#I remember how I used to hate it when that happened to me

[inkskinned]

my brother got covid because he's a college professor and there's not much he can do to mitigate exposure when he has 200+ students per lecture. he's got a baby at home, so he does his best, but.

the governmental website for covid information is now propaganda. not a joke, not hyperbole, not an exaggeration: it's genuinely the definition of propaganda. this is biased misinformation determined to push a political stance. it is being hosted on a government server. it looks like something you'd find in a "top 10 weird internet conspiracy stories (and their origins)" youtube video.

my brother called me when he saw it. he had me type it into google. for a second i legitimately thought that i had typed something wrong. we have both taught college: we have both said "a .gov site is usually a reliable resource." i just stared at my phone for a long, long time.

i thought about how when i was a kid, conspiracy theories were mostly fun and a little spooky. unserious. i remember reading some long, complicated website about how avril lavigne is dead. how bigfoot is real. it used to be funny-and-a-joke.

over seven million people (globally) have died from covid. america has the highest death rate with over 1.2 million people.

the thing is - every time a person dies from something like a mass shooting or poverty or treatable illness - we are told don't make it political. we are told it's just something that can happen. we are told it's sad but what can you do!

the president of the united states is using a government website to try to erase the very-real deaths that he personally caused due to a complete mismanagement of the pandemic. the president of the united states is using a government server to host propaganda, undermine science and medicine, and encourage distrust amongst his followers.

nothing is going to happen. nobody's gonna, like, do anything about it. it's a thursday today, and we are just going to move on from this like we have been moving on from everything else.

yesterday my brother was outside walking his dog, mask included. a guy in a truck pulls up and shouts something about covid and whatever the fuck else. my brother has a good sense of humor, described it to me as enthusiastic! i hadn't ever been catcalled before, this was new and therefore thrilling! i do see why you hate it, though. like. i have actual covid, does he want me to cough on him?

my brother doesn't get extra time off work anymore, because the cdc practically doesn't exist. my brother said i'm not exposing 200 students to covid. his boss shrugged and said: who cares? they're going to get it eventually anyway. like it isn't a pandemic.

like it's just a fucking thursday, and who cares about it.

[sirxlla]

OKAY IVE SEEN SOO MANY BATBOYS SHOWING READER THEIR SCARS

BUT

Reader showing batboys their scars!!!

Could be from anything preferably past abuse something

Showing Him Your Scars (Batboys)

------------------------------------------------

Warnings: Angst, Fluff

Prompt: above ^^^^

Notes: female reader, italics are actions and thoughts.

-With that said it's all under the cut-

Dick: Working together on the force for so long allowed the both of you to get close. Your doctor recommended that you have someone take care of you and the Captian told Dick it's his job to make sure I won't do anything stupid or try to heal from a stab wound you got in your arm, it's nothing bad, it'll heal in time but its making doing just about anything a pain in the ass including changing.

"I can help, Y/N. Let me. It's got to be painful. Let me help you change...Look, I'll even close my eyes if you want." Dick closed his eyes to show you he was honest, even covering his eyes like a kid which made you smile.

"No, it's fine, Dick. I'd rather you have your eyes open to do this. The last thing we need to do is irritate this wound any further." You said before Dick uncovered and opened his eyes and gently guided your shirt off making sure to be incredibly careful of the wound on your arm. His eyes scanned all the other scars on your torso; he's surprised at the sheer amount of scars you have.

"I think you might look more badass than I do." He gently traces a scar on your back. "I remember almost all of these, I didn't know your wounds were this bad."

"Yeah, but you know...sometimes you can't stop just for the sake of it; bad guys need to get caught."

"Yeah but not at the expense of you. You're way too valuable to keep getting hurt"

"Yeah? To who?" You asked with a bit of anger; you felt like you were always taking care of everyone else, but no one took care of you, and Dick answered you with one single word that meant everything.

"Me." His blue eyes gazed into with nothing but pure sincerity.

Jason: Jason was always nervous about anyone seeing any of his scars; once you happened to see them, he froze in nervousness. Would you think he's weird or ugly because of the scars that litter his skin? As you noticed the worry in his eyes, you very slowly brought your eyes to meet his as you slipped your shirt off.

Jason's eyes widen as he sees the scar that runs down the middle of your chest and disappears between your breasts.

"I had open heart surgery when I was a teenager. I used to hate it, but without it, I'd be dead or a much different person. Scars tell a story, a path to now." You said as you reached your hand out to touch his autopsy scar; it's so similar to yours but different. Just as beautiful.

"Can- Can I?" Jason asks as he reaches his hand out slowly to the scar on your chest. "It- It's beautiful."

"Well, if mine are, then yours have to be too. They're pretty badass." You smiled and showed him a few smaller ones that you'd gotten for dumb stuff but the way you embraced them made him feel so much better about his. You gently kissed the scar on his chest and in time he'd see his scars the same way you see yours.

Bruce: Anyone who's been around Bruce for any amount of time knows how many scars he had. Little did he know you had plenty of your own, so one day, as you were over at his place, you had asked him about scars and what he'd think if you had some.

"I suppose that depends on the scars, Love." His blue eyes gazed into yours with a bit of worry. "You have scars?"

"Don't judge okay?" You asked as you lifted your shirt and showed him the scars on your back; they looked like burns. Bruce's fingers grazed over what appeared at a closer glance to be cigarette burns.

"I wanted to show you before you found out when I was changing or sex or something...My dad he- he used to put them out on my back when I was a kid. Every guy I've ever been with just kinda laughs a bit."

"They laughed? Darling, this isn't something to laugh at; I mean, if you want to, then by all means, that's fine, but no one else should laugh at your pain." His fingers graze over them gently; he doesn't know what to say, so he says the first thing on his mind. "They don't distract from your beauty for even a second."

Your shoulders fall as you relax against his touch; he isn't blaming you or laughing or making you think you're ugly for the ugly actions of your father. He's amazing, he's reassuring and he's one of the best men you've ever known.

Tim: "What's the scar above your lip?" He asks you randomly as he rests his head in your lap, looking up at you.

"What sca- Oh! Um...It's super stupid, but when I was a kid, I liked to dance on the coffee table at my Grandmas and I busted my lip open...Grandma said I barely cried, and the next day, I was back to dancing on the table." You laughed as the memories flashed behind your eyelids.

"You never told me you were such a good dancer." Tim smiled back as he teased you.

"No, I was awful." You pulled down your shirt a little to show off the scar on your collarbone. "This was from ballet class, I did too many spins and smacked into the mirror. There's so many all over, just my clumsiness or dancing or both."

"So no dancing for you, I suppose. Either that or I get some really thick shoes, and then you can just stand on my feet, and I can do all the work." Tim teased a little as his eyes scanned your scars slowly as he took a moment to imagine the things you told him.

Damian: Training in the League isn't for the weak; real swords are used and real wounds are created. Damian knew you probably had several scars but you'd never showed them to him. He was curious and wondered if the number he had might be similar to yours.

"Can I see your scars?" He asked while the both of you were spending quality time reading together.

"My scars?"

"Yeah, I just wanna see if we have about the same amount."

"Yeah, I don't mind. I guess?" You pulled your long-sleeve shirt off as he pulled his off. Damian's eyes widened as he noticed how you had at least triple the scars that he did from training.

"They didn't put Lazarus water on the deep ones?" They had usually put Lazarus water on Damian's wounds if they were deep enough, he thought that they did that for everyone.

"Only if it hits bone." You corrected him, they never wasted a drop of Lazarus unless it was life for death for the regular soldiers in the League.

"Oh." Damian was surprised but also not. His grandfather wouldn't have wanted the Demon's Head to be littered with scars; he needed to look like he was better than them all. Damian runs his fingers over your scars on your back and he made himself a promise as well as you. "Things are gonna be different when I'm leading the League."

-> Masterlist

-> Send me prompts if you'd like

[sshnzsr]

cigarettes after sex

wordcount: 16k

warnings: stepcast, smut, unprotected sex, getting caught during masturbation, lying about being on birth control, emotional manipulation, mentions of pregnancy, abortion, family issues, reader shows signs of depression, self-hatred, and isolation, poverty, arguments, smoking, lmk if I missed anything

note: This is my first time trying to write a long fic. It can be kinda repetitive at some parts that’s because I tried to make it longer. Take a look at my other works.

-

You hated Sunghoon. Not just because he was your stepbrother, but because he was perfect in everyone’s eyes. Your dad, your stepmom, even your cousins—they all adored him. Sunghoon, with his sharp jawline, dark eyes, and easy smile, could do no wrong. He got straight A’s, captained the ice skating team, and had a future everyone envied. Meanwhile, you were the screw-up, the rebellious one who skipped classes and talked back. No matter what you did, Sunghoon was always better. Your own dad, your biological dad, picked him every time.

It wasn’t fair. You remembered the day your stepmom moved in, bringing Sunghoon with her. You were sixteen, he was seventeen, and from that moment, it was like you didn’t exist. Family dinners were about Sunghoon’s achievements. Your dad’s praise was for Sunghoon’s discipline, his talent, his everything. You were invisible, and it burned. You wanted to hurt Sunghoon, to make him feel the pain you carried. You didn’t care how. You just wanted him to suffer.

The plan started as a vague idea. Seduce him. Play with his feelings. Make him want you, then crush him. You knew he wasn’t immune to you. You’d caught him staring sometimes—your tight crop tops, your short skirts, the way you flipped your hair. He tried to hide it, but you saw the way his eyes lingered. You were nineteen now, he was twenty, and the tension between you had grown. You weren’t kids anymore, and you could use that.

It wasn’t part of the plan to catch him jerking off. That was an accident. But it was the perfect accident.

You were sneaking into his room to borrow (steal) one of his hoodies, just to piss him off. His door was cracked open, and you froze when you heard it—a low moan, his voice, rough and desperate. “Fuck… Y/N…”

Your name. He was moaning your name.

You pushed the door open, heart pounding. There he was, on his bed, shirt off, sweatpants pulled down, his cock in his hand. His eyes were closed, head tilted back, lost in whatever fantasy he was having about you. His strokes were fast, his breathing heavy, and he didn’t hear you come in.

You should’ve left. You should’ve turned around and pretended it never happened. But you didn’t. This was too good. This was the key to your revenge.

“Sunghoon,” you said, voice sharp.

His eyes snapped open, and he scrambled to cover himself, face red with panic. “Y/N! What the fuck? Get out!”

You didn’t move. You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms, a smirk on your lips. “Moaning my name, huh? That’s fucked up, stepbrother.”

He yanked a blanket over his lap, stammering. “It’s not… I wasn’t… You weren’t supposed to see that!”

“But I did,” you said, stepping closer. His room smelled like him—cologne and clean laundry—and it made your stomach twist in a way you hated. “What were you thinking about? Me naked? Me sucking you off?”

“Stop it,” he snapped, but his voice was shaky, and you could see his cock twitching under the blanket. He was still hard, even with you standing there, calling him out.

You sat on the edge of his bed, closer than you needed to be. “You want me, don’t you?” you asked, voice low. “You’re jerking off to your stepsister. That’s so dirty.”

He swallowed hard, eyes darting to your lips, your chest, then away. “You’re messing with me. Just leave.”

But you didn’t. You reached out, brushing your fingers along his thigh, just enough to make him tense. “What if I don’t want to leave?” you whispered. “What if I want you to finish what you started?”

His breath hitched. “Y/N, don’t fuck with me.”

“I’m not,” you said, and you meant it, at least in that moment. The plan was working better than you’d ever imagined. You leaned in, your lips inches from his. “Fuck me, Sunghoon. Right now.”

He stared at you, torn between guilt and desire. You could see the battle in his eyes, but you knew you’d won when he grabbed your face and kissed you, hard and desperate. His lips were hot, his tongue pushing into your mouth, and you moaned, climbing onto his lap.

The blanket fell away, and his cock pressed against your shorts, hard and thick. You ground against him, feeling the heat pool between your legs. This wasn’t supposed to feel good, but it did. Too good.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” he growled, hands yanking at your shirt. He pulled it off, exposing your bra, and his mouth was on your neck, biting, sucking. You arched into him, hating how much you wanted this.

“Fuck me,” you said again, tugging at his sweatpants. “I want your cock inside me.”

He groaned, flipping you onto your back. Your shorts came off, then your panties, and he was between your legs, his fingers brushing your pussy. You were soaked, and he cursed under his breath. “You’re so wet,” he said, almost to himself.

“Do it,” you begged, spreading your legs wider. “Fuck me raw. Cum inside me.”

His eyes darkened, and he hesitated. “You’re on birth control, right?”

“Yeah,” you lied, the words slipping out easily. You weren’t. You hadn’t been for months. But he didn’t need to know that. Not yet.

He didn’t ask again. He lined his cock up with your pussy and pushed in, slow at first, stretching you. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. He was big, bigger than you’d expected, and the burn felt so fucking good.

“God, you’re tight,” he grunted, thrusting deeper. His hands gripped your hips, and he started moving, fucking you hard, the bed creaking under you. You moaned, loud and shameless, wrapping your legs around him.

“Harder,” you demanded, voice bratty. “Fuck me like you mean it.”

He did. His thrusts were brutal, his cock hitting deep, and you loved it. You hated him, but you loved this—his body, his desperation, the way he looked at you like you were everything. You clenched around him, already close, and he groaned, his fingers digging into your thighs.

“Gonna cum,” he rasped, his pace faltering. “Where do you want it?”

“Inside,” you said, locking eyes with him. “Cum inside my pussy.”

He didn’t hesitate. A few more thrusts, and he buried himself deep, groaning as he came, his cock pulsing inside you. You felt the warmth of his cum, and your own orgasm hit, your pussy squeezing him as you shook, moaning his name.

He collapsed on you, breathing hard, and for a moment, neither of you moved. Then reality hit. You’d done it. You’d fucked your stepbrother, let him cum inside you, knowing you weren’t protected. It was disgusting, but it was exactly what you wanted. You’d hurt him now. You’d make him pay.

-

Weeks passed, and you kept the secret to yourself. Sunghoon was different around you—quieter, softer, like he was trying to figure out what happened. He’d try to talk, but you brushed him off, keeping your distance. The plan was working. You could feel the power shifting.

Then you missed your period.

The test confirmed it. Pregnant. You stared at the stick, your stomach churning. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It was supposed to be a game, a way to ruin him, not this. You felt sick, not just from the pregnancy but from the weight of what you’d done. You’d fucked your stepbrother. You’d lied. And now you were carrying his kid.

You didn’t tell Sunghoon right away. You let it simmer, let the guilt and regret fester. You hated yourself, but you hated him more. He was still the golden boy, still the one your dad loved. This was your fault, but it was his fault too.

You decided to drop the bomb at dinner. Your dad, your stepmom, Sunghoon—they were all there, eating some fancy meal your stepmom had cooked. You waited until everyone was quiet, then set your fork down, your voice casual but sharp.

“So,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “I’m pregnant. From Sunghoon.”

The room went dead silent. Your dad’s fork clattered onto his plate. Your stepmom’s mouth dropped open. Sunghoon’s face went pale, his eyes wide, like he couldn’t process the words.

“What did you say?” your dad asked, voice low, dangerous.

You shrugged, playing the brat like always. “I’m pregnant. Sunghoon fucked me. No big deal.”

Sunghoon choked, his voice barely audible. “Y/N… what? You said you were on birth control.”

You smirked, even though your heart was pounding. “Oops. Guess I lied.”

Your dad stood, his face red with fury. “You… you disgusting little…” He couldn’t finish, turning to Sunghoon. “Is this true?”

Sunghoon looked like he might throw up. “I… I didn’t know. She said she was protected.”

Your stepmom started crying, her hands shaking. “How could you do this? Both of you?”

But your dad’s anger was all for you. “You’re a disgrace,” he spat. “You did this on purpose, didn’t you? To ruin this family?”

You didn’t answer, just stared at him, defiant. Inside, you were breaking, but you wouldn’t let them see it.

“Get out,” he said, pointing to the door. “You’re not welcome here anymore.”

You expected it, but it still hurt. You stood, grabbing your phone, and looked at Sunghoon. He wouldn’t meet your eyes. Of course he wouldn’t. He was still the favorite, even now.

“Fine,” you said, voice cold. “I don’t need you.”

-

You moved out that night, crashing at a friend’s place. The next week was a blur—doctor’s visits, arguments with your friend about what to do, and the looming appointment at the clinic. Your dad had called, screaming about abortion, saying you had no choice. You didn’t want the baby, but the idea of ending it made you feel even worse. This was your mess, your fault, and you couldn’t escape it.

The day of the appointment came. You sat in the waiting room, staring at the sterile walls, your stomach in knots. You kept looking at the door, hoping, praying Sunghoon would show up. He was part of this. He should be here. You texted him, called him, left voicemails. Nothing. Radio silence.

Of course he didn’t come. Why would he? He was Sunghoon, the perfect one, the one who got away with everything. You were the fuck-up, the one who’d ruined your own life. Tears stung your eyes as you realized you were alone. Completely alone.

The nurse called your name, and you stood, legs shaking. You regretted it all—every touch, every lie, every moment you thought this would make you feel better. You’d wanted to hurt Sunghoon, but you’d only hurt yourself.

-

The apartment was a shithole, but it was yours. A tiny one-room box on a dead-end street, where the only sounds at night were creaking pipes and the occasional cough from the old folks next door. The walls were stained yellow from years of smoke, the floorboards creaked under your weight, and the single window barely opened, letting in the damp night air. It smelled like cigarettes and stale ramen, no matter how much you scrubbed. You didn’t have furniture—just a mattress on the floor, a rickety table, and a single chair you’d found on the curb. A string of fairy lights hung above your bed, the only thing you’d bothered to make look nice. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

You’d been lucky to have some money saved up. Not a lot, but enough to cover the deposit and a few months’ rent in this rundown place. Your dad hadn’t called, your stepmom hadn’t texted, and Sunghoon—well, you’d given up hoping he’d show his face after the clinic. You’d sat in that cold waiting room, legs shaking, waiting for him to walk through the door. He didn’t. You went through with it alone, the abortion, and the memory of it clung to you like the tobacco stench in your apartment. It was a sharp, ugly pain, not just in your body but in your head, your heart. You hated yourself for what you’d done, but you hated Sunghoon more for letting you do it alone.

Life wasn’t good, but it was yours. You worked two jobs to keep it that way. Days at a greasy diner, wiping tables and dodging creepy customers, and nights at a corner store, stocking shelves while the radio played staticky pop songs. You came home exhausted, your hands smelling of bleach, your feet aching, but you didn’t cry. You wouldn’t. You’d made your choices—fucking your stepbrother, lying about birth control, dropping the bomb at dinner—and now you were living with them. No one was going to save you.

The nights were the hardest. You’d sit on your mattress, eating instant ramen from a chipped bowl, the fairy lights casting shadows on the cracked ceiling. You’d smoke, even though you hated it, because the guy who lived here before left half a pack of cigarettes, and it was something to do. The smoke curled around you, mixing with the ramen steam, and you’d stare at your phone, willing it to ring. It never did. Your friends had stopped texting, your dad had written you off, and Sunghoon was a ghost. You were alone, and the silence was louder than anything.

Until he showed up.

It was late, past midnight, the street outside dark and empty. You were on your mattress, scrolling through your phone, the cigarette smell heavy in the air. A knock at the door made you freeze. No one came here. No one knew where you lived. You grabbed a kitchen knife from the table, heart pounding, and cracked the door open.

Sunghoon stood there, his dark hair messy, his eyes shadowed. He wore a black hoodie and jeans, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking like he hadn’t slept in days. You stared, too shocked to speak. How the fuck did he find you?

“What do you want?” you asked, voice sharp, but your grip on the knife loosened.

He didn’t answer. He just stepped inside, brushing past you like he belonged there. You shut the door, your stomach twisting. The apartment felt smaller with him in it, his presence filling the space, making the air heavier. He looked around, taking in the bare walls, the mattress, the ramen packets on the table. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t say a word.

“Sunghoon,” you said, crossing your arms. “Talk. Why are you here?”

He ignored you. He set a plastic bag on the table, the kind you get from a convenience store. Inside were containers of actual food—rice, kimchi, some kind of stew. Not the instant crap you’d been living on, but real, cooked food. Your mouth watered just looking at it, but you didn’t move.

“I don’t need your pity,” you snapped, even though your stomach growled. “Get out.”

He didn’t. He sat on the chair, leaning back, eyes fixed on the floor. His silence pissed you off. You wanted to scream, to throw the food at him, to make him feel the hurt you’d been carrying since that night. But you didn’t. You just stood there, glaring, the cigarette smell stinging your nose.

This became the pattern. Sunghoon started coming over every few nights, always late, always unannounced. He’d walk in, drop off food, and sit in silence. Sometimes he’d bring other things—a blanket, a cheap lamp, a pack of bottled water. You didn’t ask how he found your address, and he didn’t offer an explanation. He never stayed long, maybe an hour, and he never talked. You tried, at first, to get him to say something.

“Sunghoon, why are you doing this?” you’d ask, voice rough from exhaustion. “You didn’t care when I needed you. Why now?”

He’d just look at you, his eyes dark, unreadable, then go back to staring at the floor. It drove you crazy. You wanted him to yell, to fight, to explain why he left you alone at the clinic, why he let your dad kick you out, why he was here now, acting like some silent guardian. But he gave you nothing.

One night, you couldn’t take it anymore. He was sitting there, same as always, a bag of food on the table—fried rice and bulgogi this time, the smell making your empty stomach ache. You were tired, your diner shift had been hell, and the sight of him, quiet and untouchable, pushed you over the edge.

“Talk to me, you asshole!” you shouted, slamming your hand on the table. The plastic containers rattled. “You don’t get to just show up and play hero after everything! You fucked me, you got me pregnant, and you didn’t even show up when I had to deal with it! Why are you here? What do you want?”

He flinched, just barely, but his eyes stayed on the floor. You stepped closer, your voice shaking. “Say something, Sunghoon. Or get the fuck out and don’t come back.”

For a moment, you thought he might. His hands twitched, like he wanted to reach for you, but he didn’t move. He just sat there, his jaw tight, his silence louder than your screams. You turned away, tears burning your eyes, and lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around you like a shield.

“Fine,” you muttered, exhaling. “Keep your fucking secrets. I don’t need you.”

But you did. You hated admitting it, but you did. The food he brought kept you from starving. The blanket he left was warmer than the thin one you’d been using. And his presence, as infuriating as it was, made the apartment feel less empty. You hated him, but you waited for him to come back every time he left.

One night, things shifted. It was late, the street outside quiet except for the hum of a distant streetlight. You were on your mattress, smoking, the fairy lights casting a dim glow. Sunghoon knocked, same as always, and you let him in, expecting the usual routine. He set a bag of food on the table—jjajangmyeon, your favorite—and sat down. But this time, he didn’t stare at the floor. He looked at you.

You were in a tank top and shorts, your hair messy, cigarette dangling from your fingers. His eyes lingered, tracing the curve of your neck, the bare skin of your thighs. You felt it—the heat, the tension, the same fucked-up pull you’d felt that night in his room. You hated it, but your body remembered.

“What?” you asked, voice sharp, but your heart was racing.

He didn’t answer, but he stood, stepping closer. You didn’t move, even as he stopped inches away, his shadow falling over you. The air was thick, the cigarette smoke mixing with the ramen smell, and you felt it again—that twisted desire, the need to hurt him, to feel him, to make him pay.

“You want me?” you asked, voice low, taunting. You flicked the cigarette to the floor, crushing it under your foot. “That’s why you keep coming back, isn’t it? You’re still thinking about fucking me.”

His eyes darkened, but he didn’t speak. You stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat of his body. “Go on,” you said, voice dripping with venom. “Fuck me again. See if it fixes anything.”

He grabbed you, sudden and rough, his hands on your waist. You gasped, not expecting it, and he kissed you, hard, his lips crashing into yours. It wasn’t gentle, wasn’t sweet—it was raw, desperate, like he’d been holding it back for weeks. You kissed him back, just as rough, your hands in his hair, pulling hard.

He pushed you onto the mattress, his body heavy on yours. Your tank top came off, then your shorts, and his hands were everywhere—your breasts, your thighs, your pussy. You were wet, embarrassingly wet, and he groaned when he felt it, his fingers sliding inside you.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice low, the first word he’d spoken in weeks. “You’re so fucking wet.”

You arched into him, hating how good it felt. “Just do it,” you said, voice sharp. “Fuck me.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. His clothes came off, and he was inside you, his cock stretching you, filling you. It was fast, rough, no pretense of care. You moaned, nails digging into his back, your body betraying you. He fucked you hard, the mattress creaking, the fairy lights swaying above. You hated him, hated yourself, but you came anyway, your pussy clenching around him, your body shaking.

He didn’t pull out this time either, cumming inside you, his groans muffled against your neck. You lay there, panting, the weight of it all crashing down. He stayed for a moment, then pulled away, sitting on the edge of the mattress, head in his hands.

You stared at the ceiling, the cigarette smell stronger now, mixing with the sweat and sex. “Get out,” you said, voice flat.

He didn’t argue. He grabbed his clothes, dressed, and left without a word. The door clicked shut, and you were alone again, the silence heavier than ever.

-

The apartment was a haze of cigarette smoke and regret. The fairy lights flickered, casting weak shadows on the stained walls, and the air smelled like tobacco and the leftover jjajangmyeon Sunghoon had brought earlier. You sat on your mattress, knees pulled to your chest, staring at the cracked floorboards. The silence was heavy, broken only by the rustle of Sunghoon cleaning up. He was tossing out the cigarette butts and empty ramen cups you’d left scattered on the table, his movements slow, deliberate, like he was trying to keep himself busy.

You didn’t know why you said it. The words slipped out before you could stop them, soft and shaky, barely audible over the hum of the streetlight outside. “I’m sorry.”

Sunghoon froze, a crumpled ramen cup in his hand. He turned to you, his dark eyes narrowing, shadowed by the dim light. His hoodie was loose, his hair messy, and for a second, he looked like the boy you’d hated for years—your stepbrother, the golden child who stole your dad’s love. But he also looked different, older, weighed down by something you couldn’t name.

He sighed, tossing the trash into a plastic bag. “You should be sorry for yourself,” he said, voice low, cutting. “You ruined your own life while you tried to ruin mine. What is your problem? Do you like living like this?”

His words hit hard, like a punch to the gut. You wanted to snap back, to tell him to fuck off, but he was right. You’d done this to yourself—fucked him to hurt him, lied about birth control, got pregnant, and blew up your family. Now you were here, in this shithole apartment, working yourself to death, alone except for his silent visits. You’d wanted to break him, but you’d broken yourself instead.

You forced a laugh, leaning back on the mattress, a bitter smile on your lips. “Yeah, I do. It’s peaceful.”

He stared at you, his expression unreadable, then let out a short, dry laugh. “You’re crazy.”

For a moment, you both laughed, the sound sharp and hollow, echoing in the tiny room. It was the first time you’d shared anything like this, a crack in the wall between you. But it didn’t last. His laughter faded, and he stood, walking over to you, his steps slow, deliberate. Before you could move, he was there, looming over you, trapping you between his body and the mattress. His hands pressed into the bed on either side of you, his face inches from yours. You could smell him—clean laundry, a hint of cologne, so different from the stale smoke of your apartment.

“I’m sorry too,” he said, voice rough, barely above a whisper. “I never wanted you to be here. I never wanted you to get an abortion.”

The words were a knife, twisting in your chest. You hated him for saying it, for bringing it up, for acting like he cared now, after everything. You shoved him back, hard, your hands against his chest. “Shut up. I hate you,” you murmured, voice shaking, but there was no fire in it. Just exhaustion.

He didn’t move, his eyes locked on yours, dark and searching. Then, quietly, he asked, “Can I stay the night?”

You froze, your breath catching. The question hung in the air, heavy with meaning you weren’t ready to face. Stay the night? Here, in your tiny, disgusting apartment, on your shitty mattress? After everything—the lies, the betrayal, the abortion, the silence? You wanted to scream, to tell him to get out, but your body betrayed you, warmth pooling in your core at the thought of him staying, of his hands on you again.

“Why?” you asked, voice sharp, trying to keep the wall up. “You wanna fuck me again? Is that it?”

He flinched, just slightly, but didn’t look away. “No,” he said, too quickly, then paused. “Maybe. I don’t know. I just… I don’t want to leave you alone tonight.”

You laughed, bitter and cold. “Now you care? Where were you when I was in that clinic, Sunghoon? Where were you when Dad kicked me out? You don’t get to play savior now.”

“I know,” he said, voice low, almost broken. “I fucked up. I should’ve been there. I didn’t know how to handle it. I still don’t.”

You stared at him, your chest tight, torn between rage and something softer, something you hated even more. You wanted to push him away, to keep hating him, but the truth was, you were tired. Tired of being alone, tired of the silence, tired of carrying this weight by yourself. His visits, as infuriating as they were, were the only thing keeping you sane.

“Fine,” you said, voice flat. “Stay. But don’t expect me to forgive you.”

He nodded, like he hadn’t expected anything else. He stepped back, giving you space, and you felt the loss of his closeness, your skin prickling. You turned away, lying on the mattress, pulling the thin blanket over you. The fairy lights flickered, the cigarette smell clung to everything, and you heard Sunghoon move, settling on the floor beside the mattress. He didn’t have a blanket, didn’t ask for one, just lay there, his breathing steady in the dark.

You didn’t sleep, not really. The night stretched on, the street outside silent except for the occasional car. You kept replaying his words, his apology, the way he’d looked at you. You hated how it made you feel—vulnerable, exposed, like maybe he wasn’t the monster you’d made him out to be. But he was still Sunghoon, the stepbrother who’d taken everything, the one who’d fucked you and left you to deal with the consequences. You couldn’t let yourself forget that.

Morning came, gray and heavy, light seeping through the cracked window. You sat up, your body aching from the hard mattress, and saw Sunghoon still there, curled on the floor, his hoodie bunched under his head. He looked younger like this, less like the perfect son and more like a boy who didn’t know what he was doing. You hated how it softened you, even a little.

You got up, stepping over him to make coffee with the cheap instant packets you kept on the table. The smell of it mixed with the ever-present tobacco, and you lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around you as you leaned against the wall. Sunghoon stirred, sitting up, his hair messy, eyes bleary.

“Coffee?” you asked, voice flat, holding out a chipped mug.

He took it, his fingers brushing yours, and you pulled back, ignoring the spark it sent through you. He sipped the coffee, wincing at the taste, but didn’t complain. You stood there, smoking, watching him, waiting for him to say something, anything.

“Why do you keep coming back?” you asked finally, voice low. “You don’t owe me anything. You made that clear when you didn’t show up at the clinic.”

He set the mug down, his hands resting on his knees. “I don’t know,” he said, voice honest, raw. “I just… I can’t stay away. I keep thinking about you, about what happened. I fucked up, Y/N. I know I did. But I don’t know how to fix it.”

“You can’t,” you said, exhaling smoke. “It’s done. I’m here now. This is my life.”

He looked around the apartment, at the bare walls, the mattress, the trash bag full of ramen cups. “This isn’t a life,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “You deserve better.”

“Fuck you,” you snapped, tossing the cigarette butt into an empty cup. “Don’t tell me what I deserve. You don’t get to decide that.”

He stood, stepping closer, and you hated how your body reacted, your pulse quickening, your skin tingling. “I’m not trying to decide anything,” he said. “I’m just… I’m trying to be here. For you.”

You laughed, sharp and bitter. “You’re a little late for that, stepbrother.”

He flinched at the word, like it burned, but didn’t back down. “I know,” he said. “But I’m here now.”

The air was thick, charged with everything unsaid—your anger, his guilt, the fucked-up history between you. You wanted to shove him, to kiss him, to scream until your throat gave out. Instead, you turned away, grabbing another cigarette, lighting it with shaking hands.

“Stay or go, I don’t care,” you said, voice cold. “But don’t expect me to need you.”

He didn’t answer, just stood there, watching you. The day dragged on, and he stayed, helping you clean the apartment, fixing the leaky faucet you’d ignored for weeks. It was weird, domestic, like you were playing at being something you weren’t. You didn’t talk much, but the silence was different now, less hostile, more fragile.

That night, he didn’t ask to stay, but you didn’t tell him to leave. He slept on the floor again, and you lay on the mattress, staring at the fairy lights, wondering what the fuck you were doing. You hated him, but you didn’t. You wanted him gone, but you didn’t. The cigarette smell lingered, the ramen cups were gone, and Sunghoon was still here.

-

The air smelled like cigarettes, stale ramen, and something new—Sunghoon’s cologne, lingering from where he lay beside you. You woke up in the middle of the night, your body warm, too warm, and realized why. His arms were around you, his bare chest pressed against your back. You were shirtless too, stripped down to your bra and panties, your tank top tossed somewhere on the floor. His jeans were still on, but the closeness, the skin-to-skin contact, felt wrong. So fucking wrong.

You weren’t doing anything, not really—just lying there, tangled together on your shitty mattress—but it didn’t matter. He was your stepbrother. The same stepbrother you’d fucked to hurt, the one whose name you’d moaned while he came inside you, the one who’d left you alone to face the consequences. The abortion, the exile, the mess of your life—it all started with him, with you, with that night. And now here you were, in his arms, like nothing had happened, like you weren’t both broken pieces of the same fucked-up puzzle.

Your throat tightened, tears prickling your eyes. You didn’t want to cry, not in front of him, not again. But you couldn’t help it. You hugged him back, your arms wrapping around his, your fingers digging into his skin. The tears came anyway, hot and silent, sliding down your cheeks. You wiped them away quickly, hoping he wouldn’t notice, and pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder, almost instinctual, like your body was acting without your permission. The warmth of his skin under your lips made your stomach twist—part comfort, part disgust.

You pulled away, slipping out of his arms, and stood, your bare feet cold against the floorboards. The apartment was dark, the street outside silent, just the hum of a distant car breaking the stillness. You grabbed a cigarette from the pack on the table and moved to the small window next to your bed, the one that barely opened. You forced it up, the cool night air hitting your face, and lit the cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating your trembling hands. You inhaled deeply, the smoke burning your lungs, curling out into the dark as you stared at nothing, your mind racing.

You’d ruined everything. You’d wanted to hurt Sunghoon, to make him feel the pain of being second best, but all you’d done was destroy yourself. The pregnancy, the abortion, getting kicked out—it was all your fault. You’d lied, manipulated, fucked him raw, and for what? This? A shitty apartment, a life of scraping by, and a heart that wouldn’t stop aching? You hated him, but you hated yourself more. And now he was here, sleeping in your bed, acting like he cared, and it made you feel even worse.

You didn’t hear him get up, but you felt him—his presence, heavy and warm, before his arms slid around your waist from behind. His chest pressed against your back, his breath hot against your neck. You stiffened, the cigarette dangling between your fingers, your heart pounding. He shouldn’t be touching you like this. Not after everything.

“Love you,” he whispered, his voice soft, raw, like he’d been holding it in for too long.

The words hit you like a slap. You froze, your mind reeling, and flicked the cigarette out the window, watching it fall to the street below. You turned your head, just enough to see him out of the corner of your eye. His face was close, his eyes dark, searching, and for a moment, you didn’t know what to say. Love? After all this? After you’d fucked each other up so badly?

You turned fully, breaking his hold, stepping back until you hit the wall. Your bra strap slipped off your shoulder, and you didn’t bother fixing it. “I feel disgusting,” you said, voice shaking, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “You’re right. What was wrong with me? I’m so disgusting. I… I should’ve never done something like that.”

His eyes softened, but he didn’t move closer, didn’t try to touch you again. “Y/N,” he said, voice low, “you’re not disgusting. We fucked up. Both of us. I should’ve stopped it. I should’ve been there.”

“Stop,” you snapped, tears burning your eyes again. “Don’t act like you care now. You didn’t show up. You let me deal with it alone. You let Dad throw me out. And now you’re here, saying you love me? What the fuck, Sunghoon?”

He ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tight. “I know,” he said. “I fucked up. I was scared, okay? I didn’t know how to handle it. You were my stepsister, and we… we did that. I couldn’t face it. But I’m here now. I’m trying.”

“Trying?” you laughed, bitter and sharp, wiping at your tears. “You come here, drop off food, fuck me again, and now you’re trying? You think that fixes anything? You think ‘love you’ makes this okay?”

He stepped closer, and you hated how your body reacted, your skin prickling, your pussy tingling despite the anger. “I don’t know how to fix it,” he said, voice rough. “I don’t know what to do. But I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t stay away. I hate what we did, but I don’t hate you. I never could.”

You stared at him, your chest heaving, torn between shoving him out the door and pulling him closer. The cigarette smell clung to you, the apartment felt smaller, and his words echoed in your head. Love you. It was wrong, disgusting, but it was there, a twisted thread tying you together.

“Get out,” you said again for the one hundredth time, but your voice was weak, barely convincing.

He didn’t move. Instead, he closed the distance, his hands gentle as they cupped your face. You didn’t push him away, even though you should’ve. His thumbs brushed away your tears, and you hated how good it felt, how much you craved his touch after weeks of nothing.

“I’m not leaving,” he said, voice firm. “Not tonight. Not until you tell me what you need.”

You laughed, a broken sound, and shoved at his chest, but your hands lingered, fingers curling into his skin. “I don’t need you,” you lied, but your voice cracked, giving you away. “I don’t need anyone.”

He didn’t argue, just pulled you closer, his lips brushing your forehead. It wasn’t a kiss, not really, but it felt like one, soft and careful. You let him, your body sinking against his, the fight draining out of you. You were so tired—tired of being angry, tired of being alone, tired of hating yourself.

You ended up back on the mattress, not fucking this time, just lying there, his arms around you again. Your bra and panties stayed on, his jeans too, but the closeness was enough to make your skin burn. You didn’t talk, didn’t need to. The silence said enough. His hand rested on your stomach, where the baby would’ve been, and you didn’t push it away. You just lay there, the fairy lights flickering, the cigarette smell heavy, your tears drying on your cheeks.

Morning came too soon, gray light filtering through the window. You woke alone, Sunghoon gone, but there was a note on the table, scrawled in his messy handwriting. “I’ll be back tonight. Eat something.” Next to it was a container of kimchi jjigae, still warm, and a pack of cigarettes—your brand, not his.

You stared at the note, your chest tight. He’d be back. He always came back. And you hated how much you wanted him to, how much you needed it. You lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around you, and sat on the mattress, wondering if you’d ever stop feeling disgusting, if you’d ever stop loving him, if you’d ever be free.

-

Sunghoon showed up late, past midnight, like always. The knock was soft, hesitant, and you let him in, your heart pounding. He looked tired, his dark hair falling into his eyes, his hoodie loose on his frame. He carried a plastic bag—more food, probably—and set it on the table without a word. But tonight was different. His eyes didn’t avoid yours. He looked at you, really looked, and you saw something raw, something broken.

“Why do you keep doing this?” you asked, voice sharp, tossing the cigarette into an empty ramen cup. “You say you love me, you bring me food, but you don’t talk. You don’t explain. Why didn’t you come to the clinic, Sunghoon? I begged you. I fucking begged.”

He flinched, his jaw tightening, and for a moment, you thought he’d stay silent again. But he didn’t. He sat on the rickety chair, hands clasped between his knees, and looked at the floor. “I wanted to,” he said, voice low, rough. “I tried. But Dad… he stopped me.”

You froze, the cigarette smoke lingering in the air. “What?”

He ran a hand through his hair, his voice shaking. “I need to tell you everything. You deserve to know. But it’s not an excuse. I still fucked up.”

You leaned against the wall, arms crossed, your heart racing. “Then talk. Tell me.”

He took a deep breath, like he was bracing himself, and started.

-

Sunghoon’s life wasn’t as perfect as you thought. Growing up, he was the kid who had to be perfect—perfect grades, perfect athlete, perfect son. His mom, your stepmom, was strict, always pushing him to be better, to make her proud. His dad left when he was young, and when his mom married your dad, Sunghoon was seventeen, already carrying the weight of her expectations. Your dad was the first man who treated him like a son, who showed up to his skating competitions, who bragged about him to friends. Sunghoon loved him, needed him, in a way you never understood.

But it wasn’t easy. Your dad favored him, sure, but it came with pressure. Sunghoon had to keep up the act—straight A’s, captain of the team, no mistakes. If he slipped, your dad’s disappointment was worse than any punishment. And then there was you. You, with your defiance, your sharp tongue, your freedom to fuck up and not care. Sunghoon envied you, even if he never said it. You didn’t have to be perfect. You could be messy, loud, real. He couldn’t.

When you caught him jerking off that night, moaning your name, it wasn’t just lust. He’d always noticed you—your tight shirts, your short skirts, the way you teased him with a smirk. But it was more than that. You were everything he wasn’t allowed to be, and he wanted you, even though he knew it was wrong. When you walked in, when you didn’t leave, when you begged him to fuck you, he couldn’t say no. He didn’t want to. He fucked you raw, came inside you, and it felt like freedom, like breaking every rule he’d been forced to follow.

But then you dropped the bomb at dinner. Pregnant. His kid. Sunghoon’s world stopped. He was twenty, still living under your dad’s roof, still trying to be the perfect son. Your dad’s rage was terrifying, but it was aimed at you, not him. Sunghoon felt sick, guilty, but also relieved. He was still the golden boy. You were the one who paid.

The day you went to the clinic, Sunghoon was a mess. You’d been texting him, calling, leaving voicemails that broke his heart. “Please, Hoon, I need you. I’m scared. Come to the clinic. Please.” He listened to them over and over, pacing his room, his hands shaking. He wanted to go. He needed to be there. He grabbed his keys, ready to drive to you, but your dad stopped him.

Your dad was waiting in the living room, his face hard, unreadable. “Where are you going?” he asked, voice cold.

Sunghoon froze. “To see Y/N,” he said, trying to sound steady. “She needs me.”

Your dad stood, stepping closer. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said. “She did this to herself. She’s a disgrace, and you’re not getting dragged down with her.”

Sunghoon’s stomach dropped. “She’s my stepsister. She’s pregnant. I can’t just—”

“You can, and you will,” your dad cut him off. “You think I’m letting you throw away your future for her? She lied to you, Sunghoon. She trapped you. You’re not the father type. You’re not ready for this.”

Sunghoon tried to argue, but your dad’s voice was like steel. “If you go to that clinic, you’re out of this house. No more support, no more money, no more family. You’ll be on your own. Is she worth that?”

Sunghoon wanted to say yes. He wanted to be there for you, to hold your hand, to face it together. But he was scared. Scared of losing everything—his home, his mom’s approval, his future. He was twenty, still dependent on your dad for tuition, for his skating career, for everything. He hated himself for it, but he stayed. He put his keys down, sat on the couch, and listened to your voicemails again, each one tearing him apart. He didn’t go.

Your dad made sure of it. He took Sunghoon’s phone, deleted your messages, and blocked your number. He drove Sunghoon to practice that day, watched him like a hawk, made sure he couldn’t slip away. Sunghoon skated, went through the motions, but all he could think about was you, alone in that clinic, facing the worst day of your life without him.

When you got kicked out, Sunghoon begged your dad to reconsider. He fought, yelled, said you didn’t deserve it. But your dad was unmoved. “She’s not my daughter anymore,” he said, and Sunghoon felt like he’d lost you too. He didn’t know where you went, didn’t have your new number, didn’t know how to find you. He was trapped, living in a house that felt like a cage, carrying the guilt of letting you down.

Months later, he found you by accident. He’d been digging through old family records, looking for something else, and saw your name on a lease agreement your dad had co-signed before cutting you off. The address was there, a shitty apartment in a dead-end street. He didn’t tell anyone, just drove there one night, his heart in his throat. When he saw you, smoking, living in that bare, smoky room, he wanted to cry. But he didn’t. He just kept coming back, bringing food, trying to make up for what he couldn’t fix.

-

Sunghoon’s voice broke as he finished, his hands shaking. “I should’ve fought harder,” he said. “I should’ve gone to you. I was a coward. I’m still a coward. But I love you, Y/N. I always did. That’s why I keep coming back.”

You stared at him, tears streaming down your face, the cigarette forgotten on the table. Your chest ached, a mix of rage, pain, and something softer, something you didn’t want to name. You’d hated him for so long, blamed him for everything, but now you saw it—the pressure, the fear, the way your dad had trapped him too. It didn’t erase what he’d done, didn’t make it okay, but it changed something. He wasn’t the golden boy, not really. He was just as broken as you.

“You should’ve come,” you said, voice raw. “I needed you, Hoon. I was so fucking scared.”

“I know,” he said, stepping closer, his eyes pleading. “I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

You wiped your tears, your hands shaking. “I don’t know if I can forgive you either,” you said, but your voice was softer now, less angry. “But I… I don’t hate you. Not anymore.”

He reached for you, hesitant, and you let him. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, and you buried your face in his chest, the smell of his cologne mixing with the cigarette smoke. You didn’t kiss, didn’t fuck, just stood there, holding each other, the weight of the past heavy between you.

The night stretched on, and you ended up on the mattress, his arms around you again, your bra and panties still on, his jeans unbuttoned but not off. It wasn’t about sex, not tonight. It was about something else, something neither of you could name. The cigarette smell lingered, the street outside hummed, and you fell asleep, tangled together, wondering if you’d ever be whole again.

-

The apartment didn’t smell like cigarettes anymore. The stale ramen scent was gone too, replaced by the warm, sugary aroma of vanilla candles and fresh laundry. The walls, once stained yellow, were now a soft cream, painted over during a weekend when Sunghoon showed up with cans of paint and a goofy grin. The cracked window had been fixed, letting in clean air instead of damp drafts, and the fairy lights were new, strung across the ceiling, glowing golden every night. Your mattress was still on the floor, but it was covered with a thick comforter and fluffy pillows, a cozy nest you and Sunghoon had built together. The rickety table had been replaced with a small wooden one, a thrift store find you’d sanded and painted blue. Your tiny apartment wasn’t perfect, but it was home, and for the first time in years, it felt like one.

You weren’t alone anymore either. Sunghoon was here, not just as a visitor dropping off food, but as your boyfriend. The word still made your heart flutter, even months after you’d made it official. It happened one night, after he’d told you about your dad’s sabotage, after you’d cried in his arms and admitted you didn’t hate him. You’d been sitting on the mattress, sharing a bowl of popcorn, the fairy lights casting a soft glow. He’d looked at you, his eyes nervous but warm, and said, “Can I be yours? Like, for real?” You’d laughed, tears in your eyes, and said yes, kissing him until you were both breathless. That was three months ago, and now, life was different. Better. Happier.

You stood in the kitchenette, stirring a pot of ramyeon—proper ramyeon, with veggies and eggs, not the instant kind. The radio played a cheesy pop song, and you hummed along, your oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder. It was Sunghoon’s hoodie, soft and worn, smelling like his cologne. You wore it every chance you got, loving how it made you feel wrapped in him, even when he wasn’t there.

The door clicked open, and you turned, a smile already spreading across your face. Sunghoon walked in, kicking off his sneakers, his dark hair messy from the autumn wind. He carried a paper bag, the kind from the bakery down the street, and his grin was brighter than the fairy lights. “Guess what I got,” he said, holding the bag up like a trophy.

“Cupcakes?” you asked, eyes lighting up. You set the spoon down and wiped your hands on a dish towel, bouncing over to him.

“Better,” he teased, pulling out a box of your favorite cream-filled donuts, the ones with powdered sugar that always got everywhere. “And coffee. Real coffee, not that instant crap you used to drink.”

You laughed, grabbing the box and peeking inside. “You’re spoiling me, Hoon.”

“Good,” he said, stepping closer, his hands finding your waist. “You deserve it.” He leaned down, kissing your forehead, then your nose, then your lips, soft and slow. You melted into him, the donut box squished between you, and giggled when he pulled back, powdered sugar already on his hoodie.

“You’re a mess,” you said, brushing it off, but your hands lingered on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

“Says the girl with flour on her face,” he shot back, smirking. He swiped his thumb across your cheek, wiping away a smudge you hadn’t noticed. “Cooking without me? Rude.”

“I was gonna surprise you,” you said, pouting playfully. “Ramyeon and donuts. Romantic, right?”

He laughed, the sound warm and bright, filling the apartment. “The most romantic. Move over, let me help.”

You both ended up in the tiny kitchenette, bumping into each other as you tried to cook. Sunghoon insisted on chopping the green onions, even though he was terrible at it, and you teased him mercilessly when he got onion juice in his eyes. “Big baby,” you said, handing him a wet cloth, but you kissed his cheek anyway, loving how he leaned into it. The ramyeon bubbled on the stove, the donuts sat on the table, and the radio switched to a slow ballad, perfect for the cozy vibe.

Dinner was messy, delicious, and perfect. You sat cross-legged on the mattress, the blue table pushed close, sharing the ramyeon straight from the pot. Sunghoon fed you a bite, laughing when broth dripped down your chin. “You’re hopeless,” he said, but he wiped it away with his thumb, his eyes soft, like you were the most precious thing he’d ever seen.

“Shut up,” you mumbled, cheeks warm, and leaned over to kiss him, tasting salt and sugar on his lips. The kiss deepened, slow and sweet, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you onto his lap. You straddled him, your fingers in his hair, and he groaned softly, his grip tightening.

“Love you,” he whispered against your lips, his voice low, earnest. “So fucking much.”

Your heart skipped, and you pulled back, just enough to look at him. His eyes were dark, warm, and you saw it—the love, the promise, the boy who’d fought to be here, who’d chosen you despite everything. “Love you too,” you said, voice soft, and kissed him again, your hands roaming his chest, slipping under his shirt to feel his warm skin.

It didn’t go further, not tonight. You didn’t need it to. The closeness, the way his hands held you, the way he looked at you like you were his whole world—it was enough. You ended up curled on the mattress, the comforter wrapped around you both, the fairy lights glowing above. Sunghoon’s arm was around you, your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. The apartment was warm, the candles flickering, and for the first time in years, you felt safe.

“Remember when we painted the walls?” he asked, his voice rumbling in his chest. “You got paint in your hair, and I had to cut it out.”

You laughed, poking his side. “You were so bad at it. There’s still a streak of cream paint on the ceiling.”

He grinned, kissing the top of your head. “Worth it. This place looks like ours now.”

“Ours,” you repeated, the word sweet on your tongue. You hadn’t talked about moving in together, not yet, but it felt like it. His toothbrush was in your bathroom, his hoodies in your closet, his presence in every corner of your life. You liked it. You loved it.

You shifted, propping yourself up to look at him. “What’s the cheesiest thing you’ve ever wanted to do with me?” you asked, grinning.

He raised an eyebrow, pretending to think. “Hmm. Probably take you to one of those drive-in movies, like in old rom-coms. Popcorn, blankets, making out in the back seat.”

You laughed, swatting his chest. “Perv.”

“Only for you,” he said, winking, but his smile was so soft, so genuine, it made your heart ache. “What about you? Cheesiest date idea, go.”

You bit your lip, thinking. “Picnic in a park. Like, with a basket and a checkered blanket and those little sandwiches with the crusts cut off. And you’d push me on a swing after.”

He chuckled, pulling you closer. “Deal. Next weekend, picnic and drive-in. But I’m cutting the crusts off the sandwiches. You’d probably burn them.”

“Rude!” you gasped, but you were laughing, and he was too, and soon you were kissing again, slow and lazy, the kind of kisses that didn’t lead anywhere, just felt good. You fell asleep like that, tangled together, the radio still playing softly, the candles burning low.

The past wasn’t gone. The memories of that night, the pregnancy, the abortion, your dad’s betrayal—they lingered, like shadows in the corners. But they didn’t define you anymore. You’d both fought for this, for each other, and every day was a step away from the pain. Your apartment was a home, your life was yours, and Sunghoon was by your side, loving you through it all. It was sweet, it was messy, it was real, and you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

-

The apartment glowed under the fairy lights, the vanilla candle on the table casting a warm flicker across the room. The air smelled like fresh laundry and the faint sweetness of the donuts Sunghoon had brought earlier. You were curled on the mattress, wearing his hoodie, your legs tangled with his as you watched a cheesy rom-com on your phone. His arm was around you, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your shoulder, and every so often, he’d lean down to kiss your temple, making you smile. Life had been good—better than good. You and Sunghoon were in love, your tiny apartment was a home, and the shadows of your past felt far away. But shadows have a way of creeping back.

It started with a text. You didn’t see it at first, too caught up in giggling at Sunghoon’s terrible impression of the movie’s lead actor. His phone buzzed on the table, and he glanced at it, his smile fading. You noticed, nudging him. “What’s up?”

He hesitated, then handed you the phone. It was a message from his mom—your stepmom. “Come home tomorrow. Your dad and I need to talk to you. It’s important.” No emojis, no warmth, just cold words that made your stomach twist.

“About what?” you asked, sitting up, the hoodie slipping off your shoulder.

Sunghoon ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tight. “I don’t know. But… I think they know about us.”

Your heart sank. You’d been careful, or so you thought. Sunghoon still lived with your parents, commuting to your apartment most nights, but you hadn’t told anyone about your relationship. Not your friends, not your coworkers, and definitely not your family. The idea of your dad—your cold, unforgiving dad—finding out made your skin crawl. He’d kicked you out for the pregnancy, disowned you for less. What would he do to Sunghoon?

“How would they know?” you asked, voice small.

Sunghoon sighed, pulling you closer. “I don’t know. Maybe someone saw us. Maybe I slipped up. I’ve been… distracted lately. Forgot to clear my phone’s location history a few times.”

You swallowed, the warmth of the apartment suddenly feeling stifling. “What do we do?”

He kissed your forehead, his lips soft but firm. “We face it. Together. I’m not hiding you. Not anymore.”

You nodded, but fear gnawed at you. You loved him, more than you’d ever thought possible, but your family’s history was a minefield. You didn’t sleep much that night, even with Sunghoon’s arms around you, his steady breathing a reminder that you weren’t alone. Not yet.

-

The next day, Sunghoon went home. You stayed at the apartment, pacing, checking your phone every five minutes. He promised to call after the talk, to tell you everything, but hours passed with no word. By evening, you were a wreck, the vanilla candle burned down to nothing, the apartment too quiet without him. Finally, your phone rang, and you grabbed it, heart pounding.

“Hoon?” you said, voice shaky.

“It’s bad,” he said, his voice low, strained. “They know. Everything.”

You sat on the mattress, your knees weak. “How?”

“Dad saw us,” he said. “That day we went to the park, had that picnic. He was there, picking up some client. Saw us kissing, holding hands. He didn’t say anything then, but he told Mom, and they’ve been watching me. Checking my phone, my schedule. They know I’ve been coming to your place.”

Your stomach churned. “What did they say?”

He laughed, bitter and sharp. “Dad called you a slut. Said you seduced me to ruin me, just like before. Mom just cried, kept saying we’re sick, that we’re not right in the head. They told me to end it, to never see you again, or I’m out of the house.”

You felt sick, the memories of your dad’s rage flooding back. “And you? What did you say?”

“I told them I love you,” he said, voice softening. “I said you’re my girlfriend, my future, and I’m not giving you up. Not for them, not for anyone.”

Tears stung your eyes, a mix of pride and fear. “Hoon…”

“I’m coming over,” he said. “I need to see you.”

He was at your door in an hour, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his face pale but determined. You let him in, and he dropped the bag, pulling you into his arms. His kiss was desperate, hungry, his hands gripping your waist like he was afraid you’d vanish. You kissed him back, just as needy, your fingers in his hair, your body pressed against his.

“I’m done with them,” he said against your lips, his voice rough. “I’m out. I’m not going back.”

You pulled back, searching his face. “You’re moving out? Just like that?”

He nodded, his eyes fierce. “I can’t stay there. Not after what they said about you. About us. I’m staying here, with you, if you’ll have me.”

Your heart swelled, but fear lingered. “Of course I want you here,” you said, cupping his face. “But Hoon, what about skating? Your tuition? They pay for everything.”

“I’ll figure it out,” he said, kissing you again, softer this time. “I’ve got savings, some sponsorships. I’ll get a job. I don’t care. I just need you.”

You believed him, wanted to believe him, and for a moment, the apartment felt like a sanctuary again. You helped him unpack, making space for his clothes in your tiny closet, laughing when his socks got mixed with yours. That night, you made love—slow, sweet, nothing like the desperate fucks of the past. He whispered “I love you” as he moved inside you, his hands gentle, his eyes locked on yours. Your pussy clenched around him, your body trembling with pleasure, and when you came, it felt like a promise. You fell asleep in his arms, the fairy lights glowing, the future uncertain but bright.

-

But promises don’t erase reality. A week later, things cracked. Sunghoon was living with you now, his duffel bag a permanent fixture in the corner, his toothbrush next to yours. The apartment was still cozy, still yours, but money was tight. You were both working—your diner and corner store shifts, his new part-time gig at a skate shop—but it wasn’t enough. Bills piled up, and Sunghoon’s skating practice was suffering. He couldn’t afford the rink fees without his parents’ support, and you could see the stress eating at him, even if he tried to hide it.

It came to a head one evening. You were cooking dinner, a simple stir-fry, the kitchenette warm with the smell of soy sauce and garlic. Sunghoon was on the mattress, scrolling through his phone, his face tense. You’d noticed he’d been quiet all day, but you didn’t push, hoping he’d open up. But when you set the plates on the blue table and sat next to him, he didn’t look at you.

“Hoon, what’s wrong?” you asked, touching his arm.

He pulled away, just slightly, but it stung. “Nothing,” he said, voice flat. “Just tired.”

“Bullshit,” you said, keeping your tone light but firm. “You’ve been off all day. Talk to me.”

He set his phone down, too hard, and looked at you, his eyes sharp. “You want me to talk? Fine. I’m fucking drowning, Y/N. I can’t skate like I used to, I’m barely making rent, and I’m living in your apartment like some freeloader. I left everything for you, and now I’m stuck.”

You froze, hurt cutting deep. “Stuck? You said you wanted this. You said you wanted me.”

“I do,” he snapped, standing, pacing the small space. “But it’s not that simple. I’m trying, but it’s hard. I see you working your ass off, and I’m barely keeping up. I feel like I’m failing you, failing us.”

You stood too, anger flaring, but it was different from your old fights. This wasn’t about betrayal or the past—it was about now, about the life you were trying to build. “You’re not failing me,” you said, voice rising. “We’re in this together. But you don’t talk to me. You just shut down, like I’m the problem.”

“You’re not the problem,” he said, but his tone was sharp, frustrated. “It’s me. It’s this.” He gestured at the apartment, the cluttered table, the tiny space. “I thought I could handle it, but I’m losing everything—my skating, my future. And you’re just… fine. Like this is enough for you.”

His words hit like a slap. “You think I’m fine?” you said, voice shaking. “I’m working two jobs, Hoon. I’m trying to keep us afloat. I gave up everything too—my family, my old life. Don’t act like I’m not struggling.”

He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes wild. “Then why does it feel like you’re okay with this? Like you don’t care if we’re scraping by, as long as we’re together?”

“Because I love you!” you shouted, tears spilling over. “I don’t care about the money, the apartment, any of it. I just want you. But you’re pushing me away, acting like I’m holding you back.”

He stared at you, his chest heaving, and for a moment, you thought he’d pull you close, kiss you, make it right. But he didn’t. “I need space,” he said, voice cold. “I can’t think here. I can’t breathe.”

“Space?” you repeated, hurt turning to anger. “You live here now. Where the fuck are you gonna go?”

“I don’t know,” he said, grabbing his jacket. “The rink. Anywhere. I just… I need to figure this out.”

You stepped closer, your voice low, sharp. “If you walk out, don’t expect me to wait forever. I’m not your fucking safety net.”

He looked at you, pain flashing in his eyes, but he didn’t stay. He grabbed his duffel bag and left, the door slamming behind him. You stood there, tears streaming down your face, the stir-fry cold on the table, the apartment too quiet. You wanted to run after him, to beg him to stay, but you didn’t. You’d fought too hard to rebuild yourself, and you wouldn’t let him break you again.

-

Sunghoon didn’t come back that night, or the next. You heard through a mutual friend that he was crashing at the ice rink, sleeping in the locker room, showering in the communal bathrooms. He’d quit his job at the skate shop, pouring every hour into practice, trying to claw his way back to the top. You missed him, ached for him, but you were angry too. He’d chosen to run, to shut you out, and it hurt more than you’d expected.

The apartment felt empty without him. The fairy lights seemed dimmer, the blue table too big for one. You kept working, kept living, but every night, you checked your phone, hoping for a text, a call, anything. Nothing came. You wondered if he was okay, if he was eating, if he was thinking of you. But you didn’t reach out. You’d meant what you said—you weren’t his safety net.

A week later, you got a call from one of Sunghoon’s teammates, Jay. “You need to come to the rink,” he said, voice urgent. “It’s Hoon. He’s… he’s not okay.”

You didn’t hesitate. You grabbed your jacket and ran, the night air cold against your skin. The rink was a short bus ride away, and when you got there, it was dark, the parking lot empty except for a few cars. Jay met you at the entrance, his face grim.

“What happened?” you asked, your heart pounding.

“He fell,” Jay said, leading you inside. “During practice. He’s been pushing himself too hard, not sleeping, not eating. He hit the ice, and… he just broke down. He’s still out there.”

You followed Jay into the rink, the cold air hitting you like a wall. The ice gleamed under the dim lights, and in the center, you saw him—Sunghoon, sitting on the ice, his head in his hands, shoulders shaking. He was alone, his skates still on, his practice gear soaked with sweat. You’d never seen him like this, so small, so broken.

You stepped onto the ice, your sneakers slipping, and called his name. “Hoon?”

He didn’t look up at first, but his sobbing slowed, his hands dropping to his lap. His face was red, tear-streaked, his eyes hollow. “Y/N,” he said, voice cracking. “You came.”

You knelt in front of him, the ice cold through your jeans. “Of course I came,” you said, voice soft but firm. “Jay called. Said you fell. Are you hurt?”

He shook his head, but his hands trembled. “Not hurt. Just… fucked up. I can’t do this. I can’t skate, I can’t live like this. I miss you. I miss us.”

Your heart ached, but you didn’t touch him, not yet. “Why didn’t you call? Why did you run?”

He laughed, a broken sound, wiping his tears with his sleeve. “Because I’m an idiot. Because I thought I could fix everything by myself. I thought if I skated harder, if I won, I’d be enough. For you, for me, for them.” He gestured vaguely, meaning your parents. “But I’m not. I’m falling apart.”

You reached out, touching his cheek, your fingers cold against his warm skin. “You don’t have to be enough for them,” you said. “Just be you. That’s all I want.”

He looked at you, his eyes searching, and fresh tears fell. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice raw. “I didn’t mean what I said. I’m not stuck. I love you. I love our life. I just… I got scared. I don’t know how to do this without their support.”

You pulled him into your arms, not caring about the ice, the cold, the rink. He clung to you, his face buried in your shoulder, his sobs shaking both of you. “We’ll figure it out,” you whispered, stroking his hair. “Together. But you can’t run again, Hoon. You have to stay.”

He nodded against you, his grip tightening. “I will. I promise.”

You stayed like that, kneeling on the ice, until his tears stopped, until his breathing steadied. Jay brought you a blanket, and you wrapped it around Sunghoon, helping him off the rink. He was shaky, exhausted, but he held your hand, not letting go. You took him home, to your apartment, and for the first time in a week, the fairy lights felt bright again.

-

The apartment was a warm glow of morning light, the kind that made everything feel soft and safe. The window, no longer cracked, let in a golden stream of sun, catching on the cream-colored walls you and Sunghoon had painted two summers ago. The fairy lights were coiled in a box now, saved for winter nights, but the room didn’t need them to feel alive. A small shelf held your growing collection of thrifted books and Polaroids—snapshots of you and Sunghoon laughing at a street festival, kissing under an umbrella, sprawled on a picnic blanket with powdered sugar on your faces from those donuts he loved. The blue table, still a little wobbly, was cluttered with coffee mugs, a plate of half-eaten toast, and a tiny cactus you’d named Spike. The air smelled like brewed coffee, butter, and the faint musk of Sunghoon’s hoodie, which you were wearing, the sleeves too long over your hands.

Your mattress days were long gone. A proper bed sat against the wall, a secondhand frame you’d sanded and stained together, piled with a thick comforter and mismatched pillows. The apartment wasn’t big, wasn’t fancy, but it was home. Your home. Yours and Sunghoon’s. It had been two years since he left your parents’ house, two years since you both cut them off for good. No calls, no texts, no tearful letters begging for reconciliation. Your dad had tried, at first, leaving voicemails that went from angry to desperate before they stopped altogether. Your stepmom sent one letter, formal and cold, asking Sunghoon to “reconsider his choices.” You’d burned it in the sink, watching the edges curl and blacken, and Sunghoon had held your hand, silent but steady. That was the end of it. You didn’t need them anymore. You had each other.

You were twenty-one now, Sunghoon twenty-two, and life was quiet, steady, beautiful in its simplicity. You worked as a barista at a cozy café downtown, the kind with mismatched chairs and live music on Fridays. Sunghoon coached kids at the ice rink, teaching them spins and jumps with a patience you hadn’t known he had, and picked up shifts at a local gym, cleaning equipment and spotting for lifters. Money was still tight sometimes, but you managed—bills paid, groceries bought, a little left for small joys like movie tickets or a new plant. The past, with its pain and betrayal, was a distant ache, not gone but softened, like a bruise you barely noticed anymore.

You sat on the bed, cross-legged, sipping coffee from a chipped mug. Sunghoon was sprawled next to you, his head propped on one hand, his t-shirt rumpled from sleep. His hair was a mess, dark strands falling into his eyes, and he had that lazy, morning smile that made your heart skip. The radio played softly, some indie song about love and rain, and outside, the street was waking up—cars humming, neighbors chatting, the world moving on.

“Remember when we thought instant ramen was a personality trait?” you said, grinning over your mug.

He laughed, the sound warm, filling the room. “God, yeah. We’d eat it every day, like we were gourmet chefs. You’d put, like, a single slice of cheese on it and call it ‘fancy.’”

You shoved his shoulder, laughing. “Excuse you, that was high cuisine. You were the one who thought ketchup was a spice.”

He grabbed your hand, pulling you closer, his fingers warm against yours. “I stand by it. Ketchup makes everything better.” He kissed your knuckles, his lips soft, and you felt that familiar flutter, the one that hadn’t faded even after years together.

You leaned against him, your head on his shoulder, the coffee mug cradled in your lap. “We’ve come a long way, huh?” you said, voice softer now, thoughtful. “From that shitty apartment to… this.”

He nodded, his cheek resting against your hair. “Yeah. Feels like a lifetime ago. You were so mad at me all the time. Thought you’d kick me out for good after that rink thing.”

You smiled, but it was tinged with the memory. “I wanted to. But I couldn’t. Even when I hated you, I didn’t.”

He turned, shifting so he could look at you, his eyes serious but warm. “I’m glad you didn’t. I was a mess back then. Still am, sometimes. But you… you make me better.”

Your chest tightened, a mix of love and gratitude. You set the mug on the table and climbed into his lap, straddling him, your hands on his shoulders. “You make me better too,” you said, voice quiet. “I was so angry, so hurt. I thought I’d never trust anyone again. But you showed up, kept showing up, even when I pushed you away.”

He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you closer, his hands slipping under the hoodie to rest on your bare skin. “I couldn’t stay away,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper. “Even when I fucked up, even when I didn’t know how to fix it. I loved you too much.”

You kissed him, slow and deep, your fingers in his hair, your body pressed against his. It wasn’t desperate or hungry, not like the early days when every touch was a fight against the past. This was soft, certain, a promise in every brush of his lips. His hands roamed your back, warm and gentle, and you felt safe, loved, whole. You pulled back, resting your forehead against his, your breaths mingling.

“Tell me something,” you said, smiling. “What’s the biggest thing you’ve learned since we started this?”

He thought for a moment, his hands still on your waist, his thumbs tracing circles on your skin. “That I don’t have to be perfect,” he said. “Growing up, Mom and Dad… they made me feel like I had to be the best, always. No mistakes, no weaknesses. But with you, I can just be me. I can fuck up, and you’ll still love me.”

You smiled, your heart swelling. “I do. Always.” You kissed his nose, then leaned back, your hands on his chest. “Your turn. Ask me.”

He grinned, his eyes bright. “Okay. What’s the biggest thing you’ve learned?”

You bit your lip, thinking. “That I’m enough,” you said, voice soft but sure. “I spent so long feeling like I was less than you, less than everyone. Dad made me feel like I was nothing, like I’d never be good enough. But you… you showed me I’m enough, just as I am. I don’t have to prove anything.”

His smile softened, and he pulled you into a hug, his chin resting on your shoulder. “You’ve always been enough,” he whispered. “More than enough.”

You stayed like that, wrapped in each other, the radio humming, the coffee going cold. The conversation drifted, turning to memories, to how you’d grown. You talked about the early days, when the apartment was bare, when you lived on instant noodles and stubborn hope. You laughed about the time Sunghoon tried to “fix” the leaky faucet and flooded the bathroom, or when you burned a cake for his birthday and ended up eating the charred remains anyway, giggling like kids.

“We were so young,” you said, lying back on the bed, Sunghoon next to you, his hand laced with yours. “Not in age, but… in how we saw things. I thought hurting you would make me feel better. I thought I’d never get over it.”

He turned on his side, propping his head on his hand, his eyes tracing your face. “I thought I’d never be free,” he said. “From Mom, from Dad, from all their expectations. I thought I had to carry it forever. But you showed me I could let go.”

You smiled, reaching up to brush his hair from his eyes. “We saved each other, didn’t we?”

He nodded, leaning down to kiss you, soft and slow. “Yeah,” he said against your lips. “We did.”

The day passed in a haze of quiet joy. You cooked lunch together—spaghetti with homemade sauce, a recipe you’d perfected over months of trial and error. Sunghoon insisted on chopping the garlic, even though he always made a mess, and you teased him when he got sauce on his shirt. “You’re hopeless,” you said, but you kissed the spot on his cheek where a speck of tomato had landed, and he laughed, pulling you into a dance in the tiny kitchenette, spinning you until you were dizzy.

That evening, you sat on the bed, a blanket draped over your legs, sharing a bowl of popcorn as you talked about the future. Not big plans—neither of you were ready for that—but small ones. A weekend trip to the coast, maybe. A new shelf for your books. Trying a new recipe. Sunghoon wanted to teach you to skate, though he admitted he’d probably spend more time catching you than coaching.

“I’d be terrible,” you said, tossing a popcorn kernel at him. “I’d fall every two seconds.”

He caught the kernel, popping it into his mouth with a grin. “Good. More excuses to hold you.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart fluttered. “Cheesy,” you said, but you leaned into him, your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. The apartment was quiet, the street outside calm, and you felt something you hadn’t in years: peace.

Growing up together hadn’t been easy. There were fights, tears, moments when you thought you’d lose each other. The past—your parents, the pregnancy, the betrayal—had left scars, but they’d faded, softened by time and love. You’d learned to forgive, not just Sunghoon but yourself. You’d learned to live, not for anyone else, but for you, for the life you’d built together.

“I love you,” you said, voice soft, almost lost in the hum of the radio.

Sunghoon’s arm tightened around you, his lips brushing your hair. “Love you too,” he said, and you knew he meant it, not just for now but for always.

The night stretched on, and you fell asleep tangled together, the coffee mugs forgotten, the popcorn bowl tipped over, the world outside irrelevant. You’d grown up, not just in years but in heart, and you’d done it together, step by step, love by love.

-

The apartment was a cozy haven, bathed in the soft glow of morning light. The cream-colored walls were adorned with more Polaroids now—snapshots of you and Sunghoon at a carnival, sharing ice cream, laughing in a rainstorm. The blue table, still a little wobbly, held a vase of daisies, a new addition from your weekend market trips, and a stack of takeout menus for lazy nights. The air smelled like fresh coffee and the cinnamon rolls Sunghoon had tried (and mostly succeeded) to bake, their golden tops peeking out from a plate on the counter. The bed, no longer a mattress on the floor, was a proper frame with a plush comforter, piled with pillows that always ended up scattered after your late-night cuddles. The apartment was small, but it was yours—yours and Sunghoon’s, a home built from love and stubborn hope.

Three years had passed since Sunghoon left your parents’ house, three years since you’d both cut them off and chosen each other. You were twenty-two now, Sunghoon twenty-three, and life was good—really good. You’d upgraded from your barista job to managing the café, a role that came with better pay and creative control over the menu. Sunghoon was thriving at the ice rink, coaching kids full-time and even competing in local tournaments, his passion for skating reignited. Money wasn’t a constant worry anymore; you could afford small luxuries like weekend getaways or new furniture. The scars of your past—the pregnancy, the abortion, your parents’ betrayal—were still there, faint and faded, but they no longer defined you. You’d grown up together, learned to love without fear, and built a life that was yours, free from the weight of your family.

You were curled on the bed, wearing Sunghoon’s t-shirt and a pair of his boxers, your hair still messy from sleep. Sunghoon was in the kitchenette, flipping through his phone, his sweatpants low on his hips, his bare back lean and strong from years of skating. The radio played a soft pop song, and you hummed along, scrolling through your own phone, when an email notification popped up. It was from an old family friend, someone you hadn’t spoken to in years. The subject line was simple: “Checking In.”

You opened it, curious, and skimmed the message. It was mostly small talk—updates on their life, questions about yours—but one line stopped you cold. “I was sorry to hear about your dad and Sunghoon’s mom splitting up. Divorce is tough, but they seem to be moving on.”

You sat up, heart pounding. “Hoon,” you said, voice sharp. “Come here.”

He turned, eyebrows raised, setting his phone down. “What’s up?”

You handed him your phone, the email open. “Read this.”

He scanned it, his expression shifting from confusion to surprise, then to something like amusement. “They got divorced?” he said, looking up at you. “When?”

“I don’t know,” you said, taking the phone back. “This is the first I’ve heard. I mean… we blocked them. Nobody told us.”

He sat on the bed, a grin spreading across his face. “So, technically, we’re not step-siblings anymore.”

You stared at him, then burst out laughing, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably. “Oh my God,” you said, clutching your stomach. “That’s… that’s so stupid. We’re not related anymore?”

He laughed too, the sound bright and free, his eyes crinkling. “Guess not. We’re just… us now. No weird family baggage.”

You fell back on the bed, still giggling, tears of laughter in your eyes. “All that drama, all that guilt, and now it’s just… poof. Gone. They’re not even together.”

Sunghoon lay next to you, propping himself on one elbow, his grin wide. “Kinda funny, right? We went through hell because of them, and they couldn’t even make it work.”

You turned to him, your laughter fading into a smile. “It’s like… we’re free. Really free.”

He nodded, his hand finding yours, his fingers lacing through. “We always were,” he said, voice softer. “But this? It’s like the universe saying we’re okay. That we’re right.”

You leaned in, kissing him, slow and sweet, your lips lingering against his. His hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer, and you felt the familiar warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart. The kiss deepened, but it wasn’t urgent, wasn’t desperate. It was love, pure and simple, the kind that didn’t need to prove anything. When you pulled back, you were both smiling, your foreheads pressed together.

“Love you,” you whispered, your fingers tracing his jaw.

“Love you too,” he said, his voice low, warm. “Always.”

The discovery could’ve been heavy, could’ve stirred up old wounds, but it didn’t. It was a relief, a punchline to a bad joke, and it made you both lighter. You spent the morning talking about it, laughing over the irony, wondering what your parents were doing now but not caring enough to find out. They were gone from your lives, and their divorce was just a footnote, a reason to chuckle and move on.

-

That evening, Sunghoon was acting strange. He’d been fidgety all day, checking his phone, pacing the apartment, muttering to himself. You noticed but didn’t push, assuming he was just wired from the divorce news. You were in the kitchenette, washing dishes, humming to the radio, when he came up behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist.

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft, a little nervous. “Can we talk?”

You turned, drying your hands on a towel, raising an eyebrow. “You okay? You’ve been weird all day.”

He laughed, but it was shaky, and he ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… come sit with me.”

You followed him to the bed, your heart picking up speed. He sat, pulling you down next to him, his hand tight around yours. The fairy lights were plugged in now, glowing golden, and the room felt warm, intimate, like it was holding its breath.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice low, serious. “I’ve been thinking about us. About everything we’ve been through. The good, the bad, all of it.”

You nodded, your stomach fluttering, not sure where this was going. “Okay…”

He took a deep breath, his eyes locked on yours. “I love you. More than I ever thought I could love anyone. You’re my best friend, my home, my everything. And today, finding out we’re not tied to them anymore… it made me realize I don’t want to wait. I want you forever.”

Your breath caught, and he reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, velvet box. Your heart stopped as he opened it, revealing a simple silver ring, a tiny star etched on the band. It wasn’t flashy, wasn’t expensive, but it was perfect.

“Marry me,” he said, his voice steady despite the nerves in his eyes. “Not because we have to, not because of anyone else. Just because I want you, always.”

Tears welled up, and you laughed, a soft, shaky sound, your hands flying to your face. “Hoon,” you whispered, voice thick. “Yes. Yes, I’ll marry you.”

He grinned, wide and bright, and slid the ring onto your finger, his hands trembling. You kissed him, hard and desperate, your arms around his neck, his hands in your hair. The kiss was messy, full of tears and laughter, and when you pulled back, you were both beaming, the ring catching the light.

“I love you,” you said, your voice breaking, and he kissed you again, softer this time, his lips lingering.

“Love you too,” he murmured, his forehead against yours. “Forever.”

You didn’t want a wedding. Neither of you did. The idea of a big ceremony, with dresses and flowers and people you barely knew, felt wrong. You’d spent years tied to expectations, to your parents’ rules, and you didn’t want your love to be a performance. Instead, you went to the courthouse a week later, just the two of you, in jeans and t-shirts, the ring on your finger and a matching one on his. You signed the papers, said your vows in a quiet room with a bored officiant, and laughed when you tripped over the words, Sunghoon catching you with a grin.

It was enough. More than enough. You celebrated with takeout pizza and cheap wine, eating on the bed, the fairy lights glowing, the radio playing your favorite songs. You made love that night, slow and tender, his hands gentle on your skin, your pussy clenching around him as you whispered his name, your bodies moving together like they were made for it. It wasn’t about passion or need—it was about love, about being one, about promising forever in every touch, every kiss.

After, you lay tangled in the sheets, his arm around you, your head on his chest. The ring felt new, a little heavy, but right. You traced his collarbone with your finger, smiling when he shivered.

“Mrs. Park,” he said, testing the words, his voice teasing but soft. “Sounds good, huh?”

You laughed, poking his side. “Don’t get cocky, Mr. Park. I’m still me.”

He grinned, kissing your hair. “Good. I wouldn’t want anyone else.”

You talked until the candles burned out, reminiscing about your journey, laughing about the divorce news again. “We were so stressed about being step-siblings,” you said, shaking your head. “And now it’s like… who cares? They’re not even a thing anymore.”

“Right?” he said, chuckling. “All that guilt, all those fights, and they just… imploded. Guess we won.”

You smiled, snuggling closer. “We did. We really did.”

You talked about growing up, about how you’d changed. You weren’t the angry girl who’d wanted to hurt him, the one who’d lied and schemed. You were stronger now, kinder to yourself, proud of the life you’d built. Sunghoon wasn’t the perfect son, trapped by pressure. He was free, passionate, a man who loved deeply and fought for what mattered. You’d both learned to forgive, to heal, to love without conditions. The past was a lesson, not a chain, and you carried it lightly now, a story you’d survived together.

“I’m happy,” you said, voice soft, almost afraid to say it out loud. “Like, really happy.”

He looked at you, his eyes warm, his smile soft. “Me too,” he said. “Happier than I’ve ever been.”

The night faded into morning, and you fell asleep in his arms, the apartment quiet, the world outside irrelevant. You were married, not by a big wedding but by choice, by love, by a promise no one could break. You’d grown up together, from pain to peace, and now, you’d grow old together, just the two of you, forever enough.

-

The house was alive with the chaos of a Saturday morning. It wasn’t the tiny apartment anymore—that was a distant memory, a place you and Sunghoon still talked about with nostalgic smiles. Now, you lived in a modest two-bedroom home on the edge of the city, with a small backyard and a swing set the kids adored. The walls were painted a soft blue, covered in crayon scribbles and framed family photos—you and Sunghoon at the courthouse, your twins as newborns, all four of you at the beach last summer. The kitchen smelled like pancakes and maple syrup, the radio playing an old love song, and the living room was a mess of toys, books, and a half-built pillow fort.

You were thirty, Sunghoon thirty-one, and life was everything you’d dreamed it could be. You owned the café now, a thriving little spot with your artwork on the walls and Sunghoon’s skating trophies on a shelf. He ran a skating school at the rink, coaching kids and adults with the same passion he’d always had, his smile brighter than ever. Your parents were a faint memory, their divorce a footnote you’d laughed about years ago. You hadn’t spoken to them in over a decade, and you didn’t need to. Your family was here, in this house, with the two people who made every day a gift.

The twins, Hana and Minjun, were five, a whirlwind of energy and giggles. Hana had Sunghoon’s dark hair and your stubborn streak, always bossing her brother around. Minjun had your eyes and Sunghoon’s quiet charm, content to follow his sister’s lead but quick with a cheeky grin. They were sprawled on the living room rug, coloring a giant piece of paper, their crayons rolling everywhere.

“Mommy, Daddy’s burning the pancakes again!” Hana called, not looking up from her drawing, a lopsided rainbow.

You laughed, standing at the stove, flipping a pancake that was, in fact, slightly too dark. “He’s not burning them, baby. He’s just… making them extra crispy.”

Sunghoon, beside you in a faded t-shirt and sweatpants, nudged your hip with his. “Liar,” he teased, his voice low, warm. He leaned in, kissing your cheek, his hand brushing your waist under the hem of your shirt. “You’re the one who distracted me.”

You swatted him with the spatula, grinning. “Keep it PG, Park. Kids are watching.”

He chuckled, stealing another kiss, quick and soft, before turning to the twins. “Who wants pancakes?” he called, holding up a plate stacked high.

“Me!” Hana and Minjun shouted, scrambling to the table, their coloring forgotten. You set the plates down, cutting their pancakes into small pieces, while Sunghoon poured orange juice, dodging Hana’s attempt to grab the jug.

Breakfast was loud, messy, perfect. Minjun got syrup on his nose, Hana told a long, dramatic story about a butterfly she’d seen, and Sunghoon kept sneaking bites from your plate, his hand resting on your thigh under the table. You caught his eye, and he smiled, the kind of smile that still made your heart skip, even after all these years.

“Eww, Daddy, stop looking at Mommy like that,” Hana said, wrinkling her nose. “You’re all mushy.”

Minjun giggled, covering his mouth. “Yeah, mushy-gushy! You’re always kissing!”

You burst out laughing, and Sunghoon leaned back, pretending to be offended. “What? I can’t kiss my wife? Who made that rule?”

“Me!” Hana declared, crossing her arms. “It’s gross.”

“Gross?” Sunghoon gasped, scooping her up and tickling her until she squealed. “You’re gonna be mushy-gushy one day, kiddo.”

“Never!” she shrieked, giggling, while Minjun joined in, climbing onto Sunghoon’s lap, demanding tickles too.

You watched them, your heart so full it hurt. This was your life now—pancakes and laughter, crayon stains and tickle fights. You and Sunghoon were still so in love, the kind that made you steal kisses in the kitchen, hold hands under the table, make love late at night when the kids were asleep, your bodies tangled, your whispers soft. Your rings, simple silver bands, caught the light, a quiet reminder of the vow you’d made—not with a wedding, but with each other, every day.

Later, after the dishes were done and the twins were napping, you and Sunghoon curled up on the couch, a blanket over your legs. The house was quiet, the radio off, just the hum of the fridge and the distant chirp of birds outside. He pulled you close, your back against his chest, his arms around you.

“Happy?” he asked, his lips brushing your ear, his voice low.

You smiled, tilting your head to look at him. “Happier than I’ve ever been.”

He kissed you, slow and sweet, his hand resting on your stomach, where the twins had grown years ago. “Me too,” he said. “You, the kids… it’s more than I ever dreamed.”

You turned in his arms, straddling his lap, your hands on his face. “Love you,” you whispered, kissing him again, deeper this time, your fingers in his hair.

“Love you more,” he murmured, his hands sliding under your shirt, warm against your skin. The kiss heated, but the sound of small footsteps made you pull back, laughing softly.

“Mommy?” Minjun’s voice came from the hallway, sleepy and curious.

Sunghoon grinned, resting his forehead against yours. “Busted,” he whispered.

You climbed off him, smoothing your shirt, and went to scoop up Minjun, who was rubbing his eyes. Hana followed, dragging her blanket, and soon you were all piled on the couch, the twins nestled between you. Sunghoon draped an arm around you, his hand resting on Hana’s head, and you leaned into him, your heart full.

“Still mushy,” Hana mumbled, but she was smiling, snuggling closer.

“Always,” you said, kissing her forehead, then Sunghoon’s cheek.

The afternoon faded into evening, and you stayed there, a happy, messy family, built from pain and love, stronger than anything that had tried to break you. You’d grown up together, you and Sunghoon, from anger to trust, from chaos to peace. Now, with your twins, your home, your love, you were whole—a family, forever.

[glowettee]

✧ if i’m so dramatic, why am i always right? ✧

✦ intuition vs gaslighting ✦

hi lovelies, it’s mindy 🌷🕯 i’ve been off tumblr for a few days, things have just been really overwhelming lately, and i needed a little breather. but writing always brings me back to myself. it’s my favorite kind of comfort. the glowettee x pll series has seriously been such a joy to create… every post, every idea, every digital piece for my gumroad has been healing in its own way. this next post is something close to my heart. it’s about gaslighting... something i’ve experienced a lot, especially from people i thought i could trust. it’s such a common thing, but so many of us don’t realize it’s happening until way later. i used to second-guess my intuition constantly because people convinced me i was being “too much.” but every time… my gut was right. so i wanted to write this to help you tell the difference between real intuition and someone twisting it. if you’ve ever felt that quiet confusion or started to doubt yourself after talking to someone, this post is for you. i hope it brings clarity. and softness. and maybe even a little validation if you’ve been there too. - mindy 🤍🩰

sometimes i wonder if girls like us were born with a sixth sense or if we just got so used to being hurt that our bodies evolved. hyper-awareness as a survival trait. intuition as our most sharpened weapon. people love to call it being “dramatic,” but let’s be honest... i was right every time.

𓆩��𓆪

❝ if you’re so emotional, how come your instincts always come true? ❞ they never have an answer to that, do they?

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

✧ the 'dramatic' girl dilemma

there’s a reason why every group chat has a girl they secretly call “too much.” the one who always has a weird feeling. the one who picks up on tone shifts and changes in energy and tiny inconsistencies like it’s her full-time job. she’s the one who says, “this doesn’t feel right,” and gets labeled a buzzkill. the killjoy. the overthinker.

but i’ll let you in on something i had to learn the hard way: they only call you dramatic when they don’t want you to notice what’s really happening.

girls like us don’t get the luxury of being chill. we’re watching. always. we had to learn to be. we’re the first ones to feel the shift in a friend group dynamic. we clock the fake laugh. the silence in the hallway. the DM left on read. and when we bring it up? “you’re imagining things.”

they say "you're too sensitive" like it's a flaw. like feeling deeply makes you unreliable. but being sensitive never meant being wrong. it just meant you felt the betrayal before it became undeniable.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

✧ trauma turned my gut into a siren

there’s something about growing up being ignored, bullied, overlooked, or manipulated that turns your whole nervous system into a radar. suddenly, you’re the girl who notices everything.

like, i still remember being 14 and realizing that one of my friends always laughed at my jokes in front of boys, but never when it was just us. or how she'd call me pretty but then immediately ask if i was wearing makeup. subtle stuff. stuff that sounds dumb when you say it out loud. stuff that makes people go, “you’re reading too much into it.”

but i wasn’t. i never was. that’s the exhausting part.

emotional intelligence feels like a superpower until it starts to drain you. like being psychic, but without the option to turn it off. you don’t just read the room, you analyze it, archive it, cross-reference it with past data.

i used to hate this part of myself. now i know it kept me alive.

you’re not paranoid. you’re perceptive. there’s a difference.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

✧ you knew, even when it didn’t make sense

sometimes your body knows things before your brain catches up. your heart races before he lies. your stomach drops before the betrayal hits. you get that pit-in-your-stomach feeling and then brush it off, until the truth slaps you a week later.

trust me, i’ve been there. i once had a gut feeling that a friend was turning people against me... but there was no proof. just a weird energy. until one day, someone accidentally sent me a screenshot that wasn’t meant for me. and suddenly the feeling made sense.

they call it “bad vibes.” i call it early intel.

start decoding the patterns:

the too-long pause before answering your question

the “i didn’t mean it like that” when you call it out

the subtle digs framed as compliments

the way people say your name when they think you’re not listening

you noticed for a reason. trust the noticing.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

✧ what gaslighting actually feels like

gaslighting doesn’t always sound like “you’re crazy.” sometimes it sounds like “you’re overreacting,” or “you always assume the worst,” or “why do you make everything a problem?”

but the worst kind of gaslighting is the kind you do to yourself. when you feel the red flags and immediately shut yourself down. when your first instinct is right, but your second thought is “i’m just being dramatic.” that’s emotional self-betrayal. it hurts. a lot.

i once told a guy that something felt off, he’d been cold, weird, distant. he said i was insecure. i said sorry. two weeks later, i found out he’d been seeing someone else the whole time. lesson learned: don’t apologize for what your body already knows.

you can’t logic your way out of a feeling that was never lying to you in the first place.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

✧ intuitive doesn’t mean irrational

“dramatic” is just a word they use to discredit girls who are too emotionally accurate to manipulate.

your feelings are data. emotions are not the opposite of intelligence, they’re the early warning system. they tell you what’s not being said. they tell you what the energy in the room is doing. they tell you the truth before the truth shows its face.

what if you’re not “too much,” what if you’re just always one step ahead?

what if the real problem isn’t that you feel too deeply, but that you feel accurately, and that makes people uncomfortable?

i’m reclaiming the word dramatic. to be dramatic is to see danger before it arrives. to feel something shift before it collapses. to be emotionally clairvoyant. and i think that’s beautiful.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

✧ how to protect your knowing

your intuition deserves protection. here’s how i keep mine sacred:

✧ journal your gut feelings ~ even if they don’t make sense yet. time-stamp them. track patterns. ✧ make a screenshots folder ~ for receipts, subtle shifts, digital clues. memory gaslights too. ✧ create a ‘weird vibes’ note in your phone ~ no explanation needed. if something feels off, log it. ✧ meditate or walk after intense conversations ~ let your body process what your mind can’t yet. ✧ check in with your inner child ~ would 13-year-old you trust this person? she knows. always.

𓆩 ritual for the emotionally haunted 𓆪 › write down a time you were right, but told you were wrong › throw it away, or rip it up › whisper “i trust myself now.” › repeat every time the world tries to confuse you.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

✧ you weren’t crazy, you were correct, and ahead

they’ll tell you you’re crazy until the moment you’re proven right. they’ll call you dramatic until the danger becomes undeniable. they’ll gaslight you until the truth surfaces, and then pretend they never doubted you at all.

the girls who trust themselves become the women no one can lie to. so feel everything. sense everything. believe yourself.

being dramatic is how you survived the world they tried to confuse you in.

and if you’re always the first to notice the danger, maybe it’s not a flaw. maybe it’s your gift. maybe it’s what will save you.

✧ love always, mindy

[matts-girlfriend]

Back To Friends - Chris Sturniolo

1 2 3

warnings : angst, mentions of sex, arguing, tension, swearing??

(english isn’t my first language)

word count: 729

The first thing you feel when you wake up is his arm draped over your waist.

The second is regret.

Not because of the sex—it’s never that. It’s everything that comes after. The silence. The pretending. The way he rolls over like you’re just some body he happened to fuck, not the person who knows what his laugh sounds like at 2 a.m. or how he hates mint toothpaste but uses it anyway.

You stare at the ceiling, motionless. His breathing is slow behind you, peaceful.

You’re anything but peaceful.

Touch my body tender

‘Cause the feeling makes me weak

Kicking off the covers

I see the ceiling while you’re looking down at me

You slip out from under his arm. Quiet, practiced. You know this routine too well. Grab your hoodie. Stuff your emotions down. Don’t look back.

But of course, he wakes up.

“Y/N?” His voice is rough, sleepy. Fuck. You hate how much you love that.

“You’re leaving already?” he asks, rubbing his eyes, the sheets falling around his waist.

“Yeah,” you mutter, not turning around. “Didn’t wanna overstay.”

“It’s 6 a.m.”

“I know.”

He sighs. “You okay?”

No. Not even a little.

“We need to talk,” you say, finally facing him. The words feel like knives in your throat.

His expression shifts. Like he knows exactly where this is going, but he still hoped you’d be too scared to say it.

“Don’t do this,” he says.

“I have to,” you whisper.

How can we go back to being friends

When we just shared a bed?

How can you look at me and pretend

I’m someone you’ve never met?

You’re not just fucking anymore. That’s the problem. Somewhere between drunken kisses and sleepy cuddles and forehead touches you shouldn’t have let happen—you fell. Hard.

And he didn’t catch you.

“You said you didn’t want anything serious,” he says, but his voice is too soft to sound convincing.

“I didn’t think I would fall for you, Chris. But I did. And now it’s killing me, pretending like this is casual when you look at me like I’m a stranger right after you’ve had your hands all over me.”

He opens his mouth, then shuts it again.

“You remember December?” you ask, heart in your throat. “We watched shitty Christmas movies and you fell asleep on my chest. I couldn’t breathe. Not ‘cause of the weight, but ‘cause I didn’t want you to fucking move. It felt right. Don’t tell me you didn’t feel that.”

It was last December

You were layin’ on my chest

I still remember

I was scared to take a breath, didn’t want you to move your head

He won’t meet your eyes.

That’s all the answer you need.

The devil in your eyes

Won’t deny the lies

You’ve sold, I’m holding on too tight

While you let go, this is casual

“You’re scared,” you say. “And that’s fine. But I’m not gonna keep letting you fuck me like I’m yours and then treat me like I’m nothing.”

He steps forward, helpless. “So that’s it?”

“I loved you, you know,” you say. Not I love you—past tense. Even if it still feels present.

“Can’t we just go back to friends?” he says, quiet. Like maybe if he says it soft enough, it won’t shatter you.

But it does.

You let out a broken laugh. “You really think we can go back? After this? After everything?”

How can we go back to being friends

When we just shared a bed? (Yeah)

How can you look at me and pretend

I’m someone you’ve never met?

He doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t have to.

How can we go back to being friends

When we just shared a bed? (Yeah)

How can you look at me and pretend

I’m someone you’ve never met?

I’m someone you’ve never met (yeah)

You grab your keys and walk out.

And this time, you don’t look back.

taglist: @whore4chris @sturniqloo @chrepsi @cherryystemm @jcsturniolo11 @kayla-hearts4sturniolo @crazbubs @poolover123

an: so is this a good time to mention i have pt2 of chris’s pov already..

[twistedteatime]

Care

A/N: I feel like crap today. I'm better now than I was earlier. I wanted some period care with Bucky and decided to write it myself. I've got other fics to write, but this is the one that came of today. It's not in the Scorpio AU. It's just a standalone.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x !femReader

POV: 2nd no use of Y/N.

Summary: Bucky comes home and finds you in a state of pain because of your period and takes care of you.

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: Strangely enough I don't think there's any LANGUAGE to warn about for once. Fluff. Care. Talk of heavy period pain symptoms (because I'm not in the tribe of periods being unmentionable). Bucky and Alpine being cute. I can't think of anything else. (I'm sure there's more but I can't remember)

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Drabble List

*******

You were still home when Bucky walked into the house. His brows scrunched together as his blue eyes looked at you as you shuffled back through the doorway from the bathroom, Alpine following you with a worried meow.

Concern bubbled in his stomach at the sight of your pale face and tired, heavy-lidded eyes, sweat soaking through one of his T shirts you were wearing. Then you looked at him as he was looking at the pulled-out drawers, tears pooling in your eyes as he stepped in with a gentle sigh and locked the door as he always did.

He knew what this was. He hated it, but not for most reasons men hated it. Bucky hated what it did to you.

Not every month, but too often for his liking your period put you in a state like this. The last couple of months had been alright, but not this one.

You sniffled, “I can’t find the heating pad anywhere. I’m so hot, though. I’ve already changed my clothes twice. I’m hungry but the thought of food makes me wanna puke. I did puke. It feels like my uterus wants to implode. My head hurts…and I’m so tired!”

You were overwhelmed. It wasn’t the first time.

Pain radiated in your lower back, your lower abdomen felt like it was a hand mercilessly squeezing a tube, your thighs ached and you could feel the start of a migraine coming that was almost guaranteed if you started crying. If you cried you were done for but you were so tired it hurt to hold it together.

He didn’t hesitate another moment.

“Shh…I’m home now, sweetheart. It’s gonna be alright.” Bucky soothed, walking quickly over to you to scoop you up in his arms to carry you to the couch, “The heating pad is in the closet. I’ll go get it. Does it help to sit or help to walk?”

“Sit.”

“Okay. Don’t move. I’ve got you, okay?” he asked and you nodded, wiping your eyes, smiling a bit when he kissed your forehead.

You’d been worried when you first moved in together that he didn’t understand what you meant when you said your periods could get bad. It worried you how he’d react to them and how long it’d take before he got annoyed with them. The first time he saw what happened in its full “glory” Bucky had been intensely worried but had also sprung himself into action to do everything he could to alleviate it.

He had even asked Sarah for help and followed her advice to the letter. Including trying to get you to go to the doctor. You found it ironic with how much he hated going to them himself that he was willingly taking you to one.

The experience didn’t improve his opinion on them. Not that you didn’t warn him what would happen. You’d been through it enough.

Just take Tylenol, Advil, Aleve, Pamprin, Midol, etc. Eye rolls. Ignored.

You were used to it. Bucky didn’t give up. He kept trying and whenever you had a bad month he was always there to take care of you. It helped more than the OTC meds and even though you found a doctor that listened, which you were slightly convinced their fear of your boyfriend played a large factor in, you still had bad months.

In a moment he was there with the large pad, plugging it in and handing you the controls to place it over your front, and he had another one of his shirts. You just raised your arms for him to pull the sweat soaked one off and let him put on the lighter dry one. He put an extra blanket on the couch behind you knowing once the hot flash was over you’d get cold. Bucky didn’t want you to feel cold just in case he wasn’t done before you did.

Next came a large glass of water with a wedge of lemon in it and three different flavors of candy canes or peppermints. He kept them in the house year-round once he figured out that one of them was usually likely to help with your nausea. The next part was the hard part.

“I know you don’t feel good, sweetie, but you really do need to eat. What have you tried?”

“Toast. It didn’t stay down…and I just can’t…think of something that tastes…good.” You answered and he nodded, thinking before carefully suggesting a few things that you usually would eat on days like this until you slowly nodded, “That…that’s not nauseating…”

He nodded and went back into the kitchen, Alpine hot on his tail. Occasionally you’d hear her meow at him and him respond to it. Soft, short, then a bit more accusatory.

“Have you been watching Kitchen Nightmares with her again?”

It made you chuckle sleepily. He brought out your food a few moments later, sitting with you to eat, putting on one of your favorite shows that you knew he secretly liked even if he said he didn’t. Still he mostly kept his eyes on you with soft, caring, and concerned ones.

The food stayed down. You’d love to say it always did when he made it, but sometimes it didn’t want to. You’d love to say the moment he got home that the pain subsided but you both knew that wasn’t how it worked. You’d love to say a lot of things you couldn’t, but you focused on what you could before the heaviness of your thoughts could pull you down too far.

Bucky was a cuddler on regular days but on these ones he took it to the next level whenever you needed it. Sure there were days you didn’t want to be touched, which he respected without question, but those days were far fewer than the ones where you just wanted to be held.

This was one of them and as soon as you were both done with your food and the dishes put away Bucky returned and pulled you into his lap, heating pad and all.

Alpine hopped up into your now vacant seat as she always did, curling herself up where you had been. Like usual she looked at you, then looked at Bucky, and then he nodded. Only then did she either lay her head down or turn it to look at the TV with the two of you.

It depended on what you were watching.

You were still sweating. Bucky noticed this and held out his left hand to you. The metal of it was cool, soothing, and even if it was a strange use for it, in some ways, to him, he was grateful for it. So were you while guiding it where you wanted, usually to your spine which sometimes required you to shift around a bit so he could run his hand up and down it. Sometimes it was just to your face. Sometimes, like today, you just slipped it under his shirt on you and around your side so he’d hold you closer.

He always did and you never failed to doze off, head against his shoulder within the next ten or so minutes. Usually less. Eyelids heavy, head foggy, you’d doze off even if it took you some time.

“Thank you.” You said softly, meekly, and his heart clenched as it always did.

To him it wasn’t something he needed to be thanked for, but, he supposed, he thanked you for things you didn’t think needed thanking for.

So he replied the same way you did, “You don’t need to thank me, but if it makes you feel better, you’re welcome.”

“Hmm.” You hummed, cuddling into him more with a small smile.

“Feelin’ better?”

“Yeah…sleepy…” you answered and he nodded, holding you close, “Sleepy and weird questions. Like: what did women with periods crave before chocolate was a thing?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart, I’m not that old.” He retorted lightly, lips curling up softly when you chuckled heavily, drifting off slowly, “Probly some other sweet thing. Like honey.”

“Mh…why?”

“I don’t know. Energy from the sugar?”

“Then why’d I crave chips?” you asked sleepily.

“They’re carbohydrates. Carbs are energy.”

“Then why’m I so sleepy?” you mumbled and he just cuddled you with a small smile.

“Hormones and other things. Get some sleep, baby, I’ve got you.” Bucky said and you smiled while dozing off, knowing you were safe and cared for.

Once he was sure you were asleep, and that Alpine wasn’t watching it, he turned your show off to put something else on. Something he knew you liked even if you teased him for it being old and kind of corny. He wasn’t really watching it; he was typing into his phone.

To your doctor.

*******

A/N: Someone might be in trouble. Slight, teensy weensy itty bitty kinda sorta soft dark Bucky. Maybe. Bascially this is what I'd want from Bucky today for myself so...call it self indulgent. It helped. I feel better now. Sort of. Enough to function on my other fics.

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[mikkomacko]

need a blurb of mob nico coming home to reader teaching luke how to tame and style his curls

Omg ok so I’ve always tried to keep reader pretty vague that way everyone can have they’re own perception of what she looks like haha

But I mean my girl is Italian so her hair would most like be textured/wavy/curly ya know??

I can so see Luke coming up to her one night at the bar and just being like “your hair looks really nice.”

And she’s smiling, a little caught off guard but flattered by the compliment. “Thanks Luke, that’s so sweet.”

“Do you-I mean like what stuff do you put it your hair to make it look that nice?”

Reader is so eager to sharing her product line up because her and Johnny have perfected it. Like it’s immaculate. So she’s getting all excited and listing off stuff and Luke has no idea what any of it is. He just nods until she stops talking and then goes kinda shy.

“Do you think you could teach me? Some of the boys have been saying my hair looks bad and that I should comb it or something but it just gets bigger when I do that!”

And oh my goodness reader’s whole day is made. She’s so excited, making plans to take him to the store to pick stuff out and then he can come to the house and she’ll show him how to use everything.

He comes over early Saturday morning for his little beauty lesson and because this is such a big deal, he even gets access to the overly large bathroom attached to reader and Nico’s bedroom.

Which is where Nico finds them when he comes home from his run, shirt damp with sweat and plastered to his skin uncomfortably. He just wants to get in the shower, get dressed for the day, and then spend the day lounging around with his girl.

Unfortunately he’s stopped by the sight of Luke sat on a stool from the kitchen, a towel wrapped around his shoulders and wet hair dripping down his forehead.

“Uhhh what’s happening here?”

Her and Luke both freeze, turning to him with the same deer in headlights look. Reader smiles then, waving the bottle of leave in conditioner in her hand.

“Luke is learning,” is all she says and Nico just nods, moving into the bathroom and perching against the counter to watch them. His clothes are drying and feel odd and gross on his skin, but he doesn’t care.

Because it’s actually entertaining to watch her explain everything to Luke, to make him tip his head upside down while she scrunches mouse into it and then curl the shorter pieces by his face with her finger, and even when she puts two claw clips in the wet ringlets on top of his head.

“For volume,” she explains simply, that look of pure concentration on her face that makes her look so cute. And Luke is hanging on her every word, like a school child, obediently nodding his head and asking questions.

Nico remembers the first time he watched this exact same routine, listened to her tell him about everything and while Nico knew she sometimes hated doing it, he loves her hair when it’s naturally styled, just a bit frizzy and curling around her face and neck.

He always wished his hair wasn’t so pin straight, so flat all the time. So yeah he admires it, admires her, and if he pictures this same moment in the future with mini version of him and her instead of Luke sat in that chair, well then that’s his little secret for now.

Afterwards, when Luke’s hair is mostly dry and he’s given up on trying to figure out the diffuser, he’s looking to Nico with his mouth parted in shock. “Did you know so much work went into this?”

And Nico is laughing. “Yeah man. I watch her get ready almost everyday.”

[thisisa-stateofgrace]

random au prompts / inspos for kingdon and the entire pitt crew

— this will be a growing list

bridgerton!au - mel is presented to society but also wants to be a doctor. her dad is robby who was recently widowed. she is looking for a man who can accept her dreams etc. frank is probably an apprentice or something but not part of the landed gentry. i can lowkey also see javadi-mateo as something like theloise

princess diaries!au / inspired - mel and her “me l? a princess? shut up” and she meets frank who is prob 99th in line to the thrown… (yes the chris pine one)

Youve got mail!au - set in the turn of the millenium where frank and mel meet in a chatroom about… gravel propbably or road safety. One has a doctor radio show while the other is a doctor on a tv show and their always pitted against each other??? Or maybe they’re vying for the same fellowship i don’t know right now im groggy

Wedding Season!AU - cliché but i want a javadi an going to indian weddings and she implores the help of a random stranger mateo to be her date / boyfriend not sure how but yeah

Set It Up! AU - frank and mel as personal assistants to crazy bosses and they fall in love or something

When Harry Met Sally!AU - i mean “When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.” DEFINITELY - like a time where they did rotations. Remained friends. Mel probably got another fellowship etc somewhere else and they meet again and becca is more or less independent and thriving in the facility and mel is now available for things and shiz and a gesture of love

27 dresses / wedding planner!AU - mel is a wedding planner. Frank… going to marry Abby but Mel was from his past or something.

speak now by taylor swift - frank and mel are med school buddies, abby is the art girl (inspired by the youre a good man frank langdon) — mel taking courage to speak now and not hold her peace!!!

miss americana and the heartbreak prince by taylor swift - mel as the miss americana im so hooked by the line “voted most likely to run away with you” probably something where frank is a bad boy bec why not

governess!au - mel is the new governess to single dad, frank langdon. that’s it that’s the fic.

mastermind by taylor swift - garcia x santos - self-explanatory “i’m a mastermind and now, you’re mine.”

holy ground by taylor swift - collins x robby (good breakup feels)

bff au #2 - you belong with me > yes i want kingdon to freaking talk using paper and markers and their neigbors

a walk to remember!au - frank langdon, school popular kid and bad boy, meets mel king, the quiet girl into something and that is it hahaha just make it happen pls im sorry hahaha “she had her miracle. it was you.”

the hating game!au - enemies to lovers from diff backgrounds vying for the promotion

music man / swingtime! au - more of the context that frank langdon is a con man faced with a good-hearted lady and yes he tries to abandon his old ways

parks & rec au - (coincidentally there is a song by mouserat called the pitt) - sunflower painting scene. mel tries her hand in online dating and matches with some people… surprisingly matches with a co-worker (i don’t know maybe jesse but jesse is good or maybe ahmad??? We can think about this later) but apparently she just matched with pne of his accounts (ala tom). she ends up deciding to just be open to dating especially those who will come her way, bec she wants them in person and that’s frabk who is her coworker and they both like the sunflower painting and they eat in front of it okbye

pushing daisies au. - yes for some reason: frank langdon has a tendency to resurrect people with one touch. but if he touches them again… they drop dead… forever. mel as his d**eased ex whom he hasnt seen in a while but is still the love of his life and he touches her but they cant touch again or else she’s gonna be real dead

Castle au (somewhat) - mel, a nypd detective has to solve a murder patterned from the works crime novelist, frank langdon. the man’s egotistical (but with right) and she may or may not be a fan.

[p0rk-guts]

Yapping about The Stolas Animation™️ everyone's been in a tizzy about because this is MY blog and I get to treat it like my personal diary.

Not going into the surrounding drama of the video because i hate drama and it's always a fucking headache. I'm gonna talk about the content of the animation, the song, and my interpretation of them together!!! (Contains discussions of suicide. Obviously)

First off. THE ANIMATION IS AMAZING. But you already knew that. The portrayal of Stolas we see for the first two thirds of it is clearly something dissimilar to his portrayal throughout the entire series thus far—much more callous and cold than playful and cheeky like we knew him to be—so to me it seemed like a portrayal of how Blitz sees Stolas and how he thinks Stolas truly felt of feels about him. Especially since each of those scenes was interjected with clips of Blitzo staggering through that white empty mind scape with the golden feathers like we saw when he was tripping and imagining him in truth seekers.

I also love how the lyrics so perfectly line up to what's happening—"who's gonna rescue you when you're lost at sea? Who's gonna love you if it isn't me?" These lyrics precede clips where Moxxie and Millie— who HAVE rescued him and who WILL love him even if Stolas won't— showing us how Blitz is so deep in his self hatred that he can't even see that despite thinking he isn't loved or worthy of loving that he IS.

The clips of Stolas are more than just Blitz's mind fucking with him though, for us we see just how ironic it is that Stolas could be saying any of this in the FIRST place. "Who's gonna rescue you when you're lost at sea": Stolas NEVER rescued Blitz in any way! (Headcanon here but) Stolas' obsessive yearning for him just made Blitz mirror those feelings of affection in late season 2 (because there were NO signs of Blitz reciprocating or feeling anything other than disdain and ANNOYANCE for Stolas initially)! He wanted that equally returned love and not to once again miss expectations and miss what he saw as his fleeting chance for love!

Anyways anyways ranted and got off topic. If anything Blitz was always the one rescuing Stolas. I also think it's interesting that that lyric fell on a clip of Stolas mocking at one of the goetia parties despite the fact that he was always miserable at them. You could even say that Blitz trying to steal the book -> their night together -> Stolas divorcing Stella was some roundabout instance of Blitz "rescuing" Stolas from his loveless marriage. But that's more of a crazy take I think Stolas would have floating around in his head

And my FAVORITE line of the animatic (and probably the whole song)— "And who's gonna love you if it isn't me?". Obviously. Like we said. He has love surrounding him already! Even in Loona too I guess! Pairing this lyric with Stella wrapped around his arm looking withdrawn while he stands front and center not even acknowledging her?? From the fictitious Blitz perspective we're shown, I saw this as Blitz seeing himself as an unnecessary stain in Stolas' perfect pristine life. Technically, he's married, or was (does Blitz even know they're divorced??? Lol I don't remember), and his entire presence just detracts from this fictitious image of high class excellence and composure he had.

Meanwhile, Stolas did try to maintain their marriage the best he could, but he never loved Stella at every point in the story we've seen so far he doesn't consider her at all. Tbf, she's pretty abusive and insane, but he really did jump through hoops to excuse his cheating and later on didn't even consider how her presence in Octavia's life could affect her (these are all tied to greater issues with the show ignoring Stella's existence but I digress).

Stella is just a prop in this image. She was just a tool for Paimon to get Stolas to produce an heir and keep the goetia conveyor belt moving, and likely even a tool to her own (largely) absent family so she could be used to grow familial wealth and status. Beyond her "liking to torment him", she's never shown to have ANY other feelings about. Anything really. Other than what, liking parties? Her reserved portrayal alludes to her having more feelings and thoughts about everything happening around her but whether it's to keep up appearances or to deny her own emotions, she stifles it all. 100% get how everyone's been saying her .2 seconds of screentime here characterize her more than the entire show does.

Then we switch gears to the real Stolas, getting dressed in something very similar to Paimon's clothes (which someone else pointed out I did NAWT notice that on my own). I have two (ish) theories on what this was about but I'm not sold on them so feel free to tell me what you think this was all about.

Maybe Stolas was putting the clothes on for some unrelated event—some goetian responsibility he forgot he was supposed to attend to— or maybe it was something like him reminiscing on all he's lost after the divorce and the trial (if this takes place post trial. Not sure). One of these maybe, or he got dressed up specifically for his suicide. I could see his romantic and fanciful nature driving him to do something like that.

(didn't have much to say on the portraits around him all turning into Blitz. It's a pretty straightforward showing of his mental decline and destructive obsession. Overall fantastic detail I missed on the first watch)

Then, when he kills himself, he chose to do it in the middle of the street, directly across from and FACING I.M.P.'s place of residence. Which is. Insane to me. Placing it there felt so purposeful with the light glinting off of the horns on the building. Was it meant to be a "look what you made me do" type deal? Some sort of final "fuck you" for all Blitz had done ("""making""" Stolas love him and then not reciprocating)? A last desperate attempt to be seen and acknowledged?

Well who knows fr but that's all my analysis for the animation. Dwinni ate down idc. This was a peak fandom event honestly. But yeah uh what do YOU 🫵🏾 think

[bumbled-bees]

The Lily Playbook

(Or: How she runs her spaces and keeps people in line)

I’ve talked a lot on this blog about patterns—how Lily behaves, how she talks, how she spins stories to serve her narrative. But I haven’t fully laid out what it’s like being inside one of her spaces. From the perspective of an average person who stuck around long enough to notice how things worked. So here it is: the Playbook.

Lily doesn’t lead through trust. She leads through pressure. And most of that pressure is unspoken. That’s what makes it effective. She doesn’t always have to say “don’t question me,” because the tone she sets—and the way she handles anyone who steps out of line—makes sure no one else even wants to try.

Step one of the Playbook is positioning herself as the smartest, most correct person in the room. She’ll go on long, authoritative tangents, use big words whether she understands them or not, and say things in the most matter-of-fact tone possible—even when it’s something completely subjective or unproven. And the thing is, if you don’t know better, it’s easy to believe her. You assume she must have done her research. That she wouldn’t say something so confidently unless it were true. That’s the trap. Her audience, especially younger or neurodivergent people, latch onto that certainty. And she counts on that.

Step two is isolating dissent. If you disagree with her, you’re not just “wrong.” You’re talking past her. You’re deliberately misrepresenting her. You’re violating her boundaries. (Boundaries she never actually states clearly, but somehow you’re supposed to have memorized.) It doesn’t matter if your disagreement is polite or rooted in good faith—any challenge to her version of things is seen as a personal attack. And once she’s labeled you a problem, the people around her fall in line.

Because here’s the unspoken rule: Lily doesn’t need to tell anyone to dogpile you. They’ll do it on their own. Not out of malice, but because that’s the environment she builds. You want to stay in her good graces? You learn not to question her. You see what happens to the people who do. The silence of those who disagree becomes a kind of self-policing mechanism. You feel the pressure without her ever needing to say a word.

Another key part of the Playbook is redefining what “abuse” and “accountability” mean to suit her. She doesn’t believe in the cycle of abuse—because acknowledging it would mean admitting she’s capable of harming others, even unintentionally. So instead, she frames all criticism of her as harassment, all reminders of past behavior as stalking, and every attempt to hold her accountable as “um actually-ing” her. It’s why she throws around terms like “boundary violation” even in response to well-meaning messages or neutral questions. It’s why people walk on eggshells around her.

When I was still in her space, I remember feeling this creeping discomfort. Moments where I thought, wait, is that really fair? or that person didn’t even say anything rude. But you learn not to voice it. You see what happens when people do. You see who gets banned, who gets ranted about in vague posts, who gets turned into cautionary tales.

And finally: Lily knows her critiques don’t hold up to serious scrutiny. That’s why she frames anyone who questions her takes as being part of some obsessive “hate mob.” It keeps her audience distrustful of outsiders. It lets her dismiss all criticism—no matter how valid—as just noise. And the people who do stick around end up internalizing that mindset: “Lily’s the one telling the truth. Everyone else is out to get her.”

It’s a playbook built on deflection, defensiveness, and control. And the worst part is, it doesn’t look like that at first. If you’re young, vulnerable, or just looking for someone who “gets it,” she can seem like the voice of reason. But stick around long enough and the cracks start to show.

That’s why I started this blog. Not to speculate, not to gossip, but to document what’s observable. And this—this is the framework I saw in action. Not from the outside looking in, but from the inside slowly stepping back.

If you’re starting to notice these same patterns, you’re not imagining it.

It’s been wild watching it repeat over and over, knowing that I’ve seen these steps firsthand. When you’re in it, it doesn’t feel like a “playbook.” It feels like friendship. Trust. Solidarity. It feels like you’re part of something important.

But when you finally step back? You see the patterns. You see the manipulations. And you see that this whole system is built to serve her, not anyone else.

That’s what the Lily Playbook is.

And once you learn to recognize it, you’ll start seeing it everywhere she goes.

[deception-united]

Hi! I saw the post of how to write a father daughter crumbling relationship, and I wanted to ask how you write a father daughter relationship that’s already broken? the way i’m going with my story is she ran away at one point and he’s evil. She ends up seeing him again years later, has to go against him, and even fight him at some point to take him down. They’ll probably never fix the relationship ever, but I still want to have little pieces where there’s that ping of like “that’s my father”yk? I might also add a plot that he now has another daughter too, I hope this is not confusing, but do you think you could help with some tips? :)

Hi, thanks for asking! Here are some tips and ideas.

1. Start with echoes instead of flashbacks.

You don't need to info-dump their entire backstory right at the start. Try using emotional echoes instead—like small memories, half-formed thoughts, or sensory triggers. A particular smell or sight could remind her of her father, especially if it's from what she remembers he was like before their relationship broke or how she wishes it could be. This creates emotional disruption and can help the reader feel the dissonance between who he was and who he became without having to include pages of detailed reminiscing.

2. Focus on what's missing.

Because the relationship is already shattered, a lot of the emotional weight will come from absence. She's not necessarily mourning what happened, but what never did, like a birthday he didn't show up for, the safety she should've felt, things she wishes she had but was never given.

3. Resenting the pieces that still care

Rather than complete hatred, have your protagonist hate that she still feels something. Add in the odd confusing flicker of warmth, nostalgia, or longing that'll make her seem more real instead of just hardened or revenge-focused.

Ex: Noticing a trait she shares with him, flinching at the way he says her name, etc.

4. Mirrored behaviour

You can have her catch herself doing something he does, no matter how subtle (tilting her head the same way when thinking, using a fighting tactic he always did), and it sickens her. This can add inner conflict, especially when she starts questioning 'what else did I inherit?'—maybe she'll think that no matter how much she ran, some part of him is in her.

5. Make the father human.

Villainous as he is, he still is human; he should be terrifying because he's believable. He might believe what he did was necessary, show that he cares in twisted ways, or mourn losing her while refusing to admit that he was wrong. This contradiction can add depth—and as twisted and cruel as he may be, remembering the tiny things like a lullaby or a joke he used to say may haunt her. Though they don't nearly redeem him, they can be the reasons it hurts to fight him.

6. 2nd daughter

I love that you added a second daughter—it can give rise to more emotions and further development. Your protagonist might feel jealous, protective, disgusted. Maybe the new daughter thinks he's a great father (if he learnt from his mistakes?); or maybe he's worse than ever.

This new dynamic can go to show who he is now and force your protagonist to question things. She might be a mirror or a threat: if he's softer with her, maybe your protagonist is furious but also jealous, then ashamed of that jealousy; but if he's using her, too, she might want to save this sister—not necessarily out of love, but out of revenge ('I won't let him ruin her like he did me').

7. Confrontation

When she finally faces him, make it more than just a boss fight. There are going to be emotional grenades from their broken bond, even as they fight (a flicker of hesitation, a glance, a choice not to kill when they could have).

8. Ending

You don't need to end with reconciliation—just recognition. Not all wounds heal, and that's okay. Let the narrative acknowledge the connection without having to fully repair it. Sometimes redemption arcs aren't necessary for the story to have a good ending.

Hope this helped!

Previous

[ivyrosewater]

Here's a preview of all of my upcoming works! I'm doing my best to work on them but it's definitely a slow process! 🫶🫶

QH43 -- Can I Get Your Number?: When the Hughes Bowl rolls around, otherwise known as the Canucks vs. Devils game, you obviously have to come and support your boyfriend. The only problem is, no one knows you two are together, and all Quinn’s given you to help is his jersey.

JH86 -- Teach Me?: As Jack’s new girlfriend, all he wants to do is show you off. You’ve been on a few dates before, but your first real opportunity to present it to the public is at the family skate. But. the thing is, you don’t quite know how to skate even the slightest bit.

LH43 -- I Hate Horror Movies: On a cozy night in on one of Luke’s off days, you decide on a movie date night. You both decide to surprise each other with your movie choices, and you decide on a horror movie, not knowing how much Luke hates them.

SJ24 -- One Beautiful Mistake: You and Seth have been dating for over a year, everything going in the right direction, even moving in together already. But one day, you find out you’re pregnant, and you just don’t know how to tell him.

NH13 -- Under Wraps: Keeping a relationship hidden from the media is one thing. Hiding one from your nosy and protective brothers was even harder, especially one involving the younger two’s team captain, the one and only Nico Hischier.

CM8 -- Behind the Scenes: a Hockey Boyfriend: When you first start dating a hockey player, there’s much to learn. One of the most important is learning all about hockey, especially when your boyfriend is the one and only Cale Makar, and when you are completely lost when it comes to all things hockey.

WJ53 -- Home is Where the Heart Is: You and Wyatt have been together as long as he’s been playing in the NHL, having gotten together senior year of high school in Ontario. Long distance has been a struggle, to say the least, but you do your best to show up to a few games here and there with your busy college schedule. After a contract is signed to keep Wyatt on the Stars, you decide to surprise him by moving to Dallas too.

LD29 -- Take Me Into Your Loving Arms: Leon has always tended to be hard on himself, especially during losses. When his team makes it all the way to the Stanley Cup Finals, only to lose it all in the end, he’s distraught. Thankfully, he has you waiting at home for him just a flight away, more than ready to comfort him through it all.

CB98 -- Meet Me in Chicago: Connor knew you were special from the day he met you, all the way back in middle school. He had the biggest crush on you for years and years, but he never had the courage to ask you out, missing out on his opportunity when hockey took over his life. When he got drafted by Chicago, the last thing he expected was for you to follow, but it turned out you also were going to college there. It was a sign, and now that he was in the big leagues, there was no way you could say no, right?

TZ11 -- Break the Ice: Trevor’s life has revolved around hockey for as long as he could remember. He’d been taught all his life that ice was meant to be used for hockey, not by dainty figure skaters. So what happens when a scheduling mishap makes the Ducks have to share the ice with you, an up and coming figure skater, for a week?

AS37 -- Good Luck Charm: Andrei has never believed in silly superstitions, finding them a waste of time when he had plenty of other things to worry about. That is, until you, his girlfriend of a few months, shows up unexpectedly to one of his home games, and he scores not once, not twice, but gets a hattie.

MR73 -- May Flowers: Matt, your long-time boyfriend knows your two favorite things like the back of his hand; spring and flowers. So, when his team is officially knocked out of the playoffs, it’s the perfect spring weather he needs to take you on a picnic date of your dreams in blossoming Central Park.  

LN4 -- Dumb Ways to Meet: Lando has always been a reckless and aggressive driver on the roads, everyone knew that. You, on the other hand, have been anything but, always managing to keep your cool even in the stupidity other drivers cause. The last thing you expected was to meet an F1 driver, and especially not in this situation; in a car crash.

CL16 -- Life In the Fast Lane: Charles often got frustrated with the engineers of Ferarri. Often times, the strategy didn’t make sense, and the races usually ended poorly because of it. When the new season rolls around, they have replaced his race engineer, bringing you in instead, a talented engineer that used to work for Mercedes. Things immediately start to look up, him ending up on the podium for the past few races, and all because of you. On top of it all, he can’t help but fall for you, loving to hear your voice guiding him to victory. Will he risk it all by getting with you, or will he let you drive by just as fast as the cars around him do?

MV1 -- Hey Jealousy: Max was a person that got upset easily, that much was obvious. So when he gets with you, one of the top mechanics for Ferarri, something is practically certain to go wrong. Everyone else knew you and Charles were only good friends, but in Max’s eyes it was anything but friendly, resulting in a jealous and grouchy Redbull racer.

OP81 -- All Fun and Games: You and Oscar loved to play video games together, as it was something simple you two could bond over. The only thing that you haven’t played before is his racing simulator. When you bring it up that you want to try, Oscar is only the slightest bit hesitant, but he does let you try one round on it. It certainly caught him off guard though when you ended up beating his best time on the circuit.

LH44 -- No Risk, No Reward: Lewis was always a calm and collected driver, making calculated decisions and overtakes. So, when he gets crashed into during qualifying and spins out into the barriers, you can’t help but immediately panic and worry about him the entire time until you know he’s okay.

CS55 -- How Do You Say It?: Carlos has always loved to call you countless nicknames and give you sweet messages in Spanish. The thing is, you don’t always understand them. So, you decided to take matters into your own hands and learn Spanish on your own, but it’s not nearly as good as being taught by your Spanish boyfriend.

The Grid -- The Art of Being Spoiled: the times your sugar daddy boyfriends have tried (and succeeded) in spoiling you.

[wolfertinger]

Some context before the rest;

I'm not anyone from the social circles of Wis, Salem, Mari, Majora or any of their victims.

I'm a true outsider to any of this, - and discovered this account via how I used to follow Wis and Salem for their art.

I felt like saying something, from my life experience, on how this 'Wisalem' ecosystem reminds me of a common pattern I've seen elsewhere.

It's been interesting how much this Wis+Salem stuff reminds me of another incident of a popular artist being a shitty bully but basically having a huge story about being "stalked and hated for no reason :(".

Like, damn, wtf, I recall several online artist social circles I've seen from the course of my life that were like this.

1. Revolve around a popular artist or admin of an RP community etc. that has this big story about everyone hating and obsessively stalking them, - you feel sorry for and protective of them, and they make you feel like an actual monster if you've ever associated with the alleged "obsessive haters/stalkers".

2. People in their circles experience a high social pressure to be "in the right side" a. k. a. believing and comforting this person, and completely shunning and isolating anyone that is allegedly their "hater".

3. Fast forward some years and you actually learn how severely the person bullied and/or abused others, - perhaps because you finally personally got shit treatment from them and were then smeared and isolated from their circles too, - realizing all these alleged "bad awful hater" people were actually kinda chill + turns out the big artist person lied a fuckton about them, and left out the parts where they mistreated them.

These "I, the artist with a big platform and whiteknighting fans and friends around me, am a poor innocent victim" people cultivate an environment where several people say their name in a very dickriding way. People around them want to prove hard how compassionate they are towards this person, how far they will go to "protect" them.

Actually, being the person mistreated or smear campaigned by a person like these folks is hellish.

It ruins your ability to trust anyone.

You get these CPTSD flares from seeing your mutuals or friends interacting with them.

Some people who used to be nice to you, stop talking to you completely or make some wild accusation at you OUT OT THE BLUE basically INSTANTLY AFTER BEFRIENDING THE BULLY.

Sometimes you feel like some folks are only nice to you to exploit your trust to hurt you in behalf of your bully. Because it already happened, you become paranoid.

It becomes so difficult to even see one's real self anymore bcs you feel trapped in how an abusive popular bully has made people perceive you. You feel silenced and can't speak of any of it because anything you say can and will be used against you, - and the bully is no stranger to telling audacious, bold-faced lies either.

IRL I've heard of abuse victims whose friends abandoned them to protect their abusers so ofc it's not unique to online artist circles, - it's an abuser behaivior thing in a broader sense. Actually, lmao, this even happened to me IRL, too, now I remember. Oof.

I never got justice when it happened to me, and had another round of it online later, bcs of how used to apologizing for being angry for being hurt etc. I am, making it quite easy to crumble me down before I can hold anyone accountable.

Coming from this experience makes me feel deeply for Sawyer who is showing good character and their own boundaries and is being called outrageous things by their abuser's defender. My heart goes out to you.

I'm glad the people behind this are not getting away with it. They made their own bed, for sure, and might have to lay in it too.

this, i relate to, heavily. i have known people, who have had their art careers ruined, because they dared to come out about their popular abuser. and even if, they arent ruined. they are demeaned and mocked further, by their rapist.

namely. i am thinking of the nasfk situation. an ftm chaser, that assaulted several trans men, before calling them "girls" and "trophies", and deactivating. later, he claimed this was due to "bipolar", but having bipolar, does not give you the excuse, to rape, abuse, and be transphobic. several of the accusers, went quiet after everything went down, even stepping away from social media, as a whole.

or, alternatively. hehymn. who also raped a trans man, and when they came out against him. he posted about how he was young, and mentally ill, and it should have been "handled privately". all of his mutuals refusing to say his crime, while chastising people for daring to be angry, at a self described rapist.

the furry community, whether people would like to admit it, or not. has a massive issue with protecting abusers. it should be in ALL of our best interests, to find the TRUTH of the matter. not furthering a personal narrative, that benefits you.

[morro-guardian-of-the-departed]

Okay so, let's start off after the Day of the Departed, where Cole turned back into a human. OH FIRST SPINJITSU MASTER, THIS IS GOING TO BE LONG.

Like the day after, Acronix returned from the time vortex and joined with his brother. (I assume you know who they are, as they were friends with Wu during the time you were with him.) They made these warriors out of snakes and kidnapped a bunch of different workers to build them a giant time travel machine tank thing. Acronix also made Wu rapidly age with the fast-forwarding time blade, which Nya and Kai fixed using the reversal time blade. They got stopped, but Wu and the Time Twins got lost through time. And the ninja spent the next couple of years trying to find him.

Then there was this girl, Harumi, who was the Jade Princess of a dynasty, until she got her gang of bikers, called The Sons of Garmadon, to blow up the palace, with her adoptive parents inside. (To be fair, they were a bit abusive.) She did this because inside of the palace, there was this oni mask out of a set of 3, to which these 3 masks would allow her resurrect Garmadon from the grave. The evil, bad lord one, not the Sensei "Art of the Silent Fist" Garmadon. Why did she want to do this? Because she hates Lloyd for not saving everyone (including her bio parents) back when the Great Devourer and Garmadon was the one that killed the GD.

The ninja also found Wu during this time, who was reverted back into a little baby due to the reversal blade.

Harumi ends up being successful with her plan, so she gets Garmadon to beat up his son and to take over Ninjago with her, including this giant colossus. Kai, Cole, Jay, Zane, and lil' Wu get sent to the First Realm during the whole takeover. Some other stuff happens and they get back together, Wu grows up again, and they win. Hooray! And, oh yeah, Harumi dies just like her parents did (building).

Then Ninjago City gets invaded by Oni and their dark cloud of doom that turned people into stone. The ninja, Wu, and Garmadon are able to remedy this by using the tornado of creation.

I'll add more information in another ask later. Any questions about these events?

Ah, The Day of the Departed. That was the last time I saw Master Wu—and also when my third death occurred, but that’s not important.

Time vortex? Since when was there a time vortex? And why was Acronix in it?

Kidnapping? That doesn’t sound like something Krux and Acronix would do. Wu would never enable something like that, and they were close friends of his, last I heard.

Time blades? How does that work? Did the Time Twins transfer a portion of their abilities into the blades, like how the First Spinjitzu Master fused parts of his four core elements with the Golden Weapons?

Wu should be fine from rapid aging, though. He’s semi-immortal, so simply aging shouldn’t do him in. It’d have to be something violent, or maybe an illness.

WU GOT LOST IN THE TIME STREAM??

Ugh. The Jade Family. In my experience, more often than not, Ninjago’s royals don’t give a fuck about their people. Just the aristocratic class.

This Princess Harumi named her gang after Lloyd? Holy wannabe Garmadon. Or she might just have a crush on him. I’d need more info to properly draw a conclusion.

Oh, I’m all for overthrowing abusive parents. I have experience with terrible parents, though my adoptive parent was a good one. My biological ones weren’t.

…the First Master hid one of the the Oni Warlords’ masks with the ROYAL FAMILY?? You’ve got to be kidding.

And he hid all three SO HORRIBLY that some WANNABE GARMADON Princess of Ninjago FOUND THEM??

Wait. GARMADON created the Art of the Silent Fist?? I remember that I absolutely hated when Wu would try teaching me that style. It’s so passive…that being said, I do use it against the soul-suckers a lot.

I would understand if she hated Lloyd for releasing the Serpentine, because they released the Great Devourer. But hating him for not saving her bio parents in a city full of people? When he was a literal ten-year-old?? Holy Weapons, that’s psychotic.

I MISSED BABY WU?!? PLEASE TELL ME YOU’RE JOKING.

Garmadon? Hurt Lloyd?? No way. He adores Lloyd more than anything in this world. If what you’re saying is true, the resurrection must’ve fucked him up bad.

Wait. For the resurrection to work, DNA from the wife, brother, and son is needed. I get how she would’ve gotten it from Wu. Considering she managed to track down the Oni Masks, finding a baby Dragon-Oni hybrid wouldn’t be too hard. Misako is tough, and she can fight, but she’s still a human at the end of the day. But Lloyd? The Legendary Dragoni-Human tribrid Green Ninja?? Who has elemental powers that he’s able to access??? 

How the heck did the Princess manage that? Unless she stole a piece of his hair or something while he wasn’t paying attention.

No way Garmadon called upon a Colossus to take over Ninjago. This family really loves dramatic flair, doesn’t it?

THEY WENT TO THE REALM OF ONI AND DRAGONS?? WHAT COULD HAVE POSSIBLY LED TO THAT???

As for Wu, if he was hit with opposing Time Blades, then they should’ve cancelled the effects out, but since the Time Blade that caused aging hit Wu first, and the Reversal Blade hit him later, I can see how the effects would be delayed. That being said, it explains how he’d be able to rapidly age back to adulthood. If it’s not as simple as that, and it’s actually more complex than that, I will cry.

Still salty I missed Baby Wu.

They probably made it back to Ninjago via dragonback, since dragons can travel the realms.

Harumi dies? Oh. Well, consequences of your actions coming back to bite you, etc. etc. I’m very familiar with that. Wait she was crushed by a BUILDING—

Hold on what happens to Garmadon? Isn’t that a big problem too? And what about the Colossus?

THE ONI INVADED?? AND THERE WERE NO PRECAUTIONS FOR THE ELEMENTAL DARKNESS???

Oh, so we’re just fine with Garmadon now? Even though he, like, conquered Ninjago and abused his son?

…yes. I have many, many questions.

[powermove102]

back at it again, really upping the drama now, as always I am itching to hear where people (dis)agree so lmk, hope you enjoy:

B TIER - debilitating sad times

Ulrich Nielsen

Lost his brother pretty young (seems like they had a relatively good relationship) - his parents (or at least his mother) were never the same again (likely contributing to a less-than-best home life), his dad is also a cheat (a ridiculously horny one at that), so that’s an extra contributor

Cheatercheater in every reality (like father like son) - he absolutely does not understand the concept of love and devotion (that’s just who he is)

Will do absolutely anything to save his son - had a moment of restraint before smashing Helge’s face in (was faced with the baby Hitler situation), but remembered he was doing it for his son and he absolutely went for it (can we also mention how powerful this scene was? He paused and started putting the rock down and I was like aw he can’t do it that so emotional- OH WAIT NO HE’S REALLY GOING FOR IT)

At the very least he cut off his affair when he was looking for his son - he just views relationships like a passtime in the Sims, so he can actually focus on the important things when he needs to, good for him

YES he was using Hannah to get out of jail in 1953 (because he doesn’t actually love her (aforementioned lack of ability to do so)), but I am convinced if he got out he would straight away go and try to save his son again (maybe would have started his relationship with Hannah again just to keep her happy but Mikkel is so much more important)

YES he basically aired his wife and remaining kids to look for Mikkel but honestly he was having a hard time coping and he was kind of in the right to do that - focus your efforts where they’re needed hon

Got terribly terribly done for by Egon in every time period - mans cannot catch a break- got wrongly imprisoned by him TWICE and then got sent to a mental hospital for 33 years (which I’m pretty sure MADE him at least a lil bit psycho)

Egon has the absolute NERVE to show up again to question him

AND THEN HE FINDS HIS SON and all is well because he breaks out and goes to him and he even recognises him!!!! (despite the drugs) and they run away together!!!! And they’re so close to the cave!!!! And then EGON shows up AGAIN to take him away, and then some RANDOM WOMAN takes his SON away from him

Then he has to go back to the mental health and they up security so he can’t escape back to his son again

AND THEN HIS WIFE SHOWS UP and she’s basically forgiven him for all the cheating if only they get their son back and go homesies so he waits for her… and he waits for her… and once again a woman he thought loved him leaves him hanging and left for dead locked up, he really thinks she just left him, she may have even gone to get Mikkel herself and just left him to die alone

And he DID have to die all alone in the psych ward, what a tragedy

He had so many glimmers of hope shine through but all of them just made his life even worse, just consistently was not great, so he gets a sad/sad from me

Katharina Nielsen

She has to deal with Hanna’s bitching when they’re in school (always trying to steal her mans) but more importantly her mother low-key high-key hates her

She’s put in the middle of the Big Bad when it happens, since her little boy goes missing, her family falls into depression, she finds out her husband is cheating with the BITCH that's always been trying to steal him, said husband is missing, overall what a mess

No progress is being made in finding anything out, so she rolls up her sleeves and does it her damn self, eventually finding out about time travel (not before accusing Hannah of sleeping with her son, lmao), which, as for most people mentioned here, is an absolute gut punch, especially when her lost kid is involved

Kind of perfect that her travelling saves her from the apocalypse, also because it means she has no idea the horror that happens to her remaining kids (you know, dying and being recruited to the fuck-ass time travel gang in 1888, my favourite time to see them in)

In this crazy attempt to get her son back, she finds out he’s not even there. What the heck. Disappointing is too mild a term for this. 

However

She DOES find her cheating husband. Thankfully bonding over ‘we are now back in the 80s and our son is missing’ allows them to move past the cheating and into ‘i’m gonna free you and we’re gonna find our son together’

However

We all know how that goes. This is really the main reason she gets to go all the way up in B tier, because just as she has a plan and a way to get her husband and son back home and get away from time-travel fuckery, the last obstacle is the mother that hates her but doesn’t recognise her. A small one-on-one moment leads to something that, for her mother, is a terrifying instance of someone trying to kill her and therefore she defends herself, but for Katharina is her whole relationship of her mother hating her terminating in her trying to kill her but instead getting killed and tossed in the lake, never able to save her loved ones, and probably in those last moments thinking Mikkel will be done for, which he kinda will be.

You tried / you almost won

Peter Doppler

He has to deal with the death of his mother while a teenager, but thankfully it seems he gets quite accepted in Winden when he arrives, having Charlotte there for him, happy marriage, kids, yay

My bad, did I say happy marriage? He cheated. (WHAT IS GOING ON WITH ALL THESE PEOPLE) At least they keep it chill for the sake of the kids

By absolute chance he gets roped into time-travel when Mads just, oh you know, pops into existence in front of him, then he has to dispose of the body in the woods when a creepy old lady tells him *vaguely* wtf is going on. And now he has a notebook with all the shit that's gonna happen and he and his wife have to piece together wtf is really going on with all this time travel. What a chore

Thankfully he and Elizabeth survive the apocalypse (yay notebook), but he loses his wife and other daughter, which… just imagine that dread. Go ahead. I’ll wait

Now he has to search for them all while trying to survive the post-apocalyptic landscape they’re in with his young daughter… hell

I’m not saying much because there’s not that many plot points beating him down but we all know they’re pretty heavy

Then of course his daughter, the one remaining family he has close to him (because as far as he knows the could be convinced Charlotte and Franziska are dead and he’s looking despite his convictions and for Eli to have a little bit of hope) gets attacked behind his back, he’s probably feeling like a failure of a dad for not being there to protect her, but he does everything he can, and saves her, only to get killed for it in the end

Good dad / poor husband

Regina Tiedemann

Raised by a single mother. No siblings. Bullied. It's not looking up for bestie

But wait…! What's this…! *airhorns* IT'S ALEKSANDER!!!!!

Just two besties being besties together, everything is great, (her grandad dies and her mother disappears which isn’t great), everything is great (she opens a hotel), everything is great (they have lots of money), everything is great (they have a son together)

Cancer

She has to give up her hotel due to aforementioned cancer, thankfully she has the full support of her awesome family, unfortunately not much can be done about aforementioned cancer, but then her MOTHER (missing for 33 years but seemingly unaged? weird) RETURNS which sounds good but let’s remember that she was a little bit (quite a bit) neglected by her and then completely abandoned so this is NOT good

Then she gets shoved into a bunker by her crazy young mother so that she survives the apocalypse? What is going on? Now she has to ENDURE THE APOCALYPSE with the mother she is reconnecting with, the cancer that's eating her alive, and WITHOUT her beautiful family. Her husband? Dead. Her son, who is but an innocent child? Essentially dead as far as she is concerned. Now all that’s left is for her to get KILLED by her mother’s boyfriend. She has no idea what’s happening. Why has she been roped into all this without knowing. This is terrible

Her rating is Zero to A Hundred because that's exactly what she got with this nonsense

Jonas Kahnwald

Jonas jonas jonas… the main man… where to fucking start…

Also no he is not going in the top tier, or even in second-top, and I’m about to explain why

That’s not me saying his life was not a shattered mess, BUT, hear me out

Everyone can agree he started with a pretty good baseline, having lots of friends and such, I’m putting my foot down on Michael likely being a saint of a dad despite everything

The suicide was then a big thing, which likely came completely unexpected and he didn’t know why his dad would just die like that for seemingly no reason, so now he has that to deal with

Oh yeah, then he comes back and his new gf (they literally got together a few hours before he had to take mental health leave) is now with his BFF. That’s not cool.

LITERALLY DAYS later, said gf’s brother (who he’s also friends with) goes missing after they heard creepy shit and he lost the little guy while running away in the woods. Absolutely wild occurrences, and Jonas is up there on the list of people most affected by this, directly behind Mikkel’s family

Hello time travel. Suddenly he’s thrown all the shit: Mikkel = his dad, cave stuff, actually traveling, FINDING Mikkel, the Stranger???? telling him to leave it alone and all that destiny and determinism stuff. At this point he’s kind of in the thick of it, where it’s a healthy amount of mindfuck to warrant B tier agony. 

At the moment where he comes back from mental health leave he can get back together with Martha but then ofc he finds out she’s his aunt and (actually lmao) now he’s the one to drop her for no reason. God these two are actually ridiculous together

More travel to the past, he finds out his older self is weird and time traveling??, then he travels to the future, and the future is actually pretty crazy

He not only has to adjust to life in the post-apocalypse, but then when he finds a way out via new portal, he gets captured and HANGED

Well not really because Eli changes her mind at the last second but that’s quite a lot of mind-fuckery for one teenager

1921. Finds out he will be Adam. This is a particularly crazy occurrence and we can recognise it as such, especially because it allows us to separate the ‘Jonas’ from the ‘Adam’, which will allow me to make my main point later

He reaches a higher tier with the fact that he has to go back to tell his dad not to suicide, which then causes him to suicide. I am admitting that this is very big and should be enough to put him in S tier because… no-one should have to have that

And then he has to take Mikkel to the past too. Overall his relationship with his dad is very interesting, because obviously they love each other very much, and Micheal was a great great dad, and then when he was gone it really left Jonas incredibly hurt and empty, now left with just his mother who does take care of him but is far more distant and is also affected by the death, though it seems not to the same extent. That already is quite heavy, but then comes the fact that Jonas NEEDS his dad to die. And Michael is happy to do so for him, because of how much he loves him. Then, he NEEDS to ruin his dad’s childhood by taking him away from his family, working against every instinct he has to do bad things and perpetuate suffering because it just needs to happen. This I believe as the start of Adam-ification, though he’d be damned if he admitted it. It’s where he’s starting to do things for the ‘greater good’, without having his own choice in it, and even though right now he’s mad about having to do it, he does understand the importance of it that Adam has sold to him.

It’s officially the end of his real life now, completely sending him head first into doing time-travel shit, following Claudia when she’s old and teaching her when she’s young

Apocalypse time and it’s a mess. He goes to get Marta, only for her to get killed right in front of him by, well, HIM (I never fully got their relationship, like it was just never that deep for me, but let’s accept that they liked each other, and even if they  didn’t date/ were aunt and nephew, they were childhood friends and he was literally in the middle of trying to save her from the apocalypse when Evil Him shows up to kill her anyway - that’s fucked)

Then we have the three realities: the one where he gets saved by Martha, transported to an alternate universe where he never existed, in a weird way makes this new Martha fall in love with him, tries to stop the apocalypse there, finds out its all for nothing, and gets killed by, why yes, Martha… this one is quite weird but does work as a final sucker punch to a good life that has been absolutely wrecked by existential time travel when he really wanted nothing to do with it, but found himself in a position where he couldn’t refuse and found a path always leading him to determinism when at every turn he secretly hoped and actively tried to do anything he could to break the loop of suffering. In fact, at this last point, where he has had it confirmed that nothing he does can change anything, he must be thinking about his older selves, and how he will soon become them, and resents it, but in a way he’s wrong. While his death is part of the loop in Eva’s world, his older selves were never in the position he is now, because when he is he will always die. As an ending to his arc, it's a pretty tragic one

Something similar can be said in the reality where they go to the origin world and break time travel in general. This is the ending where they wipe the slate clean, they’ve finally found a way that they can ACTUALLY stop all the time travel bs from happening, and it means they have to make everything stop existing, but if nothing exists then does anything even matter. It's a very ‘sweet and sour’ ending and they finally have what they’ve been working for this whole time, but will never get to appreciate it, and it involved Jonas having to sacrifice everything ELSE he ever wanted for the worlds to wipe and time travel to stop, but then again if he just wiped two parallel universes I don’t know if we can really call that HIS sacrifice to have made (or even his and Marta’s) - it’s just them doing the one truly necessary thing and then wiping everything along with its meaning because they never existed - in terms of suffering this is a net zero event

Then there’s the third eventuality, and this is the one that brings the Jonas suffering score plummeting

So he has to survive the apocalypse and then work on the new portal with the smart besties of the future. At this point, he is arguably in the THICKEST of the thick of it, especially because he wants to kms. Nothing is working, everything he cares about is gone, and he has to keep trying against everything to make time travel work and whatever - he’s basically given up all of his own happiness to be here (or rather it was taken from him) and he’s had enough, so he might as well die. The one thing looking up is that he has a new BFF (Noah) and probably knows his friends are safe in the past, even through he probably knows they will never truly be friends again because of how their paths have diverged and how his life is basically slave to the time travel loop - i will reiterate, HE IS MAD SUFFERING RN

Unfortunately he no longer has a bff because he is accused of stealing his child. Sad. But now the portal works. Happy! Only to now be a crazy, kinda mindless drone that has to trudge on and repeat events that happened to him, essentially doing all the work but simultaneously none of it

His bitch-ass mother steals his time machine

Honestly though, their reunion is quite a lot for him, and he finally gets to see her after so long a time, and someone cares about him for him, and he doesn’t have an obligation to time travel stuff right now, he just gets to be with his mother

He tries to stop Martha from dying in the apocalypse… soz babes, you literally SHOULD have known this wouldn’t work

And then ALL the lads take a trip to 1888, where they proceed to do fuck all for many many years!!! For reals tho, he saved them from the blast but really only because Noah told him to, then after bringing them there he refuses to elaborate and keeps them in the dark about a lot, and that’s a big deal when a big thing you’re hiding is the fact that he is Adam, the bitch that made all that happen

And thus, he slowly DOES become Adam, hell-bent on just destroying everything (which kind of makes the Jonas that prevented the car crash in the Origin world an Adam, since he just destroyed everything, discuss amongst yourselves), but in order to destroy everything, a certain series of events must happen, and so… he becomes an unredeemable bastard

He kills his mother. That thing about a heartfelt reunion with her that happened earlier? Wipe it. I take it back. This is the first time he has seen her in *calculates* twenty-three fucking years???? and you kill her that same night because what? she’s not necessary and you can’t have her intervene while you give her child away to the future? I'm not known to sympathise with Hannah much and I kind of brushed past it when doing her analysis because I was mad but this was fucking brutal from Jonas’ point of view

Now he’s manipulating people and lying to them and generally fucking shit up so he can no longer say anything about what he was made to do as a teen. Like. In essence, when you really look at it, really find the cause, you did it all to yourself

All the things he endured at the hands of his older selves? Wiped from his Suffering Score for the fact that he is now his own master yet consciously chose to do that to his younger self

The thing with him and Noah is that yes, Noah went berserk on him when he thought it was him that took the baby. IN HIS DEFENCE, he was told that Jonas would betray him (yes, a lie, but how was he to know?) so it makes a lot of sense to make that accusation from his end. And Jonas fr should have been more understanding of man's frustration. He has a hellish life too, has two things in his existence that actually matter dearly to him (a wife and baby), and one of those two things is brutally stolen and possibly endangered. He’s gonna go berserk. What else do you expect? But that’s not good enough for Adam, because now he has to make Noah go and find that Adam never really cared about him in the whole time that he was telling him what to do, never wanted to help him, never cared about him and his family, just makes him do his dirty work, and then has his own sister shoot him when he UNDERSTANDABLY wants to stand up for himself and do something by his own choice for once (kill the bastard that ruined his whole existence)

Then he kills Martha. Literally whatever at this point.

Then he kills Martha again. A different one. A pregnant one. Oh my bloody damn who cares. This bald bastard just annoys me now.

Then he manages to facilitate a situation in which an alternate reality ‘him’ can make it so none of this happens and everything is destroyed. Are you happy now? Are you? Is this what you wanted? What was the goddamn point. Everything bad that ever happened was because you were a bitch who couldn’t get over himself and his own importance. Goddamn I hate Adam.

Either way, B is way too high a ranking for Adam, but if we factor in the fact that the young Jonas had it rough, the Stranger’s whole schtick was him not even being himself and just being a vesicle for things to happen to his environment, and the two alternate Jonas’ having a really really tough time, B is a good compromise I think. 1/10, the only real ranking because he pissed me off to no end

Special Mention!!!!!

Claudia’s assistant (Jasmin Trewen). She did not deserve what happened to her, that stress of the job and then she gets killed for said job for no reason whilst pregnant. Truly a tragedy.

Dark Schmerz-o-meter analysis

AKA the comprehensive tier list of pain and suffering (fun!)

Characters are all ranked on a scale of S-E and are all relative to one another (yes, you can be sad and still go in E tier). To reiterate, they are NOT ranked based on how much I like them, how good their character is written, or suchlike (although there may be some correlation), this list ONLY takes into account how hard their life was, how much suffering they have had to endure, etc. Points are indeed taken away if you are the one actively causing the sadness (how much depends on e.g. whose idea it was/ how much enthusiasm you did it with).

(also I'm only referring to Adam's-World versions of the characters, unless otherwise specified, because we just have way more information about them)

Feel free to disagree/ counter-argue, this is just my list and my analysis (all for fun).

(OK I'll stop stalling) So why don't we get started with the best of the worst:

E Tier - You don't know what pain is

Hannah Kahnwald

She starts having the affair whilst she is STILL MARRIED (she was unawares that Michael was literally penning his suicide note whilst she was having a smooch with Ulrich) - she also has the inability to love imo, she just has the ability to love attention

She’s not even that good a mother either, she kinda leaves Jonas alone and is only really sad because she no longer has a mans to give her all that attention (PLUS her fling left her too, and then she has the AUDACITY to ask (not ask - FORCE) Alexander to DESTROY HIM for choosing to focus on his MISSING SON instead of HER!!!!!!

And then when Jonas leaves she’s just more attention-deprived so she thought about offing herself but then thought well if I’m dead no-one can pay attention to meeeeeee so decided against it 

Then Jonas returns (33 years older but it is still her SON who displays AFFECTION towards her) and as soon as she finds out about time travel she’s like you know what this means? An opportunity to find more MEN, and she commits THEFT even though Jonas reeeeally needed that machine (she only cares about herself), and proceeds to go to Ulrich ONLY TO TELL HIM SHE HATES HIM BECAUSE HE TRIED TO SAVE HIS SON I MEAN WHO DOES THAT

yes I am well aware that he was unable to say he loves her when she did but I will get more in depth with that later and I mean, come on, man has other priorities, could you really not get him out of prison???? so he can save his son???????

And then obviously she promptly moves on to the first man she sees (married, but she doesn’t care of course) (it’s the guy she reported Ulrich to way back when in the future/past, but she doesn’t care of course) AND HAS THE AUDACITY TO SAY SHE LOST EVERYTHING like MADAM you did not care about your husband, your boyfriend only mattered because he gave you attention, and your SON has RETURNED with all the LOVE he has LEFT from this CAR CRASH of a reality and you RUN AWAY FROM HIM WHILST HE IS ASLEEP AND YOU SAY YOU LOST EVERYTHING MA’AM YOU ARE TO BLAME FOR EVERYTHING I ACTUALLY CAN’T WITH THIS WOMAN-

I’m convinced she has a soft spot for kids because i can’t imagine what other reason she really has for having Silja (she obviously never loved Egon) so she has her and then she gets taken to Jonas and PRETENDS like NOTHING ever happened, like she didn't abandon him when he returned to her to go have a kid with someone else and she didn't steal his most important possession

And then YES she is tragically killed by her own son (which is usually a trait of someone very high up on the list (RIP in pepperonis Bartosz you are loved) but I don't care, she deserved it, otherwise the family tree would be 100 times more kaput if she was allowed to populate it even more, especially if she still has access to the machine) and that’s it, she gets a shut up/die

Ines Kahnwald

So people seem to be opinionated both ways with this one but here we go

I guess she WAS doing everything for Michael’s own good - he rocks up with no family or anything to speak of, he’s real scared and sad and she does in fact take him in when otherwise he would have been homeless jobless lifeless so yay Ines

And yeah I guess you could say it’s hard on her when he’s distant from her and everything but like? What did you expect? That’s not your real son bro???

And then she has to deal with his suicide (but again, he was kinda distant anyway it seems) and you get alienated by Hannah (honestly a good thing) but all in all it is nothing in comparison so you get a meh/maybe I don't actually care all that much, Hannah has taken all my energy

Doris Tiedemann

You did cheat on your husband. Idc who, why, with who, whatever, if you cheat then you a bitch for that and i have nothing more to say on the matter

Yeah then Agnes goes missing, then they potentially reunite, it’s all tame in comparison let’s be honest, idk/idc

Anyone else who I do not mention in any tier is either not a particularly significant character or they do not compare :) stay tuned for D Tier if you want

[ovent0]

I don't know if it's just me.

But, when I try to write a fanfic sometimes I get the names of the characters mixed up.

Since I write them in Spanish and then translate them, sometimes I just write them in their English names.

And it feels like