tags -> not proofread, minor swearing, fluff fluff fluff!!, reader is a little shorter than grace, no spoilers !!
a/n -> i apologise this is ass, i’m sosososo tired from school it’s actually pissing me off so badd, we also need more grace love like hello that’s literally my baby. my requests also might be a little slow due to school but they will be done ! promise 😋 (title loosely based off ‘in twos’ by esha tewari .. 😛😛)
time dragged on, it seemed like grace was working more often than not. she’d be tired when she’d come home, and if she had an early day? she’d keep working from home till she fell asleep at her laptop.
you’d tell her to take breaks, take naps but she wouldn’t listen, give you an ‘i’m okay’ and keep her eyes glued to her laptop’s screen. and even though her habits may have annoyed you a little bit, you could never actually be mad at her.
as of right now, you were sat beside her on your bed, filing your nails whilst grace was focused on whatever assignment she got given on her laptop. but your attention wasn’t on your nails, not really. your eyes drifted to her more often than not. her hair fell into her face, glasses slid down the bridge of her nose.
your face pulled into a frown and you set the filer down onto the bedside table. you moved closer to her, shoulder brushing hers. “when are you done?” you ask quietly, glancing at the writing on her screen.
“ten, no maybe fifteen minutes.” she replied, eyes locked on her writing. your frown deepens, “you said that fifteen minutes ago.” you mutter, eyes looking over her side profile. “actually, you’ve been saying that for an hour.”
“i know, i know, but i swear im nearly done i just have to-“ grace cuts herself off when you close her laptop shut with a click and pick it up from her lap, placing it beside the lamp and filer on the bedside table. “hey!”
you shake your head and turn back towards her. “you need a break. and it’s like whenever your working my words go in through one ear and exit through the other straight away.” you scold, grabbing her hands. you pull her up so she’s sat upright instead of leaning against the headboard. “what you need, pretty girl, is to learn how to relax.”
grace frowns but squeezes your hands a little, “i know how to relax, im just .. busy?.” she says, her gaze drifting to one of your bedroom walls decorated with shelves and polaroid pictures. mostly pictures of the two of you together.
“be unbusy then.” you reply, “i don’t think that’s a word-“. “shush and let’s do something fun, yeah?” you grin, standing up and pulling her to her feet.
now an hour later, you were both in the kitchen, making muffins. well, attempting to make muffins. there was flour everywhere and a failed batch put to the side. the chocolate muffins you managed to make sat in the oven whilst the two of you giggled about something dumb.
your finger grazes her cheekbone as you wiped some of the remaining flour off her face, the light of the cooker hood casting a soft, warm glow across your faces’.
“you’re so shit at baking.” you giggle, taking her (also flour covered) glasses off, placing it on the countertop. you get a smile out of grace and she swats your hands away, “am not!”
“you so are!” you snort and wrap your arms around her neck, grinning up at her. “remind me to never ask you to do this again. you might burn my apartment down.”
she hugs you back, “you’re mean.” she whines, leaning down to press her forehead against yours.
“yeah? you gonna do something about it?” you tease, your grin turning into a small smirk. grace bites her cheek at your comment and turns a faint shade of pink. “i- no.? i mean i don’t mind- mind it?.” she stutters, her cheeks growing pinker.
your snort again and pull her down, pressing a kiss to her lips. “you’re such a dork, ashcroft.” you smile and press another soft and longer kiss to her lips. graces hands stay pressed against your sides gently, bringing you a little closer.
though the moment ended when the oven’s timer went off and beeping filled the kitchen. you reluctantly pull away and hear a whine leave grace. you crouch down in front of the oven and look through the tiny window. you glance up at grace, “it looks kinda ass,” a grin spreads across your lips once more, “d’you think it’ll taste like ass too?” you giggle and look back at the muffins.
“hey it can’t be that bad. plus you’re the one who put them in the tray so technically, it’s your fault if they taste like ‘ass’.” she replies, getting a plate for the muffins.
୨ৎ.
the muffin wrappers were left abandoned on the plate. safe to say they didn’t taste like ass. you and grace are them in less then ten minutes, the movie you picked barely made it past the intro before the pastries were gone.
now you had one leg swung over hers, your head against her chest as your eyes were fixed on the bright tv screen. her hand ran through your hair gently, the other resting on your lower back. her work laptop was long forgotten, all she could think about right now was you and how comfortable you were.
after a while grace let out a yawn and her grip tightened around you. you smile and lift your head to look at her. “you tired baby?” you ask quietly, brushing your nose against hers. she shakes her head. “no. well kinda, but i like just being with you. quietly, it’s.. nice.”
“you can sleep, grace. i’ll stay here.” you mutter, lips brushing hers again. grace sighs and closes her eyes, pecking your lips, then nose before letting her head fall back on the pillows. “okay.” she whispers.
you turn the volume down and place the remote on the other side of the bed, placing your head back down against her chest. the steady rhythm of her heart was comforting.
“i love you.” she mutters, her hand massaging your scalp once more. you hum in response and place your hand on her side. “i love you back.” you mutter.
I'm seriously considering writing for grace ashgroft OHMYGOOOOSH she is so precious and prettyyyy — YOU'VE MADE MY POOR HEART ACHE WITH THIS ENDEARING AND LOVELY PIECE, MOOT ㅤ♡ㅤㅤ♡ㅤㅤ♡ㅤ
I read some of your works and I really liked them!!!
If you don't mind, I have a request. You can ignore it if you don't like it.
I think you've heard or seen that the "Knights of Guinevere" gave the green light! I was so happy that I almost screamed.
So, about request: fem!reader with kind of norman body, kind of: height 155 cm, Ribs and bones on the hips are visible, wrists and fingers are very thin, and at the same time chubby thighs. Reader who thinks she's not thin enough, not chubby enough or tall enough. I know it may seem strange. But it's so frustrating every day, you can't reach the top shelf, things large in your chest, Jeans are to small at the hips and at the same time too big at the waist.Sometimes look in the mirror and think "Is everything okay with body?". Some say lose weight, while others say gain weight.
You can write fluff, comfort or nsfw, whatever you like! With Frankie if you can, for now she's my favorite.
Thank you and have a great day!
I’m replying to this very late — life has swamped my schedule !! I will be writing more of Frankie ( and andi for the andi lovers — I have drafts for both of them individually x reader )
but I will be writing this most definitely, my friend! :>
♡₊˚ polytrix as mothers | a mira perspective or : the girl who has been collecting evidence her whole life. she just did not know she was building a case for herself.
somewhat inspired by 'i could never be ( ready ) by rebecca sugar ft tom scharpling and 'i've seen it' by Olivia dean :))
Mom!Mira with her firstborn baby — sleeves bunched up to her elbows, revealing worn scars from battles she’s no longer committed to though thinks about from time to time, her pink-hued — natural deep brown tendrils entangled within it — hair tied up into this messy knot. A few wisps rebelled against the updo and framed her features, brown-rimmed glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose as she bathes her baby in the soft lighting of their snug home, away from the idol life.
Hands that once choreographed cutting combat moves, that pointed a majestic, once companionable gok-do towards a demon, that were always too brash, too strained, too much with touch — now cradled this six month old with a gentleness that still startles her from time to time, that would even shock anyone who knew her before.
But not Rumi. Not Zoey. They knew this was always there, longing to be unfurled on the right people.
Her movements, such a contrast to her former role in the group, are slow, comprehending, yet you can perceive how painstakingly she’s doing it, like each droplet of water against fragile skin matters, because well, it really does. She talks to the baby under her breath — not baby talk, never baby talk — just sweet murmurs that sound like some sort of loving establishment.
The water is the perfect temperature; she’s checked it at least five times. Not because she doesn’t trust herself, but because this tiny person deserves perfection in a way Mira never thought she’d care about providing.
She’d seen it on the tube once, a stranger cradling a baby to their chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. She’d looked away then — she doesn’t have to look away now.
“Okay, little baby,” she mumbles, the edges of her mouth squirming into a grin. “We’re not crying today, right? Yeah, just you and me. Y’know, chill.” Of course, the baby doesn’t listen — wails anyway.
The baby — their baby, still a concept that makes Mira’s chest squeeze — thrashes her little legs and moves her fists, sending droplets everywhere. Water splashes across Mira’s oversized t-shirt ( one of Zoey’s old graphic ones, soft from a thousand washes and exchanges between the three ), and instead of some sort of irritation that would’ve consumed kid-Mira, she just chuckles. This tender, aerated sound no one outside her lovers has ever witnessed.
She can hear movement in the hallway, a hallway that’s quite filled with so many pictures — moments, big and small, debut to retirement, world tours to intimate travels, matrimony to birth, captures within frames that gave the place a homelier feeling. Rumi and Zoey, they’re pretending they’re not hovering. Pretending they’re not watching Mira be a mother like it’s the most miraculous thing they’ve ever witnessed. ( It kind of, greatly is. )
Mira supports the baby’s head with one stable palm — Zoey and her read almost an entire cathedral of books about infant care, watched countless videos at 3 AM, asked their pediatrician so many questions the woman probably dreads their appointments — while the other hand carefully lathered through the baby’s fins dark hair — Zoey’s color at first glance, but under the light, a touch of violet shimmered. Rumi’s influence, unmistakably.
And running down her left shoulder blade — another touch, a delicate streak of Rumi’s opalescent patterns, like brushstrokes of minhwa painting.
When they first laid eyes on her, Rumi had frozen, the ghost of apprehension, worry contorting her features.
I’ve cursed her, I’ve marked her, I’ve made her different. Will they love her as I already do? What if I do something to make her feel neglected ? Will I fail her? Have I failed them—
She’s fucking perfect. You hear me? Perfect, Rumi. They’re gorgeous on her. Because they’re part of her. Part of you. Part of us.
These patterns don’t define you, Rumi. They’re just part of your story. And now they’re part of her story too! Not a curse. Not a mark. Just ... her. Like they’re just you.
Each movement is attentive, observant in the way Mira's always been, scrutinizing for shifts in tone, mood, body language. Except now she's scrutinizing for discomfort, for cold, for any sign her daughter needs something Mira hasn't already anticipated.
“Your moms are spying on us,” Mira says conversationally to the baby, not bothering to include some hint in her voice. She knows they can hear her. “They think I don't notice. But I notice everything, don’t I? Yeah. Especially when it comes to them and you.”
She drew the infant to her sternum, bamboo-cotton towel, swaddling their tiny form, her cheek, flushed and aching from the jubilant and fond emotions overwhelming her, nudged the top of their damp head.
The baby makes a small sound, not quite a cry, just a vocalization, and Mira’s entire body responds instantly, adjusting her hold, drawing her daughter close to her chest.
“I know, it’s alright. Cold air is mean, isn’t it?” Mira keeps up the soft commentary as she carries the baby to the nursery, the one they’d spent months preparing. The walls are a soft lavender hue, with the animated decals of sea creatures scattered along one wall —Zoey’s contribution that needed to come to life. And in the corner, a collection of stuffed animals that they had tried to be practical about and failed completely.
She lays the baby on the changing table, one hand never leaving her daughter's stomach. That protective instinct, the one that used to make her check on Rumi and Zoey obsessively, that made her the first to reach out when something was amiss, has magnified tenfold. She’s done the research: babies can roll at unexpected times. She’s not taking chances.
“Alright let’s get you dressed. I know, I know, you hate this part. Join the club — I hate putting pants on too. Especially trying to keep them on.” Her mouth tilts upward. “Just ask your moms — wait. No not — eh, you won’t remember.”
The outfit chosen is one of the many onesies they bought — a specific one with almost watercolor like jellyfish scattered everywhere. The baby stares up at her with eyes that shift between Rumi’s amber and something softer, hazel brown assisted with the cinnamon sprinkle of freckles along her button nose. They’re alert, focused, looking at Mira like she’s the most important thing in the world.
The feeling is intensely mutual.
Mira dresses her daughter with careful attention to tiny limbs, to making sure the onesie's seams won’t irritate sensitive skin, to the soft cotton socks that keep tiny toes warm. The outfit is honestly really cute, Mira gives Zoey her flowers, yes, with a matching headband that Mira adjusts three times until she gives up.
“Eh… I think you look good. Best dressed baby in Korea.” Mira declares, lifting her daughter up. “Best dressed in the whole world.”
While deftly holding her with one arm, the other hand reached for the pacifier, burp cloth, and a crinkle fabric type of toy that has completely enthralled this baby’s attention span. It supposedly supports development. Yeah, she’s read about that too.
Mira lays the baby on her stomach for tummy time, then positions herself right there at eye level, propped on her elbows. One hand comes to rest on her daughter’s back, thumb making small, gentle shapes. She’s that helicopter parent, the one who checks the baby monitor seventeen times a night, who researches every developmental milestone obsessively, who Zoey had to physically restrain from buying a medical-grade thermometer because Rumi was no help ( she too was considering buying this thermometer ).
But she’s also equally parts fascinated. How can someone be this freaking small? This grand? This beautiful? This loud? ( The baby's lungs are impressive — Mira suspects she got Rumi's vocal genetics. ) This perfect?
She’s captivated by how this tiny human can already have such a strong personality, how her daughter’s cry is different when she’s hungry versus tired versus just wanting to be held. Wide browns that somehow inherited Mira’s depth stare right back at her.
“Strong baby, aren’t you? You’re gonna be stronger than me. Probably even your moms. You know why?” Mira’s chin canted down, such certainty laced in her words. “You’re never going to have to hide who you are. You’re already perfect.”
The baby makes a sound — a gurgled coo and a determined grunt when she attempts to lift her head, and Mira's heart sweetly swells in on itself.
“Your halmeoni and harabeoji don’t even know you exist,” Mira mumbled, pushing back her frames. “And that’s their loss. Because you’re gonna grow up knowing exactly how loved you are.”
The tip of her finger strokes the little one’s nose, humming. “I know. I'm getting sappy. You’re doing great, sweetheart. So, so great — woah, 3 whole seconds, well what do you know.” The praise comes naturally, aggressively sweet — it’s all really the same language to her.
There’s a sound in the hallway — someone failing miserably at not crying. Probably Zoey — she’s been leaky ever since Rumi’s pregnancy symptoms started, all soppy and sentimental. It’s gotten progressively worse after the baby’s birth. Happy tears, the majority of the time, sometimes the other kind. And Mira more than gets it — she’s been living somewhere in that same blur.
( the symptom Mira got stuck with however was the constant craving for sugar — which was fucking weird for everyone to see her gobbling down honey-combed candies, dalgona, marshmallow choco pies and such when she always thrived for flaming spicy shit. )
“You can come in,” Mira calls, still transfixed on her daughter. “I know you’re both out there. You’re not good at being subtle.”
The door opens wider, and of course her gaze cannot avoid looking at them; Rumi, purple cascades loosely entangled in a braid that sits on her shoulder, pearlescent etchings displayed without shame. And Zoey, her million-watt smile wobbling with tears pearling her lashes, phone in hand because she’s been documenting everything — most likely enough to fill thirty scrapbooks.
“Ugh, she’s so perfect and cute, Mira, baby, look at her!” The ravennette gushes, plopping down next to Mira and nuzzling her freckled cheek into the curve of her shoulder. “Oooo, little fashion baby, excellent taste."
“She gets it from her eommas,” Rumi hummed at Mira’s other side, one hand on the small of Mira’s back as she pressed a gentle kiss to her damp temple — where wisps of brown and pink clung in sweat-slick strands.
Their daughter, their infinite love resulting in eight pounds of perfect human — kicks her legs and waves her arms, making sounds that are probably meaningless but that Mira’s already interpreting as profound.
“She’s telling us about her bath,” Mira explained solemnly, smirking.
Rumi grinned at the tiny girl, lovingly stroking her head. “Very important baby news.”
Zoey giggled before sporting her serious face, nodding along. “Clearly. She is very articulate and needs to share this with the world.”
The baby starts to fuss — small sounds that Mira’s already learned to differentiate. That's not hungry-fuss. Not tired-fuss. That’s getting-bored-of-tummy-time fuss.
“Okay, okay,” Mira grunted, sitting up before carefully rolling the baby onto her back, then lifting her up against her shoulder. She stands in one fluid motion — dancer’s grace never really leaves — and starts that sway-walk that all parents seem to discover instinctively. “Let’s walk around. You want to see the house? Yeah?”
She moves through the interior of their home, this cozy place on the outskirts of Seoul where they’d retired from the spotlight, from the hunting, and ensuring the safety of the world. Just three women who’d chosen healing over duty.
And now, three mothers raising a daughter who will never have to make that choice.
Mira narrates while she walks past the kitchen where their matching aquatic mugs sit drying by the sink; “Your mom Zoey’s is obviously a turtle, your mom’s Rumi’s a whale shark, and mine for some reason’s a puffer fish… Did you know they’re one of the only fish that can blink? Yeah I don’t even know, Zoey told me that information—”
She continues walking, continues talking — about nothing, about everything. About how the house plants are doing ( Zoey’s responsibility ). About what they’re having for dinner ( Rumi’s cooking this week ). About the weird sounds the washing machine makes ( Mira's going to fix it this weekend, she swears ).
Past the living room where Rumi’s guitar and notebooks full of old lyrics rest on the coffee table next to Zoey’s current obsession ( a book about developmental psychology — they’re all still trying to learn everything ). Past the photos in the hallways….
Mira slows here — she always does even after passing them a thousand times.
She’s seen love in these walls her whole adult life, assembled piece by piece without fully realising what she was building. Seen it in the early HUNTR/X years — three girls who had no business trusting each other so completely, so fast. Seen it backstage after sold-out shows, adrenaline still thrumming, Zoey shrieking with joy, shaking Mira bythe arm and Rumi laughing so hard she couldn’t catch her breath. Seen it at 3 AM over ramen, over nothing, over everything. Seen it hold strongly through secrets and weapons drawn and all the worst things she ever said when she was frightened.
Bobby’s face in the frame near the end of the hall: the moment they’d told him about Rumi’s pregnancy. He’d burst into full sobs before they’d even finished the sentence, nearly knocked all three of them over trying to hug them at once, kept repeating I knew it, I always knew you girls were magic! You girls are going to be the greatest mothers ever!
She’d seen it in him too, that messy, devoted, pure love he’d harbored for them since the beginning. It somewhat showed up in the wrong moment in the exact right way, if that makes sense.
The final frame is the one Zoey placed last — the three of them in the delivery room, minutes after. Rumi exhausted and radiant, Zoey’s face cascading with tears. And Mira, holding their daughter for the first time, looking down at her, terrified and completely, irrevocably certain.
She stops in front of it now. The baby makes a small sound against her neck — sleepy and droopy-eyed, mouth going slack — and Mira exhales so slowly once her child nuzzles deeper into her.
Mira thinks about her parents. About the house she left. About the girl who was always too much, too difficult, too loud — who weighed that verdict in her chest for years like it was just true, like it was just her.
She’d spent so long watching love from the outside, analyzing it, caching it away. The couple in Seoul who missed their stop, the scattered couples among the crowds of their concerts, her parents, the cautionary tale she’d folded but kept. Rumi and Zoey, long before she’d let herself understand what she felt — all that warmth she stored away and scrutinized and refused to spend, certain that if she reached for it, she’d find out she was right about herself all along.
Too much. Not quite made for it.
But it had been there all along, sprouting in her soul without permission. She’s not watching love from a distance anymore.
And the more she’d looked — without meaning to, without wanting to — the more she’d found it; everywhere, in all of them, in herself.
It brings out the worst, it brings out the best — she has lived both. She knows which ultimatums she regrets, she knows which moment Rumi’s voice pulled her back through a fog she couldn’t have named. She knows what it cost and what it gave back and she’d pay it again, every time, in full.
She’s not watching from the outside anymore.
Rumi and Zoey appear at her sides, drawn the way they always are, looking at the frame, looking at her. Their expressions are something she’ll never be able to describe and will spend the rest of her life trying to deserve.
Zoey tucks herself against Mira’s free side, chin finding its familiar place on her shoulder. “Look at us,” she whispers, genuinely awed, like she can’t quite believe the photo is real, that all of it happened and kept happening and led here. Her hand finds the baby’s sock-covered foot and holds it gently.
Rumi’s arms come around her tall lover, cheek against her jaw: “She’s going to know exactly where she came from." Her mouth quirked, patterns casting a warm, earnest glow. “All of it. Even the hard parts. Especially those.”
Mira doesn’t answer right away, only looking at the photo — the three of them, who they were in that room, who they are now in this hallway.
“I’ve seen it my whole life,” She uttered finally, not quite to the baby or to them. Just — out loud, because it’s truth, and she’s no longer keeping true things quiet. “I guess I just didn’t know I was looking at what I was going to have.”
The baby sighs so serenely against her collarbone, and Mira’s eyes flutter shut for just a moment.
She thinks about what this little one will never have to do.
She will never stand at a distance, cataloguing love like evidence, quietly building a case for whether she deserves to be inside it. She won’t have to.
Because she never spent a single day outside of it — not one. From the very first flutter in Rumi’s womb, she was already held. Already known. Celine had pressed both hands to Rumi’s rounded stomach and wept without apology, murmuring something in a low voice none of them fully heard, and they hadn’t needed to.
Bobby had talked to her through Rumi’s belly for six months straight — full conversations, updates about the world, terrible jokes while Zoey documented the whole thing — utterly convinced she could hear him, probably right.
And maybe she had. Maybe she arrived already knowing, on some wordless cellular level, that she was expected. That she was wanted. That the people waiting for her had been loving her long before they met her.
She won’t learn love the way Mira did — from the outside, through glass, wondering if it was a thing that happened to people like her. She’ll learn it the only way she’s ever known anything: from the inside. From the very beginning.
That’s the part that undoes Mira the most, if she’s being honest.
Not that she found it. But that her daughter will never have to find it at all.
Her parents were wrong. This little girl doesn’t need Mira smaller, quieter, easier. She needs Mira here — all of her, all the love that had nowhere to go for so long it essentially built its own house.
She’s breaking every cycle; her daughter will never earn affection. Will never be handed a verdict about her own nature and forced to carry it quietly. Will grow up with her patterns and her heritage and her difference, and every part of her will be exactly enough and perfect, from the very first day.
Mira already knew that from the delivery room.
She just needed to catch up to believing it about herself.
polytrix inspired by hozier's cover of 'do I wanna know?'
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
summary : After another disappointing date, Zoey calls her best friends over for soju and comfort. But drunk observations and lingering touches make it harder to pretend that what they have is just friendship. Some questions are safer left unasked — but that doesn't stop them from wanting to know if this feeling goes more than one way.
ོ☼ genre / mentions : fluff, descriptions of celine’s beauty bc just look at her, mild douses of angst, reader being down for decades, celine falling second but downright hard to the earth’s core for reader, gays | wc : 2.3k+ | ♬ | Ao3
author's note : hozier + celine does unfathomable twists to my gay heart, and i've been dying to write for her, so, here's one of the handful of results ! I hope you enjoy reading !! xx
You awakened to the whisper of her breathing against your collarbone, each exhale a gentle kiss on your skin. In years past, you might have opened your eyes to find her already awake, dark irises fixed on some distant worry, hands already reaching for the day's burdens before dawn could fully break. But that morning, Celine slept.
The dark cascade of her hair that spilled across your chest — entangled with dove hues that captured the morning light seeping through the curtains. She complained about those strands from time to time, plucking at them with a glower, but you find them breathtaking. You had counted them, not out of concern, but admiration. Each one a year survived, a battle fought, a night she didn't have to face alone because you answered when she called.
Evidence of the time she lived and breathed and chose to spend beside you.
Dawn on the island came soft and gradual; the light did not intrude so much as arrive, patient as an old friend, painting Celine’s sleeping features in aquarelle bronze and golds. The perpetual tension she contained — that rigid set to her shoulders, the tightness around her mouth — had dissolved completely.
In sleep, the hunter became simply a woman. The lines of care and toil had smoothed and virtually disappeared, the crow’s feet adorning her eyes becoming a distant memory.
You memorized this canvas across decades. The architecture of fair cheekbones, the precise angle where her jaw met her neck, a small, faint wound above her left brow from a demon’s claw in ‘03. You memorized the landscape of her better than any map, yet each morning you discovered her anew, as though she was a country whose borders kept expanding.
Eyelids at rest, breathing hallowed yet relaxed, all the muscles in her figure in complete peace. Not a twitch or spasm, barely any movement of her chest ascending, descending and so forth with each intake of oxygen such was the depth of her oblivion.
You have loved this face for nearly thirty years. Through every moment where Celine's world threatened to crack apart and she reached for you to hold the pieces together. Though she didn't know it, didn't see it, didn't let herself feel it until recently. Each crisis where she called your name was the end of her carefully constructed world, and you were there in the rubble, still standing, still waiting.
You once believed it wasn't possible to ever look good in the early morning, but after waking up with Celine, she made it work. You trailed all the way from the pieces of dark locks adorning the crown of her head, the bridge of her nose to the slight-partway lips as she exhaled tranquilly.
The question sat in your throat even now, decades later. When did watching her sleep become more fulfilling than anything else in this world?
You wouldn’t have done this with anyone else, and yet somehow you’d lost track of how long you’d been sitting there, studying the simple act of sleeping — that was until she started to stir.
You closed your eyes just in time, before Celine could catch you staring. Though you sensed her gaze brushed over your face, tender and unhurried, before a fingertip stroked along your cheek. Oh.
You had to rein in every inch of yourself not to make a sound — or let your mouth betray you with a smile at the fleeting act. It was as if she was still fathoming that she was allowed to touch you like this. As if after three decades of friendship, these past months of more are still something her mind could not quite parse as real.
Even so, it was already one of your favorite sensations in the world. Her fingers faltered, just for a breath, before the feel of lips pressed lightly to the column of your throat. The warmth of them imprinted itself there, fleeting yet vivid. You might have missed the motion entirely if you weren’t so attuned to the tenderness of her touch.
You heard the rustle of sheets as she shifted closer. Then a kiss to your temple — gentle, lingering, achingly soft. I'm still learning how to love you out loud.
“어떻게 이렇게 예쁠 수가 있어?” How can you be this beautiful? The velour of voice entwined the words so softly, almost wondrous, that if it weren’t for the bedroom being in complete silence, you wouldn’t have heard it. “너, 스스로 알아?” Do you even realize it yourself?
The words were in her mother language, and you've learned it over the years, piece by piece, because everything about her had always felt like something worth studying, worth memorizing, worth keeping.
Your lips betrayed you, curving into a smile. "You think I'm beautiful, Celine?"
She went still. You felt her mortification in how her whole body went rigid against yours, the sharp intake of breath. When you fluttered one eyelid open at a time, revealing hues she found herself sinking within every day, you found her staring at you with wide-eyed horror, a flush dousing her cheeks in a way that caused her to look twenty years younger.
“How long—” She stopped, cleared her throat, tried again in hopes to grasp some control. “How long have you been awake?”
You couldn’t resist the soft laugh that emerged. “Long enough to know what you were doing, 내 사랑.” My love.
Her face — oh, her bashful face — flooded with color as she buried it in the crook of your neck, a muffled noise of distress vibrating along your pulse. “미안해…” I'm sorry... “I didn't mean to wake you.”
Your hand found her hair, digits sifting through the silk-soft strands. The simple act of touching her resembled a small miracle. “Don't apologize,” you murmured, leaving a kiss to the apex of her head where those silver threads seized the light. “I may have been doing the same thing.”
The admission brought forth a giggle, immersing your senses. And as infectious as her laughter was, you stayed quiet — content to watch her in this state. A state she hadn’t been able to settle in for quite some time. But somehow always managed to experience when being held by you, and you admired every bit of it; her eyes crinkled at the sides as her laugh chimed in the air like a melody; her mouth curved, stretching into a wide smile, fine lines deepening their adornment on her cheeks, her dusky irises shimmering with warm joy.
You stare too much, you know. It’s rude.
Is it considered rude when it’s admiration, then?
Then I guess I should stare back, so it’s fair.
Looking back at it, Celine could undo you with ease — a smile, a laugh, a touch, and suddenly you were a ridiculous love swooned teenager again, your heart tripping over itself no matter what it was, so long as it was tied to her.
You were staring. You were well aware of it, cataloging every detail of this moment because she'd taught you well — the important things must be remembered, preserved, clutched close.
“Y/N-ah?” Her palm cupped your cheek, thumb stroking your cheekbone in the process. The familiar gesture, once offered only in comfort during the darkest moments, now harbored a different weight. "괜찮아?" Are you okay?
“I’m fine,” You turned your head slightly, pressing a kiss to her palm because you could, because she's letting you, because after so long of being her constant and months of being her love, you still could not quite grasp this was real. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
Slender fingers stumbled from your cheek to your shoulder, admiring the muscle there — you, who trained alongside them, who became a sole hunter when your voice couldn't quite match theirs. She'd revealed to you, recently, that she found beauty in your strength.
Watching you move through forms, blade in hand, used to do something to my heart I couldn't name then.
Used to, she'd said. As if it didn’t still. As if she wasn’t plummeting deeper into the abyss of affections for you every waking day.
She was still smiling, and you found yourself mirroring her expression before blurring out the first thought in your mind: “당신.” You.
The word instinctively flew out of your mouth, and your flushed face brought her merriment, her gaze crescented as her smile broadened.
“나?” Me? The look alone she gave you made your innards lurch, an involuntary shiver brewing inside you from the whirlwind of emotions she produced. How she managed to switch the charming role so smoothly.
There's a teasing upswing to it, but underneath, genuine curiosity. As if she still couldn’t fathom why you'd chosen to think of her, why you'd chosen her at all.
This woman. This brilliant, broken, impossibly stubborn woman who still did not see herself clearly.
“네.” Yes. You exhaled, eyes darting between hers. Her smile shifted, tinged with more intimacy … timidness even. “And just how much do you think about me?”
The hand on your shoulder continued its exploration, finger pads drawing figures that made your limbs shiver. She was learning, you realized. Learning that she could affect you, that her touch carried power beyond commands, corrections.
You tilted your chin to the ceiling, like if you were pondering some life altering decision. “Do you want a specific response or a number?”
“둘 다.” Both. Her chuckling voice dipped, resonating through the places your bodies joined. The hollow of your throat came to her view, intent gaze following the moving segments created as you hummed. When you spoke, your tone surfaced softer than intended: “I think about you constantly — you have no idea how impossible it is to stop.”
You paused, letting your fingers descend from her hair to curl around her nape. “Even when you're out of sight, you're never out of my heart. Never out of my mind.” Cheeks elevated into a smile that ached. “Celine, there is no number for it. No measure for the space you claim within me.”
She fell quiet, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. You witnessed the transformation — reason surrendering to profound affection, your sincere declarations spiraling through her consciousness, seeping through the chambers of her heart. Within those obsidian depths, moisture gathered, and when language finally found her, it arrived whispered and tremulous: “What did I do to deserve you?”
Her question struck like stone meeting glass. Celine genuinely did not understand. All those times you'd stood with her through the wreckage, through each new catastrophe — and she still couldn’t grasp it. Staying was the only reality you'd ever known with her.
“Celine…” Your fingers brushed over her shoulder blade, tender in its contact. “You know you don't have to deserve love. You just have to let yourself accept it, okay?”
Her expression was pensive, for what had she done to truly deserve you? All the things yet to come are the things that have passed between you — all the holding of hands during Rumi's worst nights, all the breaking of glass when Celine's control finally shattered, all the words that fell away during fights about hiding faults and fears.
“Y/N-ah, I…” She paused, and with a shake of her head, she smiled. “나도 사랑해. 너무 너무 사랑해.” I love you too. So, so much.
But is that enough? Will it ever be enough for all the years I made you wait?
Because that was her wasteland now — the fear that she'd realized too late. That the world had already ended and she missed her chance. Unspoken words from your heart whispered to hers as her chest laid over yours, reminding her that even the saddest parts of her bloomed with grace.
You didn't make me wait. Every single day, I chose you. And I'd choose you again. 천 번, 만 번. A thousand times, ten thousand times.
The sublime feeling of fingertips fluttering upon her toned shoulder coaxed her into the present. Her gaze alone spoke more words than she could ever reveal, for when she looked at you again, she would only be received with patience, with love.
“Celine.” The morning light shifted, pure golden, illuminating you entirely — all of it beloved, all of it earned through surviving personal apocalypses. How you were smiling at her made everything else, the world, her looking forward to duties, her thoughts, the bedroom itself, fall into darkness. She could breathe in your fragrance, enrichened by her, and listen to the soothing tenor of your voice.
The air left her lungs in unsteady waves, and as her lashes descended, light prismed through the wet trails adorning them. You inclined forward, your lips finding hers in a kiss that tasted like the brine of sorrow, the fresh promise of dawn, the distinct flavor of endings meeting beginnings.
A soft sound came from the hollow of her throat and her palms ascended, fingers spreading across your jaw and cheeks. When you parted, her lids lifted, and the impression dwelling there sent your pulse spiraling. Celine remained suspended in freefall — the second to leap yet plunging with intensified velocity, as if the universe had finally remembered to pull her down.
“나의 전부,” she murmured, and then she was everywhere — lips mapping your mouth, the apple of your cheeks, the plane of your forehead, the tender skin of closed eyes. My everything.
You remained still, welcoming her affection. You always would. This was the shape of love — not destruction but creation, not the final page but the first of countless more.
“Lay with me a bit longer,” she whispered into the warmth of your cheek, unnecessary since you had no intention of moving. “제발.” Please.
Your hand encompassed the gentle curve of her head, bringing her close until your lips touched her forehead. “항상,” the promise settled with a tender smile. Always.
1.) Baymax from Big Hero 6 — She’d be SO serious about this.
“He’s caring! He’s protective! He’s soft!”
2.) Mothman — She saw some aesthetic art of Mothman once and it changed her brain chemistry. “He’s misunderstood! He’s cryptid-coded! He has WINGS!”
3.) Lumière from Beauty and the Beast — “He’s charming! He’s French! He’s a candelabra with PERSONALITY!”
"Zoey he’s a freaking CANDLESTICK."
"and he’s got RANGE"
4.) The Lorax — he's her environmental king. Zoey thinks passion about a cause is attractive. Also, she’d definitely have Mira, Rumi, even Bobby ( who is more than gladly to do so ) dress up as the Lorax with her like those tiktoks and do that little boy’s dance during “let it grow”
5.) Wall-E — “Look at how devoted he is! That’s attractive! And he's so, so sweet!” Zoey will die on this hill. ( me too )
6.) Rapunzel from Tangled — Zoey has a thing for creative, bubbly energy. “She’s literally me but with magic hair!”
“So you’re attracted to yourself … and Rumi?”
“…Maybe?”
7.) Bob Ross — Not fictional but she’d put him on there. “The way he talks about happy little trees is SO soothing and attractive, sue me!” Nobody really argues with this because this is probably the closest to a sane and normal hear me out they'll ever come across.
8.) Bullet Bill from Super Mario. Just don't even ask because Mira is close to throwing the hear me out cake away while Rumi's attempting to go to her room.
"Your insides are getting drilled and destroyed with this one."
"Yeah uhm, the visual isn't pretty, Zoey."
"PLEASE, I get drilled with the both of you. And while the visual may not be pretty, it still feels good!"
"... fair point."
9.) Venom ( VALID ) — "He's protective! He's misunderstood! He's basically a golden retriever in a scary package! Plus the whole 'we are Venom' thing? It's PARTNERSHIP. That's COMMUNICATION."
"Zoey, he eats PEOPLE. WE LITERALLY PROTECT PEOPLE FROM GETTING THEIR SOULS EATEN."
"He eats BAD people. There's a difference!"
10.) GoGo Tomago from Big Hero 6 — "She's cool, she's fast, she doesn't waste words, and she's got that 'I don't care what you think' energy but she DOES care about her friends? That's—"
11.) Crush the Sea Turtle from Finding Nemo — Obviously. "He's 150 years young! He's wise! He's a TURTLE! He says 'righteous'! What more do you need?!" This one gets zero pushback because they all saw it coming.
12.) The Geico Gecko — "He's got a soothing voice! He's helpful! He's financially responsible!"
"Zoey, what the actual FUCK."
"Don't gecko-shame me."
"You know what, she does need someone who helps her handle her financial responsibilities. Let her have the Gecko."
13.) Dug from Up — "He's enthusiastic! He's loyal! He just wants to be loved! 'I have just met you and I love you' that's PURE nowadays."
"It's concerning how the majority of these are animals."
14.) Aunt Cass from Big Hero 6 — "Supportive, runs her own business, makes great food, caring—"
"That's just... that's actually a normal crush, Zoey!"
"Wait, really? Oh thank god, I was worried this one was weird."
"The fact that THIS is your normal one is worrying me."
15.) Nala from The Lion King — "Strong, independent, that TACKLE scene, those EYES—"
"Zoey, that's a a wild lion."
"A lion with AGENCY and SASS! She didn't wait around, she went and FOUND help!"
"This one's... almost normal?"
"The bar is in hell. We're dealing with a furry."
16.) Lola Bunny (Space Jam), YES.
"Okay this one's CLASSIC. Athletic, confident, 'I don't play defense' SHE ATE!"
"...That one's fair actually."
"SEE! I'm not crazy!"
"That's not what we said, sweetheart."
17.) Tadashi Hamada from Big Hero 6 — Wait this one's actually normal—
"No wait I'm talking about him AS Baymax — like his consciousness IN Baymax—"
"There it is."
18.) Hei Hei from Moana — "He's stupid in an endearing way! He's chaos! He somehow SURVIVES EVERYTHING despite—"
"Are you attracted to him or do you just relate to him?"
"Why not both?!"
"You actually have a serious thing for animals and I think we need to check it out."
"Keep her away from Derpy. And Sussie."
"NO WAIT GUYS PLEASE LISTEN I SWEAR I'M NOT—"
19.) Jack Skellington from Nightmare Before Christmas — "Dramatic, misunderstood, wants to try new things even if he fails, PASSIONATE about his interests, and he's got that tall lanky thing going—"
"You like tall lanky ones?"
Zoey, looking her up and down : "I'm discovering I might have a type, yeah."
20.) Spider-Man's Web Shooters — Not even a character, just the web shooters themselves.
"Zoey, that's EQUIPMENT. WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN BY THAT."
"Versatile! Creative! Reliable! Gets the job done!"
"...I think she's having a breakdown. I’m done, we're done."
Speaking of equipment, it comes to conclusion that Rumi's Saingeom and Mira's Gok-Do are also Zoey's absurd hear me outs.
But …. I see the vision there, and I’m hearing her — i see her, eye to eye, souls reflecting because like …. YEAH. YEAH OKAY THE BLADES CAN SLICE ME INSIDE OUT IF THEY’RE WIELDED BY MIRA AND RUMI. Good day folks.
Listen I'm already scared about candyfloss' next week update, but i'm so happy this week's grave us fluffy funny moments after Citrus tree ripped my heart out lol (lols through the pain).
