#both her dads she loves both of her dads but she gets into way more fights with bunny than with jack

[inbabylontheywept]

Weird Grandpa Story #2

I remember asking my mom once, if her dad had gotten ornerier as he'd gotten old. I'd heard about that happening, and it would've made sense for him. He was already the orneriest old cuss I'd ever met. Couldn't even imagine him being grumpier than he was.

Instead of answering the question directly, she told me about what it was like going to church with him as a kid. Their church was a small Mormon ward out in the sticks of Colorado, and he served as their Bishop - mostly by virtue of being the only one willing to do that much unpaid work. He was also the ward pianist. He actually liked playing piano, and he liked having an audience, so it was more or less understood that he was willing to be the bishop in exchange for being the pianist. 

Which could've been a good trade, but there were a few problems.

The first problem was that Grandpa Dale played every song at about triple speed. He was a deeply impatient person, and that extended to how he played music. The second problem was that he had a bad habit of cursing under his breath. That would've been a scandalous  enough habit for a Mormon bishop, but was made much worse (and also much funnier)  by him being pretty damn deaf. So what he thought of as "quiet" cursing under his breath was more of just a verse hoarse way of yelling. I only visited him for a week or two every summer, and I still learned most of my bad words from him. 

So every Sunday would start with a quiet prayer, and then Bishop Grandpa Dale would go to the piano, sit down, and play the nightcore version of Praise to the Man. He would occasionally play other hymns, but he really, really liked that one. This would continue until he hit a wrong note, which was basically inevitable because his music philosophy was that if he could play a song flawlessly, it was time to play it faster. So he'd play until he hit that wrong note, at which point he would scream-whisper SHIIIIIT and, because he did not actually read music so much as memorize it, the only way he'd be able to get his rhythm back was by going back to the start. 

If it was a good Sunday, he could get it in two tries. Some Sundays took as many as five. 

I learned two things about Grandpa Dale from this story. The first was that he could play piano. I'd never actually seen him do that before. Still haven't, come to think of it. Second was that the man that I visited once a year, who always seemed on the verge of exploding, who scared the absolute dickens out of me, was actually the chilled out version of the man my mom grew up with.

And it helped knowing that, actually. I'm actually a pretty anxious person, and my mom is, also, a pretty anxious person, and as a teenager we'd sometimes get in these doom loops where we'd wind each other up until our springs cracked. She'd be worried about me growing up to be happy, and I'd be worried about letting her down, and my worrying would make me unhappy, and my unhappiness would make her unhappy, and we'd just kind of dissolve into these anxieties like cotton candy in the sea and become totally unbearable to be around for a bit. Then my dad would sit us both down and very politely tell us that we were being crazy. He had this quote how being sad that someone else is sad that you're sad is the emotional equivalent of being a Klein flask and that at some point you have to just say I am allowed one (1) single layer of emotional recursion, at most, and ideally zero. 

And it was always kind of embarrassing and silly, but when I was tempted to be more upset with my mom about it, I could remember the piano story and go: Sheesh. She has more of a right to be anxious that I do. For me it's really just genetics, but she grew up with the Cactus-Killing Gopher-Smasher. A whole 18 years of that. I spent two weeks every summer with that guy, and I love him, but I always came home feeling like I'd survived something. She's a trooper.

[frou-frou-deserved-better]

My mom grew up in a very abusive family and of her 3 brothers, two died by suicide, and the other died of complications from substance abuse. Two didn't have kids, and the third abandoned his 8 year old son with the opposite side of the family so we didn't see him for over 15 years. My mom hasn't lived near them since she was 22 (minus an ill advised year of seeking support after my toddler brother barely survived a drowning).

My staunchly Catholic, horrifically judgemental grandmother has to live with that on her own since my violent grandfather died of damage to his kidney by alcohol abuse. By her own beliefs, her sons and husband are going to hell and she'll never be with them after death.

They look down on my dad's family because they're undisciplined and trashy, but there's buckets more love there, and our grief in memory of loved ones isn't shadowed by suffering in life. What abuse there was for my father (it was a poor family in the 70s with generations of violence and extreme poverty behind them. Irish famine, dust bowl, the works.) was always out of misguided and desperate love and far outweighed by my grandparents' sincere love and attempts to grow.

My grandfather lived a long life full of love from his 4 children, 12 grandchildren and 5 great grandchildren. My grandma gets calls, texts and visits from all of us regularly even across the country. Forgiveness was a lot easier when they tried their best, always followed love first, and learned as they went.

Both my parents chose the difficult path of therapy, sobriety, and healing from cycles of trauma and abuse. We fight, and cry, and have starkly opposed views between the five of us in my immediate family, but we all hold each other as best we can. Our love is not perfect, but it's rooted in trust and safety.

We all owe it to each other to condemn violence of any kind. There will still be hurt and tension and mistakes to spare, but the only way through is children not fearing their parents.

Generational toxic masculinity.

[wardenparker]

Bones Full of Words, Epilogue

Javier Peña x plus size reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

“He pleaded so much that he lost his voice. His bones began to fill with words.” ― Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude

Javier Peña had no way of knowing for certain the American journalist he sometimes sees sniffing around the embassy for her stories is also getting information about the narcos from the same girls that he is. After Helena is brutalized by sicarios, it is that same journalist who comes to take her away and look after her -- giving Javi reason to pause and reconsider his opinion of the woman he had previously not considered as anything more than eye candy.

He has no idea that once she has walked fully into his life, he will be battling with himself over whether or not he should stop her from walking out it of again.

Rating: M for Mature but this blog is always 18+ Word Count: 8.4k Warnings: Cursing, alcohol, food/eating, talk of weight or size, domestic fluff, sass, married flirting, pregnancy, childbirth Summary: Thanksgiving time has come again, but the Peñas are in for more than just a nice meal this year. Notes: It has been such an amazing journey following these two through their love story! We hope you've enjoyed it as much as we have 🧡🧡

Ch 1 ~ Ch 2 ~ Ch 3 ~ Ch 4 ~ Ch 5 ~ Ch 6 ~ Ch 7 ~ Ch 8 ~ Ch 9 ~ Ch 10 ~ Ch 11 ~ Ch 12

There is nothing unusal at all about the dog being the first one to spot the car, but you're still slightly startled by the commotion when the hound in the living room starts howling to sound the alarm. After that it's the two kids who come scrambling out of their room and bounding down the stairs screaming "Daddy's home!" as if he had been gone more than just a few hours.

The whole brigade has sounded the alarm, and you can't help but grin.

Hearing the dog barking and the kids scrambling around in the house before he ever even hits the door, Javi is chuckling as he grabs the deli bag and his bag filled with papers he will need to read sometime over the holiday break. “Shit.” He hisses, turning back to the car to grab the drink carrier, knowing you would be disappointed if you didn’t get your root beer.

"Boys, you have to let your Dad into the house!" You call, coming out from the kitchen with a dishrag in hand. You had been chopping enough onions to sink a ship and washing the smell off your hands was extremely necessary.

“It’s okay!” Javi calls out, although it’s a juggling act to keep the drinks from spilling as the two exuberant kids launch themselves at him.

"You're going to fall over, babe." It is okay, though, and you're both laughing even as you reach forward over two young boys, one ambling basset hound, and a seven-month pregnant belly to grab multiple bags from his hands. "How was class?"

Javi snorts. “Half the class didn’t show up.” He chuckles. “I don’t blame them, I wouldn’t show up either.” He admits, knowing he had wished he was home with you and the boys rather than sitting in his lecture hall. “‘Professor Peña, whhhhyyyy do we have to do reading over the break?’” he pitches his voice up and imitates one of his students. “I really don’t give a shit if they read it or not, but they annoyed me so I assigned it.”

“Your reading list always makes for interesting dinner conversations, I’m sure.” There’s a grin on your face when he leans over to kiss you then head to switch gears immediately to catch your younger son as he launches himself into daddy’s arms. “It’s Steve’s book isn’t it?”

“Of course it is.” He flashes you a grin before he turns his attention back to his youngest child. “Were you good for mama today?” He asks, knowing that he is the mirror copy of a young Javier. So the answer is probably no.

“Yeah!” Your youngest affirms his innocence wholeheartedly, but you roll your eyes playfully.

“Come on boys, Daddy brought home lunch for everybody so let’s wash up.” It earns Javi another grateful kiss from you, since tuna sandwiches from the shop over by UGA campus are your new pregnancy craving. A tuna sandwich on their toasted oat bread, loaded with veggies and American cheese, with an ice cold root beer. He’s brought you home that same lunch every day for a week, and today he brought lunch for him and the boys too.

After the capture of the Rodriguez brothers and the take down of the entire Cali Cartel, Javier had been told his services were no longer needed in the DEA. Which was fine with him because he was going to tell them to go fuck themselves. He had thought about going back to Laredo, and you did for a month or so, but then a teaching position for criminal justice and political science became available at a respectable college and he took it. It only took two year for the University of Georgia to recruit him for their staff.

The blue house on the edge of campus with its white-trim windows and fenced-in yard has been your home ever since he took the job. The boys have started their lives here despite your oldest being born just before you left Colombia, and when they begged for a puppy last year it had been a beautiful basset puppy waiting for them under the tree on Christmas morning that really tied the bow on this being home.

“How are you and my baby girl doing?” After setting Oscar down to run after his brother, Javier pulls you by the waist to him, his hand moving to rub your stomach lovingly. He adores when you are pregnant and it’s especially sweet since you decided this was the last baby, and a little girl.

"We are not big fans of onions today." You grimace, knowing that it could be worse but that it feels like it's the only thing you've done all morning since getting the boys settled in their playroom. "But Marco came up wtih a new name he wanted to add to the list." The notepad on the refrigerator is where you keep the ongoing list of baby name ideas, and every once in a while the boys or another family member will contribute an idea as well. It was Chucho who ended up naming Oscar, and your brothers had pitched the name Marco originally. Names have become something of a family effort.

“Oh?” Javi hums, impressed by his excitement for the little sister due in February. “What did he come up with?”

The smirk on your face says you know Javi won't be as excited for long, considering his son's current favorite movie. "He would like to name his baby sister Donkey."

“That fucking movie” Javi closes his eyes and sighs, hating the fact he had taken Marco to see Shrek. Even though he loves it better than any other movie in the world. “Please tell me you didn’t write it down?”

"Oh no, I didn't." Your grin turns shit-eating as you point to the refrigerator where Marco's large, shaky handwriting clearly spells out the word and takes up four times as much room as any other name. "He asked to write it himself."

“Well I hate to burst his bubble…” Javi snorts at the slanted handwriting and the misspelled Donky written on the board. “We will not be naming our baby girl that.”

"Of course not." And that is where your expression turns fond again, shaking your head at your oldest baby but proud of him for wanting to contribute to a big family decision. "But I love that he's thinking about it."

“God.” He snorts, grinning at the antics of his children, but like you, he’s proud of them. “So no onions today, huh? Made you gassy?”

"The smell made me sick first thing," you admit. After washing your hands with the kids, the four of you can sit down at the table to have your lunch. "But I powered through. I don't even want to think about the chaos tomorrow would be if I couldn't make stuffing because of an onion aversion."

“You should have let me handle it when I got home.” He frowns at you, huffing slightly. “I know I can’t cook like you, but I can follow directions passably well.”

"I know you can, babe." The smell of tuna is like a balm over your senses when you unwrap your sandwich and you sigh happily. "But you have to go to the airport tonight to pick up our parents, remember?"

“I can do both.” He knows you want to have the perfect holiday, it’s just how you are. Even the few times you had thrown dinner parties in Colombia, you had wanted everything to be just so. Of course you want a family holiday to be perfect. “Let me help you. I know you’ve got to be tired.”

"I've got a plan." Having the biggest house out of your siblings after everyone had settled down and being the first one with kids has meant that the Peña residence in Athens, Georgia is now family holiday headquarters. While you love it, it is also a lot of work, so you've been working on creating a system. "Once everybody gets here this afternoon there will be plenty of childcare and Michael's wife insisted they're getting pizza and salad for everybody for dinner tonight. Paper plates and plastic cups so we don't make more work for ourselves. At that point there will be lots of helping hands and the work will go a lot faster."

“Beer is in the back of the car.” He had picked that up on the way to the deli you love. Thanksgiving wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without some Budweiser while watching the football game. Although he makes sure everything is done and you are sitting beside him before he sits down.

"Perfect. Thank you, cariño." Having a partner for a husband feels like it sets you apart from the other faculty wives that you end up spending time with, but not in ways that you're upset about. While the other ladies are rightfully bitching about how their husbands don't help out around the house or don't do their part with the kids, you tend to just keep your mouth shut. Javier is always there to support you and share the workload, helping to raise the boys as their other parent and not as a third, older child you constantly have to prod at. Right now is a prime example of it, as he gets the boys set up with their shared sandwich so that you can dig in to your lunch right away.

Javi moves to pour the kids juice into their cups. Marco has a Shrek cup and Oscar with his favorite Barney cup and then he cracks open a ginger ale for himself. The days of starting to drink right after coming home are long past him and he doesn’t miss it as much as he might have expected.

"So, Papa's flight lands at 3:00 this afternoon and Grammy's lands at 3:15." You managed to work the flight times out for both of your parents to come in at the best possible time. "Joey and his wife want to rent a car so they'll get down here on their own after they land, and Michael decided to road trip from Chattanooga so they'll probably be in last even though they're aiming for the same time as everyone else." Coordinating the families does take a little work as they grow, but it's work that you're all willing to put in. Especially so all the kids can spend time with their cousins a few times every year and really get to know each other.

“Okay.” He nods and smirks. “I would have driven to Atlanta to pick them up, but I’m happy as hell I don’t have to.” Both his father and your mom opted to fly into the smaller, local airports so they can be with their grandchildren faster.

"It worked out, thank god." The boys are currently engrossed in a conversation about something Saturday-morning-cartoon related that you can't quite catch, so with the first few bites of your sandwich you enjoy the relative peace. They'll be up early tomorrow to see every second of the Macy's parade so any peace you get today is wonderful. "And I am not grappling with your dad's addiction to pecan pie this year. I ordered one from the bakery along with the apple. Homemade pie crust is officially my nemesis."

Javi chuckles and nods. “Good choice” He teases. “Do I need to go brave the stores for anything else?”

"At this point, if we don't have it, it's not ending up on the Thanksgiving table." And that's the final word as far as you're concerned. "The last thing is picking up the pies, and my sisters-in-law already offered to make that trip tonight for us." You smirk, knowing your brothers' soulmates fairly well at this point. It's only been a few years but you're a tight knit family. "If they're willing to do the last errand, I'm not going to begrudge them getting out of the noisy house for a half hour later on."

“Damnit, she figured out why I always make the last run.” Javi grumbles, but he winks at you playfully. He actually enjoys when the house is in chaos and noisy. Far different from his own solitude for so many years. He’s less in his own head these days.

"Big time." You grin at him, stifling your laughter by having another bite of lunch. "You're the one who wanted a big house, babe. The price we pay is being the holiday house."

"I don't mind it." He had insisted the kids all be able to have their own rooms and he had wanted you to have a dedicated office as well as him. That required a big house.

As it does so often with him now, your smile softens at the edges. "I don't either. And it's going to be even nicer not having to bundle three kids into the car or onto a plane a couple of times a year to see family."

"Well, we had already agreed that the kids having their holidays at home was the most important thing." He reminds you. "Luckily our parents agreed and are willing to come to us."

"Marco gave us that privilege," you remind him, glancing over at your boys. "My mother would have flown to Timbuktu to see her first grandbaby."

"That's true." Your mother had been upset when you hadn't wanted her to come to Colombia for the last month of your pregnancy and the birth. She had flown to Texas to meet him as soon as the three of you had returned to the States.

“And honestly I’m glad that we’re close enough for your dad to get here without much trouble.” Chucho is still pretty spry for his age but that doesn’t mean you aren’t grateful for the quick flights between Laredo and Athens.

"I think dad enjoys flirting with the flight attendants." Javi jokes, shooting you a smirk.

“Probably,” you agree, smirking even though you shake your head. Chucho isn’t the kind of guy who would make trouble, so it’s harmless as long as the attendants don’t mind. “Gives the waitresses at his bar a break.”

"He's asked about your mother a lot." He waggles his brows suggestively. "We might have to put bells on our parents at night. Make sure they stay in their rooms."

“Nothing could be weirder.” The look of absolute confusion and discomfort in your face is immediate. “Our family tree does not need to tangle that way.”

He laughs at the abject horror in your eyes and reaches over to squeeze your knee under the table. "I'm teasing, sweetheart." He promises. "Pop asks about your mom, but only in a friendly kind of way." He can't be offended at your reaction, he would have the same kind of instinct if he heard something like that.

“Oh thank god.” You huff, trying to recompose yourself. “I know we live in the south. But we don’t need to be a stereotype.”

He huffs again, amused as you continue to shake your head. "Pop has started seeing another widow, someone from that support group you turned him on to." He had never really thought about his dad needing to talk to other widowers who had lost their soulmates, but you had seen it. Another reason he loves how you have folded into his life so perfectly. You softened his rough edges and noticed the unspoken needs of both of the Peña men.

“Oh good!” That seems to wipe the other thought clean from your mind. “I mean I didn’t show him those groups thinking he’d start dating, just that having some friends who went through what he did would be good for him.”

"Mama wouldn't have wanted him to be alone for the rest of his life." That he knows, having discussed it with her when it had become clear she wasn't beating her cancer. She had known that Javier could and would hold a grudge if he had thought it was disrespectful to her memory. So she had made her wishes clear to her only son. "It is good for him. He said he feels like a kid again."

“I wish we had known before.” Having devoted half your sandwich already, you reach for your soda. “I would’ve have invited her, too. Though in sure she has her own family to see.”

"She is visiting her grandchildren." He nods. "Although pop said he might ask us to come out to Texas this summer to meet her?"

“Absolutely.” That sounds just like your father-in-law. Chucho plans for the long term much better than short term in all areas of his life. “By then our little girl should be okay to travel a bit.”

Javi grins. "I think that was his plan. Show off his newest grandbaby."

“Donkey!” Marco supplies cheerily, having heard his mother say the word girl.

Javi rolls his eyes and sighs heavily while you giggle. "I'm glad you think this is funny." He huffs quietly.

“I have final veto naming rights on anything that comes out of my body,” you remind him with a smug grin. “Of course I think it’s funny.”

"Thank God for that." He rolls his eyes again and gets up when he sees your drink is finished to get you a glass of water.

“You won’t be saying that if I name her something ridiculous in a fit of sleepless silliness.”

"I don't think you want to give our daughter a name that will embarrass her." He points out and licks his lips before voicing something that he's been thinking about since finding out that that baby is a girl. "Is it strange or inappropriate that I was thinking about Helena for a middle name?" He asks softly, watching you to gauge your reaction.

“Oh.” That makes you pause, but when he puts the glass of water down in front of you, you reach for his hand rather than the glass. “I—I actually think that’s so nice,” you admit with tears in your eyes. Though your contact with Helena has waned slightly in the years since she moved to America, you still send each other letters a few times a year to keep up. “Someone we both love dearly…I think that’s a very sweet gesture.”

“I—” he flounders slightly. “She is the reason we found each other.” He murmurs. “The reason we have this life, our children.”

"She is." He is completely correct, and you squeeze his hand tightly for just a brief moment. Now that he's suggested it, there is no other possibility in your mind. "Whatever we pick, it has to go with Helena."

Javi sighs softly, smiling at you before he leans down and presses his lips to yours. “I wasn’t sure how you would like the idea.” He admits. After all, both of you had slept with her, so it could have been a horrible idea in your mind.

"I don't think it's a conventional decision, but we aren't very conventional people." Looking around the table, though, and then back up at him, you shrug. "At least, we didn't used to be."

He chuckles at that and shoots you a grin. “We have slipped into domesticity with surprising ease, haven’t we?” He asks you.

"We really have," you agree, leaning up to kiss him again when the phone on the wall rings.

"You stay there." Javi pulls back and points at you, knowing you would try to heft your pregnant belly out of the chair to rush over to the phone. "I’ll get it." He steps over to the phone and picks it up, reminding himself that he needs to get another cordless phone set so you can just carry one around. It would make it easier and the last one had been broken by the movers. "Peña residence." He answers.

“Hey mijo!” Chucho’s voice is cheery through the cracking connection of the cellphone that Javier had bought him to have while he traveled. “I just boarded and that gorgeous wife of yours said to call before I left Texas.”

“Hey pop.” He twists his body around and winks at you. “Yeah, she worries about you.” He tells his father while watching you. “Didn’t want you to get lost in the airport and miss Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Not a chance.” Chucho chuckles at that. “Tell my grandsons I’ll be there soon, okay?”

“They will be looking forward to it.” He promises and then hangs up the phone after Chucho says goodbye.

“Is Papa here?” Oscar asks hopefully, having heard his father refer to Pop and knowing that holidays mean his favorite family member in the whole world will be coming to play Spacemen with him.

“He will be in just a few hours.” Javi lifts a brow. “If you take a nap, he will be here as soon as you wake up and you will have allllllll the energy to play.” He’s not above making a nap sound like a good thing. Not if it lets you get a nap while he’s gone to pick up the parents.

"All done!" Your youngest announces with an enormous amount of ceremony, pushing away his plate – which actually is empty – and throwing up his hands as it was proof of having finished his lunch.

“Good job, buddy.” Fatherhood has taught Javier a patience he never knew he could have, and he’s been rewarded for it. His boys are already far better than he ever was and he knows they will only become better men than he ever could claim to be.

Getting the boys down for a nap is one of Javier’s best Dad chores, but when he comes back down twenty-five minutes later with the baby monitor in hand you both breathe a sigh of relief. “They missed you this morning,” you tell him, smiling softly over the kitchen clean up. “So did I.”

He hums, knowing that he had missed them too. “Too bad I can’t just lecture from my office.” He shrugs, moving over to where you are rinsing the glasses and softly shooing you out of the way. “Go sit sweetheart.” He huffs. “I know your back is hurting.”

"I won't fight you on that." Your back was a bit of an issue with your second pregnancy so you know Javi is being extra watchful this time around. The balance is good, though. Otherwise you would just go-go-go as much as possible.

“I know you didn’t get any writing done between the kids being out of school and prepping for tomorrow.” He talks as he continues the chore and loads the dishwasher beside the sink. “But how’s the chapter coming along?”

“Honestly I’m a little blocked,” you admit, leaning back in your chair and sighing at the slight relief on your back and belly. “I’m hoping that focusing on family this weekend shakes some words loose.”

“They will come.” He knows that. You are too good of an author for words to fail you. “Anything else you need to prep tonight?” He asks.

“I can wait until more people get here and hand out prep jobs. We like sitting around the table and bitching while we work.” It’s practically a family pastime, if you’re honest. Which is why it’s so fun. “There’s a few things to do but we’ll manage okay.”

“Sooooo.” He closes the door to the dishwasher and stands straight, turning around while he wipes his hands in a dishrag. “What about a nap for mama?”

"Could." You agree, folding your hands under your belly to support the bump. "But Mama missed Daddy and wants to actually see him a little."

He smirks and pushes off the counter to move over and lean down for a kiss. “How about I lay down with you until I need to leave for the airport?” He offers. “I’ll even rub your back.”

"You tryin’ to get me into bed, Peña?" You raise one eyebrow at him and smirk, pointing to your belly. "That's what got us this in the first place."

He smirks again. “Oh I know.” He grunts. “I was there for the whole thing.” You are absolutely irresistible to him when you are pregnant, even more than normal. He loves you carrying his babies. Although, right now he’s simply trying to get you to rest. He worries about you taking on too much this late in the pregnancy.

"Okay, okay." It's not difficult to see the worry in this eyes, and you put up one hand in defeat. "Help me up, love? We can snuggle in bed until it's time for you to leave."

“Okay.” You gave in far too easily, telling him that you are more exhausted than he imagined.

“I’m okay.” At the top of the stairs he is practically cradling you and you kiss his cheek in reassurance. “It’s just third trimester, that’s all.”

“I’m going to worry.” He’s good at that, but the worry over his family is far more meaningful than worrying about sicarios and drug dealers

“I know.” And just the fact of it brings a soft smile to your lips. “I love you, too.”

******

“You look amazing.” Your mother beams at you, eager to see her glowing daughter happy in your last months of pregnancy. “You’re carrying low, I’m so surprised it was a little girl on the ultrasound.” She teases. “What are you going to do if she was hiding a little thingy?” She works as she asks, filling the little tartlets that will be the appetizers first thing.

“We’ll be just as happy to have another boy if it turns out that way.” You promise your mother. While she fills the ham and cheese tarts for the appetizer table, you’re making the stuffing for the mushroom caps, and on your other side your oldest brother is making his jalapeño popper dip.

“Oh I know you will.” She assures you. “Javier is a wonderful father and you make me so proud.” Her voice cracks up a little, looking over into the living room where Chucho is keeping the boys entertained and Javier is diligently cleaning up when one of the boys had broken the rule of ‘no drinks in the living room’ and spilled it on the carpet in his excitement to see his family. “You have an amazing little family.”

“It won’t be so little pretty soon.” Michael’s soulmate, your sister-in-law Maria, reminds the table happily. Being in her first trimester with their first baby, she is sharing in the joy of pregnancy very happily. “Five counts as a big family, I think.”

“Not as big as some, but nowadays some couples are only have one child.” Your mother tuts, as if only having one child is an offense.

"Mom..." You shoot her a warning glance, reminding her silently that Javi is an only child. "All we care about is the kids being healthy and happy. One or two or three... it doesn't matter."

She grimaces and glances towards the living room, remembering that detail. She knows from talking to Chucho, they had wanted a big family. “You are right.” She quickly agrees. “Healthy.”

"Especially since this is the last one." Both of your families know that you're planning on a more permanent form of birth control for your family now. It didn't seem kind or reasonable to let your parents keep wondering if more and more grandkids would keep coming. "The only things I'm birthing after this little girl are books."

“How is your next book coming?” Her eyes widen with anticipation. “When I tell you, the book club is salivating over your last one, I mean they have extended the read.”

"I'm pretty sure your book club are my advanced sales every time," you laugh, grateful to your mother for all of her support in keeping your dreams alive and being just as proud of you as she possibly could be. Your family have really been your biggest cheerleaders. "This one is coming on a little more slowly."

"Pregnancy brain?" Your sister-in-law only half jokes. She's already experiencing some of that for herself.

"Absolutely." More laughter is shared at the table. "Pregnancy brain and being tired all the time."

Chucho ignores your protest and makes it a game, the boys competing for who can make mama the most comfortable.

"I was trying to prevent a fuss." Even though you direct the comment at your husband it seems to fall on deaf ears as everyone moves around again, and your other brother takes over making your mushroom recipe so you can go and lay down. Chucho and the boys have moved the pillows around the couch for you and while Marco is ready to give Mama and Baby Sis cuddles, Oscar has offered up his favorite teddy for your comfort as well. It's moments like those -- the most meaningful gestures from your young kids -- that tell you unquestionably that you and Javier are doing a good job. At their ages your boys have gotten past most struggles with sharing and have instead become compassionate kids who want everyone around them to be happy.

Javi grins as he brings you a Shirley Temple in a cup with a lid and straw. “You think a fuss wasn’t going to be made over you this weekend?” He huffs in amusement.

"I'm not the only pregnant woman in the house," you point out, gesturing toward your sister-in-law who is still sitting at the table.

“But I’m not as pregnant as you are.” She snorts, smirking when you huff. “You can cater to me when I’m about to pop, okay?”

"Thiry-two weeks still has a little way to go," you argue, though you sigh measurably when one of the couch throw pillows hits your back just right. It really is hell on the body to be pregnant, that's for damn sure.

“I hoping for a Christmas baby.” Your mother admits and Javi snorts, shaking his head. “Don’t put that on our baby girl.” He huffs playfully. “She would hate her birthday falling on a holiday where her brothers get gifts too.”

“Healthy and happy.” Michael recites your mantra for you, since you’re a little still trying to get comfortable. “But yeah, Ma. Don’t wish a Christmas birth on your grandkid. That’s hard for anybody.”

Your mother sighs softly and shrugs. “You’re right. I was just thinking about how wonderful the birthday pictures would be.” She admits with a laugh.

“What if we made a flower wreath for her, Mom?” You offer, setting it as nondenominational but evoking that beautiful celebration that she imagines. “An oval one big enough to lay her in for pictures?”

“That would be lovely!” Her eyes light up at the possibility. “She would look so beautiful.” The baby isn’t bore, but she already knows she will be the prettiest baby. “I loved your baby pictures.”

"And you'll love your granddaughter's too." Even through another wince, you have no problem promising your mother that. She has loved every picture of each of her grandkids and you know the next will be no exception.

Javi doesn’t notice this next pain since he’s walking back into the kitchen, but Chucho does. Glancing at you and then at his watch discreetly. “Boys, I think it’s time for bed.” He announces after a moment. “Do you want to say goodnight to everyone?”

Marco and Oscar go around giving good night hugs and kisses to everyone individually before Chucho volunteers to bring them upstairs and go through their nighttime routine with them. He always brings a new book of kids stories with him whenever he visits and this is no exception, so doubtless he'll read them a brand new bedtime story tonight as well.

Javi fixes everyone else drinks, another Shirley Temple for your sister-in-law and wine for Michael and your mother. He cracks open a beer for himself, but he doesn’t take a drink yet, waiting for his pop to come back downstairs.

When Chucho does finally reappear in the living room, he wipes his hands off in a show of a job well done. "They needed two stories, but they're out now," he tells you and Javi happily.

“That’s good.” Javi hands his father a beer and motions him into the living room. “Go keep your favorite daughter company.” He tells him. “I’ll help finish up the food.”

"I can make a little room," you offer, starting to shift on the couch.

“No, you stay put.” Chucho insists, taking the recliner next to the couch where Javi would normally sit and watch the news. “You need some rest.”

"I was fine all day." A fact which frustrates you to no end. Only starting to feel exhausted and a little unwell after your nap is a nuisance. "This is just a pain in the ass."

You wince again and Chucho hums, glancing down at his watch again. “Each time is different.” He reminds you. “You were so sick with Oscar the first few weeks.”

"This is Marco's fault," you joke, not meaning a word of it. "My first pregnancy was easy right until the end and it made me think more would be the exact same way."

He chuckles as he sets his beer down. “You were floating on air when you were in Colombia. Even with the stress Javi was under.”

"It was our honeymoon phase." As patently absurd as that might sound to anyone else, it's true. You and Javi were as blissful in your actual relationship at that time as any other pair of soulmates could hope to be.

“He has really changed with you in his life.” Chucho admits. “I used to worry about that phone call, you know the one I mean. Knowing how easily Javi would follow someone to hell to do the right thing - in his mind - it was hard to let him live his life.” He smiles. “When you came back to him, he was determined to do things right. To be the best man he could and I think he’s done it. Not that he was ever bad but his rough edges have been smoothed out by you.”

"We did that for each other, really." Reaching over, you set your hand on Chucho's and give his a gentle squeeze. "I needed him to soften and bolster me just as much as he needed me."

He turns his hand and his smile widens when your little grunt of pain comes again. Almost silent if he wasn’t looking for it. “And soon, your family will be complete.” He murmurs.

"Just a few more weeks." Your other hand soothes over your belly, urging this to just go away. If it's the baby being active, you want her to calm down. If its Braxton Hicks contractions, you're just going to have to wait until they pass. Either way you just want to get past it.

“More like a few hours, mija” He chuckles. “You are in labor.”

"It's probably just Braxton Hicks." Saying it out loud, the thought in your head, makes you firm on the point. The best you can do is just shake your head and press on. You've had two babies, already. You would surely know if you were really in labor.

“Pains are about twelve minutes apart.” He tells you, leaning back and smirking and looking very much like his only son.

"Pops." You groan, throwing him a pout. "You've been timing me?"

He snorts. “That’s your gripe right now?” He shakes his head. “You’re perfect for my son. I will say it again.”

"It's just Braxton Hicks. I'm not going to the hospital." The warning in your voice ends up making it rise and three heads whir in your direction.

“You don’t have to go yet.” He promises, reaching out and patting your hand gently.

"Hospital?" Your mother looks up, finding Javi's eyes with worry.

Javi glances over at you and knows what you’ve been trying to deny. “She’s in labor. Has been for a few hours.” He trusts you to know your body, even if you are denying it right now. You might not want to believe it, but you wouldn’t put your baby in any risk.

It’s like hearing it from your husband cracks the dam, and the near-instant spring of tears to your eyes makes your voice waver too. “I can’t be in labor!” You sniffle, dropping your head back on the couch. “It’s Thanksgiving!”

Javi stifles a chuckle and moves over to you from the kitchen, kneeling down beside you and cupping your cheek. “It just means we will have to be extra Thankful this year, sweetheart.”

“But what if she doesn’t like pumpkin pie?” Is, probably, the silliest worry and most ridiculous sentence to ever come out of your mouth, but it’s clear that the extra emotions and hormones and worries flooding through you are in control of your thoughts at the moment.

Everyone starts to chuckle and Javi grins at you. “There’s always pecan pie.” He reminds you, kissing your hand.

“I know how stupid I sound,” you huff, laughing along with them in spite of yourself, and look back at Javi with concern. “She’s early,” you point out, concern lining your eyes. Marco Was born four days after your due date and your labor with Oscar started in the wee hours of the morning on your due date. Early is a new concept for you.

“It’ll be okay, sweetheart.” Even though that worry is one he shares, right now his job is to keep you calm. “Why don’t we go out to the hospital and make sure?”

“I haven’t even packed my hospital bag yet.” He’s right. You know he is. That especially if the baby is going to come early, you should be at the hospital and not take any chances. But you just haven’t gotten yourself ready yet. “I guess it doesn’t matter now?”

“Tell me what you want.” Your mother is abandoning the food and immediately jumping to her feet. “I’ll go pack you a bag.”

You describe the place in your closet that you keep your most comfortable clothes and are specific about the ones you want packed, also asking her to add your slippers and a few hygiene items to your yoga bag.

The onesie you’ll bring your baby girl home in is the same one her brothers were brought home in too, and having goes to get that from the laundry room once you’re on your feet. “Honey?” You stop him in his tracks, but a smile is peaking through your nerves. “Don’t forget to grab the list from the fridge.”

“I won’t forget.” He doesn’t remind you that he’s done this three times now, but he knows you are starting to panic slightly. “I’ll double check it.

“Thank you.” With a heavy sigh and a hiss of pain, you look around at your brother, sisters-in-law, and your father-in-law and half-laugh. “I guess she just really wants to meet everyone.”

“I’ll stay here with the boys.” Chucho tells you, wanting you to feel good about having to leave tonight.

“And we’ll come back first thing in the morning to keep Chucho and the boys company.” Joey promises. With his own soulmate pregnant they had booked a hotel room this year, but nothing will stop them from being on board to keep their nephews busy while Mama welcomes the newest member of the family. “In fact…” He glances at Michael, who nods. “Mickey and I are going to cook dinner. Everything we planned on and have prepped. So tomorrow when the baby’s here we can bring you Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Sounds like we’ve got everything planned.” Chucho chuckles as Javi starts cursing from upstairs. “Let me go help him with your list, mija.”

“Of course.” It wouldn’t do any good to remind them that you can still waddle upstairs — no one in this house would ever let you.

He disappears upstairs and everyone starts to move, getting things together and murmuring about what you might need at the hospital.

It's an hour before Javi is pulling the car up to the emergency room door, and by this point you're past denying that you're in labor. Your mother opted to drive her rental car behind the two of you to be with you in case a second pair of hands is needed, and you're climbing out of the car with Javi's help when she pops up on the sidewalk next to you.

“Let me get the bags.” She insists. “You get her inside, Javier.” He barely resists rolling his eyes and smirks at you slightly. “Sure thing.”

"Inherited trait." You hum under your breath, knowing that both your boys are stubborn as well.

“Don’t I know it.” He huffs, as if he’s not just as stubborn as you, maybe more so. Love and marriage, having children has taught you both to compromise a little more than you would normally, but the only place Javier will never compromise is yours and the boys’ safety and welfare. “I’ve got you.” He holds tight when another contraction hits you and you have to stop walking to concentrate on breathing.

"I can check you in." The nurse at the desk waves to Javier to get his attention.

He cuts his eyes up, his expression not exactly relieved. “Maybe after my wife finishes her contraction.” He snorts.

She smiles, polite and professional, but already has one hand on the phone to call up to Labor and Delivery as soon as she has a patient name. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Only when you sigh softly, the signal that the pain has passed, does Javier even attempt to urge you forward. “Come on sweetheart.” He chuckles. “The sooner we get to a desk, the sooner you get to ride in the wheelchair.”

“Yes please.” It will be a relief to be whisked around the hospital in a wheelchair instead of hobbling around trying to balance between contractions, and you give Javi’s hand a grateful squeeze before letting go to pull your ID and insurance card out of your purse. The nurse at the counter is sweet enough but you’re rather task oriented at the moment.

“I’ll fill out the paperwork.” Javi tells you, taking the clipboard when it’s offered. “You sit down, sweetheart.” He looks up at the nurse. “She’s six and half weeks early right now.”

“I’ll tell the L&D nurse.” Though the desk nurse betrays no concern the speed at which she picks up the phone says otherwise.

“We’ll get you up in the room, and then the doctor will tell you that everything is fine.” Javi reassures you - and himself. Babies come when they want to, not on your schedule. “Maybe you can even have a glass of wine with Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Maybe.” His demeanor being as calm as it is makes you so grateful you could cry again, but a nurse comes over with a wheelchair to get you situated and soon enough your mother is there beside you again. It is going to be alright; you tell yourself over and over. Because you’re taken care of and your little girl will be, too.

Javi is holding your hand. “You want a drink sweetheart?” He knows that if you are having the baby tonight, soon enough they will limit you to ice chips.

“Might as well, while I still can.” You’re thinking the same thing he is, and gratefully accept the water bottle he hands you. “It’ll be ice chips before too long.”

“Yes it will.” He leans in and presses his lips to your hairline. “I love you, sweetheart.”

“I love you, too.” And that, especially right now, is enough to make the difference.

******

You are definitely in labor. Javi holds your hand and reassures you through the pain. The doctor monitoring your progress for hours until suddenly everything speeds up and you are wheeled into the deliver room, Javier smocked up in a gown and gloves. He’s been present for both of the boys’ births and he’s not missing this.

It’s just after midnight when your little girl makes her squalling entrance into this bright new world, shaking her fists and blinking with wonder at all the new things to see and hear and feel.

Like the boys, Javi cuts the umbilical cord and is the first to hold his daughter when the doctor hands her to him, bringing her up to you. “Our little girl.” He chokes out with tears in his eyes from joy and relief that she seems just perfect.

“She’s perfect.” At five pounds and six ounces she’s a little on the small side, but the doctor seems satisfied that she’s healthy and was just determined to arrive early. “She really is perfect.” You have cried at the arrival of each of your babies and have absolutely no impulse to hide it, open shedding tears of joy as your little girl stares with wide eyes up into your face.

“Just like her mama.” Because of the risk of complications, only he has been allowed in the delivery room, giving you three time together. “She’s our perfect little joy.”

“Joy.” Your eyes turn up to his, barely able to tear them away from your daughter except to smile at your husband. Your soulmate. “Joy is a nice name.” But since you try to infuse their family heritage into each of your children’s names, you end up smiling wider. “Alegría. We could call her Allie for short?”

“Alegría Helena Peña.” He tried out the name and smiles softly, reaching out to caress her still wet hair. “It’s perfect”.

"I love you." Three words murmured to your soulmate when you smile up at him again, and repeated to your baby girl when you can't help but look back down at her again. "And I love you, Alegría. We both love you more than you'll ever know."

It wasn't on the list, but you don't care. The overwhelming happiness of this moment being immortalized by your baby girl's name is a perfect homage to all the unplanned things that have lead you to this point. Sometimes the best laid plans go awry, and sometimes that is exactly what fills you with love and happiness right down to your bones.

After a few more minutes, the nurses take Alegría away to do all the tests and clean her up. Javi holds your hand while other nurses help clean up the afterbirth. “It’s a good thing I got your gift early this year.” He chuckles, kissing your lips again. “I’m so damn proud of you, sweetheart.”

"I'm just glad she's healthy." It was your greatest fear and you know it was his too. Being left alone in that quiet hospital room together is almost deafening in an odd reversal of the sensation after so much commotion during Alegría's birth. "No NICU. No scary uncertainty. Just an eager little preemie who wanted to meet her whole family at once."

“Our Thanksgiving baby.” Javi smiles. “Even though her birthday won’t fall on Thanksgiving every year.”

“November 22.” All you know is that is after midnight, so it’s technically Thanksgiving Day now. “Add that to February 3 for Marco and August 15 for Oscar. Thank God they’re all well spaced out so they never have to share.”

“True.” He flashes you a grin. “Although the boys might be jealous when she gets a special dish on Thanksgiving.” He teases.

“Birthday cake is about to become a Peña Thanksgiving tradition,” you joke, knowing it could well become true.

“Baby, thank you.” His hand is holding yours again and he’s looking at you like you’ve hung the moon. Even though you are tired, sweaty and would probably say you look horrible, you are the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, right after the birth of all three of his children. “This is for you.” He offers, holding out the small velvet box he had shoved in his pocket hours earlier.

"Cariño." He has become a fan of push presents ever since first hearing about them, and while you always insist they aren't necessary when asked, it is a special kind of keepsake to have an item that reminds you of this moment. The first moments are the births of your children have all been special in their own ways, so you don't protest, but accept the box from him with a kiss. "I love you," you murmur against his lips, savoring the sensation before cracking open the box in your hand.

A beautiful three stone diamond ring winks back at you, the three baguette cut stones lying end to end in the beautifully carved band in the same metal as both your engagement band and wedding band. A third piece to complete the set like your complete set of three beautiful children. "It's beautiful."

“I figured it could be worn on the other side of your wedding band.” He explains, playing with the jewelry in question. Luckily your hands had not swollen with pregnancy like they had with Marco. “Your children represented on one side.” He murmurs softly. “And my commitment to you on the other.”

"Happily. Without hesitation." You lean over to kiss him again, wading through this feeling of exhausted euphoria for all that you can.

The doctors finish with Alegría and bring her back over to you, making Javi smile at the image when you greedily pull her close. “Do you want me to go get your mom?” He asks softly.

"Yes, please." Nodding and sniffling happily at having your daughter back in your arms, you tilt your chin up to ask for one more kiss before he goes. The new ring has settled on your finger comfortably but all of your attention is back on your little girl. "She'll text the rest of the family for us. At least the announcement is easy this time."

“No international phone calls.” He snorts, letting his lips linger on yours before he bends down more and kisses his daughter’s head. “I love you, mija.” He whispers softly, just like he had when you were carrying her. His life has been changed completely by you and the kids. For the better in every way. Javier knows joy, knows peace, and he knows that his family is the most important thing he could ever fight for. He had decided that he couldn’t let you walk out of his life a second time, and it was the best decision he had ever made.

------

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[astraystayyh]

u either hate me or want me to go into cardiac arrest because HOW COULD I COPE WITH THIS FEEDBACK???? HOW 😭😭😭😭😭😭 i cant tell u how happy it makes me that you dont just read my fics but truly read them. you allow my characters to live in your heart and mind and that’s the biggest privilege for me. thank you thank YOU for making writing so enjoyable, reading ur feedback is easily top best thing about this entire process.

NOWWW to actually respond,, truthfully i tried to search for an equivalent for déchirure in english but tear imo doesn’t convey the feeling of being ripped to shreds, in french it feels more raw, even when u pronounce it this combo of letters have a sort of blunt force in them, like something being teared apart not by choice but by a sick twist of fate (like our mc and hyune) that’s why i picked it!!! :p thank you for asking 🥹

THANJ YOUUUU 😭😭😭😭😭 no this is my favorite compliment i try to put sm thought into the characters and for u to pick up on that!!! on the floor rn…. i originally intended for the mother to apologize but then i realized that someone like her would still think that they did nothing wrong. in her mind, she was a mourning mother trying to make her late daughter’s memory live through her new one. but it doesn’t work like that. it still hurts. maybe she apologized later on, maybe she didn’t. still i think it would be too late anyway. so that’s why i left it at that. (also the dad just faded. anger is hard to carry)

also u calling it movie… im going insane. if one of my fics ever get adapted into a movie ull be front row PROMISE.

the characterization of mc hurt me a lot 💔 i mean i tried to make her as realistic as ever and i think the anger being directed towards someone who isnt here anymore helped her cope :(

i get u for the slightly rushed part 😭😭 it’s partly because i wanted the “good” parts to be short because there was this sense of impending doom, in a way, haunting them. like they both believed this happiness will end sooner or later and it did pass by quickly on both of them. but also because i wanted to post the fic because it’s been so long and i dont think tumblr dot com loves fics that are longer than 20k 😭😭😭

also SO HAPPY U PICKED UP ON THE DETAILS 😭😭😭😭 i love a good full circle moment. and i thought ending it in a graveyard would be nice. mc lived a good life loved by hyunjin and she has someone waiting for the day they’d meet her again. this was her biggest fear– to never be loved, because she grew to believe she hasn’t deserving of it—but she was. so i thought :D that sounds good. death doesn’t have to be a horrible depressing thing in this fic anymore 😭 also yes the olympics were my inspo i actually got inspired by many things while writing this fic u can tell it consumed my mind KANSND

i love YOU thank you for reading and for being so attentive to every detail and for being here in my life. like genuinely i appreciate your presence and existence more than i can describe. i hope u are always happy and healthy!!! i love you, my favorite reader :p

La déchirure 

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

pairing: figure skater!hyunjin x ballerina!reader.

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

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

word count: 21.8k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she loved ballet. 

So, you had to love ballet too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In you.

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

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

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

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

“I got into Julliard” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unearthing her body and burying yours there instead, perhaps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You feel so horrible, for a millisecond. 

She was only seven. 

Her grave is too small compared to your body. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you.” 

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

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

“I don’t want to burden you.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looks like a good person. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was all you’ve ever wanted to hear. 

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

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

Four years later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When does he ever? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stole my money,” Hyunjin mutters.

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

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

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

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

“Really? That’s amazing!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Hyunjin!”

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

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

“No,” he admits.

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

“I’m not hungry.”

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Far more beautiful, too.

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, he is,” you reply quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No one, except Hyunjin.

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

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

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

“Sure, I’d like that,” you grinned.

“Okay. Wait for me.”

… 

Hyunjin’s routine has always been quite simple. 

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

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

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

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

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

He hopes it is you dancing there. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Barbie?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has she ever cared to? 

… 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She was. She is.” 

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

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

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

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

It is his very soul that twitched at your touch. 

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

Your reply was even more obvious, simpler.

“Comforting you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What does that mean? 

…

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

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

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

But something within him was shifting—unraveling. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did that make Hyunjin selfish? Or lonely? 

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

“Don’t worry about me.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This isn’t normal. 

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

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

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

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

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

“There, sealed forever.” 

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

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

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

“I’ll be there to catch you.”

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

“Yeah, i do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until you.

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

But to no avail.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sees you in a whole different light, now.

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

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

Is his soul drawn to yours?

Perhaps. Yes. Most definitely, his heart whispered.

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

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

…

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

But somehow you found yourself exactly there, tonight. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, a note. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

I would love to dance ballet with you.

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

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

How horrible are you? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hyunjin’s frown deepens—something feels off. 

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

“Is something wrong?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

… 

Hyunjin is beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hyunjin won. Hyunjin qualified for the Olympics.

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

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

How could he be anything but extraordinary?

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

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

Oh god. 

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

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

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

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

“Do you want me to come with you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please, not again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

… 

“So, how do we do this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your sweet Hyunjin.

“I want that too, Hyune.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You want to stay. 

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That truth felt easier to confront with you near.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

“I think I’ll go to Switzerland.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course, we will.”

It is the first time you lie to Hyunjin. 

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

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

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

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

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

… 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you couldn’t afford that. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.” He hums. “Are you outside?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yn, I- you know that I love you.”

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

“I love you too, my Hyune.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

… 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You now had an excuse to be there. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It has always been his face for you. 

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

Then, he launches into the air.

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

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

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

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

And then he does it.

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

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

But not on yours.

Your Hyunjin did it, like you knew he would. 

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

Hyunjin’s name comes first. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Congratulations on your win,” you say.

“Congratulations on your graduation.”

He knows.

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

Or, you could speak now.

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

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

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

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

“For what?”

“For stealing you away.”

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

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

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

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

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

He yields first.

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

“I couldn’t miss seeing you win.”

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

“I’m here tonight.” 

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

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

Then, suddenly, his lips meet yours.

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

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

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

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

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

“I was always ever yours to love.” 

Epilogue. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They are now meant for you, at long last. 

[phoenixeclipse-lmkau]

Curious question here:

how would the warlords take it if alternatively, when reader first met them as cubs she was pregnant but even she didn't know that? Like how they would be before and after they developed feelings for her?

Or how would it be if after they get married and stuff when she gets sent back to her time line turns out she be pregnant with one of their child?

Ooh now this one is a fun one!

If she was pregnant beforehand, they would love the child immensely. While it wasn't theirs to begin with, they would have seen how much she loves it.

Though you better hope the father isn't in the picture because if he is... he might not be for much longer. Correction he would NOT be for much longer. The Monkey duo would go out of their way to make it look like an accident, but they will make sure that the father is dead. Of course, they'll be there to comfort you when the time comes.

And as this is a fictional world I believe there would be ways to pass on powers and such to others. They would give the child small bits of powers until they were able to use those powers well. So they would have a little mini Reader to care for as their own cub.

If the child is born before they start transferring power it would 100 percent chance the would be human. While if Reader was still pregnant when they began giving them power? There would be a chance for them to become a monkey demon/demoness. VERY SMALL CHANCE but a chance none the less.

Of course, they'll want to give the child a few siblings, too. Which means that the child would not at all have to fear for their life, they would have two warlords protecting them!

They want to take every chance to claim the child as theirs. Human or not, they are of your blood and are just so precious! So small and of adorable.

>>>

Now if Reader gets pregnant and goes home? Hehe I have quite a few ideas on how they would react to THAT!

First of all, the cub would probably absorb powers from both of them. Simply due to how strong their powers are, the cubs would be very strong. They would more than likely look much more like one of them than both of them, of course. She would love and support the cub with or without the help of her warlord husbands.

She would probably get sent back to the JTTW world before she has the child or children. But it would have been decades in the other world, while she would have only been gone a few months for her. Depending on when she returns definitely depends on how this is handled.

At the beginning of JTTW? She would probably ask Spirit for help (This is the only time she wouldn’t start the journey out with Tripitaka) Instead the pilgrims would probably find her while they’re traveling. They would meet her when the cubs are a few months or about a year old. Needless to say, Wukong and Macaque coo and love their cubs. (Setting aside their argument for a moment in their journey)

If it’s after JTTW and during the LMK part? Hehe~ Well that depends on which way I go with JTTW but~

If I go with the route of Mk being raised by the warlords (in which Mk was born from the stone egg and is technically Wukong's brother), then they would still love their cubs. It would make it easier for them to learn about Reader, and it would for sure make it far faster. Their curious nature would make sure of that.

In this route, Reader would have twins because I have the perfect cub ocs for this! Bao and Tao.

These two mischief causing twins are chaos incarnate (almost).

Both are born with six beautiful ears, Bao’s are shades of purple with the darkest shade on the top. While Tao has shades of red in his ears, with the darkest on the top.

Sun Bao is reckless and impulsive just like his dad. He likes to get into all kinds of trouble without much thought, he‘ll jump around and doesn’t know the definition of quiet. This boi is LOUD (Though not as loud as his younger sister is going to be), he will shout and yell all he wants without much thought until his brother pulls on his ear to shut him up. (Tao does this a LOT).

Even though Bao acts more like Wukong than Macaque he looks almost just like Macaque. He has pure white fur, a dark purple face mask and of course his six ears. The only thing he really inherited from Wukong other than his personality were his striking golden eyes, untainted from the Samaudi fire so they are pure gold.

Now Sun Tao on the other hand is the opposite of his brother. He is quiet, calm and likes to think things through before he causes havoc. He likes to plan how to play pranks on people and decide who based on the actions they make.

Tao has deep golden fur that covers his body, with the same dark red face mask as his dad and the six ears like Macaque. He also inherited his dad’s dark golden eyes, so some that don’t see his ears might actually mistake him for Wukong. (Which depending on his age, and if he’s known of WILL use this to his advantage… until Wukong hears and looks for the imposter)

I did use this post as an excuse to talk about my chaos twins didn’t I? Hehe~ Love these two. They are jokesters and love to see how many pranks they can play before someone finds them out. Which of course leads to their reveal.

Now when I say that they will make it easier for Wukong and Macaque to find Reader. This is for both if she is pregnant with them or if they are already born. While they have a hard time tracking Reader due to her being from another world… how can they not sense THEMSELVES!

Feeling the familiar magic makes it all the easier to track Reader down and capture her for themselves. The pure unbridled excitement and joy is exhilarating! They can’t wait for the little ones to come into the world. And if Reader thinks she can escape again? Well… she better think again.

Wukong and Macaque just better not do something stupid to get themselves trapped for whatever reason where they can’t get to Reader. But can SENSE their children. The devastation they would feel would be worse than under the mountain.

I hope you enjoyed the answer to this!! I have thought about this MANY times.

Comments, likes and reblogs are always wanted and appreciated! Thank you for all the love and the asks you send me!!

[dragonfly0808]

Tecna: The Thesis

This one has been a long time coming I know

First Things First

The first words I have for Tecna in my character profiles are tech nerd child, but she has so much more depth than that, even more than I’d ever originally planned

One of the things I really wanted to get across with Tecna is that is not and has never been an ice queen or unfeeling or cold, just bad with communication and her way of showing affection is atypical

While writing s1, I wrote her as autistic coded but was very hesitant to confirm her as autistic since I really did not want to accidentally write her autistic traits in an offensive or just misrepresentative way, but, after seeing my portrayl of her landed well with a lot of commenters who were part of the autistic community, I decided to do my research and properly commit to portraying her as autistic (whilst of course, never making it her full personality, just a part of who she is)

To me, Tecna is one of the most compelling characters to write, since she has a huge heart and holds a lot of love for her family and the Winx and, over the course of the seasons, we see her get better at communicating that whilst never forcing herself to conform or change to do it the ‘normal’ way

Family Matters

Aside from Riven, I think Tecna is the one who benefited the most from the changes I made to her family

I gave her a big sister and a little brother as well as loving parents who raised them all in a farm on the domestic side of Zenith, that focuses on farming and crops

After I committed to writing Tecna as autistic, I chose to portray nearly her entire family as neurodivergent, her dad is autistic and has ADHD, her mom has dyspraxia, her brother has ADHA as well as dyspraxia, her big sister being the only neurotypical one

The reason for this was because i wanted to portray her parents as always has taking Tecna’s needs/triggers into account and accommodate for all of their childrens needs and never try to change who they are; this is why from the get go, Tecna is unapologetic about who she is and what she needs, having never once been taught or pushed to mask.

Tecna in the OG always had a sense of absolute confidence and in my mind, giving her an understanding family who always embraced her as she was would be a great way of explaining why that is.

Also, I just really wanted to give her a loving, fluffy family since so many other families in the rewrite have issues and problems

SPOILERS FROM HERE FOR SEASON 3, THE OMEGA ARC AND SEASON 4 PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE NOT CAUGHT UP!!!

A Frozen Loss

Now, from the moment I knew I was going to rewrite s3, I knew the Omega Arc was going to be one of the hardest and angstiest to write

i feel like both in the OG and in the fandom, Tecna can often be underrated and underused and I wanted to take the chance to show why I love this character so much and how she is an integral part of the group and there is no Winx without Tecna

In a sense, yes, Tecna is the brains of the group, she is the strategist and the one who comes up with a 27 step plan and the tech genius. But she is also the glue. She’s probably one of the most loved characters in the group, every single one of the girls and the boys have a very special and unique bond with Tecna, partially because of her odd way of showing affection and love

When Tecna cares about someone, she shows it even if she doesn’t always know how to say it, everyone knows it and loves her for it.

The Omega Arc also gave me a chance to show how resilient and smart Tecna is. Like I mentioned, she’s a strategist and a chronic overthinker and our girl doesn’t know how to back down, she’s determined and a survivor.

After the Omega Arc; surviving by herself for a week in a hostile planet and losing both her right leg and left hand, there is of course a huge shift in her character.

I chose to have her lose limbs to fully push how traumatic and life-changing the Omega Arc is not just to Tecna, but to all the Winx. After Omega, Tecna becomes a bit more comfortable with physical contact and starts to question her priorities and what she wants with her life… which leads us to-

Potential Can be Suffocating

One thing I thought I could do with Tecna was to have her shift her priorities when it comes to her plans for the future, going from being determined to be a buisness woman to realizing that she, while she still wants to be successful, it’s no longer all she wants

I think we all know how damaging hustle culture can be sometimes and, to incorporate smth a bit more personal, as someone who was always seen as ‘the smart one’/‘the one who’s gonna maintain us’ in the family amongst the cousins, I’ve felt the looming pressure of being the one in the family with the most ‘potential’. And as I’ve grown up, I’ve kinda realized that I don’t really want to throw myself into being solely dedicated to becoming this big buisness person like- obviously I want to be successful and be able to provide for myself, but I also want to have time for my writing and my family and myself, and I wanted to give this same kind of quiet realization to Tecna

For Tecna, it’s herself who puts on this pressure since, as a little girl she started seeing the modern side of Zenith as ‘superior’ in her mind and really wanted to leave the farm life to become exclusively focused on buisness, but as she grows up and, especially after Omega, she realized she wants to stay close to home and wants a quieter life, she still wants to be successful and to change the world, but it’s not all she wants anymore

Not sure if I explained that last point as well as I wanted to.

Thoughts Behind Her Main Relationships

Tecna

I love Tecna and Musa, they are very much a friendship between unconventional girls who don’t always come across as they mean to.

They both struggle to make friends for different reasons but the second they meet they realize that they are quite similar and so never push each other outside of their comfort zone at first and that’s what allows them to become close enough to then push one another.

Musa gets what makes Tecna tick and makes sure that she’s comfortable, she makes sure she gets her alone time and makes sure she doesn’t get overwhelmed.

Tecna gets that Musa doesn’t want to talk about herself so instead gets her to open up about her music.

And it’s through this that they start to trust one another and by s2 we see them knowing each other well enough to keep the other from spiraling.

When Tecna’s confused about her feelings for Timmy, it’s Musa who reminds her that it’s okay to not be ready for a relationship. And when Musa and Riven first kiss, it’s Tecna who suggests they take it slow since she knows how skittish they can both be.

At this point, they push one another when they need to.

They are crucial to each other’s growth.

Timmy

Now, my darlings, my softies, my introverted nerdy lovers

I know a lot of you were like- what the fuck do you mean they’re still not dating? Towards the start of s4 but I really wanted them to actually take their time before getting together

Timmy has a crush on Tecna since s1 and it’s in s2 where Tecna falls for Timmy slowly but surely, being a bit confused about her feelings since this is the first time she’s ever fallen in love. They have a talk and decide that neither are really ready for a relationship, Tecna because she’s still learning to communicate and just doesn’t feel ready in general, Timmy due to his anxiety and desire to work on himself before trying for a relationship

Once the feelings are out in the open, they are a lot less shy about being affectionate towards each other, since they know they’re headed for a relationship someday.

After Omega, any subtlety goes out the window for a bit, but they still aren’t official since, they really just- they know what they feel and what they have, that’s enough for them throughout s3, especially with everything going on (the song Tell Em by Sabrina Carpenter I feel really encapsulates how they feel about having a concrete label)

But now in s4, they are finally going to be dating and… honestly not much will change. That’s what I love most about Tecna and Timmy, they’re best friends in love. They act like best friends… who ocasionaly kiss. Love it!

Nabu

Now, Tecna was the last Winx to get her platonic soulmate, and I really loved introducing Nabu into the story through Tecna

These two just click from the very start, they are both have quite cool and calm demeanors that hide the ocasional gremlin behavior beneath the surface

They are each other’s impulse control and they trade a singular brain cell back and forth (Tecna has it most of the time).

I’m not really sure how to describe their relationship since, there are just some people in life with whom you just click for absolutely no reason, they just make sense to you in a way that very few people do, these two click and just want to hang out and protect one another

Who is Tecna in this Rewrite?

In this rewrite, Tecna is a young girl who isn’t the best at communicating

She is a girl who slowly grows, not in the sense that she changes, but in the sense that she grows into herself, learning more about herself, slowly learning how to communicate her love and care

The only thing that truly shifts are her priorities as she realizes just how important her family and friends are to her and, whilst she is a very ambitious girl and that doesn’t change, instead it is re-directed into… I actually can’t quite say how it is re-directed quite yet since that won’t be revealed until a lot later on

But my fave way of describing Tecna is just a girl growing into herself, into her love, into her hobbies, into her ambitions and into a wonderful woman.

———————

Masterlist

Tecna Moodboard

Tecna’s Instagram

Tecna and Musa Moodboard

Tecna and Timmy Moodboard

Tecna and Nabu Moodboard

———————

I know this one has been a long time coming, I apologize for the delay I just could not for the life of me put this into words, but here it is!!!

[lost-romantique]

It also goes to show three things that I don't think are really discussed enough:

It goes to show how much Blitz's way of thinking have really effected her viewpoint. Constantly led to believe that that she is someone who will only be able to achieve the station of farmgirl or underpaid goon, with the only comfort you have in that existence is the fact that you at least aren't a hellhound relegated to the status of literal dog. Millie calling Loona by her name, shows us that by knowing Blitz, she is able to have the life she loves now and is able to get rid of her own internalized biases.

Stolas accused Blitz of sounding just like Striker at some points during their argument, which to be fair to Stolas, yeah Blitz did. However, there's one clear difference between Blitz and Striker's way of thinking. Striker and Blitz may both detest royalty and the way it treats imps, however, Striker takes that way of thinking a bit too far by genuinely believing the oppressive nature that royalty spews. Strikers genuinely looks down on imps, and he genuinely believes that only him and certain individuals he's come to respect are worthy, while other imps he thinks are weak are considered "vermin" to him. Blitz, on the other hand, doesn't give a fuck about what society tells him to believe, and he himself treats all other imps and hellhounds as equal to him, hell he even treats royalty the same with that devil may care facade. The man may be a bonafide asshole, but he doesn't look down on imps and hellhounds, he truly sees them as equal.

It really goes to show that I.M.P is more than just a business now, they are a family. Millie went out of her way to make sure Blitz got out of his funk, and she also had the decency to genuinely ask Loona for help and give her thanks. Loona did what her dad wanted her to do by burning 200 taxidermized owls, even though she could have easily told her dad to 'fuck off' like she always does. Moxxie, while in the middle of trying to solve their financial crisis, didn't air out his grievances with his emotionally distraught boss, which he would have done in Spring Broken, he worried not only about him and Millie's future, but also the entire company's future.

Jesus fuck that's long word vomit, but it's amazing to see just how much of I.M.P really and truly cares for Blitz. Blitz, despite being a complete wreck and unreliable af, actually created a family that genuinely look out for one another.

I'm surprised this isn't getting discussed more because I think this is the first time Millie actually has called Loona by her name, which is a massive step up from referring to her as just Blitz's hellhound in "The Harvest Moon Festival." You can also see that Loona is surprised too that Millie actually thanked her for helping watch over Moxxie while she's gone, so hopefully more sincere, respectful gestures like this will be given in the future since even though imps and hellhounds are considered the lowest class, hellhounds still get treated as pets more than free-willed demons as we've been shown. <3

[lucimaaie]

dayum, i cant just not be liked by joel bro, its heartblade

petition to now make the ver. where u are like almost another daughter (almost because it'll be kinda weird 😝) to joel while dating/flirting his actual daughter

i got uu

the door swung wide open as you and ellie came in exhausted from patrol. it was still day but the cold had ran you guys from outside to the warm, isolated interior of joel's house.

ellie dropped her bag and flopped onto the couch. she stared at the fireplace longingly. "there's no way i'm sleeping in the garage tonight." she almost shivered at the thought.

"there's no way i'm letting you do that." you moved ellie's legs to sit on the bottom of the couch. "you could just sleep in my room." you said casually, slipping her shoes off and setting them by the couch. you lived with joel, but he wasn't your dad. not biologically, but after finding you almost freezing to death in a blizzard, he practically was.

ellie sat up. "grumps is not gonna like that," she tried not to show how your offer had peaked her interest. she barely got the time to be alone with you the way joel insisted on keeping the door open and being careful-all the trademarks of a dad speech.

"he doesn't have to." you said with a hint of mischief in your voice. that same mischief that ellie loved and joel most definitely didn't. "c'mon." you intertwined your fingers with ellie's, pulling her off the couch and up the stairs.

"you're gonna get me in trouble, just being in here."

you gasped. "now, i'm closing the door." the door shut with a soft click. " it's punishable by death. whatever shall i do?" you fell back on the bed dramatically.

"oh come off it." ellie smooshed your cheeks between her hands, hovering her face over yours. you could feel the developing calluses on her fingertips against your cheeks.

"never." you whispered, pecking her lips.

ellie would never get used to affection you shared now that you were dating. it took a minute to even realize that you weren't just best friends and another to get joel on board (luckily, you did with the promise that you'd be safe and never hurt each other.)

she wanted more. ellie chased your lips as you pulled away. her hands fell down to support her weight. she almost pouted. “we can’t kiss upside down.” you sat up, ellie did the same.

“why not? spiderman does it.”

“surprised you know who he is.”

“i’m gonna pretend that isn’t hurtful and kiss you.” and she did. it was as gentle as she always was, but not hesitant. she’d kissed you enough times to know you wouldn’t break if she wasn’t the gentlest person in the world.

so she let her hands roam. one on your jaw, like always. she liked being able to feel your speeding heartbeat there. the other was on your thigh doing nothing too crazy, just a slow rub across the skin.

not that she hated short kisses, but she found the extra time your lips across hers was usually the exact thing she needed. maybe that’s why did she didn’t notice joel’s voice yelling downstairs or his footsteps getting closer.

you were quick to split as the doorknob was turned. you had forced on your headphones and ellie had picked up a book on your nightstand.

“hey, you okay—” joel froze as he took in the sight before him. you were on opposite sides of the best preoccupied with things that weren’t each other, which let’s be honest, was never the case. he knew something was up. “huh.”

“hi pops.” you said in your best attempt to not sound outta breath.

“hey. y’know, i do remember saying something about keeping the door open-“

“heard.”

“loud and clear.”

joel felt placated. the whole reason he’d been hesitant on you two dating was just how close you were. that kind of thing, so young and fast, was worrysome for him. so yeah, he wasn’t ignorant to what two teenagers in love were doing behind a closed door. he would have words for that later, but seeing you both grinning like you held some secret he wasn’t privy to, made it okay for now.

thank you for reading!

[insomniacirl]

Superbat's daughter HCs:

Her name is Liane

She's got Bruce's sharp/pretty/model face

Her skin is flawless, a smooth unmarred canvas (she purposefully avoids any hurt to her face unless she thinks the scar will look cool)

She's closer to Clark's skin tone, but she's still paler than him- her skin is lightly tanned

Black hair like Bruce, but she gets the curls from Clark- she loves to keep it wild, the aristocrats hate it but her parents and the people love it

As much as she is the daughter of heroes, she is also the daughter of a playboy billionaire and she definitely takes after Brucie.

She's got a 90's model grunge look going on, with big hoop earrings, thin dark eyebrows and messy dark makeup that makes her blue eyes pop

She steals Bruce's old 'drifter' clothes all the time to wear (e.g., dark hoodies, jackets and shirts)

She's relatively broad shouldered and wears both her dads' old t-shirts as comfy clothes and sleep-wear

Clark has an absolute field day watching her and Bruce fuck with the press and act ditsy

Aunt Lois takes her out on a 'girls trip' every other month, even though she can pretty much go shopping any time she wants

She advocates for multiple charities and donates as much as she legally can at once

Selina takes her out once or twice to get her nails done- they always come out sharp

Clark passed down a few of his powers (super strength, flight, etc) but she likes the challenge of fighting like Batman a lot more; Bruce actually hates this because he realises how often she'd get hurt doing it his way

Clark's parents spoil her rotten whenever they get the chance and she loves them to pieces, she goes down to Kansas to help with the farm whenever possible

Batman saved a young girl called Helen and she ended up staying with Diana- Liane and Helen are best-friends.

Anyway she just exists to me now and I love her a lot lmao 😭😭

Their daughter fr.

[porcelain-winter-doll]

Meeting your parents

m.sturniolo x fil! Reader

Warning: Filipino language (translation present), mentions of y/n. NOT PROOFREAD

A/n: y/n's mom's name is Rosalie while her dad's carlo

Navigation

Matt was very nervous about meeting y/ns parents for the obvious reason. Y/n's parents are strict and are against y/n dating but let it slide because y/n begged and begged to let them date.

Matt was holding a beautiful wrapped rose and tulips as she rang the doorbell on y/n's house, the door revealing kiera's mom, Matt awkwardly greeted Mrs l/n "good afternoon, Mrs l/n" Matt greets her as he mano po, just like how y/n taught him

(Mano po is a Filipino gesture of respect and a way to ask for a blessing from an elder)

"Abay, Carlo lika! Ang bait Ng boyfriend ni y/n" Mrs Rosalie calls out her husband, y/n's dad walks with an annoyed look "eto na yon?" Mr l/n sarcastically says

(Abay, Carlo lika! Ang bait Ng bf ni y/n = wow, Carlo come here! Y/n's boyfriend is nice) (Eto na yon?=That's him?)

The couple lets Matt in and Rosalie makes Matt sit on the couch "wait for Kiera here, iho. She's getting ready at the moment" Kiera's mom smiled at Matt

(Iho= basically a term for a boy younger than you, mostly elders call them that)

Matt was approached by y/n's dad, Mr l/n sitting next to him "how long have you been dating my daughter for?" Y/n's dad asked Matt, the Filipino accent thick on his voice. "About 1 year sir.." Matt answered quickly, y/n's dad nodded "if you hurt her, I'll come back here from Philippines to shoot you dead, iho" y/n's dad sternly says as he pays Matt's back

Y/n came rushing down to Matt after she finishes getting ready, the white halter top and jeans perfectly complimented her skin colour, along with the beautiful gold jewelry she wore. "Matt!" Y/n excitedly hugged her boyfriend "hi, baby" Matt smiled as he ruffled y/n's hair "look so pretty" y/n smiled at Matt's compliments

You and Matt walked over to the dining area "mama, this looks good" y/n says as her and Matt sat down next to eachother "of course anak, ako paba?" Mrs, l/n says making y/n and her dad laugh as a confused Matt sat still

Mama is mom and anak, ako paba is "y/n, I'm the best"

"so, iho. What do you do for living" y/n's mom asked "I do YouTube with my brothers" Matt awkwardly smiled "YouTube? How can YouTube feed you." Y/n's dad sternly says as y/n's head perks up "ano ba pa? That's bad to say" y/n sternly says looking annoyed "jusko, malalaman nyo Yan pag nagka anak na kayo" your dad rebates

Ano ba pa = what's the matter with you dad, wtv the dad said = my god, you'll find out if you both get kids

Matt quietly ate as y/n and your dad argued.

🍡🌷Timeskip🍡🌷

During the dinner y/n's dad warmed up to Matt and started liking Matt. They talked about the basketball teams and much more. After dinner Matt helped with cleaning, making Mrs,l/n happy about Matt helping her and even asked if matt would like to come over again sometime while they're still in america

Y/n hugged Matt as Matt pats her head "see you Tomorrow?" Kiera said as Matt smiled "see you, lovely" Matt kissed y/n's cheeks and bid his farewells

Y/n's parents warmed up on Matt and even fully accepted their relationship,over the next weeks and days Matt often visits the l/n's

•🌷🍡🎀🌷🍡🎀🌷🍡🎀🌷🍡•

A/n~ sorry for the change of views! I'm trying my best to improve on my writings and like uh, abt smut if anyone wants to can y'all DM me and help me or like teach me how to write smut? I really badly want to write 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

[talesfromawannabejournalist]

@things-arent-what-they-seem66

Dear Lilith,

Some time has passed since your departure. Things have changed around here, for one thing Dad has found himself a new queen believe it or not, and if you could actually believe it, the new queen and my new step mother happens to be the former head exorcist as well as your former husband. What’s even more shocking is that he is ten times the leader than you could ever dream of being. He treats all his subjects the same, including the Hellborn, especially the lower class such as imps and Hell hounds. He also doesn’t command the sinners do his bidding nor rule them up for his own benefit. That’s right I found out about what happened. Not only that but what truly happened in Eden, you truly are sick in the head aren’t you my dear old “mother”. For so long I spent hating someone I thought was a monster but was in reality a victim of your lies and actions. To think once I held you in such a high regard. But the good news is that we are rectifying what has happened and rewriting the book of Hell. That also means making Hell into a better place for not only our family but the sinners as well. Business at my hotel is booming with people who genuinely wish to do better, even if some don’t want to ascend their are some who want to make up for what they’ve done in their lives. And Adam has been there helping me along with my girlfriend and dad the whole step of the way. Of course you don’t care about that do you? Just like you’ve never gave two shits about me! As long as I ascended the throne one day you would’ve been satisfied. Well in that case then, over this past year I have seen him for who he truly is and he has been more loving to me than you ever were. He has helped me and comforted me when I needed it. You never did ONCE in my childhood. To think there was a time I wanted you back as my mother again. Now, I don’t even want you to look at me again let alone acknowledge you as my mother. What I’m trying to say is simple, I hate you and never wish to speak nor see you again

Sincerely,

Charlotte Morningstar

Charlie sighed she looked at the letter, once again. Though Dr. Levi suggested burning it she simply couldn’t get rid of it. She didn’t know why, she just…couldn’t. A knock at the door startled her from her thoughts and she looked to see Adam standing there with a smile

Adam: Vaggie said you’d be up here, it’s almost time to cut the cake so hurry your behind up.

Charlie rolls her eyes and grabs what she came up for

Charlie: I’m coming mom I just needed to get Mal’s gift

She made her way over to her mother who gently put an arm around her shoulders as they walked away.

Charlie: is it weird to think that Mal is already a year old?

Adam: yeah, we’ve been so busy with well EVERYTHING I guess the year just slipped by.

They made their way downstairs where the birthday boy in question was sitting in his high chair with a party hat on with all of their closest family and friends here to celebrate. The moment the little boy saw his big sister and mama he squealed

Mal: Mama! Cha Cha!

The two giggled and went over with Charlie placing a kiss on her brother’s forehead. Charlie: Happy Birthday Mallum, I love you

Mal reciprocated by grabbing a hold of her face and placing a sloppy kiss right back. Right then Lucifer came out with a huge chocolate birthday cake with one large candle to which was lit up. As the lights dimmed Charlie went to her girlfriend’s side and held her close as they all sang happy birthday to her brother. Once Mal managed to blow out his candle everyone got a slice. Charlie watched in endearment and amusement as her brother shoveled cake down his throat and managed to have it all over his face. To which her father and mother gave him both a kiss on the cheek. She sighed whistfully and thought to herself

“I love my family”

The end 💗

Green Eyed Monster

@things-arent-what-they-seem66

@beef-brisket

(this is the au that I was taking about in an ask with things a couple weeks ago)

Charlie was sitting anxiously as screams filled her ears as she waited with her family for her baby sibling to finally be born. Her knee kept bouncing up and down as she would occasionally glance down the hallway to the room where her father and Adam were being held. His screaming filled the entire hospital, no scratch that his screams probably echoed all across the sloth ring where they were. When she said her family, she meant the family that could cross rings. All her aunts and uncles, the sins, were here and of course Vaggie was by her side as she rarely leaves it.

They were all excited over the new heir of Hell finally making an entrance. Her Aunt Bee and Uncle Ozzie were currently trying to make small talk over the screaming along with other random noises in a busy hospital. her uncles Leviathan, Mammon, and Satan were playing cards. Her Aunt Bel was with her medical team in Adam's room doing her best to deliver the baby safely. Obviously, the sin of pride was right by Adam's side comforting and holding his hand as his new child was being brought into their world.

New child

Charlie slightly grimaced at the thought.

Charlie internally: more like sudden child, their announcement literally came right after the honeymoon

Suddenly the screams came to a stop. Her whole family, including herself, went completely silent. After a few moments the screams of an infant were replaced and cheers erupted from the sins. Charlie only winced at the screaming coming from her aunt and uncles, as well as that baby.

Charlie internally: That thing sure does have a pair of lungs

Aunt Bel came out to the lobby, her scrubs having some blood on them. Her dad was not far behind, wearing similar scrubs to his sister. He had a ginormous smile on his face which had grown bigger when his eyes landed on his now eldest.

Lucifer: Char Char! You want to meet your new little brother?

Lucifer took Charlie and they headed into the delivery room where Adam laid on the bed looking absolutely exhausted with sweat pouring down his head. Yet he still had the sweetest and gentlest of smiles on his face as he stared down at the creature in his arms. Her father pushed her forward slightly and she was standing by Adam. Adam slightly looked up to her and spoke in a raspy voice, throat no doubt

Adam: Hey Girly there’s someone your father and I want you to meet

He lowered the blanket where a stark white face that was slightly scrunching up. The newborns eyes were closed

Adam: Charlie this is Mallum your new baby brother

Lucifer: well little lady, what do you think of this little man?

Charlie took a good hard thought about it as she stared down at Mallum and all she could feel was deep resentment

[psionyxx]

My Take on the MOTHER Protagonists (and Claus)

Ninten

◇ Confident, brave, optimist

◇ Loves reading superhero comics. Superman is his idol and he styles his hair like him

◇ Wears his bandana like a cape

◇ Always tries looking for adventures to go on and people to help. Rescues cats from trees, helps lost kids find their parents etc.

◇ Often annoys people mistakenly

◇ Gets bullied for sure but most of the time doesn't even realize it

◇ Raises his hand in class all the time, just to go on rambles about what the lesson reminds him of (most of the time it's barely related)

◇ Total sweetheart

◇ Sounds like Fanboy from Fanboy and Chum Chum. Sorry.

Ness

☆ Energetic, chatty, kind of a geek when it comes to video games and comics but those interests fade later on as they just remind him of a certain someone he used to play and read them with

☆ He's kind of cocky and also EASILY sasses people back if they're mean to him or banter with him

☆ Struggles paying attention in school, doodles on his work sheets

☆ Not an artist per se, but he finds it fun sometimes. It's his favourite subject but he messes around a bit too much for the teacher's liking, who wants him to take the class more seriously

☆ Ninten is HIS idol ever since he heard about him in the news, ever since then he's been dressing like him

☆ Paula is his best friend ever. Whether he has feelings for her or not depends on my mood, but either way the two of them don't mind being mistaken as a couple that much and often play along with it because they find it funny, acting like a stereotypical married couple

☆ Implied in canon, but he feels bad for everyone he defeated, and everyone he lost

Lucas

♡ Sullen looking all the time, sleepy ALMOST all the time, always clinging to his mom, and if not his mom, Boney, and if not Boney, a drago or a sheep.

♡ Flint used to give him piggybacks all the time on walks since Lucas's legs would get tired and he'd complain. Sometimes Claus would want to join in too, and Flint would carry them BOTH on his back.

♡ Climbs Duster

♡ Most of the time when Hinawa would tell him jokes, he wouldn't get them and needed them explained

♡ Uncoordinated, trips often and struggles to draw and write

♡ Loves animals, spends a lot of his time with them. At home he's often cradling a lamb

♡ He feels guilty that he's the one who's left for Flint to deal with, not Claus. Claus wasn't picky, was brave and smart, was talented and didn't screw up and cry all the time like Lucas

(NOTE: ): we love you Lucas, and so does Flint even though he fails you)

♡ His relationship with Flint has been damaged, and while it's slowly repairing over time, it will take a while.

♡ Pre timeskip he would cry and sleep all the time after Hinawa died and Claus disappeared, post timeskip he becomes more emotionally numb and a little sassy

♡ Kumatora reminds him a bit of someone

Claus

♡ He was happy-go-lucky, quite a rascal, often injured himself (similarly to Lucas), very social and imaginative

♡ He would often go up to random people and start conversations

♡ Looked up to his dad, also Lighter a little

♡ Other than Lucas, Fuel is his best friend

♡ Claus loved to pull silly little pranks on Flint. He sometimes tried to prank Hinawa, but she would always see it coming (NOTE: this is because she's a goober herself, and, in fact, would often play lighthearted pranks on the twins too)

♡ He would smile almost constantly

♡ When he found out what happened to Hinawa, he decided now it's time for him to finally be a hero.

♤ After he was found and re-constructed, his heart was very intentionally removed

♤ He's very violent, and hates every single second of living - constantly suffering physically and mentally

♤ One pigmask tried to make Claus smile. He had to get surgery after

♤ For some reason, when he sees sunflowers he gets especially angry. He'll destroy any in sight

♤ He can FEEL that there's a gap in his memory. Sometimes, he gets these random memories that he doesn't understand, which makes him even more frustrated

♤ He despises Porky and Fassad

♤ He would've killed Lucas if Hinawa didn't stop him

♤ When he regains his memories, he hates himself

He wanted to be the hero, but to him, he became the villain.

[nite-puff]

this was what their dr:s interaction was originally gonna be. trust me. i’m mr. danganronpa

(no cuz seriously. how are you gonna have them interact and then forget that hiroko canonically has a bit of a thing for takaaki?) (i say this like the dr:s writers even knew who the other captives were)

[starry-bi-sky]

finally giving fem danyal her own au and fulfilling my 'danny is an animal whisperer' agenda at the same time: mother of monsters danyal 2.0

i say "2.0" because TECHNICALLY 'mother of monsters danyal' is an au I made back in June for Dark fem!Danyal (who I promptly named Layal). However, I haven't posted much for her yet, and I like the "mother of monsters" premise too much to leave it only to Layal. Plus Danyal in that au was going to become the mother of monsters anyway, just with significantly less world domination and mass extinction.

'Animal whisperer' Danny has been something I've been thinking about since my latest DP 'wolfpack au' post and it's! So fun to think about, and who no better to assign the idea to than Danyal Al Ghul? Who comes from a family infamously known for their love of animals and nature?

Fem Danyal is just purely self-indulgent. *gestures wildly at her* i just lomvb,,, her,,,, I've only really mentioned her in context of the 'Things in Threes' au/my first Danyal al Ghul au with the facial scar, but she's!!! I love her. She deserves her own au <33

So kill three birds with one stone! Make a post about it.

Anyways, Danny has a large lair. Similar to cult leader danyal, her lair is a giant mountain region resembling nanda parbat with a big temple/palace-like area built into the mountain. It's large, it's overflowing with natural flora, with its own mini-floating islands hovering over some areas, and it's also completely empty.

Danny takes one look at her lair upon first meeting, -- noting that it looked relatively smaller from the outside -- and promptly, with the elegance of an Al Ghul, goes "What the hell??" Because yes, while she does enjoy her own solitude and privacy, this is a bit ridiculous.

For heaven's sake, there's even a massive lake in there! What's she going to do with all this space? Can she make it any smaller? Why is it so big in the first place? This looks borderline like one of the mega-islands!

She finds out later that apparently, the amount of ectoplasm a ghost has can have an effect on the size of their lair. And since she has such a large core, her lair reflects that. Wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey stuff, it's bigger on the inside so it doesn't take up "too much space" on the outside. Don't worry about it too much.

Danyal isn't totally opposed to having such a large lair, she's just... a bit baffled by it. It feels like so much wasted space is all. All this flora and no fauna to enjoy it with. It's practically eerie.

She decorates her temple-palace area, transforming rooms to match her needs as she sees fit. In the center of the inner gardens is a massive tree that she likes to climb, with twisting, winding branches. Sam and Tucker have honorary rooms, even if they can't safely leave the specter speeder for long periods of time, even with proper safety equipment. So does Jazz. Ali (Dani) has one too, but he can actually use that one, and Danny brought him to her lair so he could decorate it himself.

She has a personal garden, but for the most part she lets the flora exist as it is. Too much space to cultivate it en masse anyways.

Skip to a few weeks later, on her next visit to Clockwork. She developed a habit of going to see him semi-regularly just because. She enjoys his wisdom, and he has a lot of stories to tell, and when he's not being the cryptic and esoteric timekeeper, he's a bit goofy.

(pushing my dadwork agenda here,,, i think Danny deserves to go 'hey, Lord Clockwork, do you want me to buy you something' while she's at walmart, only to receive a singular glowing sticky note that says 'cucumber gatorade'.)

(She insists on referring to him with his proper titles even for the most mundane of things because it's proper, but Clockwork sees a future where she eventually calls him "Cee" and by all things in existence is he determined to get there. Anyways,,,)

On her next visit to Clockwork, just as she is about to leave, Clockwork stops her and goes; "Ah, I have something for you. Hold out your hands."

Danny does as such, and Clockwork doesn't give out things often, so her curiosity has spiked to the highest levels. He turns away from her for a moment, using his staff to summon whatever it is he needs, and when he turns around.

He drops a fish into her hands. Granted, a fish in a small glass tank. But a fish nonetheless. A small one, roughly about the size of her finger, with a blue-black, eel-shaped body and four sets of glowing eyes. She can see thin, almost translucent, but spiny fins down its back and the start of bioluminescent markings. It's swimming around in circles in its small container.

"Lord Clockwork." Danyal says all too calmly.

"Yes, Danyal?"

"What is this?"

"That is an adolescent leviathan, Danyal." She’s transfixed onto the tank, but she doesn’t need to see Clockwork’s face to hear the smile he’s stifling.

The myriad of emotions that runs through her all at once threatens to overwhelm her, and she can’t tell if the feelings are negative or positive. So she carefully closes her eyes to breathe in through her nose.

“Clockwork.”

“Ah, I see you’ve dropped formalities.”

She ignores that.

“Why have you given me an adolescent leviathan?”

She's expecting the trickster to look amused when she opens her eyes. Instead, he just looks endeared. "I know you're fond of animals," he says, "and you always look amazed when you come across an animal of the realms. So I thought you might enjoy taking care of the young beast, it's mother is dead so it has no one to care for it."

Oh.

"But, if you don't like it," Clockwork's hands reach out for the tank, "I can simply take it back--"

Danyal shifts the tank out from his reach and hugs it possessively. "I never said that. How do I care for it?"

And so clockwork gives her a list, and when Danyal returns to her lair, she sets up a large tank in her room for the leviathan to swim in -- it's much too small for the lake right now, she thinks. She'll feel better if it's somewhere she can find it. She names him Suhā.

Suhā grows quickly, and by the end of the mortal month she transforms one of the rooms into a large pond for him to swim around in. He's a very loyal beast, recognizing her as it's mother of some kind. Danyal takes great care ensuring that her beastie gets quality care, and Suhā swims to the surface to see her when he senses her in the room.

It spirals from there. Somehow, Pandora catches wind that Clockwork gave her a leviathan, and so the next time Danyal visits the Greater Athens, she gives her a baby chimera. It's eyes are still sealed shut, Danyal can't bring herself to say no. She names the little beastie Firas.

Frostbite hears about it too, and not to be outdone, gives her an animal she's never even heard of. Infinite-realms born, apparently. A fox-like creature with two small horns like an impala, four eyes, and tall legs. The name isn't something she's quite sure how to write down, and she's positive that her friends won't be able to comprehend it. She names her Eira.

Getting the three of them used to each other was... interesting. Suhā tried to eat Firas when Danyal first introduced the two, and they've hated each other ever since. Firas and Eira are seemingly getting along. Her island already feels full enough with the three of them on it.

Of course, that's not the end of it. With her luck, she begins stumbling across other monsters. Realms-borne or otherwise. An injured hydra in the Grecian islands that, through lots of trial and error, Danyal is able to rehabilitate and heal. It routinely comes to visit her afterwards.

A griffin with a broken wing that she moves permanently to the island that likes to keep to itself, but tends to come down when she's near. It gets along best with Firas.

A panther-like monster from the Shades Woods that had six legs and three tails, with ends that reminded her of a venus flytrap. It stuck around the heavy foliage and she can only make out where it was when she saw its golden eyes reflect.

She befriends a young indrik with its leg injured, and much like the hydra it follows her back to her island, and stays there in the mountains. It comes out when she's alone, much like her other beasts.

She receives two more leviathan -- one from clockwork, and one she finds herself while exploring the deeper and darker recesses of the Ghost Zone. It was huddled against the carcass of its mother, and she managed to befriend and get close enough to it to bring it back to her island. Suhā is fully grown by then, with a head bigger than Danyal herself and he still likes to stick her head out of the water for nuzzles when she's near.

He's not very happy with his new siblings, but he's not trying to eat them when she's not looking. So she calls it a win in her book.

And it's not just large beasts either; smaller animals begin popping up when she's not looking. Bird-like creatures and small mammals, and she swears she saw a doe (or something resembling a doe) grazing in the forest while she was walking by.

She takes back with her a lone snake egg once, and it grows so big it wraps around her island and sleeps with its massive head on the mountain beside the temple, like some smaller breed of Jörmungandr.

And on and on it goes. Some of the beasts she comes across never step foot onto her island, some of them follow her back, while others she has to carry back. Not all of the ones that follow her stay, and Danny rehabilitates the injured and releases them when they're fully healed.

It's hectic, and busy, and frankly she loves it. Some of her rehabilitated beasts return to visit her, or to have their children somewhere on the island, or whatever it is they need to do.

She becomes a bit infamous for it. She goes to visit Dorathea once, and as she's walking through the streets she can hear some of the denizens whispering while she walks past.

"Is that her?"

"Her highness' friend? Yes--"

"--that's the one--"

"--Mother of monsters--"

Danny's not sure how to feel about that.

Although, she can't say she's opposed.

Danyal Al Ghul, Mother of monsters, raiser of beasts. It has a nice ring to it.

[thatrandomsarahchick]

When Jack was in college, he participated in a pen pal program with a lovely lady from another college. Their class were contacting people doing esoteric and obscure degrees, trying to work out what drew them to that field of study. Out of everyone in their course, only himself and Vladdie had kept in contact after the initial exchanging of letters.

After that awful incident with the mini portal - oh God, what if Vlad had something like this happen to him, too? - clad had taken it upon himself to keep himself in contact with his pen-pal as well.

When Harleen went Villain, their contact became much more sporadic. As far as Mads was aware, they weren't even in contact anymore. She would definitely be able to hide them for however long it would take, and in the meantime, she might be able to get in contact with Vladdie. He had stopped taking their calls years ago, but he was Jack's only hope right now. He would know what Jack needed to do to survive whatever was happening to him now.

In the meantime, Jazz has packed the GAV with everything she could, prioritising the necessary items and working her way down the list. It was only a matter of time until mum got free, so she needed to work as fast as possible.

Dad is directing Jack to what to grab in the lab. Their first priority was permanently disabling the portal, which was easy enough to do from the laptop. They had been worried about corporate espionage and others coming to steal their design before it could be patented, so Maddie had installed a kill code on the work computer. She also didn't know what he had done to turn the thing on, with him not having had a chance to mention the on switch before she attacked him.

Danny packed the essentials into the Fenton Porta-lab, doing his best to ignore his mum's vitriolic screeching, with tears streaming down his face. A mantra of 'gotta get out, gotta get dad safe' ran through him mind on repeat. Once he'd grabbed everything he could, he turned back to his dad. Dad who was now in a colour reverse, and floating above the ground. Oh, God, mum had killed him.

Ok. Gotta get dad's ghost somewhere safe. Everything else can wait.

Even in his ghost form, Jack was mildly delirious from blood loss and pain. He didn't know how to change back, but he instinctively knew that it was safer for him to be in this form right now. Being human with his wounds would kill him permanently. He floated - floated! - over to his precious son, grabbing the handle of the bulky porta-lab and starting to tug it towards the door. To his surprise, the lab came easily. Maybe his powers could affect what he was holding? No. Jack! Get safe, get the kids safe. Research can come later. He grabs Danny around the waist and attempts to float up the stairs. Somehow, he manages to fly them both through the walls of the house and to the car outside, before collapsing on the ground. Ok, use of powers is not a good idea right now.

Jazz and Danny work together to get the portal lab into the GAV, and their dad sort of lying down on the cot in there. Now what? They exchange panicked looks, neither fully having an idea of where to go from here.

"G'thm," their dad slurs out. "Get to Goth'm H'rlee will keep safe. Go Gotham."

He then passes out on the cot, flickering back to human again. His stomach wound starts bleeding again. The change seems to have sped up the healing, but it also corroded away the bandages. With a determined look, Jazz gets into the driver's seat and starts driving away, doing her best to keep the car steady while also driving as fast as she feels comfortable going. Danny, while holding his dad's stomach closed with his gloved hands, looks back to see their mum rush out the front door. She's still partially twisted up in Fenton Fishing Wire and is screaming vitriol at the top of her lungs.

Danny finally gets his dad all wrapped up again as they pass the other side of Elmerton

He takes a few minutes to just sit and breathe. Dad may not be conscious right now, but at least he's not actively bleeding out anymore.

It's not until they're an hour into the drive that he moves from his position on the floor. His phone ringing startles him back to awareness - how long was he disassociating for?? - and he hurriedly answers it so it won't wake up dad.

It's Tucker. The three of them were supposed to hang out tonight, shit. Apparently, they went to his house but were stopped by a police officer. His mum has told them that his dad was killed in a lab accident, and her kids had stolen his corpse and ran away. She's so very concerned and needs help to bring them back. The police believe her. Tucker and Sam are super confused.

Danny gives them a rundown of the situation and his friends - he really has the best friends - believe him right away. After everything they've seen? A part-time ghost doesn't seem too wild to them. Maybe he just got ghostly abilities as a meta power? Tucker reminds them that their phones can be tracked, so they should get rid of them. Shit.

Jazz pulls them over to the side of the road, and they go through everything, turning all the trackers off and/or destroying them entirely. Everything with GPS is deactivated or just thrown out entirely. Their phones are turned off, and the sim cards are removed. Once they can get in contact with the Justice League, they can get this all sorted, and they can turn everything back on again.

When they pass a fuel station 20 minutes later, Jazz withdraws the maximum she can from mum and dad's accounts as the van fills up. It's only a few grand, but it will be enough to get them to Gotham. They can't risk card transactions anymore. While she's doing this, Danny approaches the counter.

"Hey man, I'm really sorry for this, but you'll probably get a visit from the cops soon. My mum's gone full crazy and fed a bunch of lies about my dad and us to them to try and track us down - she told them that he's dead and we stole his corpse! You don't have to believe us, but if you could pass this letter to them when they come? I've done my best to explain it for them, but who knows who they'll believe?" He chuckles tiredly as he hands over a sealed envelope. He'd written down as detailed an account as he could, as well as what he knew about the portal. Dad was a meta now. He should be protected, not vivisected.

The cashier, a teen not much older than him, pointed to the ACAB badge on his jacket. "All good man. I've seen weirder shit. You got somewhere safe to go?"

"Yeah, dad told us to head to, well, anyway, we have somewhere we can lie low until we can get this sorted."

"Good. That's good. Hey, listen, my sister got kicked outta home for being a meta, I get it. Here, we have some sandwiches and stuff that I have to throw out soon. Take 'em, you'll need it."

Danny just about started crying with relief. He wasn't used to the kindness of strangers, and this was just one thing too many for his overwhelmed brain right now.

"Danny, come on, we gotta go!" Jazz yelled from the door.

"Thank you," Danny whispered as he laid the sealed envelope on the counter. It was time to get as far away from here as possible.

DP X DC Prompt #91

AU where Jack is the one to activate the portal. Maddie sees and the general Bad Reveal tropes happen.

Jack runs to Gotham as his powers start to manifest.

@evilminji @hdgnj @itshype @dragonsrequiem

@thatrandomsarahchick @spidori

@stealingyourbones (I usually don't ping you but I'd love to see your thoughts about this!)

[cordyceph]

went to bed and woke up in a cold sweat realizing that claudia's play, the birdie one, is both a direct analogy for her story and also foreshadowing of her death WHILE ALSO nodding to pauls death

claudia'a single minded, desperate drive for freedom eventually lead her directly to her death. she was "nailed down" by lestat (by LOUIS, actually- lestat only kept her for him.), and tore herself free at the loss of her 'foot,' being a stand in for the personal pain she suffered for freedom

no matter what she or anyone did, she was going to die painfully, because she was so desperate to be free that everything was suffocating. lestat, louis, romania, the coven. the only thing that didnt rot in her mind was madeline, because... there simply wasnt time. madeline was fresh and new and, given time, would have probably suffered the same heel-turn claudia gave to everything.

of course thats because she shared louis' hopeful outlook. being free of her parents? would fix everything. when it didn't? maybe if she had louis, it would be worth it. but its not, lestats still here, louis is still in love with him... killing lestat, thatll fix it, and she and louis will be happy in romania, right, the homeland for vampirekind? not quite, so better try paris, the city of love. that doesnt work. the coven, though, will give her what she wants, right? she'll be happy with other vampires?

the only person who makes her happy is? a modern version of lestat? a weird white woman she met on happenstance, who has little to no care for societal norms or faux pas. a blunt, kind of funny, kind of sad woman who lost her family but has a capacity for enduring because what else is she going to do? die? no, she cant do that. she had no friends because she was weird and offputting and had dangerous rumors, no hangups on loving claudia, no hangups on dying or being a killer.

that's... just lestat. without the immortality and the specific traumas, of course, but like. claudia's most beloved person was a funhouse mirror of her most hated. which really speaks volumes for what they could have had, because it wasnt just a clash of personalities. it was lestats bpd clashing with hers and both of their attachment to louis clashing. if lestat had been better at sharing, if louis had been better at loving both of them, if claudia had been less angry at the world for nothing but existing? maybe they could have been a good family. a happy one forever, just like they all wanted, but were unable to give each other