tightly in his lap. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m already lost. If this darkness inside me is just waiting to burn through.”

You shook your head gently, your voice firm and steady. “You’re not Touya. You’re not defined by what Father did to you, or by what your brother became. You’re Shoto. You’re stronger than this pain.”

His lips quivered, the walls crumbling for the first time. “I wanted to hate him, you know? To hate what he’s done… but I can’t. Part of me… just wants to find the boy he was. The boy I barely knew. I want to believe he’s still in there, somewhere beneath all the anger and scars.”

You moved closer, your fingers tracing a comforting line along his arm. “Then hold onto that hope. I’m here. And I won’t let you fall into the darkness alone.”

Shoto’s breath hitched, a tear slipping free despite his best effort. “Thank you,” he whispered, voice breaking. “For holding me when I don’t know how to stand.”

You pulled him into your arms, feeling the tremors of his broken heart against your chest. “We’ll face this together. Every fire can be fought, and every scar can be healed. Not because it’s easy, but because you don’t have to do it alone.”

He rested his forehead against yours, the storm inside slowly yielding to the quiet strength between you.

“I’m afraid,” he confessed, voice raw and honest. “Afraid of what he’s become. Afraid of what I might be if I’m not careful.”

“Then let that fear remind you to hold on tighter,” you whispered. “To fight harder. Because you’re not Touya, and you’re not Dabi. You’re Shoto Todoroki. And I love you.”

For the first time since the world fell apart, Shoto let himself believe in a future where pain could be shared, where hope could live even after the darkest fire.

[sunsetmade]

Talks & Kicks

Rafe Cameron x Pregnant! Reader

Summary: Everytime Rafe talks or is near the baby kicks.

She noticed it first on a Tuesday.

It was late afternoon, sunlight soft through the windows of the little house Rafe had half-jokingly called a “fixer-upper” when he bought it. The kind of place he’d once scoffed at—small, quiet, lived-in. The kind of place with creaky floorboards and mismatched mugs, where someone like her would thrive and someone like him would, maybe, finally rest.

She was stretched out on the old couch with a book half-finished in her lap, one hand absently resting against her round stomach. The baby wasn’t due for a while, but she’d felt the fluttering start a few weeks back—little gasps of movement, like butterfly wings flickering behind her ribs.

But today? Today it was different.

The kicks weren’t gentle. They were determined. Like little fists or feet were nudging her, trying to say something.

And it just so happened Rafe had walked in at that exact moment.

Rafe was damp with sweat from his run, chest rising with each breath as he paused in the doorway. His fitted black tee clung to his shoulders and back, the sleeves straining just slightly around his arms. Loose shorts hung low on his hips, and his hair was pushed back haphazardly, tousled from the wind and movement.

He stopped in his tracks the moment he saw her, one brow arching as his eyes swept lazily over her curled-up figure on the couch.

“Well damn,” he drawled, that crooked grin tugging at his lips. “Lookin’ hot, baby.”

His voice was teasing, but there was a low warmth behind it—something softer beneath the smirk he always wore.

She opened her mouth to respond, maybe with a witty remark or something sheepish, but then—another kick thudded against her hand.

She sucked in a sharp breath and sat up straighter, eyes wide. “Wait—did you feel that?”

Rafe blinked, the grin fading as he tilted his head. “Feel what?”

“The baby,” she whispered, voice hushed like she was afraid saying it too loud would make the moment vanish. “It kicked. Like—really kicked.”

His whole posture shifted. The tension in his shoulders eased into something slower, more grounded, and his expression softened in a way that made her heart skip. He took a few steps closer, gaze dropping to her stomach like he could somehow catch a glimpse of the life inside.

“Now?”

She nodded, breathless. “Yeah. Right when you walked in.”

That made him pause for a beat. Then, quietly, he crossed the room and dropped down beside her, the couch dipping under his weight. His hand went to her waist like muscle memory, fingers curling against her side with a familiarity that made her skin tingle. He leaned forward, eyes flicking up to meet hers for a heartbeat before placing his palm gently on the curve of her belly.

They sat in stillness, the only sound the faint hum of the ceiling fan above and Rafe’s steady breath beside her.

Then—another little thump.

Rafe’s hand twitched. He went completely still.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, eyes wide with something close to awe. “That—was that because of me?”

She let out a soft laugh, one hand wrapping around his arm. “Looks like it.”

He didn’t respond at first, just kept his palm pressed firmly to her bump, like he was afraid the connection might slip away if he moved. His thumb began to trace slow, absentminded circles through the fabric of her shirt, his brows drawn together in quiet disbelief.

“That’s my kid in there,” he said after a long silence, voice low and rough.

There was no teasing this time. No cocky grin or offhand joke to deflect the weight of it. Just truth—raw and honest and a little shaken.

She leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder, feeling his warmth soak into her skin.

“Yeah,” she whispered, smiling. “Yours.”

He stayed like that for a long time, hand never leaving her belly, thumb still drawing soft, reverent circles—like he finally understood just how real it all was.

⸻

It kept happening.

Every time he came near, the baby kicked like they knew him. Like they were reaching for him.

She didn’t tell him at first. She liked the secret. Liked knowing that their baby already responded to him before either of them knew what it meant.

But after a few days of watching the pattern repeat—kicks the moment he sat beside her, more movement when he touched her, even a few soft rolls when he whispered something against her bump—she couldn’t keep it in anymore.

They were lying on the couch that night. She was nestled against him, head in his lap, her back against the warmth of his thighs. One of his hands rested on her hip while the other stroked lazy fingers through her hair. He was half-watching a show, but more focused on her than anything else.

His thumb was brushing up and down the side of her neck when she said it.

“They kick more when you’re around.”

He blinked. Looked down. “What?”

She turned her face into his hoodie, cheeks warm. “The baby. They move more when you’re near. When they hear your voice.”

He stared at her for a beat like she’d just said something in another language.

Then his hand slipped from her hip and slid down, slowly, reverently, to her belly. He spread his fingers wide, thumb tracing up the gentle swell.

“You serious?”

She nodded, watching his face.

He kept his hand there—and almost instantly, there it was.

A thump against his palm.

Rafe’s mouth parted slightly. He looked down, eyes blown wide, a stunned kind of awe written all over his usually unreadable face.

“They know me,” he whispered.

“They love you,” she corrected, and his jaw flexed.

Wordlessly, he leaned down and pressed his lips to the soft fabric stretched over her stomach. One kiss, then another, slow and lingering.

“Hey, little peanut,” he murmured into her skin. “Already tryin’ to show off for me, huh?”

She laughed softly, running her fingers through the short hair at the back of his head. “They’re gonna be a little firecracker.”

He smiled, turning his face to press another kiss just above her waistband. “Just like their mom.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m the calm one.”

Rafe leaned in and kissed her, slow and sweet, his thumb tracing small, warm circles into her side as he did. “Nah, baby,” he said against her lips, voice gruff, “you’re the heart.”

⸻

That night, she stirred awake to the sound of his voice.

It wasn’t loud—wasn’t even meant for her, really. Just a low, gravelly murmur floating through the stillness of the dark bedroom, soft and soothing like a lullaby wrapped in engine specs and horsepower.

She blinked her eyes open, lashes brushing the pillow as she rolled onto her side.

Rafe was sitting upright against the headboard, shirtless, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting warm shadows across his chest and collarbones. A worn Car and Driver magazine was open in his lap, clearly something he’d picked up from the stack near the front door. But he wasn’t really reading for himself—he was reading to their baby.

One of his hands rested on her belly, thumb moving in a slow, unconscious rhythm back and forth over the gentle swell. Like even in moments of stillness, he needed to feel connected to her. To them.

“…twin-turbo V8 engine, zero to sixty in four-point-three seconds,” he was saying, his voice a quiet drawl laced with affection. “You hear that, peanut? That’s fast. Way too fast for you until you’re, I dunno—thirty. Minimum.”

She couldn’t help it—her lips curled into a sleepy smile against the pillow.

“You know they can’t actually understand you yet, right?” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.

Rafe jumped slightly, then glanced down at her, sheepish but grinning. That lazy, crooked smile that always made her weak in the best way.

“They can feel it, though,” he said with quiet confidence, eyes dropping back to her belly. “The energy. The voice. My hand. They know I’m here.”

He closed the magazine and set it aside, then slid down to lie beside her. The mattress dipped under his weight as he pulled the blanket over both of them, his arm slipping around her middle to draw her close. Her back pressed against his chest, and he fit around her like he was made to. His other hand settled protectively over her bump again, spreading wide like he wanted to shield everything all at once.

They lay there for a moment, quiet.

Then—thump.

The baby kicked.

Rafe froze for half a second. Then his whole body lit up behind her, his face pressed into her shoulder, breath catching in quiet awe.

“There you go,” he whispered, grin audible in his voice. “See? Told you. They already like me better.”

She rolled her eyes, smiling as she reached back to swat gently at his arm. “You’re already so annoying.”

“And you already love it,” he said, brushing a kiss to the nape of her neck. Slow. Intentional.

His hand stayed on her belly, fingers stroking gentle circles over the curve of it—his kid, right there, just under his touch.

He didn’t say anything else for a long time.

But the way he held her—the way he held them—said enough.

He was already theirs.

⸻

It became a ritual.

Not something they planned or talked about—it just happened. Quiet and natural, folding itself into their evenings like it had always belonged there. Every night, without fail, Rafe read to the baby.

It didn’t matter where they were or what kind of day he’d had. Whether he came home late from a long day of work or was already stretched out on the couch in sweats and a hoodie, he made time. Sometimes it was a magazine he’d picked up at the gas station. Sometimes it was a random article on his phone, muttered aloud as he lounged behind her in bed, one hand splayed protectively over her belly like it was second nature.

Other nights, it was while she moved around the kitchen making tea—Rafe standing behind her, chin hooked over her shoulder, his voice low as he read dramatically off the back of a cereal box like it was Shakespeare. One hand always resting on the gentle swell of her stomach. Always touching.

Sometimes, he sat on the floor with his back against the couch while she curled up above him, her legs draped across his lap. He’d pick up the nearest paperback, crack it open, and start reading without even checking what it was. It didn’t matter. He said it wasn’t about the story—it was about the voice. Their baby learning his.

One night, he reached for a worn old poetry collection from the shelf—one of hers, bent and dog-eared, filled with soft sadness and scribbled notes in the margins.

He flipped it open, brows furrowed as he read the first few lines aloud. Then he paused, deadpan.

“…Do people actually like this stuff baby?”

She looked up from where she was curled beside him and smiled, warm and amused. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s confusing,” Rafe muttered, flipping the page. “No plot. Just a bunch of sad metaphors.”

She leaned over, pressing a kiss to his temple. “You are a sad metaphor half the time.”

He shot her a look—flat, unimpressed—but the corner of his mouth twitched anyway.

“Yeah, well. At least I’ve got better pacing.”

Still, he kept reading. Quietly. Carefully. Even when he stumbled over the rhythm, even when the words didn’t make sense to him, he kept going. His voice softened as he did, falling into a gentle cadence that filled the space between them. His hand stayed on her belly, warm and steady, thumb tracing lazy circles like he was trying to calm the baby—or maybe himself.

Maybe both.

And when the baby kicked, just once, he stilled—then smiled faintly, gaze dropping to her stomach.

And he just kept reading.

⸻

One evening, after a long day of errands and back-and-forth over paint swatches, nursery shelves, and a surprisingly heated debate about crib mattress firmness, she found herself on the back porch, wrapped in one of Rafe’s oversized sweatshirts. The sleeves hung past her fingertips, the fabric warm with the memory of him, and the familiar scent of his cologne lingered in the collar.

She cradled a steaming mug of peppermint tea between her hands. Her feet were swollen, her back throbbed, and the baby was doing somersaults like it had front-row tickets to a concert inside her ribs.

The screen door creaked open behind her.

Rafe stepped out barefoot, his presence grounding as always. Without a word, he slipped his arms around her from behind, his chest warm against her back, his hands finding their place just beneath her bump like they belonged there.

“You okay?” he murmured into the slope of her shoulder, voice gravelly and close.

She leaned back into him with a quiet exhale, her body instinctively giving in to his. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Just tired.”

He kissed the side of her head, slow and sure. “You’re doin’ good, mama,” he said softly, the words sinking into her like warmth.

She swallowed hard, blinking against the prickling behind her eyes. She didn’t need to answer. She didn’t need to move. She just let herself exist in the comfort of him—his hands, his voice, the way he held her like he had no where else to be.

His hands spread wide over her belly again, thumbs brushing slow, rhythmic circles just beneath the curve of her ribs. Steady. Soothing.

Then—kick.

She smiled faintly. “Every time,” she murmured, more to herself than him.

Rafe lifted his head slightly. “Yeah?”

“They’re obsessed with you,” she said, turning her head just enough to glance back at him, her eyes tired but full.

He grinned against her cheek, that boyish, dimpled smile she swore was going to undo her one of these days. His hand shifted upward, cupping the swell of her bump like a prayer. “Good,” he said. “I’m obsessed with them too.”

She turned in his arms fully then, setting the mug down on the porch railing behind her. Her hands slipped under his hoodie, pressing flat against his bare sides as she looked up at him.

And you—his eyes said it before his mouth could.

There was no teasing in them now. No smirk. Just that rare kind of raw openness he only ever gave her. The look that said you’re it for me. The look that made her feel seen all the way down to her bones.

He kissed her then—deep, unhurried, reverent. One hand came up to cup her jaw, fingers brushing the edge of her ear, holding her like she was something precious. His other hand never left her stomach, never stopped protecting. The baby kicked once more, like they knew.

And maybe they did.

⸻

Sometimes, late at night, Rafe would whisper to her belly when he thought she was asleep.

She wasn’t, most of the time.

But she didn’t let him know that. Pretending gave her the space to listen—to really hear him. His voice would go soft, nearly shy, like he was letting himself be vulnerable only in the dark.

“Hey, peanut,” he murmured one night, palm spread warm over the curve of her bump. “I’m kinda new at this. Never done anything like it before. But I’m gonna figure it out. I swear.”

A quiet pause.

“Just… be patient with me, alright?”

Then a soft laugh, a little self-deprecating and fond all at once. “Your mom already is.”

Her throat tightened. She kept her eyes closed, steadying her breathing, letting the tears gather quietly behind her lashes without ever falling.

That was Rafe.

A little rough around the edges, still learning how to speak the language of comfort. But she didn’t need perfect words from him. His devotion was in everything—the way he carried the grocery bags without being asked, the way he always put his hand out to steady her when she stood, the way he held her like she was the whole world.

He didn’t always say it out loud.

But she heard it anyway.

⸻

One night, just a few weeks before her due date, she found him in the nursery.

The room was softly lit by the dim glow of the nightlight shaped like a little moon, casting a warm halo over everything. He was crouched beside the crib, his shirt showing off his forearms, his fingers fiddling intently with the mobile that hung above it. The faint sound of the tiny clouds and stars clinking together was the only noise in the room.

She paused in the doorway, arms folded over the swell of her belly, just watching him.

His back shifted beneath the fitted material of his shirt, strong and solid, and his brows were furrowed in deep concentration like the fate of the entire world rested on the alignment of a stuffed giraffe and a plush crescent moon.

“You gonna talk to them,” she asked softly, amusement in her voice, “or just keep scowling at the clouds?”

Rafe jumped slightly and glanced over his shoulder. “Shit,” he muttered, hand to his chest. “How long you been standing there?”

“Long enough to hear you whisper-cursing at a giraffe.”

He gave her a mock glare, lips twitching. “That giraffe’s been testing me.”

She smiled and stepped closer as he held out a hand. She took it, letting him guide her down gently onto the rug between his legs. He settled her against his chest, arms wrapping around her like instinct, like gravity. One hand came to rest protectively over her bump, the other tucked around her waist, fingers lacing beneath hers.

The baby kicked.

He felt it, and the softest grin tugged at his lips. He leaned forward and kissed just beneath her ear, letting his nose linger in her hair.

“I think they’re excited,” he whispered.

“I think they just want you to read them another truck review,” she teased, her voice low, affectionate.

He let out a dramatic groan. “I’m out of truck reviews. I’ve exhausted every car mag in the house. You’re gonna have to settle for the Owner’s Manual of a 2017 Honda Civic.”

She laughed, quiet and warm, her head tilting until her cheek rested against his shoulder. “As long as it’s your voice,” she said softly, “they’ll love it.”

Rafe didn’t answer right away. He just held her closer, breathing in the smell of her shampoo, the way her body curved perfectly against his. Then he reached for the manual sitting on the nearby shelf—half-joking, half-serious—and cracked it open like it was a sacred text.

And he read.

“…To operate the rear defogger, press the switch. The indicator light will turn on…”

“Rafe..” she chuckled

His voice, low and steady, filled the quiet. One hand resting over her belly. The other tangled with hers. His thumb rubbed soft circles into her skin, and every so often, the baby would flutter in response—like they were listening. Like they knew exactly who that voice belonged to.

In the dim hush of the nursery, where clouds were painted on the ceiling and tiny socks were folded in drawers, something settled in him. Something he didn’t have words for.

He’d never known this kind of quiet joy. Never known the feeling of peace curling into his chest like it belonged there.

But now, with her body leaning into his, with their baby calm beneath his touch, and his voice guiding them through even the dullest pages of a car manual—he knew.

This was it.

Rafe Cameron, once all fire and fury, once nothing but chaos and scars, had found something steady. Something whole.

Right here.

With her.

With them.

[wannaeatramyeon]

Young!Samuel Seo with Young!Reader: Safe Space

G/N. Part of convenience store AU. Can be standalone. You're both grown up and life has happened.

Leave him be | Dinner Guest | Doctors and Patients | Baby | Dragons | Masterlists

You don't look after the store as well as your parents.

The place is nostalgic, full of memories for you, whereas your mom and dad poured their hopes and dreams into it. Now that they've passed, you couldn't bring yourself to sell it and move on even if you feel like your life is drifting away.

Your day begins with flipping the sign to Open, and ends with flipping the sign to Closed. Stocking shelves and counting inventory, a lunch at the counter with your phone for company. You're a side character to those that frequent your store. Stressed students grabbing their lunch, families picking up dinner ingredients, young couples so in love that even browsing your mundane wares is an adventure.

The old, rusty doorbell jingles and alerts you to hopefully the last customer of a long day.

"Welcome!" You call out on reflex, seated and elbows resting on the counter as you count down the minutes until you can close.

"Evening." 

You recognise that voice anywhere. It's deeper, even if it's only been a year since you've last seen him. He's taller too, his suit filling out better than you recall. There's confidence in his posture and how he holds himself. 

There's barely any traces of his childhood self left.

That's good, you think, internally chiding yourself for wanting to see glimpses of the small Samuel again. He was your best friend but life was so much more difficult for him than it should be.

"Sammy-" you begin but correct yourself. "Samuel. I didn't realise you were in town."

It's the truth. There's no way of knowing if he was around or not. Most of your ties are severed.

"I was in the neighbourhood," he responds, then to your surprise, he avoids your gaze when he tells you, "Sammy is fine."

"Sammy," you try it once more on your tongue and smile. 

Samuel is someone you barely know.

Sammy feels like hazy summers sitting side by side trying to cool off in front of a fan, building snowmen in front of the store as the cold seeps through both your gloves, sleepovers and staying up too late watching scary movies then not being able to sleep even when the sun rises.

Sammy was a constant part of your life, had pride of place in your heart, and the thought of separating you two was unthinkable.

"This place feels the same," his voice cuts through your thoughts as he runs his hand along the counter. It's not a criticism, there's wistfulness in his tone and care in the way he touches the surface.

He stops centimeters away from your fingers.

You notice the way his knuckles are red and swollen. Your eyes rove up. There's faded dirt on his jacket and when you peer at his face, a bruise sitting on his temple partly hidden by his fringe.

"Are you ok?" Alarmed, your hand tenderly grasps his and you urgently reach up to push his hair aside.

He's stiff when you touch him though he doesn't deny you. You're wrong when you said there's no traces left of the Sammy you used to know. He still looks like he has half a mind to bolt, there's uneasiness radiating off him in waves but he stays put for you.

His voice is casual, dismissive. "I'm fine. It's nothing."

You stare at him incredulously and he defiantly stares back, challenging you to disagree.

Your lives had diverged a long time ago, yet he's back here with you tonight. You thought the gods of time and fate had sentenced you two to be apart except it looks like you are still destined to be intertwined. At least for a little longer.

You call his bluff, because even though it's been years, Sammy could never truly be a stranger.

It's never been fine, it's never been nothing.

If he doesn't want you to fuss over him then you will just play this differently.

"I love you, ok." You release your hold to give him a playful tap on the shoulder. "Come back and see me soon. Stop being a stranger."

Sammy's eyebrow shoots up, his mouth falls briefly open as something inscrutable flashes across his features.

He's stuck. In time, in place; the words, in his throat.

You smile softly at his expression. "Think of me, of this," you gesture at the store, "as your safe space."

Something inside him breaks. He closes his eyes. He can't look at you right now. Inside this place with the flickering fluorescent light sits the only person and the only memories that have mattered. 

Sammy chances a glance at you and it's like all those years have never happened. You've both stepped back in time and you're just kids again. 

He nods, a small bob of the head but he feels like he can finally breathe.

He reaches over the counter, closes his eyes once more and rests his forehead against yours.

[rel124c41]

LAST MIDNIGHT. floyd leech

MAKING MOVES, MOVING IN. floyd leech

DEFLOWERED. floyd leech

LAST MIDNIGHT. floyd leech

requested by: anon / cake details: red velvet cake (royalty AU) with buttercream frosting (mutual pining)

Third time's the charm is how the saying goes. If you last through the first and second tries, there is sure to be good fortune on the other side. All you have to do is see it through until you reach the metaphorical pot of gold at the end. However, by all accounts, the third time is not the charm for you. 

The deal is that you only get three nights. Nights full of ecstasy and delight, void of any punishments. Nights where you could live in the shoes of everyone else, nameless and chesired, void of your identity.

Your fairy godmother had raised up her spindly index, middle, and ring fingers. Skin peeling away to reveal jagged bone, she dropped each from right to left as she narrated how your temporary reprieve was secured for three blissful times until the last midnight passed. At the third break of dawn, you would depart from the prince you sought for company or she would collect your soul as punishment for a broken deal.

The first two nights were wondrous!

There are so many experiences that were virgin to you, that he opened up the gates to. The world previously known seems like a drop of rain in an ocean now. With the prince, you feel like you are on another planet entirely; he alters your gravity and messes with your perception in irrefutable ways. His presence is as life-changing as the diagnosis of a deadly disease or the birth of a newborn.

When you are on your deathbed and memories start to fade, sunken and molting into the mattress like fungus, you know that you will be able to perfectly and thoroughly recall these moments with him in your mind.  

Watching Floyd now, your hippocampus stores everything like a camcorder, passive and open. 

He is barefoot, hair askew, a damp white button-up clinging to his back. He is going around the shoreline of the beach to collect stones, expressing unrestrained displeasure or joy at the ones he picks up, cradling them in his palms like a squirrel trying to stuff as much food as possible in his mouth. He is the type of muse that would not be limited to one art medium; there would be sculptures, poems, paintings, and music in memoriam of him.

You can only record him in memory, like a souvenir shelved in your brain. It is impossible to banish the light smile off your features at the mere sight of him. 

“Shrimpy,” he calls, though your attention is already on him. You do not move until he starts to wave. Liking to physical evidence he wants your company. “Come here!” His gesturing causes a few stones to slip out his grasp.

No sand miraculously stains the expensive silk of your outfit. It must be a touch of fairy magic, allowing you to make your way over to the prince without having to worry about any annoying sediment ending up where it shouldn’t be. Just as you come shoulder to shoulder with him, grainy rocks are being guided into your hand.

“Ya ever learn to skip stones?”

“I cannot say I have.”

“After tonight, ya can say it,” Floyd grins.

Here it is — you observe and take a picture of the three stones in your hand, flat and smooth; they remind you of full moons — yet another experience he has the keys to. Before, you knew little of what was beyond the walls of your imprisonment. There is a younger version of you that could never fathom getting to see or smell the ocean. 

The prince nudges your shoulder, wetting the area. Seaweed hair is flopping over his eyes, dripping pins of water over his nose and stretching dimples. Earlier in his hunt, he dove into the briny waves to retrieve some of these stones, submerging and sliding yards away from shore before he emerged victorious, rock raised in the air, shouting his glee as you laughed on the edge of grass and sand at his ridiculousness. 

Skipping stones in hand, you laugh again, “I’ll be positively bragging about it tomorrow!” You have to keep this affair a secret, magic rules and all that, but you can still appease his ego.

“It’ll only be worth braggin’ about if you can beat me,” he challenges just as his left arm comes up in one snapping pitch. Your heart follows along with each bounce it does across the water. It finally sinks into the ocean at a grand twenty-eight. “Though, I don’t kn-ooo-w, I think I got ya beat, Shrimpy.”

Floyd’s fingers enclose around your dominant hand before you can respond. The touch is welcomed easily — after all, for the past two nights you have danced, played instruments together, and walked hand in hand to secret places — thus, you take the backseat, pupils like lens, to watch him maneuver two stones out of your hand so only one remains. 

He instructs you by starting with the position of “Ya thumb goes … here, and ya wanna put your index on the edge like this” and then, hands on your waist guide to move “Then, you wanna stand like this. And, start pullin’ your arm back to prepare to pitch it.” as he guides you into a demonstration of the throw, he adds pressure on your hand to ensure that “when ya let go, snap your wrist forward like that.”

“Like this?” You keep the stone in your hand, only miming your future throwing posture. 

“Like that, Shrimpy,” the prince affirms, beaming with pride.

Straightening up, you tighten your hold on your stone even though you are supposed to have a loose hold or risk messing up the shot. You do not want to disappoint him by being a terrible stone-skipper. Why does even the miniscule seem so important in his presence? 

It’s probably because he’s staring at you. 

His eyes are incredibly soft. He is giving you the kind of look that could translate to I’m happy to share this moment with ya. Though you told yourself you were going to absorb everything tonight, document it in your hippocampus down to the last color, you find it hard to raise your gaze and meet his burning stare.

So, you release the stone. It skips twice before drowning on the third. Plu-nk! 

“Damn, I thought I could,” you mumble off, jaded. You were expecting a better outcome.

“Hey, you skipped it,” the prince cheers with enthusiasm, smothering out your negativity. “I didn’t skip mine on my first try.”

“Really?” You find that hard to believe; he seems like a natural at everything he’s shown you, talent in his bone marrow.

“Really. Threw ‘em too hard each time. Got really frustrated and didn’t pick the habit back up ‘till I felt like it.”

Before you were temporarily released from your imprisonment, you had heard about the twin brothers. Heard about the left-handed prince with the attitude like a cloud, causing storms one minute or simply harmless fluff the next. He is volatile. Likely to change for the worse if circumstances bore or vex him. 

“Do you get bored easily?” 

You imagine he does, traveling through life on whims, never content.

“Nah,” he disagrees blatantly with your assumption. He skips one of his own stones, left hand as confident as ever. “I just get bored when I get bored.” 

With each jump across the waves, your heart beats rapidly. 

It isn’t such a sentimental sentence. Hell, he is outright disagreeing with you. But his words still plant a seed of appreciation for the time you two have spent tonight. No ties of obligation keep him with you; no sudden kinks have caused him to deviate from your side. It causes your eyes to slide to the sand, face burning with no sun to blame it on. 

You have to calm your skipping heart.

Later in the night, you are climbing back up to the edge where sand and grass intersect to head back to the castle with the souvenir conch shell Floyd has given you when he pipes up next to you, “Will I see you again tomorrow night?”

Neck snapping up, you look at him in muted surprise. Eyes wide and shiny. Smile slow to emerge but certainly emerging.

You really are so captivating. It’s why he’s been staring all night. Focused on you like an artist mapping out his still life sketch. 

He’s been thinking about getting commissions from those court painters to capture your likeness. Apprehensive at the possibility that you might just vanish into the dawn one of these nights, he’s been debating it seriously. Scared at the notion of never getting to get to see your face again. He can barely sit through the things – always shuffling his feet, biting different areas in his inner mouth, jittery all over – as they put paint to canvas. 

On a sympathetic level, he doesn’t want to put you through that. On a selfish level, he wants a museum, wall to wall, of portraits depicting you, the stranger he’s been lucky enough to see three nights in a row. 

Third time’s the charm, right?

Time has slipped between Floyd’s fingers like sand. He has been simply having too much time and forgot to mention earlier how he wants to return the exchange, to enter your world. 

The palace is s-ooo-o boring! But, it has been altered by your presence. Floyd has been a soaked match, unable to burn, until you came along. He is positive that your world, beyond his imprisonment, is just as captivating as you are. You are the key to his gates. 

God, you really are so beautiful.

But when you smile?

It could rival even the rising sun.

Floyd watches with a smile on his face —- awaiting your answer, as orange bleeds out onto the water and dawn starts to rise over the horizon — the light in your eyes dim before you collapse in a heap.

MAKING MOVES, MOVING IN. floyd leech

requested by: @clowning-constant / cake details: marble cake (NRC) with buttercream frosting (mutual pining) and sprinkles (specific to requester)

“Hey Sealie,” Floyd says, tone light but not entirely friendly.

He’s not exactly thrilled to see the little fur ball, but it’s not too bad to see him either. His presence implies the fact that you could be nearby. That knocks him just a little bit out of his funk.

The basketball ricochets off the backboard, not even close to the hoop.

Hm, not enough to knock him out of his funk completely.

“What’s up with ya,” he prompts, reaching out sideways to scoop back up his ball. The little dire beast is an interloper on Floyd’s Alone Time after he skipped out on his afternoon classes, so it better be worth his time.

Grim has been searching for the eel-mer for the whole day. Sevens, it shouldn't be so difficult to find someone so tall! Hunger pangs are gnawing on his stomach — he just ate maybe an hour ago — so excuse him if his next words,

“My Henchman wants ya to come live at Ramshackle with us!”,

don’t come out so elegant.

The basketball thuds against the backboard so hard that it looks and sounds like the plexiglass is going to break just down the center. It is also another shot missed.

“Na-aaa-ah.”

Any other time, Floyd would be tickled pink and about to burst into sea foam. 

He’s a bit too rough around the edges, all thuggish and gangster-esque, but he metaphorically kicks his feet like a schoolgirl at the mere mention of you. A grin wide enough to split his face would be emerging at the idea, him hosted up in Ramshackle with his Shrimpy; even if Grim’s words aren’t true, he would tease you to an early grave with the notion.

Instead, he reaches out his leftie, scoops up his bouncing basketball one handed, and dribbles it in front of him.

“Thanks for the offer, though.” 

Bang! Everything but net.

“Wha!”

It’s not what Grim is expecting at all.

Because, Floyd is always hanging around Ramshackle. Where it once started out as Malleus Draconia’s hole in the wall, the second years becoming third years and the graduation of the third years led to this natural transition of loitering and, quite honestly, trespassing to transpire!

Grim starts listing his very persuasive reasoning:

“Ya already have a toothbrush there!” Not that special, so do Deuce and Ace.

 “And, you’re over for dinner every other night.” Only because someone eats without limits unless there’s a big eel-mer blocking the fridge door.

“It would make everything so much easier if ya just moved your stuff into a spare room.” It would also lessen up the chores on Grim’s end. “Then, finally, my Henchman would stop talking about you so much!”

The shot that Floyd was lining up suddenly, hands held out, moving the basketball left and right to find the correct flight path, is suddenly realigned; all his attention arrows down to Grim.

“Shrimpy talks ‘bout me?”

Inside Floyd, a switch has been flicked. Grim can tell, animal instincts prickling his skin. It is especially evident with the way Floyd’s eyes shift, pupils dilating and the rings of yellow and olive shining like plugged in Christmas lights.

Grim is scrabbling to backpedal, weighing who’s going to fry his tail more — you or the immediate threat. “Well, they, um, they just talk. They talk about Ace and Deuce all the time. They complain about the Headmage. They name drop. They talk in general, so! Eek!”

The hard maple floor of the court ripples with the effect of Floyd’s bounce, deliberately aimed at Grim’s feet. With his height, it’s like an earthquake to the dire beast.

It resets him though, stops his yammering, s-ooo-o. 

“What kinda things,” Floyd drawls, all peachy-keen now.  That glowing yellow eye is like a sun flare.

“Well, just, uuum, just,” Grim’s stuck between keeping his Henchman’s secrets and keeping his head.

“If ya tell me, I’ll pack my stuff tonight.”

Which equals no more chores for Grim.

“They like how sweaty you get after basketball.”

Not exactly the most charming thing to be taken away from lengthy, lengthy talks but it’s the first thing that comes to his mind.

Floyd pauses like a buffering DVD, ball still in his hands. Not perturbed by the information in the slightest; he likes when you’re sweaty too, always playing tug-of-war with animal pleasure and human decency to not take a giant, sweeping lick from your clavicle, across your neck, and end at your ear. You doing P.E. is just as charming as you doing anything else.

“Reall-y, what a weirdo,” but his dumb grin says otherwise, “they’re always so squirmy ‘bout it,” he’s been punched enough in the ribs to know to stop draping himself over you when a game or practice is finished but now?, “Got anythin’ else?”

“Myah, I don’t know!”

Grim’s ready to turn tail. If you find out about just that one sentence being said, he’ll be doing dishes for months until his paws wash right off.

Floyd smells the hesitation in the water.

“C’mon, don’t leave me high and dry. Ya want me to move in right? Gonna need some motivation to help me start putting all my shoes in a suitcase.”

Well, now Grim’s not so sure about the whole moving in part. Floyd can definitely reach high up places for dusting, but he’s also Floyd Leech.

“Ya know, I think we’re too crowded in Ramshackle. Plus, all the ghosts haven’t been told about this yet. Squatter’s rights, and ummm… I’ll go debrief with them then I’ll come back to- y-ouch!!”

Held between Floyd’s hand is Grim’s trident-shaped tail. Crouched down to his height, the brute rests the basketball under his knee so it doesn’t roll away. He smiles a smile that is too toothy.

“Don’t ice me out, Sealie, c’mon. I just wanna hear what Shrimpy's gotta say. How about this, for everything you tell me, I’ll buy ya a jar of tuna.”

Floyd doesn’t fish — a little too existential for his taste — but he knows when he’s got them hook-line-sinker.

Grim shuffles on his hind legs but it is already clear by his pursed lips that he’s gonna spill some more stuff. 

Floyd listens, rapted, as both the double doors and Grim’s mouth open.

“My Henchman thinks you look real sexy when your cleavage is showing in your uniform!”

In such an empty gymnasium, the sound travels well.

“Grim!!”

“Shrimpy!” Floyd greets you jovially, letting go of your cat’s tail and standing up. He’s pleased as punch, ready for the entertainment of a lifetime.

His hand coming up to unbutton his third button is inconspicuous.

DEFLOWERED. floyd leech 

requested by: anon / cake details: red velvet cake (royalty AU) with edible flowers (fluff) and citrus glaze (smut)

It all starts with him insulting your father. 

A bizarre thing. 

However, you cannot help that it has you biting down on your index, lungs quivering with concealed laughter as deeper and deeper, this fearless jester twists the knife of comedy into your father’s stomach. Insults about his latest failed crusade, jabs directed toward his growing weight, and well-timed criticism about his inability to rule a kingdom. One joke has you contorting in your seat, throwing an arm over your face and squeezing tight into your chair with bouncing shoulders and quivering legs. He leaves you gasping for mercy, stop! stop! hehe!, as your grin spreads ear to ear. 

He is perhaps the only man in the world who can achieve such a feat. Gasping for mercy that is.

For your own pride, you would like to say you do not how this situation came to be. You would pledge to the court that your jester is a disguised fae, seducing you with witchcraft and making you do unholy things. Usually, there is more sense in your head; Floyd happens to suck it all up with a straw, a vicious butterfly on top of a delicate flower.

Sex in the botanical gardens? Surely, you should know better. There are only so many flowers to cover the scent, only so many plants to cover the sight, and nothing to cover the sound as you gasp wantonly.

“Fuh-Floyd! Ah – augh. Fuh-Fl–!” When you throw your head back, it bounces off the gazebo’s floor. Tears prick like thorns in your eyes. “Ehhh–Enough. I … eugggh.”

“One more. One more.” Floyd encourages, looming over your body. He kneels between your thighs, straddling around the right thigh while the other shakes and seizes over his left thigh. Relentlessly, without a shred of any mercy, he pumps himself into you.

You cannot see it given the ruffles of silk and taffeta that flow from your waist. Your tailor would be double-over from a heart attack if he knew you allowed his masterpiece, designed specifically for today's upcoming tea party, had been shoved aside by Floyd’s hands like those intricate laces were nothing more than lousy wrapping paper to get to the valuable present underneath. 

You had told Floyd, pulling the hair underneath his monk cowl like horse reins to get him to pay attention, to be careful but you think you heard a tear all the same. The absolute brute.

However, his brutish attributes are usually what calls you back to him. It is certainly brutish now. The girth of his cock oscillates back and forth like a wild pendulum, pulling himself back only to return with added vigor in each thrust. His pressure suffocates you like he is atmospheric. He is the air you need to breathe in a way. 

To be drowned in him is an eudaimonia summit that you can only reach with his help.

As if reading your mind, Floyd bends down closer to you. Balls slapping hard against your leaking pussy, sending juices ricocheting into a messy puddle around your combined sex, he leans down to get a better look at your face.

With the way you two are positioned, there has mostly been constant eye-contact between the two of you. You love his face. This is the hardest part of being in love and needing him like oxygen. When his nose crunches as he laughs, when his eyes gleam as he looks, even the miniscule flop of his tongue as he talks and talks, it makes everyone else seem ugly.

His handsome face leans down to grin at you; you choke out a loud, bashless moan. On the gazebo floor, you press your check down hard, jaw hanging open involuntarily and eyes squeezed tight as his cock gives a particular hard punch to just the very gated edges of your cervix.

To be under his gold eye feels like being burnt by a sunbeam.

Floyd plants a tiny garden of kisses on your face, moving from forehead to cheek to ear to chin to nose to lip. Mouth already limp, he meets no resistance when he sticks his tongue into the embrace. You try to kiss back as well as you can with your soul being fucked from your body.

He is so greedy. Knowing exactly which way to slip past your defenses with a correctly timed joke, he managed to go from simply his knuckles up inside, from his tongue lapping up the first orgasm, to have you contorted beneath him, trying not to burn out from your third.

Hummingbird heart going wild in your chest, you lift your head up to engage deeper into that kiss. Sliding and mashing tongues together as your genitals do the same in a much more lubricant setting. Sevens, you feel like a swamp down there, drenched enough by bodily sweat all over but rivers soaked on your inner thighs. 

Floyd adjusts your position, slowing down his thrusts, resting your spine on the gazebo and sliding back in missionary. Air breezes underneath the skirt of your dress. He leans up to his full height as he guides your legs around his waist. 

He’s making these hisses with teeth between his grunts. His stomach clenches with each strained effort to keep in his noises. He’s usually so loud?

“Buh-Bite your index finger.”

You don’t even get to move your hands, the right one curled into your chest and the left one limp above your head, before he plows into you like a drill. 

Phap, Phap, Phap, PhapPhapPhapPhapPhapPhap —!!!

Your legs literally shake like they’re trying to come off, rattling bones going crazy. Eyes saucer wide, you go noiseless, mouth open in an O. It’s a telltale that you’re going to start grunting like a pig, moans spilling out an involuntary volume as your orgasm hits the top and crests downward.

He falls into you in a millisecond, chest to chest, orgasm starting to arrive at the top, one white droplet leaking out before the flood, and kisses you as hard as he can. 

It’s more like jamming his lips against your teeth and cracking his skull against your skull, but it is over-washed by the warmth of him spilling into you, deep and fast. Before you can start, Floyd bites your lips together quite unceremoniously and breathes hard through his nostrils. Euphoria hits you both, his cum squirting and your hole milking. Still, the both of you are silent beyond heavy, thunderous breaths.

His hips do phantom thrusts, weak ones that are lingering sensations, as you flutter around him like a suckling mouth. Fuuuck. You feel like buoyant jelly, limp and warm, both of your hips rolling lazily and slower into each other with passing moments.

“Did you hear that?”

“I think it came from this direction.”

“It better not have. We have to set up the chairs in the gazebo for the tea party.”

Whatever ease those three orgasms did, those voices undo them in an instance. Your head snaps towards Floyd, who pulled back on his elbows to rest his face in the lifted cleavage from your bodice. You feel his smile against the top of your breasts instead of seeing it, watching his rise and fall with each volcanic punch of your oxygen-deprived lungs.

To be his is a daily struggle.

[shelovesosa]

WHAT WILL NEVER BE.

WARNING: mentions of sex doesn’t go into detail much, PURE angst hehe

You weren't supposed to be there that night.

The plan was to stay home, order something greasy, maybe cry a little to some old series rerun. You had the whole routine planned: soft clothes, background noise, your favorite blanket folded on the couch like safety.

But grief doesn't always respect your calendar. And neither does longing.

So you ended up in a place that smelled like spilled tequila and heartbreak, where banda music pulsed through the floorboards and every face seemed half-dressed in memory. The neon sign over the door buzzed faintly—**“The corner”—**a bar you’d passed a hundred times without meaning to stop.

Tonight, it called to you like something inevitable. You pushed the door open.

Warmth, noise, and a hint of cigarette smoke hit you first. The kind of haze that fogged your mind just enough to let you forget. You didn’t want to drink. You didn’t want to flirt. You just wanted something to drown in—music, maybe. Loneliness, for sure.

And then you saw him. Sitting near the back, alone at the counter. Black shirt. The sleeves rolled just high enough to make you wonder. He looked like someone the universe warned you about. Head down, cigarette between his fingers, jaw tight like he’d been biting back too much for too long. He looked... still. Like a moment paused in the middle of chaos.

You tried not to stare. Failed. He noticed. His gaze lifted lazily, heavy-lidded and unreadable. His mouth curled into something crooked and uninterested.

“You looking for someone?” he asked, voice low, like gravel under silk.

You blinked. “No.”

“Good.” He flicked ashes into a dish without looking away. “'Cause they’re not here.”

You didn’t know what that meant. You didn’t ask. But you walked toward him anyway.

You ended up next to him at the bar, nursing a drink you didn’t even like, your thighs almost brushing. The music changed to a softer ballad, and you weren’t sure if the ache in your chest was from the alcohol or the way he kept glancing at you like he already knew what this was going to become.

“You always come here?” he asked after a while.

You shook your head. “First time.”

“Same.”

He didn’t ask your name.

You didn’t ask his.

There was something unspoken between you. Like both of you had already silently agreed: this won’t last. And maybe that’s the point.

Later that night, outside the bar, the air thick with June heat and tequila breath, he leaned against your car like he belonged there.

“You shouldn’t let strange men walk you to your car,” he said, watching you unlock the door.

You gave him a small, tired smile. “You shouldn’t offer if you’re one of them.”

He smirked, then shrugged. “I’m Toji.”

You looked at him. Let the name sit on your tongue like something sharp.

“Okay,” you whispered.

He didn’t ask for your name.
But he held your gaze for a long time.

And then he leaned in, slow, deliberate, until his lips brushed yours.

It was the kind of kiss that didn’t ask permission, but didn’t need to—like he already knew you’d let him. A kiss made of open wounds and closed chapters. You could taste the storm behind it. Something about it said this isn't safe. But you didn’t pull away.

When he finally stepped back, he didn’t say goodbye. He just walked off into the street, fading into the dark like he’d never been there.

You watched until his silhouette disappeared. And somehow, you already knew— This wasn’t over.

You didn’t see Toji again for six days. Not that you were counting.

But you remembered how many times you’d checked your phone, how long you sat in your car in the grocery store parking lot thinking you saw someone who looked like him. How often his name tasted like a secret you weren’t supposed to say out loud.

And then he called.

No name. Just a number. Just “Hey.”

That night, he came over.

No flowers. No smile. No pretense.

You opened the door, and he looked at you like you were a question he didn’t want to answer. He wore black again—this time a plain hoodie, collar stretched from being pulled off in too many drunken nights. There was something about the way he leaned against your doorframe, broad shoulders relaxed, eyes half-lidded like this was all so easy for him. But you knew better.

It wasn’t easy.
Not for either of you.

“Still drinking tequila?” he asked as he stepped inside.

You shrugged, locking the door behind him. “Depends on the company.”

“Right.” He smirked. “Guess I better behave.”

You didn’t drink that night. Didn’t need to. The air between you already felt heavy.

He wandered through your apartment like he belonged there—didn’t ask where anything was, just opened the fridge, then sat on your couch like it was his. You watched him from the kitchen. He watched you back. The silence stretched between you, warm and waiting.

“You always this quiet?” he asked.

You leaned against the counter. “You always this nosy?”

He grinned.

And for a moment, he looked almost young.

Not broken. Not bitter. Just a man sitting on your couch, smirking like he could undo you without trying.

And maybe he already was.

You didn’t sleep with him that night. But you let him stay. You didn’t know why. It wasn’t planned. It just… happened. The way you handed him a spare blanket. The way he kicked off his boots and laid down like he’d done it a hundred times before. He didn’t thank you. But he didn’t have to.

It wasn’t gratitude you were after.
It was gravity.

And in that moment, he had all of it.

“You don’t even know me,” you said softly from your bedroom doorway, the light casting soft gold over the hallway floor.

He didn’t open his eyes. “That’s the point.”

You stood there for a while, waiting for something else. A reason to tell him to leave. A reason not to fall.

You didn’t find either.

The second time he came over, it rained. Hard. Thunder pressing against your windows like fists. He was soaked through when he knocked, hoodie clinging to his chest, hair stuck to his forehead. You pulled him inside and handed him a towel. He didn’t thank you—just stood there dripping, staring at you with that same look.

That same I shouldn’t be here but I am look.

“You’re wet,” you said dumbly, towel still in your hands.

“You gonna help with that?”

You didn’t answer.

Instead, you reached up and brushed his hair back with your fingers. His breath hitched, barely audible, but you felt it. Saw the flicker in his eyes. The silence that followed held the weight of a thousand unsaid things.

He kissed you then.

Slower this time. Less certain. Like he didn’t trust himself. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheekbone with the gentlest pressure. You weren’t sure when the towel dropped or when your arms slid around his neck.

All you knew was the sound of his breath catching.

The way his hands gripped your waist.
The way he leaned into you like he’d never known softness before.

That night, he didn’t sleep on the couch.

He followed you into your bedroom like it was the only place left on earth. His hoodie hit the floor first, then your shirt, and suddenly there was no space between you—just skin, heat, and the echo of things neither of you were ready to say out loud.

Toji touched you like he didn’t deserve to.
Carefully. Almost reverently.

Like if he moved too fast, you’d disappear.

His fingers mapped every inch of your skin like he needed to memorize it. His mouth left trails of heat along your collarbone, your stomach, your thighs. He didn’t ask for permission. He didn’t need to.

You gave it anyway—with your hands, with your hips, with the way your breath shuddered under his touch.

“You okay?” he asked, voice rough, breaking the silence as his forehead pressed to yours.

You nodded, your fingers curled in his hair. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he whispered, like a secret. “’Cause I don’t want to stop.”

And he didn’t.

That night, he stayed inside you longer than he had any right to. He kissed the side of your neck like it was holy. He held you when you came undone, whispered your name like it meant something.

And when he finally pulled away, when he laid down beside you with his hand resting heavy over your stomach, you realized something terrifying:

This wasn’t casual.
Not anymore.

He fell asleep first.

You watched him in the dark, listening to the rain, tracing the outline of his jaw with your eyes. He looked peaceful like this. Like the world had finally let go of him for a few hours.

And you knew — somewhere deep, buried behind the warmth of his body and the memory of his mouth on yours — that you would never be able to go back.

You were already his.

Even if he’d never be yours.

He started leaving his things behind.

A phone charger in your kitchen drawer. A black t-shirt folded on the edge of your bed. A half-used stick of deodorant in your bathroom cabinet.

He never said he was moving in. He never stayed more than a few nights in a row. But he kept coming back — always late, always with some half-mumbled excuse, always with that tired look in his eyes.

“Long day,” he’d say, voice flat as he dropped his keys into your bowl by the door.

You’d nod. Pretend not to wonder where he’d been. Pretend not to notice the way he never told you anything real.

The thing was—you didn’t need declarations. You didn’t need flowers or promises or carefully planned dates.

You just needed him to choose you. Once. Fully.
Loudly. But he never did. He showed up quietly.
And left the same way.

You started learning his rhythms. His moods. His silences.

Toji didn’t like mornings. He hated coffee but drank it black anyway. He ran too hot at night and always kicked the covers off after an hour. He slept with one arm under his head and the other across your waist like he needed to feel something solid beneath his fingers.

He was quiet after sex. Never spoke much. Sometimes he lit a cigarette and stared at the ceiling like he was somewhere else entirely.

And you let him be.

You let him stay in your bed, your space, your life—even as he gave you so little of his own.

You convinced yourself that was enough.

Because when he laughed — really laughed — it cracked something open in you. When he touched you, you forgot how to breathe. When he looked at you like he did that night in the bar, like you were the last good thing left in a world that had chewed him up and spit him out— You felt wanted. Even if it wasn’t real.

“You never tell me anything,” you said once, lying beside him in the dark.

His arm was draped over your stomach. His thumb moved slowly back and forth across your skin. Absent-minded.

“You don’t want to know,” he replied.

You turned your head toward him. “Don’t tell me what I want.”

His jaw tightened. His gaze stayed on the ceiling.

“It’s not like that,” he said after a beat. “It’s not personal.”

That hurt more than he realized.

“Right,” you whispered, rolling onto your side. “It never is.”

You started dreaming of him even when he was lying beside you. In your dreams, he kissed you like he meant it. Held your face in both hands and told you you were the only thing that made sense anymore. Woke you with whispered confessions, kissed your tears away, said stay with me like it was a vow.

But in the real world, he only kissed you when he wanted something. Only touched you when it was late, when he was tired, when his silence felt heavier than usual.

And every time he held you after, you’d wonder: Was this love? Or just loneliness with good timing?

You started to notice things.

A lipstick stain that wasn’t yours. A missed call from someone saved as “Don’t Answer.” Nights when he said he was working but came back smelling like cheap cologne and motel sheets.

You never asked. You told yourself if you didn’t ask, you couldn’t be hurt by the answer. But you were. God, you were.

“Do you see anyone else?” you asked one night, voice barely above a whisper.

Toji blinked, caught off-guard. He was leaning against the sink, shirtless, towel slung low on his hips. Steam still curling around his collarbones from the shower.

“What?” he said, too quickly.

You looked at him. Really looked.

He wasn’t surprised. He was just annoyed.

“Do you?” you repeated.

A pause. Just long enough to answer you.

“Does it matter?”

You laughed — bitter and sharp. “Not the right answer.”

He exhaled through his nose. Turned back to the mirror. “I never said I was yours.”

You swallowed hard. Your fingers curled around the edge of the counter. “You never said you weren’t, either.”

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t stay that night.

You sat on the edge of the bed long after he left, wrapped in a hoodie that still smelled like him, like rain and heat and everything you shouldn’t miss.

You thought of how easily he slipped through your fingers. How he never told you he loved you. Never asked you to stay. Never gave you a reason not to fall anyway.

And it hit you— He never promised you anything. You built the whole damn dream yourself. And now you were the one left picking up the pieces. You didn’t text him the next day. Or the day after that.

You left your phone face down on your kitchen table, ignored the way your chest tightened every time it buzzed — only to find it wasn’t him.

You weren’t sure what you were hoping for anymore. An apology? A confession? A goddamn reason?

No. You were hoping he’d notice.

That you were pulling back. That you were tired.
That maybe — finally — you were done asking him to choose you.

Toji didn’t call.

Not until the fifth night. And even then, it was short. Terse.

“You good?”

You stared at the screen like it might answer for you. Were you good?

No. You were unraveling. Quietly. Slowly. But thoroughly.

Still, you typed:

“I’m fine.”

And that was it. No “I miss you.” No “Can I come over?” No “I’m sorry.”

Just silence. Like the kind you’d grown used to filling with your own hopes.

The truth was, you were beginning to forget how to be near him without breaking.

Every time he walked through your door lately, it felt like less of a reunion and more of a reminder — of how far he stayed, even when he was inches from you. Of how much you gave, and how little he returned.

“What do you want from me?” you asked him one night.

You weren’t yelling. You weren’t crying. You were just… tired.

He looked up from your couch, something unreadable in his eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“This.” You gestured vaguely between you both. “Us. If you can even call it that.”

Toji shifted, jaw tightening. “You knew what it was.”

“No,” you said softly, “I just pretended I did.”

The silence that followed was cruel. You waited. For anything. For a stay. For a don’t go. For a please. But he just ran a hand through his hair, leaned back, and stared at the ceiling.

“I never promised you anything,” he muttered.

You turned away before he could see your expression break.

“You didn’t have to,” you whispered. “I gave it all anyway.”

You stopped wearing his hoodie. Stopped waiting up for him. Stopped answering right away.

You cooked dinner for one again. You walked past the places where he once kissed you and tried not to pause. You stood in front of your mirror and asked yourself, for the first time in months:

Would I recognize myself if he never walked through that door again? The answer stung.

One night, after two full weeks without seeing him, he showed up.

Unannounced. As always.

You opened the door to find him standing there in the dark, eyes shadowed, mouth set like a man preparing for war.

“I thought you were done,” he said.

You crossed your arms over your chest. “I was.”

“Then why’d you open the door?”

You didn’t know. Maybe because even when you stopped reaching for him…
You still wanted him to reach for you.

“Because I’m stupid,” you said.

He stepped closer. You didn’t back away.

“You’re not,” he murmured.

You shook your head. “I gave you a place in my life you never earned.”

Toji flinched at that.

For a second — just a second — you saw something in his eyes. Regret. Fear. Longing. It flickered like a match in a storm, there and gone.

But it wasn’t enough. Not anymore. You stepped back. Let the door close between you slowly.

“This isn’t love,” you said quietly. “This is what’s left when someone forgets to love you back.”

And then the door shut. And he didn’t stop it. He didn’t knock again. Didn’t call. Didn’t beg.

And you — for the first time since you met him — didn’t wait.

[twinklefairy-dust]

[Azha didn’t move when his hand tightened around hers— didn’t pull away, didn’t ease out of his grip. Her fingers curled in gently, just enough to let him know she wasn’t going anywhere.]

At his grumbled “liar,” [a corner of her mouth lifted—not quite a smile, more like a flicker of dry amusement that faded as quickly as it came.]

“You’re one to talk,” [she murmured, brushing a bit of damp hair from his forehead.] “Said you weren’t gonna die last time, too.”

[When he mentioned Sammy, she didn’t laugh, but there was a glint in her eyes— something sharper, something knowing.] “You really wanna joke about that when Stack ain’t here to smack you for it?” [she said under her breath, glancing toward the quiet of the house. ] “Don’t tempt the memory of him.”

She thought he’d slipped under again— his breathing had slowed, and his face had gone still— but then his fingers tugged at hers, faint but clear. A wordless ask.

“You gotta sleep.”

[Azha exhaled, quiet, steady. Her free hand moved to tug the extra blanket over his chest, then she shifted—careful not to jostle him— as she settled onto the edge of the bed beside him. Not laying down, not quite yet. But close. Her hand never left his.]

“Just makin’ sure you do first,” she whispered.

[And she stayed like that a while— watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way the soft lamp glow touched the edge of his jaw. Until, eventually, she leaned back against the headboard. Still and quiet.]

Close enough that if he reached again, she’d be there.

Starter: The Joint and Jackal

@xmultimusesx

It had been two days since the blood. Since the screams. Since the moon lit Remmick like something out of an old warning tale— and she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him since.

Azha hadn’t meant to end up near the joint. Not really.

She’d left barefoot, told herself she was just walking to walk— letting the dirt cool her soles, trying to quiet the thing inside her that hadn’t rested since that night. But the air felt different again. Heavy. Expectant. And when the low thrum of music drifted to her from down the hill—gritty, sweet, sinful— it curled its fingers into her and pulled.

Then she saw him.

Remmick.

[Azha ducked back, slipping behind a splintered porch post wrapped in rusted wire. She watched from the dark.]

[The bouncer squinted at him, unimpressed.]

“You ain’t on the list, stranger,” [the man grunted, arms crossed like a wall. His jaw looked carved from stone, his eyes sharp with suspicion.] “This place don’t just let any drifter in ‘cause he’s got a silver tongue.

[shizuturnspages]

Genshin impact yandere.

About A Love That Won't Wake, and if the reader is in a vegetative state or brain dead, what if she is pregnant?? This kind of drama would be interesting

Can you also add more characters? :D

Thanks

A Love That Won’t Wake: Mother of a Future That Never Was

Synopsis: You are gone. At least, in the way that matters. Brain-dead. Your body remains warm, but your soul—the part that laughed, cried, and fought—no longer stirs. And yet… you are still carrying life within you. A child. The baby of one of them. Or perhaps more than one. None of them know for sure. But it doesn't matter. Because every one of them believes it should be theirs. Now they stand over your motionless form with twisted hope, their love for you consuming everything: sanity, morality, even the future of the child who never asked to be born into obsession. Pairings: [Separate] Yandere Diluc, Kaeya, Childe, Dainsleif, Dottore, Cyno, Scaramouche, Wriothesley, Zhongli, Alhaitham, Kaveh, Ayato x Brain-dead Reader

Diluc – Grief Beneath the Hearth

He sits beside your hospital bed every night, reading to you.

He reads children’s books now. His hand gently rubs your belly, fingers trembling. “It’s ours,” he murmurs to himself, “I know it is.”

No test was ever run. He refused it. He refused to let anyone near you.

His hatred of your stillness is silent, suffocating, and it burns like embers under snow. He swears that when the child is born, he'll raise them in the light you'd never see again—and that he’ll never let them feel the emptiness he now lives with.

Except… he has a plan.

He’s building a home in the mountains. One no one can reach.

Just him.

The child.

And your silent body forever preserved.

Kaeya – The Perfect Family Fantasy

Kaeya laughs when he hears the news. Not because he finds it funny—but because fate is so cruel, it almost feels like a joke.

“A baby?” he whispers to your body. “Are you giving me a second chance…?”

He talks to your stomach like it’s the only one who still listens. The only one who might still love him someday. He says things like:

“You’ll look just like her. I’ll make sure of it. I’ll dress you in blue and tell you stories about the moon.”

But he’s not sane anymore.

Kaeya has dolls made that look like you. He dresses them in nursing clothes. He teaches the dolls how to “hold the baby.”

To him, it’s not a baby.

It’s you, reborn.

And he won’t let them take either of you away.

Childe – Father by Force

He swore he wasn’t ready for kids.

But the moment he found out, everything changed.

Now he’s a father. A widower. A lover robbed of his wife.

“You’re not dead,” he snarls to the doctors. “You’re just… sleeping. She’ll wake up. She has to.”

Childe's convinced your condition is temporary. He builds a nursery beside your bed. He trains every day, vowing to become strong enough to destroy fate itself if that’s what it takes to bring you back.

And if he can’t?

Then your child will be his legacy.

A little warrior.

A little killer.

Just like their parents.

Dainsleif – Hope as Rotting Memory

Dainsleif speaks to your stomach more than he does your face.

“You were light,” he whispers, stroking your hand. “And now… your light still lingers. In them.”

His obsession is quiet. Methodical. He keeps you hidden far from civilisation, deep beneath the earth where time itself is forgotten.

He sings lullabies from a nation that no longer exists. He carves lullaby runes into your walls.

He tells the child inside you:

“You’ll never know pain. You’ll never see death. I will build a kingdom for you.”

But your body is fading.

He knows it.

He watches for signs of decay, panicking each time your heartbeat wavers.

He will raise your child, even if he must turn them into a vessel that wears your face.

Dottore – The Birth of a Second You

He’s already started cloning the fetus. Just in case something happens.

He keeps your body hooked to life-support machines. He replaced your heartbeat with an artificial one. He created a synthetic womb that mimics yours. There are multiple fetuses now.

He’s experimenting with which one resembles you the most.

He’s already chosen names.

He sometimes lies beside your motionless form, holding your belly and whispering:

“This time, I’ll raise you right.”

And when the child is born?

He won’t know whether it’s your child or his experiment.

And he won’t care.

Cyno – The Law Can't Touch Him

Cyno carries your picture in a locket and guards your room like a priest at a temple.

The child is proof—proof you loved someone, even if you never said who. That unknown eats him alive.

He interrogated every man you were close to.

None survived.

“I’ll find out,” he mutters. “If not in this life… then the next.”

He keeps your pregnancy secret from the world. If Sumeru knew, they'd take you from him.

But no one will.

Because he is the law.

And you are his sentence.

Scaramouche – The Puppet's Broken Family

He never wanted children.

Until now.

Now he thinks maybe, just maybe, if the child is born, you’ll be reborn too.

“I’ll rip myself open if it means giving you breath again.”

He talks to the child as if you can hear him.

“If you’re mine, I’ll love you. If you’re not… I’ll love you harder. Because that’s what she would’ve wanted. Right?”

He paces constantly. He hasn’t left the room in months.

And he won’t.

Not until you wake.

Or until the child cries and you don’t.

Wriothesley – The Prison of Love

He pulled strings to get your body moved to a sealed medical wing beneath the Fortress of Meropide.

There, no one can interfere.

He sits beside your bed, talking to you as if you're asleep.

“We’ll be a family. Even if you're not awake for it. Even if you never hold them.”

He tries not to cry. He fails.

Sometimes, he rests his head on your stomach and pretends he can feel the child kick.

He calls it his second chance.

But he’s terrified.

Terrified that when the baby comes, it’ll cry… and you still won’t open your eyes.

Zhongli – Memory’s Gentle Tyrant

Zhongli mourns with poise. He weeps like a statue might weep—quietly and without motion.

But the child changes something.

“They’ll carry your legacy,” he tells you.

“They’ll be an Archon in their own right.”

He’s already begun preparing a shrine.

But it’s not for you.

It’s for the child you left behind.

Alhaitham – Cold Logic, Heated Grief

He refuses to believe it at first.

Then he spirals.

He isolates the hospital. Blocks access. Analyses DNA behind locked doors.

“Logically, the baby should be mine,” he tells your silent body. “But logic doesn’t matter to a corpse.”

Still, he never leaves your side.

Your last breath, your last creation—he won’t let anyone else take it.

Kaveh – A Crumbling Father-to-Be

He cries more than anyone.

He can’t even look at the baby bump without sobbing.

“I didn’t… I never got to tell you how much I loved you.”

He starts building a crib. Then burns it. Then builds it again.

He wants to protect the child.

But he also wants to scream at it for surviving when you didn’t.

Ayato – The Strategic Widower

He files papers. Prepares the nursery. Calls it a “calculated tragedy.”

But it’s not.

He broke the day you did.

Now all that’s left is the child. The heir to your legacy.

His obsession turns political. He names the child after you.

Then makes laws in your name.

Maybe you’ll never wake.

But your legacy will never die.

[forestofwillow]

The concept of falling in love while fighting a war was one rooted in controversy. With so much at stake, was it foolish to allow measly emotions to cloud your judgment and impact your ability to perform? Preferring to wait until it's all over to find your happiness, if you make it to the end that is, preventing both parties from the heartbreak of what could be inevitable? Or should one cling to every moment of joy they can get their greedy hands on because you never know when it will be your last?

But one chooses to fall in love, just as much as one chooses to breathe. Even when the world around you has crumbled and shattered, leaving the dust of sorrow in its wake, your heart still yearns for another against your will.

And Severus yearned for Hermione.

As he stared into her eyes, watching a single tear roll down her cheek he had to wonder if they would be sealing their fate if they kissed goodbye? Destined to make their fatality come true?

Or would he live the rest of his life mourning that final instance of intimacy, that last chance to commit the topography of her body to his memory–a memory that was fading away, soon to be forgotten amongst the ghosts of his past?

He could see the same questions swirling in her honeyed eyes, their indecision hanging thickly in the air. Each choice solidified something they didn't want to think about. All they wanted was right in front of them.