#anyway this got way longer than i intended but
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u either hate me or want me to go into cardiac arrest because HOW COULD I COPE WITH THIS FEEDBACK???? HOW đđđđđđ i cant tell u how happy it makes me that you dont just read my fics but truly read them. you allow my characters to live in your heart and mind and thatâs the biggest privilege for me. thank you thank YOU for making writing so enjoyable, reading ur feedback is easily top best thing about this entire process.
NOWWW to actually respond,, truthfully i tried to search for an equivalent for dĂ©chirure in english but tear imo doesnât convey the feeling of being ripped to shreds, in french it feels more raw, even when u pronounce it this combo of letters have a sort of blunt force in them, like something being teared apart not by choice but by a sick twist of fate (like our mc and hyune) thatâs why i picked it!!! :p thank you for asking đ„č
THANJ YOUUUU đđđđđ no this is my favorite compliment i try to put sm thought into the characters and for u to pick up on that!!! on the floor rnâŠ. i originally intended for the mother to apologize but then i realized that someone like her would still think that they did nothing wrong. in her mind, she was a mourning mother trying to make her late daughterâs memory live through her new one. but it doesnât work like that. it still hurts. maybe she apologized later on, maybe she didnât. still i think it would be too late anyway. so thatâs why i left it at that. (also the dad just faded. anger is hard to carry)
also u calling it movie⊠im going insane. if one of my fics ever get adapted into a movie ull be front row PROMISE.
the characterization of mc hurt me a lot đ i mean i tried to make her as realistic as ever and i think the anger being directed towards someone who isnt here anymore helped her cope :(
i get u for the slightly rushed part đđ itâs partly because i wanted the âgoodâ parts to be short because there was this sense of impending doom, in a way, haunting them. like they both believed this happiness will end sooner or later and it did pass by quickly on both of them. but also because i wanted to post the fic because itâs been so long and i dont think tumblr dot com loves fics that are longer than 20k đđđ
also SO HAPPY U PICKED UP ON THE DETAILS đđđđ i love a good full circle moment. and i thought ending it in a graveyard would be nice. mc lived a good life loved by hyunjin and she has someone waiting for the day theyâd meet her again. this was her biggest fearâ to never be loved, because she grew to believe she hasnât deserving of itâbut she was. so i thought :D that sounds good. death doesnât have to be a horrible depressing thing in this fic anymore đ also yes the olympics were my inspo i actually got inspired by many things while writing this fic u can tell it consumed my mind KANSND
i love YOU thank you for reading and for being so attentive to every detail and for being here in my life. like genuinely i appreciate your presence and existence more than i can describe. i hope u are always happy and healthy!!! i love you, my favorite reader :p
La dĂ©chirureÂ
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 youâve 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
authorâs note: heyyyyâŠ. havenât 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 donât 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 doesnât register in your brain, not yet. Youâre only paying attention to the last name written on the tombstoneâ your last name, to be exact.Â
Right now, more than ever, you wished your first name was engraved beside it too.Â
Youâve memorized this graveyard like the back of your hand, know what sound the tree branches make during springâ gently swaying, like a melancholic flute, aching because flowers refuse to bloom upon them. And during winter tooâ even sadder, angrier, perhaps to mimic the sound of the souls left alone in the graves to fend off the cold.
Though youâve never approached this tombstone before. You always remained a few feet back, each time your parents brought you to your late sisterâs graveâ every Sunday, for the past eighteen years of your existence, without fault.Â
You donât know the person theyâre mourning.
You donât know the person they wish to mold you after.Â
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.Â
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.Â
That is what your grandmother recalls about your birth, the rejoice of you being an exact copy of your sisterâs features. There was nothing in her, in everyoneâs 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.Â
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?Â
The question first popped into your brain at age fiveâ maybe less intricate, a feeling that pressed against your ribcage: your parents donât love you a lot, do they? You are now eighteen, the question has yet to desert you.Â
Youâve always been aware of this realityâ 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.Â
And she loved ballet.Â
So, you had to love ballet too.
You werenât 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 teacherâs instruction. It wasnât easy, it never got easier, year after year, only more challenging, only harder on your body.
Bigger bruises, sprained ankles from time to time, youâve 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.Â
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, pliĂ©, tenduâ 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. Sheâs a woman in her forties, though she looks older from the harsh lines framing her face.Â
Her voice is high-pitched, her hair always tied back in a sleek bun youâre sure pains her brain, her words are harsh each time she corrects your posture.
And sheâs the only person who believes in you.
Sheâs 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, âI see something magical in youââ that she was telling the truth.Â
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 didnât have enough time to breathe.Â
Your entire life revolved around ballet. spin, point well, adjust your posture, you canât stop now. Suddenly itâs two a.m. and you only get four hours of sleep before your classes begin. You didnât 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.Â
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 wasnât 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.
âI got into JulliardâÂ
That is what you told your parents an hour ago, voice brimming with uncontainable happiness, tears dripping down your eyes in an uncontrollable flow.Â
Your motherâs eyes became teary in an instant. You thought the past was past you now. Youâll forgive eighteen years of coming second in your motherâs 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 whisperedââshe would have loved Julliard too.â
You donât 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.Â
You remember screaming, lots of it, something breaking too, you donât recall if it is you who threw the vase or your father. The latter seemed more plausibleâ he was always bound to these sudden bouts of anger. Effects of grief, consequences of your sisterâs absence. Her, yet again, poisoning your life.Â
You remember feeling like a stranger in your home, a nobody, someone theyâd 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 youâ âI wish she never died so you wouldâve never been born.â
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 didnât 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?Â
You donât remember how you got to the graveyard. You donât 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.Â
You are crying, sobbing, a hysterical mess, you donât know what youâre yelling, who youâre calling out for, what youâre trying to achieve by punching her grave.Â
Unearthing her body and burying yours there instead, perhaps.
âWhat are you doing?â a strangerâs voice startles you, cutting through the fog in your mind like a thunderbolt.Â
You donât reply, simply turning around to look at the man standing a mere inches away from you.
âDo you know her or are you just desecrating her grave?â he asks calmly, as he brings a pink umbrella over your head. You realize that youâre drenched from head to toe, your feeble pajama does nothing to fight off the cold filtering between the fabric and your skin.Â
You are freezing. You fear there is no place warm enough for your soul, not anymore.
âSheâs my late sister,â you say, voice raw, scratched like a broken record.Â
âShe died young,â he says, looking at the dates engraved on the tombstone.Â
You feel so horrible, for a millisecond.Â
She was only seven.Â
Her grave is too small compared to your body.Â
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.
âDid she do something to you?â he asks, his voice contrasting nicely against the heavy shatter of rain. It reminds you of the intro of your ballet music, soothing.Â
âNo,â you admit, a bit shamefully. But all sense of guilt dissipates at his next questionâ âthen wouldnât she be sad seeing you do this?âÂ
âWhat about MY sadness? MY anger?â you shout, lips trembling like the branches above your head. the storm picks up with your rising voice, the rainâs pitter-patter mimics the chaos inside your brain.
He remains silent and you can barely grasp the expression on his face, concealed by the umbrellaâs shadows. You imagine that this conversation must have bored him, so you turn around yet again, your heart pounding angrily against your skin.Â
But then, he kneels beside you, his umbrella completely discarded. You donât dare to tilt your face towards him, so you simply stare ahead, your breath caught in your throatâ what is he thinking of your most vulnerable state?
âI am rage,â he says, his voice permeating your being softly, the storm seems to calm down too to follow the ebb of his voice. âIt 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. Thatâs not something anyone here can enjoy,â he points out, taking a fleeting glance at the graves surrounding you.Â
âYou get to do something with that anger. But this, this wonât cure it.âÂ
Heâs 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 doesnât fix anything. You wonder if he has ever been this angry, too.Â
Did he move past it? Or did he drown the anger deep within the wells of his soul so he wouldnât confront its ugly face?Â
The question roams in your head as you watch him place a bouquet of red lilies atop the grave. You didnât even notice the flowers at first, your view was too distorted by tears to grasp anything beautiful.Â
âYouâll catch a cold,â the guy points out, smiling at you, or at least attempting to since the grin doesnât reach his eyes. His words come out slower, as if weighed down by a sadness only he can feel.Â
He is in a graveyard after all, the flowers were meant for someone else than you.Â
âWait here,â he says, quickly getting up and jogging out of the graveyard.Â
What a silly request, you think, itâs not like you would dare move. Your feet are aching and you have nowhere else to go.Â
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. âI tried to warm it up with the carâs heating,â he says sheepishly, and you blink slowly at his kindness, a pink tint blooming across your cheeks.Â
âThank you.âÂ
His eyes fleet to your bare, bleeding feet, and you fidget in place, trapped by a bout of embarrassment.Â
âI have spare shoes in my car. Do you want me to drive you home?â 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.Â
âI donât want to burden you.âÂ
âYou wonât,â he says, and as if sensing your hesitation, he adds, âI promise. Leaving you here is what would burden me.â
You are very tired as he drives you to your place. You speak once when you ask him if he wasnât there to visit someone, he says that itâs okay, he can come back tomorrow.Â
You only dare look at him at the last red light before you arrive at your address. Heâs 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 donât 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 donât think your heart could handle another tear at its tender flesh.Â
You donât think you could handle looking at your parents and only seeing strangers.Â
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 didnât seem to care that you dirtied his front seat and the carpet below your feet.Â
He looks like a good person.Â
You wish to tell your good news to a good person.Â
âI got into Julliard,â you quickly let out as soon as he parks. You donât allow yourself time to regret your confession.Â
A breathtaking smile overtakes his face, the thunderstorm outside pales before the sun shining in his features.Â
âReally?â he asks cheerfully, and you nod, a tiny smile painting across your lips. âMm. Really.â
âThatâs amazing!â his grin further widens, his eyes disappearing into two lovely moon crescents. âI know Iâm just a stranger but, I'm proud of you,â his voice softens, âI mean it. I hope youâre proud of yourself too.âÂ
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.Â
This was all youâve ever wanted to hear.Â
âThank you,â 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 isâ âI'm Yn, by the way.âÂ
âYn,â he repeats, his voice tender. âNice to meet you, Yn. Iâm Hyunjin.âÂ
Four years later.
âYou need to work on your landing more, but the rest is good.â
âThanks, coach.â 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.Â
His body is weary, every muscle reminding him of the sheer effort heâs poured into perfecting his routine for the upcoming figure skating competitionâ the most important one of his life, by far.
âAre you leaving now?â Jihyounâs voice pierces the delicate silence and Hyunjin nods, resting his head against the cold concrete wall. âJust gonna take a breather.â
âIâll head out then,â Jihyoun says, patting his back gently, âmake sure you get some rest.â
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.Â
A few minutes trickle by, slow and silent. An uncomfortable feeling nudges at Hyunjinâs rib as he remains as still as a statue; he knows heâs on a losing bet to make time stretch forth, hoping that the sun outside will pause in its descentâ 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 isnât ready to face.Â
When does he ever?Â
But the sun always sets and rises once more, even if you dont wish for it to.Â
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 stuckâof course.Â
âFuck,â he mutters under his breath, pressing his forehead against the cold glass before frustratedly kicking the machine.
âI am rage,â 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.Â
Your lips curve into a gentle smile, and your eyes sparkle with quiet amusementâ that light, however, dims slightly when he doesnât immediately respond.
It takes all of Hyunjinâs will to act like he doesnât recognize you.
âYou get to do something with your anger, but this wonât cure it.â You quote, your voice softer now. âYou know, you told me this, near the graveyardâŠâ You point vaguely behind you, each word growing quieter as if youâre 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.
âMiss Julliard,â 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 youâve laughed quite often for the past four years. The thought brings him a strange sense of comfort.
âWhat did the vending machine do to deserve this?â you ask, tilting your head with playful curiosity.
âStole my money,â Hyunjin mutters.
âYouâve got to hit the side when that happens.â 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.Â
âWhat are you doing here?â you ask once he stands.
âIâm an ice skater,â he says, and your eyes widen with genuine surprise.
âReally? Thatâs amazing!â
âYeah⊠I guess it is. Are you back from Julliard?â His voice is softer now, more tentative, reminiscent of the day you met.Â
âFor a little while. Just a few months. This studioââ you glance around, ââitâs where I used to train before I went away.â
âI see,â Hyunjin nods, âI train upstairs, in the ice rink. Because Iâm an ice skater,â he repeats, before closing his eyes in embarrassment as your giggles spill forth. No shit Hyunjin.
âIâll see you around then,â he quickly mutters, eager to end the conversation, before turning around and hurrying away.Â
Heâs almost by the stairs when your voice calls out his name, urgent, pressing.
âHyunjin!â
His body freezes before his mind orders it toâheâs not the only one who remembers, then.Â
âDid you eat dinner?â you shout, a little out of breath.
âNo,â he admits.
âThereâs a place nearby that makes the best kimchi stew. Want to go?â
âIâm not hungry.â
âItâs my treat.â Your smile has slightly dimmed, and youâre unconsciously scratching the skin by your nails. Even from afar, Hyunjin can discern a shadow looming in your eyes, a plea unspoken.Â
âAre you lonely?â Hyunjinâs question comes out before he can stop it, blunt and raw. Heâs 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 itâs better to speak the truth before it comes back to poison you.Â
Your smile falters. âI just⊠donât want to go home. not yet,â you confess quietly.
âSo youâre using me?â he teases, leaning back against the wall with a smirk. You roll your eyes, muttering âNever mindâ under your breath as you start to turn away.
âFine,â he sighs, pushing off the wall. âBut Iâm craving sushi.â
âŠ
Hyunjinâs eyes are more worn than the last time youâve seen him.Â
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 doesnât 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. Â
Hyunjin has written your name into his diary more times than heâd care to admit, even less so to you.Â
He has always walked this earth alone, a stranger even to his own emotions, especially his griefâ no one understood how his motherâs death consumed him whole. Â
It is true that only one body was laid to the ground many years ago. But Hyunjinâs soul followed hers into the ground when he was just fourteen.Â
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 angerâat 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 onceâwhen he met you.
Hyunjin didnât know who or what you were mourning that day at the graveyard. But he remembers your screams on his way to his motherâs 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.Â
âHow long have you been skating ?â you ask suddenly, your gaze flickering over his face. He blinks slowly, as if to bring his consciousness back to the present moment.Â
âSince i was a kid, nearly two decades now,â he says.Â
âDo you like it?â 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.Â
âI do, I really do,â he speaks softly, a fragile smile curling his lips. He waits till you both finish the first bottle of soju to askâ how have you been? and itâs 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.
âIâm okay.â
The next question slips from him without thought, âare you still as angry?â
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.
âWas I ever angry? I think I was just very sad.âÂ
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 kindnessâ 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.Â
âI feel as if my heart is too tired now to bear such big anger,â you say with a smile. âHave you worn out yet? Thatâs what Iâd like to ask.âÂ
âArenât you afraid of the answer?â he pauses, adding in a quiet whisper, âI am.âÂ
The chandelier above dances across his glossy eyes. Youâve never been optimisticâlife hasnât 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. âLetâs ask it another time, then,â you smile, pouring each other a new round of drinks. You quickly down three shots before laying your head on the table.Â
âAre you sleeping?â Hyunjin asks with a quiet laugh, the sound light, like a melody played softly on piano keys.
âItâs fine,â you wave a hand in the air. âThe owner knows me. Heâll wake me when itâs time to close.â
Both of you are running from home, or whatâs left of it. Hyunjin watches you, your face softened by fleeting peace, so different from the grief heâs etched into his memories.
Far more beautiful, too.
âThen wake me up, too,â 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 byâ quiet and uninterrupted. Hyunjin finds that the next day has come much slower in your company.Â
âŠ
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 wasnât Hyunjin? Worse, what if it was, and he didnât 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 sirenâs 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 youâd lost the capacity to be amazedâby 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 skateâ that gripped your heart more than anything else had in years.
âHeâs good, isnât he?â 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.
âYes, he is,â you reply quietly.
âIâm Jihyoun, Hyunjinâs coach,â he introduced himself, extending a firm hand.
âYn,â you hesitated, glancing at Hyunjin, who was still absorbed in his performance. âAn acquaintance.â
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 heâd think you were a stalker. So, you remained there.Â
âHey, coach,â Hyunjin waved, skating toward you both. Anxiety flickered in your chest like a match that refused to light upâyou regretted coming now. You had shared a meal just days ago, but Hyunjin hadnât asked for your name, nor did he seem to remember it. Maybe you held onto his memory more warmly than he held onto yours.
âMiss Julliard,â Hyunjin greeted with a soft smile as his eyes landed on you, and just like that, your worries dissolved like sugar in hot tea.
âJulliard? Thatâs impressive,â Jihyoun whistled, but you shook your head. You often forgot how prestigious your school wasâperhaps because no one ever celebrated your acceptance in it.
No one, except Hyunjin.
âHave you eaten?â Hyunjin asked, gliding to the edge of the rink, his blouse clinging to his sweat-soaked skin.
âNo,â you shook your head. He nodded nonchalantly.
âIâm craving kimchi jiggae again,â he tipped his chin towards you, âwe can go again, if youâd like.â
âSure, Iâd like that,â you grinned.
âOkay. Wait for me.â
âŠÂ
Hyunjinâs routine has always been quite simple.Â
Heâd 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 fromâ 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 youâd go eat dinner at your usual spot; sometimes youâd 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 anotherâ an unspoken understanding of what your tongues had often failed to express.
But you hadnât come to see him in two days.
Itâs 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.Â
He hopes it is you dancing there.Â
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 elseâs presence.Â
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 stemâ 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 yesterdayâsoft 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.Â
Heâs frozen in place, wincing when you call out his name in surprise. Does he have to embarrass himself each time heâs around you?Â
He turns slowly, a sheepish smile creeping onto his face. âMiss Julliard,â he waves, and you grin in return, your eyes warm, âWhat are you doing here?â
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.
âYou didnât come by yesterday so I came to see you,â he explains, voice soft like a summer breeze.Â
Your grin brightens like the sun. âAh, did you miss me?â you tease, and he rolls his eyes playfully, walking past you to sit on the floor.Â
Did he miss you? no he didnât, but his heart did ache, just a little, at your absence.
âWhy did you look so defeated sitting on the ground?â he asks instead of replying, leaning against the mirrored wall.
You sigh, taking your place across from him, âpracticing this dance is so hard, I got sick of it.âÂ
He nods, understanding the frustration that stems from being a perfectionist, always chasing ideals in your work.
âYou know what helps me? Performing to a song I love. Reminds me what I love about the sport.â
You hum, before a mischievous glint sparks in your eyes. âThere is this one song.. From a barbie movie.â
He blinks in surprise, laughing as you dash for your phone.
âBarbie?â
âYes! The 12 dancing princesses. My mom made me watch it to convince me to take up ballet.âÂ
âIs that so?â he grins, placing his chin atop his palm.Â
âYeah, she wanted me to follow my sisterâs footsteps,â you say, and he thinks back to the small grave you were both kneeling next to. âI wonder if I wouldnât have become a ballerina if I didnât watch it,â you muse, before clearing your throat.
âAnyways,â 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.Â
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.Â
You laugh, spinning around him, your movements fluid and free, yet your arms frame your figure with a rehearsed prouesse. He canât help but laugh with you, the warmth of your presence filling the room, the music wrapping around you both like a spell.Â
Youâre 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.
âI havenât danced to that in years,â you say, catching your breath. âI probably looked ridiculous.â
He shakes his head, his voice steady and sincere. âI think ballet wouldâve found you anyway. Itâs like you were born for it.â
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 studioâno, not just the studio. Itâs 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 doesnât need to walk down the path of life alone.
âŠ
Youâre 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 doorâone 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 heâs 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 youâd shared this.Â
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 wasnât the whole truth. The ballet may have brought you back, but something else called you home.Â
At times you wonder if you had made the right call by answering it.
âYouâre home,â your motherâs voice cuts through the quiet as you enter the kitchen. You nod, humming absentmindedly.Â
âI made pasta, itâs in the oven. And I bought that drink you like,â she says, but her words are too sweet, too forcedâlike the artificial flavor of apple in fizzy drinks.Â
âThanks,â you whisper, barely loud enough to carry the word across to her.
âIâll grab it for you,â she says, moving toward the fridge. But when she opens it, her hands falter, hovering over empty shelves. âThatâs strange⊠I couldâve sworn I put it here.â You grip the counter tighter as she flits from cabinet to cabinet, her search growing frantic.Â
âItâs fine, Iâm not thirsty,â you murmur, but she continues, finally pulling open the dishwasher.
âAh, silly me,â she says softly, retrieving the can with trembling hands. You keep your eyes low, unwilling to meet hers. âIâm sorry,â she whispers, her voice as fragile as a cracked vase, âI forget so much these days.âÂ
And just like that, she slips out of the kitchen, leaving behind a gaping hole in your chest that threatens to swallow you whole. Â
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 herâto hold her in the softness of your heart, knowing that one day sheâll forget who you are entirely.
But has she ever known who you were to begin with? Has she ever dared to ask?Â
Has she ever cared to?Â
âŠÂ
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 hadnât meant to ignore you; so when you turned to him, playful mischief dancing on your lipsââAre you listening to me?ââhe could only offer a sheepish grin in response.Â
âWhatâs on your mind?â you asked, and he bit his lip, worry knitting his brow.Â
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 dancesânever 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.Â
âWhatâs wrong?â you pressed, your tone shifting to one of concern. He thought you wouldnât 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.
âMy momâŠâ 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. âShe used to make the best kimchi stew,â he confessed, closing his eyes in slight embarrassment. Is this really what he decided to speak about?Â
Still, he pushed through. âShe made it for me whenever I was sick. I donât attach it to bad memories because it was delicious, and I could feel that she made it out of love, out of concern.â He pauses, sucking in a deep breath. âI hadnât eaten it at all since she passed away. I couldnât bring myself to. Until you took me to that restaurant.â
His eyes glistened as they settled on you, âSo thank you for taking me there. I think you would have liked her kimchi stew.â
Your eyes widened slightly, dewdrops brimming in your waterline before you smiled softly. âIâm sure I wouldâve.âÂ
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 wouldnât mind sharing her with you. âShe was the best figure skater Iâve ever seen.â
âWas she? Is she the one who inspired you to become an ice skater?â you asked, curiosity lighting up your expression. He nodded eagerly. âYes, 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,â he spoke, pride swelling within him as he noticed the admiration in your expression.
âIt was always just her and me, so Iâd stay late into the night watching her practice. That was my favorite pastime. Sheâd always buy me the food I wanted afterward, as a thank you.â
âShe sounds like a good mother,â you said, and your words morphed into fingers pressing on his tender bruises.Â
âShe was. She is.âÂ
âTell me more,â you smiled, and so he talked, and talked and talked. He shared everything he could recall: their weekly picnics beneath cherry trees, birthday candles theyâd blow out together, the medals she dedicated to him, and her silly jokes that had once filled their home with laughter.Â
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 didnât mention her illness; it was a mere passing moment, never defining her, never stripping her from the passion that bound her atoms together.Â
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 wasnât 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 didnât speak; instead, you gently placed your palm atop his.Â
It is his very soul that twitched at your touch.Â
âWhat are you doing?â he asked breathlessly, a foolish question, perhaps.Â
Your reply was even more obvious, simpler.
âComforting you.â
âIâŠâ 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.Â
âIâm scared,â he finally admitted, the shadows of his fears looming large. It terrified him even more to utter such words, yet he knew you wouldnât use them against him; you understood what it felt like to be deprived of comfortâ somehow that only saddened him even more.
âWhat if⊠What if I forget the coldness of her fingers wrapped around mine?âÂ
âYour mom loved you, Hyunjin. And someone who loves you would want your hand to feel warm.âÂ
Something shifted within his heart, atoms rearranging themselves to spell out a simple truth for Hyunjinâ your mom would want you to be happy.Â
He nodded, willing his fingers to slip in the empty spaces between your fingers. You squeezed his handâonce, twice, thriceâeach pulse a silent invitation for your warmth to seep through his veins, to permeate his bones and sink into his heart.Â
He could get used to this, he thought. He wants to get used to your warmth, he realizes.
What does that mean?Â
âŠ
Hyunjin has always known who he was, memorized to heart the architecture of his personality.Â
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 heâd rather die than not achieve his motherâs dream, for him.Â
But something within him was shiftingâunraveling.Â
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.â the time you usually come by to the studio.Â
âDonât worry, sheâll drop by,â Jihyonâs voice cut through his trance. Hyunjin startled, his cheeks blooming with the soft pink of a rising dawn.
âWhat are you talking about?â he mumbled, but Jihyon only grinned knowingly.Â
âMiss Julliard,â his coach teased. Was he that obvious? Did you notice it too?Â
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 askedâthough 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.Â
Did that make Hyunjin selfish? Or lonely?Â
âDonât stay up too late,â Jihyon said as he waved goodbye.
âDonât worry about me.âÂ
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 heâs grown accustomed to your giggles spilling all over the place.Â
What does it mean, he wondered, when the heart learns to beat to the rhythm of someone elseâs 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.
âHow was practice?â you asked, and he shot you a thumbs-up, his fingers drumming against the railing.
âIsnât your competition next week?â you ask and he nods, âCan I come watch then?â you say and his heart stutters at your request.
âYou can, if you want to, if you donât itâs okay too, you actually donât have to,â he mumbles, his words rushing out, until you pressed a finger to his lips, silencing himÂ
âIâll be there, I have to make sure everyone cheers for you when you win,â you grin, self-assuredly, as if you have never doubted that heâll qualify for the Olympics.Â
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 isnât normal.Â
âShould I bring pom poms? Actually, should I make them from scratch? Whatâs your favorite color?âÂ
âWill you actually come?â 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 doesnât remember what it feels like to smile at someone in the stands anticipating your win.Â
Somewhat, you sense the gravity of hyunjinâs question, the vulnerability it entails, one he doesnât try to hide. He has never attempted to hide his emotions from you, now that he thinks about it.
âOf course I will,â your voice softens, your playfulness melting away. âI promise. IâŠâ you point your pinky to him and he chuckles quietly, âI pinky promise.âÂ
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.Â
âThere, sealed forever.âÂ
You quiet down, before giggling for a reason that eludes you both.Â
âHave you ever tried ice skating?â he suddenly asks and you nod, âI know how to skate, but not how to do all those fancy spins of yours.âÂ
âDo you want to try?â he smiles and you lighten up, âActually? What if I fall?âÂ
âIâll be there to catch you.â
A few moments later, you were both on the ice, Hyunjin spinning around you as you found your balance. âThis feels so different from ballet,â you chuckle and he grins, âdo you like it?â
âYeah, i do.â
âCome here,â he beckons, reaching for your hand, and you donât hesitate, your fingers intertwining with his as he leads you across the rink.Â
Can you hear the music starts playing on the loud speakers and Hyunjin laughs, turning around to look at you.
âIâm scared,â you giggle happily and he shakes his head, âLet go of your fears and hold on to me.â
And then, without warning, he spins you, the motion sending your hair flying around you like wings unfurling in the wind. heâs 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.Â
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.
Youâre so close, closer than youâve 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.Â
He doesnât wish to break free, he wants to remain in the chrysalis woven by the notes of your perfume.Â
Itâs a few hours later, Hyunjin laid on his bed, a pillow tightly pressed to his face. He wasnât a stranger to late-night thoughts strung along by the twilight, but he had never thought before of thisâof your lips, how soft they looked inches away from his, how itâd feel to press them on yours, to move slowly, tentatively, and then ravenously, hungrily, achingly.
âFuck,â he mutters, further burying himself under his covers. Hyunjin wasnât 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.
âDo I like her?â he murmurs to no one but himself, before shaking his head forcefully. âGo to sleep, Hyunjin,â 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 othersâ 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 followâwhen 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 motherâs death when he met you. He had planned to spend the night in a willowing state of sadness, an incapacitating one that didnât 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 didnât skillfully depict the moles scattered on your face, the crease near your eyes, or the way your hair reflects the sunâs light. He didnât 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 doâmagical, 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.
âŠ
There are places in your parentâs house that you always stray from, the way oil stirs away from water. One, the vicinity of their bedroom, two, the living roomâ 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.Â
It's 10 p.m. The sun has long sunk below Seoulâs 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.Â
Old furniture crowds the room, remnants of a life you left behind four years ago. Youâre 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 mixerâuseless now. And then, you see it, the reason you climbed here.Â
Your mother had once mentioned a box, in passing, filled with things your sister wanted to leave for you. Your mother wasnât pregnant with you at the time nor did she intend to, but sheâd entertain the idea to make her favorite girl happy.Â
You kneel and pull the box to your lap, the cardboard soft and weathered under your fingers.
âShe was so kind,â your mother had said, too many glasses of wine in her system, her words loose and unguarded. âShe gave up her favorite toys for you, before you were even born.â You never asked why they were never passed on, deep down you already knew the answer. She never deemed you worthy of having them.Â
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, smallâso small.Â
And then, a note.Â
Your heart stumbles, the bile rising fast to your throat as you grip the worn paper in your hands.Â
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.Â
Youâve never had words that she addressed to you.Â
The paper crinkles as you unfold it. You can somehow hear the rush of hot blood in your veinsâuncomfortable, deafening.Â
The words blur together as your eyes skim over the paper. You catch fragmentsâ to my future sisterâthen 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 donât 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.
Youâve 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?Â
Guilt is bitter on your tongue, sour as acid, and you swallow hard against it, tasting the metallic tang of regret. You donât think as you barge into your parentâs room, blinded by feelings too entangled like vines to tell apart.Â
âWhatâs wrong?â your mother asks, sitting in a bed too big for her alone. You throw the crumpled note at her.Â
âWhy did you never give me this?â you demand, and her eyes widen as she skims the lines, a sheen glazing her pupils.Â
âIâŠâ she stammers, and you laughâa hollow, jagged soundâas your hands press against your forehead, fingers digging into the migraine feeding off your pain.
âYou know I hated her, right? Iâ I hated a child, my sister because I never felt loved by you,â you choke, voice fracturing, âhowâ my god how pathetic is that?âÂ
âiâve always loved you,â she says, voice tentative. but it is too meek of a reply, too hollow before the depths of your abandonment.Â
âIâve never, NEVER felt once loved by you! YOU made me feel as if I was competing with a ghost. She wasnât here but she was everywhere and I was never enough to fill her shoes!âÂ
âI was a grieving mother!â she yells, standing up to face you, her face flushed and her hands trembling. âDo 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? Sheââ her voice cracks like fragile glass, unraveling as tears spill over her face, âShe kept telling me that she didnât want to leave us, that she didnât want to die. How am Iââ She sobs, the sound raw, torn, âhow am I supposed to forget my babyâs last breath? how am i supposed to be a perfect mother to you when I couldnât protect her?âÂ
âi never wanted a perfect mother.â you murmur, eyes shutting tight, chest heaving with hiccuped breaths. âI 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.â Your voice breaks, you sound like your seven years old self and you hate that. âDid I mean so little to you?â
You smile sadly before her silence, your shoulders dropping low. You are too tired for an offense, too tired to tear down her defenses. âIâm sorry that I wasnât always a good child. Iâm sorry that sometimes I threw tantrums. Iâm sorry for all the ways I failed you. I know Iâm 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.âÂ
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 wordsâ Iâm sorryâthat is all it would take to soothe your heart a little.Â
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 isnât apologizing tonight. Maybe not ever.
âForget it.â 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.
Itâs 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.Â
Hyunjinâs frown deepensâsomething feels off.Â
âAh, hyunjin,â the fifty something quickly jogs up to him. âThe security guard told me you still hadnât left.â
âIs something wrong?â
âYn has been drinking for the past hours, she looks.. Sad. And Iâm worried she canât get home safely.â Soheeâs tone sets off the alarm in Hyunjinâs mind.Â
His worry tightens into a knot in his chest as he steps into the narrow restaurant. His eyes immediately fall on youâyour 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?
âHey,â he whispers gently, afraid to jolt you awake. You stir, blinking groggily, trying to piece together your surroundings.
âHyunjin,â you breathe, barely a whisper, and his heart softens at the sound. He nods, offering you a small smile, though concern darkens his eyes. âWhatâs wrong, hm?â
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.
âIâm aâIâm a horrible person,â you choke out between sobs, your voice trembling as much as your body. Your eyes squeeze shut as your shoulders quake, and Hyunjinâs hands move instinctively, gently covering your tightly clenched fists.
âNo, youâre not,â 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. âIâm a horrible sister,â 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.
âYou didnât even get to be a sister, how could you be a horrible one?âÂ
âI hated her for so long when all she wanted was to dance with me. I hated a child for so long, Iâm a-a horrible person.âÂ
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.Â
âI donât think you hated your sister. You hated how your parents treated you. Those are two different things.â
Your tears are unceasing, trickling down his skin as you sob more and more. He doesnât mind the dampening of his shirt, he would never mind a lot of things when it comes to you.
âHumans arenât 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 weâve never wanted to go through them.â
He never stops patting your back gently, his hand traveling from the top of your hair to the base of your spine. âA bad person does not worry about being a bad person. Iâm sure your sister knows you love her. You have nothing to feel horrible about.â
Your tears are unyielding and Hyunjin feels as if it isnât enoughâ 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 doesnât know how to stop your ache. He wishes he could soak your sorrow into his heart insteadâ heâs used to it, he can handle your pain and his, at once.
Heâs 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.
âWould you like to hear my favorite poem?â 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.
Hyunjinâs 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 doesnât fall prey to the hazards of stormsâ âYou do not have to be good.â He smiles softly. âYou do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.â The verb strikes you like a thunderbolt. âYou only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.â
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.
Itâs gone as quick as it came, his words come out much slower, much more disoriented as he continuesâ âTell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.â
âI want to tell you,â 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.
âI will listen,â 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 griefâ for one second, for a fleeting instant, it was all forgotten.Â
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.
âŠÂ
Hyunjin is beautiful.
This isnât 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 itâhe was the most beautiful human youâd ever seen.Â
But somehow, youâve 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 wouldnât be weird for a friend to admireâ and Hyunjin made that an easy feat for you.Â
You enjoyed the poems, all the ones heâd recite to you from time to time. You loved watching peopleâs 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.Â
But there are moments when itâs harder to forget. Like nowâwhen 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 closeâHyunjin 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, youâve stepped forward, picking it up, your fingers steady as you help him clasp it into place.Â
His gaze is heavy on you, and your heart beats a little too fast. You avoid meeting his eyesâheâs too close, too vulnerable of a setting for you.
You finish, stepping back, but Hyunjinâs hand finds your wrist, gently tugging you close again. He doesnât 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. âiâm scared.âÂ
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, âyouâll do amazing. Iâm sure of it.â
He nods, though something flickers in his eyes, something unsaid that lingers between you. He swallows it down, offering you a small smile. âThank you. Iâll see you after.â
âOkay,â you grin back, âIâll see you with a gold medal.âÂ
Youâve 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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
He finishes, under the roaring applause of everyone around. Youâre 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.Â
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.Â
Hyunjin won. Hyunjin qualified for the Olympics.
Heâs already skating towards you, and youâre moving, rushing down to meet him. You wrap him in a tight hug, feeling his chest rise and fall with quick breaths.
âHow was it?â he asks, laughter bubbling in his voice. You find it to be such a silly question.Â
How could he be anything but extraordinary?
âYou fucking did it, Hyunjin,â 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.
âProud of you son,â he says and you can see Hyunjinâs 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.Â
Oh god.Â
The thoughts submerge you like youâre doused in gasoline, and being near Hyunjin is the crickling match that will set you on fire.
âThereâs an afterparty to celebrate the man of the hour,â Jihyoun grins, patting Hyunjinâs 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.
âAre you coming?â Hyunjinâs voice is soft as his gaze lingers on you. You hesitate, and he pouts, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his face. âI want you to come, please.â
âOkay,â you smile, though your feet are already inching away. âBut I left my phone at home. Iâll go get it and come back.â That is the truth, or maybe just a shadow of it.
âDo you want me to come with you?â
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 sisterâs grave?Â
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?Â
âNo, itâs a quick drive. Enjoy your moment.â 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.
Youâve never dared to truly like someone. The harsh truth is that people like you, who were born sipping grief in their motherâs womb, only end up accustomed to its metallic tang on their tongues.
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 youâve always known.Â
Itâs been thirty minutes since you left and Hyunjinâs 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 conversationâ Switzerland, the best coaching center, a guaranteed win, but the words are distant, like murmurs underwater.Â
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 itâflashing lights up ahead. His world dims as he watches a man on the phone, gesturing frantically toward a car. A car thatâs all too familiar. Yours, crumpled like a piece of paper, flipped on its side, crashed against a tree.Â
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. Itâs pounding wildly, erratically, like itâs trying to escape the cage of his ribs and splatter on his feet.Â
He canât turn aroundâheâs too afraid of what heâll see. But he has to. His breath comes in ragged gasps, his vision spotted with white as he stumbles forward. He taps the manâs arm. He struggles to find his voice as if it were never his to begin within. âDid someone get out of the car?â 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 canât stop. He pounds the glass until it shatters, only to find nothing within.
âHyunjin?â A voice, so achingly familiar, cuts through the haze. He spins around, breathless, and there you areâlimping, disheveled, but alive. Youâre breathing.
In an instant, heâs 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.
âAre you okay?â His voice is raw, stripped bare.
âI am,â you reply, and your words are his salvation. A sigh shudders out of him, pulled from the deepest parts of his soul, as if heâs been drowning and youâve 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.Â
His fingers weave through your hair, pressing you to him, needing to feel you, needing to know youâre 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.
âYn,â 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, âI thought I lost you. My god, I thought I lost you.â
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 youâd grasp one day. A sight you never deemed yourself deserving of.Â
âYouâd care this much if I died?â Your voice is a whisper, small, uncertain.
Hyunjinâs bloodied hand smooths your hair, his eyes red, chest heaving. âYn, IâŠâ He squeezes his eyes shut, voice breaking. âYn, please donât leave me.â
âIâm sorry,â 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. âIâm sorry I didnât mean to worry you,â 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, youâre in Hyunjinâs home, tucked into the safety of his bed. Youâd refused to call your parents, not wanting them to know what had happened, how close their wish had become reality.Â
The ambulance had taken you both to the hospital, where they patched Hyunjinâs wounds and checked you for a concussion. You repeated, over and over, like a broken recordâ âThe brakes stopped working, and I jumped out of the car.â Hyunjin spoke for you when you grew tired.
âHow are you feeling, Yn?â Hyunjinâs 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.Â
âIâm okay. Iâm sorry I ruined your night.â 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.Â
âIf youâre okay, thatâs all that matters to me.â
He goes to leave, but you catch his hand. You donât overthink your next words, you think youâre long past that when it comes to him. âYou called me by my name. I thought you didnât remember it.â
âI never forgot,â he says, stepping closer. âIâve 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,â a pause, âfor different reasons. Sweeter reasons.â
He remembered. He has come to know you and he still thinks of you.
âMe too,â you smile softly, âI think about you so much it feels as if youâre all Iâve ever known,â you confess breathlessly. Your eyes flicker to his lips, and his do the same.
Before you can think, youâre standing on your tiptoes, your lips resting on his, unmoving, driven by a desire so raw it blinded you.
âOh my god, Iâm so sorry.â You pull away, stumbling back.
But his hands find your waist, pulling you back. âCan I do that again, Yn?â 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.Â
Fireworks bloom behind your eyelids, explosions of colors youâve 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 youâve longed for.Â
Youâre 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.Â
âIs this what happiness feels like?â 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, âI think it is. It tastes so sweet.â
âMm, I think I need to taste it again, to make sure,â 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.
âŠÂ
âSo, how do we do this?â
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 waistâyet, itâs that mere sliver of air between his fingers and your skin that ignites a wildfire within you, burning bright with longing.
âWouldnât it be strange if we just walked in, holding hands? I mean, Jihyoun knows me, butâŠâ Your voice drifts away like chimney smoke, dissolving into the background of Hyunjinâs thoughts. Heâs no longer listeningâheâs observing. Memorizing. His gaze skillfully captures every curve, every shadow of your face, as if this is the last dawn heâll ever witness. As if, by morning, heâll be blind, and this moment is his only chance to engrave you into his memory.
âYouâre so beautiful,â 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.Â
He smirks, satisfied by the effectâperhaps, he thinks, that is how the sun feels as it kisses the horizon goodnight, leaving the sky a blushing mess.Â
âYou were saying?â he teases, and you roll your eyes, pretending to be exasperated. âI was saying that it would beââ But his lips find yours once more, plucking the words from your tongue like petals from a flower.Â
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 himâ to kiss and to be kissed by Hyunjin.
âFinally!â Jihyounâs voice shatters the moment, ringing out like a bell, pulling you both apart. âThank you for kissing him, Yn. Now heâll stop with the longing stares at the door.â
âWhat stares?â 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 coachâs 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 himâknowing that the people closest to him feel your presence like a balm to his soul. His mother would have loved you too, heâs certain of it.
âWill you stay with me tonight?â Hyunjin whispers later, as youâre leaving the practice building, his arm draped over your shoulder, yours wrapped around his waist. Natural. Familiar. Like two rivers flowing into one.
âI donât have anything of mine there,â 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. âThatâs part of my secret planâto get you in my clothes.â
âOh, what a very secretive plan,â you giggle, stealing a quick kiss. âAnd what would we do tonight?âÂ
âSleep together.â You raise an eyebrow, and he shakes his head, flushing crimson. âI meanâsleep, actual sleep, not that I wouldnât want to make love to you,â Your laughter rings out, as his forehead finds its hiding place against your shoulder, embarrassed. âI just want to hold you close. Thatâs all.â
Your sweet Hyunjin.
âI want that too, Hyune.â
Hyunjin has never been much of a writer, his fortĂ© 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.Â
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.Â
âDo you believe in fate?â 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.Â
âI never did, I didnât want to believe in something pre-written for me. Wouldnât that confine who I am, who I could be?â he muses and you nod softly, inching closer to him. âBut somewhat,â he trails off, lifting your hand to his mouth, peepering the sweetest kisses alongside your palm and wrist, like dewdrops caressing leaves. âI believe in it now, because of you.âÂ
âI 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,â he confesses.Â
âAnd what do you feel for me?â you ask, your voice soft, curious.Â
Hyunjin doesnât 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.Â
And in a way, he has. He can stop looking frantically for something that would stitch his soul up, he has found you, now.Â
âI 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 didnât want to hear anything, nor feel anything anymore.âÂ
âBut now,â he pulls you closer, your legs intertwining with his, like roots seeking comfort in one another, âitâs reassuring to hear, because it means there is still life within me to love you in it.â
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 fearâ if the people who were put on this earth to love you, didnât, then werenât you meant to remain unloved for the rest of your life?Â
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 donât want to run.
You want to stay.Â
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 beingâ his scent, his sounds, the weight of him pressed against youâ that you find your words to reply, to breathe your first I love you to him.Â
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?Â
âŠ
Hyunjin has never been fond of the concept of time, minutes seemed to march differently when it came to himâ seconds stretching out like thin threads, nights unraveling in restless turns, sleep plucked right off from his eyelids.Â
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.Â
Hyunjin didnât feel the two months of happiness you bestowed upon him slipping from his grasp.Â
He was lost, adrift in the gentle tides of your beingâswept 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.Â
Your belongings filled the empty nooks of his apartment gradually, corner by cornerâyour 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.Â
In some way, it mirrored how youâd seeped into him, like sunlight breaking through the longest of nightsâ threads of the sun illuminating what was once lost to darkness.Â
Heâd steady your chin to help with your mascara, your doe eyes looking up into his. Youâd brush his hair, pressing gentle kisses along his shoulder blades. Heâd do your laundry. Youâd make his coffee each morning. Heâd brew your tea each night.
You didnât 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, youâd unfold softly, revealing the hidden layers withinâyouâd share your dreams and hopes, and the moments that shaped you, letting the fragments of your pasts settle in the safety between you both.Â
âI think I know my purpose now,â you whispered one night, and he hummed, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. âWhat is it?âÂ
âI think I kept ballet at a distance because loving it felt like surrendering to my parentsâ dreams, like Iâd be becoming what they always wanted me to be.â You paused, your voice a little softer, a little braver. âBut I do love it, Hyunjin. I want to be the best at it. I want to honor my sister through it.âÂ
His gaze softened, as a tender smile blossomed in his lips. âYou already do.â
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.Â
âWould you go into her room with me?â he asked quietly one night, his gaze locked on his motherâs 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.
âOf course,â you replied softly. âWhatever you need.â
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.Â
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 mostâa 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.
âKeep it,â he whispered. âIt will live again through you.â
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 wardsâsomething 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 nowâa 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. âyour mom loved you, hyunjin. And someone who loves you would want your hands to be warmââ would want you to be happy.
Happiness swept into Hyunjin like an endless, gnawing hungerâan 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.Â
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.Â
Somehow, Hyunjinâs biggest joy came from watching you danceâ the principal dancer of your competition team. Whenever he had a break, heâd 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.Â
There, heâd watch you, leading the group of dancers youâll 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.Â
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 youâd 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 arenât 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. âDo you need anything?â he asked as he kissed your temple softly, tightening his hold on you.
âI just need to hug you for a minute. It helps me calm down.âÂ
Hyunjin had always known you were a stellar ballerina. You were humble with your achievements, speaking of your art as if you donât have years of practice to attest to your expertise, as if you hadnât 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 youâ 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.Â
You didnât simply move, or dance, that would be too simplistic to encapsulate how you breathed life into this art. Into him.Â
And it is hyunjinâs 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.Â
âYou won, my love,â 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.Â
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.Â
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 isnât 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 himâhis own eager canines sinking into joy, ultimately tearing it apart.
âŠ
âI think Iâll go to Switzerland.â
It takes a few seconds for Hyunjinâs words to settle into your mind, for the syllables to unfurl slowly, like a wave gathering its strength before inevitably crashing on the shore.Â
Once, Hyunjin had spoken of a figure skating center in Switzerland, one that Jihyoun praised endlesslyâthe pinnacle for skaters reaching toward gold.
âWill you go?â youâd asked, and heâd only shrugged. âIâm thinking about it.â The conversation had dissolved then, lost in the press of his body against yours, in the paths his fingers traced down your stomachâ dizzying enough to make you forget the sound of your own name.
But you should have knownâsome 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.Â
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?
âOkay,â you nod, biting your lip anxiously. âWhen will you go?â
âIn three days. Or else Iâll miss the deadline to join.â
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.
âI know itâs sudden,â he murmurs, voice low, âI tried to delay it as long as I could, but Jihyoun kept insisting, saying itâs a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I donât want you to feel abandoned.âÂ
You shake your head, as if to push that thought away, as if the notion itself is meaningless.
âIâve always known we wouldnât stay in the same place forever. I have to go back to Juilliard soon, too. I just⊠never thought it would happen this fast.â You sigh softly, a tender smile slipping across your face as you bring your hands up to cup his cheeks. âBut youâre meant for grand things, Hyunjin. If Switzerland is where youâll find them, then I couldnât be happier for you.â
âI love you,â he whispers, his nose brushing against yours, a gentle, aching gesture. âWeâll make it work, right?â
He searches your eyes, pleading, his brows drawn into a worried knot.
âOf course, we will.â
It is the first time you lie to Hyunjin.Â
âI love you,â he repeats, gripping your waist and lifting you onto the counter.
âIâve only known love thanks to you,â you murmur. That much is true.
Hyunjin kisses you with hunger, his hand tangled in your hair, his body moving with a fierce rhythmâpassion and love dripping from each one of his touches, each one of his spilled i love youâs between broken whimpers and moans.Â
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 bodiesâ the distance has already laid its claim, separating you both.
âŠÂ
Youâre 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 JuilliardâThe Sleeping Beautyâthe 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 canât remember the last time you and Hyunjin spoke, actually spoke, the way you used to.
Youâd already seen this scene unfold in your mind the day he broke the newsâmore vividly still as he walked away in the airport. You had known the first few days would be goodâfrequent 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 yourselvesâ hollow shells calling out in agony to what truly pleases your souls.Â
Youâre afraid to say it out loud, but Hyunjinâs face is blurring in your memory, details softening as though sketched by an impressionistâs 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 wonât be satiated by you. Soon enough it will turn to your love for Hyunjin.Â
And you couldnât afford that.Â
You miss him most on days like this, when nothing seems right from the moment you open your eyes. The cityâs 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.
Thereâs no grace in the way you donât allow yourself to cry, no mercy in how you hold yourself together. You've always been a performer, havenât 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 Hyunjinâs contactâ my love. Your last message to him was two days ago.
With a sigh, you press call. He answers on the final ring.
âHi, my angel,â he says, a bit breathless. Probably mid-training.
You force a smile, hoping he wonât hear the tremble in your voice. âHi, baby. Practicing?â
âYeah.â He hums. âAre you outside?â
âIm going for a walk.â Your voice quiets as the lump in your throat tightens, a chain wrapping around your words, binding you.
âAre you okay, my love?â he asks gently, and you nod though he canât see.
âI am,â you lie. âI just miss you.â The confession slips out before you can stop it, and the weight of it crushes you. You miss him so much itâs killing you.
âI miss you too,â he says softly. You feel like throwing up. You have to make it quick before your courage betrays you.Â
âI think we should end things,â you say quickly, biting down so hard on your lip that blood beads up, sharp and metallic on your tongueâ just like your words.
âWhat?â 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.
âWhy do you want this? Donât you love me anymore?â His voice is small, fragile, and you feel the tears welling in your eyelids, but not yet.
âYou know thereâs no one I love but you,â you say, drawing in a breath that doesnât wish to be trapped by you. âBut weâre both so busy it barely feels like weâre together anymore.â
âIâm sorry, Iâm so sorry, baby, Iâll try to text more, I promise. Iâll cut back on my training for you, Iâllâ.â
âYou know Iâd never ask that of you.â You cut him off, smiling sadly and he falls quiet.
You see him then, in a haze of memoryâHyunjinâs head resting in your lap, your fingers lost in his hair. You hear his voice again, soft and raw, âMy momâs last wish for me was to win that gold medal. Iâm terrified of letting her down. Just thinking about itââ Heâd let out a humorless laugh. âShe isnât here, and yet I still feel this debt to her. Isnât that strange?â
You know it wellâthe pain of failing those you love, even those who donât love you back.
âYour mom wanted you to win that medal, didnât she?â you say softly. âI would never come between you and that.â A pause. âBut doesnât it hurt more to wait for a message that never comes?â
âIâŠâ he stammers, a sniffle slipping through the phone, and it nearly undoes you.
âYn, I- you know that I love you.â
And in that instant, you know he understands. Itâs because Hyunjin understands that you love him.
âI love you too, my Hyune.â
âThen donât say this,â he chokes out, âsay something cruelâsomething thatâll make it easier not to miss you so much when youâre gone.â
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 youâd have enough courage to believe that love can suffice for everything.Â
âI came back to Seoul because my mother was sick. I thoughtâŠmaybe it would bring us close again. But I think now that I came back just to meet you, Hyunjin.â His name falters, slipping from your lips in a stuttered breath.
âThank you,â you whisper, voice cracking, âthank you for making me happy.â
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 youâve 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 existenceâ for both me and him?Â
âŠÂ
Youâve 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 griefâyour 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. Itâs 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 withinâTo the one who made me find love again, I will love you until my last breath.
You didnât 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.
Youâve 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, youâd let the water run, overflowing in the coffee maker as you read his words again and again. Then, youâd catch a glimpse of your own distorted reflection on the waterâs 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 doesnât stay frozen in one place. It stretches and contracts, bleeds, then patches itself together again. But you hadnât done much to heal itâtruthfully, you hadnât 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. âI think you could be this generationâs prima ballerina assoluta, she saidâabsolute first ballerina, the best of the best.Â
âReally?â you whispered, hardly breathing, and she nodded. âYes, if you keep going this way, you will be.â
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 wouldâve 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 theyâd been real.
Month six rolled in, then seven. You had been keeping tabs on Hyunjinâs name as the Olympics approached. There has been news of him wanting to attempt a quadruple axel spinâ 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?Â
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 professorâs eyes then searched yoursâ âwhere do you see yourself now? where would you feel happiest?â
Hyunjinâs arms. You almost said. Barely holding yourself.Â
âI donât know. I think Iâll try at operas. I want to perform the white swan there.â
âThen go to opĂ©ra garnier in Paris. I have a friend there. Talk to him, feel it out.â
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.Â
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 Monetâs paintings at MusĂ©e de lâOrangerie. What would you do if you met him on a random street in Paris?
Thankfully, or unfortunately, you still hadnât decided, you never had to find out. You didnât see him.
It is the menâs singles day at the figure skating Olympics, and somehow, you feel more nervous than in all your own performances combined. Youâre 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.Â
Heâs dazzlingâachingly, 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.Â
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.Â
He was still as lovely, still as beautiful as you have always known him.Â
You wonder if heâs 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.Â
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 itâ one spin, planets orbiting around the sun, aching to inch closer to the warmth.Â
Two spinsâ seconds marching forward to catch up with the next ones in a ticking clock.Â
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 spinsâ fireflies dancing around the light, drawn to it like milky stars.
And then he does it.
His fourth and final spinâ 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 everyoneâs mouths.Â
But not on yours.
Your Hyunjin did it, like you knew he would.Â
Tears gather in your eyes as he stares at the scoreboard, his gaze fixed, waiting, breath held alongside every other skater.Â
Hyunjinâs name comes first.Â
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, âYou did it, Hyunjin! You did it, son!â The tears wonât 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.Â
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. âYn, IâŠâ he chokes, and you nod, whispering, âI know. You did it, Hyunjin.â
âI did it, Yn,â 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.Â
No one here could ever understand what this moment means to him. No one but himâand you.
As he takes his place on the podium, tears shimmer in Hyunjinâs 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.Â
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.Â
âMiss Juilliard,â 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.Â
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. Heâs never been able to hide his eyes from you.
âCongratulations on your win,â you say.
âCongratulations on your graduation.â
He knows.
In that moment, you see it allâthe 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.
âI made some tiramisu back at my Airbnb,â you say, your voice tentative. âWould you like some?â
Hyunjinâs shoulders stiffen, a debate flickering in his eyes. Then he exhales softly. âOf course.â
You sit side by side in the uber. His phone keeps lighting up with congratulatory messages until he switches it off.
âIâm sorry,â you murmur, feeling the need to break the silence. He tenses beside you.
âFor what?â
âFor stealing you away.â
His shoulders relax. âDonât apologize. I wanted to come.â
The apartment you rented is smallâstudio-sized, really, but near Montmartre, where youâve loved taking nightly walks by SacrĂ© 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.
âThank you,â he says softly when you hand him his plate. But neither of you takes a bite. Itâs as if opening your mouth would lead to a torrent of words escaping, ones neither of you can contain.Â
He yields first.
âYou came,â he whispers, glancing over at you.
âI couldnât miss seeing you win.â
âI missed you,â he says, biting his lip. Hyunjin has always been honest, especially when it comes to you. âIt hurt a lot to miss you, Yn.â
âIâm here tonight.âÂ
Your words settle into the air as the hum of the world outside fades away. Hyunjinâs gaze, sharp and knowing, meets yoursâthose 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 somethingâanythingâto 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 whoâs finally tasted salvation.Â
You wish to never part from him. You wish for your body to liquefy and morph into the hot rush of blood within his veinsâ anything so you wouldnât have to part from him once more. You donât think you can handle it. You donât think you can lose Hyunjin again. You know you canât.
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. âTell me, Yn,â he breathes, âdo you still love me? I need to know, please. Itâs been tearing me apart.â
âI love you,â you say, with every bit of honesty you can muster. âI 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.â
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 sisterâs grave and repent once more. Youâd do it all if it means your path will cross with Hyunjin.
âI was always ever yours to love.âÂ
Epilogue.Â
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 werenât always kind. His hands didnât always sweep gently against his skin.Â
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 wasnât a sharp emotion, it didnât slice away at the heart, it didnât 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.Â
And he did. Hyunjin found you, even when you didnât 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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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. âNot so long now,â they reassure, âyour loved ones will follow.â
You believe them, and you will wait. For now, youâll find solace in the red lilies sitting atop your grave.Â
They are now meant for you, at long last.Â
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N7 Month Day 3: Humans
âCome on, Hannah! Weâre going to be late!â
Hannah Winslow rolled her eyes as she smoothed her hair and pulled her coat off the rack. She examined her reflection in the mirror with a critical eye. Another party. And they still had a week to go in Vancouver.Â
âIâm coming,â she replied. âJust⊠give me a sec.â
Maddie vibrated in the doorway of their rental. She was indefatigable; the two women had been to every Christmas party in the city since their arrival. This particular event was at a bar downtown, and Hannah had admittedly little interest in wrestling crowds for overpriced cocktails two days before Christmas.Â
âIf we donât get there soon, itâll be packed. That Star Alliance or whatever just opened a new headquarters downtown. I donât want to have to fight our way through a bunch of space cadets.â
âSystems Alliance,â Hannah corrected her. Maddieâs disdain for the organization was nothing new. Hannahâs father said the same and worse every time they were in the news.
âWhatever,â Maddie said, tossing her hair over her shoulder. She cracked the door, letting a blast of freezing air wash over them. âAre you ready?âÂ
Hannah shivered and buttoned her coat, tugging her scarf tighter around her neck. âReady.â
The walk downtown was mercifully short. Maddie prattled excitedly the whole way and Hannah made vague noises of agreement whenever she stopped for breath. Damn, itâs cold, she thought. The icy wind blowing in from the harbor penetrated her coat as if it were made of tissue paper. Streetlights wrapped in strings of holiday lights caught a few snowflakes drifting down from the sky. All around them, people jostled and laughed; snatches of Christmas music bursting out of each storefront they passed.Â
There was something about it all that made Hannah feel desperately lonely.Â
When they arrived, the bar was, as predicted, crowded. Hannah and Maddie pushed through the throngs and made their way to the back room where the party was being held. Hannah smiled and shook hands with the hostâ Maddieâs friend, not hersïżœïżœ and grabbed a drink.Â
âCait, this is Hannah,â Maddie said, âHannah, this is Cait. Sheâs a curator for a local art gallery.â
âPleased to meet you,â Hannah responded by rote. Maddie eyed her but didnât say anything until Cait had moved on.
âAre you okay? We can cut out early if youâre not feeling well.âÂ
Hannah could tell she didnât want to. âIâm fine,â she lied.
Maddieâs face brightened. âThen letâs have some fun!â
The initial round of introductions was over; there wasnât much to do but mingle and make small talk. Different people, all the same stories. She heard Maddieâs laugh, high and false, as she chatted with a girl Hannah thought she recognized from their university.Â
Between the press of people and the alcohol she was drinking, the room was starting to get hot. Hannah ducked out into the back hallway by the restrooms, needing air. She went and splashed cool water on her face. What am I doing here? The trip had been Maddieâs idea, a chance to get away from the holiday stress with their parents and let their hair down before their final semester of college and entry into the same white-collar world theyâd lived their whole lives in.Â
She exited the bathroom, but couldnât quite bring herself to head back into the party yet. In the main bar, there was a group of Alliance personnel laughing and talking in a corner booth. She remembered Maddieâs disdain for their employer just a few hours earlier. A few years ago, after the discovery of the Martian ruins, humanity had been excited. A whole new wealth of technology had opened before them. The entire galaxy was now within humanityâs reach. There were some, certainly, who thought they were crazy. Asking for trouble by poking around with things beyond human comprehension, like the mass relays. Still, the Alliance kept growing. Earlier this year, they founded the first extra-solar colonyâEden Prime.
And Hannah Winslow was standing by the bathroom in a crowded bar, feeling sorry for herself.Â
A party-goer shoved past her, mumbling an apology as he squeezed past her into the menâs room. The interaction shook Hannah out of her reverie. Sighing and shaking her head, she turned back towards the party and her friends-- directly into a tall young man in Alliance fatigues.
âOh, Iâm sorry!â he said, sounding as surprised as she felt. âAre you all right?â Hannah looked up at him. He was gorgeous. Black, short-cropped hair stood in contrast to his pale skin, slightly flushed with embarrassment and alcohol. His voice was low and pleasant, with an accent Hannah couldnât quite place. Irish, maybe?Â
âIâm fine,â Hannah replied, flustered. âItâs my fault, anyway. I wasnât looking where I was going.â
Something in her tone caught his attention because he stopped and looked at her for a long moment. His eyes were a dizzying shade of blue. âItâs no trouble at all. Are you upset?â
Hannah had opened her mouth to brush him off; his direct question surprised her. âNo, I mean, itâs nothing, Iâ I just donât want to go back to the party,â she finished sheepishly.Â
âYou donât have to if you donât want to,â he said with an astounding conviction for someone discussing an unpleasant Christmas party. It was⊠endearing, in a way. Direct and refreshingly straightforward.Â
Hannah blinked. âI guess I donât,â she replied. âDid you have something else in mind?âÂ
âLet me buy you a drink,â he grinned. âAs an apology for crashing into you, of course.â He offered her his hand. âI'm Lieutenant Owen Shepard, Alliance Navy. And you are?â
#mass effect#n7month#my writing#hannah shepard#pre-shepard technically#oc: owen shepard#(tara's dad lol)#anyway this got way longer than i intended but#i may have to continue/expand on it some other time bc this was fun to write!
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okay no but thinking about ritsu with touretteâs, right? and this boy is like⊠the king of suppression because he feels like he needs to be the perfect student and son and all that jazz and heâs also so embarrassed by the fact that he canât control his body. so he suppresses like thereâs no tomorrow and it hurts so much but he does it anyways. he lets himself tic at home, but even then heâs so used to suppression he forces it to be mild so his family thinks itâs better than it is. he lets loose more in his room by himself, but even then he sometimes has trouble doing it. he frequently has tic attacks in his room:/
anyways so letâs say one day mob and reigen and serizawa and teru and tome and shou and dimple are all at spirits and such, right? and like ritsu has student council stuff or something idk anyways and serizawa asks reigen where he gets his fidget toys because one of his classmates has ts and has been searching but canât find any they like. and before reigen can respond, mob speaks up and is like âoh you should ask ritsuâ and everyone just. stares at him because reigen has like a box of fidget toys in his office and an individual stress ball for each person and ritsu has quite literally never used them. and theyâre like âwhy?â so mob is like âhe has some fidget toys in his roomâhe doesnât really take them places. i donât know why he doesnât. they really help his tsâ. and everyone just stares x2
so eventually, reigen is like âritsu has ts???â and mob just cocks his head and says âyes??? did you guys not know this?â and absolutely NONE of them knew he had ts because ritsu is THAT good at suppressing and if heâs in a position where he canât suppress, he finds a way to leave so heâs alone. and like mob didnât fully realize that ritsu was suppressing because he lives with ritsu and sometimes hears it from his room and sees it at dinner and he notices the little signs that other people donât see unless they know and heâs like âyou⊠really didnât know??? does he not tic around you guys?â and then everyone comes to the realization that ritsu is HARDCORE suppressing
anyways i think itâd be sweet if reigen sat down and talked with him and ritsu is super stand-offish at first and snappy and then reigen says something like âweâd rather have you as you areâyou donât need to try to be the perfect ritsu because youâre already the perfect ritsuâ or something along those lines. and ritsu starts having a breakdown and like it takes awhile for him to be comfortable ticcing in public. he starts small with the spirits and such gang and then slowly lets it happen during school and stuff and everyone is just. so proud of him. heâs less tense all the time and it helps him be more vocal about when heâs in pain and needs help and he starts to actually use his fidget toys and. yeah. feelings.
#oops this got longer than i intended uhhhhhhh#anyways i just think he has ts#he told me personally#and i just think that ritsu slowly becoming comfortable enough with everyone around him to simply BE himself and like him realizing that he#he isn't embarrassing to be around and that just having ts isn't embarrassing and just like. reigen giving him massages for free and teru#finding fun kt tape for him to use and shou giving heated massages and serizawa picking up fidget toys he thinks ritsu would like and tome#and tome and dimple just supporting him and calling him out if he's being all broody and self-deprecating about it (in a Good way not mean#way) and then mob sitting him down and having a serious talk about emotions and pain and suppressing with him and how he shouldn't do that#anymore and he wouldn't want mob to suppress if it were him and that he has nothing to be ashamed of because he's fine as he is and mob#loves each and every part of him and. AHUGFXDGCHJKLNBHVGFDCSVBGHJTGFDCSDXVFBGHNJKHYGTFDVCBGVNHBJKLJUYJTFCDGVBHJKUYTFRDFXCGVHUJYTFRDFXCGVHBJK#i just. have feelings.#and if anyone is ever mean to ritsu about his ts he's got like the whole spirits and such gang on his side and also the awakening lab kids#and the ex-claw members and the mob recruits the body improvement club to look intimidating and the telepathy club and just#đ„șđ„șđ„ș#it's about ritsu learning to love himself and to not find who he is embarrassing and not putting on a front because he feels like he has to#ahem#i am. fine.#sO ANYWAYS THANKS IF YOU ACTUALLY MANAGED TO READ ALL THIS IUYGTFDXFGCHUIJOMNUBYVTFG DCGVBHNJMK#mp100#ritsu kageyama#ritsu with tourette's
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My horrible bastard brain: haha what if you tried to make the line "time for your medicine" poignant
Me: bet
Me, 80k worth of words later: this was a mistake (tm)
#i am so close to being done with the rough draft#this is so much fucking longer than i intended#and also the fic has other genesises#is that how you pluralize that word#anyway i got inspired and wrote a lot today and am trying to figure if i need one more chapter or just the epilogue#either way this monster will be done soom#funny this fic was started the day i went in for my hormone consult i wrote thr first bit on the train and in the waiting room#and now im 4 weeks in to taking them#strange times#i am going to destroy my voice reading this one aloud for editing tho oh my god
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Headcanon: Jake Muller
Having a child was never part of Wesker's plan. He actually thought himself sterile, courtesy of the combination of the experiments that had been done on him and testosterone.
As such, Jake's conception was entirely an accident. He didn't want a child; having one would only slow him down, force him to take time off work that he didn't want to take, create messes and more things for him to stress over.... Not to mention, he shuddered at the very thought that the child's father, whoever that may be, would potentially want to be involved in the child's life.... That was a level of commitment he was in no way ready for and did not want.
With the exception of one verse I haven't yet fully fleshed out, if Wesker's honest, he doesn't know who Jake's father is. He has it narrowed down to a few potential candidates, courtesy of the timing, but he doesn't especially care to know more, and he absolutely doesn't want any of the men it might be to actually be involved in any decisions regarding the pregnancy and what he does with the child.... Not that he has many choices as-is. Because he didn't really show any of the early signs of pregnancy, by the time he discovered he was pregnant, it was already too late to consider the option of an abortion... Plus that would have meant notifying Umbrella of the pregnancy, and they would have undoubtedly wanted to study him and/or the child.
So, he did the best he could think to do-- he hid the pregnancy for as long as it took to make arrangements to take a sabbatical from work. In the meantime, he was able to contact a former associate from his time in the Army who had worked as a translator. She had moved back to her home country of Edonia and agreed to take the child, to keep it hidden on his behalf... All that was left now was to get it there.
He was able to effectively move into a hotel room in Eastern Europe for the final months of his pregnancy, paying for an adjacent room for the woman who would be the caregiver for his child. From there, he did what he could to try to ensure the child would be set up for success-- took prenatal vitamins, listened to classical music, read to the child growing inside him... And when an ultrasound revealed the child was a boy, he chose the name "Jacob" for its dual meanings: not only does it mean "to follow", but also "to supplant or usurp". The child was given the last name Muller so as to not arouse suspicion.
Jacob Muller entered the world at 3:06 AM on a Wednesday. Wesker gave birth alone in his hotel room, stoic every step of the way, and once he was certain the child was healthy, cleaned it and dressed it himself before he swaddled him up in a blanket and brought him to the room next door to present him to his caregiver.
By 7AM, Albert Wesker was nowhere to be found. The hotel room was spotless, as though nothing had happened at all-- the only indication anyone had even been there was the unmade bed. A note was left for the woman who would be caring for Jacob to inform her that a trust fund had been set up for the child that should pay for his education, but nothing further was said. Regular deposits of two to three thousand dollars would appear in her bank account every few months, but beyond that, Wesker seemed to show no interest in his son at all, or any desire to hear how he was growing and developing.
#áŽÊᎠÊáŽáŽ sáŽÊÉȘÉŽÉą ÉȘ ᎥáŽs áŽáŽÉŽáŽÒáŽáŽáŽáŽÊáŽáŽ
?; headcanons#i figured i should just write this now while i was thinking about it#it got longer than i intended#also i'm a little sad bc he DID care in his own way#he's just not good at it#anyway uhhh.#tw childbirth#tw pregnancy#tw abortion mention#this is like the one thing my Wesker being trans significantly changes so honestly it's good i got it out here
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Howâs that one-shot coming along? :)
hahahahahaha
well....
it's going great actually! it's just...not a one shot anymore. it kind of got away from me a little. and now it's a multi chapter. not a long one, just 3-5 chapters, but uhhh yeah. it fully ran away from me. i have like 50k of this thing written and it's still going.
#november was a wild month!#i haven't written like that in years#it felt great#but now i've got a monster on my hands and it's way longer than intended it to be#i just hope it's worth the wait for the three people who will read it lol#asks#anon#becky writes fic (or attempts to anyway)
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just some random info that nobody asked for : this weekend im having two graduation ceremonies/parties ( tonight and tomorrow night ) , and i'm off on vacation on sunday . that being said - time for a lil semi-hiatus! i'll be taking my laptop on the trip, maybe i can do some writing while on the plane ( it's a long flight ) and before bed, but definitely no promises here ! i'll be back only on the 23rd so if u wanna drop threads, etc, just lmk but otherwise i'm sticking with what i have drafted !!
#ê·êŠïž¶ àč ooc tagâê·êŠ#this got longer than i originally intended lolllll#anyway it is what it is#i'll be way more reachable on discord tho so if anyone wants to talk on there just ask for my username and i'll give
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Okay, this is super fascinating to me, especially because I rarely buy books due to a) library, b) money, and c) space issues (I only have a couple shelves I can properly dedicate to books). So I try to get good ones when I do. I also have a wide variety of young versus old second-handers!
One thing not mentioned here that I was curious about were comic collections. I have three older second-hand comic volumes:
Honestly, I've never picked up a paperback collected comic volume that didn't feel like it might fall apart with even mild abuse, but these are doing pretty good. The Sandman volume has some pretty badly ripped front pages from a careless prior owner and those are at risk of falling out, but otherwise it's doing just fine. (I wouldn't have bought it otherwise.) It's from 1994. The Flash volume is from 1995, the slimmest one, and has definitely seen use but held up well. The Birds of Prey collection, from 2006, is in quite good condition but also seems like it hasn't really seen use (and I can't find literally any of the ones from after it for a reasonable price so I've been reluctant to actually read it).
Now, here's the similarly-sized 1995 Flash volume versus a Titans volume from 2017 (of which I have two), bought brand-new:
...which is legitimately starting to show the spine's backing through the pages after light use, and feels like it's going to start falling apart if I so much as flip through it. Versus the Flash volume, which couldn't care less:
This is fascinating to me, because these older volumes from the mid-1990s, perfect bound with slightly flimsier paper than the 2017 volume, have preserved very well given their construction. This is consistent with the volumes I picked up from the library, about five years ago; almost anything published in or after the 2010s was just... shitty. The older ones were much better off, assuming they hadn't seen too much abuse as library books sometimes do.
Back to hardbacks, though. Lots of my books are second-hand oldies. My favorite are the pair that collect all of the original Sherlock Holmes stories. I bought them secondhand clearance. They had the worst dust covers imaginable, torn and ripped and ugly as sin, but underneath the cloth binding was perfectly fine and they had barely a mark. I have no idea when they were first sold--they don't actually say. But they're bound with signatures, albeit glued together, with a bit of lining along the inside of the spine. Here's the bigger one:
I've carried these around on multiple trips, including to camp. They lay relatively flat and have held up well. I am very, very fond of them.
Another Sherlock hardback, this one a copy of Hound of the Baskervilles that I picked up quite a while ago when my middle-school library was giving away old books:
This one is perfect-bound, and you can tell, because some of the inner pages aren't doing so well. I keep it with a rubber-band around it so it doesn't fall open and strain the binding. But the thing is: I CAN DO THAT. I'd never consider it with most books, out of fear of bending under pressure. The thickness of the cover allows for it, though it's almost a detriment, because it means the book is less flexible against the perfect binding and pulls at it. I suspect that's partly why the binding wore out over time. That cover is so protective, though, that it's survived...
Oh yeah. 37 years. This lil guy is from 1986. I've carried it around a lot and it's older than I am by a good bit. Doing reasonably good!
Now, those versus my newer hardbacks. This is an annotated copy of the Screwtape Letters from 2013, though I bought it only a couple years ago, so it might be a newer printing? It is a bit less than $30 in the US. I got it for much less, thanks to someone selling it brand-new secondhand online--it arrived in its original packaging--but it's... perfect-bound. Probably. I honestly cannot tell if it has very teensy-weeny signatures, but I don't think so?
In any case, it's nicely made--the paper is good, the endpapers are thick--but... take a look at that back endpaper.
...yeaaaah. It's falling out. I've carried this one in my backpack a little, but not THAT much, and that shouldn't have strained that part of the book. I haven't even read it all the way through.
Finally, two books I bought a couple months ago, and one of them actually gives me some hope.
Stars, Hide Your Fires, by Jessica Best (fantastic queer sci-fi murder mystery book, by the way, go check it out). Hardcover's a bit under $20 (paperback's cheaper if you want it). Also perfect-bound. Not too shabbily, but no signatures, and the glue binding is... ehh? It's pretty good for what it is, but the theme of perfect binding continues.
Now, here's another I bought on the same day, also published 2023: Leaning Toward Light, a genuinely gorgeous poetry collection about gardening. And lo and behold: SEWN SIGNATURES.
It's a little hard to tell there, but you can see it from the other end and one or two inside pages. (Drat the image limit.) It is probably glue-bound beyond that--I can't quite say--but hey, it's from 2023. It is a decade younger than the Screwtape Letters collection, has a ton of front and back full-color pages, and it's about seven bucks cheaper at $22. No dust cover, but the cover itself is gorgeous, I don't use those beyond the shelf and they tend to be so easily damaged they're not worth it anyway.
My sole gripe is that the cover is very easily battered--the coating is wearing off already in a few spots, and it has mostly been secured in a pocket of my backpack lately, so not great. Otherwise, it gives me hope that there are actually some companies making decent hardcovers at half-decent prices.
That said: there are many reasons why I like used books, though I regret that it doesn't directly support the author. One of those is exactly this: these days, a used book from two or three decades ago seems more likely to survive actual use than one published within the last decade. Manufacturers don't seem to realize that the fast fashion mindset doesn't exist to readers. If you want a book published a while ago, maybe go find a secondhand copy instead of buying new.
publishing companies will be like ~ooh this is a hardcover oooh it's so durable that will be $35~ and then you see the actual book and it's like. "perfect"-bound with endbands glued on crooked and a completely plain paper cover under the dust jacket. my dudes this shit is a mass market paperback with delusions of grandeur
#books#whoop this is. longer than I intended.#i should stop typing before my wrists commit murder#anyway! I have a couple other paperbacks that would have made good examples but argh image limit#I've got an older perfectbound paperback copy of all the LotR books plus Tolkien's insanely long notes collection at the back#it's literally a couple inches thick but the glue binding is thick enough that it's holding up nicely#versus the perfect-bound Wordsworth poetry collection that is barely a couple years old and yet feels like the pages will fall out quickly#I don't even use them that often!#they get picked up every couple months if that! sometimes books get stuck in the backpack for a while but it's a relatively protected spot!#fuckin. look I love paper but there are the trees to consider. this is not an argument against books#but rather an argument that if you are going to MAKE BOOKS. make them so they will LAST. and USE LESS PAPER IN THE LONG RUN.#if companies could mass-manfacture decent paperbacks literal decades ago that last for ALL THAT TIME AND LONGER you can fuckin DO IT NOW.#the techniques are obviously established! there are obviously ways to do it! there are SO MANY ways you could theoretically improve it even#just! fuck capitalism incentivizing cheaply made shitty products over well-made long-lasting ones#synapse talks#bookbinding
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can we talk about how konig would be someone whoâs quiet when he gets jealousâŠthen when yâall get home he js absolutely goes HAMMMMâŠ.
the way i got so excited to write thisâŠitâs actually way longer than i intended but idgaf! part 2 soon đ
NO BC YOU LITERALLY WOULDNT GET HOW HEâD BE SO QUIET LIKE ???
âpapa, i donât understand what i did wrong,â youâd frown at your man with an annoyed whine. könig, who was a whooping 6â10 would only give you a heavy grunt in response. youâd be on the way back to his car from the mall, dozens of your victoriaâs secret and H&M bags held in his visibly large hand. the moment könig reached before you (with help of his tree-like long legs anyway), he opened the door for you, the balaclava on his face making his features ten times harder.
no matter how mad the big bear was at youâor more so, what you happened to get yourself involved inâheâd never disrespect you. anything other than sexually, at least. stepping on the custom made step for your smaller figure, you slide into the huge seat of his completely blacked out bmw suv, allowing him to shut the door behind you. you nearly jump at the visible shake of the car beneath your bottom.
you play with your curls as könig carefully sets your bags on the floor behind your seat. because his was set all the way back to accommodate for his long legs, your seat had the better amount of space for your things. when könig finally got back in the car, he immediately started it, causing the monsterous growl of his deleted muffler to come alive.
and he wouldnât even break a sweat at you !!! youâre over here going over all your actions for the day, step by step, and all könig could think through his mind was what positions he was gonna force you in when you two got back home.
the sound of königâs car matched the energy that was coursing through his veins. he know you didnât do anything wrong; not intentionally at least. but the selfish ass part of him wanted nothing more than for your pretty little ass to sit in the passengerâs seat, overthinking on what the fuck you possibly could have done to rile him up this much.
the ride home is everlastingly silent as the small of your voice breaks the thick tension, âbaby,â you donât know how to further articulate your words. âi know youâre mad at me. i wanna fix it, but i canât it you wonât talk to me. and youâve been dead ass silent since we been in the mall.â
könig keeps his cool, though. he knew his silence was practically eating at you alive, shaming you with guilt for something you didnât even intentionally mean to do. but with the way your pretty body sits in the black skims dress youâre in, accompanied by your black and white dunksâhis eyes could practically frame your nipples right through the see through fabric, and he was sure that fucking doorman at victoriaâs secret could have as well.
you keep talking. âwas it the dude at VS? i swear, i made it very known that you were my man andââ your words are endless blabber to him as the disgusting and pervasive thoughts cloud königâs mind.
he looks so sexy in his balaclava, protecting his face from the harsh upcoming winter temperatures. heâs sported in an all black outfit, helplessly matching yours. anyone who saw you two together would automatically know that was your man. i mean duh, he walks around with his hand on your ass protectively 99% of the time.
when you get the sense that the brute isnât listening to a fucking word youâre saying, you let out a frustrated sigh and turn your body away from him. but the sudden placement of a large hand on your knee takes you by surprise as you eye the man whoâs ice blue eyes refuse to falter from the darkening road before you.
the moment könig pulls up in the driveway of your shared home, you canât help but twiddle with the polish on your acrylics. anxiousness is bouncing off you, and könig could tell. you turn your head and open your mouth to speak, only to be cut off for the first time that night.
âgo inside.â königâs voice is very low, but you donât miss the command in it. thereâs no emotion behind the dark eyes of his balaclava. usually you could decipher exactly what and how he was feeling, but in the momentâ
âköââ your boyfriendâs snow blue eyes harden at your talk back. with softer features, you whisper, âwill you be inside?â
âsoon. need to make a call first,â you watch him pull out a fresh cigar pack. âbe ready for me when i get in.â you open your mouth to talk back again, but wire it shut when könig lovingly grabs your face. leaning in so the pink of his lips ghost over your full brown ones, he whispers, ânow, mama. i wonât ask again. can you listen to that one thing for me?â
with a small gulp, you give him pretty doe eyes, feeling between your legs tingle at his masculinity radiating onto you. in the most confident voice you could muster up, you nod your pretty head at him. âyes daddy.â
könig gives you a nod of approval and runs his hand along the curve of your ass. âgood girl. go on, liebling.â
you exit the huge car, already getting idea of what was to come when könig came back inside. with a heavy heart, you head upstairs to your room and slowly begin undressing, hoping that the slower you went, the more your punishment would be delayed.
your hopes were proven to be false the minute you were completely naked and turned around to see könig leaning against the threshold of the door, silently watching you.
you jump in fear at the sudden sight in front of you, but feel your heart beat calm down when könig strolled over to you. naturally, your head tilted backward as a way to get a full view of his face. his balaclava remained on, so you knew he was still upset about the events from earlier.
könig takes his large hand and rests it on your cheek, giving it a comforting rub. âyou know i love you and respect you more than anything on this earth, right?â the brown of your skin instantly heat up at his words as you slowly nod your head at his sudden expression, unsure of where he was going with his words. königâs lips canât help but lightly turn upward into a small smile. you had no idea what was gonna come.
âgood. because for today, libeling, iâm gonna fuck you like you mean absolutely nothing to me.â
#loraâs fics! àłàŸàż#oooh my coochie purring#könig x black reader#könig x reader#könig smut#könig cod#konig x black reader#konig x reader#konig smut#cod x black reader#cod smut#cod mw2#cod könig#könig x plus size reader#könig x chubby reader#cod x plus size reader#cod x chubby reader
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eddie munson x shy fem reader
warnings: reader is a bit insecure, little sprinkle of jealous eddie, reader wears glasses, smooching, also the finest cheese in all the land (i hope) <3
part two | part four
letâs go, donât wait masterlist
word count: 2.5k
a/n: this ended up bit longer than i intended so oops. but big thanks to @strangerstilinski for brainstorming some ideas with me to further cheesify the kissing scene. and another HUGE thank you to @undead-supernova for helping me with fix some things and for looking this over. I LOVE YOU BOTH <3
âWhat do you mean you didnât kiss him?!â
You quickly turn to give Nancy a pointed glare before digging deeper into your locker to retrieve your biology textbook.
But really, it is a valid question.
âIâ just,â you blow out an exasperated breath. âI panicked, alright? Trust me, Iâm just as disappointed as you are.â
While your date didnât end on a bad note by any means, it definitely ended on a lame one.
When Eddie dropped you off at home after the two of you spent way too much time cozying up in a corner booth at Bennyâsâ you werenât entirely ready to say goodnight to him yet.
But when he walked you to your front door and carefully started to lean in, those pesky nerves got the best of you. Instead, you pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek before he had the chance to reach your lips.
Feelings of disappointment clawed at your insides once your lips brushed against the stubble on his cheek instead of his lips, your tinted chapstick leaving a tinge of pink in its wake.Â
Eddie cleared his throat, carefully rubbing the back of his neck while he bid you goodnight.Â
Youâd barely shut the door behind you when your smile faltered and all those feelings of self doubt youâd managed to push aside all night came creeping back in.Â
Everything was going so well, why couldnât you just kiss him? It wasnât as if youâd never kissed someone before.Â
Your first kiss happened your sophomore year, with band geek Ray Howard in King Steveâs coat closet during a stupid game of 7 minutes in heaven that neither of you enjoyed.Â
If you were brave enough to do that, why couldnât you kiss the guy you actually liked?Â
âWell, when are you gonna see him again?â Nancy prompts. You shrug once you slam your locker shut.
âI donât know⊠Iâm afraid heâs not gonna want another date. I mean, I gave him a peck on the cheek! How lame is that.â
You hug your textbooks to your chest as you head to class with Nancy, who is desperately trying to convince you that Eddie would be insane if he didnât want to see you again.
You just hoped she was right.
When you donât see him at lunch, you instantly deflate a little. The doom and gloom that lingers outside the school now mirrors your mood, taking any semblance of your appetite with it. You hadnât seen him all day, so that only seemed to confirm your worries.
Heâs avoiding you. What else could it be?
Itâs not like him to skip out on lunch, so instead of heading further into the cafeteria you turn heel to head toward the libraryâÂ
And almost collide directly into Eddie.
His leather clad arms instantly wrap around you, a teasing smirk playing on his full lips. Lips you so desperately want to feel pressed against your own.
âSweetheart, we really gotta stop meeting like this,â he teases, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. âOne of these days youâll take both of us out.â
You let out a nervous giggle and an apology, relief filling your chest as his smile grows wider in response. Damn Nancy for always being right.
âWhere are you headed in such a rush anyway?â he asks, finally letting you go, much to your dismay.
âUh⊠the library. Wasnât feeling super hungry.â
He nods, leaning his shoulder against the door frame. He looks even prettier than when you saw him on Friday. His curls are a little more unruly, his stubble more pronounced.Â
And when you catch the faintest hint of cigarette smoke lingering on his jacket and how it mixes with his spicy cologneâ it has your heart stuttering in your chest.
âWell, anyway, I was wonderingâŠâ
A small grunt leaves his lips as his body is forced forward, directly into yours. The jock that just shoulder checked him mutters a âwatch it, freaksâ under his breath before continuing past you into the cafeteria.
The shove has closed the remaining distance between you, your faces merely inches apart now. Your palms resting against his chest, feeling how his breath slightly quickens beneath your fingertips. You could so easily kiss him like this, all you have to do is tilt your head upâŠ
But you choke, eyes darting back down nervously toward your feet when you take a small step back.
âAre you alright?â you ask, meeting his eyes once more.
Eddie doesnât even seem phased by what just occurred, his warm eyes entirely still focused on you.
âOh, thatâs nothing, sweetheart,â he chuckles, âI can handle myself.â
Eddie motions to his torso, lifting the lapels of his jacket as if to prove his point.
âSee? Not even a scratch.â
And it takes all your self control to keep your eyes from wandering lower, past the soft cotton of his shirt, over the handcuff buckle of his beltâŠ
Focus.
âNow, what I was going to say before I was so rudely interrupted,â his voice raises in volume, eyes throwing a pointed glare towards the jocks table before they settle back on you. âWould you like to have lunch with me?â
Eddie nods towards the Hellfire table, your eyes drifting across the cafeteria. The familiar group of males are already seated at their usual spots, engaged in a heated debate over something.
âAre you sure? I wouldnât want to intrude.â
Eddie can sense your hesitation, shaking his head as he wraps an arm around your shoulders.
âI promise they donât bite.â He grins, beginning to lead you toward the lunch table. âCanât say the same for me though.â
He whispers that last part, his lips playfully grazing over the shell of your ear. Eddie can feel how you shiver in response, thoroughly satisfied with himself as you try to compose yourself once you reach his friends.
The guys barely spare either of you a passing glance, still deep in their conversation when Eddie pulls up a chair for you. Right at the head of the table next to his own.
You take a seat with a polite smile, each of the members of Hellfire now noticing your presence. And they canât hide their utter shock and surprise as Eddie takes his seat beside you. He introduces you properly, going along the table until he reaches the two youngest members of Hellfire.
âWhile we havenât been able to coax Sinclair back from the dark side,â he sighs, resting his arm on the back of your chair. âYou obviously know Wheeler and Henderson alreadyâŠâ
âOh, Mike knows her alright,â Dustin interjects, mischievously glancing over at his best friend. âHe used to have the biggest crushââ
Mike elbows Dustin in the side before he can even finish his sentence, his cheeks flushing a deep shade of red as he hangs his head.
âWould you shut it?â he hisses, already noting the way Eddieâs gaze hardens as he tugs your chair impossibly closer to his own.
âNo⊠Henderson, please continue.â
A brow quirks up from underneath his bangs, and suddenly the whole table has gone silent, all eyes on their fearless leader.
Dustin nervously swallows, tugging at the collar of his shirt. âIt was⊠really stupid kid stuff, not important! Just forget I even brought it up. It was just a dumbâ â
The younger maleâs voice raises an octave when he laughs, his nerves shining through.
ââ right, just a dumb little crush,â Mike finishes, but Eddie doesnât seem entirely convinced.
When you suddenly rest your hand on his knee under the table, his composure begins to slip. His eyes soften when he looks down at you. The whole table is practically holding their breath, in anticipation for Eddieâs next move.
But you beat him to it.
âSomeone had to be the president of my fan club, right?â you giggle.
Mike just groans in response, head falling to the table while the other guys begin to chatter amongst themselves again, that underlying tension now beginning to melt. Much like you are under the weight of his gaze.
âWell, Iâd gladly take over that position, if youâd have me.â
Your breath hitches at the underlying meaning behind his words, and, god, youâve never wanted to kiss him more than you do right now.
When Eddie slowly begins to lean in, Dustin practically gags, the chiming of the lunch bell stopping everything in its tracks.
âSaved by the bell,â he mutters under his breath.
The brunette unwillingly rises to his feet and reaches out a hand for you to take, keeping you closely tucked into his side while he walks you to your next class.
Your mind was racing the rest of the afternoon, impatiently watching the hand on the clock tick by ever so slowlyâ desperately waiting for the final bell to ring.
After Eddie had walked you to history, he planted a playful kiss to the back of your hand. Giving you a dramatic bow before heading in the opposite direction toward Ms. OâDonnellâs classroom.Â
You were a fumbling mess once when you took your seat next to Nancy, and you could tell by the look on her face that she wanted to know everything.
So you spilled the beans during your walk to English afterwards, a plan beginning to form in your head with each step closer to Ms. OâDonnellâs.
Three failed kissing attempts was all your poor heart could take, so you spent the entirety of the last period plotting how youâd be able to get Eddie alone.
Which was how you found yourself pacing back and forth on the football field, eyes scanning the trees for any possible signs of movement. The palms of your hands are sweaty despite the crisp air, the fabric of your sneakers dampening with each step you take through the wet grass.
And youâre wondering if maybe this was a stupid idea, that maybe you heard Jeff wrong.
You knew Eddie dealt weed, the whole school did. But having never dabbled with the leafy substance yourself, you werenât exactly sure where he made his deals at. So it was a stroke of luck when you overheard Jeff mention it in passing to Grant during English.
Something about how he was going to be late for rehearsal because some jock wanted to buy a bunch of reefer behind the football field. And who was Eddie to refuse a good sale? Especially when the douche was offering him a lot of money.
Youâre abruptly broken out of your thoughts when you finally see his lanky figure emerging from the tree line and your heart kicks into first gearâ about ready to burst out of your chest with each step he takes towards you.
His curls are a little damp from the mist hanging in the air, that signature dimple indenting his cheek when a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
And despite your nerves, itâs a welcomed sight.
âWell, I didnât take you for a stoner, sweetheart,â he begins.
But you donât give him the chance to give you a proper greeting before youâre springing into action. Your fingers curl into the collar of his denim vest, meeting him halfway as you lean up to press your lips to hisâŠ
Only to end up knocking your heads together instead.
A small grunt of pain leaves him and your stomach twists in embarrassment, fingers gently pressing against your forehead as you wince.
âOh my god, I am soââ
Those words barely have a chance to slip past your lips before he tilts your chin up and carefully molds his mouth over yours. His movements are slow but steady, as if gauging your response.
Your body reacts before your mind can fully process whatâs happening, instinctively reeling him in closer and pressing your lips more firmly against his own. He hums softly, the sound setting your whole body alight.
As Eddie slips one of his hands around your waist, the other reaches up to tenderly cup your cheek. And when he begins to guide you backwards, you let him. Only stopping once your back is flush against the goal post. But even then, he doesnât stop kissing you.
You can feel the cool metal seeping through the thin layer of your jacket, causing goosebumps to rise on the surface of your skin. But even with the cool air continuing to nip at your exposed skin, you feel like youâre on fire.
His lips are like molten honey, sugary sweet and practically melting you to your core. And you swear this is the closest to heaven youâve ever felt.
When he eventually pulls away and you take a shuddering breath in, your eyes remain closed. Youâre practically on cloud nine, basking in the lingering tingles that prickle over your lips. His hand remains on your cheek, thumb brushing over where his lips just were.
Eddie suddenly lets out a deep chuckle, the sound vibrating against your chest while his breath washes over the apples of your cheeks. Only then do your eyes flutter open and you realize the reason behind his amusement.
Your vision is completely obscured, the round lenses of your glasses fogged over from the heat of his breath. You can just barely make out his smile through the frames, but the silliness of the moment has you letting out a giggle of your own.
âMay I?â he asks, the tips of his fingers grazing over where the arms of your glasses meet your temples.
You nod immediately, allowing him to remove them with the utmost care. He untucks his Judas Priest t-shirt from his jeans, using the soft cotton to clear the fog away from your lenses. Even with your blurred vision, you manage to catch a glimpse of his tummy before itâs hidden away beneath his shirt again.
When his eyes flick up to meet yours, he canât help but feel like heâs really seeing you for the first time. Not hidden away behind a book or the thick wire frames of your glasses. Just you, in all your unbridled beauty.
âThank you,â you murmur as he carefully places your glasses back onto the bridge of your nose.
Eddie just grins, leaning his forearm on the goal post above your head. He smells faintly like weed and peppermint gum, and you really want him to kiss you again.
âHowâs about I give you a ride home, hm?â
You canât hide your smile, nodding your head enthusiastically.
âIâd really like that.â
Eddie leans down to press one more searing kiss to your lips before he slips his hand in yours and pulls you along. The two of you now walking hand in hand across the football field.
âSo, sounds like Iâve got some competition with Wheeler, huh?â he teases, squeezing your hand a little tighter in his.
âOh come on, youâve never had a crush on a babysitter before?â
Eddie takes a step in front of you, beginning to walk backwards while simultaneously guiding you forward.
âWell⊠considering my only babysitter was starting to bald and my uncle,â he practically shudders, âIâm gonna say no, sweetheart.â
series taglist: @sheneedsrocknroll92 @blckbrrybasket @your-nightmaredoll @missmarch-99 @fandom-princess-forevermore @mylovelycrazyworld @princesssunderworld
#the freak writes đ«§#my series: letâs go- donât wait đ«§#eddie munson x fem!reader fluff#eddie munson fluff#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson x fem!reader#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x female reader#eddie munson x y/n#eddie munson x you#eddie munson x shy!reader#eddie munson fic
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I've been thinking about this for days ever since I saw @viktortittiforov's reblog pop up in my own dash and this has only fueled my thoughts XD Tbh I don't think the ISU would give a single damn whether Yuuri is wearing the correct team jacket. That's not really their dominion, they're just the ones who make the skating rules and judge and arrange and all that.
Now the federeations on the other hand. Team jackets are a type of national branding, letting everyone know what country a skater belongs to. They also tend to have sponsors on them which of course pay for their logos and their support of the federation they sponsor to be broadcast internationally. I'm not sure it's absolutely requited that a skater wears their federation jackets, I assume that depends on the rules the federation has set, but not wearing it definitely won't earn you any favours.
In this situation there are two federations to consider of course: the JSF (Japanese federation) and the FFKKR (Russian federation).
First, the Japanese federation would have all the issues with it listed above. Yuuri is the top men's skater in Japan. Him wearing anything is bound to be very much noticed by anyone with any focus on the Japanese field. And not just that, Yuuri is in the top of the international top so his face and indirect endorsement is worth a lot to the JSF and anyone associated with them like sponsors. Another issue they could have is that Yuuri isn't just wearing another jacket. He's wearing a Russian Olympic jacket. The team jackets show the country you skate for and are allied with competitively so Yuuri wearing this implies he's not only not skating for Japan but also skating for Russia as an Olympian. This is real bad rep for the JSF in a branding sense, the implication that their top men's skater is now allied with Russia instead of them.
As for the FFKKR, team jackets are worn by the representatives of the given nation and as such, the federation and country are judged by the wearers of their branding. This is of course very good when one of their athletes does well. The federation and nation will be all over them, and as such not only will the athlete be seen as great, the country they skate for will as well within the sport. But the thing about branding is that if anyone else wears it, they're now also the face of your brand. Of course Yuuri is in no way a bad representative of your skating federation, he is top tier after all, but the FFKKR has no control over Yuuri, no way to make sure their image isn't compromised by him wearing their branding and so they could very well be relatively upset that Viktor would act so irresponsibly with their brand and possibly put them in hot water with the JSF.
Skating is FULL of politics so getting on the bad side of a major federation is not something you ever want, even if you're a big federation yourself. The politics of figure skating are complex, tense, and kept low-key because in reality they're not supposed to be there even though everyone knows they are. But appearances and all that. It'd look bad to openly admit. I don't think this would become any kind of incident, just brushed off as a one time thing at the time, but it could lead to tension between the federations, especially because there likely already is due to Viktor's mixed loyalties. He's still very likely close to the FFKKR as the top of the top for so long. He was their ace (tbh more their steamroller) and he then suddenly defected to coach, not another Russian skater, but a Japanese skater. He left competition in a way that was a MAJOR blow to the FFKKR and an objective boon to the JSF, propping up their star skater to even greater heights and giving them the improved image of The Federation Who Has Nikiforov^TM. That HAS to have caused tension between the federations and between Viktor and the FFKKR and, by proxy, the FFKKR and Yuuri as the guy who "stole" their greatest asset.
Then again I might just be thinking WAY too hard about this and it wouldn't matter in the SLIGHTEST if Yuuri wore the jacket XD I don't think he'd be allowed to wear it during his skate due to all the stuff mentioned above and you're also not allowed to wear any kind of logos, sponsorships, flags, anything branded during your skate which would disqualify team jackets (I'm talking the 16/17 season, not 24/25 btw. That's a whole bucket of worms). Also, Yuuri would melt. Anyone who's ever skated anything resembling a programme would know that not even the deepest depths of Siberian winter would be cold enough to keep you from sweating during your routine XD Poor spectators though. Anyway, whether Yuuri could wear it during warmup, I don't think he would. Again, all the representative of the JSF and not the FFKKR stuff. But off ice and off camera? I don't think anyone would really mind much. Maybe he'd get a strong word from the JSF or something. But when he isn't representing the JSF and Japan as a skater and is just in the arena, not skating, not getting scored, not getting interviewed, etc. I think he could get away with it, especially if the rink is inhospitably cold and his own coats and jackets are out of commission. Although that would likely be the bigger thing in that scenario. A rink that's way too cold makes super hard ice (bad, ice hardness matters) and a bad sports environment in general as the skaters will be working way harder to stay warm as their bodies are constantly and rapidly cooling, giving a major advantage to the skaters who start off each group since they're skating straight from the six minutes. Would also cost the rink a fortune.
Again, I would just be wildly overthinking this but who would I even be if I didn't overthink every little detail about something that's ultimately not even that important XD It's fun, what can I say. I like to apply my knowledge.
Now a place where it would be allowed in any way you desire (I see your tags, husbestie, I know what you want) is at practice. Of course that isn't very interesting, but it is completely without rules so. Do with it what you will XD Or maybe at an ice show of some kind. That could probably be arranged considering the loose rules and the plethora of wild exhibition programmes out there. Next Onsen On Ice anyone? Viktor makes the rules for that one after all ;))))
a little yuuri art! <3
#this got way longer than i intended#i got excited#sorry not sorry#but i am sorry to any follower of mines dash because damn#anyway hope you enjoyed readinf my ramblings XD#OH ALSO the art is LOVELY i cannot for the life of me remember if i reblogged when i initially came across it on my dash#if i didnt that was a crime and i hope this essay makes up for it#LOVELY ART MMMM SO EXPRESSION#the jacket really does suit him so well#just like yuuris 2022 olympic coat suits viktor well#ugh them <3#them wearing one anothers clothes <3#anyway uh ill stop increasing the word count of this post now XD#reblog#yuri on ice#yuri on ice fanart#fanart#art#katsuki yuuri#viktuuri#arom antix
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â salvation logan howlett x chubby!reader | ao3 | part two
synopsis:
âLike what you see, old man?â Your voice comes out more breathy than intended, eyes sparkling as you goad Logan just a little. âYou fuckinâ know I do, princess.â Logan presses his nose to your hair, inhaling your scent like he wants it to mark his soul. âMmm, I think I could use a little refresher.â Your grin is coy as you ask him to worship your body like an altar.
notes:Â explicit (minors dni), worst!wolverine, fem!reader, body worship, oral sex, established relationship, domestic fluff, porn with feelings
word count:Â 1.6k
You hear shuffling footsteps behind you over the rush of water from where you stand at the sink, giving the plates a quick rinse before gingerly placing them in the dishwasher. That was a perk of your boyfriend having a skeleton made of adamantiumâhe canât even try to sneak up on you. It was Loganâs turn to cook tonight, which meant it was your turn to do the dishes. You donât find any particular delight in washing the damp residue off the porcelain dishes. But you are more than willing to exchange this chore for the opportunity to ogle a shirtless Logan in his plaid pajama pants and dorky apron while he made you dinner. You would never have guessed that Wadeâs gruff, violent new roommate would make such a damn good stir-fry. You cherished the memory of his gorgeous biceps as he chopped your favorite veggiesâshamelessly wearing the Kiss the Cook apron you got him on Valentineâs Day. He had even winked at you. Winked! He was probably able to smell your arousal from where you sat on the couch, pretending to watch the news when really, you were watching him.
Thoughts drifting back to the present, you feel your lips curl up in a smirk. If he wants to be a little tease, you are more than happy to return the favor. You know exactly what these pajama shorts do to your man. Sometimes shorts that would be passable on someone with a smaller butt are downright indecent on youânot that you mind, when you only wear them around the apartment anyways. This pair are short and loose enough that the plump curve of your ass is on full display when you bend down to put the plates in the dishwasher.
You hear Logan's barely stifled grunt as you linger, bent in half longer than strictly necessary. After you had spent so many years pushing down insecurity about your body, you feel warmth well in your chest at showing off your plump figure to Logan in this way. You know he likes it. But that doesnât make it any less delicious every time he tells you so.
In the beginning, you were downright surprised when he was interested in you. You knew you were beautiful, from your tummy, to your luscious thighs, to your more than generous ass. And from the first time you met him, you felt an undeniable pull towards Loganâs hardened physique, so different from the softness of your own. It wasnât that you werenât confident in your attractiveness. You had already won that battle with your body before meeting your Wolverine. Itâs just thatâwith men who look like Loganâyou have to keep yourself guarded. There are a lot of fucked up ideas about what makes a woman pretty, and a lot of the time, guys who look like Logan ascribe to them. But, once Logan had sniffed out your interest in him (with a little help from Wade), he made his feelings towards you abundantly clear. And you quickly discovered that beneath his gruff exterior is a delightful gentleman with a filthy mouth. Tonight, you plan on putting that mouth to extremely good use.
You arch your back as you stand up, and Logan is right behind you, calloused hands finding your hips like they have a hundred times before. You can feel the heat radiating off his body, the ghost of his breath against your skin. Warmth is already rushing to your stomach and lower.
âYâknow what youâre doinâ to me, sweetheart?â Loganâs voice is a rough, low growl in your ear. You look over your shoulder at him, a wicked grin painted across your lips.
âYou like what you see, old man?â Your voice comes out more breathy than intended, eyes sparkling as you goad Logan just a little.
âYou fuckinâ know I do, princess.â Logan presses his nose to your hair, inhaling your scent like he wants it to mark his soul. One of Loganâs hands moves from your waist to rest on the countertop by the sink. You wiggle your hips just a little, feeling Loganâs delightful bulge against your ass.
You turn around in his arms, back pressed against the counter as Loganâs presence locks you in. He doesnât use his strength. He doesnât need to. Your pull towards him is magnetic, and wherever he wants you is where you want to be. He is careful never to rest the full weight of his frame on you, body hovering a hairâs breadth above your own. Your hand finds his neck in a gentle caress, moving up to tangle in his hair. His hazel eyes simmer with desire as they meet yours.
âMmm, I think I could use a little refresher.â
Your grin is coy as you ask him to worship your body like an altar. In an instant, Loganâs lips find yours in a searing kiss. His hands cup your ass, lifting you up as you wrap your legs around his hips to steady yourself. You fucking love how he picks you up like you weigh nothing. You love your curves and your tummy, but they also meant that none of your past partners could carry you into bed like Logan can. This man might just have ruined you for anybody else, with his super-strength, and his gruff charisma, and his deceptively generous spirit.
Logan loves the way his fingers sink into your supple flesh just a little as he carries you into your shared bedroom. He lays you gingerly on the bed, soft sheets enveloping every gorgeous curve. His cock is already leaking pre-cum in his pants. He would be embarrassed, but he can smell how badly you need this too.
I think I could use a little refresher.
Well, youâll get a fuckinâ refresher, Logan thinks to himself as he runs his hands along your body, following every blooming swell and valley. He has seen beauty standards come and go during his long life, but he canât help but think your body is the most delectable heâs ever had the pleasure of laying his eyes on. He feasts upon the sight of you splayed beneath him, breasts rising and falling in anticipation, nipples peaked through your little tank top. Your body looks like something from myth. He takes one between his fingers and pinches softly. You let out a tiny, needy whimper. âLook like you belong in a damn painting, sweetheart.â His words are a low rasp in the charged air between you. âLike the fuckinâ Renaissance.â
Logan positions himself towards the bottom of the bed, hands resting on either side of your legs. His lip caress your ankle, leaving trails of electricity with every touch. He kissed his way up one leg, stopping just before reaching the apex of your thighs to kiss his way down the other. His lips brush along the curve of your calf, featherlight fingers caressing from your knee to your ankle with a reverence that steals your breath.
âGorgeous fuckinâ legs,â Logan grunts. You can feel his words on your skin, his breath sending shivers up your legs and to your core. His hands sweep up to grab at your thighs, and you are already bucking your hips up into nothing, desperate for his touch. His name falls from your lips in a plea, and his eyes meet yours.
âThese thighsâll be the death of me, sweet girl. Canât wait to feel âem crushinâ my head.â
Loganâs lips finally trace their way back up to where you need them most, his nose knocking against your clothed slit as he savors the heady scent of your arousal through your sleep-shorts.
âLetâs get these off ya, yeah?â His voice vibrates against you as you arch your back into him.
You nod desperately, and thatâs all the confirmation he needs before heâs slipping you out of your shorts and panties. Your bottoms are discarded on the floor, and Logan settles once again between your thighs.
âSmells so fuckinâ good for me, baby.â Desire pulls tight in your abdomen before he finally nuzzles into your pussy, lips puffy and ready for him. His gaze is heavy-lidded as it meets your own, his tongue darting out to lick a teasing circle around your clit. Your hands tangle in his hair, spurring him on, and his tongue finally laves a long, languid stroke up your slit. He stays like that for some time, head buried in your cunt. He feels your lush thighs press into him. Fucking you with just his tongue, chasing your pleasure. He moans as he laps at your arousal. You taste like divinity, like the nectar of the gods is pouring into his mouth. Suddenly it is not adamantium in his bones, but golden ichor in his veins as he hears you cry out beneath him. You come undone on his tongue, and he feels you flutter so sweetly beneath him.
He was never a religious man. But then he met you. The first time he kissed you was a benediction. The first time he tasted you was paradise. If you were Eden in that moment, he would have taken the apple in a heartbeat. You were his salvation after years alone. You were his light at the end of the tunnel.
You stroke his hair, pulling him back to the present. You havenât even touched him yet, but he can feel himself leaking in his pajama pants. Your breath comes out in ragged pants. You let out a blissful laugh as Logan continues his careful caress of your body, his dripping mouth pressing kisses to your soft belly.
âYouâre perfect, Lo.â
He chuckles against your skin before climbing up to straddle your hips. âNo, babydoll. You are.â
a/n: wahhh thank you so much for reading! this is my first fic for logan!! but there will be more please let me know what you thought!! i planned to make this a longer one-parter, but i needed to get eyes on this and honestly it felt like a natural ending point for this part! don't worry they're going to fuck in part two xx
i also didn't proofread this as thoroughly as normal bc im extremely tired HAHA, let me know if there are any typos! (edit: i caught several grammatical errors while posting this on ao3, so i've updated this to fix them! please let me know if you see any more)
ty saradika-graphics for the lovely dividers!
#wolverine x fem!reader#logan howlett x fem!reader#logan howlett x reader#logan howlett smut#wolverine smut#wolverine x you#worst wolverine x reader#deadpool and wolverine#wolverine fanfiction#logan howlett fanfiction#wolverine#logan howlett#my work#logan x reader#wolverine x reader#.5k
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àŒ kind words àŒ
Warnings: mentions of unwelcome advances in Law's part Genre: fluff Characters: Luffy, Zoro, & Law Summary: How they realize they have feelings for you (words of affirmation edition) Author's Note: It's finally here! These keep getting longer and longer as I get more familiar with each character and the dynamic, especially Law's, but I don't think that's too much of an issue. I also kind of hate Luffy's but couldn't keep redoing it, so maybe I'll edit it later. Happy reading as I begin working on the next part!
masterlist
Luffy is great at giving compliments because he just says whatever he's thinking.
He gets complimented a lot as well. He's always running around and saving people, intentionally or not, so he's probably heard his fair share of compliments. I think hearing a compliment that's more deep and genuine, that comes from someone who knows him deeply, would be more meaningful than anything and would make him recognize his feelings.
~
Not every day on the Sunny was a fun adventure.
Setting out to sail across the whole world and strive for their individual goals there was bound to be hardship. Sometimes it came in the form of grueling battles with their latest enemy. Other times it was internal conflicts or disputes, simple disagreements or heated arguments.
This time, it was grief.
After so many months traveling together, the crew had learned how to tell when one of them was upset about something and needed space. Today, it had been Nami. For the past few days, her mood had been off. She'd been more quick to anger and had spent more time than was strictly necessary tending to her orange trees. Then today, she'd been even worse, snapping at Sanji's normal overbearing lovey behavior and brooding to herself under the shade of her grove.
It didn't take him long to realize what was bothering her.
Nami only ever got like this when she was thinking about Bellemere, which meant today must be the anniversary of when everything happened. The crew had spent most of the day giving her her space, allowing her to process what she was very clearly feeling. After a while, he took it upon himself to cheer her up. He made silly faces and played some of her favorite games on the deck, goading her into joining them by making bets he knew he would lose. He'd even secretly asked Sanji to incorporate oranges into their dinner. By the end of the night, Nami was laughing and she seemed a lot lighter, like whatever was weighing her down had lessened some.
Now, it was late at night, and the only sounds that could be heard on the Sunny were the lapping of waves against the ship and the snores of his crew as they slept. All except for him.
Sleep was avoiding him, so he decided that he would be much better off just joining whoever was on watch and maybe having some fun. He made his way up to the crow's nest and was happy to find you sitting on the bench, looking out across the sea.
"Oh, hi Luffy," you said, your voice quiet.
"Hi!" he said, sitting excitedly next to you on the bench as you looked out across the sea once more. "I couldn't sleep so I decided to come out and have some fun!"
You smiled, always amused by his antics.
"Well, unfortunately, there's no fun here. I'm on watch, remember?"
He pouted, knowing you were right but still disappointed anyways. You laughed at him as he whined and complained, but he didn't actually intend on distracting you, so after a while, he quieted down and let you focus.
"I hope Nami is feeling better," you said, resting your head on the arm you propped up on the window. You were frowning slightly, your eyes unfocused as your worry made itself visible on your face.
"She'll be ok, she's Nami! She's strong," he replied, no doubt in his mind that tomorrow she would be the same old Nami she had always been. "She might be sad now, but it's not forever. She has us to help her."
You hummed in agreement, a small smile on your face. He smiled himself, happy to see you smiling instead of with a frown on your face. He felt so lucky to have found a group who cared so deeply about each other.
"All that stuff you did today. It was to cheer her up, wasn't it."
You said it like a statement more than a question and he found himself smiling at how observant you were. "You figured it out. You're so smart!"
You laughed at him once again, his own laughter joining you as you said, "Of course I did. I know you wouldn't have made those bets under normal circumstances."
They had been stupidly dumb bets that left no chance for him to win and he found himself giggling as he remembered how Nami had perked up upon hearing him agree to them. He loved his crew more than anything, so what was a few beri down the drain? Your laughter subsided as you got lost in thought once more. You seemed like you were debating saying something and when you seemed to have made up your mind, he found himself sitting up straighter as you turned to look at him.
"You're a lot smarter than people give you credit for," you said, a small smile on your face and a playful admiration in your eyes.
He's not quite sure what to say to that. He's always been called stupid and to everyone's credit, he is. He doesn't think very often, preferring to act on instinct and figure out the rest of the plan later. He's been known to not read the room, to zone out during important world lessons, and to shout out the first thing that comes to mind. He doesn't think anyone has ever called him smart and for the first time in maybe his whole life, he's speechless.
"I guess that's probably not what you were expecting me to say, huh?" you teased, a light smile making its way onto your face.
He collects himself and asks, slightly incredulously, the question that's first in his mind. "Why do you think that?"
"Well, you just told me you did all that stuff to cheer Nami up, right? Someone stupid wouldn't be able to put together why she was upset and what would make her feel better. You pay attention when it counts and you're a lot more emotionally intelligent than people realize," you explain, relaxing slightly as you look out at the ocean once more. "Today it was Nami, but I've watched you help lots of people like that. Vivi, Robin, Sanji, even me. Maybe you don't say it out loud, but you pick up on people's emotions and what they need the most in that moment."
He listens as you talk and slowly realizes that you're right. He's always had a way of reading people and knowing what they really want or need, but he's never really connected it to intelligence. He always thought it was just his own special kind of stupid.
"I guess that makes me a genius!" he exclaimed, laughing heartily as your eyes widened in shock before laughing along with him.
"Maybe you are stupid after all," you say, but there's no malice in the words as you keep laughing at him.
Finally, your watch shift is over and the sun peeks up over the horizon. He'd stayed with you the entire time, just talking and goofing around until he realized how much time had passed and how tired he was. His dreams that night are filled with you and when he wakes up, your words are still floating around in his mind. Knowing that you think he's smart makes him feel funny and he thinks that maybe he should finally turn his ability to recognize people's feelings inward.
Zoro doesn't throw out compliments or encouragement left and right, he only says something if he really means it.
I think he's received his fair share of compliments, although I doubt he puts much stock in them unless they come from someone he respects. If he doesn't think there's any stock in the compliment, or on that same token an insult, why bother giving it attention? For this reason, I think getting a compliment or reassurance from you would rattle him a little and cause him to have an aha moment.
~
The town that the Sunny docked in isn't too interesting to Zoro, aside from the bar he's nestled into for the past few hours. He has a few empty glasses in front of him and he's almost done with his current one when he sees the door open.
He's not surprised when he sees multiple of the crew walk in, quickly noticing him in the corner and making their way to him. You're among them, talking to Robin about something that elicits a small laugh out of her. Begrudgingly, he scoots over and makes room for everyone in his booth as they smoosh in.
"I knew we'd find you here!" you say, the last to slide in so you're right across from him. "Already deep into your drinks, as expected."
"Shut it, woman," he grumbles, his brows furrowing as he finishes his drink and sets the cup down on the table. You laugh, looking at Robin as Usopp reluctantly hands Nami some beri. He feels his eye twitch in irritation as he notices the exchange. "Are you betting on me?"
Usopp gulps at the glare he sends his way and Nami simply smiles, dollar signs practically lighting up in her eyes as she answers, "Yep! I bet that you were already 3 drinks deep and I was right."
"We've barely even arrived! I thought-" Usopp protests, attempting to explain himself.
"You both are insufferable!"
His exclamation elicits another laugh out of you as Robin simply lifts a hand to her mouth to hide the amusement that is no doubt there. He wants to be annoyed, and he is, but he's been traveling with the lot of you for long enough that he can't really be upset, at least that genuinely. He simply huffs, waving down a server to ask for another glass.
The rest leap over each other to order their own drinks, some alcoholic, some not, and fall into easy chatter with each other. Periodically, he catches your eyes and you send him a smile, but he doesn't insert himself in the conversations, much preferring to listen. Eventually, Nami gets tired of just sitting in the bar and decides to go shopping. Usopp and Robin decide to accompany her, but you decide to stay behind. You wave, watching them go as he takes his previous spot in the booth back.
"Not in the shopping mood?" he asks, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.
"No, I'd much rather stay here with my favorite swordsman," you tease. He bristles, knowing that you're just poking him for fun, but he can't stop himself from blushing, taking a long sip from his glass to hide the blush he can feel on his cheeks.
"You're worse than that damn cook," he mumbles, his glass now sufficiently empty.
You laugh at that.
"Now that's just a lie."
He can't deny that, the corner of his lips twisting up into a smile. He's spent enough time traveling with you to know that you don't act like that with everyone, just him. The notion that you reserve this behavior for just him is both agitating and yet satisfying. He feels something possessive lick at his heart but ignores it, waving at the server for yet another drink.
He asks you about what you've been up to on the island since they docked and you happily tell him all about it. It hasn't been long so you don't have much to say and it isn't long before the two of you fall into a comfortable silence. After a while, you finally talk again and it's not what he's expecting.
"I know you'll become the greatest swordsman, Zoro."
He sputters, the sip he was taking spilling all over himself as he coughs, trying to catch his breath. He can feel his ears heating up with embarrassment and sputters, "Where the hell did that come from?"
When you look at him, your face is set in firm determination, but your eyes are soft, filled with a fondness he wishes you would direct at him more often.
"Those pirates we fought yesterday," you explain.
He thinks for a moment before he's reminded of what you're referring to. On their way to this island, they had run into a rival ship following the same course. While they hadn't intended to battle them, the ship fired at them as soon as they were in range, so they had no other choice. He remembers the fight being fairly easy, each member of the crew handling their fair share of pirates.
He also remembers one of their crew having some rather nasty words to say to him.
"You're delusional if you think you can become the greatest swordsman," he had spat, struggling to breathe. "You'll see it eventually. Even if you won this battle, you'll never achieve your dream."
He hadn't paid much attention to the words. He was confident in his own abilities and his opponent had been defeated easily, so there wasn't any point in taking his words to heart. He hadn't thought anyone was close enough to hear it and he certainly hadn't brought it up, quickly forgetting about it.
He smirked then, letting the full force of his pride show in the grin as he said, "That loser wouldn't know what it takes to be the greatest swordsman even if it smacked him in the face."
"That doesn't make any sense," you say, your face wrinkling as you giggle at his statement.
He takes another sip as your laughter dies out.
"I'm not worried about what a crap swordsman has to say about me and my dream," he says, his voice a lot more serious now as he thinks about the promise he made all those years ago. "I will become the world's greatest swordsman or die trying."
"You'll do it. I know you will."
You don't say anything after that, seemingly having said everything you intended to, but your words linger with him. The thought that you had heard the man's words and felt it was important enough to dispute them made his heart feel weird. He had never doubted himself, even when he maybe should have. He'd always been sure that his will, determination, and hard work would take him to exactly where he was supposed to be. Still, hearing your words of encouragement, hearing your genuine belief in his ability, it affected him in a way he wasn't expecting.
"You will too," he says, his voice barely above a murmur.
A few seconds go by where you don't say anything and he wonders if you'd even heard him, but one glance at you tells him that you had. You're not looking at him, your eyes averted as if you're embarrassed and your lips are curved into a small, satisfied smile. The sight makes his heart stop and he almost goes to clutch his chest before the feeling quickly passes.
Before the moment can linger, you're shooting back into conversation with him. Despite his best efforts to pay attention, he finds that his attention is drawn back again and again to your words. He knows that the crew believes in his dreams just as much as he believes in theirs. It's part of why he's so willing to protect their dreams just as fiercely as his own, but for some reason knowing that you believe in him so much really sticks with him.
He thinks about it for the rest of the day as well as late into the night when they're all back on the Sunny and setting off for the next island. He doesn't like being distracted, so he mulls over why your compliment holds so much weight for him. He values your opinion, but you're also not a swordsman, so theoretically there shouldn't be that much weight to your words. When he finally realizes, it feels like everything clicks into place and so many things start to make sense.
He acts like nothing has changed, wanting time to sit with the feelings before he decides what to do about them, but he finds it hard now that he understands the full weight of his regard for you.
Law rarely ever gives out compliments, rather preferring to show how he feels with his actions.
I think he receives a few compliments here and there, but he's built an intimidating presence and image, so I think they're far and few between. However, I think if you took him off guard with a meaningful compliment, especially if its one that he hasn't heard before, it would make him start to think about his feelings towards you.
~
"Captain, we have a problem."
Law sighs, all of the worst-case scenarios running through his mind as he turns to face Sachi. They're docked at a port town so that they can restock the Polar Tang, preparing for another few weeks underwater. It's familiar and something that the crew should be familiar with by this point. They have a routine, a schedule that rarely changes, that details who goes with who to go get what. In theory, it should go perfectly smoothly.
It never does.
"What is it, Sachi?" he asks, his grip on Kikoku tightening slightly as Sachi walks up to him with the list of crewmates and jobs in hand.
"Well, you said that nobody is allowed to go alone into town right? For safety?" he asks, only resuming once Law has hummed in agreement. "Right, well uh, unfortunately, Penguin is sick today which means his partner doesn't have anyone to go with, which wouldn't be an issue since usually we have at least one group of three but, well, they're also sick so-"
Law grumbles under his breath about getting to the damn point, grabbing the sheet from Sachi's hands to just look at the issue himself. Sachi gulps, sensing his irritation, and nervously rubs the back of his neck. The problem becomes clear very easily. His beloved crew had partied a little too hard the last few nights and now two of them were sick, leaving no group of three to split up and someone unaccompanied. He looks for Penguin's name to see who's alone and feels his heart flutter slightly when he sees your name scrawled out next to it.
"Our only two options are to either make one group get two things, which would set us back at least an hour, or...," Sachi says, trailing off slightly. The unspoken second option is clear. Law always spend their restock days on the ship. The higher his bounty gets, the higher the chance that he gets recognized, so he always finds it easier and safer for him to stay behind.
"I'll go," he relents, watching as the tension in Sachi's shoulders dissipates.
"Great. Thanks, Captain!"
Sachi disappears before he can change his mind. He sighs, looking around the collection of his crew until he finally finds you in the mix. He makes his way over, watching as you converse with Bepo, catching the very end of your sentence.
"-seems like I'll be alone today. Sachi said he would look into it, but everyone already has their pairs so I don't know who could take his place."
"That would be me," he answers, watching as both Bepo and you finally notice his approach.
"Oh! Uh, are you sure? Don't you usually spend the day on the Tang doing research?" you ask.
He ignores your improper name for the Polar Tang as he explains the situation to you. You nod, smiling as you say, "I see. Well, I'm glad to have your company then, Captain!"
He's taken aback by your words but decides to just move forward instead of dwelling on them, so he turns around and shouts, "Let's go."
"Shouldn't you probably change?"
He stops, looking down at his attire as you add, "As much as it suits you, it doesn't really hide the fact that you're a pirate, let alone our Captain."
He can't really argue with that. The Heart Pirates logo is front and center on his shirt and Kikaku is certainly not doing him any favors either. He tells you to wait and then quickly shambles himself into his room to change. He has to dig really deep in his closet before he finds a shirt that doesn't have his symbol front and center, but once he does he leaves Kikaku leaning against his wall and shambles back up to you.
By the time he's changed and came back, most of his crew is gone. You're quicker to notice him this time as a result and the two of you finally head into town.
"What are we in charge of?" he asks, stuffing his hands into his pockets now that they're not holding his sword.
"We're in charge of the medicinal herbs, Captain," you answer.
"Just Law is fine," he says, his hand fidgeting slightly as he adds, "No use in me changing if you're just going to use my title."
He sees you smile softly out of the corner of his eyes. "Right. Law it is, then."
His ears burn slightly as you say his name so effortlessly, but he brushes it off quickly and continues into town. It's not hard to find the store you're looking for and he lets you take the lead as you begin listing off the various herbs you need. It's not long before the two of you are walking through town once more, heading towards the submarine.
"Oh, look! That art is gorgeous."
He stops walking as he turns to look at what you're pointing at. There's a small stall in the marketplace's square that's selling paintings of all different sizes and mediums. He sees your eyes light up as you look at them and isn't surprised when you say, "Wait here, I'm going to go buy one."
He huffs, leaning against the wall of a nearby building where he can see the stall. He'd like to pretend that today had purely been an inconvenience, but he can't find it in himself to be that upset. While it was inconvenient that he wasn't able to spend the time studying the most recent medical book he had been interested in, the day had been pleasant. You'd made pleasant conversation with him while walking in town and your bright demeanor always seems to calm him down.
He looks back over to the stall, curious about what painting had caught your eyes, but feels his heart jolt when he doesn't see any sign of you. He stands up to his full height, hoping to catch any glimpse of you, but he still doesn't see anything. He curses to himself for letting his guard down and allowing you to somehow slip away and starts searching for you with his observation haki.
He picks up your signature in an alleyway and feels his gut churning. Not wanting to draw attention to himself by using his devil fruit powers, he quickly makes his way to where you are. As he gets closer, he hears you pleading with someone.
"Look, I'm really not interested and I have someone waiting for me, so-"
"Surely I can show you a better time than them, hm?"
He doesn't recognize the second voice but he doesn't need to to know what's going on. He feels anger burn in him as he finally turns a corner and sees a guy caging your body against the wall with both of his arms.
"I already told you, I'm not looking for that. Please let me go," you say, your hands clutching the bag of herbs you'd bought earlier as well as what looks to be whatever painting you had bought at the stall. He also sees the man take a step closer and open his mouth to talk, so he takes the opportunity to interrupt.
"You heard them," he says, his voice like venom as he enunciates, "Let them go."
The man looks at him, sizing him up as he takes a step back and lets his arms drop. "What are you, a good samaritan? Buzz off," he scoffs, turning his head back to you, clearly intending to ignore him.
He doesn't know what comes over him as he finds himself stepping closer and punching the man square on the side of his face. The man, clearly caught off guard, stumbles slightly. He doesn't give him any time to recover as he steps forward, putting himself in between you and the man whose face was now swelling up.
"What the hell?" he shouts, cradling his face as he finally catches his balance.
He can see the punch coming but knows that you're standing right behind him, so he only shifts slightly so that the punch only hits him in the shoulder. A moment afterward, it dawns on him that he can just get rid of the man, so he does.
"You're lucky I don't have my sword, or you'd be getting much worse than this," he seethes, holding his hand out as he says his classic phrase and sends the man shambling into the ocean. In his place, a mossy stone drops to the ground, echoing in the now almost empty alleyway.
When he turns around, you're staring at him speechless. He frowns slightly as he gives you a once over, checking for any visible signs of harm.
"I'm ok," you finally say, your voice shaky before you cough slightly and repeat, voice calm, "I'm ok. Just unnerved."
He doesn't take his chances and calls another room, switching you both closer to the Polar Tang. His guilt at letting you out of his sight and allowing this guy to drag you off eats at him as the two of you approach the ship. Once inside, he shambles the two of you to his examination room, pointing to the table and saying, "Sit. I want to check for injuries with the proper equipment."
You don't fight him as you make your way towards the table. You're still holding the bag and the painting until he gently takes them from you, placing them next to you on the table.
"I'm really ok La- I mean Captain," you begin, correcting yourself back to his title now that it's just the two of you.
He finds himself missing his name from you but keeps the comment to himself. He's supposed to be checking you for injuries. He's supposed to be assessing your well-being, which is only in question because of his own negligence. He frowns to himself and continues to check you for injuries without answering.
You let him, still assuring him that you're fine, that he only grabbed your arm for a moment at the stall, but he doesn't stop until he's sure that there's nothing wrong.
He sighs, finally stepping back from the table. His guilt still eats at him regardless as he goes over everything he did wrong. "I'm sorry, I should have been watching more carefully. No, I should have just come with you."
You simply smile at him in response and say, "It's my fault. I was the one who stepped away."
He doesn't have anything to say to that. He knows it's true, you did step away despite it being an explicit rule not to, but he can't deny his part in it as well. He curls his fists as the silence continues.
"Why didn't you dodge his punch?" you ask, your voice quiet.
He's surprised by the question, but also by how quickly his cheeks warm up at his answer. He looks off to the side, hiding behind his hat as he says, "You were right behind me. If I moved, he would have just punched you."
You have the audacity to laugh, loud and full as if he had just told you the funniest joke you'd ever heard and he can't help but scowl.
"You know," you start, laughter still floating in your voice, "For someone with such a cold exterior, you sure are kind."
The compliment catches him off guard. His face whips towards you as his eyes open in shock, the faint blush now burning bright red across his whole face. He meets your eyes and he doesn't see any hint of a joke.
He's heard himself called a lot of things. Scary, cold, bitter, even downright malicious, but never kind. It sends shivers up his spine as the word settles somewhere under his skin. You think he's kind. Kind.
"You're my subordinate. I'm not being kind, I'm just doing my job as your Captain," he corrects, not wanting you to misunderstand his intentions.
Your laugh this time is softer, more full of fondness, but it rustles him all the same. "You really are kind though," you insist. He's not ready for you to continue, barely able to handle the few words you've said, but that's never stopped you before. "I think you care a lot more than you want us to think. You wouldn't worry so much otherwise. Besides, you're always going out of your way to protect us. I think that makes you kind."
He doesn't know what to say, so he tries to navigate back into familiar territory. He takes a deep breath and calms his nerves, grabbing the bag of medical herbs from your side and turning around to begin putting them away. "Well, since I've checked and you don't have any injuries, there's no reason for you to stay."
He hears you shuffling around as he begins unpacking the herbs from the bag and chances a glance over at you one more time. He regrets it immediately.
You're looking at him like you can see right through him. You have your painting tucked under your arm as you look over your shoulder at him in the doorway and you're still smiling at him as if he didn't just ignore your comment and dismiss you rather rudely. It makes his heart ache, wanting to prove you right. To prove that he is kind, that he's worthy of your opinion of him, that he's worthy of your praise.
"Thank you, Captain. I enjoyed your company today."
With that, you disappear down the hallway, presumably back to your shared room to hang up your new picture. He stares at the spot you left long after you've gone, your words echoing in his mind. They rattle around in his heart until they finally settle, leaving a warm comfort he didn't know he craved.
You think he's kind.
That thought plagues his mind for the rest of the day. His guilt is completely forgotten, his mind too consumed by your compliment to make any room for it. He finds himself unable to even focus on reading the medical book that night that he missed out on reading earlier. Your words and the simple fact that you truly believed them chip away at his resolve until he finally has to come to terms with why it affects him so much. He mumbles your name, his hand clutching his heart as it beats, solidifying what he'd been ignoring for a long, long time now.
አradishaur â i do not own any of these characters. do not plagiarize. please enjoy and remember to be respectful!Â
#luffy x reader#monkey d. luffy x reader#zoro x reader#roronoa zoro x reader#law x reader#trafalgar law x reader#one piece x reader#radishaur writes
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#thinking about unfollowing some of the people in my Twitter RP nonsense#because I personally find them annoying#tbh my interest in RPing with other people involved in this has been killed very quickly#I think creating the Discord server really split everyone even more than they were aleady splitting#oh what#how is there a cut on the side of my wrist of all places#anyways#I read some of the old chapters/works of the OG creator behind the story we're all RPing in#and tbh#I don't think I noticed how far the new authors derailed it from its purpose#like it still sucked before#but it sucks in a new#more suckier way now#and a lot of the RPers aren't at all maintaining the point of the whole story#and the fact that we're like...RPing on Twitter of all places#like the format is there for a reason#anyways wow this got longer than intended#I'm not necessarily mad about it though tbh#Just some thoughts I've been having#I'm still gonna finish/or at least make some progress on this Maggie and Zeke saga#(since I'm...not really sure how to finish it)#not more than like a handful of people really seem interested in RPing with my character so#I'll have to pull some strings to make sure she gets the character development she needs#Make some more faceless NPCs I guess#I'll figure it out
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Home with Migraines
Summary: Spencer snaps at Y/N while having one of his migraines.
Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader
Category: angst, hurt//comfort, fluff
Warnings/Includes: yelling, childhood trauma, crying, being afraid of partner
Word count: 2.2k
a/n: i'm an angsty girl what's new :)) can be read alone but it is a blurb from Finding Home Again !!
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Y/N had been chatting animatedly about her day as she walked into the apartment, her keys and bag clattering onto the table. Spencer was sitting on the couch, his head in his hands, trying to focus on anything but the throbbing pain in his skull. He hadnât wanted to interrupt her, hadnât wanted to dampen her enthusiasm, but the relentless pounding in his head was making it impossible to concentrate on anything she was saying.
âI stopped by that new cafĂ© on the corner,â Y/N was saying as she hung up her coat. âYou know, the one weâve been meaning to check out? Anyway, I got us those croissants you like, andââ
She paused for a moment to head to the restroom, and Spencer used the brief silence to take a deep breath, trying to steady himself. But when she came back out, her voice filling the room again, it was like nails on a chalkboard to his hypersensitive senses.
ââand then I called Billie, and they were telling me about this new project theyâre working on, andââ
Y/N continued talking as she walked back into the room, her voice cheerful and full of energy. ââand they were saying itâs going to be this huge collaboration with all these amazing artists, and I thought, âWow, this sounds right up your alley, Spence!â Oh, and I ran into Mrs. Thompson from downstairsâshe asked about you, by the way. I told her youâve been super busy with work, but maybe we could bring her some of those croissants later, she always seems so lonelyâŠâ
Spencer squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the sound, but it only seemed to grow louder, more insistent, with every word she spoke. His head felt like it was going to split open, the pressure behind his eyes unbearable.
ââand then I thought, maybe this weekend we could check out that new bookstore downtown? I heard they have a whole section on rare first editions, and I know how much you loveââ
âGod!â Spencer suddenly exploded, his voice sharp and filled with a frustration that had been building up all day. âCan you just shut up, please!â
The words echoed in the room, stark and heavy. Y/N immediately stopped mid-sentence, her eyes widening in shock. She hadnât seen this coming, hadnât noticed how tense Spencer had been sitting there.
â...what?â she asked, her voice small, her lip trembling as she tried to process his outburst.
âStop. Talking. Please. Itâs like nails on a chalkboard,â Spencer bit out, the pain in his head making his tone harsher than he intended.
Y/Nâs heart sank at his words, and she felt a sting of tears welling up in her eyes. âOhâokay,â she managed to say, her voice breaking slightly. She turned quickly, her breath hitching as she tried to hold back the tears, and hurried back to their bedroom.
Once inside, she shut the door behind her, the sound of the lock clicking into place echoing in the silence. She pressed her back against the door, feeling the weight of the situation crashing down on her. Finally, she couldnât hold it in any longer, and she threw herself onto the bed, burying her face in the pillows as the tears came.Â
She cried quietly, her shoulders shaking with each sob as she tried to make sense of what had just happened. Y/N didnât know what she did wrong; Spencer usually let her yap about her day for as long as she liked when she came home. He had never once snapped at her, for any reason at all. The unexpected harshness of his words replayed in her mind, each time cutting deeper, leaving her feeling confused and hurt. What had she done to deserve that?Â
She tried to rationalize it, telling herself that maybe heâd had a particularly rough day at work, or maybe something else was bothering him. But no matter how she tried to spin it, the hurt wouldnât go away. All she had wanted to do was share her day with him, and now she was left feeling as though she had done something wrong, something to push him away.
Spencer, on the other hand, was just glad for some peace and quiet, unaware of the storm he had unknowingly unleashed. The silence in the apartment was a welcome relief to his pounding head. He leaned back on the couch, finally able to close his eyes without the constant barrage of noise that had been aggravating his migraine. In his haze of pain, he didnât realize that the quiet had come at the expense of his fiancĂ©eâs feelings.
He hadnât meant to hurt her, hadnât even considered how his words might have affected her. All he knew was that the pain in his head was blinding, and he needed silence. As he sat there, trying to will the migraine away, it never occurred to him that Y/N was in the next room, crying her heart out over the way he had spoken to her.
â
Spencer eventually fell asleep on the couch, the tension in his body slowly unwinding as the pain in his head dulled with the quiet. Y/N noticed the apartment had grown silent, and after a while, she carefully opened the bedroom door, hesitating as she listened for any sounds. Hearing none, she snuck out of the room, scared to upset him again by making too much noise.Â
When she saw that he was asleep on the couch, she let out a small breath of relief. Y/N tiptoed into the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water and a quick snack to substitute for dinner. She still felt too upset to eat a full meal, her appetite dulled by the earlier confrontation.
As she closed the fridge quietly, trying not to make any noise, Spencer stirred on the couch, waking up groggily. âBabe?â he called out, his voice thick with sleep.
Y/N nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of his voice, her heart racing as she froze in place, terrified that she had woken him up and that he might yell at her again. âSorry, Spencer,â she whispered quickly, trying to keep her voice low. âI promise I was trying to be quiet. I didnât mean to wake you up.â
âWhat? No, itâs okay, Y/N,â Spencer said, sitting up slowly, still disoriented from sleep. âI didnât mean to fall asleep. My head just hurt so bad.â
Y/N hesitated, her voice small and uncertain as she asked, âIs⊠is that why you yelled at me?â
Spencer blinked, the realization dawning on him like a cold splash of water. âYelled at you⊠ohâoh my god, babe, Y/N, I am so sorry,â he said, his voice filled with guilt and regret. âI didnât mean to upset you. My head⊠you were just talking so much, and it felt like my brain was going to explode.â
Y/N looked down, her fingers nervously fidgeting with the edge of the counter. âI didnât realize my talking hurt your head so much,â she whispered, her eyes glistening with fresh tears.
Spencer stood up, quickly closing the distance between them. He gently cupped her face in his hands, tilting her chin up so she would look at him. âIâm so sorry,â he repeated softly, his thumb brushing away a stray tear that had escaped down her cheek. âI never meant to hurt you. I just⊠I wasnât thinking straight. You didnât do anything wrong.â
Y/N flinched when Spencer touched her, an instinctive reaction that sent a jolt of pain through him. She had never done that before. His heart broke, and he immediately pulled his hands back, taking a step away from her, his expression filled with concern and guilt.
Y/N looked down at the ground, her mind racing as she tried to find the right words. She hadnât meant to react that way, but the hurt and fear sheâd felt earlier had lingered, and now she knew she had to explain it to him.Â
Spencer watched her, his chest tightening with worry. âWe need to talk more about this, donât we?â he asked softly, his voice laced with regret.
Y/N nodded slowly, still avoiding his gaze. âYeah,â she whispered, moving towards the couch, knowing that they needed to clear the air, even though the conversation ahead felt daunting.
Spencer followed her, sitting down beside her but keeping a respectful distance, not wanting to make her uncomfortable. He waited for her to start, his heart heavy with the realization of how much he had hurt her.Â
Y/N took a deep breath, finally lifting her eyes to meet his. âIâm not used to you being like that,â she began, her voice trembling slightly. âYouâve never yelled at me before, and when you did⊠it just⊠it scared me. It⊠um, it reminded me of when my parents would yell. I donât like to talk about it, really. But I justâI was afraid of you.â
Spencerâs heart sank, the weight of her words hitting him like a ton of bricks. He had never imagined he could make her feel that way, and the thought of her being afraid of him, even for a moment, was unbearable.
âY/N,â he whispered, his voice breaking, âIâm so sorry. I never want you to feel afraid of me. I didnât realize⊠I didnât think⊠God, Iâm so sorry.â
Y/N nodded, her eyes filled with unshed tears. âI know you didnât mean it, Spencer. But it brought up memories I thought Iâd buried. I just⊠I canât handle being yelled at. It makes me feel small, like Iâm a kid all over again, and I just⊠I was afraid.â
Spencer moved closer, carefully reaching out to take her hands in his. âYou never have to be afraid of me,â he said, his voice filled with emotion. âI love you more than anything, and I hate that I made you feel that way. I promise Iâll never do that again. Iâll be more mindful, I swear.â
Y/N squeezed his hands, feeling a sense of relief as she looked into his eyes and saw the sincerity there. âI know you will,â she whispered, her voice softening. âI just needed to tell you how it made me feel. I donât want to hold it in and let it fester.â
Spencer nodded, his heart aching with the need to make things right. âThank you for telling me,â he said, his voice steady but full of emotion. âWeâll work through this together, okay? Iâm here for you, and I want you to feel safe with me.â
âI do,â Y/N replied, her voice filled with a mix of relief and affection. âI just needed to get past that moment. I know youâre not like them, Spencer. I know youâd never hurt me.â
Spencer pulled her into a gentle hug, holding her close as he whispered, âIâm so sorry, Y/N. I love you so much.â
âI love you too,â she whispered back, resting her head against his chest as they held each other.
âI need to tell you something too,â Spencer said, his voice tentative.
Y/N looked at him, concern etched on her face. âOkay.â
âIâve been getting pretty severe migraines recently⊠usually they happen when Iâm at work. That was the first one youâve witnessed.â
Y/Nâs expression softened, her worry deepening. âOh, Spence. Why didnât you tell me?â
Spencer sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. âI didnât want to worry you. I thought I could handle it, that it wasnât a big deal. But clearly, I was wrong. I shouldâve told you.â
Y/N reached out, gently placing her hand on his arm. âYou donât have to handle everything on your own, Spencer. Weâre in this together, remember? I want to be there for you, especially when things get tough.â
âI know,â Spencer said, his voice filled with regret. âI just didnât want to burden you with something else. But I see now that keeping it from you only made things worse.â
âYouâre never a burden,â Y/N replied firmly, her eyes locking onto his. âI want to know when somethingâs wrong, so I can help. I care about you, Spence. That means all of you, even the hard stuff.â
Spencer felt a wave of emotion wash over him, grateful for her understanding and support. âThank you, Y/N. I promise Iâll be more open with you from now on. I donât want to keep things from you, especially something like this.â
âIâm here for you,â Y/N said, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. âWeâll figure this out together. If these migraines are becoming a problem, weâll find a way to manage them.â
Spencer nodded, feeling a sense of relief and comfort in her words. âIâm lucky to have you,â he whispered, his heart full of gratitude.
âAnd Iâm lucky to have you too,â Y/N replied, leaning in to give him a gentle kiss. âWeâll take care of each other, okay?â
âOkay,â Spencer agreed, his voice steadying. âTogether.â
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#doctor spencer reid#dr spencer reid#spencer reid#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid fic#criminal minds#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid fluff#spencer reid criminal minds#criminal minds fandom#spencer reid x y/n#spencer reid x you#spencer reid x self insert#spencer reid angst
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Sebastian Solace x GN! Reader | Daily Life AU | Sleeping
Ever since you were released, you were forced to take Sebastian in, you have no idea if Urbanshade even knew, since it was upon Sebastian's request. Or more like demandâŠ
You were watching TV in the living room, you lived alone with Sebastian now. The house wasn't normally this quiet, the silence occasionally interrupted by Sebastian banging into something with his large body. You paused the show you were watching and got up. The silence was eating at you, and he was nowhere to be found.
You walk over to his room, knocking.
"Sebastian? It's me, I'm coming in." You spoke, walking into the room.
His TV was on, with Painters' face flickering on the screen.
"Oh, hey Painter. Have you seen Sebastian?" You asked, your next question was going to be why Painter was even here. Advanced AI is scaryâŠ
"Does it look like I've seen him Y/N? He's your responsibility!" He remarked, before turning the TV off in a huff.
You blinked and looked around the room. You made your way to the window, looking around for Sebastian. It was odd, a grown-ass man was your responsibility. Besides, he knew better than to go outside without your permission. You leaned against the window, at times⊠The mission still bothered you. It's how you and Sebastian met, and even now while living together, he tries his hardest to avoid talking about his past and being human. But you can tell it bothered him too.
From the way he'd look at you when you asked about his document, to the way he tried to hide his voice crack when he ate soup for the first time in god who knows how long.
You knew it still bothered him, no matter how much he yelled at you for simple things, or when he made snarky remarks to hide behind that bitchy exterior.
Yet oddly enough, you were grateful. Without that experience, you wouldn't have met him, so it's not for nothing. You blinked, snapping out of your thoughts. You scanned the outside, Sebastian wasn't anywhere to be seen. You turned away from his window, walking out the door. You walked down the hallway, the bathroom door was open. He wasn't in there either. The last room was your roomâŠ
You were hesitant, you drew near the door. The potent smell of fish hit your senses.
"Sebastian, it smells in⊠Here.." Your voice trailed off, seeing the man curled up on your bed.
Thoughts flooded your mind, on one hand, it was charming. On the other hand, your room was going to smellâŠ
You silently took out your phone, snapping a picture of the cute sight in silence. You were in the middle of putting your phone back into your pocket when you heard the bed creak. You snapped your head to the source of the noise when your bed snapped and collapsed onto the floor. His weight was too much!
He woke up immediately, snapping up. He looked at you and glared. "What are YOU looking at?!"
You knew he knew that Sebastian had broken the bed. His cheeks were flushed in a dark blue hue. You blinked, before smiling.
"Nothing, go back to sleep. Sorry for interrupting you." You spoke, before leaving the room.
Authors Notes! Hi! This is my first fanfic I've ever written, I intended on it being longer, since I just enjoy long fanfics as a reader, but it was sortaaa hard to make this one long. My writing may come off as odd, I don't intend for that to be a bad thing. I allow criticism too, since I want to improve. I hope this is still a good read! This was just an idea I had in my head for a while, I plan on making it a series, if anyone even wants that. Anyways, enjoy this mess, ahahaha!
#sebastian solace#sebastian solace x reader#sebastian x reader#roblox#pressure#roblox pressure#roblox x reader#x reader#reader insert#sebastian#i dont know what other tags to put here sorry
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