#𐙚 — a man's heart is truly a wretched wretched thing

[kiryoutann]

𝐁𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐀! 𝐀𝐔 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ::: 𝐒𝐈𝐌𝐎𝐍 "𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐓" 𝐑𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐘

A MAN'S HEART IS TRULY A WRETCHED, WRETCHED THING MASTERLIST. CALL OF DUTY MASTERLIST.

Ballerina! reader, who focus too much on technical perfection rather than the artistic value of the performance.

Ballerina! reader, who was chosen to be the prima ballerina for Swan Lake.

And ballerina! reader, who is nicknamed a "robot-ballerina" from how she has no "soul". Whispers say you've sold it to the devil. So, how can a soulless ballerina play Odette and Odile well, then?

The director said, "Fall in love, my darling! That's your way to touch Odette! To stop being soulless."

But, little did he know, that ballerina! reader do not fall in love.

Ballerina! reader who meets Simon under the awnings of a bankrupt cafe, in the middle of the nasty storm of London.

Big, over-six-foot guy, in a black leather jacket that did little to hide the width of his shoulders. At first, you're pretty intimidated - is he going to kidnap you?

Ballerina! reader, who follows Simon to the pub to shelter from the rain. "No sense waiting in the wet," he said in his heavy accent.

Ballerina! reader, who is quite awkward with people—only having one or two people she could consider friends - your mother counts. You end up giving out your real name and address in your attempt to create a topic, thinking he'll take advantage of the stupidity.

Simon didn't. Luckily, Simon didn't. He is a pretty quiet guy, doesn't use his big stature for bad things.

The night you met, you and him talked about small things. Your job, his job – turn out he's in the military—somehow that wasn't surprising; Maybe you've long been judging by his slightly crooked nose (definitely has been broken several times), and the old scars around his jaws when he takes off his mask to take a sip of whatever he ordered.

Despite his height and build, Simon was anything but dangerous. It's natural for you to hope to see him again, right?

And when the second meeting comes, you invite him to your house. Something about it screams stupidity, vulnerability - danger.

But, how can he do all that when he holds you tightly like a good lover? As if full of love as he placed his lips on yours, tracing every inch of your skin as if in worship.

Laid bare, you are. With your pleading love-me eyes—the gaping mouth of a virgin begging for someone to pour love into it until it hits the back of her throat, swallowed without a trace – “let me wash my esophagus with this. So that my future lovers don't find out how unlovable I am.”

Ballerina! reader, who is starved for touch and love.

And when the third meeting arrived, you've gone too deep to pull away.

Ballerina! reader, who loosens her strings, only to sever them completely. Boundaries and lines begin to blur without you realizing it.

What started out as just giving him your phone number—“in case you or I need each other to… you know,”—then a text or two more when he was “away,” then a call, then a habit of receiving random texts and pictures (him feeding a cat on deployment, you and your calluses, Simon not understanding why you bought new pointe shoes just to break them, the scarecrow that reminds him of you and your tutu), and the new “why didn’t you call me when you were away?” protest when he went completely radio silent in this new deployment.

Ballerina! reader, who has the determination to embody Odette - "Fall in love, my darling! That's your way to touch Odette! To stop being soulless" and chooses Simon, of all people, to fall in love with.

Ballerina! reader, who ends up falling in love with Simon-fucking-Riley, the owner of the most despicable heart a man has ever had.

Ballerina! reader who thought she could keep this casual (as Simon wanted), and ended up confessing her love in the end.

Ballerina! reader, who then realizes what a grave mistake that was. How stupid she was to put her heart first as if it were important, as if she hadn't spent her whole life ignoring it.

Ballerina! reader, who immediately noticed the difference in Simon’s expression and behavior. The man stretched his long legs in wide strides as he gathered his few belongings from his apartment, saying “that wasn’t our deal, love,”

Ballerina! reader, pathetically crying, begs Simon to keep her in his life, not to cut her off—to stay. She promises, vows, not to say she loves him; that Simon could come and go as he pleased as long as he wouldn't leave her forever.

But, he left anyway.

Ballerina! reader, who finds Simon leaving with another woman in his arms a few days after. Beautiful, confident, and not you.

And yes! Yes, you have succeeded in embodying Odette, Odile too! But, at what cost? Your defense: art is created from the blood of the artist. And yet, good God, how long will you have to bleed? He wasn't here to see this performance, to see the scars that he probably thought were some kind of tapestry.

Simon, who turned down Soap's invitation to go to the pub after the mission, says he has "some play about swans" ticket to use; the Scot scoffs, saying he never thought his big, bad, Lt. would be interested in ballet.

Simon came to your big performance. Straight from the airport after returning from a long deployment.

Swan Lake. That ballet he never understood, but he knew the story line and remembered how your eyes lit up when you told it over and over to him while being in his embrace.

You know those letters they force soldiers to write to people back home just in case they don't make it back?

Ballerina! reader, who thought she was worth nothing to Simon, but after years of not writing letters (because he had no one to receive them), the first letter he wrote was to you.

Simon who thinks you deserve better than him, doesn't know that despite everything, even the better one doesn't mean anything if it's not him.

Simon thought, all the love he had - no matter how big or deep, it was worth nothing.

But, unfortunately that doesn't change the fact that in his wild fantasies about a kinder world, you are the only one he wants. He doesn't believe in the Apocalypse, but sure as hell you'll be the one next to him as the Earth runs to the ground.

Perhaps, he’s too young to keep good love from going wrong.

What was it all for? A punishment? A penance? The need to always keep himself away from the good things in life, to continue to believe that he was created to be bitter and sour. Alone. Miserable.

He knows no end in desiring you, neither does his self-sabotage.

And when he saw you on that stage, his mind kept repeating "it's worth it, it's worth it" that he did this all for you, for the best. But, in fact, this is all just a sick tendency to remain rough, to suffer.

In the end, you and Simon are just two liars on display like show dogs.

SUPPORT ME THROUGH KO-FI! CHECK MY WRITING COMMISSION.

[kiryoutann]

"there are teeth marks on everything he loves" simon riley and "everything I've ever let go of has claw marks on it" reader.

[kiryoutann]

ANOTHER SNEAK PEEK! Chapter 5 of X.

[kiryoutann]

a sneak peek for chapter 9 of this fic. the way i keep using the first names that pops up for her aunt and uncles lmao. mc and simon slow dancing? yes. and the way we know this man gonna be saying that it's all "casual"? yes. (chappell roan's "casual" playing in the background.) still love him but he deserves hell for that.

AND IS THAT ANOTHER TEENY-TINY-BIT OF SIMON'S PERSPECTIVE??? hhhmmm.. biased omniscient narrator is doing something here.

[kiryoutann]

This may be a little too rushed, considering that 𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐍’𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝐀 𝐖𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃, 𝐖𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 is destined to have eleven (plus one) chapters, but after (re)watching Swan Lake, I got a question drilling my mind... It has been "analyzed" that there are two endings: a good one, where the prince kills the magician and "revives" Odette, or... the bad ending, where Odette's heart breaks when she sees her loved one with another woman, and she jumps off the cliff, drowning, and the prince does the same.

I would like to know... What ending do you plan to give to the "novel" and if this will be linked to the story(･ω･)

!!!

if i gotta answer, then i'll be dropping the biggest spoiler of the series lol. but i've already discussed it in this headcanons, so i guess everyone kinda knows about it.

SO! we're going with the tragic ending. odette will be the reflection of the MC (despite MC's struggle to embody her in the beginning) - her naivety, her hope for a man to set her free; to fall in love and be loved. only to see everything taken away from her.

the realization that happy endings don't exist, that once again, her mother was right. god, i really want to write about the complexity of a mother-daughter relationship; about the love you have for her, but at the same time she's the person you hate the most.

however!! there will be some differences between the Swan Lake storyline and MC's reality. her story won't end exactly like odette's, but it's enough for you to know what kind of ending awaits.

>_< now, i imagine ending this fic on a cliffhanger. IDK THO! it's not really decided yet. but, if i end up writing it that way, i'll most likely write a sequel series. while a man's heart is truly a wretched, wretched thing focuses on the omniscient narrator who sides with the MC, the sequel will explain more details from omniscient narrator siding with Simon's perspective!!

thank u for sending this. i had a great time answering!! have a nice day babe!!

[kiryoutann]

MC's love language is not letting this man go home.

a sneak peek! chapter 4 of a man's heart is truly a wretched, wretched thing.

[kiryoutann]

what a way to start a chapter LMAO

chapter 4 sneak peek for a man's heart is truly a wretched, wretched thing !! i finished ch 3 but it's not proofread yet. let's hope i can post it soon!!!

[kiryoutann]

I have read 'a man's heart is truly a wretched, wretched thing' and when I tell you it leaves marks in me, it is. I still can feel the pain, each words, I still can feel it at all. It's been years I didn't read any CoD fanfic and I found you, It's like I've been searching for a mystic flower everyone is so sure it is a mystic but I found it lol, and I also love your writing style. And the funny thing is, I kinda relate to the reader lmaoo.

Idk what I want to write more about this, but I'm glad I found your blog hehe, and dont forget to take care of yourself 🩶🩶

-🍞

when i tell you i immediately smiled when i saw this!!! omg. made my day, made my whole week my whole june and my whole july. thank u for giving me my first feedback for my lil ghost fic🥺💘 you’re an angel

funny thing about me is that i rely on feedback so SO much when writing fanfiction, and usually the lack of it makes me feel like i’m doing smth wrong or that it’s not interesting (i’m TRYING to not do this tho). but when i saw this??? and i read the part where u relate?? THE MYSTIC FLOWER??? ILY ILY ILY FOREVER.

and this is gonna be long and random but GOD. i’m sorry that you relate to it but i hope you can find comfort in the story and the upcoming chapters. AND HEY! sometimes we cope by reading something that we relate to so it’s ok

here comes the long unasked explanation…

the main reason why i came up with the plot is cause i need to get smth out of my system and maybe it’ll help others to process whatever they’re feeling too. and also, it’s the fact that i gotta pour my heart and thoughts that i gathered after making a playlist of it.

so like, the URGE to somehow write it all down, to explore simon’s character, my portrayal of him, and THESE TWO – this destructive duo with the MC and her anxious attachment style while simon’s more on the avoidant attachment side. the way he thinks he’s protecting her, not wanting to hurt her—but in reality it was just some kind of justification for his self-sabotaging habits, his inability to accept that maybe he deserves smth good in his life.

can’t say much about MC cause she’s probably gonna be a more complex character (surprisingly) than him. mostly gonna be linked to her parental issues. my pathetic, sad, love-starved girl who’s gonna learn that maybe mother was right all along – that a man’s heart is truly, a wretched, wretched thing.

can’t wait to share more with u 🍞 anon<33 have a great day lovieee. stay happy n healthy and TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF. xoxo!!!!

[kiryoutann]

i just wanna share some sneak peek of chapter 2 from this fic!!

[kiryoutann]

Hi! Could I be added to the tag list for ‘A Man’s Heart is a Wretched Wretched Thing’ please? As a former dancer this is a masterpiece I never knew I needed!

HIII!!! THAT MEANS A LOT AHHHHHHHHHH. i will print this n glue it on the screen of my laptop so i'll work harder on researching more about dancers and ballerinas!!!!

and yes<3 i will add you to the taglist n tag u on the next chapter! thank u so much for reading. have a great weekend!!!!

[kiryoutann]

What do you think about recommending songs for each 𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐍’𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝐀 𝐖𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃, 𝐖𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 chapter?

WAIT,, LEMME JUST UNDERSTAND THIS QUESTION.

if you're asking what do i think about people recommending songs for each chapters...

IM OKAY WITH IT. IM EXCITED FOR IT ACTUALLY! honestly even if someone decided to come up to my inbox to drop their entire playlist of what they think suitable for the WHOLE 𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐍’𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝐀 𝐖𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃, 𝐖𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 FIC, I'D DIE IN HAPPINESS.

i'll link it on a post to list everyone's playlist so the readers can choose which playlist they wanna listen to while reading. (like the one i did for my other fanfic)!!! so GO AHEAD OMG.

[kiryoutann]

IM BACK. I FINALLY CATCHED UP WITH THE GHOST SERIES YAYY!! The last chapter got me crying real goooodd, but gotta keep my head up 🗣️❤️‍🔥🔥‼️As always, your writing is very much beautiful, everything is describe neatly and the tension when she gets to meet her mom again DUUHH MY HEART BEATING FASTT, you should put a tw for a mother btw/j.

Also, I am actually very curious about Simon's thinking, like I wanna see his point of view badlyyy

-🍞

oh my god bread anon I MISS YOU SO SO MUCH!! how have u been my babe?!!!!

YAY!! YAY OMG. thank u for the feedback. to be honest i've been feeling super DETACHED from this whole fic, like whenever i write the words i don't feel anything (which is weird) and im so so so SO SCARED that my readers felt the same way :< when you told me it brought you to tears IT MADE ME SO HAPPY (IM SORRY LOL DIDN'T MEAN TO BE HAPPY ABT U CRYING BUT YEAH) ! ! !

AND YES. YES. i swear Mother's gonna be the most vile thing in this whole story. u can compare her to the most horrible thing ever existed in the world and she'll still come out on top!!! i don't think people talks abt NPD mother enough when it NEEDED to be said so often how horrible they are. GAWD.

simon will have his pov don't worry love. probably near the ending tho.

thank u so so much for sharing your thoughts ily stay happy n healthy <3

[kiryoutann]

I listened to the song New Day by Kate Havnevik and immediately thought of your fic ‘A Man’s Heart is Truly a Wretched, Wretched Thing’. The story quite literally gives me goosebumps. You depict the feeling of loneliness and helplessness so so well. I can’t wait to see where the story goes!!

OKAY listening to it as we speak rn, and lemme tell u!! it sets the atmosphere, the mood just by the intro music alone. might put this on repeat for the next few chapters.

and AAA thank u so so much! i'm so happy to hear that, lovee!! this is probably one of my works that i put a lot of thoughts into. can't wait to share more!! thank u so so much for enjoying it n taking the time to give me your thoughts. have a great day<333

[kiryoutann]

okay, this is a heavy chapter. BUT, not enough to show how horrible it is living with a narcissistic parent. so, lemme write some of my perspective, opinion, and some yapping about this chapter and mostly parents with NPD.

my mom is an NPD. and god, when i realized she inflicted more damage than my already horrible father ever did. seeing you as competition, always ALWAYS having this need to pick on you, insult you, INVALIDATE your feelings. and lemme tell you, they grow worse with age. that's why i kept praying that i could quickly get out of the house so i don't have to deal with her anymore.

also, i did more research, on other people's experience with NPD parents (mostly mothers). some said even after no-contact, move out; they only felt "free" when the said parent passed away. it shows that… yeah, it's… it's a lifetime of torture, a lifetime of healing (if you even get the chance).

i added the perspective of "the little girl" to explain that yes… it is a conflict of the heart when the grown you knows it is wrong, but that younger self in you still keeps craving for some validation from someone who is incapable of giving it.

and please, remember this to those who go through the same thing: never expect to get some kind of closure from a person with NPD.

they won't give you that.

i hope i did justice to the breadth and variety of experiences people have with NPD mothers. although there are some things in my narrative that seem like a "justification", please know i am not justifying anything. some disorders affect a person's personality and behavior, but you are not obligated to be the receiving end of it all. not obligated to fix them. not obligated to stay with them.

most of the works i write are always mixed with the perspective and opinions of the character being told. so please, try to differentiate that.

last but not least, i hope everyone in the same situation can get out soon and recover. amen.

thanks for reading, have a nice day :)

Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

If you enjoy this, you can buy me a Ko-fi :) Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!

TW: attempts of physical abuse (throwing objects), basically reader's mother being a really horrible narcissistic abusive person.

Listen to that. The opening strains of that old Elvis classic began to swell; a hush fell over the assembled guests. All eyes were drawn to the dance floor where Sabrina now stood, radiant in her lovely gown, and Andrew looked at her with such veneration, as if she had hung the very moon in the sky. In the arms of her now-husband for their first dance as a married couple, the newlyweds shone brighter than the stars outside the manor.

Sabrina’s cheeks flushed rosier than any wine—joy, adoration, and yes, a little champagne too—had left her glowing in a way you’d never seen before this man came into her life, and your heart swelled with happiness for her.

When at last the song ended and they shared a lingering kiss, you joined the room in applause. Someone handed them a mic, and the two tried to pass the mic to each other until Sabrina was the first to give a speech. Andrew squeezed her hand, gave her an encouraging smile, and nodded.

Clearing her throat, Sabrina spoke into the mic. “Hi, everyone,” she began, voice ringing out sweet and clear through the speakers. “I just want to say thank you all for being here on this special day. Sharing it with my family and friends who mean so much to me has made it truly magical.” Another applause returned her gratitude before receding again when she was about to continue.

With misty eyes, Sabrina then turned to her step-father. “I want to thank Jim, for raising me as your own since I was little. You’ve always been the best dad a girl could ask for.”

Then, you watched her smile at her mother. “And Mom, where do I even begin? You've been my rock since day one. From keeping me sane while wedding planning to celebrating with me every step, you know I wouldn't be here without you. I wouldn't be the strong, independent woman I am today without you and Jim. I love you both so much.”

When Sabrina's parents—Jim and Joyce—approached her and gave the couple a big hug, another round of applause arose from the guests. But as Joyce placed a final kiss on Sabrina's cheek before stepping back, the world seemed to dim around you.

Suddenly, everything is so foreign—the image in front of you was never presented to you. Aunt Joyce looks genuinely happy for her daughter, and Sabrina hugs her like she cannot imagine life without her mother—which, at some point in your life, you did believe too. Mother’s words, “You won’t survive without me,” ring like angry bees.

Yet now, the thought of sharing a roof with her again feels unbearable.

Joyce and Sabrina look... uncomplicated, despite your mother's statements about how your aunt wasn't prepared for motherhood. And suddenly, everything feels numb, and you're disconnected.

In your reverie, you missed some of the speeches, only blinking back to reality when Sabrina and Andrew’s enthusiastic cheers echoed through the room. The crowd roared as the romantic notes of the new music played, “Until I Found You” inviting guests to join in the dancing.

As you do at the few parties you’ve been invited to in your entire life, you stay away from the dance floor and become a loyal wallflower. However, this time, with a companion—a better people-watcher than you, Simon. The man sweeps his brown irises around, examining people before one makes him chuckle under his mask.

“Look at that old man, still got it in ‘im, eh?” He commented, his tone tinged with amusement.

Your gaze trails Simon's. Among the dancing couples were your other uncle and aunt, their smiles highlighting the lines on their seventy-something faces, clearly having more life in them than many of the younger ones. You chuckled to yourself.

“Actually, that’s Uncle Mick and Aunt Sarah,” you reply, watching the old couple share a laugh amidst the music. “They’ve been married longer than I’ve been alive. Slow dancing is kind of their forte.”

More people-watching, but you fail to notice how often Simon steals glances at you between his own. And by the luminosity of your eyes, he is drawn like an insect in a blazing fire. His slow, "near-dying" heart has yet to realize the change in him. Simon plays on the edges of the rotting wood.

Straightening his gaze, he strikes up a question: “If that old bugger can still cut a rug, why ain’t the famous ballerina ‘avin’ a spin, eh?”

You couldn’t help but laugh at Simon’s gruff invitation, the sound bubbling up from deep in your chest with a foreign carefree ring that you didn’t recognize. Meeting his eyes, you saw amusement there but also something that told you he was serious. Heart tiptoeing at the edges of your ribs, your fingers busying themselves with their own bustle.

Biting your lip, you gazed up at him through your lashes, feeling a smile curling the corners of your mouth. "I don't know," you shrugged your shoulders. “I might suck at slow dancing.”

Simon scoffed. “Absolute bollocks.”

At his disapproval, your smile widened, teeth peeking out from behind those pretty lips. You gazed up at him, searching for something intently.

Somehow in that moment, the noisy celebration around you seemed to fade into a blur, narrowing your world until it was just Simon standing before you. Your chest warmed, as if caressed by the sun on a lush spring day. Capillaries rushed, painting your bones pink. Pink.

Gathering your courage, you mimicked Simon's invitation. “Unless... you're willing to be the judge of that yourself?”

The question came out just above a whisper, heavy with promise. With your heart dangling at the tip of your throat, anticipation mixed with anxiety gnawed at you faster than any termite. Simon gave a subtle nod towards the dance floor with his chin.

“Come on then,” he rumbled.

As Simon led you, you couldn’t help but feel like Cinderella herself; this room made a fairytale for you. He wrapped his strong arms around your waist, pulling you close so your bodies swayed as one. You shyly wrapped your free hands around his neck.

The romantic music continues to flow, caressing your ears with the singer's warm voice, Stephen Sanchez, if your memory serves you right. The merciless thumping in your ribcage persists, and you wonder if Simon feels it, if he has his own version resonating in the hollow of his chest. Settling into a slow sway, you feel his shoulders relax.

“You’re not gonna turn into a swan on me now, are ya? Would be a right shame to ruin such a lovely dance.” Simon asked, tone lighthearted. After mentioning your upcoming ballet performance, he doesn’t slow down his series of jokes about it.

You threw your head back in laughter. “You know that’s not how the story goes.”

Simon's grin grew wide beneath his mask. Cocking a brow, he said, “Oh yeah? Enlighten me then, love.” He challenged.

Taking a deep breath that lifted the smile still on your face, you began the long story of Swan Lake—about what happened to Odette and her flock by the sparkling lake and mostly things you had memorized many times. "So when Siegfried finally learns the truth, it’s too late—Odette ends her life by jumping from a cliff.”

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” he reacts, and you let out a girlish laugh. “That’s tragic.”

You shrug. “I always thought it was kind of romantic.” You giggle again—God, the way this man can make you giggle like a silly schoolgirl—when you see the reaction reflected in his eyes.

“You’re a right bloody psycho, you know that?”

You deadpanned. “I’m not a psycho.” Your tone was flat, trying to be serious but the stubborn grin that followed ruined it.

“She should’ve just gone for another bloke.”

You rolled your eyes. “No, she can’t. She’s been cursed to be a swan forever.”

“Then she should’ve just lived out ‘er days as a swan then,” he said with pragmatism, very much lacking the charm of a fairy tale with all those logics. “Should’ve chased that arse’ole prince all over kingdom for revenge instead. Give ‘im a good peckin’.”

You exhaled in exasperation, but your lips held back a smile. “Please just stop talking.”

Simon chuckled, and fortunately, for his own good, he did. The music was nearing its end, but you were still swaying. Something caught his gaze over your shoulder. He looked back at you, raising a brow to make a suggestion.

“Should we do a spin?” he asked.

“What?”

He nods his chin behind you, and you follow suit—a young couple laughing as they twirl. “Should we give it a go?”

It's somewhat whimsical, somewhat absurd, that not only is this hulking man dancing with you, but he also wished to twirl you like you were partners in some grand ballroom. Yet, as you stare into his smiling eyes, you swear there’s a hint of excitement in them. And what good is a ballerina without a performative twirl?

“Okay,” you accepted his offer.

You placed your hand in his, feeling the rough calluses of his fingers but somehow right against your skin. At your subtle cue, Simon raised your joined palms, spinning you outward in elegance and then back into the solid wall of his chest.

“One more time.” You said, and he did as you asked.

You cup his mask-hidden jaw, feeling for each woven polypropylene against your fingers. The plum of your smiling lips swells with desire, and without thinking, you press your lips to his cheek. Your heart skips a beat, gripped by a jolt of trepidation, fear, and regret that perhaps you have crossed a line, that you might drive him away.

But Simon doesn't.

Instead, he seized your waist and drew you close, eliminating any distance between you. The air was snatched from your lungs in a stolen gasp with the force of his possessive move. Like a lover accompanied by passion as he reaps longing.

(I swell with hope, in the sweet desire of a girl seeking love.)

“I’m dyin’ for a smoke.” He confessed.

You glanced around at the lively party still swirling around you. Turning back to him, you suggested, “Should we slip out the back then?”

“Sure.”

Smiling up at him, you gave his hand a gentle squeeze before untangling them from your waist. “You go on ahead—I just need to swap to flats real quick.” You gestured to the high heels that had been enveloping your throbbing toes for hours.

As Simon nodded and turned to go, you hurried off the floor, limping just slightly. The celebratory noise faded as you stepped to the left side of the manor, where the hallway to your room stretched in silence. You turned the doorknob, and the old wood swung with a low creak.

Walking to your suitcase, you flipped it open, took out your Mary Janes, and replaced your high heels with them with a sigh of relief.

Just as you moved to stand, you heard footsteps approaching, then a shadow fell across the open door. Too small to be Simon. Looking up with a start, your heart nearly dropped when you found your mother standing there, arms crossed in a frown full of distaste.

“I've been watching you all night with that… man. You're getting far too comfortable, are you?”

That tone—that same tone that you had heard countless times growing up, signaling the beginnings of an argument. Your shoulders tensed. The pulse inside you quickened as your defenses began to rise, readying themselves in anticipation of the barrage of barbed words that might come next.

The oceans dividing San Francisco and London were supposed to end whatever connection existed between you both—to pretend that it didn’t exist. It should have been a clean finale, allowing you to simply live as a normal girl with normal reactions to everything, as if nothing bad had ever happened to you.

Yet, look, your traitor body is gearing up for battle just the same. Your mind may lie, you may lie, but the wound bearer presents the results of years of being forged beneath her. 5,351 miles stretched, but you are still the same sixteen-year-old girl who bit her tongue, holding her words like a criminal about to be executed on the spot.

What a mother-daughter relationship you have.

You watch warily as Mother begins circling the room, her high heels clicking ominously, slightly showing the red soles beneath them. Louboutins, you remember. You also remember all too well how much those had cost—the very shoes you had “helped” fund years ago when you foolishly still let her access your bank account, even after you turned nineteen.

“Do you know why he’s here?” Mother tries the first question, testing the waters.

Like a frightened little girl—that same little girl from that sunny day so many years ago—you deflect the real question, “Because I invited him.”

Mother, unimpressed, casts you a sharp look, as if daring you to dare her. “You know what I mean. Do you know why he’s here?”

You bit your lip, grasping at straws. “He’s… my boyfriend.”

Mother scoffed mockingly. She turned to you, face contorted in amusement as if you had just told the funniest joke. “Boyfriend? Please. Is that what you think?”

You flinched back as Mother suddenly whirled to face you, her sculpted features twisting into a reflection of pure, unbridled rage. The similar pair of eyes glared at you wide. She buried her nails deep into your epidermis, and you gasped from the sting.

“The only reason a man would want you is between your legs. You think you found love, but really he's with you only because you're easy. You’re just a cheap fuck to him, (Y/N).”

The hot, stinging droplets gathered and spilled over without your permission. You hated yourself for fueling her twisted satisfaction. Hating that she still knew exactly where to aim her barbs to find their mark after all these years.

But nothing compares to the fact that she is your mother. She is your mother, and yet, how could those words come out of her mouth so easily? As if her criticisms had festered within her mind and she was finally allowing them to escape. There's a small, broken part of you that can't help but wonder—and why do you even wonder? You know yourself better than she does, surely.

Or do you?

Or is it true that there really is nothing to take beyond your body like the unloveable, worthless child she always says you are?

You felt a spark of anger flare. “How could you say that to me?” you choked out, baring your wounded heart. Wrong move—you know this, proved many times that showing emotion had never gotten anywhere with Mother before.

But the younger, wounded teenager in you would always crave some kind of validation, some sign she truly cared. Perhaps hidden beneath the person she's become, she still holds a flicker of the warmth she once felt for you. You’re her daughter, and she’s your mother—shouldn’t that be enough for her to finally treat you like one?

“I’m only telling you the truth so you won’t be naive. Do you think he’ll love you when there are so many girls out there who are much prettier than you?”

At times, the wiser you knew not to take Mother’s words to heart—your survival instincts, born of too many experiences, told you not to let her poison seep into your skin. But more often than not, you didn’t know better. Right now, you don’t know better.

(Prying my mouth open, she dripped her bitter blood until we were indistinguishable.)

Clenching your fist, you say through gritted teeth, “You don’t know him.”

Mother’s features bent in hate at your rebellion. The young daughter no more, grown into someone who dared to talk back rather than just gulping down her every word raw.

“And you do?” she spat. “How long have you known this man? Don’t be stupid.”

“It’s none of your business,” you retorted, but not convinced enough for her to see the gap in your expression.

“Not my business? Of course it’s my business – I’m your mother!”

Summoning the last of your courage, you mumbled, “You’re not… my mother.”

Her neat eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What did you just say to me?”

It was a second chance, one she rarely gave. For a moment, you considered taking it back—rewording your reply to something less confrontational, something safer. But you were sick of it—years of carrying her wounds you hadn’t even caused, weighing your body down and sinking them deeper into pitless hell. Of always looking past her anger and ego, finding justifications and reasons to tolerate her. Of being under her control when the young girl inside you needed her anger represented.

And you repeated it without rewording: “You’re not my mother. Not anymore.”

As it left your lips, you saw a flicker of change in Mother’s expression—was that hurt in her eyes? So foreign was her expression that you almost doubted yourself. Regret seized you along with the guilt and self-loathing that gripped your heart.

Then, the hurt blinked away as if it was never there. “Look at you,” she hissed, “throwing away your mother, the woman who birthed and raised you with great difficulty, all for some worthless man. I'm not even surprised if you end up pregnant in a few months, or maybe you already are. Don't say I didn't warn you when he leaves you with a bastard child.”

And they were right when they said that anger is the most effective key.

Moments ago, you can still find the shadow of that sixteen-year-old girl remains within, with pieces of her innocence—a bit of a child’s grin. Her body is still in fear, yet her eyes are always yearning for praise from her mother’s voice.

However, as the grown woman you are ignites in a seething cauldron of fury—disagreement with Mother’s treatment—the little girl begins to fade, reduced to ashes amidst the fire. The “why” question echoes loudly with demands. I'm your baby—you made me; why do you hurt me?

“Why? Why are you so sure only bad things will happen? Why can’t you believe I can find happiness?” Warm tears welled up, tasting salty on your lips as you asked.

Mother raised a warning finger. “Don’t use that tone with me.”

But you’ve passed the point of backing down. “Why? Why are you so convinced I’ll always be unhappy? WHY?!”

(As if it had been written long before my creation.)

Taking a sharp, short breath, you feel self-control slipping away. Your lungs hitched with condemnation, constricting you, trying to escape the hell Mother handmade just for you. You’re crossing the line; something scolds (the same voice your mother planted early on) inside your head, but you refuse to give in.

The dim red light between the cracks in your skull grows brighter, and the next thing you say are the words you've been holding back for so long:

“I’m not you! And what happened with Dad was not my fault!”

And finally, silence fills the small space between you, followed by the faint echo of your voice. As the last syllable faded, the words that had been spoken left you feeling conflicted. That little girl would consider this disobedience—the result of the doctrine your mother spat at her every day—but all you know now is the strange lightness in your heart, as if shedding a massive burden that you didn’t realize you had been carrying your whole life.

Mother took a sharp, hissing breath, and you saw the subtle quiver in her clenched jaw. “You're out of line,” she said.

“I'm out of line?! You were the first one to cross that line, over and over, hurting me for years, but now that I finally do it to you, now I'm the one who's out of line?!” The words tumbled out of your mouth in a rush, all the pain and anger that you had piled up erupting to the surface. “You've always hurt me, said awful things, made me feel like nothing! But the second I did it to you, suddenly I'm the bad one? That's not fair!"

In the blink of an eye, she extends her perfectly manicured hand to grasp the first object within her reach—a heavy crystal paperweight on the table. Your eyes are glued to it, feet ready to flee when she hurls it at you.

“You fucking ungrateful bitch!” she screamed.

Some distant, rational part of you knows you should dodge. But a darker impulse held you frozen, as if welcoming the blunt object to damage your epidermis and even more so to become evidence of her abuse. And perhaps, once the crimson drips from your split temple, it will be enough to reveal the true identity she has been hiding—to destroy the loving mother image she has carefully built for years.

You will make a spectacle of the wound, perhaps even exaggerating it a bit like Mother always did.

It came so close when it landed on the floor next to you. You let out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Mother’s face flushed like the devil as she shouted, “I should never have given birth to you!”

Strange, that relief is what washes over you when her words land in your ears. Because for the first time, the two of you agreed on something – she wished you had never been born, just as you had so often wished the same.

Those “precious” teenage years were filled with alternating fantasies—some days hoping she might die, others wishing it was you instead. But you were never able to go through with killing her, or yourself. Because being without Mother meant being utterly lost and alone, and you were too cowardly to cut your wrist open. More days though, you regretted it—how it might have all ended sooner if only you had been braver.

You wonder who's to blame to just make sense of it—perhaps Mother's mother had been cruel, and she thought she had broken the cycle. Perhaps Joyce, for always being the golden child despite everything. Perhaps Dad. Perhaps you.

All those long, drawn-out years, you stayed, you suffered for her. Because the little girl in the bright pink shoes—the color that matched Mother's favorite dress before she threw it away—loved her mother so much. Always making excuses for her. Maybe she didn't know how to love me, or I didn't understand her way of loving me. Maybe somewhere in her anger were kisses in her own language.

You stood frozen as hollowness spread through your chest, as if the eruption had cleansed you until nothing but an empty clarity remained. Even when Simon entered the room, you didn't notice his presence until he spoke.

“Fuck’s all this?” His question didn’t really wait for an answer as he rushed to your side.

Mother smoothed her hair imperiously, then said: “We were just having a talk.”

Simon’s brown eyes scan the scene: the shattered paperweight, Mother’s suspicious fist. He then turns to examine you carefully, searching for any injuries and only letting out a slight sigh when he finds none.

“Go wait in the car. I’ll sort our things.” Simon orders, and without argument, you nod, walking out of the bedroom.

The room felt heavier with tension after you departed, leaving Simon alone with your seething mother. He moved with purpose, in a quick and efficient mind, as he gathered your things—a toothbrush and hairbrush from the bathroom, dresses from the closet, pulling out drawers for any other items. After throwing them into your suitcase, he tidied up his own things with even more haste and less care.

As he picked up his abandoned tie, Mother cleared her throat. “You don’t need to do this, you know. I know my daughter better than anyone, and she’s not what you really need.”

For a moment, Simon paused, jaw working as he reined his temper. Mother thought she had his attention—finally getting him to listen to her. But soon enough, he resumed his task as if she hadn’t spoken at all.

Undeterred, she pressed on. “There are prettier, worthier girls than her. Ones who won’t cause you so much trouble.”

Simon’s hands stilled at that, Mother thought she had succeeded in making him consider. Slowly, he turned to face the older woman. But what she read in his eyes was not a realization or even a spark of curiosity. No, it was a look that suggested he knew a lot about people like her, had seen a lot despite him being a decade her junior.

“That what you tell ‘er then?” He began, hate raining down like hail in his voice. “That she ain’t good enough, or pretty enough? That she’s nothin’ but trouble?”

The woman met his gaze, and Simon noticed how her eyes were shaped like yours, except colder, full of twisted conviction whenever she talked about you. “I only speak the truth, for her own good. Someone has to keep that headstrong girl in line before she comes to ruin.”

At that, he let out an impolite scoff, but Simon gave zero fucks. “Yeah? Cause all I see is you tryin’ to keep ‘er under yer thumb.”

Simon watched as the woman's face contorted into an ugly frown of dislike; her mask had been abandoned somewhere. He wondered how you survived all those years at home, how you could still say you “love her to bits” on your first meeting.

But he supposes that’s how children are. Misplaced unconditional love for their lifegivers. Sometimes, his critical mind thinks it’s a shame for the Man in the Sky to give little humans to people who don’t deserve them—to abusers, addicts, snakes like this one right here. But then again, Simon had no right to complain when he stopped believing in any of all that years ago—after he lost everyone that mattered.

"I'm her mother." She repeated.

“And she’s yer daughter. Not yer pet or yer little dog to order about.”

As Simon returned to tending to the bags, the woman took a slow, deep breath. "I know men like you," she replied. “You think you're protecting her—you think you're saving her, but all you want is a girl to use and toss aside once you've grown bored.”

Simon’s tedious task came to a halt, the zipper of the bag half-open. He furrowed his blond brows, brown eyes focused on nothing. Before long, he gathered the bags and shouldered them, his free hand dragging the suitcase as he walked through the gaping door. That woman spoke again, but he turned a deaf ear to her venomous spit.

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[kiryoutann]

AH YESS!! YES THANK U FOR REMINDING ME THIS!!

before starting this fic, i kinda did my lil silly research for dancers (especially ballerina) feet and it looks very painful, but pretty in their own way, but PAINFUL!

and when i saw that, i was like... hhHHhmmMMM how about simon kissing it cause he disagreed with her self-deprecating joke abt her feet >_<

BUT idk if we ever gonna see that simon in this fic. probably in the sequel if we ever get to that. i swear feet kisses r the most intimate thing someone can do to u

Hi! Could I be added to the tag list for ‘A Man’s Heart is a Wretched Wretched Thing’ please? As a former dancer this is a masterpiece I never knew I needed!

HIII!!! THAT MEANS A LOT AHHHHHHHHHH. i will print this n glue it on the screen of my laptop so i'll work harder on researching more about dancers and ballerinas!!!!

and yes<3 i will add you to the taglist n tag u on the next chapter! thank u so much for reading. have a great weekend!!!!