#Picture perfect just got me so bad when I read it for the first time and I’ve re-read it so many times already <3 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

astraystayyh · 6 months ago

Text

La déchirure

You exist to mourn, to ache for what was and all that will never be. Even if happiness brushed against your fingertips, dazzling and radiant, you would not recognize its face, you would distort its features into the terrible grief you’ve always known.

pairing: figure skater!hyunjin x ballerina!reader.

genre: angst. slowwww burn. heavy and recurrent grief. healing.

warnings: mc has a bad relationship with her parents. grief is a prominent theme here so please be aware. some allusions to sex but no smut. description of injuries.

word count: 21.8k

author’s note: heyyyy…. haven’t posted anything in 3 months i feel so shy AJNSJD i say this about every fic but this fic is truly my baby it took me so long to get it done and i poured my heart into it. so please if you enjoyed reading pls pls pls let me know. it means the world and more to me. happyyy reading!!! also thanks to @hyunverse for indulging all my brainrots about this fic i LOVE YOU

Your bare soles are bleeding across the graveyard. You don’t remember when your sandals slipped away from your feet, nor when your body decided to bring you here, heels scratched from the tiny rocks littering the ground.

But the pain doesn’t register in your brain, not yet. You’re only paying attention to the last name written on the tombstone— your last name, to be exact.

Right now, more than ever, you wished your first name was engraved beside it too.

You’ve memorized this graveyard like the back of your hand, know what sound the tree branches make during spring— gently swaying, like a melancholic flute, aching because flowers refuse to bloom upon them. And during winter too— even sadder, angrier, perhaps to mimic the sound of the souls left alone in the graves to fend off the cold.

Though you’ve never approached this tombstone before. You always remained a few feet back, each time your parents brought you to your late sister’s grave— every Sunday, for the past eighteen years of your existence, without fault.

You don’t know the person they’re mourning.

You don’t know the person they wish to mold you after.

Somehow, in a sick twist of fate, the course of your existence was set in stone before you could draw your first breath into this universe.

She looks just like her sister, your mom whispered in awe, tears brimming in her waterline as she beheld you close to her bare chest.

That is what your grandmother recalls about your birth, the rejoice of you being an exact copy of your sister’s features. There was nothing in her, in everyone’s memory about you. Everything orbited around your sister, the way the planets chase after the sun. You were, after all, born to replace the void she left behind.

You sometimes wonder, is your physique the first setting stone of your pain? Had your hair been lighter, darker than hers, your lips smaller, plumper, would your parents be forced to look at you, behold you for who you are, learn to love you for who you would be?

The question first popped into your brain at age five— maybe less intricate, a feeling that pressed against your ribcage: your parents don’t love you a lot, do they? You are now eighteen, the question has yet to desert you.

You’ve always been aware of this reality— there are more pictures of your sister than of you in your house. Your parents always spoke of her, the perfect little girl, whisked away by a terrible sickness, at age seven.

And she loved ballet.

So, you had to love ballet too.

You weren’t given a choice, per se. At age four, you were thrust into a ballet class with little oblivious girls; just like you. Flushed cheeks and glossy eyes as you all tried to follow the teacher’s instruction. It wasn’t easy, it never got easier, year after year, only more challenging, only harder on your body.

Bigger bruises, sprained ankles from time to time, you’ve lost count of the injuries this art has inflicted upon your body. But thankfully, you ended up loving it too. You loved how graceful it made you feel, how the music seemed to whisk you away to an enchanting world, how the applause roared each time you came first in a competition, all eyes on you alone.

Or so you hoped, you prayed. You wished to dance better, harder until all your parents could see was you. Not the daughter that came before you.

It was hard to admit at times, certainly something you never said out loud. But surely, yes, you were jealous of your deceased sister.

How could you not be when it seemed like you were competing with a ghost, someone whose absence weighed more than your presence?

Snippets of your life flash before your eyes as you stare at her grave. Pirouette, arabesque, plié, tendu— those are words engraved within your mind, ones you breathe in more than oxygen. You hear them in the voice of your ballet instructor, Jihyo. She’s a woman in her forties, though she looks older from the harsh lines framing her face.

Her voice is high-pitched, her hair always tied back in a sleek bun you’re sure pains her brain, her words are harsh each time she corrects your posture.

And she’s the only person who believes in you.

She’s not nice, she has made you cry more times than you can count. So, you knew when she leveled her eyes to yours when you were nine, when she told you, “I see something magical in you”— that she was telling the truth.

You wanted to prove her right, because for once, someone saw something in you, not in a ghost, not in ground-up bones.

In you.

You feel an uncontained anger swell within you, waves of relentless hurt swarming you as you fall to your knees.

You worked hard. You worked so hard. Between classes and ballet practice, the days strung you by like a puppet and sometimes you didn’t have enough time to breathe.

Your entire life revolved around ballet. spin, point well, adjust your posture, you can’t stop now. Suddenly it’s two a.m. and you only get four hours of sleep before your classes begin. You didn’t have time to socialize with your peers, to have a crush on the sweet guy in your maths class, to giggle at an arcade with your friends. Soon after you were in your ballet class, even more spins, points, arabesque.

But all of your exhaustion dissipated today. All of it seemed okay, for the first time in your existence, perhaps, the breath that escaped your chest wasn’t heavy. It was light, it was airy, it was one that yearned for the next, for the days that will follow, tinted with happiness, for once.

“I got into Julliard”

That is what you told your parents an hour ago, voice brimming with uncontainable happiness, tears dripping down your eyes in an uncontrollable flow.

Your mother’s eyes became teary in an instant. You thought the past was past you now. You’ll forgive eighteen years of coming second in your mother’s heart. Surely, she will only see you now.

But then her eyes set on the portrait of your sister on the wall, her tone desolate when she whispered—“she would have loved Julliard too.”

You don’t remember what happened after that. What curse escaped your mouth from the years of barely contained bitterness, when everything lashed out like venomous poison on your parents.

You remember screaming, lots of it, something breaking too, you don’t recall if it is you who threw the vase or your father. The latter seemed more plausible— he was always bound to these sudden bouts of anger. Effects of grief, consequences of your sister’s absence. Her, yet again, poisoning your life.

You remember feeling like a stranger in your home, a nobody, someone they’d kill in an instant to bring her back.

It was no longer a feeling, though. It was a fact. Your father cemented it loud and clear for you— “I wish she never died so you would’ve never been born.”

A pin-drop silence followed. Your father was always bound to bouts of anger, you knew that. He always regretted it afterward too, just like he felt in that instant, scrambling to apologize, to cup your cheek and say he didn’t mean it.

For how long has this thought festered in his brain, taken root in his veins, and flashed before his eyes each time he looked at you?

For how long did your parents wish you were dead instead?

You don’t remember how you got to the graveyard. You don’t recall when it started pouring heavily on you. You only register the rain because the earth is wet as you clench it between your fists, as you punch the ground under which your sister is buried.

You are crying, sobbing, a hysterical mess, you don’t know what you’re yelling, who you’re calling out for, what you’re trying to achieve by punching her grave.

Unearthing her body and burying yours there instead, perhaps.

“What are you doing?” a stranger’s voice startles you, cutting through the fog in your mind like a thunderbolt.

You don’t reply, simply turning around to look at the man standing a mere inches away from you.

“Do you know her or are you just desecrating her grave?” he asks calmly, as he brings a pink umbrella over your head. You realize that you’re drenched from head to toe, your feeble pajama does nothing to fight off the cold filtering between the fabric and your skin.

You are freezing. You fear there is no place warm enough for your soul, not anymore.

“She’s my late sister,” you say, voice raw, scratched like a broken record.

“She died young,” he says, looking at the dates engraved on the tombstone.

You feel so horrible, for a millisecond.

She was only seven.

Her grave is too small compared to your body.

But the anger quickly comes back to blind you. You invite it into your heart, push away the sadness and welcome the rage instead. It is the only thing comforting you in that instant.

“Did she do something to you?” he asks, his voice contrasting nicely against the heavy shatter of rain. It reminds you of the intro of your ballet music, soothing.

“No,” you admit, a bit shamefully. But all sense of guilt dissipates at his next question— “then wouldn’t she be sad seeing you do this?”

“What about MY sadness? MY anger?” you shout, lips trembling like the branches above your head. the storm picks up with your rising voice, the rain’s pitter-patter mimics the chaos inside your brain.

He remains silent and you can barely grasp the expression on his face, concealed by the umbrella’s shadows. You imagine that this conversation must have bored him, so you turn around yet again, your heart pounding angrily against your skin.

But then, he kneels beside you, his umbrella completely discarded. You don’t dare to tilt your face towards him, so you simply stare ahead, your breath caught in your throat— what is he thinking of your most vulnerable state?

“I am rage,” he says, his voice permeating your being softly, the storm seems to calm down too to follow the ebb of his voice. “It means I am alive, or better, I am life, according to Armand, a modern art painter. You are alive today, and you get to be angry. That’s not something anyone here can enjoy,” he points out, taking a fleeting glance at the graves surrounding you.

“You get to do something with that anger. But this, this won’t cure it.”

He’s young, roughly your age it seems, but he speaks as if he beholds a wisdom beyond his years. You wonder what he went through to understand rage doesn’t fix anything. You wonder if he has ever been this angry, too.

Did he move past it? Or did he drown the anger deep within the wells of his soul so he wouldn’t confront its ugly face?

The question roams in your head as you watch him place a bouquet of red lilies atop the grave. You didn’t even notice the flowers at first, your view was too distorted by tears to grasp anything beautiful.

“You’ll catch a cold,” the guy points out, smiling at you, or at least attempting to since the grin doesn’t reach his eyes. His words come out slower, as if weighed down by a sadness only he can feel.

He is in a graveyard after all, the flowers were meant for someone else than you.

“Wait here,” he says, quickly getting up and jogging out of the graveyard.

What a silly request, you think, it’s not like you would dare move. Your feet are aching and you have nowhere else to go.

He returns a few minutes later, a hoodie in his hands that he promptly pulls over your head. The warm fabric engulfs you in a cloud of roses and musk. “I tried to warm it up with the car’s heating,” he says sheepishly, and you blink slowly at his kindness, a pink tint blooming across your cheeks.

“Thank you.”

His eyes fleet to your bare, bleeding feet, and you fidget in place, trapped by a bout of embarrassment.

“I have spare shoes in my car. Do you want me to drive you home?” His voice is gentle, as if speaking to a wounded animal, too bruised by the hands of humans. Tears spring to your eyes once more, you wish the earth could crack open and swallow you whole.

“I don’t want to burden you.”

“You won’t,” he says, and as if sensing your hesitation, he adds, “I promise. Leaving you here is what would burden me.”

You are very tired as he drives you to your place. You speak once when you ask him if he wasn’t there to visit someone, he says that it’s okay, he can come back tomorrow.

You only dare look at him at the last red light before you arrive at your address. He’s beautiful, black strands sticking to his forehead, a tiny pout pulling his rosy lips forward. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, contrasting beautifully with the mole on his cheek. Then, by his jaw. Another at the beginning of his neck. You wonder if he has a map of ebony stars trailing down his chest.

You don’t know why this stranger instills such safety in you. Why would you rather stay in his car than set foot into your house once more. You dread what will await you behind those doors, you don’t think your heart could handle another tear at its tender flesh.

You don’t think you could handle looking at your parents and only seeing strangers.

But you know this safety has something to do with the way he placed the lilies atop the grave; as if it beheld someone dear to his heart and not a stranger. How he made sure you got home safely, how he didn’t seem to care that you dirtied his front seat and the carpet below your feet.

He looks like a good person.

You wish to tell your good news to a good person.

“I got into Julliard,” you quickly let out as soon as he parks. You don’t allow yourself time to regret your confession.

A breathtaking smile overtakes his face, the thunderstorm outside pales before the sun shining in his features.

“Really?” he asks cheerfully, and you nod, a tiny smile painting across your lips. “Mm. Really.”

“That’s amazing!” his grin further widens, his eyes disappearing into two lovely moon crescents. “I know I’m just a stranger but, I'm proud of you,” his voice softens, “I mean it. I hope you’re proud of yourself too.”

It takes you a few seconds to answer, you wish to bask further in the sound of his voice, to store his words into your memory, to revisit his kindness on nights that are too cold.

This was all you’ve ever wanted to hear.

“Thank you,” you smile softly. A moment of silence passes, you find yourself missing this stranger before you even leave his car. You wish to carry a piece of his memory within you, a souvenir of who he is— “I'm Yn, by the way.”

“Yn,” he repeats, his voice tender. “Nice to meet you, Yn. I’m Hyunjin.”

Four years later.

“You need to work on your landing more, but the rest is good.”

“Thanks, coach.” Hyunjin gives Jihyoun, his lifelong mentor, a thumbs-up as he loosens the laces of his ice skates. A dull ache is throbbing through his legs, like the faint buzz of bees circling roses.

His body is weary, every muscle reminding him of the sheer effort he’s poured into perfecting his routine for the upcoming figure skating competition— the most important one of his life, by far.

“Are you leaving now?” Jihyoun’s voice pierces the delicate silence and Hyunjin nods, resting his head against the cold concrete wall. “Just gonna take a breather.”

“I’ll head out then,” Jihyoun says, patting his back gently, “make sure you get some rest.”

Hyunjin waits till his coach is far out the corridor to release a relieved breath. A familiar silence wraps around the ice rink like a comforting cloak, the stillness sits beside Hyunjin like an old friend. It is here, amid the soft hum of machines and the chill of the rink that Hyunjin feels most like himself.

A few minutes trickle by, slow and silent. An uncomfortable feeling nudges at Hyunjin’s rib as he remains as still as a statue; he knows he’s on a losing bet to make time stretch forth, hoping that the sun outside will pause in its descent— a few more moments before the darkness completely sets in Seoul. Because the night will surely string along with it the next day, and the next day is one Hyunjin isn’t ready to face.

When does he ever?

But the sun always sets and rises once more, even if you dont wish for it to.

With a sigh, Hyunjin grabs his bag and slings it over his shoulder. He makes his way to the vending machine upstairs, in the dimly lit corner near the dance studio. He drops a few coins into the slot, punching the number for his usual drink. But it gets stuck—of course.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, pressing his forehead against the cold glass before frustratedly kicking the machine.

“I am rage,” a voice suddenly teases from behind.

Hyunjin is quick to distance himself from the machine, startled, and admittedly, very embarrassed. His shame morphs to surprise when he sees you standing there.

Your lips curve into a gentle smile, and your eyes sparkle with quiet amusement— that light, however, dims slightly when he doesn’t immediately respond.

It takes all of Hyunjin’s will to act like he doesn’t recognize you.

“You get to do something with your anger, but this won’t cure it.” You quote, your voice softer now. “You know, you told me this, near the graveyard…” You point vaguely behind you, each word growing quieter as if you’re no longer sure if that scene was real or a figment of your imagination.

Hyunjin nods in recognition, and you relax, the tension lifting from your shoulders.

“Miss Julliard,” he murmurs, a hint of nostalgia in his voice. Your grin brightens at his words and Hyunjin notices faint smile lines tracing your lips and eyes. It seems as if you’ve laughed quite often for the past four years. The thought brings him a strange sense of comfort.

“What did the vending machine do to deserve this?” you ask, tilting your head with playful curiosity.

“Stole my money,” Hyunjin mutters.

“You’ve got to hit the side when that happens.” You show him, tapping the machine with an experienced hand. His drink clatters down, and he shoots you a thankful grin as he bends to retrieve it.

In those brief seconds, with his head bowed, Hyunjin begs his heart to slow its frantic beating.

“What are you doing here?” you ask once he stands.

“I’m an ice skater,” he says, and your eyes widen with genuine surprise.

“Really? That’s amazing!”

“Yeah… I guess it is. Are you back from Julliard?” His voice is softer now, more tentative, reminiscent of the day you met.

“For a little while. Just a few months. This studio—” you glance around, “—it’s where I used to train before I went away.”

“I see,” Hyunjin nods, “I train upstairs, in the ice rink. Because I’m an ice skater,” he repeats, before closing his eyes in embarrassment as your giggles spill forth. No shit Hyunjin.

“I’ll see you around then,” he quickly mutters, eager to end the conversation, before turning around and hurrying away.

He’s almost by the stairs when your voice calls out his name, urgent, pressing.

“Hyunjin!”

His body freezes before his mind orders it to—he’s not the only one who remembers, then.

“Did you eat dinner?” you shout, a little out of breath.

“No,” he admits.

“There’s a place nearby that makes the best kimchi stew. Want to go?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“It’s my treat.” Your smile has slightly dimmed, and you’re unconsciously scratching the skin by your nails. Even from afar, Hyunjin can discern a shadow looming in your eyes, a plea unspoken.

“Are you lonely?” Hyunjin’s question comes out before he can stop it, blunt and raw. He’s always been honest, maybe too honest for his own good. Time has taught him that every moment matters, that each second slips away faster than you expect, and that it’s better to speak the truth before it comes back to poison you.

Your smile falters. “I just… don’t want to go home. not yet,” you confess quietly.

“So you’re using me?” he teases, leaning back against the wall with a smirk. You roll your eyes, muttering “Never mind” under your breath as you start to turn away.

“Fine,” he sighs, pushing off the wall. “But I’m craving sushi.”

…

Hyunjin’s eyes are more worn than the last time you’ve seen him.

Four years ago, they were puffy, soft with exhaustion, their brown dulled like the last flower clinging to life as fall sets in. But now, the lights have gone out completely, like a bloom crushed underfoot, its color bleeding into the cracks of the pavement.

You steal glances at him between spoonfuls of kimchi jjigae (he silently followed you to your restaurant), watching for any sign of recognition. But he doesn’t seem to remember your name, nor the day at the graveyard as much as you do.

The thought strips you of embarrassment and clothes you in sadness instead.

Hyunjin has written your name into his diary more times than he’d care to admit, even less so to you.

He has always walked this earth alone, a stranger even to his own emotions, especially his grief— no one understood how his mother’s death consumed him whole.

It is true that only one body was laid to the ground many years ago. But Hyunjin’s soul followed hers into the ground when he was just fourteen.

His sadness made sense to his teachers, his classmates, and even the distant relatives who only came around occasionally. But no one grasped the depth of his anger—at the universe for taking his mother when he was still a child, at the illness that wore down her bones, at himself, mostly, for still breathing when she no longer could.

That rage had devoured him, tore through his flesh with its canine teeth. He only saw its reflection once—when he met you.

Hyunjin didn’t know who or what you were mourning that day at the graveyard. But he remembers your screams on his way to his mother’s grave, raw and stripped down to the marrow. It was as if he had stumbled upon his younger self, begging his mother to dig through the earth and hug his frail body once more, just once more.

“How long have you been skating ?” you ask suddenly, your gaze flickering over his face. He blinks slowly, as if to bring his consciousness back to the present moment.

“Since i was a kid, nearly two decades now,” he says.

“Do you like it?” it is a harmless question, a natural succession of the one that came before it. But nothing was ever that simple with Hyunjin, because ice skating reminded him of his mother, and his mother was the wound that had yet to stop bleeding.

“I do, I really do,” he speaks softly, a fragile smile curling his lips. He waits till you both finish the first bottle of soju to ask— how have you been? and it’s your turn to frown slightly. He notices the tightening of your fist around the spoon, the subtle tremor in your hand. You, too, carry an ever bleeding wound.

“I’m okay.”

The next question slips from him without thought, “are you still as angry?”

You remain silent for a few seconds, holding his gaze as the question settles between you. His cheeks flush, and he almost apologizes for his bluntness, but then you speak.

“Was I ever angry? I think I was just very sad.”

Snippets of a younger Hyunjin flash through his mind. The numerous brawls he got in with his classmates, the way he pushed away anyone who tried to show him kindness— He was all thorns, keeping others from reaching the tender petals beneath.

Tears spring in his eyes, unbidden, and he bites his lower lip. He understands what you mean perfectly, you understand what he feels perfectly too.

“I feel as if my heart is too tired now to bear such big anger,” you say with a smile. “Have you worn out yet? That’s what I’d like to ask.”

“Aren’t you afraid of the answer?” he pauses, adding in a quiet whisper, “I am.”

The chandelier above dances across his glossy eyes. You’ve never been optimistic—life hasn’t allowed you that luxury. But a small part of you wants to offer Hyunjin hope, to breathe life back into his weary heart, even though you no longer believe in hope yourself.

But no words of reassurance come. So instead, you offer something much simpler, much more realistic. “Let’s ask it another time, then,” you smile, pouring each other a new round of drinks. You quickly down three shots before laying your head on the table.

“Are you sleeping?” Hyunjin asks with a quiet laugh, the sound light, like a melody played softly on piano keys.

“It’s fine,” you wave a hand in the air. “The owner knows me. He’ll wake me when it’s time to close.”

Both of you are running from home, or what’s left of it. Hyunjin watches you, your face softened by fleeting peace, so different from the grief he’s etched into his memories.

Far more beautiful, too.

“Then wake me up, too,” he sighs, resting his head beside yours.

His eyelids close instantly, lulled to a nice sleep by the buzz of the fridge and the soft hum of your breathing.

Many minutes pass by— quiet and uninterrupted. Hyunjin finds that the next day has come much slower in your company.

…

The first time you saw Hyunjin figure skating, you were drawn like a moth to a flame to the music echoing from the ice rink.

You recognized the swelling violin of Can You Hear the Music, and paused by the entrance, torn between stepping in and turning back. What if it wasn’t Hyunjin? Worse, what if it was, and he didn’t wish to see you?

Still, your feet betrayed your hesitation, inching forward. You stood at the door, watching in quiet awe as Hyunjin leaped into the air, spinning with perfect grace. He landed effortlessly on one foot, the other extended behind him in a flawless arc.

The lights danced over his body, his flowing white blouse trailing his movements like a siren’s voice pulling in sailors. His black hair floated weightlessly with each spin, strands resting delicately against his forehead.

For the past four years, you had struggled to feel human. The world tasted bland, as if your heart had lost its ability to savor anything. You were afraid you’d lost the capacity to be amazed—by sunsets, by poignant art that once moved you to tears. So you chased after beauty, desperate for the feelings it could still stir in you, a fragile reminder of your humanity.

But watching Hyunjin skate— that gripped your heart more than anything else had in years.

“He’s good, isn’t he?” a voice startles you and you turn quickly, caught off guard by a man standing beside you, a bottle of water in hand and a kind smile on his face.

“Yes, he is,” you reply quietly.

“I’m Jihyoun, Hyunjin’s coach,” he introduced himself, extending a firm hand.

“Yn,” you hesitated, glancing at Hyunjin, who was still absorbed in his performance. “An acquaintance.”

Jihyoun nodded, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. You followed suit, unable to tear your gaze away from Hyunjin as he spun, cradling his chest as if holding a memory close, his body lowering toward the ground in a quiet ache. It was a pain you knew all too well.

As the music softened, Hyunjin stilled, closing his eyes, taking a moment to catch his breath. You were about to slip away, retreating like a shadow escaping the light, but Jihyoun would have found you weird, perhaps he’d think you were a stalker. So, you remained there.

“Hey, coach,” Hyunjin waved, skating toward you both. Anxiety flickered in your chest like a match that refused to light up—you regretted coming now. You had shared a meal just days ago, but Hyunjin hadn’t asked for your name, nor did he seem to remember it. Maybe you held onto his memory more warmly than he held onto yours.

“Miss Julliard,” Hyunjin greeted with a soft smile as his eyes landed on you, and just like that, your worries dissolved like sugar in hot tea.

“Julliard? That’s impressive,” Jihyoun whistled, but you shook your head. You often forgot how prestigious your school was—perhaps because no one ever celebrated your acceptance in it.

No one, except Hyunjin.

“Have you eaten?” Hyunjin asked, gliding to the edge of the rink, his blouse clinging to his sweat-soaked skin.

“No,” you shook your head. He nodded nonchalantly.

“I’m craving kimchi jiggae again,” he tipped his chin towards you, “we can go again, if you’d like.”

“Sure, I’d like that,” you grinned.

“Okay. Wait for me.”

…

Hyunjin’s routine has always been quite simple.

He’d work out in the morning, the rest of his day lost in practice, his nights reserved for painting or reading, sometimes pouring his thoughts onto paper. It was a life untouched by turbulence, a pattern he rarely swayed from— until you wove yourself into it.

For the past two weeks, you always came to see Hyunjin at the end of his practice. Some nights you’d go eat dinner at your usual spot; sometimes you’d simply buy a drink and find a quiet refuge on the rooftop, watching the city lights twinkle beneath the stars.

There was a strange sense of comfort, he had found, in two bruised souls sitting with one another— an unspoken understanding of what your tongues had often failed to express.

But you hadn’t come to see him in two days.

It’s past one a.m. when Hyunjin finally exits the practice building. He pauses outside, turning back to see that the lights are still on in the dance studio.

He hopes it is you dancing there.

With a faint sigh, he takes the stairs two at a time, not wanting to dwell on the fact that, for the very first time in a while, Hyunjin, the ever lonely man, is seeking someone else’s presence.

When Hyunjin pushes open the studio door, he finds you sitting on the floor, knees tucked to your chest. Your tutu encircles you the way petals would hug a stem— layers of soft tulle in pale pink, contrasting delicately against your sheer tights and pointe shoes.

You appear just like the water lily he sketched only yesterday—soft pastels and an unmatched delicateness. His cheeks flush at the comparison, and, in a hurried attempt to leave, he fumbles, catching his shirt on the doorknob and bumping into the door.

He’s frozen in place, wincing when you call out his name in surprise. Does he have to embarrass himself each time he’s around you?

He turns slowly, a sheepish smile creeping onto his face. “Miss Julliard,” he waves, and you grin in return, your eyes warm, “What are you doing here?”

The words are lost on him as you run over to him, stopping mere inches away from his figure. His fingers twitch for his sketchbook, a sudden urge seizes him to draw you.

“You didn’t come by yesterday so I came to see you,” he explains, voice soft like a summer breeze.

Your grin brightens like the sun. “Ah, did you miss me?” you tease, and he rolls his eyes playfully, walking past you to sit on the floor.

Did he miss you? no he didn’t, but his heart did ache, just a little, at your absence.

“Why did you look so defeated sitting on the ground?” he asks instead of replying, leaning against the mirrored wall.

You sigh, taking your place across from him, “practicing this dance is so hard, I got sick of it.”

He nods, understanding the frustration that stems from being a perfectionist, always chasing ideals in your work.

“You know what helps me? Performing to a song I love. Reminds me what I love about the sport.”

You hum, before a mischievous glint sparks in your eyes. “There is this one song.. From a barbie movie.”

He blinks in surprise, laughing as you dash for your phone.

“Barbie?”

“Yes! The 12 dancing princesses. My mom made me watch it to convince me to take up ballet.”

“Is that so?” he grins, placing his chin atop his palm.

“Yeah, she wanted me to follow my sister’s footsteps,” you say, and he thinks back to the small grave you were both kneeling next to. “I wonder if I wouldn’t have become a ballerina if I didn’t watch it,” you muse, before clearing your throat.

“Anyways,” you force a smile on your face, as a whimsical melody streams through the loud speakers. Your grin turns childlike as you stand onto pointe, your raised foot grazing the knee of your supporting leg.

You glide across the floor as if you are floating, your tutu catching the soft glow of the studio light. Your leaps are as light as air, and you slide to Hyunjin grabbing his hand to pull him up, drawing him into your orbit.

You laugh, spinning around him, your movements fluid and free, yet your arms frame your figure with a rehearsed prouesse. He can’t help but laugh with you, the warmth of your presence filling the room, the music wrapping around you both like a spell.

You’re a blur of pink and light, you appear like an angel dancing to the tune of childhood memories.

As the song reaches its end, you twirl one last time before bowing gracefully. Hyunjin claps, the sound echoing in the quiet studio.

“I haven’t danced to that in years,” you say, catching your breath. “I probably looked ridiculous.”

He shakes his head, his voice steady and sincere. “I think ballet would’ve found you anyway. It’s like you were born for it.”

Hyunjin is used to the cold bite of the ice rink, that is where he feels most like himself. But he is somehow drawn to the warmth of this particular studio—no, not just the studio. It’s the warmth you bring, the way your smile lights up the space at his words, that makes him feel, for the first time in a long while, that he could have a friend. That he doesn’t need to walk down the path of life alone.

…

You’re lingering at the doorstep of your home, keys gripped like a lifeline in your trembling fingers. It always takes you three heartbeats to open the door—one to shut your eyes, two to fill your lungs with air, and three to prepare for the tidal wave of hurt waiting on the other side.

You push the door open and slip inside, peeling off your shoes like a shadow trying to leave no trace. With each step, the house pulls you in, a black hole swallowing the warmth that once flickered in your veins, devouring any trace of light.

Dinner with Hyunjin still burns faintly in your chest, like the lingering heat of a fireplace after the flames have died. He makes you laugh a lot, because he’s clumsy, and a peculiar fan of weird debates. You had just spent an hour discussing whether humans have two buttcheeks or simply one.

But you wither down inside this home, your joy punctured like a balloon drifting too close to the sun.

The walls have permeated your sadness, they echo the killing sentence your father cast into your heart four years ago, a wound that festers no matter how much time has passed.

Hyunjin asked you a few days ago why you were back to Seoul. You told him you were competing in the Seoul International Ballet Competition, and he said that he was preparing for the Olympics selection. He then laughed, saying how strange it was that after a month of seeing each other every day, it was only now that you’d shared this.

You tried to laugh with him, but the sound felt like a stone sinking in your throat. Guilt gnawed at you, not because it was a lie, but because it wasn’t the whole truth. The ballet may have brought you back, but something else called you home.

At times you wonder if you had made the right call by answering it.

“You’re home,” your mother’s voice cuts through the quiet as you enter the kitchen. You nod, humming absentmindedly.

“I made pasta, it’s in the oven. And I bought that drink you like,” she says, but her words are too sweet, too forced—like the artificial flavor of apple in fizzy drinks.

“Thanks,” you whisper, barely loud enough to carry the word across to her.

“I’ll grab it for you,” she says, moving toward the fridge. But when she opens it, her hands falter, hovering over empty shelves. “That’s strange… I could’ve sworn I put it here.” You grip the counter tighter as she flits from cabinet to cabinet, her search growing frantic.

“It’s fine, I’m not thirsty,” you murmur, but she continues, finally pulling open the dishwasher.

“Ah, silly me,” she says softly, retrieving the can with trembling hands. You keep your eyes low, unwilling to meet hers. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice as fragile as a cracked vase, “I forget so much these days.”

And just like that, she slips out of the kitchen, leaving behind a gaping hole in your chest that threatens to swallow you whole.

You hate it when she forgets in front of you, because it shatters the illusion. You see her now, as something frail, crumbling under the weight of time. Her mind, like a worn-out book, is losing pages faster than you can salvage them.

And the cruelest part is that it forces you to forgive her—to hold her in the softness of your heart, knowing that one day she’ll forget who you are entirely.

But has she ever known who you were to begin with? Has she ever dared to ask?

Has she ever cared to?

…

The first time Hyunjin spoke about his mother, you were both lying on the grass underneath a starry night.

You had been rambling about a specific bagel from New York that you missed, while he hummed absentmindedly, his thoughts entangled in memories like marionettes tugged by invisible strings from the past.

He hadn’t meant to ignore you; so when you turned to him, playful mischief dancing on your lips—“Are you listening to me?”—he could only offer a sheepish grin in response.

“What’s on your mind?” you asked, and he bit his lip, worry knitting his brow.

Hyunjin had never had anyone to speak to about his mother; her memory resided in the pages of his diary, the strokes of his paintings, the rhythm of his dances—never out loud, never to another soul.

But he suddenly felt an insatiable urge to speak of her; thorns pricking his throat, his skin growing feverish as he fought to form the words he longed to speak.

“What’s wrong?” you pressed, your tone shifting to one of concern. He thought you wouldn’t mind if he shared her memory, but what he would even say? There was so much to talk about, so much he admired, so much he missed.

“My mom…” he started, his voice tentative. He had your full attention now, he could tell by the way you fully turned around to look at him. “She used to make the best kimchi stew,” he confessed, closing his eyes in slight embarrassment. Is this really what he decided to speak about?

Still, he pushed through. “She made it for me whenever I was sick. I don’t attach it to bad memories because it was delicious, and I could feel that she made it out of love, out of concern.” He pauses, sucking in a deep breath. “I hadn’t eaten it at all since she passed away. I couldn’t bring myself to. Until you took me to that restaurant.”

His eyes glistened as they settled on you, “So thank you for taking me there. I think you would have liked her kimchi stew.”

Your eyes widened slightly, dewdrops brimming in your waterline before you smiled softly. “I’m sure I would’ve.”

He cleared his throat, somehow emboldened by the tenderness of your gaze. He thought that her memory would be safe within the confines of your mind. He thought that he wouldn’t mind sharing her with you. “She was the best figure skater I’ve ever seen.”

“Was she? Is she the one who inspired you to become an ice skater?” you asked, curiosity lighting up your expression. He nodded eagerly. “Yes, she was graceful with her moves; it felt as if she floated atop the ice. The media dubbed her the best figure skater of her generation,” he spoke, pride swelling within him as he noticed the admiration in your expression.

“It was always just her and me, so I’d stay late into the night watching her practice. That was my favorite pastime. She’d always buy me the food I wanted afterward, as a thank you.”

“She sounds like a good mother,” you said, and your words morphed into fingers pressing on his tender bruises.

“She was. She is.”

“Tell me more,” you smiled, and so he talked, and talked and talked. He shared everything he could recall: their weekly picnics beneath cherry trees, birthday candles they’d blow out together, the medals she dedicated to him, and her silly jokes that had once filled their home with laughter.

He spoke of her kindness, her joy that lingered even until her last breath, the love that she beheld for this life and her art, and him. He didn’t mention her illness; it was a mere passing moment, never defining her, never stripping her from the passion that bound her atoms together.

When he finished, he found his cheeks damp with tears, but his heart felt lighter than it had in years. The air around you was sweeter, for once, it wasn’t fourteen-year-old Hyunjin weeping over the memory of his mother. The ache had softened.

His last words hung in the air, echoing softly in the stillness of the empty park. You didn’t speak; instead, you gently placed your palm atop his.

It is his very soul that twitched at your touch.

“What are you doing?” he asked breathlessly, a foolish question, perhaps.

Your reply was even more obvious, simpler.

“Comforting you.”

“I…” he hesitated, eyes darting furiously over your face, then your hand resting upon his, then your eyes once more, watching him patiently, leaving him the space to retract his hand or intertwine your fingers with his.

“I’m scared,” he finally admitted, the shadows of his fears looming large. It terrified him even more to utter such words, yet he knew you wouldn’t use them against him; you understood what it felt like to be deprived of comfort— somehow that only saddened him even more.

“What if… What if I forget the coldness of her fingers wrapped around mine?”

“Your mom loved you, Hyunjin. And someone who loves you would want your hand to feel warm.”

Something shifted within his heart, atoms rearranging themselves to spell out a simple truth for Hyunjin— your mom would want you to be happy.

He nodded, willing his fingers to slip in the empty spaces between your fingers. You squeezed his hand—once, twice, thrice—each pulse a silent invitation for your warmth to seep through his veins, to permeate his bones and sink into his heart.

He could get used to this, he thought. He wants to get used to your warmth, he realizes.

What does that mean?

…

Hyunjin has always known who he was, memorized to heart the architecture of his personality.

He knew he loved art, that he found solace in learning about artists past who, like him, seemed to have sculpted their solitude into something lasting.

He knew he loved painting, he knew he hated egg plants, he knew he’d rather die than not achieve his mother’s dream, for him.

But something within him was shifting—unraveling.

His eyes are drawn to the entrance of the ice rink, like a compass needle to true north. His neck craned almost instinctively as the clock looms over 11 p.m.— the time you usually come by to the studio.

“Don’t worry, she’ll drop by,” Jihyon’s voice cut through his trance. Hyunjin startled, his cheeks blooming with the soft pink of a rising dawn.

“What are you talking about?” he mumbled, but Jihyon only grinned knowingly.

“Miss Julliard,” his coach teased. Was he that obvious? Did you notice it too?

That nickname clung to you both since the first time he uttered it near the vending machine. You never corrected him, never offered your real name, and he never asked—though he knew it well. He had thought of you often over these past four years, wondered if you had been well, wondered if you had ever moved on or if you still carried the anger, the heartbreak as if it were your own spine.

He felt guilty that he had found comfort in your pain all these nights past.

Did that make Hyunjin selfish? Or lonely?

“Don’t stay up too late,” Jihyon said as he waved goodbye.

“Don’t worry about me.”

Jihyon lingered by the door, as if wishing to say something else, but he simply sighed before leaving.

It feels odd now for Hyunjin to stand in the stillness of the ice rink, feeling like a hollow shell without you. The quiet is no longer familiar, nor comforting, not when he’s grown accustomed to your giggles spilling all over the place.

What does it mean, he wondered, when the heart learns to beat to the rhythm of someone else’s presence? When the mind begins to archive every detail, every smile, everything that the other person has ever loved?

Like clockwork you jog into the studio, waving at Hyunjin from afar. He skates over to you, leaning against the railing as he smiles, it is natural for him to smile at you.

“How was practice?” you asked, and he shot you a thumbs-up, his fingers drumming against the railing.

“Isn’t your competition next week?” you ask and he nods, “Can I come watch then?” you say and his heart stutters at your request.

“You can, if you want to, if you don’t it’s okay too, you actually don’t have to,” he mumbles, his words rushing out, until you pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him

“I’ll be there, I have to make sure everyone cheers for you when you win,” you grin, self-assuredly, as if you have never doubted that he’ll qualify for the Olympics.

His heart grows limp at your words, his limbs losing their strength as your finger lingers upon his lips. He gently grabs your hand, moving it away, goosebumps rippling across his skin at how soft your wrist feels.

This isn’t normal.

“Should I bring pom poms? Actually, should I make them from scratch? What’s your favorite color?”

“Will you actually come?” he whispers. Hyunjin has never had anyone cheering for him in his competitions, except for his coach, but he was obligated to do so, in a way. He doesn’t remember what it feels like to smile at someone in the stands anticipating your win.

Somewhat, you sense the gravity of hyunjin’s question, the vulnerability it entails, one he doesn’t try to hide. He has never attempted to hide his emotions from you, now that he thinks about it.

“Of course I will,” your voice softens, your playfulness melting away. “I promise. I…” you point your pinky to him and he chuckles quietly, “I pinky promise.”

You kiss your thumb pad and signal for him to do the same, he shakes his head before following your lead, pressing both your thumb pads together.

“There, sealed forever.”

You quiet down, before giggling for a reason that eludes you both.

“Have you ever tried ice skating?” he suddenly asks and you nod, “I know how to skate, but not how to do all those fancy spins of yours.”

“Do you want to try?” he smiles and you lighten up, “Actually? What if I fall?”

“I’ll be there to catch you.”

A few moments later, you were both on the ice, Hyunjin spinning around you as you found your balance. “This feels so different from ballet,” you chuckle and he grins, “do you like it?”

“Yeah, i do.”

“Come here,” he beckons, reaching for your hand, and you don’t hesitate, your fingers intertwining with his as he leads you across the rink.

Can you hear the music starts playing on the loud speakers and Hyunjin laughs, turning around to look at you.

“I’m scared,” you giggle happily and he shakes his head, “Let go of your fears and hold on to me.”

And then, without warning, he spins you, the motion sending your hair flying around you like wings unfurling in the wind. he’s spurred by the emotions this song alone can bestow on him. Can you hear the music?, it asks. Yes, he can, now more than ever, is his answer.

He wraps a secured arm around your waist, lifting you off the ground as he traces wide circles on the ice. Your laughter can be heard over the music, shouts of exhilaration ripping through you as you lift your leg to a ninety degree, as if doing ballet on ice.

He twirls with you in his arms, as the music hits its crescendo, before finally putting you down, his arm still around you, your chests almost brushing against one another.

You’re so close, closer than you’ve ever been, Hyunjin can decipher the specks of light in your eyes, can hear the booming sound of your heartbeat in his chest. Your hand wraps around his bicep as you catch your breath, and Hyunjin is wrapped in a cocoon of your scent.

He doesn’t wish to break free, he wants to remain in the chrysalis woven by the notes of your perfume.

It’s a few hours later, Hyunjin laid on his bed, a pillow tightly pressed to his face. He wasn’t a stranger to late-night thoughts strung along by the twilight, but he had never thought before of this—of your lips, how soft they looked inches away from his, how it’d feel to press them on yours, to move slowly, tentatively, and then ravenously, hungrily, achingly.

“Fuck,” he mutters, further burying himself under his covers. Hyunjin wasn’t accustomed to these kinds of thoughts, he had never pursued someone, never had the time nor the energy to do so. Never had anyone grab his attention, in the first place.

Until you.

“Do I like her?” he murmurs to no one but himself, before shaking his head forcefully. “Go to sleep, Hyunjin,” he mutters, willing his eyes to shut closed, sewed so tightly together images of you cannot slip through his eyelids.

But to no avail.

He groans, kicking the covers off before heading to his desk. There, he opens his diary, grabbing a pen as if to write a new entry. But his fingers itch for the buried notebook from four years ago, the one he eyes from the corner of his eye.

He sighs softly before digging it out of its place, his fingers expertly going to his entry the night he came back from the graveyard. The night you met.

He remembers coming home slightly distraught after dropping you off, he had lingered by the door a bit, hearing echoing screams, a door being slammed, then an eerie silence once more.

Hyunjin had been too immersed in his pain to afford absorbing others’ sadness. A sponge that is too saturated, unable to welcome the woes of any other being.

But you had managed to crack through his defenses, frayed yourself a passage through the small gaps forgotten, shed sunlight on parts of himself he had thought were rotten, lost beyond salvation.

He felt an excruciating sadness for you, for your anger, for your sadness, for the way it consumed you whole, because he knew what would follow—when a body burns up, all that is left after is ashes, scattered everywhere, mingling with specks of dust, meaningless, a heart that serves no purpose anymore.

He never told you, he is unsure if he ever would, but it was the fourth anniversary of his mother’s death when he met you. He had planned to spend the night in a willowing state of sadness, an incapacitating one that didn’t allow for his limbs to move, similar to the first anniversary, then the second, then the third.

But he had spent the rest of it sketching your tearful eyes as you looked up at him, as you cowered away from his words, as you relaxed in his car.

That is the image he finds in his diary entry. But now that he thinks about it, he didn’t skillfully depict the moles scattered on your face, the crease near your eyes, or the way your hair reflects the sun’s light. He didn’t capture the arch of your eyebrow or the way beauty seems to reside in every nook and cranny of your face, seems to pour out of your pores like the sun brushing against a waterfall the way timid lovers do—magical, beautiful.

He sees you in a whole different light, now.

Hyunjin runs a tired hand through his hair, before grabbing his sketchbook. In the hours that ensued, in which he tried to do your beauty justice, erasing and retracing the shape of you time and time again, numerous questions ran through his mind, racing against time to find answers.

Does he like you? No, too simplistic of a question, too dim to encapsulate what knowing you feels like.

Is his soul drawn to yours?

Perhaps. Yes. Most definitely, his heart whispered.

Would he be a fool if he ever confessed it to you?

It is his mind that answered then. A bit forcefully, in fear, in warning: yes, a thousand times yes.

…

There are places in your parent’s house that you always stray from, the way oil stirs away from water. One, the vicinity of their bedroom, two, the living room— the ones in which you are most likely to stumble upon them. Three, the attic, in which you will most likely brush against ghosts from the past.

But somehow you found yourself exactly there, tonight.

It's 10 p.m. The sun has long sunk below Seoul’s horizon, leaving behind a sky awash in an exquisitely deep blue, so inviting you almost wish to disappear into it. Today was your rest day, no dance studio, no late night escapades with Hyunjin.

You find yourself missing his giggles and how they would linger in your mind long after you part ways.

The attic is still, the floorboards creaking beneath the weight of your feet as you fumble for a light switch, your hand sweeping along the dusty wall. It flickers on, weak and golden, and you squint as the air, thick with age, coats your lungs.

Old furniture crowds the room, remnants of a life you left behind four years ago. You’re surprised they kept your bed untouched in your room, one last string tying them to your memory.

Your eyes sweep over old paintings, broken suitcases, and wooden shelves, a hand mixer—useless now. And then, you see it, the reason you climbed here.

Your mother had once mentioned a box, in passing, filled with things your sister wanted to leave for you. Your mother wasn’t pregnant with you at the time nor did she intend to, but she’d entertain the idea to make her favorite girl happy.

You kneel and pull the box to your lap, the cardboard soft and weathered under your fingers.

“She was so kind,” your mother had said, too many glasses of wine in her system, her words loose and unguarded. “She gave up her favorite toys for you, before you were even born.” You never asked why they were never passed on, deep down you already knew the answer. She never deemed you worthy of having them.

Inside, you find a small doll with golden hair and big glassy blue eyes, its pink dress dotted with strawberries, a swan hairpin missing some crystals, and tiny, delicate ballerina shoes, pale pink, unused, small—so small.

And then, a note.

Your heart stumbles, the bile rising fast to your throat as you grip the worn paper in your hands.

Your sister had always been a myth, a memory passed down to you by your parents. An elusive figure you have only seen in photographs, until now.

You’ve never had words that she addressed to you.

The paper crinkles as you unfold it. You can somehow hear the rush of hot blood in your veins—uncomfortable, deafening.

The words blur together as your eyes skim over the paper. You catch fragments— to my future sister—then something about how she wants to play with you, urging you to hurry, come quickly, before I break all my toys.

Your vision wavers, the small, careful handwriting barely legible through the haze. I left you my favorite doll and hairpin. So simple. So kind. I also left you my new ballet shoes. You don’t have to like ballet but if you do that would be awesome.

I would love to dance ballet with you.

The note crumples in your hand as your heart lurches, body jolted upright as if struck by lightning. You stumble out of the attic, discarding the box as the walls close in on you. They press, like the past, against your ribcage until you feel like you might suffocate.

You’ve carried resentment like a stone in your chest, a tide pulled by the moon, ever present, ever rising. You resented her because her memory haunted you, grew larger than life as you did. But she never asked for that. She was just a child, a seven-year-old who loved you before you even existed.

How horrible are you?

Guilt is bitter on your tongue, sour as acid, and you swallow hard against it, tasting the metallic tang of regret. You don’t think as you barge into your parent’s room, blinded by feelings too entangled like vines to tell apart.

“What’s wrong?” your mother asks, sitting in a bed too big for her alone. You throw the crumpled note at her.

“Why did you never give me this?” you demand, and her eyes widen as she skims the lines, a sheen glazing her pupils.

“I…” she stammers, and you laugh—a hollow, jagged sound—as your hands press against your forehead, fingers digging into the migraine feeding off your pain.

“You know I hated her, right? I– I hated a child, my sister because I never felt loved by you,” you choke, voice fracturing, “how– my god how pathetic is that?”

“i’ve always loved you,” she says, voice tentative. but it is too meek of a reply, too hollow before the depths of your abandonment.

“I’ve never, NEVER felt once loved by you! YOU made me feel as if I was competing with a ghost. She wasn’t here but she was everywhere and I was never enough to fill her shoes!”

“I was a grieving mother!” she yells, standing up to face you, her face flushed and her hands trembling. “Do you know how terrible it feels to lower your child into the ground? Do you know how horrible I felt covering her grave when she was scared of the dark, when she hated the cold? She–” her voice cracks like fragile glass, unraveling as tears spill over her face, “She kept telling me that she didn’t want to leave us, that she didn’t want to die. How am I—“ She sobs, the sound raw, torn, “how am I supposed to forget my baby’s last breath? how am i supposed to be a perfect mother to you when I couldn’t protect her?”

“i never wanted a perfect mother.” you murmur, eyes shutting tight, chest heaving with hiccuped breaths. “I never said you had to forget her. But I was right here. I was alive. I was breathing, hurting, waiting for you to see me, to love me.” Your voice breaks, you sound like your seven years old self and you hate that. “Did I mean so little to you?”

You smile sadly before her silence, your shoulders dropping low. You are too tired for an offense, too tired to tear down her defenses. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t always a good child. I’m sorry that sometimes I threw tantrums. I’m sorry for all the ways I failed you. I know I’m not perfect. I hurt, I stumble, I make mistakes. I am filled with resentment. I choke with it, and sometimes I hurt others too. But I try. I always try to make things right. And I apologize if I do.”

Silence thickens between you both like browned sugar, though this moment is anything but sweet. You remain quiet, hoping for your salvation to come in the form of two words, two simple words— I’m sorry—that is all it would take to soothe your heart a little.

You wait, and wait, and more seconds pass as the silence stretches longer and your mother refuses to meet your eyes. And slowly, slowly the hope withers within you. You know she isn’t apologizing tonight. Maybe not ever.

“Forget it.” you whisper as you leave the room and hurriedly walk out of the house. You need something strong, something to burn away the ache, something to scald the memory from your bones, to forget.

It’s nearly midnight when Hyunjin finally steps out of the training building. The air is crisp, cool against his flushed skin, but his relief is short-lived as his eyes land on Sohee, the owner of the kimchi jjigae place nearby, hovering by the entrance.

Hyunjin’s frown deepens—something feels off.

“Ah, hyunjin,” the fifty something quickly jogs up to him. “The security guard told me you still hadn’t left.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Yn has been drinking for the past hours, she looks.. Sad. And I’m worried she can’t get home safely.” Sohee’s tone sets off the alarm in Hyunjin’s mind.

His worry tightens into a knot in his chest as he steps into the narrow restaurant. His eyes immediately fall on you—your cheek pressed against the table, five empty soju bottles scattered around you

He crouches in front of you, his heart twisting as he takes in the dried streaks of tears on your cheeks. What happened?

“Hey,” he whispers gently, afraid to jolt you awake. You stir, blinking groggily, trying to piece together your surroundings.

“Hyunjin,” you breathe, barely a whisper, and his heart softens at the sound. He nods, offering you a small smile, though concern darkens his eyes. “What’s wrong, hm?”

His words unlock something deep inside you, and your face crumbles like a porcelain vase breaking apart. The tears come swiftly, welling in your eyes until they spill over, your lower lip trembling like fragile branches in a storm.

“I’m a—I’m a horrible person,” you choke out between sobs, your voice trembling as much as your body. Your eyes squeeze shut as your shoulders quake, and Hyunjin’s hands move instinctively, gently covering your tightly clenched fists.

“No, you’re not,” he murmurs, his voice soft and steady, as if trying to hold you together with his words alone.

But you shake your head fiercely, a sob tearing from your throat, raw and unrestrained. “I’m a horrible sister,” you manage to whisper, your words barely audible as you wipe at your eyes, only for the tears to fall faster, harder.

Hyunjin watches you break, his heart aching with every tear that slips down your face. He feels weird, feverish, as if your pain has somewhat transferred to his heart. He glances at Sohee, who quietly steps out of the restaurant, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet, dim light.

With a soft sigh, Hyunjin gently cups your face in his hands, his palms warm against your tear-streaked cheeks. His thumbs trace slow, soothing circles across your skin.

“You didn’t even get to be a sister, how could you be a horrible one?”

“I hated her for so long when all she wanted was to dance with me. I hated a child for so long, I’m a-a horrible person.”

Hyunjin tentatively licks his lips, thoughts jumbled in his mind like wires. His heart is beating so fast as he wraps an arm around your back, bringing your face to the crook of his neck. You seem to melt in his embrace, tension loosening off of your back as he gently pats your spine.

“I don’t think you hated your sister. You hated how your parents treated you. Those are two different things.”

Your tears are unceasing, trickling down his skin as you sob more and more. He doesn’t mind the dampening of his shirt, he would never mind a lot of things when it comes to you.

“Humans aren’t straightforward lines, we bend and twist and stray from our paths because our hearts are too frail and sometimes we carry emotions too heavy for us to bear. Sometimes we are pushed to feel certain things when we’ve never wanted to go through them.”

He never stops patting your back gently, his hand traveling from the top of your hair to the base of your spine. “A bad person does not worry about being a bad person. I’m sure your sister knows you love her. You have nothing to feel horrible about.”

Your tears are unyielding and Hyunjin feels as if it isn’t enough— to press your body to his hoping the rhythm of his heart would calm down yours, to think of words of his own doing to soothe your pain. He has not had to comfort anyone in so long, he doesn’t know how to stop your ache. He wishes he could soak your sorrow into his heart instead— he’s used to it, he can handle your pain and his, at once.

He’s racking his mind furiously for things to comfort you. In his memory he stumbles upon the poem of Mary Oliver that has held his hand in the dark.

“Would you like to hear my favorite poem?” he asks, in a whisper.

He feels you nodding against his chest, and he peels himself away from you, painfully, like removing a bandaid from a wound that has yet to scab.

Hyunjin’s eyes are wide and glossy as he peers into yours, as he looks beyond your irises and gazes at your soul, as he recites to you, with a steady voice like a current that doesn’t fall prey to the hazards of storms— “You do not have to be good.” He smiles softly. “You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.” The verb strikes you like a thunderbolt. “You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.”

It passes him like a vision, a flash of white that blinds him, him holding your cheeks but without tears, him cupping your face, in the mornings and in the nights, because it is you his soft clueless flesh aches to love.

It’s gone as quick as it came, his words come out much slower, much more disoriented as he continues— “Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.”

“I want to tell you,” you hiccup, your cheeks are all rosy, delicate red veins protruding the white of your eyes. Your lips are all swollen from how hard you bit them to muffle your sobs.

“I will listen,” he reassures. Hyunjin stays true to his words. He drives you to his place, there, atop his couch, lit by a flower shaped lamp casting warm shadows on you both; you felt safe, a vanilla tea in hand, to talk, to tell Hyunjin everything, how you felt and how lonely, excruciatingly lonely you have been for the past years.

And he listens, he listens well, nodding, holding your hand when it shakes, wiping your tears when they slip from your face.

You feel a sense of gratitude swell in your heart, as if a hundred tulips bloomed in your chest at once. You feel safe talking about your biggest fears to Hyunjin, handing him your heart on an open palm, bruised, bleeding. He would wrap it in a gauze for you, he would keep it safe till you can heal it once more.

You doze in and off sleep on the couch, you can feel Hyunjin placing a warm blanket atop you. You swear he sat by your side for a long while, his hand gently patting your hair and threading through your locks.

You resisted the urge to pull his hand, to beg him to climb near you on the couch and have him encapsulate you in his hold once more. It would be too much for him to bear. Too much of you to ask. Too hard for you to handle a no.

Because even in your drunken state, with a heart weighed down by alcohol and ten thousand stones of grief, when Hyunjin cupped your cheeks in his larger, warmer hands, when he peered into your soul with his brown glimmering eyes, when it looked as if he could mirror your pain, as if he could understand the guilt, as if he could hold your hand through the grief— for one second, for a fleeting instant, it was all forgotten.

The grief became a simple myth in your mind, a distant memory, something you could brush away as a bad dream slipping away with the march of time; simply because he was there for you through it.

…

Hyunjin is beautiful.

This isn’t new knowledge for you, per se. You've known it from the moment your eyes met his, through a veil of relentless rain and the sting of unshed tears. Even then, you recognized it—he was the most beautiful human you’d ever seen.

But somehow, you’ve managed to tuck this knowledge away, placed it in a forgotten recess of your mind. You had found other things to like about Hyunjin, things that wouldn’t be weird for a friend to admire— and Hyunjin made that an easy feat for you.

You enjoyed the poems, all the ones he’d recite to you from time to time. You loved watching people’s eyes turn to behold him, and him unaware of this magnetic aura coating his porcelain skin. You felt warm hearing his bright and unrestrained giggles, seeing traces of happiness carved into his eyes, watching his lips stretch into a wide grin that seemed to swallow the world whole.

But there are moments when it’s harder to forget. Like now—when Hyunjin stands before you, slipping on the finishing touches of his performance outfit. His sky-blue top clings to his frame, bedazzled with pearls and diamonds that cascade like teardrops, swooping around his small waist and hugging his broad shoulders. The fabric melts into his black pants, carving his silhouette like a chiseled statue.

There are only ten minutes left before his turn on stage. Last night, over quiet spoonfuls of miso soup, Hyunjin told you to please stay backstage with him, his voice so soft it felt like a secret only meant for you. And how could you refuse? Hyunjin wanted you close—Hyunjin asked for you.

He is nervous, you can tell by the slight tremble of his hands as he struggles with his earring, the delicate hoop slipping from his grasp. It falls, and before you know it, you’ve stepped forward, picking it up, your fingers steady as you help him clasp it into place.

His gaze is heavy on you, and your heart beats a little too fast. You avoid meeting his eyes—he’s too close, too vulnerable of a setting for you.

You finish, stepping back, but Hyunjin’s hand finds your wrist, gently tugging you close again. He doesn’t let go, his fingers playing with the hem of your sleeve. He bites his lip, lets go of the plush flesh before biting it once more, then he confesses. “i’m scared.”

Your fingers find his wrist, settle above his wildly beating pulse, a small part of you selfishly wishes it is because of your proximity. Your thumb gently swipes across his soft skin as you say, “you’ll do amazing. I’m sure of it.”

He nods, though something flickers in his eyes, something unsaid that lingers between you. He swallows it down, offering you a small smile. “Thank you. I’ll see you after.”

“Okay,” you grin back, “I’ll see you with a gold medal.”

You’ve seen this choreography countless times before, memorized every twist, every subtle motion of his body. But watching him perform, under the harsh, burning lights, is like witnessing something new.

Hyunjin moves with a grace that defies reason, a dancer molded by the music, his body bending to its rhythm, his face crumbling as the music swells.

Hyunjin glides around as if he is one with the ice, he glows, like the sun on stage, mesmerizing, dipping low with the music and soaring high with its rhythm. Your hand is on your chest as you watch him deliver the killing move, a deep dip, head thrown back, his body a perfect arch on his knees.

He finishes, under the roaring applause of everyone around. You’re first to stand on your feet and the entire arena follows, giving Hyunjin the standing ovation he deserves, the only one of the night. He bows deeply, a hand on his heart as he soaks in the praise.

You feel like throwing up as you anxiously await the results to show up on the screen. One minute of silence passes by, then, you see it. His name comes in first.

Hyunjin won. Hyunjin qualified for the Olympics.

He’s already skating towards you, and you’re moving, rushing down to meet him. You wrap him in a tight hug, feeling his chest rise and fall with quick breaths.

“How was it?” he asks, laughter bubbling in his voice. You find it to be such a silly question.

How could he be anything but extraordinary?

“You fucking did it, Hyunjin,” you say, the words leaving you in a rush. He tips his head back, laughing, his happiness so pure it aches. You reluctantly pull away from him as Jihyoun comes to congratulate him, pulling him too for a hug.

“Proud of you son,” he says and you can see Hyunjin’s eyes well up with tears. you wish you could kiss them away, the tears and the sadness, will it to desert his heart, kiss his smile and happiness, learn the taste of his joys and sorrows.

Oh god.

The thoughts submerge you like you’re doused in gasoline, and being near Hyunjin is the crickling match that will set you on fire.

“There’s an afterparty to celebrate the man of the hour,” Jihyoun grins, patting Hyunjin’s back in a fatherly manner. You can feel the pull of the crowd, people waiting to shower him with well-deserved praise, like waves gathering to meet the shore.

“Are you coming?” Hyunjin’s voice is soft as his gaze lingers on you. You hesitate, and he pouts, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his face. “I want you to come, please.”

“Okay,” you smile, though your feet are already inching away. “But I left my phone at home. I’ll go get it and come back.” That is the truth, or maybe just a shadow of it.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

Hyunjin, ever the considerate one. His kindness cuts deeper than he knows, a dull blade slicing against your fragile skin. You hate how you pull his thoughtfulness to somewhere tainted with shadows. You hate how your mind cannot accept that someone could care for you. What if he pities you, still? It asks. What if he only sees you as the selfish girl sobbing at her sister’s grave?

How could someone like Hyunjin, radiant as the sun pay attention to a mere rock floating in space, aimless, too unimportant to even be given a name?

“No, it’s a quick drive. Enjoy your moment.” You flash a smile, hoping it covers the tremor in your voice. You quickly slip away before Hyunjin can notice, your pace quickening as his brow furrows behind you.

You’ve never dared to truly like someone. The harsh truth is that people like you, who were born sipping grief in their mother’s womb, only end up accustomed to its metallic tang on their tongues.

It’s been thirty minutes since you left and Hyunjin’s eyes keep drifting toward the door, pulled by some invisible force. Jihyoun is talking, excitedly introducing him to someone new, someone important from the sound of it. He hears snippets of the conversation— Switzerland, the best coaching center, a guaranteed win, but the words are distant, like murmurs underwater.

His mind is a whirlwind of paranoid thoughts as Hyunjin redoes the calculations: it was supposed to be a fifteen minute errand, at most. Where are you?

His heart feels tethered to a storm as he steps out, muttering a feeble excuse to Jihyoun, feet moving before his brain catches up. The air feels heavy like trying to inhale metal, only to end up crushed from all sides.

He searches the parking lot, scanning the faces mingling there, but he finds no sign of you. His feet keep moving, driven by instinct, by a chilling feeling pulling at his heart, desperate to glimpse you.

Then he sees it—flashing lights up ahead. His world dims as he watches a man on the phone, gesturing frantically toward a car. A car that’s all too familiar. Yours, crumpled like a piece of paper, flipped on its side, crashed against a tree.

A loud ringing floods his ears akin to the buzzing of a hundred angry bees, at once. His legs buckle, his hand slamming against a nearby car for balance, but it feels like the earth beneath him is giving way. His eyes squeeze shut, his back turning away from the wreck. Not again.

Please, not again.

His throat burns with bile, and it feels like nails are clawing at his chest, ripping his skin open and exposing his heart. It’s pounding wildly, erratically, like it’s trying to escape the cage of his ribs and splatter on his feet.

He can’t turn around—he’s too afraid of what he’ll see. But he has to. His breath comes in ragged gasps, his vision spotted with white as he stumbles forward. He taps the man’s arm. He struggles to find his voice as if it were never his to begin within. “Did someone get out of the car?” he whispers, broken, pleading. The man shakes his head.

Hyunjin rushes to the window, desperate to find you, to see you breathing, but the glass is tinted, hiding whatever lies inside. Without thinking, he throws his fist against the window. Once. Twice. Again. And again. His skin splits, blood dripping down his knuckles, but he can’t stop. He pounds the glass until it shatters, only to find nothing within.

“Hyunjin?” A voice, so achingly familiar, cuts through the haze. He spins around, breathless, and there you are—limping, disheveled, but alive. You’re breathing.

In an instant, he’s in front of you, his eyes wide, frantic, searching yours as if they behold the answer to every fear, every prayer he has ever uttered. His hand trembles as it cups your cheek, thumb brushing your skin, needing to feel your warmth. His gaze flickers over your body, checking for any trace of life-threatening injury, his heart lodged in his throat.

“Are you okay?” His voice is raw, stripped bare.

“I am,” you reply, and your words are his salvation. A sigh shudders out of him, pulled from the deepest parts of his soul, as if he’s been drowning and you’ve finally pulled him to the surface.

He falls to his knees, palms pressing into the ground. Tears spill from his eyes, hot and heavy, streaking down his face like rain in a storm. You kneel beside him, and his arms instinctively wrap around you, pulling you close.

His fingers weave through your hair, pressing you to him, needing to feel you, needing to know you’re real. His body trembles as he buries his face in your hair, his tears soaking through your shirt, inhaling your scent, grounding himself in you.

“Yn,” he breathes, your name the only thing that could express the magnitude of his relief. He holds you tighter, the words tumbling out like a prayer, “I thought I lost you. My god, I thought I lost you.”

It takes a while for you to process his words, to understand the scale of his fear at the thought of losing you. Those are foreign notions for you, a sight you never thought you’d grasp one day. A sight you never deemed yourself deserving of.

“You’d care this much if I died?” Your voice is a whisper, small, uncertain.

Hyunjin’s bloodied hand smooths your hair, his eyes red, chest heaving. “Yn, I…” He squeezes his eyes shut, voice breaking. “Yn, please don’t leave me.”

“I’m sorry,” your lower lip quivers at the sight of his tears, somehow seeing him sob leads to your own unraveling, as if your emotions are tied by one red string. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to worry you,” you apologize, you the forgotten one, the ghost in your own home, apologizing because for once, your absence did hurt someone, because for once someone would miss you if you were ever gone.

Hours later, you’re in Hyunjin’s home, tucked into the safety of his bed. You’d refused to call your parents, not wanting them to know what had happened, how close their wish had become reality.

The ambulance had taken you both to the hospital, where they patched Hyunjin’s wounds and checked you for a concussion. You repeated, over and over, like a broken record— “The brakes stopped working, and I jumped out of the car.” Hyunjin spoke for you when you grew tired.

“How are you feeling, Yn?” Hyunjin’s voice is soft, as he hovers over your figure. Your name sounds sweeter from his lips. It sounds as if it was always his to pronounce.

“I’m okay. I’m sorry I ruined your night.” Your apology is quiet, but he shakes his head, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. Your eyes shut closed as his lips caress your skin, as if wanting to drown out all the other senses, useless, needing to focus solely on his touch.

“If you’re okay, that’s all that matters to me.”

He goes to leave, but you catch his hand. You don’t overthink your next words, you think you’re long past that when it comes to him. “You called me by my name. I thought you didn’t remember it.”

“I never forgot,” he says, stepping closer. “I’ve known who you were since the moment I saw you. I… I thought about you a lot for the past four years, Yn. I think about you now too,” a pause, “for different reasons. Sweeter reasons.”

He remembered. He has come to know you and he still thinks of you.

“Me too,” you smile softly, “I think about you so much it feels as if you’re all I’ve ever known,” you confess breathlessly. Your eyes flicker to his lips, and his do the same.

Before you can think, you’re standing on your tiptoes, your lips resting on his, unmoving, driven by a desire so raw it blinded you.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” You pull away, stumbling back.

But his hands find your waist, pulling you back. “Can I do that again, Yn?” His voice is soft, and you nod, dazed. How could you ever refuse him?

His mouth returns to yours, slow and deliberate, like a melody reuniting with its refrain. Sweetness spills from his lips onto yours, a blend of honey and wildflowers and something that is entirely his. His breath surrounds you, intoxicating, pulling you into a world where all you wish is to melt into him, to slip beneath his skin and flow through his veins.

Fireworks bloom behind your eyelids, explosions of colors you’ve never seen before, as if the universe itself has unraveled in the space between you both. His hands cradle your face, thumbs tracing circles along your cheeks that send a thousand butterflies flapping their wings throughout your being. Your fingers weave into the silk of his hair, a breath of relief escaping you as you touch him the way you’ve longed for.

You’re still kissing him and yet you already ache to do it again, again and again, till you forgive the world every cruelty it has inflicted into you, if it allows you to hold his warmth a little longer, to keep your sun cupped between your palms.

“Is this what happiness feels like?” he murmurs against your lips, a smile threading between your breaths, your teeth grazing his in the closeness. You laugh softly, your foreheads touching softly, “I think it is. It tastes so sweet.”

“Mm, I think I need to taste it again, to make sure,” he teases, his lips finding yours once more, playful and hungry. Time loses its meaning, minutes slipping away like sand grains between your fingers. By the time you part, your heart has memorized the rhythm of his breath and the weight of his lips upon yours, as familiar now as your own pulse.

…

“So, how do we do this?”

Your laughter echoes softly down the corridor. Hyunjin has you pinned against the wall near the skating rink, his right hand braced above your head, the other hovering over your waist—yet, it’s that mere sliver of air between his fingers and your skin that ignites a wildfire within you, burning bright with longing.

“Wouldn’t it be strange if we just walked in, holding hands? I mean, Jihyoun knows me, but…” Your voice drifts away like chimney smoke, dissolving into the background of Hyunjin’s thoughts. He’s no longer listening—he’s observing. Memorizing. His gaze skillfully captures every curve, every shadow of your face, as if this is the last dawn he’ll ever witness. As if, by morning, he’ll be blind, and this moment is his only chance to engrave you into his memory.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, his voice soft, almost reverent. Your words falter, fading like the final notes of a song only he remembers. He leans in, his lips brushing your cheek with a tenderness that paints your skin crimson red.

He smirks, satisfied by the effect—perhaps, he thinks, that is how the sun feels as it kisses the horizon goodnight, leaving the sky a blushing mess.

“You were saying?” he teases, and you roll your eyes, pretending to be exasperated. “I was saying that it would be—“ But his lips find yours once more, plucking the words from your tongue like petals from a flower.

In the dim glow of the corridor, the world around you fades to an afterthought. It feels as though you exist only for this, only for him— to kiss and to be kissed by Hyunjin.

“Finally!” Jihyoun��s voice shatters the moment, ringing out like a bell, pulling you both apart. “Thank you for kissing him, Yn. Now he’ll stop with the longing stares at the door.”

“What stares?” you laugh, the sound bubbling sweetly up your throat. Hyunjin scratches the nape of his neck, shrugging innocently when your eyes meet, as if he has no idea what Jihyoun is talking about (though he knows all too well).

Hyunjin catches his coach’s eye over your shoulder, a wide smile tugging at his lips. Jihyoun once told him that he seems to bloom around you, like a flower starved of sunlight, finally nourished. The thought warms him—knowing that the people closest to him feel your presence like a balm to his soul. His mother would have loved you too, he’s certain of it.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” Hyunjin whispers later, as you’re leaving the practice building, his arm draped over your shoulder, yours wrapped around his waist. Natural. Familiar. Like two rivers flowing into one.

“I don’t have anything of mine there,” you pout, and Hyunjin stops, cupping your cheek, his nose grazing yours in a gesture so tender it makes your heart float within your ribcage. “That’s part of my secret plan—to get you in my clothes.”

“Oh, what a very secretive plan,” you giggle, stealing a quick kiss. “And what would we do tonight?”

“Sleep together.” You raise an eyebrow, and he shakes his head, flushing crimson. “I mean—sleep, actual sleep, not that I wouldn’t want to make love to you,” Your laughter rings out, as his forehead finds its hiding place against your shoulder, embarrassed. “I just want to hold you close. That’s all.”

Your sweet Hyunjin.

“I want that too, Hyune.”

Hyunjin has never been much of a writer, his forté has always been to express himself with his body, spell out words out of the movement of his limbs. It is more evident as he opens the door to his apartment, with you trailing behind. As he looks at both your shoes sitting side by side near the entrance, your accessories resting next to his in the bathroom.

He lacks the words to explain how right, how natural it feels for him to have you in his space, for you to fill it with the music of your voice and the fragrance of your perfume. As if it has always been his reality, to walk home with you, to watch you slip into his clothes, to brush his teeth next to you, to lay atop the bed with your warm eyes staring at him instead of a cold wall.

“Do you believe in fate?” you suddenly ask, your thumb trailing alongside his neck, pausing right where his pulse beats. He has never been aware of the weight of life against his skin until he knew you.

“I never did, I didn’t want to believe in something pre-written for me. Wouldn’t that confine who I am, who I could be?” he muses and you nod softly, inching closer to him. “But somewhat,” he trails off, lifting your hand to his mouth, peepering the sweetest kisses alongside your palm and wrist, like dewdrops caressing leaves. “I believe in it now, because of you.”

“I think I was meant to find you that day in the graveyard. I think what I feel for you is too grand to be a pure coincidence,” he confesses.

“And what do you feel for me?” you ask, your voice soft, curious.

Hyunjin doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he gently twirls a strand of your hair away from your eyes, before tucking it behind the cuff of your ear. He presses his forehead to yours, like two pages of a book meeting one another, then he exhales slowly, like a man who has found peace after a lifetime of searching.

And in a way, he has. He can stop looking frantically for something that would stitch his soul up, he has found you, now.

“I used to resent hearing my own heartbeat. At times it felt like a punishment, because existing felt like a chore. I wanted the sound to quiet down, I didn’t want to hear anything, nor feel anything anymore.”

“But now,” he pulls you closer, your legs intertwining with his, like roots seeking comfort in one another, “it’s reassuring to hear, because it means there is still life within me to love you in it.”

Love. The word has long felt like a thorn ingrained into your skin. You have always recoiled from it, less from repulse and more in fear— if the people who were put on this earth to love you, didn’t, then weren’t you meant to remain unloved for the rest of your life?

But looking at Hyunjin now, at the way the word rests gently on his lips, rolls off his tongue with such ease, with such certainty, you don’t want to run.

You want to stay.

It is when Hyunjin traces maps along your skin with his lips, as you drift down the constellations of moles on his chest, as you find yourself lost within everything that makes up his being— his scent, his sounds, the weight of him pressed against you— that you find your words to reply, to breathe your first I love you to him.

And in that confession, another realization comes, though this one is bitter, sour, like a chilling premonition: if Hyunjin were ever to leave, what would be left of you after?

…

Hyunjin has never been fond of the concept of time, minutes seemed to march differently when it came to him— seconds stretching out like thin threads, nights unraveling in restless turns, sleep plucked right off from his eyelids.

But with you, time softened, as the hours spun forward, swift and gentle. Around you, Hyunjin no longer felt the weight of passing days on his heart.

Hyunjin didn’t feel the two months of happiness you bestowed upon him slipping from his grasp.

He was lost, adrift in the gentle tides of your being—swept by the melody of your laughter, cradled by the softness of your curves. He often wondered if he was deserving of this happiness, yet never lingered long enough to find an answer. He selfishly accepted the joy you gifted him, for once.

Your belongings filled the empty nooks of his apartment gradually, corner by corner—your satin pajamas settling just above his plaid ones, your skincare nestled near his on the bathroom shelf, your favorite mug clinking against his in the dishwasher.

In some way, it mirrored how you’d seeped into him, like sunlight breaking through the longest of nights— threads of the sun illuminating what was once lost to darkness.

He’d steady your chin to help with your mascara, your doe eyes looking up into his. You’d brush his hair, pressing gentle kisses along his shoulder blades. He’d do your laundry. You’d make his coffee each morning. He’d brew your tea each night.

You didn’t have much time to talk during the day, both of you engrossed in the practice of your respective arts. Yet, the knowledge that you were just a floor above him, close if he ever wished to see you, was enough to soothe his heart.

It was at night that you bared yourselves to each other, in ways that went beyond the tender grip of his hands on your waist, or the slow trail of your fingers down the curve of his back.

In the hush of the twilight, you’d unfold softly, revealing the hidden layers within—you’d share your dreams and hopes, and the moments that shaped you, letting the fragments of your pasts settle in the safety between you both.

“I think I know my purpose now,” you whispered one night, and he hummed, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. “What is it?”

“I think I kept ballet at a distance because loving it felt like surrendering to my parents’ dreams, like I’d be becoming what they always wanted me to be.” You paused, your voice a little softer, a little braver. “But I do love it, Hyunjin. I want to be the best at it. I want to honor my sister through it.”

His gaze softened, as a tender smile blossomed in his lips. “You already do.”

Some nights were less sweet, tangled with heavy grief and unshed tears, yet it felt easier to walk through them if you were there holding his hand.

“Would you go into her room with me?” he asked quietly one night, his gaze locked on his mother’s bedroom, its door sealed for a decade. He had never dared to enter it once more, afraid it would further cement the notion that she was gone.

That truth felt easier to confront with you near.

“Of course,” you replied softly. “Whatever you need.”

The room was just as he remembered, only stuffier with dust and heartache. Time hung in the air, dense and unmoving, clutching at her last moments alive, unwilling to let go.

He looked to the bed, and he could almost see the shape of her there, frail and thin, her clothes too loose over a body worn out with sickness.

You held him close, steadying him as he took in each familiar corner: their photos framed with gold on the desk, her countless medals hung on the wall, her perfume and hairbrush untouched on the vanity, her rings resting in a small seashell container.

He walked slowly to the vanity, his fingers reaching for the ring he had loved most—a thin band of gold, crowned with a small emerald, dulled by time. Gently, he wiped away the dust with his shirt, before turning to you and slipping it onto your finger.

“Keep it,” he whispered. “It will live again through you.”

In the days that followed, you helped him breathe light and air into the room once more, sweeping dust from the framed certificates and photographs, polishing the medals until they shimmered as they once had. You washed the linens and her clothes, packing them carefully for a donation to cancer wards—something he never found the courage to do, until now.

Grief no longer felt like a knife lodged into his heart, its metal rusting with the passing of time. He saw its true face now—a soft ache, a quiet longing, a thicket of thorns that can only grow from the roots of love.

Your voice floated in his mind that night, echoing like the bells of a long standing cathedral. “your mom loved you, hyunjin. And someone who loves you would want your hands to be warm”— would want you to be happy.

Happiness swept into Hyunjin like an endless, gnawing hunger—an insatiable ache that demanded to be fed. He was ravenous for joy, longing to sink his teeth into it, dip his tongue into its sweetness and let it spill all over him.

When an exoneree tastes freedom after decades of longing, it is the small breeze, the waves lapping hungrily at his bare feet that make his heart twitch. So it was with Hyunjin: the small joys swelled within his ribcage, vast and boundless. His heart strained against his chest, eager to burst free and feel it all.

Somehow, Hyunjin’s biggest joy came from watching you dance— the principal dancer of your competition team. Whenever he had a break, he’d choose to slip away from the ice rink and climb the stairs at a hurried speed, slip into the dancing studio and sit in the corner.

There, he’d watch you, leading the group of dancers you’ll perform with. You stood in the center, beckoning the attention of everyone around. Beautiful, so beautiful.

How foolish of him it was to try to deny it. How foolish of him to think that there was any outcome but to fall for you.

You always caught his eye across the mirror, your face breaking out in a wide grin, as you waved shyly at him, the strictness melting off your features and morphing into something warm. He felt special in a way, to be the sole recipient of such a breathtaking smile. He felt as if he could write hundreds of poems about that alone.

That smile feels even more precious as you stand on stage at the Seoul International ballet competition, seconds before the light would turn on and you’d begin dancing. In the split second of darkness, it is him your eyes sought after in the crowd, it is him you wink at, before switching into your professional mode.

You aren’t as nervous as he expected you to be. Somehow your facade only slipped when five minutes before the stage you beckoned hyunjin in for a hug. “Do you need anything?” he asked as he kissed your temple softly, tightening his hold on you.

“I just need to hug you for a minute. It helps me calm down.”

Hyunjin had always known you were a stellar ballerina. You were humble with your achievements, speaking of your art as if you don’t have years of practice to attest to your expertise, as if you hadn’t gotten acclaims nationally and internationally.

Still, seeing you on stage made a different pride bloom in his heart. You are the rightful star of the night, the swan of ballet as the media had dubbed you— delicate with your movements, spreading your arms like the unfurling of their feathers, spinning delicately into the air with a grace that made his breath catch in his throat. You were mesmerizing.

You didn’t simply move, or dance, that would be too simplistic to encapsulate how you breathed life into this art. Into him.

And it is hyunjin’s arms that you run into, scurrying down the stage steps, an overflowing bouquet in your right hand and a gleaming trophy held tightly in the other.

“You won, my love,” he shouts, ecstatic as you throw your arms around his neck, as he cradles your waist, spinning you around like how he always orbits around you.

He puts you down, leaning in to kiss you with no second thought, your eyes closed as you savor one another, as your lips move as if commanded by the stars, to part only to meet again, and again. Till your cheeks are both flushed and all he can taste is the strawberry in your lip tint.

Your eyes lock on his, your pupils widening till they swallow your irises, mirroring your breathtaking grin. Hyunjin felt as if the sun had left the sky and lodged within his chest.

But what Hyunjin failed to understand is that, for souls like his, happiness is only a fleeting passenger. Even then, it isn’t meant to be swallowed whole; it is to be eaten bite by bite, back hunched, hidden from the harsh glare of the universe. Perhaps this is the price he pays for defying the sadness that shadows him—his own eager canines sinking into joy, ultimately tearing it apart.

…

“I think I’ll go to Switzerland.”

It takes a few seconds for Hyunjin’s words to settle into your mind, for the syllables to unfurl slowly, like a wave gathering its strength before inevitably crashing on the shore.

Once, Hyunjin had spoken of a figure skating center in Switzerland, one that Jihyoun praised endlessly—the pinnacle for skaters reaching toward gold.

“Will you go?” you’d asked, and he’d only shrugged. “I’m thinking about it.” The conversation had dissolved then, lost in the press of his body against yours, in the paths his fingers traced down your stomach— dizzying enough to make you forget the sound of your own name.

But you should have known—some things cannot be buried beneath the covers. They always resurface, haunting, inevitable.

You draw in a deep breath, your gaze settling on your congratulatory bouquet. The flowers have started to wither now, despite the sugar cube Hyunjin dropped in the water.

Were they a trigger for the slow withering of your relationship, too? Did the fall of that first petal set the course for your own undoing?

“Okay,” you nod, biting your lip anxiously. “When will you go?”

“In three days. Or else I’ll miss the deadline to join.”

Oh.

You remain silent, feeling as though barbed wire coils around your throat, each metal spike pressing deep into your flesh. He steps closer, his warm hands cradling your cheeks. It takes you a few seconds to meet his gaze.

You suddenly imagine a life untouched by him. The thought fills you with a horrible urge to weep.

“I know it’s sudden,” he murmurs, voice low, “I tried to delay it as long as I could, but Jihyoun kept insisting, saying it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I don’t want you to feel abandoned.”

You shake your head, as if to push that thought away, as if the notion itself is meaningless.

“I’ve always known we wouldn’t stay in the same place forever. I have to go back to Juilliard soon, too. I just… never thought it would happen this fast.” You sigh softly, a tender smile slipping across your face as you bring your hands up to cup his cheeks. “But you’re meant for grand things, Hyunjin. If Switzerland is where you’ll find them, then I couldn’t be happier for you.”

“I love you,” he whispers, his nose brushing against yours, a gentle, aching gesture. “We’ll make it work, right?”

He searches your eyes, pleading, his brows drawn into a worried knot.

“Of course, we will.”

It is the first time you lie to Hyunjin.

“I love you,” he repeats, gripping your waist and lifting you onto the counter.

“I’ve only known love thanks to you,” you murmur. That much is true.

Hyunjin kisses you with hunger, his hand tangled in your hair, his body moving with a fierce rhythm—passion and love dripping from each one of his touches, each one of his spilled i love you’s between broken whimpers and moans.

He loves you tonight like he has something to prove. As if his fingertips must be etched upon your skin, as if his name should be the one carved deep within you, the one found if you were split open to your soul.

Lying against his bare chest, you feel his breath rise and fall beneath you, the tip of his fingers sketching aimlessly upon your skin. Yet, you sense as if there is already a rift between you both. As if the news of his living has seeped between your bodies— the distance has already laid its claim, separating you both.

…

You’re back in New York, slipping into the rhythm of your classes like a puzzle piece wedged into place, not quite fitting, yet you force it to. You spend each waking moment practicing your final dance at Juilliard—The Sleeping Beauty—the ballet that will close this chapter of your life.

Your apartment has remained unchanged; the conversations with your classmates are as futile as ever. And your heart still pulses, aches for Seoul, for the warmth you found there, in Hyunjin.

Winter settles in, snow gathering in quiet drifts along the streets. Two languid months slip by, time dragging its feet, as if too wishing to remain right where you left Hyunjin. You lose yourself in the pursuit of a perfect performance. And yet, the praise of your professors and peers no longer fills you as it once did.

It all feels hollow, empty, when you can’t remember the last time you and Hyunjin spoke, actually spoke, the way you used to.

You’d already seen this scene unfold in your mind the day he broke the news—more vividly still as he walked away in the airport. You had known the first few days would be good—frequent calls and texts, sharing the smallest details of his new life and of your familiar one.

But then, the silence would settle in, as it has. Because you and Hyunjin are both perfectionists. Because without your art, both of you are left with nothing but shadows of yourselves— hollow shells calling out in agony to what truly pleases your souls.

You’re afraid to say it out loud, but Hyunjin’s face is blurring in your memory, details softening as though sketched by an impressionist’s brush. All that remains clear are the shadows under his eyes on your last video call, dark circles carved deep into his soft skin, his exhaustion bleeding through the screen as he struggled to stay awake for you.

There is no one to blame, and somehow, that only hurts you even more. You could sacrifice your hours of practice, and so could he. But then the guilt would come, ravenous, gnawing at your soul. And guilt is a hungry being, soon enough it won’t be satiated by you. Soon enough it will turn to your love for Hyunjin.

And you couldn’t afford that.

You miss him most on days like this, when nothing seems right from the moment you open your eyes. The city’s chill feels sharper, as though mocking you, reminding you of the warmth you left behind.

The wind bites as you step into the night, wandering aimlessly, your feet carrying you to nowhere in particular. Tears hover at the edge of your lashes, but you refuse to let them fall.

There’s no grace in the way you don’t allow yourself to cry, no mercy in how you hold yourself together. You've always been a performer, haven’t you? Even your pain feels like a scene you must perfect. Is it tragic enough? Does it carve deep enough to justify being felt?

You bite your lip, numb fingers pulling out your phone. You type out Hyunjin’s contact— my love. Your last message to him was two days ago.

With a sigh, you press call. He answers on the final ring.

“Hi, my angel,” he says, a bit breathless. Probably mid-training.

You force a smile, hoping he won’t hear the tremble in your voice. “Hi, baby. Practicing?”

“Yeah.” He hums. “Are you outside?”

“Im going for a walk.” Your voice quiets as the lump in your throat tightens, a chain wrapping around your words, binding you.

“Are you okay, my love?” he asks gently, and you nod though he can’t see.

“I am,” you lie. “I just miss you.” The confession slips out before you can stop it, and the weight of it crushes you. You miss him so much it’s killing you.

“I miss you too,” he says softly. You feel like throwing up. You have to make it quick before your courage betrays you.

“I think we should end things,” you say quickly, biting down so hard on your lip that blood beads up, sharp and metallic on your tongue— just like your words.

“What?” he whispers, and you hear his faint apologies, the rustle as he moves to someplace quieter, someplace where you can break his heart without an audience.

“Why do you want this? Don’t you love me anymore?” His voice is small, fragile, and you feel the tears welling in your eyelids, but not yet.

“You know there’s no one I love but you,” you say, drawing in a breath that doesn’t wish to be trapped by you. “But we’re both so busy it barely feels like we’re together anymore.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, baby, I’ll try to text more, I promise. I’ll cut back on my training for you, I’ll—.”

“You know I’d never ask that of you.” You cut him off, smiling sadly and he falls quiet.

You see him then, in a haze of memory—Hyunjin’s head resting in your lap, your fingers lost in his hair. You hear his voice again, soft and raw, “My mom’s last wish for me was to win that gold medal. I’m terrified of letting her down. Just thinking about it—” He’d let out a humorless laugh. “She isn’t here, and yet I still feel this debt to her. Isn’t that strange?”

You know it well—the pain of failing those you love, even those who don’t love you back.

“Your mom wanted you to win that medal, didn’t she?” you say softly. “I would never come between you and that.” A pause. “But doesn’t it hurt more to wait for a message that never comes?”

“I…” he stammers, a sniffle slipping through the phone, and it nearly undoes you.

“Yn, I- you know that I love you.”

And in that instant, you know he understands. It’s because Hyunjin understands that you love him.

“I love you too, my Hyune.”

“Then don’t say this,” he chokes out, “say something cruel—something that’ll make it easier not to miss you so much when you’re gone.”

You can hear him crying, and the sound permanently breaks a rib within your heart. It sounds so raw, so painful that you wish to abandon everything and run to him. Had life not been this harsh to you, perhaps you would. Perhaps you’d have enough courage to believe that love can suffice for everything.

“I came back to Seoul because my mother was sick. I thought…maybe it would bring us close again. But I think now that I came back just to meet you, Hyunjin.” His name falters, slipping from your lips in a stuttered breath.

“Thank you,” you whisper, voice cracking, “thank you for making me happy.”

The call ends, and you fall to your knees in the snow, finally surrendering to the grief tearing through you. Sobs wrack your body, raw and relentless, so fierce it feels as if your heart might just stop, as if you’ve become nothing but an ache, a bruised, throbbing mass of memories, pulsing with each thought of him.

Is this enough for you? you want to scream at whatever cruel hand pulling the strings of your fate. Has my suffering finally paid the debt of my existence— for both me and him?

…

You’ve come to understand that the expanse of human emotions is boundless, as vast and unknowable as the space that holds the universe. And with each passing day, it feels as if another star dies within you, its light dimming slowly, far from rebirth.

You once thought your heart had grown accustomed to grief—your life spent in mourning: parents you wished you had, love you wished had dared, even just once, to find you.

But mourning the happiness Hyunjin brought is something else. It’s a different kind of ache, not like the eruption of a volcano that fades into a quiet resigning. This pain lingers, dull and relentless, day after day, a wound that refuses to close, a pulse that never stills.

It has been a month since your fateful call. Hyunjin first sent you a bouquet of white roses, with a note nestled within—To the one who made me find love again, I will love you until my last breath.

You didn’t reply, but Hyunjin kept sending bouquets, each one arriving with a message that tore at your heart a little more than the last. I am thinking about you often; please think of me, too. As if you could do anything but that. If I am to exist in only one place, let it be in your mind.

You’ve hung each note on the fridge, their words staring back at you every morning as you make your coffee, exactly the way Hyunjin likes it.

Sometimes, you’d let the water run, overflowing in the coffee maker as you read his words again and again. Then, you’d catch a glimpse of your own distorted reflection on the water’s surface, wondering what it would feel like to drown in the sea, to let the liquid fill your lungs and wash over you.

But you never let the thought linger too long, chasing it away with the hum of a song. You know it will only lead you somewhere scary.

After three, maybe four months, the bouquets eventually stopped arriving. Hyunjin had surely grown tired of your silence.

The heart is no rigid thing; it doesn’t stay frozen in one place. It stretches and contracts, bleeds, then patches itself together again. But you hadn’t done much to heal it—truthfully, you hadn’t believed you deserved to feel good once more.

Then month five came, and there was no time left to dwell on anything. A strange relief, you thought, for a mind like yours, that never quite stops turning, even in sleep. Graduation loomed on the horizon, and you were terrified of your efforts going to waste, of them somehow never being enough to set you apart.

But one night, your professor placed her hand on your shoulder, her gaze warm as it met yours. Suddenly, you felt seven years old again. “I think you could be this generation’s prima ballerina assoluta, she said—absolute first ballerina, the best of the best.

“Really?” you whispered, hardly breathing, and she nodded. “Yes, if you keep going this way, you will be.”

You thought about calling Hyunjin to share the news, but quickly brushed the thought aside. Instead, you spent the night picturing his reaction. It was pathetic, maybe, but you liked to believe he would’ve said he was proud of you, called you angel, kissed the tip of your nose, his eyes crinkling into half-moons. You fell asleep with his words murmured on your lips, as if they’d been real.

Month six rolled in, then seven. You had been keeping tabs on Hyunjin’s name as the Olympics approached. There has been news of him wanting to attempt a quadruple axel spin— forty-four years after the triple one. An automatic win, some would say.

You knew that if anyone could do it would be hyunjin.

You wondered if he too read the articles released about your performances. Did he smile at them, his sweet dimple surging forth? Or did your name sting him, like droplets of acid falling into an open wound?

Month eight arrived, genuine joy weaving into your life once more. You took your final bow on the polished stage of Juilliard, the roaring applause ringing in your ears for days to come. You had the highest performance score of the history of the institution. Your professor’s eyes then searched yours— “where do you see yourself now? where would you feel happiest?”

Hyunjin’s arms. You almost said. Barely holding yourself.

“I don’t know. I think I’ll try at operas. I want to perform the white swan there.”

“Then go to opéra garnier in Paris. I have a friend there. Talk to him, feel it out.”

You had almost kissed her cheek right there and then. Not only because the Opéra Garnier had been your childhood dream but because now, Paris was where the Olympics would be held.

You now had an excuse to be there.

You kept looking for Hyunjin in every monument you visited. In the hush of night by the Louvre, along the quiet flow of the Seine, in the gentle strokes of Monet’s paintings at Musée de l’Orangerie. What would you do if you met him on a random street in Paris?

Thankfully, or unfortunately, you still hadn’t decided, you never had to find out. You didn’t see him.

It is the men’s singles day at the figure skating Olympics, and somehow, you feel more nervous than in all your own performances combined. You’re seated close to the ice, close enough to feel the chill radiating from it, close enough to capture every detail of the performances.

Then Hyunjin steps onto the ice. If not for your seat, you might have collapsed, your knees a mass of useless ground bones.

He’s dazzling—achingly, excruciatingly beautiful. His hair falls longer now, delicate strands brushing his forehead like a prince out of a fairytale. His outfit is pure white, adorned with emerald diamonds cascading like droplets of light. Instinctively, you reach for the emerald ring on your finger too.

Your gaze follows him everywhere, drinking in the sight of him tipping his head back in laughter, his nose crinkling as he talks to Jihyoun, every stretch, every step, every quiet act of his being.

He was still as lovely, still as beautiful as you have always known him.

You wonder if he’s thinking of you, too, as his eyes flutter shut before his music begins. What image knits behind his eyelids in that instant?

It has always been his face for you.

The air buzzes with anticipation, thick with belief and doubt alike as everyone knows what Hyunjin is attempting tonight. All eyes follow him as he skates, tracing wide circles across the ice, bending low to the ground, spinning in perfect arcs.

Then, he launches into the air.

The seconds seem to trickle by as slowly as blood droplets rushing to a dying heart. You see it— one spin, planets orbiting around the sun, aching to inch closer to the warmth.

Two spins— seconds marching forward to catch up with the next ones in a ticking clock.

Your breath freezes in your throat, your hands grip the chair so much your knuckles turn as white as the roses hyunjin sent you after you parted ways.

Three spins— fireflies dancing around the light, drawn to it like milky stars.

And then he does it.

His fourth and final spin— your heart orbiting around Hyunjin as he achieves his dream, as he breaks the world record he long yearned for.

You fall back in your seat, a rush of relief loosening the tension in your body as the crowd erupts into thunderous applause. Unbelievable is the word on everyone’s mouths.

But not on yours.

Your Hyunjin did it, like you knew he would.

Tears gather in your eyes as he stares at the scoreboard, his gaze fixed, waiting, breath held alongside every other skater.

Hyunjin’s name comes first.

He collapses to his knees, the weight of his victory pressing down his body, finally breaking him open. Jihyoun rushes over, cradling him, shaking him, laughing, “You did it, Hyunjin! You did it, son!” The tears won’t stop rushing down your face; they have a life of their own now.

You watch as Hyunjin circles the audience, waving at the crowd cheering his name. He drifts closer to your section, his eyes scanning the sea of faces until, finally, he finds yours.

The world stills, you force the earth to stop spinning to have this one moment with Hyunjin. You lock onto his gaze, holding it, savoring the way his lips form your name.

Then, as if pulled by a force greater than either of you, he climbs over the stands, moving swiftly across the seats until he reaches you. In an instant, his arms are around you, his head buried in the crook of your neck. “Yn, I…” he chokes, and you nod, whispering, “I know. You did it, Hyunjin.”

“I did it, Yn,” he echoes, his voice trembling. He pulls back to look at you, his hands resting on your shoulders, both oblivious to the flash of cameras, the seas of people flocking around you.

No one here could ever understand what this moment means to him. No one but him—and you.

As he takes his place on the podium, tears shimmer in Hyunjin’s eyes akin to the reflection of the sun across the sea. He bites his lip, struggling to hold it together as the bronze and silver medals are awarded. Then the official steps forward, gold medal in hand. Hyunjin extends his shaking hands, watching as the ribbon drapes over his head, at long last.

Suddenly, the past eight months of heartache are justified. You would endure it all again, twice over, if it led to Hyunjin having this moment.

“Miss Juilliard,” Hyunjin says softly as he meets you by the door. He had asked Jihyoun to tell you to wait for him. Jihyoun seemed happy to see you once more.

Hyunjin is different now than he was twenty minutes ago, when he threw himself into your arms, overcome by emotions too vast to name. Now, he stands before you, more composed, more guarded, though his gaze remains tender. He’s never been able to hide his eyes from you.

“Congratulations on your win,” you say.

“Congratulations on your graduation.”

He knows.

In that moment, you see it all—the two paths unfurling before you. You could smile at him and he would smile back. Then you would part ways. And you would meet again, in a ceremony of some kind. And he would have grown only more beautiful, and the ache would have not softened. And his loving gaze would set on someone else but you.

Or, you could speak now.

“I made some tiramisu back at my Airbnb,” you say, your voice tentative. “Would you like some?”

Hyunjin’s shoulders stiffen, a debate flickering in his eyes. Then he exhales softly. “Of course.”

You sit side by side in the uber. His phone keeps lighting up with congratulatory messages until he switches it off.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, feeling the need to break the silence. He tenses beside you.

“For what?”

“For stealing you away.”

His shoulders relax. “Don’t apologize. I wanted to come.”

The apartment you rented is small—studio-sized, really, but near Montmartre, where you’ve loved taking nightly walks by Sacré Coeur. Hyunjin slips off his shoes, placing them next to yours by the door.

For a moment, you both pause, staring at the sight of your shoes, side by side, once more.

He clears his throat as you gesture for him to make himself comfortable. He moves to the window, gazing at the city below, while you retrieve two plates, carefully setting a slice of tiramisu on each.

“Thank you,” he says softly when you hand him his plate. But neither of you takes a bite. It’s as if opening your mouth would lead to a torrent of words escaping, ones neither of you can contain.

He yields first.

“You came,” he whispers, glancing over at you.

“I couldn’t miss seeing you win.”

“I missed you,” he says, biting his lip. Hyunjin has always been honest, especially when it comes to you. “It hurt a lot to miss you, Yn.”

“I’m here tonight.”

Your words settle into the air as the hum of the world outside fades away. Hyunjin’s gaze, sharp and knowing, meets yours—those piercing eyes that have always stripped away your defenses, reading between the lines of your every unspoken thought.

He holds your gaze for a beat too long, and you fumble for your fork, needing something—anything—to diffuse the weight of what lingers in the silence between you.

Then, suddenly, his lips meet yours.

Kissing Hyunjin again feels like breathing in after being starved of air, like a cool breeze caressing your skin on a scorching day. A shiver spreads through you as he gently lowers you onto the couch, his body a pressing weight above you. Your hands find their way to his back, moving with the instinctive ease of muscle memory, while he kisses you with the fierce urgency of someone who’s finally tasted salvation.

You wish to never part from him. You wish for your body to liquefy and morph into the hot rush of blood within his veins— anything so you wouldn’t have to part from him once more. You don’t think you can handle it. You don’t think you can lose Hyunjin again. You know you can’t.

When he pulls back, his cheeks are flushed a soft pink, like fresh dahlias, his eyes glossy and filled with something unspeakable as they trace over your face. “Tell me, Yn,” he breathes, “do you still love me? I need to know, please. It’s been tearing me apart.”

“I love you,” you say, with every bit of honesty you can muster. “I loved you before I even knew what love is, and I will love you, Hyunjin. Whether you are near or not. I will always love you.”

A breathtaking smile unfolds across his face, warm enough to thaw every frozen corner of your heart, to make decades of loneliness melt away. You would endure it all again, face the heartbreak and the grief. Fall at your sister’s grave and repent once more. You’d do it all if it means your path will cross with Hyunjin.

“I was always ever yours to love.”

Epilogue.

Hyunjin has always felt as if he has lived many lifetimes at once. Like a serpent, shedding its skin, he had lost parts of his being in various places. Some he managed to retrieve, others not. He had a lot to learn, overwhelmed by certain things past. His thoughts weren’t always kind. His hands didn’t always sweep gently against his skin.

But on days like those, you were there to love him. He had learned and unlearned many things with you. Hyunjin had found that love wasn’t a sharp emotion, it didn’t slice away at the heart, it didn’t puncture. There were no sharp edges when it came to you. Even if he lost you along the way, he would round up a corner and find you there.

And he did. Hyunjin found you, even when you didn’t wish to be found. You scurried from place to place, set foot into Paris to Seoul, Alexandria and New York. The distance lessened then widened. But it never tore you apart once more. Your souls were satiated in a way. You could rest side by side now.

And you did, as you settled in Seoul, decades down the road. Where both you and Hyunjin built a new training center. Figure skaters on the first floor, ballerinas on the second. The days passed by in happiness, laughter and giggles. There was no curse. No punishment. Not anymore.

You are in a graveyard once more. You watch as Hyunjin sweeps the name atop the tombstone gently. Prima ballerina assoluta, he reads, the swan of my heart. His weathered hands shake as they clutch a bouquet of fresh red lilies, and your heart still aches at the sight.

It is late at night at the graveyard, the branches are still humming to one another, like a melancholic flute. You understand now that they speak to the buried ones. “Not so long now,” they reassure, “your loved ones will follow.”

You believe them, and you will wait. For now, you’ll find solace in the red lilies sitting atop your grave.

They are now meant for you, at long last.

#hyunjin x fluff #hyunjin x reader #hwang hyunjin x reader #stray kids x reader #stray kids imagines #skz x reader #skz fluff #stray kids fluff #skz reactions #stray kids scenarios #skz angst #stray kids angst #hyunjin angst #skz scenarios

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viaxslz · 5 days ago

Text

. 【 ARRANGED ℳARRIAGE 】

享受 ! .°. ݁₊ 𐙚 !reader, cw: arranged marriage au, angst to fluff (ig), strangers to lovers (if that’s what they call it), super duber long (have this so I can disappear for a month), not proofread :P, Maknae line ver.

BANG CHAN

Your routines were simple. Wake up late, eat breakfast, get ready for work, evacuate the house, come back home, eat and sleep. It was a cycle that repeated itself every single day. You mainly did this to avoid any form of conversation or interaction with Chan. Being forced into an arranged marriage was something you wouldn’t even wish upon your enemy. Chan didn’t even look interested in this marriage. It was more like he was doing this because his family wanted him to and he had no choice. But slowly things started to change. Your conversations which Chan seemed to extend longer than usual, usually it would last for about 3 minutes that was the highest but recently you noticed and increase in the duration everyday. From 3 minutes to 5 minutes to 10 minutes now to 30 minutes. Chan also became less cold and blunt towards you, you swore whenever you talked you saw a hint of softness in his eyes. One day, the shift became way too obvious to ignore. You were eating cereal straight from the box on the couch, hair a mess, wearing an old hoodie that said “I paused my game for this?” when Chan casually walked in, ruffled your hair, and said, “You’re cute like this.” You swore almost choked on a cornflake. He gave you a sheepish grin, as if he hadn’t just dropped a flirt bomb out of nowhere and walked off to the kitchen like he didn’t just rearrange your brain chemistry. From then on, it only got weirder. One morning you found a sticky note on the fridge that read: "Good morning! Eat breakfast. You’re not allowed to die before me. –Chan” You stared at it for a full minute before whispering, “Was that…romantic or threatening?” You couldn’t tell anymore. Chan also started lingering. Like standing outside your room awkwardly like a lost Sims character, waiting for you to notice him. And when you finally did, he’d ask, “So… how was work?” and then stay for the answer. And the final straw? You caught him watching a YouTube video titled “How to flirt with your spouse (and not sound like a weirdo).” He turned around so fast when he noticed you standing there that he knocked over a chair. “THIS IS FOR A FRIEND!” “Sure, Christopher.” Now? You still wake up late, still eat cereal like a gremlin, but now Chan’s sitting next to you, stealing handfuls from the box and resting his head on your shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And yeah, maybe the arranged marriage wasn’t so bad after all. Especially when your husband starts looking at you like you’re the reason he agreed to it in the first place.

LEE KNOW

Lee Know – CEO (aka the cat dad you didn’t ask for). Your marriage to Lee Know was less “till death do us part” and more “let’s pretend the other doesn’t exist unless absolutely necessary.” You weren’t sure if you married a man or a ghost in an expensive suit. Minho, ever the picture-perfect CEO, moved with the kind of grace that said, *I don’t have time for nonsense unless it’s my cats.* You’d see him in the mornings at exactly 6:45 a.m., sipping black coffee and reading through emails like the fate of the universe rested on quarterly revenue reports. You, meanwhile, woke up at 8:03, tripped over a charging cable, and once accidentally brushed your teeth with face cleanser. Communication between you two? Nonexistent. Unless you count: “The driver’s waiting.” “Your meeting’s in 10.” “Don’t forget to sign the documents.” And your personal favorite: the silent nod of disapproval when you wore mismatched socks. He didn’t seem cruel just cold. Calculated. As if this marriage was a merger he didn’t sign off on but was forced to green-light. But you noticed things. Like how your favorite snacks were always restocked, even when you never said a word. Or how your broken phone charger suddenly got replaced, still in its package, with a Post-it that simply said: Don’t electrocute yourself. Romantic. It wasn’t until the company hosted its annual gala that things really shifted. You wore an elegant outfit, sleek and simple. Nothing dramatic until Minho saw you and paused mid-conversation. His jaw actually dropped for a millisecond before he pulled it together and muttered, “…you look decent.” That was Lee Know language for breathtaking. But the real kicker? Midway through the gala, when some investor’s son got a little too friendly with you, you saw Minho appear out of nowhere like a well-dressed Batman. Hand on your waist. Voice dangerously low.“Back off. That’s my wife.” Your brain short-circuited. His hand stayed there the entire night. From that day, the cold war melted into something else. Minho started waiting for you before leaving the house. Sometimes he’d wordlessly hand you a protein bar. Other times he’d drop sarcastic compliments like: “Wow, you finally brushed your hair today. I’m shocked.” “Your socks actually match. Who are you and what have you done with my wife?” “Don’t trip on your own confidence.” But his eyes softened. His tone gentled. And sometimes, you’d catch him staring not annoyed, but like he was memorizing something. Then came the day you got sick. Like, knock-out-fever, can’t-move-from-bed sick. You were expecting silence, maybe a text from his assistant at most. Instead, you woke up to Minho sitting next to your bed, laptop balanced on one knee, feeding you soup with the other hand like it was just another meeting. You croaked, “Aren’t you busy?” He didn’t look at you. “Already canceled everything. Don’t be annoying, just eat.” That was the moment. You didn’t say anything then, but you knew. And then… the Instagram post happened. Minho, known for a perfectly curated CEO Instagram filled with black-and-white office photos, coffee mugs, and the occasional blurry cat picture, uploaded a photo of you. You were half-asleep on the couch, cuddling Soonie, with a blanket barely covering your legs. The caption? “I don’t like people. But I think I like her.” \#MarriedLife #MaybeNotSoBad #SheFeedsMyCats. You nearly threw your phone out the window. When you confronted him, red-faced and holding back a laugh, he shrugged. “Well, it’s true. Then, under his breath: “…I think I like you too.” Now your routines are a little different. You still trip over things. He still acts like sarcasm is his love language. But there are sleepy morning cuddles, late-night cat videos in bed, and coffee cups with “CEO’s favorite person” scribbled on them. And Minho? He’s not just your husband now. He’s the one who kisses your forehead when you think he’s mad. The one who takes photos of you doing mundane things and keeps them in a locked album. The one who now smiles when he says, “Don’t be late. I’ll wait for you.”

Arranged or not, it turns out love can grow even between a grumpy CEO and the chaotic disaster he calls his wife. And he wouldn't trade it (or you) for anything. Except maybe a fourth cat.

CHANGBIN

Seo Changbin – arranged marriage (aka gym rat husband with too many protein bars). You didn’t hate him. You just… didn’t know him. Which was a problem, considering you were now legally married. Changbin wasn’t cold or rude like you’d expected. If anything, he was too nice. The kind of awkward polite that made everything ten times weirder. “Good morning,” he’d say with a stiff nod, standing in the hallway like a guest in his own home. “Did you, uh… sleep well?” You’d blink blearily at him with toothpaste foam in your mouth and give a thumbs up. He’d smile like that was a full sentence. The routine settled fast: wake up, avoid eye contact, eat in silence, exist in separate rooms, occasionally bump into each other in the hallway and say things like “Nice weather,” even when it was raining. Changbin filled the space between you two with noise. his music, his workouts, the sound of protein shake bottles being aggressively shaken at 7 a.m. like maracas of doom. He was the kind of guy who labeled his snacks, used coasters religiously, and never left a dish in the sink. But you couldn’t hate it. You wanted to. It would’ve made things easier. But the thing is… Changbin was gentle. Soft voice. Softer eyes. Always said “excuse me” even when it wasn’t necessary. Even the cats that wandered into your neighborhood liked him. Betrayers. You tried to keep things distant. Professional. Emotionless. But one day, you came home soaked from the rain, your umbrella snapped, your bag drenched, and your patience gone. And instead of ignoring it, Changbin ran over with a towel, pulled you inside, and scolded you like a wet child. “You could’ve gotten sick! Why didn’t you call? I would’ve come to get you!” “…You don’t even have my number.” That night, he saved his contact in your phone as “Husband #1 (limited edition)” and made you ramen while you wore his hoodie. It snowballed from there. He started leaving post-it notes everywhere: “Don’t forget lunch , you’ll faint and I’ll be blamed.” “I put your socks in the dryer. You’re welcome.” “If you steal my protein bar again, I’ll sue. Just kidding (unless you do it again).” You started sitting with him during his gym sessions just to annoy him, asking things like: “Do you lift with emotion or spite?” “Is that your workout face or your constipation face?” “How do your arms fit into sleeves??” He’d throw a towel at your face and mutter, “I married a menace.” But he was smiling. The turning point came when you were crying. It wasn’t dramatic. You just had a rough day. work stress, a canceled plan, someone yelling at you over something dumb and you couldn’t keep it in. You thought you’d locked your bedroom door, but Changbin knocked softly and peeked in anyway. No words. He just sat beside you, offered his hoodie sleeve, and let you cry without asking questions. You sobbed, “Why are you so nice to me?” And he said, “…Because I care, even if I didn’t expect to.” You didn’t say anything. But after that, everything changed. You started eating meals together. Watching movies. Going on “we’re-not-dates” that somehow felt like dates. He even started letting you share his snacks (a big deal, honestly). Then one night, while the two of you sat on the floor playing some dumb board game you found in the back of a closet, you asked, “Do you ever regret this? Us?” He looked at you for a long time. “No,” he said quietly. “I just wish I knew you sooner.” Now? He still works out at 7 a.m., and you still mock him for drinking stuff that smells like blended chalk. But he wraps an arm around you when he sleeps, leaves space in the fridge for your impulsive dessert buys, and kisses your forehead like it’s a habit he never wants to break. It wasn’t love at first sight. But it’s love now. And if anyone ever dares say this marriage wasn’t built on something real, Changbin will fight them. With emotional damage and biceps.

HYUNJIN

Hwang Hyunjin – arranged marriage (aka dramatic art husband with a tragic monologue for everything)nYou expected drama when you were told you'd be marrying Hwang Hyunjin. The man was a walking poem. A painting come to life. The human embodiment of “I only drink rainwater and cry to Debussy." What you didn’t expect was silence. Not elegant, movie-worthy silence. Just… plain awkward silence. The kind where you’d both walk into the kitchen, lock eyes for 0.3 seconds, and then pretend the fridge was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world. Hyunjin wasn’t rude. He was polite, respectful, a little stiff but always civil. He said “good morning” and “sleep well” like it was scripted. You once sneezed, and he bowed and said, “Bless you,” as if you’d just performed Hamlet on Broadway. He spent most of his time in his art studio, which you weren’t allowed to enter. You learned this the hard way when you knocked once and were met with, “Please… not now. The muse is fleeing.” You closed the door slowly, wondering if “the muse” was a metaphor or a literal pigeon. The tension was suffocating. You were two strangers sharing a home, avoiding each other like roommates in a haunted house. The most intimate you got was when you both reached for the soy sauce at dinner and almost touched fingers. He gasped. You blinked. It was chaos. But then you got sick. Nothing serious, just a fever. But you passed out in the hallway and woke up to a flurry of blankets, cold compresses, and the sight of Hyunjin frantically whispering, “You’re not allowed to die. That would be… tragically inconvenient.” After that? Something cracked. He started hovering. “Are you cold?” “Did you eat?” “Here, I painted you this because your eyes looked sad yesterday.” It was a painting of a wilted flower with a single sunbeam touching it. Dramatic. Excessive. Ridiculously beautiful. You teared up. “This is about me?” He looked away, ears red. “…It might be. The man began spiraling in affection. He’d leave sketches outside your door like secret admirer notes. He’d watch you while you read, then pretend he wasn’t when you looked up. You caught him once writing a poem that included your name and the phrase “gentle destruction” and he nearly swallowed his pen in panic. And then… the art studio. One evening, he called you in. Nervous. Fidgety. Hair tied up, hands covered in paint. You stepped inside, expecting portraits or abstract chaos. Instead, you saw you. Dozens of versions of you. Sleeping. Laughing. Crying. Even one of you brushing your teeth, titled: “The Mundane Divine.” You turned slowly. “Hyunjin…” He bit his lip. “I hated this marriage at first. I didn’t want to be forced into anything. But then I saw you. Really and i…” “You’re in love with me.” He blinked. “That was going to be the last line of my speech, but yes.” You stood there, heart pounding, eyes stinging, realizing that this man, this soft, dramatic, chaotic whirlwind of a man had fallen for you in silence. Through stolen glances and paintbrushes. Through unspoken worries and 3 a.m. tea offerings. You walked over, paint-stained floor forgotten, and kissed him. Soft, real, wordless.His eyes widened. Then fluttered shut. “Finally,” he whispered. “The muse returns.” Now? You still find random sketches of yourself everywhere. He still monologues about cereal choices like they’re Shakespearean tragedies. But he holds your hand like it’s art, kisses your forehead like you’re sacred, and calls you his “greatest masterpiece” when he thinks you’re asleep. Arranged marriage? Maybe. But it was never forced love. With Hyunjin, love was always waiting. It just needed a little time and a very dramatic entrance.

PERM TAGLIST 📌🔖 ──── @the-sea-called-history02 @oc3anfloor

#stray kids #stray kids fluff #stray kids soft hours #stray kids soft thoughts #stray kids x reader #stray kids x you #stray kids headcanons #stray kids fanfic #bang chan x reader #bang chan fluff #lee know x reader #lee know fluff #changbin x reader #changbin fluff #hyunjin x reader #hyunjin fluff

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froggibus · 10 months ago

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hiiiii :3 idk if ur taking reqs for dc right neow but a thought that tickles my brain rlly good is dick grayson/reader w a praise kink and dick exploits it n uses it to his advantage.... preferably afab reader but gn is fine :P

CTRL + H - Dick Grayson

Pairing: Dick Grayson x fem! best friend! reader (uses fem pronouns + has a pussy)

Genre: smut/NSFW

Word Count: 4.1k

Summary: when your best friend discovers porn in your browser history while fixing your computer, he decides to use it to his advantage

CW: friends to lovers, lots of praise, uses of ‘good/pretty/lovely girl’ dick calls you sweetheart/angel, dick is CORNY I’m sorry, mentions of porn/asmr porn, teasing, gaslighting (but not really), fingering, marking, unprotected sex, lots of sweat (its sexy i swear), dick fucks you over a desk, kinda rough sex, creampie, multiple orgasms, implied to be summer, i think thats it??

hey hi 👽 anon, thanks for the request! im sorry it took so long, it wasn't meant to be this long i swear, i just got caught up in the thought of Dick being all hot and sweaty and praising you while fucking you >~< and yeah this happened. really hope you like it (but if you don't, let me know and ill totally rewrite it!) lots of love yes i took an extra 30 mins to find nightwing #83 to take a picture of the comic book to make this banner lol

As if having Dick Grayson look at your search history wasn’t bad enough, now you have to live with the mortifying ordeal of him knowing you have a praise kink.

When you had first invited him over to take a look at your malfunctioning computer, you’d thought nothing of it. You figured he would turn it on and off again, maybe update some drivers. So when he suddenly clicked into your browser and began scrolling through the long, long list of websites you’ve visited, you weren’t sure how to react.

You noticed it at the same time as him, the glowing screen forcing you to freeze where you stand. There on the screen, from just last night, read: praise nsfw asmr. You swallow hard and lunge for the mouse to click out of your browser history, but breathe a sigh of relief when Dick does it first.

There’s a beat of silence, your racing thoughts deafeningly loud as you try to come up with a reason to kick him out. Fanning your face as if that will help chase away the heat of the day, you swallow once more in an attempt to work some moisture back into your mouth.

“F—find anything?” You say as casually as you can.

It’s ridiculous how embarrassed you are, honestly. He’s just your friend, it’s just porn, it’s not like it’s the end of the world. Still, the rattling of your heart against your rib cage and his cruelly quiet silence make it feel like it is.

He shakes his head. “Not so far, I should keep looking but—“ he flicks his eyes up your body, perfect blues tracing your every curve, “you seemed flustered.”

You raise your hands in denial all too quickly, your sweaty palms stretched out towards him. Dick raises an eyebrow, examining you in the way he does with strangers in coffee shops.

“I just…don’t see how my search history is relevant, I guess. That’s all.”

He grabs your wrists, lowering your arms from the defensive position they’ve taken. Despite the familiarity of his touch, something feels off, different in a way you can’t explain. You shake the thought away.

The world has not shifted on its axis because your best friend suddenly knows what kind of porn you’re into.

His touch lingers on your wrist and he uses the leverage to gently pull you closer to where he sits at your desk. When he finally drops your wrist, a chill circles the space where his hand once was, refreshing your feverish skin.

“I just want to make sure you haven’t accidentally picked up a virus somewhere. If we can find one in your history, it’ll be much easier to get rid of it.”

The explanation only half seeps into the mush your brain has turned into under his gaze and you find yourself nodding without quite understanding.

You were fooling yourself by inviting him here. While asking for his help was cheaper than hiring a professional, having him so close to you almost hurts—especially when lately you’ve been trying to force away the feelings you’ve harboured for him.

“So,” Dick says again, “won’t you be a good girl and let me fix your computer for you?”

His words force you out of your thoughts, purely by short circuiting your brain. You blink at him with wide eyes, your heart pounding in your chest.

“W—what did you say?”

“I just asked if I could fix your computer now.”

You tilt your head in confusion. Did you mishear him, or did he call you ‘good girl’? He flashes you that signature smirk of his, his blue eyes suddenly dark with something you don’t recognize.

Though everything on his face reads innocent, something not-so innocent lurks beneath the surface. Something that stares you down and screams ‘challenge me’.

“Yeah.” You swallow. “I guess that’s fine.” You take a deep breath and try to steady the spinning in your head.

Dick continues his work nonchalantly, hitting a few keys and opening your browser history once more. You turn your eyes away from the screen, instead focusing on the way your fingers grasp the desk until it hurts.

You listen to him scroll for a while and try to pretend like he’s not looking through the most intimate part of your life. The idea of him seeing that part of you excites you as much as it nauseates you—a lethal combination.

“You can relax.” Dick hums.

You lift your head to look at him just to see him focused completely on the screen. You don’t dare glance at what he’s so focused on.

“Why not sit down? This could take a while.” He says calmly. “I’m sure you’ll feel much better if you do.”

You roll your shoulders. “I think I’ll just stand.”

There’s a shift in his eyes as if your words sparked something in them. He finally glances away from your screen, completely focusing on you with a newfound intensity. You want to shrink from his gaze, to run down the hall and hide in your broom closet, but you stay rooted in place.

“It would help me a lot if you sit down. Don’t you want to be a good girl and help me out?”

Holy fuck. “What did you just say?”

It feels like you’re waiting an eternity for him to speak again, your heart beating a mile a minute. He’s going to deny it, or make fun of you even more or worse—tell Wally about it.

He pats his lap. “Come sit with me,” he purrs, “be a good girl, keep me company while I work.”

In your shock, you find yourself shuffling towards him and settling in his lap. Dick helps you adjust, tugging you back to his chest and keeping one arm around you while his other reaches for the mouse once more.

He’s so close to you that you can feel the beating of his heart, his breath on your neck. You close your eyes and pray that he can’t feel the heartbeat that’s suddenly appeared between your legs.

You can’t remember a single time he’s been this close to you, a single time he’s touched you like this. The sudden proximity makes you dizzy, butterflies taking flight in your tummy. You clench the arm rests on either side in an attempt to keep your cool.

Dick shifts behind you, one of his thighs gently brushing your clit in a way that makes you squirm. “Don’t do that!”

His hand slides from your waist to grip your thigh, a shiver running up your spine at the contact. “Don't do what? This?” He repeats the motion.

You squeak, lurching forward in an attempt to get away from the friction. You tilt too far and suddenly you’re falling head over heels towards the mat beneath your chair. Dick is quicker than that, wrapping one arm around your chest and another around your waist to tug you harshly back to him.

“Don’t do that,” you repeat breathlessly, “please.”

He rests his chin on your shoulder, soft strands of black hair tickling your cheek. “Why not? Use your words, angel.”

The nickname reignites something inside of you, rekindling a fire between your legs. You clench them together in the hopes it will do something to muffle the throbbing, but when you feel Dick smirk against the side of your neck, you know you’ve failed.

When you don’t answer him, he grins his knee between your legs once more, an innocent hum prompting you.

“You’re—fuck, you’re kneeing me in the cunt.”

Dick’s not sure if it’s from your brazen words or how entirely ridiculous this whole afternoon has been, but suddenly he’s laughing. A big, open mouthed, creasing at the corners of his eyes, laugh.

His laugh surprises you enough to summon one of your own, sending you both into a fit. You shift on his lap to look at him, wrapping your arms around his neck to support yourself while the two of you laugh. It’s stupid and ridiculous and you’re not quite sure what you’re laughing at—just that you are.

You’re laughing and laughing and suddenly his lips are on yours and his eyes are closed and—fuck, he’s kissing you. And then you’re not laughing anymore, your hands brushing up his neck and tangling in his hair. He’s not laughing anymore either, his hands gripping your waist like he expects you to leave at any moment.

You’re breathless when you pull away, refusing to open your eyes and face the reality in front of you. Because maybe the world didn’t shift on its axis when he learned your porn preferences, but it definitely has because he just kissed you.

He taps your cheek gently, using that terribly calm voice he does whenever you start spiralling. “Y/n.” He coos, “open your eyes, y/n.”

You bite your lip, shaking your head in refusal. You know as soon as you do, you’ll have to confront your feelings for him, and his for you, and all of that is just too much and god, when did it get so hot in here?

You open your eyes one at a time, casting them down to where your thighs rest on his. Your hands come together, fingers twirling in your lap just to give you something to focus on other than the throbbing in your clit and the weight of Dick’s eyes on you.

He drags a finger down your overheating cheeks, tracing the outline of your jaw and tipping your head up to face him. His blue eyes are lined with something new, something darker—a need you’ve never seen before.

“Look at me.” There’s a commanding tone to his voice before it softens, “c’mon, please?”

You finally force yourself to meet his eyes, the familiar ultramarine calming the sudden bite of your nerves. “Only cause you asked so nicely,” you say quietly.

“Good girl,” he smiles and it feels like the sun pushing through rain clouds. He strokes your cheek gently, his thumb landing on your cupid's bow.

You shiver beneath his touch despite the unbearable heat of the day. While his finger on your lips threatens to send you flying away, spiralling into space, his other does the opposite. His grip on your hip is tight, fingers digging in and sure to leave behind bruises.

“Can I kiss you again?” He asks quietly.

It’s only a small mercy that your nod doesn’t prompt another ‘good girl’ from him, or some other horribly delightful variation of it. However, when his lips brush yours and his hand slides to the base of your throat, all of the thoughts melt away. There’s no embarrassment, no overthinking, just raw emotion and the sensation of his skin on yours.

You shift in his lap, sliding one of your thighs over his so you can straddle him. Dick offers a guiding hand while you slide forward, half steadying you, half tugging you closer. You shimmy up the length of his jeans until you’re as close as possible, your stomach pressing into his toned abs.

A gasp leaves your throat when your clit brushes the very edge of the bulge in his jeans, the noise only edging him along. His teeth graze your bottom lip, both gentle and desperate, before his tongue slips into your mouth.

The taste of him is intoxicating, consuming you until you’re grabbing his cheeks with both hands to pull him as close as possible. You whine when his cock grazes your clit again and Dick breaks the kiss to let out a breathy laugh against your lips.

“Someone’s needy,” he teases, but his eyes are rimmed with dark and when he looks at you through his lashes, all you see is need.

“Back at you.”

His palm sticks to your cheek with sweat when he goes to pull it away. “You’ve been so good for me today,” he hums, his other hand trailing up your thigh. “Let me take care of you, yeah?”

You mumble a breathy ‘please’ before his fingers are brushing your clit through your pants, the heat pooling in your panties near insatiable. You tighten your grip on him and bury your face in the tight black fabric of his t-shirt to muffle your heavy breathing.

While one hand rubs intense figure eights up the length of your pussy, his other hand is fiddling with the buttons of your pants. He sighs in triumph at the soft popping noise and then the fabric is pulling away from your skin, Dick somehow managing to tug them down with only one hand.

You shift in his lap and prop yourself up on your knees to give him better access while he drags the fabric down your thighs. He takes advantage of your position to spin you to face your monitor once more, leaning back in the chair so you’re reclined against his muscled chest.

Warm breath fans the overheating skin of your neck just where your shirt meets your skin. Two calloused fingers dip into the waistband of your underwear, skimming the warmth and slick of your cunt. Dick sucks in a breath, his pants suddenly too tight.

“You really are needy,” he swallows hard. “Lovely, needy girl.”

His words only serve as a catalyst to the intense need you feel in your core, amplifying your desire tenfold. The pad of his index finger brushes your clit and you’re suddenly a goner. Your eyes squeeze shut and you throw your head back, imagining the circles of Dick’s fingers in your mind.

He gently kisses at the neckline of your shirt, his lips soft against the sensitive skin. His tongue runs across the sensitive skin there in tandem with the moving of his hand, the duality sending shockwaves through you. You have to bite your lip to keep from crying out his name.

His wrist slides further into your underwear, fingers moving away from your swollen clit to run along the rim of your aching pussy. You suck in a breath, not moving an inch while you anticipate what’s to come.

Dick sucks a dark mark into your neck. “Ready f’me?” He mumbles into your skin.

You eagerly nod, trying to shift your hips into his fingers and shove them inside of you, but Dick moves away. You frown, lazily looking over your shoulder at him.

“You have to use your words.”

You almost roll your eyes but in your desperation, let your head hang in defeat and open your trembling mouth. “I-I’m ready Dick,” you say, quietly adding, “please.”

“Good girl.”

Then he’s suddenly slipping a finger inside of you, travelling the length of your spongy walls to sit deep inside of you. A gasp rips through you, his name tumbling off your lips faster than you can catch it. He grips your hip to steady you, strong fingers bruising the exposed skin.

He curls his finger inside of you, prodding at that sweet fucking sensitive spot. He only stops when you whine, slipping his finger out for only a second before shoving it back in. He repeats the motion, starting a rhythm of thrusting in and out, his hand on your hip tapping along in tandem.

You squirm in his lap, that ball in the centre of your stomach turning white hot and growing until you can barely contain it. One of your hands squeezes his wrist—whether to stop or encourage him, you don’t know.

“Dick,” you whine, your voice taking on a raspy tone you hardly recognize.

He hums in response. “Does that feel good?”

“S-so good.”

He rewards you by slipping his other finger inside of you, the two of them working in unison. His fingers are so long and thick that they reach places inside you that you’ve never been able to touch on your own, stretching your walls just enough to make your eyes roll back.

The impending waves of your orgasm roll over you, that knot in your core so tight that you know it's bound to undo any second. You squeeze his wrist tighter in warning, your fingers pressing into his veins until you can feel the steady thrum of his blood pulsing.

Dick slips his hand from your waist up your shirt, palming your tit. “Cum for me,” he murmurs. “You’ve earned it, sweetheart.”

His words walk you right over the edge, that knot finally coming undone and sending wave after wave of molten pleasure through you. Every muscle in your body contracts, your pussy squeezing his fingers so tightly it almost hurts. Both your hands clench around the wrist currently in your underwear. Holding him steady while you ride out your high on his fingers.

Dick holds you, keeping you stable while you gush and thrash wildly in his lap. He can feel your slick soak through the fabric of his jeans, his thighs warm with your juices, but he can’t bring himself to care.

He trails kisses up your neck to your jaw, your cheeks and finally, tips your head back until he can plant soft, chaste kisses to your lips. His wrist aches from how hard you squeeze him but he doesn’t dare pull away until your muscles are relaxing and you let out your first, panting breath.

“Feel good?” He prompts.

You shake your head vigorously, all sweaty hair and hot skin and aching lungs. Dick almost wishes he had a camera because the sight of you laying in his lap all fucked out is one he would love to savor and put in his wallet.

He shifts behind you, only now remembering his aching cock and how badly it yearns to be free of the denim confining it. “Think you could do one more? For me? It would make me feel so, so good, sweetheart.”

You don’t think twice about his words, lazily trapping his lips in a sloppy needy kiss and mumbling ‘yes’ against him. In your fucked out state, you’re only half sure that you’re even speaking, the world around you fading. Dick slips his hand out of your panties, his palm soaked with your juices, and rests it on your thigh.

“I need you to stand up for me,” he says, only half asking.

He helps you up on shaky knees, your pants that had been resting just above your knees dropping the rest of the way to the floor. You brace yourself against the desk, half bent over while Dick slowly tugs down your panties. The minute the sticky, soaked fabric peels away from your pussy, you gasp.

Dick stares at the mess he’s made of you proudly, your folds glistening with the slick of your last orgasm. He burns the image into his mind while he fumbles with the zipper of his jeans, standing behind you while he drags them to the floor with his boxers. His cock springs free, thick and dripping with pre cum, begging for you.

He strokes it absentmindedly, all of his thoughts only on you and your trembling thighs, bent so perfectly over the desk waiting for him. He lines the head of his cock up with your entrance, rubbing it through your folds and prodding your clit before repeating the process over again.

Each shift of his cock, each rock of his hips, forces shivers of anticipation down your spine. Heavy breaths leave your lips, your arms barely managing to hold your weight over the desk when you dip your head down to stare at him through the crook of your arm.

“Such a pretty pussy. So wet and needy,” he groans when he finally lets his cock rest at your entrance. “So ready for my cock.”

You nod even though he’s mostly talking to himself. You let your arms sag against the desk and rest your face against your forearm, the sweaty skin sticking to your forehead. Dick thrusts forwards and lets the head of his cock push inside of you.

Moans leave him the second he dips into your heat, the tip of his cock stretching you in a way that has both of your eyes rolling back. His fingers resume their earlier position on your hip, digging in so hard it almost hurts.

He stills once his tip is nestled in your walls, listening to the whiny breaths you let out while you adjust to his size. Your clench your hands into fists, slightly shifting from left to right to help him fit better. He’s big, bigger than you expected, but the way he molds your walls to his cock is almost enough to have you cum right then and there.

Dick is so distracted by the sight of his cock dipped inside of you that he doesn’t remember to move. It’s only when you let out a needy whine and shuffle your hips backwards that he realizes you’ve been waiting so patiently for him.

He snaps his hips against yours, the head of his cock barreling so deep inside of you so quickly that it almost hurts. “Sorry, pretty girl,” he pants, “didn’t mean to make you wait.”

You try to tell him that it’s okay but you’re silenced with another hard thrust. You cry out his name into your arm, your teeth grazing at your skin in your attempt to be quiet. Dick grabs the other side of your waist, using his hands to push and pull you as he pleases.

You fall further against the desk, your body lazily resting against it while Dick’s hips snap into yours repeatedly. The room is filled with the sound of skin on skin, a chorus of your combined moans filling the empty space between thrusts. Each shift of his hips, each prod of his cock, only spurs you further along.

You squeeze your eyes shut, completely focused on his cock battering its way through your walls. You’re only vaguely aware of Dick talking to you, his praise sounding incoherent beneath the rush of blood to your ears. Your pussy flutters around him, his cock scraping your cervix with every thrust.

He thrusts particularly hard into you, his cock jamming hard into the very edge of your walls, forcing a loud cry from you. It aches as much as it pleases, and without thinking, you’re suddenly crawling forward across your desk. Dick tightens his grip on you before you can get very far, tugging you back hard against him and slamming your pussy down on his cock.

You nearly squeal from the pleasure, tears forming in the corners of your eyes. That familiar heat builds inside of you once more, spilling over more and more with each intense thrust.

“You’re taking me so well,” he coos. “So tight—god, it’s like your pussy was made for me. Fuck.”

His lewd words add to that growing knot inside of you and suddenly you’re coming undone in his arms. Everything is too hot, too much, too loud. Tears spill from your eyes and you’re barely aware of the half sobs, half moans you let out through your orgasm.

“That’s right, let it all out. Good girl, cumming around my cock like that.”

Dick holds you steady the whole time you cum, thrusts growing sloppy as your pussy sucks him in and tries to keep him inside of you forever. He’s almost as breathless as you while he watches you cum and the way your pussy seizes around him is enough to have him tumbling over the edge after you.

He wraps both arms around your waist, pulling your hips flush to his, before he lets the both of you fall back into the chair behind him. Your new position forces his cock deeper inside of you—as deep as it can go—and then he’s cumming inside of you.

You can barely feel the hot ropes of cum he spills inside of you while you come down from your own high. Your thighs shake where they rest over his and you’re grateful for him holding you.

Dick lets his forehead rest in the crook of your neck, his sweaty hair wetting your t-shirt. Even after he’s done cumming, he holds you tightly against him, the two of you panting in sync.

It’s nearly five minutes later when you can finally bring yourself to speak, your hoarse voice evidence of the pounding you’ve just taken. “I take it you saw my browsing history?” are the first words out of your mouth.

Dick laughs, his voice gravelly and deep and sexy. “Yeah,” he says, kissing your cheek. “I did.”

You awkwardly turn in his lap, twitching at the way it adjusts his half-hard cock inside of you. You look up at his eyes, the blue finally starting to seep back in through the dark. He cups your face, his hand sweaty, and pulls you in for another kiss.

When you pull away, you can’t help but ask, “so, what now?”

“First, I think I should show you how to use Incognito Mode.”

masterlist | dc masterlist

if you enjoy content like this, interactions go a long way! i appreciate every like, comment & reblog i get ^^

#dick Grayson #dick Grayson x reader #dick grayson x you #dick grayson smut #nightwing #nightwing x reader #nightwing x you #nightwing smut #x reader #x you #batfam x reader #👽 anon #alien anon #froggi after dark #froggi requests

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cbuumbbles · 3 months ago

Text

[Decode Pt. 2] Self-Aware! Caleb x fem!reader

CW: Smut, this shits gonna get freakyyy, 18+ MDNI. (Contains: egregious squirting, vaginal fisting, cunnilingus, unrealistic belly bulge, HES GOT A HUGE PENIS GUYS, so many orgasms, water breaks to stay hydrated, size kink ??, def hand kink, dacryphilia, misuse of evol, drooling, choking, tummy appreciation in missionary, breeding kink too possibly?? not really, but maybe if you squint, idk if I’m missing anything else w/ out spoiling). SORRY FOR THIS LAUNDRY LIST. I got carried away :p

Summary: You and Caleb had been dating for a while now and your needs couldn't be more met than they are with him.

A/N: Hi people! If you haven't read part 1, go read it! Part 1 is not freaky btw. This is my second time writing for this godforsaken website. So I still don't know how to make it look fancy. Bare with me. Anywho! I hope you enjoy, this is my first time in a long time writing smut, so if it's bad, just tell me nicely so I can fix it. Also sorry this took so long to get out after part 1, I have had 0 time to write.

Part 1

Caleb had finally convinced you to quit your job so he could take care of you full time. You loved the time off, he made sure to pamper you too. Your nails were always done, hair trimmed, and your back massaged. When he wasn't home, you started having to get creative with ways to entertain yourself. He had bought you a vibrator a while back which helped entertain you until he got home. You'd think it'd wear you out by the time he got home, but something inside of you was like an insatiable beast that needed to jump on Caleb as soon as he got home from work. Caleb loved every second of it, he loved giving you as much pleasure as you wanted. If you thought you were spoiled before you got together, you haven't seen anything yet. Caleb would do anything you asked him to, and you've asked him to do a lot. He's always happy to oblige and eager to please you. Being able to code anything about your reality was a life saver. Since he knew what you liked, he coded himself to be able to give you the maximum amount of pleasure you'd ever want. He was also surprised about how you weren't completely dehydrated all of the time, but he made sure you drank plenty of water, even having water breaks in the middle of sex to keep you from passing out.

Right now, you were using your vibrator on your shared bed, waiting for Caleb to come home. All you could think about was how good it's gonna feel once you start feeling his fingers filling you up. You started to imagine his fingers teasing your folds, gathering your wetness and spreading it around. His thick fingers were something you drooled over every time you saw them, they were perfect and all you could picture in your mind when you saw them was how nice they feel pumping inside of you. The vivid fantasies started to feel real when you swear you can feel his fingers start to slip inside of your dripping pussy. They felt so real that you opened your eyes to find Caleb, home from work. "Hi princess, I'm home." He whispers, smiling at you while his fingers were pulling squelching sounds from you. It was embarrassing how wet he could get you. But he knew all of the places he needed to get to in order for you to get undone on his fingers. He bent down, using his tongue to lap up some of the mess you were making. "Always taste amazin', pretty." He praised you. You were moaning in response, unable to form proper words. But that's how he always had you, it was like magic. He could melt your mind in an instant with just his fingers, something he was extremely proud of. All you could say was 'more' and 'Caleb,' it was like a mantra. He sticks another finger in, making it a total of three, but he knew you could handle the whole fist tonight, you were sopping. The spot under you was drenched in your squirt. He loved how messy you were and that he was the only one who could get you to that point.

"I- close, Caleb 'm close." You hurried out, he kept his same pace as you felt the white hot pleasure building in your stomach. The journey to the orgasm was almost as pleasurable as letting go, maybe it was because you knew what was about to happen.

"Come on, angel, come on my fingers." He coaxed, his words being the final push that sends you over the edge. You moan and whine out his name as you feel your pussy pulse around his fingers, squeezing them in. As you ride out your high on his fingers, the feeling fades and you start working yourself up again. He adds another finger, making it four and you feel amazing, on cloud nine. The water works were going everywhere and you couldn't shut your mouth, as hard as you tried. You were making a mess of Caleb, thankfully he undressed himself before starting in on you, you could see drops of your squirt on his chest which made you incredibly more horny somehow. "You're doing so good, takin' me so well, pretty. You think you can handle the whole fist now?" He asked. All you could do was nod your head fervently. "I wanna hear your words baby, think you can do that for me, or are you too fucked out to speak?" He knew the answer, anything past three and you were completely melted. "My dumb little angel forgot how to speak. You're lucky I know you so well, I know exactly what you need." He coos, adding the last finger. You could feel him reaching every possible spot he needed to, his fingers stretching you out and getting you ready for his cock. You felt that familiar feeling start building up again as you suck in his fingers subconsciously. He could tell you were getting close by the way your walls were spasming around his hand. "You're so greedy with my fingers baby, it's makin' me jealous. You're taking me so well, pretty. Getting all stretched out for what's coming later. Gettin' so wet for me, you're drenching the bed. You're doing such a good job, princess. Come all over my fingers." He spoke, all of his praises going straight to your core as you felt that burning hot feeling again.

"Caleb, Caleb, Caleb." You repeated in quick succession, you could feel your release rapidly approaching.

"That's it, come on, angel. Let yourself go, beautiful." He says. His encouraging words help you focus on getting to your release and when you finally snap, it's just as intense as last time. You pulse around his fist and your legs start shaking. You know that tomorrow will have to be a recovery day for, the night is still long from over. "Let me get a taste, baby. Can you sit up for me?" He asks, you try your hardest, able to get to your knees. Your brain was fried and all you cared about was getting more. He handed you your water as you took slow sips, learning not to chug it all at once by now. "Sweet girl, that feel better?" He asks, taking the water back to set it down, as you nod your head. He lays down on the bed and you know exactly what he wants. You hover yourself above his head, staring down at him through tired lids. He grabs your thighs and pulls you down onto his face, he moans in pleasure as a response. "So good, angel. Taste so good." He moans into your pussy, using his tongue to fuck your hole while his nose was rubbing into your clit. You couldn't help your hands traveling down to his head to push him up further into you, using your hips to grind on his face. You were so spoiled, using his face like this, but he loved every second of it. You tasted tart which reminded him of his favorite fruits. You could hear him sucking everywhere he could get his mouth on, it felt so good. You desuctioned yourself from Caleb's mouth, with a wet plop and a whine from him, to turn around to put your hands on his chest. Now he was nose deep in your pussy and his tongue was working on your clit. You fucked his nose, hearing the sound of labored breathing through his muffled mouth. You saw his hips buck up into the air as he was holding you down on his face like a vice.

You just tasted too good, the remnants of squirt still coating your sex. His moans were deep with a heavy vibration that you felt throughout your entire body. It was enough to have you heaving for air as you got closer to your third release, from him, that night. He began sucking on your clit, tonguing it while the pressure from the suction helped get you off. The suction started building your release as you started getting desperate for release. "Please Caleb. I need it so so so bad." You beg, it coming out labored from how little you could focus on anything other than releasing on his face. The sounds of his muffled moaning mixed with the wet sounds coming from both of you were what you focused on to finally snap and pulse your cunt onto his face. You could hear his muffled praises from underneath you as he worked you through your third orgasm of the night.

He lifted you off of his face and flipped your positions with ease. You think you're finally ready for his dick, but he has other plans. "I'm not done tasting you yet. I didn't get nearly enough time with that gorgeous pussy in my face." He said, your slick coating and dripping off his face. He dips his head between your legs again and starts his attack on your sensitive bud again. You jolt in response from how sensitive you were. You felt like you had nothing more to give, but every time Caleb would start up again, you'd be proven wrong. There was a battle in your mind. You wanted to go to bed for the night, but you also wanted every single orgasm he was about to give you. You buck up into his face, grabbing his head to push it down into you, but your hands are pulled from him and held by an invisible force. You whine, trying to fight his evol holding you down. "If you weren't so greedy, I wouldn't have to keep your hands above your head." He comments, looking at you while sticking two fingers in your hole. You gasped, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. His fingers were pushing against your gummy walls, hitting every spot with a precision that made you favor fingers over anything else. Caleb knew your preference and made sure to spoil you. You felt him go back to sucking on your clit, still pumping his fingers into you. It was like he was the conductor of the most beautiful sounding symphony and you didn't want it to end. Everything was so overwhelming that you couldn't help but beg, but you didn't know what you were begging for. Caleb loved hearing your pleading voice repeating his name. He loved breaking your mind with pleasure. There wasn't a time that the sex you had together didn't end up in you becoming a drooling mess. You tasted amazing, he couldn't get over it. If they made a drink inspired by you, he'd drink it every day. He couldn't get enough of you, because, just like him, he is just as insatiable as you are. He'd eat you out all night if he you'd last without passing out. You definitely last longer now, you're able to have more orgasms in one session. You used to get wiped out after two, but he's trained you to go to four. Tonight he wants to try for six, he knows you're ready, that you're so good for him. His tongue wouldn't relent, keeping a sickening, steady pace that made your mind swim with thoughts that were nothing but Caleb. The combination of everything with the steady pace he was keeping and his moans into your sex made the feeling start to build up again. Your moaning turned into whines and whimpers the closer you got to finishing. You could feel tears threatening to spill from the overwhelming amount of times you've came and you didn't know what number Caleb planned on stopping at. He loved making you orgasm, it was one of his favorite things to do. He also loved watching tears roll down your face from how overwhelming the pleasure was.

"Caleb!" You whined out as you were pushed over the edge again, for your forth orgasm. Your breaths were uneven as you tried to come back down. He kept going until you rode out your high, stopping to grab your water again, knowing you'd need it after how much fluid you lost. Again, you sip it, tears drying streaks onto your face, your hair a wild mess from all of the thrashing you were doing and Caleb didn't think there was a prettier sight in the world.

"So pretty baby, such a mess for me. Like a work of art." Caleb was no artist, but he thought that if he were, you'd be his best work. Your chest was heaving as you took in breaths through your nose as you kept sipping the water. Your eyes were closed and you felt ready to fall asleep, but you also craved more. You wanted his cock and thankfully that was the next part of the night. "You ready, angel?" He asked you. You just nodded, handing your water to him with your eyes still closed. "Are you too sleepy?" He asked causing you to groan in protest. He had fucked all of the words out of you. "Alright then, greedy." He narrowed his eyes at you, like a predator with their prey.

You feel his evol moving your legs, folding you in half. Then you felt him hovering over top of you. You open your eyes to see a slice of heaven. His face was glistening with sweat and your juices, same with his chest. You could smell your arousal on him now and it made you realize he had been too busy eating your cunt to even kiss you yet, so you wrapped your arms around his neck to pull him into one. You can taste yourself on his lips as your tongues meet together, fighting for dominance. Neither won, but the war was still raging. You bit his bottom lip to surprise him. He moaned in response, taking the hint and doing the same thing back. Your fingers were tangled in his hair to try and pull him closer to you because he never seemed close enough. You desperately wanted to wrap your legs around his torso to slam him down onto you, but he still had his evol holding your legs in that stretching position. You whined into the kiss, wanting friction from him so badly. “Please, Caleb. I need you.” You whimpered, looking at him with the most desperate look in your eyes. He couldn’t say no to you, especially not when you were looking at him like that.

You had taken him many times before, but you still needed a pretty big warm up before he could penetrate you. Saying his cock was big was an understatement. It caused a delicious belly bulge every time he’d go in. “Alright honey, I’m gonna start sliding it in.” He warned you. You felt his tip prod at your entrance making you impatiently eager. The first feeling of his cock entering you made you gasp. It was never not shocking to feel how girthy he was. You felt him keep going and you thought he must almost be done by now, until you heard him say. “Tip’s almost in, honey. You’re doing amazing.” And with that a final pop and his tip was officially in. Now the real challenge was being able to take all of him in. You hated leaving some of his dick out; you didn’t think it was fair for some of his dick to have a taste and the other part left in the dust. This is where the previous size training comes in handy. You can handle all of him, it just takes time to get it all in. After that, it’s smooth sailing.

“God, Caleb.” You choke out, eyes going wide at the sensation of how full you were feeling already.

“Don’t tell me you’re already quitting? We’re not even half way yet, angel.” He teases you.

“No, please keep going. Need more.” You muttered, gripping his biceps for dear life. As full as you felt, he was right, you were so greedy. He loved how you always craved so much of him. He was happy to oblige. He kept sliding further into you that you could feel him in unusual places, but you loved it. You craved it. You couldn’t wait to see him poking through your tummy.

“Almost there, love. Doing so well for me. Takin’ me like you were made for me, baby.” His praises made you throb around his dick, which earned a hiss from him. “Careful, princess.” He warns. You feel the last of him bottom out with his balls on your ass. “Did so good for me. Look at that.” He said, forcing your head, with his evol, to look at the bulge he made. The sight literally made you drool. You were shocked it took you this long to start drooling, but the sight before you was delicious. You detangle one of your hands from his hair to press down on it. You both moaned in response. He starts thrusting and you started seeing stars. He went slow at first, like always, to ease you into it. You knew his mercy wouldn’t last for much longer. Instead of begging for a faster pace, you relished in the calm before the storm. That surprised Caleb considering you were usually whining at him at this point. He figured it must’ve been because of how many orgasms you had that night. Still more to come! “Always so tight for me.” Caleb manages to grunt out. He loved missionary because he got to watch your tits bounce up and down. Your cute little tummy made the same bouncing movements too that he loved.

Then he sped up and you were gripping his biceps like a lifeline. Your face was dug into his neck, biting into his shoulder and accidentally drooling on it. Caleb loved witnessing you turn to mush beneath him. It was a feeling he would never get over, he'd do it forever if you'd let him. You looked perfect, your sweat was making your hair stick to your forehead and it gave your skin a beautiful glow. Your flushed cheeks were calling out to him to kiss them. He peppered your cheeks in kisses as you moaned out his name. You felt yourself building to climax again, this was past your limit. You knew you could do more, Caleb always brought it out in you. Your squirt was spraying up from being smacked into, it was a mess. You could tell how much Caleb loved it by the feral sounds he was making paired with the aggressive thrusting. He had you hovering off of the bed now, holding you up with his arms and keeping your thighs at torso level with his evol. He was grunting in your ear, telling you how beautiful you were, how much he loved you, and other sweet nothings. It helped push you over the edge to the point where you were gripping so hard on his biceps that your fingers turned white and half moons from your fingernails would linger for a couple of days. "Caleb." You whined out, your voice coming out in waves of volume that matched the thrusts he was pounding into you.

"That's it baby, you got it. You're almost done." He said. With every steady, rough thrust, you could feel the build getting faster and faster until eventually it all climaxed and you started pulsing around him, once again. His dick had finally had a taste of your orgasm pulsing around him. It was like you were trying to milk him. He could've came, but he knew he needed to last a little longer to pull that one last sweet orgasm from you. "'m not done yet, princess. Just hold on until I can fill you up." He instructs you, causing you to moan. His pace was relentless and it felt sweet going in and out of you. You were addicted to it at that point, wanting to feel him stuffing your pussy full forever. You'll have to ask if you can cockwarm him sometime soon. He'd obviously agree, but he wouldn't make it easy for you.

He flips you over, using his strength to arch your back and choke you from behind. He used his evol to keep your head back while he stuck two fingers in your mouth. The slight pressure his evol added to your neck was addictive. You sucked and bit down on his fingers, moaning his name. He felt so much bigger from behind that it was almost ridiculous. Your whimpers and whines faded into the distance only to be replaced by viceral moans as he pounded into you with a sickening pace. The noises coming from your sex was like music to your ears. His fingers in your mouth caused you to drool more. Thankfully, you were in the spare bedroom so that way you could change the sheets and clean the mattress and still have a bed to lie down in to get aftercare. Because with the way you were making a mess out of both ends, you'd need a dry place to sleep. "Mmm." You loudly whine, feeling it build up again.

"You almost there again, already?" He teased you. He loved looking at you from behind too. He loved looking at you from any position really. He thought you were the most beautiful angelic person to ever exist. "Come on baby, let's cum together. I'm gonna fill you up." He said as his hands dwared your hips as he began to hold them to slam you back into him. Your tears started up again as they began to stream down your face.

You felt it build up and up and up until it finally spilled over, you spasmed on his cock, feeling impaled. "Thank you, thank you, thank you." You said over and over again like a mantra.

"Fuck baby, I'm cumming." He groaned, pumping his cock into you. You could feel him paint your pulsing walls. It all felt so warming, it could put you to sleep. He pumped his last few times to finish inside of you, pulling out of you and immediately pulling you into him for a much needed hug. "So beautiful and perfect. I love you so much, honey." He said, using the nickname you used to have when you'd fake date. Those same butterflies from back then found their way to your stomach too.

"Mm, love you too... S'much." You muttered out as best you could. You could tell you were fading fast. All you wanted was to fall asleep in his arms while he played with your hair. You also realized how thirsty you were too. "Water?" You asked. He was already one step ahead of you, holding the straw up to your lips. You took sips, making contented sighs as you leaned back into him. This was heaven, you were sure of it. Every day he'd treat your needs as the top priority. You couldn't express how much you truly loved him. It was impossible because there weren't grand enough words to describe it.

"Let's get to bed, baby. You look so tired." He cooed at you, lifting you up and carrying you into your shared bedroom. He laid you down in the bed, going to grab a towel to clean the mess in between your thighs. "You did so well. Six in one session. And that's not even counting the ones you had before I got home. You're so amazing baby. I knew you could do it." He spoke on his way back from the bathroom. He cleaned me and then him, tucking me into the covers and turning on the ceiling fan. He threw the towel in the dirty laundry and finally joined me in bed. By the time he climbed in beside me, I was already half asleep. He turned me around to cuddle me into his chest and I fell asleep with a content smile on my face with his fingers playing with my hair.

#caleb x reader #lads x reader #caleb lads #caleb love and deepspace #lads #lads caleb #caleb #smut #lads smut #caleb smut #18+ mdni #mdni #Spotify #dacryphilia #size k!nk #hand k!nk #belly bulge #evol #hot and sweaty

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unlimitedlust · 10 months ago

Text

Chokehold - Noah Sebastian x Reader (+18)

Author's Note:

Heyy, I've had this idea in my head for a while now and it took me some time to finally write it so I hope y'all like it!!

I'm new to this fandom and this is my very first Noah Sebastian fanfiction, but I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Disclaimers: as any other content in this blog, this is a highly NSFW smutty story so if you're not into this kind of explicit content I advise you not to read it. Here you'll have a bit of plot and lots of porn, unprotected p in v (be safe out there), oral (f receiving), Noah being a giver, alcohol and lots of explicit descriptions.

English is not my first language, so forgive me for any mistakes I eventually skipped while proof-reading it.

I wrote it to Sleep Token's "Chokehold", "Take Me Back To Eden" and "The Summoning", and also to Bad Omens' "The Death Of Piece Of Mind" and "What It Cost", so if you're into listening to something while reading, I recommend you these songs.

WC: 4.7K

Enjoy your time here and if you enjoy it, feel free to leave it a like and/or to reblog the story, your feedback is what keeps me writing!!

End of Author's Note

-0-

You were Bad Omens’ photographer for the tour, the one responsible for taking all the pictures the fans would go feral online, especially Noah’s, and you couldn’t help but to keep giving them more material, because even though you’d never admit it, you’d also secretly had a deep crush on him.

The guys from the band and the crew would often joke about how Noah’s pictures were the best ones and how you privileged him over the rest of the band, but you always dismissed the subject by saying that it wasn’t your fault he had the better angle since he was the lead singer. It was true in some aspects, yes, but your skills for taking fantastic pictures no matter how challenging the circumstance was were undeniable, so in the end of the day, it wasn’t hard to reach the conclusion that Noah was your favorite.

You often caught yourself admiring the pictures you took of him, his perfect angelical features in contrast with his tattoo covered skin, the way his eyes would catch the lens like he was staring right into your soul through the camera separating you.

But that was all coming to an end tonight.

They’d just played their last concert of the tour and you’d all agreed to make a small (kind of) party to celebrate it at the boys’ place.

You felt bittersweet towards the event. You were happy to be partying with them and being able to enjoy the moment without the concern of taking the perfect pictures. But on the other hand, you were sad you wouldn’t be seeing the band daily anymore and you’d miss them because you’d gotten attached to them and to their jokes, and also (and obviously) because you wouldn’t be seeing Noah anymore.

Your flight home for the morning after the party was already booked and you’d already checked in to save you some time.

So you sighed when you walked inside the big house in front of you. You, like always, held your confident and unwavering poise before everyone, but deep down you were uneasy. Was this the last time you’d be seeing him? In how long? Or ever?

You couldn’t hear the sounds of your heels clicking on the wooden floor because at each step you got closer to the party where loud music was blasting and you soon found the small crowd of people in the main living room already having their own fun.

You felt an arm hooking on yours and suddenly Folio was pulling you through the people towards the rest of the band and you couldn’t help but to smile at the unexpected gesture.

Your heart raced and your cheeks burned as you got closer to Noah, who’d been watching you from the moment you arrived, but you played it cool like always as you got to them and Ruffilo immediately put a bottle of beer in your hand.

Noah couldn’t take his eyes off you.

You didn’t know that, but he also had a strong crush on you and all of the band knew it. He always told them it was just a small crush and they should ignore it just as he did (or tried), because he wanted to keep it professional between you two.

But when you got to his sight and he saw you wearing that black leather crop top, with thin straps on your shoulders, just a zipper on the front imprisoning your breasts and highlighting your cleavage, along with a high-waisted skinny black skirt molding your curves and, mainly, your ass, bare toned legs on display and black boots on your feet, he was done.

You’d spent the last months practically living together in tour buses and stuff, but you always wore larger, baggy dark clothes that’d cover your body and blend you with the rest of the crew, so how well you looked caught not only Noah’s attention, but everyone else’s, the difference tonight was the fact that Noah just wouldn’t stop staring.

You felt confident, you knew you looked hot and secretly you’d chosen your clothes just for him, to impress him, to catch his attention. And your mission was successfully accomplished.

“Hey pretty” Noah reached his right arm out and pulled you to him in a side hug before kissing the top of your head.

“Hey handsome”

That exchange wasn’t new for you, it was like that every time you met, but this time, the way his lips lingered longer in your forehead as you inhaled his scent deeply got you very aware that something was different tonight. Was it because you were parting ways?

When he let you go he searched for the flustered expression you always had in your face when he did that, but sensed some apprehension instead, despite the grin forming on your lips.

Another thing you didn’t know is that Noah learned over time how to read you and he loved how cute you looked every time he got a shy smile out of your lips.

He loved how flustered you got when he gave the camera the looks he knew got you weak on your knees, because every time he did that, he saw how you unwittingly licked your lips as you checked out the pictures you’d just taken. And no, you didn’t have that same reaction over the pictures you took from the rest of the band, no matter how incredible they were.

“Gonna miss me now that the tour is over?” You teased him, taking a sip from your beer.

“Miss you? Why? We’re not going anywhere” Confusion splattered across Noah’s face as he had his full attention on you.

“You remember I live on the other side of the world right?”

His jaw visibly tensed when he finally processed the information you just brought him.

“Fuck…” Noah was frustrated “But you’re still coming for the barbecue tomorrow, right?”

“Uh… Nope… My flight leaves early in the morning actually…” You felt guilty as the words came from your lips, the intensity of his glare over you stealing your breath as Noah looked like he’d just been stabbed.

“No, you can’t do that… Are you saying this is our last night with you until God knows when?”

He took a big gulp of his own beer, his knuckles white due to the hard grip on the bottle and on the counter behind him, until he sighed in defeat.

“Come on, it’s not like we’re never seeing each other again” You nudged him trying to cheer him up “All you gotta do is hire me as your photographer again” You winked at him and took another swing of your beer, but you didn’t miss the way he watched your lips wrapping around the bottle.

“You say it like we’ve fired you, but you forget you won’t get rid of us, and especially me that easy”

“Like I’d want to get rid of you” You rolled your eyes.

“You could’ve waited a little longer to go home though, are you that tired of looking at my face?” He teased, the smirk on his lips making you weak on your knees.

“Tired of looking at a catch like that? Never”

“You think I’m a catch? Good to know” The way his eyes burned as he looked at you up and down again raised goosebumps on your skin.

“You’re insufferable”

“And you’re a terrible liar” He grabbed your hand “Now come on let’s have some fun”

The rest of the band along with other guests had gathered around the sofas in the middle of the room, all of them paying attention to Jolly, who was explaining the rules of the drinking game he’d just invented.

After a few drinks, beers and shots in, you along with anyone else got loose and the games that were tame at first got wilder as the night went on.

“Truth or dare, come on, never gets old and I’m dying for some revelations tonight” Folio spun an empty bottle in the center of the coffee table in front of them “bottom asks, top answers”

The bottle finally stopped spinning and you had the first round: Rufillo to Jolly.

Jolly chose dare and Rufillo made him drink 5 seconds of tequila.

Another spin. Folio to you.

“Come on honey, truth or dare?” He made the question with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Truth”

“Let’s heat things up a bit then: of the people in this room, who would you make out with?”

Your cheeks burned red with his question as all eyes were on you and the room went silent waiting for your answer. Yet you weren’t shy, the alcohol in your system had you bold at that point.

“Noah”

“Yet you always deny he’s your favorite” Folio pretended to be offended.

You winked at Noah, who was sitting by your side, eyes narrowed in you as he raked them over you, visibly satisfied by your answer.

A few more rounds went by until the bottle landed on Noah.

“Truth or dare, buddy?” Folio had evil intentions in his eyes again and of course Noah wasn’t going to be spared.

“Dare”

“I dare you to take a body shot on the person you find the hottest in this room”

Noah left his place by your side as the boys brought him salt, a piece of lime and a shot of tequila. When he got up you felt your heart sinking in your chest with the realization he might choose another girl, but when he knelt in front of you, you lost your breath.

Noah rested his tattooed hands on your knees, uncrossed your legs and pulled you towards him, to the edge of the couch, the way he manhandled you catching you off guard as he was now between your legs and your skirt rose higher, getting dangerously shorter.

Heat pooled in your panties as you watched him lean you backwards and prepare you for the body shot. He placed the small glass of tequila in your cleavage, poured salt on your neck and the piece of lime between your lips.

“May I?” He splayed his hands on your thighs as the smug on his lips grew wider.

Since your lips were occupied by the piece of lime, you only nodded, watching him lick his lips as he leaned closer towards your neck.

Noah took his time on licking the salt off your neck, swirling his tongue and kissing your skin in the process, then made his way down to your chest where his nose brushed against the valley of your breasts as he wrapped his lips around the shot glass to down it, and for last came up for the lime on your lips, his own ghosting over yours as he took it with his teeth, eyes locked on yours as he teased you in front of everyone, fingers sinking on your thighs as he seemed to be holding himself back.

Rufillo cleared his throat loudly and Noah quickly stood on his feet.

“Fuck I’m dizzy” Was all you could muster as you got up as well all flustered, pulling your skirt down as you headed for the kitchen for some water.

You were so aroused you didn’t know what to do with yourself. Your core ached between your legs as you pressed them together hoping for some friction. You chugged down a glass of cold water in a vain attempt to ease your nerves, but it wasn’t water you were thirsty for.

The feel of his tongue and lips on your neck still lingered, tingling, and you wondered what he would do to you if you weren’t surrounded by people.

“Thirsty?” Noah materialized behind you, practically caging you, but also keeping some distance.

His eyes were darker than usual, burning holes in yours as he waited for your answer, and you both knew very well that “water” wasn’t the subject, and since this was your last night with them, with him, you weren’t running away anymore.

“Been the whole tour” You fired back at him and he took a step closer.

“Same on my part” He cupped your cheek with one of his hands, his fingers entangling with the hair on your nape while his thumb traced your lips “It’s a shame we waited this long… If you only knew all the ways I’ve had you in my mind…”

His husky voice sent your shivers straight to your pussy at his confession, and you wanted nothing but to have at least a sneak peak of what he’d had in his head. If only he could know what’s been to yours as well.

“Well now I can’t seem to understand why are you taking so long to show me?”

“Is there someone in a hurry?”

“Since I have a flight in the morning…” His hand slid down to your neck, choking you.

“And who says you’re getting into that plane tomorrow?” You couldn’t help but to moan when he tightened his hand around your neck just enough to make you melt into his grip “Let’s get out of here”

He let go of your neck and grabbed your hand, guiding you upstairs towards his bedroom. You stood in the middle of his room waiting for his next step as he locked the door behind him, the predatory gaze sending shivers down your spine as he checked you out once again.

“You are so fucking beautiful”

You couldn’t help but to blush at his confession as he stood in front of you, both hands cupping your face, admiring your delicate features.

“I’ve been wanting to do this since the first day I laid my eyes on you” He licked his lips, his eyes shifting from your lips to your eyes.

“Fucking kiss me, Noah”

“Thought you’d never ask”

He crashed his lips against yours and you felt your body going limp in his arms as he deepened the kiss. You let your fingers trail their way through his dark soft hair as his tongue explored yours, devouring you. He kissed you passionately and his hands roamed free over your body, you nibbled his lower lip and he pulled your hips closer, making sure you’d feel how hard he already was, pressing against your belly.

“If you don’t tell me to stop now, I won’t” He gasped, his restraint holding on by a thread.

“Who says I want you to stop?” Your hands slid down his chest to the hem of his shirt “I want your everything” You pulled his shirt upwards and he took the cue to help you take it off.

Your fingertips traced the tattoos on his body in admiration, every inch of him pure perfection in your eyes.

He kissed you again and guided you backwards to his bed, making your body collapse on it just as you felt your calves hitting its edge. Noah hovered over you, the thin chain around his neck dangling over you, almost touching your face as his hand ran up the side of your body from your outer thigh.

When he reached your ribcage, his fingers changed their path to the middle of your chest, to the zipper of your crop top, and you held your breath as he opened it slowly, eyes trained on you as the leather piece slowly slid off your breasts revealing them to him, nipples hard and sensitive on his full disposal.

“Fucking amazing”

Your lips met once more as he splayed one of his hands on one of your boobs, fondling it and pitching your nipple between his tattooed fingers. His body stood between your legs and you whimpered when he rubbed his clothed manhood against your aching center, covered only by helplessly damp lace panties.

His lips trailed kisses down your jaw towards your neck, where he now, very aware of your sensitivity in that area, covered your skin in with kisses and angry love-bites, clearly intending on marking you as his.

Your manicured nails ran up his back as his lips now peppered kisses down your clavicles to your chest, his mouth immediately latching on one of your breasts, suckling and nibbling your nipple, to then soothe the small sting with the softness of his tongue before switching his attention to the other.

You arched your back, legs spreading wider apart as you surrender yourself completely to his mercy, small cries of pleasure escaping your lips as you watched him, mouth and hands full of your boobs, the ache between your legs almost unbearable as you desperately needed him there, filling you.

“Noah please…” You pleaded as your legs tried to pull his hips to grind against you with no avail.

His voice was raw, deep and filled with lust: “Please what?”

He teased, lips now traveling lower on your body, stopping only to give him enough room to take both your skirt and panties at once, throwing it randomly in his room.

“I need you to tell me what you want babe” He nibbled the skin right below your navel, and the realization of how close he was to your intimacy sent stronger shivers over your body as he kissed your inner thighs “Fuck you’re dripping”

“I need you inside me, please” You whined as his lips got closer to your hot center, his eyes admiring how glistening wet you already were for him before he blew his breath on you, making you quiver at the sensitivity.

“I will princess, but I need to taste you first”

Noah spread your legs wider apart and his tongue ran flat over your pussy, collecting and tasting all the arousal he could get, moaning against you as he finally got to taste you. His skilled tongue on your clit got you seeing stars in seconds as he worked on building your orgasm, and you prayed the music downstairs was loud enough to keep the rest of the party from hearing you, because you just couldn’t hold yourself back.

“You taste so fucking good”

Noah ate you like a starved man, feasting on you, taking pleasure in watching the sexed expressions on your face and how you helplessly writhed below him. He added a finger inside you as he kept working on you with his mouth, his long finger immediately finding the magic spongy spot inside you that made your legs shake around his neck as the pleasure knot forming on your lower belly threatened to explode violently at any second.

You tried to hold it back for as long as you could, but when he combined the work on your clit with his tongue along with a precise flick of his wrist, he forced the orgasm out of you in strong white hot waves of ecstasy, making you lose your senses for a few seconds as he rode your high.

Yet Noah didn’t stop.

Still eating you, he held you firmly and flipped you both on the bed, making you sit on his face. Your faltering legs threatened your balance, but his firm grip kept you up straight.

You looked below you and the scene alone almost made you cum again. The pussy-drunk look on his face, the disheveled hair, the way half of his face was covered in your slick, dark eyes glossy as he looked up meeting yours as he kept lapping, sucking, overstimulating you on purpose.

“Oh my fuck N-Noah…”

“Fuck my face babe”

He growled against you, fingers sinking on your ass cheeks as you, still shaky, followed his command and started to roll your hips back and forth, allowing you to control the pace, the pressure, and to use his face on your own will.

You felt your climax blossoming inside you again as he kept devouring you, drinking in every drop he could take from you, his nose rubbing against your clit while he fucked you with his tongue.

“Oh fuck… Noah…” Your orgasm bubbled up inside you again, but you were not ready for it yet, you were sure you’d collapse on top of him if he gave you another one in such a short time.

As if reading your thoughts Noah stopped, keeping you from falling apart so soon, but on the other hand edging you as you were so close to jumping off that cliff again.

You got off of his face and moved down his body to remove his pants and underwear, hurried, dying to feel him. He propped himself on his elbows and watched you undress him with shaky hands, the fucked out expression on your face making him want more of you.

Your jaw dropped when his cock sprung free, rock hard against his belly, head glistening with precum, the size and thickness doing justice to his height, and your throat went dry to the thinking of how he would feel inside you, stretching you.

“It’s all yours” He grinned, watching you admire him.

You straddled and pulled him up to kiss you and your taste still lingered on his tongue. His arms wrapped around your back and waist bringing you closer, and you took the cue to rock yourself against his shaft, coating it with your arousal, mixing it with his precum, the friction making him groan against your lips.

You pulled his hair, tilting his head back exposing his neck, and attacked it with your lips and tongue, all while you now teased the head of his cock with your opening, pretending you’d finally let him in, threatening to finally join your bodies, but skipping it every time, his digits digging on your flesh with his impatiency.

“You’re gonna make me beg for it now?” He peppered kisses on your chest and collarbone.

“You tell me… You want it that bad?” You whispered in his ear and nibbled on his earlobe.

That’s until he took control over you again and held your hips in place, lining himself with your entrance, all while he pulled you by your hair with his free hand, pulling you away from his neck, making you look at him, eyes so dark with lust and oozing such a primal desire you felt like prey.

“I do”

He caressed your cheek with his thumb.

“Now eyes on me”

He instructed and you immediately obeyed. With one of his hands still on the back of your head and the other on your hip, the tip of his cock met your pussy and Noah pressed you down on him, merging your bodies slowly. His name came out of your lips in such a sinful pitch that made him throb inside you, the vision and the feeling of you, flesh and bone, being endlessly better than he could’ve ever imagined.

Your arms snaked around his neck as he bottomed you out, you felt so full and stretched, your whole body was on fire, ignited with desire, and when you got used to his size you started to move on top of him, slowly increasing your pace as you rode him, stealing grunts of pleasure out of him every time you intentionally clenched around him and fucked him harder, your skin slapping against his as his fingers dug into your thighs.

He was so lost in his own moment he didn’t know if he should look at where your bodies merged, at your boobs bouncing in front of his face or at your sex glazed eyes. His lips captured yours once again as you rocked your hips back and forth, that very specific motion almost making you both snap.

“Fuck you’re gonna make me cum”

He whined and rolled you both, laying you on the bed as he got on top of you, switching positions so he could last longer, to feel you longer, to fuck you longer. He pushed himself inside of you again and all at once, at the new depth he reached with that position turned you into a moaning mess as he now set his own pace, but making sure that with every thrust he stimulated that very spot he found earlier inside you.

“Noah oh my…”

You couldn’t finish your sentence as that postponed orgasm emerged again like a tsunami, washing away all of your senses as it bursted from inside out, hard, making your pussy clench desperately around him as he rode your high, taking every bit of his restraint to ride you through it without unloading inside you, cock throbbing in need, and just as he felt your body becoming jelly under his he pulled out of you, cumming on your belly in long hot spurts as he stilled over you, cheeks red and eyes rolled back.

He glued his forehead on yours, breathing still heavy as he came back from his own high, admiring how impossibly beautiful you looked at that very moment.

“There’s no fucking way I’m letting you into that plane tomorrow”

#fanfic #fanfiction #smut #romance #noah sebastian #bad omens #nick folio #nick ruffilo #nicholas ruffilo #jolly karlsson #self insert #joakim karlsson #noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian x you

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pearl-tarotist · 1 year ago

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☽˚｡How will your future spouse know you're their special person? ☽˚｡⋆.

As the second PAC of my collection "cliche moments with your fs", this tarot reading tries to describe the moment where your FS knows you are the person they want to spend their life with.

P1-P2-P3

01.

For some of you, your fs will realize you are their special person when they start thinking of you as family. It will happen gradually and naturally, little by little you have conquered a piece of their brain and heart.

A main scenario that appears on the cards is that they will realise you are their person when they keep picturing you as the mother of their children. They suddenly thought of it and they were like "God, Y/N is just…so perfect and good", with adoration in their eyes. They believe you are naturally nurturing and warm. From that day on, they will want to deepen their relationship with you and take care of you even more. It's a serious decision that they make, a realisation and a promise at the same time. It's possible that one day they have forgotten their jacket and you will go and get them for them or that they have hurt themselves with a wall or something and you kiss their hand and tell them it's okay. The fact that you keep taking care of them makes their heart beat faster and makes their chest warm. And at the same it makes them get protective and selfish about you because "no one deserves the attention of someone as pure and good as you". They truly see you as a wish fulfilment. Another scenario I got was a woman laughing at a beach and their partner being absolute smitten by said woman.

Channelled messages:

Russian, english, french, love at first sight, soft kisses, hand holding, red clothes, office work, 20s, office chairs, black and brown hair, Lana del Rey, fairy tales and authors (books).

02.

This scenario starts with a fs that's apathetic, hard working, cold (lacking warm) and that's not interested in love. Do not get me wrong because they are not bad people, it's just that they are a candle that has been extinguished for a long time and now warmness does not come easily to them. With the king of swords, they are lost in their work and their logical sense, they are a soul focused on getting their business at the right position. They see love as something distant and that they cannot have, even when they just have to extent their hand and take that "cup full of love" that's presented to them. I think they do not know how to take those steps as no one has taught them. Kind of making themselves a victim there. But, once you are in their life, you could be a really funny person and a positive presence that brightens their day. One specific scenario is that they could not have laughed in a long time and when they are speaking to you, you make them laugh... and they suddenly realize that they just smile around you and that their checks had been deprived of laugh until you arrived. It's as if their world was black and white until you came along. I'm sure that they did not even realize their romantic feelings for you at the time but they knew that they wanted you in their life, for sure. They will become quite interested in your privat life and always wait to see you. I am sensing an office love in this pile with a grumpy co-worker but it's a general reading so just take this if resonates.

Channelled messages:

Meeting in bright rooms, a place with windows, Excel and numbers, Rome and Italy, vintage clothing, Crimson Peak (movie), The hunger games (book), Azul by Rubén Dario, Studio Ghibli, Romanticism.

03.

The first card that you got was the lovers so they realize you are their person, probably, the first time they see you, and as typical as it sounds, you both are struck by cupid's arrows. (This is prominent for those who have blond hair) They will like your hair and smile, they will randomly think that your hands are soft and a bit cold. They will think about your smile for days on and if you were wearing thigh clothing...well, let's say you have a nice chest. I think you both were introduced by an acquaintance, an old (in thier 40s-50s) man or woman in the street or at your work. However, it's not that easy because your future spouse is extremely nervous around you, it's that new crush energy where they are smitten by you. I think they have trust issues and they had their heart broken in the past and they keep trying to surpass all of those paralizing feeling while meeting and getting to know you better without giving you any signal that they are extremely interested. They will put effort to beat their own fears for a chance to meet you, I think their friends will support them while they get to know you.

Channelled messages:

Romeo and Juliet, yellow, the moon, orchids, Ireland, the police, 10 things I hate about you, the sea, Greece, bulls and butterflies.

#tarot #pac #pick a pile #pearl #tarot reading #astrology #free tarot #love tarot #pick a card #future spouse tarot #love reading

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lilylushes · 2 months ago

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Gilman Reunion with Luigi

TW: Sex, spanking (once)

A/N: If u don't like it then don't read it.

“Having fun?” you say into your boyfriend Luigi’s ear. You’re at his high school reunion at Gilman and he’s proudly introduced you to all of his old friends. His hands remained on the small of your back throughout the night.

“Very much so. Thanks for coming, baby. They all love you,” he puts his arm around you, kissing your cheek. “Let’s take a walk, I’ll show you the labs.”

“Okay,” you smile as you both put down your wine glasses. “Let's go.”

Luigi ensures the coast is clear before sneaking the two of you away from the reception. You walk down the halls of Gilman, hand in hand, taking in the place that meant so much to him, that helped make him into the man you love.

At one point, you spot his year’s graduation picture and stop to take a picture of it with your phone to embarrass him later.

“Baby, your hair here, so cute,” you say, pinching his cheek as he lets out a laugh.

“Ugh, that picture is so embarrassing. I look like such a nerd.”

“My nerd. My cute nerd. I love little Luigi. But I love big Luigi too,” you wrap your arms around him, and he brings your waist closer to his body, kissing you slowly.

“Never thought I’d get to kiss a girl in the halls of Gilman,” he grins. “Oh, and, big Luigi loves you too. They both do,” he laughs, looking down at his growing bulge that he knows you can feel.

His joke makes you both erupt into a fit of laughter.

“Shhh, shh, okay, let’s not get caught. I’ll show you the labs.”

You two continue down the halls. You can’t help but see how it’s all so romantic but also bursting with sexual tension.

“I love sneaking around with you, Lu. It’s kind of hot, too, not gonna lie.”

He turns, opening a door on your right, holding it open for you. “Ladies first.”

“I spent so much time here. Must’ve been hundreds of hours.” He looks around, with the only light in the room being provided by the streetlights outside. “We had robotics club in here, did countless experiments, so much stuff.”

Luigi walks up to you, takes your hand, and brings you over to the teacher’s desk, holding your body close to his. He suddenly grabs your hips and lifts you up on the desk, drawing his lips painfully close to yours, nearly touching. His arms on either side of your hips gives you no escape, not that you wanted one.

He whispers, “but you know what I never got to do?”

“Mmmm?” you question, locking your eyes on his.

“Never got to fuck in here.” He moves his mouth to your ear. “Wanted you so bad all night. You look so fucking pretty and I’m so proud to show you off, baby.” He brings his gaze to yours before kissing you hungrily.

“Didn’t take you as such a bad boy, Mangione,” you smile against his lips.

“I am for you, baby. You get me so fucking horny. My perfect girl.”

His lips find yours again. Your tongues dance with one another as you explore each other’s mouth. One of you will moan, triggering a moan from the other. His hands roam your body, squeezing your breasts and grinding your hips over his bulge. His body holds your legs open. Both of you get worked up fast. His bulge is bigger than it was in the hallway, and you can feel wetness pooling at your core.

He finally brings his hand up your dress and in between your legs, pausing.

“No panties?” He seems surprised.

You look at him with innocent eyes, shaking your head.

“Fuck, just when I thought you couldn’t get anymore perfect,” he growls before running his fingers up and down your folds before inserting one in your aching core.

“Oh!” You gasped, beginning to buck your hips to get his finger as deep as possible.”

“Yeah? That wet for me already? Me fucking you in a classroom really turns you on, doesn’t it baby?” He has your foreheads connected, looking into your eyes.

He stops his assault on your cunt, bringing his fingers to your mouth.

“Taste.”

You love his fingers in your mouth, and so does he. You look at him lovingly while your tongue swirls around his long fingers.

“Mmm, so pretty,” he looks down for a second. “Oh, hold on baby, you made a bit of a mess.”

He lowers himself, sopping up the juices from your cunt and from the desk before returning to his standing position.

“You’re delicious, baby. It’s so sexy to see how wet you get for me.”

You reach your hand out, palming his bulge through his tight pants.

“Baby, wanna suck your co-”

“I’m not gonna last, not with you looking this pretty and not with the thought of me railing you in my old high school. Feel how bad I need you?”

“Need you, too, Lu. So bad. Want you to fuck me on this table right now.”

That’s all he needs. He unbuckles his belt, lowers his pants and boxers, and lets his cock spring free.

He rubs it along your wet folds. The only sounds in the air are wetness, gasps, and four-letter words.

“Fuck, baby. Gonna fuck you now. Fuck the shit out of you on this desk.” He puts his forehead on yours

He pushes his cock into you, prompting you both to gasp.

“Mmm, your cock, is so big, baby. Fills me up so nice. Need you to fuck me good.”

He quickly starts fucking you at a quick pace.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he says, gritting his teeth.

“You’re a fucking fantasy come true, baby, you know that? So fucking hot,” he moves his hand to your neck and pulls his head up, allowing you both to watch his cock thrusting in and out of your pussy.

You’re both moaning far louder than you should be. He can sense your worry.

“We’re on the other side of the school, baby. Be loud. Wanna hear my girl.”

You take his reassurance as permission to voice your pleasure.

The moaning, the sweating, the scene, it’s all so fucking hot. Your kisses are messy, your mouths are agasp, and your hands are exploring each other’s bodies.

Suddenly, Luigi pulls out, takes you off the desk, bends you over on top of it, and brings your hips to his, inserting his cock again to continue.

“I’m close,” you say, in between his deep thrusts.

“Wait,” he spanks you, making you moan.

“Needed to do that, feels too fucking good fucking you in here.”

You bring a hand behind your back for his to hold as you feel him getting close. His other hand is bringing your hips to his.

“Gonna cum inside this pretty pussy. Fill it with my cum.”

You moan even louder, and he can feel your walls clenching around him. He moves you back from the desk a little bit to bring his hand that was on your hips to touch your clit. You let out a cry of pleasure and pain.

“Yeah, baby cum on my cock while I breed you.”

You look back at him while you both reach your orgasm. The two of you collapse onto the desk, breathless. After catching his breath, Luigi brings a couple of kisses to your shoulder before standing up.

“I can’t believe we fucking did that.”

You arise, turning to face him.

“Me neither, that was really hot.” You bite your lip and look up at him.

“I’ve always had that fantasy but never thought I’d get to live it. But I never thought I’d meet someone like you, either,” he says, holding the side of your face in his palm, his thumb running across your cheek. “I love you.” He gives you a long, gentle kiss.

“Let’s get back there before they get any ideas,” you tell him.

“I’m sure they’ve already got an idea, unfortunately.” You both laugh, leaving the lab holding hands.

#luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione x yn #luigi mangione smut

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cowboyschumi · 2 months ago

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MUSE

Summary: Oscar is known for being bad at padel, which is why he tries other hobbies, like photography. Now, he clearly needs something to take photos of.

Author's note: Oscar trying to play paddel 🤏

I'm a huge fan of taking inspiration from songs, so you can listen to this. Don't forget to enjoy the reading and show some love. <3

Warnings: None ig.

————————————————————————

Oscar had to be grateful for being that good of a driver. Man, he was really bad at other sports. Everyone pointed it out and made fun of him, some people even pitied him or found it cute. He even tried golfing, but that racket was his last straw. He was a bit frustrated, but Oscar wasn’t the type to get frustrated and give up. He just accepted the fact that he wasn’t gifted enough.

His Instagram was— for his luck because he wasn't a media guy— managed by a social media professional, who made him posts and even took charge of taking pictures. Yes, none of his dumps, captions, or stories were posted by his own hands, which was crazy. He wanted some sort of control over that, after all, he had a voice and a platform. Not taking advantage of that would be a shame, besides there was no fun and genuine part if he wasn't the one behind his Instagram. So he decided to take it more seriously, it made his brain hurt in the most untolerable ways but he started to post more, engage with his fans.

Instagram dumps are such a religious thing for some people, he wasn't in that group until now. Having a picture perfect Instagram would let people have more connection with the places, his interests— perceive him differently and not some boring and flat boy with not much to say.

Like any driver, he had a stylist, a PR team, and other fancy stuff—which he didn’t like much because the main focus was on him, physically. His content was different now; it was full of sunsets, yachts, cars, and food pictures. He had to thank his team for lending him a professional camera—it made the quality ten times better.

"It's a lost cause." Oscar spoke as he carelessly dried his hair with a towel.

You vividly remember the first time he stepped into one of your classes—the typical shy kid who barely spoke. Other drivers came along with him, doing most of the talking, but they weren’t consistent in attending. For them, padel was just a way to kill time. Oscar, on the other hand, wanted to know everything about it—from the size of the court to executing the perfect shot with his racket. A few weeks after his first class, he started booking lessons on his own, demanding more focus and dedication.

He came around twice a week, and seeing him so often, you quickly grew close. So it wasn’t surprising to find him frequently emerging from the showers at the padel club. You had even learned to tolerate his wannabe tennis grunts when he hit the ball. At this point, you had already seen the worst of him.

"You’re just being hard on yourself. Not everything has to be perfect."

Like in any common locker room, there was a bench where people placed their clothes after showering. You sat there as you two talked.

No matter how comfortable you were around Oscar, you respected him, so you made a point of not looking at his shirtless torso.

"Don't give me a pity speech. I’ve heard enough of that." He really did sound tired of hearing it. But it was true—no one should be too hard on themselves for not meeting their highest expectations. Striving for perfection in everything wasn’t normal. Oscar’s mindset was too rigid, and being optimistic felt like an impossible task for him.

"Webber told me you started… photography? He even sounded worried about what you might do with that." Chuckles and laughter echoed through the warm changing room.

"Yeah, I mean, it’s pretty great. Still got a lot to work on," he admitted sincerely, making that classic uncertain face he always did when he wasn’t sure about something. His facial expressions were always amusing. "I got bored of photographing the plants on my balcony at home. Took some photos of Lando, and Hattie doesn’t even want the lens near her."

Laughter filled the room again—it felt like a comedy show at this point. But when it faded, you exchanged a tense glance, as if communicating telepathically. A mischievous smirk lit up his face.

"No." Your answer was immediate and firm, anticipating what was coming.

"I haven’t even said anything!" He raised his hands in mock innocence, his guilty smile still in place. Oh, you knew him too well.

"I won’t. I’m not photogenic."

"Please, just one time."

Oscar always swore on one-time things. But when something felt good, you tended to repeat it. He knew exactly how to take advantage of your kindness, always asking for harmless favors—because, in the end, you never said no to him.

————————————————————————

And there you were, in his Monaco apartment, on a morning when rain was pouring outside. Oscar always pointed out the differences between his current lifestyle and the one he had in Australia, the daily longing for home. That small place in Europe had its charm, and he wouldn’t complain, but he missed the wide-open spaces, the warmer weather, and even his mom’s cooking. Now he lived on the highest floor of the busiest avenue, in a cramped apartment so small that he barely had space to walk around.

"I brought donuts and coffee," You announced while cleaning your boots on the entrance mat.

"Cool, thank you. Would you mind sitting by the window? The light is majestic." His attention was focused on his camera, probably adjusting some tricky settings.

"Already bossing around?" Unbelievable. The kid already thought he was a professional photographer, giving orders and having the worst attitude.

You had a big trench coat on, surprisingly still soaked after the unstoppable rain. And it kept coming—people still struggling with their umbrellas, cars almost floating down the street. That’s what you could see from how high his apartment was.

The brown-eyed boy placed his face behind his huge, intimidating camera, yet somehow, you didn’t feel intimidated by it—after all, he was the one taking the photos. But then, an unexpected expression of discontent crossed his face, confusing you. Your brows furrowed instantly, maybe you weren’t pretty enough to be photographed. You relaxed your body, stopped posing—that was it. At least you tried.

"Take it off." Oscar’s index finger pointed at my jacket, his face continued hidden behind the camera. The view was limited, but his expression remained unreadable—no emotion, all seriousness. Clueless.

"It's freezing cold outside, you're insane." Despite your protest, you did as he told you—just like always, hating yourself for it. Your body leaned against the nearly immense open window, the breeze sneaked through with ease, making your skin shiver. Your face card wasn’t your main attribute, maybe your toned padel body was. Still, you couldn’t quite grasp why he chose you, considering all the contacts and friends he had. Favors were an unbreakable thing between you two, but, of course, you never owed him a thing.

A few more adjustments, and his camera was down again, poker face still tattooed all over him. With slow, measured steps, he walked closer until he stood right in front of you. His mannerisms were always soft and gentle, like he had been written by a woman. Not exactly naive, but delicate enough to make you feel safe and comfortable in his presence.

Oscar set your coat aside, draping it over his vintage couch. His whole place had that aesthetic. You especially loved the Abu Dhabi carpet that stretched across the floor, its deep reddish tones were delightful. His eyes couldn’t help but dart down your slim silhouette. Your white sleeveless shirt, drenched from the rain, clung to your curves, turning entirely translucent against your skin.

Finally, your eyes connected, and you desperately searched for answers, whether in his gaze or through words. The driver was entirely focused on his task, calculating angles, observing the natural lighting, and analyzing your body. Over-analyzing your body.

You knew that look—the one men gave when they stared too long, leaving a disgusting feeling. But Oscar wasn’t like that. Yes, he was staring, but with such admiration and adoration that, for once, you didn’t mind. For the first time in a long time, you felt pretty. Feminine. Reaching that level of femininity wasn’t easy. Padel and sports had always shaped your image, conditioning you to appear tough, stereotypically masculine. But under his gaze, all of that melted away.

You broke eye contact as the staring became too overwhelming for your liking, exceeding your daily dose of attention. You couldn’t just escape him because he was there, and you were working, or something like that. Your breathing hitched, and you involuntarily let out a low gasp at the feeling of his fingers brushing against your skin. His touch was cold, just like your body. The only warmth came from the fire igniting in your cheeks. His fingers hooked around one of your white straps, which had fallen out of place.

God, you wished you could say a word, anything, but you were petrified.

“You look gorgeous.”

“You just say that hoping I’d say yes to another photoshoot. Your guinea pig.” The back-and-forth banter and sarcastic flirting didn’t end, but now you were playing silly enough to avoid any heartfelt compliment. You didn’t like those types of things because you never knew how to react, especially when they came from him. His contagious laughter filled the room and your world turned upside down.

Something always lingered between you two, and it was the expectedly obvious, taking into account the amount of time you spent together—padel mornings or sometimes afternoons, dinner nights if class ended late, and when he actually managed to wake up to his multiple alarms, cycling together. But it was casual because you never knew what could cross a man's mind; spending a whole day together could mean nothing to them, maybe he even saw you in a sisterly way. So you tried to chill, not giving it much importance—because, again, a compliment could mean nothing.

His free hand found its way to your nape, resting his palm there, barely cradling it. You had no choice but to regain eye contact; he had you cornered with his gaze—physically, too. Any cold once brought by the winter weather had vanished. Your skin was hot, almost burning. Oscar's gaze didn’t reflect frenzy or desire; he looked lost, even stunned.

“Let me kiss you, please.” He murmured hopelessly, his words caressing and sweetening your ears in the most shivering way.

“Oscar, professionally is not the best to-” It was just a matter of seconds before he silenced you in the most cliché way possible. His kisses mirrored his personality—timid and shy, as if he were afraid to go too far. Yet, at the same time, they were sweet and innocent, like a first kiss, completely inexperienced.

Something that you clearly weren't used to.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him even more close, letting each other feel how you teetered, how you edged by just a kiss. Your consent gave him more confidence, turning the encounter into something deeper, sloppier. His lips parted against yours with more urgency, the hesitation melting away as the two of you let each other get lost in the moment. His breath was uneven, intoxicatingly mixing with yours. The kiss grew needier, desperate, and hungry. The sound of your teeth crashing messily together was secondary as his tongue brushed against your lips, savoring, tasting, before he dared to explore further. The slick warmth, the breathy sounds between kisses, the way his body pressed against yours—it was thrilling in the best way.

“I never really liked padel that much, nor was I good at it. There was no chance of improving. But you know why I kept coming back.” Oscar's smile emerged in the middle of the kiss, his tone playful, hinting that he knew he’d been doing something wrong just for the fun of it. Paying for extra classes just to see your face more than once a week? Genius move.

“Oh, I'm so gonna kill you.” You warned him, still in disbelief, that he’d been such a fool, especially since you would’ve said yes to any date prior if he’d only had the courage. There was no need for this extreme and unnecessary padel. But, still, seeing him struggle was part of your routine—and you enjoyed it. Not wanting to hear any lame excuses, you pulled him in, deciding to stay glued to his lips for a very long time

#f1 #f1 fandom #f1 drivers #formula 1 #formula one #f1 x reader #f1 fic #cowboyschumi #cowboyschumi writes #formula one fic #op #op81 x reader #op81 #op81 fic #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri fic #oscar piastri fluff #op x cs

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thedensworld · 4 months ago

Text

Family Outings | K. Sy

Genre: Fluff, parents au!

Summary: In a family outing, Soonyoung finally able to make a proper thanks to his mother after trying to keep up with his sons.

Welcome to The Densworld Kwon Soonyoung 🤍🌼

Soonyoung’s life became a whirlwind of joy and laughter ever since he started a family with you. From the moment he got married, he always imagined himself as a quintessential "girl dad." In his daydreams, he pictured himself wearing a sparkly tiara, cradling a tiny teacup, and proudly sporting mismatched nail polish in the favorite colors of his daughters. He thought he’d master the art of braiding hair and join endless tea parties with princess costumes and giggles filling the air.

But life had other plans. The moment his first son, Kwon Yootae, was born, he realized he was destined to be a father of sons. And not just any father—he was made for this. The role suited him so naturally it even surprised him.

Got a kid who needs to burn off endless energy? Enter dancer Soonyoung, always ready to tire them out with moves no one asked for.

Need a little discipline in the house? Strict Soonyoung appears, balancing warmth with authority in a way that commands respect.

Kid having a bad day and needing a laugh? Comedian Soonyoung is there to clown around, pulling faces, cracking jokes, and doing whatever it takes to make his sons’ smiles come back.

“I could do this forever,” Soonyoung said one day, grinning ear to ear. “Raising boys is the most fun I’ve ever had.”

“It’s because you always act like you’re their age,” Jihoon retorted, deadpan as always, delivering a truth Soonyoung couldn’t argue with.

Soonyoung’s sons, six-year-old Yootae and four-year-old Gitae, couldn’t be more different yet somehow mirrored him in distinct ways. Yootae, the eldest, was calm and reserved, much like you. He had a love for books that made your heart swell with pride, often curling up beside you for hours, reading quietly. But his need for attention? That came straight from Soonyoung. Yootae had a knack for saying the funniest things or sharing bizarre, almost unbelievable facts just to make people look his way. And when he succeeded, his little face lit up, a perfect blend of your quiet charm and Soonyoung’s flair for the spotlight.

Then there was Gitae, your little firecracker. Gitae was the embodiment of pure energy, a whirlwind of flips, jumps, and splits that seemed to defy the laws of physics. The only time he ever slowed down was when he caught a cold—and you and Soonyoung dreaded those moments more than anything. You’d much rather have him bouncing off walls than lying listlessly in bed. “He’s like me on a sugar rush,” Soonyoung joked once.

The group chat was always buzzing with stories of Soonyoung’s adventures as a dad. One night, he shared an anecdote that left the members of Seventeen in stitches.

“You should see Gitae during family mafia games,” Soonyoung said, shaking his head in disbelief. “He’s just like me—so good at bluffing, it’s scary. Sometimes he gives me goosebumps.”

“Wait,” Jun interjected, shocked. “Did you just call your son a freak?”

“Well, he is! In the best way!” Soonyoung laughed, completely unbothered.

Raising boys had turned Soonyoung’s world upside down in the most beautiful way. It wasn’t what he initially envisioned, but it was even better. The bond he shared with Yootae and Gitae was special, filled with laughter, chaos, and tender moments that made him grateful every single day. Watching Soonyoung thrive as a dad, you couldn’t help but smile. He was the kind of father who made parenting look like an adventure, and your family was all the better for it.

"Dad, promise me you'll watch my drum recital next week," Yootae said, his small face filled with determination as he walked into the kitchen where Soonyoung was helping you prepare dinner.

Soonyoung glanced at him, smiling warmly. "Of course, I’ll be there. But how about you help me with something first?" He handed Yootae the utensils and gestured toward the dining table. "Set the table for me, champ."

As Yootae dutifully walked off to complete his task, Gitae was sprawled on the living room floor, eyes glued to a video of one of Soonyoung's dance practices. Mimicking every move with astonishing precision, he twirled, jumped, and hit every beat as if he were part of the team.

“Gitae, great move!” Soonyoung called out, beaming with pride as he caught sight of his younger son nailing one of the harder steps. Turning back to you, he leaned against the kitchen counter with a grin. “What do you think about him becoming an idol someday?”

“That’d be good,” you replied with a knowing smirk, stirring the soup bubbling on the stove. “We’ll send him to dance practice every time you bribe him with candy.” The sharp edge of sarcasm in your tone wasn’t lost on Soonyoung, and he winced at the memory.

You were referring to the night he’d given the boys candy—secretly, of course—before heading out to work, leaving you alone to deal with the sugar-induced chaos that followed. It had taken hours to calm them down and even longer to get them to sleep.

Soonyoung walked over to you, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. Sliding his arms around your waist from behind, he rested his chin lightly on your shoulder. “I’m sorry, baby. No more candy without your consent. I promise.”

“That includes donuts too,” you shot back, though your voice softened as his warmth melted away your annoyance.

Soonyoung nodded solemnly, leaning in to plant a quick kiss on your cheek. “And donuts. Noted.”

You couldn’t help but laugh quietly at his sincerity, even if you knew his mischievous streak wouldn’t vanish overnight. You were strict about what your kids consumed for good reason. You worked hard to ensure their meals were balanced, nutrient-packed, and beneficial to their growing bodies. Too much sugar turned them into tiny whirlwinds of energy, leaving them cranky and impossible to settle when bedtime rolled around.

"Yootae, don’t forget to line up the chopsticks neatly!" you called, glancing at your eldest, who was now carefully arranging the cutlery.

“Okay, Mom!” he responded, his voice cheerful.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed Gitae attempting to replicate a more complicated move from the video, almost toppling over but recovering with a laugh. Soonyoung released you and clapped his hands in encouragement. “That’s it, Gitae! You’ve got this!”

In the middle of dinner, Soonyoung’s phone buzzed on the counter. He picked it up, his face lighting up when he saw who was calling. “It’s Mom,” he said, quickly answering. “Hi, Mom! What’s going on?”

His mother’s cheerful voice filled the room, audible even to you and the kids. “Hi, sweetheart! We’re planning a little family outing next weekend, but this time, we’re keeping it simple—just in the backyard. Your sister is coming too, and we’re hoping to see everyone there. It’s been too long since we’ve all been together!”

“Backyard barbecue?” Soonyoung guessed, grinning as he leaned back in his chair.

“Exactly! Dad’s already excited to fire up the grill, and I’m planning to make everyone’s favorite dishes. You should come early so the boys can play in the garden,” his mom said.

“That sounds perfect!” Soonyoung replied enthusiastically, his voice a little louder than usual as excitement bubbled through him. “The boys will love it. We’ll definitely be there!” His grin widened as he placed his phone down, and it was clear he was already imagining the day—the laughter of children running through his parents’ backyard, the smell of grilled meat wafting in the air, and the warmth of family all around.

He turned to you, his eyes bright and full of joy, as if the plan had already taken shape in his mind. “It’ll be great!” he said, his hands gesturing animatedly. “A cozy backyard gathering, all the cousins playing together, Mom’s food, Dad’s barbecue skills—how could it get any better?”

You smiled faintly at his enthusiasm, but the feeling of guilt that had been sitting in the pit of your stomach all day now weighed heavier. The truth you’d been putting off telling him clawed its way forward, demanding to be spoken. You shifted slightly in your seat, the clinking of your chopsticks against your bowl breaking the silence.

“It does sound lovely,” you started, choosing your words carefully. “But I have a work commitment that weekend. I don’t think I can make it.”

The happy buzz in the room dimmed just slightly. Soonyoung paused, processing your words, before flashing you an understanding smile. “That’s okay,” he said, his tone reassuring. “I’ll take the boys, and we’ll represent the Kwon family in full force. You can catch up with us after your work is done.”

“Are you sure?” you asked, guilt tugging at you. “That’s a lot to handle on your own, especially with Gitae’s energy.”

Soonyoung leaned closer, his signature playful grin returning. “Have you forgotten who I am? I’m Kwon Soonyoung—master entertainer, expert dad, and barbecue connoisseur. I’ve got this.”

Yootae, who had been quietly listening, looked up with a hint of concern. “But, Mom, you won’t be there to eat Grandma’s pie with us.”

Your heart sank, and you reached out to hold his little hand. “I know, sweetheart. I’ll miss that, too. But I promise we’ll have a special day just for us soon, okay? I’ll even make your favorite pie.”

Yootae nodded slowly, his lips forming a small smile. “Okay, Mom.”

Meanwhile, Gitae, who had been more focused on his plate than the conversation, suddenly perked up. “Can we play tag in Grandpa’s garden, Dad? I’m really fast!”

“Fast? Ha! I’m faster!” Soonyoung teased, ruffling his youngest son’s hair. “We’ll see who’s the fastest in the family on Saturday.”

“And no candy!” you interjected pointedly, giving Soonyoung a mock glare.

He raised his hands in mock surrender, a playful smirk on his face. “No candy, no donuts—scout’s honor. But, uh, maybe just one marshmallow from the barbecue…?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help smiling at his antics.

As the evening wound down, the house quieted with only the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the settling walls. You had just finished tucking the boys into bed, each of them fast asleep after the day’s adventures. Soonyoung lingered by the doorway of their room, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of their tiny chests as they dreamed.

“They’re finally out,” you whispered with a small smile, stepping away and closing the door gently behind you.

Soonyoung turned to you, his expression soft in the dim light of the hallway. “You’re amazing, you know that?” he said, slipping his arm around your shoulders as you walked back to the living room together.

You leaned into him, letting out a quiet sigh. “I just wish I could be there this weekend. I hate missing out on moments like these.”

He stopped you in your tracks, turning you to face him. His hands rested lightly on your waist as his thumbs traced soothing circles through the fabric of your shirt. “Don’t feel bad, okay?” His voice was warm and gentle, and the way he looked at you made it impossible to doubt his sincerity. “You’re doing your best. You always do. I’ll make sure the boys have a great time, and we’ll send you lots of pictures. You won’t miss a thing.”

The guilt weighing on you began to ease as his words settled in. “Thank you,” you murmured, resting your forehead against his chest.

Soonyoung wrapped both arms around you now, holding you close. For a moment, you stood there, cocooned in the quiet intimacy of the moment. “You know,” he said, his tone shifting slightly, a playful edge sneaking into his voice, “with the boys asleep and the house so quiet… we have a rare opportunity here.”

You tilted your head back to look at him, one eyebrow raised. “An opportunity for what?”

He grinned, his gaze dipping just slightly as his hands slid down to rest on your hips. “To remind you how much I love you,” he said, his voice lower now, the warmth of his breath brushing against your cheek.

A soft laugh escaped you, but your heart raced at the way he was looking at you—like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. “Oh, really? And how do you plan to do that?” you teased, your hands resting on his chest.

He leaned closer, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth as he whispered, “I have a few ideas.”

Before you could respond, he captured your lips in a slow, deliberate kiss, his touch grounding and electrifying all at once. The worries of the day melted away as you lost yourself in the moment, his presence overwhelming in the best way.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and his grin was unapologetically mischievous. “Feel better now?”

You chuckled softly, your cheeks warm as you nodded. “Much better.”

“Good,” he said, stealing one last quick kiss before stepping back and taking your hand. “Now, how about I make us some tea, and we see where this rare quiet evening takes us?”

You followed him, a smile tugging at your lips as you realized, once again, just how lucky you were to have someone like Soonyoung.

Soonyoung climbed into his car, exhaling deeply as if he’d already run a marathon, even though it was barely morning. Behind him, the boys were buckled into their car seats, brimming with energy and excitement. Their chatter filled the car, contrasting sharply with Soonyoung’s tired demeanor. The morning had been chaotic, to say the least.

Your work agenda had started earlier than theirs, leaving Soonyoung to manage the boys’ bubbling enthusiasm alone. Thankfully, you’d packed their bags the night before, neatly organizing everything they’d need for the outing. At least that spared Soonyoung from the added panic of forgetting something crucial amidst the chaos.

“Gitae, grandmother wants to see you in this shirt. Let’s put it on,” Soonyoung had pleaded earlier, holding up a neatly folded shirt. But his youngest had been too engrossed in his impromptu performance of Maestro, twirling dramatically in the living room.

“Yootae! Are you ready?” Soonyoung had called out to his eldest, only to freeze in disbelief when he entered the room. Yootae, still wrapped in a towel, was sitting cross-legged on the bed, a bottle of lotion beside him untouched.

“Did you put on lotion yet?” Soonyoung asked, stepping closer.

Yootae immediately pumped the bottle, rubbing lotion onto his arms with exaggerated slowness, his wide eyes locked on his dad as if performing under pressure.

Soonyoung sighed, ruffling his hair in frustration. “Alright, let’s just have a light breakfast, shall we?”

At the breakfast table, a simple bowl of cereal finally bought Soonyoung a few moments of peace. The boys sat quietly for once, munching away. It was enough time for him to catch his breath, gather his thoughts, and—most importantly—get himself ready.

As they settled in the car, Gitae wriggled with excitement. “I’m going to beat Leena in tag!” he declared confidently.

Yootae smirked, ever the realist. “Leena is faster than you, Gitae. And she has longer legs.”

“My legs got longer after dancing to Maestro. Right, Dad?” Gitae grinned, looking to Soonyoung for validation.

Soonyoung chuckled, shaking his head. “Sure, buddy. Whatever helps you win.”

When they arrived at his parents’ house, the boys jumped out of the car with boundless energy, running straight into their grandfather’s open arms. Soonyoung carried the bags inside, his tired smile widening at the warmth of his father’s greeting.

“Y/n couldn’t make it?” his mother asked, noticing her absence.

“No,” Soonyoung replied, setting the bags down on the couch. “Her schedule pulled her out earlier than expected today.”

His mother chuckled knowingly. “You got them ready all by yourself, didn’t you?”

Soonyoung nodded, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Good job, my son.” She patted his head affectionately before heading to the kitchen.

Not long after, his sister arrived with her husband and their daughters. The cousins immediately broke off into their groups—Soonyoung’s sons sprinting around the yard with their grandfather while his nieces calmly arranged their dolls on a picnic blanket.

Soonyoung settled on a bench beside his father, watching the kids. His mother and sister prepared the meat for the barbecue nearby, their laughter carrying on the breeze.

“Gitae looks so much like Y/n,” his father commented, nodding toward the younger boy.

“Everyone says that,” Soonyoung replied, smiling as he watched Gitae run across the yard.

“But he’s got your energy,” his father added with a laugh, shaking his head in amusement.

“I’m going to look like you when I get older,” Soonyoung teased, nudging his father.

His mother overheard and quickly interjected, “Don’t. Don’t be. Don’t embarrass your wife.”

Soonyoung burst out laughing, shaking his head as he helped his sister arrange plates and utensils. Despite their rocky relationship growing up, he’d found a sense of camaraderie with her since starting a family of his own.

“What’s it like having daughters, noona?” he asked, glancing at her girls, who were still engrossed in their dolls.

“I don’t get tired much,” she admitted, pointing out the difference. “Look at them—calm and quiet. Meanwhile, your sons…”

Soonyoung followed her gaze to Yootae and Gitae, who were racing around with their grandfather, Gitae screaming gleefully while Yootae laughed. He sighed, shaking his head.

“Getting them ready this morning was my biggest achievement,” he confessed. “It’s usually Y/n who handles that.”

His sister laughed, “They didn’t listen to you, did they?”

“Not even once! I told Yootae to put on lotion and underwear while I bathed Gitae, but when I checked, he was still sitting there with the lotion bottle.” Soonyoung rubbed his face in exasperation.

Their conversation was interrupted by a piercing cry. Gitae was on the ground, clutching his knee and wailing.

Soonyoung sighed deeply, already on his feet. “That’s alright, we’ve got you,” he said softly as he crouched beside his son, examining the scraped knee.

“It hurts!” Gitae sobbed, pointing to the bruise.

“I know, buddy,” Soonyoung said, scooping him up in his arms. “Let’s get you cleaned up. You’re my strong little guy, right?”

Gitae sniffled, nodding slightly.

The day pressed on, and the chaos only seemed to grow. After cleaning Gitae’s scraped knee and soothing his tears with a superhero bandage, Soonyoung barely had time to take a sip of water before Yootae tripped over the garden hose, landing in the dirt. Another round of comforting, brushing off dirt, and reminding him to be careful followed.

Meanwhile, Gitae had already managed to get himself into another predicament, climbing the low branches of the cherry blossom tree despite Soonyoung’s repeated warnings. By the time Soonyoung pulled him down safely, the boys’ shirts were dirt-streaked, their hair sticking up in wild tufts.

“I told you both to stay out of trouble!” Soonyoung exclaimed, his voice tinged with exasperation as he wiped sweat from his brow.

“But, Dad, we were just playing!” Yootae defended, wide-eyed as if the entire mess was beyond his control.

“Yeah, and I’m Spider-Man!” Gitae added enthusiastically, flexing his little arms as though they could shoot webs.

Soonyoung slumped onto the patio bench, exhausted, as he watched the boys dart off again, their energy seemingly endless. He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a groan. His mother, who had been quietly observing from the grill, walked over with a knowing smile and set a cup of iced tea in front of him.

“You’re just like them, you know,” she said, sitting beside him.

Soonyoung looked up, surprised. “What? Me?”

His mother nodded, chuckling softly. “When you were their age, you were exactly the same—always running around, climbing trees, getting into every kind of trouble imaginable. I couldn’t take my eyes off you for a second.”

Soonyoung laughed weakly, leaning back against the bench. “That sounds about right.”

“You’d get scrapes on your knees every other day, and you never stopped moving,” she continued, her eyes twinkling with nostalgia. “Your father was just as tired as you are now, and I’d always say, ‘One day, you’ll understand.’ Well, here you are.”

He sighed, shaking his head as he watched Yootae and Gitae chase their cousins across the yard. “I don’t know how you did it, Mom. This is exhausting. I miss Y/n so much right now.”

His mother gave him a warm smile, patting his knee. “Of course you do. It’s always easier when you have someone by your side. But you’re doing great, Soonyoung. You got the boys here in one piece, and they’re happy. That’s what matters.”

Soonyoung smiled faintly, grateful for her reassurance, but the ache of missing you lingered. He thought about how you always handled the chaos with such grace, calming the boys with a single look or turning their tantrums into laughter. You’d have known exactly how to manage Gitae’s climbing spree or Yootae’s dirt-covered mishap.

His mother’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, dear. You’re learning, just like we did. And for what it’s worth, you’re a better dad than your father and I ever were at your age.”

Soonyoung chuckled, shaking his head. “I doubt that, Mom. But thanks.”

As he glanced at his boys again, he couldn’t help but smile. They were a handful, yes, but they were also a reflection of you and him—a mix of mischief, love, and boundless energy.

His mother stood, placing her hands on her hips as she looked out at the yard. “Now, go check on your boys before they turn that garden into a battlefield.”

Soonyoung groaned, standing up with a stretch. “Back to the front lines, huh?”

His mother laughed. “Parenting never stops, Soonyoung. But don’t forget to call Y/n later. She’d love to hear about how you survived the day.”

He grinned, already planning to call you the moment he could steal a quiet moment. He needed to hear your voice, to tell you just how much he appreciated you and missed having you by his side. For now, though, he had two little whirlwinds to manage.

“Hi, beautiful,” Soonyoung greeted you with a warm smile as you walked through the door. His voice was soft, and you noticed he was already in his pajamas—a pair of satin ones you hadn’t seen him wear in ages. They were expensive, gifted by you on your anniversary, and seeing him in them now made you suppress a laugh.

“You finally decided to wear those?” you teased, raising an eyebrow.

He smirked, running a hand through his slightly messy hair. “Figured tonight was special.”

You stepped inside, slipping off your shoes, and immediately noticed something unusual. The house was too quiet—eerily quiet. “Where are the boys? I don’t hear them.,” you said, glancing around as though they might pop out from behind the couch.

Soonyoung raised his eyebrows, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “Well… I intentionally—unintentionally left them at my mom’s. They wanted to have a sleepover, and since tomorrow’s Sunday, I figured why not?”

Your mouth dropped open in shock, and then a burst of laughter escaped you. “What? You left them with your mom? Oh my gosh, baby!”

He laughed along with you, closing the door behind you and grabbing your things. “Hey, they practically begged me. I video-called them earlier, and they seemed fine. Besides, they wanted to stay with their cousins. It’s good for them!”

You plopped down on the couch, still laughing, and Soonyoung joined you, setting your things on the coffee table. “Your poor mom,” you muttered, shaking your head. “She’s going to have a tough time wrangling five grandchildren tonight.”

“I know!” Soonyoung said, his voice full of mock guilt. “I even told her that, but she insisted it’d be fine. She’s a saint, honestly.”

You leaned back into the cushions, letting out a contented sigh. “It feels so strange to have the house to ourselves. Weird, but also… kind of nice.”

Soonyoung looked at you with a grin, his hand brushing against yours. “Right? I felt the same way before you got back. It’s like we’re dating again, just the two of us. But then I also started feeling guilty, like I was abandoning my kids or something.”

You laughed at his dramatic tone, turning to face him. “I feel relieved, but at the same time, it’s like, am I a bad mom for enjoying this?”

Soonyoung chuckled, pulling you into his arms. “If you are, then so am I. Today was rough, baby. The boys were a handful. I even performed a bow to my mom—the deep New Year’s bow we always do—just to thank her for taking care of me.”

Your eyes widened in surprise. “No way. You didn’t.”

“I did,” Soonyoung said with a straight face, though his lips twitched with amusement. “I was that desperate. Honestly, I might perform one for you after this because I owe you for doing this every day.”

You laughed so hard your sides hurt, leaning into his chest. “You’re unbelievable. So, what was harder—getting them ready this morning or keeping them out of trouble all day?”

“Both!” he exclaimed dramatically, resting his chin on top of your head. “Yootae wouldn’t put on lotion, and Gitae was running around shirtless, singing ‘Maestro.’ I thought I was going to lose my mind.”

You tilted your head up to look at him, still smiling. “Well, you survived. And honestly, I’m proud of you, Love. I really am.”

He looked at you with such softness that it made your heart flutter. “Thanks, baby. But I think I’ll stick to choreography and leave the morning routines to you.”

You laughed again, wrapping your arms around his waist. “Deal. But tonight, you’re all mine. No interruptions, no kids.”

He leaned down, brushing his lips against your forehead. “I like the sound of that.”

Soonyoung's arms tightened around you, a playful glint in his eyes as he tilted his head to meet your gaze. “You know,” he began, his voice dripping with mischief, “after today, I’ve been thinking…”

You raised an eyebrow, already bracing for whatever ridiculous thought was about to leave his mouth.

He smirked, his tone mock-serious. “Maybe we should try for a daughter. I heard they’re way less frantic to raise. Calm, quiet, reasonable—can you imagine that?”

You let out an incredulous laugh, lightly smacking his chest. “Oh, so now you’re an expert on parenting daughters because your sister’s kids play with dolls instead of climbing furniture?”

“Exactly,” he replied without missing a beat. “I mean, just think about it. No running around, no wrestling matches over who gets the last donut, no dramatic performances of ‘Hit’ at 8 a.m.”

You rolled your eyes, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you. “Uh-huh. And who’s going to handle the teenage drama when your calm, quiet daughter slams her door in your face?”

Soonyoung’s grin faltered for a second before he recovered with a sly smile. “That’s where you come in, baby. You’re the expert in dealing with drama. I’ll just be the cool dad who lets her eat donuts and—”

“Stop right there.” You cut him off, laughing as you poked his chest.

He laughed along with you, leaning down until his nose brushed against yours. “Okay, okay. But admit it—you’d love to see a mini-you running around here. With your big, beautiful eyes, your sharp wit…”

“And my temper when you don’t listen?” you teased, narrowing your eyes playfully.

“Exactly,” he said, grinning. “She’d keep me in line, just like you do.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head at him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he murmured, his lips brushing softly against yours. “But you love me anyway.”

You sighed dramatically, pretending to think about it. “I guess I do. But if we’re trying for a daughter, you’re taking the night shift for the first three years.”

“Deal,” Soonyoung whispered, sealing the agreement with a kiss. “Now, where should we start our daughter project?”

Your laughter echoed through the house, blending perfectly with the warmth of his embrace, the quiet night ahead promising nothing but love and playful chaos—just the way you liked it.

355 notes · View notes

cherriegyuu · 1 year ago

Text

lens of ice | yjh | one

pairing: jeonghan x f!reader genre: figure skater jeonghan, light angst, a little fluff, smut in the next part word count: 12k summary: jeonghan has only one chance left to make it to the olympics. as he embarks on this decisive journey, you, a documentarist, are set to follow him as he seeks the ultimate glory. warnings: jeonghan is kind of reckless with his body a/n: i've been writing this one for so long now and though it's not finished yet, i decided to post half of it, as a way to motivate myself to finish it. i really wanna thank @ressonancee first for giving me idea and second for helping me through all of this and putting up my crazy ass mind 💓

part one | part two (final)

The light buzzing of the fluorescent lights made him uncomfortable, it was like a premonition of what was to come. Something bad, he was sure.

Jeonghan was many things in his life, stubborn perhaps being the most obvious one, but dumb wasn't one then. He knew that his ankle was fucked up, that he was probably the cause of it. Too many hours of training, never giving himself enough time to heal before he got the ice again. He didn't know exactly how bad it was, that was for the doctor in front of him to say, but Jeonghan knew that nothing good would come out of the man's mouth.

"It's worse than I thought," the man said with a sigh, taking off his glasses "It's not just your ankle anymore, it's also your knee. And, I could be wrong, but considering the way you're walking, I'd say that you're right ankle also started to bother you"

Jeonghan hung his head. He was an athlete and he knew that he was being reckless, beyond actually. He should have gone to his coach the second he felt a sharp pain in his ankle. But he just went home, took an ice bath, and kept the whole thing to himself. Even on the following days, when the pain didn't go away at all, he still chose to keep his mouth shut and go to practice every day. And his coach, unaware of his condition, kept pushing him during practice.

Not that he needed anyone to be harsh on him, Jeonghan did all of that on his own. But having someone else do that for him as well brought out a different desire for perfection. One that came from a dark place to show someone else that he was good, to prove people wrong.

"Can I still compete?" was all he asked, it was the only thing that mattered to him "Can I make it to the Olympics? It's the last one for me, after this I retire"

The look on the doctor's face wasn't reassuring, Jeonghan knew that his next words wouldn't be the ones he wanted. He wasn't about to hear what he needed.

"If, and only if, you have surgery, take physical therapy seriously, and rest as we instruct you, there might be a possibility. Small, but it exists"

"When can I have the surgery?"

You stared at your computer screen, a hand on your forehead as you read the email your boss sent you. You sat at your desk, not really knowing what to do.

"Seungkwan!" you called without looking up "Did you get this email too?"

Just to make sure that you weren't crazy, you read it once again. The third time in less than five minutes. No matter how many times you read it, it didn't change.

"Yeah. I'm excited but scared…"

That was enough to get your attention.

"Why?"

Closing your laptop, you stood up moving closer to Seungkwan. Unlike you, who read the email many times, Seungkwan had already started his research. Not that he really needed to, everyone at the office knew that he was a huge fan of figure skating. So of course he would know all about Yoon Jeonghan.

The nation's pride and joy in figure skating, at least in the make category.

"Why scared? I thought everyone loved him"

It was impossible to look away from the picture Seungkwan had open on his computer. Jeonghan's face really was something else, as if he had been carved in marble by some ancient Greek artist. From his dark hair covering his eyes, giving him almost a mysterious vibe, to the way his lips were slightly crooked into a smile. You had to give it to him, the man was absolutely stunning. No wonder he left a trail of fans everywhere he went.

"He isn't the biggest enthusiast when it comes to the press. He barely gives interviews so I guess doing a documentary about him won't be easy"

Seungkwan kept scrolling, reading the latest news on Jeonghan. But the truth was that there wasn't any. His social media was also rarely updated, the last post was from months before.

"Well, good luck to you"

"What do you mean? You're the one in charge"

You just shook your head. The problem was Jeonghan honestly, you barely knew anything about him, though Seungkwan's words didn't help the case. The thing was that you barely knew anything at all about sports, in general, much less about figure skating. Lack of knowledge was an easy fix. The real issue was the fact that a documentary on a sport was way too different from what you usually did.

"I'm not doing this one. I have other projects I want to work on. Plus, this is too sudden. They want us to start tomorrow, Seungkwan. Do you really think that it's possible to have anything done by tomorrow?" he shook his head and you nodded in agreement "Precisely, so I'm sure that if we talk with Jihoon…"

"Nothing will change"

A curse left your lips at the sudden voice behind you. Turning around you faced the small man. Jihoon had his arms crossed over his chest and the look in his eyes that told you that no matter what he wouldn't let you off the hook. Still, you had to try.

"Jihoon, I'm not your sports person. And it's too soon. I don't anything about Jeonghan or figure skating"

Jihoon simply shook his head at you.

"They want a different approach than the average sports documentary, so I recommended you. I'm sending Seungkwan with you because I know this isn't your area of expertise, though I highly suggest you do some sort of research" he turned around to leave with a wave of his hand then turned around for a second, as if remembering something "Hansol will be your camera and sound guy. They asked for a small crew"

With a salute Jihoon left.

"Fuck"

You couldn't take your eyes away from the crutches under Jeonghan's arms and the orthopedic boot around his left leg. There was not a single article that pointed to surgery. There were plenty about his constant injuries though. Seungkwan had the same look on his face, of pure shock.

"Are you okay?" you asked once he made himself comfortable on the couch.

Jeonghan sat sideways on the couch, his leg propped up over cushions. The position looked weird but he didn't seem to mind.

"Ah, this" he pointed at his leg nonchalantly, as if it was the most normal thing "Yeah, it's okay. Had to get the surgery done in order to make it to the next Olympic"

Nodding, you looked around. His apartment wasn't as big as you had expected. In fact, the three of you stood closely together in the living room, a bit too small for all the gear Hansol said he needed.

"Put your things down, let's talk. I don't know how this is going to work"

Me neither, you wanted to say but kept your mouth shut. Thankfully, Seungkwan was there to help you.

"Before we start any real interview or conversation, I think we have to tell you that this was very last minute for us. We only heard about this documentary yesterday, in the middle of the afternoon" he used his kindest voice, his voice laced with concern and a hit of fear, maybe "yn is in charge, she's the documentarist, she'll be asking the questions and dictating the overall direction that we're going to take with the documentary. I'm Seungkwan and that's Hansol. This is the smallest crew he could assemble"

Seungkwan was giving too many explanations, you felt. But he also wasn't wrong. What he did was normal, he was just introducing the crew. Maybe you were a little irritated by the way you were tossed into this job, without someone giving you enough time to prepare. Sixteen hours were barely enough.

"I assume my… reputation has gotten to you," Jeonghan said, a small smile on his lips.

A reputation he had indeed. Jeonghan was known for not liking the press and journalists. He avoided them at all costs and once, on one occasion, was seen being rude. And honestly, you had to give him a pass for it. Pushing the camera away from his face, almost delicately, could barely be considered rude at such a moment. There were way too many cameras around, all of them on his face, trying to get some sort of pronouncement on why he had not made it to the podium.

And that had been years before but people still remembered him by that one moment. But what exactly did they expect? He underperformed, came in fourth place, and injured himself in the process. Was anyone expecting a happy and bright Jeonghan?

"You can be comfortable around me. A conversation like this is fine. I just don't like being swarmed"

Though his words were inviting, his face told a whole different story. He clearly didn't want this documentary.

"All of our interactions will be recorded," you told him, not leaving room for arguments on his end "These first few minutes aren't, out of courtesy and so that we can set our goals. I need to know if you're uncomfortable with anything, or something that you don't want to be filmed, either right now or before we turn the cameras on. Once we start, we won't stop"

Jeonghan adjusted his position on the couch, his eyes never leaving you. It was like he was measuring your every move. He didn't like your tone, and how aggressive you were towards him.

"I know this was last minute and I apologize for that. This is going to be my last run and, as much as I hate to admit, I'm a bit sensitive to it.

With furrowed eyebrows, you nodded. Jeonghan knew that you didn't believe him or that you cared about his reasons. He knew that the sole reason you were there was because someone made you.

"Will you need to film my family?"

"Yes, usually film family members to get a complete idea of someone's life"

Turning around you nodded at Hansol, telling him to start setting up. With a shake of his head, Seungkwan moved to help him.

"I don't want my family to know the extent of my injuries. So if you only want them for context, to know about me as a child, that's fine. But they can't know anything about this" Jeonghan pointed at his leg "I've been hiding this for a very long time and I'd like to keep it that way"

You dropped your bag on the couch, eyes tired and mind filled with one too many thoughts. The day had been easier than you expected, far more so.

Based on Seungkwan's words you had expected to fight with Jeonghan in a way. It was a documentary so you needed him to talk and talk he did. There was no question unanswered or dodged, all of his answers were precise and consistent. All of it had sounded fake like he had rehearsed them a million times.

Even if you thought that your question had been good, and had caught him off guard, Jeonghan seemed to be fully prepared for it. He didn't hesitate for a second.

In the few hours you spent around him, you finally managed to understand the fascination most people had with him. He was handsome, yes, but that was just the very basic and surface level of him. Beyonce that he was also good with his words. It was hard to tell that he was lying because he talked with conviction. After just one interview you were sure that if one day Jeonghan decided to tell you that your mom wasn’t actually your mother, you’d somehow believe him.

And the man knew all of it. He was aware of his beauty and charm, of what it did to normal people, and he used it in his favor. Jeonghan knew that most people couldn’t resist a handsome talented man. And that was a part he was all too willing to fill.

“Yeah,” you answered your phone, not bothering to see who it was, certain that it was just Jihoon.

“How was it today?” he sounded just as tired as you felt and you couldn’t help but wonder if he was okay.

“Fine”

“Just fine?”

You turned on your back, facing the ceiling, or at least whatever you could see with the lights turned off - not a whole lot, to be honest.

“He lied through his teeth today. There was no manager, and no coach around, though I do remember him saying someone would come. The person never showed up” you sighed “Seungkwan hates and Vernon probably thinks I’m a crazy bitch. So yeah, just fine”

Jihoon laughed on the other side of the line and you felt the little butterflies in your stomach come to life. You rolled your eyes at yourself. How pathetic it was of you, to have a crush on your boss. How very much bland of you.

Growing up, like a lot of girls that were influenced by way too much TV, you had wanted the be the odd one out. The I’m one of the guys kind of girl, or the one who refused to wear any kind of makeup or even come close to the pink because that was just girly for you. And now there you were, in love with the color pink, finding excuses to wear pretty dresses, and having a crush on your boss.

Teenage you would throw eggs at your head if she had the chance.

“Okay, but how was Jeonghan?” Jihoon pressed even further.

You sighed and closed your eyes, covering over face with your hand.

“He was polite, answered all of my questions, had a pleasant smile the entire time, and only asked for a bathroom break while we were there. Offered us food and drinks. He was fine” you said again, emphasizing the fine.

You could picture Jihoon, nodding his head and looking at the floor, probably thinking of what to ask next.

“Why would Seungkwan hate you? And why would Vernon think you’re a bitch?”

“Seungkwan thinks I went too hard on Jeonghan and Vernon just trusts Seungkwan’s judgment and goes with it”

Jihoon laughed again and you heard him moving around.

“Classic yn, going at someone while she’s angry. At least your anger was sort of directed to the right person”

“What is that supposed to mean?” you sat up.

You liked to think that you didn’t act that way all the time. In your mind, most of the time, you were able to hide your anger and just play nice like your mother had taught you to be. Jihoon’s words told a completely different story.

“Have some rest, there’s still a lot of work to do. Tomorrow you’re going with him to rehab, right?” Jihoon paused for a second and you heard a female voice in the back, you couldn’t make out what she said but you were sure of who it belonged to “I have to go. We’ll talk next week”

The line was disconnected and leaned back on the couch again. The problem of having a crush on your boss was also the fact that he had a long-time girlfriend and soon he was supposed to be marrying her.

You groaned, wondering if you had gone far enough that there was no going back from this crush.

You sat across from Jeonghan once again, the position exactly the same as the first day. But this time you chose to be less irritable.

The other day you were frustrated because you had to give up other projects to be able to accompany Jeonghan and that, thinking rationally, had nothing to do with him. He asked for a specific documentary filmmaker profile and you were chosen by the studio. Maybe it was more your fault than his. But it was also a no-return kind of situation. The job was assigned to you and there was nothing you could do to change it. So the least you could do was do your best and pray that it didn’t take a turn for the worse.

And, if anything, the conversation with Jihoon helped you focus on work. It wouldn't be the first time you were doing something you didn't want to do and it certainly wouldn't be the last. So you decided that the best thing to do was just work, showing your professional side that had been left aside before.

Jeonghan looked at you the same way, eyes serious as if he was ready for a new attack.

"Thank you," he said to Vernon, who had just placed the microphone inside his jacket, so that he could pick up the sound well, but it was not visible to the camera.

You turned to Seungkwan and Vernon, waiting for confirmation from the two that you could begin. You received a wave from each of them after they checked that the cameras were on and recording.

You took a deep breath and turned to Jeonghan.

"I wanted to apologize for yesterday," you said "I wasn't fair to you. I was irritated by things that had nothing to do with you, but I somehow decided that they did"

Everyone in Jeonghan's living room seemed to hold their breath, you included. You didn't know what to expect from Jeonghan, not really. You had been anything but ungracious with him, in a way that to most people meant that any door between you two had closed.

Jeonghan decided, at that moment, that he had two options: a) he could let the previous day dictate how all interactions between the two of you from then on would be, and it would be many months of a bad relationship that would bring no benefit to anyone involved in it; or b) he could accept your apology, which seemed sincere enough, and let go of the discomfort he felt.

Option b was actually the only possible choice.

“Okay” he finally smiled “my reputation isn’t the best, either way”

Seungkwan and Vernon breathed a sigh of relief. It was as if a huge gray cloud had moved away and the weather was beginning to clear.

“No, your reputation had no influence. I was the one who lost my hand because of my problems and for that, I apologize” you said and you were sincere in your words “But Jeonghan, I need you to stop seeing me as your enemy. I need you to be honest with me.”

You hoped Jeonghan could understand what you were saying.

“You think I wasn’t honest?” he tilted his head as if analyzing you.

“In the same way that you don't want your reputation to affect the way I see you, I need you to not let the way you see other journalists affect the way you see me. I want to tell your story, however you want it told, but I need you to be honest with me.”

You hoped Jeonghan could understand what you were saying.

He was silent for a minute, his eyes fixed on his hands. His hair covered his face, so it was hard to get an idea of what was going through his head.

You looked at Seungkwan, seeking confirmation that you hadn’t been rude. He seemed to be as lost as you were, but the small smile he gave you was enough to make your restless heart rest for a second.

“What if I say something and regret it later?”

It was the first time Jeonghan looked insecure and it was a strange sight, but much more realistic than the other version of him.

“We can edit it, it’s not a problem. I said that because I was angry” you said apologetically once again.

“Can we throw it all away and start again?”

Jeonghan smiled and you had no choice but to smile along with him.

“Let’s start with what’s happening now,” you said, folding your legs under your body, notebook open to a blank page and a pen ready to take notes “You underwent surgery not long ago, right? Why?"

Jeonghan took a deep breath, eyes closed for a second before placing all his attention on you. His gaze was almost too intense. You had to force yourself not to look anywhere but at him.

“A few years ago I fell during training and twisted my ankle. At the time, it wasn't a big deal and if I had stayed quiet for a few weeks, and did everything right, I wouldn't have had any problems. But I couldn't do it, I was preparing for a competition. I didn't tell anyone about the problem and just endured the pain. When I participated in the competition I fell again and that only made the situation worse. Today I have a problem with my ligament and tendon.”

With every word that left his mouth, you felt like a lump was forming in your throat, and with every second it was getting bigger.

Unlike the day before, it didn't seem like Jeonghan was lying, but you didn't know if you wanted the truth he was sharing. Even if it was a lie, a character he had created, the version of Jeonghan from before was a little brighter, a little more present in the moment. The version of him that was in front of you, that you imagined to be the closest to reality, was almost sad, detached from everything.

“Because I forced my right knee a lot, trying to compensate for the lack of my left one, I developed a problem with that one too”

“You’ve never talked about your injuries before, right?” he nodded “Why talk now?”

He was silent again, his lower lip caught between his teeth. That was a great question, one that not even Jeonghan himself knew exactly how to answer.

“I'm not sure, to be honest” he laughed a little. Instead of looking directly at the camera, his eyes were focused on you “Someone came up with the idea at some point and it didn't seem like a bad one, but I think it will only work if I make it to the Olympics.”

“Is that the ultimate goal then, to get to the Olympics?”

He shook his head, that fearless, confident look you had only seen in photos finally making itself known.

“No, the ultimate goal is to win”

As promised, Jeonghan waited for you, Seungkwan, and Vernon outside the clinic. He was nowhere to be seen, really, but the car his assistant informed you of was parked right in front of the door.

You were the first one to exit your own car, while Seungkwan and Vernon prepared the camera to follow along. You could only assume he was the manager. Terribly young for a manager, sure, but a manager nonetheless.

“I assume you’re in” he extended a hand to you “I’m Joshua”

“Hi”

The exchange of words with Joshua was quick, no more than half a dozen. You didn't have much to talk about with him and he wasn't your priority, at least not at the moment. Later, at some other time, talking to him would be great. He had introduced himself as a friend/manager of Jeonghan. Having his point of view would be great and could contribute a lot, but your eyes couldn't leave Jeonghan.

His hair was tied back, but a cap covered much of his face. He had barely said hi to you or the other two. It wasn't a big surprise. While it was true that made up to a certain extent, you didn't expect him to simply welcome you with open arms, but his reaction was strange - or as strange as the reaction of a person you knew little, or nothing, could be.

“Can we film it?” You asked.

Jeonghan stopped and turned towards you. He had forgotten that you and your team would attend his first physical therapy session, but it seemed like the right thing to do.

Since the last time you saw each other, Jeonghan spent hours on end watching documentaries made by you and they all had one thing in common: they were almost like video logs. You followed everyone around documenting every tiny aspect of their lives. All those people told their stories and didn't seem afraid of having their lives exposed. And perhaps for people who didn't lead lives where they had been exposed too much, sincerity came easily.

For Jeonghan, that was never the case.

Being treated as the future, a promise of the sport, had brought a lot of harm and situations that neither he, nor anyone else, had the option to deal with or even, perhaps, ignore.

Cameras were pointed at him, rumors spread and suddenly he wasn't just Yoon Jeonghan, the boy who started skating because it would annoy his little sister. He became someone from whom people expected something.

As much as he could, Jeonghan tried to live up to all of those expectations, realistic or not. He tried to be as perfect as possible, on the ice and off of it. And it only took one day of silence, a few rude unanswered questions, and one bad performance — which had no real effect — for everything to collapse.

“You said you would film anything and everything.”

You grimaced, clearly regretful and maybe even a little embarrassed. It wasn't his intention, but he found your reaction funny anyway.

In your place, Jeonghan would have done much worse.

“Do you think it’s important?”

You nodded, perhaps more forcefully than necessary. Jeonghan laughed, he wanted to hold your head to make sure it was still in the right place.

“The documentary is about your return, so filming you here is important. I asked because it's your first session. I heard it can be painful.”

“It will probably be uncomfortable” he couldn’t deny that “Let’s do it like this, you can record it, if in the end you think it’s bad or that it doesn’t fit, we won’t use it

You quietly followed Jeonghan and Joshua out of the clinic, Seungkwan and Vernon trailing behind you talking in hushed tones. It was no surprise that they were talking. Truth was rehab had been brutal. You knew that it could get hard for Jeonghan, that it could be painful but nothing really prepared you for what you saw. And if it was hard for you to watch him go through that, it was unimaginable to understand how it was for him.

Throughout the entire session, Jeonghan looked in pain, his grunts and the scowl on his face growing with each passing second and new movement. Midway through you told Seungkwan and Vernon to stop filming. You had seen enough and you had more than what you needed for the documentary.

You would only film his rehab again when he was no longer in such pain, you decided. Out of the many things you learned about Jeonghan was that showing his weaknesses wasn’t something he was too fond of or even comfortable with the idea of it. So there was no real reason to keep recording and you couldn’t stand it either.

While you watched his face contort in pain, you felt something inside your chest tighten.

It had never been a real issue before with you. You had always managed to separate your personal emotions from the things you felt while working. More often than not you told stories that were hard to listen to, took someone’s suffering, and put it on the TV for the entire world to see in hopes that maybe a part of their lives would be changed. You had always been able to detach yourself from that.

However while inside with Jeonghan, such a thing was not possible. You felt your throat constrict and your eyes grow wet and for a short while, you couldn’t breathe either. It made no sense really. Why did it hurt to see this man, you knew nothing about, in pain to the point you wanted to cry? Why did it sadden you so much that he was limping harder than before?

You wanted to approach him, ask if he was okay, if it had been too much. But it was out of line, it was one that you knew you shouldn’t cross. There was this itch though, in the back of your mind, begging you to just ask, to just take a step closer to him.

It happened so suddenly that you didn’t even see it happening. One second it was just the five of you in the parking lot, in the next there were reporters with mics and cameras pointed at Jeonghan. You noticed how Jeonghan raised his shoulders at the same time he lowered his head. He couldn’t see in front of himself, you were certain.

Joshua put an arm around Jeonghan’s shoulder while he used the other one to keep them away from him. Not that it was of any use. One of the cameras was directly under his face as if trying to get an expression, anything at all, that could show his discomfort with the situation. From somewhere behind you there were flashes.

"Do you believe your injury was a result of your own carelessness?" someone asked.

You felt your blood run cold for a second and you froze in place, Seungkwan and Vernon behind you.

"Do you think your skating career is over after such devastating injuries?" someone followed.

"Did you regret pushing yourself so hard during training, knowing it led to your injury?"

"How did it feel to watch other skaters progress while you were stuck in rehab?"

"Are you worried that your injury will define your career more than your achievements on the ice?"

The questions got progressively worse and you wanted to scream at them to just shut up, and stop. How could they just ambush someone like that with those questions? It made no sense at all. And though you knew that it would cause more harm than good you wished Jeonghan would tell them all to fuck off.

Instead, he kept his head low and just slowly walked to his car while ignoring everyone around him, all the careless words being thrown at him.

You tried to take a step forward but were held back by Seungkwan, who gripped the strap of your purse. He didn’t say a word, just shook his head.

“They can’t just do that to him” you almost cried

“If you say anything, it might only make matters worse,” Hansol said, his voice sad.

That sudden need to protect Jeonghan felt weird but oddly natural as well. Weird because you knew that you shouldn’t, because you hardly knew the guy. Natural because it felt as if you had always done that like it was just second nature to you.

“He is used to this,” Seungkwan said, still not letting go of your purse.

“He shouldn’t be! They are barely treating him like a human!”

By the time you turned around, Jeonghan was already inside the car leaving the parking lot.

The clock on the top of your phone screen told you that it was 4:37 am. You hadn't even realized that you had spent so many hours still awake.

As soon as you got home from the rehab with Jeonghan, you took a quick shower, ate the leftovers from the night before, and started to look up Jeonghan’s performances.

The man was a celebrity amongst athletes since he was a child. He was always seen as a promise of the sport. He was good from the start. Performing moves that he was still too young to do, entering competitions boys his age never really competed in and somehow managing to either come up to the podium or even winning some of them.

Everything was displayed online. Yearly competitions, practices, and small moments of his life.

Jeonghan's entire life, at least the sports part, was exposed on the internet for anyone, from anywhere in the world, to see. And it wasn't just the competitions, having videos of that part seemed completely normal and expected.

What was scary was all the other content. Some photos of him in school uniform, not one where he was actually looking at the camera, but ones that were clearly taken in secret. Another one from when he seemed to have simply gone out for coffee with Joshua.

You knew he had fans, that he was liked wherever he went, and that he was always followed, but that seemed a bit much.

In reality, watching videos of the competitions was like a gateway to everything that came after.

You knew very little about Jeonghan, only what you had read about in all the articles that you found and all of them had one thing in common: Jeonghan was a huge diva, who thought he was superior to everyone. But after seeing how he had been treated that day, as soon as he got out of rehab, you knew it wasn't like that. It was as if they had appeared out of nowhere, one second the parking lot was empty and the next it was full of journalists, shouting things and asking questions that to many would seem harmless, but were clearly intended to hurt.

Instead of watching more competition videos, not that there were many you hadn't watched yet, you decided to look for the famous video of him treating journalists badly.

You had never found one so easily on the internet. You just typed "Jeonghan and journalists" into the search bar and it was the first video to appear.

It was a scene very similar to the previous day. Jeonghan was in the parking lot, walking towards the guy when he was surrounded by several journalists.

"You didn't get the podium today, are you disappointed?" one of them asked and that was the most harmless question he got. “Did you really try hard or did you think you would get a high score because you were the favorite?” “Why did you fall in such a simple jump?” “Don't you think it was an amateur's performance?”

You didn't want to keep listening to all those meaningless questions, but you couldn't take your eyes off Jeonghan. He still had short hair at the time, even covering his eyebrows. His jaw was clenched, his eyes were hard, and his gaze was focused straight ahead, as he walked slowly to his car. Joshua tried as best he could to control the journalists with their microphones and cameras, but he was just one man against many. Finally, after what felt like ages, two security guards appeared, pushing the journalists away as they began shouting profanities in Jeonghan's direction.

Could those people even consider themselves journalists? Real journalists, who took their work seriously?

There is a very fine line between being a journalist who asks incisive questions and one who is completely disrespectful to the athlete. And those people were anything but professional.

It was no surprise that after that Jeonghan refused to give interviews.

That whole situation happened years before, at the beginning of the previous Olympic cycle, but even so, it was still a moment that haunted him. People remembered him as just that guy, someone who refused to answer simple questions. But what exactly did these people expect? That he was all smiles when he failed to reach the podium, even though he was the favorite in the competition? That he smiles when he hurts?

Finally, you managed to understand why he acted that way, and why his answers were so polite and direct. Jeonghan didn't want to leave room for interpretation. Not that he had much of a choice. People only see what they want to see, but that didn't mean he couldn't try.

Jeonghan couldn’t take his eyes away from your back, he followed your every move. You stood next to Joshua, talking to him quietly, his friend showing you something on his phone. He felt something scratch at his neck. This new and unknown feeling.

It was unusual for Jeonghan, to want to have someone’s undivided attention. It was usually the other way around and he was never willing to do it, with anyone. And then there you were and suddenly he didn’t like that you were talking with Joshua.

It wasn’t like you seemed to be having fun either. You moved around with intention, your eyes always focused, your words and questions firm and straight to the point. Jeonghan couldn’t help but wonder if it was always like that with you. If your professional persona always took over who you were in other moments.

His curiosity was huge but his courage to ask was very little.

“She may seem like it, but she won’t bite your head off if you talk with her,” someone said on his left.

Seungkwan stood at his side, his hands clasped in front of him while he rocked on his heels.

“I think she will,” Jeonghan said.

Seungkwan took his reply as an invitation to sit.

“You know, in the office, people call her the ice queen” he too looked in your direction, at your serious expression "She’s like that most of the time”

Jeonghan looked at Seungkwan expectantly, he knew there was a but coming soon. All he needed to do was wait long enough.

“She didn’t want to take this job, our boss forced her to. She’s more into storytelling, real people, with real issues”

“Am I not a real person?”

The offense in Jeonghan’s voice made Seungkwan almost fall off his chair. He didn’t intend for his words to sound like that.

“Of course you are” he laughed nervously while trying to explain it as best as he could “If it were up to her, she would focus this documentary on you, on how you started skating, why, what attracted you to it, how it affected the rest of your life. But your team doesn’t want that, I think. We were told that you already gave many interviews on the matter so there’s no point in talking about it again. They want us to focus on your recovery and then you make it to the Olympics. She’s trying to figure out how to do that in a way that makes someone watch it”

Jeonghan nodded, feeling guilty. It had been his request to not the documentary so focused on the past and more on what was happening in the moment

“She also doesn’t like sports and hated the idea of the job, but that's beside the point”

Both of them laughed, eyes still on your back now that you talked with Vernon, giving him new instructions.

“I’ll make sure that she gets to do the kind of documentary she thinks is best”

Seungkwan stood up, a big smile on his lips.

“Who could have known that the ice queen and the ice prince aren’t actually that cold”

After months of just rehab, it’s finally time for Jeonghan to get back on the ice and it pained you a little to admit that you were looking forward to it. The videos you watched could only take you so far, you wanted to actually see the real thing. Him, in action.

Of course, you know that he wasn’t going to be able to do a third of the things he did on those videos. But you wanted to see him in his element, how he would behave when he was finally around the thing he loved the most in the world — his words, not yours.

The one thing you were able to learn from Jeonghan was the fact that he indeed loved what he did. Like most people, sometimes he hated it. It was the thing he was most passionate about, yes, but it was also his job, so there were days when he just hated and the mere idea of leaving the house was too much.

It was too hard to be a professional athlete, it demanded way too much of him. Of anyone, really. Sometimes he wanted to be like everyone else and just not put everything he was into it. But if he did that, he lost one single day, he was scared that he could lose an entire year and maybe that year turned into two and then he could lose his chance to go to the Olympics.

And he only had one change left.

So, instead of focusing on much he didn’t want to do, Jeonghan decided to focus on the fact that there was only a year ahead of him and he would be able to do whatever he wanted and have as many down days as he wanted.

He didn’t know what he wanted to do and what would be the after for him but it gave him something to look forward to.

“Are you nervous?” you asked him.

Jeonghan was someone who was mostly quiet. You noticed that once he started to feel more comfortable he was one to start the conversation and even crack a few jokes here and there. Seungkwan had been the first person he kind of opened up to, which had left you a hint of jealousy. You wanted to be one he talked with mostly because it was your job but also just because.

However, he had been especially quiet that day. The three of you went to meet him at his apartment. The idea was that you’d follow him the entire day, from the moment he woke up, to when he went to the doctor to get the final clear and then finally to the ring.

He had talked very little, his eyes always focused somewhere else. It was clear that his mind was traveling somewhere far, far away. So you left him be, quietly watching him just move around. A silent shooting day, you told yourself In the end, however, you had a job and he needed to do the talking.

“It’s been too long,” he said, his eyes never really leaving the ice “I don’t know if I can still do it”

You laughed, causing him to finally look at you, eyes wide on his face. He tried to look serious but the corners of his lips were turned slightly up.

“You just don’t feel confident, but you didn’t forget it” you looked at his ankle, it was still weird to see him without any sort of protection around it “How’s your ankle?”

He just shook his head and in that moment you chose to believe that he was said It doesn’t bother me anymore.

Through the interviews, you found out that Jeonghan is the kind of person to suffer in silence. It was clear from all of his previous injuries, how he competed while in pain and only ever said anything when it was almost too late.

“Do you think I can still do it?”

There was something in his voice like he was almost on the verge of breaking. He sounded vulnerable in a way that was entirely too new, in a way you wanted to push Vernon and his camera away because that was a part of him you knew he didn’t want the world to see.

Instead, you reached for his arm, patting it a couple of times, hoping that your touch, as ungraceful and awkward as it was, was able to soothe him, even if it was just for a moment.

“I was watching some of your competitions last night, again, you know? And that guy? He’s still in there, I’m sure of it, I’ve seen him”

You weren’t just saying that to cheer him up, your words were true. You had seen that version of him, little glimpses here and there. He was in the way his eyes suddenly changed and it was like he owned the entire room, in the way he suddenly turned confident, in the way he was charming in a way that was almost sickening but all too enchanting either way.

Whether or not he believed it himself, Yoon Jeonghan was a force to be reckoned with.

"What kind of kid were you?" you asked, looking up at Jeonghan.

He sat opposite to you, bent down to tie the laces on his skates. His hair covered his face, you were sure that he couldn't see much, but he didn't seem bothered by it in the least. Maybe he had just gotten used to it.

Four months had gone by since you started to follow Jeonghan and even before that, he had kept his hair long. And you hated to admit that he looked good, too good even.

"What kind do you think I was?" He smirked at you for a second before going back to his skates.

Rolling your eyes, you couldn't help but smile.

"This is not how it works. I ask the questions here"

Jeonghan leaned back on his seat, giving you his full attention. His smirk did something to your insides. It felt tight and loose at the same time, like wild butterflies running around on your skin.

"Come on, humor me"

You pretended to be in deep thought, Jeonghan as a child had been something you thought about for a long time now. Even though he was very serious most of the time there were these small moments where he looked like a kid ready to do something he wasn't supposed to.

"I can only think of you as a troublemaker” you smiled, closing your notes knowing well that you’d make no progress at all with the filming “I’ve seen pictures of you and a child and although you looked very cute, I’m sure you were a handful to your mother”

Jeonghan laughed, throwing his head back and in that moment he looked so carefree.

Even since the start of the documentary Jeonghan had used his most serious expressions, a frown always taking over his beautiful features. But he had been back on the ice for a few days already and in those days he had looked the happiest you had seen him yet.

Of course, he still hasn’t practiced the way he wanted or the way he used to. He still needed to take things slowly: fewer hours, less power in the movements. But it was undeniable that he was a completely different person.

It wasn’t that he had been in a bad mood every single day but there was just something about him in his element, of him doing something he was obviously passionate about, that was so enchanting that it became impossible to look away from him.

“Where did you see those pictures?”

“You do know that I had to google you because I had no idea who you were, right?”

One thing you managed to learn about Jeonghan is the fact that, if in the right mood, he is a trickster and most of all, a flit. You weren’t even sure that he was aware of what he was doing, it seemed like second nature to him.

He put a hand over his chest, faking being in pain. His face contorted and a pout on his lips.

“I thought we were getting to know each other”.

Seungkwan coughed by your side, finally making you remember that there were people around you and that the entire interaction between you and Jeonghan was being recorded.

There was something about Jeonghan that always seemed to make you forget where you were, that maybe there were people around you. You could only suppose that it was the charm of a man who knew exactly what he was doing, who knew how to sweet talk someone.

And Jeonghan knew what he was doing, what kind of words or looks could get a reaction from a woman.

Most of the time while around Jeonghan you had to remind your heart to be calm and quiet. Being around him was a temporary arrangement, as soon as the Olympics started said arrangement would be done and you’d have to go back to your normal life. One that didn’t include Yoon Jeonghan. And you also knew that there wasn’t space for you in his life.

“We’re going to set up the cameras around the ice,” Seungkwan said awkwardly while dragging Verno by the hand.

You watched as the two walked away from you, whispering in secrecy. You could only imagine the kind of things that they were saying. If you knew Seungkwan at all, you were certain that it couldn’t be any good.

“Jeonghan, I ask questions and you answer them. And while one could say that I’m getting to know you, I don’t think it would be possible to say the same thing about me”

Jeongahn's smile was defiant when he crossed his arms over his chest.

“You have a no-bullshit policy, which I should have known, from the start, but I wasn’t expecting someone like you. Although you try really hard to pretend that you’re not, your eyes are kind and you quietly take care of those around you, me included sometimes. You got worried when I was in pain in rehab and when Vernon got hurt it seemed as if you were angry, but you were concerned about him and after that, you asked to have another staff with you so that he wouldn’t need to carry so many things on his own. You and Seungkwan bicker a lot but when he isn’t around for a day you are quieter and your questions have been more direct. That doesn’t make you a lousy documentarist, please don’t think that I’m saying that, you take your job very seriously. I’m saying that you put people above your job. I’m guessing that’s why you wanted to become a documentarist, to begin with, to tell stories”

You stared at him, mouth open wondering just how he had come up with all of that and why he had managed to hit everything right on the stop. Especially the reason why you became a documentarist. It seemed very obvious, yes, but it wasn’t something that you had said.

In fact, your personal life was something that very few people knew. You weren’t one to share your thoughts and what was on your mind with people. Seungkwan was a good friend, but he was a work friend so your personal life was just that, personal. Not that you had someone to share it with, either way.

The apartment was empty when you left and it was in the exact same way and you got back. You were on your own, with no parents, no siblings and most of your friends had given up on you somewhere along the way.

For the longest time, you put your job first. It came before anything and anyone. You were building your career and name at the time so it was hard not to put it first. It was your dream, one that your friends supported at first but were displeased when you decided to put it first.

You had thought that if you made it big on your job if you got hired by a big production company, you’d be able to find the happiness that you had searched for a long time. And while some of it was true, your career was on the right path and you did something you loved, you didn’t have a lot more beyond that going one.

It was become just you and your job.

Was it sad? Yes, but it was also the life you chose.

“Just because I don’t know details of your life, doesn’t mean that I don’t watch you, yn”

You watched as Jeonghan fell for what felt like the hundredth time that day. It didn't make sense, not really. At least not for you. And from the looks of it, for him too.

He was frustrated and completely angry. All those people looking at him, expectations high, waiting for something. He wasn't sure what. For him to fail? To see if he still could do it?

Everything was possible and impossible at the same time.

He couldn't stop his eyes from going after you every time you fell. Somehow, your reaction was the only one that mattered to him. The first few times your face was completely emotionless, as if you were staring at a blank wall. Then Jeonghan fell once again, and again, and again. He stopped counting at 10, but he knew it was much more than that actually. But your gaze, which was fixed on him, became more worried as the minutes passed and he hated being the cause of it.

Somehow, since he met you, only two things were on Jeonghan's mind: skating and you.

He didn't know how, he didn't know why, but you had taken over his every thought. It was as if you had walked through an imaginary door and entered his mind and decided that it was a great place to be.

Even on days when you didn't see each other because there was no recording, he was tempted to talk to you. And on one of those days, he just succumbed to the temptation of picking up the phone and calling you.

“Jeonghan, is everything okay?” was the first thing you said.

He hated that worry was the first emotion he awakened in you. He hated that the first thing you said wasn't "hello" like a normal person. But at the same time, the concern made him feel somehow welcomed. It could, of course, be all in his head, and what he saw as concern for himself was actually concern for the documentary.

"I just wanted to talk," he admitted.

Maybe it was because he had gotten used to talking to you, maybe it was because you offered zero judgment for the way he thought or reacted. Or maybe it was because it was you. Whatever it was, Jeonghan felt comfortable talking to you.

Telling the truth, about everything, was not difficult, in fact, it became something very easy. It was because of you, he knew.

"I realized I don't know anything about you"

You laughed and he listened as you moved through what he imagined to be his apartment.

"That's because I interview you and not the other way around"

He sat on the bed, his legs stretched out in front of him as he supported the rest of his weight on his arms stretched behind him.

"Do you think it's so bad that I know anything about you?"

You remained silent for a few seconds, seeming to think about the idea. It wasn't bad, not at all.

At several moments you found yourself with your cell phone in your hand, ready to send a message or call him. You weren’t sure what, but there was something about Jeonghan that just made you want to tell him everything.

"What do you want to know?" you said with a sigh.

"Whatever you want to share"

The great truth is that very little happened in your life. You lived alone, worked every day, and came home alone. Your last boyfriend, or even a fling, was over a year before. Your friends, if you could call them that, were all from work. Your life was quite still and dull. Even if you wanted to talk about work. Jeonghan was your job. There wasn't much to talk about.

"I don't think I have much to tell" you knew that what you were about to say wasn't the happiest topic in the world, but it was what you had to offer "My mother passed away when I was nineteen, since then I've been alone"

You could still clearly remember the day your father left. There wasn't a fight. He never packed his bag and left. One day he was there when you woke up, he gave you breakfast and took you to school, like he did on most days. But it was his job to pick you up and he never showed up. Your mother showed up instead, her eyes swollen as she did her smile to smile at you and explain to the teacher why she was so late. When you finally got home she said "Now it's just you and me. Daddy had to leave"

For months, years even, you waited for him to come back. You thought one day he would just appear in front of you. You were disappointed when it was your mother who showed up to pick you up when he didn't come to his birthdays when you called the number he had left with his mother and he never answered.

You waited until you turned 18 to go after him. You only had a name, but with that alone, a person can find everything on the internet. You found him in another state, working at a real estate agency. You sat down in front of him and talked for about half an hour. You made up a story about going to college and needing a place to live. You said your name and your mother's name several times, surname and everything, and at no point did he seem to connect one thing to the other. Until the last second, when you said you would think about renting the studio he had suggested, and he walked you to the door. He said, "I left for a reason, don't come back here."

You couldn't believe what you had heard. You couldn't understand why he left and why he never came back. But at that moment you decided that if he didn't want you, you didn't need him. Your mother had worked so hard to make sure you had everything you needed.

Exactly one year later, your mother died in a bizarre car accident. It was like being 7 years old again and losing another person, only in a much more painful way.

"You don’t have any siblings?" Jeonghan's voice on the other end brought you back "Relatives?"

You shook her head, even though you knew he couldn't see you.

"I was an only child, so no siblings. My mom was an orphan so relatives either. My father left when I was a child"

You and Jeonghan spent the whole night on the phone, talking about everything and nothing. From trivial things to more personal matters. His delight upon learning that you didn’t have a boyfriend didn’t go unnoticed.

Calls and messages became commonplace between the two of you. Your heart raced every time a new message arrived and it was hard to hide your disappointment when you realized it wasn't from him. On days when you didn't see each other, you would stare at your phone, waiting for it to ring, waiting for him to call.

So you hoped he understood when you shook your head in his direction, a request written on your face. That's enough for today, you can try more tomorrow, you hoped he would understand.

Instead of trying one more time after he fell once again, he skated to the edge of the ice. His face was red from the effort, and his chest rose and fell in an uneven rhythm trying to force air back into his lungs.

"I want everyone out," he said, his voice broken.

Seungkwan and Vernon didn't even question it, they simply started putting away the equipment. Jihoon, who had shown up unexpectedly to "supervise" didn't seem to understand what was going on, but turned to help Vernon.

Jeonghan's coach was the only one who approached him, his hand on the athlete's shoulder.

"Go home, rest. Tomorrow we try again"

Jeonghan shook his head. He would only get out of there after managing to make the damn jump, even if he had to stay the whole night.

"Just half an hour more, but I want to be alone"

The coach clearly didn't like the idea, but he knew it was stupid to try and make Jeonghan change his mind.

You turned to him, looking at his face, trying to figure out if he was in pain or if he was just being a big blockhead. Without giving yourself the luxury of thinking about what you were doing, you placed your hand over Jeonghan's and squeezed for a second. You hoped he understood what you meant.

"You have to rest"

You knew everyone was watching, that despite saying they were leaving they weren't actually moving. Jeonghan didn't seem to care and for a moment you decided not to care either.

“Stay,” he said softly, so only you could hear him “please.”

Some strands of hair were stuck to Jeonghan's face, you wanted to get them out of his face, but caution spoke louder. You looked over your shoulder and everyone was still looking at the two of you, but as soon as they noticed your gaze they started moving again. Seungkwan shouted “We’re leaving” and seconds later the door slammed.

Finally, you were alone.

“You have to rest,” you said again.

You took advantage of the fact that no one else was there and removed the strands of hair stuck to his forehead, tucking it behind his ear. Jeonghan sighed, his eyes closing as he leaned towards you. Just that little touch wasn't enough.

“I need to get it right”

"If you stop now and rest you will know what you are doing wrong"

A half smile shined on Jeonghan's face as he leaned further into the barrier, his face just inches away from his.

"My ego loves it when you say I'm doing something wrong”

You pushed him back, needing a little bit more space to yourself. He was too close, you could feel his breath on your nose and cheeks. It was suddenly as if the world was made of Yoon Jeonghan, it was just him and no one else.

“I’m sure your ego will be just fine”

Instead of pulling your hand back, you allowed it to stay in his chest. Jeonghan smiled for a second before pressing his hand over yours.

“Just another 30 minutes” he repeated what he said to his coach “I promise I’ll stop in precisely 30 minutes”

You nodded with a sigh. There was nothing you could do to stop him. Something told you that even if you threatened him to leave he would stay and practice, he would stay on the ice for far more than just 30 minutes if you weren’t around.

So you sat down and waited for him. And he fell time and time again, his face growing displeased with himself at each passing second, each time he jumped but didn't manage to land.

Jeonghan had done that same jump countless times before with ease as if one's body would simply perform such movements. To him, it always seemed as easy as walking. You had seen it in all of his videos, almost in trance by him.

“If you’re not done in twenty-one minutes” you pretended to look at your imaginary watch “I’m taking you out of there by force”

Jeonghan threw his head back, laughing.

“Remember when you said that you never skated before?” Jeonghan asked after finally being able to breathe properly again.

You weren’t too sure how, but he had stopped after 30 minutes. A big smile on his face after he managed to land the jump after so many tries. After getting it right once, he didn’t get it wrong again. It was like something clicked inside his brain as if he had found the last missing piece of the puzzle.

Of all the things you said to Jeonghan, from the most personal to the most trivial, that was, by far, the only one you regretted. You had told him over the phone but he looked horrified, it was easy to imagine the wide eyes on his face.

But him standing there, in front of you, with a smile that could only be seen on the face of a mischievous child, said much more than any words he could utter.

“No,” you said, shaking your head, already moving back.

You had learned several peculiarities about Jeonghan in all the months you spent by his side, and one of the most glaring was the look in his eyes when he was about to do something he shouldn't.

“You have to try, at least once” his lips were a mixture of a smile and a pout “You will have the best teacher in the world”

You saw it and shook your head again.

“I can’t trust a teacher who spent the day falling” you pointed to the rink behind him.

As soon as the words left your mouth, you regretted them. You didn't know if your words would offend him, you hoped he knew it wasn't your intention. But you also knew that hell was paved with good intentions. Jeonghan was silent for a minute, his face serious, his eyes not leaving yours for an entire minute.

Then he smiled, his nose wrinkling a little as he laughed, loudly. It didn't take long for you to join him.

“You’re evil,” he said, trying to control himself, but failing “This way you’re going to break my heart”

“I think there are few things in this world that can break your heart.”

You would definitely be one of them, Jeonghan wanted to say, but he held his tongue in his mouth. He knew he couldn't say that, he knew that any word said wrongly could simply ruin everything he had built so far. If he could even say he built something. He liked to think so.

From the first time you spoke, Jeonghan knew there was no going back, at least for him. He had never done anything like that. He had never called someone in the middle of the night simply because he wanted to hear someone's voice. And in this case, it wasn't just someone's voice, it was your voice that he wanted to hear.

With each passing sentence, Jeonghan found himself falling more in love with you and he wasn't able to say why. Maybe he could blame it on your eyes, always so focused, but somehow when they turned to him, they seemed so sweet and sincere. Or your voice, which gave orders and asked incisive questions, but as soon as the cameras were turned off it became gentle and almost shy. Maybe it was the fact that you seemed like a lioness when you were working, never giving space for unfounded questions, but you were shy when it was just the two of you alone.

He liked this version of you, who was right in front of him, who seemed completely comfortable with him, to the point of making jokes — something that until that moment you hadn't done yet.

“We always have extra pairs in the back, I'm sure one of them is your size” he had made sure you would, with Seungkwan's help of course “And then we try it, what do you think?”

Even though you were shaking your head, you went to the closet where you knew the skates were stored.

With your knees bent and shaking, you stepped onto the ice and immediately regretted giving in to Jeonghan's will. You didn't know how he had managed it, but in the closet, there was a brand new pair of skates, your size. Jeonghan had smiled as he bent down to tie your shoelaces,

“I’m going to fall flat on my face,” you said as you grabbed the bars.

Jeonghan held your face in his hands, your eyes fixed on his.

“I won’t let you fall”

The way the words left his lips made your heart skip a beat, or maybe several of them. You could feel it on the back of your throat and you could swear that your hands shook a little as you accepted the hand Jeonghan had extended to you.

You wished it could just stop. Not for your heart to stop beating altogether but for it to stop reacting to Jeonghan. Everything changed after that first call and you weren’t too sure of where it was. He had, someway, somehow, become a pivotal point of you. His voice, his eyes. The way tingles started to run down through your body the moment his skin came in touch with yours. How, despite all odds, he made you feel safe in a way you weren’t too sure you had ever experienced before.

When he said that he wasn’t going to you fall, you believed him so you held his hands — strong enough that you were sure were hurting him but he didn't seem to mind — and allowed Jeonghan to pull you into the rink.

“Don't move your feet” he said, voice ever so sweet but with a slight hint of teasing “I know it's probably hard, but let me take control here”

Forcing out all of the remaining air inside your lungs, you did as he asked. Instead of keeping your focus on the ice under your feet, you kept them in Jeonghan's face. A mistake, of course.

His eyes were too intense if you could say that. You didn't want to understand what was happening. Perhaps for the first time since you met Jeonghan, you didn't want to understand what it could mean. You were scared. What, exactly, you weren’t sure.

“I didn’t even have to ask you to look at me,” he said and you laughed a little, automatically looking away “Keep looking at me”

The whole experience of skating for the first time, or being guided, was not being registered by your brain. All you could see, think, feel, was Jeonghan, as if he had become a central point of everything.

“I think we should stop here”

You hoped your voice was loud enough and judging by the look on Jeonghan's face, it was. The smile fell from his lips and it was as if a small light in his eyes had gone out.

You hated that you were the one causing that reaction in him, but you knew it was best to stop everything before it went too far.

"I thought that…"

“We can’t blur the lines that much” you shook your head.

You didn't know exactly who you were trying to convince, him or you. You also weren't sure you had to convince yourself of anything. It was as if your brain had split in two. One part, probably the loudest, wanted you to just let things happen. You knew you weren't doing anything wrong, you weren't doing anything much really. What you did outside of your working hours and who you did it with was your problem and no one else's.

But the other part, one that spoke softly and that should have had much less strength, said it was dangerous, but also didn't offer much reason to be dangerous.

Yet somehow, that was the side you chose to listen to.

"Why?" He asked forcing his feet to the ground, making the two of you stand in the center of the rink. “What line are we blurring?”

You shook your head, hands clinging to his waist as you felt your feet begin to slide.

“I don’t know” you whispered in response “We are working”

Jeonghan leaned forward and pressed his lips to your cheek. With a sigh, he let his forehead fall onto your shoulder and closed his eyes.

You didn't know exactly where your skepticism came from, but you were also sure it wasn't completely unfounded. But truth be told, you wanted to blur that line and any others that might appear along the way.

“Go on a date with me,” he said “If you still feel that way, there’s nothing we can do. Just don’t… don’t stop something that hasn’t even started yet”

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