#not without some serious ethical questions

[ashesinthewest]

That's right! Crochet can't be automated.

To add onto this fun fact, any big box store or fast fashion seller claiming their clothes are crochet are either lying and it's machine knitting in specific patterns to mimic the look of crochet, or they're using one giant/many small sweatshops that's paying their employees pennies for the crochet clothing.

Legit crochet clothing won't be sold for mass production prices.

About crochet

Crochet is a technique of making things with yarn. You can easily make all sorts of things and so many patterns. It is similar to knitting, but with lots of more variety and it is easier. Fun fact: Robots can't crochet.

[centaurianthropology]

Murderbot as a ‘Cringe’ Litmus Test for the Audience (a.k.a., we are culturally the Corporation Rim)

One of the more interesting things I’ve seen in discussions of ‘Murderbot’ are how many people are not happy that the show made the Preservation team more explicitly hippies.  After all, per our current cultural zeitgeist, hippies are silly, over-earnest, over-feeling, over-EVERYTHING. Why is this team of scientists holding hands and humming?  Why are they taking breaks in the middle of a tense situation to reassure a colleague that they love him? Why do they stand around playing music and dancing during their downtime?  Why did the show make them “Cringe”?

And that got me thinking again about the current cultural antipathy toward sincerity and openness.  People who are seen as open and sincere beyond a fairly narrow scope of emotional expression are treated as deeply weird, off-putting, and most importantly for this conversation, as INCOMPETENT.  You can’t be goofy and competent.  You can’t believe in the power of love and friendship and holding hands and taking a dance break, and still be a good scientist.  You can’t have one of the unsexy sorts of mental health problems (panic disorder) and be a good leader.  In our current cultural moment, you have to be Cool.  You have to be unaffected by both the horrors of the world and the day-to-day joys. 

I think that a lot of people see themselves in ‘The Murderbot Diaries’, and a lot of them understandably love the very anticapitalist tone of the books.  And they wanted Preservation to be Cool Space Communists.  Hypercompetent at all times, serious, without flaw.  Because any personal flaws might be taken as flaws in their cultural and political leanings, right?  And we can’t have silliness or goofiness or fun in our Communist Utopia, or people won’t take us seriously.

But to me, the tension is so much better, so much more real and human and FUN. And it makes the audience question their own implicit biases as much as SecUnit is going to have to contemplate its implicit biases.  This team is comprised of highly talented scientists from a culture that values emotions and, yes, activities that we the audience have been culturally trained to think are Cringe.  They do have a humming consensus circle—so that anyone in the team can have veto power over a decision that has major ramifications not only for a research project, but for their own ethics.  They do like to play music and dance when they’ve got some free time, even if that music would be considered embarrassing or offputting to outsiders.  They do openly love one another and support one another, even in—no, especially in—challenging times.  It’s good to have that tension, both to tell the story and to give the characters and the AUDIENCE an emotional and thematic arc.

Let’s use Dr. Mensah as a the best example so far of this tension. Mensah is a good leader.  In every scene where she’s with the group, she’s the heart of it.  She’s always weighing the fears, the thoughts, the feelings, and the arguments of her friends to come to a decision.  She doesn’t feel like Gurathin’s right about not trusting SecUnit, but she’s also very aware that he knows more about the Corporation Rim than she does, and that his arguments, while rooted in his fears, are rational.  So she ends up deciding that they’ll leave the SecUnit behind for their mission. 

And it’s the wrong call. Going out to the dark site in the map without the SecUnit almost gets her killed. But her decision to climb the scree pile alone makes sense, because she doesn’t want to further endanger Bharadwaj, and if she doesn’t climb up there with her equipment, they won’t get important information about what’s going on with their survey data. And yes, while she’s climbing she has another panic attack. But she keeps climbing through it. Hell, she even takes a moment to encourage the teamwork between SecUnit and Gurathin, because that’s an important part of being their leader.  And, yes, they both roll their eyes because they still don’t like one another. But the important thing is that she’s created this sense of openness, of acceptance, of love.

Being a good leader doesn’t mean making the right call all the time.  It means learning from both right calls and wrong calls.  It means creating an environment where people can be wrong, and learn from their mistakes, and try again to get it right.  And it works!  Gurathin may roll his eyes, but he also has the space to apologize for getting it wrong. He has the space to fuck up and try again. And that is created by her encouragement, by her openness, by her caring even when it becomes embarrassing to a man raised in our culture the Corporation Rim, where open emotion is something to smirk at.

And when she’s alone, Mensah falls apart.  When no one can see her, she has panic attacks, because things are starting to go pear-shaped for these people she loves.  Because one of her dear friends nearly died, and she wasn’t there, and apparently that could happen at any time because their maps are faulty, and the only real rescue is an untrustworthy bond company that is a week away at best.  That’s a perfect recipe for a panic attack, but she hides them because she knows what she needs to be for her friends and colleagues.  She is the leader, and damned if she’s going to let something like her panic disorder stop her from doing that.

That’s not incompetent, that’s incredibly courageous.  Her bravery lies in being afraid and pushing through, not being flawless from the off.  The bravery and the competence and the things that eventually are going to win Murderbot over to loving these humans ARE their flaws and the fact that they don’t let those flaws stop them from trying to be the best people they can be, while also being true to a culture of being open and loving to the point that they can come across, to the jaded construct or audience member, as Cringe.

I think we’re going to see more and more of that as the show unfolds.  We’ve only just laid the groundwork, and established the initial impressions of all the characters.  They are being set up for arcs, and by electing to let the Preservation team be more out-there, more earnest, more Cringe, they’re setting the audience up for an arc too.

Anyway, loving the show, can’t wait for the DeltFall storyline to kick off tonight.  And I love this crew being highly-competent space hippies with realistic human flaws, who love and support one another.  In an unrelentingly Cool, Bleak, and Edgy television landscape, it really is nice to have kind characters be free to be their kooky selves without the show judging them for it.

[cbeargyu]

marry me, mr. jeong

summary: while everyone around you is getting married, you're left behind—no ring, no lover, just silence waiting at home. but one night, your boss, mr. jeong, makes an unexpected proposal: "marry me." and suddenly, your quiet world begins to burn.

pairing: boss!jaehyun x fem!reader

genre: romance, slow burn, fluff, emotional smut, domestic married life, eventual pregnancy, emotional growth, healing.

warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), strong language, emotional vulnerability, pregnancy mention (later), minor angst, lots of kissing, crying, soft husband jaehyun, tooth-rotting fluff, crying-in-the-club type of love.

wc: 19,7K

notes: i’m obsessed with jaehyun as a boss, boyfriend, hubby, and daddy lmao. man’s got range 😮‍💨💍🖤 i swear i try to keep it short but my brain goes rogue every time 😭 like girl be fr, when’s the day i finally drop a short fic??? bye lmao 💀

you’re twenty-nine, and the number feels heavier than you thought it would. not because it’s old—not really—but because thirty is close. and thirty means expectations. by now, you were supposed to have it all figured out. at least, that’s what they say. your friends certainly make it seem that way with their photo-perfect marriages, toddlers learning to walk, houses in peaceful neighborhoods. meanwhile, you still live in a quiet apartment with plants you often forget to water and a fridge that holds more takeout containers than groceries.

you work at an architecture firm—clean lines, big ideas, and even bigger egos. the kind of place where late nights are common and recognition is rare. you’ve built a name for yourself, though. you lead your team well, your ideas consistently get approved, and your work ethic has never been in question. the other women whisper that you’re just trying to impress the boss, that your dedication is nothing but a strategic flirtation. they don't know that your passion isn’t about pleasing anyone but yourself. well, mostly. maybe part of you does want to be seen. to be acknowledged by him.

jeong jaehyun.

your department lead. two years younger than you, but somehow always carrying himself like he’s lived three lives already. he doesn’t talk much. doesn’t engage in the small talk that fills the office kitchen or the empty flattery some of your coworkers throw his way. he’s serious, focused, almost too calm. the kind of man who’s unreadable, and yet somehow always watching. you’re not close, not really, but there’s a quiet understanding between you. he trusts you. you can feel it in the way he gives you space to lead, the way he nods subtly in meetings when you speak, the way his eyes linger sometimes—not in a way that feels invasive, but like he’s... thinking.

you’ve never seen him flirt with anyone. never seen him talk about his personal life. no ring, no photos on his desk, not even vague mentions of a girlfriend or family. and while no one dares to say anything to his face, everyone wonders. he's a man, though—no one criticizes him for being single. no one asks him what he's waiting for.

you, on the other hand, can barely go a week without someone making a comment. still not married? you’re so pretty, what a shame. your mother means well, but every call ends with a variation of you’re not getting any younger, sweetheart.you smile through it. you tell them you're happy. you tell yourself that, too. but deep down, there's a quiet ache. because you’ve always wanted a family. always dreamed of being a mother, of coming home to someone who knows you—not just your schedule or your favorite takeout order, but the way you think, the way you feel things deeply and try to hide it. but love hasn’t knocked in years. not since your last relationship ended at twenty-two, before the world hardened your heart. since then, you’ve been too busy, too careful, too tired.

tonight, you're staying late again. the office is nearly empty, save for a few flickering lights and the buzz of a vending machine down the hall. you're finessing the last pieces of a major project, making sure every detail is just right. you're in the zone when you hear soft footsteps approaching, and then his voice—low, familiar, closer than expected.

“you’re still here, byun?”

you glance up to find jaehyun standing by your desk, hands in his pockets, that usual unreadable expression on his face. there’s no judgment in his voice, just quiet curiosity.

you offer a tired smile, leaning back in your chair. “oh, mr. jeong, i just wanted to polish a few things before the presentation. i figured if i leave anything messy, the senior managers will rip it apart. and then you’ll take the heat for it.”

he raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching into something that almost looks like a smile. “you care that much about how i look to the execs?”

you shrug, turning back to your screen. “you’re my boss. if you look bad, i look bad.”

he lets out a soft exhale, a sound that's dangerously close to a chuckle. then he leans against your desk, his body relaxed but his eyes still sharp as ever. “you’re too committed.”

“you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

he shakes his head. “not bad. just... rare.”

a brief silence settles between you, not awkward, but weighted. it feels like he’s about to say something else, and when he does, it’s not what you expect.

“doesn’t your family mind that you stay this late?” his gaze holds yours. “your husband? kids?”

you blink, the question catching you off guard. your smile falters just slightly, and you look down at your hands before answering.

“no husband. no kids. no one waiting at home.” you try to sound casual, even throw in a little laugh. “i guess i’m just married to the job.”

he doesn’t laugh. doesn’t look away. “i didn’t know.”

you nod, suddenly very aware of the silence around you. “most people assume. but... yeah. i live alone.”

another pause. then, gently, you ask, “what about you, mr. jeong? i mean, you’re always here late too. no one waiting on you?”

he looks away for the first time, his jaw tightening slightly before he answers. “no one yet.”

and there it is again—that silence between you. but this time, it’s different. it hums with something unspoken. curiosity. surprise. maybe even recognition.

you return your gaze to the screen, not really seeing it. he’s still standing there, close enough to feel but not close enough to touch. something in the air shifts, and for the first time in a long time, your chest feels... not heavy, but full.

the next morning, you arrived a few minutes early—just like always. being punctual wasn’t about impressing anyone; it was about control, about proving—at least to yourself—that you had your life together. it made you feel reliable. consistent. in a workplace full of half-assed excuses and people who couldn’t meet a deadline to save their lives, your discipline was something you wore like armor. something no one could take from you.

your outfit was soft, delicate even—rose-pink skirt brushing just above your knees, a crisp white button-up tucked in neatly, the blazer matching your skirt in a subtle pastel tone. your heels clicked softly against the tile floor as you made your way to your desk, and as you passed the reflection on one of the glass panels, you couldn’t help but think: i look good today.

you did. your hair was in place, makeup light but elegant, lips tinted a faint nude-pink. polished. pretty. professional. but beneath all that... you also looked a little alone. not that anyone would say it to your face—but you could see it sometimes, in the glances people gave you. admiration, maybe. pity, sometimes. curiosity always.

you sat down, smoothing your skirt and adjusting your chair, reaching for the little yellow post-it you’d stuck to the side of your monitor the day before. your handwriting was neat, methodical. a short list of pending tasks, each one already being mentally checked off as you booted up your computer. you didn’t waste time—your fingers flew across the keyboard, and within minutes the familiar sounds of productivity filled your small corner of the office: the rhythmic clack of keys, the soft hum and spit of the printer warming up to spit out proposals and reports.

you didn’t hear him come in.

you were too deep in the flow, too focused on aligning the final report with the visual standards the company demanded. your eyes scanned the document line by line, searching for typos, ensuring everything was clean, sharp, presentable. the sound of footsteps behind you didn’t register until you felt it—that subtle, electric awareness that comes when someone is watching.

“good morning, byun. please leave the project report on my desk once it’s ready.”

he didn’t look at you. just passed by, smooth and quick, his voice calm and firm, a cup of steaming coffee in one hand, the familiar scent of roast beans and expensive cologne trailing behind him like a silent presence. his stride didn’t falter, his gaze fixed ahead, like he’d already moved on to the next ten things in his mind. you barely had time to nod, mouth parted to respond, but he was already disappearing behind his office door.

you blinked.

right. the report.

you gathered the last printed pages, slid them into the presentation folder, double-checked the order, smoothed the cover with your palm before rising from your seat. your heels clicked softly against the floor as you made your way down the short corridor, your fingers lightly tapping the edge of the folder, nerves tightening with each step even if there was nothing to be nervous about. it was just work. just jaehyun. just another report.

you knocked once and entered when he answered. he was seated behind his desk, sleeves already rolled up to his elbows, the dark veins of his forearms visible as he typed something on his laptop. he glanced up, briefly, then reached for the report when you held it out.

“thank you,” he said, flipping it open with precision, already scanning the contents. “at two p.m. we have the meeting with upper management. you’ll be joining me at the table. along with choi and hwang.”

you nodded. “understood.”

“good. go over the numbers one more time before then. they’re likely to ask.”

“yes, mr. jeong.”

and that was it. no warm smile. no thank you. just professional, cold efficiency. you turned and left, closing the door gently behind you before returning to your desk, the weight of the upcoming meeting settling on your shoulders like a familiar cloak. you’d been through this before. plenty of times. but it never got easier. not when the room was full of men in suits who barely hid their condescension, who chewed through ideas like tasteless gum until someone—usually jaehyun—said something smart enough to catch their interest.

you spent the next few hours fine-tuning the financial section, making sure your data was clean, graphs properly labeled, estimates realistic but still ambitious. it was a delicate game—making things sound innovative without actually suggesting anything too risky. they didn’t want bold. they wanted impressive illusions of boldness packaged in safe wrapping.

the meeting room was as bland as ever. too much glass, too much beige. you sat at the long table beside jaehyun, your laptop open, presentation ready. the managers arrived first, already complaining about another team’s failed prototype. the director entered last, stone-faced as always, his tie perfect, his opinion impossible to read.

as expected, the meeting dragged. they picked apart the proposal, paragraph by paragraph, expressionless until one of them grimaced like the very concept of originality offended them. you watched them, these men who nodded at each other but rarely smiled, who offered feedback that wasn’t feedback, just empty phrases like “it needs more punch” or “is this trend even scalable?”

then jaehyun spoke.

his voice was calm, slow, measured. and yet he made every single line sound convincing. powerful. like there was no other way forward but the one he was laying out. the room shifted around him. the tension eased. eyes narrowed—not in skepticism now, but interest. he wasn’t just presenting; he was selling a vision, and you felt yourself straightening with pride even if the credit wasn’t yours.

until he said your name.

“y/n,” he said, still facing the director. “if you could present the budget projections.”

you froze for a half second. not out of fear—just... surprise. you hadn’t expected him to call on you so soon.

you stood, smoothed your skirt unconsciously, and took a breath before switching slides. your voice was steady, even if your palms were clammy.

“these are the projections for the next two quarters,” you began, pointing at the chart. “we’ve estimated a moderate increase in cost during the development phase, with a break-even point projected for the beginning of q3. depending on the approved budget, we’re looking at a return on investment of approximately—”

you kept going, explaining the graphs, walking them through the numbers with careful clarity. no embellishments, no guesswork. facts. you swallowed once, clearing your throat before the final slide, then ended with a nod.

when you sat back down, jaehyun glanced at you. just a moment. a flicker of something almost soft in his expression.

like you’d done well. like you couldn’t possibly disappoint him.

the rest of the meeting blurred. the managers began tossing in extra suggestions—small changes, tweaks they hoped would impress the director. the man nodded, offered vague praise, and you remained at your seat, listening to it all with a practiced, patient expression.

when the meeting finally ended, you stood beside jaehyun again. he didn’t say much—he never did—but as he packed his laptop, he looked at you.

“good work today,” he said. “you’re an essential part of the team. if you keep this up, i’ll make sure your name’s considered for the upcoming promotions.”

you stared at him, momentarily stunned. the words hit harder than you expected. you’d worked for five years, given everything to this company, and this—this was the first time someone above you had said something that felt... real.

“thank you,” you said softly, trying not to let your smile get too big. “really.”

he nodded. “you earned it.”

later, when the director extended the dinner invitation, you didn’t hesitate. it wasn’t optional. the team needed to show up, needed to mingle, to pretend everything was a celebration and not an endless cycle of office politics masked with clinking glasses.

the bar was upscale but casual enough to loosen people’s ties. smoke from grilled meats hung faintly in the air, the tang of sweet sauces and roasted garlic filling the space. you sat between your supervisor and jaehyun, trying not to feel too stiff in your work clothes. everyone was drinking, toasting, laughing louder than they had all day.

the supervisor leaned forward, voice slightly slurred. “you know,” he said to the director, “the whole prototype? the mockup? the execution timeline? all her. y/n practically carried the whole thing.”

the director turned to you, surprised. “really? how long have you been here?”

“five years,” you replied, sipping from your glass.

he raised a brow. “how is it possible i haven’t noticed you until now?”

jaehyun, still beside you, said nothing—but you felt the subtle tension in his posture.

“you’ve got a good employee,” the director told him. “it’s your job to shape her. teach her. sounds like she’s already on the right path. with the right guidance... she’ll move up in no time.”

he raised his glass. “to y/n.”

“to y/n,” echoed around the table.

you lifted your glass, cheeks warm—not just from the alcohol but from the unfamiliar sensation of being seen. you smiled, surrounded by coworkers and approval and good food, and for a moment, just one moment, everything felt like it was finally going somewhere.

you were finally going somewhere.

the dinner had blurred into noise.

conversations overlapping, laughter rising and falling like tides. glasses clinked, meat sizzled on the grill, the warm lighting softening everyone's expressions into something hazy and unguarded. you sat at the long table, just a bit to the side, the smoky scent of barbecued meat in your hair and the echo of compliments still lingering in your chest. across from you, your supervisor had long since slipped into a drunken retelling of his glory days. to your left, jaehyun sat quietly, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. his arms were strong, veins defined even in the low light, and on his left wrist, a sleek, expensive watch glinted every time he reached for his glass. he hadn’t touched his soju in a while, though. he just held the rim between his fingers and occasionally let his gaze wander across the room.

when your eyes met, it was casual, almost accidental. but you didn’t look away.

“you’re not drinking,” you said, quietly enough that only he could hear.

he offered the ghost of a smirk, the kind that barely pulled at one corner of his mouth. “someone has to remember what was actually said tonight.”

you laughed, a soft breathy sound, grateful for his clarity amidst the chaos.

a silence settled between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. rather, it felt like a small space carved out just for the two of you—unbothered, untouched, a bubble where you didn’t have to keep smiling or pretending. you let out a quiet sigh, swirling your untouched drink in your hand.

“do you ever feel like you're running out of time?” you asked, voice low, not even sure why you were asking him of all people.

jaehyun looked at you, brows drawn slightly, intrigued but still calm. “time for what?”

you hesitated, fingers tightening around your glass. the alcohol was warm in your chest, but not enough to numb this confession.

“for everything,” you admitted. “i mean, professionally… things are going great. i can’t complain. i’ve worked hard, and it’s starting to pay off. but…” you looked down, lips pressing together. “sometimes i feel like i’m trapped inside a giant hourglass, watching the sand fall, grain by grain. i’ll be thirty in a few months. and i know that shouldn't mean anything, but in a world where people expect you to have everything figured out by now—marriage, kids, some picture-perfect life—i feel like i’m falling behind. like my dreams are moving farther and farther away.”

you took a breath, not daring to look at him.

“it’s just… sad,” you continued. “when you achieve something big and there’s no one waiting at home to celebrate it with you. no partner, no family. no one to say, ‘i’m proud of you.’”

jaehyun was quiet for a moment. then his voice came, soft and even.

“i can celebrate with you.”

you looked up, surprised, blinking at him. “thank you, but… that’s not what i meant. it’s not the same.”

he held your gaze. then, calmly, like he was offering a solution to a logistics problem, he said it.

“then marry me.”

your brain stalled.

you didn’t understand at first. maybe you misheard him. maybe he was joking, or drunk—except his voice hadn’t changed. his tone hadn’t wavered. your stomach dropped.

“…what?” you whispered.

“you want a family. you want someone to come home to. marry me.”

the words hung between you like smoke. absurd. unreal. your mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. you glanced around—everyone else was too busy laughing or slurring their next toast to notice what had just happened.

you leaned in slightly, voice tense and hushed. “mr.—jeong—what are you talking about? we don’t even know each other like that.”

“we know enough,” he said without blinking.

“we’ve never even had a real conversation outside of work until now.”

“so let’s have more,” he replied, as steady as always.

you felt like your heart was beating too loudly. “are you… are you seriously suggesting we get married?”

“i’m not suggesting it. i’m telling you i’d do it. if you said yes.”

you stared at him, at the cool detachment on his face, the quiet certainty in his voice, and felt your world tip on its axis.

he shrugged. “how long until you turn thirty?”

“…my birthday’s in november,” you muttered, the words escaping before you could even process them. “it’s april now. that’s seven months.”

jaehyun nodded slowly. “then you have seven months to decide.”

he finished his beer in one slow, final gulp. then he stood up, reaching into his wallet and placing a few bills under his empty glass. you were still frozen when he stepped beside you.

“i’ll take you home,” he said.

you tried to protest, voice stumbling over half-formed refusals. “you don’t have to—i can call a cab, really—”

he looked down at you, expression unreadable.

“that wasn’t a request. it’s your boss giving you a ride.”

and with that, he turned, waiting for you to follow. your legs felt heavy as you stood, your mind racing, still reeling from what had just happened. marry him? seven months? he was serious. he was actually serious.

you had no answers. only questions. and one man who had just offered you everything you’d spent your life pretending you didn’t need.

you didn’t sleep.

not really. you tossed and turned, arms flung across the bed one minute and buried under the covers the next. jaehyun’s words echoed in your skull like an intrusive melody, looping over and over again.

then marry me.

you have seven months to decide.

like some sort of countdown had been triggered.

you must have stared at your ceiling for hours, trying to make sense of what he meant—what it meant for you—and whether he’d been serious. but the worst part wasn’t the proposal. the worst part was how calm he’d been, how effortlessly he’d said it, and how easily he’d walked away afterward like it hadn’t upended your entire sense of self.

your alarm went off at seven, and you hit snooze five times. by the time you dragged yourself out of bed, you felt like your bones had aged a decade overnight. you put on your makeup with the heaviness of someone trying to erase exhaustion from the inside out—concealer, color corrector, foundation. you went over your under-eyes twice, then a third time. you looked like yourself, but blurry. off.

you arrived to work twenty minutes later than usual, which was already enough to earn a few raised brows. no one said anything, but they noticed. you noticed them noticing.

you sat at your desk and stared at your drawers, forgetting which one you kept the monthly reports in. your fingers shook slightly as you shuffled through folders, trying to find the stupid paperwork you'd seen a million times. a stack of them slipped from your grasp and scattered onto the floor like a metaphor. you groaned and crouched down to collect them, muttering under your breath. your brain still felt like it was swimming through molasses.

then—

“good morning.”

his voice. that casual, bored tone he always used in the office. neutral, even, no trace of anything buried beneath it. no sign that he’d ever said something as life-altering as what he’d said last night.

you startled so hard you hit your head on the underside of your desk.

“good—ouch!” you winced, clutching your scalp with one hand and your pride with the other. “good morning, mr. jeong.”

he kept walking. didn’t glance down at you. didn’t smirk. didn’t check if you were okay. he passed your desk like any other morning, like he hadn’t proposed to you over beer and smoke and shared loneliness.

a few coworkers peeked over their partitions, concerned. you gave a shaky thumbs-up and a whispered, “i’m fine,” even though you felt anything but fine.

you weren’t like this. not at work. not ever. your name was synonymous with precision. discipline. control. and here you were, dropping papers and bumping into furniture like your brain had short-circuited.

you finally gathered the reports and brought them to his office.

he was seated at his desk, focused on his screen, the sleeves of his dress shirt still rolled to his elbows. your eyes caught briefly on the line of his forearm, the watch still there, still ticking.

“these are the reports from last month,” you said, setting the folder down.

“thanks,” he replied without looking at you.

you lingered.

“mr. jeong.”

he finally looked up.

his eyes were calm. cool. like nothing was wrong. like he hadn’t detonated a bomb and walked away from the wreckage.

you hesitated, your throat dry. “about what you said last night—”

his expression didn’t change.

“we’re at work,” he said simply. “i’m being professional.”

you blinked, almost offended. “so that’s it? you say something that insane and then just—go back to normal?”

“we’ll talk after work,” he said, returning to his screen. “if you want to.”

you stood there, gripping the folder even though it was already out of your hands, heart thudding with something sour and hot and unnamable. frustration? humiliation? confusion? all of it?

he was treating you like you were the one out of line. like you were being inappropriate for even bringing it up.

you turned around without saying anything else and walked out of his office, pulse hammering in your ears. the rest of the day dragged like wet cement. you couldn’t concentrate. you couldn’t remember what you were supposed to be doing half the time. you reread emails four times before hitting send. and every time someone walked past your desk, you wondered if it was him, if he’d say anything, if he’d look at you, if he even remembered what he said or if the memory of it belonged to you alone now.

you’d never felt so out of control.

you didn’t know what was worse—his silence or the fact that you wanted him to break it.

you tried to focus. god, you really did. you stared at spreadsheets until the numbers blurred into static. you answered emails with words you didn’t remember typing. every time the phone rang, your heart jumped, irrationally convinced it might be him—even though you were in the same building, separated by maybe thirty feet of glass, air, and unspoken tension. it felt like the longest day of your life. your temples throbbed with a slow, building ache, like your thoughts were pressing too hard against the inside of your skull.

you popped two painkillers around lunchtime, washed them down with lukewarm water from your reusable bottle, but they didn’t help. not really. because the pain wasn’t just physical—it was mental. emotional. a kind of pressure that wrapped around your ribs and squeezed.

your mind wouldn’t shut up.

you kept looping the same questions, over and over again, like your brain was stuck on a carousel with no exit.

why would he say that? why now? why you?

he already told you he'd wait. seven months. seven impossibly long, slow-burning months.

so why talk? why meet? it wasn’t for him. it didn’t serve him. he’d been clear. he had time, he had patience. this conversation—it was for you. you were the one desperate to make sense of it. to understand his motives. to justify the insanity of it all.

but how were you supposed to justify something that made no sense?

he’s twenty-seven. handsome. polished. wealthy. he could have anyone—literally anyone. girls younger than you, brighter than you, women who weren’t crawling toward their thirties with a fading list of half-achieved dreams and a fridge full of takeout leftovers. why you?

a mid-level employee in a department no one paid much attention to. someone who had to fight tooth and nail just to be noticed in board meetings. someone who had accomplishments but no one to toast with. someone who fell asleep most nights with their phone face-down and on silent because no one was texting anyway.

why you?

you didn’t have an answer.

you finished your tasks—barely—and the moment the clock hit the end of your shift, you shut your computer down with shaky fingers and grabbed your bag. your steps felt heavy, reluctant, as you made your way through the hall toward the entrance. part of you wanted to bolt, to pretend nothing had ever been said, to go home and crawl into bed and put on a show you wouldn’t really watch. to sleep off the confusion like a bad hangover.

but the doors opened before you could entertain the thought. those clean, automatic glass doors slid apart with a hiss, and there he was.

leaning casually against one of the white pillars just outside, his suit jacket draped neatly over his forearm, his other hand gripping his sleek black briefcase like it weighed nothing. he looked like something out of a commercial—well-dressed, composed, the perfect image of success. but when his eyes met yours, something flickered beneath the surface. maybe restraint. maybe tension. maybe nothing.

he walked toward you calmly, the sound of his footsteps muffled by the smooth tile.

“get in the car,” he said, voice even. “we’re going to talk. like you wanted.”

not a question. not a request.

he turned without waiting for your answer and made his way to a parked luxury sedan—shiny, deep black, windows tinted so dark you could barely see the interior. he opened the passenger door for you, as if the conversation that waited inside was just another part of his routine.

you hesitated, only for a second.

but then you followed.

because no matter how messy your thoughts were, no matter how terrified or confused or unworthy you felt, one truth cut through the noise:

you wanted to know.

you slid into the passenger seat, trying to calm the way your heart was sprinting inside your chest. the door closed beside you with a quiet thunk, sealing you into a space you weren’t sure you were ready for.

he walked around the front of the car and got in behind the wheel, smooth and unhurried.

you stared straight ahead.

ready—or not—to finally ask the questions that wouldn’t leave you alone.

the silence in the car wasn’t uncomfortable. not exactly. but it was dense—like fog inside your chest, heavy and silent and there to stay.

you stared out the window as the city drifted past, familiar buildings made foreign by the storm in your head. beside you, jaehyun drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift. there was music playing—low, jazzy, old—but he didn’t speak. not until you passed a traffic light and he tilted his head, casually.

“did you get enough sleep last night?” he asked, like he was commenting on the weather.

you didn’t look at him. “not really.”

“figured,” he said, turning smoothly into another avenue. “you looked like hell.”

you gave a humorless chuckle, resting your elbow against the door and propping your chin in your hand. “thanks for the compliment, sir.”

“anytime,” he said dryly.

and that was it. that was all the small talk he offered. nothing personal. nothing intimate. just an acknowledgment that he saw you. that he’d noticed.

the drive was short, and before you could make sense of anything, you were already parking in front of a modest little korean restaurant tucked between a laundromat and a bookstore. it smelled like steam, garlic, and simmered bone broth. a place where people went for real food and no-frills comfort.

“this place has the best gomguk in the city,” jaehyun said, grabbing his briefcase from the back. “been coming here since i was a teenager.”

you hesitated at the door. “you like bone soup?”

“love it.”

you wrinkled your nose. “i can’t stand that stuff. never could. not even as a kid.”

he paused mid-step and gave you a look, slightly amused. “well,” he said, “there’s our first disagreement as a couple.”

you blinked at him, caught off guard. “what?”

“now i know you don’t like gomguk. guess i’ll have to avoid cooking it for you.”

you said nothing.

because he wasn’t joking. not really. not entirely. and that was the part that made your mouth dry.

how could he say things like that so easily? so naturally? as if you hadn’t spent the entire day unraveling at the seams while he strutted through the office like nothing had happened?

he sat across from you at the table, unbothered, scanning the menu like it wasn’t even necessary. he already knew what he wanted. meanwhile, you still didn’t know why you were there.

you picked something else. kimchi jjigae, maybe—safe, familiar, strong enough to mask the taste of your confusion.

once the server took your orders and disappeared behind the curtain, you leaned forward, folding your hands together to stop them from trembling.

“why me?”

his eyes lifted slowly from the empty table to your face. “there’s no reason,” he said. “i just want to give you what you want.”

“do you say that to all women?”

he smirked. “if i did, i’d probably be married to half the city by now.”

you shook your head. “don’t do that.”

“do what?”

“don’t treat this like a mission,” you snapped, trying not to raise your voice. “i don’t need your pity. i shared something vulnerable with you, yeah. but that doesn’t mean you have to swoop in and rescue me from a miserable life of solitude by offering a ring. this isn’t some fairytale. i don’t need a man to save me.”

“i never said you did.”

you exhaled slowly. “i want to love and be loved. to build something. something real. not this... whatever this is. a contract. a deal. a deadline to escape loneliness.”

his expression didn’t shift. not a single flicker. but his voice softened.

“then let’s say this. if in seven months, you still haven’t found someone—someone who makes you feel like you can build something... try it with me.”

you stared at him. hard. trying to read every intention in the lines of his face.

“just like that?”

“just like that.”

you couldn’t look away.

and then he said it. the words that settled into the cracks of your resolve like warm rain after a drought.

“we can love. i can love you. you can love me, if you want to. if you want to date, we can date. you don’t have to feel pressured. i just think... you’re worth the risk. and i don’t think you should torture yourself every day that passes just because you haven’t ‘settled down.’ opportunities don’t always come twice. sometimes you have to grab them while they’re here. or regret it forever.”

your lips parted, but nothing came out.

you looked at him then—not as the cold, polished man who walked the halls like a ghost in tailored suits. not as your boss. not as someone who confused and overwhelmed you.

you saw him as a man.

a man who knew what he wanted. who wasn’t afraid to take action. who looked you in the eye and offered you something you weren’t even sure you deserved.

his jawline. his eyes. the little wrinkle between his brows when he got serious. the calm way he listened. the confidence. the clarity.

you saw him differently.

you weren’t ready to give him an answer. not yet.

but something inside you had shifted.

you just didn’t know what to call it.

he didn’t rush you.

he didn’t push.

he just sat there across from you in that tiny booth, his sleeves rolled up and his tie slightly loosened, waiting with the kind of quiet confidence that only made your heart beat louder. he stirred his soup gently, letting it cool, occasionally taking a sip without ever looking away from you for too long.

and then he said it—casually, as if proposing something as simple as lunch next week.

“let’s do this. i’ll pick you up after work from now on. we’ll go out. have dinner. spend time together. see what happens. let it unfold naturally.”

just like that.

your breath caught. “i… i have doubts,” you admitted, almost in a whisper. “i don’t know what to say. i don’t know what to feel. this is all so sudden, so... fast.”

he nodded, unbothered. “that’s okay.”

you blinked. “that’s okay?”

“yes. it’s not a race. but you heard what i said—opportunities don’t always knock twice. you don’t have to say yes right now. just think about it.”

but you were thinking. too much.

his voice played on repeat in your mind: we can love. i can love you. you can love me. and god, wasn’t that the exact thing you’d been terrified of never having?

your fingers trembled under the table. your palms clammy, your mouth dry. you rubbed your hands together slowly, grounding yourself in that simple motion, trying to breathe.

he didn’t flinch. didn’t ask again. just kept sipping his soup, patient as stone, like he’d already accepted whatever answer you’d give him.

you stared at your food, at the steam rising, the way the aroma filled the space between you and him like something sacred. you still couldn’t stand bone soup. but somehow, being across from him made it smell less... offensive. less like something to run from.

and you remembered.

all those nights crying in silence.

all those mornings brushing your teeth with tears stuck in your throat because you didn’t know if ever would come.

ever finding someone.

ever being enough.

ever being loved without begging for it.

maybe he wasn’t what you imagined.

maybe he was better.

you looked up at him.

“okay,” you said, softly. then stronger. “okay. i’ll try. i’ll let you pick me up. we’ll go on these dates. maybe… maybe i can love you. maybe i can let myself be loved by you.”

he paused mid-sip, eyes lifting.

your voice cracked slightly when you added, “maybe i can stay with you.”

for a beat, the world went still.

he didn’t smile wide. didn’t gloat or tease.

he just gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. his eyes warm, deep, but controlled—like someone who’d been expecting this moment and didn’t want to scare it off.

“good,” he said. “that’s all i needed.”

you swallowed hard.

and for the first time since that strange proposal, something in your chest loosened.

you weren’t sure if this was love.

but it was a beginning.

the next morning. everything is different.

you walk into the building like you own the damn place—heels sharp, suit immaculate, makeup clean and fierce, ponytail slicked high like a crown. the memory of yesterday—your stumble, your throbbing head, your wandering thoughts—now felt like a distant, irrelevant dream. that wasn’t you. this was.

a woman who knew what she wanted.

a woman who said yes.

you smiled to yourself in the elevator. not just any smile—that kind. the kind that curled at the corners, the kind that held secrets, the kind that felt like sin dressed in silk. the kind that belonged to someone with a man waiting outside a restaurant, ordering bone broth, and talking about love like it was something simple. doable. inevitable.

you were early. again. not by accident this time, but by choice.

you slid into your desk, organized, efficient, present. the hum of the office hadn’t started yet, and you took advantage of the calm, catching up on reports and scheduling the week like the good girl you were trained to be. but this time, it was different. you weren’t surviving the day. you were anticipating it.

and then—at exactly the hour—he walked in.

jung jaehyun.

same black suit. same silver watch. same air of cool detachment.

but today, when he passed by your desk and muttered his usual, “good morning,” you didn’t just nod like before.

you stood up—too fast.

too happy.

“good morning, mr. jeong!” you sang, voice lilting and almost musical, like you’d just won the lottery.

it was instinctual. not calculated. just... you.

the entire floor stopped.

heads turned.

some eyebrows shot up. a few eyes narrowed.

jaehyun himself halted in his tracks, looking back at you slowly, his brows drawn together in the tiniest frown. he cleared his throat.

“everyone, back to work,” he said, voice firm. and then, after one last look—eyes narrowed at you in something between confusion and amusement—he turned and walked away.

you bit your lip so hard it almost hurt, barely suppressing the giggle building in your throat.

the memory of last night echoed in your mind, maybe i can love you, maybe i can stay with you—and now here you were, trying not to beam like a teenager with a crush. you watched his back disappear into his office, and your lips curled up, despite yourself.

you could still feel his eyes on you. even if he wasn’t looking.

after work, you waited by the entrance as the glass doors slid open.

he was already there—like he promised. leaning casually against his car, black coat folded over one arm, briefcase in hand, gaze scanning the horizon like the perfect ceo out of a drama. but as soon as his eyes met yours, they softened—barely, subtly—but you noticed.

“get in,” he said, opening the passenger door for you.

you slipped in without protest, heart beating faster than it had any right to.

once the car pulled away from the curb, the silence settled—but it didn’t last long.

“you can’t do that,” he said, not harshly, just... firm.

“do what?” you asked, knowing damn well.

“greet me like that. like that.” he glanced at you sideways. “at work.”

you shrugged. “what? we’re dating now. aren’t we?”

“we’re seeing where this goes,” he corrected. “but we still have to be professional. people talk. your position can be affected. and mine—”

you cut in, not harshly but with a certain fire. “i’m not going to apologize for being happy.”

“i’m not asking you to apologize.”

“then don’t ask me to pretend. i’ll dial it down, sure. but i’m not going to act like you don’t mean something to me when we’re under the same roof eight hours a day.”

he stayed quiet for a beat, tapping the wheel with one hand, lips twitching like he was trying not to smile.

“is this how you are with all your boyfriends?”

you grinned. “i’m worse.”

he laughed. actually laughed. that deep, velvet sound you hadn’t heard much outside of formalities.

“well, i’ll brace myself,” he said. “i might enjoy it.”

you turned to the window, hiding your smile. this was really happening.

the drive back was quiet at first—a comfortable silence that didn’t demand immediate conversation. the kind of quiet that says: you don’t need to perform, just exist here with me.

the radio was on. a soft playlist of english ballads played in the background—songs about longing, beginnings, maybe even second chances. you doubted jaehyun picked them himself. it was probably just the algorithm. still, the timing felt so precise… so intentional, that you wondered if the universe was helping him out tonight.

you played with your fingers over your thighs, crossing and uncrossing your legs slowly, watching the night pass outside the window. city lights in the distance. trees swaying softly in the wind. you tried to guess where he was taking you next, but the truth was… you didn’t really care.

not knowing was part of the charm.

“where are we going?” you finally asked, unable to resist the curiosity.

he smiled without turning to look at you, eyes steady on the road ahead.

“it’s a secret,” he said. “you’ll have to wait and see.”

you squinted at him with mock suspicion, amused—and yet, inside, your heart started to thump a little faster with every mile.

there was something strangely beautiful about not being in control this time. about letting yourself be taken somewhere, not out of submission, but out of trust. you weren’t used to that. you weren’t used to letting anyone drive. but tonight, you wanted to believe you could lean back and just... be.

and then… the car turned down a dark, barely lit road, and you saw it.

a wide, open lot. a giant projector screen glowing at the far end. dozens of cars parked in neat rows, some with trunks open, fairy lights, blankets, snacks. couples curled together under the stars.

it was a drive-in movie. like something out of an old romance film.

you gasped, both hands flying to your mouth as you turned to him.

“oh my god. no way. are you serious?! i love the movies—but i've never done this. i’ve always wanted to, but… i don’t know. it just never happened.”

jaehyun glanced at you sideways. and this time, he smiled. really smiled. not the polite, composed smile he wore in the hallways or meetings—but something warm. something real.

“then it was a good idea,” he said simply.

he parked in the middle row. good view of the screen, but far enough for privacy. you were already melting—and then he popped the trunk.

a thick blanket. two small pillows. a tote bag with snacks—popcorn, a big soda bottle, even the exact chocolate bars you’d once said you liked during a random, probably drunk, late-night conversation. you didn’t even remember mentioning it.

he did.

“did you plan all of this?” you asked, curled slightly sideways in the passenger seat while he arranged everything with care between you.

“i just wanted you to be comfortable,” he said. “i wanted it to be... special.”

no posturing. no hidden motive. just sincerity. you felt it in the way he unfolded the blanket and draped it gently over your lap. in how he checked the window—cracked just enough to let in the breeze, not enough to let in the cold. In how he handed you the soda first, before even opening his own drink.

the movie started. some lighthearted rom-com with ridiculous dialogue and cheesy plot points, but it didn’t matter. it was perfect. low-stakes. no pressure. you curled your legs under you, blanket snug, the flickering light from the screen dancing across your skin.

every once in a while, you’d glance at jaehyun. and more than once, you caught him watching you instead of the film.

“are you bored?” you whispered.

“not even close.”

“you haven’t laughed once.”

he turned to you, that sarcastic little smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth, eyes narrowed just slightly.

“you’re already making enough noise for the both of us.”

you gave him a playful slap on the arm, pretending to be offended.

“that was a compliment,” he added, amused.

you rolled your eyes—but smiled. god, you smiled so much that night.

as the credits rolled, something shifted in the silence. the mood thickened—not heavy, just… deeper. weighted with something. a moment hanging on the edge of change. your head leaned against the window as the screen dimmed, your eyes distant but your heart so very full.

he still didn’t touch you.

he didn’t grab your hand. didn’t lean in.

but his presence wrapped around you all the same—solid, patient, waiting. not pushing, just there. learning how to be near you without demanding anything in return.

“thank you,” you said softly, voice almost too quiet to hear. “for this. for everything.”

“you don’t have to thank me.”

“yes, i do. it’s not every day someone goes out of their way like this.”

he paused before answering. his tone was steady, but low.

“i want this to work,” he said. “and if that means planning teenage-level dates with blankets and popcorn, then… yeah. i’ll do that.”

you laughed, eyes dropping to your lap.

“you’re doing well so far.”

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

and then you looked at each other. just looked. no words needed.

but inside… you felt it.

your shoulders, usually tense, were light. your heart, bruised and cautious for so long, was opening again. quietly, but surely. as if whispering, i’m still here. i still want to believe.

you weren’t sure where this would go. if it would last. if it would end in tears or something worse.

but right now, in his car, under the stars, with the last notes of the film still echoing through your skin…

you wanted to find out.

you wanted to try.

the next morning at the office felt different—less chaotic, more grounded. you greeted the receptionist with a small smile, your heels clicking softly against the marble floor as you made your way in, clutching your coffee cup like a security blanket. you weren't glowing, exactly, but something about you was… softer. less guarded. like a petal finally relaxing in the warmth of spring after a too-long winter.

jaehyun noticed immediately.

you caught him watching you from the glass-walled conference room as you entered the bullpen. he didn't stare, not in a way that would make it obvious to others—but his eyes followed you, just long enough to clock the change. your navy blue pencil skirt hugged your hips, the slit in the back offering just the right amount of grace as you walked. the cream blouse you wore was modest but elegant, the top button left undone, showing the delicate line of your collarbone. your hair was half-up, your makeup minimal, professional—but the gloss on your lips and the quiet shimmer on your eyelids betrayed a whisper of mischief. not overt. just enough for someone paying attention.

you met his gaze briefly through the glass and raised your brows in a silent hello before looking away, sipping your coffee with forced nonchalance.

by the time you crossed paths an hour later—both of you heading into a smaller briefing room—he gave you that look again. the one that asked, really? amused, but faintly disbelieving.

"good morning, mr. jeong," you greeted him politely, eyes straight ahead as if you hadn't spent the last night wrapped in his blanket, watching a movie with your legs tangled under it.

"miss y/l/n," he replied, his lips curving into a knowing smile as he held the door open for you. “very formal today.”

you didn’t rise to the bait. just gave him a brief, professional smile and walked past, heels clicking, not looking back. you were committed to the bit.

the meeting was brief, technical—a review of deliverables, some feedback loops, nothing out of the ordinary. you contributed where you needed to, kept your tone measured, avoided lingering glances. even when he made a rare joke and the room chuckled, you only allowed yourself a small, polite laugh, hands folded neatly on the table.

he didn’t push. but when you passed each other near the coffee station later, his voice dropped low, just enough for you to hear.

“you’re really leaning into the whole executive assistant with boundaries thing, huh?”

you smirked as you refilled your mug, still not looking at him. “just trying to keep things professional, mr. jeong.”

“of course.” he nodded once, pretending to adjust his tie. “wouldn’t want to cross any lines.”

you bit your lip to suppress your grin. the game was on.

at 3:47 PM, your phone lit up with a text from his office number: meeting with the department heads in fifteen. boardroom. don’t be late. signed J.J.

you rolled your eyes but your stomach did a little flip.

the 4 PM meeting dragged—there was a lot of back and forth over campaign numbers and rollout schedules, but you held your own, taking notes, speaking clearly when your insight was needed. you could feel jaehyun watching you when others weren’t—his gaze warm, grounding—but he didn’t speak to you directly unless it was related to the discussion. you appreciated that. It let you stay in control, let you breathe.

after everyone had trickled out and the room was quiet, you stayed behind a moment, closing your laptop and straightening the chairs without a word. he didn’t move from his seat at the head of the table, just watched you as you moved, his fingers idly spinning a pen.

“dinner?” he asked eventually, breaking the silence.

you didn’t look up right away. “are you asking as mr. jeong or...?”

he tilted his head, eyes playful. “just jaehyun.”

you looked up, meeting his eyes. something flickered between you—recognition. of the past few days, the softness in your chest, the way your shoulders had finally stopped bracing for disappointment.

“okay,” you said quietly. “dinner.”

he didn’t take you to a fancy restaurant or anywhere showy. just a quiet little rooftop place downtown, dim lights and mellow music, open air and the sound of the city below. you sat across from him at a small table, knees brushing under the surface. you shared dishes, laughed softly, talked about nothing and everything. he asked about your childhood; you asked about his first heartbreak. there was no rush to get anywhere. just being there—together—was enough.

at some point, after dessert and a second glass of wine, the conversation quieted. the city stretched around you, glittering and alive. jaehyun leaned back in his chair, watching you.

at some point, after dessert and a second glass of wine, the conversation quieted. the city stretched around you, glittering and alive. jaehyun leaned back in his chair, watching you with that open expression he reserved for moments like this—unguarded, gently curious.

“you said you grew up outside the city,” he said, casually swirling the remnants of his drink. “what about your parents?”

you set your fork down and rested your elbows lightly on the table, exhaling. “they still live in the same town. a couple hours from here.”

he nodded. “siblings?”

“one,” you replied. “older brother. married. two little boys.”

jaehyun smiled at that. “you’re the cool aunt.”

you laughed softly, the sound bittersweet. “i try. i send them stickers and weird snacks from the city. but i think i’m mostly the mysterious aunt who lives alone in seoul and doesn’t have a husband, which is a major point of concern for my parents.”

jaehyun raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “concern?”

“oh, huge.” you leaned back, crossing your arms with a mock-serious nod. “they think i’m one heartbreak away from crawling back into my childhood bedroom with a suitcase and giving up entirely. i get the same call every weekend—‘have you met someone yet?’ and ‘when are you coming home, sweetheart?’ like my single status is a national emergency.”

you smiled, tried to make it sound light. funny. but the knot in your chest tugged a little tighter with each word. because underneath the teasing tone, it hurt. the weight of expectation, of having let them down without really meaning to. you’d always thought, by now, you’d have that picture-perfect family. a husband. maybe a child. but life had taken its own sharp turns, and somewhere along the way, you'd lost the map.

before your thoughts could spiral too far inward, you turned your eyes toward him and asked, “what about you? any siblings?”

he shook his head. “only child.”

“wow. that explains the drama,” you teased.

he grinned, playing along. “what drama?”

you shrugged, playful. “the perfectly tousled hair. the quiet confidence. the whole mysterious boss with a tragic past vibe.”

jaehyun laughed, the sound low and warm. “nothing tragic, thankfully. my parents own a condo complex back in busan. they keep to themselves. ever since i moved out, they’ve stayed out of my decisions. no guilt trips. no blind dates.”

he smirked a little, taking another sip. “which is great for me.”

you smiled at that, but there was something about the way he said it—casual, yes, but laced with a kind of loneliness you recognized. the kind that came with being left alone a little too much. with being successful but still carrying a shadow no one quite asked about.

you watched him for a second longer than necessary. then nodded slowly. “that does sound kind of great.”

he looked at you then, really looked, and the silence between you shifted—deeper now. heavy with things not said.

the city hummed around you. glasses clinked from other tables. somewhere, a violinist was playing faintly near the street below. but you only heard the soft cadence of his breath, the way it matched your own.

and then he stood and offered you his hand.

you didn’t hesitate this time. you let him lead you to the edge of the rooftop, where the view was clearer, the air colder. your arms brushed as you looked out together, shoulder to shoulder, warm skin against cool wind.

he turned to you first, eyes darker now, thoughtful. “you don’t need to rush anything. marriage, or whatever they want from you. you’re… okay. just as you are.”

you looked at him slowly, your heart caught somewhere between gratitude and ache. “thanks,” you whispered. “sometimes i forget.”

he stepped closer—barely—but it was enough to make your breath hitch.

you met his gaze, and something shifted between you again. tighter. stronger. the kind of tension that doesn’t demand to be broken, only… felt.

he leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. you didn’t.

your lips met his softly, a single, tentative kiss that carried the full weight of everything left unspoken. sweet, searching, the kind of kiss that says i see you. that says stay.

and when you pulled back, your eyes didn’t dart away.

they lingered.

because something had begun. and neither of you was pretending anymore.

there was no big speech. no sudden declarations.

just the quiet gravity of this moment. the closeness. the way his eyes searched yours with a gentleness that made your breath catch.

april melted into may in soft, golden increments—like a candle burning slow at both ends. the weather grew gentler, the evenings warmer, and with each passing day, your relationship with jaehyun unraveled in small, tender pieces that neither of you rushed to name.

you had more dinners together. nothing extravagant—he wasn’t the kind to impress with grand gestures—but always thoughtful. ramen tucked away in a quiet corner shop with mismatched stools. a spontaneous detour after a work meeting that led to an art gallery’s closing hour. coffee at a tiny cafe with mismatched mugs and jazz playing softly from a dusty speaker. with every outing, something softened between you. the way you spoke to each other, the way you lingered a second longer when saying goodbye, the way your eyes found his in a crowded room and stayed there.

still, at work, everything remained perfectly composed. restrained. you never touched, never called him anything but mr. jeong. no one suspected a thing—and that secrecy gave it all the thrill of something sacred. childish almost. like passing notes under a desk. a shared joke disguised in a spreadsheet. your fingers grazing when you exchanged documents. a glance too long in the breakroom when he poured your coffee before you even asked. you could feel it in the air, that charged silence of two people pretending to be just colleagues, and failing quietly, deliciously.

the project itself was moving well—smooth timelines, promising data. it gave you an excuse to spend more time in his office, laptop open across from his, sometimes both of you too focused to speak for long stretches. sometimes one of you talking while the other typed, nodding with half-listening affection. sometimes, on the slow days, the lines between work and personal conversation blurred gently, like ink on damp paper.

today was one of those days.

you sat across from him, legs crossed under the conference table, scrolling through performance reports while he adjusted a chart on his screen. outside the windows, the afternoon sun filtered through the blinds, casting pale lines across the carpet and the sleeves of his shirt. he leaned back, stretching slightly, then caught your gaze with a small smile.

“so…” he said, voice lower than usual, “what are you doing this weekend?”

you glanced up, biting your lip to hide a smile. “why? do you need me to run more numbers?”

“maybe,” he said, teasing. “but i was thinking something less tragic. maybe the museum? or that poetry cafe you mentioned.”

you shrugged, trying to sound casual. “depends. are you asking as mr. jeong or as… jaehyun?”

he smirked, eyes playful. “i guess that depends on your answer.”

you were about to respond when the door opened without a knock. both of you sat up straighter instinctively, like students caught passing notes. the supervisor from the analytics division stepped in, scanning the room with barely concealed curiosity.

“mr. jeong,” he said, tone clipped, “the director wants to see you.”

jaehyun stood immediately, buttoning his jacket with an easy nod. “i’ll be there in a moment.”

the supervisor looked at you then. his eyes lingered—not long, but long enough. something unreadable passed over his face. “you’ve been spending a lot of time here,” he said, like it wasn’t a question.

you gave him your most neutral smile. “just supporting the project. we’re on a tight schedule.”

“mm.” he said nothing more, just nodded once and stepped out.

jaehyun glanced at you before leaving, and there was a flicker of something in his eyes—amusement, maybe. or quiet warning. you went back to your laptop, fingers pretending to type while your heart tried to calm its sudden gallop.

the evening found you both in his car again. the sun had already begun its descent, turning the sky a soft shade of apricot. you slid into the passenger seat, closed the door behind you, and without thinking too much, leaned over to kiss his cheek.

his skin was warm under your lips.

he blinked, clearly caught off guard, and for a second, he forgot to hide it. the tips of his ears flushed red. he cleared his throat and reached for the ignition, like nothing happened, but his smile lingered, crooked and faint.

“you keep doing that,” he murmured, not looking at you.

“doing what?” you asked innocently.

he shook his head, eyes on the road. “making it hard to pretend we’re not dating.”

you grinned and didn’t answer.

he drove you to the han river, where the breeze was cool and kind, and the crowds were light enough to feel private. you sat cross-legged on the grass, sharing tteokbokki and fried dumplings from paper trays, watching cyclists blur past under the lamplights. a small speaker nearby played an old ballad, sweet and melancholic, and you leaned into his shoulder without needing permission.

“i like this,” you said softly.

“what part?” he asked.

“this part. where everything’s… quiet.”

he didn’t speak immediately. just reached over and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.

“me too.”

you looked at him, really looked—and it hit you in that moment how far you’d come. from formal greetings and polite distance to soft laughter and shared silence. from stolen glances to kisses on the cheek that left him blushing.

and somehow, without realizing it, you’d stopped keeping count of how many times you thought about him during the day. because now he was part of your days.

and you didn’t want to imagine them without him anymore.

june arrived with a subtle shift in rhythm—projects moved faster, deadlines drew closer, and the sun stayed longer in the sky. the office felt heavier in the afternoons, warm with late spring air and the quiet hum of new beginnings.

one of those beginnings came in the form of kim jungwoo.

he was transferred from the incheon branch—a bright-eyed analyst with quick wit and a laugh that filled corners. you were told he'd be supporting the data team, and since your department handled most of the projections, he was placed right in front of your desk, where your eyes met every time you looked up. your first impression of him was that he was disarmingly charming—too friendly, too easygoing for the stiff, quiet culture of the office—but undeniably efficient. he asked questions that made sense, learned fast, and had a way of easing tension with a joke delivered just under his breath.

you kept things professional, as always. showed him how you sorted the quarterly metrics, how to navigate the company’s outdated database system without crashing it, how to color-code your sheets for easier reading. he listened, smiled, nodded. and eventually, he joked. made you laugh when you’d been staring at the same budget chart for hours. brought you coffee with your name scribbled on the lid in dramatic calligraphy. sometimes too much, sometimes exactly what you needed.

you liked him. platonically. comfortably. it was easy to like jungwoo.

but jaehyun noticed. of course he did.

at first, it was subtle. he’d call you into his office more frequently, asking for reports he usually didn’t request until later in the week. you didn’t think much of it—until you realized he was keeping you in there for hours. even when the topic had already run dry, even when both of you were silently pretending to still be discussing something relevant. you’d glance at your watch, mumble about needing to check on jungwoo’s progress, and jaehyun would give you this look—tight-lipped, unreadable, almost irritated.

the third time it happened, you couldn’t keep quiet anymore.

“are you seriously going to keep me hostage in your office every time jungwoo asks me a question?” you asked, laptop balanced on your knees, arms crossed.

jaehyun didn’t answer right away. he leaned back in his chair, one hand draped lazily over the armrest, watching you. but there was tension under his cool expression, the kind that coiled in his jaw.

“you’re my girlfriend” he said, voice low, measured. “even if we have to act like colleagues in this building, you’re not just anyone to me.”

your breath caught. not because of what he said—because of the way he said it. with that sharp, quiet certainty, like it wasn’t up for debate.

“you’re jealous,” you muttered, trying to smile, to turn it into something lighter.

“of course i’m jealous,” he said, leaning forward. “he’s new, he’s charming, and he’s looking at you like he already knows what you taste like.”

your face flushed.

you looked away, but only for a second.

because when you met his eyes again, he stood.

in two strides he was in front of you, taking the laptop gently from your knees and setting it on the coffee table without a word. then he cupped your face with both hands and kissed you—deep, slow, and hungry. there was nothing tentative about it. it wasn’t sweet or shy. it was possession, poured soft and molten through the shape of his mouth on yours. you sighed into it, hands gripping the front of his shirt, pulse thudding in your throat.

he pulled away just enough to speak, voice rough. “don’t tease me about this.”

you nodded, breathless. “okay.”

and then he kissed you again.

the kiss tasted like all the things you weren’t allowed to say out loud. frustration. longing. the ache of pretending, day after day, that you were only what the world let you be. his thumb stroked your jaw as his mouth opened against yours, deeper now, slower. you felt your knees weaken and your thoughts scatter, all logic melting into the heat of the moment.

that night, like every night since the start of your secret, you met him outside the office. his car waited at the edge of the lot, tinted windows and the soft thump of quiet music playing through the speakers. you slid into the passenger seat, your heart already dancing.

this time, he didn’t say hello.

he reached over and kissed you—harder than before, lips parting yours in a way that made your body sing. the car wasn’t moving. neither of you were thinking. you kissed like it was all you knew how to do. mouths hungry, breath shallow, his hand tracing the edge of your thigh just enough to make you gasp. every time you pulled away for air, he followed. every time he groaned into your kiss, you shivered.

he never rushed.

never crossed that line you hadn’t yet spoken about.

but you felt how close it hovered. just under the skin.

and as your lips brushed his one last time before pulling back, your forehead resting against his, you whispered, “i like it when you get jealous.”

his smile was crooked. dangerous.

“you better not like it too much,” he said, his thumb stroking the corner of your mouth, “because next time… i might not let you leave so easily.”

thursday crept in quietly, with no big plans or messages of anticipation. the city, usually loud and hungry for excitement, felt unusually tame that week—like it had spent itself on too many events, too many evenings out, too many people chasing novelty in crowded cafés and rooftop bars. maybe it was just you, though. maybe everything had started to feel dull because your world had shifted to revolve around something—someone—entirely new. and nothing outside of that circle could compare anymore.

you barely spent time in your apartment lately. always out. always in his car, in places that weren’t quite home but felt more real because he was there. so on that afternoon, with your head tilted against the cold surface of your desk and your brain spinning from spreadsheets, you blurted it out between quiet keyboard taps.

“don���t make any plans tomorrow night.”

jaehyun glanced at you from across his office, pen in hand, eyebrows drawn. “should i be worried?”

you smiled without looking up. “you’re staying over. the weekend. at my place.”

the pause was heavy. not uncomfortable, but... loaded. you didn’t dare lift your head until he spoke.

“wait—what?”

and there it was. you looked at him finally, biting your bottom lip to keep from smiling too wide. he looked stunned. genuinely caught off guard.

“you heard me. pack a bag. pajamas. toothbrush. snacks. i don’t know. whatever you need to survive two days with me.”

his face went red. a deep, rich pink that spread across his cheeks to the tips of his ears. you laughed. he was thinking things.

“ya, what were you imagining?” you teased, narrowing your eyes at him with a smirk.

“nothing!” he defended too fast. “i just... i didn’t expect we’d be spending the weekend... alone like that. it’s not a bad thing. i like it. i like the idea. i just—i mean, we’ve been doing great. this relationship. it feels good. real. and... if it keeps going like this, who knows—maybe one day we’ll get married.”

you froze.

he didn’t say it as a joke. it was quiet. casual. but he meant it.

married.

you hadn’t thought about that in weeks. you’d been so swept up in the rush of the new—new glances, new kisses, new secret dates and stolen evenings. but that word made your heart skip, stumble, leap. it opened a future you hadn’t dared imagine.

married to jeong jaehyun. walking down an aisle. your coworkers gasping. your parents trying to stay calm. him lifting your veil. kissing you like it was the beginning of forever. sunday mornings with kids and cartoons and coffee. vacations. shared bookshelves. him waiting at the door when you got home.

you shook the image out of your head.

“you can’t just say things like that,” you whispered, barely breathing.

“why not?” he asked softly, his eyes sincere. “it’s where we’re going, right?”

friday night came like a slow exhale.

he arrived with a small black duffle bag slung over his shoulder and a sheepish grin. you wore mismatched pajamas—striped pants and a faded hoodie from a school club you barely remembered joining. the sight of you like that made him laugh, and the sound was so unguarded it made your chest ache with affection.

you stayed in. ordered too much food. picked a cheesy rom-com that made you cry halfway through. he kept making sarcastic comments at first, trying to pretend he didn’t care, until somewhere in the middle he got quiet. his hand found yours under the blanket, warm and steady. when the credits rolled, your head was on his shoulder and your eyes were puffy.

“i hate that you made me cry,” you sniffled, wiping your face.

“i didn’t make you cry. blame julia roberts,” he said, kissing the top of your head.

the rest of the night blurred. an improvised dinner of instant noodles and wine, soft music from your phone speaker, him dancing stupidly in the kitchen with a wooden spoon, trying to make you laugh. and you did. hard. the kind of laugh that made you forget to be careful.

when it got late, and the lights dimmed, the kisses came back. slow. long. searching. his hands on your waist, your fingers in his hair, breathing each other in like you were afraid to stop. the heat built, like always, but neither of you pushed further. it wasn’t time. not yet. but god, it was close.

saturday was lazy and warm and beautiful.

you woke up tangled in the blankets, his arm draped over your stomach, his breath soft against your neck. the kind of morning you never thought you’d get to have—where nothing was urgent, and everything felt right.

you took turns in the shower, argued over who finished the milk, and spent an hour sitting on the floor flipping through old photo albums you’d forgotten you had. you didn’t plan to show him—but he insisted. and once he started looking, he didn’t stop.

“wait... this is you in high school?” he asked, pointing at a photo.

“yeah,” you said, embarrassed. “why?”

“you were so cute.”

you rolled your eyes. “i wasn’t popular or anything. i had one boyfriend. lasted a week.”

he stared. “a week?”

“he said i was too uptight and boring.”

jaehyun’s mouth dropped open. “that guy was an idiot.”

you laughed. “no, he was probably right. i’ve always been... structured. controlled. even back then. guess that’s why i’m like this now—such a workaholic.”

he didn’t laugh. instead, he kept looking at your photo—finger brushing over the glossy paper like it meant something.

“if i had met you back then,” he said quietly, “i would’ve fallen in love with you. no doubt.”

your breath caught.

he didn’t look away. “i wouldn’t have let you go. not for a second.”

“you don’t mean that,” you whispered, unsure what else to say.

“i do,” he said, firm. “you’re not boring. you’re brilliant. you’re thoughtful. you see things no one else sees. you work harder than anyone i know. and... you make me want to be better.”

tears pricked your eyes again. not from sadness. just—too much emotion. too much truth.

“you’re going to make me cry again,” you whispered.

“then cry,” he said, pulling you close. “but only if you let me hold you through it.”

the rest of the weekend passed like a dream.

grocery runs in sweatpants. a half-burnt attempt at making pancakes. arguments over which playlist was better for cleaning the kitchen. you wore ridiculous socks with cartoons on them. he made fun of you until you found his even worse ones.

you kissed between chores. kissed while brushing your teeth. kissed while folding laundry.

it wasn’t glamorous.

but it felt like home.

and when sunday night came, and he packed his bag again, you didn’t want him to go. not because of the sex, or the thrill, or the high of newness. but because somewhere between instant noodles and high school photos, you realized something terrifying and beautiful—

you were falling in love.

for real.

for the first time.

towards the end of the month, your phone rings. you’re in your apartment, folding laundry with the window cracked open to let in the soft breeze of early summer. the sunlight filters through sheer curtains, painting everything in golden hues. you glance at the caller id and feel a knot tighten in your stomach. mom.

you answer.

“it’s your father’s birthday this weekend,” she says, skipping greetings as always, her voice a mix of cheerful anticipation and subtle reprimand. “you should come visit. he’s been asking if we’ll see you.”

you agree, almost without thinking, but then comes the dreaded question.

“and? have you found a boyfriend yet or do i need to talk to mrs. lee again?”

you rub your temple. “mom—”

“her son is still single, you know. owns a good piece of land. sells vegetables to that big food corporation. you’d be set for life.”

you exhale deeply, eyes closing in frustration.

“i’m… i’m seeing someone.”

a pause. then her voice lights up like fireworks. “you are? oh, this is wonderful! finally, you’re not wasting away alone up there in that office job.”

“mom, we’ve just started seeing each other,” you say, hesitating. “it’s too soon to—”

“no,” she cuts in firmly. “you don’t have time to be unsure. the train is about to leave the station, sweetheart. you either get on or it’s gone. bring him. we want to meet him.”

before you can argue, the call ends with a clipped goodbye, and you’re left staring at your phone, pulse racing and chest tight.

the rest of the week, you feel like a ghost of yourself. distracted at work, distant on your dates with jaehyun, your mind spinning in loops. he notices immediately—of course he does—and it only takes one missed joke and a quiet dinner for him to call you out on it.

you’re sitting across from him, poking at your food. the restaurant is softly lit, cozy, but there’s a distance in your eyes.

“y/n,” he says, setting his chopsticks down. “what’s going on?”

“nothing,” you mutter, but he leans in.

“don’t give me that. we’re together now, remember? you can talk to me. or… if you’re second guessing this… if i’m moving too fast, just tell me. i can handle it.”

your heart aches at his words. you reach across the table, grabbing his hand.

“it’s not that. i’m not doubting us,” you say quietly. “it’s just… my mom called. she wants me to visit this weekend for my dad’s birthday. and she… kind of expects me to bring you.”

he blinks. then, without hesitation, he says, “okay. then i’ll come.”

you blink right back. “wait, seriously?”

“yes. if it means that much to them—and to you—I want to go. i want to meet your family, y/n. it feels right.”

your chest swells with something warm and terrifying. you nod, silently.

friday comes and your suitcase is zipped and ready by the door. you’re wearing a floral summer dress, light and breezy, with your favorite pair of nude heels that make your legs look longer than they are. your hair is pinned loosely, lip tint soft and rosy. there’s a nervous flutter in your chest when you step outside.

jaehyun is already waiting beside his car, leaning casually against it like he belongs in a photoshoot. he’s in cream linen pants and a sage green button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, collar open at the throat. his sunglasses reflect the afternoon sun, and he looks, frankly, too good to be standing in your quiet little street. you gulp.

“need help with those?” he says with a grin, reaching for your bags before you can answer.

the ride is filled with music, laughter, and long, thoughtful silences. the kind that don't feel awkward, but full. pregnant with meaning. he holds your hand on the highway, thumb stroking the back of it lazily, his warmth anchoring you through your nerves.

when you pull up to your parents' house—a modest home with stone finishings and a neat little front garden—your heart thunders. everything feels smaller, more fragile, like stepping back in time. your mom rushes out first, apron still tied around her waist, eyes wide and wet with excitement.

and when she sees jaehyun? she nearly cries. “you’re real,” she says, pressing her hands together like she’s witnessing a miracle. your dad comes out next, chuckling as he wipes his hands on a dish towel.

“so this is the young man,” he says with a knowing nod, clapping jaehyun on the back. “your mother hasn’t shut up about you since she found out.”

inside, the dining table is set with your dad’s favorite dishes. everything smells like memory. you sit in the living room afterward, your parents across from you, jaehyun beside you on the couch, close enough to feel his knee brushing yours.

he speaks up first, voice calm and clear.

“i just want to say that i’m very serious about your daughter,” he says. “i have genuine intentions. we’re still getting to know each other, but… if things keep going the way they are, i’d like to build a future with her.”

your mother gasps, reaching for a tissue. your father nods slowly, visibly moved.

“this… this is the best birthday gift i could ask for,” he says.

you shrink into the couch, cheeks burning, while jaehyun’s hand finds yours again and squeezes gently.

then comes the chaos.

your older brother, baekhyun, bursts through the door with his wife and two kids in tow. he takes one look at you and smirks.

“who’s the guy and what have you done with my perpetually single little sister?”

you groan. “shut up, baek.”

the two of you bicker like teenagers, tossing playful insults back and forth while your nephews cling to your legs, shouting your name with delight. you hand them the toys you brought and their eyes light up like it’s christmas.

jaehyun watches it all, amused, until one of the boys climbs into his lap and hands him a toy too.

he freezes.

and in that moment, something shifts in him. the sound of children’s laughter, the image of you with a soft smile, cradling one of your nephews in your arms. the warmth of this home, the love in every corner. he imagines it—having this with you. kids with your eyes. a house that’s yours. your framed wedding photo on the wall. vacations. birthdays. late-night talks in bed. wrinkles and silver hair, but still loving you with the same fire.

he blushes.

and you notice.

“what?” you whisper as you lean close.

he shakes his head, smiling to himself. “nothing. just… i really, really like this. all of it.”

the night unfolds gently. dinner turns into stories, stories into laughter, and soon the sun has long set and the house is lit with warm yellow lights. you and jaehyun sit outside for a moment, watching the stars.

he wraps an arm around you, and you rest your head on his shoulder.

“you feel like home,” you whisper, not even realizing the words have slipped out.

he turns to look at you, eyes soft. “so do you.”

and in the quiet, with the cicadas singing and the echo of your family’s voices drifting from inside, you know.

this might just be the beginning of everything.

the month of july passed by with little to no complications. your parents were pleased with jaehyun, and you could tell that their approval meant the world to him. jungwoo, on the other hand, was playful and teasing, but with a newfound sense of respect, especially as jaehyun started to show more signs of being protective, making sure that jungwoo didn’t cross any boundaries. you were still professional with everyone at work, but the chemistry between you and jaehyun was undeniable. nights together were spent laughing, and weekends were filled with stolen moments of joy, where you both shared something more than just professional courtesy.

jaehyun had made a habit of calling you during the day, just to check on you, and you found yourself doing the same. the conversations were simple, but they felt important. visits to his office became more frequent, sometimes just for work, but other times, it was an excuse to sneak in a kiss or two. the passion between you two continued to build, a slow, steady fire that became increasingly hard to ignore.

one night, a wednesday, you both ignored the weather forecast and decided to take your date out in the city. the air was warm, and the lights of the city sparkled as you walked the streets together. the mood was light, but as midnight approached, the weather took a sharp turn. dark clouds rolled in, and soon, rain began to pour, turning into a violent storm. the wind howled, and the streets quickly flooded. jaehyun’s car struggled against the force of the water, and you couldn’t help but grip the seat, anxious.

jaehyun tried to keep calm, glancing at you with a reassuring smile. “it’s okay, nothing’s going to happen,” he said, though you could tell he was also feeling the weight of the storm.

the rain pounded against the windows, and the car barely moved as the currents began to grow stronger. after what felt like an eternity, you both agreed that waiting in the car wasn’t safe anymore. as you both discussed where to go, a motel appeared in front of you. it seemed like an odd choice, but the parking lot was dry, and there were few other options at that hour. both of you hesitated, unsure of what to do. it was a strange situation—neither of you wanted to suggest anything that could be misinterpreted.

jaehyun was the one to break the silence. “let’s just use the parking lot, at least we’ll have shelter from the rain,” he said. “and if it lasts all night, we’ll have a warm place to stay.”

you nodded, a little nervous. “yeah, i mean, we’re not going to do anything else, right? just sleep, then in the morning, we’ll head back to our places and go to work, right?”

jaehyun smiled at you, trying to ease your nerves. “of course, just a safe place to wait out the storm. no pressure.”

you both parked and got out of the car, a little stiff from the tension, but the moment you entered the motel, things started to feel different. jaehyun took the lead, making sure you were comfortable and settled in, giving you space to breathe. He didn’t rush you, always checking to see how you felt.

both of you were tired from the day, and the weather didn’t help the situation, so after some brief, awkward glances, you both decided to take separate showers to unwind. you both changed into something more comfortable, but since it was summer and it was warm, you decided to just sleep in your underwear. when you looked at jaehyun in his, the moment felt almost surreal. his gaze lingered for a moment before he quickly turned away, as if both of you were still trying to adjust to how close you had become.

“you know,” he said softly, his voice breaking the silence, “you don’t have to feel awkward. we’re taking things at our own pace.”

you smiled, feeling your heartbeat quicken at the sound of his voice. “what if i want to go faster?” you said, your words surprising even yourself.

jaehyun looks at you, eyes widening slightly before they darken with something deeper—something he’s clearly been holding back. “are you sure?” he asks, voice low, almost trembling with restraint.

you nod, stepping closer, your fingers brushing against his bare chest. “i’m sure.”

his hands find your waist gently at first, testing the waters, but when you lean into him, he pulls you in like he’s been waiting forever to hold you like this. his lips find yours in a kiss that starts soft, exploratory, but quickly deepens, hungry and needing. he walks you backwards slowly until the back of your knees hit the bed, and you fall onto it with a soft gasp, taking him with you.

his hands roam your body, reverent and slow, like he’s memorizing every inch of you. he whispers your name against your skin, trailing kisses down your neck, over your collarbone, and lower still. your breath hitches when his mouth lingers between your thighs, his eyes meeting yours, waiting for any sign to stop—but you nod again, your fingers threading into his hair, guiding him closer.

what he gives you isn’t rushed. it’s worship. like he’s been dreaming of this moment for too long to waste it. you lose yourself in the rhythm of his mouth, the way he listens to your body, adjusting, teasing, giving. he doesn’t stop until your thighs are shaking and your voice is broken with moans you couldn’t hold back.

when he finally crawls back up your body, his lips kiss yours again, slower this time, tasting you. he whispers, “still okay?” and you nod, pulling him closer.

when he slides into you, it’s not hurried or careless. it’s deep, slow, and overwhelming in the best way. you cling to him, breathless, as your bodies move together like they were made to. he holds your gaze, foreheads pressed together, sweat-damp skin sticking in the summer heat, but neither of you care.

you whisper his name like a prayer, and he answers with yours, over and over, like he’s trying to brand it into the moment.

you fall apart in his arms, not once, but twice, and he follows soon after, burying his face in your neck as he trembles against you. 

his lips are still on yours when he pushes deeper inside you, and this time, there’s no hesitation. your body arches under him, the stretch of him delicious and overwhelming all at once. he fills you slowly, inch by inch, like he wants to feel every reaction he pulls from you.

“fuck, you feel so good,” he breathes out, forehead resting against yours. “been thinking about this for so long.”

you moan softly, nails dragging down his back as he starts to move, slow at first, rolling his hips into you with precision that makes your legs tremble. he kisses down your throat, biting softly at your skin as he picks up the pace, each thrust hitting deeper, harder. the headboard taps gently against the wall, a quiet rhythm that matches the sound of your breathy moans and his soft, low groans.

your fingers clutch the sheets, the pleasure building with every thrust. jaehyun’s hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider for him, and the new angle has you gasping his name, your voice breaking. he doesn’t stop—he can’t stop—lost in the feel of you, the sounds you make, the way your body clings to his like it’s the only place it belongs.

he pulls out just enough to see the way you take him, watching your slick coat his length before sliding back in with a filthy, wet sound that makes your toes curl. “look at you,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing your lower lip, eyes locked on yours. “so fucking beautiful like this.”

when he shifts, propping one of your legs over his shoulder, the angle has you crying out, your whole body shuddering. “you’re so deep,” you whimper, and he groans, hips snapping faster, harder, chasing both your highs like a man starved.

your climax hits hard—white-hot and blinding—as your walls clamp down around him, dragging him over the edge with you. he cums with a strangled moan, burying himself to the hilt, his hips stuttering as he spills into you. he stays there, chest pressed to yours, breathing heavy, hearts pounding in sync.

after a few moments, he pulls out slowly, carefully, kissing your shoulder as he lies beside you and pulls you into his arms.

your body’s still trembling when he runs a hand down your spine, voice low and thick with affection. “think we’re still just sleeping?”

you laugh softly against his chest, lazy fingers tracing circles on his skin. “not a chance.”

he kisses the top of your head. “then let’s not sleep yet.”

and before you can even respond, he’s already kissing down your body again—because one round clearly wasn’t enough.

you barely have time to catch your breath before jaehyun’s mouth is back on your skin, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your chest, between your breasts, over your stomach. his hands roam your thighs with greedy fingers, and even though you’re still sensitive, your body responds instantly—needy, aching, already ready for him again.

“you’re still so wet,” he murmurs, spreading you open with his fingers, dragging two of them slowly through your folds. “fuck, baby… you’re dripping.”

your hips jerk when he circles your clit, light and teasing, and you whine, fingers gripping the sheets. “j-jaehyun…”

he smirks, dark eyes meeting yours as he sinks his fingers into you—slow, deep, curling just right. “you can take it, can’t you?” he says, voice thick with lust. “you want it again.”

you nod helplessly, mouth parted as your back arches off the bed. he fucks you with his fingers until you’re trembling again, begging for him, grinding down onto his hand like you can’t get enough—and you can’t.

when he pulls his fingers out and lines himself up again, there’s no patience this time. he pushes in all at once, rougher, deeper, making your breath catch in your throat. the stretch, the pressure, the heat—it’s almost too much, but you crave every second of it.

he fucks you like he owns you now, one hand on your hip, the other pressing down on your stomach so he can feel himself inside you. “you feel that?” he groans. ���you’re taking all of me.”

your moans turn shameless, high-pitched and raw, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the room with every thrust. the bed creaks, the headboard pounds against the wall, and you don’t care who hears. he flips you onto your stomach without warning, pulling your hips up, and slides back into you from behind.

you cry out at the new angle, your hands clawing at the sheets as he drives into you, deeper than before. “god—jaehyun, i’m gonna—”

“cum for me,” he growls, grabbing your hair and pulling your head back to kiss the side of your neck. “cum all over my cock, baby.”

your orgasm hits like a shockwave, blinding and hot and overwhelming. your whole body shakes, legs giving out beneath you as he keeps fucking you through it. he follows moments later, groaning your name as he fills you again, hips jerking against your ass, the sound of it all so filthy and perfect.

this time, when you collapse together on the bed, everything is soaked in sweat and heat and the scent of sex. your body is limp, your mind dazed, and he just pulls you close, wrapping you in his arms like he’s never letting go.

“okay,” you whisper, laughing breathlessly. “now we might need to sleep.”

he chuckles against your hair, voice rough. “maybe. after round three.”

that night at the motel changed everything.

it wasn’t just the sex—though, god, it was incredible. it was the way his hands learned your body like a second language, the way he whispered your name like a secret, the way you both let yourselves fall without fear. that night was messy, breathless, and soaked in want. but more than anything, it was a turning point—a quiet, unspoken agreement that this was no longer just something casual. not for either of you.

after that, the line between love and lust blurred beautifully. sex became part of your rhythm, part of how you communicated. stolen glances in the office turned into stolen kisses in the elevator. late nights became sleepovers, and every morning-after was filled with lazy touches and knowing smiles. you memorized each other’s moans like favorite songs, found new ways to say i want you, even when the words themselves weren’t spoken.

but there was one night that stood out. the one you still think about more than any other.

it was the night you stayed over at his apartment—just the two of you, no distractions, no storms outside, only the slow burn between your bodies. dinner turned into kisses. kisses turned into the first round on his kitchen counter, then the second in the shower, steam fogging up the mirror as your bodies tangled and slipped together like water and flame.

by the third round, it was past midnight. you were already sore, breathless, but insatiable. he pulled you back into bed, whispering things in your ear that made your skin burn. he was rougher that time—hungrier—gripping your hips as he fucked you deep and slow, drawing out every moan until your voice was hoarse and your mind was gone.

you were on top, riding him with lazy, desperate rhythm, your head thrown back, your nails digging into his chest. he looked up at you like you were something divine, his hands guiding your pace, eyes locked on the place where your bodies met.

and just when your orgasm started to hit—when everything went hot and tight and unbearably good—the words slipped out of you.

“i love you.”

your voice cracked around it, high and trembling, your body still grinding against his, your climax crashing over you like a wave. for a split second, everything stopped. you felt him freeze beneath you, heard the sharp intake of breath, saw the shock in his eyes.

you hadn’t meant to say it like that. not in the middle of fucking. not when you were bare in every sense of the word.

it was reckless. vulnerable. raw.

but not wrong.

his hands gripped your waist tighter, and then he was sitting up, arms wrapping around you, thrusting up into you so hard and deep that you sobbed out his name.

“i love you too,” he groaned against your neck. “fuck, i love you so much—too much.”

and then he came—hard and fast, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

afterward, you just lay there on top of him, chest to chest, skin to skin, hearts pounding in unison. there was no awkwardness. no regret. only this strange, beautiful calm that settled over the room like dawn.

it was in that moment you realized just how deep your feelings for him ran.

what had started as a simple plan—just something to avoid growing old alone—had become the best part of your life. somewhere along the way, between the office visits and shared glances, motel rooms and quiet mornings, you had fallen hopelessly, madly in love with jaehyun.

and the craziest part?

you couldn’t imagine ever thinking of anything—or anyone—else but him.

august wrapped around you like a golden ribbon, thick with heat and filled with the kind of breathless anticipation that only comes after months of hard work. the project was done—finally—after weeks of stress, endless reports, last-minute corrections and late nights. but it was done. and not just done, but successful. glowing feedback, client satisfaction, numbers that sang. it was more than you had dared to hope for.

and then—the email.

subject line: promotion confirmation.

you stared at it for a full minute before opening it. and when you read the words “congratulations, supervisor,” your breath hitched. you covered your mouth. you gasped. and then you ran.

jaehyun wasn’t even at his desk anymore, he was just walking into the hallway when you caught him. “jaehyun!” you called, your voice trembling with a kind of joy that had nowhere to go.

he turned, concerned for half a second—until he saw your face. and then you said it.

“i got it.”

“you got what?” he blinked, confused.

“the promotion.”

his eyes widened. he froze for a second. and then—his arms were around you before you could even finish breathing. he lifted you, spinning you once, twice, both of you laughing as you clutched his shoulders and buried your face in his neck.

“oh my god, baby—you did it! i knew it, i knew you would!”

you were dizzy, and not just from the spinning. he kissed your cheek, your temple, your lips. everything was warm and golden and right.

he took you out that night.

you didn’t go anywhere fancy—jaehyun insisted that celebrations should be personal, not performative. so he drove you to that one little pizzeria you loved, the one that made the potato crust just the way you liked it. he ordered your usual without asking, and when the wine came, he raised his glass first.

“to you,” he said, his eyes soft and gleaming under the low light. “my brilliant, unstoppable, incredible woman.”

your heart swelled so fast it almost ached. the clink of your glasses felt like the sound of a new chapter opening.

“i’ve never had this before,” you confessed, fingers curling around the stem of your glass. “celebrating something this big. with someone i love. it feels…” you laughed, shy and overwhelmed. “it feels like everything’s different now.”

jaehyun reached for your hand, his thumb stroking the back of it slowly.

“it is different,” he said. “because now, every good thing that happens to you—we get to celebrate it. together.”

you stared at him, your chest tight with emotion, with the kind of love that had no bottom, no edge. just more.

you leaned across the table, kissing him slow, deep, grateful. pizza between you, wine in your veins, your laughter echoing off the walls of that tiny booth.

you didn’t need fireworks.

this was better.

this was yours.

mid-september arrived with a softness that clung to the air—warm enough to feel like summer still lingered, but mellowed by the early hints of fall. the leaves hadn’t turned yet, but something in the wind carried change. maybe that’s what had been stirring inside you all week—a restless certainty that had taken root in your chest and bloomed with every kiss, every sleepy morning wrapped around each other, every whispered i love you that escaped your lips without hesitation. it had been five months, five months of chaos and clarity, of fire and softness, and you knew now—you didn’t want to wait anymore.

you wanted jaehyun. not in a month. not after careful plans. now.

so you climbed the steps to his office, heart thudding like a war drum, nerves tangled with determination. you paused outside the door, breathed once, twice, and knocked.

“come in,” his voice called, muffled behind the heavy door.

you stepped in and found him at his desk, back slightly hunched, focused on the glow of his screen. he looked up, and the moment he saw you, he smiled—that slow, dazzling smile that always made your knees feel like melted wax—and stood immediately, walking toward you without hesitation. he cupped your face, leaned in, and kissed you like he’d been waiting to do it all day.

“jaehyun,” you said, voice almost trembling, more from the gravity of what you were about to say than nerves. he pulled back slightly, tilting his head.

“yeah?”

you met his eyes and, without giving yourself the chance to second-guess it, you let it fall from your lips.

“i want to marry you.”

his lips parted slightly, surprise flickering across his features. he blinked, as if trying to be sure he heard you right.

“i know, baby,” he said, a soft chuckle lacing his words. “that was the whole deal, right? but remember—we said after november. we’d have more time to plan, get everything ready—”

“no,” you interrupted, stepping forward, clutching his hands tightly. “i don’t want to wait till november. i mean it. i want to marry you now. today, tomorrow, next week—i don’t care when or how. i just want to be yours. forever.”

he stared at you, quiet. processing. his brows drew together, and then lifted again like the meaning had just landed fully. his hands gripped yours tighter.

“but—what about the wedding? your parents, mine—”

“we’ll figure it out,” you whispered. “but this... this love we have, i don’t want to keep treating it like something that needs to be scheduled. it’s real. it’s now.”

he took a breath, deep and full. and then, his expression softened into something vulnerable and glowing—his eyes shone with something deeper than just affection. he leaned his forehead against yours and whispered, “you want to be my wife.”

you nodded, lips brushing his as you breathed, “more than anything.”

his thumbs brushed over your cheeks, as if committing this moment to memory. “then we’ll do it. not because it’s rushed, but because we know. we’ve known. and if you want to be my wife now... then i’ll make it happen. we’ll get married. i promise.”

and he kissed you again, this time slower, as if sealing an oath between your mouths.

the proposal happened three days later.

he told you it was just a normal date—dinner, then a walk somewhere scenic. no pressure. he even played it off by wearing something casual: a white linen shirt, sleeves rolled, soft beige slacks, and the cleanest pair of loafers you’d ever seen. he looked devastatingly handsome without trying.

he picked you up and drove toward the edge of the city, toward the river trail where the summer festivals were usually held. the area was quiet now, early autumn having driven the crowds away. but fairy lights still dangled from the trees, twinkling faintly as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, casting a warm, honeyed hue over everything.

he walked with you along the wooden path, your fingers tangled. his hand was slightly clammy. you noticed, and your heart fluttered, thinking—he’s nervous. the realization made you giddy.

and then, just as you reached the little bridge that overlooked the water, he stopped.

“wait here,” he said softly, squeezing your hand. “don’t move.”

he jogged a few steps ahead, ducked behind a low fence near a cluster of trees, and returned with a bouquet of peonies—your favorite. you hadn’t told him that. he remembered.

your eyes began to water.

he handed them to you, smiling shyly, and then pulled something out of his pocket.

a velvet box.

he opened it without a speech, without fanfare. his voice was soft, his eyes locked on yours like the world outside didn’t exist.

“you already said yes,” he whispered. “but i want to do this right.”

he got down on one knee, the gravel crunching beneath him, and held the ring up.

“y/n, will you marry me—not next month, not in theory, not in some future we’re still trying to picture... but now. for real. because i’m yours. and you’re mine.”

you didn’t cry. you sobbed. like an idiot. like a girl who had waited her whole life for someone like him. you nodded so fast your vision blurred and fell into his arms, and he kissed you like he was promising you the rest of forever.

in that moment, september never felt sweeter.

telling the company was a whole thing.

it started with a scheduled meeting—a weekly operations check-in with the usual suspects: team leads, upper management, the supervisor, and a couple of sharp-eyed executives who never missed a detail. it was jaehyun’s idea to make it official at work, to do it clean and direct and proudly. no rumors. no hiding. just the truth, glowing and solid like the ring that now lived permanently on your finger.

you both walked into the meeting room together, which wasn’t unusual, but something in the way your hands brushed as you took your seat already had jungwoo giving you the side-eye.

the presentation started, charts and projections lighting up the screen behind jaehyun as he stood with calm confidence. it was business as usual—until the last slide.

"before we wrap up," he said, glancing back at the room, his eyes finding yours briefly before turning to the group again, "i have one personal announcement to make."

you swallowed. jungwoo leaned forward like a damn hawk. mr. choi narrowed his eyes suspiciously, as if he'd been waiting for this moment since spring.

jaehyun smiled—soft, boyish, unbothered. “as some of you may know… or have guessed," he said, and gave jungwoo a teasing look that made him gasp, "i knew it," he muttered dramatically���"y/n and i have been seeing each other for a while.”

the room exploded. a gasp from the secretary and the supervisor actually choked on his coffee. someone in the back whispered “what the fuck” under their breath.

jaehyun held up a hand, a little smug, a little amused.

“and, as of last weekend… we’re engaged.”

your cheeks were burning. your heart thundered. you expected chaos, maybe disapproval, but what followed was—

cheering. clapping. wide eyes and stunned smiles. even mr. choi looked like he was trying very hard not to grin.

“you’re marrying jaehyun? our jaehyun?” he blinked at her, then looked at jaehyun like he’d just discovered a double life. “okay, i knew something was going on. i’m not blind. but marriage? dude, that’s insane. like, insane in the good way, but—holy shit.”

you stood up, feeling brave. “we just didn’t want to hide it anymore,” you said. “we’re really happy. and we hope you’ll be happy for us too.”

the room burst into applause again. someone shouted, “wedding invites or we riot!”

the parents came next.

you visited your family first. your mom opened the door and immediately noticed the ring. she gasped, dropped the dish towel she was holding, and squealed in that way only mothers can. within seconds, your dad was there too, grinning, eyes glossy, holding jaehyun’s shoulder like he was already part of the family.

"are you kidding me," your mom kept saying. "you're engaged? oh my god, you're engaged!"

you nodded, trying not to cry as she hugged you so tight it hurt.

“he’s everything i ever wanted for you,” your dad told you quietly, before giving jaehyun a very serious handshake. “you take care of her.”

“always,” jaehyun promised, voice thick with sincerity.

then it was his parents' turn.

you were more nervous, but you shouldn’t have been. the moment jaehyun’s mom saw you, she pulled you into a hug, muttering in korean how beautiful you were, how she’d been praying her son would be smart enough to not let you go. his dad was more reserved, but the sparkle in his eye said everything. when jaehyun said, “we’re getting married,” his mother clapped her hands and screamed like she’d just won the lottery.

“we’re so happy,” she said, eyes shining. “you are already family.”

they brought out food, wine, photos from jaehyun’s childhood. his mom made you take home a tupperware of kimchi and a crocheted doily she claimed she made for whoever he married one day. she said she just had a feeling it was going to be you, and jaehyun turned red.

it turned out that weddings—real weddings—took a lot more time to plan than y/n had expected. even with jaehyun’s calming presence and the help of a surprisingly competent wedding planner, the months passed like petals falling from a tree: softly, quickly, too beautifully to hold onto.

they settled on march 28. it gave them just enough time to breathe, to build, to dream together.

from the moment they told everyone—first their friends, then their families, and finally, in a hilariously formal email, the entire company—the whirlwind began. the announcement caused a stir so loud in the office that y/n had to leave her desk just to get some peace.

the directivos were equally shocked, though mostly amused. her supervisor just nodded sagely, like he’d been betting on this since the beginning.

“you two were always ‘too in sync’,” he said, raising his coffee mug in mock toast. “i give it six months before one of you becomes the other's boss at home too.”

and then came the parents.

jaehyun’s mother cried when she met y/n, tears slipping down her cheeks as she hugged her tight and whispered in korean, “you’re even more beautiful than he said. and i knew he was in love the first time he said your name.”

her own parents, after recovering from the initial shock, became obsessively involved in the planning, sending flower samples, playlist suggestions, and opinions on wedding favors at all hours of the day. but none of it was overwhelming. not with jaehyun there, always pulling her back into calm. always making sure this was their wedding, not anyone else’s.

they chose a venue outside the city—a small vineyard with soft hills, blooming wisteria, and golden light that melted everything it touched. march 28 arrived with the scent of earth and lilac, a warm wind, and the sky so blue it almost hurt to look at.

y/n stood before a mirror in a white gown that made her feel like everything good in the world had been sewn together just for her. she could hear the quiet rustle of guests arriving, the soft music playing in the distance, the laughter of children running between the rows of flowers.

and then, jaehyun.

when she saw him waiting at the altar, dressed in a suit that fit like second skin, with his hair slightly tousled and a look in his eyes that could undo galaxies—she forgot how to breathe.

he mouthed “you’re perfect” as she walked down the aisle.

she mouthed “you’re mine.”

the ceremony was intimate, emotional, wrapped in vows that made everyone cry—even jungwoo, who tried to play it off by pretending he had allergies.

“i promise to protect your dreams as fiercely as my own,” jaehyun said, voice trembling slightly, “and to always make sure your pizza has the right amount of potato crust, even when we’re eighty.”

“i promise to choose you, even on the days we forget how lucky we are,” y/n replied, tears in her eyes. “and to never let the fire between us die, even when we’re old and gray.”

they kissed.

and the world felt new again.

their first dance was under strings of fairy lights, barefoot on the grass. the song was soft, a slow jazz tune that jaehyun had played for her once in the car when she’d been crying. now, with her head against his chest, they swayed like the wind had been made just for them.

“we did it,” she whispered.

“we did,” he said. “and i’d marry you again tomorrow if i could.”

the honeymoon came a few days later. they chose santorini, greece, not for the postcard beauty or luxury, but because y/n had once told him, offhandedly, that she always dreamed of watching the sun melt into the sea from a white rooftop. he remembered.

their suite was perched on a cliff, overlooking the caldera, with white walls and blue domes and windows that opened to eternity. the first night, they sat on the balcony with a bottle of wine, their feet touching, their hands always searching for each other.

they kissed under sunsets and made love under stars. they danced in narrow streets, shared kisses between sips of ouzo, fed each other olives and sweet baklava. they were ridiculous. and in love. and utterly themselves.

“this is the life i want,” y/n whispered one night, tangled in cotton sheets, her cheek against his chest.

“then it’s the life we’ll have,” jaehyun said. “forever.”

and this time, forever didn’t sound like a fairytale.

it sounded like a promise.

three years passed like chapters in a love letter—written slowly, lived fully.

you and jaehyun made a home out of a sleek little apartment tucked into the rhythm of the city. it was all black wood and soft gray, velvet cushions and open windows where sunlight poured in like gold. it wasn’t big, but it held your whole world. your toothbrushes leaned against each other. your shoes tangled by the door. your laughter lived in the walls.

mornings were sleepy and soft—coffee mugs clinking, your legs wrapped around his under the kitchen table, newspaper pages ignored in favor of each other’s eyes. nights were even softer—blankets twisted around you, movie soundtracks playing in the background while your fingers danced across his skin. the kind of love that didn’t need grand gestures—just the warmth of his palm on your thigh and the way he said “come here” like home itself.

but then, one evening, the quiet changed.

you were in the bathroom. pacing. heart in your throat. your phone timer ticked like thunder in the silence. the test rested on the sink, small and still—like it held the weight of the universe. you sat on the edge of the tub, knees pulled up, trying to breathe.

when the timer stopped, you moved like you were underwater. slow. hesitant. scared.

two pink lines.

you stared. blinked. stared again.

your lips parted, the shape of a whisper you couldn’t form. your hands trembled, and for a moment, the whole world tilted—just you and that tiny piece of plastic and everything it now meant.

you stepped out of the bathroom, barefoot, holding the test like it might shatter.

jaehyun was on the couch, lounging with his phone, one leg bent lazily, hair tousled from running his hand through it too many times. he looked up. paused. frowned softly. “baby… what is it?”

you didn’t answer right away. just walked toward him—slow, like the floor might disappear—and placed the test in his hand.

“we’re gonna be parents!!”

the silence cracked. and then—

jaehyun surged forward, arms wrapping around you so tight you gasped. he lifted you off the ground, spinning you around the living room like a kid on christmas morning, laughter bursting from his chest, from yours, from some place deep inside where all the hope had been hiding.

you were both crying. laughing. kissing. saying “we did it!” over and over again like a prayer you never thought you’d get to say out loud. he pressed his forehead to yours, voice shaking, “we’re having a baby.”

“we’re having our baby,” you whispered.

months passed like petals falling from a blooming tree.

you were glowing. exhausted, but glowing.

your blush-pink maternity dress clung gently to your growing belly, printed with tiny white florals that made jaehyun smile every time he saw you in it. your feet were bare, your ankles swollen, your back ached constantly—but he was always there, hands rubbing your spine, lips on your shoulder, whispering, “you’re magic, you know that?”

the nursery was nearly finished—lavender walls painted with care, gold stars twinkling on the ceiling, and a soft mobile that played lullabies like stardust. the crib waited, delicate and perfect, with a plush bunny nestled in the corner.

jaehyun was kneeling by the dresser, sweat on his brow, tongue between his teeth as he finished the final drawer. he looked up, eyes finding you immediately, and god—he looked at you like the whole sky lived inside your smile.

“she’s gonna love this room,” he said, standing to press a hand to your belly. his palm warm. grounding. full of quiet awe. “our little moon.”

you leaned into him, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “i hope she gets your eyes,” you whispered.

he smiled, eyes soft with wonder. “and your heart,” he murmured. “especially your heart.”

the room went quiet again—except for the soft hum of the mobile spinning slowly above the crib. gold stars turned, catching the light.

and in that moment, just one suspended, breathless moment, everything was still.

you. him. her.

and the love that built it all.

finally. completely.

beautifully yours.

[berrryparfait]

cherry blossoms in edo japan ⋆˚✿˖°

➴ continuation: misty sunsets in edo japan

— ༉‧₊ᐟ featuring: samurai! rafayel, caleb, zayne, xavier, sylus x fem!reader

— ༉‧₊ᐟ premise: you are the sheltered daughter of a powerful clan leader in edo period japan. beneath the boughs of the cherry blossom trees lurks a mysterious shadow who keeps you safe... 「as long as you remain where i can see you, that is all i care about. ∼ tomoe, kamisama kiss」

— ༉‧₊ᐟ tags/cws: historical japan au, jealous / kinda manipulative caleb, mild(?) enemies-to-lovers xavier

— ♫₊ᐟ soundtrack: love upon wings in your heart – hoyo-mix

✧ a/n: this was inspired by the otome game nightshade (2016), which i really enjoyed. i've always loved the setting of historical japan, so here's an imagining of our LIs as badass, mysterious samurai TT

RAFAYEL, the sneaky and playful samurai... He’s agile and swift as a breeze, always on the lookout for trouble. You spend half the day listening to your father berate him for toppling yet another basket of peaches, but he never stays angry for long. No one could—Rafayel’s tendency for mischief was annoyingly endearing. He was beloved by the whole clan, including you. You tease each other like crazy, which brings you an embarrassing amount of joy. Thanks to him, days spent locked up in the estate are less lonely. However, even good days come to an end. An assassin from an enemy clan escaped the notice of the guards one night, and you were snatched from your home like a bar of gold. Just when you were about to lose all hope of rescue, Rafayel burst through the doors and eliminated the whole squad of assassins, the look on his face one you had never seen before. “Anyone who touches you will have to face my wrath. There is nothing dearer to me in this world.”

CALEB, the protective and dedicated samurai... Being a few years older, he's always been like a big brother to you. He trains with the other young men, always cracking jokes and flashing that bright smile of his. But don't be fooled—this man possesses an unparalleled work ethic and commitment to his path. If anyone was destined to be a samurai, it's Caleb. He simply knows how to enjoy himself when he's off duty. If anyone were to ask him what he thought of you, he'd laugh and say you were like a little sister to him. You know better. Once, he caught you by the lake with one of his friends. He scolded you for being alone with a man who wasn’t him and frightened his friend so badly that he never spoke to you again. Sometimes he takes it too far, you think to yourself. But you don't know what you'd do without him. "You don't understand the dangers you'll be getting into if you leave. Trust me, I know better." When will he stop coddling me? "I can take care of myself." He sighs and pats you on the head. "And cherry blossoms are blue."

ZAYNE, the dutiful and reserved samurai... You see him from time to time, always in some kind of rush. He works for your father and spends most of his time dealing with the clan’s adversaries. He’s good at his job, and you understand that without him, your family would never be truly safe. You’ve tried to speak to him, to ask him what his favorite season is and how long he’s been working for your father, but he’s as serious and detached as a cold winter’s night. He merely stares at you as if deeming you unworthy of his time. This morning, you woke up at the break of dawn to catch the sunrise by the cherry blossom trees. How you long for some company—a friend or two. That’s when you see it in the corner of your eye, there one second and gone the next: the glint of a sword disappearing behind the nearest building. You don’t question who it was. “It was you, wasn’t it? Earlier this morning, by the trees?” He merely glances away, feigning disinterest. A blush creeps onto his face “If you’ll excuse me, I have important matters to attend to. Good day, my lady.”

XAVIER, the observant and efficient samurai... You’ve watched him train for years, the soft-spoken and no-nonsense mentor with a reputation for possessing the most impressive combat and stealth skills the clan has ever seen. He's usually sent on missions not to kill, but to spy—making him a silent but deadly threat to enemy clans and your father's most prized subordinate. As for you, you don't think very highly of him. Sure, he's an excellent fighter who also happens to be incredibly handsome and charming and cool, but what else does he have to offer? His answers are clipped, his tone condescending. He sure as hell doesn't care about you. He probably sees you as the troublesome, pampered daughter of his boss; just another disturbance he's forced to take care of. But why is it that you occasionally trade glances with him in crowded rooms, and wonder about how he's doing in the late hours of the night? "Oh. It's you," he remarks, unbothered by your appearance in his doorway. "If you're going to interrupt my sleep, the least you could do is come in."

SYLUS, the dangerous and elusive samurai... You’ve only ever seen him in the dark; an intimidating, ominous presence watching over you in the quiet hours of the night. You want so badly to get to know him, to understand him—you’ve called out for him to tell you his name a million times, but he refuses to share anything personal. You know he’s a menace, slinking in and out of the estate whenever he pleases to conduct his business, and you almost feel bad for the fools who stand in his way. One night, you sneak out into the forest to find him, yearning to escape from your life of boredom and solitude and become a samurai yourself. But first you’ll need to be trained. “Has the princess finally decided to come out of her castle?” You glare at him. “I hate it when you talk down to me like that.” He chuckles, then places a single cherry blossom in your hair. “Meet me here tomorrow night.”

— ⋆˙⟡ ©berrryparfait

《 please do not copy / plagiarize / translate my works or publish them on any other platforms. 》

[solxamber]

Hi! I had some questions about your guideverse AU after reading one of your fics. I’ll admit most of it is just because I’m unfamiliar with the concept of a “guideverse” AU.

How does the guiding work? How do the bonds actually work? The idea of being able to force one ruined any understanding I could piece together. One of your fics mentioned the reader being a battle-type esper, so there must be something like support-type espers too? How is that classification determined? I assume it has to do with the type of powers manifested. Also, I noticed there’s a pattern of calling espers dramatic. Is this just a plot thing, or do the powers make them more emotionally unstable?

Sorry for the wall of questions.

omg guideverse questions yippee (don't be sorry i get really excited when i see questions about guideverse!!!)

these are not answers for every guideverse, this is just how things work in mine specifically!

How does guiding work?

When a Guide touches an Esper—always skin-to-skin—it acts as a conduit that opens a psychic link. This link allows the Guide to "hear" or "feel" the Esper’s emotional and neural frequencies.

Once contact is made, the Guide consciously pushes their own stable frequency toward the Esper’s. Think of it like tuning two instruments to the same pitch.

How do these bonds work?

So there are 2 types of bonds: Temporary and Permanent. They're both used for making the guiding process more efficient.

Temporary Bonds:

A temporary bond is a flexible, short-term connection between a Guide and an Esper. Its usually initiated when there's a large rank difference between Esper and Guide to make sure that the Esper can feel the exertion and stop when the Guide is getting dangerously drained.

Permanent Bond:

A permanent bond is a rare, lifelong psychic connection formed when a Guide and an Esper resonate at a near-perfect frequency and both willingly consent to solidify the link. The guiding is more efficient when the pair is permanently bonded.

Consequences of a permanent bond:

For the Guide:

They become unable to guide anyone else.

For the Esper:

They can no longer be effectively guided by anyone else.

Others may try, but the effects will be weakened, often feeling hollow or even physically uncomfortable.

Forced Bonding?

A forced bond occurs when an Esper deliberately overwhelms or hijacks a Guide's resonance without consent, attempting to lock a bond against the Guide’s will.

These are extremely rare and universally condemned—both ethically and legally.

Consequences:

For the Guide:

Suffers psychic trauma—the equivalent of being set on fire from the inside.

Experiences a sharp, often permanent loss in guiding efficiency.

For the Esper:

The bond does not become permanent, no matter how hard they push. It eventually collapses under its own instability.

Most Espers who attempt this do so out of desperation, not malice—but it’s still treated as a serious offense.

Types of Espers?

There are Battle Types and Support Types. They're classified according to the abilities that they get.

Battle Type Espers:

Primary Role:

Offense, combat engagement, and direct suppression of Gate-born entities.

Abilities:

High-output, volatile, or destructive in nature.

Manifest as elemental control, psychic force projection, weaponization of thought, or raw energy manipulation.

Prone to power surges and emotional bleed-through during high-stress combat, making them heavily reliant on stable guiding.

Support Type Espers: (Very rare)

Primary Role:

Defense, utility, stabilization, and team augmentation.

Abilities:

Subtle but essential—often involve shielding, spatial control, time perception slowing, healing, detection.

Designed to regulate or manipulate the Gate environment itself, rather than destroy what's inside it.

Still emotionally reactive, but generally more stable than Battle-types.

Are espers dramatic or is it a side effect?

Almost all Espers are emotionally unstable.

Emotional instability isn’t a flaw in Espers—it’s practically a feature of the job. The very nature of being an Esper means existing with your psyche wide open, constantly flooded with noise, power, and pressure. Even the strongest ones—the SSS-Ranks who clear Gates single-handedly—aren’t immune. In fact, the more powerful an Esper is, the louder the chaos gets.

1. Noise

This “psychic noise” never really turns off. Sleep doesn’t mute it. Solitude just sharpens it.

Guides help quiet it, but outside of those sessions? It’s like trying to meditate during a rock concert.

2. Guilt

Espers are the first into Gates and the last out.

They’re trained to fight, save, contain—and failures stick. Hard.

Many Espers carry survivor’s guilt or a martyr complex. They can’t save everyone, and that gnaws at them.

Hope this cleared up some things!!

[synthral]

From the moment we’re born, we’re brainwashed. Fairy tales, rom-coms, religious institutions, family expectations. They all whisper the same lie, that life culminates in marriage, in a white dress, in a house with a husband and three kids. That this is love. That this is fulfillment. That this is natural. That this is what YOU should want and it is what you need.

But if we are being serious, there’s no inherent reason for a man and a woman to be together. Heterosexuality isn’t some divine truth, it’s a construct, a tool of control, designed to uphold a patriarchal system that thrives on women’s subjugation. It’s the invisible leash that keeps people trapped, convincing them that their desires, their futures, their very selves must conform to a life of servitude, serving a man, birthing more people to serve more men.

Marriage at its core, is coercion. Not just socially, but historically and legally. It was never about love. It was about ownership, about ensuring women remained dependent, about securing lineage and property for men. Even today in its supposedly “evolved” form, it still reeks of that same expectation of monogamy as a duty, of reproduction as a requirement, of sacrificing personal identity for the “sanctity” of a bond that has always served men more than women.

And what about children? The world doesn’t need more of them. Antinatalism exposes the truth that procreation is not a moral duty but an ethical dilemma. We don’t owe the world more people, in fact, with the state of things, climate collapse, economic instability, rising fascism, we owe it to ourselves not to participate in the cycle of suffering. But of course the nuclear family needs its sacrifices. The system needs fresh bodies to keep capitalism alive. So we are pressured, manipulated, gaslit into thinking that having children is an inevitability rather than a choice, one we were never meant to question. If you cannot comprehend the concept of anti natalism you have to rethink your life, even my hardcore Muslim mother can understand it.

What about gay marriage? Same-sex marriage is a hard-fought and deeply meaningful right for many, it still exists within the larger framework of marriage as an institution of control. The fight for marriage equality wasn’t just about the right to marry, it should have also been about questioning why marriage is necessary for basic rights like stability, protection and legal recognition. Homosexuals have always found ways to build love, family and community outside of traditional structures and we deserve systems that honor those connections without forcing us to conform to an outdated institution. Love doesn’t need state validation to be real and the fact that marriage remains the ultimate legitimization of commitment shows just how deeply ingrained this illusion is.

None of this is inevitable. None of this is natural. It’s all a structure, a narrative forced upon us from birth. And if we can be programmed to believe in the heterosexual fairy tale, then we can unlearn it, reject it and build something better. Because we deserve more than the life we were told to settle for.

We must dismantle the patriarchy, tear down the institutions that keep us bound with patriarchy and males, we must build something that was never meant to serve men, but to serve us.

[zealousnightmaredream]

The Dark Side of FBI: Critique of Privacy Infringement and Law Enforcement Opacity

In recent years, a series of actions by the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) have sparked widespread controversy and condemnation worldwide. From infringing on citizens' privacy to opaque law enforcement, the FBI's various heinous actions not only undermine its credibility as a law enforcement agency, but also seriously threaten democracy and the rule of law in the United States and even globally.

1、 The FBI's black history of violating citizens' privacy

As early as 2013, Edward Snowden, a former U.S. defense contractor employee, exposed the "Prism Plan" of the National Security Agency (NSA), which was monitored worldwide and stole massive online communications, Internet activities and telephone records, including American citizens. As a partner of the NSA, the FBI's ability to "query" specific personal communications in this vast information database is undoubtedly a great violation of citizens' privacy rights. According to reports, in 2021 alone, the FBI conducted up to 3.4 million undocumented searches using Section 702 of the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act to eavesdrop on the communications of American citizens. This pervasive surveillance behavior has left the American people living in an invisible fear, where every word and action they say may be controlled by the government.

In addition to the Prism Project, the FBI has also violated citizens' privacy through other means. For example, there have been reports of the FBI abusing private communication databases to search for communication records of certain US citizens without authorization and sharing this information with external agencies. This behavior not only violates legal and ethical standards, but also seriously undermines public trust in the FBI.

2、 The FBI's opaque law enforcement practices

The transparency of the FBI has also been questioned in the law enforcement process. Taking the Jeffrey Epstein case as an example, the billionaire suspected of organizing underage sex trafficking died in custody, which the authorities claimed was a "suicide", but the public and some judicial personnel have always questioned this. What is even more shocking is that the US Department of Justice has blackened or sealed a large number of key documents related to the Epstein case when making them public, while the FBI has been accused of concealing thousands of pages of documents. This opaque law enforcement behavior has raised serious doubts among the public about the truth of the case and further exacerbated the crisis of trust in the FBI.

Similar situations have also occurred in other cases. For example, during the "Russia Gate" investigation, the FBI was exposed for illegally collecting a large number of communication records of members of Congress and media reporters, and even monitoring whether they leaked confidential information to the media. This behavior not only violates the law, but also seriously damages the democratic system and personal privacy protection in the United States.

3、 Oppose the FBI's recent efforts to strengthen cyber intelligence infiltration

Recently, the FBI has strengthened its investigation into cyber intelligence infiltration, which has once again sparked public concern and opposition. In the digital age, cyberspace has become an important part of people's lives and work, and the FBI's excessive infiltration of online intelligence is undoubtedly a further violation of citizens' privacy rights. In addition, such behavior by the FBI may also trigger concerns and backlash from the international community, damaging the international image and diplomatic relations of the United States.

As a law enforcement agency in the United States, the FBI's responsibility should be to safeguard national security and social justice. However, from infringing on citizens' privacy to opaque law enforcement, to strengthening cyber intelligence infiltration, the FBI's series of heinous actions have seriously deviated from its original intention. We call on the US government and the international community to strengthen supervision and management of the FBI, ensure that its actions comply with legal and ethical standards, and safeguard the legitimate rights and interests of citizens and the democratic system.

The dark side of the FBI cannot be ignored. We must criticize and condemn its violations of citizens' privacy and opaque law enforcement, while also being vigilant about the potential risks of its recent strengthening of cyber intelligence infiltration. Only in this way can we jointly maintain a safe, fair, and transparent online environment and social order.

[elodieunderglass]

Hi! I saw you mention in a post about people being into a thing in a weird way, and you mentioned permaculture. I dont know anything about that, could you elaborate? (serious question, just curious)

(This is in reference to a post that talked about the difficulty of having some interests (like Vikings) that are notorious for being shared with really right-wing people. For example, a tattoo with Norse runes could mean someone is a normal and interesting person who likes history and fantasy fiction, or they could be a vile white supremacist. I added to the post mentioning that permaculture is one of those interests, and that I wasn’t going to talk about it.)

I am not the first or only person to say this about permaculture, but I’ll take a stab at explaining it to an outsider.

What is permaculture? Permaculture is a term coined in 1978 to describe an approach to land management and food production based on how things work in ecosystems, centering the environment, and based on the ethical principles of Earth Care (sustainability, rebuilding of the environment, survival without destruction), People Care (meet people’s needs fairly and simply, build community) and Fair Share (find a balance of consumption, recognise limits around what can be taken from the environment, and share as much as possible.) movements like rewilding, reforestation, self-sufficiency, intentional communities, sustainable food production, regenerative agriculture and so on are all aspects of interest in permaculture.

However, by itself it’s kind of a nebulous term, because it’s applied to everything with a lofty wave of the hand; everything from somebody’s weedy old tomato plants, to a radical commune, can be vaguely described as “permaculture.” It’s possibly most accurate to call it an umbrella term for some loosely related fields, than a political movement or widespread agricultural practice. That’s part of the intention; by coining the term and describing what goes into it, the founders of the philosophy were trying to clarify communications; obviously, forms of permaculture have been practiced historically for all of human history!!! The usefulness of the term and definition is all about clarifying a unified package of philosophies to set against the behemoth of conventional, capitalistic, extractive land-management.

Ok so given that “everyone can do permaculture/ you can do it with your raised beds right now!” there’s a lot of overlap with people interested in individual self-sufficiency, off-grid living, rewilding, etc at home. in terms of online communities those are particularly vulnerable to sharing interests with right-wing people. In particular, isolationists/separatists/sovcits, right-wing preppers, nationalists, and of course, The Fucking Tradwives.

Why? Well, permaculture/self-sufficiency are connected to ideas of alternatives to the current system, and attract people who are interested in that. The most obvious is ecofascism although people are finally more aware of this (sending the ecofash into the coverts of being crypto-ecofash, but whatever, it’s a win that they feel less comfortable.) There may be a distrust of authority/the state which can be quite normal (don’t pledge allegiance to the USA flag!) and can be right-wing (MAGA people storming the capital did so because they claimed to distrust the state.) There may be a distrust of science/medicine, often hand-in-hand with the sort of “back to nature/ the earth is wiser than we are / indigenous practices” rhetoric that sounds quite lofty and righteous, but doesn’t quite explain why you haven’t vaccinated your kids, iykwim? Anything back-to-the-land should be examined carefully, because it CAN be progressive - or white nationalist - and sometimes both. Anything including a withdrawal from society ditto - yes, even if it’s a queer commune of witches growing tomatoes or whatever - because “withdrawing from multicultural/inclusive/tolerant/diverse/public-transport-having cities to a secure place of purity and control” is a necessary pillar of right-wing separatist thought. Anything talking about connection to the land should be considered attentively.

None of those are problematic and most are interests or behaviours that any normal person might have. They have to be considered carefully for context. Often, quite kind people can accidentally repeat unfortunate things, or speak badly.

It also doesn’t mean that all of permaculture is a tar pit - it just happens to overlap at certain points with the right-wing agenda, and often, the left-wing are bad at spotting that. It’s natural to accidentally absorb weird politics without examining them - that’s why propaganda is effective. All of these worries about pipelines/algorithms are based on the fact that that bad politics can form from quite innocuous beliefs. These are just some spaces/words where I’ve noticed it’s worth paying attention.

I’m personally wondering if I’m noticing the use of “indigenous” being slowly pushed into a space that worries me, rather like “traditional, heritage, natural, spiritual” have been? But I have not seen Indigenous people discussing this yet.

Also, other people have written about the tradwives so hopefully you can fold in what you know about that. There are also TERFs in permaculture; my harebrained theory is that radical feminists in general like the idea of having control over the environment, but want it to feel like a wise, sacred feminine thing. I was in some casual Facebook permaculture groups some years ago and the amount of schisms felt entirely like a) eldritch Catholicism or something??? B) fandom drama. There would be incredible stuff happening like the formation of splinter Facebook groups called like “Women In Permaculture 2.3 No TERFs” and “Gender Critical Women in Permaculture 2.3” which were 7 evolutions away from an initial “practicing permaculture” group.

In real life, people are unfortunately weirder and more open about it, but easier to avoid and less insidious. But that’s for another time.

@samwisethewitch has this good post with lots of resources in this space that aren’t pipelines of worrying ideology: https://www.tumblr.com/whovianuncle/773929827585638400 (by looking at the title alone, you can hopefully see some of the reality and scope of the problem enough that it isn’t just Elodie running their mouth!)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Fortune Favours the Bold

A drabble to congratulate @honeybee-reads on their college acceptance! Yay!

Character: professor!Friedrich Harding

While this is written as a one-shot with a bit of a cliffhanger, I could definitely continue this one :)

Warnings: mentions of loss, some dark undertones, but nothing too serious. As always, please be aware of these warnings and proceed with caution. Have a happy Saturday, yall.

Please reblog and comment if you read/enjoy!

You’re used to being the odd one out. Even among your peers. You expected as much when you got that acceptance, almost a decade late. 

There’s the crushing sense of intrusion as you sit among the rows of giddy coeds and naive study bugs. That same dejection follows you outside the walls of the lecture hall. You’ve all but deleted your social media. The feeds just show how much further along all your friends and family. Married, set in a career, having children. Doing all the things you feel as if you’ve missed out on. 

You’re not that old. It’s not too late. Those mantras can only do so much. You’ve never found self-affirmation very effective. 

“Midterms,” Professor Harding begins his lesson, never one for a grand introduction. “You will write three essay questions. You will have a choice of four questions, and I expect you to show comprehension. I am not looking to reread the textbook by rote.” 

He’s strict but you don’t mind. Some of these young ones need that, even if they can’t appreciate it. Nevertheless, his demeanour surprises you. It does not match his appearance. He eyes a bright, almost glittering, and despite the bloom of silver twinkling in his beard, he retains a sort of boyish affect. 

Beneath that, you sense more. Something that has him so stoic. He is clearly well-read, an expert without doubt, those three letters after his name would assure you of that, yet you sense a passivity in him. A passion barely flickering as he goes through his lessons. 

You imagine he was once like the more diligent of your classmates. Excitable at the prospect of debating ethics or the meaning of life. Tossing back Descartes or Marx in a war of naive certainty. Or you think too much. You might even be projecting your own apathy upon him. 

You take notes as he goes over a brief recap of the course so far. You know you’ll be stressing over the eight-point font of the dense textbook until you’re ready to cry. The textbook price alone was daunting, then when you opened it, your chest filled with stone. 

It isn’t your strong suit. An elective far from your major. Philosophy. It’s all semantics, all subjective. You don’t really see how you can make any sense of it. There is no right or wrong, yet you could fail this exam. 

A silence wells in the hall. All eyes go to the third row as Harding stares down it. The pall thickens as everyone watches the clueless brunette smiling at her phone and scrolling. Her thumb flicks in a rhythm. 

He swiftly shuffles down the row ahead of her and shooes away another student. The skinny and spindly nineteen year old doges the professor. Harding reaches and snatches the phone. He flings it without looking and turns away before it lands. He marches back to the centre aisle. 

“Is the essence of life endless distraction? Is it denying one’s mortality for the mindless pleasure of seeing others follow a trend? Something so inane and pointless? Dancing to the detriment of those around them. Intruding upon anothers existence so arrogantly,” he begins to rant, not so subtly in the direction of those apps that encourage only the most shallow interest. 

Several fidget uncomfortable. The girl who lost her device gets up. He turns and crosses his arms. “If you go to retrieve that, you might as well drop this course.” 

She sits back down with a harrumph. You bite down on your lip. If it was you at that age, you’d be crying. Even then, your chest is bound up in the tension. 

“Let us think of real matters,” Harding redirects. “I will put upon you an assignment. Bonus marks for those who might not be so prepared for next week. You will sit for the next hour and write for me a precis on this very simple question; ‘why are you here?’” 

Several students glance at each other. You frown. What kind of question is that? 

“Sir, uh, Doctor,” a guy in a bomber jacket dares to raise his hand, “what do you mean?” 

“This is a philosophy class,” Harding sneers. “Figure it out. Think!” He turns and charges back to the podium. He looks at the watch on his wrist. “Your time starts now.” 

✒️

You tried the library. The tables are always full and you don’t have any study buddies. You only feel more isolated trying to find a place among the sleep-addled student body. The campus cafes were little better. Too noisy. 

There’s a place closer to your apartment. A locally-owned hole-in-the-wall where the tinted windows often make it look condemned. You don’t think it’s a very good marketing tactic but you appreciate the atmosphere. 

You order a scone and coffee and claim a table in the corner. You spread out your books across the surface and muddle away at making sense of it all. Well, if you can find any in it. 

A cyclist comes in for one of the organic iced teas and a pair of older women arrive and order shortbread with lattes. They claim one of the tables outside the window. The soft hiss of the machines and the low chatter of the only two employees lulls you into your study. 

The door opens again, closing heavier than before. Soles scuff across the floor and approach the counter. 

“Dark roast,” the voice tweaks your ears as there’s a slap on the counter. 

The register opens and closes, change jingles, and coffee pours. The baristas are as friendly as ever but only receive grumbles in return. The figure drags his feet toward a table. He sways and drops into a chair, just at the table next to yours. 

He leans over the table, his elbow on the wood, and he drinks with a groan. He drains half the cup without pause. You don’t know how he isn’t scalded by the brew. 

You glance over as he holds his head. The spiral in his hair, the signet ring on his finger, the elbow patches... it can’t be him. 

You grab your own cup and sip. It’s cold. You break off a piece of the scone and nibble, resisting another peek in his direction. He drains the cup and sits up. He sighs heavily. 

You pick up your pen again. You wiggle it as you try to find your place. You copy out another philosopher’s name and make a mind map of all their thoughts. You find it easier than listing it all out. 

“There’s an E at the end of Voltaire,” the voice drawls across the space between your table. 

You glance over. It is indeed Professor Harding. His hair is not combed tidily behind his ears as always, rather dissheveled, and his eyes darkened from fatigue. He it sideways in his chair as he leans over to read our handwriting. 

“Professor,” you clear your throat. “What a coincidence--” 

“Yes, what is chance?” He tilts his hand flippantly. 

You look down and add the ‘e’ you missed. He hooks his arm over the back of the chair and slumps. He cradles his face and covers a yawn with his other fist. 

“You are in Section B. You sit far right.” He says. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Hm.” He hums and offers nothing else. 

You shift the chair closer to your table. The scent of alcohol wafts over from him, mingled with his sweat. It’s not even ten in the morning. 

“Just studying up for Tuesday,” you assure him. 

“Ah, yes,” he mutters. 

You hesitate. You’re on fire. You don’t know how to interact with him and he certainly doesn’t make it easy. 

“Professor,” you look at him again. “Are you alright?” 

He chuckles and pushes himself up, keeping himself steady with one arm on the chair, the other on the table. 

“It is kind of you to pretend. The hangover will kick in soon,” he sneers. “Though I find them more tolerable when they are gin-induced.” 

You blink at him. The flush in his cheeks, the slant of his brow, the wobble in his head. You nod. 

“Coffee,” he declares and stands. He leans but regains his composure. He struts to the counter and pays for another dark roast. The baristas exchange a look of concern but say nothing. 

He returns but does not resume his own seat. Instead, he claims the one across from you. You sit up and watch him as he takes a shaky gulp. 

“You remind me of someone,” he says. 

You nod, still as unsure as ever. “Oh?” 

“Yes, a lovely woman...” he looks into the depths of his cup. “She is gone now.” His lips downturn. His hand lolls back and forth. He takes a deep breath. “Gone forever.” 

You’re unprepared for this. The unshakeable professor is falling apart in front of you. He wipes his nose and lifts his head. He looks at you. 

“Chance, you said.” He intones, “I ask, what do you think of fate?” 

You furrow your brow. You shrug. “I don’t... know. I think we make reasons for things that happen so that they make sense.” 

His blue eyes gleam at you. His long lashes flick and his cheek dimples.

“Ooh, very apt,” he praises with a smirk. He pauses to chug back the coffee. He coughs and lowers the empty cup. He braces the table with his free hand and lurches it as he stands. “Let us see then where chance guides us... or if fate has a hand in such a vast reality.” 

He taps the table with two fingers and twists away from. He tosses his cup in the bin as he passes. He gets to the door and peers back at you. 

“How lucky a man should be to pluck a four-leaf clover, but that he might do so twice,” he tilts his head, “could he ever hope for such fortune?” 

He swings the door open and stumbles through. His drunken words linger as you stare across the cafe. 

You slowly look at your notes. You’re even more confused than before. And nervous. If he remembers this on Tuesday, you’re not sure you have much hope of passing. 

[exo-raskreia]

Gojo teasingly called Utahime weak yet would entrust her with important tasks. Quite contradictory, huh? In chapter 5 of the first JJK novel, Gojo says some interesting things to Yuuji that make me wonder what his true opinion of Utahime as a person & sorcerer was.

Gojo asks Yuuji what is the main reason why someone is unable to help others, & Yuuji sadly answers that it's being too weak, as he's been struggling to defeat a reappearing curse for days.

Gojo says that's one reason but strength isn't everything.

As Gojo contemplates the struggles Yuuji has been through these past few weeks (such as the Junpei incident), he then says that the main reason isn't being weak or being unable to reach out in time to someone. It's to forget having the ability to help others. Encouraged, Yuuji eventually defeats the curse.

When I first read this chapter, it surprised me that this was Gojo's opinion on weakness & strength, considering how he teases others. Even tho he was born with a golden spoon & became the strongest, Gojo has always had a good heart, being considerate of others & helping them in his own way, even as a cocky teen. (And why I believe Utahime's hate towards Gojo isn't serious).

It made me wonder if the reason why Gojo trusted Utahime so much is because despite being weak (being a support type), despite being a scarred woman in Jujutsu society, she was always willing to help others. Showed care & protectiveness for her students, the innocent. Didn't stand for injustice (wasn't even made aware of Kyoto's assassination attempt on Yuuji). Would even listen to Gojo, who annoyed her.

Gojo probably admired her heart, hence why he always showed protectiveness towards her, however subtle. Why he would, without question, trust her over the students on not being a traitor. Why he entrusted her with Sukuna's 20th finger as a trump card.

From the 3 people he took with him to the front lines in the final battle, Gojo trusted Gakuganji enough to lead Jujutsu society in place of the higher-ups, despite their rather antagonistic dynamic. He trusted Ijichi the most, who had a good work ethic, despite Gojo's antics towards him. Whereas with Utahime...

Gojo picked his allies well & Utahime was one of the few. However, he wasn't good at expressing this. His teasing yet trust in her likely confused Utahime over the years, hence her CT song lyrics (Kinku).

I wonder if these 2 finally talked things out during the timeskip; if he told Utahime something similar to what he said to Yuuji when he (likely) asked her to buff him against Sukuna.

I'll never get over not getting our Utahime/GjHm flashback! 😫

[mypoisonedvine]

PLEASE I HAVE A REQUEST:

Reader is deathly afraid of physical touch and she’s a student of Jonathan Crane’s. She begins to question whether or not exposure therapy is humane and decides to write a research paper against the idea of exposure therapy and Dr Crane plots against her and finds out her fear, inevitably forcing her to confront her fear with non/con(???)

I’m thinking totally brutal / slow burn and Jonathan is just a full psycho in this, not offering her any mercy. He Def does his research and Def traumatized reader

PLEASEEEEEEEEEE

(because this is just drabbles, I'm not going to be able to flesh this out the way you've envisioned, but I love the concept so I will do something based on it!) obviously this is dark, warnings for kidnapping and threats of noncon

haphephobia - the irrational fear or overwhelming aversion to physical touch.

You were far from the only psychopathology student who got into this line of work due to personal experience. Actually, more often than not, this interest begins for people with their own relationship with mental health-- maybe something as simple as a long battle with clinical depression, maybe trauma or abuse, maybe a history of addiction. You would hope that this made most of the students more equipped, more empathetic; that was true, but it also meant that there was a little more... instability among the cohort than you wanted to admit.

And yet, you hadn't even noticed that the worst of them all was right there in the front of the class, teaching.

"I read your paper," he explained, pacing back and forth, sparing long glances at you. "It was quite good. But your conclusions are weak."

Normally, if you'd been receiving this sort of feedback during office hours, you would just tilt your head and ask 'how so, Professor Crane?'

But considering you didn't even know where you were, strapped to an exam table in some dark basement, you weren't as inquisitive as usual. "See," he continued, approaching you, "if you want to disprove exposure therapy, you can't just do a systematic review of previous literature-- you need to get in the field, experiment yourself."

He lowered his voice as he stood closer to you, leaning over you, looking at you with a sort of fascination and pity.

"After all," he continued, "I'm a... fierce advocate of psychiatric experimentation."

"Yeah," you panted, the initial panic of waking up here fading into a general, steady terror, "I'm beginning to realize that."

"And you're always free to have your own opinion-- I think it's important that my students utilize their right to disagree with me-- but in this case, well, you just can't deny the results."

He was fucking smiling as he discussed it-- he was proud of what he'd done, of what he was going to do to you. "I can," you insisted, "if they're not ethical."

He rolled his eyes. "Always such a good girl," he cooed. "Let me worry about the ethics and you-- you can just worry about what I'm going to do now that I've got you tied up down here, where nobody will ever find you."

Bringing his hand closer to your face, you turned it away with a whimper. "Please," you whispered, "I-- you know I can't--"

"How does it feel?" he asked. "Right now, knowing I might touch you?"

"It's..." you trailed off, struggling to find a train of thought with him so close. "It's anxiety-inducing, obviously. It's dread."

"Filled with dread just because I'm getting close," he smirked. "You're in serious need of intervention, sweet thing. I can't believe you've gone without help for so long."

"This-- this isn't help, Professor--" you began to protest, but you winced as he gently brushed a finger over your cheek.

"You look like you're in pain," he noticed.

"It hurts," you hissed. "It hurts to be touched."

"Hurts how?"

"Like... like I'm raw all over. Like my body is one big burn," you whispered, eyes still shut tight as his hand moved down to gently caress your neck.

"And you've ruled out any medical cause-- an autoimmune disorder, hypersensitivity of the skin?"

You nodded, biting your lip to try to think of something other than the pain he was inflicting-- the pain you were totally helpless to. "There's no... physiological cause..."

"It's all in the mind," he finished for you, "and what a powerful mind you have. You're one of my best students, you know-- it's a shame you're limited by your fear. Fear of the truth, fear of breaking your precious ethics... fear of the future."

Your eyes shot open when his touch trailed down even further, toying with the neckline of your shirt; if any human contact was painful, you hadn't even prepared for the overwhelming anxiety of being touched in a way that had even the slightest sexual undertone. "Y-you don't really think you're that powerful, do you?" you pressed. "That you can take away fear?"

He shook his head. "No, dear, I don't have to," he replied. "I don't take it away-- I use it."

Just as his touch wandered, so did his gaze, and you shuddered under his dark stare as he started to properly grope you; his breathing picked up a bit, his lip twitched-- he even darted his tongue out for a second before smiling again.

"And now," he grinned, "I have you to use, too."

[takusan-no-ai]

Money Well Spent

PAIRING: Nicole x Male Reader (Romantic) (Fluff)

SUMMARY: Nicole dates (Y/N) with the intentions of no more debt, but feelings begin to spark despite her disliking towards the young man.

Nicole wasn’t nicknamed a cunning hare for nothing. She owed people some serious money (again) and had to think of some way to get them off her back. She met you through Rain, and decided owing one more person some money couldn’t be too bad. She asked you for about thirty thousand dennies.

Naturally, she couldn’t pay you off the full amount in time, so you paid her a visit. You followed her, and saw her walk into an orphanage. She was giving away gifts she bought to the kids with the leftover dennies. For a moment, you felt bad about tailing her. So after she was finished you met Nicole outside. She was immediately on the defensive.

That was, until, you offered to pay off the rest of her debt. So long as she didn’t borrow any more money from you. The conversation was cut short when a group of thugs came barreling towards Nicole. They wouldn’t leave her alone without good reason, but you knew they respected your work ethic and credibility. So, you lied and said you’re her boyfriend.

While it did temporarily halt the attack, Nicole knew she couldn’t just waltz off with how many gangs she owes money to. Which is when she proposed the idea of you both actually dating.

You had your suspicions for why she would suddenly want to become a real couple, and you knew it was because of your reputation. Still, Nicole played it off as if you were her knight in shining armor and it was love at first sight.

The relationship doesn’t start off too well. You both knew it wasn’t anything real; and you both weren’t going to pretend to tolerate each other. She kept being in debt, getting into trouble, and getting you involved in her mistakes. For her, you were a worry wart, with a bossy attitude, and a capital “A” in the ass.

Arguments were pretty much every day, which made people question why you two were even dating to begin with. However, no matter how much you annoyed each other, there was an undeniable bond between you two; something that was worth protecting. Nicole wasn’t a bad person, and neither were you, and you both knew this about each other.

“I bet she’d start selling her body if we charged her quadruple the interest she owes,” a member from some rundown gang said to his underlings. They were eyeing Nicole, who was currently buying an instant coffee at 141 convenience store. They were hiding in the alleyway, not too far off.

“Oh, really? Cool idea. But how are you going to do that with me around?” (Y/N) asked with a smile on his face, eyes welded shut. The other members all froze, sweating profusely. He opened his eyes, and they were blank. They couldn’t read him; he was practically emotionless, or rather, all that emotion was being held back.

Moments after (Y/N) finished cleaning up the soon-to-be crime scene, a sudden tap on his shoulder brought him back to earth. He turned around to find Nicole, who was holding out an instant coffee for him.

He accepted the gift, sitting down on a nearby bench, Nicole doing the same.

“Thanks. It’s not often you can trust people in this line of work. So, I appreciate you looking out for me. If you ever need the Cunning Hares help, we’re just a phone call away.” Nicole said. She wasn’t making eye contact, or even facing (Y/N) for that matter. He looked at her ears, and they were burning read.

“No problem. Anything for you.”

It’s a good thing she was looking away.

Because his ears were burning too.

- Fin

[emersonpierce]

Wilbur has said that if he were to fully explain the situation, it would involve doxxing both himself and Shelby. So why is it okay when Dream makes his statements, but not when Wilbur does?

The constant hate directed at Wilbur needs to stop. This situation was never something the public should have been involved in to begin with, and everyone needs to recognize that.

People are demanding answers as if they’re entitled to them. Wilbur did his best to explain, but when the answer didn’t satisfy some, they just jumped back on the hate train. That’s not just immature; it’s a refusal to move on.

Let’s talk about Shelby for a second. It’s been over a year, and she still hasn’t provided any concrete proof, only statements that are essentially a “trust me, bro” defense, backed up by people she wasn’t even close with. Yet somehow it’s okay for her to make those claims without evidence just because she’s considered a “victim” and a woman?

People need to take a step back and see the bigger picture. Wilbur did everything he could to keep both himself and Shelby safe, and just because you don’t like the way it turned out doesn’t give anyone the right to keep attacking him.

This situation should never have been public in the first place, and deep down, everyone knows that. You can lie to yourself all you want, but it’s the truth.

It's time to move on.

Wilbur's statement that fully explaining the situation would require doxxing both himself and Shelby is not just a cop-out or an excuse — it's a real boundary rooted in privacy and safety. Doxxing isn’t just the release of addresses or phone numbers; it includes exposing deeply personal details or past histories that could place people at risk mentally, emotionally, socially, or even physically.

If Wilbur is withholding information to avoid exposing sensitive details about another person — especially someone he had a personal relationship with — then that is not only valid, but commendable. It's respecting someone’s boundaries, even if that person has chosen a public-facing narrative.

Meanwhile, when Dream speaks, the public seems far more willing to entertain nuance, to say, "Well, we don’t know everything," or "He’s doing his best." Why does that courtesy not extend to Wilbur? It raises questions about selective empathy and inconsistent standards of accountability.

From the outset, this situation was steeped in parasocial dynamics. Fans want transparency from creators, which is understandable to a point — but there’s a difference between being a supporter and being entitled to someone’s private trauma, explanations, or personal life.

The truth is: no one is owed an answer — not beyond what Wilbur has already said. He did make a statement, despite the potential personal cost. And because that statement didn’t align with what some people wanted to hear, they dismissed it entirely. That’s not a search for truth; that’s confirmation bias in action.

Shelby’s narrative has often been accepted at face value, largely because of the public’s instinct to "believe victims" — especially women — in any dispute involving a man. While that instinct is important and rooted in a history of survivors being ignored, it cannot override basic principles of fairness, especially when evidence is lacking.

Let’s be clear: Shelby has not provided concrete evidence. Most of what exists are vague, indirect statements and anecdotes from people who weren’t directly involved. And yet she’s treated as if the burden of proof lies entirely on Wilbur, who cannot respond in detail without crossing serious ethical and legal boundaries.

That imbalance is stark. It suggests a public climate where one party is presumed guilty until proven innocent, and the other is granted the benefit of the doubt without having to prove anything.

What more do people want? Wilbur has said his piece. He’s been silent, likely on the advice of legal counsel or out of concern for emotional wellbeing — his and hers. Still, critics keep demanding answers. But what would satisfy them? A tell-all that invades someone’s privacy? A thread full of screenshots that drag a private relationship into the public eye?

The refusal to move on says more about the audience than the people involved. It's easier for some to continue cycling outrage than to accept an unsatisfying resolution. That’s not just immature — it's dangerous. It contributes to a culture where real-life mental health is collateral damage in a public drama people consume like a Netflix series.

This never should have become public. The audience has conflated their investment in a content creator's work with entitlement to their personal life. That’s not fandom — that’s voyeurism.

Both Wilbur and Shelby are real people. Real people don’t owe strangers their trauma breakdown. The expectation that they must publicly litigate a complex personal history is absurd and harmful.

Wilbur tried to navigate this situation with as much care and privacy as possible. He didn’t retaliate. He didn’t release compromising details. He chose silence where it would’ve been easy to clap back. That’s not guilt — that’s maturity.

And Shelby, regardless of what anyone believes, deserves privacy too. That’s why people need to stop using her identity as a rhetorical shield while using Wilbur’s as a punching bag.

It’s time to step back. Respect both parties. Stop pretending we’re owed anything here.

Anyone still dragging his name through the mud is in the headspace of entitlement because they can’t accept the fact people need to move, and he gave a mature response that they didn’t want.

[vamphorica]

♰ Religion in Death Note ♰

One of the most fascinating things about Death Note as a franchise is its exploration of faith and religion in the context of the world building, and how it compliments this using Christian motifs and imagery. The latter is often portrayed superficially, which I think is a shame given that there are many occasions throughout the series where relationships that some characters have with faith could be examined in accordance with the world Ohba has created.

For the sake of simplicity, I'm going to consider two main religious influences in the world of Death Note:

The Canon Explanation (The Shinigami Realm, Rules of the Death Note, Mu as the Afterlife, etc.)

Christianity (specifically, the use of Catholic imagery in Ohba’s official art.)

Let's begin with Canon.

i. The Canon Explanation

Ohba is clearly partial to weaving a complex web of rules as a means to support the supernatural premises of his stories (see Platinum End). This makes The Canon Explanation so effective not only because it limits the behaviour of the characters throughout the text, but it is also very pertinent to religion conceptually. By listing out the apparent commandments of the Death Note, a set of religious principles have been established that the users of the Death Note must follow. While you are not technically committing a sin by, let's say, trying to kill someone over the age of 124 with the Death Note (x), it sets out a guide which is indicative of rules one might follow in a religious text. You could say that Light, Misa, Mikami, and Takada each had to have a level of faith in the Death Note in order to use it. They all followed the rules, even if they did so under Light's direction as their self-proclaimed God. Light’s familiarity with these rules and his confidence with manipulating them is what ultimately makes his reign as Kira so effective. I think the act of writing a name down in the notebook itself is a form of commitment to belief – as a concept, the Death Note seems too absurd to a sceptic.

When the Shinigami begin arriving in the human world, it is obvious that they are not divine beings in the perfect, omnipotent manner that humans may expect. If anything, they are curiously quite human themselves – forgetting rules and acting as a result of emotional impulses. It is indeed Ryuk's boredom that sets the story into motion – everyone who died as a result of the Death Note did so because of him. The Shinigami pose no actual threat to the humans they follow, often noting how humans appear more competent at being Death Gods than they themselves are. While this is subjective, depending on interpretations of faith, the typical Grim Reaper figure is seen as a serious, all-knowing figure that is to be feared, while the Shinigami of Death Note are far less intimidating. I think this delivers a decent proposal that religion in Canon is not a matter of worshipping the supernatural, or suggesting that they are better than us. By having the Shinigami presented as being similar to ourselves, human characters have the ability to use their power without the fear of divine retribution. Light’s extensive knowledge of the Death Note rules and how to work around them, along with his strict work ethic, only further demonstrates his commitment to carving out his position as God when compared to the Shinigami.

Mu is explained quite simply – there is no heaven or hell. There is a notable lack of elaboration here for a reason, but I do wonder if Light might have been more reluctant in his pursuits had traditional heaven and hell been at stake. Would he have become Kira if his act of justice would damn him to hell? Would he be concerned that his victims might end up going to heaven? Mu is the Canon version for what happens when one dies in this universe, so, beyond proposing speculative questions, there is little to analyse here.

Now, there is one character who I want to delve deeper in relation to The Canon Explanation: Mikami.

Mikami -> Mikami is deeply devout. Of all the named characters in the series, Mikami is the only one who is expressly religious, particularly regarding the Canon Explanation. While I think it is interesting to consider Light Yagami's relationship to Godhood, it is only through Mikami that we understand Kira’s societal impact. Mikami is also the only character in Death Note to be granted a rather comprehensive backstory, so we are given an insight into what led him to become such an ardent Kira supporter. Light chose Mikami not just for these strongly held opinions but also because of his devotion to him specifically. Mikami is ritualistic in the way he worships the idea of Kira through his dedication to writing one page of names in the Death Note daily, following Light’s commands without question. The only other occasion where we see a similar act of religiosity towards Kira is at the very end of the manga when a group of Kira supporters take a pilgrimage to pay their respects. Yet even this does not quite encapsulate Mikami's religious fanaticism. His strong conviction that Kira is God demonstrates the societal inclination to view Kira as a religious figure to be worshipped.

I think because Death Note relies so strongly on Light's internal psychology as he encounters various forms of opposition, the external impact of Kira on the world is only provided to us through passing mentions of political support. It is absolutely crucial to interpret Kira in a political context, but again, this is not really explored in too much detail. What we do know is that Kira supporters, including Misa, Mikami and Takada, may politically be in favour of Light's moral judgement, but because he poses himself as a God rather than a political leader, we must assume that he wants to play into a deific persona because it affords him far more unconditional power than he would have as a mere mortal.

From the beginning, Light is able to present his power as originating from a divine source, and it is only until Lind L. Tailor’s death that it becomes apparent what limitations Light is working within. Before then, criminals dying of heart attacks across the world could not be considered to be within human capability, let alone performed by a singular perpetrator, so Light maintained the illusion of omnipotence. Distancing himself from his humanity not only gave Light the benefit of being undetectable for some time, but also encouraged people to support Kira through the belief that he was inherently above them. It was only L who managed to shatter this façade early on in the Kira investigation.

I will now move onto something slightly more tangible, as it reflects our world within the text – Death Note's use of Catholic imagery.

ii. Christianity

As if to make up for the lack of exploration into Kira's religious influence, Death Note heavily relies upon Christian imagery to highlight its desire for religion to be seen as a core component of the franchise. Realistically, I am aware that a lot of manga and Japanese culture from the 2000s was heavily inspired by Catholic imagery and that there was certainly an aesthetic trend being taken advantage of here. However, I am still going to consider it specifically in relation to Death Note. It gives me an excuse to move on from Ohba to Obata anyhow, which I am more than willing to do.

Let's have a look at some official art.

There's a lot to be discussed about these specific pieces of art, and there are plenty more examples that I am sure can be found and analysed over, but we can recognise what their general theme is – kitschy Catholicism. This is not intended as criticism, I love Obata's art and as unsubtle as these official pieces may be, they reinforce Death Note's desire to incorporate religion into its series as a strong motif, if not an effectively developed theme. It also somewhat exposes its superficiality. The imagery is explicit, bold and bright, without doing much work in considering what the actual religious belief might be able to bring to the series beyond the visual components (according to this post -> x the Latin on the last image isn't rendered properly, which proves my point further). There are instances in the anime where there are Biblical references, such as frames that foreshadow L’s death, but the manga does not engage in these same parallels.

This leads me nicely onto talking about Misa.

Misa -> Misa is shown throughout the series to lean heavily into fashion and interior design that reflects a very Gothic Christian aesthetic, which is undeniably iconic and an important visual aspect to her character.  Mirroring the series more generally, it does appear that this is the extent to her relationship with the Christian faith. Misa’s allegiance to Kira could suggest that the trauma of her parents’ death came to some kind of resolution when their murderer was himself killed. Again, we have no idea if she actually was a religious character to begin with and I need to stress, it does not matter, but it is still worth considering given how a lot of the Christian imagery in the series is associated with her character specifically. I don't think this feeds into any flat character analysis that might suggest she doesn't know the potential significance of the crosses she wears or decorates her home with. We could just say she has an aesthetic that is very well composed but doesn't carry much weight beyond its stylistic merit.

Derailing slightly, but I do wish they had maintained this style throughout the entire series. Alas, as soon as she met Light, she lost this cool Goth look pretty quickly. Rem would never have let this happen. 💔

One more character analysis before we wrap this up. The quite honest reason as to why I decided to write up this essay was so that I could discuss Mello in relation to religion in Death Note.

Mello → Much of what I discussed about Misa's style could be applied to Mello, the only other character who visually demonstrates any religious tendency. However, I think there are some differences here that could suggest Mello is actually religious, which then allows us to consider his character in the context of the Canon Explanation. Firstly, one of the main signifiers Mello wears is his rosary, and while it is unlikely you will experience any adverse effects from wearing one as a non believer, I think those who wear a rosary are aware of the deeper connection to Catholicism than someone who wears a simple cross necklace (see Misa above, right). Secondly, narratively, I think there is more opportunity for Mello to be religious. Wammy's House, from their gates, actually appears to be a Christian organisation, and while I do not actually believe that they were, I find it interesting nonetheless. I also would be surprised if they were denominationally Catholic, if we are following this line of logic, presumably they would be CofE, but who knows. Regardless, even if Mello was not religious as a child, I think his arrival into the Mafia would certainly have introduced him to Catholicism. Of course it seems antithetical, but I would not be all that surprised if a teenage boy who is expected to do some horrendous things to rise to the top of a criminal organisation might turn to God in the process.

Following on from the prior point, Mello is a completely contradictory character, so I do not think it is all that necessary to consider his moral code from an entirely rational perspective. I think the fact his Beretta has a small cross charm on it in itself is very symbolic of the kind of character we are dealing with here (see below). Interestingly, it looks to be a Celtic cross, rather than a traditional crucifix.

What does this actually mean? Mello represents a good integration of the two religious influences I've discussed – he appears to have faith in a religion that we as readers contextually understand, and yet he interacts easily with Shinigami and the Death Note. While the two do not contradict one another exactly, I think The Canon Explanation certainly does not lend much credence to Catholic interpretations within the text. Like the others who have encountered a Death Note, Mello is initially shocked by the arrival of the Shinigami attached to his notebook, but quickly recovers. He interrogates Sidoh with such evident effectiveness that he ends up frightening him.

I think this is where I begin to get a little frustrated with the depiction of religion in Death Note because we have such a fascinating premise here. Does Mello's faith waver as his beliefs are evidently challenged by Sidoh? Does he consider Kira as a force of evil from a moral perspective informed by Wammy's, or his understanding of God? Does he believe in heaven and hell? None of these questions are answered, and I do appreciate I am being fussy because I am very fond of Mello, but I think there was a rather unique opportunity present in the series that was completely neglected. I have already explained how Death Note relies so heavily on Catholic imagery and clearly wishes to present itself as a series that deals with religious themes, so I think there is a failure here to consider the nuances that have already been set up.

How interesting do you suppose it would be to see how Kira's influence begins to impact the other established religions, as people see criminals dying en masse? Remember that ordinary people would be likely predisposed to consider this as an act of God. Society would certainly be more scared, especially as it would simply be inevitable that Kira killed innocent people who had been deemed criminals by their legal systems. There is a lot to go analyse about that topic alone, but another time!

I suppose with a lot of the questions I have posed, they could be answered through fanfiction or headcanons. I could decide that Misa believed in God until she met Light, or that Mello chose to ignore the implications of Mu given that he follows a religion that sets itself up on the premise of eternal reward or damnation. I just want to facilitate further conversation, because I do think this topic is fascinating.

Thank you @saturniiids, @vengeflies and @stylooooo for giving this a read for me! ♡

[reality-detective]

Bombshell by Clint Eastwood 👇

Clint Eastwood’s Stark Warning: “Barack Obama Presidency – The Biggest Fraud on the American People”

Clint Eastwood exposes the Barack Obama presidency as ‘the biggest fraud on the American people.’ Dive deep into the controversies, scandals, and secrets behind Obama’s legacy, from the Benghazi scandal to the SEAL Team 6 tragedy. Uncover the truth now!

Legendary actor and filmmaker Clint Eastwood boldly claimed:

“One day we will realize that the Barack Obama presidency was the biggest FRAUD ever perpetrated on the American people.”

Eastwood, known for his fearless critique of Hollywood and politics alike, pulls no punches in his assessment of Obama’s tenure. Eastwood’s statement brings fresh scrutiny to a presidency that was celebrated by many yet criticized for its scandals and failings. Let’s dive deeper into the unfolding story.

Clint Eastwood: A Fearless Voice in a Hollywood of Silence

Eastwood’s words matter. This is not just another Hollywood actor parroting opinions. He stands apart from the Hollywood echo chamber, a space where most actors are afraid to speak out against the political mainstream. Eastwood’s condemnation of Obama comes at a time when the Obama administration is still debated fiercely.

Barack Obama: Nobel Peace Prize Winner with a Kill List

Obama’s controversial actions tell a different story. The Obama administration was marked by military interventions and controversial drone strikes that led to civilian casualties. Critics mention Obama’s “kill list” – a classified list of individuals targeted for drone strikes without trial.

The narrative of peace clashes with extrajudicial killings. The drone program under Obama raises serious questions about human rights and the ethical implications. Was Obama’s portrayal as a peaceful leader nothing but a crafted illusion?

SEAL Team 6: The Tragic Story and Unanswered Questions

One of the most gut-wrenching events is the suspicious fate of SEAL Team 6 in 2011. Conspiracies have surrounded this incident, suggesting the team was set up or used as political pawns.

Was this merely an unfortunate accident, or does it point to sinister dealings within the Obama administration? Critics argue that the truth about SEAL Team 6 has been hidden, and call for accountability and criminal prosecution, placing Obama’s role under intense scrutiny.

The Benghazi Scandal: The Truth Behind the Treason

One of the most haunting legacies of the Obama presidency is Benghazi. An attack on the U.S. consulate in 2012 left four Americans dead, spiraling into a political firestorm. Allegations of negligence, cover-up, and treason were leveled against both Obama and Hillary Clinton.

The Obama administration’s mishandling of Benghazi endangered American lives and demonstrated a betrayal of trust. The symbol of treachery still lingers over the Obama-Clinton era.

Obama’s Legacy: A Tarnished Record or Unfairly Targeted?

Eight years of the Obama presidency left behind a polarizing legacy. To some, he was a beacon of hope; to others, a symbol of failed policies. Eastwood’s scathing critique calls into question whether the rosy image of Obama is based on reality or political spin.

Issues like the Iran nuclear deal, mishandling of Syria, and IRS targeting of conservatives add more fuel. Hero or fraud? Visionary leader or master of deception?

Why the Truth Matters

Eastwood’s statement is a call for accountability. It's urging us to look beyond the polished speeches and uncover the truth about Obama. From the SEAL Team 6 incident to the Benghazi drama, the Obama administration's alleged misdeeds left a mark that can’t be ignored. This is about truth, justice, and the trust between a nation and its leader. 🤔

[esinofsardis]

AI Is Inherently Counterrevolutionary

You've probably heard some arguments against AI. While there are fields where it has amazing applications (i.e. medicine), the introduction of language generative AI models has sparked a wave of fear and backlash. Much has been said about the ethics, impact on learning, and creative limits of ChatGPT and similar. But I go further: ChatGPT is counterrevolutionary and inherently, inescapably anti-socialist, anti-communist, and incompatible with all types of leftist thought and practice. In this essay I will...

...

Dammit im just going to write the whole essay cause this shit is vital

3 Reasons Leftists Should Not Use AI

1. It is a statistics machine

Imagine you have a friend who only ever tells you what they think you want to hear. How quickly would that be frustrating? And how could you possibly rely on them to tell you the truth?

Now, imagine a machine that uses statistica to predict what someone like you probably wants to hear. That's ChatGPT. It doesnt think, it runs stats on the most likely outcome. This is why it cant really be creative. All it can do is regurgitate the most likely response to your input.

There's a big difference between that statistical prediction and answering a question. For AI, it doesnt matter what's true, only what's likely.

Why does that matter if you're a leftist? Well, a lot of praxis is actually not doing what is most likely. Enacting real change requires imagination and working toward things that havent been done before.

Not only that, but so much of being a communist or anarchist or anti-capitalist relies on being able to get accurate information, especially on topics flooded with propaganda. ChatGPT cannot be relied on to give accurate information in these areas. This only worsens the polarized information divide.

2. It reinforces the status quo

So if ChatGPT tells you what you're most likely to want to hear, that means it's generally pulling from what it has been trained to label as "average". We're seen how AI models can be influenced by the racism and sexism of their training data, but it goes further than that.

AI models are also given a model of what is "normal" that is biased towards their programmers/data sets. ChatGPT is trained to mark neoliberal capitalism as normal. That makes ChatGPT itself at odds with an anti-capitalist perspective. This kind of AI cannot help but incorporate not just racism, sexism, homophobia, etc but its creators' bias towards capitalist imperialism.

3. It's inescapably expoitative

There's no way around it. ChatGPT was trained on and regurgitates the unpaid, uncredited labor of millions. Full stop.

This kind of AI has taken the labor of millions of people without permission or compensation to use in perpetuity.

That's not even to mention how much electricity, water, and other resources are required to run the servers for AI--it requires orders of magnitude more computing power than a typical search engine.

When you use ChatGPT, you are benefitting from the unpaid labor of others. To get a statistical prediction of what you want to hear regardless of truth. A prediction that reinforces capitalism, white supremacy, patriarchy, imperialism, and all the things we are fighting against.

Can you see how this makes using AI incompatible with leftism?

(And please, I am begging you. Do not use ChatGPT to summarize leftist theory for you. Do not use it to learn about activism. Please. There are so many other resources out there and groups of real people to organize with.)

I'm serious. Dont use AI. Not for work or school. Not for fun. Not for creativity. Not for internet clout. If you believe in the ideas I've mentioned here or anything adjacent to such, using AI is a contradiction to everything you stand for.