#because it's just too good for me to belive I wrote that

[i-will-write]

reading my own fics as a reference for a new wip and squinting at it like "how the hell did I do that"

[gldrushh]

GUILTY AS SIN? | JJK | PART 𝐈𝐈𝐈 |

"After all lessons are learned. There's only one to live out in practicality. You're not sure how good you're at it —only that, this time, you won’t try alone."

→ Pairing brother in law! Jungkook x widowed fem!reader

→ Genre forbidden love! au, childhood friends to lovers, angst, fluff

→W.C 20k

→ Warnings lots of mentions of graveyards, loss, nostalgia, because you can scream and scratch and bite but you can never go back, minhos third death anniversary, he stays haunting everyone, jk being lovesick, what's new?,their dating era!!, kissing, self realization, they make it official, mentions of anxiety, soft family moments :(, mention of jk threatening someone, protective jk, mentions of alcohol, like a lot, jk manhandling oc, she's drunk and a menace, he is so in love, and so is she apparently, jks nose gets appreciated, nose kisses, fluff, jk is rich, dancing around, real chessy stuff im sorry haha but trust me when i say that it pained me too

→ Playlist You are in love by Taylor swift

→A/N hi! hello! It's definitely not been a while since I posted but it most definitely feels like I've lived a multiple lifes since. I'm sorry for not posting when I promised and I'm sorry that you had to see me falling for rage bait because i don't belive that was anything but. Like genuinely get a life my brother in christ. I write fanfiction for a hobby. A silly little hobby. It's not that deep and you don't have to lose your shit over that. Anyways, all that negativity aside I wanna thank you to all the majority of my readers who were nice enough to put up with me. You all are who I write for and will continue doing so though can't say for sure lol. I've had a great time with writing this fic and all the love it got. It will forever hold a special place. These characters will forever hold a special place. I will miss them and I really hope you understand from the word count why it took the time it did and enjoy reading <33 please comment or message your thoughts!! Love you!!

| PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE |

The graveyard was deadened in a way that empty places where bones met soil learned to be. In a way that they are belived they are. With a stillness so complete, it surmised like a hostaged breath.

You sat cross-legged before the headstone, coat draped around your shoulders, your fingers numb from the stone bench that did little to hold warmth or from holding the bundle of white lilies, their stems slick with dew. You hadn’t put them down yet. You had spent the better part of your time here, staring at another small bouquet resting at the base of the grave—white carnations and forget-me-nots, arranged with care, like they always were. Someone’s been here before you. Arranged these flowers with love. There's just no name in some card that gives away the beholder of the love.

You traced the curve of a petal with your gaze, not touching it. Not needing to.

You're not wary of them. It's a graveyeard. It's Jeon Minho's—beloved son, brilliant brother, best husband—grave. It's never empty. You recalled, absently,how on his first death anniversary the plot had been crowded. A forest of flowers so pretty and perplexing, letters folded into stones, paintings left by former students who still wrote emails to an address that no longer worked. One of them left a thumb drive with a digital portfolio and a note that simply read: “I only got in because of him.”

Even now—three years later—his name never stopped resounding in impertuable places because he had a way of staying with people, even long after he’d left the room. Had this laugh that would get stuck in your head. And somehow, that made it both easier and harder. That he was remembered in a love that he alone inspired. Gentle. that was earned without asking. The kind of love that was mourned in secret, in ritual, in color.

You placed your bouquet down next to the others, brushing a fallen leaf from the base of the headstone. The stone was smooth beneath your touch, cold. You traced the carved letters-his name, the dates-and swallowed the lump that always formed when you read them too slowly.

“I was going to bring tulips,” you said softly, not sure if you were speaking to the stone or the wind. “But you always said they looked sad. Too floppy.” A just as sad smile that would have mimicked the tulips curled at your mouth.

“Thought I’d bring lilies instead. Thought they might hold their shape better. I hope they do.”

The ache wasn’t sharp anymore. But it was deep. It was marrow-deep. Though it didn't weight like it used to. It hummed in your blood, a familiar frequency. Almost like a song you’d once loved but now couldn’t bear to hear past the first few notes. Like the sky that is a pale repose of overcast, streaked with gray, the kind that always made Minho grumble about "bad lighting" when he painted. The ground is damp but not cruel. Just enough to remind you that time moves here too. That even woe must learn to grow things again.

A breeze stirred, threading through your coat, pushing strands of hair across your cheek. You didn’t brush them away. You leaned forward, elbows on your knees, the grave in front of you, the silence beside you.

"Odd taste you had, min-min." You said after a while. "I wouldn't be suprised if you would find me sitting here, trying to make conversation with a slab of stone romantic. Probably say how so much effort for a guy who once mixed paint water into his cereal is good kind of weird."

Your voice cracked a little at that.

You don't cry.

You think that maybe you’ve used up all your tears on the wrong days—the regular ones, the grocery-list ones, the Tuesdays that came out of nowhere.

And then because the present can only be held for so long, you begin to remember.

The first time you were ever in a graveyard. Before you understood what death really was. Before it had touched you. When it was just a mystery. A place with names and flowers and questions no one could answer properly.

It had been years ago—childhood still clinging to your limbs like summer heat, with scraped knees and sticky palms and dreams that stretched further than your little world could hold. You and Jungkook couldn’t have been more than ten. Minho, already bordering on thirteen, had taken to pretending that his age made him wiser, even though he still laughed too loudly at fart jokes and left crayon smudges on his school notebooks.

You had been searching for this place for a while.

Not this graveyard, exactly, but the idea of it.

A name. A date. Something real to press against the fading edges of Jungkook’s memory.

He had come across a slip of paper one day in the back of a file, folded four times over, nearly forgotten in the drawer of father's study that nobody was allowed in. The handwriting had been unfamiliar—elegant but rushed—and it bore two names. His parents, he said. He thought.

And for weeks, the three of you had quietly tried to piece it together.

You’d used the school’s clunky computer lab—pretending to research for a social studies project while Minho furiously clicked through online directories and civic records. You whispered questions to the lunch lady, who knew someone who once worked in town hall. You even bribed the janitor with your entire sticker collection to let you sneak into the staff archives one afternoon.

No one said it was about sorrow.

No one had to.

You just wanted to help him find something—anything—that made him feel less like a shadow of someone else’s loss.

And finally, on a Thursday that still smelled like last night’s rain, you did.

You’d all skipped school that day.

The air still damp from last night’s rain, the sky overcast in a way that made the world look softer, quieter, like someone had pulled a cotton sheet over the sun.

It had been Minho’s idea, but Jungkook who needed it. You remember that part vividly, because he hadn’t asked out loud. Hadn’t needed to. He had stood in the courtyard with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his too-big jacket, hair a mess, eyes darker than usual. And Minho had just looked at him, then at you, and nodded.

“We’re going,” he said. "Are you ready, Kook?"

He was holding a slip of paper in one hand and clutching the edge of his jacket with the other.

“Yes, hyung." He had nodded. "I want to find them."

The air around you had gone quiet then—not out of shock, but out of care. Like the air had thinned out so as not to crowd him.

“We’d get in trouble,” you had broke the silence, voice a sharp whisper, mind already thinking of all ways you could get in trouble, eyes darting to the teachers pacing the other side of the field.

“Yeah,” Minho agreed. “But it’s a good reason. I'm sure they will understand...right?" Taller than the both of you already. He looked between Jungkook’s face and the paper again, then over at you.

You’d rolled your eyes, half because you were nervous and half because that was your role in this trio—to be skeptical just enough for Minho to feel brave. That made minho provide reassurance to his own doubt. "They will." Minho had said, like it was that simple.

And it was.

It always was, with the three of you.

You were kids, but not careless ones. You planned it like it was a secret mission—packed snacks in the side pockets of Minho’s bag, let Milo tag along even though he wasn’t technically allowed out without a leash. The sun was high when you snuck out, the kind of early spring day that couldn’t decide if it was warm or not. As if it was playing a cruel game of hide and seek, peeking through clouds that weren’t sure if they wanted to rain again. You wore your favorite jacket—denim with a strawberry patch on the sleeve. Jungkook didn’t bring anything except the folded piece of paper. Milo sat at his feet, tail thumping occasionally against the metal floor of the bus.

You caught the bus by the corner near the florist’s shop, ducking low behind the seats in case any familiar faces passed. The journey was slow. Long bus ride—two transfers, three wrong stops. You sat tucked in the back row, heads down, laughing behind your hands when Milo licked a stranger’s elbow. You passed the time counting license plates and telling each other made-up stories about the people outside.

One old man at the third stop looked at you from under his hat and said, “That place? That place’s been forgotten.”

But then a woman at the vegetable stall a few streets over gave you better directions. Told you to follow the path lined with dogwoods until you saw the iron gates.

You wandered through the quiet neighborhoods of Daejun on foot, sneakers wet from the last puddles, stepping over cigarette butts and crushed petals, past shuttered stores and a shrine half-covered in ivy. The deeper you walked, the more the world thinned out into something older. Something that felt sacred and sad all at once.

The graveyard.

Wrought iron gates half rusted, vines crawling up the stone wall, the sign chipped but still legible.

There was no one there to greet you. Just wind. And quiet. And Milo’s soft panting.

You stepped inside together, slow. Reverent. As if you were entering a cathedral.

You didn’t speak much. Just looked.

Row after row of headstones, some cracked, some buried under moss. The names were unfamiliar. The silence, even more so.

“I think it’s this way,” Minho said, squinting at the map he’d drawn on notebook paper. “I printed a map. And I’m, like, really good at reading maps.”

“You got us lost last week trying to find that new ramen place,” you reminded him, turning around to walk backwards for emphasis.

Minho rolled his eyes. “That was one time."

"Was it?" You looked at Jungkook to back you up but he only cracked a tiny smile at that. You caught it—brief, barely there—but it warmed you anyway. It had been a long week leading up to this.

“They’re somewhere near the east wall,” Minho said, squinting at the faded directions. “Row 12, plot 33. I think we’re close.”

Your footsteps crunched over gravel and scattered leaves. Milo veered off occasionally, sniffing at corners and chasing insects, but always came back. The sun filtered through bare branches in patches, dappling your arms in faint light.

The wind picked up when they turned the final corner—soft, not cold, brushing past their jackets like a whisper. Row twelve stretched ahead in crooked lines, some stones older than others, names worn down by years of weather and forgetfulness.

Jungkook stopped walking.

Your eyes followed his gaze.

Two gravestones stood side by side, tucked beneath a slant of oak branches. The grass was longer here. The stones smaller than you expected.

They were side by side. Dates etched beneath them.Born years before any of you. Gone before Jungkook had learned what it meant to belong to anyone. No pictures. No flowers. Just names and silence. And that was all he had.

Jungkook stared at them like he didn’t know what he was supposed to feel. Like maybe he’d expected something different. Or maybe he didn’t know what he expected at all.

His hand crumpled the piece of paper still clutched in his fist.

You moved first, not touching him, just standing nearby, close enough that he’d know you were there if he needed you.

Minho lowered the backpack slowly to the ground, the usual jokes stalled on his tongue. Even Milo went still, sitting quietly at Jungkook’s feet, as if he understood the moment too.

Jungkook stepped forward, cautiously. His sneakers scuffed the grass. He crouched slowly in front of the grave, his knees pressing into the damp soil, fingertips hesitating above the stone.

“That’s them?” he asked, voice tight in his throat. “For real?”

Minho nodded. “Yeah. The names match.”

Jungkook didn’t speak again. He pressed his fingers lightly to the letters on the headstone—first his father’s, then his mother’s. They were cool from the shade, worn smooth at the edges.

You crouched beside him. He turned his head slightly, just enough for you to see the way his eyes were glossed, not quite crying, but close. “Do you think they were nice?”

Minho sat down cross-legged beside him, stretching his legs out like it was any other afternoon. “Your mom? Definitely. Anyone who names a baby Jungkook has to be at least kind of awesome.”

That earned the smallest laugh from you, and then from him.

Jungkook looked at the gravestones again. “Do you think they’d like me?”

You nudged his side with your elbow, gently. “Koo, it’s kinda hard not to like you.”

“I dunno,” he mumbled. “I cry sometimes. And I suck at spelling.”

Minho made a dramatic groan. "You’re the coolest. Smarter than me. And you always win at Mario Kart.”

Jungkook ducked his head, but you saw the way his shoulders loosened. He reached out then—hesitant—and brushed some dirt off the stone. You watched the movement, how careful it was. How reverent.

“I didn’t think I’d feel anything,” he murmured.

“But you do?” you asked.

He nodded, still not looking at either of you. “Yeah.”

You stayed there until the sun dipped lower behind the hills. Minho finished the sketch and tore the page from his book. He folded it carefully, handed it to Jungkook without a word.

Jungkook looked at it for a long moment, then tucked it into his hoodie pocket.

“Hey,” Minho said as you were walking back toward the gates. “Think they’ve got a vending machine nearby? I want strawberry milk.”

You laughed. “You always want strawberry milk.”

He smirked, tugging his cap lower. “Yeah, well. It’s a long walk home.”

You trace the rim of the headstone now, your fingertips ghosting. Lingering. Your voice is soft. Almost like a child's again.

“We never did find that vending machine.”

The wind stirs in the trees like it remembers too.

“But you’d be happy to know,” you continue softly, “that your paintings found their way anyway.”

You smile faintly, fingers brushing a small chip in the edge of the stone like you could smooth it out. “It’s finally happening. Really. The gallery. Jungkook’s opening it today.”

You glance up toward the stone, as if you might catch his reaction.

“I told him we should. After I saw it—I mean really saw it—I couldn’t not share it with the world. And you know me. I don’t say things like that unless I mean them. I think… I think you’d be proud of how much care he put into it. How many nights he stayed up figuring out framing and lighting and titles. Gosh."

Your voice thickens around the word proud.

“He asked me what kind of wine you’d want served at the opening,” you add, with a shaky laugh. “I said you’d just tell people to bring root beer instead and call it a day.”

You look at the lilies now, at the way their petals fold gently inward. You try to imagine the sound of Minho’s laughter if he were here. Try to imagine the way he’d tease you for crying without making you feel like crying was wrong.

“It looks beautiful, Min min. The gallery. I think it would’ve made you shy. All those people showing up just for you. Can you imagine?”

You pause.

A crow calls from a nearby tree. A leaf skitters across the gravel.

“And something else,” you say softly. “I think I should tell you.”

It’s not a secret, not really. Just something unspoken for a long, long time. Something you’ve carried carefully, like glass.

“I wasn’t sure at first,” you admit, a dry laugh slipping out. “I mean, of course I wasn’t. It felt impossible. Like… crossing a bridge I shouldn’t have even been near. I can't even think of anything else to describe it to you."

The words take time. But you don’t rush them.

"The very first it was the the little bakery near the university with the good tarts. The museum with the terrible lighting but the softest benches. He even took me to that rooftop bar that used to give you vertigo—remember? "

You chuckle, covering your face briefly with your hand.

You shift your weight slightly, stretching your legs in front of you. A leaf lands on your boot.

“And then last week,” you continue, “he took me to this little Korean BBQ place in Hongdae. Said the meat was just okay, but the company made it worth it. We stayed until the restaurant closed. Walked along the river. He kissed me beside the railing. It was cold, and I couldn’t feel my fingers."

The place wasn’t fancy. People probably didn’t dress up for here dressed up or made reservations two weeks in advance. It had plastic chairs that wobbled slightly, walls lined with signed polaroids and grease-stained menus, and a sliding glass door that stuck every time someone tried to open it too quickly.

You ordered too much, of course. He insisted on the samgyeopsal, you picked the bulgogi, and somehow you ended up with three side dishes neither of you remembered asking for. The grill sizzled between you, soft smoke curling toward the ceiling vents, and Jungkook poured you a glass of water like it was part of an accent only he knew how to follow.

And there was something about watching him like that—hair pushed back, head slightly tilted, tongs in hand while he laid down the marinated strips of meat that made something alter inside you. Something small but sure.

Something you didn’t feel with the with the accountant who wouldn’t stop talking about NFTs. The guy who took you to a food truck but only ordered for himself.

A soft breath escapes you. “And it’s not the same. It’s not like it was with you. But it’s not different in the wrong ways either.”

You glance at the grave again, hands resting in your lap. Your heart hurts and swells at once.

“I think you’d understand,” you whisper.

And you do. In some strange, marrow-deep way, you believe it. That he would. That Minho, the boy who used to kiss the corners of your eyes and name his paint colors after inside jokes, would know what this meant. That he’d want this for you.

That he’d forgive you.

You reach for the lilies again, adjusting them so the stems don’t bend. Your eyes flick back to the stone.

“I still miss you,” you whisper. “I still love you.”

The breeze quiets again.

"And I still think you're the best friend I've ever had. That's why I needed to tell this this to you first."

Your fingers press gently to your lips, then down to the stone.

Who else would you tell other than the boy who had orchastered the definition of fairytale love for you? Who would you tell that you're starting to realize that he loves you? Maybe he had a for a long time now. And maybe you-

Bzzzt.

Your phone vibrated in your coat pocket.

The sound was soft, almost reluctant against the hush of the graveyard, like it too didn’t want to interrupt.

You blinked, pulled it out with chilled fingers, and read the message lit dimly on the screen.

[Dad:]

Sweetheart, we’re parked outside, still. Just checking if you’re ready.

You turned your head slightly and spotted the vague outline of your father’s car just beyond the gate, tucked in the corner of the lot. You could imagine your mother in the passenger seat, fingers wrapped around a thermos of tea, eyes scanning the trees while she waited with the scarf minho brought her two christmas ago, letting you have this moment uninterrupted.

They’re in town, of course. They always are, on this day.

It started the first year—when the pain was still red and raw and too large for your chest. Back then, you couldn’t eat, couldn’t speak without choking on the spaces where Minho should’ve been. Your parents had shown up with soup and chamomile tea and enough patience to outlast a storm. They stayed even when you didn’t speak for hours.

And every year since, they’ve found new ways to not let you be alone.

This day always makes them softer with you. Or maybe just more afraid of saying the wrong thing. Hovering a little closer. Speaking in quieter tones.

You sigh, brushing your thumb across the message. You don’t reply yet. Instead, you turn back toward the headstone, heart still soft and cracked wide open.You smile faintly.

“I should probably go.”

You reach down, sweeping a fallen petal from the edge of the stone.

“I’ll come by tomorrow, okay? Tell you how it goes."

You gather your coat closer around your shoulders, standing slowly. Your knees creak from the cold stone bench, from sitting too long in one position. You stretch slightly, then glance once more at the flowers now clustered at the grave’s base.

The sky has begun to change—clouds pulling apart in slow, reluctant threads, letting in slivers of afternoon light. You press your fingers gently to the headstone one last time.

"Wish me luck, min min."

You imagine he does. Hands in his pockets. Smile tugging wide and lazy. Head tilted, like he knows you've got this.

Like he's urging you to go back to the part of the story where something finally begins.

You slipped into the backseat with a soft apology, the car door clicking shut behind you.

“Sorry,” you murmured, pulling your coat tighter around your shoulders. The fabric had gone cold against your skin, but the chill clinging to you wasn’t just from the graveyard. “I didn’t mean to keep you both waiting.”

Your mother turned in her seat, her eyes warm even beneath the slight crease of worry still lingering at her brow. “Don’t be silly,” she said gently, her hand reaching back to rest briefly on your knee, the kind of maternal touch that knew when to press and when to ease. “We figured you might want a few more minutes. We all do."

“We were just talking about how this town hasn’t changed a bit,” she added, shifting the topic without making a show of it.

“She was talking,” your father interjected from the driver’s seat, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “I was checking the parking meter.”

“You were checking your watch and pretending it was the parking meter,” your mother teased.

“I was,” he insisted. “City’s always been eager to ticket people in parked cars.”

You let the cadence of their conversation fold around you, like the comfort of a familiar quilt. Safe. Worn soft with time. The kind of talk you’d heard all your life, in road trips and kitchens and walks through grocery aisles.

The engine kicked into motion, pulling you away from the graveyard slowly. You turned once in your seat, watching the wrought iron fence fade into the distance, your eyes lingering on the tree line long after it disappeared.

Outside, the town blurred past—branches heavy with the early promise of spring, cafés setting out mismatched chairs, signs swinging in the breeze like the sighs of old shopkeepers.

Your parents started talking about the café near the roundabout—how it had changed hands again, how the new owners apparently served matcha pancakes now, how the inside had been repainted a strange, charming blue. You listened with half an ear, forehead resting against the cool glass, hands folded in your lap.

Bzzt. Your phone made the same noise again.

[Jungkook]:

Are you on your way yet?

Missing you.

You typed back quickly, thumbs moving faster than your thoughts:

[You]:

On the way now. In the backseat with my parents. Be there soon.

He replied instantly like he was waiting with his phone in his hand.

[Jungkook]:

Good. See you.

You could picture him now—standing in the middle of the gallery in those dark slacks and a shirt with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, brow furrowed as he scanned the placement of frames and fiddled with the lighting, making sure nothing was out of place. He’d probably refused help again. Probably hadn’t eaten yet. Probably had to be convinced into not polishing every glass display himself.

You scrolled up, letting your thumb drag slowly over the thread from this morning:

[Jungkook]:

Good morning, angel ❤️

[Y/N]:

Good morning 😊

[Jungkook]:

Did you eat?

[Y/N]:

Just coffee so far. Did you?

[Jungkook]:

Two bites of toast. Stress eating. Lights are temperamental again but I'll sort them out.

[You]:

Don't stress it too much, okay? And eat.

[Jungkook]:

Copy that, professor.

You had smiled when you read that. Still did. A quiet little curve of your lips you didn’t bother hiding. Then he had sent a photo—one of the larger canvases half-unwrapped, sunlight catching the ridges of Minho’s brushstrokes like gold embroidery.

[Jungkook]:

Look at this.

[Y/N]:

Looks so beautiful. Everyone's gonna love it. You've done so much.

The light turned red and your father hummed to the radio while your mother picked at invisible lint on her sleeve.

[Jungkook]:

I can come get you after you're done visiting the cemetery. Just say the word.

[You]:

It’s okay. My parents are in town. I’m coming with them.

You were still staring down at the screen when your mother spoke again.“You’ve looked miles away for the last five minutes. Who’s texting you?”

You didn’t look up from your phone, but you could hear the knowing in her voice. “Oh.. it's Jungkook.”

“Ah,” she said, like that explained everything.

“He’s there already, isn’t he?” Your father asked casually.

You nodded, surprised. “Yeah, he’s… there. He’s doing a lot.”

“He always did have a stubborn streak,” your dad added. “Good head on his shoulders though."

Your mother smiled to herself. “I remember how he used to follow Minho around. And it's so beautiful now that he’s carrying so much of him forward.”

You looked down at your lap, throat tightening. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “It is.”

The car turned left and began its slow crawl into a lane that was too familiar.

You sat straighter as the car slowed, heart pulling taut in your chest, held in place by something between magnetism and memory. You recognized the bend in the road before you saw the sign—the soft flicker of gold script in the window, the sharp white glow of the "Open" sign casting its light across the pavement.

Your mother leaned forward slightly. “Oh. We’re here.”

The tires crunched over the gravel as your father pulled into the side lot. There were already several cars here, clustered neatly in crooked rows—some you recognized, most you didn’t. The gallery looked different in this light. Not the mum, plagnent space Jungkook first brought you to, that secret place where ghosts had been allowed to breathe without interruption.

the same place pulsed now. Lived.

Soft warm light spilled out of the tall windows. Music, muffled by glass, carried on the wind in threads. A little cluster of people stood out front—hands curled around invitation slips, eyes lifted toward the lettering carved into the wooden sign overhead.

You inhaled slowly.

It was still the same place you saw a month ago.

But it had opened its doors.

People had come. People would see it. His art.

The same paintings that once cluttered the corners of your apartment. That leaned against your sofa while waiting to dry. That held pieces of him—his bursts of joy, his quiet grays, his wild blues. You wondered if anyone walking past those canvases today would feel it. Would know what it cost him to bare his soul in brushstrokes.

And what it cost you to let it go.

Your mother turned to you in her seat, her hand reaching for yours, gentle.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

You nodded before you even knew if it was true. “Yeah, eomma. I’m fine.”

Your father opened his door, stepping out and stretching a little. “We’ll head in first,” he said, not unkindly. “Give you a moment if you need it.”

You managed a grateful smile. “Thanks, appa.”

The doors shut gently behind them. And for a beat, you were alone in the car, staring at the front doors of a dream made real.

Minho should be here.

That thought burned sudden and sharp and then softened into something acheful and wide. No. If love made ghosts, he’d be here already.

You reached for your bag, tugging out your compact mirror. You checked your eyes, smoothed your mouth, and whispered something into your reflection you didn’t quite hear yourself.

You abode in the stillness of the car for a few more seconds.

The engine long silenced. The peal of your parents’ voices faded into the low thrum of background music filtering through the gallery windows, the kind that belonged to wine glasses and quiet awe. The kind you imagined would play behind moments people would remember long after they forgot the taste of the wine or the exact words said.

You stored at the open doors. Arms stretched out. Yet you couldn't find it in yourself to move.Your fingers fidgeted in your lap, tracing the stitching of your coat. The sleeves of your blouse itched slightly at the wrists where your nerves collected like water pooling before a storm. You weren’t sure why your hands trembled. Maybe it was the anticipation. Maybe it was memory. Whatever it was, you had to brush past it.

You finally opened the door.

The wind greeted you with the breath of spring—soft, cool, perfumed faintly by something blooming just out of sight. The air kissed your cheeks, lifted the ends of your coat, and whispered welcome in a language only the brave know how to answer.

Your boots landed on the pavement. One step after the another. surely you remember the movement. there's only so much a day can take away from you.

The closer you walked to the entrance, the quieter the outside world became. The street behind you faded. The city paused if it could even do that. All you could hear now was the creak of wood beneath your feet as you stepped through the front doors, the soft closing of them behind you.

You found yourself in the hallway.

Long. Polished. Narrow in the way old corridors are. lit warmly with sconces that cast golden glows on textured walls. The murmur of voices came from farther in, down toward the gallery proper. That’s where everyone must be. You imagined them standing in front of the paintings, glasses of wine held loosely, their faces tilted upward in soft admiration, eyes wet in that quiet way art sometimes invited. People standing in front of Minho’s canvases and murmured things like "alive" and "honest" and "brilliant" without ever knowing the sound of his laughter.

But this hallway was empty. Or you thought it was.

You had just reached the halfway point—right where the hallway curved inward—when arms slipped around your waist from behind.

A gasp left you before your body remembered the shape of his.The scent of cedar, lavender soap, and faint varnish clung to him like an afterthought. His arms locked around you with the ease of practice but the fervor of something still new, and for a moment, the world dipped, rearranged itself around this one small plantery motion.

“There you are,” Jungkook murmured, voice rough against your ear.

You turned in his arms, your hands finding the fabric of his shirt like they’d always known how. His sleeves were rolled, just as you imagined, the fine lines of stress still etched around his brow.

His eyes met yours.

And something in your chest loosened.

"Were you looking for me?" you asked quietly.

He replied just as. "I'm always looking for you, angel." There was no flourish in the way he said it. Your breath hitched, a tiniest of movement and Jungkook watched the subtle shift of your expression like a ripple breaking the surface of water.

Gods, he thought, how could he not?

Even now, here, when there was so much else demanding his attention—guests arriving in waves, wine being poured, lights flickering again in the east wing. And still, in every room he walked into, in every face he passed, he found himself searching.

It was ridiculous, really. The way his eyes would scan the corners of the gallery and mistake someone’s hair, the tilt of a shoulder, the sound of your laugh echoing in his head like phantom static. The way his pulse leapt anytime the door opened. The way he felt incomplete if he couldn't place you in the room.

And now you were here. And the world had stitched itself back together.

You didn’t speak at first.

Not because you didn’t want to. But because your heart felt like it was still catching up after it had been walking this hallway too, trying to find its way to him.

“Well, you're the host. I'm sure you must be needed elsewhere too.” you whispered, reaching to smooth the edge of his collar.

Jungkook shook his head gently. “I'm exactly where I want to be.” His hands tightened just slightly at your waist.

He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his fingertips lingering just a beat longer than necessary.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Really okay?”

You hesitated, then whispered, “Now I am.”

He held your gaze for another moment, then dipped his head forward, just enough to press his lips to your forehead, his hands resting warm by your side. The world dimmed in that moment—just the two of you, suspended in quiet, his breath a soft punctuation at the crown of your head. But even as warmth bloomed beneath your ribs, there was a tight, pulsing thread of awareness that curled around your spine.

You stole a glance over Jungkook’s shoulder, eyes flickering to the curve of the hallway behind him—the doorway just around the corner where voices hummed, where glasses clinked, where footsteps could echo down the tile at any moment. Anyone could walk past. People with eyes and mouths and memories. Guests who knew your name. Friends of Minho’s. Colleagues. Distant family.

Anyone could turn the corner and see this—see him with you like this, your bodies tucked into each other. Your hand clenched softly into the fabric at his side. The paranoia was subtle, but it was real. It had crept in somewhere between the second kiss and the third hidden touch.

The thought made you tense, just slightly. He felt it.

“Baby.” Jungkook said, voice low, his hand drifting to the small of your back. “It’s just us.”

“Yeah, but…” Your voice trailed, lips brushing the fabric near his collarbone, your fingers curling into the cotton at his chest. “Someone might come.”

His eyes softened, though there was something that tightened at the corners giving way to a flicker of frustration he didn’t bother to hide. Not at you, obviously. He does'nt think he's capable of ever directing that at you. But at the way the world demanded so much of your caution, your retreat.

He leaned in, his nose brushing yours. "I promise. No one will."

The words curled in your ears, low and purposeful, like he’d carved them for just you. His hand slid up your back, a warm, steady line from your waist to your shoulder. You hated that you thought that they kinda do. You hated the need for shadows and how it has been shaping your frustration. How it has been shaping it in a circle so big you couldn’t tell where it started anymore. Only that it kept coming back. That it always ended with your pulse too loud in your ears and your eyes darting over your shoulder. Like what you were committing to didn’t deserve a place in the daylight.

You have also started eliminating even the possibility of the thought that it maybe didn't. Still, the guilt was no longer clean. It was clouded now, smeared at the edges with longing and the slow, terrible truth that what you had with Jungkook didn’t feel borrowed. It didn’t feel like a thing you could press back into a drawer once the moment was gone. It was the impossibility of compartmentalizing love.

Because how do you mourn someone and move toward someone else, all in the same breath? How do you walk through a gallery built from one man’s art only to fall into the arms of the man who framed it all?

It felt like it had grown roots.

And the more you buried it, the more it pulled at you.

You looked at him now—really looked. His brow furrowed slightly, not from worry but from effort. Like he was thinking, measuring, holding back the words that always swam just below the surface when you were this close.

Instead of saying any of the things tugging at the threads of your mouth, you stepped back just enough to feel the air slip between your bodies. Not far. Just enough for your hand to find his.

His fingers curled around yours instinctively. Always ready.

You looked up at him. “Is it crowded in there?”

"A little." He said. "Some of our colleagues. A few critiques."

You nodded again, absorbing that.

"None of them need to matter, yeah?" he added, searching your face, thumb skimming just beneath your eye. His next words were gentler.

You looked up then, caught the sincerity in his eyes, fought the urge to lean into his touch. Managed another nod. "Yeah...Can we stay a minute more?" The latter come out smaller than you would have expected.

“Take your time,” he nodded. "They can all wait."

You didn’t dare think about the look on his face when he had to let go of your fingers fitted around his after you said you were ready. He only offered a squeeze to your fingers and then let go with a kind of quiet reluctance, like pulling his hand out of warm water. The touch lingered, even as you stepped aside to let him lead the way. You rounded the curve of the hallway together, the voices sharpening in clarity now, glass clinking against glass, the soft rustle of shoes on polished tile growing louder until the threshold broke open and the gallery revealed itself in full.

It was no longer the dim, sacred place. It breathed differently now. Alive with soft light and the lull of conversation, with coats slung over arms and programs curled in curious fingers. Warm gold spilled from fixtures in the ceiling, catching on frames that lined the walls like punctuation. Artwork stretching in long, thoughtful rows, each canvas dressed in celebration. Of someone's unfinished story? you doubted it cared.

You stood still for a moment, toes just brushing the edge of the gallery’s threshold, eyes skimming the room as your body remembered how to belong to this space. The floors had been polished to a mirror shine. Glasses reflected in the glass cases. Someone was laughing softly by the front corner near the sculpture series.Others stood near the windows, wine glasses held delicately, murmuring words like “devastating,” “formidable,” “alive.” It wasn’t performative in a sense that you made up in your head. At least not all of it. You recognized a few of them—students, former professors, one woman who had once hosted Minho’s university exhibit and had cried at his brushwork.

You darted your gaze to Jungkook then. The way he walked just ahead of you now, poised and solid in his dark dress shirt and pressed slacks, shoulders straight, head slightly tilted to catch bits of conversation from passing guests. He looked composed. You assumed or you'd like to think so that he only bared his nerves in front of you. As if the man who used to flinch at compliments and pretend his silence was indifference had taught himself to carry meaning with quiet precision.

But then a man stepped into his path. Tall, suited, carrying a drink and the kind of posture that belonged to someone who used the word “impressionist” a little too often. His smile was sharp and familiar, one of Jungkook’s gallery donors or colleagues, you assumed. Maybe from Seoul. Maybe further. Either way, it took only a moment for you to read the shift in Jungkook’s expression—the subtle recalibration of his shoulders.

He turned to you before the man could fully pull him into conversation, fingers brushing your wrist in a barely-there promise. “I won’t be long.”

You nodded, already letting go. “Of course,” you whispered, because it was all you could offer right now, and maybe all he needed.

The man clapped Jungkook on the shoulder and pulled him aside, voice too loud and smile too bright. You watched them for half a moment—Jungkook answering politely, gaze flickering every so often in your direction like a thread trying not to fray before you eased yourself into the soft tide of the room, letting the current pull you away.

You moved carefully, politely. Like someone trying not to be noticed but still present enough not to be rude. You paused by a small table draped in navy linen, where empty glasses sat beside a quiet arrangement of baby’s breath and ranunculus. Someone offered you a flute of sparkling wine, and you accepted with a quiet smile.

You turned toward one of the walls, drawn in by a piece you hadn’t seen before; one of the mid-sized ones, full of green and amber and soft streaks of silver. The color didn’t move, it shimmered. Softly. Like someone had taken the feeling of being loved quietly and turned it into oil and canvas.

The placard below it simply read:

“Until Then.”

Minho’s signature curled in the corner, the same familiar scrawl you’d once watched him sign onto birthday cards and tax forms and the back of the fridge note that read don’t drink the milk, I’m trying to paint with it.

You had just rounded the sculpture wing—Minho’s smallest works, done in smoothed resin and wire, quiet things that bloomed under light like secrets left in the sun—when you spotted her.

Your mother, standing near the northern alcove, a glass of wine untouched in her hand, fingers curled gently around the stem like she was trying not to leave prints. She looked beautiful beneath the high arch of the window, her coat tucked neatly at her elbow, hair pinned like it always had been like she hadn’t aged a day past the first time she walked into your kindergarten recital.

You slipped beside her, your hand brushing her arm in greeting.

“Hey,” you said quietly.

She turned, her face lighting up with that familiar mix of joy and worry, the kind only a mother could balance so well. “Here you are. I was wondering if you’d gotten swallowed by the hallway.”

“Almost,” you said, managing a faint smile. “But I escaped.”

"where's dad?" you added. 'making friends I think."

Before you could respond, a familiar voice laced into the air from behind.

"Found you."

Mrs. Jeon stood a few feet away, her posture regal even beneath the soft, flattering lights. She wore navy silk—understated but elegant—and her hair was pinned in place with simple pearl combs. Always the portrait of grace, always the kind of woman who held her sorrow like a folded note in the corner of her purse: private, creased, but always within reach. of her, atleast.

Her smile, though, was real. It warmed as she drew nearer.

"Mom." You muttered in muscle memory.“I was hoping to catch you before the crowd did,” she said, pulling you in for a quick, maternal sort of hug. “You look lovely.”

“So do you,” you said honestly, letting yourself be held for the brief second she allowed.

"You look exactly the same, you witch. Do you age backwards?”

Mrs. Jeon turned at the sound of the voice she hadn’t heard in a while—one that still carried the same quiet humor, tinged with a touch of fond exasperation. Her eyes widened slightly before softening, and her expression brightened into something looser, something more like the woman she might’ve been before grief gave her bones new weight.

“Oh, look who’s talking,” she replied with a smile, already moving forward. “Still glowing like you’ve got a secret no one else knows.”

Your mother laughed as they embraced, arms curling gently around each other’s shoulders in a way that spoke of familiarity—of years stitched loosely together with holiday dinners and shared glances from opposite ends of the table.

“It’s been so long,” your mother murmured as they pulled apart. “I’m sorry it took something like this.”

Mrs. Jeon shook her head, brushing it off with a small wave of her hand. “Don’t be. You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

"It's been a long time still. When was even the last time we saw each other properly?"

Mrs. Jeon tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “Hmm—wait, there was that awful fundraiser for the community garden. The one where everyone got food poisoning from the shrimp cocktail.”

Your mother gasped. “That’s right! I completely forgot about that.” Her eyes glittered with the memory. The laugh that followed was lighter than you expected it to be. “We left early and went to get hotteok from that little cart in the alley.”

“We did,” Mrs. Jeon smiled, and something softened in her gaze, her fingers brushing absently over the pearl comb in her hair. “You know, I don’t think I’ve had hotteok since.”

For a moment, it was easy to forget the reason for this gathering. Easy to forget the weight of what this day had always meant.

These were two women who had held time in their hands and offered it gently to each other across decades. You saw it now, plain as anything—in the crinkle of their eyes, in their voices when they leaned closer, speaking not just as in-laws, but as women who had once, maybe still, shared the same kind of heartbreak no parent should have to.

“Has he come?” your mother asked softly, her tone shifting as she scanned the room briefly, no longer talking about students or fashion or time but of something more specific.

Mrs. Jeon’s expression softened, her posture stilling in that way you’d learned to recognize—when something trembled just beneath the grace. She shook her head once. "No." she said, smoothing her hand down the front of her skirt. “He wanted to come. Really, he did. But I guess he had to sit this one out." She passed you a apologetic look and you nodded in reassurance.

Your mother didn’t press either. She simply nodded, and her hand found Mrs. Jeon’s again—a squeeze, not meant to comfort so much as to acknowledge. To say, I know.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she added, turning to you, her hand squeezing your elbow briefly. “I know today couldn’t have been easy.”

"Makes the two of us, mom." You said with crinkle of your eye that earned a acknowledging smile from her.

Reaching out to adjust the collar of your coat like it was second nature, she added. “He’d be proud of you, you know. Both of you.”

You didn’t trust yourself to respond to that with anything other than a quiet, "I hope so."

She let out a breath, slow and steady. “Oh, my dear. He would.”

And then, like all good women who’ve loved and lost and laughed too hard in small corners of too-large rooms, they both smiled again.

Then Mrs. Jeon tucked her arm into your mother’s. “Come on,” she said with a small lift of her chin. “You’ve got to tell me where you found that skirt. And I need wine before I start tearing up in front of a painting again.”

"Oh I've been out of loop for years. I've got to." Your mother said and offered a hand to you. "Would you like to join us, love?"

“You should.I have stories,” Mrs. Jeon promised, and you smiled. "You two should go. I'm gonna look around a bit and try to find Mira. She's here, right?"

“Oh, I saw her by the impressionist wall earlier,” Mrs. Jeon said, glancing over her shoulder. “She looked like she was interrogating someone about varnish techniques.”

“That sounds about right,” you replied with a smile. “I’ll catch up with you both in a bit.”

They nodded, already slipping back into their quiet conversation, and you watched the two of them disappear into the soft murmur of the gallery, heads tilted together like old friends caught mid-thread. You turned then, letting yourself exhale fully for what felt like the first time since you stepped through the door.

A cello murmured somewhere over the speakers, curling between the talking here and there, and the lights glowed honey-gold against the soft canvas walls. Every corner of the room breathed with pigment. you could'nt stop noticing that.

You wandered.

Your boots tread lightly over the polished floor, hands tucked loosely in front of you, eyes scanning the crowd—pausing now and then at paintings you remembered in their messier stages: taped along the kitchen wall, hanging crooked behind your sofa, still smelling of linseed and dust. It was surreal, this setting—so curated, so clean—when you remembered the life that birthed the art was anything but.

You caught a flash of Mira’s hair through the crowd, that soft copper tone that always helped you find her in a room. You lifted a hand slightly, already beginning to weave your way toward her. But before you could call out or lift a hand in greeting, someone stepped into your periphery.

“Excuse me—are you…?”

The voice was tentative, warm with a kind of hesitant reverence. You turned, expecting perhaps one of the donors or a distant family friend, only to find a young man—tall, soft-eyed, and maybe just a little older than Minho had been when he first started teaching.

He looked vaguely familiar, though you couldn’t place him immediately. He stood with a kind of earnestness that was hard to fake, his hands clasped in front of him, suit slightly rumpled like he’d run here from the train.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, offering an apologetic smile. “You probably don’t remember me. I was one of...uh..your husband's students.”

Something gentle shifted in your chest.

“I… didn’t want to intrude,” he added. “But when I saw you, I thought—well, I hoped I could say hello.”

Your throat tightened. You tilted your head and smiled softly, gesturing toward a nearby bench nestled between two hanging pieces—one of them a landscape Minho had once painted after a rainy drive through the mountains. “You’re not intruding,” you said. “Do you wanna sit?"

He seemed almost surprised at the offer, but nodded. You watched him ease into the seat beside you, clearly trying not to take up too much space.

“What’s your name?” you asked gently.

“Jihoon,” he said. “Lee Jihoon. I took one of his electives in my final year. Painting, beginner’s level. I was…awful at it.”

You laughed quietly, a real sound. “He’d argue there’s no such thing.”

“That’s exactly what he used to say.” Jihoon grinned. “Said ‘awful’ just meant you had somewhere to go. I always remembered that.”

There was a pause, full but comfortable.

“I didn’t really know him that well,” Jihoon admitted, his voice softening. “But he remembered my name. Every single week. Asked about my projects. My mood. Even told me once that the colors I picked made him think I saw the world kindly.”

You blinked.

“Not a lot of people say things like that,” Jihoon murmured. “Especially to someone like me. I was a chemistry major—out of place, anxious, tired. Had no idea what I was doing with my life. Until I came across his class, of course."

“That’s so beautiful, Jihoon." you said, the words catching slightly on the edge of your breath. “He always did have a gift for reminding people of their light.”

Jihoon nodded. “I don’t paint anymore. But I kept the last thing I made in that class. Just a mess of color on canvas, really. But sometimes I look at it and think—he saw something in it I didn’t.”

You smiled, blinking against the warmth flooding your eyes. “He had a habit of doing that.”

Another beat passed. The murmur of the gallery swelled around you like background music scored too gently for something so profound.

Jihoon looked over at you, his expression shifting into something fragile, more careful. “I’m really glad I got to meet you,” he said. “I don’t think he ever stopped talking about you in that class. Said if we ever wanted to get him any snacks, bring lemon bars." His face lit up with a quiet smile. “He said you liked lemon better than chocolate.”

You nodded, stunned by how clear the memory was now that it had been stirred. “I did.”

“Still do?”

You lifted a shoulder, the corner of your mouth tilting upward. “Some things never change.”

Jihoon smiled at that—wide and boyish. "That's nice to know." It was gentle, the way his presence sat beside you—like he wasn’t just honoring Minho, but also everything that had grown from knowing him.

Then Jihoon exhaled, slow and almost awed, eyes drifting back across the expanse of the gallery, gaze moving reverently from frame to frame, like each canvas demanded a certain kind of silence. “This gallery… it’s really something. And it’s a beautiful thing you’ve done, putting this together.”

Your heart flinched at that—touched, yes, but instinctively you shook your head.

“Oh—no. It wasn’t me.” You paused, glancing toward the crowd again. Your gaze moved past familiar faces, past wine glasses and framed brushstrokes, until it landed on the person you had, without realizing, been looking for since Jihoon sat down.

He stood just a few feet away, near the long window where the light curved in golden arcs across the floor. He was finishing a quiet exchange with someone in a charcoal suit—one of the critics, you guessed, or perhaps a gallery curator. His posture was easy but alert, as if one part of him remained in every corner of the room at once. His sleeves were still rolled, his collar slightly unbuttoned, and you could tell just by the slight shift of his brow that he was already scanning the crowd for you again.

Of course he was.

You raised a hand and waved, catching his eye. His face lit up—not in a bright, extravagant way, but in the way only people who’d been waiting to breathe could look when they finally did.

He made his way over without hesitation.

You turned back to Jihoon as Jungkook approached, gesturing gently. “That’s who did this,” you said. “That’s Minho’s younger brother. Jeon Jungkook. He’s the one who made all this happen.”

Jihoon blinked, clearly surprised. “That’s his brother? I didn’t know he had one.”

“Not many did,” you murmured. “They were close. Complicated. But close.”

Jungkook reached your side just then, eyes flicking briefly from you to Jihoon before settling somewhere in between—calm, but attentive.

“Hey,” he said to you, his voice a quiet tether. "Everything okay?"

You smiled. “Yeah. Jungkook, this is Jihoon."

Jihoon stood up immediately, offering his hand. “Lee Jihoon, sir. I was one of Minho’s students—back in my undergrad days.”

Jungkook took the hand, gave it a firm shake. “Nice to meet you, Jihoon. I'm Jungkook."

“You too. I was just telling ma'am…” Jihoon glanced toward the paintings on the wall, his expression shifting to something a little more awed, a little more raw. “This place is really special. You’ve honored him in a way that… well, I think he would’ve loved it.”

Jungkook’s jaw tensed almost imperceptibly, but his nod was deep. “He gave us so much,” he said. “This was just… the least I could do. Thank you for coming."

You watched as they stood there, just the two of them for a moment—two people connected only through love for the same person. Different kinds of love. Different shapes. But still, deeply rooted in retention, in ache, in admiration.

Jihoon dwelled for a moment after the handshake, shifting slightly from foot to foot like there was something else he was holding on to, something not yet said. His eyes moved once more over the room—past the guests murmuring quietly before landscapes of borrowed light and rain-drenched rooftops, past the gleam of gallery sconces and the soft ripple of music weaving beneath it all. Then he turned back to you, gaze steadied by something freshly lit.

“Would it be alright,” he asked, voice tentative, “if we—if someone made a toast?”

You blinked at him, surprised.

Jihoon cleared his throat, not quite sheepish, but aware of the weight of what he was suggesting. “I know it’s not that kind of event,” he continued, “and maybe this is out of turn, but… it just feels like we should. I mean—everyone here came because they loved him. Or learned from him. Or knew someone who did. I feel like he deserves that much.”

You were quiet a moment, absorbing that. Your fingers brushed against the hem of your sleeve. Behind you, Jungkook stayed still, close but not pushing. Letting you hold this decision.

Then you smiled—softly, achingly—and looked to Jihoon. “I think he would’ve liked that.”

Jihoon let out a small breath, and for the first time since he introduced himself, his shoulders eased.

Jungkook stepped in then, his voice low as he looked between you both. “Let me get someone to quiet the room.” His hand grazed your lower back briefly before disappearing again as he made his way toward the center of the gallery, where the natural dip in sound could be coaxed into pause.

You and Jihoon watched him go.

Jihoon straightened, cheeks slightly flushed, suddenly shy. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to overstep. It was just a thought.”

“You didn’t,” you said quickly, reaching to squeeze his wrist with a gentle, grateful hand. “It was a good one.”

The lights dimmed ever so slightly in a way that pulled attention without demanding it. Conversations tapered. A curator tapped gently against the side of her glass. Heads turned.

Jihoon glanced at you again, seeking silent permission.

You gave a small nod.

And then he stepped forward, clearing his throat once. “Hi,” he said, voice steadier than you’d expected. “Sorry to interrupt.”

The small squleche that followed was expectant—not cold. Rather, waiting.

“My name’s Jihoon,” he continued, “and I was one of Professor Jeon’s students. I didn’t know him as well as some of you might have. But I think—I think that’s what made him so special. You didn’t have to know him long to feel like you did.”

A few murmurs of agreement. A rustle of someone dabbing their eye with a tissue.

“He taught one class,” Jihoon said, “and I carried the things he said with me for years after. He made you believe you were capable of softness. Of seeing the world differently. Of being part of something even when you didn’t feel like you belonged anywhere.”

You pressed your fingers lightly to your lips, blinking against the sudden sting at the corners of your eyes.

Jihoon looked down, then back up again. “So if no one minds, I’d like to raise a glass. To Professor Jeon Minho. For all the ways he made us see color in places we didn’t know to look.”

There was a quiet chorus of glasses being lifted.

“To Minho,” Jihoon said.

“To Minho,” came the soft, scattered reply.

There was a sereness after Jihoon’s final words. Not silence, exactly—but the kind of quiet that settles after something sacred has been said aloud. For one suspended moment, all you could hear was the soft creak of someone adjusting their stance, the distant clink of a glass set gently onto a tray. A man nodded solemnly, his gaze fixed on the frame nearest him—one of the softer pieces, all dusk and ripple.

And Jihoon just stood there, blinking slowly, like he was still surfacing from whatever place inside him those words had come from. And when he turned toward you, there was something unreadable in his expression. Not pressure. Not expectation.

Just… offering.

He held it out—gentle, like it might break if he wasn’t careful.

“Would you…?” he asked, voice low. “I mean—you don’t have to. But if anyone should…”

Your breath left you all at once.

A soft, dizzying rush.

As if the floor tilted beneath your shoes, and suddenly you were thirteen again, being called up to the front of a school assembly. Your palms itched. The back of your knees tensed. Your first instinct—your strongest—was to shake your head. To step away. To dissolve into the crowd and pretend you were just another guest, just another echo of Minho’s story, not the one who shared the ending.

You hadn’t spoken about him like this. Not out loud. Not in public. Not since—

Not since the funeral.

And even then, the words had been written on a crumpled sheet of notebook paper you never managed to unfold.

You swallowed, blinking past the sudden blur in your vision.

The gallery was full. Packed. Shoulders bumped. Wine was held, not sipped. People who knew you only in tangents were watching now—waiting, not rudely, but with a kind of esteem that made the room feel tighter than it was. Their gazes weren't demanding. But they were present. And that was somehow worse.

Your feet didn’t move.

Your spine stiffened instinctively, not out of pride, but fear. Fear that your mouth would open and nothing would come out. That your voice would catch on the years you spent trying to say his name without crumbling. That they would all look at you and see not a woman still grieving—but a woman trying too hard to prove she still was.

Jihoon seemed to realize it too late.

His hand faltered slightly, his brows lifting in the smallest, guilty apology.

You inhaled through your nose, sharp and steady, the sound of your own breath loud in your ears. Your heart was racing. Thundering. The edges of the room blurred just slightly, like the light had leaned in too far.

This wasn’t how you imagined tonight.

You didn’t imagine standing beneath spotlights with every gaze tipped toward you like glass waiting to crack. You didn’t imagine saying Minho's name aloud in a room full of strangers who only knew the brushstrokes, not the man.

He was yours once. That memory still felt private. Sacred. Could you really put it on display like this? Wasn’t the art enough?

Your eyes darted to the floor. To your palms. To anything but the sudden attention.

And you thought—how does one speak about a person who once turned their love into art and left you with the aftermath of their absence? How does a person speak of someone who still walks the halls of their memory like the floorboards remember his weight?

But eventually, the words would come. And they would be something like: Tentative. Threadbare. But real.

“Hi,” you'd say the word small, too soft for the space at first. You cleared your throat gently. “Um. Sorry. I—I wasn’t planning to speak tonight.”

That would get a quiet laugh from someone.

“Minho wasn’t someone you really planned things with, either,” you'd add, your lips pulling into the barest shape of a smile. “He was… spontaneous. Kind of a whirlwind, honestly. He’d forget his keys three days in a row, but remember a stranger’s birthday after overhearing it in a coffee shop.”

The room would shift slightly—leaning in.

You took a breath. Let it settle.

“My husband wasn’t just a man who painted,” you said. “He was someone who watched the world the way some people listen to music. Closely. Devotionally. He noticed things most people didn't. Messy things. Especially those, I think."

You'd managed a laugh, more breath than sound. And you'd admit, for the first time out loud that grief is messy. It’s changed shape every day. Some days it’s a stone. Some days it’s a fog. Some days it’s a balloon with a string you can’t catch.

You'd pause and you'd tell yourself it's obviously not for dramatic effect. "But tonight is different. Because of all of you. Because you came."

You looked out then, gaze landing softly on Jihoon, on your mother, on Mira’s coppery hair now stilled in the far corner. You saw faces that had once lived only on the edges of memory, now lit by gallery lamps and the weight of shared knowing.

Your eyes, though painted a picture perfect of one man alone in the crown. Found comfort when they found him only.

Standing just behind the crowd now. His hands folded calmly. His head tilted, watching you like you were the only voice in the world. And maybe, for him, you were.

"And this was possible only because of one person."

Your voice would shake—just a little. But not from fear now.

“This was made possible by someone who loved him too. Someone who saw what he meant, not just to me, but to the world. Someone who held my hand when I thought I’d never feel anything but the absence. Someone who…” A unconscious smike would tug at your lips—tired, grateful, breaking gently at the edges. “Who also happens to be my boyfriend.”

And that's the thing about adrenaline.

"Thank you, Jungkook."

Or maybe it was longing, maybe it was just exhaustion wearing a braver face. Maybe it was the ache of having stood on a ledge for so long that when your foot finally moved forward, you mistook the fall for flight.

You didn’t mean to say it.

It had curled out of your mouth before you even registered the gravity of it, like a word said often in thought but never aloud. A word with teeth and color and something terrifyingly irreversible to it. A word that had lived only in backseat glances and unspoken tendernesses, in private touches and the quietness of shared nights.

And for a moment, everything inside of you would go still.

You'd wait—rigid, breath tucked in your chest—for the ripple of it. For someone to count the months, do the math, raise an invisible hand and say what you’ve been saying to yourself every night. The inevitable shift. The stiffened gazes. The whisper sliding across someone’s tongue like a question dressed up in disapproval before they decided how to create into the dirtiest scandle.

No collective sound of gasps would come but the silence would skin you down anyways. It would echo in your blood like something impossible to take back, something that forced you to run from everyone.

You locked the stall door behind you with trembling fingers.

The click of the latch echoed too loudly in the tiled silence, as if the world wanted you to know—yes, you were alone now. Yes, you had done that. Yes, you had said it. Out loud. In a room full of Minho's memories and the people who used to call you his.

You braced your hands against the walls of the stall, palms flat against the cold tile, eyes squeezed shut.

Your breath came shallow.

God.

You were so stupid.

It played again in your head—your voice, too soft and yet entirely too clear, threading through the quell of the gallery like silk cut on glass.

Boyfriend.

You had said boyfriend.

You had said Jungkook’s name and attached boyfriend.

And though none of the terrible things you thought in your head made it out loud, silence, when it’s thick enough, is just another kind of thunder. And now it was echoing between your ribs like a bell toll.

You sank down onto the toilet lid, coat bunched beneath you, elbows on knees, forehead in your hands. Your fingers against your temples like you could keep the shame from spilling further down your face.

What had you done?

You could still feel the phantom warmth of the spotlight on your face. The taste of exhilaration clung to the back of your tongue, sharp and coppery, like you’d bitten into a secret and couldn’t spit it out fast enough.

Why hadn’t you stopped yourself?

Knowing everyone who had been there. Your parents were probably standing near the back, holding a flute of wine with both hands like they always did when trying not to look worried. fingers curled too tight, probably, lips pursesd in a expression you would recognize too well.

And Mrs. Jeon. God.

What must she be thinking?

You had loved her son. Loved him through every phase of boyhood and manhood and married years. You’d sat across from her at too many dinners to count, brought her lemon cakes on Sundays, once helped her fix her shoe in the middle of the grocery store.

And now she’d watched you turn toward the brother. Heard you name him something tender. Watched you stitch that word between your anguish and your present like you hadn’t torn anything in the process.

You had handled it fine up until then. You’d spoken about Minho. You had kept your voice steady, even when your hands had trembled. You had said the hard things—the soft things. The beautiful things. But that one word had been too much. Too fast. Too soon.

Why did you always go too far when it came to him?

And worse—why hadn’t he stopped you?

Why hadn’t he looked away when you’d looked at him?

Why had he stood there, taking it, breathing it, accepting the title like he’d been waiting for it all along?

You had thrown him into the light. You’d stepped outside the one rule you’d both kept tucked beneath your skin since this thing started.

You were so stupid.

You'd undone months of silence in one breath.

And you hated yourself for the part of you that didn't want to take it back.

Because that was the cruelest truth tucked beneath your chagrin. The real reason your stomach twisted and your heart beat so wildly it felt bruised from the inside out that maybe you hadn’t meant to say it. But you had meant it.

And now you couldn’t hide from either.

Did they think you moved on too quickly?

That you had let love grow again in the ruins?

You had wanted so badly for tonight to be about Minho.

About the way he painted loneliness like it was light filtering through stained glass. About the way he had lived—not just the way he had left.

And instead, you had made it about yourself.

About you and Jungkook and the impossible thing that bloomed between the wreckage.

You could already imagine it. The murmurs. Soft as oil and sharp as glass.

“Did you know?”

“So soon?”

“Well, he was her brother-in-law…”

Your hands curled into fists against your knees. You hated that you could hear them before they spoke. Hated even more that a part of you feared they were right. That some version of yourself had always been selfish enough to want to be held again, even if it came in a contours you weren’t supposed to take comfort in.

Even if it wore your husband’s last name.

You pressed your forehead to your palms and breathed in through your nose, sharp and careful.

You didn’t know how longer it would take for your breath to even out or more importantly, how long will it before you find the courage to step inside, face everyone.

Time slowed in the tile-slick silence. You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears, thudding out some rhythm of regret. Beneath the thin fabric of your blouse, sweat cooled over your spine, a second skin of discomfort. Your coat, wrinkled beneath you, smelled faintly of rosewater and nerves.

You stared at the hinge of the stall door like it might open on its own. Like someone would find you here and drag you gently into sense, or kindness, or forgetting.

But no one did.

Not for a while.

Not till there was a knock.

You froze instantly.

Just one. Light. Then another, softer this time, like maybe they realized what this was. A retreat. A rupture even.

You opened your mouth, voice caught in the wires of your throat, about to say—occupied—or sorry—or please go—but the voice that came next was not one you expected.

“Sweetheart?”

You blinked.

Your spine went taut, then loose, as if the air itself sighed through your bones. You pressed your palms flat against the stall wall again, steadying yourself against the name.

Not Jungkook’s. Not your mother’s.

Mrs Jeon. Oh Jesus.

You closed your eyes.

Her voice didn’t come again, but you heard the gentle scuff of her heel shift just once, as if she didn’t need to knock again. As if she already knew you were on the other side, already knew what you were doing in there. As if she had once stood exactly where you were, though not in a gallery bathroom, not in navy silk, but somewhere private and full of guilt of her own.

She didn’t rush you.

Didn’t tap her fingers against the wood or call your name again like some well-meaning warning.

Just asked for confirmation. "Are you in there?"

You lowered your hands slowly, tears unshed but dangerously close, and stared at the small strip of her shadow beneath the stall.

You wanted to bolt.

You wanted to speak.

You wanted to rewind time.

Instead you dared again and answered. "Yes."

Your voice ragged and small cracked through the silence like a thread fraying loose again.

“…Did you hear it?”

There was a long pause.

“Yes.”

Your stomach flipped.

Another breath drew.

“Do you think less of me now?”

It took her a moment. But when she answered, it was without hesitation.

“No.”

She didn’t say it’s okay. She didn’t say I understand. She didn’t reach for platitudes or soft versions of a dejection you both carried like broken mirrors. She simply answered what you’d asked. Somehow that was what made your throat cave in.

“I was twenty-four,” she said, almost conversationally. “When I said something like that."

You blinked.

“It was a dinner party. The first one I attended. I said it too easily. Laughed like it meant nothing. But it did.”

Another pause. Then:

“I threw up in the bathroom afterward. Swore I’d never go to another dinner again.”

You felt your lips twitch—wet with something like a laugh, but broken at the edges.

“Did you go to another one?”

She hummed softly. “Eventually. You do things again. Not because you stop feeling, but because feeling changes. Becomes something you live with, not something you live inside.”

The silence that followed didn’t hurt the same way anymore.

When she spoke again, her voice was nearer to the door, like she had leaned just slightly in.

“Come out when you’re ready, sweetheart. I’m right here.”

Then her heels clicked softly against the tile, retreating with the same grace she always wore.

And for the first time since stepping into the bathroom, your breath moved all the way through your chest.

You weren’t sure how long you sat there after her footsteps faded.

A minute? Five? The kind of silence that doesn't tick, but swells. It filled the corners of the room, the hollow just beneath your ribs. You listened to it. To your breathing. To the subtle shift of water in the pipes behind the wall. You focused on the small things, the mundane ones—just long enough to believe the larger ones might not crush you once you stood.

Eventually, your knees cracked softly as you rose.

Your coat shifted around your hips. Your hands reached for the lock. A breath before the click. Another after. You opened the door slowly, stepped into the stillness of the restroom like someone learning how to inhabit her own skin again.

The light outside the stall was unforgiving, but Mrs. Jeon was not.

She stood a few steps away, hands folded gently in front of her, her shoulders soft with patience. And when her eyes met yours, she didn’t search your face for shame or answers.

She only opened her arms.

And you stepped in like a child too old to be held, but still needing to be.

The smell of her perfume—something floral and faintly spiced—wrapped around you like memory. Her arms didn’t grip. They gathered. And somehow, the simple weight of that embrace unspooled something inside your chest that panic hadn’t quite broken yet.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean any of it. I swear, I was trying so hard to be careful. I know how it must look. I know—”

She pulled back just enough to see your face, her hands still resting on your arms.

“Honey,” she said, voice quiet, eyes impossibly kind, “you’re talking like you’ve committed a crime.”

You flinched. “But I—God, I've been keeping this from you and everyone for so long. That doesn't feel fair."

“People who already knew,” she said gently.

You blinked. “What?”

She gave you a look—dry, fond, just the tiniest bit wry. “Darling, please. You think none of us noticed the way my son looks at you like he’s one second away from his heart bursting?” She squeezed your arms. “You said it. That’s all. You didn’t invent it tonight.”

You bit your lip. Shook your head like it might keep the tears from cresting again. “I thought I heard someone say something. A woman—by the back wall. She said something like… like it didn’t take me long.”

“Oh, that,” Mrs. Jeon said lightly, brushing your hair back as if to say not worth it. “You mean the one in the red shawl with the loud opinions and the knockoff purse?”

You blinked, stunned by the precision.

“She said something awful,” you whispered.

“I’m sure she did,” she said. “Right before Jungkook told her if she so much as muttered another syllable in his girlfriend's direction he’d personally make sure her husband’s antique store on Fifth lost its foot traffic forever.”

Your mouth parted. “He—what?”

Mrs. Jeon gave an elegant shrug, smoothing the sleeve of her jacket. “He was polite about it. But it was... unmistakable.”

You blinked again, and the breath that escaped you was half-laugh, half-sob. “Of course he did.”

“He’s terribly protective,” she said, glancing at you with a smile that was a little too knowing. “Gets that from his mother.”

It took you a moment to laugh—really laugh—but when you did, it broke through like sunlight behind thunderclouds.

“I just… I don’t want people to think I forgot Minho.”

She tilted her head, her hand coming up to smooth your hair behind your ear. “Sweetheart. No one who’s ever known you could think that. Least of all me.”

You looked down, voice low. “I didn’t want tonight to be about me.”

“It wasn’t.”

You met her eyes.

"What about my parents?" you asked quietly, your voice catching on the question like it had been waiting there all along. “Did they look mad? Disappointed?”

Mrs. Jeon gave a soft sigh, the kind that came from years of reading rooms, faces, silences. Her hand smoothed down your arm like she was pressing a wrinkle from cloth, calming you in increments.

“They’re planning to talk to Jungkook,” she said simply, brushing invisible lint from your shoulder. "Having a word with him, to be exact."

Your breath caught. “Oh god.”

Mrs. Jeon gave a small, amused shake of her head. “Don’t worry. I'm sure they're just making sure he treats their daughter right." She paused. “They’re not angry. I promise you that. A little surprised, perhaps. But not angry. No one's angry with you."

She staryed again.“I told her I’d beat her to it,” she said simply. “Can’t have him thinking he’s off the hook just because he's all grown up in a suit."

Your mouth opened, then closed. “You’re serious.”

“As a heart attack.”

You nodded slowly, absorbing it, but your hands still clutched the edge of the sink like they needed something real to tether you.

A silence passed between you, then two. You tried to swallow the knot forming at the base of your throat, but it was impossible to hide the flush rising in your cheeks. Your voice came small, hesitant. “You’re… really okay with this?”

Mrs. Jeon looked at you in that particular way only someone who’d known you through every winter and every spring could. She reached forward and took your hand. Held it firmly.

“You tell me something,” she said, and her voice was quieter now, careful in the way it stepped into the softest parts of you. “Are you happy?”

Your eyes met hers.

The word hovered in your chest, terrified and blooming all at once.

You bit your lip, shoulders curling in, and nodded—small at first, then a little more certain. “Yes,” you whispered.

Mrs. Jeon let out a slow breath, like she’d been waiting to hear it for longer than she let on.

“Then that’s all that matters.”

You looked at her, eyes glassy.

“It was about time,” she said, smoothing a strand of hair away from your face again. “About time you finally put that poor boy out of his misery.”

You groaned in exasperation. "Mom!"

She laughed, not cruelly, but full of something knowing and warm. "What? Not my fault he was so obvious before he even knew how to spell your name properly.”

You smiled again. Free and a little stunned by how light your chest suddenly felt.

“Come on,” she said, smoothing her skirt with one hand and tugging your arm with the other. “Let’s go rescue him from whatever emotional purgatory he’s pacing through in that hallway.”

You let her pull you forward but you don’t get to rescue your boyfriend. You're rather met with a very heartbroken Mira who demands answers and pulls you away before you can even get the chance too.

She stepped back, pulled out her phone, and dialed with the urgency of a 911 operator.

“Hobi?” she said when the line picked up. “Yeah, hi, I know you’re probably making out with your date or something, but this is an emergency.”

You blinked. “What are you doing?”

She gave you a look. “You said you needed a drink, right?”

“…I did, but—”

“Well then.” She turned slightly away. “You’re not going back anywhere tonight until you explain everything to me in the proper setting, which is clearly a bar with sticky menu. Hobi? Yeah. Bring your wallet."

You watched her hang up and start marching toward the coat check like a woman with a mission. And you followed because this was the girl who’d held your hair back and fed you soup in silence the first week after Minho died. The one who knew when to fight, when to joke, and exactly when to say nothing at all.

The bar Mira chose was exactly what you needed and absolutely what she promised: questionable neon signage, vinyl booths held together with decades of duct tape and bad decisions, and a jukebox that alternated between early 2000s heartbreak anthems and ABBA on repeat. The air smelled like lemon-scented cleaner that didn’t quite mask the ghost of spilled beer, and the lighting was so dim you could’ve sworn everyone wore built-in Instagram filters.

You slid into the corner booth, coat still damp from the walk over, cheeks raw from wind and embarrassment, and Mira slid in across from you like she was preparing for a high-stakes interrogation.

Hoseok arrived moments later, hair wind-swept and cheeks pink from the cold, looking far too good to be in a place with this much wallpaper peeling off the walls. He dropped into the booth beside Mira with the chaotic energy of someone who had just abandoned a very flirty date and wasn't over it.

“Boyfriend?" he said in lieu of hello. "Why am I not suprised that Mr firm hands is the boyfriend?"

You gave him a look. “Are you… judging me?”

“Oh no,” he said, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Not judging. Just trying to understand how I didn’t know this was happening.”

“You were busy dating someone named Seulgi who calls you ‘sunbeam’ and posts about her salads on Instagram,” Mira shot back, flagging down a waiter with a sharp flick of her fingers. “Now respectfully shut up and let her talk.”

You stared down at the menu, even though it was mostly beer stains and crossed-out prices. Mira reached over and gently pulled it from your hands. “You don’t need this. You need fries, something fried, and probably a little tequila.”

“Tequila?” you murmured.

“Don’t argue with the doctor,” Hoseok added, even though Mira was most definitely not a doctor.

The drinks arrived fast—too fast, which meant they were going to taste like regret—and a bowl of over-salted fries landed in the middle of the table with a satisfying clatter.

You sipped your drink slowly, felt the warmth of it bloom at the back of your throat, and only then let yourself exhale.

“It wasn’t—God, it wasn’t like that,” you said, palms out now, defensive and pleading all at once. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you. It just happened. And then it kept happening. And then suddenly it felt like telling anyone would break it. Ruin everything.”

Mira stared at you, all righteous betrayal and mascara-smudged emotion. Her voice cracked just a little when she said, “But me?”

You let out a shaky exhale, your voice breaking into something small, something that couldn’t be smooth no matter how you tried. “I didn’t not trust you. Please don’t think that. I was scared.”

“Scared of me?”

“No,” you said softly, “of saying it out loud. Sorry, it sounds pitiful."

Mira studied you for a long breath. Then, like she’d squeezed all the anger out of her in one long sigh, she deflated a little. She still looked hurt, but her eyes softened.

“I should’ve told you,” you said quietly. “I just didn’t know how.”

She stared at you for a long moment, then slid her glass aside and reached across the table. “I’m still mad,” she said, “but I love you. And I’m glad you didn’t end up in a fling with those dates they used to send you on. Yikes! At least you picked Jungkook. Who clearly worships the ground you walk on.”

“Oh, I bet.” Hoseok added, “don't know him much but oh, I bet."

You winced or flushed but you wouldn't like to use that word. “That’s not—”

“He does,” Mira said, crossing her arms. “He did. Everyone saw it. Except you, apparently. Until now.”

“look,” you said defensively. “I just… I didn’t think it’d become anything.”

Mira made a sound that was equal parts sympathy and exasperation. “Yoongi told me years ago,” she said, picking up a mozzarella stick and pointing it at you like a weapon. “Said something like, ‘Your friend’s maybe as oblivious as she pretends. But my cousin’s a lost cause.’”

"Your husband speaks?" Hoseok snorted into his glass.

That earned him a punch to the side. He groaned so dramtically the five people in the space turned around. You wrapped your fingers around the base of your glass and stared into the fizzing surface. God, you loved them.

“I just didn’t want it to look like I was replacing him,” you murmured, not looking up. “Minho.”

Mira’s teasing stilled. Hoseok’s posture softened.

“You’re not,” Mira said, and her voice was quieter now. “And anyone who thinks you are can choke on their free gallery wine.”

“I’m serious,” you said, twisting the glass between your hands.

Mira tilted her head, one of her hands coming to rest gently over yours. "So am I. I almost dropped my canape when you said it. I even grabbed the old lady next to me.”

"That sounds very serious." Hoseok expressed.

You laughed, reluctantly. “I’m glad,” Mira said, serious again. “Even if I hate that you didn’t tell me, and I will absolutely be holding it over your head until the day we die. I’m glad. Because you’re here. Laughing. Smiling."

You reached for a napkin and dabbed at your eyes. “Thanks.”

And after that—after the napkin had soaked up the last streak of guilt, after Mira’s hand squeezed yours a little tighter, and Hoseok slid a second shot glass in your direction with all the pomp of a coronation—the night began to dissolve in that peculiar, beautiful way nights do when something heavy has been named and nobody lets go.

You drank.

And even that seemed like a understatement.

Not to forget anything but to remember yourself. The version of you that wasn’t shadowed by what you were afraid people would say. The one who dared to call someone hers in a room full of ghosts and memories and didn’t completely fall apart after.

It was baffling.

It was miraculous.

And, God, it was exhausting.

The drinks made everything blur—delightfully at first, then in a way that made your friends exchange glances. You heard Mira say something like “She’s cut off after this one,” and Hoseok immediately counter with “Let her live,” and then you couldn’t hear them anymore because the bar’s speakers erupted into some throaty love song.

Your cheek pressed against Mira’s shoulder for a while, though you couldn’t recall when it landed there. She’d draped your coat over your knees like a blanket and was scrolling through photos on her phone with Hoseok, both of them whisper-laughing, passing the screen back and forth like teenagers.

You looked at them, and something inside you melted—not from the alcohol, not from the bar’s molten heat though that was quiet unbearable too—but from the simple fact of being held.

A feeling you hadn’t known two nights ago, two years back. The universe hadn’t cracked open and swallowed you whole. The chandelier hadn’t fallen from the ceiling. No one had thrown wine at your face or cornered you near the shrimp cocktail with cruel questions about the morality of love.

Instead, the world pitched ever so slightly to the left every time you blinked. The jukebox had moved on to Fleetwood Mac now—some slow, melancholy guitar that wrapped around your temples like gauze. You couldn’t feel your legs. Or maybe you could. They just didn’t want to move.

The fry basket had long since turned cold, and your drink—whatever remained of it—sat abandoned in front of you, a wedge of lime floating like a lifeboat in stormy water. You blinked down at it and considered saying something. Couldn’t remember what.

“Okay,” Mira said, voice low but distinctly not subtle, “that’s enough for her.”

You lifted your head, eyes heavy-lidded. “Wha—? No. M’fine.”

“Sure you are,” she muttered, already pulling her phone out of her coat pocket. “And I’m the queen of France.”

“I am fine.” You sat up straighter, blinked hard at her, as if that proved something. The booth spun gently. “Mmmfine,” you mumbled. “Jus’ warm. Floor’s doing a little… wavy thing.”

Hoseok’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s not the floor. That’s your tequila tangoing with the bad decisions.”

Mira gave him a look before pulling her phone out of her purse.

“Noooo,” you groaned, pawing at her wrist with absolutely no coordination. “Don’t. I’m fine. I’m just… appreciating...”

“You’re appreciating everything too much,” Mira muttered, unlocking her phone with her thumb. “He deserves to know.”

You blinked blearily. “Who?”

She didn’t answer you. Thumbs tapping furiously. You tried to grab her wrist, missed by a margin you weren’t proud of. Just pressed the phone to her ear and stood from the booth, pressing one finger into her other ear to muffle the noise of the bar.

You slumped back, staring at your half-finished drink like it had betrayed you. Hoseok reached over and silently took it away.

“Miraaaa,” you called, dragging her name like a scarf behind you. “She’s being… dramatic. Over…reacting. I could walk home.”

Hoseok said, “you just mistook a fork for your phone.”

You stared at the table. “...Did I?”

He nodded solemnly. “Twice.”

“Jungkook,” Mira said sweetly into the phone now pressed to her ear, “hi. Yeah, she’s—no, no, she’s alright. We’re at that little dive near the station. You know the one with the broken neon cactus sign? Yeah. She’s, um…” A glance at you, hunched like a tragic poet over the tabletop. “She’s had a night.”

You sat up with all the indignation of a drenched cat. “A night?” you hissed.

Mira patted your shoulder. “Don’t worry. He said he’s on his way.”

You blinked, your voice in unison with Hoseok���s. “Already?”

"Already." Mira echoed.

You groaned and buried your face into her shoulder again. “Noooooo.”

“Yes,” she cooed. “Yes, ma’am."

You let out a slow, melodramatic exhale, sliding lower in the booth, your face half-buried in your coat. “This is humiliating.” You didn’t say anything after that. You couldn't and you didn't think you could even hear when the door to the bar creaked open. Not really.

The world had dulled to a low, sluggish hum, softened by liquor and dim light and the weight of your own mortification. But Hoseok glanced up, muttered something under his breath about “the cavalry,” Mira lifted her head, glanced over your shoulder, and then tilted her chin in that way that always meant: look sharp.

Not that you could.

You barely had time to blink before you caught the scent of him.

Jungkook’s cologne always managed to find you first—cedar and lavender, dusk and heat. Then the weight of his presence settled behind you like gravity, and before you could lift your head or find your voice, his shadow stretched over the booth.

His eyes found Mira first. A curt nod. Grateful. Barely spared Hoseok a glance. Hoseok looked almost grateful for it.

“Thanks for calling,” he murmured.

Mira didn’t flinch beneath his seriousness. “Thanks for coming,” she replied simply, standing up and gathering your coat like a reflex.

You stirred at that, blinking up at the blur of black shirt, rolled sleeves, and the soft fall of dark hair just slightly wind-tousled. He looked unfairly beautiful for someone who'd just found you curled into a booth like a regretful blanket. His jaw was set tight, you really hoped it was not anger.

He didn’t glance around. Didn’t blink against the tacky lighting or the low thrum of music. Just made a beeline toward your side of the booth, and for one breathless moment, you thought maybe he’d try to coax you out gently.

Instead, he looked down at you—your ridiculous half-hunched self curled in a coat that had long since become your second skin—and without preamble or ceremony, he scooped you up. Just like that.

Just a sure, practiced ease, like he’d been doing this for lifetimes. Like the world made more sense when you were in his arms and he didn’t have to guess where you were anymore.

You yelped.

He didn't say anything, just adjusted your weight slightly and wrapped his coat tighter around you.

But you felt the slow exhale he gave through his nose.

Not a sigh. Something closer to relief.

He tilted his head to Mira again when she spoke.

Mira’s expression had softened. “Don’t forget to make her eat something. And maybe—y’know—hydration?”

“I’ve got it.”

You were already half asleep against him.

Half awake.

All warmth and clumsy enegry, with your head tucked beneath his chin, the wind nipping at your cheeks while your fingers curled into the front of his shirt like some last-minute apology stitched into cotton. The air outside the bar was bitter enough to bite the inside of your lungs, and it sobered you in slivers—slow, fogged pieces of clarity threading through the haze like dawn slipping between window blinds.

But neither of you said anything.

He didn’t look down at you.

He didn’t speak.

Only the faint sound of his boots hitting pavement filled the space—cadenced, unbothered, maddening in its calm.

You let your cheek fall heavier against his chest, where his heart should’ve been louder. But it wasn’t. It was steady. Frustratingly so.

Your lips brushed against the fabric of his collar. You felt his heartbeat pick up. It felt charged now, as if both of you had bad thoughts trying to form, pushing through the quiet in crooked shapes and half-decisions.

You wanted to say something.

You wanted not to say something.

Your mouth tastes like tequila and fear and bad timing. God, you were all about bad timings today, weren't you?

You turned your head slightly, breath catching on the scent of him. The movement made your stomach sway, but you managed.

You swallowed. "Koo?" You asked in a voice barely above the wind. The nickname slipping out thick and syrupy from your mouth. The sober you would have winced at yourself the second it did.

Good thing you were not.

Before there was an audible response, you heard the sound of his breath catching. Muttering a incohered curse under his breath. "Yes, angel?"

You fiddled with the fabric of his shirt where your fingers rested. “Y-You mad at me?”

He didn't answer at first. His jaw tensed once, twice, the movement as familiar as the sound of your voice laced with slur and shame.

His eyes stayed forward. Watching the parked cars blur past like it mattered more than the conversation pressing in the air between you. Watching the lines in the concrete like they might give him something to focus on other than the pounding of his pulse.

Because your question so slurred and soft and soaked in all the wrong kinds of courage had landed somewhere sharp in him. Not painful, exactly. But startling. Like someone tapping on glass that had long since been sealed shut.

“Are you asking me that because you got drunk?"

"I'm not too drunk-" You mumbled, trying to line your spine straighter and immediately regretting it when your vision swans. "I mean, yeah, okay, I'm a bit- I mean I drank but that's not what I meant.

"What did you mean?" He asked, not unkindly. Voice low, like he already knew but needed you to say it again anyway. Needed to hear it from your own clumsy, slurred lips.

“I meant—fuck.” You groaned, dropping your forehead against his collar. "for what I did. Back there. At the gallery.”

It had rung through him with the violence of something gentle. And that was the worst kind, wasn’t it? The soft truths. The ones you didn’t brace for.

He had spent so long keeping this thing quiet; out of respect, out of fear, out of the twisted need to protect what didn’t yet have a name. He had convinced himself it was better that way. That if he never said it out loud, he couldn’t lose it. That the world couldn’t break what the world didn’t know existed.

And then you’d just carved him into your life liturgy. The only that he'd felt was unhooked.

God, how were you still scared of that? How could you not see it still?

Your hair smelled like lemon shampoo and something warm. sugar, maybe. Your breath still carried the ghost of tequila and lime and the kind of boldness people only conjure up when they don’t think they’ll remember it later.

He felt you pick nervously at the seam of his collar, like maybe that was safer than looking at his face.

You didn’t know that he’d replayed your voice a hundred times already.

Didn’t know that when you said it. His entire body had stilled. Had gone hot, then cold, then weightless.

You didn’t know that it had taken everything in him not to walk across that gallery and kiss you in front of everyone. The urge was so strong, the relief was so overwhelming that it had nearly leveled him.

And still, here you were fearing the thing he had dreamed of.

He finally spoke.

“Angel,” he said, voice low, careful, “I have been yours for a long time. I thought about it. Dreamed of hearing you call me that for longer than I’ll ever admit. Over dinner maybe. But I don't care where it happened."

You went still in his arms.

He tilted his head, just enough to brush his cheek against your hair.

“I’m not mad,” he said again, softer now. "I'm fucking elated." He rasped low, one hand tightening on your thigh, the other cradling your back like a secret. "And I'm just trying not mess it up."

Before you could make more of the latter, his parked car came in view.

The door clicked open, leather and warmth spilling into the night. He placed you into the passenger seat like you were made of glass—though that was nothing new. He always held you like that. As if the ache in you had a physical symmetry, and he was the only one allowed to carry it.

And maybe it was the night, or the alcohol still warm in your veins, or the sheer disbelief that your world hadn’t crumbled after your confession. But you believed him.

You slumped into the seat, curling into the warmth of his coat that he hung around your shoulders, the hem pooled at your lap like a blanket.

“so…you still wanna be my boyfriend?”

He laughed—really laughed this time, soft and low, one hand bracing on the top of the car door. Then he leaned in, pressed a kiss to your temple, and whispered.

“Forever, if you’ll have me.”

When he finally closed the door and climbed into the driver’s side, the cabin filled with that muted, in-between silence. The kind where things weren't okay yet—but maybe on their way.

The heater came on with a soft whir, chasing off the cold from your knees. You barely noticed it, half curled beneath his coat, one boot unbuckled and heel slipping off as your foot tucked up against the seat like you had no intention of looking composed.

Outside, the streetlights blurred through the window. Pale yellow and blinking, like they couldn’t quite keep their eyes open either. The windshield fogged a little from your breath, everything smudging into something dreamlike and quietly unreal.

You didn’t speak for a moment. Just watched the haze of the window, your cheek nestled into the fleece of his coat collar. But your chest was loud. Restless.

Because for all the softness he wrapped you in, for all the peace you should’ve felt, you couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that if tonight hadn’t gone like it did, you might still be pretending you were just shadows again. That this wasn’t real.

Your fingers clenched gently at the hem of his sleeve where it had fallen across your lap. You sat there like that for a while, quiet and too full of all the wrong questions. Only to repeat.

"Koo?"

Your voice, thick with exhaustion and treacly from the weight of everything you’d drunk and everything you hadn’t said.

He hummed, fingers flexing against the steering wheel, gaze flicking toward you but not quite leaving the road yet.

You turned your head slowly toward him, your forehead creasing a little as the warmth from the heater tangled too hot against your cheek. “I… I don’t wanna go home.”

The words were blurry. Fumbling. Like they’d been handed to you in pieces and you hadn’t had time to stitch them back together.

But they were true. That they were.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just glanced at you from the corner of his eye. A muscle in his jaw ticked, and you watched the careful tension in his knuckles where they wrapped around the wheel.

You bit your lip. “Not—not forever. Just. Y’know. Just not… tonight."

You sniffled once, rubbing at your nose like a child, embarrassed by the confession but too drunk to walk it back. “Please don’t take me home.”

Jungkook exhaled softly. A sound that felt too much like relief for someone being asked for something so heavy.

“Good thing,” he said at last, turning the car down a different street, his voice curling warm and dry like smoke in your ear, “I’ve got a habit of taking you anywhere but.”

You sighed, relaxing deeper into the seat. “You’re not real,” you murmured. “You're… like. A fever dream. With like really... good cologne.”

Jungkook chuckled lowly, eyes flicking to your profile again, this time longer. “Drunk you’s a menace.”

“I'm sensitive,” you corrected, slurring. “Be nice.”

He reached across the console and found your hand without even looking. Threaded his fingers through yours and held it there like it was always meant to be.

“I am,” he said. “Always.”

“Your nose,” you whispered, studying him like you were discovering the shape of him for the first time. “It’s really pretty. Like. Like you paid someone. But you didn’t, did you? That’s just you.”

He bit back a laugh. “That’s just me, angel.”

You poked the tip of it with the gentleness of a feather. “Insulting.”

“Deeply.”

And then you kissed it.

Quick. Clumsy. The faintest press of lips to the slope of bone. Like you were branding him with your approval.

“Drunk,” he murmured, but he didn’t sound annoyed. If anything, he sounded like he was retaining you.

You nestled your face into his neck again, legs wrapped tight around his torso with his palms supporting your weight hanging off of him. Docking you to him the moment he slipped the car into some underground garage and stepped out without a word, circling to your side. Didn’t even wait for permission. Apparently when you flinched with a tiny sound, then whined when your limbs refused to cooperate was reason enough. You were up in his arms again before the cold could touch your ankles, the world tilting briefly before settling against his chest. You had blinked, dazed, then turned your face upward. “Warm,” you replied.

Jungkook made a noise that was halfway between a laugh and a sigh, the kind of sound someone makes when they’re trying not to fall even deeper in love than they already have.

You hummed a note of agreement, then leaned forward and pecked the tip of his nose again like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Boop.”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, and kept walking, a little faster now.

The lobby was sleek and quiet, lit low with ambient light that glittered off the marble floor. A sleepy doorman nodded as Jungkook passed. You didn’t even ask where you were until the elevator opened directly into a hallway with only one door, black, modern, heavy. You blinked as he shifted you gently in his arms and pressed the keypad. The soft chime of the lock sliding open echoed too loudly in your ears.

“Where…” You blinked again as he nudged the door open with his shoulder. “Where are we?” This wasn’t your apartment. This wasn’t his parent's place. Did'nt exactly look like a hotel or if it was it was a really expensive one. This wasn’t anything you knew.

He set you down slowly—like a ribbon being untied—and turned on the light with a quiet flick of his fingers. Warm, dim lighting spilled into the room, softening everything to velvet edges. The floor beneath your boots was heated tile. The couch in the center of the room was oversized, draped in soft gray throws. There were no bright colors. No screaming art. Just low lines of furniture, oak and ash tones, clean details that whispered instead of shouted. You could see hints of habit: a stack of books with bookmarks poking out crookedly near the couch. A worn mug sitting on the edge of a console table. A leather jacket flung across a chair like it belonged there. Which it probably did.

There was a piano by the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Of course there was a piano.

You stood still, swaying gently in your own boots, the air too warm against your skin now after the chill of the street. You stared across the space with wide eyes, lips parted, trying to absorb the fact that you’d never stepped foot in this place, and yet… there was something terribly intimate about it. About all of it.

It looked like somewhere important people lived. Or people who wanted to be left alone.

You moved forward carefully, shrugging out of his coat and draping it over the arm of the couch like you were afraid to wrinkle anything. The floors were silent beneath your boots, and the air had the clean scent of lemon balm and something else you couldn’t name something earthy. Sage, maybe.

You turned toward the open kitchen across the loft just in time to catch the warm flick of the fridge light opening. Jungkook stood there sockedfeet now, sleeves still rolled, a glass in one hand and the other pushing aside a cabinet door.

And your eyes stuttered. Not at him. (You’d long since gotten used to the way he looked like sin and salvation in dim light.)

But at the contents of the cabinet. You swear you just got a peak of dozens of tea boxes. Not just one brand or two—but everything from supermarket bags to specialty tins, chamomile to lavender to citrus blends. Lined like he’d been collecting them, like someone who maybe didn’t even drink tea but wanted to be prepared in case someone who did ever stayed the night.

He poured the water.

Set the glass down.

And only then turned to you.

You were still staring.

His brow lifted slightly, but he didn’t speak.

You felt suddenly too sober. Or maybe just drunk in a different way now. “What… is this place?”

Jungkook stilled.

It was a half-second pause small, almost imperceptible but you caught it. The way his hands slowed, the way his eyes darted once toward the far window before coming back to you.

He wiped his palm on a dish towel, came around the counter, and set the glass gently in your hands. You took it, grateful for something to focus on. It was cool and smooth and anchored you just enough.

"it’s… it’s really…” You looked around again. “Expensive-looking.”

Jungkook ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching in the strands at the back then the same hand reached out to steady your elbows like he didn’t trust you not to float away. His voice, when it came, was low. Soft in that Jungkook way like gravel dragged through silk.

“I bought it,” he said. “Next day after the night at Kim's."

Your brows pulled together slowly.

“It was impulsive,” he admitted. “Probably stupid. But I couldn’t sleep. I felt like I needed to make space for something that might never happen." He needed to make space for the possibility of you. Because who was Jeon Jungkook if not the most hopless of case when it comes to you.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

“I didn’t know if I’d ever get to bring you here,” he said, eyes not quite meeting yours. “But I bought it anyway.”

You blinked slowly, piecing the words together. Your fingers lifted to press against your lips, as if trying to feel the echo of what you’d confessed there.

“This is yours?” you asked, like it still didn’t quite make sense.

He only said the simplest of truths. "It can be ours."

It felt too big for the room and too small at the same time.

“ours?” you repeated, tasting it.

He gave you a crooked smile, faint and self-conscious. “Well. That was the hope.”

Your heart tripped somewhere in your chest.

You looked around again, slower this time. Noticed the wine glasses above the sink, still drying. A photo frame faced down on the side table like it hadn’t been ready to be displayed yet. A stack of takeout menus in the corner, one with a smudge of sauce on it. A blanket draped over the back of the couch, creased like someone had slept there recently.

“Have you… stayed here?”

He nodded once. “Sometimes. When I needed to breathe." When he wanted to imagine you in here.

He didn't plan to tell you that part.

The truth of how often he came here, and you were in every corner of it.

He watched you now, standing there in the soft yellow glow of pendant lights, barefoot on the tile with your hair a little wild, your eyes flicking from one piece of furniture to the next like they were giving away secrets. And Jungkook—God, Jungkook had never known what it meant to wrench quietly until he imagined you here for the first time. Until he watched you exist in a space he had once only filled with feasibility.

He had picked that couch because it looked like it could hold two people who didn't mind tangling legs. Had stood in the kitchen and wondered if you'd drink your coffee by the window. Had stared at the second drawer by the bathroom sink and thought, that’s where she could keep her earrings.

He didn’t say any of that.

Didn’t confess the way he’d lain on that very couch more than once, staring at the ceiling and trying to imagine what your laugh would sound like bouncing off these walls.

He hadn’t wanted to jinx it. But he’d wanted it.

He still did.

“Were you gonna tell me? About this place?”

He smiled a little—wry, sheepish. “Eventually.”

“Why wait?”

“Because,” he said, stepping closer, “I didn’t want to give you something you didn’t ask for. Not unless you were ready to want it, too. Was'nt that right?"

Then, without meaning to, you took a small step forward and wrapped your arms around his waist. Clung. He didn’t hesitate. His arms were around you in a second. One hand cupped the back of your head, the other pressing gently against your spine.

You buried your face into the soft black cotton of his shirt. “I feel… dizzy.”

“From the alcohol?” he asked, a barely restrained urgency in his voice.

“No.” You turned your cheek against him. "This is just..really dreamy. Yeah. Really dreamy."

He heaved out a breath and started started rocking you back and forth against him in an missable motion. "Sure, angel? You like it?" He asked for confirmation. He didn't bother hiding his need for reassurance in front of you. And you don't mind giving him so. You nod with confidence.

He huffs a soft chuckle. "You haven't seen the half of it. Maybe you won't like the colors. We can change them if that's what you'd like. Add plants." His voice spilled low against the crown of your head. An offering disguised as a list of design choices. But you knew what he meant. You heard it tucked between every carefully placed word.

Let’s make a life here.

Let’s try. Together.

Your face pressed to the slope of his chest, listening to his heartbeat carry the words he didn’t yet say aloud. Your arms looped tighter around his waist, fingers bunching the back of his shirt like you might fall through the floor otherwise.

"We can do whatever we want." he murmured, then exhaled like something eased in him. "All the little, big things. Do you ever wanna get a pet?"

You bobbed your head with far too much enthusiasm. "Absolutely! We could get a dobermoon! You once said you always wanted that!"

"I did." He smiled gently.

Your mouth twitched, and you didn’t mean to smile—but you did. It bloomed slow and sleepy across your face, the kind of smile that couldn’t be helped. “And what else?”

He was still swaying you—slow, steady movements, his hands warm at the small of your back. It took you a moment to realize what he was doing, what the motion even was. You blinked, nose brushing the side of his neck. “Wait,” you whispered, a soft snort cracking loose. “What are you doing?”

Jungkook tilted his head down, eyes meeting yours, glittering a little under the golden pendant light. “I just realized,” he said, and his voice was so low, so unbearably soft, you almost didn’t catch it, “I never got to dance with you at your wedding.”

You blinked, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with that dizzy kind of drunk only heartbreak and hope could cause. “You left before the music started.” You pouted against his chest.

“I know.” His hand found hers. “Can I have one now?”

You burst out laughing, giddy and golden. The thought of so that's how your laugh sounds bounching around the walls came paired with If he could have bathe in the sound of it he would for the rest of his life. “There’s no music.”

He tilted his head. “There’s you.” With a theatrical sigh, you let him slip all around you. It was unsteady, like gravity had forgotten you tonight, yet just like gravity; the way you fit against was a contradiction. All too well. All too comforting.

He moved you slowly, in wide, meandering arcs, like your bodies weren’t bound to tempo or beat, just to each other. You stepped on his toes once. Maybe twice. Your sock slipped on the smooth floor and you cursed under your breath. He caught you, hands tightening with the kind of tenderness that made you want to cry.

“Oops,” you muttered.

“You're Graceful,” he murmured, voice fond.

“You love it,” you countered.

“I do.”

He twirled you then. Not properly God, no, but with that not so perfect grin that made your ribs ache and your stomach flip. You stumbled a bit, laughing into the fabric of his shirt, and he caught you again like he’d been born to. You buried your face in his shoulder. The air around you felt velvet-rich, the heat of his skin, the soft whirr of the heater, the scent of coffee grounds faint from the sink and your perfume still lingering on his collar. The world felt like something you could carry in your palm tonight.

Your cheek pressed right above his heart, where it thudded steady, solid, yours.

Your cheek pressed on right above his heart. “We’re not very good at this,”

“I don’t care,” he murmured into your hair.

You sighed. “My feet hurt.”

“We can stop,” he offered, easing to a gentle halt.

“Mhm." You leaned back to look at him, blinking up through your lashes, voice cotton-soft. You pressed your hand against it absentmindedly, right over the steady beat of his heart, fingers splayed like you could read it in Braille.

He watched you.

Watched the curve of your mouth. The warm glassiness in your eyes. The way your thumb moved without rhythm against his shirt.

You sighed out a thought. “Thank you,” you said.

He tilted his head, brushing a piece of your hair back behind your ear. “For what?”

“For this.” You squinted a little, like you were trying to remember something and only barely catching the edge of it. “For everything. I love you."

You hadn’t even flinched when you said it. You were smiling. Loose-limbed and lidded and not the least bit rattled, still swaying in place like the words had meant nothing more than a sweet note scribbled in a thank-you card.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe for a second. Could only feel the way his heart kicked against his ribs so hard he thought maybe you could hear it. hear the sound of it clawing toward your name.

His mouth opened slightly, but no sound from that came. The function of his body when he was around you, especially, this you was beyond him.

You just looked at him, lashes heavy, lips curved soft. “Hmm?”

“What did you just say?” he asked, voice rough around the edges.

You blinked. Tilted your head. “Thank you?”

“No, not that—fuck, angel." A deep chuckle rumbled out of chest. "Fuck."

But you were already pressing your cheek back to his chest, humming something tuneless, eyes drifting shut.

He swallowed hard. Tugged you closer to him and pressed his lips hard against your head. "I love you too."

Because what had once started with a love so rooted will end with a love that will survive an eternity.

It would always end in "I love yous."

SERIES TAGLIST: @ashslight @wannaghostbts @amatun28 @tteokbokibyjk @kelsyx33 @rexana19

[kgetou]

*cough cough, may I request older sister! Fem reader with sakura haruka from wind breaker (◉⁠‿⁠◉)?

One-shot and platonic

About fem reader who working as a doctor and she is rich (like rich rich), she loves her younger/little brother so much that she like to spoiled him.

Remember about the scene in the manga, sakura have to sleep in other place by his family, now sakura have to live in a ugly apartement, fem reader doesn't know about this but when she know, she go to the makochi to visit her little brother.

When she meet her little brother, she immediately hug him and tell him she missed him so much, surprised his friend who go patrol with him, sakura never tell them that he has a older sister.

When she saw the place sakura live at, she immediately get so mad because their parents never tell her about sakura's condition, then she planning to use her money to buy him a nice house and already have furniture in it.

Sakura surprised to see the house and can't belive it she buy him a house? She bought him a house just like paying for a sandals, 😨 is her money not important to her?.

She love him so much that she want sakura to have a better place and better life and as to make it up for the time she can't spend with her little brother, so now she have time to spend with her little brother she want to spoiled him and buy him everying he want.

I think doctors don't have many days off, so thats why she want to spend her vacation with her little brother by going on shopping and the other thing to do as long its spend her time with her little brother (✿❛◡❛)

After spend her time in makochi and knowing that her little brother is happy with his friend and have a better life in makochi, she is happy that her brother have a good friend and have people who don't judge him because of his looks and because he likes to fight.

So she doesn't need to be stressed about the people who judge him and who doesn't want to befriended him.

Imagine he introduce his older sister to his other friend. psst! When her vacation is ended, she have to leave sakura to continue her work in another place, she give him a big pocket money and a card, 🤭 so when his pocket money is runs out he can take money from the bank with her card, she give him a kiss on his forehead and a hug before leaving him.

I just searching for the doctor salary in google, it said 1,349,858 or more than that per month, 😦 wow.

I just want to spoiled my little brother sakura haruka 😭!

Sorry its too long 😅

omg, i loved this idea, i never wrote platonic before, so im so sorry if its not long enough or i missed something. Thank you for resquest. <3

f! rich reader ! sakura’s sister ‹𝟹 platonic ⭑.ᐟ

warnings: lower case on purpose, swf, fluff.

“i already told you y/n, i’m fine” he murmured with a pink flush decoding his ears. his sister was acting pathetically through the phone. calling him just to ask if she can visit.

the true is that he was ashamed by the way his house look. after moving to an ugly apartment he need it to manage that his sister wouldn’t know about it.

“but i want to” sakura heard the awkward cry that she have to him, a pathetic one “pleaseeeeee” she beg one last time. he look his surround thinking what he can do to cover all the ugly stuff in his apartment, because after everything, he just can’t tell no to his older sister.

“okay y/n, you can come” he sight tired. he needed it to separate the phone out of his ear due to the loud scream she gave.

he was fucked up.

he tried, he really tried. but nobody told him that hiding ugly parts of an apartment was so difficult. now he was looking down while his big sister was scolding him like a puppy that did something bad.

“why you never told me?” the true is that his parents never told y/n about the situation that sakura lives in. she got mad at him and mad at herself because as a big sister she’s failing (or that what she believed)

“i’m sorry…i didn’t want to bother you” he say shrinking avoiding his sister look. but who was y/n to get mad at his cute little brother:(? she hugged him tightly. making sakura complains a little bit because of the closeness, but she couldn’t avoid it. she loves him so much that she’s willing to do everything just to see him comfy and happy.

“i’m going to buy you a house” she said like if it was nothing. sakura stood on his place. wtf she was talking about? she’s crazy? he thought shameless.

“what the hell are you saying y/n-“ he was cut again.

“i know what i’m doing sakura, just please let me help you i beg you. you never, never can bother me hear me?” she said palming his head while looking in sakura’s eyes a sign of acceptance.

and she found it.

sakura couldn’t believe it what he was seeing.

a house? with furniture? like it was nothing? hello?

“and…you like it?” y/n asked him. she already knew him and knew what he was thinking, but understand, she wanted the best for him.

“yes” he murmur blushing “but why?, why like if it was you buying me a piece of cake” he asked ashamed, he couldn’t believe anything of this. he walked towards the furniture touching with his pale fingers the material of the couch, observing everything with his bicolor eyes.

y/n stood. she knew how alone he felt when she left house. after all she was a bad sister one time. “because i love you sakura. and i know i wasn’t the best sister because i left home early, leaving you behind with th-“ he stoped her.

“i know y/n, i know how bad our parents were. i don’t blame you, i can’t. i’m just thinking why i deserve this?” he manage to say. you were so happy, your little brother was learning how to express his emotions.

“you deserve everything dummy, and i can give you everything” you smile at him.

sakura almost fainted when he saw your bank account. but that’s another history. ;)

nobody prepared sakura for this. if somebody tell him that right now he would be presenting his older sister to his friends he will be laughing in the person’s face. but right now it was real.

y/n wanted to spend her vacations with him, after everything she explained to him in a calm way that she’s so busy during her working days, she almost got no vacations. and he understood, she runs for save a life.

“woah, i never thought that your sister was so pretty” said nirei in a surprise tone, gaining a smack behind the neck from sakura. he cried to sakura’s asking for forgiveness while sakura was trying to ignore him.

reader was so happy. the sight of his brother being happy with people that understand him, love him and accept him. she didn’t hesitate to smile. her lips your curve upside because oh happiness.

he was happy and if he was, she was too.

the days passed fast, she loved and learned more about her little brother. but now was time to go.

you were hugging him with all the love you can show. you didn’t miss the red cheeks of you’re brother and how his ears were red too.

“well, i will see you soon, but…” you search something in your pocket.

your brother couldn’t believe it.

a card? for him?

“oh no, not only that” you open your purse showing him a band of money.

he was speechless.

“oh, my taxi is here” you kissed his cheeks while waving to him, closing the door behind you of his new house.

he was still there, with the card and the money on his hand.

what just happened?

omg, i don’t know what i did, but thank you so much for requesting. sorry if i didn’t accomplish your expectations.

request here

[theredcuyo]

After the little emotional moment i wrote, here's some fun for the demonic Bros au

This is, Lwj and Sqq disguising as middle court officials to go with Xie Lian whenever he gets called to heaven, because if you think you're bullying their A-Lian on their watch you better think twice

"Are You sure about coming with me?" Xie Lian really doesn't want them to be harassed for association with him.

"But of course, what would you do if you need some spiritual energy? Chengzu can't come up here to help out and they could spot the... origin of the energy on you, we don't want you to get into trouble" Sqq explained simply, not that he was lying, but it certainly wasn't his biggest reason. "But..."

"His highness should not worry" Lan Wangji assured, because well, of course he was the one to come, they really didn't want to get Xie Lian into trouble and Wwx had also already been posing as a middle court official before, they weren't taking their chances. "I'll take your word then, but please don't take it to heart if i'm too careful"

Sqq, of course knew why he was so hesitant, ah, really, he was too kind for his own good. "It's alright, let us go then"

Lwj and Sqq walked side by side to Xie Lian, unlike it had been in the past when other two walked behind him, they seemed happy to stand on the same place, part of their reasoning for this was, of course, that they had to shield him for whatever could come, Lwj had been particularly focused on this topic, since Xie Lian had been called about his encounter with Qi Rong, the same one he had helped to calm him from.

Xie Lian was lightly concerned as to why it seemed so quiet, that was, of course, until he noticed the barrier around him, only him. He didn't know wheter to laugh or cry, what was being said out there that they couldn't let him hear? He appreciated the effort, tho.

The murmurs had started as soon as the trio came into view with others, who were this two with his highness? Where did they come from? Surely not another fake skin from the generals...? And why so handsome?

Of course, Sqq couldn't put them at fault for the last one, Lan Wangji was, after all, the most elegible bachelor back in his home and he was also a main lead, of course he was handsome! Not as much as his Binghe, of course, but that could never be a fair comparisson. "Senior Shen"

Now, he wasn't as good at reading Lan Wangji, but if some of the tips he had gotten from Airplane-bro about Mobei-Jun were to be belived then... Sqq shaked his head. "Not for now, keep listening"

"Eavesdropping is forbidden"

Sqq opened his fan, a light smile, full of disdain hidden behind. "Is not eavesdropping when they're not trying to hide that they're talking about you, Hanguang-Jun"

"... Gossiping is also forbidden"

"Ah, i take there's a severe punshiment for that?" Lwj nodded. "We'll have to make sure to use it, then, since it's such an important rule. Don't worry i'll make sure everyone who dares talk about his highness receives what is worth."

"Undeserved violence is forbidden"

"What is undeserving, anyway?"

After all, to Sqq, all the people who were laughing at Xie Lian's third ascension, because of the whole Banyue incident, all that were making assumptions about the prescense of both of them and making judges of character so far from the truth, everyone wondering ill about their friendship, they deserved what he was planning for them. "Shen-Ge?"

Xie Lian calling for him got him out of his thoughts, he had just recently convinced to call him by a more familiar term of address, thanks to Hua Cheng. They both walked closer. "Yes, your highness?"

"I... It's okay not to address me like that"

"His highness is his highness"

"Hanguang-Jun, i appreciate it, but i haven't been a crown prince since long ago"

"Ah, that's true, that's true, it should be his majesty now, after all he's a king's-"

"No, no! I-I didn't mean it like that either, we're not even... We're not even that close!" Xie Lian didn't need Sqq also teasing him about being 'Hua Cheng's sworn brother', and Sqq sighed, it was enough teasing for the day. "i'll stop, i'll stop, A-Lian"

"... Thank you"

"However, you are still a god, A-Lian, how can you imagine our Hanguang-Jun here being anything but respectful?"

Lan Wangji nodded. "Ah, then... Gongzi is just fine?"

"Xianle-gongzi?"

"Hanguang-Jun please don't use the tittle" Sqq corrected, Xie Lian was actually always a bit hurt whenever he heard it, not a nice reminder, and usually he wouldn't voice that but in this case, there was no point on trying to deny it, somehow, Sqq always knew, because of course he did. "Xie-gongzi?"

"That is fine, thank you Hanguang-Jun, ah, should we also change how we address you?"

"Hanguang-Jun, would you like to match Wuxian?" Maybe Lan Wangji would've had more qualms about this, but one of them was a god and the other definitely older than him, and Sqq's offering just sealed the deal. He nodded. "Alright, Wangji it is then, that's also how Zewu-jun calls you, isn't it?"

"Mn"

"Then, Wangji, Shen-Ge, would either of you be so kind to lift the barrier?"

They looked at each other guiltily, but with a movement of his hand, Lan Wangji lifted it, all it did was prevent Xie Lian form hearing anything within certain range, hence, he hadn't heard them before they came closer. "Thank you"

Before Xie Lian had time to question either of them, Sqq's eyes catched the stares from a pair of generals just up ahead of them, still far away but with their kin senses, he was sure they were hearing and seeing them, see, this are the things he actually came for. While he knows the story, he holds both generals to a similar standar to that of the original goods, they may have their reasons, but he doesn't particularly like them. So, off to his favorite thing to do, be a hater with class, he started with a warm and soft smile directed to the god. "A-Lian, there's nothing to thank for, but i'm rather sorry about doing it, i just didn't want you to feel unfomfortable around here"

"Ah, but, Shen-Ge, this isn't my first time coming over? I'm used to it" If Xie Lian had catched anything in those malevolent eyes of his, he didn't tell. "Nonsense! You shouldn't have to become used to such thing, A-Lian! You are a god deserving of respect, not only for status but has no one taught manners to those around here? You are older than them!"

"Shen-Ge..."

"Xie-gongzi shouldn't be treated in such impolite way" Lan Wangji contributed, although mostly unaware of Sqq's plan. "See? Even Wangji agrees! You are far too forgiving with this people, A-Lian. They do not deserve your kindness"

"Everyone deserves kindness, Shen-Ge" Sqq huffed, as he opened his fan. "Some more than others, and some openly less than what You give, trust this Master on that"

Xie Lian, however didn't really agree to that, after all, sometimes all it took was one person, and he decided to be that person whenever possible. "Don't give me that look, ah, really, our A-Lian is far too kind for his own good, what shall i do with You?"

Xie Lian only had a moment to akwardly laugh before Shen Yuan patted his head, usually, he has far more self restraint, however right now, he was not only moved by his fondness for the god, but also by spite, and boy was spite a powerful motive indeed, specially when he could see the stupified looks on two of the three faces for the people said spite was directed at. "I..."

"It's alright, that is what we're here for, be as kind as you want, we'll make sure it doesn't go to waste however necessary. We'll be with you for whatever it is to happen"

Lan Wangji put a supporting hand on his shoulder. "Mn"

Xie Lian nodded, truly, the kind one here was Shen Qingqiu. "Thank You..."

Sqq snapped his fan closed, as he made them walk ahead again. "Now, let us go, we'll be late at this rate, and i don't want to miss on dinner"

"Ah, Luo-ge would get upset if we're late for cooking, i promised to help tonight"

"Promised as well"

The mention only added fuel to the fire that Sqq was slowly burning, domesticity was good to make jelousy "A-Lian will be on the kitchen today? We should hurry then, can't miss out on that! But take no offense, A-Lian, you still have a long way to reach my Binghe"

Xie Lian nodded, a light smile on his face. "I know, but San Lang said the last time was pretty good"

Neither Sqq nor Lwj addressed that because Hua Cheng's imput on Xie Lian's cooking was not only biased, but not to be trusted since he was the only person capable of eating it without getting sick, who knew even ghosts could get sick?, Wwx surely didn't. Hell, who knew that Xie Lian's cooking was so bad that it beat up Binghe's protagonist halo and heavenly demon blood making him sick? "A-Lian should try sticking to Binghe's instructions next time, and ignore Wuxian when he talks about spice"

"Ah, San Lang did say it was quite spicy"

"See? I think we should also have another class about condimentation herbs, i fear you might've used some that weren't for cooking"

"Really?"

"Yes, why else would it have made noise?" In reality, Sqq was pretty sure Xie Lian used only edible things, but he could not bring himself to be directly mean to him, it was like telling a kid that proudly showed you their drawing that you didn't know what it was, well, to him it was, Xie Lian perfectly knew what he was doing. "Oh, that would make sense"

"It does, it does, and we don't want to accidentally make another cake to bite Wuxian, do we? He might deserve it"- Lan Wangji stared at Sqq with a murderous aura that he rarely exhibited, so he backtracked-"When he misheaves, but not most of the time"

That made Lwj go back to normal, and Sqq sigh with relief internally, yes, sometimes he forgot that this is the same man that took Wwx out of nightless city and fought a murderous giant tourtle as a teenager. "Ah but he did eat it afterwards..."

At that, Xie Lian couldn't help but laugh a bit, a genuine although tiny, laugh. It just was a funny memory. "Wei-gongzi did eat it, while saying it was revenge in every bite"

Ah, there it was! Sqq had been trying to get a laugh out of Xie Lian this entire time, not just to spite the idiots who disguised themselves to hang out with him like the cowards they were, and not just to try and give Jun Wu a Qi deviation, but he really wanted him to feel better, ah, really, old age was making him more and more sentimental. "Wei Ying got sick and blamed the cake"

Xie Lian turned to Lwj, still a soft smile on his face. "Ah, he did?"

Lwj nodded. "Mn, said it became a vengeful spirit"

Another small but honest laugh came from the god. Meanwhile, Sqq put on his best bitch fake smile on and directly shielded Xie Lian's right side, as they were passing by two generals that couldn't utter a word but that were surely drilling holes into him with disdain and disbelief. One of them was dumb enough to try and talk tho, but Sqq was having none of that. "Your highn-"

"A-Lian, have you thought of where to go when the meeting is over?"

"Scrap collecting as usual, Shen-ge" Xie Lian's expression didn't betray anything. "Is it alright if i accompany you? We can get things for dinner on the way back"

Mu Qing and Feng Xin were far more interesed in the answer than they'd like to admit, just who was this man and why did he think that Xie Lian would let him accom- "Surely, if Shen-Ge doesn't mind, ah, Wangji would you like to come too?"

They turned to stare to the other misterious man that was by Xie Lian's side, he nodded politely and slowly. "Will do, Wei Ying asked before"

Both of them sighed fondly, of course that's why. They couldn't put him at fault tho, the other day they had found a few things that Wwx reused for some inventions, including some glass that he used to make something very akin to a modern lamp with a few talismans.

-----

Was i too mean to Feng Xin and Mu Qing by not letting them talk to Xie Lian? Maybe, but Sqq won't let them until they prove themselves to him, you're not hurting Xie Lian on his watch, you're also, not allowed to be an idiot on his watch

Lwj is just being nice, he likes his in laws and he is being supportive on his own way, while Sqq was busy being petty, he was silencing people left and right with he Lan technique

On the other hand, Jun Wu is this close to having an anneurism, excuse you who are this two???? Why doesn't he know anything about them and why can't he track them down either? How did they meet his Xianle?! Most importantly, who dares do good to his mental health?!

[todorokis-girl]

I Never Knew You Were Alive - Soulmate AU (I)

Touya Todoroki x f!Reader

This has been on my mind for so so long, and it's been forever since I wrote anything, So I apologize if it's sub par

Chapter I: So it starts Chapter II: A late arrival Chapter III: belive of be doomed Chapter IV: What are we doing? Chapter V: Last minute encounter Chapter VI: Deciding to fall in love with you

Masterlist

Next chapter

__________________________________________________________

"You chose them over me!" Deep turquoise eye bore so deeply into mine, the pressure on my chest, in my heart, seemed to increase.

"I didn't chose anyone over you Touya", anger, misplaced anger, seeped out of my word "I didn't even know you were alive!" A sob escaped me, which made the current situation so much more real. it had been years.. years of pain, thinking he was dead. How dare he? How dare he imply I chose anything in this situation, I chose the option that would have kept me closer to him. When he was dead.

"We have marks with each others names, we feel what the other feels", he took exasperated steps towards me getting closer and more menacing as he got closer, the feeling of safety slowly washing off me, would he hurt me? would he kill me? "You're gonna look at me in the eye, and tell me, you didn't know I was alive?"

The question was one that burned inside me, ever since I found out he was alive, and it killed me knowing that he wasn't only alive, but with the villains, it drove me crazy and I could barely sleep. I wondered during the years why occasionally I would feel things that were simply not my own; but how was I to know? He was dead, it was a fact, he died in his fire!, so young, faking your own death that young wasn't realistic to think about. I didn't... other than sudden anger, sadness and occasional pleasure, the feelings didn't range far or even often.

"I didn't! I really didn't know, had I know ANY of this, I would hace been on your side no questions asked," I pulled my legs closer to me, the fight we had engaged in didn't fair well on my body. The burns from his fire were negligible, the burn from my own ice, though, if not treated soon could start causing decay "You think I wanted to sit by and let him do any of those things to Shouto? That it brought me pleasure in any way to say your mother hospitalized? Natsuo and Fujumi so neglected?" The tears finally started pouring out, this was emotionally too much, hopelessness and guilt was bubbling up and started to eat me inside "I don't care anymore, just, kill me if you have to"

The Todoroki's took me in, not because of me but because of him, for him. They swore he would have wanted me to be a part of their family, all the other soulmates of their kids were just as welcomed. Enji took it upon himself to look for all their kids soulmates, as soon as posible. We all knew how.... intense, Enji Tododroki could be, but we stayed for our soulmates. They weren't a perfect family, or even a good one; but I wanted Touya with me so badly, and his family was all that was left; his grave, his shrine, I needed him and I couldn't have him. Now what? It seems I never had anything of his at all.

"I'm not going to kill you" he said while slowly crouching down ro my eye level, the fire in his hand slowly being put out; the look in his eyes wasn't the thing giving his emotions away but the bond we had, I understood the resignation and the conflict happening in his heart "but, we are in a bit of a bad situation right now, doll" I swallowed thickly and rested the back of my head in what was left of the concrete wall behind me.

"I'm not leaving the kids to be killed" I said after a moment of silence, having had to steel my mind and build my resolve; making sure I understood what I was potentially giving up.

"I'm not going to leave the league" he replied after a deep breath, and I could hear the same resolve in his voice.

and, there in lies our problem.

I straightened up my head to look at him again, his hands reaching to the ice around me, I assumed to melt it "don't... it hurts"

He looked up at me and stopped, taking a quick Look over me. "You have to do something about the ice, or you'll be short an arm and maybe a leg"

The cold was starting to set, over my body, and as usual it started to build in my extremities, I could barely feel my nose and my fingers anymore.

I ignored him, the current situation not leaving my mind at all, my injuries could wait "What do we do?"

"What we've been doing", he hesitantly reached to touch my cheek, providing much needed warmth, his thumb lightly brushing my nose "I'm dead, sweetheart" He proceded to hold my hands for a while, and I wished the warmth building up in my body could stay forever.

he immediately stepped away from me the moment we could hear running, signaling that there were heros were here "Your helps here," he said something to himself and slowly he was swallowed by some black goo "Don't die on me, I gotta see you at the end of this, however that goes"

_____________________________________________________________

One years before

I casually walk into endeavors hero agency, waving at the receptionist at the entrance of the building, taking notice of how I was being watched by people outside the glass of the building, being the one member of the agency to not hold a fire quirk, I was special, but not really; it provided a little bit of hope to the heroes in training that wanted to be hired and didn't have a fiery quirk, even if me being here was nothing less of nepotism, but I owed Endeavor a lot and I couldn't refuse.

Once I made it to the elevator I made it all the way to my desk in autopilot, not taking much notice of the things going on around me.

"Blue Bird!" I looked up and spotted the blond hair before anything else.

"Hawks" I roll my eyes at him and placed my coffee on my desk, avoiding the recognizable load of paperwork. What was he doing here anyway? I knew about the whole forced partnership with Hawks and Endeavor, but he was rarely at the agency.

The idea of him constantly calling me blue bird was getting old, my lack of a surviving soulmate didn't really made me deserving of the name. Enji Tododroki had done everything for me he possibly could, starting with proving me with a connection to my lost soulmate their family dynamic fucking sucked, ass, but I felt part of the family; and it was the one connection I could have with Touya, since he clearly wouldn't be around. Ever.

Fuyumi and Shouto had also had their soulmates brought into the fold, as soon as Enji could find them. We hadn't been able to find Natuo's yet, but he assured the process was ongoing, until they were found.

I was found shortly after Touya died, I never even got to see him alive. I hated the feeling, especially because sometimes I felt the delusion that maybe he was out there, but I didn't ever allow myself the thought, or it would kill me.

I look up at the winged hero carefully studying his stance, a mischievous bright smile on his face, as usual "Anything I can help with? Endeavor is out on patrol, I don't know when he'll back but I can tell you where he is if you'd like?" I went to sit down on my desk to look for the information I had just offered, before I could grab the chair to sit down I was stopped by a bright red feather in my line of sight.

"I didn't come looking for Endeavor, I can go to his secretary for that, or easily look for him myself" He walks closer to my desk looking it over carefully "I heard you were starting at UA soon, for a new 'alternative strategy' class?" I looked at him, with a confused look, what could he possibly want with me or UA, if he was scouting a student he could simply... call them? The sudden serious look he showed was making me uneasy.

"Yeah, I am. What about it?"

"You can't do that"

"Excuse me?" The finality of his statement, made the uneasiness grow even stronger, tension creeping up my shoulders, the situation. starting to make my soulmate mark itch.

It wasn't common the #2 Hero came over to you and said you couldn't take a job offer. UA seriously needed to teach alternative methods of taking down a villain that didn't just rely on their quirks. I as the person who suggested it in the first place, besides, Endeavor had said nothing of the sort. why would I listen to him?

"I don't think it's safe" He finally responded, after seeming to return from deep though

"Thank you so much for the concern Hawks, really, but I can handle myself" I finally looked away from him and proceeded to start on my paperwork. I just need to finish this and I can start the lesson plans " I already know it's not safe, for the kids, it's the whole reason why I took the job" The tension wasn't leaving, and the fact he stayed didn't help either, I could feel his eyes on my arm, where "Todoroki Touya" was permanently burned into my skin.

"I don't think it's safe" I continued to read over the documents, writing where I needed. The tension bubbling up every milisecond that he didn't drop the subject.

"Endeavor would've said something if he thought there would be an issue" I replied nonchalantly, feeling the pressure starting to bubble over.

Wasn't that this morning? hough to myself as I tried to remember when the specific event cited in the document happened.

"I still don't think it's safe" I sight and stare at him, not replying

...Bubble

"This whole thin is too dangerous, and the kids know enough to protect them" I could feel my brow tense my eyes not moving from his feature, the way he was looking me adding irritation

...Bubble...

"The league is everywhere, and their plans aren't pretty, I can't protect you if you're in the fire already" I attempted to take a deep breath, to calm myself down, feeling heat in my cheek slowly creeping up my arm, forgetting to remind myself to cool myself down in these situations.

Bubble... bubble...

"you're my best friend, and besides my soulmate, I don't really have many people I love" he said, almost pleading.

Bubble... Bubble...

POP!

I felt a strong heat settle on my face, the tension that bubbling up turning into anger, as I slammed the fancy black pen on my desk, reminding me seconds before, to cool down "For fucks sake, Keigo, what the HELL is this really about" The sound of glass hitting the floor and scattering filling the sudden silence between us, I closed my eyes tightly, in exasperation. Control your quirk, idiot. Before I opened my eyes I could feel the freezing cold coming from my desk sight and looked over the icy surface of my desk At least I didn't melt it.

"I'm not trying to undermine you, I know you're a very capable hero"

Hawks and I had became very unlikely friends as soon as we started hero work. I had studied at UA, after getting in from Endeavor's recommendation, hawks and I became really good friends after taking the hero licensing exam, teaming up every once in a while, and being on a coffee outing when he though he had found his soulmate

"Hawks, honestly, you can tell me my death is assured, and I am still doing it. I didn't get my hero license to hide when it's dangerous" I placed my hand on my desk relaxing as much as I could to melt the ice without hurting the structure of my desk "besides, I need something to keep me alive, I'm 22 and I already have half of me ripped away, please, just, let me do this? I would want to see a group of kids hopeful for their futures"

His smile didn't return, which meant he wasn't done, or something was still on his mind; maybe he was debating on saying it or not "The league has a weird focus on Endeavor, and I'm worried about you birdie"

I narrowed my eyes, anger or frustration, I don't know what I was feeling, but what was he trying to imply here "I can take care of myself"

"The protection at UA is for the students, not the teachers, who protects you?"

"Drop it Keigo, enough" I wiped the condensation in my desk, finally resolving the problem I caused, I only had to give it a couple minutes to dry "I'm not refusing the job at UA" I looked over his arm, carefully, protectively hiding his soulmate name. I didn't know her name, but I know her quirk, Levitation, just because he was kind enough to tell me about it in one of our outings a couple years ago.

"I want to finish my paperwork, so I can finish my lesson plans for next week, feel like allowing me to work, bird brain?" I allowed myself He stood up away from my desk and sight in resignation, his smile slowly returning.

"I'll drop in every once in a while," he turns around to leave and offers me a thumbs up "I'm sure it'll get the kids excited, and I'll ge to check up on you"

I smile and wave him off. Setting on a serious look when I saw him stepping out of the office.

I took a bite at the end of my pen, the feeling of Keigo hiding something from me settling deep within my soul, after finally looking at the interaction. My best friend, the second best hero in the country, sneaky, cunning, careful planner as he is, hiding something from me, and being worried that the league of villains could try something against me... that doesn't give me a bad feeling.... not at all.

[icey--stars]

Hiiii

I saw your requests are open but feel free to ignore this if it isnt

Oh, Queen of angst

would you please bless us with a story where azriel is engaged but not to Eris

Yes you read that right, but wait hear me out

He is still in love with Eris (no mating bond though just love)

Centuries ago or decades whatver he was forced to end things with Eris because what he thought the IC's reaction was

So he watches Eris longingly at a Highlords meeting and then boom, Eris and his mating bond snaps just like that (prompted or unprompted your choice) And Eris is standing there horrified because azriel broke things off with him and he is still in love with Azriel but he thinks azriel doesnt feel the same

And Azriel standing there shocked but super happy because now no one can say anything about his love for Eris because even the mother belives in it. His fiancee and the rest of the IC are there like 😨 Feel free to ignore this but if you would write this I would be ever so indebted to you 🥺🥺 Okii Thanks 🙏 for reading this far and indulging me

I Could Never Forget You

Azriel is incapable of keeping his eyes to himself and oop... now he's got a mate bond on his hands with Eris who he ended things off with centuries ago. What will they do? - 2k words

Author's Note: Darling anon, I wrote this to the best of my abilities (and actually enjoyed it more than I thought I would so thank you lol). I changed the “Az is super happy” part a tad because I really can’t see them being in anything other than pure shock and horror at the situation even while hope blooms. Hope you enjoy regardless!

I did end things off before we got the IC’s and his fiance’s reactions so if you were especially looking for those, let me know! I can add it in a reblog :) just may take some more thinking

TW: suggestiveness to sexual activities (VERY little but minors beware)

↢ 『 ☾ 』 ↣

It had been centuries and that damned face still made his heart flutter like he was some teenage male. It was infuriating. Maybe even more than infuriating. Azriel glanced over at the female who sat next to him. She smiled back warmly, the Illyrian wings behind her twitching some in his direction.

He forced a smile to curve his lips. His fiance. Gods, it was stupid. She was a great female. So amazing that she was practically the only fae Rhysand went to when he needed something handled in the Illyrian camps. She was strong, powerful, demanding, downright gorgeous objectively, and a little bit vain at points. He didn’t know why he felt so guilty.

Azriel’s gaze traveled back across the table. They were in the Dawn Court for the annual High Lords’ meeting to establish trade and peace. And guess who sat directly across from him?

The one and only Eris Vanserra.

His hair was down, which was rare to see. Normally it was worn in complex braids all up and around in Eris’s hair. But the smug bastard still had that smirk on his face as he glanced over at Azriel.

Eris scoffed and turned his head away which was not helpful because it showed off his neck muscles and those damned ears. As per usual, they were covered in jewelry. Chains and rings and dangly little charms. All of it.

And though he was trying to lie to himself, it did look damn good.

Centuries ago, he’d cut things off with Eris. He had to. His family, especially Mor, would’ve hated him. He was sure of that.

And he had a fiance now for the gods’ sake. Why did the damned bastard still make his palms clammy and his cheeks heat up?

It’s possibly the stupidest thing of all time. Yes, he had once loved Eris. But he had responsibilities and loyalties to his court now.

Even if the bastard was way too attractive for his own good.

Azriel sighed and turned his head to try and pay attention to the actual meeting. Thesan and Kallias were having some sort of conversation over trade while Tarquin was trying to cut in with his own plans. Not fighting per say, but definitely close to arguing as usual at these meetings. Nobody truly got along. It was tolerance at best.

Eris swirled his whiskey around in his glass, taking a small sip from it and smirking at the chaos that was being wrought. Likely, it was whiskey brought from Autumn since Azriel knew he hated any other types of whiskey. 

“It just doesn’t burn the same, Az,” He’d argued.

And of course that’s where Azriel’s gaze brought him once again.

His fiance squeezed his hand as if in question and he squeezed back in reassurance. He was fine. He just had to get the redhead out of his mind. (An impossible feat, he might add. Eris had a tendency to effortlessly bring attention to him.)

“Rhys,” Eris suddenly spoke, turning his head away from the arguments beginning. “Was there anything useful you were going to bring to this meeting?”

Rhys sat up a little with Feyre beside him looking exhausted. “Nothing more than news that Hewn City would like to begin trading salt out again.”

Eris’s brows raised in interest. “Salt, you say?” He asked. “Now that’s quite the commodity they’re offering. Shall I talk to Kier?”

“You can manufacture a deal with us,” Feyre spoke up. “We’ll pass it along.”

And here was even more proof that Azriel needed to get Eris off his mind. It would only end poorly.

Eris chuckled softly and hummed in response. “Shall we spar then, Feyre?” He asked. “I’m certain any deals I offer would be more than satisfactory.”

Feyre sighed. “Let’s hear it then,” she replied. Her eyes betrayed her exhaustion, though. Little Nyx was in his teenage phase where he called his own parents and family dumb in order to get independence. Only “Uncle Azzie” was allowed to talk to him now as long as he didn’t bring up anything the little one didn’t want to talk about.

The usual trade talk commenced with bargains going both ways and Azriel found himself just staring at Eris, watching his hair sway slightly when he leaned over the table. He could just imagine pulling it.

“Azriel, do pick up your jaw,” Eris suddenly said, staring directly at him. “I know I’m handsome, but your fiance is sitting right beside you.”

Azriel didn’t even realize his jaw had dropped. He was practically drooling. What the fuck.

And then something happened. He couldn’t describe the feeling well but it felt like something just snapped between him and Eris, yanking him closer to the male. He suddenly felt worry coming down the mysterious thread within his chest.

Then he glanced up at Eris’s furrowed brows.

Azriel took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. Words refused to escape his throat even as hard as he tried.

His fiance rested a hand on his shoulder and he tensed, sitting up immediately.

Rhys seemed to notice now, narrowing his eyes. The daemati knocked on his mind shields and Azriel let them down hesitantly.

What’s wrong? Rhys asked.

He couldn’t respond in words and only pushed the overwhelming feeling towards Rhys’s presence in his mind.

What is it? He asked desperately, hoping, praying that his brother would have the answer this time.

Rhys glanced over at Eris and narrowed his eyes. The other male was also reacting the same way, but he was holding his chest in shock while staring at Azriel.

“Mate,” Eris suddenly breathed in shock.

Azriel’s eyes went wide. That word. It sounded right. Which meant a few things: Eris was his mate. He had a fiance that wasn’t his mate. But he also still very obviously loved Eris despite the centuries. And another thing: his entire family knew. Fuck. How was he supposed to play this off?

“What?” Cassian suddenly asked, leaning over the table. “Did you just say mate?”

“Azriel,” Eris said sharply when he tried to push his chair away from the table to make a run for it.

“What,” he said roughly, his voice scratchy from emotion of some sort. He couldn’t identify it yet. But with Eris’s sharp tone, he also found himself frozen in place.

Rhys had this look on his face. Somewhere between surprise, confusion, and honestly with those furrowed brows, possibly the anger Azriel had been expecting centuries ago when he broke things off with Eris.

His fiance rested a hand on his shoulder again and this time, he flinched violently, letting out a gasp.

“Az,” she tried. “Take a breath,” she commanded.

Azriel’s shadows luckily took pity on his state and rushed up to cover his face while panic creeped up his spine. All conversation had quieted down by now.

“Eris, Azriel,” Rhys began, “let’s go outside for a moment, shall we?”

Azriel pushed himself from his seat at that escape from so many eyes and quickly followed his brother out even as Eris trailed them from behind.

“Azriel, you need to breathe,” Rhys said softly once they were in the hallway alone.

Azriel forced himself to suck in a breath, closing his eyes.

A rush of calm rushed through him suddenly from that string in his chest and his head shot up, shadows falling from his face in shock. It’d been like a jolt to his system to restart and work again.

And Eris was in front of him, tilting his head with concern evident in his facial expression. “Azriel,” Eris began. “Are you alright?”

He let out a sigh before he nodded. “I’m fine,” He managed to get out. He was… not fine, but fine enough for whatever conversation was likely to occur.

Eris scoffed as if he clearly knew it was a lie, but seemed to accept the answer. “Well then, I believe there needs to be a conversation, now doesn’t there?” He prompted.

“Should I let you two handle this?” Rhys asked, raising a brow.

“Go Rhys,” Azriel mumbled. “We’ll handle this. Let my fiance know that I’m fine?” He requested.

Rhys nodded and walked off.

Then he faced Eris and sighed, rubbing his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. “Eris…”

“You want to reject the bond,” Eris finished for him. “It makes sense. You broke things off centuries ago and you have a fiance who loves you. I get it, Az. You don’t care about me.”

Azriel jerked his head back in shock. “I wasn’t going to say that,” He said to Eris, his brows furrowing. He swallowed back his hesitation and sighed. “I do care about you, fireheart.”

Eris’s brows furrowed even more at the pet name. It’d been one of the things that Azriel had called them when they had been dating. It represented his determination, his flames and encompassed part of who he was. Azriel knew he’d gotten the male’s attention with it.

“Then what exactly is your plan, Az?” Eris asked. “You have a fiance.”

Azriel sighed, rubbing his face again as he leaned back against the wall, uncaring of the fact his wings were being partly crushed by the action. “Eris… I didn’t break things off back then because I didn’t want you.”

Eris’s eyes narrowed. “Then why?” He asked calmly.

“My… my family means a lot to me. You know that. I got pathetically scared over their reaction,” Azriel mumbled, a tad ashamed of the fact.

Eris raised a brow, but then he seemed to relax. “So what does being mates mean then?” He asked.

“Maybe it’s proof that I shouldn’t have given up what I loved all those centuries ago,” Azriel admitted, glancing up at Eris timidly.

Eris’s expression softened. “So you were scared?” He repeated. “Are you still scared?”

Azriel paused to think for a moment. Mates were chosen by the Mother. And while he’d met mates that weren’t meant for each other… he also knew how well Eris and he were getting on centuries ago. And though they had changed since then, he doubted it would put a stake through the possibilities of them.

“I can’t be scared if we’ve been chosen by the Mother, Eris. More than half my family knows the significance of the mating bond. I don’t think they’d fault me for trying.”

“And would they fault you if it’s me?” Eris emphasized.

“Going by how Rhys reacts when someone tries to insult Feyre, I don’t think I would physically be able to stop myself if they did try to fault me,” Azriel admitted with a slight chuckle.

Eris rolled his eyes with a smirk. “You do have a fiance, however,” He reiterated. “Are you so certain I’m worth it?”

“I was shocked at first, Eris. But… I want that, Eris. With you. We’d already been planning on how to manage the political situation anyway once you became High Lord. What’s stopping us now?” Azriel asked, a small grin making its way onto his face.

Eris chuckled. “Nothing, I suppose,” he murmured as he took a step closer.

Azriel didn’t try to stop his immediate urge to kiss those lips and practically lunged forward off the wall to grab Eris’s chin and press their lips together.

Eris let out a soft sound of surprise before he melted into it. It was soft. Like coming back home.

It felt like hours before they were forced to pull away to breathe. Azriel panted for a moment, meeting Eris’s gaze.

“You always were a sap,” Eris teased.

Azriel scoffed. “And you aren’t?” He emphasized.

“Oh, I’m unafraid to admit that I am these days,” Eris mused.

For a moment, they just seemed to take the situation in. Then Eris stood up a little straighter. “Speak to your family, Az. Then come find me at the cabin. I think I’m craving a little more than a kiss.”

Azriel scoffed. “Insatiable,” he mused.

“Oh you know I am,” Eris said with a smirk. After a moment, he asked, “Are you really going to end things off with your fiance for me?” There was a little insecurity in that tone.

“Fireheart,” Azriel began. “The only reason I was attracted to her was because she reminded me so much of your spark. She’s become integrated into the family. I think she’d understand. In fact, she might be useful to Rhys while I take a break to deal with the inevitable frenzy.”

Eris scoffed. “And you call me insatiable?” He asked.

“I could never forget you, Eris. You and I are fated.” Azriel replied with a genuine smile.

EXTRA CONTENT: Part 2 w/ reactions of IC and Fiance (only reblogged)

↢ 『 ☾ 』 ↣

A/N: Shh… yes I used “fireheart” as Az’s petname for Eris. IT FIT TOO WELL SHHHHHHHH.

Also, this was not edited. I am lazy. Apologies for any and all mistakes. If I ever reread this, the facepalm I'll give myself is plenty punishment.

Tagged in all ACOTAR Stories: @bunnymallowo, @officiallyunofficialperson, @margssstuff, @rebloggiest-reblogger, @inpraizeof, @graciereads, @eos-princess, @bubybubsters, @fieldofdaisiies, @skyesayshi, @lilah-asteria,

Tagged in all Azriel Stories: @ladylokilaufeyson5, @marina468,

[bigball-thefrog]

Omg you’re back!! Yay! I’ve missed your writing so much!☝🏻 Now that you’re back I would like to request a little something. I was thinking of maybe something with Sanji. So basically I was thinking of something along the lines of the reader being in love with him and him being in love with her too but the reader is scared of being with him because of her past. So when Sanji approaches her with that she rejects him out of fear and starts avoiding him, so then maybe he begins to get curious about it and asks either Robin and Nami about it and one of them tells him what happened in her past. I don’t know just something along those lines🤔Like maybe she accidentally hurt her past partner? Oh and it would be cool she was the baker of the ship just to have that chef and baker dynamic. And as for her ability you can make that up. Anyway hope you can write it!

HELLO!!!! Thank you so much kind words and thank you for the request, I haven't written for Sanji in so long. This was really sweet and I actually am considering making this into a Character ai bot if you wouldn't mind. I hope I wrote it well and you enjoy it

Warnings/Tags:

Angst to comfort

Rejection

Bullying

Readers has had their feelings played with in their oast

Insecurities and fear of romace

Female reader

______________________________

Narrator POV

For your skills in baking delicious treats and fighting with your baking utensils, Luffy quickly asked you to join his crew. You accepted and that's how you met him... Sanji...

Usually Sanji preferred to be the only own allowed to work in the kitchen, but when someone as skillful and as beautiful as you came in, he didn't mind sharing his space. And quickly you two found your rhythm together. When he'd be making soup you'd be quick to make garlic bread to go with it. Sanji was making chocolate mousse for dessert? We'll you were making doughnuts to be filled with the mousse! The kitchen would be filled will mouthwatering aromas of your baked goods and Sanji's meals, inside the kitchen it was a show to watch you both work, knives chopping, spices being tossed between you two, you were both almost the exact same person now split in half and making a delicious storm in the kitchen, you two, were perfect together.

And now only were your skills in the kitchen a match, your feelings for each other were also a match. It was only a matter of time before you two to fell for each other. A baker and a chef, it's a match made in heaven! Or rather, match made in the kitchen ☞( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞. You loved Sanji, and he loved you back, and more than other ladies! Yes, out of all the ladies in the world, you were the one to win Sanji's heart, and he wanted no one else but you. And you loved him all the same, but there was a big problem. You didn't think he could or would like you back... You had been hurt so many times in the past when it came to romance that you grew to accept that no one would genuinely love you. And then it happened, Sanji came to you with a beautiful bouquet of your favorite flowers and your favorite meal and he asked you out. You froze, you wanted to belive his confession but your insecurities, your pain from the past, you just couldn't believe he was being genuine. "I can't..." was all you managed to say before running away, leaving Sanji confused and heartbroken.

Sanji POV

"I can't..." The words rang through my head, over and over again. Why? Why couldn't she accept? Was it something I did? Did she not like me that way? After that failure of a confession she began to avoid me completely, she'd cook completely, she'd take her meals to her rooms. It was tearing me apart and I just wanted my kitchen partner back...

I was currently stirring some stew for lunch, since that night my energy to cook was low, I still put effort into all of it but it felt like my motivation was gone now that she wasn't with me in the kitchen. I was brought out of my self loathing thoughts when I heard Nami and Robin entering the kitchen, "Sanji, is everything alright?" Robin asked, "Luffy's getting impatient and everyone's realized lunch is taking longer than usual." Nami said, looks of concern on both of their faces. "I'm alright ladies... Just a bit tired lately..." I said and went back to stirring. I could hear them mumble about how something was definitely wrong then Robin spoke again, "Is this about your confession?" I froze, my lips trembled and I stepped away from the pot to wipe my face. Nami sighed and Robin nodded her head. Both girls sat me down and tried to comfort me, "It's not your fault Sanji." Nami spoke and pat my shoulder, "But then what was it it? Why did she reject me??" "It's because she's been through a lot in the past, stuff that's made her more scared of romantic relationships." Robin reassured. I raised my head at that, "Her past? What happened?" "Well, you see, back at her home island, she had a partner, someone she really cared for. But there was an accident... He was helping her bake when he started an argument while cooking and they were so distracted by their argument that he slipped while carrying a pot of boiling water. He was burned all over and she felt immense guilt, and since then she's been scared to let someone get close like that, she just doesn't want to accidentally hurt someone again..." Nami said, Oh, my poor sweet darling... She wasn't able cooperate with her past lover in the kitchen and he got hurt, now she carries all the guilt on her shoulders... "So, it's not your fault Sanji, your confession was beautiful, it's just that she's scared she'll accidentally hurt you in someway..." Robin said. "But what do I do? How do I show her that I'm being genuine and that I really love her with all my heart?" "Nami, you're gonna have to do something deep, something personal, something that can get under those walls she's built around herself." Nami said and squeezed my shoulder "A love letter is always a good choice. Writing down all your thoughts feelings for a person to see." Robin said. A love letter? Writing all my thoughts and feelings of her and letting her read it? It could work. Filled with a new motivation I thanked both girls and got to work, after making lunch of course.

Narrator POV

He spent hours, writing all his thoughts, and all of his feelings towards you and how much he loved you. What was supposed to be a love note, ended up being a love book since Sanji wrote over 100 pages dedicated to his love for you put into words.

It was after dinner now and Sanji was alone cleaning until he heard footsteps and he turned to see you, "I'm just here to bring in my dishes." you mumble and put your dishes in the sink before quickly turning to leave, but Sanji quickly took your hand in his and pulled you back, "Please don't go Mon amour, I have something to give you..." He pleaded, holding your hand delicately in his. "A-alright..." you stuttered, trying to control your already racing heart from jumping out of your chest with the way Sanji held your hand. He momentarily let go to grab his love note/book and placed it in your hands, you looked at him confused before looking up at him, waiting for an answer. "It's all my thoughts, all my feelings put into words... All about you Mon amour..." you felt your heart break before you could protest, Sanji spoke again, "Please my dear, just skim through it, you don't have to read all of it, but just see how I feel, how I genuinely feel about you." Sanji pleaded. You sighed and flipped through the pages, each one the word love written so many times, how he loved your body, how he loved your smile, how he loved how passionate you were about baking, he just seemed to love everything about you, inside and out. You were tearing up as you flipped through each page, then the last page you read entirely and it was your breaking point:

"My love, Nami and Robin told me about what happened with your previous partner and I need to say, it's not your fault. He started that argument and got himself hurt. It brings me deep pain that you now feel this way now. That you do not deserve love because of one mistake from a fool that wasn't looking where he was going. My love, you do not need to carry such weight on your shoulders, you can lean on me and let go of that weight, because I love you and there is nothing you could do to hurt me and make me angry or hate you. Your body, your face, every mark, every curve. I would spend days kissing every imperfection on your your body, yet it wouldn't even take a second to, because there are simply no imperfections on you. You are simply perfect, your passion for baking, your loyalty. My darling you are perfect in every way possible, and I couldn't have asked for a better kitchen partner and best friend. Please, believe me when I say, I love you and that I want to spend the rest of my life with you, the both of us together in the kitchen, creating our love in the form of food for everyone to experience. I love you, Ma chérie."

You could not stop crying, his words hit deep and meant so much to you. Sanji was quick to wrap you in a tight comforting hug. "Shhh it's okay... You don't have to cry my love... I'm here, and I'll stay as long as you want me to." He held you close to his chest and rubbed your back, "I'm so sorry Sanji... I was just so scared it was another joke.." "It's okay Mon amour, I understand your fear, but I would never play with a lady's feelings like that, especially not yours." "So you still love me?" "With all my soul" "Do you still want to date?" "With all my existence."

"Kitchen partners for life?"

"Kitchen partners for life~"

______________________________

Alright this is it for now, I will post my poll very soon for you all to decide what I write next, and I will see you all very soon.

Kelly🐸

[livelaughlovetoread]

Hiii! If you're still doing the ship ask.. 8 or 23 for Jily? 💗

Shameless Self plug but if you like any of my headcanons you will see them at some point in my long Jily fic A Light In The Shadows!

Send me an ask based on these questions

8. What do they love most about the other? Why?

They both love the thing that kept them separated for so long.

Lily is fiercely loyal to someone with whom she is friends or family. This is why she stayed friends with Sev for so long and did not cut him off. She knew what his life was like, the direction he was going, however, she wanted to try and be there for him so that maybe she could help. Her sister is also the same. I think they had some explosive fight (about the war, and their parents) and things were said that were unforgivable (or maybe if they had a decade they could have fixed it). But Lily's willingness to stand by those who she loves is something James truly loves about her.

I think James, to some extent when he matures, understands why Lily stays friends with Severus. And he respects her for it, even though he hates the guy. James understands that Lily was willing to be there for someone in their darkest times (kinda like how James is there for Remus, but also very different).

You have to truly stab Lily in the face for her to be done with you. James admires her dedication.

This is also why Lily never wrote James off, she knew he was an idiot, but he also had a lot of good qualities and was growing (I think there was steady growth over the years, not just overnight whooopssss I am an ass for James).

James on the other hand acts and defends those he loves/his beliefs with dedication.

Lily might not approve of all of James' methods (especially when he was younger), but there is something honorable about sticking up for your friends/beliefs regardless of what others say.

I personally see James as a bully who viewed himself as punishing bad people (NO he was absolutely not right about this many times). However, someone calls Peter ugly? Hex them in the halls with boils. Did someone make fun of Remus for being sick/visiting his mum all the time? Hex them too. He heard someone use the M word - woops where did the mud come from that is on them?

I think Snape would have pissed James off even more as he 1) insulted his dad the first day on the train and Gryffindor, and 2) was two-faced with Lily. James obviously heard Severus saying shit and could not stand it when he would play innocent. (James also targeted Severus because of Lily too I think). I could also see James in some diluted way wanting to show Lily how bad Severus had gotten.

None of the above is right or what Lily loves about James - but those mistakes lead him to be who is really is. Which is someone who uses his words first and then his wand in sticking up for those he loves.

Someone makes fun of Peter? "If you don't have anything nice to say don't say it at all."

Someone makes a rude comment about Remus - he tells them that he hopes their family all stay healthy and that they don't have to worry about them while still at school.

Someone says the M word - okay he still hexing them.

It's this change that occurs and James unwavering dedication to standing up for what he belives in that Lily loves the most.

The next one is below the cuts as this has gotten long!

23. What are the defining characteristics of their relationship?

Love - They love each other, including their flaws, though they are both working on them. It is a deep love.

Trust - They trust each other has the best intentions, that in a fight the other one has their back.

Mutual Respect - This is one that they always had. Even when they were young, they both had respect for each other when they were in disagreements. James respects that Lily is a loyal person, while she Respects that he fights for his friends.

Affection - They are very affectionate people. They are always near each other when they can be. It's not over the top, but at a party, it's often them standing together or touching feet when they sit down near each other. It's their way of saying I am here, and I love you.

Send me an ask based on these questions

[inlovewhithafairytale]

I think we lost her part 2

I'll be good

Theo reaken x reader

never meant to start a fire I never meant to make you bleed I'll be a better man today

I'll be good, I'll be good And I'll love the world, like I should Yeah, I'll be good, I'll be good For all of the times that I never could

My past has tasted bitter for years now So I wield an iron fist Grace is just weakness Or so I've been told I've been cold, I've been merciless

But the blood on my hands scares me to death Maybe I'm waking up today

Yn slammed the door of the truck and started walking toward the MCcall household yawning. She walked toward the door and furrowed her eyebrows when she heard some yelling from the inside and someone angrily walking toward the door.

Malia appeared with her face into a decuided frown and stalked past her berely giving yn a hello.

"Well hello to you too bestie" yn muttured and walked into the house closing the door shut behind her. Scott inmidiatly appeared and his eyes widened in shock when he saw her.

"Yn.. uh what are you doing here?!"

"I told her to come" liam answered scott before yn had the chance to. Scott looked as if he would kill is own beta and liam lifted his hands up in defense "Idont think is fair that we lied to her and shes one of my best friends! She was literally going to kill herself!"

Yn raised an eyebrow at the alpha and the beta wondering what had gotten into them"you guys" they both turned around to face her "I am very confundida, and why does this even have to do with me?"

Scott started to say something to probably send her home when Yn heard a voice she though she'd never hear in her lifetime, a voice she could only hear in dreams.

"Yn?"

She rushed between liam and scott and into the kitchen and saw theo pushing himself to stand, blood falling from his nose.

His eyes widened when they met hers and yn drew in a sharp breath looking around, but scott liam and hayden were all looking between the both of them.

"Your'e here?"she whispered

"Hey baby" he answered giving her a small smile eyes full of tears.

Yn gave a breathy laugh and ran toward him wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his torso.

Theo held her tightly against him chuckling "oh god youre here, youre here, youre not dead"yn repeated aginst his neck as she held tightly onto him.

"Im here princess. And i dont plan on living any time soon" theo murmured aginst her hair and then kissed her cheek. Yn let go and theo set her down on the floor putting a hand aginst her cheek. Both their eyes were full of tears as they both chuckled happily. Then theo bent down and kissed her, putting both his hands against her face, lips fitting perfectly together moving in slow motion.

Yn pulled away after a moment and looked up to him smiling "I thought you were dead"

"Well not exactly "

"But scott said-" yns words hitched and she whipped around to face Scott. "You lied to me?" She demanded.

Scott blinked and nodded"yes, because i knew-"

"Where on earth has he been this past 3 months?"

"On hell with his sister" scott answered

Yn pursed her lips in a tight line and shook her head "how could you?! Scott ive trusted you with my life and you just couldnt keep the only person ive ever loved safe?"

"Yn hes KILLED people, he killed his own sister, he killed ME, he hurt your dad-"

I though you were the true alpha"yn snapped"i though you were the one with the heart of gold, the one who belived in second chances! The one who actually cared!" Yn swallowed down the tears that were threatening to fall" I gess i was wrong"

"I did what I had to do to protect the pack" scott said defended himself.

"Dont you think I know!" Yn screamed her eyes flashing their signature violet " I would do anything for the pack, to keep everyone safe, Im the one who tries to keeps everybody safe. But when it comes down to it YOU couldent keep the Only person I've ever loved safe, ive never asked for anything scott. Not once. Why on earth did you lie to me?"

Scott couldent find the right words he knew yn was angry, and he also knew she would do anything to protect the people she loved "I knew you'd raise hell if necessary to bring him back" he answered

"Yes I would!scott i tried to kill myself because i felt a gaping whole on my chest. I had constant nightmares and you saw me go through all that because you tried to keep the pack safe?because yo knew ill bring him back?!" Yn squintedher eyes dangerously "i genuinely despise you scott MCcall"

"Yn listen im sorry-" scott said trying to apologize

"You could have said that around 3 months ago dont you think?"

Yn turned reached for theo's hand who had been staying silent through all the conversation as well as the others. He took her hand and let himself be gided toward the door.

"Were are you going?" asked scott blocking their way

"Im living and theo is coming with me, try to stop me and I WILL raise hell" yn threatened

Scott moved out of the way and tried to look at his betas for help but hayden only shrugged "shes right" and liam went to follown them, katana in hand.

"Yn!" Liam called before they could exit the house

Yn turned around to face him and liam extended the katana for her to take"you would problay want this" he tould her

Yn gave him a small smile as she reached for the katana" thanks liam"

Liam nodded and looked at theo who gave him a silent thanks by giving him a nod wich he returned.

When they exited the house and theo saw his truck he gave her a small smile " you kept it"

Yn shrigged and gave him a tighed liped smile"its yours, it just felt like the only thing i had left from you." She reached the keys out to him " you drive"

"Nah give me a few days to adjust on being back"

Yn gave him a small nod "ok" she walaked toward the deivers side as theo got into the passangers.

Yn turned on the ignition, and once theo was in started driving home.

"Why did liam let you out?"

"He thought i still had Josh's power" he kept his gaze on the road " but I didnt"

"You dont have it anymore?"

"No, Joshs or tracy's im back to good old me" he answered giving her a sad little smile

"Thats great, I like old you" she spared a glance at him with a smile" its actually my favorite you"

Theo laughed and took her hand giving it a smalla squeez. Then as if he caughed a smell of something he opened small compartment between the seats.

"Uh dodnt open that" yn said trying to stop him but he just gave her a puzzled loom and pulled out a bottle of vodka half empty

"Or do..." yn said pursing her lips on a tight line and kepping her eyes fixed on the road.

Theo looked from the bottle to her eyebrows raised "didnt know you drinked"

" I didnt."

"Does this have to maybe do with the fact that you said earlier you almost killed youself" he asked her quietly. Knowing he was walking on thin ice." Uh.. yeah" she answered her eyes till fixed in the road

"What happened?" His voice full of concern

Yn took a minute to answer "You were gone. You were Dead. And i just wanted to forget everything. Everybody was sympathetic but i knew they didnt even mean it. Everybody hated you" yn looked at theo who nodded at her to continue "so i took the bottke my dad kept hidden and downed it. I felt awful the next day. And thats an understatement, but just for a minute you know. I felt fine. I didnt feel anything anymore. So I took your truck and started driving every night to the look at point and sometimes malia found me there. Completely wasted. And thats how it went for 2 months. I went to school, locke myself in my room and do homework. Hit the shit out of my punch bag. And then drive to the look out point. Till one day i got in a fight with stiles and i decided that i didnt want to live anymore. So i downed a bottle of sleeping pills with vodka"

Theo drew in a sharp breath as he heard how much he actually meant to yn. How much she loved him, and it startled him. Be ause he thought he wasent meant to be loved.

"Dad found me in my room half an hour later and rushed me to the hospital were i spent 1 week in a bed"yn continued "it was awful. Dad made me promise him id never do it again. I actualky felt bad for everyone. They were all so worried. Stiles didnt live me out of hes sight till. Well you know.. got taken."

Once she parked the car in the driveway she spared a glace at theo.

He had tears in his eyes as he looked at her. Her hand securedly in his.

" Im so sorry" he whispered

"No oh god no theo" yns hand quickly went to his face " baby its not your fault, i shoulent have told you now"

"No, im glad you told me" he said swallowing down his tears " do you really love me that much?"

"To the point were i would kill myself to be with you, YeS" yn aswered lokking into his eyes " yes theo I love you, and i would do anything for you. dont. You. Ever. Doubt That.:

"I love you too yn. I love you so much" theo said gently squeezing the hand he held in his." Don't doubt that'

"Trust me. I don't " yn answered with a breathy laugh.

Theo rolled his eyes at her and then gave her a peck in the lips." So what do you plan on doing with this" he asked taking the bottle and lifting it

"Just live it in the car,dad would kill me if he knew I had that"

"Right" then he bent down and slided the bottle under his seat"there you go"

Yn chuckled and opened the door climing out of the car "so dads at work wich means we wont have to undergo akward questioning" she informed theo as they walked toward the doorway. Yn opened it and stepped in theo behind her. "Are you hungry? There's pasta. I can heat it up real quick"

"Uh no thanks, liam bought take out" theo answered smiling down at her.

"Kay" yn grinned back at him and took his hand leading him toward her room.

"Take a bath. You kind of smell" she said as they walked in, scruching her face into a smile

"Geez so hard" answered theo in mock pain. Yn just laughed and walked toward her drawer. Bent down and opened the botton one and pulled out one of theos shirt and pants.

"Here you go" she said straightening up and handing the clothes to him.

"I dont want to know?"

"There are clean towels in the bathroom "yn said ignoring him.

"Thanks mom" he jocked and kissed her cheek as he walked past her.

Yn stood there for a moment till she heard the water running with a big smile on her face.

He was back. Theo was finally back and alive. And soon they would get everyone the ghostriders took and everything would be alright.

Then she took off the taktop she had and her bra and pulled on an oversized shirt. And since she already had her pajama pant on climed to bed. Resting her back against the pillows.

She bent forward and retrieved a book next to her bedside. She was resting back comfortably when a notification rang on her phone. She 5ook it from the night table and ooened it to see it was Liam.

"Hey baby, liam asks where do we need 5o meet to get to the power thing"yn called

"Oh you mean the generator? Tell him its in the reserve" he answere from the bathroom.

"Okay...... uh, he asks 10 or 11 am, 11 right?

"Yeah" theo opened the door pulling on his shirt

Liam

Ok then

Wear protection ;)

Yn

Liam. NO

Yn turned off the phone chuckling at tye antics of the teenage werewolf

Theo sat down in the bed next ro her his back against the headboard.

"You look cute with your hair all wet" yn commented smiling up at him.

"Hmm"hummed theo nodding giving her a small smile"what are you reading?"

"The hunger games" yn answered lifting the book up.

"I saw the movie but never read the book"

"Youre welcome to read them anytime. This is actually the second book but the firt one has to be somewhere in my bookshelf."

"Ill take you up that offer" he muttered.

Then he gently slapped his tights gesturing her to come over" come here" he told her, more like a question that something else.

Yn smiled and sat on his lap. Her legs to one side and her head below the crook of his neck. She took one of his hands in hers and started playing with his fingers, while he ran his fingers through her hair with his other one. He pressed a kiss on the top of her head breathing her in, finally feeling as if he was finally home whit her in his arms.

"I never meant for you to get hurt" he whispered closing his eyes

" what do you mean?"yn softly asked him running her thumb softly on the top of his hand.

"I never meant it to be like this love, i never meant for you to get hurt. Ill be better yn. Ill be good" he muttered resting his chin on top of her head. yn could hear him sniffle as a tear rolled down his cheek "ill be good. I will try to be better. I will try to make things right. I shouldent have done what I did. I shouldent have hurt them. I shouldn't have been what ive been all this years. Ive been so cold. So heartless. So mercyless" he choked out tears falling. Yn held his hand betwee both of hers tightly. Letting him pour his feelings out." but yn. It scares me. All the blood in my hands terrifies me. And maybe. Maybe im waking up. Today. Ill be good. Ill be good" he sobbed. yn lifted her head ane put her arms around his neck letting him cry into her neck " I'll love the world like I should. I promise ill be good, for everyone I've ever hurt. For everything good ive ever doubted. For all the pain ive brought to you. For everything ive done all this years. For all those hipes and dreams ive killed. And for ever doubting you" he sobbed. Yn held him close as a few of her tears fell into his shirt. "Ill be good, I"ll be good" he repeated again

"I know you will theo" yn whispered " and promise ill be here. I promise I will always be here"

Theo snuggled his face into the crook of her neck and rounded his arms around her waist holding her close.

They sat there, holding each other. Till in the end yns eyelids closed without her consent, and she dozed off.

Theo felt her breath deepened and knew she had fallen asleep. He cautiously, trying not to wake her, rearranged the pillows. He leaned over and turned off the lights, and layed her in the mattress, tyen he laid down his front pressed to her back and rounded one of his arms around her waist.

"Mhh?" Yn hummed sleeply"sorry i just didnt sleep last night" she apologized sleeply

"Hey, its all right" theo cooed and yn turned around rounding one arm around his torso, snuggling closer and buring her face into his chest.

And there. They finally felt happy, like some part off them had finally returned. They felt like home

Ill edit this when I can but here it is!!

[goatwithaplan]

I wonder how much content we lost in the process of making dds, its something that genuinly bugs me because there is clear thought put behind this game.

From the main cast there are 2 characters that i would genuinly like to know what the hell happened in development, those are Cielo and Roland.

I'll start with Cielo as i have the most clear proof that something is missing. In the novels and according to ONE singular dialogue in the game Cielo was another child who got experimented with and thats how he knew Sera. Backstory is not content that you would usually leave out of a game. I speculate they had planned some short of storyline with him and Sera and then left it out. He seems to be very interested in Sera and protecting her after he develops his personality.

Roland in the other hand bugs me because he is in the story for so little, much like Lupa and Jinana, but unlike those 2 he gets to stay on the party. I think they either had planned something with him and probably Argilla beyond what happens in the power plant, but due time constraints and disc space they left what they could as good enough.

Reasons to think they had more intentions with Roland: Several characters we get to know revolve around Roland and his backstory is somewhat crucial for the development of the game (Greg's death). Also if you go out of your way to go to random places in the second game and talk to Roland he shows a bunch of dialogue with his personality and preocupations (Thanks @denbprikola , for sending these dialogues to me now i can be insane about Roland too). There is no way in the world they wrote roland to just be a replacement for Heat, yet this guy barely appears in game and dies and i didnt even got to feel sad about him because i met him for 3 seconds.

There is also this idea in my mind, and i know im just coping here, but I belive it is supposed that after Roland's death he manages to reach inner peace so fucking hard he scapes the Samsara, which is why we don't see him among the reincarnated children. It could also be they vanished him with other semi relevant characters like Jinana and Lupa but this theory makes me happier.

[chaifootsteps]

If Hazbin Hotel ends up canceled, im pretty sure it will be because of Vivzie's fault; whatever is it because she was hard to work with, because she keep throwing hissy fits every time the network didnt let her do any crazy idea she has for the show (like wasting thousands of dollars on getting some fancy broadway actor to voice some ugly character), or simply because the show she wrote was so bad that nobody watched it so they had to cancel it due the lack of views.

Whatever it is, it will be Viv's fault, but i know the fans will not reconise it;

If that days comes, i just know the Viv's bootlikers will be annoying af on social media and blame anyone but her. They will blame the network for "not giving an indie proyect a chance", and how "companies hate animation" and blah blah...

They will also blame the public, saying shit like "OMG We finally got an indie show on TV and y'all didnt support it?!?! Fuck You!" So basically lots of gasligthting and blaming as if we were supposed to watch something we dont like just to support an indie proyect.

Sorry if i sound too negative, but if find it hard to belive that H.H could be succesful as a TV series and not be cancelled after maybe 7 episodes, like, its seems like one of those proyects that can ONLY gain a public on the internet.

It reminds me to those shows made after youtubers, those would be "succesful" the first episodes just because it had the name of said youtuber, but then people would realize that just because their favourite youtube made funny videos doesnt mean they would make a good show, and drop it. Years later, that show is remembered for how bad it was.

Some things doesnt translate well from the internet to TV, i think Vivzie's proyect are some of them. Maybe thats why H.H doesnt have any real promotion from the network; because they know nobody who isnt an internet addict or an edgy kid will watch it.

(Also sorry if some of the things i said doesnt make sense or are hard to understand, English aint my first languaje lol)

Nah, you're not too negative or hard to understand. "Wasting thousands of dollars on getting some fancy broadway actor to voice some ugly character" made me laugh.

I don't know what's going to happen, but I definitely think it's going to be an interesting time, and that we can count on Vivzie's bootlickers to be as stable and normal as ever.

[tangledinink]

I have a fic gift inspired by this post https://www.tumblr.com/tangledinink/724042848550404096/do-you-mean-to-imply-that-he-will-be-18-19-or?source=share

While I don't belive this will actually happen the angst was too good to ignore. I'm sorry if it's bad, I'm currently sick lmao

This is kinda the grief of losing a sibling you once thought you knew for content warning

Leo didn't know why he thought Donnie would even be glad or remember their birthday.

Maybe it was some dull hope that Donnie would remember his family indefinitely, after all nothing meant more than family in the Hamato Clan.

Maybe Donnie didn't believe that it was their birthday because of some long held details of them being twins that transferred over or that they technically weren't born on the same day (or that the lake had some time dilation thingie).

Maybe this was the end of their twin hood.

It was strange seeing Donnie all dressed up as some Swan Lake ballerina wannabe. The more and more Leo saw Donnie, or Swan-Don, the more he forgot what Donnie looked like before the curse.

Pictures helped him remember the before time, before the curse, before his brother attacked him, be he was a stranger in a mirror, before there was no longer a mirror to look at.

The things Leo once knew about Donnie, were now mere footnotes of a life they once had. Ballerina and honong his fighting and lake duties was all Donnie seemed to like doing. If he remember Donnie tried to figure out the lake curse. At least Mikey could relate with the ballerina stuff and Raph with fighting but there was less room for Leo.

Maybe Donnie was no longer his brother.

On rare occasions, Leo was able to ninja his way to the lake unnoticed, he saw how at piece Donnie was. Not worried about remembering, protecting a stupid lake, or being the best technician in the world, just a wierd Swan turtle enjoying Swan turtle things.

Would Donnie even like pizza or skateboarding with his brothers anymore?

Maybe they weren't even family anymore.

Leo was tired of them being the only ones to put in the effort to help Donnie escape. Well Donnie was putting in effort but everytime he chased them off, everytime he fought against them, everytime he hurt the rest of his family, Leo wondered who Donnie was more loyal to.

The more Donnie told Leo to get out, the Leo was inclined to return. The more Donnie forgot Leo, the less Leo thought there was success in removing the curse. The more Donnie fought Leo, the less Leo saw the person who was his family.

Did Donnie even love Leo? Who knows. Donnie would certainly forget.

At this point it was the lake who had Donnie's love but Leo liked to think differently. It was all in vain.

Maybe the lake was Donnie's family now and Leo would just have to accept that.

Hope was a ninjas greatest weapon, but what was it too seeing a person you once loved dearly dissappear right in front of you?

Maybe Donnie wasn't even Donnie anymore, just a pawn of the lake to forever protect the queen.

aaaa!?!?!? ; 0 ; yOU WROTE A THING FOR ME??? I AM,,, SO FLATERED,,,

[shooting-love-arrows]

Me to Mortician!Yandere:

/) /)

ପ(˶•-•˶)ଓ ♡ Gimme more plz (I’ll be a corpse if ya want me too)

/づ づ

I finally figured out why I can send the picture! It is because Tumblr doesn’t like anons sending em ૮₍⇀‸↼‶₎ა!

Also, I love love love Mr. Mortician because I actually want to be a Mortician! It’s one of my dreams!

As odd as I know that may sound ૮꒰ ྀི >⸝⸝⸝< ྀི꒱ა

So I think me and him would get along swimmingly!~

I love the way you wrote him and I can’t wait to see more of him!~

On another note, how do you think Mr. 1950’s Husband or even Mr. 1950’s Rich Man would react to a Mortician darling? I actually was thinking about asking and then you posted about Mr. Mortician, lucky timing I suppose ໒꒰ྀི´ ˘ ` ꒱ྀིა!~

Anywho, I’ll give ya another *squeeze* and some bread since ya seem to like it so much on the way out, and hope you have another dazzling day/night my darling honeybun!~ <3

Also, hope you enjoy TWST (Twisted Wonderland)! I’ve fallen in love with it too! Who’s your favorite as of right now? Mines Idia!~ ໒꒰ྀི ∩ ⸝⸝ ∩ ꒱ྀིა

- ໒꒰ྀི ˶• ༝ •˶ ꒱ྀི১₊˚⊹♡

Dear ໒꒰ྀི ˶• ༝ •˶ ꒱ྀི১₊˚⊹♡ Anon,

You don't need to be a corpse but sometimes it's better to pretend to be one. After all, you are dealing with a walking red flag. But remember to remind him from time to time that you are alive. Oh, he loves you too. In fact I belive you are love of his life. This man falls last but harder. If you want more of him and you have some ideas, my inbox is at your disposal (requests will be written after I'll reopen them)

Wow, I didn't expect that. It's not odd at all, dear. What an interesting choice of career! You're the first person from my surroundings who’s interested in becoming a mortician. I certainly hope you'll achieve your dreams. It's such a pity! Well, I'm certain your fanart is fantastic. No need to feel sad about such trivial matters. Remember, do things that will make you comfortable. I have a favor to ask you, if you could send me a part of your post about how my yanderes would react to mortician! reader again. I'll gladly write them later but now I'm focusing on completing the requests. You can just copy and paste that part. Thank you for understanding in advance. Thank you for your squeeze. I needed it. Well, my day is fine but it seems that sickness decided to pick me as its next victim 😔 About the bread. I mean, there is this anon jumps in my inbox from time to time and gives me free food. (I appreciate the thought behind it!). Who am I to decline it? Anything you will give me is fine dear. Now I'll go and eat this bread with some good, homemade jam. Hope to hear from you soon and have a wonderful day (even if it's not daytime), my darling pink rose! P.S So far I enjoy it. Perhaps it's because I love the stories they were based on. Right now, I am stuck on Vil. Our unapproachable and mean Queen is just pulling me in. India, my spiritual animal, has a great potential to be an adorable husband. Imagine a reverse version of the myth about Persephone and Hades. Instead of Hades aka Idia seducing you it is you that do so. He would stop functioning, I'm telling you. P.S.S I went all out on this answer, huh?

@shooting-love-arrows

[taurus-spacecraft]

i saw you reblogged something about learning random facts and in the tags you mentioned andy warhol? could you please tell me a few things about him? :0 i'm studying him for my art GCSEs lol

YESS

(just note that i dont know all cool facts ab him just the general image for now)

WELL OKAY he was born 1928 and his parents were Austria-Hungary immigrats, hes mum was byzantine catholic and so was he for all his life he went to church almost every Sunday AND HE MEET JOHN PAUL II AND GAVE AUTOGRAPHS TO NUNS WHO WERE THERE

He started as a commercial illustrator theres a video showing technics he used for that , in the late 50s he started painting because he wanted his works to be shown in galleries and he did hes Campbell soup paintings, exhibited them in 1962 and that pretty much made him more known:DThe same year he bought a house and on the 5th floor created the factory decorated all in sliver paint and tin foil. It was relocated a few times but this one is the most famous. I belive most of his polaroids of celebrities were taken there but might be wrong lol. He was super obsessed with celebrities and fame which started when he was a kid and had to stay home for weeks after falling sick with sydenham chorea(it also made his skin and hair lose pigment for the rest of his life) and was collecting photos of celebs and writing to them

In 1968 he was shot by a radical feminist bc she didnt star in one of his films but he made it out alive, he was less social after that and became scared of hospitals. He kept making art, im his signature silk screen printing technic but belived he havent done anything good since the attack:( Also the woman who shot him ended up in a mental hospital, got out and has wrote him letters with pears.

He died basically because of his fear of hospitals he was moving his gallbladder surgery to the point when he actually did it it was very dangerous (and the fact that he was shot beafore and almost died didnt make it easier) he died because of complications after sugery but he did wake up! and made a call, then he suffocate i think

He stored things in boxes. I mean a lot of things. In a lot of boxes. They are called time capsules and im pretty sure they opened all of them, they included toe nails, old food, papers etc really ranodm thngs but his assignment whe help him to make the boxes said he knew exactly where he wanted to put what. So not random after all.

He was also openly gay beafore the gay liberation(he once submitted a series of man nudes to an exhibition but they rejected them and wanted to make a book, named cockbook. No comment needed on that), lived with his mom until he was 42, she moved in with him in NYC when he bought the house i mentioned earlier amd they had 20 cats all named Sam very important information. And he wore wigs, made in italy i think bc we went bald too quickly, he didnt style tehm and once a girl took his wig of and he wrote in his diary that we wanted to push her of balcony for that, i was surprised i was sure it was real hair lol

I CANT THINK OF ANYTHING ELSE TO SAY NOW I HOPE YOU ENJOYED MY MONOLOGUE

[heulwenflower]

Laugh

Tw:details of abuse and sa,abuse an d sa in general,csa(not detailed),self destructive behaviour,toxic relationships(both platonic and sexual),victim blaming behaviour

!!please read poets note!!:

I don't use flowery language in this one.it doesn't go into deep detail but it does call the acts by its name.its a rant poem I wrote while triggered about a coping mechanisms and my anger.i felt so ashamed for so long that my truama response is anger and humour.im sharing because I'm not the only one and if it makes pepole feel less alone.please skip this poem If you even have a thought it might be triggering

Laugh

Laugh

Laugh

Laugh while they degrade you

Laugh while they put you down

Laugh when they manipulate you

Laugh because you can't communicate anymore

Laugh then cry when you go home

Laugh when you realise you were a glorified side chick

And offal is being treated better than you

Laugh when he grinds on you

Laugh when you get transported to months prior

Laugh while pepole laugh at it happening

Laugh when you realise your best mate is taking photos

Laugh just to get through it until your angel appears

Laugh when days later everyone sees it as a joke

Laugh when you realise everyone there knew what happened to you months prior

Freeze when he grinds up and grabs my boobs

"Maybe don't do that"

Freeze bewildered as your mates do nothing

Realise your clown make up has been broken

No longer the jester

Now worth just as much as the keeper said i was

Why the fuck didn't I Laugh that time

Cry when realising how far dad went

Puke when trying to explain

Laugh when explaining it to your boyfriends best mate

"Its fine"

Because its always got to be fine

Huh there's the laughter

Freeze when you get told its not your fault for the first time

Fuck up your life when you realise no one really cared

Get pissed to be a good boyfriend on his 21st and fuck that up too

Get angry when they act clueless

Cry when they protect those who hurt you

Freeze when you realise you getting exiled like your abuser

Feel the anger when you realise the punishment doesn't match the crime

Plot screaming at them all

Stop

Time stopped

When I realised

How

Many

Pepole

I've

Referenced

In

This

Poem

Self compassion

I acted like a dick

But truama isn't meant to be collected

And I speed ran that collection

When dreaming of 6ft under

You dont realise what's going on 6ft above

You still think 6ft above is where you left it

It's not

It's no excuse etheir

But I can't think what they want me to belive as to why I acted that way

So fuck laughing

I refuse to be your jester toy anymore

And don't you dare find a replacement

[cawthorntales]

About me: Christmas edition Santa

I believed in Santa until my mid 20s. Why you may ask? It's all because of my 12th Christmas. Me and my brother had asked and asked our parents for a ps2 and Kingdom Hearts. We were told couldn't be done this year by them and Santa didn't do consoles. Early December of 2002 my dad died. When Christmas came our first with just my brother, me and our mom we opened our presents as one does. Then we had a big box to both of us. We opened it and inside was a ps2 and the game we had wanted.

What does that have to do with me believing in Santa for so long? Well it also came with a letter in it. The letter was written in a strange handwriting that was super fancy and whimsy looking and looked nothing like I had seen. The letter was from "Santa" and in it he talked about how he usually doesn't do these kind of gifts, but he knows me and my brother had just lost our dad and we were good boys so he made an exception for us this one time.

After my brother and I read the letter we sat it on the living room table to play with our toys. The letter vanished. We know we didn't throw it away as my brother and I were always careful with that stuff. And we didn't see our mom toss it as she was with us the entire time. All that made me believe in Santa a lot longer than I would have. I genuinely believed it was from him, because the whole thing was too weird.

I know as I got older a lightbulb should have went off that was like hey genius it was your mom who wrote it and she spent a long time working on the look of it to be belivable, your mom who got you the ps2 and game and your mom who was quick and snuck the letter off the table to throw out to look like it magically disappeared. But I have always been a bit naive and believer in Christmas magic.