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xuchiya · 20 hours ago

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the bare minimum? || choi jongho || one-shot

| genre: fluff. slice of life. small tinge of angst. | mentions: no label yet but jongho is making it official soon.

word count: 3.9k

You tossed your phone onto the bed — harder than you intended — the dull thud swallowed by your pillows, but not enough to silence the frustration blooming in your chest. The group chat, once filled with light gossip and memes, had taken a sharp turn. It always did. One moment you were laughing about someone’s new haircut, and the next, it was unsolicited advice cloaked in concern.

"You don’t fall for someone because of their bare minimum."

The words stuck to your skin like sweat — irritating, impossible to ignore. You could still hear your friend’s voice, sharp and sure, echoing like an uninvited narrator in the background of your thoughts. Maybe they were right. Maybe they were just trying to protect you from another heartbreak, another almost-relationship with someone who gave just enough to keep you around.

You dropped onto your bed with a quiet thud, limbs heavy, head even heavier. The ceiling above you blurred slightly as your eyes stared past it, unfocused, as if hoping it might offer answers the world refused to give.

Your fist rested lightly on your chest — not clenched in anger, but curled in quiet hesitation, like your heart was trying to protect itself from breaking open again. You could still hear their voices. Friends who had seen you unravel before, who had picked you up when your heart had turned into a battlefield of “what ifs” and “should’ve known betters.”

"You always love too hard. You give too much."

Maybe they were right. Maybe you were walking straight into the same fire that burned you before. The memory of that past version of yourself — raw, fragile, sleepless — made your stomach twist. You didn’t want to go back to her. You weren’t sure you could survive her again.

You exhaled slowly, then turned your head to the side, not expecting much — just something to distract you from the chaos inside. That’s when you saw it.

A photo strip, slightly bent at the corner, tucked beneath the edge of your journal. Four small squares — moments frozen in time — each frame capturing pieces of something you didn’t quite have the courage to name yet.

It was from that afternoon at the mall. You’d passed by a photo booth and without hesitation, you grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward it, “Come on,” you had grinned, heart racing. “We’ve got time for four clicks.”

The first was a blur — you both weren’t ready, caught mid-laugh. The second, he leaned in closer, eyes soft, almost too soft. The third, you were the one looking at him instead of the camera. And the fourth was the one that stuck. His hand resting over yours, your shoulders touching, your heads on top of each other as you both smile as the camera flashes, faces calm like the world could end and you wouldn’t notice.

You reached for the photo strip now, fingers brushing over the glossy surface. The quiet warmth of that moment crept into your chest like light seeping through cracks. Maybe you had loved too hard before but Choi Jongho made it feel different. He made things more soft. Safe and real.

And maybe — just maybe — this time, it wouldn’t end the same.

Because Jongho

He was not the bare minimum. Jongho didn’t just show up. He stayed — in silence, in mess, in moments when it would’ve been easier to walk away. So no… maybe you shouldn’t fall for someone who only gives you crumbs.

But Jongho? He was the whole damn bakery.

Like that when it always starts with something small. Just small things. Quiet, almost forgettable to anyone else — but to you, they mean the world.

You’ve always been the one to fall asleep first. It wasn’t even a question anymore. Two hours before Jongho’s usual bedtime, your eyes would start to flutter shut mid-conversation, your words slow into sleepy mumbles before trailing off entirely. You’d curl up into your blanket like muscle memory, drifting off before the clock even struck midnight.

And Jongho never minded.

Not once.

While your breathing settled into a soft, rhythmic pattern across the call — or when he saw your "last seen" flicker away for the night — he’d simply plug in his charger, shift his weight on the bed, and settle into his own quiet time. Sometimes he worked on homework. Other times, he’d scroll endlessly through his phone — music playlists, dumb memes, chaotic group chats, random reels that made him laugh under his breath.

Then, like always, he'd come across something and think, "She'd like this." But he wouldn’t send the video right away. No. Jongho knew better than to let your phone buzz at 12:42 AM and risk waking you. He remembered the way you stirred the last time, half-conscious and confused, whispering “Huh? What’s going on?” with your hair a mess and voice thick with sleep when he came over to work on your project and you tend to take naps mid-way.

So instead, he did what he always did. He tapped ‘copy link’ then pasted it into messages. And added /silent before pressing send. Just a small detail. Just a tiny slash and a word most people would overlook. But it mattered — because you mattered. Because he cared enough to make sure your sleep stayed undisturbed. Because even when you weren’t awake to notice, he was still thinking of you.

Sometimes it would be three or four links in a row — a chaotic thread waiting for you like breadcrumbs in your inbox. Funny reels. A puppy wearing a costume. A scene from a show you once said you loved when you were twelve. No message. No “LOL” or “this reminded me of you.

Then you wake up, check Messenger first thing in the morning, scroll with tangled hair and bleary eyes, your thumb pausing on the softness of his words. And even before a smile reaches your lips, the warmth hits your chest. A whisper escapes. A soft, disbelieving question, like a prayer only meant for yourself.

A feature most people don’t bother with. But he does. Every single time.

Because he knows. Knows you’re a light sleeper. Know the way your body tenses even in your dreams when your phone buzzes at night. Knows how sacred your sleep is after long days that drain you from the inside out. So he never sends messages with noise. No pings. No vibrations. Just… silence.

And still — even at 3:02 AM — when his mind is wandering, when the world outside is asleep but his thoughts are too loud to silence, he writes.

About music. About the stars. About you.

Short, half-formed sentences. Late-night ramblings about his day or a song that reminded him of you. Thoughts that probably made more sense in his head than they do on the screen. But they’re there. Waiting. Gentle, sleepy words sitting quietly in your inbox like petals placed on your doorstep — fragile, deliberate, sincere.

Then there’s movie night.

Which, with Jongho, is never just movie night.

It’s Discord screen shares and careful audio checks. It’s him adjusting his mic again and again until your voice—already muffled by the layers of your blanket—says, “It’s okay, I can hear you,” even though the connection crackles every now and then.

You weren’t in the mood to go out. Not just today — but most days. Your body was still shaking off the last traces of a stubborn fever, skin too sensitive, eyes too heavy. And even if the sickness hadn’t kept you in, the world outside still felt too loud, too uncertain, too much.

You were never really the type to seek noise or crowds anyway. Your soul was quieter, more private. You liked your room — the way the walls curled around you like a soft shell, familiar and safe. That space had become your theater, your whole damn planet on the days where even the hallway outside your door felt overwhelming.

It was in the way he queued up movies you mentioned once during your lunch break when you were scrolling on your phone and would show him some clips of the movie you wanted to see, or the way he synced subtitles just right so your reading pace could keep up. It was in how he'd listen for your yawns — the sleepy kind, where your responses turn into soft hums and you forget the plot entirely — but he never teased. Never say “you’re boring” or “you always fall asleep halfway.”

Instead, he’d smile to himself, watching the tiny green light on Discord flicker less and less as your voice faded away. When he was sure you were asleep, he would slowly slide the volume bar down to zero, like dimming the last light in a room you’d just left behind. The scene might still be playing — dialogue, explosions, laughter — but you were already somewhere in your dreams. And then, in the soft glow of his monitor, Jongho would mute his mic.

You don’t know this. You don’t hear the chair creak as he leans back, or the way he stretches his arms over his head with a quiet sigh. You don’t see the subtle clicks as he adjusts the Discord channel permissions — limiting who can join, just in case someone stumbles in and shatters the quiet he’s carefully protected around you.

You fall asleep thinking you drifted off during a movie. But really, you fell asleep in a space Jongho built — gently, intentionally, like tucking someone in without ever touching them. A space made of low volumes, hushed breaths, and unspoken devotion.

You sleep in silence. Not realizing just how much love went into making it that way.

iii

Or when days weren’t filled with softness, you and Jongho had snapped at each other over nothing and everything—too-little sleep, too-many worries, a single text read the wrong way. The fight had been quick and messy, like dropping glass– sharp words scattering across the floor, impossible to sweep up without cutting yourselves.

So you’d gone quiet, convinced a little distance would soothe the sting.

The sun had long since set when the knock came—three hesitant taps that rattled through the hallway. You froze on your steps, frowning in confusion. You padded to the door in mismatched socks, glancing up at the wall clock, heart pounding worse than it had during the argument, I mean who knocks at 8:47 p.m. in this neighborhood?

You cracked the door—and time stuttered.

Jongho stood on the mat, chest rising in ragged pulls, summer sweat plastering his fringe to his forehead. His T-shirt clung to him, half from the humid night, half from the frantic back-and-forth he’d just confessed to.

“I—uh—think I looped your street… twice.” He gave a sheepish laugh, rubbing the back of his neck the way he always did when he felt out of place. “Can you remind me which house is yours?”

You blinked. “Why are you here?” The question slipped out, small and startled. He stared at his own shoes, scuffing one against the concrete. “To say sorry,” he murmured. “Text felt… too easy. Too small for how badly I messed up.”

The porch light buzzed overhead; a moth circled lazily between you. In that glow you noticed the smudges of city grit on his sneakers, the faint tremor in his hands where adrenaline still rattled his bones. Your heart cracked open—clean, sudden—like a mug slipping from the counter and shattering the silence of the kitchen tiles. All at once you pictured him missing the correct turn, doubling back under flickering street lamps, stubbornly refusing to give up because ‘I’m sorry’ deserved eye contact, not pixels.

Who does that? Jongho apparently. Someone who refuses to let mis-fired anger be the last thing hanging between you. Someone who thinks an apology should travel the same distance the hurt did—maybe farther. Someone who, even lost, chose to keep walking toward you.

You stepped aside without a word, letting the porch light spill into the hallway, “Come in,” you whispered, voice cracking like the rest of you. And as he crossed the threshold—sweat, nerves, and all—you realized getting lost might have been the surest way for both of you to find your way back.

And you couldn’t forget that moment where you were in the zone — or at least, trying to be.

Hands busy, screens glowing, a half-empty mug of cold coffee pushed to the side of your cluttered desk. Notes scattered like fallen leaves. The air was thick with unspoken pressure — from deadlines, from expectations, from the loud, echoing voice inside your own head that wouldn’t shut up until everything was perfect.

You barely noticed how still the room was. Just the quiet hum of your laptop fan and the occasional clack of your keyboard breaking the silence. Your breathing was shallow, your jaw tense, your fingers flying — until they stopped.

Because your stupid, stubborn hair had slipped loose again. You’d tied it up in a quick bun hours ago, but now, strands had come free and were sticking to your cheeks, brushing across your forehead, falling right into your eyes every time you try to focus. You pushed it back once, then again, more impatient each time.

A sharp breath escaped your nose. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t even make a sound loud enough to complain — just a little annoyed huff and a flick of your fingers, trying to twist the strands behind your ear. But it didn’t stay.

Jongho lowered his phone on his lap, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back to your bed. Jongho had been there the whole time, on your bed watching you spiral in slow motion. You hadn’t even realized he was still there, honestly — he was so good at just being, without taking up space. Not in a way that begged attention. He never did. His gaze kept drifting back to you — to the way your shoulders rose with every exhale, to the faint frown etched into your forehead, to the way you huffed, frustrated, as strands of your hair fell again.

So when he moved, you barely caught it. No words. No teasing. Just the subtle shift of the mattress, the creak of floorboards, and his footsteps approaching — soft, unhurried.

You felt him before you saw him. He stood behind you, and in that still moment, the world seemed to pause. Not in an awkward way — but in the way it always does when someone does something gentle for you. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t question it. You just let it happen.

And then — his hands.

Fingertips brush across your neck as they gather your hair, removing the non existing messy bun on top of your head. Slow. Careful. He moved like he’d done this a thousand times before — like your hair had a rhythm he’d memorized. There was no tug, no tension. Just the warmth of his palms and the deliberate sweep of fingers, smoothing down flyaways like they were delicate petals.

He pulled your hair into a low ponytail, tying it off with the scrunchie from his own wrist — one he always kept there, whether he admitted it was for you or not. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t styled. But it was secure. It fits. It was exactly what you needed — even if you hadn’t asked.

Your breath hitched slightly when his fingers lingered for just a second too long. The tie settled at the nape of your neck — light, comforting. But it felt heavier somehow. Like it carried meaning, “Your hair always distracts you when you’re trying to focus,” he said finally, his voice just above a whisper. Soft. Almost sheepish. “Thought I’d save you from it this time.”

You didn’t turn around. Because at that moment, everything in your chest unclenched. All the noise in your head quieted, like a radio fading into static. The tension in your shoulders eased. You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding yourself together until he stepped in.

And it wasn’t just about the ponytail. It never was. It was about the way he paid attention. The way he remembered. The way he didn’t ask, didn’t wait, didn’t make a scene — just helped. It was in the silence. In the space he made around you without ever asking for space himself. And somehow … somehow his hands on your hair felt more like home than your own ever did.

You took a slow breath, exhaled, and returned to your work — not because the pressure had vanished, but because you weren’t carrying it alone anymore. And as you sat there, posture a little more relaxed, focus finally returning, you smiled to yourself.

You sighed, long and tired, the kind that left your chest feeling a little lighter and a little emptier all at once. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of your night lamp, and the ceiling above you stared back in silence — like it was holding your thoughts for you, just for a moment longer.

You weren’t even sure why your heart felt like this — full, but aching. Like you were overwhelmed by something too soft to name. Your chest heaves in a deep inhale before another sigh escapes.

“What got you so worked up that you sigh like you have fifteen unfinished projects and three babies to feed?” You yelped — actually yelped — twisting to the side, heart skipping like a scratched record. There, leaning casually against your bedroom door frame, was Jongho.

Arms crossed. One brow raised. The corners of his lips quirked in that boyish way that meant he was trying not to laugh at your startled reaction. His hair was slightly tousled, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, and his whole presence felt warm — like a late-night tea you didn’t know you needed.

“How long have you been standing there?” you asked, pulling your blanket up like it could shield your flustered expression. “Long enough to watch you battle the air with that dramatic sigh,” he teased, pushing off the door and strolling toward your bed. You opened your mouth to deflect, but nothing clever came out. Just a small huff as you turned to face the ceiling again, blinking fast, hoping the blush on your face wasn’t obvious under the lamplight.

Instead, Jongho sat on the edge of your bed, careful not to pull you out of your cocoon. His fingers brushed lightly against your ankle through the blanket — grounding, patient.

“You okay?” he asked, this time quieter. And you nodded, then whispered, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Just remembering things.”

“Good things?” he asked again, his voice low now, more careful — like he was stepping into a space inside you he didn’t want to rush. You nodded against your pillow. “Too good.” There was silence then. Not awkward. Not empty. Just… still. Full of air that felt too thick with things left unsaid, and yet, somehow, safe.

Jongho’s hand brushed over your blanket again. This time slower. His thumb pressed gently into the edge, grounding himself there, “Guess I’ll just have to keep making more of them, huh?” he murmured with a small, hopeful smile.

Your chest ached — the kind of ache that feels like warmth stretching. You glanced at him, eyes catching the light of the lamp. “Is that what you’ve been doing this whole time?”

He blinked. “What?”

“All of it,” you whispered. “The silent messages, the scrunchies, movie nights, showing up when you didn’t have to. You’ve been... making memories for me.”

Jongho’s mouth opened, then closed. Like the truth had been sitting on his tongue this whole time but he wasn’t sure if now was the moment. But something in your voice, your eyes, must’ve made the decision for him.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, I have.”

You felt the words settle into your chest like puzzle pieces falling into place. He exhaled, fingers now tugging lightly at the edge of your blanket, a nervous habit. “And I think… maybe I don’t want to keep doing all of that as just a friend.”

Your heart stumbled. “Jongho…”

“I mean,” he laughed gently, eyes flicking up to meet yours, “I think I passed the ‘just a friend’ stage back when I started carrying backup scrunchies for you.”

You could feel your heartbeat in places you hadn’t noticed until now — your fingertips, the hollow of your throat, deep in your stomach. It was the way Jongho said it. Quietly. Carefully. Like he wasn’t just asking a question — he was handing you something fragile. Something real.

“Can I… make it official?” His voice was barely more than a breath, but it cracked the air between you like a soft truth being unfolded. He was still seated on the edge of your bed, one leg turned toward you, but not pressing. Always waiting. Always gentle. His eyes searched your face not for permission, but for clarity — for a sign that you felt it too. That all the small things he did hadn’t gone unnoticed. That he hadn’t just been loving you in silence.

You stared at him for a moment, your chest too full to speak.

He looked nervous. Not because he was scared you’d say no — but because he wanted this to mean something. All of it. The /silent links he sent at 2 a.m. because he didn’t want to wake you. The way he tied your hair without a second thought because he knew how it distracted you. The scrunchies on his wrist. The muted screen shares. The apology he walked in circles just to give you in person.

He’d been writing a love story in the margins — and now he was finally turning the page to show you.

You sat up slowly, blanket sliding off your shoulder. The cool air kissed your skin, but all you could feel was the warmth of him — of his words, his presence, his intention, “Jongho…” you said his name like a secret, like something precious you didn’t want to drop.

“I’m sorry,” he added quickly, voice tighter now. “I know the timing isn’t perfect or — or maybe I should’ve asked sooner, but I just—”

You reached for his hand. Instinctively. Like it was the next natural step. His fingers were warm. A little clammy. He’d been nervous the whole time.

“You already were,” you said quietly, watching the way his eyes flickered at the sound of your voice. “You’ve already been mine. You were just… waiting for me to catch up.”

His breath hitched. You didn’t need to say more. That one sentence carried everything — your knowing, your feelings, your realization that all this time you weren’t just falling for Jongho — you were already in it. Fully. Deeply. Unknowingly wrapped in the love he’d been giving you in ways no one else had.

A laugh slipped out of him — not mocking, but light, airy, like he finally exhaled something he’d been holding for too long, “So…” he said, glancing down at your intertwined hands. “Do I get the whole package now?”

You smiled, laughing softly even— slow, genuine. The kind that crept up from your chest, not just your lips.

“You do.” Something in his face softened completely. Like his entire being melted — his shoulders relaxed, his lips curved into the smallest, most beautiful smile, and his eyes stayed locked on yours like you were the only thing that made sense anymore.

And then, he did something simple.

He brought your joined hands up and pressed his lips against your knuckles — just once. Not possessive. Not dramatic.

"How can anyone say this is the bare minimum?" Not a single thing that is close to being bare minimum. Because it really isn’t in the first place.

It’s love, tucked into silence. It’s choosing you — even in the quietest hours.

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bebx · 3 days ago

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Headcanon on jealous!In-ho? I would love to hear all your thoughts of In-ho when he's jealous; when Gi-hun receives a lot of attention from someone who's not him, or maybe when he sees thinks Jun-ho is forming a brotherly bond with someone else and not him, etc.

I feel like, besides the possessiveness and the urge to control which can certainly be unhealthy, In-ho’s jealousy is also rooted in his own insecurity that’s also rooted in his trauma and the fear of being abandoned, the fear of being seen as something undesirable by the people he loves (Jun-ho and possibly even Gi-hun), because deep down — possibly unconsciously — In-ho sees himself as something undesirable, someone that’s done terrible things. A monster. And he fears one day Jun-ho and Gi-hun will walk away, because they can no longer carry the weight of his crimes.

Maybe a part of him even thinks he deserves to be abandoned and given up on. But the thing is that I think there’s also another part of In-ho that’s outright childish/childlike — maybe he wasn’t like this before (childish/childlike), when he was still the man of the house and providing for / taking of his mom, Jun-ho and a pregnant wife, but after his time in the game as Player 132, after the deaths of his wife and child, I think something in In-ho just broke, and he couldn’t be that strong man who provided for his family anymore. Yes, he’s the Front Man. Yes, the Front Man is supposed to be cold, strong and invincible. But take off the mask and what you see is a child. Not literally, but like, since it looks like In-ho never has a chance to be a child when he was still one, that child in him got buried within and locked away, but he’s still there. And after the trauma, after what he went through — what he’s still going through — I can see that, without the Front Man mask, the child that is In-ho slowly starts to make himself seen more and more.

And that child is terrified of being abandoned and given up on. Thus the possessiveness. Thus the jealousy.

I think with Gi-hun, In-ho’s jealousy comes off petty, childish, but can also be harmful, violent and territorial (maybe less like a jealous lover and more like a cat who hates it when their owner pets other cats). In the sense that instead of lashing out on the spot, In-ho watches and observes in silence. He may not be directly telling Gi-hun he doesn’t like it when Gi-hun hangs out with someone else. But he makes plans, thorough and calculated and in secret. And then he strikes, gets rid of the “opponents” until he’s the only one Gi-hun pays attention to again.

It’s different with Jun-ho though. Because if there’s anybody whom I see bond a brotherly relationship with him, it’s Gi-hun. And In-ho’s not going to get rid of Gi-hun. I can’t see him being truly happy that Jun-ho gets himself a new brother who’s not him though (Jun-ho is not going to replace In-ho, he still loves In-ho no matter what, so it’s In-ho’s own issues and insecurity that make him think Jun-ho is replacing him). But I think, instead of coming up with some evil plan to interfere and keep Gi-hun away from his brother, In-ho will just sulk in silence. Because he loves Jun-ho, and deep down he knows Gi-hun is a good person, a better brother than he can ever be (it’s not true, but again, In-ho has issues and these, in my opinion, are just his thoughts). So he’ll just sit in self-pity and defeat the first time he hears Jun-ho call Gi-hun hyung. It doesn’t mean he’s being replaced, doesn’t mean Jun-ho loves him any less. It just means he has issues, and since communication skills aren’t his strong suit, of course, he’s not going to say anything.

Jun-ho and Gi-hun will have to notice on their own that something’s bothering In-ho, that he feels left out. And still he won’t tell them what’s wrong. They’ll just have to figure it out on their own. In-ho’s lucky though because they love him, and they’re not abandoning or giving up on him, no matter what his own mind says.

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kikibereading · 1 day ago

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Back to the Pitt

The sunlight was barely creeping through the blinds when Robby stood at the foot of the bed, already dressed in his black scrubs, cargo pants and signature navy hoodie. Michaela “Kayla” Robinavitch was curled up on Heather’s chest, all cheeks and coos, wrapped in that soft lemon-patterned swaddle his mom had mailed them last week. Heather looked half-asleep, her coils patted down on one side, but she gave him a tired, content smile as she rubbed Kayla’s back in slow circles.

He hated this part.

“I left your pump parts drying by the sink,” he murmured, rubbing at the back of his neck as he looked at the two of them. “And I put that weird lactation cookie thing in your snack bag, the one with the flax.”

Heather chuckled softly. “You mean the one that tastes like regret and cardboard?”

“Yup. That one.”

He tried to smile. He tried not to look too long at Kayla’s impossibly tiny hand twitching against Heather’s collarbone or the way her lips puckered in her sleep. He’d barely been able to put her down since she was born.

Twelve days. That’s all he got. Twelve blurry, sacred days of diapers, feedings, middle-of-the-night cries, and watching the woman he loved become a mother right in front of him. He would’ve stayed forever if he could but duties called.

“I should’ve fought for another week,” he said suddenly, the words slipping out like steam. “Or…I don’t know. A half-schedule. Something.”

Heather shifted, careful not to wake Kayla, and looked up at him gently. “Honey, I love that you want to be here. But you being back at the hospital means a lot of people get to go home to their families. That matters too.”

He nodded but didn’t answer right away. Instead, he came closer, crouching down beside the bed — his tired bones creaking while his hand found Kayla’s little foot beneath the blanket, thumb rubbing over the softness of it. She stirred but didn’t wake.

“I feel like I’m missing it already,” he said, his voice cracking just slightly. “She already looks different than last week.”

Heather reached over with her free hand and brushed his cheek with the back of her fingers. “You’re not missing anything. We’ll FaceTime you so much, your residents are gonna file complaints.”

He laughed, low and tired. “Can’t wait.”

A soft knock came from the hallway — Heather’s mom, always up by seven. Probably prepping tea and baking something they didn’t ask for. He was grateful, so grateful, but it stung in a way he didn’t expect, knowing someone else would rock Kayla back to sleep or get to hear her first little giggle.

Heather saw it in his face. “She’s your baby too, Robby. No one’s replacing you.”

He swallowed hard and nodded.

Then Heather leaned forward as best she could without jostling the baby and kissed him —slow, lingering, one hand holding his face like she didn’t want to let him leave either.

“I love you,” she whispered. “Now go save some lives so you can come home to us.”

Robby blinked a few times, gave a final stroke to Kayla’s downy head, and stood up. He didn’t say anything else — afraid his voice would crack further —just looked at them one last time before he turned toward the door.

And as he stepped into the hallway, he heard Heather call out softly behind him: “She already knows your voice, you know. She calms down every time she hears it.”

His throat went tight again. But he smiled. That was enough to carry him through the day.

#robby returns to work after a brief paternity leave and is torn up about it #robby x collins #heather collins #robby robinavitch #rollins fanfic #the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #rollins fic #michael robinavitch #rollins

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mymusingss · 3 days ago

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What really gets me about Chris and Tom is just how differently things could have been.

McQ was in director jail, couldn't make anything work and was about to give up on Hollywood when he heard someone talk shit about Tom and for some reason his first thought was "no way!". After hearing that, he decided to meet Tom in person going through great lenghts to do so.

This could have easily been the case of McQ hearing that and being like "oh" and moved on with his life.

Tom - who went through directors like no else's business and whose career was at a all time low - talked to him for mere hours and just knew that he'd spend the rest of his life doing movies with him.

Later, McQ would attribute them meeting to sheer coincidence or an accident, and sure him listening to that person talk shit about Tom could have been a coincidence (or not, who knows?), but he chose to go to that meeting because he didn't like to hear someone talk shit about a man he didn't even know yet.

People joke Tom knew instantly while it took McQ a while to figure it out, but I do think that those who think that aren't wrong. I can a see a world where Mr. "Suffers from imposter syndrome" wouldn't go down as quietly as Tom would.

The progression is noticeable.

It is important to note that McQ has stated that his relationship with Tom isn't built on them feeling like they owe each other anything. Everything they've done was because they wanted it to.

McQ coming back after Rogue Nation was because he wanted it to. He chalked it up to Tom being persuasive, but we all know the truth. Tom would understand if McQ wanted to give the script to another director, McQ was the one that chose to stay even when he knew that would mean being stressed out and sleep deprived for years to come.

However, we see McQ going from treating Tom like his own thing and feeling like an outsider, to him saying that they were sort of outsiders in the industry speaks levels to the growing comfort they felt with each other. This is proven by the fact that when Tom and Chris talk, they rarely say "I". Is always "we". "We decided on the ending", "we decided to do this", "we chose this route". Even if is writing, which is Chris' thing, he rarely says "I".

McQ went from having preconceived notions of Tom to working with him like no else's business, to understanding him in a level we have yet to see any other director understand Tom. Case in point, we just had Kosinski implying Tom doesn't know his own limits meanwhile Chris takes every chance he gets to talk about how Tom does this for the audiences.

I will always stand by that their partnership is more than other actors and directors partnerships we have.

It is cute that they call each other creative soulmates, it is cute that Chris can't seem to be able to say no to Tom, it is cute that these two don't need to say anything to each other because they know each other so well they can tell what the other is thinking.

But it is more than that by now. And you can absolutely tell. Chris literally implied he'd rather be in a helicopter with Tom in the event of something going wrong, has literally suggested he'd rather die with him, those are some heavy implications to make from a man with a wife and two daughters, if you ask me.

So yeah, all of this all thanks to that random person that was talking shit about Tom. I wonder if they know they're the reason they met? Honestly, I'm like: "well screw you for saying shit about him but also THANK YOU!"

#tom cruise #christopher mcquarrie #mcqruise #everyone say thank you person who said shit about tom #without them we probably wouldn't be here #or we could have been here who knows?#but I'm sure the timing helped #they gave was one of the most beautiful connections I have ever seen #is clear for anyone with two set of eyes that those two are indeed soulmates #they don't even talk about themselves separately anymore ffs #chris really out there saying he'd rather die with tom than live without him #this is love #the kind we should always appreciate

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sams-whumping-ground · 2 days ago

Text

Rescue

Story CWs: mention of previous forced body modification, mention of previous forced surgeries, forced augmentations, teen whumpee, non-human whumpee, non-human rescuer

If I missed any, please let me know.

---

Axton doesn't know how long he's been in the room. Wishing he had could forget how many times the augment surgeons had knocked him out, taken something, and replaced it. All for the sake of testing a new augment for the market and on one of the teen heirs to their rival company, Esper Tech.

There's a few things Axton did know. He knew that something was going to be taken when he wasn't given food. He knew something else would be replaced for a new augment. He knew he missed his parents and sister. Axton knew he just wanted to go home. Just wanted a hug from his family. For them to say everything is going to be okay.

The room he's kept in was like a hospital room. A mostly unused gurney for a bed, lamp for light, bedside table, heart monitor, IV stand. There was a few key differences. There was a separator creating two rooms. One being his bedroom. The other the surgery room.

He hates the group that took him. His hate mostly for what they had taken from him. The list of his parts he would repeat over and over as the only form of comfort. Legs, arms, heart, lungs, spine, ribs, throat, tail, lower torso, chest, upper back, ears, eyes. How far would they go? Would they go as far to make him completely augmented, making him a cyborg?

Sitting in the corner of the room, Axton hears footsteps outside, approaching the room. Another round of taking something from him. He curled in on himself. Augmented legs pulled close. Ears pinning flat. Fur bristling. Uncovered eye fixed on the door as it opened.

Expecting someone in a white coat, he's instead looking at a large wolfolk covered head to toe in armour, gun in their hands, helmet exaggerating their features with scars painted on with glowing purple paint.

"Damn room smells like it was painted with blood." the wolfolk remarked.

The ears on the helmet stand at attention as they look around the room, gaze catching on the cowering teen catfolk in the corner. The wolfolk takes their helmet off, putting it down somewhere else so they don't scare the smaller being further.

Crouched down on his haunches, the wolfolk held a hand out to Axton.

"The name's Knox. I'm here to take ya home." Knox soothed.

Knox was fully aware he's not the best with making sure others are okay with the size he is and with the sheer number of scars. Being in a lowly lit room doesn't help either. He's trying either way. Even with his attempt, the kitten doesn't even try to move closer. Knox sits on the floor.

"I can't begin to imagine how scared ya must be. Ya family are worried about ya. I ain't goin' to do nothin' to ya and no one's goin' to be comin' to do anythin' to ya either. Took care of that."

Axton's ears rose just a little.

"Took care of it how...?" Axton's voice crackled a little from the augment in his throat, nearly making Knox jump.

"Let's jus' say, the company's higher ups have been 'fired'." Knox replies.

"You're really going to take me home...?"

"That I am. Jus' need ya to trust me, at least a little."

Axton began crying. Large tears rolled down his cheek. He's overwhelmed. All of this is ending. He's going home to see his family. But what if his family don't recognise him somehow with the new body he's been cursed with? What if he can't recover from what happened to him? What if there's no way to fix any of this? Will he be able to live with all of these augments? His mind swims with the questions.

"Kid? Hey. Deep breaths for me. Concentrate on me, alright?" Knox soothed.

The kid tried his best to focus himself on the wolfolk. Filtering through the ocean of scenarios and questions in his mind. It took him a while. Through the crying, he turned himself fully around to the large wolfolk.

"Mind if I carry ya out?" Knox asked.

Axton nodded, prompting Knox to move to get up, put his helmet back on, gun back in its place on his back and over to the smaller figure. Gently he's picked up into the warmth of the large wolfolk, clinging to what he can.

"Stay focused on me, alright?"

---

Shameless tagging of friendos >:3c

@bestlittlesnek @confirmedcannibal @minecraft-steve @possummush @that-windy-place-tho

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mamiya-a · 3 days ago

Text

The masked man

Mother Miranda/reader

Warning for explicit content.

Danamir Corneille is the perfect man — charming, intelligent, and always on the move. His reputation of a traveling doctor has earned him both admiration and suspicion, he remains a mystery to everyone who crosses his path. But beneath his carefully crafted facade lies a secret, one so deeply hidden that few even dare to question his true identity.

You are a noble woman named Vermilyea Lament, known for her grace but shadowed by her cold, unpredictable nature. Her presence commands attention, but her actions leave many wondering whether she’s as immaculate as she appears or something darker.

Your paths collide in a dangerous game of power, secrets, and trust, as you navigate your growing obsession with one another. Will you unravel each other’s mysteries, or will the tangled web of your desires and betrayals destroy you both?

Chapter 1: New death, new beginning

Summary:

Ghosts from the past often like to dance among people during masquerades, because even they are part of the performance.

1897 - Veret, France.

The coffin lines up with the earth once the furious sun takes a central position in the endless, blue sky.

The weather is quite curious today. It has been raining all morning, not to mention night, so the air is thick with unpleasant moisture, while the soil under heavy boots is soft, wet and messy, forcing out a curse from numerous mouths as people dirty their shoes on it. However now, in the middle of the day, the rain is absent. In its place rays of sunshine pierce and twist the faces of the those who have left their homes. There is even a remarkably beautiful rainbow above their heads, which fades with every passing second, as if the many eyes observing it are making the bright colours shy and uncomfortable.

White clouds are dancing and forming a dome through the sky, almost acting childish, not paying attention to the sorrowful event just below them. If one thought about the landscape with a bit more artistic vision, it wouldn't be completely wrong to say heaven is opening its gates for yet another soul, who awaits peace after the many hard years of living. And if death is a saviour and life is a curse, then it's easy to see the difference between the above and below. Mass of people, gathered together to mourn over a dead body, which they selfishly shove into the ground, hoping the soul will make it to heaven. It's an absurdly ridiculous idea, but everyone follows it. Everyone stays still and will eyes locked into the coffin while the priest reads out loud from his sacred book.

You've never understood the purpose of funerals. As a child you believed it was a way to show how much grief can a person hold over someone else. Because you remember different faces, twisted from sadness, lowering down to kiss a corpse and then whisper sweet words, that meant nothing to the person who passed. One after one, in a straight line, men and women, sometimes children, offering endless love only for them to later on lock their beloved in a box, underground. In your position, which you share with nobody else, it's selfish - to limit someone from their freedom, to cage them, even in death and then let your bitter tears out for everyone to observe.

On the other hand, you understand that it is a tradition and it's important, yet you can't feel a thing while looking at that pale, non-living skin, or the lowered coffin, or the finished grave. And you acknowledge this is not because you barely knew the woman in it. The problem comes from somewhere deep inside you, it doesn't matter who you're going to see in that casket - a real reaction would ever come your way. There is faking it, of course, and you are a master in your craft. A mimicked twist of eyebrows, a forced tear or two....and calculated words, ready to glaze the ears, which need to hear them. That is why you bend your knees, allowing your expensive dress to touch the mud, and you get a handful of dirt, throwing it on top of the coffin, with a lowered head. Every single person around you does the same and by the time the last one is finished - the official funeral ends.

"Vermilyea!!" - a voice rings through the air, soft and feminine, but loud enough to gather turned heads and curious eyes. You sigh, slowly smoothing the fabric of your dress as you stand up, supported by strong knees. It's really a pity, the nice green colour is now covered roughly with mud around the edges. You don't find it pleasant when your clothes get dirty, not because you can't get yourself another pair, but rather because of self image and the desire to look flawless all the time. You lift a hand to cover your colourful eyes from the shining rays of sunshine, while you try to locate the voice, which so eagerly called your name out.

You're not surprised to recognise your mother a few meters a head of you, standing elegantly and still, not too tall and not too short, just like your own height. She has decided to wear a black dress, convenient - after all she came to a funeral and she's smart enough to leisurely hide the spots from the stubborn, wet dirt with a dark fabric. Your mother - Miriam, who took the noble name Lament, wasn't always so well dressed and with such perfect, raven coloured curls, however her attitude and behaviour were always fitting the ones of an important figure in society. You can already understand as to why you're being called. "You're doing too much." rings inside your ears even without a real voice whispering it. You might not be too similar, or close to mother, but there is one thing you clearly share in common - the are of pretending, just for different reasons.

Every step reveals a bigger portion of her face, few wrinkles visible in between her eyebrows, under her eyes and around her red painted lips. She hates them, massaging her skin every night in hope to make them disappear. Yet the one who she's usually supposed to impress doesn't mind them in the slightest. You don't have an opinion on the topic, aging is natural and comes for us all. Your mother's fake smile looks bigger than usual as her eyes narrow down you and hate to find out your shoes are now ruined by the mug. How unfortunate.

"Are we leaving?" - you question, lifting up a hand to run through a few wavy strings of golden hair, that has gotten out of the proper order you spent half and hour adjusting them into this morning. The slight breeze is not your friend when it comes to the long, curvy river on top of your head, but you don't like it tied up, tamed...so you endure.

"Not yet, Vermilyea." - your mother's tongue cuts like a sharp pair of scissors. She rolls her shoulders back, clearly frustrated, eyes searching for someone in the the crowd, but between so many faces she doesn't seem to find her desired one. So only you remain in her center of attention. - "Élise was a very good friend of our family, we should stay more and...mourn her properly." - despite her hard to find words you don't find a single track of grief on that pale face in front on you.

You've only seen Madame Élise twice. The first time she was trying to sell an old jewelry box to your mother, you remained close to them, watching silently as the other woman convinced your mother to buy not only the old box, but also tons of cheap necklaces she doesn't wear anymore, and she accepted. If you truly knew Miriam Lament you wouldn't be surprised, she's a masked aristocrat, always trying to fit into the role she accepted more than fifteen years ago. The second time you spotted the now dead woman was close to the woods, where you usually go to search for crows. Élise was lifting her skirt for another man back then, younger, handsome and... dirty. It wasn't so long ago, and of course there were rumours about her dying from a shameful infection, however only her husband could really tell the truth.

"Staying by her grave won't change anything." - you see how your mother's hand tremble with anticipation, her rings threatening to fall off. Instead of lifting her palm to smack your cheek, she just calms clears her throat.

"Then change yourself, Vermilyea." - she lifts her chin in direction of the ground of people, who are still staying by the grave, watering it with tears. - "Your opinion is not superior." - your reaction is limited to a quiet hm.

Soon, another figure arrives at the scene. Just the one Miriam was looking for. Her facial expression immediately changes to a soft one, with a more realistic smile and eyes, filled with care. Your father is a proud and handsome man, with heart so full of love towards your mother that sometimes hurts him. You're often compared to him, despite having no biological connection with the man. It's certain you carry the last name of Richard Lament, but the kinship ends there, he has raised you as his child, with affection and love, but you could never return the same to him. You're indifferent, he's just a parent figure, just like your mother.

He puts a hand around his wife's waist, bringing her close for a kiss. If Miriam has something against his beard she makes sure to not show it. Not like there are any signs she doesn't like it. The man's beard is in dark, shiny colour, similar his hair, but the area around his chin, lips and overall mouth is in slight lighter colour, grey to almost orange. People talk and laugh about it, some praise him for being such an obedient husband and spending most of his time between his wife's legs, which he never denies. He has had many lovers, paid and unpaid, but never a wife and Miriam was his wife. Richard whispers something in her ear and your mother's lips form an almost perfect 'O'.

"Vera, if you're so disinterested in paying respect to the dead..." - she refers to you with the part of your name, which aims to represent your grandmother Vera. You've never met the woman, but your mother talks highly of her, as if she was someone important and not yet another maid for a rich salesman. Miriam lifts a gloved finger, pointing somewhere behind her husband, to the direction he came from. And sure enough there is another man there, waiting. - "Why don't you comfort the living? Monsieur Pierre must be suffering, he could use some company..."

You nod, perfectly understanding your mother's intentions. It's not about comfort, it's a sick game of the rich. Find yourself a younger wife in the middle of a funeral, dedicated for your last. You've been through few other candidates for your hand in marriage already, so naturally you've grown to accept that you have to talk with them, and God forbid... meet them again sometimes. You usually manage to make them become distant after one conversation. You plan to do the same. However, just as you swirl to the side, ready to fight the mud through your destination, you feel a hand to your shoulder and you turn back around.

"Don't forget..." - your mother murmurs, the back of her palm slowly tracing your cheek. Her touch is cold and ghostly, foreign and distant, yet it's still there. - "talk in french and smile more, yes?" - she pulls on your skin, forcing your lips to form a thin and fake symbol of affection and good will. - "Like a good girl should, hm?"

Once you get far away to not be able to hear clear, your father quickly turns to Miriam with a sorrowful expression.

"You're pushing her too much." - he shares his worries not loud enough to root out suspicion from nearby curious ears.

"I'm guiding her, there is a difference." - the man observes how a single vein pops out on his wife's forehead, possibly of irritation. The slight squeezing of her left eye confirms it, although it could be because of the sun. Just to be certain nothing external is bothering her, Richard subtly moves in front of her, passing his body weight from leg to leg, while pretending to fix his bowtie.

"Blindly." - he underlines, earning himself a scoff, however it doesn't stop him from adding to his point. - "Into an old man's hands."

"A rich old man." - Miriam's painted lips go thin with dripping impatience, she squeezes her hands into fists, while breathing a bit more heavily through her nose. Her chest, strangely exposed for a funeral, raises up and down, as if the tight corset she's wearing is unexpectedly bothering her, which would normally never happen, because she's used to the pain she has to endure to stay beautiful. Her eyes narrow down at her husband. - "And why are you acting like you didn't just help us out by making him stay a little longer?"

"I can never refuse my wife." - if it weren't for public image Richard would be already kissing down her neck and collarbone, finding it hard to stop himself as usual due to how appealing his wife looked. He's not a man to shy away from the fact that he lives under a woman's boot, he accepts his reality with warm and open arms. Miriam is an intelligent woman, so he listens and obeys. That's why when she asked him to talk with Monsieur Pierre and convince him to stay a bit more in the graveyard, rather than go home and grief alone - he did it with no questions. But of course, this precisely calculated manipulation was never about how that pitiful widower is feeling. - "But you know... Vermilyea is marvelous, don't waste her beauty and youth by marrying her off to someone who's having a chase with death."

"We are in no position to choose her husband freely." - perhaps six years ago they would have been in a better situation, with Vermilyea being younger and more desired. Hundreds of candidates for her pure self in line, hoping to get lucky. However both Miriam and Vermilyea were too proud back then, rejecting little boys with a strong hand, not expecting it to backfire at them. - "We're desperately offering to whoever decides to take."

"Still, it's not right." - Richard believes he can save and protect his daughter through her whole life, it's what he truly wants to happen, but he knows it's impossible.

"It's easy for you, the moment you're short in money you run to your brother for help, but I... know how hard it is to earn." - Miriam's piercing gaze is inescapable, additionally with her strong voice she succeeds in making her husband shift in his place. Her background is of no rich family, she's not a real noble, no matter how much she pretends. Miriam was but a maid, which so happen to catch the attention of Richard while he was visiting his brother, for whom the woman was working for in those distant, but never forgotten times.

"My darling, you're talking like we're poor." - Richard decides to play it safe with a low laugh, a weak attempt for a joke. It's true, 'poor' is not exactly their financial situation, but they are definitely spending more than they are getting. Richard is a skillful salesman here in France, similar to his brother back in Romania, however he could never get on the same level as the grand Apolon Lament.

"We're close to hitting that rock bottom, especially if you continue with your weekly gamble." - those words force the man to lift a hand and scratch the back of his neck with a shaky hand. He's a good person, attending church, devoted to his work and family, yet everyone has a weak spot and his is the thrill of winning more money through gambling games. Even though, Richard is rarely the winner. Miriam tilts a strong and confident chin towards her daughter's direction, her back straight as a ruler. - "The solution is to marry Vermilyea off, so both she and us can spend money without worrying it's not going to be enough." - after all two expensive looking woman are too much for one household, therefore it would be easier if Richard was only occupied with spoiling his wife, while Vermilyea found a nice husband to take care of her.

"Is that man truly your solution, then, Miriam?" - after a short pause, Richard asks softly, but no answer follows.

In the meantime you finally manage to safety arrive at your destination. The man in front of you doesn't move or even try to greet you. You find that rude, however you don't seem to care enough to make a comment. You just remain in a place close to him, holding your already ruined dress in one hand, already imagining how you're going to throw it away in the fireplace this very same night and watch it burn, the unpleasant mud finally leaving your life. You take a deep breath, before opening full lips and letting out words, for which you believe will surely root out attention.

"My mother says grief is a temporary feeling—unpleasant and deep, but short in time." - as expected, Monsieur Pierre turns his head towards you, finally. He's not a beautiful man, if you had no manners you would immediately say ugly. Half of his hair is no longer occupying his scalp, though he has a long and thick mustache. It doesn't suit him, it's unkept and gives a poor look. Nothing like your father's beard, for which he takes care and attention. You don't meet his eyes as you continue. - "It could only ruin you if you allow it."

"Your mother...doesn't really strike me as the one to say that, mademoiselle." - you lift an eyebrow in surprise, not expecting such a man to discover your truth so early one. You're honest with yourself and you understand that you have no idea how to experience grief or empathy for all it matters. But you have observations, about others, about normal people with normal emotions and you write down the right way to express the things you can't feel yourself. You were still a child when you discovered the phrase 'My mother says.." and then adding your own ideas and interpretations. Noone judges a child who repeats what it has heard, if anything people would blame the mother, but never out loud, never in public. So it worked perfectly for you. Until now, of course.

"You'd be surprised by the things my mother says, Monsieur." - you handle the situation calmly, it doesn't matter if you had been discovered in a lie,there is always covering it. The man observes you in a bizarre way and judging by how he talks about Miriam, you can note her and Élise weren't as close as she says. The fact only makes your vision over how funerals are selfish acts even more clear. - "Especially when she thinks no one's really listening."

"And do you listen?" - a direct strike.

"Only when it serves me right." - you shift in your place, fixing your sleeve in the meantime, acting unbothered and cold, indifferent. You don't like how Monsieur Pierre has taken a closer observation towards your eyes. No one can blame him, there are surely an attraction. You were unfortunate enough to be born with one ocean colored and one as green as the grass eye. Your mother says it's a curse from the devil. You're no believer, but you hate how much unwanted attention your eyes are capable of summoning. After a second or two—the man laughs.

"Vermilyea was it?" - his whole facial expression is now changed, lips turned upside in a smile, while he moves a little closer. - "a beautiful name for a beautiful lady, but tell me, dear, why are you approaching me in such language?" - that's right, you were supposed to communicate in French, not English. Most people in France are pretty distant with foreigners, yet your family has always been an exception, possibly because of your father's position. - "Can't you speak proper French?" - a short mocking pause. - "Don't disappoint me by saying you're one those people...who sound like spanish cows with bad accents?"

"I take lessons, Monsieur Pierre, however I should excuse myself — my French isn't truly the best." - a lie. Well, not entirely. Your pronunciation is not too bad and you understand when others talk to you, in audition you're very good in grammar and vocabulary, but your problem comes from having absolutely no respect for the language. You despite it. While on the topic — you also hate English, however you were forced to talk in it your whole life, especially while growing up because you were simply in an English home, where Romanian, your mother's tongue, was forbidden. Of course, when you moved to France and you were forced to study another foreign language, you tried your best to fail on purpose, however your mother continued to send you to those expensive lessons. You've come to a decent level, in theory, but in reality you can't form a proper sentence if you don't memories if first. Faking and more faking, always and forever.

The man doesn't say much after that. He goes silent, looking in the distance, eyes locked onto his wife's grave. You find it strange to why he's not right next to it, however it's not interesting enough for you to ask. You don't even know why you decide to continue the conversation, knowing very well you can come back to your mother at the very second and say that Monsieur Pierre wasn't really interested in another woman. But for the sake of trying.

"How old was she?"

"Forty-seven..." - he answers, his lower lip slightly bending in a sorrowful arch, yet he's quick to cover it with a smile. - "after twelve years of marriage she left me alone at my own very age of fragile fifty-nine."

Old pig. Does your mother even know? You're not going to try and romance someone as old as a dying tree in the woods. You're not against your future partner being older, in fact the one you carnally desire is indeed not close to your own age, by how much you're not certain, however, it's definitely not more than thirty years, certainly not a lifetime.

"Do you miss her?" - you ask, softly, tilting your head like a curious child. But the question drips with something less innocent. Your strong perfume seems to have reached his nose because he wrinkles it. Good, you've spent a great amount of time of rubbing that perfumed water around your collarbone and chest this morning.

"Of course I do." - Monsieur Pierre sounds certain, as if your question is somewhere between being useless, confusing or simply — stupid.

"That’s kind of beautiful, isn’t it?" - you're not exactly sure where you're going with your point, but you need to make it clear you're not the easy and obedient woman he's searching for, you will not be a replacement for his wife. - "To miss someone. To ache like that. I wonder..." - you pause, lips parting slightly, as if uncertain whether you should continue, however that line is already crossed. - "I wonder if she would’ve missed you, had it been the other way around?" - with Madame Élise, covered IN black from head to toe, crying over her late husband's grave. The poor widow, all alone in the world now, with no freedom to marry again, because she's no man.

"Why wouldn't she?" - he turns to look at you sharply, the air stiffening around him. Monsieur Pierre is looking uneasy. He knows you're onto something, he senses it, yet he's uncertain where the conversation will take him.

You smile faintly, letting the silence stretch just long enough to sting before you drop it, light as a feather, cruel as a blade. - "Only because... I once saw her. With another man. It was quite late. They seemed... familiar. Too familiar for grief." - you purposely lift a hand to cover your face, as if you're embarrassed to even mention such thing.

Monsieur Pierre changes in a matter of seconds. His expression drops down, possibly along with his heart. His lips switch in a grimace while he furrows his eyebrows and squeezes his hands into fists. You wonder if Élise was alive, would he hit here now? Knowing the truth of how she ran after pleasure and not love? You can't help but crack a hidden smile, the reaction thrilling you more than you would admit. The little huff he lets out is a beautiful note of violin for your ears.

"That—whore!" - he screams, earning himself a few surprised looks, however noone comes closer to acknowledge what exactly is going on. He taps him leg strong on the ground, ruining his boot and splashing more mud over your dress. You suppress the 'tch' sound, urging to come out of your throat. - "I've given her everything! Money, clothes, jewellery, whatever she asked for!" - he angrily splashes more mud, his eyes full of fury. - "She doesn't even deserve this funeral!"

"Please, Monsieur Pierre, we shouldn't judge the dead for their sins." - if you actually felt someone towards the man, you would have tried to comfort him with a hand over his trembling back. But you're not the person to do it. If anything, you move aside, not wanting more mess on your already ruined dress. - "You've punished her enough." - by shoving her deep into the earth, you desire to add, yet you stop yourself. The man doesn't add anything else either.

You think of saying something more, just to see how it would feel. But the thought dies, smothered by your own boredom. Soon you leave the scene in silence, not looking back.

*****

You don't exactly expect to find yourself returning in that unpleasant graveyard the very same night. But a decision was taken on the spot and unfortunately time cannot be reversed. It's not like you're regretting anything, except maybe ruining yet another dress. This time a lighter fabric, an invitingly good looking caramel colour, hugging your body with care, under a rough coat you grabbed without thinking much before leaving your room. It was supposed to be a quick trip to the woods, just to check if the bird trap you had placed a few days ago has been of any use. The results were... disappointing, but to cover that you spotted an owl on a closely branch, being too curious for its own good. It was still young, you observed by lifting up the gas lamp you had in hand. You've never killed an owl before. Your main victims are always small singing birds or the dark crows that love to fly around the houses in Veret. You weren't exactly sure if the simple slingshot you had in your pocket would be of any real use, as your arms were strong, but not enough to kill, just hope for an injury. And you made it, you twisted the owl's wing, slowing it down. Bleeding, and wheezing, the animal led you here, back to the rot and stone, as if something was waiting.

You're no stranger to the exhausting game of hide and seek different birds can put up, while trying their best to escape death. That's why you usually aim for the wings, because once fallen down they can't do anything but crawl helplessly through dirt. You like watching them as they form a line of blood on the ground, it truly shows the reality you live in. You've always hated the feathered creatures and their ability to fly over the world as if all the suffering beneath them doesn't exist. You are no God, but it feels like you're playing one when your blade finally releases them from misery. But of course no God, even a hateful one, would keep the corpse after the kill.

Your eyes are tracing down every small movement between the hanging over graves branches, in search for the pathetic bird, still pretty young as it's not too big in size. Your ears are sharp and ready to catch every different sound from the usual cricket and slight breeze, compensating for your bad night vision. The lamp is placed close to your legs, but the flame is smaller now, less intimidating. You're completely still, waiting in silence. Yet...after a few minutes you begin to realise you might have miscalculated the direction of the owl. For the sake of the hunt, you stay a little longer, moving long and steady legs through different in size and shape stones, with carved names on them, the names of the dead.

You stop in front of a rather unkept grave, covered in dried grass, the left for honour food on the side is barely recognisable, rotten and full of maggots. Upon looking at the date written on it you acknowledge that this miserable attempt for eternal peace belongs to a child, who didn't make it past the age of ten. Your eyes are unblinking as you read the name a few times in your mind, your tongue silently pronouncing it, savouring the taste. Just staring at it is quite boring. So you decide to do something you usually practice in front of a mirror, and have never done over a grave, but you find no-one around, including yourself, who dares stop you.

An image of a woman appears in your head, unknown to you, without a name to roll on your tongue. But she's not made up from imagination, you saw her today at the funeral, you just never bothered to get to know her. However you did observe her face, carefully, with precision and the desire to mold her twisted visage in your memory so you can use it when the time comes. Until then you decide to practice. You rub the inner corner of your eyes, getting red and slightly puffy. You hope for fake tears to come out, yet your cheeks remain dry, skin exposed to the night air. With now furrowed from pretended sadness brows and curved, thin lips you allow yourself to let out a throaty whimper — something close to a cough, with the intention of resembling a weak cry. That sound doesn't suit you, way too untrue for your own judgment, let alone the people you always try to convince about how natural you are with your emotions. They don't know about your secret practices in order to fit in, they don't know how many different masks you wear everyday so you're not pointed out as weird or unfeeling, a menace to society that is so very keen on empathy and the usage of it.

You change a grimace after grimace, closing your eyes to more clearly see the faces from today, but still that deep well of emptiness remains open in your chest. You know it's never going to fill and to be honest with yourself you don't want it to fill. It's crystal clear to you, while you bend down to imitate unbearable sorrow you can only think of that wounded owl, which wings you want to twist with bare hands just because it had the nerve to escape you. At some point your visage takes a natural emotional state for your persona— anger.

You've been empty for years. And the only person who can fill up the void has been reported dead before you could even begin to understand yourself and how much you needed her.

Just then, in the cold unmoving distance you manage to see a flickery light, levitating through darkness, as it has wings. But it's not angelic feathers guiding the lamp you soon acknowledge to be presenting itself upon you. Rather it's another dark shadow in the night, lurking in lonely hours, unbothered. And slowly making its way to the that very same graveyard you stand in, however not from the usual way, through the city. The person approaching is coming out slowly from the thick forest right behind the old, rusty metal fence on the back. A foreigner. You quickly kick the gas lamp besides you so the flame can disappear, before this stranger manage to see you. A safe place behind the grave is taken and you wait, curious to see who's coming here in the middle of the night as well.

The figure limpers. This is the first thing you notice. The second is the weird, dark clothing, almost resembling that of a priest, but much larger, layered and from what the light illuminates — dirty. The head of the person is also covered, limiting you the freedom of seeing a face, let alone remembering it. The lamp is placed next to a grave and then you see the outline of a shovel, gripped firmly in the stranger's right hand. Digging for fresh corpses is not something uncommon, a lot of doctors pay to poor people to do this dirty work for them so they can understand anatomy better. So that's why you're not exactly surprised to comprehend the chosen grave is the one that was the center of attention in today's funeral. Élise is to be a victim, even in her death, just how poetic. As the metal part of the instrument hits the still wet dirt for the first time, you move slightly to a side to get a better view, your breath stuck in your throat. But the figure turns towards you almost immediately.

"Is someone there?" - a sweet voice. Hoarse and giving the expression that the person is struggling to let out a cough, but still sweet. And definitely feminine. You stay low, hiding yourself, too interested to flew now. The scene too consuming, especially after the strange woman snaps her head to a side, tone changing.

"I know, my dear, I just thought I heard someone." - your lips part. Is there another person helping her? You lift yourself just enough to be able to observe better, yet you don't find an indicator for a partner. The unknown woman presses her forehead to the handle of the shovel. - "I told you I didn't want to do this today."

Oh. She's talking to herself. Intriguing.

"She's not even fresh, not like I want her." - a pile of dirt begins to form next to Elise's grave, due to the heavy and constant digging the woman is continuing to do, heavy gardening instrument in her hands, almost panting, and a voice that continues to talk, noone else listening except you. Suddenly metal hits metal and you become a witness of how the shovel has finally reached its destination, the coffin. The amount of time it took her to dig out the dirt is incredible. Minutes. She must be devoted, or desperate. The casket is soon opened and the woman sighs. - "The lipstick corpse, the faithful liar. She's bathed in perfume and covered in colours like a jester." - the shovel is kicked to a side, making you shift in your place. - "She's not... she's not perfect, I won't —" - a pause, the woman is unmoving and silent, as if listening. - "Fine. Just the legs."

You watching with unblinking eyes as the stranger before you grabs the dead body of Élise from the comfort of her coffin and slowly, almost struggling, pulls her out until she hits the ground. Your breath hitches, knees pressing together. It's thrilling to observe and try to guess the moral comprehension of this person. Devil to society for digging out what has already been blessed by the followers of God. A saviour for those who think being buried in the ground is a selfish act. The woman lifts Elise's dress and rips out her stockings without a care in the world. You narrow your head, heart beating faster. You know about men taking advantage of cadavers, but a woman doing it has never crossed your path...or imagination. But then she stops, her hands trembling. From anger, you soon understand.

"She's bruised." - an interesting observation, you almost begin to wonder why. It could be many things, but you need to see the said bruises to take judgment, if they are on her knees then the reason is more than clear, but over her entire length of legs it could be a difficult case, from a sickness to abuse. Monsieur Pierre didn't strike you as the one to hit his wife, yet given how he reacted when you told him the truth it's not completely unimaginable. After all he's an aristocrat, if he's going to let out his anger on Élise it's going to be on a place no-one else will see. - "It was all for nothing, she won't do..." - she woman lifts a hand, fingers trembling, and you guess she's biting on her nails. A lot of people do when stressed. - "It's ruined, it's dead and ruined and—"

Out of nowhere, she screams.

"Shut up already!" - she gets down on her knees, trembling, definitely not because of the cold air. - "I'm not loosing control, I never loose control. I won't fail, stop! Just—" - her voice is completely different now, rough and angry, but also trembling from something with the taste of fear. Perhaps she's talking to someone else inside her head? - "Shut up, shut up, shut up..." - she repeats like a mantra.

What a pathetic human being. You can't lie that you're not excited, however. If that's even the word you'd like to choose for describing your fast beating hard and heavy breathing. Unfortunately, this state of yours turns out to not be in your favour. The woman suddenly turns to your direction, the light from the lamp is finally revealing her face, but only partly. Her eyes are still covered from the hood she wears, but you can see the lower part of her visage, the end of her nose, her lips...forming out a smirk. And then...

"I can hear you breathing." - you freeze, jaw tightening. Her voice has switched sonority again. It's not angry, sad or even mad, but rather tired. At least that's how you hear it. You don't wait for explanation. Instead you take a step back, as quietly as you can. You understand you're not supposed to be here, no matter how thrilled you feel at the moment. The woman doesn't move, doesn't get closer. She just continues to stare towards your direction. Observing the darkness as if it's going to talk back to her.

"I didn't come here for company." - she says, her shoulders dropping low. - "Unless you're just another voice as well." - a pause, enough for a skip of the heart. - "And if you are... don't start talking, please."

With that you finally take your leave, not turning back to check if she has saw you or not. On your way home you walk past the unsuccessful bird trap from today, now finding it actually doing it's purpose. There is a black as the night sky crow inside, trying to bite through the prison it filed into on its own. You don't kill it, you don't free it. As if influenced by tonight events - you just leave the already doomed animal alone and caged.

*****

"Monsieur Pierre has informed me about being interested in meeting you again, Vera." - the small usage of your name has long been transformed into a manipulative weapon. If it was a symbol of affection during your early childhood days, then now it's just a method of your mother trying to intertwine in your personal life. You have choice, most of the time, but it's rarely considered reasonable. Unless you're talking with your father, that is. He has always been soft towards you.

"Is that so?" - you raise your voice, along with your head and soon you meet your mother's eyes just for a second, before they return to the papers in her hands. Miriam is the one who deals with money within the house, ever since you moved in Veret. Everything that is earned or spent must pass through her observation and clever hands. Yet, despite her planning and organisations, money has been not enough for a year or two now. Your parents often argue if it's because Richard's addiction to cards or Miriam's desire for more, it doesn't matter what, just more - clothes, jewellery, food, furniture...even the long cigarette, casually placed between her fingers, which fills up the air with that awful smell you can't normally stand, but always endure. It's your mother preferred poison, even if doctors have told her it's slowly killing her, even if she herself has noticed the way she always coughs after smoking. Nothing, however, stops the woman from still consuming it while worried over her money slowly fading away from her iron grip.

"Indeed, he has sent a letter, telling me about your small conversation during Elise's funeral and how you managed to...win his interest." - your mother talks a lot. It's a strategy, of course. She could have stopped at the letter, it would have been considered enough of an information, but she likes to extend and just had to mention the funeral and how you supposedly fascinated the old man. - "I can't help but wonder what you told him." - Miriam is not asking, rather she's demanding. You notice it too quickly for own taste.

"The truth." - your answer is simple, almost forced out of you, yet incredibly correct.

Silence falls between the two of you, mother and daughter that successfully managed to grow apart during the years. Every dialogue between you now feels like a forced monologue from Miriam's part. But you don't mind it, knowing well your mother would never understand you, let alone try. And you don't expect her to, after all you sometimes don't even understand yourself. Your mother's heavy with golden rings hand makes and attempt to slide on the table you're both sitting on, in order to reach yours. However, halfway there she stops, then curls her fingers towards herself, in decision not to touch you. Her eyes nervously look up to you, searching for a reaction, which they don't find. At last, you both ignore the gesture, in silent agreement.

"The truth..." - she repeats dryly. - "is not something a lot of people are ready to hear, especially men." - you cross your legs, a new dress - this time beige, wrinkles because of the movement. Your eyes lift up with a dangerous glare, piercing through the table. On it there are various dishes placed for feasting, way too many for a family of three. And it's only morning. You find it amusing how your mother desires to marry you off in order to save money, yet still gives them freely everyday. Waste. Is that what you are in her head? A few quiet steps echo through the air - a familiar figure entering the room. You treat your father's appearance as a good sign not to open your mouth about this topic yet. - "So remember my advice and do not share it with the man, you're trying to win the love of."

Richard sighs with irritation before he could even be wished good morning.

"Always marriage and love with you women, nothing else." - his voice is rough from sleep, beard ready for shaping as it's getting too big, so Miriam makes a grimace when he leans in to steal a kiss, the outgrown hairs annoying her soft skin. Yet she smiles, she welcomes him like a good wife, almost as if she's giving out examples to you. But it's very doubtful if you're ever going to be this welcoming towards a man, any man. As your father takes a seat next to you, on a slightly larger chair than the rest around the table, another plate of piled up eatables is placed in front of him, by the only working maid inside your home, the last of six more, which Miriam had to dismiss out of lacking coin for their monthly payments. Your mother often feels guilty about those poor women who practically begging her to let them stay, as they don't see where else they can work, but you don't even remember their faces, let alone names.

"Well, it's only natural for Vermilyea to enter this phase of her life." - your mother's hand roams through the table, successfully grabbing a glass of clear, french win - perfect for her nerves, and guides it to her lips, tasting it with precision. - "If anything, she's rather late." - the woman can't seem to stop herself from giving out a commentary. Your father gives you a quick look, his gentle eyes proposing safety and softness per usual. You don't blink in response, instead you look down at your own plate, which is empty, because you already ate your breakfast and can say you're full. Still, you reach out for another piece of tarte, trying to taste their hypocrisy.

"And who's her candidate?" - Richard questions, adjusting his tight collar so the food he consumed can go easily down his throat, as he's a quick eater and doesn't always chew like he should be.

"Monsieur Pierre Bernard" - your father doesn't seem twice surprised to hear the name of the man, which wife's funeral he attended just the day before. His eyes narrow at Miriam, who gentle twists her head, almost provocatively and flashes him a smirk, already tasting his disappointment. - "He's a banker, my darling - filthy rich."

"I don't like him." - an argument Richard has to desire to defend, simply because it's final. Besides, Vermilyea Bernard doesn't sound right.

"You don't like any man for Vermilyea." - a white handkerchief is lifted to the woman's lips, gathering the remains of the wine, which is now gone and the cup stays empty on the table. Right next to it, Miriam slams the dirtied fabric. - "We could've married her almost ten years ago."

Another truth, spoken from such a fake woman, forces the room to go silent. When you were fifteen, nine years apart from your current twenty-four, a young boy came to ask your hand in marriage. After a few days in forced dates you understood that he had been your neighbour all along, you just weren't very interested in socialising. To be fair, the boy was nice, he was clearly educated and had looks, under all that he wasn't much older than you, barely a year or two, and had a decent family name, to which you could have been tied up and die, covered in gold after a while. Of course there were many problems with the situation - your father didn't want to give you up so soon, despite you being in the legal age for marriage, your own disinterested, and the final factor, which was that you weren't bleeding yet, therefore any desires for children were impossible. In the end, said boy found himself another girl for a wife and you stayed with a pleased father, who has only been your legal step father for barely five years and wanted to live out his dream of having a child, and an angry mother, who believed a great opportunity was ruined. That day you began to wonder if the story behind your biological father dying right before marrying Miriam was real, and not the possibility of you being an unwanted daughter, made with consent or not.

After that many men tried to win you over, but it never worked. In current days you were either considered too old, too mean or - the new one - too broke to marry. Slowly the variety of choice Miriam was clinging to disappeared and now she had no other choice, but to offer to whoever is ready to take you.

"Vermilyea is not meant to be a wife, nevertheless." - Richard announces after the brief, awkward pause, forcing Miriam to grab her forehead in a slightly trembling palm. This is your father finest argument against your mother. Your simple inability to bear children. The absence of a normal menses cycle in your womanhood.

At age sixteen, right after the marriage disappointment, Miriam Lament began to worry for her daughter. Not because you were ill or anything close to it, but because you were broken, at least in her eyes. You hadn't bled yet. Your nightgowns were still white as snow and your mattress was clean. But your mother knew it wasn't normal at your age, given the fact that she had bled for the first time at thirteen. Upon calling a doctor, who touched you with more interest than usual in his eyes, it was confirmed that you weren't going to be able to carry children, or get pregnant at all. You didn't know where that information came from, but facts are facts and no blood came your way since that day. When you were little your mother told you that the feminine cycle was a curse from God for the original sin, which she refused to talk about, as it has nothing to do with just an apple. Yet years after she spoke the Devil's name when they told her about your condition. It didn't make sense to be cursed by both of them.

In some regards you were thankful for not having to beat the unnecessary pain in audition to it and also - never go into labour. Not like you have anything against pain, you welcome it, because you don't normally feel it. Your tolerance built too high. You remember breaking your smallest finger of the left hand when you were still small and careless. There was no crying or screaming from your part, as the pain wasn't much of a trigger. You didn't tell Miriam, or Richard, or anyone at all. You just wrapped the finger to the one next to it with a bandage and hid it for months under gloves, which you said were a fashionable choice when your mother asked about them. Eventually your finger healed, but in a wrong way - crooked like the metal hooks for fishing your father owns, yet never uses. Nowadays it stands out, however noone asks about it.

Besides your unnatural looking finger, curious different in colour eyes, your strange inability to pronounce 'r' and maybe too sharp attitude, you try to stay presentable all the time. You take care of your skin so it's softer than silk and you feel good when denying people, especially men, from touching it. Your hair is always neatly done, matching the clothes you've chosen for the day. And you smell of delicious perfumes, the best from the market. As a noble lady you're expected to be this perfect all day, everyday. You, of course, have another selfish reason for doing it. In fact, you're to say it out loud the moment the small argument between your parents dies and you hear Richard's voice asking you something with irradiation.

"Tell her, Vermilyea, tell her you don't want to marry that old man, convince her you can do better with your future husband." - he's almost begging you. It's not often that your father has an opinion, different from that of Miriam. However he's the only person, who dares to consider your own opinion for reasonable. You don't express gratitude, if anything you look up to the man with narrow, unblinking eyes, almost making him regret what he has spoke, because he quickly realises what's coming.

"The only one I want..." - you make a pause, in which your mother sighs and your father swallows dryly. - "...is Mirdin."

"For God's sake, Vermilyea, your Mirdin doesn't exist!" - Miriam is angry now, her hands falling on the table with no mercy, expression her natural reaction. It's not the first time you've mentioned that name, this topic is almost as old as you, yet both of your parents don't really know who exactly you're talking about. They think, key word think, that Mirdin is the perfect man in your eyes. You give them credit for being almost correct. However they get the gender wrong and on top of that, they believe that Mirdin is a fiction, a character you created in your head, but that is far away from the truth your mother is so keen on not sharing. - "You made him up when you were little, it's time to forget him."

"I don't mean to sound rude, Vermilyea, but didn't you say Mirdin was dead?" - you hum, finally blinking after what feels like all morning. The topic makes you so soft, too vulnerable for your own taste. Your father's comment makes you rethink your answer. Mirdin is dead, or at least that is what they told you when you were around ten years old. But a body was never found and you were determined to meet your woman saviour again. No matter what, even if it means not correcting your parents when they call her a man, when you know she wouldn't go this low. Mirdin is gentle, Mirdin is not a protector, Mirdin is yours. And Mirdin was never a man. - "Why still think about him—"

"Because I will be with my Mirdin and noone else. I wouldn't be happy with another." - you cut him off, the obsession finally leaving your body. One might say it's love, but you know better - such an emotion has ever crossed your path, not even for Mirdin. - "Even if it means waiting for him to be reborn again... until the day I die."

Silence. Utterly disgusting silence. And then Miriam shifts in her seat.

"I will send a letter to Monsieur Pierre to tell him you're also interested in meeting him again." - your mother quickly calls the maid and shakes her fingers to the table - a silent request for her to clean it. The middle aged woman bods and begins to gather empty plates with precision. Miriam continues to talk, now standing. - "Despite your... everything, you're still pure, Vermilyea, and that has come kind of prize to your name." - you feel a strong squeeze on your shoulder and you're probably expected to let out a yelp of pain, but that never happens. Your mother's grip is way too weak. You don't even look her in the eyes when her final words strike down. - "You have enough time to fix yourself, or at least what good is left in you." - she's relentless, you're unbothered, your father is silent.

At that moment you decide to take the last thing that Miriam believes is 'good' in you. She says you're pure, you don't exactly agree. Naturally if it's the kind of pureness a doctor checks you from time to time, then yes - you've never had a man, or anyone in your bed, let alone touching you. But you've spent countless nights with your own hands between your legs, the image of your Mirdin guiding your fingers and mind. And if the only way to push that old pig - Monsieur Pierre - away is to ruin yourself, then you shall do exactly that.

*****

There are many different brothels in Veret, all filled to the brim with cheap women, who sell themselves to starved for sex men. Perhaps the most famous and preferred pleasure house in the town is a place, called The gilded veil. Despite its name there is nothing golden in it, except the dirtied yellow metal on the sign outside and the heavy from coins pockets of the lady, whoever she is, running the business. But you know well where the name comes from. In such brothels privacy is an expensive pleasure, yet in The gilded veil every serving woman wears a mask, from fake gold of course, but it's convenient enough to fool a man, or a whole group of them. It's also appealing.

Upon entering the front chamber of the building, you find yourself in a place, trying its best to resemble a small parlor. Here people still believe they are entering a proper environment. Although the chairs are old and there is an unpleasant scent in the air, it's welcoming enough to trick the mind. You, of course, come prepared. A woman doesn't find herself in such places unless she's seeking an unwell paid, yet some kind of job, attending sick fantasies and cruel intentions, or simply - walking in by mistake. A man sat on a green, slightly ripped canapé immediately spots you, but any word dies deep in his throat once you toss him a small bag of coins and he points to a closed door on the left, while nodding his head.

Stepping inside you're immediately greeted by a symphony of lustful sounds. Most of the moans are fake, rooted out from sore throats of women, who don't even enjoy whatever it happening to them, but do it for the money they are going to receive. Your eyes move around the room, taking in the reddish decor, the many chaise lounges, carved details on all of them. Between all the furniture you spot stretched and hooked to the ceiling large fabrics, which aim to separate the different areas for pleasure within the grand room. According to your private studies with a personally found for you teacher, sex is considered something sacred, so the small amount of lighting - consisting of oil lamps and heavy candelabras, is reasonable. Although it's in complete contrast with the performed acts under that warm, amber light. The working women, or as many would call them ladies of the night or more likely whores, are barely clothed. A loose corset here and an open shirt there. You've never seen such various amount of genitals - both male and female. Some of the women even get you questioning how they can stay almost perfectly shaved and smooth without giving themselves a rash. Everything for looking clean for men, who probably carry more diseases than a sick goat.

You're not given much attention, since the people are busy with their own matters of consumption, but step after step you begin to notice tension in eyes, which happen to flick at you for more than just a second. It's only normal for you to stand out, after all people know eachother in places like this. And so, while passing a circled by a soft sofa table, you quickly snatch a fake golden maks from it, as the woman owner seems too busy bobbing her head up and down on a customer's twitching cock, her eyelashes wet from tears.

After another quick look around the room, with now secured mask on your face, you make a mental note to yourself that you do not wish to share your body with more men than needed. You only need a singular bastard to call lucky enough to pierce through you and ruin you once and for all, so you can escape the claws of another one. So naturally, you take a turn to where you believe the private rooms should be, as every good brothel has them for richly paying customers. And since you're currently pretending to be a lady on the job, you needn't spend more coin on unnecessary things. The place you're headed to is not hard to find - a long corridor behind the main room, devoid of any doors and the only sense of privacy you can feel around here are the thin fabrics in front of each entrance.

The moans are more desperate here. The shift is instant, even the men are vocal with their needs and pleasure. A few naked women, your false colleagues, walk right past through you, whispering you luck as the gentleman in room four is rather passionate in his work. By the time you reach that point of the corridor, the sounds you begin to hear change as well. Whimpers. You've always found them alluring, because you can never tell, even now, if the person making them is genuinely in insane level of pleasure or just pain. As if withdrawn by the sonority, you find yourself peeking inside that very fourth chamber. Inside you spot a shaking female body, rutting on top of the lap of the mentioned gentleman, a small bed rocking beneath them. He spots you immediately, almost like he was expecting you.

"Viens ici, chérie." - he commands in a low, fluent French and you're reminded again of why you despite the language. Come here, darling. He says it with hunger in his eyes, grabbing the hips of the fragile woman on top of him, to the point of bruising. You compose a smile of amusement. Soon, he lifts her off enough for his large cock to escape free from inside her, the tip so red it's practically begging for release. - "Tu veux regarder? Ou tu veux goûter?” - Do you want to watch, or to taste? His question stays unanswered, as you walk away, now devoid of curiosity. He waits for a few seconds and then your ears are rewarded again with that pleasant whimpering, which attracted you in the first place.

The next few private rooms are nothing you haven't already seen, so you pass by them without giving much attention to what's happening inside. One scene of particular, however, shows the outcome of unsafe practice of the profession. A woman is using her hand to satisfy a bulging man's need, her belly round with a child, who's father shall probably never get revealed and if it happens to be a girl, it will most likely become like her mother. The woman looks at you with pleasing eyes to which you don't show pity, if anything you just walk away, only the thought of finding an empty chamber for yourself wandering inside your head. By the end of the corridor you do succeed to fulfill your wishes, yet you're missing a man to share the small, used many times by others bed. With a quick turn, you begin walking back to the large commun chamber.

Few minutes away from the filth doesn't necessarily mean something significant changed, yet in your case - it did. You feel, or rather hear it the moment you return. The moans are not as loud and the people are severely more composed, although still naked. Such behaviour calls for a reason, it's not difficult to guess why. Sometimes even the the noblest of the noble come seeking sinful attendance through the dark hours of the night. You don't immediately spot someone you know from that class, which is unusual, because you've memorized all of their chubby with fatness faces, from the times your mother used to invite them all in the house, in hope for a new friendship. None of them clicked right for Miriam, just like you disappoint yourself with not finding a familiar face. In the middle of the room, however, you see the reason for the sudden distress.

Not a noble figure, not even a local one. But undoubtedly a person of value, the picture reveals a masked customer among long forgotten themselves ladies of the night, with the privilege of privacy. The man, as he surely stands and acts like one, has taken a central seat in the middle of the large room, clean and smoothed suit resting on velvet fabrics of the sofa, polished shoes almost looking scared to touch the covered in whatever body fluids there floor. Arms crossed in his lap, as if immune to the two charming women sitting on his sides, both with breast revealed to the public, nipples perked enough to catch attention. There is a very obvious presence of consent between them - the mysterious man doesn't touch them, nor do they play with him. Only flirting eyes, smirks and low, dirty whispers. It's very rare for a man, enjoying his time in a brothel, to be just talking with the workers, as they are not merely companions, but women ready to sell themselves for living. But coin is coin and they are going to take it, despite not having to take a man up them. A normal person would say that's better for them, but you can only think of a way to stealing their polite customer, seeing him as perfect for your plans. Knowing your own charms, you remove the stolen mask, tossing it somewhere on the floor, before walking towards the masked man.

Once your boots line up with his pointy shoes, you give him a quick, but calculated glare, with the idea of comprehending the need of the golden mask over his visage. There are no signs of some kind of injury, so you take the freedom to think it has something to do with privacy, again. Upon a second look, it is revealed that the metal shines under the lighting like dripping, fresh honey. You've seen enough of your mother's necklaces to know you're eye to eye with someone rich enough to allow themselves such large, truly golden mask. An expensive accessory, no denying it. The design is also appealing. The top is lined with the beginning of his forehead, after a sea of blonde hairs, unusually long and even braided for man, yet with the new coming fashion, especially in Paris, you don't pay it much attention. The man's face is entirely covered with thick gold down to his nose, where the mask is cut according to his head shape, hugging features with care. Under that final line are hooked many small in size golden chains, free to move around down to his jawline, beneath which you spot a greyish thin fabric, adding another layer of protection, although almost see through, to his already hidden face. The mask is secured by an additional shiny frame around his head, which goes behind his ears and drips down to his neck like a necklace, turned backwards.

"Yes?" - a slightly confused tone pulls you out from your hideous staring without usually blinking trance. - "Anything you need, my lady?" - his voice is raspy, low, yet melancholy pleasant for listening. He talks slowly, without rushing the just started conversation, as if trying to drown in it. The mysterious man sounds like he needs to cough any moment, or rather - he's been smoking something strong until now. Yet it's clear how hard he works to cover that and you can't help just notice some kind of familiarity.

"Not exactly, I'm here to give my... services." - only after replying to him, you acknowledge you both serve yourselves with the English language, without thinking why French is not present. Perhaps he has guessed you're not fluent, or perhaps he himself can't speak it. That question, however, is not important.

"But I already have two lovely companions with me." - your previous thoughts and observations turn out to be correct. He doesn't see these women as the whores they are, but a human company to spend the night with. You don't understand it, you've paid for something then you should do your best to devour it. Besides you've never liked being around others. Speaking of the ladies, they do not talk, but they sharp, ruined with dark makeup, eyes do look you up and down from head to toe. The man spreads out a palm, as if to show them, his hand smaller the usual size for a grown up. - "It would be greedy to ask for a third...besides I don't remember ordering you."

"I'm exclusive and...private." - in hope to get him as soon as possible in those private rooms and get it over with, you insist on him hearing the last word from your mouth. He only hums, blinking slowly, therefore giving you enough time to manage a look under his mask and note out that he, as well, possesses blue eyes, one slightly lighter in colour than the other, however. You think of lifting up your skirts for show, but a nod from the man in front of you tells you he's starting to think about what you're proposing.

"And how much will that cost me?" - his voice drips with curiosity and a hint of suspicion.

"Free of charge." - you announce, forcing a gasp, quickly followed by another, from the half naked women on both sides of the man. The small coin bags, tied to their underwear, speaks more than you should know - they would never do a service for free, even if it's just sitting next to a customer. Soon, he lets out a quiet laugh, the sound muffed from the mask.

"Oh, certainly interesting..." - his hand moves to the right, where his long, slender finger connect with a metal handle, connected to a long walking cane. He moves it from side to side, almost like trying to decide if he should get up or not. However, this action has effect on the two women - without saying anything, they slowly raise from their seats and begin to walk off, whispers wandering after them like insects. - "Tell me your name then, exclusive lady of the night." - what a mocking voice he roots out from his throat.

"Vermilyea." - you answer quickly, then adding - "Vermilyea Lament."

His hand freezes on the spot, knuckles going white from the intense grip he holds upon the handle of his metal cane. His legs, slightly spread, now cross with the speed of a scared little boy. He takes in a breath, which probably has been intented to be silent, but his tight collar betrays him. His body language expresses fear, or at least - panic. Surprisingly he covers it like nothing, reminding you somehow of yourself. Soon, the man leans forward, curving his head to look up to you. And he laughs.

"Vermilyea Lament..." - he repeats, rolling your name on his tongue, savouring it like it's sacred, or rather cursed. The endless dilemma of your existence, that no philosophy book has ever held the answer to.

"Is there a problem, Monsieur...?" - you lift up your eyebrows, mimicking interesting. If you have to be honest with yourself, a few minutes ago you were interested in what story this weird man has to offer, but he's slowly starting to fit the aesthetic of those who often calm their nerves down with intoxicating additives. Your mother does it sometimes, and you wouldn't be half bothered by it if those people weren't so insufferable when high.

"I doubt my name is of much importance for you, my dear." - he stops for just a second, as if awaiting reaction. You're used to formalities, however, such verbal address doesn't affect you the way he desires. Because it's easy - to charm up a woman with cheap pet names and then take advantage. It seems like you both understand that this is not your case. Another thing you notice is how the man has quickly catch on your little performance as a worker. For now, you decide to ignore it. - "But shall it please your tongue — Danamir Corneille."

Your response is limited to a simple nod. You've got a name to the man. Just a quiet, fake moan of it would be enough for his sanity to disappear. You are no stranger to the allure a woman's body can hold, especially your body, you've been way too... admired through the years. Of course noone actually got something from you, as you didn't want anything as well. Your shoulder roll backwards, and you allow the petit jacket you have over them, mostly for the idea of a full fit of clothes, to fall them, revealing bare skin. That's how you wish to start, after all you don't plan on getting completely naked. The job would be done with a poke or two, skirts needn't even be fully lifted. Monsieur Danamir Corneille's eyes narrow and suddenly he stands up, perhaps head and a two taller, but for some reason - thinner.

"Private, you said?" - his head tilts and you refuse to look look up to him, by your own judgment he's not worthy of it. - "Very well then, Vermy." - Vermy? - "Lead the way, my darling. Let's see what a Lament offers when coin isn't a part of the bargain."

The tip of his cane hits the ground with a tud. Despite how composed and mighty he looks, tall and with a straight back, brushing invisible strings off his purple suit here and there, you can't miss the fact that Danamir Corneille limpers. That's why he needs his cane. With slow steps, you both make your way to that empty private room.

"Sex is... only given out of love or for money." - by the merely ten minutes with this strange man alone in a room you've come to the understanding he has no intention of jumping on you like a feral beast. Instead, he has been speaking with the polished arrogance of a man who thinks intelligence is foreplay. You rarely get angry, but can't help the twitching of your fingers as he leans back on the bed, still not making any kind of move or even a gesture, which would suggest a start to the topic he's currently discussing. You're not used to really listening to other people's opinions either, so you need a second to process once he calls out your name. - "Vermilyea, we both understand that there is no love between us and since you don't want any money, I just don't see a reason to—"

"There's no love, but there is need." - you cut him off, offering words that you believe would suit his taste. Sat on a smaller chair two steps to the left of him, you can't do much, but lift up your skirts to knee level, teasing, while your tongue lies with precision. - "I want you, Monsieur Corneille."

"You don't know me, Vermy." - that awful nickname again.

"I don't have to know you." - although cold with the tone, you try your best to sound convincing.

"You just want me to use you then?" - a loud moan echoes through the room next to you, for some reason making Danamir flinch. Perhaps, his ears are sensitive. Or he's rather allured by the sound. His head turns to you, golden braid yanked over one shoulder - reaching the beginning of his chest. You've never seen a man with such long hair. Neatly cared for as well. At that moment, looking at his crossed legs, a new thought passes through your mind - the possibility of Monsieur Corneille being interested in men, rather than women. But it wouldn't make sense to sit in their company, although you never saw him touching those ladies from earlier. Stranger. - "Or do you want to use me, Vermy?"

"Would that...offend you?" - you slow down your speech, trying to convince this man you haven't been practicing dialogues in your head from the moment you stepped into the brothel. Although you're good in convincing, you need preparation to make perfection. This is a rule you live by, otherwise your desires and the things you do for them would feel like failure. However, you've never tasted that and you're no near planning to.

"No." - the man is completely honest, proud with his answer. He stops and waits for a wave of whimpers from the girl next door to pass on, quickly followed by filthy cursing and unpleasant wet slapping sound. Then he adds to his one worded reply. - "But it would bore me."

"Then I'll pretend I want to be loved." - you lie again, not even having a hint of how love feels like. By the time you finish your sentence, the fabric of your skirts is already lifted high enough for your thighs to be exposed, covered in stockings, which seems to have caught Monsieur Corneille's attention. - "A young virgin girl, yearning for love. Would you like that, Monsieur Corneille?"

He stays silent for at least a minute, lost in his own head and the bridge between yes and no, and possibly another thing you don't really understand - morals. Then a scoff is released through warm air inside the room you're in, making it smaller and more irritating than it already is.

"Every other man in my place would demand to see the cunt he's paying for." - his argument is confirmed by the grunts from the neighbour next door, who loudly announces his release. At the same moment Monsieur Corneille takes out a pocket watch and focuses on the numbers, counting seven minutes from the other man's last spending. A click of his tongue passes as critique. - "But since there is no coin in our business - I won't force you to show anything you don't want to." - he turns to look at his cane, bending slightly forward, as if he's uneasy just sitting in one place. Truly there is something wrong with the man, you just can't figure out what, yet. - "What you need from me" - he murmurs, eyes not quite meeting you. - "...does include you getting naked, Vermy."

You decide to stay silent. Your body, however, is already moving. The small chair falls down behind you as stand up, boots dragging over the floor until you reach the open entrance to your borrowed room and you seal the exit with the presented thin fabrics, imitating a door. The naked human body is but a cage to the soul, which you sometimes wonder if you still have - if it was there in the first place. So naturally, you're not ashamed to show it, yet it would be more fitting if only one pair of eyes are observing. The man is correct - there is no coin, but there is usage. And that needs to be repayed as well.

Retuning to the centre of the rather small room, you make sure Monsieur Corneille is looking closely and attentively. Regardless, his cane is now in his hand and he holds to it for dear life. You almost fell like something for sale on the market, but you're too deep in to stop now. With your jacket already gone, which the man was kind enough to pick up and place next to him on the bed, you can easily start with the removal of your walking skirt, fitted perfectly around your waist. The floor-length piece of clothing is flared just enough to allow movement, while the fabric itself it's from a cheap material, as you didn't want to waste something expensive in a dirty place like this brothel. In fact, once you remove your skirts, you carefully place them over the fallen chair, without fixing its position so they stay over the vertically inverted seat.

Your blouse is devoid of sleeves, but with a high neckline and ruffled edges. White at colour and light in weight the clothing is feminine and elegant, despite the intention to show more skin than it should. The buttons on it are small and curved like olives. And soon they are opened free, the blouse removed fully and placed over your skirt. You glance around to seek Monsieur Corneille, who seems invested in watching you undress. He even clears his throat as another moan interrupts your private time. A simple roll of his hand suggest that you should continue.

Your pastel lace-trimmed corset cover is perhaps the easiest to remove, given how thin and again - sleeveless, it is. With it out of the way your layers of clothing are limited to the last few pieces, which are your actual corset, split-crotch drawers - perfect for the occasion, because of the easy access. And of course a simple, modest chemise, almost glued to your skin. You reach behind yourself to get working on loosing the corset, but an idea quickly forms inside your head. If you allowed the unable to move eyes from you Monsieur Corneille to remove it, would he immediately jump you and get this scene over it? In your own humble opinion a man would pretty much accept and given their lack of self control, what will happened wouldn't be surprising. So you walk into another helpless role.

"Monsieur Corneille, would be so kind to help me with my corset?" - your voice is tender, almost awkward as you're never the one to ask for aide.

"Tell me, ma chérie, how many maids helped you out this morning when you were putting it on?" - part of you now understands why he has approached you in English. His French, despite the usage of only a nickname, sounds just as forced and bad as your own. You don't bite around that corner of his sentence, however. Because you're not interested in his speech, rather his audacity to suggest you need other women to help you dress.

"None." - you say through clenched teeth. - "I did it myself."

A quiet scoffs tells you everything you need to know in that moment. The man has tricked you.

"Then I'm certain you don't need my help now."

As mentioned earlier - you don't get angry that easily. Most of the time, the triggers, which irritate other people are too indifferent for you. But it's one thing to endure endless void of useless words, escaping even more useless mouths, but it's a whole other thing when someone manages to see through you, as clearly as Danamir Corneille just did. You stare at his unmoving mask, the uncanny image of this precious metal shell, and you decide on the spot that this man is nothing ordinary. He's similar to you, but you're not sure yet if you're from the same kind of almost human creatures.

The room goes silent for a few minutes and soon enough you find yourself completely naked before the man's eyes.

The raw feeling of being exposed to someone else rather than the mirror is more overwhelming than you originally thought, but you're certain it's because you're still a bit uneasy from your previous exchange of words. Despite your position, the bare body, and the way Monsieur Corneille is shifting in his seat - he hasn't made a single move towards you yet. Only making a circular motion with his hand, so you can turn around and show all of yourself. Your hair sticks to your back, befriending your spine while the warm lighting within the room dances over your smooth skin. Your beauty is unmatched, almost flawless, and he is now aware of it too. Perhaps, too aware.

"You are not a whore, Vermilyea Lament." - his tongue is sharp as a blade, which can only wish to cut through you, as you stop, but don't allow yourself to be caught off guard again. Your body is unmoving, eyes unblinking, you try to make yourself look bigger. But he's unbothered. - "You dress like a noble lady, you talk like a person with education, which most of your...colleagues don't have." - he mocks the working women with sarcastic precision. - "You're too...too perfect for that title." - then he looks up directly to you. - "You're perfect for me, my pet." - your eyebrows twist for the first time upon hearing one of his nicknames, this one too familiar and unlikable for your taste. The man notices and scoffs with coldness. - "Finally, a child of great Britain, aren't you?" - now you acknowledge another thing you have missed - Danamir Corneille has been testing you with those ridiculous nicknames till now, seeking your origin. You don't like how much information you have given him, without even doing anything in particular. Yet, you refuse to show him your genuine amusement.

"You're very observant." - your voice is dripping poison, any role of an innocent girl thrown out of this dirty place. You don't tell him the truth. You're not British, your adoptive father is, but he doesn't need to know that, not now.

"I've learnt to be." - you can physically feel the smile underneath his mask, it makes you sick. He soon adds.-"I had to.You can't trust anybody those days, especially strangers who...are so eager to be alone with you."

"Do you believe I can harm you in any way, Monsieur Corneille?" - just the idea of it is comical. You - naked and vulnerable, a woman versus a fully dressed man, too calm to be thinking anything good. And even if you believe in your verbal manipulations, you are aware that you can't fight a man, despite the fact that the one in front of you is visible weak, because of the can he uses and how thin he is, compared to the other individuals, which you saw tonight.

"No." - a firm answer, followed by an argument, which most people are afraid to speak out loud, especially directly in front of you. - "But you have no light in your eyes, Vermilyea. Everyone strays from a person such as you." - there is no nicknames from his part anymore, not even his favourite Vermy. He's completely serious, determined for a real conversation, without a clear ending, however. You like to play games with people like him, and how he has proposed a competition before you, for which you're excited.

"My mother always says my eyes are a curse from the devil." - the man tilts his head to a side, taking in the two different colours, possessing your irises. You're used to be observed like a deformed creature, so you allow him to do so. In the meantime you speak your thoughts out loud for him. - "They are an imperfection, a defect. And I suppose she's right — they are driving people away from me."

"Your mother sounds like an interesting woman, but I'm afraid I do not agree with her." - Monsieur Corneille shakes his head as if offended, then he taps the floor a few times with his cane, perhaps to calm down before announcing something important. - "Everything out of the ordinary is considered the devil's work...but aren't his creations marvellous?" - his hand spreads out to you for am example. And after that he makes almost a whole speech in practically one breath. - "He's a mad genius. A painter, underrated by others. Each of his 'artworks' have a hint of mischief in them, no? He twists the beautiful with the ill-favoured and creates something out of nothing - born from both violence and tranquility. Of course, his designs come with a price but above everything they are masked as perfection, because not a single human can consider what exactly is completely devoid of flaws."

The words are deep and most certainly - his, entirely. You can guess by the way he speaks with passion, while his hand follow like obedient slaves to the speech. A smirk lurks around your lips.

"Are you a poet, Monsieur Corneille?" - you ask, voice almost innocent, if that is even possible for you.

"No." - a determined answer, follow by few seconds long silence. Enough for you to prepare your next question.

"A philosopher?" - you hum, still smiling at him, in hope to root out information. - "I rather like philosophers."

"Unfortunately not." - the man takes a deep breath, as if his actual profession is a burden. But you don't see it as such, once he reveals it. - "My occupation is that of a simple traveling doctor, who likes to loose himself in pleasure," - he uses a French manner to say the word, focusing on the satisfying 'z' sound. - "...between working hours."

"Will you help me then, doctor?" - his formal working title rolls down on your tongue, as you try to use it against him. - "Will you ruin me the way I want?" - a doctor would treat you with precision. Or at least they say so.

"I'm afraid I'm not able to." - his head drops down and he places his arms in his lap, looking somewhere between disappointed and guilty.

"May I ask what do you mean by that?" - your eyebrows furrow in confusion, while you fight the urge to take a step closer and finally use your naked body for good and make him take you.

Then Monsieur Corneille does something unexpected. His back straightens and he gets up, the small bed squeaking from the lifted up weight. You're reminded of the fact that he's taller than you and possibly more skinny, as he soon takes off his jacket - revealing a plain white shirt, which exposes his small figure. Perhaps he's sick? Or simply doesn't eat much? Any questions die in your throat the moment he wraps the jacket over your shoulders, covering most of your upper body. - "I believe you've already figured I can't help you with your needs, but I suppose it's time for me to get undress as well."

The man is quick to remove his shirt, the linen fabric is crisp and white, you guess it feels smoothing over skin. Instead of disposing it on the ground, he folds it quickly in his arms before placing it on the bed. The view under his clothes leaves you confused. Over his chest a large, thick looking line of something resembling medicine bandage, runs over the skin, tightened to redness and if you had to guess - pain. But why? Is he wounded? You wish to ask him, but soon enough he starts to take off the flattering undergarment with clever, fast working fingers.

You blink once, then twice, trying to comprehend what has been revealed to you. The man...rather the person, as you're not exactly sure anymore, clearly has a feminine chest. Your eyes are met with a pair of breasts, slightly crushed from the bandage over them, but definitely round and big like those of a woman, with even erected nipples, like yours, because of the coldness in the room. Trying to not look too much at them, you move your attention downwards to the newly exposed ribs, which are almost see through the skin, completely devoid of any fat. But what is most interesting about Monsieur or rather Madame Corneille is the large, darker in shade than the rest of the flesh, scar over the stomach - horizontally and just below the navel. It's not straight, though, it's flawed with rough edges, which suggests the wound didn't heal as it was expected. It's rather...familiar. Before she can pull down her pants as well, to fully confirm her female anatomy, you speak out, already have guessed you're not going to see a cock there. In fact, you're reminded of the way Monsieur Corneille often stays with his legs crossed, completely unnatural for most men. Which she is not.

"You're a woman..." - you try to shape your point of view. - "dressed as a man...why?" - you can't seem to find a good reason at the moment.

"Oh, that's too much of a long story, I'll leave it for another time." - listening to her voice now, you can clearly hear how forced it is to sound more masculine. It's not because the poor Monsieur Corneille couldn't cough properly. Yet noone can achieve such change with just abuse over vocal cords. There's something else involved, some kind of chemical, perhaps?

"Then..." - you murmur, part of you getting excited to see the truth behind this person's story. You knew Monsieur Corneille was too composed to be a real man. But now you're truly invested - "at least let me see your face. You owe me wasted time." - after all a woman can't ruin another woman. Not in the way you desire, that is.

After a moment of hesitation, she nods her head, arms reaching up for the golden mask. - "As you wish, my lady."

Fifteen years worth of yearning and constant thinking about a forgotten ghost reveal themselves upon you within seconds. With the mask now gone, you see a painfully familiar visage, carved into your mind for eternity. She looks like you, with just a few slight differences - her cheeks are more pronounced, her jaw shaper, her nose is not straight like yours, but rather chippy, her lips are full and soft looking and her skin tone is just a bit lighter than yours. But her eyes, oh her eyes are practically made to match yours. One of them is blue as a furious ocean, while the other silver as bullet. You've never seen anything like that, except that you had. When you were around eight. When you first met this woman. Your obsession, your possession, your....

"Mirdin..." - a whisper among ghosts, filled with emotion a normal person wouldn't understand.

"Excuse me?" - she is lost, confused beyond reason, as to why this woman in from of her is looking like she's ready to devour or... worship. And that sudden nickname. - "Who is—?"

"What is your name?" - you cut her off, blood floating through your veins with fury, making you shake from excitement. Because you know, there is no Danamir Corneille. He's not real, only she is. - "Your real one?"

"Miranda." - she announces the sound of your victory. Oh how you wish to scream at the whole wide world your Mirdin is not dead, she has never been. And you knew it. You waited, all those years of despair. The only person you actually care about is standing right in front of you and you...wish to run away. The meeting being too overwhelming.

"I want to leave." - you breath in, almost forgetting you have to do this to stay alive. Your eyes move away, now searching for your clothes on that small chair. - "I want to go home."

Miranda can't do much to stop you. She tries, once. With leads to you slapping her hand away. And she doesn't go near you for a second time. She watches as you dress yourself, although ripping the fabric from rushing. The moment you get ready, you dash towards the door, turning around only for a second to stare at the confused woman.

"Goodnight." - you blurt out, wanting to say something completely different, but in the moment of unusual panic, you forget yourself. A fool, that's what she turns you in. - "No— goodbye, Mirdin."

With that you leave, not hearing Miranda's last words towards you.

"I—goodbye then, Vermy. Let us meet again sometimes."

*****

The inside Monsieur Corneille's mind, or rather Miranda's, is pure chaos. But in the centre of it, there is only one person.

She's perfect. Oh, so perfect. Sweet Vermilyea with the awful last name Lament. Perfect. Perfect for me.

She can't get you out of her thoughts, even by force, or the alcohol she consumed after you left. She's sure even the morphine she often takes won't be able to help her. Because finally, finally she has found the perfect woman for her project, for her rebirth. Her doll will have your face, which is way too similar to hers and that makes it perfect. Not only that, but you're also able to match her way of thinking, although she managed to beat you in your games, simply because she uses those same techniques when she wants something. And Miranda might not always get what she desires, but Danamir Corneille does and only that matters.

Even now, she's walking down the dark alleys of Veret, unafraid, because she's beneath the costume of her public persona. The golden mask being her protector. She's respected and praised for being a man. All things that never reached her when she was a woman. All she knew was pain, blood and violence. But now the world is hers so will be Vermilyea Lament.

She takes a sharp turn to another street, eager to get to the tavern she has decided to sleep in, as her home is not here, no, her mansion awaits her in Montverre, therefore almost a whole day worth of travelling. Despite her pleasant meeting with you, she also was between many other people, most of them unwashed and dirty. And she couldn't stand it. The purple suit she wears will be washed over and over until her hands bleed and she's going to soak in her bath for at least an hour. All to feel clean again, something she hasn't really felt since being seventeen. After that man ruined her completely. The same man that now hunts her own mind.

Suddenly, Miranda stops all movements, her cane, which she uses for her limping, hits the ground and she turns around. Endless void of darkness following her tightly behind.

"Is someone there?" - her voice is shaking, the effect of the special herbs she uses to make it more like a man's already wearing off. But she's sure she heard someone behind her. She is unmoving, eye perfectly good and one unseeing eye staring at the night covered buildings around here. Only then she hears another voice and calms down, taking in a deep breath before resuming her hurried walking. - "I know, my dear, I just thought I heard someone."

In reality, Monsieur Corneille is completely alone.

#mother miranda #re8 village #resident evil 8 #mother miranda x reader #fanfic #reader x mother miranda #resident evil village #the masked man

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clumsypuppy · 1 year ago

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whenever someone asks me for help or advice i want to beam all my lived experience and advice that helped me through it directly into their mind to try and spare them as much pain and stress as possible, but because i cant actually do that what ends up happening is i dump everything i know related to that topic hoping something helps them like

#and yes. i am the older sibling i am quite literally the guinea pig by birthright #its hardwired into me to make thing as painless as possible for my little brother that it ends up becoming a huge part of my personality #but i also have adhd so my version of advice is 'blurt out everything that might be even a little related to the situation #and pray that something sticks with them'#also like its hard to describe but sometimes you wont really get what someone means because its just the wrong person or wrong time #when i was a kid my dad would explain how to solve a math problem and i wouldnt get it until someone else explained it to me #and something *clicked*. and then when id tell my dad i learned smth new he'd say i LITERALLY said the same thing you just #werent listening or smth. but its not that at all.. i cant really know what its like for smth to click until it happens #i used to think i wasnt ace bc everything i saw talking abt asexuality didnt ring any bells until i found someone talking abt #something that i DID resonate with and then i went from there. so i guess what im trying to say its one thing to share what i learned #and another thing for someone to go through something or hear it from someone else to really get what i mean. shrugs #yapping

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timelessjk · 2 months ago

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somehow, you. | jungkook au

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ summary: he was the quiet one in class. the type who never talked unless called on, who looked at the world from behind thick-rimmed glasses and stayed out of everyone’s way. you? you were the girl everyone knew. the one who never let anyone in. you weren’t looking for connection, and he wasn’t the kind to ask for it. but still… he did. and somehow, it worked.

ratings: 18+

pairing: jungkook x fem reader

genre: college AU, emotional intimacy, slightly slow burned.

warnings: explicit sexual content including unprotected sex (not advised), soft but possessive dirty talk, emotional vulnerability, praise, mild insecurity and reassurance, and a rough but tender dynamic in an established relationship. and ofc…big dicc jungkook cause UGH.

word count: 5.2k

a/n: hi! ok so. this is my very first fic i’m posting and i’m actually kind of losing my mind about it?? originally it was supposed to be two parts (pt.1 soft, pt.2 smut) but i got carried away and ended up writing it all in one go because i wouldn’t shut up abt this two!!

*banners/dividers credits to the owners ♡ ྀི

thank you for reading!! leave your comments on what u think of my first fic 🥺! 🤍 - Sher

requests are officially opened!

The classroom always smelled like old air and pen inks, a familiar background hum to every forgettable weekday morning.

You sat at the back, as always, where you could stretch your legs, twirl your pen, and zone out without anyone bothering you. People knew you, too well.

Not because you tried, but because the world couldn’t help but notice the girl who always seemed a little untouchable.

Then the teacher changed the seating plan.

“Jeon Jungkook. You’re moving to the back, beside her.”

A ripple of murmurs went through the class, subtle but present. You could feel the stares. You looked up just in time to see him glance nervously your way before lowering his eyes and walking toward the seat beside you.

Jungkook. Everyone knew who he was, even if he rarely spoke. Top of the class. Never late. Always dressed clean, minimal, quiet. You didn’t expect anything from him. Didn’t need another nerdy guy going stiff just because you shared a desk.

But that day, he surprised you.

He sat down carefully, barely making a sound, and opened his book. No fidgeting. No glances. Just… stillness. Until you heard the smallest breath of a murmur.

“Chapter’s interesting,” he said, eyes still on the page.

You blinked.

“What?”

He didn’t flinch. “The reading. It’s good. Surprising, kind of.”

You studied him, confused. He hadn’t even looked at you. It was like he wasn’t trying to talk to you—just thinking aloud, and you happened to hear.

You didn’t answer.

But your curiosity flickered.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊⊹ꮺ˚

The next few days, he didn’t speak again. But he was always on time. Always with his notebook perfectly aligned. Always glancing at your desk when he thought you weren’t looking—quick, nervous flicks of his eyes.

Then came the Wednesday.

You’d forgotten your pens, bag full of it. Not on purpose—just one of those mornings where you left everything behind. You muttered something under your breath, frustrated, and slammed your bag down.

Before you could think to dig through your things again, a sleek black pen rolled across your desk.

You turned. Jungkook was still facing forward, penless himself now.

“You sure?” you asked, surprised.

He nodded once. “I have another.”

You waited for a smile. A joke. Some kind of flirtation.

Nothing.

Just a calm silence.

It threw you off more than someone asking for your number ever could.

Then came the Thursday rainstorm.

You stayed behind after class, waiting for it to ease, stuck at the school’s entrance while thunder rumbled in the distance. Everyone else had already left, except for him.

He walked up beside you without a word, holding an umbrella. For a second, you thought he was going to walk past.

He hesitated.

“You live near East Gate, right?” he asked, voice low, eyes on the rain.

You narrowed your eyes. “How do you know that?”

He shrugged. “I’ve seen you leave that way. Every day.”

You didn’t answer.

He tilted the umbrella slightly toward you. “Come on.”

You stared at him like he’d grown two heads. But you followed.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊⊹ꮺ˚

That walk changed everything.

He didn’t try to impress you. Didn’t pry. Just walked beside you, holding the umbrella with quiet precision to make sure it covered you both.

When you reached your turn, you stopped.

“Why’re you doing this?” you asked, genuinely confused.

He paused. Looked at you for the first time, really looked—eyes soft behind his wet fringe.

“Because you look like no one ever asks how you’re doing,” he said. “And i kind of want to.”

You stood frozen as he walked away, raindrops hitting your shoulders after the umbrella disappeared with him down the path.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊⊹ꮺ˚

From then on, he became your quiet shadow.

Always beside you in class. Always one step behind in the hallway. But not in a clingy way. He respected your space but showed up when it mattered.

One morning, you came in late, eyes puffy from a night you didn’t want to talk about. You slumped into your chair, hoodie up, bare faced (that rarely happens whenever you go to class) sleeves tugged over your hands.

He didn’t say anything.

But when you finally looked at your desk, there was a folded note, written in perfect; clean handwriting.

“It’s okay to have days like this. You’re allowed to fall apart sometimes. I’ve got notes if you need them.”

You folded the paper slowly. Pressed your lips together. And something inside you melted.

You weren’t used to being seen like that.

You weren’t used to someone not asking for anything in return.

That day, you turned to him and whispered, “Thanks.” giving him a small smile.

He looked up, startled, as if he wasn’t expecting you to respond.

And smiled, unsure, but real.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊⊹ꮺ˚

You think to yourself, you might fell for him. Maybe. Which is a weird feeling to you.

Given that you both barely have a proper (real) conversation.

Well you did exchange numbers—that’s because you both somehow were assigned to work together, so Jungkook thought it would be better to interact outside of class.

For study purpose of course.

Eventually both of you did text one another—occasionally. Just short texts nothing conversation worthy.

Yeah, you felt this weird butterflies.

But, you didn’t fall all at once.

It happened slowly. Over study sessions you didn’t consider were study sessions, coffee walks that became routines, quiet texts late at night when he’d ask, “Did you eat today?” and not stop asking until you said yes.

Over the time, during study sessions, you found yourself laughing around him. Trusting him.

Letting your guard down without realizing it had dropped.

One night, you asked through text, in your bed, loneliness crept again, “You know i’m kind of… a mess, right?”

He replied few seconds too fast.

“I know,” he said. “But you’re the kind of mess that makes sense to me.”

And you fell.

Quietly. Completely.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊⊹ꮺ˚

You weren’t sure when the lines blurred—when study sessions became excuses to sit a little closer, when shared coffee turned into shared glances, when “see you tomorrow” carried the weight of don’t forget me.

Jungkook didn’t rush anything. He never did.

But one Friday, something shifted.

He caught up with you after class, his hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up, headphones around his neck, looking nervous in a way that made your heart weirdly ache.

“Hey,” he said, walking beside you. “There’s this exhibition at the design building… the one with digital installations. I thought—maybe you’d like it.”

You turned to look at him. “You inviting me?”

He nodded, looking at the floor. “If you want. No pressure. It’s tomorrow.”

You almost teased him. Almost said something sarcastic just to keep things from feeling too serious. But something in the way he looked—open, nervous, sincere—made you soften.

“Yeah,” you said. “I’d like that.”

⋆. 𐙚 ̊⊹ꮺ˚

The exhibition was small. Quiet. Dreamy.

Digital light shifted across the walls like watercolor in motion. Projected clouds drifted across the floor.

Every room had its own ambient sound—soft, electronic music and echoing whispers. It should’ve felt awkward, being alone together in that hush.

But with him, it didn’t.

You stood in one of the installations surrounded by cascading lines of digital rain, blue and silver glowing all around and he looked at you like he wanted to remember the moment.

“I like this,” you said quietly.

He glanced at the ceiling, then back at you. “Me too.”

A beat passed.

“Honestly… i didn’t know if you’d say yes,” he admitted. “To coming here.”

You tilted your head. “Why not?”

He looked at you. “Because i’m not like the other people you talk to.”

“You mean the loud ones? I don’t talk to just anyone, anymore. Besides, didn’t we spend a good amount of time together for the past month to be considered as…friends?”

He smiled, barely. “Yeah. The ones who know what to say. And yeah i knew that but still, i thought it was just a study session, coffee catch ups with you—that you’d rather spend your time with your other…friends.”

You shifted your weight. “Maybe i got tired of people who always know what to say and FYI—i’d rather spend my time with you.”

Silence.

Just the sound of soft electronic rainfall.

Then he said it—so low you almost missed it:

“I really like being around you.”

You turned to him, heart suddenly too loud in your chest.

He’s so dreamy, handsome.

“I really like being around you too.”

And he looked at you like you’d just said the one thing he’d been waiting to hear.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊⊹ꮺ˚

Your first kiss wasn’t at the exhibition.

That night had already held enough. The way he kept sneaking glances at you while pretending to read the plaque beside a sculpture, the way his hand hovered close to yours but never quite touched.

You walked the whole gallery like that, quiet but full of something neither of you wanted to name yet.

Later, he offered to walk you home. You said yes.

The air was cold but not bitter, the city dim and quiet in that in-between hour.

Your footsteps echoed against the pavement, your breath blooming white in the air. He kept his hands in his coat pockets, close but not brushing yours.

“Did you like the exhibit?” he asked, his voice low and a little shy.

“I did,” you said. “But i think i liked walking around with you more.”

He turned his head slightly, surprised. “Yeah?”

You nodded, not looking at him. “It was… nice. I don’t usually do things like that. With people.”

Jungkook was quiet for a moment. Then “You mean dates?”

You blinked. “Was this a date?”

His voice went even softer. “I wanted it to be.”

You stopped walking. Your apartment was just ahead, but you didn’t want to go in yet. The moment felt full.

Suspended.

He looked at you, eyes searching. “Can I be honest?”

You tilted your head. “Aren’t you always?” you giggled.

He smiled faintly. “I think about you a lot more than i should.”

You swallowed. “What does that mean?”

“It means i’ve liked you for a while. Even before you started talking to me.”

“You’re not exactly… forward, you know.”

“I didn’t think i was your type.”

“You’re not,” you said simply. “At least, not what i thought my type was.”

His expression didn’t change much, but you saw the flicker of hope behind his eyes.

You glanced down at your keys, twisting them between your fingers. “You’ve been patient with me.”

“I don’t mind waiting,” he said. “But sometimes i think… i just want to know if i’m the only one feeling this.”

You looked at him then. Really looked.

His scarf was wrapped high, almost to his mouth. His cheeks were pink from the cold, eyes warm, uncertain, but wide open.

He wasn’t trying to be smooth. He wasn’t trying to win. He was just there, telling you the truth.

Then slowly and tentatively, he stepped closer, his breath shallow.

His voice barely carried “Can I kiss you?”

You felt everything in you pause.

And then “Yeah,” you said softly, heart pounding.

“Yeah, you can.”

He didn’t hesitate after that. He leaned in, hand rising to your cheek, thumb brushing gently across your skin. His lips met yours in a kiss that was soft, slow, careful.

He was learning something sacred; he didn’t want to rush what he’d waited so long to feel.

When he pulled back, your lips still tingled from the warmth of him, your chest full and fluttering.

You smiled, breath curling in the air. “You always this careful?”

His voice was low, but sure. “Only when it’s important.”

And you knew, right then, it was.

You didn’t talk much after that kiss.

Not because it was awkward. Because it wasn’t. It was the kind of silence that wrapped itself around you like a blanket. Soft, steady, enough.

He waited for you to open the door. Didn’t push. Just gave you that small smile, the one he only ever gave you and said, “Text me when you’re inside.”

You nodded, stepped in, and closed the door.

Then leaned your forehead against it.

You were in trouble.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊⊹ꮺ˚

The next few days were different in all the ways that mattered.

You still sat beside each other in class. Still studied together in the library. But now there were new things. A small, subtle shifts.

His knee brushed against yours and didn’t move. He’d lean in when he spoke, voice softer. You’d catch him looking at you, and this time, you didn’t look away.

You weren’t used to this version of yourself; unguarded. And Jungkook, for all his quietness, seemed to understand that.

He never rushed you. Never asked “what are we?” or “where is this going?”

He just stayed.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊⊹ꮺ˚

It wasn’t planned.

The day had been normal. Classes, campus noise, another group project that had you rolling your eyes while Jungkook just quietly took notes. He always took notes, even when no one else cared. You liked that about him. You’d never told him.

You were both walking back from campus, the sky soft with evening gray, when it started to drizzle.

Jungkook held his bag over your head.

You laughed. “You know i’m not gonna melt, right?”

He just looked down at you. “You’re still cold when it rains. You get quiet.”

You didn’t answer. Mostly because he was right. You did get quiet.

And he noticed.

By the time you reached your apartment, your hair was damp, and your mood had shifted. You weren’t sad—just heavy.

One of those days. You didn’t say much as you opened the door and let him in.

Jungkook toed off his shoes carefully, still holding that nervous energy he always carried when he was in your space. You dropped your keys in the bowl by the door and stood in the kitchen, hands on the counter.

“Want tea?” you asked.

He nodded. “Yeah. That’d be nice.”

The silence between you was soft. Not tense. Just full of all the things you weren’t ready to say out loud. You made tea. He sat at the table. You sat across from him, knees brushing under the wood.

Then, out of nowhere, you said it.

“I don’t let people in.”

He looked up, startled. You weren’t looking at him—just staring into your mug.

“I don’t know how to do that,” you continued. “It’s easier when no one expects anything.”

A long pause. Then:

“I never expected anything,” he said.

You finally looked at him. He looked… calm. A little sad. But calm.

“I just liked being around you.”

You nodded slowly. “You still do?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Even more now.”

The air between you shifted. Slowed. Deepened.

And you whispered, “Stay tonight?”

He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t assume.

He just said, “Okay.”

⋆. 𐙚 ̊⊹ꮺ˚

You sat on the floor of your bedroom while he changed into the extra clothes you gave him. A quiet hum played from the speaker, barely audible.

When he stepped back into the room; barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed up, eyes soft, you suddenly felt that aching fear again.

What if you messed this up?

What if it didn’t last?

And then he crossed the room and knelt in front of you.

His hand rested gently on your knee. “You don’t have to be anything for me,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to perform. Or smile. Or fix anything.”

You looked down at your lap, fighting the warmth in your throat.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you admitted.

“I’ll wait while you figure it out,” he said.

Just like that.

No grand declaration. No demand. Just steady, honest patience.

You reached for his hand.

Held it.

And when you finally crawled into bed beside him, there was no space left between you. You pressed your back to his chest, his arm wrapping loosely around your waist. His breath tickled your shoulder.

“You okay?” he whispered.

“Yeah,” you whispered back.

And you meant it.

You woke to the quiet shift of fabric. The soft sound of him sitting up beside you.

Morning light filtered through the curtains in a pale blur. Your back was still warm from where his arm had rested. You blinked slowly, your mind caught between dreams and now.

Jungkook was already awake, hoodie wrinkled, hair messy from sleep.

He was sitting at the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve.

He looked like he was thinking too loud.

You propped yourself up on your elbow. “Hey,” you said, voice scratchy.

He turned to you immediately, like he’d been waiting. “Hey,” he echoed. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

You sat up slowly, pulling the blanket around your shoulders. “You okay?”

He nodded. Then shook his head. Then let out a quiet breath, like he wasn’t sure how to start.

“Can i ask you something?” he said softly.

You stilled, heart already beginning to tap faster in your chest. “Yeah.”

He looked down at his hands, picking at a loose thread on the cuff of his sleeve.

“I don’t want to ruin anything. I’m not trying to pressure you,” he started, voice careful. “But… what are we?”

You didn’t answer right away.

His eyes lifted. “I just…last night meant something to me. You mean something to me. And i know you don’t let people in easily. So i don’t want to assume anything, but i also don’t want to keep pretending this is just… nothing.”

You watched him for a moment, your throat tight.

“I didn’t think you’d ask,” you murmured.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re usually the quiet one. The patient one.”

“I still am,” he said. “But being patient doesn’t mean I’m not feeling things too.”

You swallowed, fingers tugging at the edge of the blanket. “I’m not good at this. I don’t know how to explain what i feel when i’m with you. It’s new. And a little scary.”

He nodded slowly. “Same.”

You looked at him. “But i don’t want it to be nothing either.”

Jungkook’s expression softened. “Yeah?”

You nodded, quieter this time. “Yeah.”

He shifted closer, his knee bumping gently against yours. “Then maybe… we don’t have to label it yet. But I just needed to know i wasn’t alone in it.”

“You’re not,” you said.

You meant it.

Jungkook exhaled a breath he’d been holding. Then reached out, tentative at first and he curls his fingers around yours.

“Okay,” he said, voice warm now. “Then i’m yours. However long it takes.”

You smiled, eyes stinging just a little. “You’re really not what i expected.”

He grinned—finally, fully. “I get that a lot.”

And in the quiet that followed, your fingers remained laced with his. Simple. Certain.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you had to run.

It had been a month.

One month since Jungkook had leaned across your front step and kissed you like it mattered. Since he’d touched your face like he was afraid you’d vanish if he blinked too fast.

And somehow, things still felt new. Still soft. Still unreal in moments like now, with him sprawled across your bed in a hoodie, reading on his stomach, feet swaying behind him like a kid.

You were half-working on an assignment, half-watching him.

“You’re staring,” he said without looking up.

“I’m admiring,” you corrected.

He turned his head just enough to catch your smirk, then gave a small smile. “Baby,” he said under his breath, “you’re distracting.”

“You like it,” you replied, nudging his leg with your foot.

He hummed. “I do.”

⋆. 𐙚 ̊⊹ꮺ˚

Your relationship had grown into something… daily. Quiet rituals that made your chest ache. He’d walk you to class with your fingers looped in his sleeve. He’d wait for you outside the library, sipping iced coffee and reading the latest novel you lent him. You started wearing his hoodies without asking. He stopped looking surprised when you kissed his cheek mid-sentence.

But even with the sweetness, there was still something unspoken hanging between you.

Something warmer. Heavier.

Like tonight.

He was still lying on your bed when you finally gave up pretending to work and climbed over him, plopping yourself beside his back with a sigh.

He closed his book and peeked at you. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you murmured. “You’re just comfy.”

He let out a soft laugh. “You say that every time you use me as a pillow.”

“Because it’s true, baby.”

You shifted, laying your head against his back. Your palm flattened over his spine.

Jungkook went still for a second—then melted.

“Do you…” you hesitated, unsure why your throat suddenly felt tight, “do you ever want to do more than just lie here?”

He was silent for a moment.

Then, softly: “Yeah. I do.”

You sat up a little, just enough to look at him.

His cheeks were already flushed.

“I just never know if you’re comfortable,” intertwining your fingers together.

“Or if you want to. I’ve never really… gotten this far before.” he added.

You blinked. “You haven’t?”

He shook his head. “I’ve dated a few, but it never got serious. And no one ever really looked at me like you do.”

That last part made your chest squeeze.

“You mean like you hung the stars?” you teased gently.

He smiled, eyes shy. “Kind of, yeah.”

You reached out, brushing your fingers through his hair. “You’re not the only nervous one, baby.”

“I’m not?”

You shook your head. “I’ve been with my fair share of…flings? boyfriends?, whatever you wanna call it—but it never felt right nor did it worked out, obviously. It always felt like they expected something from me. You don’t.”

Jungkook shifted, sitting up properly now. You were both facing each other, legs crossed.

“Can i ask you something?” he said quietly.

You nodded.

His voice was careful. “If we… wanted to try something. Anything. Would you tell me if you weren’t ready?”

“Always,” you promised.

He reached forward, brushing a thumb against your cheek. “Okay.”

You leaned into his palm.

And after a beat, you whispered, “Would you kiss me now?”

His lips twitched. “I’d give you anything you want.”

When he kissed you—slow and warm, one hand still cupping your jaw—it felt like everything in the world slowed down. Like it was just you and him, tangled in hush and trust.

You shifted closer, your hand slipping beneath the hem of his hoodie, resting just above his waistband. You felt him freeze, just slightly.

“Too much?” you whispered.

“No,” he breathed. “Just new.”

You smiled into the kiss. “We’ll take it slow.”

“Promise?” he breathes into the kiss.

“Promise.”

And when he pulled you fully into his lap, burying his face in your neck with a soft laugh, it felt like something more than new.

It happened on a night that didn’t feel special; no candles, no dramatic music, just the two of you in your room after dinner, legs tangled on your bed, warm with laughter and full from pasta Jungkook had insisted on cooking himself.

He was wearing gray sweatpants and one of your oversized shirts, sleeves pushed up, his hair messily falling across his forehead.

You had just pulled him down for a kiss. Playful, slow.

But then it lingered. Deepened.

And something shifted.

His tongue slipped against yours, deliberate. His hand came up to cup the back of your neck, pulling you closer like he couldn’t help himself anymore.

When you whimpered against his lips, he pulled back slightly, gaze heavy-lidded.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low and rough.

You nodded, breathless. “Yeah. Just… wasn’t expecting you to kiss me like that.”

He brushed your cheek with his thumb. “Like what?”

“Like you’ve been waiting to.”

“I have been,” he murmured. “For so fucking long.”

Your chest tightened, breath caught in your throat.

“We’ve kissed many, many times before?,” you giggled.

And then his lips was on yours again, more desperate this time. No teasing. No question.

Jungkook leaned over you, pressing you into the mattress, his body slotting between your thighs like it was instinct.

You felt how hard he was through the thin fabric of your shorts. He wasn’t trying to hide it. He wanted you to feel it.

“Jungkook,” you breathed, tugging at his shirt. “Please.”

He sat back just enough to yank it over his head, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. “You sure?”

“Baby,” you said, reaching for him again, “I’ve never been more sure.”

Something in his expression cracked open at that relief, hunger, something fierce and protective all at once.

“Then let me have you,” he said, voice dark, breath ragged. “Let me fuck you like you deserve.”

The way he said it; need dripping into every syllable made your whole body shudder.

He tugged your shorts down fast, your panties going with them. When you gasped, he kissed the inside of your thigh, then hovered over you again, his cock straining visibly in his sweats.

“God,” he whispered, eyes raking over you. “You’re so fucking pretty like this. Laid out for me.”

Your hands reached for him, desperate. “I want you, Jungkook. I don’t wanna wait.”

“You won’t,” he said, voice curling around you like silk and smoke.

He shoved his pants down just enough to free himself, stroking himself slowly as he stared at you.

“You’ve got no idea what you do to me,” he murmured. “No idea how long i’ve wanted to be inside you.”

You reached between your legs, spreading yourself open for him.

His mouth dropped open slightly. “Fuck.”

He lined himself up, eyes locked on yours. “Tell me if i go too fast, okay?”

You nodded, heart hammering. “I trust you.”

That did something to him.

He pushed in slow, deep, all at once.

Your breath hitched, legs trembling.

“Holy fuck,” Jungkook groaned, head falling to your shoulder. “You feel like heaven. So wet for me already.”

You clung to him, nails dragging lightly down his back.

“Move,” you gasped. “I need you.”

He obeyed without hesitation, pulling back, then slamming into you again with a rhythm that made your head spin.

It was hard and deep. Not rushed, but intentional. Like he knew exactly how to tear you apart and put you back together.

“Baby,” he breathed, panting against your throat, “you’re taking me so well.”

You moaned, legs tightening around him.

“You always this tight, or is it just for me?”

“Only you,” you choked out, voice cracking. “Only ever been like this for you.”

That made him growl.

“You feel perfect. Like you’re made for me.”

Every thrust dragged a whimper from your lips. Every kiss to your neck made you melt further under him.

You could feel how careful he was, even in the roughness. Like he wanted you to feel claimed, but not hurt. Never that.

“You like when i talk like this?” he asked, voice low in your ear.

“Yes,” you moaned. “Fuck, Jungkook.”

“You make me lose my mind, princess. Got me thinking about you all day. Couldn’t wait to fuck you full of my come inside.”

Your back arched, nails digging into his shoulders.

He shifted his hips, angling deeper. “You gonna come for me like this? Gonna come on my cock hm?”

You nodded desperately, tears brimming at the corners of your eyes. “Yes….don’t stop.”

“Look at me,” he whispered.

You did.

And in the silence that followed, he slowed down, but pressed in deep and stayed there.

His body trembled above yours, like he was holding something back—not just his release, but something heavier.

You cupped his cheek gently. “Jungkook?”

His voice broke.

“I love you,” he whispered; then again, faster, almost panicked. “I love you so much it’s scaring me.”

You stared up at him, eyes wide.

“I—” His throat worked as he swallowed, his brows drawn tight with emotion. “I never thought i’d have this. You. I never thought someone like you would ever even look at me.”

“Jungkook—”

“I used to watch you,” he continued, voice cracking. “In class. You were always so confident. So distant. But then you sat next to me—God, i still remember the way you looked that day. I thought it was a joke. Like there’s no way you would sit beside me.”

Your chest ached. He kept going.

“But you did. You stayed. You talked to me. You let me see pieces of you no one else gets to. And i still don’t know why. I still think maybe you’ll wake up and realize you could do better and just… leave.”

You shook your head, eyes stinging.

“But you don’t,” he whispered. “You stay. You’re patient with me when i get quiet. When i don’t know what to say. You still kiss me like i matter.”

His voice dropped lower, barely a breath.

“I don’t know what i did to deserve you. But fuck—i’m so glad you exist. I’m so glad you sat next to me.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

He saw the silence as hesitation, and something in his face crumpled.

“It’s okay,” he said quickly, pulling back just slightly. “You don’t have to say it back. I just….i needed you to know. Even if i’m not what you expected. Even if I’m not enough.”

And that’s when it hit you.

This boy; this quiet, brilliant, soft-hearted boy had been holding it in for months.

You surged up and kissed him.

Not soft. Not gentle.

You kissed him like you were giving him an answer.

He gasped against your lips when you pulled away.

“I love you,” you whispered. “Are you kidding? You’re everything.”

He blinked, stunned.

“I didn’t say it sooner because i was scared i’d ruin this,” you said. “But Jungkook… you are everything i could ever ask for.”

He let out a shaky breath—half a laugh, half a sob—and kissed you again, deeper this time. Needy. Grateful.

You weren’t sure what hurt more. The way he was moving inside you, or the way he was looking at you.

Like you were a miracle.

Like you were something he’d never believed he could have.

Every thrust was deep, steady, but trembling with emotion. He was holding on for dear life. His forehead pressed to yours, sweat on his brow, his breath hot and uneven.

“God,” Jungkook groaned, voice raw, “you feel so good, too good.”

You cupped his face again, thumbs brushing over his flushed cheeks. “You can let go. i’ve got you.”

But he didn’t. Not yet.

“I don’t want this to end,” he whispered. “I don’t want us to end.”

“We won’t,” you said softly. “I’m right here.”

He choked on a breath, hips stuttering. “I’ve never… never loved anyone like this.”

You nodded, tears welling. “Me either.”

And still, he didn’t stop moving. He couldn’t; not when your body clung to his like a prayer, not when your nails curled against his back, not when your lips parted with little gasps that sounded like his name.

“Let go, baby,” you whispered. “I want you to come inside. Cmon baby.”

His pace faltered; sharper, desperate. “Can’t believe you’re mine,” he breathed. “Can’t believe it’s you.”

Then, with a deep groan against your neck, he finally gave in—shuddering in your arms, body tensing, spilling into you like it was all too much and not enough at once.

You held him through it.

Through the tremble in his limbs.

Through the whispered “I love you” that followed on the heels release. Ropes of come dripping out as he pulls out slowly then inside again. You moaned at the sensation.

He didn’t move for a while—just stayed there, inside you, wrapped around you, like he couldn’t stand to lose the warmth.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, stroking his hair. “You don’t have to hold on so tight.”

He nuzzled into your shoulder. “I want to, though.”

“I know,” you smiled. “Me too.”

Eventually, he shifted, settling beside you, your bodies still tangled beneath the blankets.

The silence was heavy but comforting. No more fear. No more holding back.

Just breathing. Together.

You turned to look at him, and he was already watching you.

“What?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He traced your jaw with his thumb, eyes soft.

“Out of everyone in this whole world… somehow, it was you.”

Your chest ached.

You kissed him, slow and deep and sure.

And thought, yeah.

Somehow, it was him too.

#jungkook x reader #jungkook smut #jeon jungkook x reader #bts smut #bts fluff #jungkook scenarios #jungkook fanfic #jeon jungkook #timelessjk

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wooyoungiewritings · 1 month ago

Text

Borrowed Time - Seonghwa x Reader (Part 1)

Summary: Your husband of 8 years suggests an open marriage, and while he's out finding a new girlfriend, you feel like it's wrong to even glance in another man's direction. But it all changes when you download Tinder and match with Seonghwa. The man who's about to turn your world upside down. And he even happens to be your husband's boss.

Word count: 11.7K

Genre: Fluff, Rich Seonghwa, some angst, slow burn, a little smut (something almost happens, that's all I'm saying)

warnings: Seonghwa with reader (fem pronouns), crying, betrayal, dry-humping, lmk if I missed anything!

PART 2

This is all for fun and is not meant to represent Seonghwa in any way.

It’s been four months. Four months since you had the conversation with your husband about having an open marriage, because he wanted to try something new. The conversation is still taking up space in your mind like it was yesterday he sat you down on the couch in the house you share.

“Honey, you know I still love you,” He kept repeating after saying the possibly most shocking things you’ve ever heard. “I’m just afraid we’ll get tired of each other if we don’t try this.. We promised to be together forever, but aren’t you wondering what else is waiting for you out in the world?”

“No,” Is all you could say. A million questions run through your mind as he sits in front of you, kneeled down on his knee with your hands in his as you sit on the couch. “I married you because I want to be with you. And only you.” Your voice is shaky, trying to hold back the tears.

He notices the way you react and squeezes your hands in his.

“And I want to be with you, baby. I wanna be with you for the rest of my life, which is why I feel like this is the best we can do for now.” He tried explaining, but it didn’t help.

“I just don’t understand? Are you not happy with me? Am I not satisfying you enough? Is it me? Am I doing something wrong?” The questions fly out of your mouth before you’re able to hold back. He quickly shakes his head, holding your hands even tighter.

“No, no not at all. Look, I was just thinking we could do this for a year, maybe? A year where we are still married, but see other people in the meantime. When the year ends, we’ll be back to just us, and because we promised to stay together for the rest of our lives, a year won’t seem as much. This will be the only time we get to see other people for the rest of our lives, baby. It’s not a bad thing, it's only gonna strengthen our marriage in the end.”

For some twisted reason, you saw his point. If you agreed to this, he would have a year to be with whoever he wanted, to get everything out of his system. So you agreed. You told him you agreed to do this for a year, but there had to be rules.

You had to tell the other person when you started seeing someone. No sleeping with a bunch of people, you have to tell the other person who you’re sleeping with (mostly for safety reasons). And NO one is allowed into the bedroom besides husband and wife.

And so this has been going on for four months now, and your husband is out with his girlfriend. Since this wasn’t against your deal, you couldn’t say much against it, so you just nodded and pretended to be okay. He started seeing her a week after the deal was made, a woman from his office, and the news broke your heart. He was barely home anymore, spending all of his time at her place.

The pain of hearing your husband of 8 years loving someone else was unbearable, and yet you couldn’t even get yourself to see someone else. It felt so wrong.

It was a friday night and you’re sitting on your couch in your shared home, and your husband just left to have a weekend getaway with his girlfriend. You’re staring at the TV that has been going for hours with some bad reality TV-show, when you finally realize how sick you are of sitting home alone while your husband is out. You grab your phone and without thinking too much, you download Tinder.

It wasn’t an app you’ve ever tried before, since your husband and you have been dating since you were teens and got married at an early age. But you quickly figured out the app and set up your profile.

Swiping left and right on guys was more fun than you imagined, getting a few matches here and there. There were all different types of profiles on this app. Guys looking for serious relationships, guys looking for hookups, couples looking for a woman to add to their threesome. Men who opened with “hey sexy” or bios that included “I’m not looking for anything serious unless it’s with Sabrina Carpenter.”

So when his profile popped up, you hesitated.

His picture captures you immediately, and you’re taken back with his beauty. He was… breathtaking. But not in that overly filtered, red flag kind of way. There was warmth in his eyes, even in photos. A calm kind of confidence. One picture had him sitting at a piano, another laughing in the passenger seat of a car, sunlight washing over his face like it knew exactly where to land.

No shirtless mirror pics. No awkward drunk group-pictures. No fish.

“Park Seonghwa.” You read his name out loud. His bio was short. “Looking for something good. And maybe someone to watch bad TV with.”

You stared at his profile for a full two minutes before swiping right, mostly convinced it wouldn’t be a match anyway.

But then-

It’s a match!

Suddenly your heart starts to beat faster and you sit up straight on the couch while looking at your phone.

Did you just match him? Probably the most handsome man you’ve ever seen?

Your stomach did a weird little flip. You waited. Twenty minutes. An hour. Maybe he wasn’t the type to message first. Maybe he matched by accident. Or maybe-...

Park Seonghwa Are you watching something awful right now? Be honest.

You look at your screen for a few seconds before reacting. A smile spreads across your lips as you open his message and type back.

Me Love Mansion: Season 6. There’s a guy crying because no one likes his magic tricks.

You quickly see the dots that indicate he’s typing.

Park Seonghwa That sounds deeply tragic. And also like something I’d binge while pretending I hate it

Me You’re one of those people? “This show is terrible” but suddenly you’ve watched 8 episodes and you know everyone’s star sign.

While you wait for his answer, you enter his profile once again. You can’t help looking at his pictures, mesmerized by how beautiful this man is. You almost get a feeling of recognition while looking at him, like you’ve seen him on a poster or in an ad or something. His profile doesn’t inform about his occupation, but you’re sure he must be showing that face off somewhere.

A new message pops up.

Park Seonghwa: I have a spreadsheet

You laughed out loud for the first time that night.

You: So what’s your favorite actually-good movie then?

Park Seonghwa: You’re asking a very serious question to someone who owns a full set of replica lightsabers

You: Oh, so you’re very serious about it

Park Seonghwa: Yes. Star Wars. All of it. Even the prequels. Especially the prequels. I said what I said

I’m at my third Star Wars movie of the day. The movies are over two hours each, so you can imagine how eventful my day is so far

You can’t help but smile while you type out your answer.

Me As a person who doesn’t know much about the franchise, I can’t tell you whether I’m impressed or slightly worried. Maybe I should put on a Star Wars movie and give it a chance?

An answer ticks in a few seconds later.

Park Seonghwa If you do, watch “The Last Jedi”. I just started mine, we can watch it together but separately

You don’t know how a guy you’re only a few messages deep with has you convinced this is the best way to spend your night. You decide to play the movie and message him you’re watching it too. This is the most action you’ve gotten in months, but somehow it's the perfect way to start this journey of an open-relationship.

Maybe.

The movie begins and Seonghwa introduces some of the characters as they show up on screen. You find yourself laughing at his messages, smiling and waiting for him to text you the next thing. A feeling you haven’t felt in years, despite being married to who you’re convinced is the love of your life. But you can already tell that Seonghwa is a completely different type of guy, and for once, you actually don’t feel alone in the house you share with your husband.

The movie ends and you’re hundreds of messages deep.

Park Seonghwa Now that we’ve concluded that “The Last Jedi” is part of an amazing franchise but not at all the best movie, I wanna admit that I’ve never looked so much at my phone during a Star Wars movie. I feel like I’m cheating on my favorite series

The text makes you giggle and you’re quick to type your answer.

Me Despite enjoying the movie, I must admit that I didn’t see half of it because I was focused on my phone. But I’ll gladly give Star Wars another chance someday

You see the text bubble appear and then go away a few times, making you curious about what he’s about to say.

Seonghwa: We could talk about the movie over dinner tomorrow?

You stare at your screen for what feels like forever, feeling like a teenager receiving a text from her crush. This overwhelming feeling Seonghwa leaves you is something completely new, but despite it being a new and slightly scary feeling, you can’t help but feel excited. And so your fingers start typing.

Me I’d love to! After arranging your upcoming date with Seonghwa, you decide to head to bed. You’re meeting him at a restaurant in the city tomorrow, Saturday. He offered to pick you up, but you’ve seen too many horror movies to give your address to a stranger before meeting them, so you came up with an excuse to meet him there.

You get comfortable in bed before opening his profile once again to look at his pictures.

This man… wow.

But just like before, a feeling of recognition hits you and you study his pictures a bit more. You’re sure you would remember him if you had met him, because who would forget a face like that? But it doesn’t ring a bell..

You open a new tab on your phone and search for his name. Perhaps he has been in a show you’ve seen on tv, maybe on a poster somewhere. There’s no way this man isn’t showing off his looks somehow.

His name pops up on your screen.

A gasp leaves your lips and you stare at him in awe.

It can’t be him! No no no no no…

The name, the face, him in a suit. Everything washes over you. You throw your phone away from you and bury your face in your pillow.

In your mind, you’re getting transported to a specific night, one year ago. Your husband has your arm in his and you’re walking side by side in your finest attire. You’re laughing at something your husband's co-worker said, when you sense a powerful presence enter the circle at the company dinner at your husband’s job.

“Oh, I want to introduce you to someone,” Your husband says as he turns you towards the newest member of the group. “My boss, Park Seonghwa.”

You stare up at him, Seonghwa slightly taller than your husband. His gaze adverts to you as he reaches out his hand. But as you give him your hand, he doesn’t do a normal handshake. He gently takes your hand in his and sends you a warm smile. Something in his eyes makes you lose all concentration, as you’re lost in his beauty.

And then it all made sense. You’ve thought these exact thoughts before. A year ago at the company dinner and again tonight.

Everything in your mind is going 100 m/ph and you suddenly feel confused. Does he know you’re married to his employee? Does he remember you? You’re pretty sure he doesn’t, or else he would have said something. And now you’ve arranged a date with him.

You grab your phone again, considering if you should cancel the dinner, but something in you stops that from happening. The words don't appear in your head when you try to get out of the situation, so you delete the nonsense you’ve written so far, and decide to take things as they come. You place your phone on your night stand and get comfortable under the covers, trying your best to fall asleep.

On a couch across town, Seonghwa is still looking at his phone, looking at the text-bubbles come and go. When it doesn’t result in a text from the woman he has been texting all night, he goes to look at your profile for the 29th time tonight.

He didn’t expect much from Tinder.

Honestly, it had been a joke. A dare, technically. His assistant downloaded it on his phone one night after too many glasses of wine at a company dinner and said, “You need to date someone who doesn’t know what your net worth is.”

So fine. He swiped. Occasionally. Mostly out of boredom, sometimes out of curiosity. Everyone started blending together. Bios full of yoga poses, forced “entrepreneur” energy, one woman who said she manifested her future husband every morning through herbal tea and moon rituals.

But then he saw you.

He found himself leaning back against the cushions, phone in hand, grinning like an idiot as your replies came in. You weren't trying to be impressive. You were just herself. And that was more magnetic than anything he’d seen in months. He didn’t even realize he’d been texting for two straight hours until his phone buzzed with a calendar notification:

Dinner with Executive Team – 9 AM monday.

He groaned. Whatever. He’d been in back-to-back meetings all week. He could allow himself one night to just… feel normal. Human.

“What’s a woman like you doing here?” he’s asking himself with a smirk, scrolling through your pictures.

He had planned to go to bed early, have a peaceful night and get up early tomorrow, but he’s been too fascinated by the woman on the other side of the app. The tug on his lips doesn’t go away as he gets up from the couch and decides to head to bed, already accepting that he won’t get up early tomorrow.

But one thing is for sure.

He’s very satisfied with the way his night went.

***

Saturday arrives, and you find yourself in front of the restaurant you agreed to meet Seonghwa at. You haven’t had any contact since you arranged the date, besides the check-in he made earlier today to ask if you were still down for dinner.

You feel the nerves in your body when you open the door, not having felt this feeling since you started dating your husband. The restaurant is in an area of town you usually didn’t visit - it is more expensive than you are used to. But not spending money on dates with your husband, and only cooking food for one for the past four months has resulted in you having a bit more money than you usually do, so you could go big for one night and spend some money on a good restaurant.

The restaurant has a dark design with marble and wooden interior. The light is dimmed and you notice couples occupying tables throughout the restaurant.

This is actually happening. You are going on a date with him.

With Seonghwa.

It suddenly hit you and once again, you starting to doubt if this was a good idea. You have come to the point where you wanted to date, but dating your husband’s boss seems like the next level. Will your husband be okay with this? Will Seonghwa be okay with this?

Suddenly feeling like your legs are about to give out, you turn around to head outside but you are instead met with a human wall. A set of hands grab your waist to steady you, making sure you won’t fall by the sudden collision.

“Running away already?” The voice asks, darker than you remember but also soft with a small tease. You look up to see Seonghwa’s soft eyes, slightly covered by some dark pieces of hair. Being a few inches from his face, you can’t help but freeze to study how absolutely amazing he looks up close.

His almost black eyes, bushy brows, how his upper lip looks slightly bigger than the other, the most perfect nose you’ve ever seen.. Everything is too perfect, you don't know how to react.

The sudden realization that his hands are on your waist wakes you up, and you stand back up straight to take a step away from him and his undeniably stunning face.

“Uhm, no I.. I mean, I- no. I didn’t..” Your struggle with words makes him chuckle and he seems to brush off your awkward first meeting quicker than you.

“How about we find our table?” He asks with a smile, placing his hand on your back to lead you further into the restaurant.

“Mh-hmm.” Is all you manage to get out, wanting to kick yourself in the head for almost walking out on this man.

The restaurant is a rooftop spot. Quiet, upscale, city lights spilling in through the glass walls. A jazz trio played somewhere in the background, subtle and elegant. The staff seem to know him, your table is ready immediately, tucked in a quiet corner with a view of the city lights. He orders a bottle of wine without looking at the menu, his tone smooth and confident, and then turn all his attention to you.

“Tell me something,” he says, resting his chin on his hand, “How have you lived your entire life and last night was the first time you watched a Star Wars movie?”

You blink at him. “You start with the hard questions?”

He smile. “I like to skip the small talk.”

You giggle. And from there, the conversation goes rather smoothly. Then easier as the wine warms your chest and his eyes never stop watching you like you were the most interesting person in the world. He asks thoughtful questions. He doesn’t talk about himself unless you ask. And when you do, he’s vague, says he works in business, likes privacy, that his life isn’t all that exciting.

Which is a lie, you are sure.

This man radiates luxury. His watch alone could pay for your college loans, and he never once checked it. And then somewhere between the wine and the main course, it starts to gnaw at you. The weight of the secret you’re keeping. Or at least… the one you thought is yours alone.

You clear your throat, reaching for your glass again even though you didn’t really want another sip.

“I should tell you something.”

He tilts his head. “Are you okay?” he senses the way your behavior changes and tries meeting your eyes.

“Yeah,” your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes, too nervous to break the truth that you know this man in front of you. “Or.. I don’t know, no, yes-no..” Your heart is beating fast. “Look, I’m sorry, but I feel like I have to be honest with you. I don’t want you to waste your time sitting here, and if you don’t feel comfortable after receiving this information I totally understand, so if you’re freaked out we can pretend this never happened and I won’t-..”

“Look,” Seonghwa places his hand over yours, totally calm, meeting your eyes. “Did you kill someone?”

“No!” You try keeping your voice down. Try.

“Do you need me to hide a body?”

“No!?”

“... Are we related?”

You tilt your head “No? I hope not…?”

“Then we’re good. I won’t be freaked out.” He shrugs, leans slightly back in his seat and sends you a smile as he picks up his glass.

You look at him, really look, and then just say it.

“You’re my husband’s boss.”

A beat. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. Just blinked once, slowly.

“Is that so?” he asked softly.

“I figured it out when I looked you up after we matched. I wasn’t… trying to snoop, I swear, I just got curious. And then I remembered you from the company dinner last year. Anyway, I wanted to say something in case it made this… weird for you.”

He smiles gently, setting down his glass. “It doesn’t.”

You blink. “Really?”

“I knew who you were the moment I saw your profile.”

Your stomach drops. “Oh.”

“But I still swiped right,” he adds, voice low, calm. “And I still wanted to meet you.”

“…Why?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at you for a moment, and something in his gaze makes your skin heat. “Because I wanted the honor of inviting you out for dinner.” he says.

Your breath catches. You don’t know what to say to that, so you stay quiet, letting the words sit between you like warm embers.

“And now that we’re being honest,” he continues gently, “That little thing on your finger.” He points to the gold band with a small diamond around your finger, proving to everyone, including yourself, that you’re still in a marriage.

You give a small, helpless laugh. “Oh.. Yeah, it’s not what it looks like. Or maybe it is? I don’t think so, actually, I don’t know what this looks like, but I’m not doing anything I’m not supposed to do-...”

“You don’t have to explain anything,” he says.

“No, I want to,” you reply, surprising yourself. “I need to.”

So you tell him. About the open marriage your husband suggested. About how you agreed, naively thinking it would be equal. About how he’d found someone in a matter of weeks while you’d sat at home, trying to convince yourself you weren’t just waiting. You watch Seonghwa carefully for a reaction. There is none, no judgment, no discomfort. Just a quiet focus that made you feel safer than you’d felt in months.

“But it’s actually a really good idea. I mean, we get the chance to see other people and do whatever we want, so we won’t cheat on each other later on,” you shrug, looking down at the wineglass instead of the piercing eyes in front of you. “It’s preventing us from hurting the other person in the end.” you say, finally.

He sits quiet, just taking in your words. You can’t read his eyes, he just listens. But you don’t feel judged by the man in front of you. His eyes show too much warmth for you to be intimidated.

“I don’t understand.” he finally says.

“You know, if we date other people now, we won’t feel the need to do so in the future.”

“No, I heard every word you said loud and clear,” he leaned forward in his chair, voice still soft. “I just don’t understand why he would need to.. you know.. date others when he has you.”

Seonghwa was trying his best to not push. He could easily have said “I mean, if I was your husband, I wouldn’t want to see other people. I wouldn’t ever want another woman.” but he is still in the stage of getting to know you, doesn’t want to scare you away, and despite remembering you from the company dinner last year, he only remembers what impression you left him. A quick introduction and laughs shared in a circle of multiple people, but somehow his eyes kept drifting to you.

Your laugh, your dress, the way your eyes sparkled under the lights. It had stayed with Seonghwa for a year, so when he saw your profile on a dating app, he knew he had to shoot his shot. Unaware of what the circumstances are between you and your husband.

But he doesn’t ask for more explanation. Instead, he shifts the conversation, just slightly, easing it toward lighter things, books, music, how you both secretly hate networking events.

And somehow, the night never felt heavy again. When dessert comes, some delicate French pastry you can’t pronounce, he insists you try the first bite. When your laugh returns, brighter this time, he smiles like that was the reward he’s been waiting for.

Later, as he walks you to your ride, you feel lighter. Like maybe it was okay to want something new. Someone new.

“I still want to see you again,” he says, standing beside the car door. His hand brushes your wrist, soft and brief. “If you want that too.”

You nod.

“I do.”

He opens the door for you, then leans down just enough to meet your eyes.

“Then let’s take our time.”

In the cab on the way home, you can’t stop smiling. You haven’t even finished closing the door behind you before your phone buzz.

Seonghwa: Text me when you’re home safe, yeah? No pressure, just want to know you’re good.

You smile into the hallway light. God, he’s that kind of man. You kick off your heels, phone still in hand, fingers already typing back.

You: Home. Warm. A little wine-dizzy but safe. Thank you for dinner.

Seonghwa: Thank you for giving me a chance. Sleep well xx

You sit on the edge of your bed for a moment longer than necessary, phone against your chest, still fully dressed. The night felt soft around the edges, like it wasn’t quite real. Like maybe you’d dreamed it. His smile, the way he listens to you like your words matter, the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room.

And he knows. That was the wild part. He knows you’re married, to his employee, no less, and he still treats you with more care and curiosity than your own husband had in months. You let yourself fall back into bed, fully clothed, staring up at the ceiling with the ghost of his cologne still caught in your hair.

***

On this incredibly boring Monday, the rain started halfway through your meeting, and by the time you stepped outside, it had gone from a gentle drizzle to a full-on, cinematic downpour. You stand beneath the awning outside your building, arms crossed, watching as the other employees disappeared into warm cars and dry seats.

Your husband was supposed to pick you up. You agreed to that last week, so you texted him before you left, but no response. Not a word. That was twenty-five minutes ago.

Your fingers tightens around your phone as you glance down the street for the fifth time. Just water streaking down your coat sleeve and your phone screen lighting up.

Not from him.

But from Seonghwa.

Seonghwa I debated texting you for ten minutes. This is me giving in. Hi.

You smile immediately, shoulders relaxing under your scarf as you type back.

You Ten minutes? I’m flattered.

Three dots. Then:

Seonghwa Are you still at work or did you escape?

You exhale slowly, already smiling before your fingers move to reply.

You Currently trying to escape. But I’m waterlogged and standing under a leaky bus shelter.

A pause.

Seonghwa Do I want to know why you’re waiting for a bus in a rainstorm?

You hesitate. Not because you don’t want to tell him, but because you did. And that felt… a little dangerous. But you type anyway.

You Husband said he’d pick me up after work. Then forgot.

You don’t know the reason why your husband didn’t pick you up today. But it was not the first time this has happened. Last time he was busy hanging out with his girlfriend, having his phone on silent.

Three dots danced at the bottom of the screen for a long moment before his reply came in:

Seonghwa Tell me where you are

You don’t answer right away. Another bus pass, wrong line again, and your fingers ache from the cold.

You Seonghwa. I’m fine. It’s just a little rain

Seonghwa Sure. And I’m a little meteorologist. Tell me where you are

You bite your lip, watching as a bus rumbled past - not yours.

You Seventh and Willow. But you don’t have to, it’s okay

Seonghwa I’m already in my car. Don’t argue with me while you’re catching pneumonia

Your lips curve in spite of yourself. You pulled your scarf tighter.

Seonghwa On my way. Five minutes. Don’t wander off or find a mysterious love interest in a bookstore while I’m driving

You spotted his car before you saw him.

It turns the corner slowly, headlights washing across the slick pavement, wipers dragging across the windshield in a steady rhythm. The passenger window rolls down just enough for him to lean towards it.

“Hey, get in,” he says, his tone easy and unaffected by the weather. “You look like you’ve been here a while.”

You step forward, your boots making soft splashes in the puddles, and slide into the passenger seat. The warmth of the car is immediate, and you exhale, feeling some of the tension leave your shoulders. The car hums quietly as Seonghwa drives through the rain-slicked streets. He’s keeping his eyes on the road, but every now and then, his gaze flickers over to you, the small, concerned crease in his brow visible in the dim glow of the dashboard lights.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice steady but soft. He’s not pushing, just checking in.

You nod, brushing your damp hair back and glancing out the window. The cold air from the rain has soaked through your coat, and your clothes cling to you uncomfortably. The heater in the car is doing its best, but you can still feel the chill.

“I’m fine,” you say, though your voice sounds a little too quiet. “Just... a little wet. Didn’t expect next time you’d see me, to be me looking like this.”

Seonghwa doesn't respond right away, but you catch the small shift in his demeanor, a brief, thoughtful silence. His hands grip the steering wheel lightly as he drives through the darkened streets, navigating without hurry.

“Do you want to stop somewhere?” he asks, keeping his tone casual, though you can sense the care behind it. “Grab something warm?”

You think about it for a second. A warm drink, maybe a cozy corner of some café, those were things you used to enjoy. But the idea of sitting in a café, dripping wet and freezing, doesn’t feel right tonight. It feels… forced. You want warmth, sure, but not from the outside world.

You glance at him, then back at the road ahead.

“Actually,” you start, “could we just... go to your place?” your words surprising yourself. “If it’s not too much, of course.”

Seonghwa blinks, a soft smile curling at the corner of his lips, but he doesn't ask any questions. Instead, he simply nods, his gaze shifting back to the road as the corners of his mouth deepen into a fond, knowing expression.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low. “I mean... you’ve had a long day. You’re drenched.”

You shrug, even though a small part of you is shocked by your own words. "I’m fine. I’m not in the mood for a date-date or whatever. Just... somewhere warm. And I don’t wanna be alone tonight. If you don’t mind.”

The silence between you two feels more comfortable now, the tension from the earlier moments gone. It’s like a weight has lifted, neither of you needs to pretend anymore.

“Alright,” he says, his voice warm, “to my place it is.” The car turns into a quieter street, and Seonghwa taps his fingers lightly against the steering wheel, his smile still lingering.

When you step out of the car and into the rain, Seonghwa’s hand briefly touches the small of your back, guiding you toward the building. The touch is gentle and reassuring.

His apartment is warmer than you expected when you step inside. It’s spacious, sure, but it’s not the cold, intimidating type of wealth you might expect from someone like him. It’s cozy in a way that’s unexpected, like he’s curated it with care, each little thing in its place. You can tell he’s put thought into making this space a refuge, a place of comfort.

“I can grab you a towel,” Seonghwa offers immediately, his voice soft. He’s already moving toward the bathroom, but when you shake your head, he pauses. “Are you sure? I’d feel better if you changed into something comfortable.”

You glance down at yourself, feeling how soaked your clothes are, and how tired you are of pretending like you don’t need help. You nod. “That would be nice, actually.”

He smiles, but it’s not a proud smile. It’s the kind of smile that makes you feel like he’s quietly relieved, like he wants to take care of you in a way you didn’t realize you needed. “I have a few shirts you can borrow,” he says, a hint of hesitation in his tone. “Nothing fancy, just... dry.”

You watch him for a moment, the way he’s trying to gauge your comfort level without pushing too hard. It’s the first time you’ve seen him unsure of anything, and it’s a little disarming.

“That sounds perfect,” you say, giving him a small, appreciative smile.

He moves quickly, purposefully, heart thudding a little harder than usual. Not from nerves, but from quiet anger. Who forgets to pick up their wife in the middle of a downpour? He doesn’t let the frustration show on his face. He just breathes through it, reminding himself that this moment isn’t about him. It’s about making you comfortable. It’s about undoing a little bit of whatever damage your husband didn’t think twice about causing.

He returns with a shirt and a pair of sweatpants. A soft, worn-in tee, and hands it to you. The fabric is warm to the touch, and it smells faintly of him. He doesn’t linger too long, but there’s something in the way he carefully places it in your hands that makes you feel safe, like he genuinely wants you to be okay, not just physically, but emotionally too.

“Take your time,” he says softly, backing away. He nods toward the hallway. “Bathroom’s down to the left. I’ll make some tea. You’ll feel better.”

It’s a simple offer, like he’s willing to offer you warmth without making you feel indebted to him. When you disappear into the bathroom to change, you can hear him bustling around in the kitchen. You take a deep breath and let yourself relax for the first time in what feels like forever.

When you return, towel-drying your hair with one of the fluffy hand towels he left out for you, you’re practically swallowed in his clothes. The shirt hangs loose over your frame, the waistband of the sweatpants tied tight around your hips. You’ve never felt so ridiculous and so safe all at once.

Seonghwa looks up from the kitchen and immediately gives you that soft, amused smile. “Okay, that’s a look.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Stylish, right? You might not get these back.”

“I was just about to say they suit you,” he replies, not missing a beat.

You laugh, and it’s small, but real, and it makes something warm twist in his chest. He’s pacing, sleeves pushed up as he moves easily around the kitchen. A kettle is on, two mugs already waiting. You catch the scent of honey and ginger in the air, something warm and slightly sweet.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you murmur, padding into the kitchen and wrapping your arms around yourself.

He glances up from stirring the honey. “You’re cold. You’re tired. I want to.” Then, with a softer voice: “Let me take care of you. Just a little.”

That shouldn’t make your stomach flutter the way it does.

You sit at the counter, fingers curling around the mug he places in front of you. You’re so used to handling everything on your own that this small act of care feels like a luxury.

He leans against the counter opposite you, arms crossed casually, like he’s trying to keep a respectful distance. But he can’t help stealing glances at you. Not hungry, not suggestive, just thoughtful. Quietly admiring.

“You’ve had a long day,” he says after a pause, not prying. “Want to talk about it?”

You shake your head, sipping your tea. “Not really.”

“That’s okay,” he says immediately. “We can just sit.”

No questions. No expectations. He wouldn’t make you relive any of it. Not the rain, not the waiting, not the part where someone was supposed to show up and didn’t.

You let a little smile play at the edge of your lips. “You’re... very good at this.”

“At what?”

“Being comforting. It’s like you have a degree in it or something.”

Seonghwa chuckles, eyes crinkling just a little. “I’m just treating you how I think you deserve to be treated.”

He means it.

You set your mug down. “You don’t even know me.”

Seonghwa smiles, not missing a beat. “I’m working on it.”

He leans slightly on the counter, arms still crossed, eyes steady on yours. “But I’ve picked up a few things. You’re the kind of person who checks in on others even when you’re the one having a bad day. You’re a little stubborn when it comes to letting people take care of you - you want to do things yourself. And when you’re tired, you get kind of funny. Like, weirdly funny.”

You laugh under your breath, and so does he.

“And tonight?” His smile softens. “You needed someone. I was close by. That’s all it takes.” There’s no hidden meaning in his voice. No pressure. Just the kind of honesty you’re not used to from a man.

You meet his eyes, and there it is. The kind of tension that doesn’t scream or flirt, it just hums. You glance around his kitchen. The wooden cabinets, the tiny potted herb garden on the windowsill, the slightly chipped mug in front of you. “Your place… it’s not what I expected.”

“Let me guess,” he teases, “you thought it’d be floor-to-ceiling glass, steel counters, and an automatic espresso machine?”

“Something like that.”

He grins. “I like homes that feel lived in. I don’t like that cold, overly-modern stuff. I like that I can comfortably show off my collection of magnets without having to worry if it fits in with the rest of the home.” He points to his fridge and you notice the huge collection of magnets. You let out a soft giggle.

You like that answer too much. You shouldn’t, but you do.

“I like it,” you say softly, not just about the apartment. The warm cup rests between your palms, grounding you, and Seonghwa leans back against the counter beside you, sipping his own. Then, without a word, he sets his mug down and starts rummaging through a cabinet.

You squint at him. “What are you doing?”

He glances over his shoulder with a small, almost mischievous smile. “We’re making cookies.”

You blink. “We are?”

“We are now,” he says simply, already pulling out a bag of flour.

You let out a soft laugh and step up beside him. You don’t ask if he needs help. You just join in. And he doesn’t say anything, just gives you a smile so gentle. Ten minutes later, the kitchen is a disaster.

The butter refuses to cooperate, slipping through your fingers and plopping to the floor. You try again, and this time it sticks to your hands so stubbornly that Seonghwa has to come to your rescue, giggling as he wipes it off with a spatula.

“Here,” he says, a soft chuckle escaping him. “Let’s try that again.”

You giggle, brushing hair out of your face. “I swear, never make cookies.”

“Oh, I can tell,” he teases, but there’s no judgment in his tone, only encouragement. “It’s okay. It’s the thought that counts.”

Later, flour explodes from the bag as it’s accidentally knocked over. It snows down across the counter, your arms, his shirt. You both freeze, and then burst into laughter. A moment later, the chocolate chips spill, scattering everywhere.

Eventually, you both give up, the half-mixed dough resting lopsided in the bowl. You sat on the counter, legs swinging slightly as Seonghwa stood beside you. The bowl rests on your lap as he hands you a spoonful of raw dough, and you take it without hesitation.

“I think we killed it.” Seonghwa says proudly, scooping up some cookie dough for himself, using the same spoon.

“This might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” you say around a mouthful. You sit side by side in the wreckage of flour and chocolate chips, warm tea forgotten, sharing bites of something that didn’t quite turn out the way it was supposed to, but still feels like a win.

You’re mid-laugh when he pauses, his eyes softening as they settle on you. Without a word, he steps a little closer, and his hand lifts. Gentle and careful.

“There’s a little…” he murmurs, brushing his fingers just above your eyebrow, where a streak of flour has settled. His thumb grazes your skin as he wipes it away, but he doesn’t pull back right away.

His touch lingers.

You feel it all the way down to your spine. His warmth, the closeness, the way his eyes briefly drop to your lips before meeting your gaze again. The air feels thick, like something unsaid is pressing at the edges of the moment.

“Got it,” he says quietly. But he doesn’t move. And neither do you.

You’re still perched on the counter, his body angled toward yours, only a breath between you. He leans in slightly, gaze dropping again, first to your lips, then back up to your eyes, like he’s asking without words.

You lean in too.

Your knees bump against his hips, and your breath catches, held in your chest like it’s afraid to break the moment. His hands finds the counter next to you, grounding him, pulling him even closer. So close you can count every faint freckle on his skin. So close his breath hits your cheek.

And your phone rings.

Loud. Sharp. Invasive.

You freeze.

The moment shatters like glass.

Seonghwa pulls back slowly, but his hand stays on the counter near you, and he doesn’t turn away. Your phone rings again, and your eyes flick to the screen.

“Husband.”

You swallow hard, something sinking in your chest. Seonghwa doesn't say anything. He just watches, his expression soft but unreadable, and steps back enough to give you space. Not far, just enough. You hesitate for half a second. Then you slide off the counter, still warm from where your knees had brushed against him, and answer.

“Hello?” Your voice is thinner than you meant it to be.

He turns away, not out of anger, not even disappointment, just… quiet. Respectful. Still the same steady, gentle man, already reaching for the dish towel to start wiping flour from the counter like he’s giving you time. Giving you privacy.

But the warmth between you hasn’t disappeared.

It just simmers now, quiet and unsaid. Still there. Still waiting.

You murmur a few short replies into the phone, keeping your tone neutral. You hang up a moment later, your fingers still loosely wrapped around the device, like you’re not quite sure what to do with it. Seonghwa glances at you, not questioning, not pressing. Just that same soft-eyed look, like he sees everything without needing it explained.

You clear your throat and set the phone down on the far end of the counter. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay.” His voice is quiet. He offers you the tiniest smile. “You didn’t miss much. The cookie dough was starting to melt anyway.”

You laugh under your breath, and he smiles a little wider.

“I should… probably get going soon,” you say.

“Yeah.” He nods slowly, “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll give you a ride.”

You change into your old clothes, now warm and dry after Seonghwa took care of it. You finish tying your shoes and glance up at him. His movements are calm, deliberate, like he’s giving you space to process, to gather yourself. His gentleness is almost too much to handle right now, and you wonder if he knows how much he’s doing, just being there. Just being himself.

The drive back to your place is calm, the city lights flickering by as Seonghwa keeps his focus on the road, his hand steady on the wheel. Every now and then, his eyes flicker toward you, like he’s checking, making sure you’re okay.

When he finally pulls up to your house, you hesitate for a second before opening the door.

“Thank you,” you murmur, “You really made my day.” and finally, and he offers you that smile of his. It’s small, but it reaches his eyes.

“Anytime,” he replies softly, as if there’s no question.

You step out of the car, the door closing behind you with a soft click. You stand there for a moment, watching his headlights fade into the distance, a quiet warmth settling in your chest.

***

A week has passed since that night. The one where everything had almost felt like it could change. The small, sweet moments that lingered in the kitchen, the silent tension, and that quiet brush of his fingers against your face. But you hadn’t really spoken much after that.

Seonghwa had been giving you space. He never pressed, never pushed, just sent a message here and there, something light, something simple. Asking how your day was, letting you know he was there if you needed to talk. It was as though he understood the weight on your shoulders, the things you were still trying to process, and he respected that.

You’d found comfort in those texts. They were a gentle reminder that there was still kindness out there, that not all men were careless or indifferent. But you hadn’t been ready to dive into anything more. Not yet.

So you let the days pass, lost in work and the usual noise of life, where everything felt like it was moving forward and standing still all at once.

When you walk into the house that evening, expecting to be alone, the air feels too still. Almost oppressive. You take off your shoes, drop your bag, and then, suddenly, you hear it.

Moans.

Loud and unmistakable.

Your heart skips a beat. The noise comes from the bedroom.

You freeze, panic washes over you in a way you never thought you’d feel. The reality hits harder than a slap, and before your mind can catch up to your body, your feet are already moving, silent, quick, out the door.

Your husband. With her.

The woman he’d been seeing for months. The one you knew about. From his work. The one he swore wouldn’t ever step foot in your bedroom.

But she had. They had.

The rules didn’t matter now.

You can barely remember how you made it out of the house, your heart pounding like it’s trying to escape your ribs. You don’t stop to think. You just grab your coat and rush outside, the cold air stinging your cheeks. You get on the bus, not thinking clearly or caring about anything other than getting away.

Away to the last place that felt safe.

Seonghwa opens the door looking completely confused in a loose hoodie and gray sweatpants, as if he’s been lounging or about to sleep. His hair is slightly tousled, his face soft with surprise, but when he sees you standing there, shaking and crying, everything about him changes.

His eyes widens, his body tensing as if his instincts slammed into overdrive.

“Hey-..hey, what’s going on?” His voice cracks a little, pure concern bleeding through. “Are you-, are you okay? What happened?” He barely waits for an answer before stepping forward, one hand reaching out like he’s afraid to startle you, the other already pulling the door wider. “Come in. Come here. Please.”

You don’t even remember how you’d made it to his place. You didn’t call, didn’t text, didn’t even know where else to go. You are just… there. Your legs moved on their own. He gently takes your wrist, guiding you inside like he thought you might fall apart if he let go. And maybe you would.

“I-I didn’t know where else to go,” you whisper, your voice trembling so much the words barely came out. “I walked in and they were… in the bedroom. Our bedroom. I heard her, and him-”

Your breath hitched. The shame, the heartbreak, the betrayal all crashed into you again like a tidal wave. Seonghwa freeze, his face shifting from confusion to something like disbelief, followed by an ache so deep it flickered across his features before he could hide it.

“You’re shaking,” he breathes, like that was the only thing he could focus on to keep himself from doing something rash. “Gosh-, come here.”

Then he pulls you in. Not tentative. Not gentle like before. But firm. Warm. Protective. His arms wrap around you completely, hands cradling the back of your head, the middle of your back, holding you like he was trying to piece you back together with just his embrace.

You broke.

The sob that escaped you was raw, tearing through your chest as you collapsed against him. His hoodie quickly dampened with your tears, but he didn’t care. He only held you tighter.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers into your hair, over and over again, his voice thick, arms unyielding. “I’m so sorry. I’ve got you, okay? I’ve got you.”

A few hours passed. The silence of the apartment is heavy, and the soft hum of the city outside filters in through the windows, but none of it seems to matter. Seonghwa sits on the edge of the couch, his gaze fixed on you as you sleep, curled up with a blanket around you. Seonghwa didn’t move you. He wouldn’t dare. Your face is peaceful now, but he knows, he saw the remnants of the tears still streaked on your cheeks.

He watches you for a long moment, longer than he should have, just to be sure you were breathing easy, that your face wasn’t tight with the pain you’d carried in. He adjust the blanket around your shoulders once more, fingers brushing your arm like a silent promise: I’m here.

Then he slips away into the kitchen.

The lights are dim. He doesn’t turn on the overheads. Only the small one above the sink cast a quiet glow, painting gold over the counter and the delicate steam curling from the mug of tea he never ended up drinking.

He cleans slowly. Methodically. Not because there is much to clean, but because he needs to do something with his hands. He needs to focus on anything but the image of you curled on his couch with your cheeks still damp from crying. Something about seeing you so hurt, so vulnerable in his home, keeps his chest tight and his thoughts moving. He wants to be nearby, just in case you wake up and need him.

He didn’t know what to do when you broke. His instinct was to hold you, to gather you up and shelter you from everything, but he’d hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to. God, he wanted to, but because he didn’t know if it was what you needed.

You are still married. Still healing. Still so fragile it makes his chest ache.

And yet, he can’t stop thinking about how you came here. To him. Not a friend. Not a hotel. Him.

What did that mean?

What could it mean?

He’s still standing at the sink, drying his hands on a dish towel, when he hears the soft shuffle of your footsteps behind him. You’re quiet, hesitant, still wearing the same clothes from earlier. Sleep clinging to your features, eyes puffy, hair slightly mussed, your voice rough when you speak.

“Seonghwa?”

He turns once.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, barely looking at him. “For just… showing up. For staying. I didn’t mean to take up your whole night.”

Seonghwa sets the tea towel down gently and shakes his head “You didn’t take anything,” he said. “I’m glad you’re here.”

You look at him, startled by how easily he says it, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like there was nowhere else he’d rather have you.

“I feel ridiculous,” you say quietly, fingers curling around the edge of the counter. “Showing up here. Crying like that. Falling asleep like a mess on your couch.”

Seonghwa looks up from the sink where he’s rinsing a cup, then reaches for the towel draped nearby to dry it. He moves slowly, deliberately, as if not to startle you. “You’re not a mess,” he says. “You’re human. And tonight was… a lot. You shouldn’t have had to hear that. Especially not in your own home.”

You nod once, lips press tight, your eyes tracing the pattern of the granite countertop.

“I guess I just didn’t expect it to hurt like that,” you whisper. “I agreed to this open marriage, I knew what it meant. All he had to do was follow the simple rules we made; let the other person know when you’re dating someone and don’t bring them into the bedroom. But hearing them like that… it was like everything I’d been pretending not to feel came crashing in.”

He steps a little closer, still drying the mug but slowing as he listens.

You look up at him then, eyes glassy. “I didn’t mean to bring it all here.”

“You didn’t bring anything but yourself,” he says, voice softer now. “And for what it’s worth… I’m glad you came. I’ve only seen you a few times, but I-” He hesitated, then smiled faintly, “I wouldn’t have wanted you to go anywhere else tonight.”

Your chest tightens. Something in his words, his expression, the way he stands there drying a cup like it was the only way he can keep his hands from holding you.

“I don’t know what it is about you,” he adds, glancing down at the towel in his hand, placing the cup on the counter. “But when I saw you at my door, I didn’t feel interrupted. I felt relieved.” he huffs a quiet breath, laughing under it, ”I didn’t want anyone else to be the one you went to. Is that selfish? Maybe. But—”

He didn’t get to finish.

The towel was halfway folded in his hands when you moved.

Three fast steps.

Your fingers gripped the front of his shirt, pulled him down before he could process what was happening, and you kissed him.

Hard. Needy. Quietly desperate.

You needed to. You needed to feel if this was more than just you feeling crazy. Could you really find safety in someone who isn’t your husband? How could this man you’ve met 3 times the past two weeks, be the most thoughtful and supportive person in your life at the moment?

The towel slips from his hand, landing forgotten on the kitchen floor. He kisses you back like it’s the most natural thing in the world, hands finding your cheeks, pulling you close without hesitation. The warmth of him spreads through you instantly, grounding, solid, safe.

You don’t speak.

Neither does he.

Not until the kiss breaks, just enough for breath.

“I…” you whisper, suddenly unsure.

He smiles, gently, almost in disbelief. “You caught me off guard.” He’s smiling, eyes warm, his thumb brushing your side like he can’t stop touching you now that he’s started.

“I don’t know why I did that,” you whisper, nervous now, terrified he might say it was too soon.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I’m really glad you did it.” His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with hunger, and you can feel the weight of his desire pressing against you, but there was hesitation, just a flicker of it.

You mumble the words, barely loud enough for either of you to hear. “Is this... too fast?”

A beat passed. Then another.

“No,” he says softly, his thumb brushing your cheek. “Not if it’s you. Not if you’re the one reaching for me.”

Your breath catches, the lump in your throat returning. Not from grief this time, but from something gentler. Something like hope.

“You set the pace. I’ll follow.”

And he means it. Every word.

You reach for him again, pulling him in. The kiss is firmer this time, your lips claiming his with more urgency, your hands curling into the fabric of his shirt as if you couldn’t get close enough. He groans into your mouth, his hands tightening around your waist, as if holding you in place is the only thing keeping him from losing control.

Your hands slid by the hem of his shirt, fingertips barely grazing over his warm skin, and you feel him tense beneath your touch. His breath hitches, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Fuck,” he rasp. “I’m barely holding on.”

“Good,” you whisper, and lean up to kiss him again.

His hands are on your waist, his grip tight, but there is still a slight hesitation in him. It’s as if he was torn between wanting to be the good guy, wanting to respect your boundaries, and the overwhelming, suffocating need to give in to everything you’re offering. His lips meet yours again, deeper this time, and the kiss is frantic, hungry, as though he can’t get close enough, can’t touch you enough.

You barely register your back hitting the edge of the kitchen island until his hands curl under your thighs and lift you effortlessly. You gasp, startled by the sudden motion, but his strength… the ease of it, the way he settles you gently onto the counter like you’re precious, it makes you shiver.

You wrap your legs around his hips instantly, locking your heels at the small of his back, and it pushes him in deeper, his length perfectly aligned with the ache between your legs.

The moment your bodies aligned, you both gasped.

You feel him.

Thick and full and undeniably hard, straining against the soft gray fabric of his sweatpants. He’s pressed right against your center, the outline of him so vivid you can practically trace it with your eyes.

You gasp. He curses.

“I can see you,” you whisper, voice wrecked, eyes flicking down to where his sweatpants clung to him, every thick inch outlined and throbbing. “You’re so hard.”

He lets out a strangled groan. “Don’t say that. Don’t fucking say that-”

You can't help but grind once against his member, and you whimper as his hips rolled forward, slow and deep. His cock drags up the seam of your heat, the head catching perfectly where your clit throbs. It’s too much and not enough. The layers between you only made it worse.

He feels you. Wet, warm, pressed against the inside of your panties, where your thin leggings clings like a second skin, doing nothing to hide how badly you want him. His mouth crashes onto yours, and it was different this time, no hesitation, no restraint. Just teeth and tongue and desperation. Your hands were in his hair now, tugging, dragging him closer. He presses against you, hard enough to make you moan, and God, you feel him, thick, hard, straining against his pants.

But something occupies your mind.

“Wait,” You keep your legs wrapped around him. You don’t let go. Immediately, he stills. His breathing ragging, chest rising and falling against yours. His hands are warm on your thighs where they rest, thumbs rubbing soft, slow circles into your skin like he’s grounding you. His forehead presses gently against yours, both of you still catching your breath.

“I want to,” you admitted, your voice wrecked. “So bad. But I need… I need to say it first. To him.”

Him. Your Husband.

For the first time in months, you hated that your husband was in your mind right now.

His gaze lifts to yours instantly, and for a second, you brace yourself for disappointment. But it never comes.

He nods. “I know,” he pulls back and kisses your forehead. “Just because he broke your rules does not mean you should do it too.” He’s way quicker to understand than you’ve ever imagined. He’s too good.

“I’m sorry… I really want to.” You say, finding his eyes. “But I feel like I have to tell him that I’m seeing someone, let alone his boss, before I do something.”

“Hey,” he cups your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin, the warmest eyes you’ve ever met. “You don’t have to explain, I totally understand.”

You try smiling but it doesn't quite reach your eyes. “It’s not you. I’m just not in the right headspace, and if we did this right now, I think I’d just… think too much. Regret it. Not because of you! But because of everything else.”

“I know,” he says gently, brushing your hair back with a touch that’s nothing short of reverent. “You don’t have to decide anything right now. If you want to do this or not. Whatever you end up deciding, I’ll respect. But if you decide you want to do this, with me sometime, I don’t want you to feel any pressure. I’m not going anywhere, I’ll wait for you.”

And God. That. That is the thing. He isn’t demanding. He isn’t jealous. He isn’t angry or annoyed or trying to guilt you into a decision.

He just understand.

“You’re kind,” you say, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You’re really fucking kind.”

A silence fills the space between you, your gaze dropping down to where your bodies meet. You look up at him, cheeks flushed. “If I hadn’t said stop… would you have?”

His eyes darkens. He smile, not cocky. But honest.

“Not a chance in hell.” The weight behind those words makes your chest ache. “Can I do anything for you?”

You glance down at yourself, then let out a soft, embarrassed laugh. “I probably need a shower. I look like someone who lost a fight to her own life.”

He grins at that, easing back just enough to slide his hands to your waist. Before you can say another word, he’s lifting you down from the counter with a firm but gentle grip, like you’re something precious, and threading his fingers through yours.

“Come on,” he murmurs, tugging you softly. “Shower. I’ll get everything ready.”

You trail behind him to the bathroom, your hand still tucked in his. He moves around the space with practiced ease, grabbing towels, adjusting the water, and even laying out the same sweatpants and oversized t-shirt you wore the last time you were here.

When he places them carefully on the counter, he gives you one last glance, warm and soft. “Take your time, your clothes are on the counter. I’ll be in the living room when you’re done.”

You nod, suddenly overwhelmed in a completely different way. “Seonghwa?”

He pauses in the doorway, looking back at you.

“Thank you. For… not making this weird.”

His smile is soft, patient. “It’s not weird. It’s okay.”

A few minutes later, you’re still in his bathroom, the warmth of the steam and the quiet hum of the fan giving you a moment to breathe. To be alone and let the water rinse some of it away. Not the pain of today, but the weight of it, just for a moment.

You change into the familiar sweatpants and soft T-shirt he left folded neatly by the sink. They still smell like him. When you open the door again, the hallway’s dim, and the softest light glows from the living room.

He’s sitting on the couch, one arm resting over the back, a blanket already draped across the cushions, like he’s been preparing your little corner of the world for you.

“Perfect timing,” he says, patting the space beside him with a grin that’s equal parts teasing and gentle. “I was about to start a movie without you and pretend I didn’t.”

You laugh, your heart lighter already. And as you cross the room and curl into his side beneath the blanket, it’s not the movie that matters. It’s the feeling that you’re safe here, with him.

And for the first time in a long time, that’s more than enough.

***

The boardroom is quiet when Seonghwa walks in the next day.

He’s always early, by design. It gives him time to breathe, to set the tone, to sit at the head of the glass table with everything already in place. His laptop is open, a black pen lined up perfectly beside his notepad, and his eyes skim the agenda, though he already knows it. But his focus isn’t on the day’s schedule.

Not yet.

It’s still on you.

Not the way you looked when you walked into his apartment yesterday. Exhausted, crying, your whole body weighed down by things you hadn’t said yet, but the way you looked curled up against him hours later, asleep on his couch, tucked into his side beneath a blanket like you’d always belonged there.

You had cried. You had kissed him. You had let him hold you. He’d kissed the crown of your head.

And he didn’t sleep much that night.

Not because you didn’t let him, if anything, you were warm and quiet, breathing slow against him. It was the way you felt in his arms that kept him awake. Like he was holding something fragile and sacred. Like if he moved, even slightly, you might disappear.

In the morning, you stirred first. Groggy and quiet, blinking sleepily against his chest before murmuring something about needing to go home and change before work. He offered to take the day off. Said he could cancel everything. That he didn’t care.

But you shook your head with a tiny smile. Insisted that he go.

You even teased him for hovering. Called him “overly attentive.” He’d rolled his eyes, pretending to be annoyed, but when you leaned in and kissed him goodbye, soft and sleepy, he nearly asked you to stay.

But you left. And he watched the door long after it closed behind you.

Now he’s here. Under sterile lighting. A boardroom full of chatter. And across the table sits the man who used to be your husband in everything but legality.

He walked in laughing - with her - like it’s just another Thursday. The girlfriend is practically attached to him, all smiles and subtle touches, like they don’t work under the same roof. Like they’re not sneaking around as if people haven’t noticed. Seonghwa doesn’t look up immediately. Just lets his fingers tap softly against the side of his coffee cup.

Measured. Calm. Focused.

“Morning,” your husband says with that too-casual tone, like everything’s perfectly fine.

“Morning,” Seonghwa replies, flat and cool.

He doesn’t do anger like most people. It simmers quietly in him, contained, controlled. He doesn’t lash out. He remembers. He watches. He files things away until the time is right.

Today’s not the day.

But he is watching.

The meeting starts. The others file in, small talk filling the space. Projector humming, documents shuffling. Seonghwa opens the presentation. Keeps his voice even.

“I’d like to keep today’s meeting brief,” he says, voice smooth and low. “We’re focusing on timelines, project deliverables, and accountability.”

His gaze flicks to your husband. The pause is barely a second too long. “Especially accountability.”

There's a flicker in the man’s expression. He shifts in his seat, coughs once like he’s about to make a joke, but one look from Seonghwa shuts him down. The meeting ticks forward.

Then your husband speaks up.

“I think the delay in deliverables came down to a lack of communication, not really our fault,” he says, flashing a grin at his girlfriend like she’ll have his back.

She does.

But Seonghwa is already leaning forward, calm but sharp. “And who was responsible for communicating that timeline to the vendors?”

Silence.

Your husband clears his throat. “Well… technically, I was. But-”

“Then let’s not redirect blame.” Seonghwa’s voice doesn’t rise. It never needs to. “If you were the lead, you’re accountable. End of story.”

The table goes quiet. The girlfriend shifts awkwardly. And your husband, he looks like he wants to argue but doesn’t dare.

Good.

Seonghwa could say more. So much more. He could talk about how you came to him last night after being ignored for months. How you told him things you never said to anyone. How you almost gave yourself to him. How you let him hold you, warm you, kiss you, keep you safe. How you fell asleep against him like he was the only place you felt okay.

He could say how he’s never going to forgive this man for not seeing you. For making you feel small. For letting you cry alone in your kitchen while he flirted with someone new on the clock.

But Seonghwa keeps it inside.

He lets the meeting run its course. Makes his points. Keeps his composure. Because no one knows what you are to him.

Yet.

And when it’s finally over, he gathers his papers slowly. Closes his laptop with care. And doesn’t look back once.

Because there’s something about seeing that man across from him, pretending like he still owns your heart, when Seonghwa knows what it feels like to have you kiss him good morning, in nothing but his hoodie, after a night of quiet healing.

He’s not done protecting you.

And your husband? He doesn’t even realize he already lost.

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