#ANYWAY HI HELLO I MISSED YOUR SON

[stingslikeabee]

❛ you should not welcome monsters into your home. ❜

unscripted asks . always accepting

The long, tangled hair; the skin that used to be as perfect as alabaster prior to his return from the dead; the clothes that had been torn and stained here and there; and even the tip of the boots protecting his feet. Hikaru (no, Sephiroth) was covered in blood from head to toe, the crimson denouncing that whatever had tried to kill him failed (again). His return to the inn had not been through usual means - but rather using an open window to Melissa's own private chambers, leaving a trail of red footprints over the carpet and some of the furniture the man had crossed over.

When the madame did find him, it was nearly her bedtime - the brothel had been closing for the night, at long last, and Melissa had already changed into something comfortable and removed the make-up and heavy jewelry of working hours. The brunette looked smaller, more vulnerable but fundamentally more human - the flowery pattern of the kimono covering her arms and torso were more mundane than the luxurious designer gowns. Less of an imposing ruler of a fictitious land; more of an average woman on the verge of being defeated by exhaustion following a shift.

The reaction to his overall appearance had been understandable as well - a muffled scream, with Melissa only belatedly covering her mouth with both hands and eyes going wide, losing their usual warmth in favor of shock. Sephiroth looked like a ghost - tall and imposing against the sun that threatened to rise at the horizon, dripping crimson and with his weapon of choice sheathed but not far from skilled hands.

"You should not welcome monsters into your home."

His tone was soft - barely anyone would have heard him, particularly in a place with walls built to be sturdier and soundproof. And yet, Melissa noticed the stress over the word 'monsters' perfectly well - the judgement it carried; the guilty that was overflowing just as much as the evidence of violence committed elsewhere and away from her gaze. Inhaling deeply, the madame walked forward - and gone was the surprise at his appearance after the last time they had spoken.

All was well and her son had returned.

"You are no monster, Sephiroth," Melissa sighed, coming to stand as close as possible to him, and using a hand to gently move his head while the madame inspected the man for visible wounds. Curious fingers moved his clothes for the same purpose then, seeming to calm down once she realized that most of that mess was not of his own vital essence. The blood on her hands mattered not - the important thing was to care for him and see him cleaned, rested and fed.

Even if she was aware of his identity - even if Hikaru had been a dream - it didn't change how she felt about Sephiroth. Abused and discarded by Shinra, like so many others below the plate, Melissa did not think him the problem - his rage was justified; his motive was holy. It was the reason her windows were open and that she dirtied digits with the blood of others just to drag hair out of Sephiroth's face and smile sweetly at him.

"Holding those who hurt you accountable doesn't make you a monster. If you were to tell me that you would like to see Shinra burn, I would be at your side holding the torch," Melissa replied with the same tone that Sephiroth had used earlier: calm, even sweet and caring. Not unlike the tune of a lullaby for a child, without a shred of judgement for his actions (or hers).

A mother's love was strong and often blind to faults, after all.

"Come - let's get you washed and into something clean. Then we will have a proper meal - when was the last time you ate anything decent? You look so pale and thin," the woman fussed over the ex-SOLDIER, helping him discard the weapon and the larger coat with a dismissive hand - she didn't mind the blood, the stains, whatever grotesque scene had been left topside in the wake of his presence.

Melissa only cared about her boy and what his heart desired.

[loomingspector]

Alright! So I hold Damian ‘zero social awareness’ Wayne very dear to my heart.

I love him so much, speak your mind little king.

So imagine this:

Annoying business man, talking out of his ass trying to score some points with the oldest Wayne heir Richie Grayson.

“I got a new woman since last, easy enough, all they need to do is cook anyway haha!” Que uncomfortable laughing, and a vein popping on Dick’s forehead.

“Are you in need of a cook?” Damian blurts, no humor in his voice, and one eyebrow raised. “I thought people of your stature would already have a chef”

Dick instantly bursts out laughing so hard he spills his champagne flute, and has to grab onto Tim. Damian looking on confused. Jason was on coms and snorted so hard he almost fell of the roof.

~~

At another gala they’re slowly going around the room, being introduced to both old and new faces. A couple of newly rich comes up to Brucie with Damian and Tim by his side.

“Hello! It’s such an honor to meet you, we’re Mr. and Mrs. Forgetable. And this is our son Kevin.” The two step aside to reveal a tall feminine almost-adult, rolling their eyes before stepping forwards.

“Hello, I’m their daughter, Stephanie.” She smiles tightly, and is pulled back by her mother.

Bruce also smiling tightly, about to walk forward when Damian deadpans “I didn’t know your parents had difficulties with remembering which child they brought along.”

“He’s simply confused, it will pass-”

“Did you not say your name was miss Stephanie?” He pointedly interrupted and spoke directly to their daughter.

“Yup, on my drivers license and all.” She confirmed and smiled a little more calmly. Real.

“Then it seems your parents must be confused, my condolences.” Bruce had to excuse himself to go laugh. And they heartily chatted with the daughter later in the evening, the parents long forgotten, and a new business deal being struck with her as the project manager.

[meowdei]

Sukuna who was never close to his twin brother and never cared about the pipsqueak runt of a kid who’s his nephew.

He doesn’t care and doesn’t want to be associated with that bullshit. His brother doesn’t take the hint ever and invites him to everything. “My sons’s birthday party” this and “my son’s kindergarten graduation” that. What sort of graduation is meant for a kindergartener anyway? That’s a load of nonsense. But Jin is as annoying as ever with insisting on keeping contact and trying to get Sukuna involved and he hates it until by some tragedy out of nowhere, his brother and sister and law are dead. Yuuji’s left an orphan and no one can care for that kid because there’s no one left.

No one except Sukuna.

They ask him, too. The social workers. They turn to him and say some pitiful script about being “the only family left to take custody of him.” He knows pretty well what’s going to happen to the pipsqueak if he doesn’t agree. The foster care system and the possible horrors such a bright (even if annoying) kid could face makes him question saying no for a second. He’s surprisingly conflicted.

And it’s out of sheer impulsiveness alone does he end up as a single, grumpy, begrudging uncle who’s got custody of a child he never really cared to know in the first place.

And then he meets you.

Sweet, bubbly, warm, and so weirdly happy. Dictionary definition of what an elementary school teacher should be. Yuuji’s absolute favorite person on the planet as he waves hello at you enthusiastically every time that Sukuna drops him off and goodbye every time that Sukuna picks him up.

“I heard his new guardian would be his uncle. It’s nice to meet you,” you murmur to him the first day he picks up Yuuji after school, a look of pure melancholy on your face as you stare at him with an unearthly amount of compassion and sympathy. “Yuuji’s parents were wonderful people. I’m really sorry for your loss.”

“Wasn’t that close with either of them,” he grunts out. You look over at where Yuuji’s gleefully playing on the slide of the playground. Too young and innocent to realize that’s been ripped away from him. Too naive to understand what it means to grieve. Too hopeful about the world around him to realize just how cruel it can really be.

“Oh,” you murmur, nodding slowly.

He thinks that your unnaturally kind demeanor will finally be broken for a split second of judgement. What sort of heartless bastard doesn’t feel an ounce of grief for his own brother’s death? Instead, however, you seem to look at him with some weird sense of wonder.

“You’re a good uncle for stepping up regardless,” you say softly, “it’s more than what most would do in your shoes.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he clicks his teeth, unbearably uncomfortable with how weirdly sentimental this all is. “He’s just a five year old. How much trouble could he be?”

You raise a brow in amusement, eyeing him like he’s got one hell of a surprise waiting for him. He doesn’t like the vague way you hum, “Yeah. How could such a little human cause trouble, right?”

“I’ve got it under control,” he grumbles, a little annoyed that you seem to think that out of all things, a simple child would be enough to cause Sukuna any issues.

“Let me know if you need anything,” you smile.

Yuuji calls to you from the distance, squealing look what I can do! before he does a rather clumsy spin. Sukuna raises an unimpressed brow. You clap and praise him with an exaggerated gasp of approval.

It’s oddly endearing, he thinks to himself—you, not the kid. The kid’s barely tolerable.

“C’mon, you brat,” Sukuna calls. And then he looks at you and gruffly adds, “And I don’t need help.”

“Okay,” you grin brightly. It almost feels like you’re saying that a little sarcastically. “I’m sure you’ve got this parent thing down.”

Before he can even correct you that he’s an uncle, not parent, Yuuji comes running over on clumsy, short little legs and grabs onto Sukuna’s hand.

“C’mon, Uncle ‘Kuna!”

Sukuna doesn’t miss the way your eyes soften. Weirdly enough, he feels this odd sort of squeeze in his chest that doesn’t make any sense. Maybe he’s just getting old—that has to be it.

[visforvengeance]

Where did you sleep last night?

Requested by: no one :)

Notes: hey y’all lmao. Sinners brought me out of retirement like I knew it would. I did post this on AO3 if you’ve already read it lmao so please don’t come at me. Anyway I need Michael in a room in which there are no others…or you could all watch I don’t give a shit🫦. I do have one for stack in the works!! Coming very soon xx

Warnings: cursing ofc, sex. I think that’s it. My sympathies if I didn’t get everything. But as always read at your own risk!!

Stack x reader

You heard him before you saw him, Stack. Always loud, always smooth talking. The twins were back in the Delta, and you hadn’t heard not one word about it. You’d think it’d get back to you considering the history between you and Smoke before he left…and when he left.

You turned the corner to where the train was, and there he stood in all his glory. He was almost still the same boy from before, but colder. You knew of all the things those boys did because you were right there beside them, as much as they tried to protect you from it. Yours and Mary’s mama had been kind enough to raise them up after theirs died. Raised them with their own daughters, like their own sons.

But, something happened, and then your first kiss was with Smoke in the dead of the night. And then more happened later on. There had been just too much between you, but he still up and left anyway.

You stomped over to him angrily.

“Where’s that sorry ass brother of yours?”

He turned to you, not surprised at all to see you.

“Well, hello to you. ‘Long time no see! How have you been?’

‘Great, thank you for asking.’”

You rolled your eyes as you pulled him into a much-needed hug. You enjoyed his embrace for a minute, rubbing his back. Then, you whispered,

“I missed your dumb ass.”

He chuckled as he pulled away

He took a long, hard look at you, really seeing you after all these years. You’re a grown woman now, not some annoying ass little girl that his brother used to chase after when they were younger. He missed you. And he knows for sure that his brother does too. Smoke had been with countless women during his time in Chicago, no doubt. But none of them compares to you.

“He’s at our new spot,” gold teeth and pearly whites on display. The boys always did have such beautiful smiles.

“Whatchu talkin’ about, boy?”

“You know that old sawmill down by the way,” you nodded

“Consider it under new management. Club Juke is now open.”

You didn’t know whether to be proud or slap that stupid ass smile off of his face. Ten years, you ain’t seen or heard not a word from these motherfuckers and now they’re here opening a juke joint?

You shook your head and removed yourself from Stack’s arms, stomping to your car. Mary had accompanied him with a different version of the same argument. Stack knew that his brother was in for it with how hot the fire in your eyes burned. You were hot. Hotter than this Mississippi heat, hotter than the devil’s wrath.

You walked inside of the old, rundown building. They’d already begun setting up, gathering the old crew. The smell of Annie’s fried catfish filled the place. Sammie was on stage, strumming his guitar lazily. Grace talked with Annie while she cooked.

It almost felt like home again. Almost.

Smoke walked out of the office to see a ghost in the shape of you standing at the entrance of his establishment. Smoke was always stoic, perfectly motionless. Until he saw you. No, he couldn’t let his resolve crumble completely when he saw you. But, he did let you see the softness only a select few could muster in the only way he knew how.

His eyes. Always his eyes. Emotions swirling around like a tornado. He knew how you felt after he left; he studied you well enough to expect it. But was he prepared to face his consequences? A man who stood so tall, so fearless. Even in the face of death, he stoically stood his ground.

But seeing you here right now had him scared to breathe. Luckily, no one paid attention to the two of you. They knew better. You walked up to him. No words were spoken between the two of you, but the looks on your faces said a lot.

You walked past him and into the back room, and he followed closely behind. When the two of you were alone, you spoke up.

“Ten years. No goodbye. No letters. Nothing. Then I see Stack hanging by the train with Slim. Come to find out, you boys done opened yourselves up a juke joint.”

Silence again, this time he wasn’t looking at you.

“No hello. No ‘I missed you’. When was you gon come see me, Elijah?”

You were losing your cool. How could he just stand there?

“Could you fucking say something?” You never yelled. Loud and boisterous, of course. But, damn it you never yelled. He didn’t flinch, though. He finally looked at you.

“What the fuck do I look like coming to you after I just shot my own damn daddy? Hmm?” He got in your face, he towered over you. But that didn’t scare you. He never did, no matter how frightening or threatening he tried to be. It never worked on you, and it will not now.

“How was you gon help us? Cry to ya mama? Wait. I know. You was gon get that sheriff granddaddy of yours, huh?” He laughed. He didn’t know what else to do so he fucking laughed.

“That’s not fair, and you know it. I would’ve helped you the best way I could. But, you shut me out and made that decision for me!”

Yes, you were young. You absolutely should not have been involved in the shit that you were. But you were in love. And so was he. Still, you both are. So, what do two fucking idiots do when they’re in love? They hold onto each other as tightly as fate will allow.

“Smoke, you never did give me the benefit of the doubt. Why do you think no one came looking for you two for all those years? Even now? With the case being unsolved?”

There is no statute of limitations on murder after all..

“But, even after all of that. I didn’t deserve to know that you were leaving?”

All of this fucking silence. You couldn’t stand it.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and held him tightly. He wasted no time wrapping himself back around you. You held each other so close and tightly, you’d think you were killing each other.

You stayed that way until the obvious question couldn’t be ignored anymore.

“Why you back here? Now of all times?”

Too much shit had happened in the time that he was gone. Clearly none of it was enough to bring him back.

“Missed it. We wanted something of our own and thought home would be the best place to do it,” he was avoiding looking at you. He did that when there was something he didn’t want to say to you. It was almost shocking to see him still so childlike in this moment.

“Elijah Moore, you hated this place with every fiber of your being. Why are you here?”

It was weird hearing his own name. He’d been Smoke for so long, Elijah almost felt like a stranger to him. But, hearing you say it made him remember exactly who Elijah Moore was. And, he was yours.

“I love you too much.”

Now he was finally looking at you. Still so vulnerable and childlike. For such a short sentence, it was beyond loaded. Somehow, you understood everything Smoke couldn’t express to you because he didn’t know how.

You couldn’t help but kiss him. It was messy, rough, all teeth and bite. His hands roamed all over your body, squeezing and gripping at whatever he could like a starving man. A starved man he was. He turned you around and pressed you against the desk.

“I missed you too much,”

His lips left kisses on your neck and a haze in your brain. You missed him, too, more than anything. You turned and pushed him back into the chair that was behind him.

“You think you gon come back after all these years fuck me like it’s nothing?” You moved to straddle his waist, pulling him into another heated kiss. His hands gripped at the fat of your ass and thighs, kneading them like dough.

He pressed you into him further, making you grind against his cock, causing the both of you to moan. He didn’t intend for you to keep grinding, though. “I’m a big girl now, Smoke. Let me show ya.”

Somehow, the two of you ended up on the floor with your clothes thrown about. You were still on top of him. Lips kissing over every scar and mark that littered Elijah’s body.

“I missed you, too, baby,” you mumbled against his skin. You sat up straight to look at him.

“Never did a day go by when I didn’t think of you. I love.” Then, you began moving your hips. You hadn’t had sex with him in 10 years, but it was even better than before. You traded feeling the pain of splinters in your knees for the warming pain of Smoke’s cock splitting you open.

Smoke was quiet, aside from the occasional groan he let out. His eyes raked over your body. He watched the way your breasts bounced with your movement. They were bigger, not that he minded either way. Your body was softer than before, too. More to grab on to, more to hold on to, more to love.

None of the girls he’d been with (not that there were very many. They were not you and it started to piss him off eventually) compared to you in the slightest. They didn’t smell or taste like you. Definitely didn’t feel as good as you.

Now he felt like he finally knew what was missing. He’d been chasing something he’d left for 10 years.

The eye contact between you two had not wavered the entire time you’d been riding him. There was still so much that neither of you had said, but in this moment, you understood everything. He let you see the vulnerability, lust, regret, the ache he’d had the moment he left you and how it had stayed with him until he was back with you again.

You nodded to him, telling him that it was ok. It was ok to just feel in this moment with you. In which he did. He’d been holding back on cumming in you for both of your sakes and his masculinity. But that thought had passed as he released deep inside of you.

Still hard, he flipped the two of you over in missionary. Now, it was his turn to focus on your pleasure. He pounded into you heavy and rough, and you took it, like you always did. Between your moans, the skin slapping, the fucking wet sounds your pussy made. It was safe to say that you were NOT quiet. But the music that was being played and the overcrowding voices silenced you splendidly.

Once again, the two of you were locking eyes. Him fucking you knocked the breath out of you completely, but this was what you wanted. And needed. Because Elijah was back. And, maybe what the two of you had could continue. And, it goes well. Or it doesn’t. Neither of you fucking cared. Because at that moment, it was just the two of you again.

He wasn’t leaving you again. Not even through the hellish nights you’re bound to encounter.

[peanutalergy]

would you write something where Spencer finds reader's lost cat and brings it back to her then they keep in touch + they both develop a little crush on each other?

your writing is wonderful!! <3

-🪲

tags: fluff fluff fluff but there's making out (?) idk if that counts as anything; also lots of cursing lowkey; reader is lowk penelope garcia coded

w/c: 1.8k

a/n: tysm for the req that's an adorable idea unfortunately not such great execution from my part also I wrote this in like an hour I'm so exhausted I should go to sleep but whatever I also don't know if this what you meant anon I'm sorry if it's not 😭 yeah I hate this sorry idk what to say it sucks

MISSING CAT

orange, green eyed, really chubby cat, last seen at ~3:30pm on november 9th. he will answer to garfield or little fucker; most likely the latter, despite that not being his name. he's very clingy, he’ll probably come up to you and start rubbing on your leg like the little freak he is but he's actually just a baby who needs his mom (me) so please call this number if you find him.

reward: $10 and a kiss maybe if you’re nice enough

spencer chuckled when he reached the end of the text and saw the adorable picture of a ginger fat cat. he read over the number on the poster, making sure to keep it stored in a folder at the back of his head along with the image of garfield as he returned to his walk.

not even an hour later, when walking past a not-so-nice smelling trash can, he heard some loud purring coming from one of the boxes surrounding it.

if it were any other day, he would have ignored it, guessing it's just another stray cat, but he was still thinking about garfield and his seemingly interesting owner.

“garfield…?” spencer called out from afar. silence. he took a few steps closer, trying to peek over the box while keeping his distance so as to avoid getting jumped at and attacked. “little… fucker…?” he choked over the nickname.

immediately, the animal that had been in his mind since seeing his picture jumped out of the box, purring louder as he started rubbing on spencer’s legs. he chuckled despite being scared.

garfield wasn't nearly as well kept then as he was in the picture, due to the days he had been on the streets. still chubby, but dirty and with a few patches of dried blood in his fur. spencer tried to move away, seeing his pants getting smudged, but the cat just started following him.

spencer pulled out his phone and started dialing the number seen on the poster, still trying to avoid the animal. after a few rings, you picked up.

“hello?...”

“hi, is this garfield’s, uh… owner?”

“yeah, why? have you found him...?”

“i think i did, yeah.”

“oh my god, wait, actually? is he okay? are you serious?” you mumbled excitedly, sitting up from the position you were comfortably lying in, the show on your tv already forgotten.

“i am serious, yeah. i'm just out on a walk, and, uh… he was in a box near a trash can. he's all dirty and bloody, but he seems okay.”

“my poor baby” you said with a pout “where are you? wait– who are you? who do i owe my son’s life to? my savior, my hero?”

“oh, i’m just… just spencer, really.” he said with an awkward chuckle, giving in and leaning down to caress the cat, who immediately leans into his hands as if he's never been pet before, “spencer reid.”

“mm, cool. anyway, where are you? i’m going to pick him up. tell him mommy’s coming. actually maybe don't. don't refer to me as mommy, please.”

“uh, well, i wouldn't mind dropping him off at your place, if you want.”

“i thought you were on a walk? you're gonna walk all the way to my apartment with that fucker in your arms?”

“yeah, so… yeah, actually. does he… is he fine with being carried?”

“oh, totally, he loves uppies, but it's–”

“sorry, what? uppies??” he cut you off, confusion and disbelief clear in his voice.

“yeah…? uppies… like… when you carry an animal? in your arms?...” a bleach and tone, like???

“oh, okay…”

“yeah, so, he loves uppies. but it's just inconvenient, no? carrying him like that? where even are you, dude? is it not far?”

after you tell him your address, spencer decided it's close enough to walk there with an overweight cat in his arms. however, when he took forty minutes to show up at your door, panting and sweaty, you realized that probably wasn't a good idea.

“jesus, man, you could've just said you can't walk that long with this fucker.” you said as you opened the door, letting him in and taking the cat in your arms, talking to him in that tiny, baby voice. “oh my god, my baby, thank you so much. you poor thing. where were you, sweetheart? i missed you so so so much…”

spencer stood awkwardly in the doorway, wiping away the dirt that the animal left in his shirt, as you kept mumbling to him.

it must have been around another half hour before you set him down on the ground again, but when you did so, you looked at spencer and gasped, “oh, where are my manners? i'm so sorry, i forgot you were there. come in, jesus, come on in.”

he walked in, and after offering him a glass of water, you led him to sit on the couch. settling awkwardly beside you, he said “so, uh… is he alright? hurt..?”

“no, he's okay. i mean, as far as i can tell. not a vet, or anything. i don't think the blood is his… although that doesn't make it any less worrying. i'll give his vet a call. maybe stop by the clinic. yeah, i should probably stop by the clinic, shouldn't i?”

“yeah, probably. does he have all his vaccines?”

“of course.”

“still, there's a chance he would have caught a disease or eaten something that could have been infected. it's always good to make sure.”

“yeah, i know. i’ll give them a call, see if they can see us today.” you said, to which spencer replied with a nod, the two of you falling silent for a moment. “oh, right, the reward.”

you stood up and walked to the table, taking your wallet and a $10 bill from it. “there's no need, really… it's okay. don't worry about it” he argued, shaking his head when you offered him the money.

“no, oh my god, no, this is the least i can do. you walked so far, with that little heavy fucker. please, just take this. actually, you deserve more. i can barely handle to hold him for more than a few minutes, i'm not sure how you–” you look him up and down “–managed to walk with him for so long. just take the money.” you mumble, taking another bill from your wallet and handing it to him.

"no, no, really, it's fine, i swear."

"no, stop it. you're not leaving until you take this money."

he took it with a scoff, seeing how you won't take no for an answer.

“i should give you the other part of the reward, too.” you said with a chuckle as you sat back down beside him.

“what, the kiss?” he stammered, shaking his head as his face goes red and his eyes widened slightly.

“yeah, you want it?” he started stuttering when you said that, so before he got a proper word out, you added “nah, man, i'm just joking. i put that there to be funny, i'd never kiss a stranger like that.”

“oh, yeah, that… that makes sense.” he laughed shyly, nodding.

the cat showed up again, and you went back to talking about him, until spencer decided it's time to go home, which was only around a few hours later.

now, you're not sure when that turned into what it is now, but you're glad it did.

maybe it was the day after that, when you took garfield to the groomers, and sent spencer a picture of him when he got home, wearing the cute tie they always give him.

maybe it was when you started sending every picture you took of garfield to spencer.

or maybe it was when you started talking about things unrelated to the animal.

you're not sure. but now, spencer reid is at your place again, wearing a colorful hat and singing happy birthday to your cat.

of course, he's the only other person at the party. he's the only friend you were certain would show up. and that he did, after rambling about how the cat didn’t even know it was his birthday.

“woo hoo!! happy birthday, baby!” you exclaim when the song is over, taking the cat in your arms and giving him kisses.

“yay, happy birthday, garfield!” he says with a chuckle, petting him.

as soon as he starts getting fussy, though, you put him back down on the ground with a giggle, “yeah, yeah, off you go.”

“i did tell you he doesn't know the date he was born in.”

“well, yeah, but at least he's getting plenty of treats.” you shrug as you throw yourself on the sofa along with spencer, taking off the birthday hats and tossing them to the side. “he knows he's loved.”

“i'm sure he does” he mumbles, smiling at you softly.

“thanks, by the way” you mutter after a beat, turning to him and giving him a nod.

“for what?”

“finding him.”

“that was ages ago, you've thanked me 63 times since then.” he says with a laugh.

“it's not enough, though. he's a stupid little cat, i doubt he would have survived more time out there. you saved his life, probably.”

he nods, staying quiet for another moment.

“y'know, there is one way you could thank me.”

“yeah…?” you already know what he's talking about, he already knows that you already know. the blush in his cheeks that showed up as he said that, his fidgety fingers, the way he started avoiding your gaze.

“the, uhm… the other part of the reward…”

you'd tease him, make him actually say it, if it weren't for how anxious he looks. it physically hurts, how awkward he is.

so instead, you move your hands to his shoulders as you lean in to press your lips to his. for a second, you're scared this isn't what he was talking about. you're wondering if you've just screwed up a friendship, until he moves a shy hand up to your face.

he feels scared, at first. he holds your jaw, fingers gently tangling in your hair as he hesitantly kisses you. but when a moment goes by like that, and you move to sit on his lap, straddling his hips, it's like something within him changes.

he starts kissing you like you're the first and last thing he'll ever touch, his hands roaming down your body as he slides his tongue into your mouth. he bites and sucks at your bottom lip while his arms wrap around your waist, and your own arms go around his neck.

but a man can't live only off of his beloved’s lips. unfortunately, humans do need oxygen. so when he needs to pull away to breathe, he does so with a groan.

panting, you stare at each other with a smile, and pressing one quick peck to his lips, you whisper, “thank you.”

"no, thank you.”

[on-the-clear-blue]

An idea that just popped into my brain...

Bernard, in the house boat living room, typing away on his computer, looks up when Tim enters: Oh, Babe your home early? Was patrol okay....ehst do you have.

Tim, tearing off his Red Robin outfit and holding something in his arms: So you know about that super evil, super old guy that runs an eco-friendly murder cult that is like super obsessed with me?

Bernard, closing his laptop and sighing: Do I have to move? Do what ever witness protection shit you superheros have?

Tim, humming and shaking his head before holding out what looks to be a bundle of clothing:No no...it seems he somehow found out about us dating and me planning to propose yo you and sent an early wedding gift.

Tim shifting the cloth to show a sleeping baby: Say hello to our child, I don't know just yet how he got both of our DNA but I did run a test and he is 100% ours, I think he used Lexs stuff like how he made Kon..

Bernard, staring at the baby and his rapidly undressing boyfriend who was rambling: Wait...propose? You wanted to get married?

Tim, still going on: -Lexs cloning tech is pretty hit or miss, *my* gear waz based on that but was...Wait you didn't know? I...I thought you have been hinting at it for a while...that's what I planned for next weeks date night.

Bernard, mouth agape: I haven't. Like at all, I mean, I will say yes because we now have a kid and I love you a lot but it would have taken me by surprise.

Tim, midly surprised: Huh...well anyways, Ra's sent us a child? I was thinking Alvin is a good name?

Bernard: Fuck that I am not going to have my son named after a chipmunk.

[cashmoneyyysstuff]

dinner prep engagement ♡

a/n : aaaand its finally here, the final part of the ring pop proposal miniseries after decades !!!! im sorry it took me so long to write this final part yall, i just finally felt enough inspo to write it and im super happy w how it came out ! i hope yall do too ! lemme know if you wanna be added to the taglist ! much luv xx

fem reader, literally pure fluff between mama n son, katsuki gets emotional very quickly bc i believe he does and you cannot make me think otherwise, a lil emotional but pure sweetness, mentions of making dinner, lmk if i missed sum else !!

this time, mitsuki has no idea what her son is planning. sure she’s had her hopes for years now, and her suspicions, but nothing truly concrete.

that is, until she gets a call in the middle of the night.

"katsuki..hello ?" she answers groggily, heaving a sigh and rubbing at her eyes. she checks next to her to make sure she hasn't woken her husband up, her eyes dart over to her digital clock " 'ts one in the morning."

"uh..hey." her son's gruff voice sounds over the phone, she raises a brow at his hesitant tone of voice, but she let's him continue "yeah, i know. sorry.." he mumbles out.

the older woman shakes her head affectionately "it's fine..is there something you wanted to talk about ?"

it's silent on the other end for a while until katsuki mumbles something. "katsuki, you know i can't hear you if you don't speak up." she scolds lightly, causing him to growl under his breath.

"not..not right now, no--just..can i come over tomorrow ?"

taking in her silence for hesitance he continues " it's nothin' bad..i just--feel like it's something i needa say face to face, i guess.."

"okay..yeah, of course. you know you can come over whenever you want." she urges "is yn comin' along ?"

"no, she isn't." she can practically hear his eye roll and it makes her smirk "she'll be busy tomorrow anyway so, not this time. i'll tell her you said hello though, since you're always tellin' me to."

she's about to retort when katsuki speaks again, only not to her. she hears what she knows is your voice quietly chatting with him as he reassures you that he'll be right there with you and for you to go back to bed. the soft tone in his voice makes her eyes soften.

never could she ever have imagined her katsuki ever speaking so softly to anyone, because her katsuki is, despite having calmed down over the years, still quite the brat. (she's pretty sure she knows where he gets it from now..) he's still temperamental when interviewers and journalists get on his nerves. he's still awfully moody , but he's different now. he's just a little bit gentler with the way he handles kids or older women who's cats have gotten stuck in trees. complaining that this isn't his damn job but still doing it anyway with utmost care as the kitties sink their sharp claws into his skin or cling to him for warmth.

he's a still a little rough around the edges but it's the thought that counts. he's different than when he was younger, but he still is the most different with you. his rough and gruff voice that he uses to bark out orders and complain, complain, complain, he uses so softly around you, keeping you as calm and sleepy as possible. it's not perfect, but he manages to usher you back to your room to sleep, and that makes the thought count so much more.

"m'gonna go now." he warns, his mother hums in agreement, telling him she'll see him tomorrow and he reciprocates the goodbye.

"night, ma."

"night, kiddo." she grins, a happy sigh leaving her when she hangs up the call and lays back down. cozying herself up next to her husband.

she's had her suspicions and her hopes for a while now, but she can't be too sure what her son could possibly want from her tomorrow.

katsuki comes back home like he's never left.

the day goes like any other day would've went a few years ago when he was still living in the family home. mitsuki almost expects her son to run off upstairs to do his homework.

he greets his dad with a half hug, and is forced into a tight embrace by his mother, which he grumbles about. grumbles turning into a growl when she grips his cheek, scolding him for not greeting his mother properly.

it's a lot of catching up from the few months he's been busy with hero work. talking about his latests achievements and his quick climbing of the hero ranks, accompanied with barely suppressed smiles and softened eyes when you're brought up. mitsuki remembers how nervous he'd been when he'd told her he was planning on asking you to move in with him, so she's happy to hear from the both of you, since she has your number and you like to catch up every now and then, that everything was going well. though she already knew it would.

katsuki volunteered to help with dinner, his mother happily agreeing saying she could use some help. it makes her a little bit nostalgic and she wills herself not to get teary eyed at how much her son has grown.

but she sees that the opportunity has presented itself to bring up the topic that's been on the tip of her tongue the entire day now.

"so.." she sings "you wanted to talk about something, right ?"

katsuki stiffens like he'd forgotten, although his expression stays the same besides the slight squint of his eyes. the rhythmic cutting of vegetables has stopped and it takes him a moment before he speaks quietly like he's revealing a secret.

"i wanna ask yn to marry me."

oh.

so that was it.

"oh." she breathes immediately. a broad smile slowly grows onto her face and she beams "took you long enough, ya brat !" she exclaims, slapping her sons muscular arm. he growls lowly at her, leaning away from her though she remains undeterred. poking at his sides while he tries to smack her hands away.

finally, she relents "when are you gonna ask ?" she asks excitedly. katsuki huffs, eyebrows still heavily furrowed from her earlier attack. he turns back to the cutting board "soon. i arranged my schedule and we'll both be free, so in two weeks from now."

"you already have a ring ?"

he grunts in agreement. and mitsuki besides being proud of the fact her hunch was right, feels her heart warms at the burst of nostalgia of her little boy. her katsuki, kicking his feet in the backseat of her car. tightly gripping his bag of ring pop candies he'd give to you the next day. her little katsuki, who'd proudly claimed he was going to marry you when he grew up in that very same car, exclaiming that he'd proposed to you with those very same candies he'd almost had a tantrum over her not getting.

her little boy, who'd gotten oh so big, and so, so much more enamoured with you.

"good." she utters sweetly, voice just a bit wobbly "good. that's great, katsuki."

he nods to himself " i've thought about it for a while now..long while." he scoffs to himself, eyes focused on the cutting board in front of him. "got the whole day planned out too."

"yeah ?" he nods. her eyes soften as he speaks mostly to himself, he's had this little self hype up habit ever since he was a boy. trying to calm himself down and reassure himself. it's a smart move, but as strong and mature as he is, katsuki is nothing more than human. and anxieties can creep up on the best of us.

she's seen it before, and she sees it again when he bites his bottom lip in thought, and she smiles softly.

and again, she coaxes him into it " that sounds nice, looks like you got it all planned out, huh?"

and he nods again. but it doesn't take him, long before he breaks.

"..what if she says no ?"

and mitsuki wants to laugh. she really does, because the thought of you ever saying no to him sounds absolutely ridiculous to her. she snorts. shaking her head while her son looks at her incredulously.

"katsuki.." she tuts, chuckling to herself before she looks up at him. "you've got absolutely nothing to worry about. you've got it."

his eyes widen, then her son's expression drops as he raises a brow "how do you know that ?" his words make her smile widen this much more and she really wants to laugh.

how does she know. she scoffs

she knows because she knows him. she knows her katsuki better than anyone else, he's her son. she knows he's rude, rowdy, quipy, temperamental and everything else. he's all of that and so much more.

and yet you still love him. you're still so incredibly patient with him, you still offer him all of your kindness despite him once confessing to her he doesn't understand how you do. despite all of the times he's messed up, the times he's fallen down, you stay by his side you care for him, you care about him.

she knows her katsuki is absolutely infatuated with you, he always has been. from tantrums about being separated in class and knowing your favourite ice cream flavour to him being overly protective over you when you were paired up with your lab partner that ended up not being him and to him wearing the stupid stuffy tux mitsuki tailor made for him to take you to prom.

you've always been his number one best friend, but he's always been yours as well : he loves you, but you love him just as much.

and so mitsuki smiles "call it mother's intuition. and, not to brag, but i think most of my hunches have been right by now" and it widens when katsuki scoffs and rolls his eyes at her boasting, another bratty little habit he has that he's practically mastered over the years. she sighs, spreading her arms out towards him "well come over here. you've gone and gotten so damn tall, i can't reach you myself !" her son rolls his eyes again, but he scoffs softly to himself and with a shake of his head, he closes the distance and hunches over to hug his mother. she wraps her arms around him tightly and he grumbles when she squeezes but he doesn't try to get away.

"there's nothing for you to worry about, katsuki. absolutely nothing." she repeats, rubbing his back. "you love each other, and that's more than enough. just be yourself, it's been working out for you this far..somehow." she jests. katsuki scoffs indignantly but they both end up chuckling about it. after a few more seconds they pull away and mitsuki pats her son's chest with a sniffle. right on top of his heart that she knows, she's seen, has gone through oh so much.

but still remained entirely yours throughout all the years and still so so so enamoured with you.

gripping onto his shoulders, she whispers "you got this." the glossiness in his eyes is impossible to miss, he's always cried very easily. but she guesses she mirrors his expression exactly. her son is the spitting image of her after all. she places a hand on his cheek and he leans into it.

"thanks, ma" he whispers sincerely. and mitsuki feels her heart soar.

"any time."

during dinner, katsuki announces the news to his father. who after getting over his shock immediately wraps his son into a hug. congratulating him and encouraging him with teary eyes, she knows where katsuki gets that from, before they all settle down to have dinner before katsuki leaves a few hours later. waving off his mother's insistence to pass you a greeting with a grumbled acknowledgement.

she shakes her head as her and her husband watch him drive off but her heart is full of pride.

"we raised a killer son didn't we ?" she giggles looking back at masaru, who agrees with a smile as they share a laugh.

and the next time you both come over, you're giddy. unable to keep your excitement in check as you keep excitedly looking back at katsuki, who finally relents with an affectionate sigh and you happily show off you're ringed finger with a squeal.

mitsuki squeals right back, wrapping you up in the tightest bear hug she could. masaru takes his turn hugging you, sweetly congratulating you both. of course, they'll tell you they both new in advance, but that was all for later.

sure, she didn't know what her son was planning in advance, but she had her hunches and her funny feeling from all those years ago that you'd be sticking around. she guesses it's good enough that she was the first to be told.

she sends her son a proud and teasing smile when they make eye contact. he rolls his eyes, but the smile on his face doesn't fade as he watches you talk with his father. she doesn't have to say a single word for him to know what she's saying.

i told you so.

taglist *if your name is pink i unfortunately couldn’t tag you :(( : @73isthebestnumber @gold24fish @m-inluv @katsuisbaby @teddiiursulas-ink @moonbabysstuff @brandydel @queenpiranhadon @chuugarettes @starieq @aishio14 @andysdrafts @hyunorue @touyasprettydoll @itsfiive @annoying-bitxh @h0nestly-though @atinytiredpanromantic @mikalame @itzjustj-1000 @deepressed @evam23 @erenstitanweave @m-0ona @chaoticgay13 @lotusstarr @koreluvsspring @giannitaa @waterstarz @nayeonsdoormat @the-crazy-star-12 @kovu-bunnbunn @kvk6433gkcigv @coolgirl458 @beekeepingageissome

[cyanide-siren]

you called?

Castiel x Winchester!Reader

Summary: Dean and Sam try to call Castiel to come to them but with no result. However, when you call for him, he arrives right away. Although not in his best senses.

☆☆

"Castiel you son of a bitch, drag your angel ass here right now," Dean shouted, growing annoyed how the angel ignored him. Sam had tried calling him too, several times, but getting no contact.

You walked into the room, taking a sip from your tea. Dean and Sam were staying the night at your house, leaving tomorrow for their next hunt nearby.

"What's got you two so grumpy?"

"We've tried to reach Castiel but he's completely ghosted us just when we need him," Dean complained, then looking up at the ceiling and raising his voice, "Castiel, come here this instant!"

"You're being too threatening and needy," you commented and rolled your eyes. "Why do you need him now anyway?"

"For the case we're working on," Sam replied, going through a few papers at the desk he was sitting at.

"Well, you need to be less aggressive. He doesn't like being commanded like that," you continued, taking another sip of your tea which was starting to cool down.

"Why don't you try using that pretty face and voice of yours to call him then?" Dean asked, sarcasm dripping from his voice, and crossed his arms against his chest. He sounded like there was no way you'd succeed if they hadn't after several tries.

"And why should i bother?" you asked.

"Because we're your brothers and you love us more than anything," Dean tried to sweeten you up, smiling and batting his eyes.

"You wish." You just rolled your eyes, loving to act all hard to get to him.

Truthfully, though you'd never admit it to either of your brothers, you liked to have Castiel come over. Every time he looked at you and said anything at all to you, your heart skipped a beat and chest felt all warm, butterflies spawning inside your stomach. You had been trying to ignore these feelings and sensations he kept causing to you, knowing he'd never answer to your feelings in the same way. What kind of feelings even were they really?

Castiel was simply just nice to look at too.

"Say 'please'," you teased.

"Are you serious?" Dean scoffed, shaking his head in annoyance. "Just call that damn –"

"Y/N, please just call him, we really need his help," Sam intervened, growing tired of you and Dean constantly arguing.

"See, at least one of my brothers is able to be polite," you said to Dean, pointing at Sam. "Would want to take an example of him if i were you."

Dean gave you one last annoyed look before giving in and let out a sigh. "Please." It made you chuckle.

"Castiel, sweetie. Come over here, these two bastards miss you," you said with a loud and clear, but also sweet, voice.

It took barely a second for Castiel to appear behind Sam, the sound of the flutter of wings echoing in the room. Dean's eyes widened as he looked over Sam's shoulder to the angel in a trench coat, staring at you and Dean.

"He's behind me, isn't he?" Sam asked.

"Hello," Castiel greeted, his voice sounding a little funny.

"Hello? Hello?!" Dean yelled and stood up, pointing his finger at the angel. "We've been trying to call you for weeks but with no use. And now you appear instantly when she calls you?"

"Yes," was all Castiel responded.

Dean stared at Castiel for a moment, a flame of anger in his eyes. "And why is that?"

"Y/N and i share a deeper bond than i do with either of you," Castiel explained calmly.

He looked tired, struggling to keep his eyes open and had to lean against the back of Sam's chair to keep himself balanced.

"A deeper bond? So you like her better than us?" Dean asked.

"I do, yes," Castiel slurred.

"Hold on... Cas, are you drunk?" Dean asked, raising his eyebrows in shock, walking closer to Castiel.

"I might be a little tipsy," he mumbled and took a few unsteady steps forward, falling into Dean's arms right then.

"What the hell happened?" Dean asked, helping Castiel to stand on his own.

"I had a rough day so i drank a liquor store," he explained, voice all raspy, trying to act sober but was far from it.

"I didn't even know angels could get drunk," Sam commented.

"I am in a vessel of a human and as i said, i drank the store," Castiel stated, sounding grumpy and exhausted.

Castiel turned towards you, a weak smile rising on his lips.

"Y/N, hi," Castiel mumbled and smiled, pushing Dean away and stumbling towards you.

"Um, hello Cas." You were just as confused as your brothers, having Cas fell into your arms now, his body almost limp. For fuck's sake, this man couldn't even stand up on his own. You almost fell down on the floor from the weight of this grown ass man on you but managed to keep yourself balanced.

"You have really pretty eyes," Castiel said as he was looking deep into your eyes with his blue ones, his words and intense gaze making you blush. There was only small gap between your faces, so you could inhale the strong smell of beer and liquor in his breath.

"Thank... you?" You were unsure what to respond, since he had never commented on your looks before, and it was all so unexpected.

"You have freckles too," he said in awe, his gaze wandering all around your face, eyebrows furrowed as he examined your features now closer than before. "They're cute."

"Come on, Cas, let's sit you down." You patted his back a few times and dragged him to sit on the couch where he let the gravity to pull himself down.

Castiel would come to you every single time you'd call him, unless he was fighting for his life at that exact moment. Even then, he'd arrive to you as soon as possible. He'd hear every prayer of yours calling for him and arrive to you without a hesitation. Tonight was no different, though this time he was absolutely wasted, barely able to do anything on his own.

Castiel couldn't explain it yet, but he found your company highly pleasant and had a strange bond with you that was stronger compared to any other human being.

Sam and Dean exchanged concerned and confused glances across the room, not having expected anything like this to happen.

"So, what did you want?" Castiel asked, looking towards Dean and Sam while you sat down next to him. The couch was made to comfortably fit two people.

"I think we need you sober for it," Sam said, his face looking both concerned and amused now.

"So next time when we call you, you drag your ass here," Dean commanded.

"I am not a dog, Dean. My life doesn't revolve around you," Castiel pointed out, growing annoyed of Dean's behavior.

"But you're my little puppy," you snickered and patted Castiel's head.

Castiel turned his head towards you, a slightly embarrassed blush spreading on his cheeks.

"My vessel is a human, not a puppy, Y/N," Castiel corrected you.

"Remind me to teach you not to take everything so literally," you chuckled, ruffling his hair to even a bigger of a mess. Castiel just stared at you for a moment. "What?"

"Have i told you that you smell kind of nice," Castiel mumbled.

"I do?" You hadn't showered in two days so you must have smelled anything but nice.

"Mhm," Castiel mumbled.

"When i was younger and imagined what angels would be like if they existed, it wasn't even close to this," Sam muttered, gathering papers back into their folder.

Then, Castiel's head dropped against your shoulder.

"Cas?" you said, but the angel didn't react in any way. He was leaning against your body with all his weight now, pressing you deeper against the cushions. His head had moved down on your chest, his ear listening to your steady heart beat in his sleep.

"Did he just pass out?" Dean asked, eyebrows raised.

"Cas," you repeated and gently shook him by his shoulder, but he was lying there like a lifeless corpse, only him breathing showing that he was alive. You turned back to Dean. "Yeah, he's out."

☆☆

That night, probably for the first time in his long life, Castiel dreamed in his sleep. Being an angel, he didn't need to sleep, which resulted for him not to experience dreaming like humans.

It was a dream about you.

You stood in front of him, looked into his eyes and grabbed his face into your hands.

"Cas," you whispered.

Castiel moved his face just a little forward to press his lips on yours, backing you against the wall.

When Castiel woke up from this dream of kissing and holding you, alone on the couch with a blanket pulled over on him, his heart was beating faster and all he wanted to do was to see you again. But it was dark, the lights were out, and you didn't want to be bothered when you were sleeping.

He hadn't felt like this about any other human, so the feeling was all confusing and new to him – he wasn't sure what to do with that.

☆☆

"You okay, Cas?" Dean asked in the morning, narrowing his eyes as Castiel slowly walked into the kitchen where Dean was sitting, drinking his morning coffee.

"My head hurts, body is trembling and i feel a little sick," Castiel described as he sat down on a chair, even the light through the window blinding him a little.

"And that's what a hangover feels like," Dean smirked but soon turned more serious. "But seriously, Cas. Why answer Y/N's calls and not ours?"

"I'm rather... fond of her," Castiel answered. "I can't explain it properly."

"Fond of her?" Dean repeated, raising his eyebrows.

Right then, you walked into the kitchen, looking at the two guys having a chat at the table. Castiel instantly ignored Dean when your presence was added to their company.

"G'morning, guys," you greeted and smiled, looking at Castiel. "Are you feeling alright? You look quite pale. Do you want something to eat?"

"I'll survive, but thank you," Castiel replied and gave you an awkward smile.

"Alright. Well, let me know if there's any way i can help you with," you said and patted Castiel's shoulder. "I know hangovers suck."

"I'll be fine," Castiel promised. When you lifted your hand away from his shoulder, Castiel instantly missed your touch and would have wanted to keep your hand there longer, the ghost of your fingers lingering there.

You were about to exit the room but Castiel cleared his throat and got himself to speak up.

"Y/N."

"Hm?"

"I... i deeply apologize my behavior yesterday," Castiel said, feeling embarrassed.

"It's alright, Cas. Don't worry about it," you smiled.

"Hey, why didn't you apologize to me?" Dean asked, sounding all offended.

"This isn't your house," Cas pointed out. "And she was the one to call me."

You left the guys alone and now stood in front of a mirror, which Castiel and Dean had a direct view from the kitchen, and pulled your hair in a ponytail, adding hair spray to keep the strands from falling out. You were about to go to your morning run.

Castiel kept his eyes on you, watching every single movement your body made. Dean said something to him which Castiel just ignored.

Castiel thought back to his dream he experienced. It felt strange, having this image of you kissing him in his head but none of it was actually real. Did he want it to be real? To really kiss you? Could he do that? Would you want to?

"Oh my god," Dean gasped, making Castiel to finally turn towards him. "You have hots for my sister."

"What does hots mean?" Castiel asked, narrowing his eyes in confusion.

"You like her."

"Well yes, her company is quite pleasant."

"No, i mean, you like like her. In a different way than me and Sam," Dean specified.

"Well, i suppose. She's always kind to me and i like to have her around," Castiel said, tilting his head and looking past Dean to the wall. "I suppose i care for her more than other people. No offense to you, Dean."

Dean could only look at the angel across the table, completely dumbfounded. He was struggling to comprehend the idea of his friend liking his sister and also admitting it to his face. Though Castiel wasn't like any other people in Dean's life – first of all being an angel but he was much more direct and forward than most humans.

Sam walked into the kitchen too.

"Feeling alright, Cas?" Sam asked and was able to see that Cas didn't feel very good. "If you feel like vomiting, go to the bathroom. Y/N gets pissed if someone spills anything on the floor."

"I'm fine," Castiel mumbled.

"Uh-huh," Sam muttered, not believing him at all.

"Did Y/N leave outside?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, just a moment ago," Sam confirmed. "Why?"

"I heard why Cas answers only Y/N's calls these days," Dean said, making Sam to raise his eyebrows. "He has a little crush on her."

Sam turned towards Castiel who was avoiding both of their gazes on him.

"That explains so much," Sam said.

"What do you mean?" Castiel furrowed his eyebrows.

"Well, the way you always say 'yes' to everything she suggests," Sam said. "Or stare at her a little too long. Or always ask where you are whenever you come to us and she's not present. Should i continue listing all the small things i've noticed?"

"No, that's enough," Castiel said, feeling too ill to keep himself focused on talking about his feelings on you to your brothers.

"You know. I know i took you to a brothel a while ago and tried to get you laid," Dean said, sounding a little more awkward now. "And we still have the mission going on to lose your virginity." Dean leaned closer to Castiel. "But i'm not gonna help you to bang my sister."

"Bang?" Castiel narrowed his eyes, while Dean rolled his.

"Sex, Cas. Sex."

"I'm not going to be a part of this conversation," Sam mumbled and shook his head, leaving the kitchen to let his brother and the angel continue their conversation alone.

"While i do find her physically very attractive, i didn't imagine to execute that act with her," Castiel said. It was a partial lie, even though the image of you and him being intimate together had appeared in his dream which he wasn't able to control by his own will.

"Forgot my wallet," you said and rushed to the kitchen, your wallet on top of the drawer. You stopped and looked at Dean and Castiel who had both fallen silent, looking slightly startled. "Did i interrupt something?"

"Oh, no, nothing. Nothing at all," Dean insisted with that smile that made you question his words but you didn't care to start interrogating him.

"Alright," you said slowly.

When you had left again and Dean was about to turn back to Castiel, he was already gone, leaving Dean by himself.

"Son of a bitch," Dean mumbled.

☆☆

[tbaluver]

hello! I hope you're having a nice day ✨

can I request LADS men reaction to MC sending them videos of their baby like it's either them saying their first words or anything adorable since the men are away from home for quite a while and MC and their baby misses them ehe (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

Sending Them Baby Videos When They're Away- The Love And DeepSpace Men

parings in order: Xavier x Reader, Zayne x Reader, Rafayel x Reader, Sylus x Reader genre: fluff fluff c/w: for sylus there's mention of him using his evol to x_x someone, no gore tho a/n: hihi anonnie! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ this was such a cute concept to write and i had to write this immediately (˚ ˃̣̣̥⌓˂̣̣̥ ) ‧º but i dunno if i did this justice so if it didnt, you alr know just pretend this doesn't exist ദ്ദി ༎ຶ‿༎ຶ ) anyways them as papas are such a cute concept i have so much of it in my drafts that i'll post soon ): enjoy reading and have a nice day or night anonnie ! (ෆ˙ᵕ˙ෆ)♡

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Xavier:

He was sent away for a mission for a couple days due to fluctuations of Wanderers in the area. Unfortunately if he was by himself, it wouldn’t have taken days but his teammates were dragging him down.

His phone chimes, signaling a notification from you. Opening his phone he sees a video you had sent him.

“Rahhh!!” Your son squeals, hitting his toy sword at your plushies that you both won a couple years ago. Your laughter was in the background, making his lips tug into a smile. He missed you both as he watched the video. He was quick to text you back.

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎: is he protecting mommy

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎: it seems i have taught him well

He clicked off his phone, determination bursting through him. He wants to go back home. The warmth of your laughter and the sight of your son, drove him forward. This mission dragged on way too long, he was going to finish this himself.

He moved swiftly, slashing his sword with precision. The hours flew by as well as the number of Wanderers. Without any word to his teammates from the mission, he headed out. He couldn’t wait to see the look on you and your son's face when he walked through the door.

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎:  i’m on my way home now. does our son need a partner to protect you?

Zayne:

Zayne isn’t easily distracted except when it comes to you and a box of macaroons. Now if it was you and a box of macaroons that would be a deadly combo.

During his meetings or when he’s about to head into a surgery, he always lets you know if he’s occupied so you know he won’t be able to reply right away. But right after all of that is over, he’ll immediately check his phone for you and ignore any of his notifications.

But when he’s in his office, the moment he receives a message from you, he can’t help but glance away from the reports he needs to file or send over to the nurses. Your messages always pull him in no matter what.

He unlocks his phone and is instantly met with another cute video of your baby daughter. She’s wearing his freshly clean white coat, which she had pulled from the laundry basket. She’s also wearing his oversized shoes that are comically too big for her tiny feet. “Papa!” She squeals, her face lighting up with a silly smile as she looks into the camera.

A soft laugh escapes his lips and he can’t help but replay the video a couple more times, his heart melting each time. It’s as if he can hear her giggles through the screen. With a wide smile curling up on his lips, he texts you back.

☃︎ ♡: How adorable. I think we need to get her one that’s her size

☃︎ ♡: I have one more break after I finish this report. I can call you both when I finish.

☃︎ ♡: I’ll finish up my work quickly so I can get home sooner.

Rafayel:

He didn’t want to be at this art exhibition, or quite frankly any art exhibition if you weren’t there. All he could think about was being home with you and the babies. Leaving them behind felt like one of the hardest things he could ever do.

You sent him a cute and chaotic video while he was away. “Quick, show daddy what you just did!” you exclaimed, as you aimed the camera at your baby waving a crayon clumsily in their tiny hands while you cheered with enthusiasm. “Glub! gub gub!”

He couldn’t help but let out a wide smile, his little baby was going to be just like their papa, an artist in the making and even better they were learning Glubglubnese. The video ends up with your other baby blowing bubbles to their sibling and they start wailing.

Watching the video, his heart ached with longing for his family. He was a father. He was your husband and he shouldn’t have to miss out on all these precious moments he has wanted with you for a long time. He wanted to be there in person and experience the joy with you.

He texts you while making long strides to the exit, ignoring all the reporters and critics that tried to approach him.

����:  tell them to stop being cute until i get back

𓆟: cutie im on my way

𓆟: i miss you and my little glub glubs

𓆟: getting the fastest plane ticket there rn

𓆟: see you soon cutie ( ˘ ³˘)

Sylus:

He was away for another business deal for a couple of days, a business deal that shouldn’t have taken this long and Sylus was getting irritated. “Mr. Sylus, we’re really sorry! Please give us a couple more days! We don’t know what happened to half of the inventory!” The man begged with desperation on his face but Sylus did not have the time for a couple more days.

Before Sylus could respond, his phone chimed with a familiar notification. He raises a finger, signaling for a moment while Luke and Kieran keep the restricted men distracted.

Opening his phone, he was met with an adorable video of your baby daughter. She was dressing up Mephisto in her doll clothes, her giggles flooding through the speakers of his phone. “Caw....” Mephisto caws defeatedly, his head drooping down. “Caw! caw!” Your daughter squeals, her laughter and yours was infectious as she lifts him up in the air, dashing around the living room with pure joy.

He couldn’t help but chuckle, a smile tugging at his lips as he watches the video. Once he clicked off his phone, a sigh escaped his lips. His heart ached with so much longing for you both and he couldn’t bear missing even more precious moments with you and your baby girl.

As Luke and Kieran snicker, stepping aside, crimson swirls began to surround the men, slowly suffocating them until they vanished into thin air.

“Send their team another warning. We’re going home.”

𓅪: The business deal is finally finished. I apologize for the wait, sweetie.

𓅪: I’ll call you both before I get on the plane. I hope I didn't miss much.

𓅪: I'll pick up more doll clothes for her on my way back.

Once he was in his private jet he couldn’t wait to have you and his baby girl in his arms again.

[augustjoy]

And I’ll do it again.

Based on the following ask: Please may I request a Hotch x female reader established relationship fic where reader has a daughter that goes to school with Jack (a few grades above him) and reader and hotch get called in to the principal's office because the daughter hit some kids who were bullying Jack about Haley's passing.

Reader's daughter is sitting there all like "and I'll do it again if anyone messes with my brother" and how the family unit reacts to the situation? – UGH I love this! Reader’s daughter shall be called Emmy also Bolded text is the reader and italics are Hotch – just on phone calls.

Aaron Hotchner x Fem Reader

Angst (tiny bit)/Fluff

Word count: 1251

REQUESTS ARE OPEN - not edited - please be kind. Requests are open and feedback is welcome if it's constructive!

Warnings: My blog is 18+, minors DNI, some explicit language, no use of y/n, reader has some sort of office job…but no description given, Fem reader, reader has no physical description, canon typical violence, mention of Jack, reader has a daughter named Emmy who is 12, Jack is 9, blended family, reader and Hotch live together but are not yet married, mention of bullying, mention of a punch to the face, let me know if I missed any!

I do not consent to having my work translated or reposted to any other site. That being said I do not own the characters portrayed in this story.

“Hello?”

“This is she.”

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“And you’re saying it was Emmy? Are you sure?”

“This has to be some sort of mix up. Emmy has never been in trouble.”

“I’ll be right there.”

--

“Everything okay?” Sarah, your coworker asked.

“No. Apparently Emmy punched a boy at her school. They need me to come down there, they’re threatening to suspend her.” You scoffed.

“Oh shit. Emmy? There’s no way she’d just punch someone for no reason. It has to be a misunderstanding.” Sarah agreed.

“Exactly. I’ll text you and let you know if I’ll be back in today. My assumption is no, but we’ll see.” With that you grabbed your bag and coat and made your way to the parking garage.

--

Your phone rang the moment you started your car.

Hello?

Hey sweetheart, I just got a call from the kids school, I’m on my way there now.

Wait, they called you about Emmy too?

Emmy? No, they called me about Jack…I guess some boys were picking on him. What happened with Emmy?

The school called and said she punched some boy. I think I might know the reason now.

--

Aaron and you arrived at nearly the same time, sharing an exasperated chuckle at how ridiculous this all seemed. Jack and Emmy were both good kids, neither had ever been in any trouble at school before.

Aaron took your hand as you headed up the front steps and into the school’s office. He gave your hand a squeeze of reassurance as you told the receptionist why you were there.

“The principal will be with you in just a moment.”

The two of you stood off to the side waiting to be called back. Aaron was whispering encouraging words to you, noticing the stress taking over your form.

“YOU!” A man shouted as he walked into the school. “Your daughter is the one who assaulted my son!”

“Excuse me?” You gasped.

Aaron moved to step in front of you, fully ready to protect you from the wrath of this man. But you placed your arm out to block him. You had this under control and didn’t need him to save you…not yet anyway.

“Why don’t you calm yourself down until we hear the full story. And I don’t appreciate you loosely throwing around accusations of assault. You’re a lawyer aren’t you…Sean’s dad, if I’m not mistaken.” You looked to Aaron for confirmation. “I thought I recognized you from soccer. You’re the pompous jerk who takes all his phone calls on speaker and disrupts the entire game. I digress, I would think a lawyer would be familiar with the notion “innocent until proven guilty”.” You smirked.

Aaron choked on a laugh, he was constantly in awe of you and how your fearlessly fought for the ones you loved. He figured if Emmy truly had hit someone it was to stick up for someone. Like mother, like daughter.

“The principal will see you now.”

--

“Okay, so I’ve taken statements from nearly a dozen students, and it is very clear to me what has happened here today.” The principal began. “I think it would be best if your children all shared what happened.”

“That girl punched me in the face!” Sean cried, adjusting the icepack he was clutching to his face.

“And I’ll do it again if you or anyone else messes with my little brother.” Emmy sneered.

“Emmy! We don’t resort to violence.” You scolded.

“Mom, this kid and all his little friends were picking on Jack. If the teacher’s weren’t going to help, then I was.” Emmy tried to justify.

“Is that true Jack, was Sean picking on you?” Aaron questioned.

Jack nodded shyly.

“What happened bud?” Aaron pressed.

Jack shook his head, clearly distressed about the situation.

“They were saying that you aren’t his real mom. They were laughing at him and telling him that you weren’t his mom, you’re his “fake mom” because his real mom is dead!” Emmy exclaimed. “Jack was asking them to leave him alone and the cornered him. That’s when I went over.”

“Jack, honey, is that what happened?” You asked gently.

“Yeah. And when Emmy came to help they said she was my fake sister. I told them that wasn’t true and then Sean said that you and Emmy wouldn’t stick around long…and then I’d be without a mom again.” Jack cried.

“That’s when I punched him.” Emmy admitted.

“Sean! Do you have anything to say for yourself?” His dad questioned.

Sean turned his gaze to the floor and shook his head. Knowing he was caught and surely in trouble. His dad met your gaze and gave you an apologetic nod.

“The other students reported something similar. So, I’d like to discuss punishment. We have zero tolerance for bullying on this campus, especially violence.” The principal stated.

“I understand that Emmy shouldn’t have lashed out however, she was sticking up for her little brother. I don’t think that it is fair that she be suspended. It’ll set a precedent for other kids that there are consequences for sticking up to bullies.” You argued.

“I understand that, but if she receives no punishment, then it gives off the idea that kids can go around punching others and not receive punishment for it.” She retorted.

--

The conversation went back and forth for quite a while trying to agree on the best solution. Ultimately it was agreed that Emmy and Sean would leave for the remainder of the day. Emmy would have three days of detention, while Sean had a three-day suspension and subsequent meetings with the school counselor to work through whatever it was he was going through.

--

“We will see you guys at home.” You called over to Aaron.

“Drive safe baby, I love you!” Aaron replied.

“I love you more!”

Emmy and you drove in your car so you could talk to her, while also giving Aaron the chance to talk to Jack privately about the loss of his mother.

--

“Are you mad?” Emmy whispered.

“Mad? I mean, you know better than to hit people Em.” You glanced over at her.

“I know mom, but you should have seen it. Jack was backed into a corner crying while that jerk talked about his dead mom like it was nothing. Ugh, it just made me so mad!” Emmy raged.

“I know honey. Next time, hands to yourself…got it?” You confirmed.

“Got it. Sorry mom.”

The two of you drove in silence, Emmy resting her head on the window as you mentally processed what had all just happened. You couldn’t help the warmth that bloomed within you at the fact that Emmy had called Jack her little brother, and she stood up for him at school. It gave you a little more confidence in the fact that, if you and Aaron did get married, the kids would be okay.

“And I’ll do it again” You muttered, huffing out a laugh, “that’s pretty badass.”

Emmy looked over at you and smiled, the both of you falling into a fit of laughter as you pulled into the driveway beside Aaron’s car.

“What’s so funny?” Aaron inquired, as Emmy dragged Jack into the house with the promise of ice cream.

“Nothing. I’m just really happy that they see each other as brother and sister.” You beamed, leaning up to kiss Aaron.

“Does this mean you’re ready to talk to them about us getting married?” He pressed.

“Yeah, I think it’s time.”

Taglist: @angellsell

[sinning-23]

Hot Tatted Uncle Pt.2 (Uncle!SukunaAu x Teacher!Reader)

Thanks so much for the love and support on pt.1 you guys are the besttt lol, honestly might be a 3 parter we'll see! ANyway, enjoy :0

Also pleaseee excuse any spelling errors yall

Link to Pt.1

PART THREE HERE!!!

_______________________________________

You stared at the text message, throat tight with excitement but dread. It had been a few months since the last incident with Yuji and his Uncle. The roguish male often picked up the young boy, tagging along with Yuji’s father. You’d usually just give Jin a rundown of his son’s day, ever so often catching Sukuna’s gaze as he leaned against the door frame. And every time it happened, you’d choke, clearing your throat and focusing your attention on Yuji and his father.

It didn’t help that he was always texting you, asking his his nephew was behaving. Even though it was cordial and polite, you still felt giddy getting texts from him.

This comes to the next point, why you’re sitting here practically gawking over the most recent message request from Yuji’s father.

-YOU HAVE A NEW MESSAGE:

Hello Miss Y/n! Do you babysit? I know Yuji loves having you as a teacher and I was wondering if you’d be interested in babysitting for him along with his Uncle while me and my wife go on vacation. Of course, you will be paid as well.

-Jin Itadori @ 6:28pm-

You wait to open it, pacing for a moment, thinking, first of all if you were available for the weekend and second, why couldn’t his uncle handle it?!

Well, given the man’s track record maybe an experienced hand in childcare could be useful. With a heavy sigh, you respond and you'd have to quickly come to terms with the fact that you would be essentially babysitting over 2 days with your students' hot uncle.

-----------

It's Friday now, and arrangements for you to simply drive Yuji back home and meet up there with his uncle were already in place. You were trusted with a spare house key, and their precious baby boy, who so seemed to be happier than a fly on shit that you would be spending even MORE time with him.

You gather your things and a few activities to pass the time, loading them into your car. Yuji insists on helping, carrying a small container of building blocks with his chubby hands. And god damn does he not stop talking while he does. It's adorable really, whatever comes off the top of the boy's head simply flying free.

"My-My uh uncle, he doesn’t have no girlfriend." He speaks, the statement making you choke.

"Ahaha is that so? He tells you to say that?" You joke, setting the pink-haired toddler in his car seat, and buckling him in with ease.

"MHM! My uh-" He coughs, quickly covering it with his elbow as you give a small 'good job' seeing as he's learning to keep his germs away from everyone, including you.

"My Uncle says uh he says that you got pretty eyes." He explains, your heart fluttering.

You sit in the driver seat finally, the boy still rambling on and on about what his uncle thinks about you. Though all you can do is respond with a simple, "Oh that's very kind, or a awee", Yuji is nonstop.

It’s quiet for a moment and as you’re pulling into the driveway when he says it, clear as day.

"Uncle says your ass is fat too."

You slam the brakes, the car jerking a bit when you do. What. The. FUCK-

The culprit is already awaiting you, arms folded over his chest as they flex. He’s got a white tank top on and a pair of black basketball shorts paired with slides and ankle socks.

Yuji squirms, growing ever more excited as Sukuna takes him out of the car seat and lightly jabs his knuckles to the boy's sides with a 'Rahhhh', as if he were some kind of tickle monster. Yuji of course laughs and if ALMOST makes you forget about what he'd just said a moment ago.

"Wanna help Miss Y/n put this inside?" Sukuna asks the small boy, handing him the block container from before. Yuji is quick to nod and scurry to the front door.

"I can bring the rest of this, Jin gave you the housekey right?" He asks, leaning against the frame of the car, your neck snapping towards him as you swallow thickly. Fuck you can see even more of the tats now in that shirt.

"U-Uhm yes, yes. I'll go get the door. I can get some of this too I-" You speak, fumbling to find the key. He only puts his hand up and shakes his head, the silver chain around his swishing a bit.

"Nah I gotchu. Yuji knows how to turn the TV on so he can watch his lil show for a bit.”

Sure enough, the minute you unlock the door, Yuji crawls atop the couch, using the remote to try his best to navigate. It takes a while, and he mispresses a few buttons but after about 5 minutes he manages to play something entertaining for him.

Sukuna had finished bringing your bags in as well as the one with activities in it, setting it on the stairs. He rolls his shoulder, pointing at Yuji who was immersed in the show.

"See." Sukuna hums, leaning against the countertop next to you, also skimming over the note. His body heat is practically radiating off of him, just standing by him is warming you up.

You nod in response, looking over the brief note Jin left for you both and according to what it said, your next step was to head up some leftovers for Yuji and then run him a bath.

"There’s two bathrooms so I can get the boy.” He offers, resting his hand behind his neck as you give a nervous laugh. FUCK this nervousness was most likely only on you. There’s no way he could be just as filled with anticipation as you were?!

You take the offer, giving a small thank you before fishing the shower and taking one considering you did just get off of work. Packed away in your bag was a set of comfortable clothes and a book with you figured would help pass the time once Yuji went to sleep.

You could hear footsteps and Yuji fussing back and forth with his Uncle.

“Hush man you’re making me look bad.” Sukuna groans, throwing the toddler over his shoulder as he giggles but continues to thrash, pounding tiny fists against the older male's back.

“No! NO BATH! I don’t wanna!” Yuji whines, his Uncle only growling in response.

“I’ll give you candy if you stop.”

And just like that it was quiet.

-8:30pm-

The night had gone smoother than you thought, you and Sukuna both interacting with Yuji as it’s beginning to be time to wind down. His eyes were beginning to get heavy and before you knew it he was slumped against the couch, clutching an unfinished sucker in one hand and a white puppy plush in the other. You smile, scooping him up and patting him when he stirs.

“Be right back, let me tuck him in.” You whisper, seeing Sukuna look up from his phone and nod, one arm slung over the sofa while he practically manspreads

-9:00pm-

Turns out, Yuji took a bit longer to fall asleep when he realized he was being put down and so you had to sit and pat him for an extra 30 minutes. And once you returned to the living room, there was Sukuna, still scrolling. Well, that was until you came in.

“Sorry, he wouldn’t go back to sleep.” You explain, sitting at the farthest end from him, picking up your book in the silence.

“So you like working up there? At the school?” He asks, putting his phone down to hold the conversation with you.

It takes you by surprise for a second but you are quickly to respond.

“Well yeah, I love the kids and I love working there and teaching them things. Yuji is a sweetheart and it’s definitely kids like him that make it all worth it.” You explain, a smile making its way to your lips.

“You got kids?” He asks, eyes on your frame as you laugh a bit in response

“Nah, don’t really plan on it right now either. Kids are difficult.” You answer, now facing him a bit more, body relaxed.

What was there to be so scared of?! He’s a chill guy who just so happened to be hot as fuck asking you about your career and life?!

“How about you? Kids? Working?” You flip, seeing him shift a bit uncomfortably.

“Hell nah. I see how Jin deals with Yuji and I’m not really cut you to be a dad. And for work well, I’m a priest.” He states, smirking at the surprised look on your face.

“R-Really??” You question definitely surprised.

“Nah I’m just fucking with you.” He laughs and you do the same, trying to keep your volume down since Yuji did just fall asleep.

-11:08pm-

It was crazy to believe you’d spent about two hours just talking back and forth, with him about his past, his brother, and his nephew. You about your own life and current living situations. Somehow the conversation took…a turn.

“Y’know, it’s funny because Yuji keeps telling me about these things you say and I think it’s so funny. Like he’s your little wingman.” You laugh, seeing him grin right back at you.

“Yeah like what?” He asks, more teasing than anything.

“Well he said that you said I have pretty eyes and on the way here he goes, ‘uncle says your ass is fat’” you explain with a laugh that he doesn't return.

Instead you see his lip tuck between his teeth after he licks them.

“I did say that.”

Suddenly the room is hot, and you’re very aware of how sharp his canaines look in that stupid grin. How his hand is grinning the back of the couch cushion. And for some goddamn reason you just had to look down, that fucking print so visible against his inner thigh.

Your breath falters, eyes wide and you swallow back any doubt. So he had said all that stuff and it want just Yuji repeating something or just talking.

“I-Well I…Thank you? I-I mean I’d be lying if I said hadn’t looked at you too.” You admit, his body shifting to face you more, almost caging you in on the couch.

“I figured. Every time I come to pick up you can’t seems to form a sentence correctly .” He notes.

“Suku-“

“Ryo.” He corrects. Lifting the strap of your nightshirt over your shoulder, playing with the fabric for a moment.

“Ryo.” You test, hearing his exhale heavily.

“Let’s stop pretending there’s nothing happing and has been happening here. No rule against fooling around with me is there?” Sukuna tests, his hand trailing up to rest no on your neck, his thumb pulling your lower lip down.

“No.”

And with that you make the first move to connect your lips, his arms immediately going to lift you up ans set you against his lap.

Damn does that bulge feel to much better resting between your legs than just looking at it.

___________________________________

Authors note: OKAY YEHA ITs gonna be a 3 parter with smut in the next one I cant resist lol yall know smut is my specialty! LMK if you wanna be added to the taglist shawty!

Taglist: @manikosii @ya-boi-v @tergyri @ninacutebee16 @minaloq @kriegsumire-blog @samisfunky @peachhiz @teupaidecalcinhasblog @khaotic-luca @gurutoru @molita111 @snail-squasher @rowrowrowyourboat13

[thehoodsweetheart]

A/N: I had this work in my drafts for a while and decided to put it out. I would love feedback. It’s a bit on the rough side and lengthy. (Probably should have been 2 Parts but I rolling with it). I’ve said it before and nothing has changed, my characters/readers are black.

Word Count: 4,410

StackxBlackOC

Warnings: Profanity, drama, tension, toxic arguments, angst, betrayal

Summary: Anastasia left town before the SmokeStack Twins skipped town to chase dreams in Chicago with secrets and a broken heart. What was meant to be a short trip back to Houston, TX turns into a reckoning with the past she thought she buried.

The bassline of "Before I Let Go" by Frankie Beverly and Maze blasted through the speakers as if on cue when Anastasia “Stacey” Prince stepped into her father’s house. Normally that was a signal that it’s about time to leave the cookout. From the litany of cars that filled the driveway and trailed down both sides of the street, the party was in full swing. Plenty of red Dixie cups in hand, conversations trying to beat the music's volume, dominoes, spades, the NBA finals on one of the tv’s drawing a crowd were all signals that this served as a reunion of sorts.

She silently thanked God the house had the air conditioner on despite the frequent traffic in and out of the home. She was no stranger to heat or humidity, but she had gotten spoiled living in the mild yet warm weather of Los Angeles. She did not miss that Texas heat, actually southern heat generally. When her parents divorced while she was young, her mom took their kids back to her hometown of Ladera Heights, part of the Black Beverly Hills of Los Angeles, CA. Stacey and her brother spent most of their time in LA but winter and summer breaks in Houston or Slidell, Louisiana with their dad. She had a love for Texas though. That love had brought her back for college at TSU. Her brother on the other hand was sent to live with their father when he was in high school due to too many fights.

The smell of barbecue filled the air thick enough to choke somebody. She gripped her sons’ hands tighter as she made her way through the crowded house trying to also maintain a hold of a gift bag. The two seven year olds were practically dragging her to get to the backyard ready to play with the kids. Through the crowd they could see the bounce house and other kids chasing each other around it. Stacey offered a warm smile and small hellos to her relatives and her father’s friends before she heard his boisterous laugh. 

“Slow down. Y’all don’t even know where y’all goin!” Stacey fussed at her hyperactive boys in a hushed voice. They were far less interested in the introductions to family that arguably they should have already known. The boys were eager to play.

“Whoaaa! There goes my baby girl. And who are these big boys dragging her around?” His light brown eyes gleamed as he stretched his arms out wide. The boys laughed and jumped into his arms in excitement. Richard Sr. tickled his grandsons making them squeal deep dimples accenting their snaggletooth smiles. “Hey Sweets.” He leaned, placing a small peck on her forehead. 

“Happy Birthday Dad! Why didn't you tell me you were having a party?” Stacey chastised him. 

“Get that stick out ya butt! It’s just a cookout. You look like you’re dressed for a party anyway. Maybe not this one…” He motioned to her outfit. She wore a black cottage core House of CB dress with black mules.

 “Oh whatever. I just wanted a heads up…and I’m always fly.” She stated a matter of factly pretending to toss her hair over her shoulder since it was too short in her fresh bob. She held up a little burgundy bag with gold cursive embossed writing. “Your gift.” 

Big Rich smirked, taking the bag. “You must be doing real well. Cartier for your old man? You shouldn’t have.” 

“Just say thank you.” Stacey muttered as she folded her arms across her chest. Her eyes scanned the open floor plan of the two story home. She shifted her weight on her feet taking in her surroundings.

The truth was this was more than a birthday gift. This was a peace offering for the guilt of hardly coming to visit Houston within the last seven, almost 8 years. Stacey had visited three times, two of which she did not bring her twin sons. Those two visits were also within the same year and considered ‘girl trips’ for the weekend. Richard Sr would travel to Los Angeles to visit them frequently but he never held his tongue about his disapproval of his daughter not visiting him.

—

“When’s the last time you came to see your old man? I think you should come to Houston for at least the weekend, if a week is asking too much of you.” Stacey’s father glanced down at his iPhone to watch his daughter’s reaction via FaceTime. The thought of Houston pulled a sigh from Stacey. Her lips turned up into a smirk matching her father’s expression. He had anticipated an eye roll from his stubborn daughter.

“Which weekend are we speaking of? I need to check out my calendar and the twin’s schedule. I might leave them with mom.”

“You ain’t gotta leave my grand babies. They can hang wit their grandpere. Your fine ass mama can come too though.”

“Please Dad, you know she has a new husband.”

“I ain’t never cared about a punk ass nigga.”

“Now why does he have to be all that? He coo’ to me. He treats her well.”

“Sound like you switchin sides sweets. I never thought I’d see the day. My only girl would utter favor upon the opps.” Richard Sr. shook his head in disbelief, committing to acting as if his feelings were hurt. Stacey let out a goofy laugh covering her mouth.

“Daddy, I would never betray you. Scouts honor.” She held up a crossed middle and index finger.

“I don’t know if I want you to visit me no more. Just send the boys.” He continued his act of discontent.

“They ain’t coming without me. We’re a package.”

“Package my ass. Return to sender. You were just saying that you were going to leave them wit your momma.” He shook his head. “You want my card info so you can get these tickets now?”

“I don’t need your money Dad. Thank you but your daughter is fully capable of—“

“Yeah, yeah, yeah… you can pay yourself. I don’t want you to though.”

“You just want to make sure I actually come. I know you.”

“I know you too.”

“I’m not that flaky. We’ll be there for your birthday.”

—

“Mhm…You lookin’ for somebody?”

“No, not at all.” She lied. There was an unsettled feeling at the pit of her stomach that she struggled to decipher if it was anxiety or intuition. She was looking for the reason why.

“Well let me make you a drink. You look like you need it.”

The twins had broken free from their grandfather running towards the backyard as Stacey’s big brother opened the sliding doors. They screamed “Hey Uncle” in unison as they hurried to the bounce house. Stacey’s older brother, Richard Jr looked down at them eyebrows raised as he took a step back with a chuckle as they ran out. He held his arm out to usher a heavily pregnant Annie walk in before him. He grabbed a bottle of Dussé from the kitchen cabinet giving his sister a quick wave before returning outside. She fought the urge to roll her eyes at him as she accepted the cocktail from her dad.

Stacey’s eyes went wide with excitement seeing her dear friend that she considered like family. She practically completely zoned out from whatever her dad had been rambling about. Annie was the big sister Stacey wished for. They met when Annie moved from the Delta up to Houston. It was merely a coincidence that Annie was married to one of the two demons that did business with Stacey’s father and brother. A smile crept into your face taking in the image of her. Her tight coils pinned up into an updo. She wore a yellow flowy maxi dress that complimented her deep complexion and offered some cleavage for view. Stacey knew her husband had to be close behind. She prayed his twin wasn’t. She anticipated them to appear with bated breath.

“Hey Mrs. Annie!” Stacey beamed.

 “Stacey?! Now this is a surprise. Ya Pa finally got ya down here. Why you didn’t tell me you were coming?!” Annie smiled with a hand on her hip. Stacey’s dad patted her shoulder as he walked away. The women pulled each other into a warm embrace. Stacey broke the hug to rub Annie’s swollen belly. 

“Mmm. He did. The point was for it to be a surprise! I can’t wait to meet your baby girl.” Annie had revealed to Stacey over a recent call that she and Smoke were expecting a baby girl.

“You and I both. I’m bout sick of this heat bein pregnant.”

”Tell me about it. I was miserable. I don’t miss none of that.”

”Speakin’ of…Those was your boys almost knocking your brother over?” Annie knowingly asked. You chewed your bottom lip and nodded. She offered a sympathetic look. “They look just like ‘em too. Ain’t no hiding that.”

”They’re good boys. A handful though with all that energy but as charming as can be.” Stacey watched them go into the bounce house before returning her attention back to Annie. “Let’s get you a seat somewhere. You don’t need to be on your feet.” Stacey changed subjects leading Annie to the couches in the living room where there was less of a crowd. 

“Don’t you start fussin over me too! I get enough of that from the guys.” She fanned Stacey off as they sat down. Stacey twiddled her thumbs.

”Does Smoke know?”

”You asked me not to say nothin. I respected that.” She tapped Stacey’s knee. 

Stacey should have known. If she could trust anyone it would be Annie. In fact, Annie was the first to know about Stacey being pregnant. She ran to Annie in a panic and hysterics not knowing what to do. Stack and Stacey had already broken up. The last thing she wanted was him to think she was trying to trick her way back into his life. Especially when that was the last thing she wanted to do.

The benefit was Smoke was a man of few words. Stacey could easily be a topic he didn’t inquire much about. They also left for Chicago after she moved to LA, buying her much time. Annie understood why Stacey kept the twins a secret. Annie accepted her husband and all that he was whether she agreed with it or not. She knew Stacey struggled to accept the lifestyle the SmokeStack twins had because it was too much like her father’s. They were caught up in drug trafficking, gang wars, robberies, and a slew of other crimes. Her family flipped that drug money into legal businesses that proved to be lucrative, but she knew they played both sides. Her father moved like a ghost with a deadly hand and the twins were no different. Stacey even resented her brother didn’t strive for a more clean and narrow life.

“I never got a chance to properly thank you for everything.”

”We family. You didn’t need to.”

”Oh but I do. My request was selfish.” 

Stacey left early enough in her pregnancy that no one knew she was pregnant before she left. She moved back to Los Angeles somewhere between being lovesick and a heartbroken puppy, tail tucked and head down. Elias ‘Stack’ Moore was her first love. What started as a teenage crush of her brother’s charming best friend, led to a secret or “private” courtship, then blossomed into a whirlwind romance. It ended up being a hot and cold and often toxic relationship. All in all, during their last encounter, Stacey saw a side of Stack that she never wanted to see again. Her heart rate quickened just at the thought.

”What you gone do today cuz they all here?”

”I guess I can’t avoid it forever.” Stacy tucks a piece of her hair behind her ear.

”Avoid what?” Smoke spoke up causing both of the ladies to jump a bit in their seats. Annie put her hand on her chest. He eyed Stacey with an expecting look. Stacey shook her head taking a gulp of her drink. 

”Nearly scared me half to death…Hey Smoke.” Stacey let out a nervous chuckle.

 “How you been Stacey?” Smoke squinted his eyes as his eyes shifted between you and Annie. He half waited for you all to answer his initial question. Smoke had come into the house to look for Annie after noticing she didn’t return outside with RJ. That’s when he caught the tail end of their conversation. He could tell from the women’s body language that they were shaken from the thought that he even heard that much. 

“I’ve been good. Nothing worth complaining about. What about you? I see congratulations are in order.” Stacey tried not to shrink under his studying gaze.

“Thank you. Glad to hear you good.”

Much later in the backyard…

Richard Jr. leaned against a beam of the patio watching his nephews play. Her older brother never questioned it. In his mind, the twins could’ve been the result of a rebound relationship. His gut told him differently each time he saw them over the years. He just knew it wasn’t none of his business. Stacey never asked nor cared for his opinion when she started messing with his friend, so what happened after he left alone. Never spoke of it.

The twins slid out of the bounce house whispering to each other. They shot each other dimpled smiles before walking separate ways. The youngest of the two walked over to the patio where the coolers were. He used his small hand to wipe the sweat from his brow. The heat caused him to frown. He rocked on his bare feet trying to wait for the large masculine figure to move. The man was hunched down digging into the ice for longer than the little boy’s patience could stand.

“Excuse me sir! Can I have a Sprite?” The little boy asked cutting to the chase. Stack stood up to his full height, turning to find the little boy who was in a rush.

“What about a water?” Stack offered, cocking his head to the side.

“Nah…I asked for a Sprite.” The little boy protested.

“Your mama let you drink soda?” Stack raised and eyebrow.

“If I finish before she see me then she won’t know.” A mischievous smirk eased on the little boy’s face, his dimples in tow. Stack chuckled, shaking his head at the little boy’s antics. 

“How about a CapriSun?” Stack bargained.

“2  CapriSuns and you got a deal.” The boy hustled.

“If you that thirsty then you should take the water.”

“The other one is for me.” Another small raspy voice peaked up from behind Stack. He walked around to his brother’s side giving the tall man a once over. 

“Y’all boys twins?”

“No…I just met him today.” The twins laughed in unison. The blind could see the boys were identical. 

Elias chuckled low. “Y’all came out the womb negotiating, huh?”

The taller one stuck out his hand. “I’m Ezra.”

“EJ,” said the other, following suit.

Elias blinked. “EJ?”

“Elias Jr.,” the boy corrected. “But nobody calls me Junior except my granddad. And just when he’s mad.”

The bottle nearly slipped from Elias’s hand. His smirk faltered.

“Elias?” he repeated, voice just a little offbeat.

“Yeah,” Ezra said proudly. 

Just then, the glass sliding door slid open. Stacey stepped out into the glow of the string lights—phone in one hand, small plate of cake in the other—then froze.

There was her past, standing face to face with her future. 

Shit.

“Ez. EJ,” she called quickly, tone clipped. “Go inside. Wash your hands and sit down. No soda.”

The boys groaned in unison. “But—”

Stack stood there, eyes shifting from the twin boys to Stacey then back to the boys. He took in their features. Their small jaw lines a miniature version of his own. The dimples, slight arch in the left eyebrow. 

“Now.” Stacey ordered.

They knew that tone. Both darted off, leaving Elias staring after them with his jaw clenched and something unreadable in his eyes.

Stacey approached, keeping her expression neutral, calm.

“You want some cake?” she asked lightly, nodding at the plate. “Red velvet. From Aunt Marlene. You still like that?”

Elias didn’t take his eyes off her. “Elias Jr.?”

Stacey paused, lips tightening around a calm smile. “It’s a popular name.”

He scoffed, shaking his head slowly. “Stace.”

She tilted her head. “Don’t start.”

He took a slow sip of his drink, then lowered it deliberately. “You naming one of your kids after me is wild as hell. But what’s crazier? You showing up here with me-sized children and thinking I wasn’t gonna ask questions.”

“They’re my kids,” she replied.

“Didn’t say they weren’t. But I know my math. And I know my face. And Ezra? He got your attitude and my sarcasm.”

Stacey’s expression didn’t move. “You’re reaching.”

He stepped closer. “You know who they belong to, Stacey.”

“Does it matter?” she said, voice lower now. “You told me to stay away from you. You made it very clear.”

“Don’t flip this,” he snapped. “You vanished. Had my sons without telling me. Let your dad visit them in L.A. like it was some secret mission—”

“Because I didn’t want you in their world,” she cut in, sharper. “And I didn’t want them in yours.”

“Funny,” he bit back. “Since they damn near walked straight into mine.”

Stacey looked away. “They don’t know who you were.”

“They will,” Elias said. “Soon. But you? You and I—we’re gonna talk. For real. You owe me that.”

“I don’t owe you—”

“Dinner,” he interrupted, jaw flexing. “Tomorrow night. My spot. I’ll send the car.”

Stacey folded her arms. “I’m not on your payroll, Elias.”

He grinned, wolfish. “I know. That’s what makes this fun.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t say no.

He leaned in, his voice dipping. “Bring your pride. But bring the truth too. I want it all.”

And just like that, he walked away—cooler than the bottle he left behind, but burning hotter than the grill smoke behind him.

Stacey stood still, heart drumming under the surface. She had just lost control of the narrative if she ever was in control of it.

And dinner was less than 24 hours away.

Stacey crossed her legs slowly, deliberately. Her black silk dress clung to her like it had secrets of its own. Her lip gloss was perfect, her expression was not. She stared across the table at Elias like she was staring down a man with a loaded gun and history told her, in many ways, she was.

But she wasn’t twenty-three anymore. And she didn’t flinch for men like Elias Moore. Even if her pulse said otherwise.

Elias sat like sin on a throne. One hand resting on a lowball crystal glass of scotch, the other draped over the back of the booth. Smug. Rich. And ten times more dangerous than when she left him.

He sipped slowly from his glass, jaw tight, a diamond-studded watch glinting under candlelight. No jacket, just a black shirt rolled at the sleeves, showing off forearms veined and tensed. That same smirk people mistook for charm rested on his mouth. But it wasn’t charm tonight. It was fury held hostage behind an attempt to show good manners.

Stacey had accepted his invitation. Begrudgingly.

Elias looked her up and down.

“You clean up nice,” he said coolly, though the heat in his chest rose like smoke. “Didn’t think LA would turn you into a cloud engineer-slash-tech princess with investment portfolios and twin sons named after your past.”

Her jaw tensed.

She shifted in her seat across from him ever so slightly, graceful, composed.

“I didn’t come here for your sarcasm, Elias.”

“No?” He leaned forward, forearms on the table. “You’re here to explain why the hell I met my sons next to a bounce house and a f**king Capri Sun cooler.” 

 “So you invite me to dinner? For that…” Her eyes scanned the closed restaurant that only milled with a few staff members.

“I wanted to catch up without any interference. Seeing you yesterday reminded me how much I missed your company.” Stack smirked, deepening his dimples.

“I call bullshit, but I’ll leave it alone.”

”Don’t pussy out. Say what’s on your mind.”

“I know you want to really know why I did it. The truth is I was scared and young. I might not have known much about life yet, but I sure as hell knew about you. Men like you and your brother. Men like my father. I knew if I didn’t want to get forced into a decision that I didn’t want to make, then I would have to take agency of my own life. I had to protect me and my babies. And from what I heard, I wasn’t the only one to skip town.”

“So what? That was a fuck me while you ran off carryin’ my sons? They my kids too right?”

“I—I heard you threatening one of your little conquests to have an abortion. I saw how you treated women you didn’t want any more. Look how you did Mary. What made me different?”

“You know that I love—loved and cared about you. I was crazy about you.”

“Sure had a funny way to show it. Our last conversation you told me to stay away from you and you didn’t want to hear anything from me ever again.” 

Elias flexed his jaw feeling himself grow more frustrated with this conversation. He ran his hand over his face exhaling. Men like you and your brother. Men like my father. Stacey’s words echoed in his mind. He respected Big Rich but the SmokeStack twins were a different kind of beast. They were relentless in their dealings and everyone knew not to cross them. That didn’t stop people from trying. Elias was careless with women because he could be. Stack was boystorous, while Smoke preferred to move like a ghost. What's the consequence when you can make shit disappear? she knows not to provoke a man of their word. He told her never to speak to him, so she didn’t. He didn’t do it out of spite or anger. He wanted to protect her.

“I want a DNA test.” He said deadpan. 

Stacey nodded at the request. It was equally understandable yet unexpected. She chuckled bitterly, turning her head to the side to gaze out of the vast window beside her. The night view of the city’s lights played as an excuse for her to formulate her response. She straightened her posture before peering into Stack’s chocolate orbs.

“Ok.”

“Ok? That’s all you gotta say?” Elias narrowed his eyes like her indifference was a bigger betrayal than silence.

“I don’t know what you want me to say. Fine! Take the test! It won’t change shit for me. I didn’t come looking for you. I don’t have shit to prove!” Stacey allowed her irritation to slip out.

“Lower your fuckin voice.” he gritted

“Stop cursing at me.” She matched his tone, pointing a freshly manicured finger at him.

“Still a brat. I oughta bend you over my knee and spank you.” Stack bit his lip revealing his gold fangs. Stacey scoffed, rising from her seat, yanking her dress down.

”I don’t even know why I came here. Bye Elias.” She turned, but didn’t make it two steps.

“Anastasia.” He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to.

Her full name slid from his tongue like a knife in velvet. It was rare, intimate, intentional.

She froze.

For a second, the restaurant blurred.

She was twenty-three again, barefoot in his penthouse, wearing one of his shirts and nothing else.

Elias had whispered that name against her collarbone like it was sacred. And then later, he’d said it like a curse.

The memory hit like déjà vu she didn’t ask for.

Elias stood slowly, chair scraping softly behind him. No rush. No threat. Just presence: weighted and sure, the kind of stillness that says don’t test me.

“Sit down.”

Her jaw clenched, a flicker of emotion crossing her face before she buried it. That name still had teeth. She hated that it still fit in his mouth like it belonged there.

“We’re not done,” he added, quieter this time, like a fact more than a warning.

And just like that, Anastasia sat.

Not because he told her to.

But because some part of her still remembered what it meant when he used her real name and it burned.

“Once I get that paperwork, I plan on showing up for them. I’ma try to do right by them.”

”You’ve always tried, Elias. Tried new ventures. Tried new cities. Tried new women.” She took a sip of her wine, slow and deliberate. “Trying was never your issue.”

He glances away feeling the gravity of her words.

“You were a collector of beautiful things. Acquiring more for the sake of having them, which isn’t to speak to their value or what you deemed them to be…” Stacey set down the glass.

“Are you saying that I don’t value—“ she cuts him off, shaking her head.

“No…and yes? Possibly. You wage value in proximity to your ego. If you’re the first one with it, or if it's one of one. The more rare the better right? Until the next thing becomes the object of your affection…I won’t pretend to know your inner workings or who you are now though.”

“Are we talking objects or women?”

“Is there a difference?”

“Ahh Stace! You wound me. You think so poorly of me. Everything has value. Every woman has value. They also have a role to play. I possess the power to assign those roles. It’s made the most prideful and self proclaimed ‘virtuous’ bend to my will.”

“There’s Stack.” She referred to him as his street nickname.

“Don’t do that.” His jaw tightens.

Stacey leans in, locking eyes with him. 

“Why not? You taught me how to compartmentalize.”

They stared at each other—wounded, proud, still burning. Finally, the waiter appeared to pour wine. Neither looked away. Just as the door of the private dining room closed behind them, Elias leaned forward again, voice lower now.

“After tonight,” he said, “don’t think you can walk out of my life again without a war.”

And Stacey—chin high, eyes locked—simply said:

“Then let’s not make it a war.”

[pretty-little-mind33]

Count Alexei Vronksy x fem!reader

Summary: You have not seen your childhood best friend in years, and when you finally do so much has changed, and yet nothing has changed at all...

Genre: hurt and comfort <3

Warnings: friends to lovers, mentions of brothels and implication of physical violence towards women/domestic abuse

COUNT ALEXEI VRONSKY MASTERLIST

You haven't seen Alexei Vronsky in almost ten years—not since your family had shipped you off to have an education in England. Which meant that, on the train returning to Moscow one February evening, when your Mama brought him up, you were more than surprised. 

"Alexei? Yes, what about him? Papa says he became a cavalry officer," you say, clutching onto the intricate leather gloves on your lap as you turn your head, your hat weighing heavy on your neck as the snowy landscape passes you by.

You had convinced yourself that you didn't think of Alexei, so why was he suddenly the topic of conversation now? 

"He is in Moscow with the Countess. He came to say hello," your mother hums, a soft smile on her lips. 

"Say hello to whom?"

"To you, доченька (precious daughter)."

Your head snaps forward as the train comes to a harsh halt. "Pardon?" 

Your Mama just sends you a look and stands. She doesn't seem amused by your attitude, especially because she knows Alexei was your best friend. She knows there is no man, apart from perhaps your Papa, you loved more than Alexei. 

Which is why this all seemed especially cruel. You had returned to Russia to marry Igor Angeloff, the second son of Grand Duchess Natalya Angeloff, your mama's closest friend. You shouldn't even be thinking of another man.

You follow her outside the train, gasping as you feel the chilly wind, and your hat finally falls from your head and stumbles through the snow in front of you. You lean forward and outstretch your arm, reaching for your hat, but you come to a halt when you see a pair of shiny leather shoes in your vision. 

"Is this hat yours, солнышко (Sunshine)?" The childhood nickname startles you, but it's the voice that makes you pause. You look up. Alexei has grown much taller since you'd last seen him. His lanky frame is now replaced by broad shoulders and flexing muscles. His hair is shinner and curlier, and the blue of his eyes contrasts to the pink of his lips. 

He looks like an angel. 

"Alexei?" you whisper, your gaze dropping down to where he still holds your hat.

"It had been forever, hasn't it?" he grins, his lips curl into a smile. Something inside you shifts, and your lips curl into a smile even wider than his as instincts take over. 

You practically jump into his arms, holding your arms around his neck. Alexei grunts, surprised, but he catches you anyway, your hat falling from his hands as they hold your waist. "I missed you," you admit in a whisper, which is only for him to hear.

You'd spent years convincing yourself you hadn't missed him that the admission felt foreign falling from your lips. 

He tightens his arms around you. "I missed you as well, солнышко (Sunshine)," he says, and suddenly everything feels right again. 

* * *

That evening, the gardens aren't in bloom as snow ices over the branches and cover the flower beds. You're dressed warmly, your arm linked with Alexei's as you nuzzle into him for warmth. The sky is turning darker the further you walk, and there seems to be so much to mention, you don't even know where to begin. 

"A cavalry officer, hm?" you say, smiling up at him. You look at his uniform, admiring it.

Alexei nods. "I like it. They're good people. You'll have to meet my horse, Frou-Frou, sometime," he looks at you with a small smile. "He's a sweetheart." He pauses and continues, "How was England?"

"Rainy," you laugh and look at the path, "But I got a good education. I cannot complain. It feels different being here again. With you." Your confession hangs in the air for a moment, and Alexei looks pained. 

"I should have written to you," he admits. 

You squeeze his arm with your hand. "I didn't write to you either. We were children, Alexei. None of us are to blame. We're here now, that is what truly matters." You smile, feeling an unfamiliar warmth in your stomach as you look at him. His blue eyes lock with yours, and the air leaves your lungs. None of you speak for a moment, but you've stopped walking.

Alexei unlinks your arms but holds your hands in his. His voice is strained when he asks, "Maman tells me you're betrothed to Igor Angeloff," Alexei says his name with such disdain, and your chest tightens. You nod slowly, your eyes never leaving his. 

Something is wrong. 

Alexei clicks his tongue. "He is a brute," he says, almost hesitating. 

"Whatever does that mean?" you ask, eyes wide 

"Alexsander and I have heard him speak of the brothels he frequents," Alexei admits, looking away for a moment as snow falls, dusting your hair with white speckles. His thumb brushes some away from your hair as his jaw tightens. "He doesn't treat those girls as he should."

You take in his words, reality causing your skin to shiver as your mouth dries. You don't know what to say to him. If you didn't marry Igor, what did you have waiting for you here? You were already twenty-two and without a husband. You couldn't wait much longer.

Hurt, anger, and confusion cross your features. What does Alexei think this information will do apart from scare you? There have been talks of him marrying Princess Kitty. What could he possibly do to prevent you from marrying Igor?

"I have no choice," you tell him, your hands dropping from his.

"There is always a choice, солнышко (Sunshine)."

"Perhaps for you, not for me. I am a woman, I need a husband," you say, looking at him sadly.

Alexei shakes his head, the snow falling quicker. "I cannot accept that. I cannot bear you marrying him, not when he could hurt you. He is capable of hurting you. Your family doesn't know him like I do. I- I will not watch you slip away from me again—" 

His words confuse you. Ten years ago, Alexei hadn't even said a proper goodbye when your family put you on that ship for England, and now he's pretending you slipped away? "I don't understand," you admit, your gaze wide, and when Alexei slowly kneels on one knee, you back away, heels kicking snow.

You frown, your gaze hardening. "Alexei. Get up."

He doesn't listen. Instead, he fumbles with his uniform pocket and pulls out a small, golden box. He pops it open,and the prettiest ring you've ever seen shines in the dim light. You stare at him, speechless. 

"Is this Kitty's ring?" you ask, your voice small. The ring does looks worthy of a princess. 

Alexei shakes his head. "No. No. I didn't buy this for her. It's for you."

"Me?" you say, shaking your head in disbelief and confusion. "Why–how? When?"

Alexei stands and walks towards you. He shuts the box and puts it in your hand as his hands close around yours. He's so close now. His blue eyes are intoxicating, but you don't want to look away. "When Maman told me you were coming back and that you were supposed to marry Igor, I almost lost my mind. Y/n, you were almost always on my mind—like some distant memory or an unattainable fantasy. I didn't dare reach out. And, then you were coming home again, and it was all real and I couldn't let him have you. He wouldn't be the kind of husband you deserve."

"But you would?" you ask and tense when one of his hands cup your cheeks. 

Alexei nods, his jaw clenched with determination. "I would do anything to make you happy. I would gift you the world if you let me."

You take in his words, but you are not quite sure how to process them. The confession of his feelings has caused the ones you had spent years hiding to bubble to the surface. The little girl inside you yearns for this. She wants to be his.

However, you have responsibilities—you have a duty. Igor is a Duke. Marrying Alexei wouldn't assure your family that stability. You'd be a Countess, nothing more, and you have worked so hard for a chance at a higher position. 

Did it matter that you'd be marrying a violent man when so much rests on your shoulders? 

"Let me show you what I mean," Alexei suddenly whispers, his voice snapping you back to the present and then his hand tightens around your cheek, and he leans in. His lips feel soft against yours, and he kisses you like you're something precious. Your hand falls from the box, and you grasp the fabric of his uniform near his waist. You find yourself kissing him back as his hand tangles into your hair. 

The pristine locks of your curled hair become messy under his touch, and still, you keep kissing him.

You don't want this moment to end, but you know it must. You pull away, hands lifting to rest on his chest as you catch your breath. "Alexei," you mutter. Your breathing is labored, and you lean into his touch when he cups your cheek with his hand. 

"мое солнышко (My Sunshine)," he whispers, a soft smile tugging his lips.

"My family—they wouldn't want—"

"Do you want this?" Alexei interrupts, his thumb caressing the skin of your cheek. 

You open your mouth but shut it just as quickly. "You know that doesn't matter."

"It does. It matters to me. Tell me."

Your eyes shut, and you bite your lip. "I do, Alexei, of course I do," you admit, a lightness in your chest being lifted. Alexei's eyes sparkle, and his smile widens. He leans in and kisses your lips again. 

"I will make you mine, I promise," he says as he rests his forehead on yours. "Let me take care of your family. Everything will be set right, my love."

You relax into him, feeling safe in his arms. You choose to believe him because for once in your life, you're choosingwhat you want and not what someone else wants from you.

You're choosing Alexei, and he's choosing you.

Nothing has ever felt more right. 

[obvithe-bestsoph]

hey gorg, can you write about reader working with hector’s mom in her salon ! you can decides what you want to do, happy ending please, tyyy

favourite distraction.

masterlist requests word count: 1k

a/n: i think this might be one of my new favourites, but i hate the title and i feel like it's gonna make no one read it 😔🥀 genre: fluff. warnings: none.

summary: hector is constantly flirting with you when he comes to visit his mama at her hair salon.

You’ve been working at Cris’s salon for almost six months now, and it’s honestly the best job you’ve ever had. It’s busy, yeah, but it’s the fun kind of busy. The kind where the coffee machine is always humming in the back, the speakers play early 2000s pop, and Cris is chatting up every client like they’re old friends. Most of the time, they are.

The vibe is less “pretentious beauty studio” and more “your favorite cousin’s house where everyone talks too loud and gossips with curlers in.” You love it. And you love Cris. She’s exactly how you imagined a Spanish salon owner should be, blonde, fierce, and never one to hold back an opinion. You’d been nervous your first day, sweeping hair off the floor and fumbling through shampoo routines, but she’d immediately taken you under her wing.

Now you know all her regulars, all their kids’ names, and all their drama. But your favorite part of the job? That’s easy.

Héctor Fort.

Cris’s son.

A living, breathing plot twist.

The first time he walked in, you didn’t know who he was. You’d been in the back room folding towels when she called out, “Mi amor, ya estás aquí,” and then, casual as anything, he walked through the door like he wasn’t model-level attractive or famous or both. You blinked, stunned, a little bottle of argan oil halfway through falling off the shelf.

He gave you that small, polite smile and mumbled a hello as Cris immediately fussed over him. “He’s so scruffy,” she said, ruffling his curls. “He won’t let me cut it properly.”

And then she dragged him into her chair, rolling her eyes like she wasn’t secretly obsessed with him.

Now it’s kind of a thing.

Héctor drops by the salon every couple of days. Sometimes for a trim, sometimes to drop off Cris’s lunch, sometimes for no real reason at all. And lately, when he comes in, he finds you. Which, weirdly, he never seems to mind.

Today, he strolls in just after two in the afternoon, sunshine and all. His curls are tucked into the hood of his hoodie, sunglasses perched lazily on his nose, and he’s got that mischievous smile you’ve started recognizing as “he’s about to say something dumb on purpose.”

Cris is working on a client at the front, and you’re at the sink rinsing out dye bowls when you hear the bell above the door. You peek out from behind the divider.

“Hola, guapa,” he says to you, not even glancing at his mom yet.

You narrow your eyes. “You only say that when you want something.”

Héctor leans against the counter and shrugs. “Maybe I just missed you.”

“Maybe you’re full of it.”

“Both can be true,” he grins, tilting his head.

Cris peeks over her client’s shoulder. “Héctor, don’t flirt with my staff when I’m busy.”

You snort and shake your head, already turning back to rinse another bowl. But you feel the heat rise in your cheeks anyway. He’s like this every time - joking, smiling, calling you guapa like it’s a regular word in his vocabulary. And even though you know it’s mostly harmless fun, it still makes your stomach do a little kick.

He follows you into the back room like he owns the place.

“Do you even have an appointment?” you ask without looking at him, stacking the bowls beside the sink.

“Nope.”

“So you’re loitering.”

“I brought Mamá a coffee,” he says, holding up a little cardboard tray with two cups. “One’s for her. The other’s yours.”

You hesitate, then look over at him. “Really?”

He nods. “I didn’t know how you take it, so I got it sweet. Like you.”

You groan. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” he says, handing you the cup, “you still take the coffee.”

You take a sip. He’s right - it’s sweet, just how you like it. The warmth spreads through your fingers and your chest all at once.

“You spoil me.”

“I try.”

There’s a beat of quiet while you both lean against the counter. The salon hums with background noise - Cris chatting about someone’s boyfriend, scissors snipping, low music playing.

“You’re always here,” you say, sipping again. “Don’t you train or something?”

“I do,” he shrugs. “But the days I don’t, I come here. Mamá likes it.”

You raise a brow. “You sure it’s for her?”

He tilts his head toward you. “You caught me.”

You glance down at your cup, heart weirdly unsteady. “So… are you flirting, or are you just like this with everyone?”

He looks at you, and for once, there’s no smirk. Just something soft in his expression.

“I don’t bring coffee to everyone.”

Your throat goes a little dry. “Right.”

He shifts, just slightly closer. You can smell his cologne now, light and clean and stupidly good. He sets his cup down and crosses his arms.

“I think Mamá’s hoping I’ll fall for a nice, sweet salon girl,” he says, like it’s a joke. But he’s still looking at you.

You blink. “And?”

He shrugs. “I don’t hate the idea.”

That does make you laugh. “You’re so dramatic.”

He grins again. “I’m serious.”

Before you can reply, Cris shouts from the front, “Héctor! Stop distracting her and sweep the floor if you’re going to be here!”

You both jump a little, caught.

Héctor sighs dramatically. “Slave labor.”

You toss him the broom anyway. “You heard the boss.”

He catches it one-handed, rolls his eyes, and starts sweeping. “Fine. But only if you promise to cut my hair next time.”

You blink. “Me?”

He nods. “Not Mamá. You.”

You glance out toward the front where Cris is still with her client, then back to him. “You trust me with your curls?”

“Dangerously,” he says, giving you a wink. “Besides, you’re my favorite stylist and the only one that makes them look just right.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re a menace.”

“But your menace,” he says.

And maybe he’s kidding.

But maybe he’s not. CHAPTER TWO

[gldrushh]

GUILTY AS SIN? | JJK | PART 𝐈𝐈𝐈 |

"After all lessons are learned. There's only one to live out in practicality. You're not sure how good you're at it —only that, this time, you won’t try alone."

→ Pairing brother in law! Jungkook x widowed fem!reader

→ Genre forbidden love! au, childhood friends to lovers, angst, fluff

→W.C 20k

→ Warnings lots of mentions of graveyards, loss, nostalgia, because you can scream and scratch and bite but you can never go back, minhos third death anniversary, he stays haunting everyone, jk being lovesick, what's new?,their dating era!!, kissing, self realization, they make it official, mentions of anxiety, soft family moments :(, mention of jk threatening someone, protective jk, mentions of alcohol, like a lot, jk manhandling oc, she's drunk and a menace, he is so in love, and so is she apparently, jks nose gets appreciated, nose kisses, fluff, jk is rich, dancing around, real chessy stuff im sorry haha but trust me when i say that it pained me too

→ Playlist You are in love by Taylor swift

→A/N hi! hello! It's definitely not been a while since I posted but it most definitely feels like I've lived a multiple lifes since. I'm sorry for not posting when I promised and I'm sorry that you had to see me falling for rage bait because i don't belive that was anything but. Like genuinely get a life my brother in christ. I write fanfiction for a hobby. A silly little hobby. It's not that deep and you don't have to lose your shit over that. Anyways, all that negativity aside I wanna thank you to all the majority of my readers who were nice enough to put up with me. You all are who I write for and will continue doing so though can't say for sure lol. I've had a great time with writing this fic and all the love it got. It will forever hold a special place. These characters will forever hold a special place. I will miss them and I really hope you understand from the word count why it took the time it did and enjoy reading <33 please comment or message your thoughts!! Love you!!

| PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE |

The graveyard was deadened in a way that empty places where bones met soil learned to be. In a way that they are belived they are. With a stillness so complete, it surmised like a hostaged breath.

You sat cross-legged before the headstone, coat draped around your shoulders, your fingers numb from the stone bench that did little to hold warmth or from holding the bundle of white lilies, their stems slick with dew. You hadn’t put them down yet. You had spent the better part of your time here, staring at another small bouquet resting at the base of the grave—white carnations and forget-me-nots, arranged with care, like they always were. Someone’s been here before you. Arranged these flowers with love. There's just no name in some card that gives away the beholder of the love.

You traced the curve of a petal with your gaze, not touching it. Not needing to.

You're not wary of them. It's a graveyeard. It's Jeon Minho's—beloved son, brilliant brother, best husband—grave. It's never empty. You recalled, absently,how on his first death anniversary the plot had been crowded. A forest of flowers so pretty and perplexing, letters folded into stones, paintings left by former students who still wrote emails to an address that no longer worked. One of them left a thumb drive with a digital portfolio and a note that simply read: “I only got in because of him.”

Even now—three years later—his name never stopped resounding in impertuable places because he had a way of staying with people, even long after he’d left the room. Had this laugh that would get stuck in your head. And somehow, that made it both easier and harder. That he was remembered in a love that he alone inspired. Gentle. that was earned without asking. The kind of love that was mourned in secret, in ritual, in color.

You placed your bouquet down next to the others, brushing a fallen leaf from the base of the headstone. The stone was smooth beneath your touch, cold. You traced the carved letters-his name, the dates-and swallowed the lump that always formed when you read them too slowly.

“I was going to bring tulips,” you said softly, not sure if you were speaking to the stone or the wind. “But you always said they looked sad. Too floppy.” A just as sad smile that would have mimicked the tulips curled at your mouth.

“Thought I’d bring lilies instead. Thought they might hold their shape better. I hope they do.”

The ache wasn’t sharp anymore. But it was deep. It was marrow-deep. Though it didn't weight like it used to. It hummed in your blood, a familiar frequency. Almost like a song you’d once loved but now couldn’t bear to hear past the first few notes. Like the sky that is a pale repose of overcast, streaked with gray, the kind that always made Minho grumble about "bad lighting" when he painted. The ground is damp but not cruel. Just enough to remind you that time moves here too. That even woe must learn to grow things again.

A breeze stirred, threading through your coat, pushing strands of hair across your cheek. You didn’t brush them away. You leaned forward, elbows on your knees, the grave in front of you, the silence beside you.

"Odd taste you had, min-min." You said after a while. "I wouldn't be suprised if you would find me sitting here, trying to make conversation with a slab of stone romantic. Probably say how so much effort for a guy who once mixed paint water into his cereal is good kind of weird."

Your voice cracked a little at that.

You don't cry.

You think that maybe you’ve used up all your tears on the wrong days—the regular ones, the grocery-list ones, the Tuesdays that came out of nowhere.

And then because the present can only be held for so long, you begin to remember.

The first time you were ever in a graveyard. Before you understood what death really was. Before it had touched you. When it was just a mystery. A place with names and flowers and questions no one could answer properly.

It had been years ago—childhood still clinging to your limbs like summer heat, with scraped knees and sticky palms and dreams that stretched further than your little world could hold. You and Jungkook couldn’t have been more than ten. Minho, already bordering on thirteen, had taken to pretending that his age made him wiser, even though he still laughed too loudly at fart jokes and left crayon smudges on his school notebooks.

You had been searching for this place for a while.

Not this graveyard, exactly, but the idea of it.

A name. A date. Something real to press against the fading edges of Jungkook’s memory.

He had come across a slip of paper one day in the back of a file, folded four times over, nearly forgotten in the drawer of father's study that nobody was allowed in. The handwriting had been unfamiliar—elegant but rushed—and it bore two names. His parents, he said. He thought.

And for weeks, the three of you had quietly tried to piece it together.

You’d used the school’s clunky computer lab—pretending to research for a social studies project while Minho furiously clicked through online directories and civic records. You whispered questions to the lunch lady, who knew someone who once worked in town hall. You even bribed the janitor with your entire sticker collection to let you sneak into the staff archives one afternoon.

No one said it was about sorrow.

No one had to.

You just wanted to help him find something—anything—that made him feel less like a shadow of someone else’s loss.

And finally, on a Thursday that still smelled like last night’s rain, you did.

You’d all skipped school that day.

The air still damp from last night’s rain, the sky overcast in a way that made the world look softer, quieter, like someone had pulled a cotton sheet over the sun.

It had been Minho’s idea, but Jungkook who needed it. You remember that part vividly, because he hadn’t asked out loud. Hadn’t needed to. He had stood in the courtyard with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his too-big jacket, hair a mess, eyes darker than usual. And Minho had just looked at him, then at you, and nodded.

“We’re going,” he said. "Are you ready, Kook?"

He was holding a slip of paper in one hand and clutching the edge of his jacket with the other.

“Yes, hyung." He had nodded. "I want to find them."

The air around you had gone quiet then—not out of shock, but out of care. Like the air had thinned out so as not to crowd him.

“We’d get in trouble,” you had broke the silence, voice a sharp whisper, mind already thinking of all ways you could get in trouble, eyes darting to the teachers pacing the other side of the field.

“Yeah,” Minho agreed. “But it’s a good reason. I'm sure they will understand...right?" Taller than the both of you already. He looked between Jungkook’s face and the paper again, then over at you.

You’d rolled your eyes, half because you were nervous and half because that was your role in this trio—to be skeptical just enough for Minho to feel brave. That made minho provide reassurance to his own doubt. "They will." Minho had said, like it was that simple.

And it was.

It always was, with the three of you.

You were kids, but not careless ones. You planned it like it was a secret mission—packed snacks in the side pockets of Minho’s bag, let Milo tag along even though he wasn’t technically allowed out without a leash. The sun was high when you snuck out, the kind of early spring day that couldn’t decide if it was warm or not. As if it was playing a cruel game of hide and seek, peeking through clouds that weren’t sure if they wanted to rain again. You wore your favorite jacket—denim with a strawberry patch on the sleeve. Jungkook didn’t bring anything except the folded piece of paper. Milo sat at his feet, tail thumping occasionally against the metal floor of the bus.

You caught the bus by the corner near the florist’s shop, ducking low behind the seats in case any familiar faces passed. The journey was slow. Long bus ride—two transfers, three wrong stops. You sat tucked in the back row, heads down, laughing behind your hands when Milo licked a stranger’s elbow. You passed the time counting license plates and telling each other made-up stories about the people outside.

One old man at the third stop looked at you from under his hat and said, “That place? That place’s been forgotten.”

But then a woman at the vegetable stall a few streets over gave you better directions. Told you to follow the path lined with dogwoods until you saw the iron gates.

You wandered through the quiet neighborhoods of Daejun on foot, sneakers wet from the last puddles, stepping over cigarette butts and crushed petals, past shuttered stores and a shrine half-covered in ivy. The deeper you walked, the more the world thinned out into something older. Something that felt sacred and sad all at once.

The graveyard.

Wrought iron gates half rusted, vines crawling up the stone wall, the sign chipped but still legible.

There was no one there to greet you. Just wind. And quiet. And Milo’s soft panting.

You stepped inside together, slow. Reverent. As if you were entering a cathedral.

You didn’t speak much. Just looked.

Row after row of headstones, some cracked, some buried under moss. The names were unfamiliar. The silence, even more so.

“I think it’s this way,” Minho said, squinting at the map he’d drawn on notebook paper. “I printed a map. And I’m, like, really good at reading maps.”

“You got us lost last week trying to find that new ramen place,” you reminded him, turning around to walk backwards for emphasis.

Minho rolled his eyes. “That was one time."

"Was it?" You looked at Jungkook to back you up but he only cracked a tiny smile at that. You caught it—brief, barely there—but it warmed you anyway. It had been a long week leading up to this.

“They’re somewhere near the east wall,” Minho said, squinting at the faded directions. “Row 12, plot 33. I think we’re close.”

Your footsteps crunched over gravel and scattered leaves. Milo veered off occasionally, sniffing at corners and chasing insects, but always came back. The sun filtered through bare branches in patches, dappling your arms in faint light.

The wind picked up when they turned the final corner—soft, not cold, brushing past their jackets like a whisper. Row twelve stretched ahead in crooked lines, some stones older than others, names worn down by years of weather and forgetfulness.

Jungkook stopped walking.

Your eyes followed his gaze.

Two gravestones stood side by side, tucked beneath a slant of oak branches. The grass was longer here. The stones smaller than you expected.

They were side by side. Dates etched beneath them.Born years before any of you. Gone before Jungkook had learned what it meant to belong to anyone. No pictures. No flowers. Just names and silence. And that was all he had.

Jungkook stared at them like he didn’t know what he was supposed to feel. Like maybe he’d expected something different. Or maybe he didn’t know what he expected at all.

His hand crumpled the piece of paper still clutched in his fist.

You moved first, not touching him, just standing nearby, close enough that he’d know you were there if he needed you.

Minho lowered the backpack slowly to the ground, the usual jokes stalled on his tongue. Even Milo went still, sitting quietly at Jungkook’s feet, as if he understood the moment too.

Jungkook stepped forward, cautiously. His sneakers scuffed the grass. He crouched slowly in front of the grave, his knees pressing into the damp soil, fingertips hesitating above the stone.

“That’s them?” he asked, voice tight in his throat. “For real?”

Minho nodded. “Yeah. The names match.”

Jungkook didn’t speak again. He pressed his fingers lightly to the letters on the headstone—first his father’s, then his mother’s. They were cool from the shade, worn smooth at the edges.

You crouched beside him. He turned his head slightly, just enough for you to see the way his eyes were glossed, not quite crying, but close. “Do you think they were nice?”

Minho sat down cross-legged beside him, stretching his legs out like it was any other afternoon. “Your mom? Definitely. Anyone who names a baby Jungkook has to be at least kind of awesome.”

That earned the smallest laugh from you, and then from him.

Jungkook looked at the gravestones again. “Do you think they’d like me?”

You nudged his side with your elbow, gently. “Koo, it’s kinda hard not to like you.”

“I dunno,” he mumbled. “I cry sometimes. And I suck at spelling.”

Minho made a dramatic groan. "You’re the coolest. Smarter than me. And you always win at Mario Kart.”

Jungkook ducked his head, but you saw the way his shoulders loosened. He reached out then—hesitant—and brushed some dirt off the stone. You watched the movement, how careful it was. How reverent.

“I didn’t think I’d feel anything,” he murmured.

“But you do?” you asked.

He nodded, still not looking at either of you. “Yeah.”

You stayed there until the sun dipped lower behind the hills. Minho finished the sketch and tore the page from his book. He folded it carefully, handed it to Jungkook without a word.

Jungkook looked at it for a long moment, then tucked it into his hoodie pocket.

“Hey,” Minho said as you were walking back toward the gates. “Think they’ve got a vending machine nearby? I want strawberry milk.”

You laughed. “You always want strawberry milk.”

He smirked, tugging his cap lower. “Yeah, well. It’s a long walk home.”

You trace the rim of the headstone now, your fingertips ghosting. Lingering. Your voice is soft. Almost like a child's again.

“We never did find that vending machine.”

The wind stirs in the trees like it remembers too.

“But you’d be happy to know,” you continue softly, “that your paintings found their way anyway.”

You smile faintly, fingers brushing a small chip in the edge of the stone like you could smooth it out. “It’s finally happening. Really. The gallery. Jungkook’s opening it today.”

You glance up toward the stone, as if you might catch his reaction.

“I told him we should. After I saw it—I mean really saw it—I couldn’t not share it with the world. And you know me. I don’t say things like that unless I mean them. I think… I think you’d be proud of how much care he put into it. How many nights he stayed up figuring out framing and lighting and titles. Gosh."

Your voice thickens around the word proud.

“He asked me what kind of wine you’d want served at the opening,” you add, with a shaky laugh. “I said you’d just tell people to bring root beer instead and call it a day.”

You look at the lilies now, at the way their petals fold gently inward. You try to imagine the sound of Minho’s laughter if he were here. Try to imagine the way he’d tease you for crying without making you feel like crying was wrong.

“It looks beautiful, Min min. The gallery. I think it would’ve made you shy. All those people showing up just for you. Can you imagine?”

You pause.

A crow calls from a nearby tree. A leaf skitters across the gravel.

“And something else,” you say softly. “I think I should tell you.”

It’s not a secret, not really. Just something unspoken for a long, long time. Something you’ve carried carefully, like glass.

“I wasn’t sure at first,” you admit, a dry laugh slipping out. “I mean, of course I wasn’t. It felt impossible. Like… crossing a bridge I shouldn’t have even been near. I can't even think of anything else to describe it to you."

The words take time. But you don’t rush them.

"The very first it was the the little bakery near the university with the good tarts. The museum with the terrible lighting but the softest benches. He even took me to that rooftop bar that used to give you vertigo—remember? "

You chuckle, covering your face briefly with your hand.

You shift your weight slightly, stretching your legs in front of you. A leaf lands on your boot.

“And then last week,” you continue, “he took me to this little Korean BBQ place in Hongdae. Said the meat was just okay, but the company made it worth it. We stayed until the restaurant closed. Walked along the river. He kissed me beside the railing. It was cold, and I couldn’t feel my fingers."

The place wasn’t fancy. People probably didn’t dress up for here dressed up or made reservations two weeks in advance. It had plastic chairs that wobbled slightly, walls lined with signed polaroids and grease-stained menus, and a sliding glass door that stuck every time someone tried to open it too quickly.

You ordered too much, of course. He insisted on the samgyeopsal, you picked the bulgogi, and somehow you ended up with three side dishes neither of you remembered asking for. The grill sizzled between you, soft smoke curling toward the ceiling vents, and Jungkook poured you a glass of water like it was part of an accent only he knew how to follow.

And there was something about watching him like that—hair pushed back, head slightly tilted, tongs in hand while he laid down the marinated strips of meat that made something alter inside you. Something small but sure.

Something you didn’t feel with the with the accountant who wouldn’t stop talking about NFTs. The guy who took you to a food truck but only ordered for himself.

A soft breath escapes you. “And it’s not the same. It’s not like it was with you. But it’s not different in the wrong ways either.”

You glance at the grave again, hands resting in your lap. Your heart hurts and swells at once.

“I think you’d understand,” you whisper.

And you do. In some strange, marrow-deep way, you believe it. That he would. That Minho, the boy who used to kiss the corners of your eyes and name his paint colors after inside jokes, would know what this meant. That he’d want this for you.

That he’d forgive you.

You reach for the lilies again, adjusting them so the stems don’t bend. Your eyes flick back to the stone.

“I still miss you,” you whisper. “I still love you.”

The breeze quiets again.

"And I still think you're the best friend I've ever had. That's why I needed to tell this this to you first."

Your fingers press gently to your lips, then down to the stone.

Who else would you tell other than the boy who had orchastered the definition of fairytale love for you? Who would you tell that you're starting to realize that he loves you? Maybe he had a for a long time now. And maybe you-

Bzzzt.

Your phone vibrated in your coat pocket.

The sound was soft, almost reluctant against the hush of the graveyard, like it too didn’t want to interrupt.

You blinked, pulled it out with chilled fingers, and read the message lit dimly on the screen.

[Dad:]

Sweetheart, we’re parked outside, still. Just checking if you’re ready.

You turned your head slightly and spotted the vague outline of your father’s car just beyond the gate, tucked in the corner of the lot. You could imagine your mother in the passenger seat, fingers wrapped around a thermos of tea, eyes scanning the trees while she waited with the scarf minho brought her two christmas ago, letting you have this moment uninterrupted.

They’re in town, of course. They always are, on this day.

It started the first year—when the pain was still red and raw and too large for your chest. Back then, you couldn’t eat, couldn’t speak without choking on the spaces where Minho should’ve been. Your parents had shown up with soup and chamomile tea and enough patience to outlast a storm. They stayed even when you didn’t speak for hours.

And every year since, they’ve found new ways to not let you be alone.

This day always makes them softer with you. Or maybe just more afraid of saying the wrong thing. Hovering a little closer. Speaking in quieter tones.

You sigh, brushing your thumb across the message. You don’t reply yet. Instead, you turn back toward the headstone, heart still soft and cracked wide open.You smile faintly.

“I should probably go.”

You reach down, sweeping a fallen petal from the edge of the stone.

“I’ll come by tomorrow, okay? Tell you how it goes."

You gather your coat closer around your shoulders, standing slowly. Your knees creak from the cold stone bench, from sitting too long in one position. You stretch slightly, then glance once more at the flowers now clustered at the grave’s base.

The sky has begun to change—clouds pulling apart in slow, reluctant threads, letting in slivers of afternoon light. You press your fingers gently to the headstone one last time.

"Wish me luck, min min."

You imagine he does. Hands in his pockets. Smile tugging wide and lazy. Head tilted, like he knows you've got this.

Like he's urging you to go back to the part of the story where something finally begins.

You slipped into the backseat with a soft apology, the car door clicking shut behind you.

“Sorry,” you murmured, pulling your coat tighter around your shoulders. The fabric had gone cold against your skin, but the chill clinging to you wasn’t just from the graveyard. “I didn’t mean to keep you both waiting.”

Your mother turned in her seat, her eyes warm even beneath the slight crease of worry still lingering at her brow. “Don’t be silly,” she said gently, her hand reaching back to rest briefly on your knee, the kind of maternal touch that knew when to press and when to ease. “We figured you might want a few more minutes. We all do."

“We were just talking about how this town hasn’t changed a bit,” she added, shifting the topic without making a show of it.

“She was talking,” your father interjected from the driver’s seat, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “I was checking the parking meter.”

“You were checking your watch and pretending it was the parking meter,” your mother teased.

“I was,” he insisted. “City’s always been eager to ticket people in parked cars.”

You let the cadence of their conversation fold around you, like the comfort of a familiar quilt. Safe. Worn soft with time. The kind of talk you’d heard all your life, in road trips and kitchens and walks through grocery aisles.

The engine kicked into motion, pulling you away from the graveyard slowly. You turned once in your seat, watching the wrought iron fence fade into the distance, your eyes lingering on the tree line long after it disappeared.

Outside, the town blurred past—branches heavy with the early promise of spring, cafés setting out mismatched chairs, signs swinging in the breeze like the sighs of old shopkeepers.

Your parents started talking about the café near the roundabout—how it had changed hands again, how the new owners apparently served matcha pancakes now, how the inside had been repainted a strange, charming blue. You listened with half an ear, forehead resting against the cool glass, hands folded in your lap.

Bzzt. Your phone made the same noise again.

[Jungkook]:

Are you on your way yet?

Missing you.

You typed back quickly, thumbs moving faster than your thoughts:

[You]:

On the way now. In the backseat with my parents. Be there soon.

He replied instantly like he was waiting with his phone in his hand.

[Jungkook]:

Good. See you.

You could picture him now—standing in the middle of the gallery in those dark slacks and a shirt with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, brow furrowed as he scanned the placement of frames and fiddled with the lighting, making sure nothing was out of place. He’d probably refused help again. Probably hadn’t eaten yet. Probably had to be convinced into not polishing every glass display himself.

You scrolled up, letting your thumb drag slowly over the thread from this morning:

[Jungkook]:

Good morning, angel ❤️

[Y/N]:

Good morning 😊

[Jungkook]:

Did you eat?

[Y/N]:

Just coffee so far. Did you?

[Jungkook]:

Two bites of toast. Stress eating. Lights are temperamental again but I'll sort them out.

[You]:

Don't stress it too much, okay? And eat.

[Jungkook]:

Copy that, professor.

You had smiled when you read that. Still did. A quiet little curve of your lips you didn’t bother hiding. Then he had sent a photo—one of the larger canvases half-unwrapped, sunlight catching the ridges of Minho’s brushstrokes like gold embroidery.

[Jungkook]:

Look at this.

[Y/N]:

Looks so beautiful. Everyone's gonna love it. You've done so much.

The light turned red and your father hummed to the radio while your mother picked at invisible lint on her sleeve.

[Jungkook]:

I can come get you after you're done visiting the cemetery. Just say the word.

[You]:

It’s okay. My parents are in town. I’m coming with them.

You were still staring down at the screen when your mother spoke again.“You’ve looked miles away for the last five minutes. Who’s texting you?”

You didn’t look up from your phone, but you could hear the knowing in her voice. “Oh.. it's Jungkook.”

“Ah,” she said, like that explained everything.

“He’s there already, isn’t he?” Your father asked casually.

You nodded, surprised. “Yeah, he’s… there. He’s doing a lot.”

“He always did have a stubborn streak,” your dad added. “Good head on his shoulders though."

Your mother smiled to herself. “I remember how he used to follow Minho around. And it's so beautiful now that he’s carrying so much of him forward.”

You looked down at your lap, throat tightening. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “It is.”

The car turned left and began its slow crawl into a lane that was too familiar.

You sat straighter as the car slowed, heart pulling taut in your chest, held in place by something between magnetism and memory. You recognized the bend in the road before you saw the sign—the soft flicker of gold script in the window, the sharp white glow of the "Open" sign casting its light across the pavement.

Your mother leaned forward slightly. “Oh. We’re here.”

The tires crunched over the gravel as your father pulled into the side lot. There were already several cars here, clustered neatly in crooked rows—some you recognized, most you didn’t. The gallery looked different in this light. Not the mum, plagnent space Jungkook first brought you to, that secret place where ghosts had been allowed to breathe without interruption.

the same place pulsed now. Lived.

Soft warm light spilled out of the tall windows. Music, muffled by glass, carried on the wind in threads. A little cluster of people stood out front—hands curled around invitation slips, eyes lifted toward the lettering carved into the wooden sign overhead.

You inhaled slowly.

It was still the same place you saw a month ago.

But it had opened its doors.

People had come. People would see it. His art.

The same paintings that once cluttered the corners of your apartment. That leaned against your sofa while waiting to dry. That held pieces of him—his bursts of joy, his quiet grays, his wild blues. You wondered if anyone walking past those canvases today would feel it. Would know what it cost him to bare his soul in brushstrokes.

And what it cost you to let it go.

Your mother turned to you in her seat, her hand reaching for yours, gentle.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

You nodded before you even knew if it was true. “Yeah, eomma. I’m fine.”

Your father opened his door, stepping out and stretching a little. “We’ll head in first,” he said, not unkindly. “Give you a moment if you need it.”

You managed a grateful smile. “Thanks, appa.”

The doors shut gently behind them. And for a beat, you were alone in the car, staring at the front doors of a dream made real.

Minho should be here.

That thought burned sudden and sharp and then softened into something acheful and wide. No. If love made ghosts, he’d be here already.

You reached for your bag, tugging out your compact mirror. You checked your eyes, smoothed your mouth, and whispered something into your reflection you didn’t quite hear yourself.

You abode in the stillness of the car for a few more seconds.

The engine long silenced. The peal of your parents’ voices faded into the low thrum of background music filtering through the gallery windows, the kind that belonged to wine glasses and quiet awe. The kind you imagined would play behind moments people would remember long after they forgot the taste of the wine or the exact words said.

You stored at the open doors. Arms stretched out. Yet you couldn't find it in yourself to move.Your fingers fidgeted in your lap, tracing the stitching of your coat. The sleeves of your blouse itched slightly at the wrists where your nerves collected like water pooling before a storm. You weren’t sure why your hands trembled. Maybe it was the anticipation. Maybe it was memory. Whatever it was, you had to brush past it.

You finally opened the door.

The wind greeted you with the breath of spring—soft, cool, perfumed faintly by something blooming just out of sight. The air kissed your cheeks, lifted the ends of your coat, and whispered welcome in a language only the brave know how to answer.

Your boots landed on the pavement. One step after the another. surely you remember the movement. there's only so much a day can take away from you.

The closer you walked to the entrance, the quieter the outside world became. The street behind you faded. The city paused if it could even do that. All you could hear now was the creak of wood beneath your feet as you stepped through the front doors, the soft closing of them behind you.

You found yourself in the hallway.

Long. Polished. Narrow in the way old corridors are. lit warmly with sconces that cast golden glows on textured walls. The murmur of voices came from farther in, down toward the gallery proper. That’s where everyone must be. You imagined them standing in front of the paintings, glasses of wine held loosely, their faces tilted upward in soft admiration, eyes wet in that quiet way art sometimes invited. People standing in front of Minho’s canvases and murmured things like "alive" and "honest" and "brilliant" without ever knowing the sound of his laughter.

But this hallway was empty. Or you thought it was.

You had just reached the halfway point—right where the hallway curved inward—when arms slipped around your waist from behind.

A gasp left you before your body remembered the shape of his.The scent of cedar, lavender soap, and faint varnish clung to him like an afterthought. His arms locked around you with the ease of practice but the fervor of something still new, and for a moment, the world dipped, rearranged itself around this one small plantery motion.

“There you are,” Jungkook murmured, voice rough against your ear.

You turned in his arms, your hands finding the fabric of his shirt like they’d always known how. His sleeves were rolled, just as you imagined, the fine lines of stress still etched around his brow.

His eyes met yours.

And something in your chest loosened.

"Were you looking for me?" you asked quietly.

He replied just as. "I'm always looking for you, angel." There was no flourish in the way he said it. Your breath hitched, a tiniest of movement and Jungkook watched the subtle shift of your expression like a ripple breaking the surface of water.

Gods, he thought, how could he not?

Even now, here, when there was so much else demanding his attention—guests arriving in waves, wine being poured, lights flickering again in the east wing. And still, in every room he walked into, in every face he passed, he found himself searching.

It was ridiculous, really. The way his eyes would scan the corners of the gallery and mistake someone’s hair, the tilt of a shoulder, the sound of your laugh echoing in his head like phantom static. The way his pulse leapt anytime the door opened. The way he felt incomplete if he couldn't place you in the room.

And now you were here. And the world had stitched itself back together.

You didn’t speak at first.

Not because you didn’t want to. But because your heart felt like it was still catching up after it had been walking this hallway too, trying to find its way to him.

“Well, you're the host. I'm sure you must be needed elsewhere too.” you whispered, reaching to smooth the edge of his collar.

Jungkook shook his head gently. “I'm exactly where I want to be.” His hands tightened just slightly at your waist.

He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his fingertips lingering just a beat longer than necessary.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Really okay?”

You hesitated, then whispered, “Now I am.”

He held your gaze for another moment, then dipped his head forward, just enough to press his lips to your forehead, his hands resting warm by your side. The world dimmed in that moment—just the two of you, suspended in quiet, his breath a soft punctuation at the crown of your head. But even as warmth bloomed beneath your ribs, there was a tight, pulsing thread of awareness that curled around your spine.

You stole a glance over Jungkook’s shoulder, eyes flickering to the curve of the hallway behind him—the doorway just around the corner where voices hummed, where glasses clinked, where footsteps could echo down the tile at any moment. Anyone could walk past. People with eyes and mouths and memories. Guests who knew your name. Friends of Minho’s. Colleagues. Distant family.

Anyone could turn the corner and see this—see him with you like this, your bodies tucked into each other. Your hand clenched softly into the fabric at his side. The paranoia was subtle, but it was real. It had crept in somewhere between the second kiss and the third hidden touch.

The thought made you tense, just slightly. He felt it.

“Baby.” Jungkook said, voice low, his hand drifting to the small of your back. “It’s just us.”

“Yeah, but…” Your voice trailed, lips brushing the fabric near his collarbone, your fingers curling into the cotton at his chest. “Someone might come.”

His eyes softened, though there was something that tightened at the corners giving way to a flicker of frustration he didn’t bother to hide. Not at you, obviously. He does'nt think he's capable of ever directing that at you. But at the way the world demanded so much of your caution, your retreat.

He leaned in, his nose brushing yours. "I promise. No one will."

The words curled in your ears, low and purposeful, like he’d carved them for just you. His hand slid up your back, a warm, steady line from your waist to your shoulder. You hated that you thought that they kinda do. You hated the need for shadows and how it has been shaping your frustration. How it has been shaping it in a circle so big you couldn’t tell where it started anymore. Only that it kept coming back. That it always ended with your pulse too loud in your ears and your eyes darting over your shoulder. Like what you were committing to didn’t deserve a place in the daylight.

You have also started eliminating even the possibility of the thought that it maybe didn't. Still, the guilt was no longer clean. It was clouded now, smeared at the edges with longing and the slow, terrible truth that what you had with Jungkook didn’t feel borrowed. It didn’t feel like a thing you could press back into a drawer once the moment was gone. It was the impossibility of compartmentalizing love.

Because how do you mourn someone and move toward someone else, all in the same breath? How do you walk through a gallery built from one man’s art only to fall into the arms of the man who framed it all?

It felt like it had grown roots.

And the more you buried it, the more it pulled at you.

You looked at him now—really looked. His brow furrowed slightly, not from worry but from effort. Like he was thinking, measuring, holding back the words that always swam just below the surface when you were this close.

Instead of saying any of the things tugging at the threads of your mouth, you stepped back just enough to feel the air slip between your bodies. Not far. Just enough for your hand to find his.

His fingers curled around yours instinctively. Always ready.

You looked up at him. “Is it crowded in there?”

"A little." He said. "Some of our colleagues. A few critiques."

You nodded again, absorbing that.

"None of them need to matter, yeah?" he added, searching your face, thumb skimming just beneath your eye. His next words were gentler.

You looked up then, caught the sincerity in his eyes, fought the urge to lean into his touch. Managed another nod. "Yeah...Can we stay a minute more?" The latter come out smaller than you would have expected.

“Take your time,” he nodded. "They can all wait."

You didn’t dare think about the look on his face when he had to let go of your fingers fitted around his after you said you were ready. He only offered a squeeze to your fingers and then let go with a kind of quiet reluctance, like pulling his hand out of warm water. The touch lingered, even as you stepped aside to let him lead the way. You rounded the curve of the hallway together, the voices sharpening in clarity now, glass clinking against glass, the soft rustle of shoes on polished tile growing louder until the threshold broke open and the gallery revealed itself in full.

It was no longer the dim, sacred place. It breathed differently now. Alive with soft light and the lull of conversation, with coats slung over arms and programs curled in curious fingers. Warm gold spilled from fixtures in the ceiling, catching on frames that lined the walls like punctuation. Artwork stretching in long, thoughtful rows, each canvas dressed in celebration. Of someone's unfinished story? you doubted it cared.

You stood still for a moment, toes just brushing the edge of the gallery’s threshold, eyes skimming the room as your body remembered how to belong to this space. The floors had been polished to a mirror shine. Glasses reflected in the glass cases. Someone was laughing softly by the front corner near the sculpture series.Others stood near the windows, wine glasses held delicately, murmuring words like “devastating,” “formidable,” “alive.” It wasn’t performative in a sense that you made up in your head. At least not all of it. You recognized a few of them—students, former professors, one woman who had once hosted Minho’s university exhibit and had cried at his brushwork.

You darted your gaze to Jungkook then. The way he walked just ahead of you now, poised and solid in his dark dress shirt and pressed slacks, shoulders straight, head slightly tilted to catch bits of conversation from passing guests. He looked composed. You assumed or you'd like to think so that he only bared his nerves in front of you. As if the man who used to flinch at compliments and pretend his silence was indifference had taught himself to carry meaning with quiet precision.

But then a man stepped into his path. Tall, suited, carrying a drink and the kind of posture that belonged to someone who used the word “impressionist” a little too often. His smile was sharp and familiar, one of Jungkook’s gallery donors or colleagues, you assumed. Maybe from Seoul. Maybe further. Either way, it took only a moment for you to read the shift in Jungkook’s expression—the subtle recalibration of his shoulders.

He turned to you before the man could fully pull him into conversation, fingers brushing your wrist in a barely-there promise. “I won’t be long.”

You nodded, already letting go. “Of course,” you whispered, because it was all you could offer right now, and maybe all he needed.

The man clapped Jungkook on the shoulder and pulled him aside, voice too loud and smile too bright. You watched them for half a moment—Jungkook answering politely, gaze flickering every so often in your direction like a thread trying not to fray before you eased yourself into the soft tide of the room, letting the current pull you away.

You moved carefully, politely. Like someone trying not to be noticed but still present enough not to be rude. You paused by a small table draped in navy linen, where empty glasses sat beside a quiet arrangement of baby’s breath and ranunculus. Someone offered you a flute of sparkling wine, and you accepted with a quiet smile.

You turned toward one of the walls, drawn in by a piece you hadn’t seen before; one of the mid-sized ones, full of green and amber and soft streaks of silver. The color didn’t move, it shimmered. Softly. Like someone had taken the feeling of being loved quietly and turned it into oil and canvas.

The placard below it simply read:

“Until Then.”

Minho’s signature curled in the corner, the same familiar scrawl you’d once watched him sign onto birthday cards and tax forms and the back of the fridge note that read don’t drink the milk, I’m trying to paint with it.

You had just rounded the sculpture wing—Minho’s smallest works, done in smoothed resin and wire, quiet things that bloomed under light like secrets left in the sun—when you spotted her.

Your mother, standing near the northern alcove, a glass of wine untouched in her hand, fingers curled gently around the stem like she was trying not to leave prints. She looked beautiful beneath the high arch of the window, her coat tucked neatly at her elbow, hair pinned like it always had been like she hadn’t aged a day past the first time she walked into your kindergarten recital.

You slipped beside her, your hand brushing her arm in greeting.

“Hey,” you said quietly.

She turned, her face lighting up with that familiar mix of joy and worry, the kind only a mother could balance so well. “Here you are. I was wondering if you’d gotten swallowed by the hallway.”

“Almost,” you said, managing a faint smile. “But I escaped.”

"where's dad?" you added. 'making friends I think."

Before you could respond, a familiar voice laced into the air from behind.

"Found you."

Mrs. Jeon stood a few feet away, her posture regal even beneath the soft, flattering lights. She wore navy silk—understated but elegant—and her hair was pinned in place with simple pearl combs. Always the portrait of grace, always the kind of woman who held her sorrow like a folded note in the corner of her purse: private, creased, but always within reach. of her, atleast.

Her smile, though, was real. It warmed as she drew nearer.

"Mom." You muttered in muscle memory.“I was hoping to catch you before the crowd did,” she said, pulling you in for a quick, maternal sort of hug. “You look lovely.”

“So do you,” you said honestly, letting yourself be held for the brief second she allowed.

"You look exactly the same, you witch. Do you age backwards?”

Mrs. Jeon turned at the sound of the voice she hadn’t heard in a while—one that still carried the same quiet humor, tinged with a touch of fond exasperation. Her eyes widened slightly before softening, and her expression brightened into something looser, something more like the woman she might’ve been before grief gave her bones new weight.

“Oh, look who’s talking,” she replied with a smile, already moving forward. “Still glowing like you’ve got a secret no one else knows.”

Your mother laughed as they embraced, arms curling gently around each other’s shoulders in a way that spoke of familiarity—of years stitched loosely together with holiday dinners and shared glances from opposite ends of the table.

“It’s been so long,” your mother murmured as they pulled apart. “I’m sorry it took something like this.”

Mrs. Jeon shook her head, brushing it off with a small wave of her hand. “Don’t be. You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

"It's been a long time still. When was even the last time we saw each other properly?"

Mrs. Jeon tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “Hmm—wait, there was that awful fundraiser for the community garden. The one where everyone got food poisoning from the shrimp cocktail.”

Your mother gasped. “That’s right! I completely forgot about that.” Her eyes glittered with the memory. The laugh that followed was lighter than you expected it to be. “We left early and went to get hotteok from that little cart in the alley.”

“We did,” Mrs. Jeon smiled, and something softened in her gaze, her fingers brushing absently over the pearl comb in her hair. “You know, I don’t think I’ve had hotteok since.”

For a moment, it was easy to forget the reason for this gathering. Easy to forget the weight of what this day had always meant.

These were two women who had held time in their hands and offered it gently to each other across decades. You saw it now, plain as anything—in the crinkle of their eyes, in their voices when they leaned closer, speaking not just as in-laws, but as women who had once, maybe still, shared the same kind of heartbreak no parent should have to.

“Has he come?” your mother asked softly, her tone shifting as she scanned the room briefly, no longer talking about students or fashion or time but of something more specific.

Mrs. Jeon’s expression softened, her posture stilling in that way you’d learned to recognize—when something trembled just beneath the grace. She shook her head once. "No." she said, smoothing her hand down the front of her skirt. “He wanted to come. Really, he did. But I guess he had to sit this one out." She passed you a apologetic look and you nodded in reassurance.

Your mother didn’t press either. She simply nodded, and her hand found Mrs. Jeon’s again—a squeeze, not meant to comfort so much as to acknowledge. To say, I know.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she added, turning to you, her hand squeezing your elbow briefly. “I know today couldn’t have been easy.”

"Makes the two of us, mom." You said with crinkle of your eye that earned a acknowledging smile from her.

Reaching out to adjust the collar of your coat like it was second nature, she added. “He’d be proud of you, you know. Both of you.”

You didn’t trust yourself to respond to that with anything other than a quiet, "I hope so."

She let out a breath, slow and steady. “Oh, my dear. He would.”

And then, like all good women who’ve loved and lost and laughed too hard in small corners of too-large rooms, they both smiled again.

Then Mrs. Jeon tucked her arm into your mother’s. “Come on,” she said with a small lift of her chin. “You’ve got to tell me where you found that skirt. And I need wine before I start tearing up in front of a painting again.”

"Oh I've been out of loop for years. I've got to." Your mother said and offered a hand to you. "Would you like to join us, love?"

“You should.I have stories,” Mrs. Jeon promised, and you smiled. "You two should go. I'm gonna look around a bit and try to find Mira. She's here, right?"

“Oh, I saw her by the impressionist wall earlier,” Mrs. Jeon said, glancing over her shoulder. “She looked like she was interrogating someone about varnish techniques.”

“That sounds about right,” you replied with a smile. “I’ll catch up with you both in a bit.”

They nodded, already slipping back into their quiet conversation, and you watched the two of them disappear into the soft murmur of the gallery, heads tilted together like old friends caught mid-thread. You turned then, letting yourself exhale fully for what felt like the first time since you stepped through the door.

A cello murmured somewhere over the speakers, curling between the talking here and there, and the lights glowed honey-gold against the soft canvas walls. Every corner of the room breathed with pigment. you could'nt stop noticing that.

You wandered.

Your boots tread lightly over the polished floor, hands tucked loosely in front of you, eyes scanning the crowd—pausing now and then at paintings you remembered in their messier stages: taped along the kitchen wall, hanging crooked behind your sofa, still smelling of linseed and dust. It was surreal, this setting—so curated, so clean—when you remembered the life that birthed the art was anything but.

You caught a flash of Mira’s hair through the crowd, that soft copper tone that always helped you find her in a room. You lifted a hand slightly, already beginning to weave your way toward her. But before you could call out or lift a hand in greeting, someone stepped into your periphery.

“Excuse me—are you…?”

The voice was tentative, warm with a kind of hesitant reverence. You turned, expecting perhaps one of the donors or a distant family friend, only to find a young man—tall, soft-eyed, and maybe just a little older than Minho had been when he first started teaching.

He looked vaguely familiar, though you couldn’t place him immediately. He stood with a kind of earnestness that was hard to fake, his hands clasped in front of him, suit slightly rumpled like he’d run here from the train.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, offering an apologetic smile. “You probably don’t remember me. I was one of...uh..your husband's students.”

Something gentle shifted in your chest.

“I… didn’t want to intrude,” he added. “But when I saw you, I thought—well, I hoped I could say hello.”

Your throat tightened. You tilted your head and smiled softly, gesturing toward a nearby bench nestled between two hanging pieces—one of them a landscape Minho had once painted after a rainy drive through the mountains. “You’re not intruding,” you said. “Do you wanna sit?"

He seemed almost surprised at the offer, but nodded. You watched him ease into the seat beside you, clearly trying not to take up too much space.

“What’s your name?” you asked gently.

“Jihoon,” he said. “Lee Jihoon. I took one of his electives in my final year. Painting, beginner’s level. I was…awful at it.”

You laughed quietly, a real sound. “He’d argue there’s no such thing.”

“That’s exactly what he used to say.” Jihoon grinned. “Said ‘awful’ just meant you had somewhere to go. I always remembered that.”

There was a pause, full but comfortable.

“I didn’t really know him that well,” Jihoon admitted, his voice softening. “But he remembered my name. Every single week. Asked about my projects. My mood. Even told me once that the colors I picked made him think I saw the world kindly.”

You blinked.

“Not a lot of people say things like that,” Jihoon murmured. “Especially to someone like me. I was a chemistry major—out of place, anxious, tired. Had no idea what I was doing with my life. Until I came across his class, of course."

“That’s so beautiful, Jihoon." you said, the words catching slightly on the edge of your breath. “He always did have a gift for reminding people of their light.”

Jihoon nodded. “I don’t paint anymore. But I kept the last thing I made in that class. Just a mess of color on canvas, really. But sometimes I look at it and think—he saw something in it I didn’t.”

You smiled, blinking against the warmth flooding your eyes. “He had a habit of doing that.”

Another beat passed. The murmur of the gallery swelled around you like background music scored too gently for something so profound.

Jihoon looked over at you, his expression shifting into something fragile, more careful. “I’m really glad I got to meet you,” he said. “I don’t think he ever stopped talking about you in that class. Said if we ever wanted to get him any snacks, bring lemon bars." His face lit up with a quiet smile. “He said you liked lemon better than chocolate.”

You nodded, stunned by how clear the memory was now that it had been stirred. “I did.”

“Still do?”

You lifted a shoulder, the corner of your mouth tilting upward. “Some things never change.”

Jihoon smiled at that—wide and boyish. "That's nice to know." It was gentle, the way his presence sat beside you—like he wasn’t just honoring Minho, but also everything that had grown from knowing him.

Then Jihoon exhaled, slow and almost awed, eyes drifting back across the expanse of the gallery, gaze moving reverently from frame to frame, like each canvas demanded a certain kind of silence. “This gallery… it’s really something. And it’s a beautiful thing you’ve done, putting this together.”

Your heart flinched at that—touched, yes, but instinctively you shook your head.

“Oh—no. It wasn’t me.” You paused, glancing toward the crowd again. Your gaze moved past familiar faces, past wine glasses and framed brushstrokes, until it landed on the person you had, without realizing, been looking for since Jihoon sat down.

He stood just a few feet away, near the long window where the light curved in golden arcs across the floor. He was finishing a quiet exchange with someone in a charcoal suit—one of the critics, you guessed, or perhaps a gallery curator. His posture was easy but alert, as if one part of him remained in every corner of the room at once. His sleeves were still rolled, his collar slightly unbuttoned, and you could tell just by the slight shift of his brow that he was already scanning the crowd for you again.

Of course he was.

You raised a hand and waved, catching his eye. His face lit up—not in a bright, extravagant way, but in the way only people who’d been waiting to breathe could look when they finally did.

He made his way over without hesitation.

You turned back to Jihoon as Jungkook approached, gesturing gently. “That’s who did this,” you said. “That’s Minho’s younger brother. Jeon Jungkook. He’s the one who made all this happen.”

Jihoon blinked, clearly surprised. “That’s his brother? I didn’t know he had one.”

“Not many did,” you murmured. “They were close. Complicated. But close.”

Jungkook reached your side just then, eyes flicking briefly from you to Jihoon before settling somewhere in between—calm, but attentive.

“Hey,” he said to you, his voice a quiet tether. "Everything okay?"

You smiled. “Yeah. Jungkook, this is Jihoon."

Jihoon stood up immediately, offering his hand. “Lee Jihoon, sir. I was one of Minho’s students—back in my undergrad days.”

Jungkook took the hand, gave it a firm shake. “Nice to meet you, Jihoon. I'm Jungkook."

“You too. I was just telling ma'am…” Jihoon glanced toward the paintings on the wall, his expression shifting to something a little more awed, a little more raw. “This place is really special. You’ve honored him in a way that… well, I think he would’ve loved it.”

Jungkook’s jaw tensed almost imperceptibly, but his nod was deep. “He gave us so much,” he said. “This was just… the least I could do. Thank you for coming."

You watched as they stood there, just the two of them for a moment—two people connected only through love for the same person. Different kinds of love. Different shapes. But still, deeply rooted in retention, in ache, in admiration.

Jihoon dwelled for a moment after the handshake, shifting slightly from foot to foot like there was something else he was holding on to, something not yet said. His eyes moved once more over the room—past the guests murmuring quietly before landscapes of borrowed light and rain-drenched rooftops, past the gleam of gallery sconces and the soft ripple of music weaving beneath it all. Then he turned back to you, gaze steadied by something freshly lit.

“Would it be alright,” he asked, voice tentative, “if we—if someone made a toast?”

You blinked at him, surprised.

Jihoon cleared his throat, not quite sheepish, but aware of the weight of what he was suggesting. “I know it’s not that kind of event,” he continued, “and maybe this is out of turn, but… it just feels like we should. I mean—everyone here came because they loved him. Or learned from him. Or knew someone who did. I feel like he deserves that much.”

You were quiet a moment, absorbing that. Your fingers brushed against the hem of your sleeve. Behind you, Jungkook stayed still, close but not pushing. Letting you hold this decision.

Then you smiled—softly, achingly—and looked to Jihoon. “I think he would’ve liked that.”

Jihoon let out a small breath, and for the first time since he introduced himself, his shoulders eased.

Jungkook stepped in then, his voice low as he looked between you both. “Let me get someone to quiet the room.” His hand grazed your lower back briefly before disappearing again as he made his way toward the center of the gallery, where the natural dip in sound could be coaxed into pause.

You and Jihoon watched him go.

Jihoon straightened, cheeks slightly flushed, suddenly shy. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to overstep. It was just a thought.”

“You didn’t,” you said quickly, reaching to squeeze his wrist with a gentle, grateful hand. “It was a good one.”

The lights dimmed ever so slightly in a way that pulled attention without demanding it. Conversations tapered. A curator tapped gently against the side of her glass. Heads turned.

Jihoon glanced at you again, seeking silent permission.

You gave a small nod.

And then he stepped forward, clearing his throat once. “Hi,” he said, voice steadier than you’d expected. “Sorry to interrupt.”

The small squleche that followed was expectant—not cold. Rather, waiting.

“My name’s Jihoon,” he continued, “and I was one of Professor Jeon’s students. I didn’t know him as well as some of you might have. But I think—I think that’s what made him so special. You didn’t have to know him long to feel like you did.”

A few murmurs of agreement. A rustle of someone dabbing their eye with a tissue.

“He taught one class,” Jihoon said, “and I carried the things he said with me for years after. He made you believe you were capable of softness. Of seeing the world differently. Of being part of something even when you didn’t feel like you belonged anywhere.”

You pressed your fingers lightly to your lips, blinking against the sudden sting at the corners of your eyes.

Jihoon looked down, then back up again. “So if no one minds, I’d like to raise a glass. To Professor Jeon Minho. For all the ways he made us see color in places we didn’t know to look.”

There was a quiet chorus of glasses being lifted.

“To Minho,” Jihoon said.

“To Minho,” came the soft, scattered reply.

There was a sereness after Jihoon’s final words. Not silence, exactly—but the kind of quiet that settles after something sacred has been said aloud. For one suspended moment, all you could hear was the soft creak of someone adjusting their stance, the distant clink of a glass set gently onto a tray. A man nodded solemnly, his gaze fixed on the frame nearest him—one of the softer pieces, all dusk and ripple.

And Jihoon just stood there, blinking slowly, like he was still surfacing from whatever place inside him those words had come from. And when he turned toward you, there was something unreadable in his expression. Not pressure. Not expectation.

Just… offering.

He held it out—gentle, like it might break if he wasn’t careful.

“Would you…?” he asked, voice low. “I mean—you don’t have to. But if anyone should…”

Your breath left you all at once.

A soft, dizzying rush.

As if the floor tilted beneath your shoes, and suddenly you were thirteen again, being called up to the front of a school assembly. Your palms itched. The back of your knees tensed. Your first instinct—your strongest—was to shake your head. To step away. To dissolve into the crowd and pretend you were just another guest, just another echo of Minho’s story, not the one who shared the ending.

You hadn’t spoken about him like this. Not out loud. Not in public. Not since—

Not since the funeral.

And even then, the words had been written on a crumpled sheet of notebook paper you never managed to unfold.

You swallowed, blinking past the sudden blur in your vision.

The gallery was full. Packed. Shoulders bumped. Wine was held, not sipped. People who knew you only in tangents were watching now—waiting, not rudely, but with a kind of esteem that made the room feel tighter than it was. Their gazes weren't demanding. But they were present. And that was somehow worse.

Your feet didn’t move.

Your spine stiffened instinctively, not out of pride, but fear. Fear that your mouth would open and nothing would come out. That your voice would catch on the years you spent trying to say his name without crumbling. That they would all look at you and see not a woman still grieving—but a woman trying too hard to prove she still was.

Jihoon seemed to realize it too late.

His hand faltered slightly, his brows lifting in the smallest, guilty apology.

You inhaled through your nose, sharp and steady, the sound of your own breath loud in your ears. Your heart was racing. Thundering. The edges of the room blurred just slightly, like the light had leaned in too far.

This wasn’t how you imagined tonight.

You didn’t imagine standing beneath spotlights with every gaze tipped toward you like glass waiting to crack. You didn’t imagine saying Minho's name aloud in a room full of strangers who only knew the brushstrokes, not the man.

He was yours once. That memory still felt private. Sacred. Could you really put it on display like this? Wasn’t the art enough?

Your eyes darted to the floor. To your palms. To anything but the sudden attention.

And you thought—how does one speak about a person who once turned their love into art and left you with the aftermath of their absence? How does a person speak of someone who still walks the halls of their memory like the floorboards remember his weight?

But eventually, the words would come. And they would be something like: Tentative. Threadbare. But real.

“Hi,” you'd say the word small, too soft for the space at first. You cleared your throat gently. “Um. Sorry. I—I wasn’t planning to speak tonight.”

That would get a quiet laugh from someone.

“Minho wasn’t someone you really planned things with, either,” you'd add, your lips pulling into the barest shape of a smile. “He was… spontaneous. Kind of a whirlwind, honestly. He’d forget his keys three days in a row, but remember a stranger’s birthday after overhearing it in a coffee shop.”

The room would shift slightly—leaning in.

You took a breath. Let it settle.

“My husband wasn’t just a man who painted,” you said. “He was someone who watched the world the way some people listen to music. Closely. Devotionally. He noticed things most people didn't. Messy things. Especially those, I think."

You'd managed a laugh, more breath than sound. And you'd admit, for the first time out loud that grief is messy. It’s changed shape every day. Some days it’s a stone. Some days it’s a fog. Some days it’s a balloon with a string you can’t catch.

You'd pause and you'd tell yourself it's obviously not for dramatic effect. "But tonight is different. Because of all of you. Because you came."

You looked out then, gaze landing softly on Jihoon, on your mother, on Mira’s coppery hair now stilled in the far corner. You saw faces that had once lived only on the edges of memory, now lit by gallery lamps and the weight of shared knowing.

Your eyes, though painted a picture perfect of one man alone in the crown. Found comfort when they found him only.

Standing just behind the crowd now. His hands folded calmly. His head tilted, watching you like you were the only voice in the world. And maybe, for him, you were.

"And this was possible only because of one person."

Your voice would shake—just a little. But not from fear now.

“This was made possible by someone who loved him too. Someone who saw what he meant, not just to me, but to the world. Someone who held my hand when I thought I’d never feel anything but the absence. Someone who…” A unconscious smike would tug at your lips—tired, grateful, breaking gently at the edges. “Who also happens to be my boyfriend.”

And that's the thing about adrenaline.

"Thank you, Jungkook."

Or maybe it was longing, maybe it was just exhaustion wearing a braver face. Maybe it was the ache of having stood on a ledge for so long that when your foot finally moved forward, you mistook the fall for flight.

You didn’t mean to say it.

It had curled out of your mouth before you even registered the gravity of it, like a word said often in thought but never aloud. A word with teeth and color and something terrifyingly irreversible to it. A word that had lived only in backseat glances and unspoken tendernesses, in private touches and the quietness of shared nights.

And for a moment, everything inside of you would go still.

You'd wait—rigid, breath tucked in your chest—for the ripple of it. For someone to count the months, do the math, raise an invisible hand and say what you’ve been saying to yourself every night. The inevitable shift. The stiffened gazes. The whisper sliding across someone’s tongue like a question dressed up in disapproval before they decided how to create into the dirtiest scandle.

No collective sound of gasps would come but the silence would skin you down anyways. It would echo in your blood like something impossible to take back, something that forced you to run from everyone.

You locked the stall door behind you with trembling fingers.

The click of the latch echoed too loudly in the tiled silence, as if the world wanted you to know—yes, you were alone now. Yes, you had done that. Yes, you had said it. Out loud. In a room full of Minho's memories and the people who used to call you his.

You braced your hands against the walls of the stall, palms flat against the cold tile, eyes squeezed shut.

Your breath came shallow.

God.

You were so stupid.

It played again in your head—your voice, too soft and yet entirely too clear, threading through the quell of the gallery like silk cut on glass.

Boyfriend.

You had said boyfriend.

You had said Jungkook’s name and attached boyfriend.

And though none of the terrible things you thought in your head made it out loud, silence, when it’s thick enough, is just another kind of thunder. And now it was echoing between your ribs like a bell toll.

You sank down onto the toilet lid, coat bunched beneath you, elbows on knees, forehead in your hands. Your fingers against your temples like you could keep the shame from spilling further down your face.

What had you done?

You could still feel the phantom warmth of the spotlight on your face. The taste of exhilaration clung to the back of your tongue, sharp and coppery, like you’d bitten into a secret and couldn’t spit it out fast enough.

Why hadn’t you stopped yourself?

Knowing everyone who had been there. Your parents were probably standing near the back, holding a flute of wine with both hands like they always did when trying not to look worried. fingers curled too tight, probably, lips pursesd in a expression you would recognize too well.

And Mrs. Jeon. God.

What must she be thinking?

You had loved her son. Loved him through every phase of boyhood and manhood and married years. You’d sat across from her at too many dinners to count, brought her lemon cakes on Sundays, once helped her fix her shoe in the middle of the grocery store.

And now she’d watched you turn toward the brother. Heard you name him something tender. Watched you stitch that word between your anguish and your present like you hadn’t torn anything in the process.

You had handled it fine up until then. You’d spoken about Minho. You had kept your voice steady, even when your hands had trembled. You had said the hard things—the soft things. The beautiful things. But that one word had been too much. Too fast. Too soon.

Why did you always go too far when it came to him?

And worse—why hadn’t he stopped you?

Why hadn’t he looked away when you’d looked at him?

Why had he stood there, taking it, breathing it, accepting the title like he’d been waiting for it all along?

You had thrown him into the light. You’d stepped outside the one rule you’d both kept tucked beneath your skin since this thing started.

You were so stupid.

You'd undone months of silence in one breath.

And you hated yourself for the part of you that didn't want to take it back.

Because that was the cruelest truth tucked beneath your chagrin. The real reason your stomach twisted and your heart beat so wildly it felt bruised from the inside out that maybe you hadn’t meant to say it. But you had meant it.

And now you couldn’t hide from either.

Did they think you moved on too quickly?

That you had let love grow again in the ruins?

You had wanted so badly for tonight to be about Minho.

About the way he painted loneliness like it was light filtering through stained glass. About the way he had lived—not just the way he had left.

And instead, you had made it about yourself.

About you and Jungkook and the impossible thing that bloomed between the wreckage.

You could already imagine it. The murmurs. Soft as oil and sharp as glass.

“Did you know?”

“So soon?”

“Well, he was her brother-in-law…”

Your hands curled into fists against your knees. You hated that you could hear them before they spoke. Hated even more that a part of you feared they were right. That some version of yourself had always been selfish enough to want to be held again, even if it came in a contours you weren’t supposed to take comfort in.

Even if it wore your husband’s last name.

You pressed your forehead to your palms and breathed in through your nose, sharp and careful.

You didn’t know how longer it would take for your breath to even out or more importantly, how long will it before you find the courage to step inside, face everyone.

Time slowed in the tile-slick silence. You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears, thudding out some rhythm of regret. Beneath the thin fabric of your blouse, sweat cooled over your spine, a second skin of discomfort. Your coat, wrinkled beneath you, smelled faintly of rosewater and nerves.

You stared at the hinge of the stall door like it might open on its own. Like someone would find you here and drag you gently into sense, or kindness, or forgetting.

But no one did.

Not for a while.

Not till there was a knock.

You froze instantly.

Just one. Light. Then another, softer this time, like maybe they realized what this was. A retreat. A rupture even.

You opened your mouth, voice caught in the wires of your throat, about to say—occupied—or sorry—or please go—but the voice that came next was not one you expected.

“Sweetheart?”

You blinked.

Your spine went taut, then loose, as if the air itself sighed through your bones. You pressed your palms flat against the stall wall again, steadying yourself against the name.

Not Jungkook’s. Not your mother’s.

Mrs Jeon. Oh Jesus.

You closed your eyes.

Her voice didn’t come again, but you heard the gentle scuff of her heel shift just once, as if she didn’t need to knock again. As if she already knew you were on the other side, already knew what you were doing in there. As if she had once stood exactly where you were, though not in a gallery bathroom, not in navy silk, but somewhere private and full of guilt of her own.

She didn’t rush you.

Didn’t tap her fingers against the wood or call your name again like some well-meaning warning.

Just asked for confirmation. "Are you in there?"

You lowered your hands slowly, tears unshed but dangerously close, and stared at the small strip of her shadow beneath the stall.

You wanted to bolt.

You wanted to speak.

You wanted to rewind time.

Instead you dared again and answered. "Yes."

Your voice ragged and small cracked through the silence like a thread fraying loose again.

“…Did you hear it?”

There was a long pause.

“Yes.”

Your stomach flipped.

Another breath drew.

“Do you think less of me now?”

It took her a moment. But when she answered, it was without hesitation.

“No.”

She didn’t say it’s okay. She didn’t say I understand. She didn’t reach for platitudes or soft versions of a dejection you both carried like broken mirrors. She simply answered what you’d asked. Somehow that was what made your throat cave in.

“I was twenty-four,” she said, almost conversationally. “When I said something like that."

You blinked.

“It was a dinner party. The first one I attended. I said it too easily. Laughed like it meant nothing. But it did.”

Another pause. Then:

“I threw up in the bathroom afterward. Swore I’d never go to another dinner again.”

You felt your lips twitch—wet with something like a laugh, but broken at the edges.

“Did you go to another one?”

She hummed softly. “Eventually. You do things again. Not because you stop feeling, but because feeling changes. Becomes something you live with, not something you live inside.”

The silence that followed didn’t hurt the same way anymore.

When she spoke again, her voice was nearer to the door, like she had leaned just slightly in.

“Come out when you’re ready, sweetheart. I’m right here.”

Then her heels clicked softly against the tile, retreating with the same grace she always wore.

And for the first time since stepping into the bathroom, your breath moved all the way through your chest.

You weren’t sure how long you sat there after her footsteps faded.

A minute? Five? The kind of silence that doesn't tick, but swells. It filled the corners of the room, the hollow just beneath your ribs. You listened to it. To your breathing. To the subtle shift of water in the pipes behind the wall. You focused on the small things, the mundane ones—just long enough to believe the larger ones might not crush you once you stood.

Eventually, your knees cracked softly as you rose.

Your coat shifted around your hips. Your hands reached for the lock. A breath before the click. Another after. You opened the door slowly, stepped into the stillness of the restroom like someone learning how to inhabit her own skin again.

The light outside the stall was unforgiving, but Mrs. Jeon was not.

She stood a few steps away, hands folded gently in front of her, her shoulders soft with patience. And when her eyes met yours, she didn’t search your face for shame or answers.

She only opened her arms.

And you stepped in like a child too old to be held, but still needing to be.

The smell of her perfume—something floral and faintly spiced—wrapped around you like memory. Her arms didn’t grip. They gathered. And somehow, the simple weight of that embrace unspooled something inside your chest that panic hadn’t quite broken yet.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean any of it. I swear, I was trying so hard to be careful. I know how it must look. I know—”

She pulled back just enough to see your face, her hands still resting on your arms.

“Honey,” she said, voice quiet, eyes impossibly kind, “you’re talking like you’ve committed a crime.”

You flinched. “But I—God, I've been keeping this from you and everyone for so long. That doesn't feel fair."

“People who already knew,” she said gently.

You blinked. “What?”

She gave you a look—dry, fond, just the tiniest bit wry. “Darling, please. You think none of us noticed the way my son looks at you like he’s one second away from his heart bursting?” She squeezed your arms. “You said it. That’s all. You didn’t invent it tonight.”

You bit your lip. Shook your head like it might keep the tears from cresting again. “I thought I heard someone say something. A woman—by the back wall. She said something like… like it didn’t take me long.”

“Oh, that,” Mrs. Jeon said lightly, brushing your hair back as if to say not worth it. “You mean the one in the red shawl with the loud opinions and the knockoff purse?”

You blinked, stunned by the precision.

“She said something awful,” you whispered.

“I’m sure she did,” she said. “Right before Jungkook told her if she so much as muttered another syllable in his girlfriend's direction he’d personally make sure her husband’s antique store on Fifth lost its foot traffic forever.”

Your mouth parted. “He—what?”

Mrs. Jeon gave an elegant shrug, smoothing the sleeve of her jacket. “He was polite about it. But it was... unmistakable.”

You blinked again, and the breath that escaped you was half-laugh, half-sob. “Of course he did.”

“He’s terribly protective,” she said, glancing at you with a smile that was a little too knowing. “Gets that from his mother.”

It took you a moment to laugh—really laugh—but when you did, it broke through like sunlight behind thunderclouds.

“I just… I don’t want people to think I forgot Minho.”

She tilted her head, her hand coming up to smooth your hair behind your ear. “Sweetheart. No one who’s ever known you could think that. Least of all me.”

You looked down, voice low. “I didn’t want tonight to be about me.”

“It wasn’t.”

You met her eyes.

"What about my parents?" you asked quietly, your voice catching on the question like it had been waiting there all along. “Did they look mad? Disappointed?”

Mrs. Jeon gave a soft sigh, the kind that came from years of reading rooms, faces, silences. Her hand smoothed down your arm like she was pressing a wrinkle from cloth, calming you in increments.

“They’re planning to talk to Jungkook,” she said simply, brushing invisible lint from your shoulder. "Having a word with him, to be exact."

Your breath caught. “Oh god.”

Mrs. Jeon gave a small, amused shake of her head. “Don’t worry. I'm sure they're just making sure he treats their daughter right." She paused. “They’re not angry. I promise you that. A little surprised, perhaps. But not angry. No one's angry with you."

She staryed again.“I told her I’d beat her to it,” she said simply. “Can’t have him thinking he’s off the hook just because he's all grown up in a suit."

Your mouth opened, then closed. “You’re serious.”

“As a heart attack.”

You nodded slowly, absorbing it, but your hands still clutched the edge of the sink like they needed something real to tether you.

A silence passed between you, then two. You tried to swallow the knot forming at the base of your throat, but it was impossible to hide the flush rising in your cheeks. Your voice came small, hesitant. “You’re… really okay with this?”

Mrs. Jeon looked at you in that particular way only someone who’d known you through every winter and every spring could. She reached forward and took your hand. Held it firmly.

“You tell me something,” she said, and her voice was quieter now, careful in the way it stepped into the softest parts of you. “Are you happy?”

Your eyes met hers.

The word hovered in your chest, terrified and blooming all at once.

You bit your lip, shoulders curling in, and nodded—small at first, then a little more certain. “Yes,” you whispered.

Mrs. Jeon let out a slow breath, like she’d been waiting to hear it for longer than she let on.

“Then that’s all that matters.”

You looked at her, eyes glassy.

“It was about time,” she said, smoothing a strand of hair away from your face again. “About time you finally put that poor boy out of his misery.”

You groaned in exasperation. "Mom!"

She laughed, not cruelly, but full of something knowing and warm. "What? Not my fault he was so obvious before he even knew how to spell your name properly.”

You smiled again. Free and a little stunned by how light your chest suddenly felt.

“Come on,” she said, smoothing her skirt with one hand and tugging your arm with the other. “Let’s go rescue him from whatever emotional purgatory he’s pacing through in that hallway.”

You let her pull you forward but you don’t get to rescue your boyfriend. You're rather met with a very heartbroken Mira who demands answers and pulls you away before you can even get the chance too.

She stepped back, pulled out her phone, and dialed with the urgency of a 911 operator.

“Hobi?” she said when the line picked up. “Yeah, hi, I know you’re probably making out with your date or something, but this is an emergency.”

You blinked. “What are you doing?”

She gave you a look. “You said you needed a drink, right?”

“…I did, but—”

“Well then.” She turned slightly away. “You’re not going back anywhere tonight until you explain everything to me in the proper setting, which is clearly a bar with sticky menu. Hobi? Yeah. Bring your wallet."

You watched her hang up and start marching toward the coat check like a woman with a mission. And you followed because this was the girl who’d held your hair back and fed you soup in silence the first week after Minho died. The one who knew when to fight, when to joke, and exactly when to say nothing at all.

The bar Mira chose was exactly what you needed and absolutely what she promised: questionable neon signage, vinyl booths held together with decades of duct tape and bad decisions, and a jukebox that alternated between early 2000s heartbreak anthems and ABBA on repeat. The air smelled like lemon-scented cleaner that didn’t quite mask the ghost of spilled beer, and the lighting was so dim you could’ve sworn everyone wore built-in Instagram filters.

You slid into the corner booth, coat still damp from the walk over, cheeks raw from wind and embarrassment, and Mira slid in across from you like she was preparing for a high-stakes interrogation.

Hoseok arrived moments later, hair wind-swept and cheeks pink from the cold, looking far too good to be in a place with this much wallpaper peeling off the walls. He dropped into the booth beside Mira with the chaotic energy of someone who had just abandoned a very flirty date and wasn't over it.

“Boyfriend?" he said in lieu of hello. "Why am I not suprised that Mr firm hands is the boyfriend?"

You gave him a look. “Are you… judging me?”

“Oh no,” he said, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Not judging. Just trying to understand how I didn’t know this was happening.”

“You were busy dating someone named Seulgi who calls you ‘sunbeam’ and posts about her salads on Instagram,” Mira shot back, flagging down a waiter with a sharp flick of her fingers. “Now respectfully shut up and let her talk.”

You stared down at the menu, even though it was mostly beer stains and crossed-out prices. Mira reached over and gently pulled it from your hands. “You don’t need this. You need fries, something fried, and probably a little tequila.”

“Tequila?” you murmured.

“Don’t argue with the doctor,” Hoseok added, even though Mira was most definitely not a doctor.

The drinks arrived fast—too fast, which meant they were going to taste like regret—and a bowl of over-salted fries landed in the middle of the table with a satisfying clatter.

You sipped your drink slowly, felt the warmth of it bloom at the back of your throat, and only then let yourself exhale.

“It wasn’t—God, it wasn’t like that,” you said, palms out now, defensive and pleading all at once. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you. It just happened. And then it kept happening. And then suddenly it felt like telling anyone would break it. Ruin everything.”

Mira stared at you, all righteous betrayal and mascara-smudged emotion. Her voice cracked just a little when she said, “But me?”

You let out a shaky exhale, your voice breaking into something small, something that couldn’t be smooth no matter how you tried. “I didn’t not trust you. Please don’t think that. I was scared.”

“Scared of me?”

“No,” you said softly, “of saying it out loud. Sorry, it sounds pitiful."

Mira studied you for a long breath. Then, like she’d squeezed all the anger out of her in one long sigh, she deflated a little. She still looked hurt, but her eyes softened.

“I should’ve told you,” you said quietly. “I just didn’t know how.”

She stared at you for a long moment, then slid her glass aside and reached across the table. “I’m still mad,” she said, “but I love you. And I’m glad you didn’t end up in a fling with those dates they used to send you on. Yikes! At least you picked Jungkook. Who clearly worships the ground you walk on.”

“Oh, I bet.” Hoseok added, “don't know him much but oh, I bet."

You winced or flushed but you wouldn't like to use that word. “That’s not—”

“He does,” Mira said, crossing her arms. “He did. Everyone saw it. Except you, apparently. Until now.”

“look,” you said defensively. “I just… I didn’t think it’d become anything.”

Mira made a sound that was equal parts sympathy and exasperation. “Yoongi told me years ago,” she said, picking up a mozzarella stick and pointing it at you like a weapon. “Said something like, ‘Your friend’s maybe as oblivious as she pretends. But my cousin’s a lost cause.’”

"Your husband speaks?" Hoseok snorted into his glass.

That earned him a punch to the side. He groaned so dramtically the five people in the space turned around. You wrapped your fingers around the base of your glass and stared into the fizzing surface. God, you loved them.

“I just didn’t want it to look like I was replacing him,” you murmured, not looking up. “Minho.”

Mira’s teasing stilled. Hoseok’s posture softened.

“You’re not,” Mira said, and her voice was quieter now. “And anyone who thinks you are can choke on their free gallery wine.”

“I’m serious,” you said, twisting the glass between your hands.

Mira tilted her head, one of her hands coming to rest gently over yours. "So am I. I almost dropped my canape when you said it. I even grabbed the old lady next to me.”

"That sounds very serious." Hoseok expressed.

You laughed, reluctantly. “I’m glad,” Mira said, serious again. “Even if I hate that you didn’t tell me, and I will absolutely be holding it over your head until the day we die. I’m glad. Because you’re here. Laughing. Smiling."

You reached for a napkin and dabbed at your eyes. “Thanks.”

And after that—after the napkin had soaked up the last streak of guilt, after Mira’s hand squeezed yours a little tighter, and Hoseok slid a second shot glass in your direction with all the pomp of a coronation—the night began to dissolve in that peculiar, beautiful way nights do when something heavy has been named and nobody lets go.

You drank.

And even that seemed like a understatement.

Not to forget anything but to remember yourself. The version of you that wasn’t shadowed by what you were afraid people would say. The one who dared to call someone hers in a room full of ghosts and memories and didn’t completely fall apart after.

It was baffling.

It was miraculous.

And, God, it was exhausting.

The drinks made everything blur—delightfully at first, then in a way that made your friends exchange glances. You heard Mira say something like “She’s cut off after this one,” and Hoseok immediately counter with “Let her live,” and then you couldn’t hear them anymore because the bar’s speakers erupted into some throaty love song.

Your cheek pressed against Mira’s shoulder for a while, though you couldn’t recall when it landed there. She’d draped your coat over your knees like a blanket and was scrolling through photos on her phone with Hoseok, both of them whisper-laughing, passing the screen back and forth like teenagers.

You looked at them, and something inside you melted—not from the alcohol, not from the bar’s molten heat though that was quiet unbearable too—but from the simple fact of being held.

A feeling you hadn’t known two nights ago, two years back. The universe hadn’t cracked open and swallowed you whole. The chandelier hadn’t fallen from the ceiling. No one had thrown wine at your face or cornered you near the shrimp cocktail with cruel questions about the morality of love.

Instead, the world pitched ever so slightly to the left every time you blinked. The jukebox had moved on to Fleetwood Mac now—some slow, melancholy guitar that wrapped around your temples like gauze. You couldn’t feel your legs. Or maybe you could. They just didn’t want to move.

The fry basket had long since turned cold, and your drink—whatever remained of it—sat abandoned in front of you, a wedge of lime floating like a lifeboat in stormy water. You blinked down at it and considered saying something. Couldn’t remember what.

“Okay,” Mira said, voice low but distinctly not subtle, “that’s enough for her.”

You lifted your head, eyes heavy-lidded. “Wha—? No. M’fine.”

“Sure you are,” she muttered, already pulling her phone out of her coat pocket. “And I’m the queen of France.”

“I am fine.” You sat up straighter, blinked hard at her, as if that proved something. The booth spun gently. “Mmmfine,” you mumbled. “Jus’ warm. Floor’s doing a little… wavy thing.”

Hoseok’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s not the floor. That’s your tequila tangoing with the bad decisions.”

Mira gave him a look before pulling her phone out of her purse.

“Noooo,” you groaned, pawing at her wrist with absolutely no coordination. “Don’t. I’m fine. I’m just… appreciating...”

“You’re appreciating everything too much,” Mira muttered, unlocking her phone with her thumb. “He deserves to know.”

You blinked blearily. “Who?”

She didn’t answer you. Thumbs tapping furiously. You tried to grab her wrist, missed by a margin you weren’t proud of. Just pressed the phone to her ear and stood from the booth, pressing one finger into her other ear to muffle the noise of the bar.

You slumped back, staring at your half-finished drink like it had betrayed you. Hoseok reached over and silently took it away.

“Miraaaa,” you called, dragging her name like a scarf behind you. “She’s being… dramatic. Over…reacting. I could walk home.”

Hoseok said, “you just mistook a fork for your phone.”

You stared at the table. “...Did I?”

He nodded solemnly. “Twice.”

“Jungkook,” Mira said sweetly into the phone now pressed to her ear, “hi. Yeah, she’s—no, no, she’s alright. We’re at that little dive near the station. You know the one with the broken neon cactus sign? Yeah. She’s, um…” A glance at you, hunched like a tragic poet over the tabletop. “She’s had a night.”

You sat up with all the indignation of a drenched cat. “A night?” you hissed.

Mira patted your shoulder. “Don’t worry. He said he’s on his way.”

You blinked, your voice in unison with Hoseok’s. “Already?”

"Already." Mira echoed.

You groaned and buried your face into her shoulder again. “Noooooo.”

“Yes,” she cooed. “Yes, ma’am."

You let out a slow, melodramatic exhale, sliding lower in the booth, your face half-buried in your coat. “This is humiliating.” You didn’t say anything after that. You couldn't and you didn't think you could even hear when the door to the bar creaked open. Not really.

The world had dulled to a low, sluggish hum, softened by liquor and dim light and the weight of your own mortification. But Hoseok glanced up, muttered something under his breath about “the cavalry,” Mira lifted her head, glanced over your shoulder, and then tilted her chin in that way that always meant: look sharp.

Not that you could.

You barely had time to blink before you caught the scent of him.

Jungkook’s cologne always managed to find you first—cedar and lavender, dusk and heat. Then the weight of his presence settled behind you like gravity, and before you could lift your head or find your voice, his shadow stretched over the booth.

His eyes found Mira first. A curt nod. Grateful. Barely spared Hoseok a glance. Hoseok looked almost grateful for it.

“Thanks for calling,” he murmured.

Mira didn’t flinch beneath his seriousness. “Thanks for coming,” she replied simply, standing up and gathering your coat like a reflex.

You stirred at that, blinking up at the blur of black shirt, rolled sleeves, and the soft fall of dark hair just slightly wind-tousled. He looked unfairly beautiful for someone who'd just found you curled into a booth like a regretful blanket. His jaw was set tight, you really hoped it was not anger.

He didn’t glance around. Didn’t blink against the tacky lighting or the low thrum of music. Just made a beeline toward your side of the booth, and for one breathless moment, you thought maybe he’d try to coax you out gently.

Instead, he looked down at you—your ridiculous half-hunched self curled in a coat that had long since become your second skin—and without preamble or ceremony, he scooped you up. Just like that.

Just a sure, practiced ease, like he’d been doing this for lifetimes. Like the world made more sense when you were in his arms and he didn’t have to guess where you were anymore.

You yelped.

He didn't say anything, just adjusted your weight slightly and wrapped his coat tighter around you.

But you felt the slow exhale he gave through his nose.

Not a sigh. Something closer to relief.

He tilted his head to Mira again when she spoke.

Mira’s expression had softened. “Don’t forget to make her eat something. And maybe—y’know—hydration?”

“I’ve got it.”

You were already half asleep against him.

Half awake.

All warmth and clumsy enegry, with your head tucked beneath his chin, the wind nipping at your cheeks while your fingers curled into the front of his shirt like some last-minute apology stitched into cotton. The air outside the bar was bitter enough to bite the inside of your lungs, and it sobered you in slivers—slow, fogged pieces of clarity threading through the haze like dawn slipping between window blinds.

But neither of you said anything.

He didn’t look down at you.

He didn’t speak.

Only the faint sound of his boots hitting pavement filled the space—cadenced, unbothered, maddening in its calm.

You let your cheek fall heavier against his chest, where his heart should’ve been louder. But it wasn’t. It was steady. Frustratingly so.

Your lips brushed against the fabric of his collar. You felt his heartbeat pick up. It felt charged now, as if both of you had bad thoughts trying to form, pushing through the quiet in crooked shapes and half-decisions.

You wanted to say something.

You wanted not to say something.

Your mouth tastes like tequila and fear and bad timing. God, you were all about bad timings today, weren't you?

You turned your head slightly, breath catching on the scent of him. The movement made your stomach sway, but you managed.

You swallowed. "Koo?" You asked in a voice barely above the wind. The nickname slipping out thick and syrupy from your mouth. The sober you would have winced at yourself the second it did.

Good thing you were not.

Before there was an audible response, you heard the sound of his breath catching. Muttering a incohered curse under his breath. "Yes, angel?"

You fiddled with the fabric of his shirt where your fingers rested. “Y-You mad at me?”

He didn't answer at first. His jaw tensed once, twice, the movement as familiar as the sound of your voice laced with slur and shame.

His eyes stayed forward. Watching the parked cars blur past like it mattered more than the conversation pressing in the air between you. Watching the lines in the concrete like they might give him something to focus on other than the pounding of his pulse.

Because your question so slurred and soft and soaked in all the wrong kinds of courage had landed somewhere sharp in him. Not painful, exactly. But startling. Like someone tapping on glass that had long since been sealed shut.

“Are you asking me that because you got drunk?"

"I'm not too drunk-" You mumbled, trying to line your spine straighter and immediately regretting it when your vision swans. "I mean, yeah, okay, I'm a bit- I mean I drank but that's not what I meant.

"What did you mean?" He asked, not unkindly. Voice low, like he already knew but needed you to say it again anyway. Needed to hear it from your own clumsy, slurred lips.

“I meant—fuck.” You groaned, dropping your forehead against his collar. "for what I did. Back there. At the gallery.”

It had rung through him with the violence of something gentle. And that was the worst kind, wasn’t it? The soft truths. The ones you didn’t brace for.

He had spent so long keeping this thing quiet; out of respect, out of fear, out of the twisted need to protect what didn’t yet have a name. He had convinced himself it was better that way. That if he never said it out loud, he couldn’t lose it. That the world couldn’t break what the world didn’t know existed.

And then you’d just carved him into your life liturgy. The only that he'd felt was unhooked.

God, how were you still scared of that? How could you not see it still?

Your hair smelled like lemon shampoo and something warm. sugar, maybe. Your breath still carried the ghost of tequila and lime and the kind of boldness people only conjure up when they don’t think they’ll remember it later.

He felt you pick nervously at the seam of his collar, like maybe that was safer than looking at his face.

You didn’t know that he’d replayed your voice a hundred times already.

Didn’t know that when you said it. His entire body had stilled. Had gone hot, then cold, then weightless.

You didn’t know that it had taken everything in him not to walk across that gallery and kiss you in front of everyone. The urge was so strong, the relief was so overwhelming that it had nearly leveled him.

And still, here you were fearing the thing he had dreamed of.

He finally spoke.

“Angel,” he said, voice low, careful, “I have been yours for a long time. I thought about it. Dreamed of hearing you call me that for longer than I’ll ever admit. Over dinner maybe. But I don't care where it happened."

You went still in his arms.

He tilted his head, just enough to brush his cheek against your hair.

“I’m not mad,” he said again, softer now. "I'm fucking elated." He rasped low, one hand tightening on your thigh, the other cradling your back like a secret. "And I'm just trying not mess it up."

Before you could make more of the latter, his parked car came in view.

The door clicked open, leather and warmth spilling into the night. He placed you into the passenger seat like you were made of glass—though that was nothing new. He always held you like that. As if the ache in you had a physical symmetry, and he was the only one allowed to carry it.

And maybe it was the night, or the alcohol still warm in your veins, or the sheer disbelief that your world hadn’t crumbled after your confession. But you believed him.

You slumped into the seat, curling into the warmth of his coat that he hung around your shoulders, the hem pooled at your lap like a blanket.

“so…you still wanna be my boyfriend?”

He laughed—really laughed this time, soft and low, one hand bracing on the top of the car door. Then he leaned in, pressed a kiss to your temple, and whispered.

“Forever, if you’ll have me.”

When he finally closed the door and climbed into the driver’s side, the cabin filled with that muted, in-between silence. The kind where things weren't okay yet—but maybe on their way.

The heater came on with a soft whir, chasing off the cold from your knees. You barely noticed it, half curled beneath his coat, one boot unbuckled and heel slipping off as your foot tucked up against the seat like you had no intention of looking composed.

Outside, the streetlights blurred through the window. Pale yellow and blinking, like they couldn’t quite keep their eyes open either. The windshield fogged a little from your breath, everything smudging into something dreamlike and quietly unreal.

You didn’t speak for a moment. Just watched the haze of the window, your cheek nestled into the fleece of his coat collar. But your chest was loud. Restless.

Because for all the softness he wrapped you in, for all the peace you should’ve felt, you couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that if tonight hadn’t gone like it did, you might still be pretending you were just shadows again. That this wasn’t real.

Your fingers clenched gently at the hem of his sleeve where it had fallen across your lap. You sat there like that for a while, quiet and too full of all the wrong questions. Only to repeat.

"Koo?"

Your voice, thick with exhaustion and treacly from the weight of everything you’d drunk and everything you hadn’t said.

He hummed, fingers flexing against the steering wheel, gaze flicking toward you but not quite leaving the road yet.

You turned your head slowly toward him, your forehead creasing a little as the warmth from the heater tangled too hot against your cheek. “I… I don’t wanna go home.”

The words were blurry. Fumbling. Like they’d been handed to you in pieces and you hadn’t had time to stitch them back together.

But they were true. That they were.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just glanced at you from the corner of his eye. A muscle in his jaw ticked, and you watched the careful tension in his knuckles where they wrapped around the wheel.

You bit your lip. “Not—not forever. Just. Y’know. Just not… tonight."

You sniffled once, rubbing at your nose like a child, embarrassed by the confession but too drunk to walk it back. “Please don’t take me home.”

Jungkook exhaled softly. A sound that felt too much like relief for someone being asked for something so heavy.

“Good thing,” he said at last, turning the car down a different street, his voice curling warm and dry like smoke in your ear, “I’ve got a habit of taking you anywhere but.”

You sighed, relaxing deeper into the seat. “You’re not real,” you murmured. “You're… like. A fever dream. With like really... good cologne.”

Jungkook chuckled lowly, eyes flicking to your profile again, this time longer. “Drunk you’s a menace.”

“I'm sensitive,” you corrected, slurring. “Be nice.”

He reached across the console and found your hand without even looking. Threaded his fingers through yours and held it there like it was always meant to be.

“I am,” he said. “Always.”

“Your nose,” you whispered, studying him like you were discovering the shape of him for the first time. “It’s really pretty. Like. Like you paid someone. But you didn’t, did you? That’s just you.”

He bit back a laugh. “That’s just me, angel.”

You poked the tip of it with the gentleness of a feather. “Insulting.”

“Deeply.”

And then you kissed it.

Quick. Clumsy. The faintest press of lips to the slope of bone. Like you were branding him with your approval.

“Drunk,” he murmured, but he didn’t sound annoyed. If anything, he sounded like he was retaining you.

You nestled your face into his neck again, legs wrapped tight around his torso with his palms supporting your weight hanging off of him. Docking you to him the moment he slipped the car into some underground garage and stepped out without a word, circling to your side. Didn’t even wait for permission. Apparently when you flinched with a tiny sound, then whined when your limbs refused to cooperate was reason enough. You were up in his arms again before the cold could touch your ankles, the world tilting briefly before settling against his chest. You had blinked, dazed, then turned your face upward. “Warm,” you replied.

Jungkook made a noise that was halfway between a laugh and a sigh, the kind of sound someone makes when they’re trying not to fall even deeper in love than they already have.

You hummed a note of agreement, then leaned forward and pecked the tip of his nose again like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Boop.”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, and kept walking, a little faster now.

The lobby was sleek and quiet, lit low with ambient light that glittered off the marble floor. A sleepy doorman nodded as Jungkook passed. You didn’t even ask where you were until the elevator opened directly into a hallway with only one door, black, modern, heavy. You blinked as he shifted you gently in his arms and pressed the keypad. The soft chime of the lock sliding open echoed too loudly in your ears.

“Where…” You blinked again as he nudged the door open with his shoulder. “Where are we?” This wasn’t your apartment. This wasn’t his parent's place. Did'nt exactly look like a hotel or if it was it was a really expensive one. This wasn’t anything you knew.

He set you down slowly—like a ribbon being untied—and turned on the light with a quiet flick of his fingers. Warm, dim lighting spilled into the room, softening everything to velvet edges. The floor beneath your boots was heated tile. The couch in the center of the room was oversized, draped in soft gray throws. There were no bright colors. No screaming art. Just low lines of furniture, oak and ash tones, clean details that whispered instead of shouted. You could see hints of habit: a stack of books with bookmarks poking out crookedly near the couch. A worn mug sitting on the edge of a console table. A leather jacket flung across a chair like it belonged there. Which it probably did.

There was a piano by the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Of course there was a piano.

You stood still, swaying gently in your own boots, the air too warm against your skin now after the chill of the street. You stared across the space with wide eyes, lips parted, trying to absorb the fact that you’d never stepped foot in this place, and yet… there was something terribly intimate about it. About all of it.

It looked like somewhere important people lived. Or people who wanted to be left alone.

You moved forward carefully, shrugging out of his coat and draping it over the arm of the couch like you were afraid to wrinkle anything. The floors were silent beneath your boots, and the air had the clean scent of lemon balm and something else you couldn’t name something earthy. Sage, maybe.

You turned toward the open kitchen across the loft just in time to catch the warm flick of the fridge light opening. Jungkook stood there sockedfeet now, sleeves still rolled, a glass in one hand and the other pushing aside a cabinet door.

And your eyes stuttered. Not at him. (You’d long since gotten used to the way he looked like sin and salvation in dim light.)

But at the contents of the cabinet. You swear you just got a peak of dozens of tea boxes. Not just one brand or two—but everything from supermarket bags to specialty tins, chamomile to lavender to citrus blends. Lined like he’d been collecting them, like someone who maybe didn’t even drink tea but wanted to be prepared in case someone who did ever stayed the night.

He poured the water.

Set the glass down.

And only then turned to you.

You were still staring.

His brow lifted slightly, but he didn’t speak.

You felt suddenly too sober. Or maybe just drunk in a different way now. “What… is this place?”

Jungkook stilled.

It was a half-second pause small, almost imperceptible but you caught it. The way his hands slowed, the way his eyes darted once toward the far window before coming back to you.

He wiped his palm on a dish towel, came around the counter, and set the glass gently in your hands. You took it, grateful for something to focus on. It was cool and smooth and anchored you just enough.

"it’s… it’s really…” You looked around again. “Expensive-looking.”

Jungkook ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching in the strands at the back then the same hand reached out to steady your elbows like he didn’t trust you not to float away. His voice, when it came, was low. Soft in that Jungkook way like gravel dragged through silk.

“I bought it,” he said. “Next day after the night at Kim's."

Your brows pulled together slowly.

“It was impulsive,” he admitted. “Probably stupid. But I couldn’t sleep. I felt like I needed to make space for something that might never happen." He needed to make space for the possibility of you. Because who was Jeon Jungkook if not the most hopless of case when it comes to you.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

“I didn’t know if I’d ever get to bring you here,” he said, eyes not quite meeting yours. “But I bought it anyway.”

You blinked slowly, piecing the words together. Your fingers lifted to press against your lips, as if trying to feel the echo of what you’d confessed there.

“This is yours?” you asked, like it still didn’t quite make sense.

He only said the simplest of truths. "It can be ours."

It felt too big for the room and too small at the same time.

“ours?” you repeated, tasting it.

He gave you a crooked smile, faint and self-conscious. “Well. That was the hope.”

Your heart tripped somewhere in your chest.

You looked around again, slower this time. Noticed the wine glasses above the sink, still drying. A photo frame faced down on the side table like it hadn’t been ready to be displayed yet. A stack of takeout menus in the corner, one with a smudge of sauce on it. A blanket draped over the back of the couch, creased like someone had slept there recently.

“Have you… stayed here?”

He nodded once. “Sometimes. When I needed to breathe." When he wanted to imagine you in here.

He didn't plan to tell you that part.

The truth of how often he came here, and you were in every corner of it.

He watched you now, standing there in the soft yellow glow of pendant lights, barefoot on the tile with your hair a little wild, your eyes flicking from one piece of furniture to the next like they were giving away secrets. And Jungkook—God, Jungkook had never known what it meant to wrench quietly until he imagined you here for the first time. Until he watched you exist in a space he had once only filled with feasibility.

He had picked that couch because it looked like it could hold two people who didn't mind tangling legs. Had stood in the kitchen and wondered if you'd drink your coffee by the window. Had stared at the second drawer by the bathroom sink and thought, that’s where she could keep her earrings.

He didn’t say any of that.

Didn’t confess the way he’d lain on that very couch more than once, staring at the ceiling and trying to imagine what your laugh would sound like bouncing off these walls.

He hadn’t wanted to jinx it. But he’d wanted it.

He still did.

“Were you gonna tell me? About this place?”

He smiled a little—wry, sheepish. “Eventually.”

“Why wait?”

“Because,” he said, stepping closer, “I didn’t want to give you something you didn’t ask for. Not unless you were ready to want it, too. Was'nt that right?"

Then, without meaning to, you took a small step forward and wrapped your arms around his waist. Clung. He didn’t hesitate. His arms were around you in a second. One hand cupped the back of your head, the other pressing gently against your spine.

You buried your face into the soft black cotton of his shirt. “I feel… dizzy.”

“From the alcohol?” he asked, a barely restrained urgency in his voice.

“No.” You turned your cheek against him. "This is just..really dreamy. Yeah. Really dreamy."

He heaved out a breath and started started rocking you back and forth against him in an missable motion. "Sure, angel? You like it?" He asked for confirmation. He didn't bother hiding his need for reassurance in front of you. And you don't mind giving him so. You nod with confidence.

He huffs a soft chuckle. "You haven't seen the half of it. Maybe you won't like the colors. We can change them if that's what you'd like. Add plants." His voice spilled low against the crown of your head. An offering disguised as a list of design choices. But you knew what he meant. You heard it tucked between every carefully placed word.

Let’s make a life here.

Let’s try. Together.

Your face pressed to the slope of his chest, listening to his heartbeat carry the words he didn’t yet say aloud. Your arms looped tighter around his waist, fingers bunching the back of his shirt like you might fall through the floor otherwise.

"We can do whatever we want." he murmured, then exhaled like something eased in him. "All the little, big things. Do you ever wanna get a pet?"

You bobbed your head with far too much enthusiasm. "Absolutely! We could get a dobermoon! You once said you always wanted that!"

"I did." He smiled gently.

Your mouth twitched, and you didn’t mean to smile—but you did. It bloomed slow and sleepy across your face, the kind of smile that couldn’t be helped. “And what else?”

He was still swaying you—slow, steady movements, his hands warm at the small of your back. It took you a moment to realize what he was doing, what the motion even was. You blinked, nose brushing the side of his neck. “Wait,” you whispered, a soft snort cracking loose. “What are you doing?”

Jungkook tilted his head down, eyes meeting yours, glittering a little under the golden pendant light. “I just realized,” he said, and his voice was so low, so unbearably soft, you almost didn’t catch it, “I never got to dance with you at your wedding.”

You blinked, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with that dizzy kind of drunk only heartbreak and hope could cause. “You left before the music started.” You pouted against his chest.

“I know.” His hand found hers. “Can I have one now?”

You burst out laughing, giddy and golden. The thought of so that's how your laugh sounds bounching around the walls came paired with If he could have bathe in the sound of it he would for the rest of his life. “There’s no music.”

He tilted his head. “There’s you.” With a theatrical sigh, you let him slip all around you. It was unsteady, like gravity had forgotten you tonight, yet just like gravity; the way you fit against was a contradiction. All too well. All too comforting.

He moved you slowly, in wide, meandering arcs, like your bodies weren’t bound to tempo or beat, just to each other. You stepped on his toes once. Maybe twice. Your sock slipped on the smooth floor and you cursed under your breath. He caught you, hands tightening with the kind of tenderness that made you want to cry.

“Oops,” you muttered.

“You're Graceful,” he murmured, voice fond.

“You love it,” you countered.

“I do.”

He twirled you then. Not properly God, no, but with that not so perfect grin that made your ribs ache and your stomach flip. You stumbled a bit, laughing into the fabric of his shirt, and he caught you again like he’d been born to. You buried your face in his shoulder. The air around you felt velvet-rich, the heat of his skin, the soft whirr of the heater, the scent of coffee grounds faint from the sink and your perfume still lingering on his collar. The world felt like something you could carry in your palm tonight.

Your cheek pressed right above his heart, where it thudded steady, solid, yours.

Your cheek pressed on right above his heart. “We’re not very good at this,”

“I don’t care,” he murmured into your hair.

You sighed. “My feet hurt.”

“We can stop,” he offered, easing to a gentle halt.

“Mhm." You leaned back to look at him, blinking up through your lashes, voice cotton-soft. You pressed your hand against it absentmindedly, right over the steady beat of his heart, fingers splayed like you could read it in Braille.

He watched you.

Watched the curve of your mouth. The warm glassiness in your eyes. The way your thumb moved without rhythm against his shirt.

You sighed out a thought. “Thank you,” you said.

He tilted his head, brushing a piece of your hair back behind your ear. “For what?”

“For this.” You squinted a little, like you were trying to remember something and only barely catching the edge of it. “For everything. I love you."

You hadn’t even flinched when you said it. You were smiling. Loose-limbed and lidded and not the least bit rattled, still swaying in place like the words had meant nothing more than a sweet note scribbled in a thank-you card.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe for a second. Could only feel the way his heart kicked against his ribs so hard he thought maybe you could hear it. hear the sound of it clawing toward your name.

His mouth opened slightly, but no sound from that came. The function of his body when he was around you, especially, this you was beyond him.

You just looked at him, lashes heavy, lips curved soft. “Hmm?”

“What did you just say?” he asked, voice rough around the edges.

You blinked. Tilted your head. “Thank you?”

“No, not that—fuck, angel." A deep chuckle rumbled out of chest. "Fuck."

But you were already pressing your cheek back to his chest, humming something tuneless, eyes drifting shut.

He swallowed hard. Tugged you closer to him and pressed his lips hard against your head. "I love you too."

Because what had once started with a love so rooted will end with a love that will survive an eternity.

It would always end in "I love yous."

SERIES TAGLIST: @ashslight @wannaghostbts @amatun28 @tteokbokibyjk @kelsyx33 @rexana19

[woso-dreamzzz]

Second Time's The Charm X

Alexia Putellas x Reader

Summary: Your wife has always been frowny

She'd always been fairly stoic, your Ale.

With her frowny little face, holding onto the straps of her backpack on her first day of school.

You'd spotted her from across the yard instantly as your mother shepherded you and your brother out of the car.

"Don't go towards her," Your brother said. Older and wiser than you, you nodded.

"Why?"

"Because she's wearing a Barcelona shirt," He said decisively," We like Real Madrid."

"We do?"

"Yes."

He stalked off to his own class and your mother held your hand as she walked you to your line.

"Don't listen to him," She said to you," You can be friends with whoever you want. Football is silly anyway."

Older and wiser than you, your brother may have been but your mother was even older and even wiser so you trusted her opinions more.

So, you went up to the frowny little girl in a Barcelona jersey.

Going up to her transformed into marrying her on the first day of school, under the slide with a kiss on the lips like you'd seen Mami and Papa do when Papa came home from work.

"Amor," Your frowny little wife said the next day when you came into school," There you are!"

She'd taken your hand then and led you into class herself, waving goodbye to both of your parents as she took you inside.

'Amor', she called you.

Never your name.

Sometimes, you would feel a pencil in your back and you'd turn around at your desk, where your frowny Ale would show you her worksheet and say in her monotone voice 'help me please, Amor'.

You'd helped her every time.

Childhood graduated into being teenagers and Alexia finally started to smile more.

Only a little bit.

Only for you.

She lingered outside of your classes, hand already out for you to take when you came out of the room. You walked to school together. You walked back from school together.

She gave you those secret smiles when it was just the two of you, the smiles she never gave to anyone else that would drop the moment someone else arrived.

Straight back to your frowny Alexia who didn't want anyone to know she had a heart.

Your frowny Alexia who still called you her 'Amor' and still held your hand and still looked for you in the crowd.

Your frowny Alexia who frowned all through your (admittedly rushed) wedding ceremony until you two were kissing and went to a fast food place for your first meal as a married couple.

Your frowny Alexia who had Mr Stinky in her arms right now, not noticing that you'd come home from your overnight shift at the hospital.

"You are a stinky boy," She said to him, still blissfully unaware of your presence leaning against the wall. Her voice was as serious and monotone as it was in all of her press conferences but still tinged with affection as your old, senior cat mewed in answer. "Yes. You are. Very stinky."

Mr Stinky mewed again.

"But that's okay because we can give you a bath. I don't mind that you're stinky."

Mr Stinky tilted his head to the side.

"Because you are our son and I love you."

She pulled him closer, cradling your cranky old cat like he was a baby, pressing kisses to the top of his head.

"Well," You said, fully stepping into the room," It's nice to know that you've finally accepted him as our son."

Alexia's cute little frowny face morphed into a smile.

"You're home!"

"I am home," You said, moving towards your wife and Mr Stinky," Hello. I missed you."

You pressed kisses to Alexia's lips, hand coming up to stroke Mr Stinky's fuzzy head.

"Missed you too," She mumbled against you and you smiled.

"Well, I'm home now. Movies and takeout?"

"Takeout for lunch?"

"And dinner."

"And nap time here," Ale insisted," With our stinky son."

Mr Stinky mewed his outrage.

"Alright," You said," I'll order lunch. You can get the blankets."

Alexia was up like a shot, still holding Mr Stinky like a little baby.

"When we have human children," She said," I hope we can all have naps together, amor."

"We will, Ale," You promised," We will."