#but he was never taught how to ask for it

[hatethysinner]

papa remmick headcanons pleaseee 🥸🥺

ᴘᴀᴘᴀ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ ʜᴀɴᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴꜱ

ᴀ/ɴ: these have been floating around in my head since i saw the movie so it'd be an understatement to say just how excited i am to share them! for simplicity's sake i only wrote about one daughter but let's be real remmick would have like 4. i genuinely have so many more ideas than this so if i get a lot of traction i'm def doing like 5 parts. tried to go in a chronological-ish order! if imagining hot fictional characters as fathers is my favorite pasttime does that make me crazy? i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post c:

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: none, enjoy the cutest vampire mass murderer as the most devoted father in the world! i even made the setting and time period very vague because i absolutely refuse to terrorize this adorable family.

first and foremost, ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ could only be a girl dad. it is physically, spiritually, and cosmically impossible for this man to have sons. don't argue with me, argue with the universe.

from the start, ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ was incredibly attentive. if his baby girl so much as shifted lightly in her crib, he was already standing over her before you could even stir.

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ insisted on skin-to-skin contact at every opportunity. didn't care if he had to stay still for HOURS. and he would too.

“she’s settlin’ her heart,” he'd whisper, “and mine’s the drum she’s gonna know first.”

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ took her babbling dead seriously. would fold his arms, listen with furrowed brows, and nod as if absorbing the meaning of life.

talked to her constantly. about everything. you'd catch ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ engaging in full-on conversations with an infant.

“this right here’s nutmeg. we don’t touch that, ‘cause it’s strong. like your mama. now this is thyme. it teaches ya patience.” (he was very proud of that joke)

best believe ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ is singing to her if she won't go to sleep. real songs, not lullabies. low and soft. a little off key. a little too slow. and always with her name in the chorus.

if she trips over air, ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ's already crouched beside her like a medic on a battlefield.

“where’s it hurt, baby? show me. papa’s got you.”

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ let her paint his nails. once. now it’s every saturday. sits there dead serious with one hand outstretched and the other holding a towel so she doesn’t drip.

says “gentle, baby” every time she pets a flower, every time she touches your face, every time she hugs his neck. because that’s how ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ taught her. love is gentle.

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ never hid his vampiric features at home. she adores them. pokes at his fangs, tugs at his claws, stares into his eyes with not even a hint of fear. because there's no need to.

if she calls for ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ in the night, even once, he’s at her side with a glass of water, a fresh blanket, and at least four “ya okay, sugar?” before he even sits down.

when she gets sick, ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ holds her all night with one hand pressed to her forehead and the other on her back like he can make her feel better just by staying still enough.

do not ever ask ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ to discipline his daughter. ten minutes later, you'll find the two of them on the porch swing sharing a pint of ice cream and laughing like nothing happened.

“i talked to her,” he’d say, mouth full of rocky road (🤭). “we came to an understandin’.” they did not.

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ is a constant bragger. constant. mentions her name in every single conversation, so avoid casually talking to him at all costs.

“my baby just got straight a’s. first grade, top of her class. can ya believe that?”

does not play when it comes to styling her hair. to learn, ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ sat on a little wooden stool for an entire afternoon under the careful eye of mama, focused like it was life of death. now he does them every sunday morning, and always ends with three sweet kisses.

“prettiest girl in the world. prettiest head of curls, too.”

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ felt left out of not having a bonnet (literally made this :( face) so he wears one too. unironically loves it.

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ always needs a picture of his family. first day of school, new dress, vacation, playing in the yard, doesn't matter. wallet’s full of folded photos and his side of the bedroom’s a shrine. framed memories everywhere. his girls, always.

y'all ain't never met a man who throws down in the kitchen more than ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ does. bakes, grills, fries, sautés, and seasons like nobody's business. he's been alive for over a millennium, so half the meals he makes have long been forgotten by the world. and of course he's teaching his baby girl all his skills.

girl ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ runs the pta like it's the navy. absolutely zero tolerance for slackers. despite his authoritarian, almost hivemindlike (🤭) style, every event and fundraiser ends up being a major success

he's never and will never miss a single recital, play, spelling bee, science fair, honor roll ceremony, or any other event involving his baby. ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ will fight his way to the front row if he has to, and records the whole thing with his favorite video camera. every tape is labeled, dated, and stored with care. if the house is too quiet, he'll be watching reruns.

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ ends every night the same. “ya know who loves ya?” he asks, real low.

and she says, every time, “you do, papa.”

and he answers, “damn right i do.” with his hand over his heart.

[maccreadysmungo]

Batboys as husbands

Characters: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne (aged up, as always)

NSFW will be below a cut !!

None gender specific terms used (they, partner, beloved)

Dick Grayson

Dick Grayson, bachelor of Blüdhaven, had finally settled down, and to a civvie (civilian) no less. To say the family were shocked was an understatement.

Dick Grayson is an incredible cook, thanks to Alfred no doubt. When you met he was living off pot noodles and frozen pizzas, now he was in your kitchen, humming away to your favourite song as he cooked you a 3 course meal for date night.

Dick Grayson loves to see you in his clothing, especially outside of the home. He loves people knowing you’re his - ring or no.

Dick Grayson loves taking you to family events, Galas, dinners, etc. Any excuse to show off his girl to his family and friends, even better if its an event with paparazzi, the cameras loved you almost as much as he did - you couldn’t go anywhere together without hearing a shutter click - and he loved it. Loved seeing your faces posted everywhere the next day.

Dick Grayson loves going on holidays with you, he loves taking you to hot countries, seeing you in your warm clothes, and just having peaceful time with you, away from everyone.

NSFW BELOW

Dick is a huge fan of morning sex, when you’re all groggy after having just woke up, he loves to lazily make love to his partner all slow and sensually, really savouring the moment, bonus points if you’re on holiday.

Jason Todd

You doubt anybody expected Jason Todd to one day get married, but here you were, exchanging your vows tearfully - handwritten might I add. Jason definitely put a lot of effort into his, spending weeks agonising about what he should say - even enlisting the help of Tim because, and I quote, “I don’t know enough words in the entire universe to be able to explain how deeply in love with them I am.”

Jason Todd is a sap. He’s a romantic, thpugh he’d scowl and deny it if anyone ever asked. Everyone knew he was though of course, well, with you at least.

His romantic tendencies show in the little ways, the way he always has to be touching you somehow, be it handholding, an arm around your waist, or over your shoulder. If you’re shorter than him then Jason Todd definitely loves to stand behind you with his chin atop your head, and his arms wrapped around you protectively.

Another natural chef, though he was self taught unlike Dick. Like many things with Jason, the ability to cook was just another natural talent he harboured, a fact that you both love and hate, does he really have to be so perfect at everything?! It was frustrating, really.

He likes the obvious claims, having you wear his clothes, or wear his red, even the odd hickey that’s a little harder to contain if he had a particularly jealous moment, but his favourite way to claim you as his was a simple silver chain around your neck with a red ‘JT’ hanging from the end.

NSFW BELOW

As earlier stated, he’s extremely touchy, which of course extends to other aspects of your life. Any opportunity to get his hands on you and he took it - quickies in closets? Check. Oral in the bathroom at a fancy gala? Check check. He will never miss an opportunity for sexual activity with the love of his life.

Tim Drake

Shockingly to most, Tim Drake is more reserved with his pda. He isn’t as insecure as Jason, or as… extra, as Dick, instead enjoying the smaller displays of affection, a small ‘TD’ stitched into your sleeves and collars, your pictures as eachothers lockscreens, pictures on keychains. The more… touchy displays of affection are saved for the privacy of your bedroom.

He loves spoiling you. If you glance at something for too long whilst out he notices and will immediately buy it, leaving no room for argument as he does.

He has a locked notes app note in his phone with a list of all your hobbies and interests, all your favourite things - from food to clothing style.

Tim Drake brings you everywhere with him, even patrol where he can, because whilst he may not be overly PDA-centric, he loves to have you by his side in every aspect of his life, which means he is training you and designing a vigilante suit for you so that you can come everywhere with him, so everyone knows he is spoken for (as though the ring you stitching into his costume doesn’t relay that fact as is).

He loves showing you off at Galas most of all though, helping to pick out an outfit so you guys can colour coordinate, and being at your side the entire night - he is an excellently dancer.

Unfortunately, he may be an excellent dancer but Tim Drake is not an excellent cook. He once set fire to the microwave whilst making noodles (“I didn’t know you couldn’t make pot noodles in the microwave!”) so he prefers to pay for lavish meals instead at high end restaurants, though he’ll never complain when you cook for him.

NSFW BELOW

He’s definitely one for spoiling when it comes to the bedroom too, he loves to experiment so he can find out your favourite things in the bedroom too, and once he knows them he’s definitely a giver - preferring to give head rather than receive, definitely the sort of man to get off to you getting off, so to speak.

Damian Wayne (aged up)

Damian Wayne is possessive and jealous, the sort of man to have to suppress murderous tendencies when he sees someone being too touchy, or gazing at you too long.

His solution to this is simple, you are covered in reminders that you are his. A necklace with his initials on. A bracelet and ring to match, both with the same dark green, “DW” on it. His intials are engraved into every item of clothing you own, and he’s definitely the sort to get matching tattoos on your upper thigh with one another’s initials on.

Damian Wayne is just like his Father, whether he likes that or not, which means he loves to spoil you, you never have to pay for a thing when he’s around - and he took personal offense whenever you tried when he began courting you. He pays for every meal, all your clothes, and if you do go out without him and buy something new - he’s finding out the price so he can transfer you the money - all whilst grumbling because “why didn’t you just use my card?”

Definitely a man of pet names (especially in Arabic), ‘Beloved’, ‘Habibti’ (my love), ‘Hayati’ (my life), ‘Albi’ (my heart) and ‘Ya Rohi’ (my soul) are his most commonly used ones, both in public and in private.

NSFW BELOW

As stated earlier, Damian is a gentleman just like his father, which means that he waited until marriage to go any further than kissing you. It was difficult, for both of you, but when your wedding day came it was qorth the wait when he whisked you off on a luxurious holiday, and made love to you everyday. Like Tim, he is a giver and loves to experiment, but unlike his brother he is less open to being the submissive in the bedroom, only opting to do so after a particularly stressful day, because Damian needs control in every aspect of his life. He’s not averse to dolling out punishment if you push him to that - flirt with someone for too long, tease him too much, but he doesn’t enjoy quickies as much as- he prefers to take his time with you, spoil you in every sense of the words whilst whispering praises in both English and Arabic about how good you are, how much he loves you.

[dreamwritesimagines]

Declassified [8] - Diplomacy

A.N: Thank you so much for your wonderful support my loves, you are so amazing🩷 I hope you like this chapter as well! 🥰 And please let me know what you think! 🩷

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Female!Reader

Summary: The first day of work can be stressful.

Warnings: Explicit language, yearning.

Word Count: 4381

Series Masterlist

Well.

This was exactly what the first day of school used to feel like.

You couldn’t stop the sigh leaving your lips as you stared up at the Capitol Building, trying to ignore the anxiety churning your stomach. You knew you were supposed to go in, but somehow your legs refused to listen to you, so you exhaled slowly the way your therapist had taught you to get at least some sort of—

“It’s not too late to change your mind.”

You jumped out of your skin, then pressed a hand over your chest and glared at Bucky.

“What did I say about sneaking up on people?”

“In my defense, you looked pretty out of it already.” He shrugged his shoulders. “And as I said; not too late to change your mind. We can still leave.”

“Right,” you said with a laugh. “So we just forget about the Congress and everything and go away?”

He grinned. “Mm hm.”

“Where?”

“Brooklyn.”

You tilted your head. “Except that Brooklyn elected you as their representative, I feel like they’d ask what the hell you’re doing there.”

“You make a good point,” he said and thought for a moment. “Okay, new plan.”

“I’m listening.”

“We get new names and identities, move to a small town where no one knows us, and grow old and gray there in peace. We never check the news, ever.”

Your heart skipped a beat but you tried to focus. “Do we have to change Alpine’s name too?”

“I don’t think she’d let us,” he said, a soft smile pulling at his lips. “She missed you, by the way.”

This was not flirting.

This was just friendly. That was it. Two friends talking.

About running away together.

“I missed her too,” you said. “How does she like your new place?”

“She doesn’t,” he murmured before turning to glance at the building. “We’re gonna be fine.”

“Are you talking to me or yourself?”

“Yes.”

You repressed a laugh and bumped your shoulder against his.

“Come on,” you said as you started walking with him next to you. “Today is your day, and you’re gonna be very busy.”

“Yeah, the schedule was pages long,” he said. “I have meetings with people I don’t even know about.”

“Think of it like your debutante ball,” you told him. “They all want to see if you’re the right fit for them, how much dowry you have, and if they can bed you.”

“Please talk to me about something else.”

“Okay. “You shrugged your shoulders. “Onto some heartwarming news; I told Max to go fuck himself last night.”

Bucky frowned. “Hold on, he’s still calling you?”

“I called him,” you said. “He got the apartment after I prepared my boxes and stuff, and I paid the movers extra so that they would move everything without me being there, but apparently Max went through my boxes even if he refuses to admit it, because Blinky is not in any of them.”

“Who’s Blinky?” He paused for a moment. “Or what is Blinky?”

“Blinky is my childhood plushie,” you said. “It’s a fox plushie with one eye, the other eye fell off on the first day, that’s why I named him that. I took him everywhere I moved, and guess what? Max refuses to give him back.”

“Well, that’s interesting information.”

“I know, right?” you asked as you both walked into the building and held up your IDs to go through the security even if Bucky didn’t need to do that. “He claims he hasn’t seen him, but I’m so sure he hides him somewhere in the apartment.”

“You have a toy?”

“It’s a plushie.”

“It’s a toy.”

“It’s a plushie—you know what, I’m not going to stand in the Capitol hallway to argue semantics about my nostalgic childhood plushie with you,” you said while Bucky grinned at you. “You have one thousand things to do and so do I, so I’ll see you tomorrow.”

That wiped his grin off his face. “Wait, tomorrow? You’re not gonna be around?”

“I’ll be gone all day.”

His eyes widened and he shook his head.

“Birdie, no—”

“I have the orientation, I’ll have to meet everyone and stuff, and apparently there’s this tour… It’ll be chaotic. Kels will be with you though, and Caleb as well.”

“But it wouldn’t take you all day,” Bucky tried to convince you as if you were the one who planned the schedule. “What are they going to do, make you tour the place twice? Just tell them you have stuff to do.”

“This is my stuff to do.”

“So you’re leaving me alone with these people?”

You tried not to laugh at the look of betrayal on his face.

“These people are going to be your colleagues,” you reminded him. “So you need to make friends with them. You don’t need me for that.”

“I do need you for that, actually,” he argued. “I don’t…I don’t make friends.”

“Fine, don’t make friends with them, just be civil. You charmed half of Brooklyn, remember?”

“Because you were there.”

“You’ve been through literally the hardest things anyone can go through—”

“To repeat, none of those things required making friends. Or socializing for that matter.”

“You’ll be fine, and I’ll drop by the office if I can,” you assured him. “But remember. Diplomacy. That’s the currency here.”

Bucky took a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah.”

You took a step to leave, then turned around again to look at him.

“I feel like this goes without saying when it comes to diplomacy, but do not glare at or threaten anyone.”   

Bucky stared at you as if you had just asked him whether Alpine could fly and you pursed your lips, then rolled your shoulders back.

“It’s gonna go great,” you muttered to yourself as you started walking again. “Diplomacy, here we come.”

                                      *

Okay, you expected today to be chaotic, but you did not know it would be this chaotic.

It felt like for the whole day you had been running to one place or the other, and by the time you had found some time to yourself, it was way past lunch time. You had about half an hour until the next item on the schedule so you figured you could drop by Bucky’s office to talk to Kelsey and Caleb and see how Bucky was doing so far.

When you entered the office, most of the team was busy with either their phones or laptops, but Caleb and Kelsey were watching Bucky’s closed door, having a discussion in whispers. You tilted your head, then made your way to them.

 “Is everything okay?”

“What are you doing here?” Caleb asked. “My orientation lasted all day.”

“Mine will too, I just got a break—what is happening?”

Kelsey licked her lips. “Guess who asked for a last minute meeting with Bucky.”

“Who?”

“Amos Drexel.”

Your stomach dropped and you gawked at her. “Sorry?”

“I think you guys are the only people who know this person.”

 “I’ve been memorizing everyone’s faces and names and titles since the election night,” she said. “And trust me, people know who he is. People in high places, if you know what I mean.”

“Kels, he’s just a consultant.”

Kelsey scoffed. “He’s not just a consultant, Caleb.”

“A lobbyist.”

“Lobbyists come and go, this guy has been bribing and extorting the politicians for like, decades. He has half of them in his pocket.”

“I feel like I would’ve heard about him,” Caleb said and Kelsey shook her head.

“He’s too smart for that,” she said. “It’s easier for him if the public thinks he’s just a consultant. But trust me, every single politician here knows about him.”

“What is he doing here?” you asked, your heartbeat getting faster as you stole a look at the closed door. “I checked Bucky’s schedule this morning, he wasn’t there.”

“As I said, last minute meeting,” Kelsey said. “What was I supposed to do when Drexel wanted to see him, ask him to reschedule? I squeezed him in.”

“If he tries to bribe Bucky, I feel like he might kill him.”

“Obviously but that’s not the point,” Kelsey said while you grabbed her penholder so that you could do something with your hands. “The point is, if Drexel is here, it means he wants to—”

You dropped the penholder as soon as the door opened, and you ducked under the desk to gather the pencils as he passed by the desk.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Barnes.” You heard him say as he walked out of the door and you put all the pens into the holder, then got up from under the desk, letting out a breath.

Bucky looked absolutely furious as he glared in the direction he had disappeared into before his eyes found yours, his gaze softening in a second. You gave him a tightlipped smile and put the holder on the desk—

And the rest of the room turned to the door again.

“Almost forgot.” His voice reached your ears, making your whole body tense up. “Honey? Your mom wants to know if you’re free for dinner next weekend.”

Oh.

Oh he had planned this.

Of course he did. He knew every schedule in this goddamn place, and he knew the moment you had a break, you’d come straight to Bucky’s office.

You forced yourself to ignore the whole team and Bucky staring at you, your cheeks burning in humiliation as you turned around to glare at your father who was standing by the door with a calm smile on his face.

“Make sure to text her please,” he told you. “Have a great first day.”

Then he walked away, leaving the whole office in a stunned silence.

You could feel the tears of frustration burning the back of your eyes but this was neither the time nor the place. You blinked a couple of times, clenching your jaw and then made a beeline into Bucky’s office with Caleb and Kelsey rushing after you. Kelsey closed the door behind her and you licked your lips, taking a deep breath.

“I can explain that—”

“He’s your father?” Caleb asked and you cleared your throat.

“Well…”

“Why is your surname different?”

“How is he your father?” Caleb and Kelsey asked at the same time and you cleared your throat.

“I’ve been asking the same question to my mother for ages now.” You tried to joke as you stole a look at Bucky who was just watching you with an unreadable look on his face.

“Your father is Amos Drexel and you still have roommates?” Kelsey asked, motioning at herself and Caleb, and you shook your head fervently.

“I’m broke.”

Caleb scoffed. “Oh come on—”

“No, I am.” You pulled your phone out to open up your bank app, then showed the screen to them. “See? Totally broke.”

That seemed to have snapped Bucky out of the haze he was in. “Wait, you need money?”

“Nope,” you said, shaking your head fervently. “No I don’t.”

Caleb stared at your phone screen. “How is that even possible?”

“I got myself a separate bank account when I was eighteen,” you said. “I wouldn’t touch his money with a gun to my head, I know where it comes from. And before you ask, I won’t touch it when he dies either, it will go straight to charity.”

“And he’s okay with that?”

“Not at all but he ignores it, just like he ignores how I’ve been begging him to disown me for years,” you said and turned to Bucky. “Please say something.”

Bucky just held your gaze for a moment before taking a deep breath.

“Your surname is different?”

“I changed it to my mother’s maiden name the day I turned eighteen,” you said. “You should’ve seen the paperwork.”

Bucky pointed at the door. “Birdie, I just told your father to go to hell.”

“You—” Kelsey’s eyes widened. “You told him to go to hell?”

“With different words.”

“What words?”

Bucky raised his brows, then motioned at her and you. “You two are here, I can’t exactly say what I said.”

“Bucky how many times must we tell you that people can curse around—” Caleb started but Kelsey cut him off, throwing her head back to look up at the ceiling like she was asking for help.

“Jesus, we’re not gonna last a term.”

“Would he assassinate him?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “No one is going to assassinate me, Caleb.”

“Hypothetically, would it even count as assassination if he killed you?”

“No.”

“I was going to say who died and left you in charge of assassinations, but I think everyone in this room knows the answer—”

“Bucky, I don’t think you understand,” Kelsey insisted. “Let’s say you’re Aragorn, this guy is Sauron!”

You made a face.

“He’s not Sauron, his power does have a limit.” You paused for a moment. “He’s Saruman at best.”

“Thanks, that makes it so much better—”

“Can we have the room?” Bucky cut her off and Kelsey and Caleb exchanged glances, then left the office. You could feel the anxiety churning your stomach but you swallowed thickly, keeping your eyes on him.

“Bucky…”

“Why not tell me?”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Would you have hired me?”

He frowned. “Of course I would.”

“And how would that go? Here’s my resume, oh by the way, my father bribes and extorts politicians for a living?” you asked. “See, I don’t think you would.”

“So your solution was to keep it a secret? Even after we—” He stopped himself. “Even after we started working together?”

Your heart skipped a beat.

“I couldn’t just tell you,” you said. “Listen, I wanted to work in politics, and…”

“And you could’ve easily got a job here,” Bucky told you. “You didn’t have to wait until I got elected.”

“Do you think that’s why I’m doing this?” you asked. “Bucky, I don’t want to work for a politician who is only gonna hire me because of my father, he stands for the opposite of everything I believe in—”

“And it’s been like that from the beginning?” he asked, making you pull back. “From the first minute we started working together?”

When the realization crashed down on you, it tightened your throat like a fist.

“You don’t believe me,” you muttered, biting inside your cheek and he let out a breath.

“Birdie, listen—”

“No, you listen,” you cut him off. “The next time you accuse me of working for my father, or—or having anything to do with his corruption, I will walk away, Bucky. I’ll pick one of the many job offers being thrown at me from someone who’s not in my father’s pocket -surprisingly, there are still some of those- and I’ll go and work for them. So I guess the question you should be asking is, do you really want that to happen?”

With that, you stormed out of the office and made your way to the stairs without sparing anyone a glance, your heart still pounding in your chest.

                                                 *

Well needless to say, as far as first days went, that one was not so good.

You had gone straight home after work without dropping by Bucky’s office again. Caleb came home an hour after you, and Kelsey was the last one to arrive, and they had a lot of questions.

At least they had both brought booze and snacks.

And now, way past midnight, all of you were sitting on the floor, still drinking and snacking but the air felt much lighter.

“I just want to say, Birdie,” Caleb said. “Even if your father is a demon sent from hell to bribe politicians, we love you.”

“Aw, thanks Caleb.”

“Can I also point out that,” Kelsey said, reaching for some chips, “it sure is weird that we have a TV, a fucking gramophone—”

“No badmouthing my gramophone, Kels.”

“But we don’t have a couch?”

“We’ll buy a couch,” you said, throwing a piece of chocolate in air to catch it with your mouth. “Like, next month. When we can afford it.”

“Maybe we should let your father know his daughter doesn’t have a couch, so that he can send us a gold one.”

You shot her a look and she grinned.

“These jokes will continue, just so you know.”

“I know, I know…” you muttered and pointed at the TV. “Swipe left.”

“No, swipe right!” Caleb told Kelsey who tilted her head, still holding her thumb over her phone screen. You had connected her phone to the TV and for over an hour you were going over the ‘options’ for her as Caleb had put it, and even though you’d had doubts at first, this turned out to be much more fun than watching political news.

“I mean he does give off fuckboy vibes, Caleb.”

“I don’t give a shit, he has a dog,” Caleb said. “One of us has to find someone with a dog. Birdie already has Bucky, who has an asshole cat—”

“I don’t have Bucky, and Alpine is a pretty princess.”

“And I’m a dog person,” Caleb said, pointing at the picture on the screen. “Maybe he’ll bring over his dog.”

“You make a good point,” Kelsey said as she swiped right, and all of you made a face at the next picture on the screen.

“Left!”

“Do you guys think I’ll have to work for someone else?”

“I think Bucky would rather resign himself than fire you,” Kelsey stated and Caleb nodded, taking a fistful of jellybeans into his palm.

“She’s right,” he said. “Do you want the green ones?”

“Yes please,” you said and held out your hand so that he could put the green jellybeans in your palm, and you popped them in your mouth. “And if he doesn’t trust me anymore?”

“That’s why he looked like a kicked puppy when I told Kels you were already home within his earshot?”

You let out a whine and downed your drink. “It’s gonna be so weird when I see him tomorrow.”

“Just pretend nothing happened,” Kelsey said, making Caleb scoff.  

“I’m sure it’s a very healthy approach to disagreements in a relationship.”

“We’re not in a relationship,” you said sulkily as the roar of a motorcycle outside reached the apartment. “He’s in a relationship with Hazel fucking—swipe right on this one Kels—Brooks.”

“Who hates your guts because she knows Bucky likes you.”

“Right,” you said with a laugh. “Because Bucky would ever leave his hot, successful, billionaire girlfriend —who is, if I may repeat, super hot— to be with me.”

“That’s irrelevant.”

You flailed your arms. “We don’t even have a damn couch, Kels!”

“Then he fucks you on the floor, who cares?” Caleb exclaimed as he poured more wine into your glass, and your phone buzzed on the floor. You picked it up, sitting up straighter the moment you saw the text.

From: Winter Is Coming

Hey. Are you awake?

“What the…” you muttered and turned the screen to Caleb and Kelsey so that they could read the text. “Is this a ‘you up’ text? Is Bucky sending me a you up text?”

“The man has to google half of the things I text him, but he’s sending you a you up text, sure.” Kelsey scoffed a laugh. “See, told you things would work out. That’s gonna be an apology text, text him back.”

You sent a quick yes, your heartbeat getting faster as Caleb grinned.

“He’s so lying in bed thinking about you, aw!”

“He’s not doing that— ” You started but you were cut off when your phone buzzed in your hand.

Do you mind stepping outside for a minute?

“Holy shit!”

“Caleb, stop shouting!”

“He’s here?!”

“Oh my God, oh my God…” You jumped on your feet, fanning yourself. “What do I do?”

“Well, you calm down,” Kelsey said, getting up as well. “And you go outside.”

“How do I look?”

“You look great.” Kelsey pulled your top down a little and wiggled her brows. “For good luck.”

You took a deep breath, fixed your hair, and rushed out of the apartment to make your way downstairs, then you stepped out of the building to find him leaning against his motorcycle. 

Goddamn it.

You were supposed to be angry at him, but somehow the butterflies in your stomach refused to listen to you.

“To repeat,” you said as you walked down the stairs and approached him. “I have a doorbell.”

“It’s 2 a.m.” Bucky replied, his eyes fixed on you, making your heart skip a beat. “I figured Caleb and Kelsey would be asleep.”

“Nope, we’re picking guys for Kelsey,” you said. “So what brings you here?”

Bucky paused for a moment and licked his lips.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he said. “About today…”

“Listen, I know you’re gonna say I should’ve told you but you need to understand—”

“I’m sorry.”

That made you stop talking and your eyes snapped up to his, a confused frown pulling your brows together. Bucky gave you an apologetic smile and cleared his throat as if he was willing to get the words out.

“I don’t like it when people hide things from me, and I…” He rubbed the back of his neck, averting his eyes from yours for a moment. “I trust you a lot, so when you—”

You shook your head fervently. “Bucky, I would never betray your trust.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” you insisted. “Because I need you to know that. I would never go behind your back and do anything to—to hurt you in any way.”

That soft light appeared in his blue eyes. “I know.”

“It’s just not who I am.”

“I know, Birdie.”

You bit inside your cheek.

“And I’m sorry too,” you muttered, pressing your palms on your eyes for a moment before dropping your hands. “I swear, something evil comes out of me whenever someone so much as mentions me being anything like him. Especially when I spent years trying to prove that I’m not.”

“I get that.”

You looked down, shifting your weight from one foot to other, then raised your head to smile up at him.

“Do you want to come in?” you asked. “You can help us pick guys for Kels, and there’s wine and snacks.”

“Tempting offer,” he said. “But I’m actually here to drop something off.”

You frowned as he reached into the box behind his motorcycle. “What? I’m pretty sure I got all the files—”

You stopped talking the moment you saw what he pulled out of the box, a gasp leaving your lips and your hands shooting up to your mouth.

Blinky.

He held out the worn out plushie for you and you gawked at him for a couple of seconds before you reached out to take it.

“Wh—how?”

“It was on my way.”

You pulled your brows together, looking down at the fox plushie before raising your glances again.

“My old apartment, which is in New York,” you said slowly, “was on your way to your home, which is in DC.”

Bucky’s lips twitched into a mischievous smile.

“Well okay, it wasn’t,” he admitted. “I just got back to the city, that’s why I texted you at this hour.”

You could feel your heart melting in your chest. “You went all the way to New York to get my childhood plushie back?”

“I still think that counts as a toy,” he pointed out as if it was crucial information. “But you said it was important to you, so…”

Don’t kiss him.

You can’t kiss him. He’s your boss, he has a girlfriend, he does not see you that way, do not kiss him.

“And if anything, I’d been wanting to talk to Max for a while now, so the toy was basically just an excuse.”

“It a plushie—” You changed directions mid-sentence. “What do you mean you talked to Max?”

The look on his face was too innocent. “We just had a conversation, that’s all.”

“About?”

“About him not making anything difficult for you. Or something along those lines.”   

The warmth swirled in the pit of your stomach, making you feel lightheaded as you beamed at him, a giggle climbing your chest.

“Bucky.” You breathed out. “I don’t know what to say...”

“Oh it’s nothing, really.”

“It’s not nothing,” you said. “It’s—it’s amazing. You’re amazing.”

That made his head snap up, his eyes searching yours while a proud smile pulled at his lips like your praise meant the world to him. It could’ve been funny if you weren’t trying so hard to control yourself from kissing him; the deadliest assassin in the world, the infamous Bucky Barnes who barely smiled at anyone, who could strike fear in anyone’s hearts with a mere glare, now had the same expression of an excited puppy who was given a treat.

His throat bobbed and he blinked a couple of times like he was trying to pull himself together, then gestured at his motorcycle. “I uh, I should go.”

You were painfully aware that you were pouting. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” he said. “And hey, I’m sure you’re needed inside too. Can’t have Kelsey choose the wrong guy.”

You huffed out a laugh, hugging a plushie to your stomach and nodded.

“See you tomorrow,” you said quietly and took a couple of steps but then turned around to look at him.

“And…” You cleared your throat, your heart pacing in your chest. “Thank you. It means more than you know.”

His voice was soft: “Good night Birdie.”

He waited until you were in the building to ride away and you pressed a hand over your chest before climbing the stairs to enter your apartment.

“Hey,” Kelsey said. “How did it—is that a plushie?”

“Bucky got you a plushie?” Caleb asked, confusion clear in his tone and you looked down at the plushie, then back at them.

“Guys, we have a problem,” you rasped out, your voice weak even to your own ears. “I think I’m actually falling for him.”

[luckiestboy]

too many people are too focused on punishment/revenge on the perpetrator... while we've had studies that show prevention helps way more, and it's always been such a puzzling thing, i've questioned the way people care about CSA, with;

"why do you need a child to be abused before you care?" (you as in general, not you as in op)

fairly related additions under the cut

i think more people who are focused on punishment, need to watch the skip intro video about TCAP, since it seems like an easily available way to absorb information both about CSA abuse statistics, and how "revenge fantasies" don't help in the long run. i say this because many many people will likely be disinterested in reading articles or statistics, as bad as that mindset is, i would like to at least get them to think about the topic to begin with. as much as i hate the fact youtube essays about this include sponsors/patreon plugs, i get why it's done, it's a job that's besides the point though.

to summarize: He outlined how TCAP is more of a "revenge fantasy" and makes content out of reality of many people, majority of which were abused by those they knew (he also mentions that aspect.) instead of a possibly educational show, it was the same as current-day youtube "predator catchers" who were fueled by it, and yes the show ended, though it's impact remains.

the video is technically about how they "kinda killed a guy" which people argue "the guy shot himself, nobody but him pulled the trigger" but i feel like those people are missing the point. the criticism stems from how the "Education" chris hansen did, how he rushed to a swat raid for content, putting other people in danger, considering the man had a gun, what if he shot someone else?

again, i ask them, why do we wait untill a child's been abused and traumatized for life, when we have evidence teaching kids these things, helps them more, and avoids trauma.

or teaching them, if there were no signs, if the perpetrator was a child too, that it's okay to speak out, to seek help, comfort and guidance.

I'm someone who was SA'd by a classmate, a "friend", i have spent a decade repressing the memory, and when it surfaced, i denied it was SA because it wasn't what i considered to be SA, because "well... he didn't grope me, it was just a kiss, i wasnt traumatized", ignoring how i cried recounting it to my psychologist when being interviewed during the process of diagnosing gender dysphoria, as when i was put in a situation to recount memories or experiences, it was one of the few things i remembered, before coming out.

i never even got justice, because another child did that to me, i was never apologized to, even. because nobody ever said to speak up.

if i were taught to speak up when someone did this to me, i wouldn't be met with the horrified look my mother gave me, when i shared the story around the winter holidays, deeming it a "funny" thing from my childhood. and her question.

"why didn't you tell me?"

i was 7, maybe 8, there weren't any signs for my autistic little brain to pick up, and even then i was never taught about signs, only to never go with strangers.

i was told being taunted or teased by a boy meant he liked me, i was supposed to be happy, right? someone liked me, that means what they did was good. it didnt matter i ran from him before i was trapped.

the fact im so fucked up mentally, and hesitant of affection horrifies me, because those who endured worse? what about them? the mistreatment i went through were isolated incidents, and they still left a big impact, those incidents, caused me to subconciously try and present myself in a "tempting" way to one of the few male middle school teachers i had, in hopes of being abused more.

and i think about others who've gone through worse, the mental strain, and how people seem to be so focused on punishing the abuser, instead of helping the abused.

yes an abuser should be punished, but involvement shouldnt end there...

Speaking as a survivor of child sex abuse: the world would be a lot better if yall spent less time talking about the ways in which pedophiles should be punished and more time supporting survivors and preventing abuse

I get it, punishment can feel cathartic. I’ve certainly spent time imagining all the ways in which my own abuser might be punished. But ultimately, him dying, or being jailed, or publicly shamed, isn’t actually going to help me nor will it stop more kids from getting hurt in the future.

I don’t want more prisoners. I want free therapy with trauma informed counselors. I want better sex education for young children that teaches them about consent and body autonomy. And I want a society in which I can openly discuss my trauma, or at least as openly as yall discuss the evils of pedophiles

[heesmiles]

FALLING INTO RUIN l.hs

೨౿ ⠀  ׅ ⠀   ̇ 22k ⸝⸝ . ‌ ׅ ⸺ word count.

pairings 𝜗𝜚 bad boy .ᐟ heeseung ៹ ex ballerina .ᐟ reader ᧁ ; smut ˒ angst ˒ bad boy .ᐟ good girl

warnings ⊹₊ ⋆ heavy angst lots of deep mentions of death graphic depictions of death centering around the reader and heeseung meeting at a grief group smut car accidents fights drug & alcohol use cheating (not heeseung) reader is a flawed character socialites past and present shifting timelines - this is dark, please read at your own discretion will have a happy ending.

synopsis ୨୧ your world ended the day your best friend died. In the hushed corner of a grief group you never wanted to attend, you find him — the boy with the defiant gaze and a hard exterior. with cracked pointe shoes and a heart still pirouetting in the past, you feel your family’s disapproval tightening around you like an old corset. He is everything you’ve been taught to avoid: trouble, danger, thrill. But in the quiet ache of loss, you discover something soft in him, something that mirrors your own hollow, and you never want to let go.

.ᐟ rain's mic is on ⋆ ͘ . this one is heavy y'all so please read the warnings before reading, I have experienced a loss like this and let me tell you it is not easy. but honestly I think this will be therapeutic to write...I hope you enjoy.

You sit in a circle of battered folding chairs, each one occupied by a stranger cloaked in their own quiet ache. The walls are an unremarkable shade of beige, the ceiling tiles sagging as if even they are tired of holding up this room’s endless, aching confessions. A fluorescent light flickers overhead, buzzing like a fly caught between windowpanes. It hums in your ears, mingling with the low murmur of voices; voices that float around you like a fog you can’t seem to break through. They’re sharing their stories, each word rolling into the next, and yet none of them find purchase in your mind. You hear phrases —“I lost her six months ago,” “he was my brother, my twin soul,” “I don’t know who I am without them.” The syllables tangle together, a blurred melody of heartbreak and hollow confessions that should resonate, but don’t. Instead, your thoughts roam restlessly, slipping past the edges of this circle like water seeking an escape. 

This is stupid. That’s all you can think. This room, these strangers, this forced performance of vulnerability. You don’t need to be here, you don’t want to be. It was your mother’s idea, or maybe your father’s, or maybe the friend who found you crying in the kitchen and didn’t know how else to help. “You’re not okay,” they’d said, their eyes soft, their voice careful, as though your grief were a fragile thing that might shatter at the slightest touch. “You should talk to someone.” But you don’t want to talk. Not to these people, not to anyone. You’re still angry — so angry you can taste it, bitter and bright on your tongue. Angry that she’s gone, that the world keeps turning anyway, that people you love can slip away as easily as breath. Angry that you’re here, forced to sit in this room and pick at the edges of a wound that still bleeds no matter how tightly you try to hold it shut. 

 Your hands twist together in your lap, fingers knotted tight as you stare down at the scuffed linoleum floor. You watch the shadows shift across the tiles, the way the cheap plastic chairs creak as people shift and sigh. You wonder what they see when they look at you; if they can sense how hollow you feel inside, how every breath feels stolen from the silence you can’t seem to fill. A voice cuts through your reverie, sharper than the rest. The instructor; her name is June, but she introduced herself so quickly you barely caught it, leans forward, her kind eyes settling on you. “Would you like to share today?” she asks, her voice gentle but insistent. Her question drifts across the circle, landing in your lap like a stone.  

You hesitate. You want to say no. You want to slip back into the fog of your own thoughts, let the stories of these strangers wash over you without having to offer anything in return. But June’s gaze doesn’t waver, and there’s a quiet determination in her eyes that tells you she won’t let you slip away so easily. “I—” you start, your voice a dry whisper in your throat. The word feels foreign, as though it doesn’t belong to you. You swallow, trying to find something, anything to give her, even if it’s just a shard of the truth. But before you can force out another word, the door to the room swings open with a soft groan of hinges. The quiet murmur of voices stills, the air shifting like a held breath. You look up, startled by the sudden interruption. 

He stands there in the doorway, framed by the flickering fluorescent light. A boy; no, a young man, but with a reckless, hungry energy that feels too big for this small, sorrowful room. He’s tall and lean, dressed in a black hoodie that hangs loose around his shoulders and jeans torn at the knees. His hair is dark, falling across his forehead in careless waves, and there’s a glint in his eyes that doesn’t belong in a place like this; mischief, or defiance, or maybe both. He walks in like he owns the space, his steps unhurried, each one deliberate and almost lazy. There’s a kind of swagger to him that seems out of place here, where everyone else is weighed down by loss and uncertainty. He moves like he doesn’t care who’s watching, like the world could fall away around him and he wouldn’t miss a beat. 

Your breath catches in your throat as he turns his gaze on the room. His eyes sweep over the group, pausing on you for just a moment; a flicker of something electric in the space between you, something that hums along your skin like static. He smiles then, a small, knowing curve of his lips that makes your stomach tighten. June recovers first, her voice steady as she addresses him. “Heeseung,” she says, her tone calm, as though she’s known him for years. “Glad you could join us. Please, have a seat.” 

Heeseung. The name settles in your mind, a word with edges that feel sharp and dangerous. He doesn’t say anything, just inclines his head in a mockery of respect before sauntering over to an empty chair across the circle from you. He sits with the kind of ease that seems to come naturally to him, sprawling back like he’s at home in this room of strangers and sadness. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears. You don’t know why you’re staring, why you can’t seem to look away. He’s trouble; anyone could see that. He carries it in the curve of his grin, the careless way he lounges in his chair like he’s got nothing to prove and everything to lose. Your family would take one look at him and see every mistake you’ve ever been too careful to make. 

But there’s something about him that pulls at you anyway; something that feels like a challenge, or a promise, or maybe just a spark in a life gone too quiet. June’s voice breaks through your thoughts again, gentle but firm. “You were about to share,” she reminds you softly, her eyes encouraging. The others in the circle watch you with polite curiosity, their own pain momentarily forgotten as they wait for your words. You’re too caught up in the magnetic pull of the boy who just walked in, the way he lounges in his chair like it’s a throne and he’s the king of this quiet kingdom of broken hearts. His presence crackles in the air, a live wire of confidence and mischief that feels out of place here; like a thunderstorm that’s wandered into a library. 

Your eyes meet his again, and for a moment, the whole room seems to vanish. The flickering lights, the shifting shadows, the low drone of sorrowful voices, they all dissolve into a hush that’s just the two of you, suspended in a glance that feels like a secret whispered against your skin. Heeseung holds your gaze with an ease that makes your breath stutter in your chest. His smirk is slow and deliberate, a curve of his lips that’s both a challenge and an invitation, and it sends a rush of heat to your cheeks, blooming like a flush of summer in the cold hush of winter. You can feel the rest of the group watching; feel their curiosity flicker and sharpen as they notice the way you’re staring, as if this boy has turned you inside out with nothing more than a look. Embarrassment burns in your veins, a bright, fierce blush that you can’t quite hide. You tear your eyes away, the weight of their collective gaze pressing in on you like a vice, but it’s too late. Heeseung’s smirk deepens, dark eyes glinting with amusement that slices right through you. 

You cough, the sound small and fragile in the hush of the circle. Your hands twist together in your lap, fingers fumbling with the edge of your sleeve as you try to gather the tatters of your composure. “I—I have nothing to say,” you stammer, your voice barely more than a whisper. The words feel like an apology, but you’re not sure who you’re apologizing to, June, the others, or maybe just yourself. June sighs softly, a gentle exhalation that speaks of disappointment and understanding all at once. She doesn’t push further, her eyes lingering on you for a heartbeat longer before she shifts her focus to the next trembling soul in the circle. The moment slips away, swallowed by the rhythm of the meeting, but the echo of it still hums in your bones, a melody you can’t quite silence. 

You risk one last glance across the room, drawn back to Heeseung like a moth to flame. He’s still watching you, his head tilted just slightly, as if he’s trying to see right through the careful mask you wear. His gaze is steady, unflinching, and there’s a kind of quiet challenge in it, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do next, or if you’ll let yourself fall into the gravity of whatever this is between you. You know he’s trouble. The kind of trouble that’s all sharp edges and reckless laughter, the kind that would make your parents’ hearts seize with worry. But you also know that there’s something about him that feels like possibility, like the flicker of dawn on the edge of a long night, a spark of something wild and bright in the darkness of your grief. 

You look away quickly, your pulse a ragged drumbeat in your throat. You tell yourself you’re here to heal, to stitch your heart back together with soft words and shared sorrow. But as Heeseung leans back in his chair, that smirk still playing at the edges of his lips, you can’t help but wonder if healing is really what you’re searching for. 

Before 

You’re back in the old studio, the one with mirrored walls that seem to stretch on forever and floors that smell of rosin and sweat and quiet determination. The soft strains of a piano echo through the room, each note a gentle command that your body obeys without thought. You’re in the middle of your rehearsals, your limbs aching in that sweet way that comes only from hours of repetition, from the careful sculpting of muscle and will. Your best friend Nari is there, her laughter ringing like wind chimes as she prattles on beside you. She’s tying the ribbons of her pointe shoes, nimble fingers weaving them into place as she talks a mile a minute about some party on Saturday. Her voice is a melody of excitement and mischief, rising above the music like a warm breeze. But you’re only half-listening, your mind caught on the precise line of your arabesque, the subtle shift of your weight that can make or break the beauty of a single pose. 

The showcase on Friday night looms in your thoughts, its promise and threat shimmering like a mirage just out of reach. It’s everything; the culmination of years spent spinning your soul into motion, of dawns and dusks blurred by practice and sweat. If you can dance this one performance perfectly, if you can become the music itself, there’s a chance you might be seen — truly seen — by those who can open the doors you’ve been dreaming of since you were a little girl with stars in your eyes and blisters on your feet. Nari’s words ripple through the haze of your focus, a bright ribbon of sound you can’t quite catch. “Are you even listening to me?” she huffs, nudging your shoulder with a grin that’s all playfulness and exasperation. You blink, startled out of your reverie, and offer her a sheepish smile. “Sorry, Nari,” you murmur, breathless from both the dance and the sudden warmth in your cheeks. “Can you say that again?” 

She rolls her eyes, but her smile never wavers, eyes alight with mischief and affection. “Beomgyu’s having a party on Saturday,” she says again, slower this time, like she’s repeating the steps of a new routine just for you. “He wants me to come, and he said I should bring you too. You know, his roommates are going to be there, and they’re… fun.” She raises an eyebrow in a way that makes you laugh despite yourself, the sound of it soft and surprising in the hush of the studio. You pause, your breath steadying, and you brush a stray lock of hair from your face. “I’ll think about it,” you reply, your voice careful even as your heart tugs in two directions, between the shimmering future of the showcase and the siren call of a night that promises a different kind of abandon. 

Nari grins, satisfied. “You’ll come,” she says with the certainty of someone who’s already decided for you. “I’ll see you there.” She winks, and for a moment, the air feels brighter; like the soft glow of stage lights just before the curtain rises, or the hush of the audience as they lean forward in anticipation. You just smile, the knot in your stomach unraveling one by one. 

Present day 

The clink of cutlery on china fills the hush of your family’s dining room, each sound a brittle punctuation in a conversation that has long since dried up. You’re pushing your food around your plate, letting the fork drag through the creamy potatoes in swirling patterns that feel like they should mean something. The roast sits in thick slices, glistening with juices that have already gone cold. It tastes like nothing in your mouth, like dust and memory. Your parents are seated across from you, the soft glow of the chandelier casting their faces in warm light that doesn’t reach their eyes. Your father’s brow is furrowed, the way it always is when he’s trying to figure out how to reach you without knocking you further away. Your mother’s lips are pressed into a line that might have once been a smile, but now it’s just another careful crack in the façade she wears for dinner. 

They ask you about your first day at grief group, their voices careful and measured like they’re afraid of stepping on shards of glass. You shrug, your shoulders stiff and aching with the weight of words you’re not sure how to shape. “It’s stupid,” you mutter, each syllable slipping out like a sigh. “I don’t need it.” Your mother sighs, and the sound feels like a door closing softly in the night. She doesn’t argue, doesn’t push, and for a moment you’re grateful for it, grateful for the quiet that settles like a blanket over the table, even if it’s heavy with all the things you’re not saying. She clears her throat, the small sound snapping through the silence. “There’s a banquet this weekend,” she says, her voice careful as she changes the subject. “I think it would be good for you to come. To get out of the house, to socialize a little.” 

Something in you flares at that, a hot spark of anger that surprises even you. Socialize. Like it’s something you deserve, like it’s something you’re entitled to just because you’re still here and breathing. Your fork stills, the silver tines scraping against the porcelain as you lift your gaze to meet hers. “Why should I?” you ask, your voice quiet but sharp. “Why do I get to socialize when Nari doesn’t?” Her name hangs in the air like a ghost, and your mother’s eyes falter, her gaze dropping to the untouched green beans on her plate. The silence stretches, taut and trembling, and you can feel the shape of the words you’re holding back, a raw scream echoing in the hollow of your chest. 

“Nari’s parents,” you continue, your tone as flat and bitter as the cold dinner in front of you. “Will they be there? Beomgyu? Should I smile and pretend it’s all okay while they’re looking at me, knowing I’m the reason she’s not here?” Your mother doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to. The way her shoulders slump, the way she can’t meet your eyes; it’s enough. It’s everything. You push your chair back from the table, the legs scraping against the wood floor with a grating shriek that echoes in the quiet. Your hands are shaking, but you keep them fisted at your sides as you stand, your breath coming hard and ragged. 

“I don’t deserve to socialize,” you say, your voice hollow and aching. “I don’t deserve to sit there and smile and pretend I’m okay when I killed their daughter.” The words fall into the silence like stones, and for a moment, no one breathes. Your father opens his mouth, but there’s nothing he can say, no soft reassurance or gentle lie that can wash the blood from your hands, even if it’s only there in the quiet chambers of your guilt. You turn away before you can see their faces; before you can see the pity or the pain or the fear in their eyes. Your footsteps are quick and sharp as you leave the table behind, your pulse a drumbeat in your ears. You don’t know where you’re going, only that you can’t sit there under the weight of it all, can’t stand to be in the same room with the echo of your own confession. 

In the hush of the hallway, you pause, your hand pressed to the cool wood of the doorframe. Your breath is shaking, each inhale a jagged cut. You close your eyes, and for a moment, you can almost feel the soft press of Nari’s hand in yours, the bright laugh that used to pull you back from the edge of yourself. But that’s gone now, a memory that tastes of salt and regret. You open your eyes and step away from the door, the shadows of the hallway swallowing you whole. Empty. 

Heeseung moved like a storm in a bottle, all coiled energy and restless, reckless hunger. The girl underneath him was a blur, a placeholder for a connection he didn’t care to remember the shape of. Her moans were a hollow echo in his ears, a soundtrack he barely noticed as he chased his own release. He didn’t know her name — he didn’t care to know. All she was to him was a means to an end. A small glimpse of euphoria in his already fucked up life.

“Oh god.” Her voice was pitched just right, her body taunt with pleasure as her nails deliciously traced the expanse of his back up and down. It sent shivers down his spine, his head falling forward to rest on her shoulder. His orgasm approached fast and unyielding; blinding him completely for only just a second. When it was over, he didn’t bother with softness or sentiment; he just rolled away, breath ragged, the sweat cooling on his skin in the stale air of his too-small room. 

It was then that the pounding came, a hard, insistent thump on the door that rattled the handle and broke through the post-coital haze. Heeseung swore under his breath, his brow furrowing in annoyance as he pushed himself upright. The girl beside him made a soft, questioning noise, but he didn’t answer. Sunghoon’s voice called through the door, muffled but clear: “Hey man… I don’t mean to bother you, but your dad is at the door asking for you.” A string of curses slipped from Heeseung’s lips, low and biting as he turned to the girl. She was sitting up, her hair tangled and her eyes wide with confusion. Heeseung didn’t bother with apologies, he just grabbed her shirt from the floor and tossed it at her, his jaw tight. “Get lost,” he muttered, his voice like gravel. 

She scowled but didn’t argue, her movements quick and sharp as she tugged the shirt over her head and gathered the rest of her clothes. Heeseung didn’t watch her leave — he was already halfway to his dresser, yanking on a pair of jeans and grabbing a wrinkled shirt from the floor. His movements were hasty, all careless urgency as he buttoned the shirt with fingers that didn’t quite stop shaking. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, he was still tucking the shirt into his waistband, his hair damp with sweat and falling into his eyes. His father stood in the doorway, the harsh afternoon light casting deep lines across his face and turning his eyes into cold shards of glass. The girl slipped past Heeseung in a hurry, not even sparing a glance at the older man as she ducked out the door. 

His father watched her go, his mouth twisting into a frown that spoke volumes without a single word. “Is she your girlfriend?” he asked, his tone as sharp and clipped as the cut of his tailored suit. 

Heeseung let out a short, humorless laugh, his shoulders rolling back in lazy defiance. “Nah,” he said with a smirk. “Random girl.” His father’s face darkened, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he shook his head in silent disappointment. Heeseung could feel the weight of that look like a hand around his throat, but he didn’t let it show, didn’t let it break through the practiced mask of indifference he wore like armor. “I’m only here because your mother wants you to come to a banquet this Saturday,” his father said, his voice cold and final. “No questions, Heeseung. You’ll be there.” 

Heeseung’s lips twisted, his laughter gone as quickly as it had come. “No way in hell,” he snapped. “I’m not going to sit with a bunch of prissy rich kids and play pretend. Find someone else.” His father’s eyes narrowed, and the room seemed to go still around them, the air heavy with all the things they’d never said out loud. “If you don’t go,” his father said quietly, his words cutting deeper than any shout could, “I’ll yank your inheritance money right out from under you. I’m done watching you piss away everything your brother worked for.” 

The mention of Han hit Heeseung like a blow to the gut, the name a ghost in the space between them. His father didn’t flinch, didn’t look away, just kept his eyes fixed on Heeseung like he was daring him to break. “Usually we’d be asking Han,” he said, his voice low and venomous. “But obviously, because of you, we can’t do that.” The words rang out, sharp and final, the old wound split open once more. Heeseung’s hands clenched at his sides, his breath a ragged snarl as he took a single step forward. “I’ll be there,” he spat, his voice low and dangerous. And then he slammed the door in his father’s face, the sound of it echoing through the quiet of the house like a gunshot. 

He stood there for a moment, his chest heaving, the anger coiling in his gut like a living thing. The silence in the house felt heavy, the memory of his brother’s name still clinging to the air like a curse. Heeseung closed his eyes, let the weight of it settle over him for a heartbeat and then he turned away, his jaw set and his mind already miles from the echo of his father’s voice. 

Before

The memory snuck in like smoke — thin, curling at the edges of Heeseung’s mind as he lay back on his bed, the anger from the encounter with his father still simmering in his chest. It arrived uninvited, as most memories of Han did, but he never had the heart to push it away.  It was a Thursday evening. Late spring, the windows open to a warm breeze that stirred the curtains and carried the faint sounds of traffic from the road outside. Heeseung had just come home from his job; something menial and forgettable at a music store, the kind of gig he kept for pocket money and for the simple pleasure of thumbing through vinyls all day. His shoulders ached, his hair smelled faintly of dust and old plastic, and there was a smear of something, maybe ink on the hem of his sleeve. He strolled through the front door like he owned the place, calling out lazily, “Han! You alive?” 

The house was quiet except for the subtle shuffle of papers in the den. Heeseung followed the sound, and sure enough, Han was there, tucked behind their father’s massive old desk, sleeves rolled up, brows drawn in that signature furrow that meant he was neck-deep in whatever the hell their dad had dumped on him this time. His tie hung loose around his neck like a forgotten noose, and the desk lamp cast a tired yellow light over his papers and the dark shadows beneath his eyes. Heeseung leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching his brother like a man studying a machine. “What are you doing?” he asked, not unkindly, but with a tone that leaned slightly into mockery. Han didn’t look up right away. 

“Contracts,” Han replied eventually, flipping a page with fingers that were stained slightly with ink. “Dad wants me to review the Q2 proposals before the meeting next week. He’s testing me, I think.” Heeseung scoffed and stepped into the room, hands shoved into his pockets. “You know you’re twenty-six, right? You’re allowed to act your age. Get drunk. Flirt with someone. Sleep until noon. Come on, man, you’re wasting your golden years.” 

Han chuckled under his breath, a soft, familiar sound. He leaned back in his chair finally and looked up, eyes slightly bloodshot, but sharp. “My golden years?” he repeated with an amused snort. “You sound like a commercial. Look; I get it. But I can’t afford to screw this up. If I’m going to take over the company someday, I need to prove I’m ready. Dad won’t hand me anything just because I’m his son.”  Heeseung made a face, as if the very idea bored him to tears. “Yeah, yeah. Legacy, pressure, expectations, whatever.” He waved a hand dismissively. “You sound just like him, you know? Minus the part where he breathes fire every time I walk in a room.” 

There was a beat of silence between them, a moment that stretched like taut string. Then Han smiled again, this time with a hint of warmth. “You’re not so bad, Hee. You just… don’t want the same things I do.” 

“Damn right,” Heeseung said, grinning. “And that’s why I’m inviting you to this party saturday. You need to blow off steam. Come on, it’ll be fun. Booze, music, girls who don’t talk about market projections. Maybe you’ll get laid, huh?” Han threw his head back and laughed, a full-bodied sound that filled the room and warmed something deep in Heeseung’s chest. “God,” Han said, shaking his head, “you’re such an idiot.”

“An idiot who knows how to have a good time,” Heeseung countered. 

Han leaned forward again, reaching for his pen, already turning back to his mountain of responsibility. “Maybe next time. I’ve got to finish this before morning.” Heeseung sighed dramatically, shoulders slumping. “Suit yourself, nerd.” He turned on his heel and headed for the hallway. “One day you’re gonna regret choosing paperwork over parties.” Han didn’t answer that, and Heeseung didn’t expect him to. 

Present day 

The kitchen is quiet, too quiet for a house that used to hold the hum of music and the scent of spices and your mother’s laughter like a cradle. Now, it’s just you, curled on a barstool with your knees drawn up and your fingers clenched around a lukewarm mug of tea you forgot to drink. The steam’s long gone, and the honey at the bottom has settled into something thick and bitter. You stare into it like it might offer answers, like it might bring her back. The fridge hums. A fly taps against the windowpane. Somewhere upstairs, your father’s voice filters down faintly as he takes a business call, every word sharp and clipped, like life never paused for him. Like the world didn’t lose her. But yours did.

Nari’s absence is a bruise that never yellows, never fades. It’s sharp even now, especially now. She would’ve hated this silence. She’d be here, chattering about nothing, raiding the pantry for snacks and nagging you to put down your damn phone and just be present. And maybe that’s why your thoughts won’t stay still, because they’re clawing for a world where she still exists, a version of today where she might burst through the back door in her worn-out slippers and call you “ballerina girl” with that lopsided grin of hers. You press your palms flat against the countertop. It’s cold beneath your skin, grounding. You try to focus on the pattern of the granite, the little swirls and veins, but your thoughts still pulse like static. You feel raw. Like someone scraped out your insides and filled you with salt. Then — Buzz.

The sound shatters the silence. Your heart jerks like it remembers how to beat.

You glance at your phone, already half-hoping it’s no one important. Spam, maybe. A group text you forgot to leave. Anything but —

Beomgyu.Can we please talk?

Four words. But they land like a punch. Your chest constricts so tight, it’s like your ribs are shrinking around your lungs. You feel your breath stutter. Your fingers twitch. The guilt is immediate, overwhelming, a tidal wave you don’t even try to brace against. You slam the phone down onto the table without thinking, the crack of it hitting the wood startling in the still air. You don’t check to see if the screen’s cracked. You don’t care. Maybe you want it to be. Maybe if it shatters, it’ll mirror something inside you that already has. You bite your lip hard enough to taste iron. Your eyes sting. You haven’t spoken to Beomgyu since the funeral. He hadn’t looked at you, not once. You’d sat three rows back, your nails digging into your palms, your throat like paper. He’d held Nari’s mother’s hand and stared at the coffin with a hollowed-out look that made you nauseous. You’d wanted to crawl out of your skin. You should’ve. 

You think of how close they were; how easily they fit together. You’d seen it from the start. Even when Nari denied it, even when she’d said it was “just fun,” you’d known he was her heart. You’d seen the way she softened around him, the way she came alive when he laughed at her jokes. And now? Now he was just another ghost in your phone. Your gaze drifts to the corner of the kitchen where she used to sit, cross-legged on the counter, eating cereal straight from the box and swinging her legs like a child. You can almost see her there, smirking, eyebrow raised like you’re being dramatic again. 

You whisper her name, just once, and it falls out of your mouth like broken glass. You don’t answer the text. You can’t. Instead, you let your forehead fall forward until it rests against the coolness of your arms. The silence returns, thick and absolute. And still, your phone waits. Quiet. Unanswered. Just like her.

The room is stuffy today; warmer than usual, like the air forgot how to move. You sit in the same chair you did last time, in the same semicircle of grief-soaked strangers and their tea-stained paper cups, their fidgeting hands, their voices weighed with sorrow and memory. You don’t bother pretending to listen anymore. Your eyes are fixed on a speck on the wall behind the group leader’s head, June, The voices in the room bleed together like watercolor in the rain, a blur of confessions and pain you can’t bear to carry. They all sound the same now. “My mother was my best friend…” “It’s been three years but I still smell her perfume…” “He was just twenty-two…”

You know you should care. You want to care. But your grief is greedy and cruel, and it’s made your heart a locked box. There’s no room left inside for anyone else’s sadness. You hear his voice before you see him; low, a little rough, carved out of something not entirely soft. Heeseung. You turn your head, eyes flicking to him like gravity pulled them there. He’s slouched in his chair, legs sprawled, fingers twitching restlessly in his lap. The swagger he wore like armor the last time is gone today. He doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t wink. He looks different, heavier. Like something happened between the last session and now, something that hollowed him out and filled him with fire.

June is addressing him now. She’s calm, as always, her voice like a therapist’s lullaby. “Heeseung,” she says gently, “would you like to share something today?” He doesn’t move. Doesn’t answer. “Heeseung?” she prompts again, a little firmer.

He lifts his head slowly, his dark eyes hooded, unreadable. His jaw is clenched. His voice, when it comes, is low and sharp as a blade.

“I have nothing to say.”

There’s an edge there that silences the whispers around the room. Even June falters, just for a second, before she forges ahead. “Sometimes saying something helps. Even a sentence. Even a word.” Heeseung lets out a humorless laugh, short and bitter. He drags a hand through his hair and stares at the floor like it betrayed him. Then he looks up; at her, at the room, and then, briefly, at you. You look away too quickly, pretending not to care. 

“I belong in jail,” he says flatly. A sharp silence follows, sucking all the air out of the room. Someone coughs. Someone else shifts in their seat. Heeseung doesn’t blink. “I killed my brother,” he says, his tone brutal and matter-of-fact, like he’s just telling them the weather. “I don’t belong in a grief group. I belong in a cell.” 

Your breath catches. The words strike you like a slap. You sit a little straighter, unable to look away. June sighs, quiet and practiced. “Your brother died in a car accident, Heeseung. That’s not your fault.” He’s on his feet before she can finish, the chair scraping violently against the tile as he kicks it back. The crash of it slams through the room like thunder. You flinch before you can stop yourself, your heart kicking wildly in your chest. Heeseung’s jaw is tight now, his face pale beneath his sharp cheekbones. 

“Yeah,” he spits, voice rising. “He died picking me up. That’s why he was in that car. Because I was too drunk to drive myself. Because he was always the one who cleaned up my messes.” His voice cracks at the edges; just slightly, but enough to make you feel like something inside you is cracking with it. “I killed him.” 

He stands there for a moment, breathing hard, eyes burning like twin eclipses. No one dares speak. The silence wraps around him like a noose, taut and thick. And suddenly, he looks so young. So lost. Like he’s still standing on the side of that road, glass in his skin and his brother’s blood in the air. You’re stunned; not just by what he said, but by the way it pierces through you. Because for the first time, you see him — not as some reckless, charming bad boy you were warned about, but as someone broken in the same places you are. Someone who walks with a ghost too. 

You’d thought you were different. You, the quiet ex-ballerina with your good-girl past and your polished life. Him, the disaster with smoke on his jacket and grief in his bones. But maybe you aren’t so different after all. Heeseung doesn’t wait for permission. He grabs his coat and storms out, the door rattling in his wake. The room doesn’t breathe until he’s gone. 

You can’t stop staring at the door. You wonder if he’s crying on the other side. Or if he’s just like you, too angry to mourn properly. Too haunted to move forward.

You sit there in the silence, the words echoing in your head. I killed him. You know what that feels like. And somehow, it makes you feel less alone. 

You wake with a gasp, like you’ve surfaced from drowning. The sheets are tangled around your legs, soaked in sweat, your skin clammy despite the cool air slipping through the crack in your window. Your lungs heave, but the air feels too thin, like it’s not enough. Like nothing is enough anymore. The nightmare clings to you, half-formed and shadowy at the edges, but the heart of it remains vivid, cruelly clear. Nari’s hand; slipping out of yours. Her eyes, red with fury. The way her voice trembled not with sadness, but with disappointment, with anger. 

The way she walked away.

How you let her.

How she never came back.

You sit up, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes like you could rub it all away. The images. The guilt. The truth. The silence of the house is suffocating, so you shove off the covers and pad downstairs on bare feet, trying not to wince as the cold tiles bite into your soles. You want water; something cold, something real. Something to distract you from the storm in your chest. The kitchen lights are off, but the refrigerator hums faintly in the dark. You’re halfway to the cabinet when you hear it: the soft, broken sound of someone crying. You freeze.

At first you think you imagined it. But then it comes again — a quiet, trembled sob. Your eyes adjust slowly to the dimness, and there she is. Your mother, sitting at the kitchen island, her shoulders curled in on themselves like the weight of the world finally became too heavy to hold. One hand grips a crumpled tissue; the other is pressed over her mouth to keep the sound contained, like grief should be polite. You hesitate in the doorway, your instincts at war. Once, not so long ago, you’d have gone straight to her without question. But that was before. That was before everything fractured.

You were a different person then. Back when your world made sense. Back when you could still recognize yourself in the mirror. When you danced like your life depended on it, when your report cards came home like trophies, when your smiles were real. You’d never smoked, never drank, never snuck out. You’d dated the kinds of boys who brought flowers for your mother and shook your father’s hand. You were the girl everyone trusted, the girl who never let anyone down. But now? 

Now you move through the world like it’s made of glass. Angry at everything. Detached. Numb. The mirror doesn’t recognize you, and neither do your parents. Especially your mother. You know it. You’ve felt it every time she looks at you like she’s searching for someone who disappeared. Still, something in you softens. You walk forward, slowly, and without a word, wrap your arms around her from behind. She flinches, surprised; your presence, your touch. You used to be so affectionate, but now? Now you rarely even speak at the dinner table. After a moment, she melts into you, her head leaning back against your shoulder. Her sobs taper into shaky breaths. 

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” you murmur into her hair. “I just… I couldn’t sleep.”

She doesn’t respond right away. Her fingers find your wrist, holding gently. Finally, she says, her voice hoarse, “I miss you.”

You close your eyes. “I’m right here,” you whisper, even though the words feel like a lie. She pulls away just enough to look at you, and in the glow of the fridge light, you see her eyes are puffy and red. She studies your face for a long, aching moment, then says, “No. Not really.” It hits harder than you expect. But she’s right. You haven’t been you in a long time.

“I’m sorry,” you say, voice cracking. “I don’t know who I am anymore.” Your mother nods, slowly, like she’s known that for a while but didn’t know how to say it aloud. She reaches out to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear the way she used to when you were little. “I know you’re hurting,” she says. “We all are. But I don’t want to lose my daughter.” 

The silence swells again, thick with everything neither of you know how to say. The memory of Nari hangs heavy between you — so present, so piercing. After a long pause, your mother clears her throat. “The banquet this weekend,” she says, as gently as she can manage. “I was hoping you’d come. Just to get out of the house. Be around people again.” You want to say no again. It’s your first instinct. No to the dresses, to the small talk, to the pretending. No to the judgmental stares and whispered sympathies. No to the pressure of having to act normal when everything in you is still on fire. 

But then you look at her. At the hope trembling behind her exhaustion. And for once, you don’t have the energy to argue. Or maybe, deep down, you want to try. Not for you; but for her. For who you used to be. “Okay,” you say quietly.

She blinks, surprised. “Really?”

You nod. “I’ll go.” Your mother smiles, small and sad, but genuine. And you wonder when the last time she smiled at you like that was. You get your water, finally, and sip it in the dark beside her, not saying much. But for the first time in a while, the silence feels a little less heavy. And upstairs, your nightmares wait. But at least now, you’re not the only one wide awake in the dark.

The night of the banquet arrives like a storm you’ve tried your best to ignore; thunder rumbling low in your chest, your limbs heavy with dread. You stand alone in your bedroom, the soft click of your heels echoing in the quiet, a fragile sound in the space that once held laughter. The mirror before you shows a girl you almost recognize. The dress clings in all the right places, something tasteful your mother picked. Your hair is pulled back with delicate precision, a touch of makeup to hide the exhaustion under your eyes. But there’s a hollowness beneath the polish, a dullness in your gaze that powder can’t disguise.

You stare at yourself and remember a different version of this same moment. You and Nari, side by side in front of this mirror, perfume in the air and bobby pins scattered like confetti across your desk. You remember how she'd curl your hair for you, then laugh when she burned her own ear. How she'd spin you around, tilt your chin up, and say “Look at you! total heartbreaker.”

And then she'd wink, adding, “Too bad you're a prude.” You press your hand to your stomach as if that could keep it from twisting. The ache there is sharp tonight. This isn’t right. She should be here. Not as a memory; but in the flesh, wearing that crimson dress she swore made her look “dangerously hot,” even though she always ended up changing it last minute. You’d have teased her for trying on three outfits, she’d have stolen your lipstick, and the two of you would’ve danced to some stupid pop song before leaving late and in a rush.

But tonight it’s just you. Just you and the ghost of her smile echoing in the silence. Your throat tightens. You don’t cry. You haven’t cried in days, not since the last nightmare; but the burn is there behind your eyes. That cruel, unshed weight. You let out a long, steadying breath, palms smoothing the sides of your dress. It’s too tight across the chest. Or maybe that’s just your heart.

Then, with lead in your limbs, you move. Open your bedroom door. Step into the hallway. One foot in front of the other, like choreography. Like a dance. Down the stairs, your parents are waiting. Your mother looks up and smiles, that practiced, brittle kind of smile she’s worn too often. Your father offers a quiet nod, adjusting the cuff of his shirt, saying nothing but scanning you like he’s not sure what version of you he’ll be dealing with tonight.

You don’t speak, just grab your coat and purse. And as the front door shuts behind you, you don’t look back at the mirror. You don’t want to see what’s missing in the reflection. 

The car ride to the banquet was silent. No music. No idle conversation. Just the occasional turn signal and the sound of tires humming against pavement. You sat in the backseat, your hands clenched in your lap like a child trying to behave, your fingers twisting the fabric of your dress with a quiet desperation. Your mother, riding in the front with your father, was too busy reapplying her lipstick in the mirror to notice how stiff you were, how you hadn’t blinked in a minute. You watched the city pass by in blurs of warm gold and shadow. Each lighted window another life you weren’t living. When you arrive, it’s all so… much. The venue is a grand old hotel downtown, the kind of place people book months in advance, with chandeliers like frozen galaxies suspended above a sea of tailored suits and glittering dresses. A string quartet plays in the corner, the music slow and graceful, and the air smells of wine, floral arrangements, and money. You step inside, and it hits you like a punch to the chest. The whispers come fast.

Your chest tightens as if the air itself resents you being here. You swallow hard, your throat raw, and try to breathe around the phantom hands curling around your lungs. It’s not working. You shift your weight, your heels suddenly too high, too loud against the marble floors. Every breath feels borrowed, like you’ll have to give it back if you stay too long. But your mother doesn’t notice. Of course she doesn’t.

She’s swept into a conversation almost immediately, pulled in by polished friends with tight smiles and hands adorned in diamonds. You can see the way she lifts her chin, her lips curving perfectly, as though this night is a role she was born to play. She’s glowing beneath the chandeliers, nodding graciously, clutching a champagne flute like it’s the holy grail. 

You’re a silent shadow beside her, just a flicker in the corner of their eyes. You hope it stays that way. You scan the room, dread rising like water in your throat.  No sign of Nari’s parents. No glimpse of Beomgyu. You pray, silently, fiercely, that they don’t come. That they stay wherever they are. That you won’t have to meet their eyes and see the grief you gave them staring back. But fate has never been merciful to you. You barely have time to brace before another group approaches. Family friends. Old ones. People who used to pinch your cheeks at holidays and ask how your pirouettes were coming along. You recognize them instantly. The couple with the fox-faced smiles. The man in the navy suit and the woman with silver hair too stiff to move. 

“Darling,” the woman says, voice dripping with pretend concern, “we’ve been thinking about you.”

You smile, tight, robotic. “Thank you.” 

“And how have you been?” she continues, tilting her head like she expects something profound.

You don’t offer anything. Just one word: “Fine.”

A silence settles over the group, awkward and dense, before the man fills it with a polite cough.

“And ballet?” he asks, though it’s not really a question. More of a test. “Are you still keeping up with it?” You stare at him for a moment, then at the swirling wine in your untouched glass. 

“No,” you say simply. “I don’t dance anymore.” 

The woman blinks. “But you were so talented. Surely you’ll pick it up again once things settle?”

You force a smile. “Being a ballerina wasn’t in the cards for me. Not anymore.” The way you say it; final, flat, seems to unnerve them. They don’t push further. Just exchange a glance, murmur something about catching up later, and turn back to your parents. You’re left alone again, more alone than you were when you walked in. A knot forms in your stomach. It sits heavy, immovable, like stone. You sip your wine, but the taste is bitter, acidic. It doesn’t help. 

Across the room, someone laughs too loudly. A toast is made. Another waltz begins. And still, all you can think about is Nari. About how she would’ve hated this place. About how her laugh would’ve cracked through the crystal calm like lightning. About how she would’ve made a joke about someone’s ridiculous earrings just loud enough for you to choke on your drink. She would’ve made it bearable. You set your glass down on a table and press your fingertips to your temples, as if that could stop the spinning. You want to leave. You need to.

But before you can step away, before you can disappear into the safety of some forgotten hallway, your gaze lands on a figure across the ballroom. Heeseung. He’s leaning against the far wall, half in the shadows, dressed in black like the storm he always brings. His tie is loose, his hair slightly tousled, and he looks like he doesn’t belong here either. His eyes, dark and sharp, scan the room until they land on you. 

And just like that, the air shifts again.

Not like before—no, not suffocating this time. Different. This is tension. Electricity. A current you can feel down to your bones. He doesn’t smile. He just stares, unreadable. And you stare back, too stunned to look away. For a moment, it’s as if the crowd fades. The whispers fall away. The chandelier light softens. There’s just you, and him, and everything you haven’t said to each other yet suspended in the space between. 

Before

The studio was nearly silent save for the soft shushing of your slippers against the marley floor, the gentle hum of the overhead lights, and the faint throb of your heartbeat in your ears. Outside, the sky had already turned a deep violet, streaked with orange at the edges where the sun had made its quiet descent. But inside, it was still you and your reflection, looping the same phrase of choreography over and over until your legs screamed and your lungs ached. Friday was the big day. The showcase that could change everything. The one that scouts were coming to, the one your instructors called a turning point. You needed to be perfect. There was no room for anything less. So you stayed long after the others had gone home, repeating your variations in dimmed silence, chasing something close to flawlessness.

You paused, chest heaving, sweat glistening along your collarbones. You stepped to the side and grabbed your water bottle, letting the cool liquid ease the burn in your throat. Just as you lowered it, the front door creaked open. You flinched. No one else was supposed to be here. And then, casually framed in the doorway with one hand in the pocket of his jeans and the other running through his shaggy dark hair, stood Beomgyu. Your heart jumped — not just from surprise. 

He was in jeans and a soft flannel jacket, the collar folded haphazardly. His hair looked like he'd been in the wind, or maybe he'd just run his fingers through it too many times. He blinked when he saw you, a little stunned himself, then grinned. “Didn’t expect to see you here this late. Thought everyone cleared out by now." 

You raised an eyebrow, tugging your towel over your neck. “I could say the same to you.” Beomgyu stepped in, letting the door creak shut behind him. The warm light cast soft shadows on his face, making his features look even gentler. “I came to pick up Nari’s pointe shoes. She said she forgot them in her locker.”

You nodded, gesturing to the changing room. “They’re probably still there. I can grab them for you.” 

“Nah,” he said quickly, taking a few more steps inside. “I know where her stuff is. It’s cool. Didn’t mean to interrupt you.” 

You gave him a small shrug. “Was just running through the piece again. Nerves.” Beomgyu lingered near the edge of the room, watching your reflection in the mirror. His gaze wasn’t invasive, just curious. He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Big show Friday, right?”

“Mhm.” You leaned against the barre, stretching your arms over it. “It’s the one that decides my whole future, apparently.” 

“No pressure or anything,” he said with a lopsided smile. You laughed, a real one. It slipped out without your permission, caught you off guard. Beomgyu seemed surprised too, like he hadn’t expected to be funny. “I get it though,” he added after a moment. “We have our first show this weekend. It’s nothing big, just a coffee shop gig. But I’ve been running lyrics in my head all day and still feel like I’m gonna forget everything.”

You tilted your head. “You’re in a band?”

“Yeah. We suck,” he said, grinning. “But we have fun.”

You leaned one shoulder against the mirror and crossed your arms, amused. “What do you play?”

“Guitar. I write most of the songs too. Kind of emo, kind of indie. We're in a genre crisis.” You chuckled. “That sounds about right.” The conversation stretched on easily after that. What started as a brief chat turned into something warmer, something slower. Beomgyu stayed, leaning against the mirror beside you, the two of you trading stories about rehearsals and routines, stage fright, and the strange way people expected so much from you just because you were good at something. He spoke with his hands, animated and expressive, his laughter full-bodied and contagious.

You hadn’t laughed that much in weeks. Eventually, the clock on the wall struck ten. Beomgyu checked his phone, then glanced at you. “Want a ride home?” You hesitated. You were tired, your legs aching. And the walk back felt far longer than it ever used to.

“Sure,” you said. You gathered your bag and hoodie, flicked off the lights, and walked with him into the cool night. The sky had gone pitch black by then, stars hidden behind gauzy clouds. The parking lot was mostly empty, quiet but for the hum of streetlamps and the occasional car passing by in the distance. His car was older, navy blue with a cracked windshield and band stickers on the bumper. He opened the passenger door for you like it was second nature. You climbed in, the scent of spearmint gum and cheap cologne lingering faintly inside.

The drive was short. You lived only a few blocks away. But the silence that settled in the car wasn’t uncomfortable. He parked in front of your house, engine idling, the headlights casting long shadows across the street. You turned to him, already reaching for your bag. “Thanks for the ride,” you said softly. 

He was looking at you. The way his eyes lingered was different now. Slower. Focused. Under the streetlight, his features looked almost unreal. The softness of his mouth. The mess of hair falling into his eyes. The calm in his expression that made your chest tighten. “No problem,” he murmured. 

You lingered.

So did he.

There wasn’t a single logical thought in your head when you both leaned in. It was instinct. A gravity neither of you had expected, too strong to ignore. The next you know your leaning over all the while he is too. The kiss was soft at first, tentative; but it didn’t stay that way. Your hand found his jaw, his fingers tangled in the hem of your sleeve. It was impulsive, reckless, and stupid in the way only something that feels too good too fast can be. His lips moved against yours like he’d been waiting for it, like he couldn’t believe it was happening either. Your heart pounded. You could feel it in your throat, in your fingertips. 

The kiss deepened. Your limbs felt light, dizzy with adrenaline and guilt, a dangerous cocktail that made you bolder. You shifted, climbing into his lap as though something inside you had been aching to feel this wanted, this close. 

But then; it hit you.

Like ice water over the head.

Nari.

This was Nari’s boyfriend.

Your best friend.

Oh god.

You jerked back like you’d been burned, scrambling out of his lap, your breath caught in your throat. “Oh no,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Oh no, no, no.” Tears welled up fast, hot and full of shame. Your lips still tingled from the kiss, but the pit in your stomach was already growing. This wasn’t just a mistake; it was a betrayal. Beomgyu looked stunned, his eyes wide, mouth parting like he wanted to say something. 

“I—” he started.

But it was too late. You shoved open the door, stumbling out of the car into the cold night, tears trailing down your cheeks. You didn’t look back. Couldn’t. The porch light blurred in your vision as you fumbled with your keys, your hands shaking. The kiss echoed in your bones like an accusation, like thunder in a silent room.

You slipped inside, heart splintering. And upstairs, alone in the dark, you cried until your chest ached; because you had just made the worst mistake of your life. 

Present day 

The air outside was colder than you expected, bracing against the heat still clinging to your cheeks from the banquet. You leaned back on the stone ledge, your palms flat against it, grounding you as your heart slowly tried to even itself out. Too many eyes. Too many voices. You could still hear them; those low, pitying murmurs, the way people glanced sideways and then looked away like the sight of you hurt too much to bear. Or worse, like it was something juicy they weren’t supposed to talk about but would the second you turned away. 

You hated it. All of it. The way the room had swallowed you whole, a ghost of who you used to be.

A failed ballerina.

The girl who lost her best friend.

The girl who killed her. 

The air helped. A little. The night had a stillness to it, only disturbed by the occasional hum of a car in the distance or the soft click of someone else’s shoes along the sidewalk. You closed your eyes, tilted your head up to the stars that were barely visible through the city’s haze. That’s when a voice broke the fragile quiet. “Hey.” Your heart lurched, and your eyes snapped open. You turned, already bracing yourself, and there he was. Beomgyu. You cursed under your breath, low and bitter.

He looked like he hadn’t changed clothes since the last time you saw him, his tie slightly loosened, his shirt untucked like he hadn’t bothered fixing himself up fully. He looked… tired. More worn than usual. But you didn’t care. He was the last person you wanted to see. The last person you needed. “Did you get my message?” he asked quietly. 

You turned your gaze back toward the dark, refusing to look at him. “Yes.”

He hesitated, then took a few steps closer. “Why didn’t you respond?”

That made your blood boil. How dare he act like nothing happened. Like you haven’t betrayed your best friend and now she's dead. Like your word didn’t end the moment the two of you decided hurt her so badly it drove her to her death. You can’t even look at him without feeling an overwhelming shade of shame. 

You turned sharply, your voice cold. “Are you stupid?”

Beomgyu blinked. “What?”

“You really came out here asking why I didn’t respond? You really thought I’d want to talk to you?” His brow furrowed, eyes filled with a hurt he had no right to feel. “We can’t not talk about this.” 

“Yes we can.” You pushed off the ledge, straightening your back, ready to walk away. “I have nothing to say—” He reached for you. His fingers closed around your wrist. And you yanked your hand back like his touch had burned you. And in a way it did. It felt like a zap to your soul. 

“Don’t touch me.” Your voice was sharp, your body trembling.

He looked wounded, frustrated. “Please, Ju—”

“She said let go.”

Another voice cut through the air, low and cold like the crack of a whip. You froze. Beomgyu did too. Your head turned slowly, disbelieving, and there stood Heeseung. Beomgyu looked at Heeseung, eyes narrowing. “Get lost,” he muttered. “This doesn’t involve you.”

Heeseung didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. He took a single step forward, slow and deliberate, his eyes steady. “It does now.”

Beomgyu scoffed, incredulous. “You don’t even know her.” But Heeseung didn’t answer. Not with words. Instead, before you could fully register what was happening, you felt his hand curl gently around your wrist; careful, unlike Beomgyu, and then you were being pulled forward, tucked against him, his arm coming around your waist like it belonged there.  

“Don’t touch my girlfriend,” Heeseung said, cool and quiet, the lie sliding from his mouth like he’d rehearsed it a hundred times. Your breath hitched. What? You stiffened against him, frozen. Your eyes flicked up to his face, searching for a sign that he was joking; but he wasn’t looking at you. His gaze was locked on Beomgyu, steady, unflinching, sharp as cut glass. It wasn’t a threat. It was a dismissal. You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know him. You had barely spoken to Heeseung, and yet here he was, holding you like you were something worth shielding. 

And Beomgyu — he just laughed. A single, humorless sound that cracked open something bitter inside you. “Really?” he said, his eyes sliding between the two of you, his smirk twisting. “This loser?” He turned to you then, gaze challenging, voice low. “You can do better.” 

You felt the blood rush to your ears. Your spine straightened, anger fizzing to life under your skin. All the things you wanted to say for months clawed at your throat. You stepped slightly forward, still half wrapped in Heeseung’s arm. “Really?” you said, voice trembling with heat. “Like with you?” Beomgyu stilled.

For a second, just a second, you saw something flicker in his expression; something uncertain and maybe even ashamed. But then it hardened again, sealed over by the same easy indifference he wore like a mask. He gave a low chuckle. “Whatever.” He turned to leave, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his voice floating behind him like smoke. “I’ll catch you some other time. And we will talk.”

You didn’t say anything. You watched his back as he walked away, each footstep carrying the weight of too many things unsaid. The night closed around him until he was just another shadow swallowed by the dark. And then it was quiet. Heeseung’s arm still hovered around you, tentative now, uncertain. You stepped away slowly, enough to put a little distance between you, enough to breathe. 

You stayed in silence for a few minutes, the kind that lingered not awkwardly, but gently; like fog curling around a streetlamp. The chill in the air touched your skin, but the tension in your body had started to ease, little by little. Then you turned to him, brushing your hair back from your face. “Thanks,” you murmured, your voice low, but sincere. 

Heeseung shrugged, his hands buried in the pockets of his jacket. “It’s whatever.” And maybe it was. Maybe to him, stepping in like that didn’t mean anything at all. But to you, it meant more than he could know. There was a pause, and then Heeseung tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing in the direction Beomgyu had walked off. “What the hell’s his problem anyway?”

The question caught you off guard. You froze for a beat, lips parting. Then you shut your mouth again and gave him the most practiced shrug you had. “No idea.” Heeseung looked at you; really looked at you and you could tell he didn’t buy it. You could see it in the subtle lift of his brow, in the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. He wasn’t convinced. But he didn’t press.

He just nodded once, slowly, as if to say: okay, I’ll let it go. You didn’t thank him for that out loud, you didn’t need to. The silence consumed you for a few more minutes until finally Heeseung speaks, his words surprising you for the second time tonight. 

“Wanna get out of here?” he asks, his voice low, edged with something reckless, something soft.

You blink. “What?”

“This place sucks,” he mutters, glancing back toward the golden-lit banquet hall like it’s a prison, not a celebration. “We don’t belong here.” You open your mouth, about to say something responsible; about your mother, the expectations, the whispers that would follow, but instead, you hear yourself say: “Yeah. Let’s go.”

You don’t know what possesses you. Maybe it’s the tightness still winding in your chest. Maybe it’s the look on Beomgyu’s face as he walked away. Or maybe it’s something else entirely, the gravity of Heeseung’s presence, the pull of someone who seems just as lost as you. The two of you slip away from the banquet like ghosts through a wall, unseen, unnoticed. The air outside is cool and silver. You trail behind Heeseung toward his car, your heels clicking softly on the pavement, each step peeling away the image of the girl you were expected to be. 

You slide into the passenger seat of his dark sedan, a little stunned, a little breathless. He doesn’t say anything. Just starts the engine and pulls away from the curb like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The ride is quiet. Your hands fidget in your lap, your phone buzzes once — probably your mother, and you silence it without even looking. The streetlights blur past like slow-dancing stars, and you feel something rising in you that you don’t yet have the name for. Guilt, maybe. Relief. Fear. Hope. All of them, maybe. 

You glance sideways. Heeseung’s face is unreadable, cast in the faint glow of the dashboard. His hand grips the wheel loosely, like he’s driving nowhere in particular. Like wherever he’s going, he just wants to go there with someone. Eventually, he pulls into a dark parking lot. Some vacant strip mall long closed for the night. A single broken streetlamp flickers near the far end, humming like it’s trying to stay alive. Heeseung parks, cuts the engine, and the silence rushes in like a wave. Neither of you speak.

You sit there, breathing it in, the quiet, the dark, the feeling of being no one, nowhere. You hadn’t realized how much you needed it. Then, after a while, he shifts slightly. Reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls something out.

A small, ziplock baggie.

Weed.

He doesn’t look at you. Just holds it in his palm like a casual offering, then tilts his head. “You cool?” You stare at it. You remember a time — clean ballet shoes lined up like soldiers, your life scheduled to the minute, your mother bragging about you at dinner parties. You remember being the good girl. The golden girl. But that girl is gone.

You turn your gaze to the windshield. The night stares back. “Yeah,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m cool.” And in a strange, twisted way, you think you mean it. 

He watches you for a beat, his expression unreadable in the dark. The silence hums between you, heavy with something unspoken. Then, almost gently, Heeseung asks, “Have you ever smoked before?” You hesitate, then shake your head no. Never. You never had the chance, too many rehearsals, too many performances, too much pressure to be perfect. But you’d be lying if you said the idea never crossed your mind. If you said you weren’t curious. If you said a small part of you hadn’t longed for the kind of freedom where you could just… let go. 

He raises an eyebrow, not in judgment but in quiet surprise. “Huh,” he says simply, like he’s filing the fact away. Then, he holds the baggie up again between two fingers, his gaze flickering to yours. “You wanna?” 

Your heart kicks, once. Sharp and startled. But what startles you more is your answer. “Yes.” You don’t even let yourself think. You just say it. And it hangs there, bold and fragile in the air between you. Because you mean it. If it will help you forget, if it will quiet the scream you’ve been holding in your chest since the day the world cracked and Nari was gone, if it will make the ache a little duller, the past a little blurrier, then yes. You’d do it. Heeseung gives a slight nod, not smug, not surprised. Just understanding. Like he knows exactly what it’s like to want to float outside your body for a while. 

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s make it a soft one.” He moves with practiced ease, fishing out a crumpled rolling paper and pinching the weed between his fingers. You watch, fascinated, the movements almost meditative. There’s something comforting in the way his hands work, steady, sure, deliberate. 

The flame from Heeseung’s lighter flickered to life, casting a golden glow across his face before it kissed the tip of the joint. He inhaled slowly, his cheeks hollowing slightly, and the ember at the end burned a hot, bright orange in the dimness of the car. You watched him with something close to awe, or maybe curiosity, or yearning, or all three twisted into one. He looked so at ease, leaning back against the driver's seat, elbow perched casually on the window frame, his gaze fixed ahead like the night outside held all the answers he didn’t want to say aloud. He turned to you after a moment, his expression unreadable as he held out the joint. 

You wanted it to help you forget — just for a moment; the aching cavern in your chest where Nari used to be, the guilt gnawing at your insides like acid, the unrelenting pressure of being whoever the hell everyone thought you were supposed to be. Heeseung passed it to you. You stared at the joint for a beat too long, unsure how to hold it, how to breathe it in, like it was an alien thing and you were fumbling through foreign rituals. He noticed. Of course he did. A lazy smirk crept onto his lips, his tongue darting out to wet them slightly. 

“Here,” he said. “Don’t baby it. Just put it to your lips and inhale. Deep. But not too deep, or you’ll cough your soul out.” You rolled your eyes at his amusement, but you did as instructed. You placed it between your lips and drew in a breath, tentative, hesitant, but determined. The smoke filled your mouth and then your lungs and then; You sputtered. Violently.

Coughing ripped through you like a storm, your body jerking forward as tears sprang to your eyes. Heeseung cracked up, his laughter echoing in the small space between you. “Holy shit,” he said, wiping a tear from his eye. “I should’ve recorded that. You sounded like you were summoning demons.”

You glared at him, cheeks burning, but then you laughed too. Really laughed. A broken, breathless sound that felt like relief. Like freedom. You passed the joint back and forth after that, the air inside the car growing warmer, thicker with smoke and laughter and something else unspoken. You slouched lower in your seat, legs folded beneath you, and Heeseung mirrored your posture, his thigh brushing against yours now and then. The world outside faded. The banquet. Your mother. The whispers. The ache. None of it mattered. 

You talked about everything and nothing. Dumb things. Childhood stories. Songs you hated. The worst school lunches you ever had. Heeseung told you he once got detention for throwing mashed potatoes at a substitute teacher. You confessed you used to fake headaches to get out of gym. You both laughed until your faces hurt, the high sinking its claws into your skin like a warm blanket wrapping around your bones. But somehow …..the conversation shifted. 

Heeseung fell quiet. His smile slipped. The light in his eyes dimmed, like a shadow passed across his heart. “My brother used to love this song,” he murmured, nodding toward the faint music trickling out of his car speakers, some old indie ballad, moody and atmospheric. “He’d play it every night before bed. Drove me crazy.” You watched him closely, the haze not dulling your senses but sharpening them in ways that scared you. 

“Is he… the reason you’re in the grief group?” you asked, soft, unsure. Heeseung didn’t answer right away. Then, finally: “I’m the reason I’m in that grief group.” His voice cracked, just a little, like something too heavy to carry was trying to escape his throat. He didn’t look at you, just stared ahead, into the dark. 

And you understood. God, you understood more than you ever wished to. “I know the feeling,” you whispered. That made him look at you. Really look at you. And in that glance, smeared by smoke and shadows and sorrow, you both saw something reflected. A mirror image of broken pieces. A matching ache. Something shifted.

He leaned forward, just slightly, and you met him halfway. The kiss happened so fast you didn’t even think. It was clumsy, desperate, tasting like smoke and everything you’d never said aloud. His hand cupped your cheek, fingers grazing your jaw, pulling you closer like you were the only anchor he had. Your hands found the fabric of his shirt, tugging, gripping, needing to feel something — anything that wasn’t grief. It deepened in seconds. Lips parting, tongues meeting. Heated. Messy. 

Heeseung moved with a hunger that mirrored your own, his hands roaming across your back, your waist, your thighs like he needed to memorize every inch. You felt his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your dress, your breath catching as his palm flattened against your bare skin. You didn’t stop him. You didn’t want to. This, whatever this was, felt like the first thing in months that made sense. That made you feel alive instead of just surviving. Your body reacted before your brain could catch up. The car was hot now, windows fogging, clothes tangling. His mouth left trails down your neck, and your fingers curled in his hair, pulling him closer.

You didn’t think of Nari. You didn’t think of anything but this moment, and the way Heeseung’s lips felt on your skin, the way his body pressed against yours like he needed you to breathe. It was exhilarating, your body alight like a flame catching fire. You didn’t know how to explain the feeling that seeped through your bones and laid a nest in your marrow. 

His hand continued its climb on your thigh inching upward for what felt like a mile a minute. You broke away to catch your breath, your forehead resting on his. “I want you.” Heeseung said, his words low in his throat it almost felt buried, like he was trying to conceal himself but his body wouldn't let him. 

“Ok.” You nod because that's the only word you could say that would be coherent. 

“But not all the way. I want to take my time with you.” His breath shot shivers down your spine, his fingers caressing the skin of your knee. His lips find purchase on the skin of your neck sucking the skin slightly. A gasp falls from your lips, quick and breathy. You were not a virgin, that was the truth but you had never been as needy as you were now. In Lee Heeseung’s car of all people. He was trouble, that much was clear. You had just gotten high with the guy for crying out loud. 

You didn’t care. Not anymore, at least. You were tired of caring. So, you let him continue his kisses down your neck, slow and careful, a strong opposition to your rapidly beating heart. A timeless boom let out into the quiet or your entire body and your entire soul. You welcomed it and it came crashing like a tidal wave. 

His hand inched up, and under your dress. His hands caressing your clothed core with his finger. Your breath shook a small mewl leaving your lips. Heeseung smirked against your skin, a slow languid smirk that told you he was enjoying this just as much as you were. His thumb ran across your panties slowly like he was testing the waters. Watching your reactions, keening at your pleasure. Lee Heeseung knew what he was doing, that much was clear. 

“I’m going to touch you now, Okay?” His voice was questioning but not uncertain. Like he knew you wanted this but just had to make sure. It was more appreciated than you could even say. 

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. His finger pulled your panties aside, his eyes never leaving your face, not even for a second. This was a movie and you were the star of the show, the leading lady. You deserved a fucking standing ovation after this one, only it wasn’t an act. This was real; very much so. You moaned breathily watching Heeseung with careful eyes. He was beautiful there was no doubt about it. His finger traced your clit, moving in slow circles over the nub. Your body felt electrified. 

You reacted with a gasp, your hand reaching to grip Heeseung’s arm “Hee–” You whimpered as he slid a single finger into your entrance, eyes still locked on your face intently. “Feels good.” 

“Yeah?” He asked with a smirk. “How good?” 

“So good.” You withered under his gaze, your hips lifting to meet his fingers. It was euphoric. A mind numbing feeling you’d been searching for. It didn’t take long for you to tip over the edge. Your orgasm hitting you like a truck. Your moans ringing through the car and filling the space. Heeseung’s gaze turned dark, drinking you in. 

“Beautiful.” He muttered “So fucking beautiful.” Then it was over. And not a single part of you regretted it. You had felt alive, ablaze with feeling. You needed this. 

“What time is it?” You asked, after a stretch of silence. You watched as the foggy windows cleared your mind becoming less hazy as you came down from not only the high of your orgasm but the high of the weed. 

“Just passed one. Need a lift home?” You nod tiredly, barely gaining the strength to lift your head. And before you know it, he was starting the car and taking off. Your perfect night ending as you knew it. 

Before. 

The house was already thick with tension, the air humid with summer heat and something more suffocating; disappointment, maybe, or something sharper, something older. Heeseung stood in the middle of the living room, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides. The walls around him had once felt like home, but now they felt too close, like they were folding in on him. “You can’t just keep coasting like this,” his father barked, pacing across the living room with his arms crossed, brow furrowed like a permanent fixture. “You’re twenty-three, Heeseung. What are you even doing with your life?” 

Heeseung leaned against the back of the couch, arms folded, expression unreadable except for the faint twitch in his jaw. “I’m figuring it out.” 

“Figuring it out?” his father repeated with a humorless laugh. “You’ve been saying that for two years. Meanwhile, Han’s already lined up for internships, he’s tutoring on weekends, and he’s still pulling top grades. He actually wants something for himself.” And there it was. Han. The golden son. The measuring stick. Heeseung pushed off the couch, tension suddenly uncoiling in his limbs like a spring snapped loose. “Good for him,” he said bitterly. “Why don’t you make him a damn trophy?” 

“Don’t talk about your brother like that,” his father snapped. 

“I’m not talking about him,” Heeseung shot back. “I’m talking about you. You never look at me without seeing what I’m not.” 

His father’s face hardened. “You have all the same opportunities. You just don’t take anything seriously.” 

“Because I don’t want to spend my life miserable just to meet your standards.” 

“God, listen to yourself,” his father muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “You think life’s about doing whatever the hell you want? You think you’re entitled to waste your time and your potential?” 

“I’m young,” Heeseung barked. “Isn’t that what being young is for? I have the rest of my life to hate my job and sit in traffic and drink burnt office coffee. Why the hell would I start now?” 

“You always have an excuse,” his father said. “Always. You’re lazy, Heeseung. And selfish. I’m just glad Han didn’t turn out like you.” The words sliced through the air like a blade. Heeseung went still. His chest rose and fell, his breath shallow. For a moment, neither of them said anything. The only sound was the hum of the fridge in the next room. Then Heeseung laughed; quiet and humorless.

He grabbed his keys from the counter. “You know what?” he said, voice brittle at the edges. “Thanks, Dad. Really. That was the push I needed.”

“Where are you going?” His father yelled after him. 

“Out,” he snapped, walking toward the front door. “To do something useless. Just to spite you.” 

He didn’t wait for a reply. The door slammed shut behind him, the sound sharp as a gunshot. Outside, the sun was still bright, but it felt cold in his chest. A hollowness had opened up inside him, and he didn’t know how to fill it, except to forget. So he texted the group chat, asking what parties were happening tonight. And as he walked down the street, hands in his pockets and jaw still clenched, Heeseung thought only one thing: Han can keep being perfect. I don’t want that life anyway. But part of him knew; even then, that something had cracked open. And that no party in the world would be enough to glue it back together.

Present day 

The car ride home was quiet, the kind of quiet that sinks into your skin and makes a home there. After the haze and heat of that night with Heeseung, the soft high that blanketed your brain, the weight of his body pressed into yours like something grounding, you hadn’t thought about what came next. You hadn’t prepared for the way your real life would be waiting for you like a predator at the door. Heeseung pulls up slowly in front of your house, the engine humming low. The porch light is on. A silhouette moves behind the curtain. Your stomach knots. You should’ve known better. You should’ve gone home earlier. You should’ve texted.

You shouldn’t have disappeared. Heeseung glances at you. “You good?” 

You nod, though you’re not. You open the door and step into the cool night air, the scent of pine and pavement rising with the wind. The moment the door swings open, you’re met with your mother’s worried face, and your father’s fury. “There you are,” your mother breathes, like the air had left her lungs hours ago and only now returned. Her eyes are wide, red-rimmed. Her robe is tied tightly at her waist, hands clenched. “Where have you been? We didn’t know if something had—”

“Where the hell were you?” your father’s voice cuts like a blade. He’s pacing now, his posture rigid, as if he’s been holding himself still for too long and has finally snapped the leash. The living room lamp casts long shadows on the hardwood, your mother’s expression flickering like candlelight. You cross your arms. “Out.” 

“Out?” he repeats, incredulous. “You disappeared in the middle of the banquet. You didn’t answer your phone. We were about to call the police.” 

“I was with someone.”

“Who?” he demands.

You shouldn’t say it. You know the weight the name carries in this house, the implications, the judgment it would bring. But you’re still high. You’re still reeling. And your anger, your rage, has been stewing beneath your skin for far too long. You tilt your head, smirk venomously. “I was busy having sex. With Lee Heeseung.”

Your mother gasps, small, but sharp. A sound of heartbreak and horror all at once. Your father stills. There’s a quiet moment, too quiet, before he explodes. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to your mother?!”

“I don’t care,” you snap.

His face darkens. “You don’t care?” 

“No. I don’t. Because none of you care about me. You only care about what I do. How I act. How I reflect on you. You don’t care about how I feel; about what I’ve been going through.” 

“We’ve given you space—” 

“No,” you cut him off, your voice rising with the heat in your throat. “You’ve given me rules. Expectations. You wanted me to move on quietly. To cry behind closed doors and never, ever make you uncomfortable with the reality of what happened.” Your mother clutches her robe tighter. “We’ve tried—”

“You’ve tried to ignore it!” you cry. “You want to pretend Nari dying didn’t ruin me. You want me to go back to who I was. But I’m not her anymore.” Your father slams his palm against the wall, the sound like thunder. “We’ve given you so much grace this year after Nari’s death but—”

“There is no buts!” your voice cracks. “My life ended the same day Nari’s did.” A silence falls over the room, heavy as snow. Your father’s voice is low, seething. “No, it didn’t. You’re still alive. And you’re treating yourself like some kind of corpse. Wake up.”

“Why should I?” you whisper. “Why should I get to live comfortably, eat dinner, go to banquets, kiss boys in dark cars, when it’s my fault she’s dead?” Your mother lets out a sound like a sob, but you can’t stop now. The words are fire on your tongue, and they’ve been burning there for too long. 

“You don’t get it,” you say to your father, your voice shaking. “You don’t know what it’s like to carry that kind of guilt every single day. To wish it had been you instead. You’re right. I am acting like a corpse; because I should be one.” 

That’s when he takes a step forward, his face pale with fury and pain. “Don’t say that.” 

“Why not? It’s true.” 

“Don’t you ever say that again,” he growls. 

But you don’t listen. You’ve already turned. Your feet carry you down the hall like instinct, your fingers fumbling for your phone. You scroll through your contacts with trembling hands, your vision blurred. You tap his name. He picks up on the first ring. “Hello?” 

“Heeseung…” you breathe, voice cracking. “Please. Come pick me up.” There’s a pause. Then; his voice, calm and certain. “On my way.”

You hang up before your father can say another word, before your mother can cry any harder, before the weight of their stares suffocates you completely. You step outside into the night, wind rushing against your skin like a balm, your heart still thrumming with rage and regret and pain. The world outside is dark, the moon obscured by clouds. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks. You stand there on the sidewalk, arms crossed tightly over your chest, waiting. And when his car turns the corner, headlights cutting through the dark like a lifeline; you breathe again. You don’t know where you’re going. But you know it’s away. And for now, that’s enough.

Before

The theatre smelled of velvet and varnish and a faint current of dust stirred by restless feet; an intoxicating mix that lived in your bones long before you ever set foot in its wings. It was Friday, the day everything was meant to unfold exactly the way you’d mapped it in your sleepless imaginings: the day the scouts filled the back row with clipboards poised, the day your instructors whispered Watch this one, the day your life would pivot on the sharpened point of a single relevé.

But all week your nerves had been a live wire sparking under your skin. You’d flitted through dressing‐room corridors like a ghost, ducking Nari’s bright grin, her lilting voice calling your nickname, the glitter of anticipation in her eyes. Pre‐show jitters, you’d told her, forcing smiles so wide your cheeks trembled. In truth, your heart was a glass ornament rattling in its box, because tucked into it was a secret kiss that did not belong to you; a kiss that belonged to Nari, to her late‐night confessions about Beomgyu, to the dizzy way she clasped your arm and said He’s the one, I feel it. That kiss replayed in your mind on a merciless loop: the blurred parking‐lot lights washing across Beomgyu’s face, the soft rasp of his flannel collar, the unplanned tilt of two mouths colliding in a moment that should never have existed. Every beat of silence afterward felt like a fresh betrayal. You’d tried to bury it beneath pliés and pirouettes, to sweat it out into the marley floor, but guilt is a clever shadow; it clings to the arch of your foot, the curve of your rib cage, rides the breath of every port de bras.

Now, backstage, the hush before the storm pressed in on you. Scuttling crew members tacked stray cables to the floor; the stage manager hissed cues into a headset. Beyond the velvet curtain came the low hum of an expectant crowd; parents adjusting programs, instructors scanning rosters, the occasional rustle as someone leaned to whisper good luck to a performer slipping past. Your fellow dancers flitted in and out of light like dragonflies, tutus trembling, pointe shoes ticking softly on the worn boards. Somewhere out there was Nari, waiting two numbers after you, hair pinned in a sleek crown, eyes surely hunting the auditorium for Beomgyu’s familiar silhouette. And somewhere, closer than you wanted to imagine, was Beomgyu himself, sitting with the audience’s polite hush draped about his shoulders. You had not dared to look for him during warm‐ups; the very idea set your pulse galloping.

An assistant stage manager approached, clipboard clutched, voice gentle yet insistent. “Five minutes, star.” The moniker landed like a shard of glass. Star. The word rang hollow when you felt anything but stellar, when every muscle was soldered to fear. Still, you nodded and stepped into the narrow spill of light at stage left, waiting for the house to black out and the overture to climb. The curtain would rise on silence, a single spotlight blooming down like moonlight. You would step from darkness into glow, offering your first breath to the rafters. You’d practiced that entrance so many times the floor all but remembered your weight. Tonight you would give it everything, because failure, you’d decided, was the only penance big enough to fit this sin. If you danced perfectly, perhaps the universe would not forgive you; so you vowed to dance beyond perfect, to dissolve into movement so wholly that the world could forget it ever saw you kiss the wrong boy.

The house lights dimmed. A hush rippled across the audience like the draw of a single breath. In that hush you caught the faintest sound: a program dropping, a throat clearing, the soft scuff of someone shifting in their seat. And beneath it all, your name inside your chest, repeating like a mantra: remember the choreography. remember the music. remember the reason you began. When the curtain ascended, it felt almost slow like dawn unfolding. The low whirr of the fly‐system chains, the gentle rustle of velvet reaching upward, revealing a stage hushed, waiting. The spotlight found you, and heat flooded your skin. Applause dotted the darkness: a scattering of claps, polite and anticipatory, then fading to a reverent hush.

The first note of the piano slipped from the orchestra pit; soft, deliberate, as if testing the air. You drew a breath so deep it lifted your ribs like wings, and then your body obeyed the command that had been etched into its sinew over months of repetition. You stepped forward, ankle rolling through demi‐pointe to full, the world narrowing to the music, the floor, the fire in your muscles. For a heartbeat, it was perfect. More than perfect: it was transcendence. Each développé carved an invisible ribbon through space; each alignement felt true, as though gravity itself had arced to cradle you. You surrendered to the dance and let it carry you across the stage like wind across water. Every beat of the piano pulled another secret thread tight inside your chest, and yet, incredibly, you didn’t unravel; you soared.

Then your eyes lifted. A reflex. A mistake. Rows of faces climbed into the darkness, features softened by the spill of stage light. Far left, a head of sandy hair, a familiar tilt of a jaw, a pair of wide dark eyes that had once closed under your kiss. Beomgyu.

The breath caught in your throat mid‐pirouette. The world jolted slightly off its axle. In that split second, the clarity you’d fought so hard for shattered like a mirror under stone, and the edges flew at you; every shard a memory: his smile in the glow of the streetlight, the click of his seatbelt as you leaned in, the soft shock of his lips. Behind those shards, the imagined face of Nari when — if — she discovered the truth. Your next placement faltered. The edge of your pointe shoe skidded. You tried to salvage it, shoulders tightening, arms shooting wide but the correction was too sharp, too late. Your ankle buckled, and gravity claimed you in a brutal, inelegant swoop.

You hit the floor hard enough to send a tremor through the wings. A stunned gasp rippled across the crowd; a collective intake of breath that sounded like a verdict. The spotlight kept shining, merciless, on the shape of your failure. For a moment you couldn’t breathe; the air seemed to have left the theatre entirely. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. In that bright, silent agony, one thought screamed louder than the pain: I deserve this.

Your palms slipped on the marley as you scrambled upright, but the choreography was gone, blown out like a candle. All that remained was the monstrous echo of what you’d done, of who you’d betrayed. The music continued, an empty cascade of sound; and you, trembling, stared out at the sea of faces until one face met your gaze: Nari’s. Stage left, waiting for her entrance, eyes wide with horror and a heartbreak you prayed she couldn’t name yet. Something inside you broke fully then. You couldn’t stay. You couldn’t finish. You couldn’t breathe in a world where she might learn the truth. With a ragged sob, you spun on your heel and fled the stage, the curtains swallowing you, the orchestra faltering into confused diminuendo. Behind you, the audience erupted, someone calling your name, others murmuring like distant thunder, parents half‐rising from seats.

Backstage smelled of dust and rosin and your own panic. You tore down the corridor, past startled crew members, tutus swishing as dancers pressed back against scenery flats to let you pass. Someone called after you; an instructor, maybe but their voice drowned in the roar of your pulse. You pushed through the stage door into the alley, the night slapping cold against your fevered skin. The street beyond the theatre was shockingly normal, cars rolling by, a neon sign buzzing across the avenue, the faint peppery smell of a late‐night food truck. But inside you, the world had ended. You bent double, hands on your knees, tears splattering the asphalt. On the other side of the stage wall, the showcase continued; voices, hurried announcements, an onstage piano vamping to fill the space you’d left barren. You pictured scouts scribbling notes: promising, but no mental stamina. poor recovery. not ready. 

None of it mattered. You deserved none of it. You deserved exactly this emptiness, this shame coiled tight as wire around your throat. Because what kind of friend kisses the boy her best friend loves? What kind of dancer lets the stage become collateral damage for her guilt? A monster. You pressed your fist to your mouth to stifle a sob. Down the block, an ambulance siren wailed; shrill, insistent and the sound echoed in your bones. You didn’t know it yet, but hours later you’d meet that wail again in a different key, flashing red against wet pavement, broken glass glittering under streetlights, the night Nari would walk away from you for the last time.

For now, there was only the alley and the wreckage of a dream that had shattered under a single glance. You slid down the cool brick wall until you were crouched amid puddles of stage runoff, trembling with adrenaline and remorse. Somewhere inside the theatre, Nari was stepping into her music, dancing her heart out; maybe flawlessly, maybe faltering because of you. You’d never know, because you couldn’t bear to watch. 

You buried your face in your hands and stayed there until the music ended, until the applause rose and fell, until the night air numbed the sting of your scraped palms. By the time a teacher found you, voice gentle, jacket draped over your shoulders; you had already decided you were done. With ballet. With pretending. With believing you deserved good things. Because the monster inside you had spoken, and the stage had listened. And you felt certain — absolutely certain that nothing would ever be bright again.

Present day 

The streetlights flicker past like ghosts, golden halos warping through the tears blurring your vision. You don’t bother wiping them away. You just hope Heeseung doesn’t notice, but of course he does. Silence may fill the cabin of his car, but it's not a silence that shelters. It’s the kind that listens too closely, hears too much. The air is thick; warmer than it should be for nightfall. The windows are cracked just enough to let in a breeze that carries the scent of damp pavement and something flowering in the dark. Your fingers are clenched in your lap, nails carving half-moons into the soft flesh of your palms.

You feel his glance before you see it. Heeseung shifts slightly in the driver’s seat, one hand loose on the steering wheel, the other drumming an idle rhythm against his thigh. He doesn’t say anything right away, and you cling to that mercy for as long as you can, but then his voice slips into the space between you. “What’s wrong?” he asks, gentle. Like he’s afraid you might break if he presses too hard.

You inhale sharply through your nose and keep your gaze pinned to the window. You watch as the night spills over rooftops and lampposts and blinking store signs, blurry and distant, as if you’re floating somewhere above your life instead of living it. You debate lying. It would be easy. Safer. You could tell him it was just a bad day. School stress. A family squabble about curfews or drinking or some other shallow wound that wouldn’t require stitching. But Heeseung doesn’t feel like someone you can lie to. Not right now. Not after the joint, the kiss, the way he touched you, the quiet understanding that crackled between you like static in the dark. This thing between you, it’s not defined, not shaped into anything real; but it’s honest. And in a world where most people look at you with pity or suspicion or sanitized grief, Heeseung looks at you like he sees past the performance. 

So you speak. Quietly. “I got into a fight with my parents.” Heeseung nods, doesn’t push. Just gives you space. You swallow, your throat tight. “It was about Nari.” 

There’s a brief pause. You can feel the shape of the question before he asks it, cautious and curious. “Who’s Nari?” 

Your eyes close for a beat. The ache swells in your chest again, a slow, suffocating bloom. “My best friend,” you say. And then, sharper, crueler, the words tear their way out of you: “My best friend that I killed.” 

Silence. A heavier one now. Weighted. You brace yourself for the flinch, for the retreat, for the cold rush of judgment that always follows. You wait for him to tell you that you’re being dramatic, that it wasn’t your fault, that grief warps memory and blame. But Heeseung doesn’t say anything. And in his silence, there is no retreat. There is no recoil. You glance sideways. His expression hasn’t shifted into pity or horror. If anything, it’s softened. Eyes dark and unreadable, mouth slack with something that might be understanding, or pain. Heeseung just nods. Like he knows exactly what it feels like to carry something unspeakable.

When he pulls into his driveway, you expect him to say something more, to fill the silence with platitudes or distractions. But he doesn’t. He turns off the ignition, tosses his keys onto the dashboard with a quiet clatter, and says, “Come on.” You follow him into the house. The air inside smells faintly like detergent and something warm from earlier; maybe toast or ramen. The lights are low, and the hallway creaks under your steps. There are photos on the wall, but you don’t stop to look at them. It feels like trespassing, being here. Not physically, but emotionally. Like you’ve brought the rot of your guilt into a space that deserves better.

Upstairs, his room is dim and a little messy; sheets rumpled, books stacked sideways on the desk, a hoodie slung across the back of a chair. You hover in the doorway, unsure, until he gestures for you to come in. You sit on the edge of his bed, suddenly small. Your hands knot in your lap. The air is thick again. Not from heat this time, but from the weight of what’s unsaid.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. Heeseung drops to a crouch in front of you, hands braced on his knees. He looks up at you like he wants to memorize your face in this exact moment. “You don’t have to apologize.” 

Your eyes sting again. “I do. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be doing this. I—” 

His voice cuts you off. Firm. “You’re not a bad person for needing someone.” You shake your head, blinking hard. “I betrayed her. She was always there for me, and I hurt her. I broke something so sacred. She trusted me.”

Heeseung’s expression shifts. Not in disbelief, but in recognition. He knows this guilt. Wears it like a second skin. “I get it,” he says, softly. “I killed my brother.”

He doesn’t look away. “Not literally. But I might as well have. I— I did something. I didn’t mean to. But I did. And now he’s dead. And it’s because of me.” 

Your voice is tentative. “That can’t be true.”

“It is,” he insists. His voice trembles just once, then steadies. “I might as well have put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger.” You stare at him, stunned. Not because of the words, but because of how familiar they sound. Like an echo of your own worst thoughts. 

“I told her,” you say quietly, “that she didn’t deserve him. I told her he didn’t love her. I lied. I said it to hurt her.” You’re not even sure when the tears start again. They fall quietly, steadily, like summer rain.

“I kissed him. Her boyfriend. She found out. I never got to explain. I never got to say sorry.” Heeseung says nothing. He doesn’t have to. He just kneels there in front of you, steady as a lighthouse, his eyes locked on yours.

You can barely breathe. “It should’ve been me. Not her. I was the one who ruined everything. I should be the one—” 

“Stop,” he says, gently but firmly. Your voice cracks. “Why does the world keep spinning when she’s not in it? Why do I get to wake up every day when she’s in the ground?” 

Heeseung places a hand on your knee. Not romantically. Not out of pity. Just to anchor you. To remind you that you're still here, breathing, even if you don’t know why. “Tell me what happened,” he says. “That night.”

You don’t answer right away. You stare past him, past the walls, past the ache. Your throat works around the lump rising in it. That night. The one you’ve rewound and replayed a thousand times. The night everything shattered. You open your mouth. And the scene begins to unwind behind your eyes. But that’s for the next breath. The next storm. For now, you sit in Heeseung’s room, in the quiet aftermath of too much truth. And for the first time in what feels like forever, someone sees you in all your ruin; and doesn’t look away. 

It was the night after the showcase, and you felt like a ghost in your own skin. The stage lights had faded, but their burn still etched itself behind your eyes, mocking you. You hadn’t even made it through the routine. You’d crumbled; right there, in front of everyone who ever believed in you. Your body, trained and honed like a blade for years, had given out at the mere sight of him. Beomgyu. His eyes in the crowd. His mouth, the one you’d kissed in secret. Nari’s boyfriend. Her everything. And you’d shattered. Now, your phone was a storm. Ping after ping, call after call. All from her.

Nari.

Her contact photo was a blurry selfie from last summer — her smile sun-kissed and wide, your arm looped around her neck. You looked so happy. So unworthy. She was worried. Of course she was. You were supposed to be avoiding her for pre-show jitters, remember? But now the show was over and the lies had nowhere to hide. The texts were a blur. hey. 

please say something. i’m worried about you. i’m not mad. just talk to me. i love you. you know that right? That last one made you feel like you were going to throw up. You dropped the phone onto your bed like it was on fire. You paced. You screamed into your pillow. You considered telling her everything. The kiss. The guilt. The way your bones ached with shame every time her name crossed your lips. But you didn’t. Because what kind of monster kisses her best friend’s boyfriend and lets her say I love you like nothing happened? You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes. You wanted to disappear. You wanted to punish yourself. And then she called.

The ringtone split the silence like a siren. You let it ring. Let it go to voicemail. It rang again. And again. On the fourth try, you picked up, breathless like you’d run a mile. “Hello?” Her voice came through, thin and frantic: “Oh my God; are you okay? Why haven’t you been answering? I’ve been freaking out—”

“I’m fine,” you lied. “Just… tired.”

“Tired? You disappeared after the showcase, you didn’t even stay for the closing photos. Everyone was asking about you. Your parents looked — I don’t know, really worried or something. What happened up there?” You couldn’t answer. Your throat locked up. The sound of her worry made you want to claw your skin off. Nari didn’t push. That was her gift and her curse. She gave you space when you needed it; even when you were lying to her face.

“I think you should come to Beomgyu’s,” she said after a long silence. “I know, it’s dumb. I know you don’t like these things. But maybe it’ll help. Just… I don’t know. I want to see you.”

The line crackled. Her voice wavered. “Please.” It was that word — please that broke you. Even after everything, even not knowing what you’d done, she still wanted you there. Still loved you. You whispered, “Okay.” And hung up before you could change your mind.

The second you stepped through the front door, the night swallowed you whole. Music pounded like a heartbeat, loud and consuming, the bass thudding through the soles of your shoes and up your spine until your body seemed to vibrate from the inside out. The house was an explosion of color and chaos; flashing LED lights staining the air red and green, the smell of alcohol and weed thick enough to choke on. Someone shrieked with laughter from the kitchen, their voice edged in hysteria. The living room looked like a scene from a dream gone wrong: bodies pressed together in the dim light, dancing on tables, spilled drinks soaking into the carpet, lipstick-smeared kisses exchanged without meaning. You were an intruder here, a ghost drifting through a world too loud, too fast, too alive for what was rotting inside of you. Your heart beat too loudly, but only with dread. You were here for one reason — Nari.

Your eyes scanned the crowd in desperation. Faces blurred together, a kaleidoscope of strangers and half-friends you didn’t care to recognize. Every movement felt slow, as if your limbs were dragging through molasses. You called out for her once, twice, but no one heard you over the noise. Your throat burned. Every second that passed stretched thinner than the last, stretched like the lie you’d built between yourself and the girl who’d once been your anchor. You grabbed a boy near the stereo, his breath reeking of vodka and his eyes glazed over with party-born indifference. “Have you seen Nari?” you shouted over the music.

“What?” he bellowed, tipping his head.

“NARI!” you yelled again, your voice hoarse.

He squinted, lips pulling into a sloppy grin. “Beomgyu’s room!” He jabbed his finger upward, then turned back to whatever game he was playing with the girl beside him. The words hit like a brick to the stomach. Your legs moved on their own, carrying you toward the stairs, each step heavier than the last. The music dimmed slightly as you ascended, replaced by the echo of your own breathing; shallow, frantic, uneven. The hallway was lit by a single flickering bulb, shadows creeping along the walls like phantoms. You hesitated at the door, the weight of what might be behind it pressing against your chest. You knocked. 

No answer.

You tried again. Still nothing.

You opened the door.

The room was dim, just the low glow of a lamp in the corner casting a soft golden haze. Beomgyu was there, sitting on the edge of the bed, head bowed, fingers knotted in his hair like he was trying to rip thoughts straight from his skull. He looked up at the sound of the door creaking, his eyes dark and distant, the slump of his shoulders too familiar. You stepped inside, heart hammering. “Where’s Nari?” 

He blinked like he’d just remembered you existed. “She’s in the bathroom,” he said, voice low. You nodded, relief flooding your system. You turned to leave, to find her, to finally talk, to explain. 

But his hand caught yours. You froze. “Wait,” he murmured, standing. Your heart leapt into your throat. You turned toward him slowly, your fingers still curled beneath the weight of his. 

“What are you doing?” your voice trembled.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said.

The room tilted, the words crashing into you like a rogue wave. You pulled your hand back, stumbling a step away. “What?”

“I—” He reached up slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, the gentleness of the touch striking terror into the hollow space beneath your ribs. “I think I’m in love with you. And I’m not sorry about it.”

Your breath left your body. The room suddenly felt too small, the air thick and cloying. Your thoughts scattered like dust in sunlight. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Couldn’t remember what day it was or who you were or why any of this had happened. Then he leaned in. And god help you, you didn’t stop him.

The kiss was soft, slow, nothing like what you should have felt. No heat. No passion. Just desperation. A collision of two broken people reaching for something to numb the ache. His lips pressed to yours like a promise he had no right to make, and your body moved on autopilot, not because it meant anything; but because you couldn’t stop unraveling. Because the guilt already inside you wanted to finish the job. And then the door opened.

“Sorry, Gyu, the line was lo—” Nari’s voice sliced the moment in half. You and Beomgyu broke apart instantly. Her figure stood in the doorway, her silhouette backlit by the hallway, her face frozen in pure, heart-wrenching horror. Her lips parted. Her eyes wide and glassy. A silence so violent followed that it rang in your ears.

“Nari—” you began, stepping forward.

“What are you doing?” she asked, voice cracking. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” you whispered, voice trembling. “I…”

Beomgyu stepped in front of you, shielded you. “I love her.” The words detonated. You saw them hit her like bullets, tearing through her chest, her stomach, her soul. Her mouth opened in disbelief. Her hand flew to her face, eyes flooding. A tear slid down her cheek, and then another. 

“You love her?” she repeated, the disbelief in her voice shattering into something sharper. She turned to you, her face contorted. “How could you?”

You shook your head. “I don’t— I don’t love him—”

“Then what the hell was that?” she screamed.

Your words failed. Every explanation tasted like ash in your mouth. Nari shook her head in disgust, chest heaving, shoulders trembling. “I felt bad for you,” she hissed. “I was here crying for you after you fell at the showcase. I was the only one defending you, worrying about you — and you were falling in love with my boyfriend?”

“I wasn’t—I’m not—” You took a step forward, pleading. “Nari, please—”

“Save it,” she snapped, her voice tight with betrayal. Then she turned and ran. You chased her, heart in your throat, vision blurring with tears. The house blurred around you, voices rising in alarm as people stepped back, made room for the spectacle.

“Nari!” you cried out, louder. “Nari, wait!” You hit the yard just as she reached the edge of the driveway. You grabbed her hand, stopping her.

She spun to face you, eyes wild. “How could you?”

Her voice cracked in two. Your breath hitched. “I made a mistake,” you whispered, barely audible. “I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t thinking—I—”

“I loved him,” she spat. “And you knew that. You knew what he meant to me. And you let him touch you anyway.”

You shook your head, helpless. “I was hurting, I wasn’t—I’m sorry—”

But it didn’t matter. She stepped back from you, tears shining in her eyes, her voice growing louder, shriller. “How could you betray me like that?” she screamed. “I gave you everything—I trusted you!”

The crowd that had spilled from the party stood in silence now, some filming, some whispering, none stepping in. She kept backing away, one trembling step at a time, her anger unraveling into sobs. “I hate you,” she choked. “I hate you—” Then headlights cut across the street. A roar of an engine. Screams. Tires screeching too late. 

Your scream ripped from your chest. “NARI!” But the car struck her before she could turn. The impact was sickening. Her body flew; crashed to the pavement like a marionette with its strings sliced clean. Gasps exploded around you, someone dropping a drink, the shatter echoing like gunfire. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. You stood frozen as her body crumpled on the road, limbs twisted, her eyes wide and unseeing.

Time stopped.

The music had gone silent. The world had gone quiet. And all you could hear — over and over and over again, was the sound of her body hitting the ground.

Before Heeseung’s pov 

The world had already begun to blur around the edges. Music throbbed through his skull like a migraine, and every heartbeat pulsed with fury. Heeseung swayed in the middle of the chaos, a red solo cup dangling from his fingers, filled with something that tasted like gasoline and bad decisions. Sweat slicked his back beneath his shirt, his skin clammy and hot. He laughed too loud at nothing, danced with girls he didn’t know; arms flung over their shoulders, mouths close enough to kiss but never quite touching, never quite feeling. He couldn’t feel anything. That was the point.

He hated this place. Hated the way people looked at him like he was just some pretty face with skates on. Hated the smirk that his father wore every time he talked about Han; the good son, the real winner. The one who did everything right. The one who didn’t mess up. The one who didn’t get drunk and high just to silence the noise of expectation. He stumbled into the backyard, stars smeared across the sky like someone had finger-painted them in haste. His phone burned in his hand, screen too bright, too white. His fingers fumbled over Han’s name. He pressed call.

“Hello?” Han’s voice was soft, groggy, that worried older brother tone he always used. “Hee? Are you okay?”

Heeseung let out a bitter laugh, the sound catching in his throat. “You’re not better than me.”

There was a pause. “What? Heeseung, what’s going on?”

“You think you’re so perfect.” Heeseung’s words slurred together like wet paint. “Dad thinks you’re the golden boy. But you’re not better. I’ll show you. I’ll show him. You’re not better—”

“Heeseung, you’re drunk. I’m coming to get you. Stay there, okay? Just wait.” Heeseung hung up. Or maybe he didn’t. He couldn’t tell. Everything was spinning. He staggered forward, gripping the porch railing like it could keep him tethered. He felt like throwing up. Or screaming. Or both. The inside of his head was all static. And then headlights sliced through the darkness. Han’s car. Heeseung stumbled down the steps, nearly eating it on the last one, and staggered toward the passenger side. Han threw the door open, face pale and tight with worry.

“Get in,” he ordered. Heeseung obeyed, limbs heavy and unwilling. He slumped into the seat, slurring more than he was speaking. “You think you’re better than me, huh?” he muttered, leaning against the window, his cheek pressed to the cold glass. “Just 'cause you got your degree and your dumb finance job and your clean record.” 

“I don’t think that,” Han said sharply. “And Dad doesn’t either, he’s just… Heeseung, he’s hard on both of us. You know that.” 

“Bullshit,” Heeseung growled, eyes closing. “You never had to be perfect to be loved. He just loved you.” 

Han’s grip tightened on the wheel. “That’s not true. You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re drunk.”

Heeseung kept going, words bubbling out like poison. “You think I don’t see it? The way he brags about you. Han graduated summa cum laude. Han never got suspended. Han’s never in the papers for fighting or failing.” He laughed. “I hope you’re proud. Look at me now, huh? Look how far I fell.” Han opened his mouth to answer, but he didn’t get the chance. Because just ahead, in the fog of motion and the flash of headlights —

There was a girl.

A blur of limbs and hair and horror, stepping backward into the road. Han shouted. The brakes screamed. But the moment came too fast. The sound, oh god, the sound, of impact was the kind that split your soul in two. Metal and flesh, a sickening crunch, a thud that would echo in nightmares for the rest of time. Heeseung’s body flung forward with the jolt, the seatbelt carving into his chest. Time bent sideways. Han swerved. The world spun. A flash of a tree trunk—then blackness. When he came to, everything hurt.

The car was mangled metal wrapped around bark. Smoke coiled from the hood. Blood ran down Heeseung’s face, sticky and warm, his head lolling forward. His ears rang like a bomb had gone off. He blinked once, twice. Tried to move; glass in his leg. Something was wrong. Something was wrong. “Han?” he croaked. There was no answer. He turned his head and screamed.

Han’s body was slumped over the wheel, motionless. Blood pooled under him, his face obscured. Something primal split through Heeseung’s chest; panic, dread, disbelief. “No, no, no,” he muttered. “Han!” He shoved at him with trembling hands. “Come on, wake up—wake up—” Sirens in the distance. Voices shouting. People running.

Heeseung’s breath caught. A sob clawed its way from his throat. It was all his fault. It was too late. And Heeseung had never hated himself more. 

Present day 

The silence stretches between you like a drawn-out breath, trembling and thin. Heeseung sits beside you on the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched, jaw clenched like he’s trying to bite back the storm surging in his chest. You can still hear the echo of the past in his voice, the shattered edges of guilt rattling in his throat. The room is quiet but not peaceful; it's the kind of quiet that comes after an earthquake, when everything has fallen and the air still trembles with memory. You sit there, skin cold, heart unraveling, both of you held in the soft aftershock of everything you’ve said. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. 

His voice cracks like dry wood. And it catches you off guard, more than anything else could have. Of all the things you expected him to say, an apology wasn't one of them. Not to you. Not when the pain has stained both your lives in different, irreparable ways. You look over at him, eyes red but dry now, exhaustion threading through your bones like a second skeleton. “Why?” you ask him, barely above a whisper. “Why are you apologizing?”

He turns toward you slowly. The lamplight casts his features in shadow, sharp and soft at once; eyes that have seen too much, mouth that’s tasted too much regret. “Because,” he says, voice thick, “this all started with me. I was the one who called Han. I was the one who needed to prove something. I got drunk, I spiraled, I needed to be seen, and now he’s gone. And so is Nari.”

Your heart pulls painfully in your chest, but your voice is steady when you speak. “No. This isn’t your fault.” He looks at you like he doesn’t believe it, like your words are a kindness he doesn’t think he deserves. “I don’t blame you, Heeseung,” you continue, softer now. “Not one bit. We’re all carrying so much. And grief... grief makes monsters out of moments. It twists things until we forget where they really began.” 

His eyes shine then; wet and wide. He opens his mouth to say something, but instead he leans in. Slowly, hesitantly, as though giving you a chance to stop him. You don’t. You meet him halfway. His lips brush yours with the gentleness of someone who knows how much you’ve lost, how much you’ve suffered. The kiss is slow, tender, and reverent. Like a vow whispered against a storm. His hand cradles the side of your face, thumb grazing your cheek, grounding you in the warmth of something fragile and real. When he pulls back, you both stay close. Foreheads touching. Eyes closed. For a moment, you just breathe. Then, he speaks. “Take a bath with me?”

The words are so simple, yet intimate in a way that leaves you breathless. Not lustful; this isn’t about escape or distraction. It’s about presence. About being in a space where nothing else exists. You nod, and he stands, offering you his hand. The bathroom is dim, lit only by the soft orange glow of a nightlight and a flickering candle someone must’ve left on the windowsill. The tub fills slowly, steam curling toward the ceiling like the last sigh of a day. You both undress silently, not shy, not rushed. You slip into the warm water, and he follows after, settling in behind you. His legs bracket yours. His arms wrap around your middle. The water laps at your collarbones like a gentle lullaby.

You tilt your head back to rest against his shoulder. He exhales into your hair. “I’ve been angry,” he says finally. “So angry. About everything. About my dad. About Han. About the fact that I’m still here when they’re not. That I keep waking up and they don’t.” 

You nod slowly, fingers tracing patterns in the surface of the water. “I feel that too,” you say. “Like life just… kicked me. Over and over. Until I couldn’t stand anymore. Until I didn’t know if I wanted to. I keep wondering if this is the part where I break forever.” Heeseung’s grip around you tightens, just slightly. “You won’t.”

“I don’t know how to start over,” you admit. “Everything hurts all the time. Even the good things hurt.”

He kisses your temple. Not as a promise. Not as a cure. Just as a quiet I know. And maybe that’s enough. Because you’re not pretending it’s all better. You’re not trying to erase the pain. You’re sitting in it together. Letting it be real. Letting it matter. And in that space; where the warmth of the water holds you both like a womb, like a prayer, you begin to believe that maybe you can heal. That maybe ruin doesn’t mean the end. Maybe it’s the beginning of something else.

You don’t know where life will take you from here. You don’t know what redemption will look like, or if you’ll ever forgive yourself for what happened. But right now, wrapped in Heeseung’s arms, you believe in the small, aching miracle of this moment. Of choosing to stay. Of choosing to feel. Of choosing each other. You were ready to fall into the ruin. But not let it ruin you.

Epilogue 1 year later

The sky was soft that day, bruised with a gentle gray, the kind that made the world feel quiet; like the earth itself was holding its breath. You sat cross-legged on the dewy grass, fingers tracing the edges of Nari’s name etched into cold stone. A year had passed. A year of aching, unraveling, rebuilding. And now here you were, knees pressed into the earth, a heartbeat steadier than it used to be.

"You would love Heeseung, Nari, you really would.” Your voice came out tender, barely above a whisper. “He makes me laugh. He never lets me lie to myself. He doesn’t try to fix me, just holds me when it hurts too much.” You reached down and brushed away a few stray leaves that had gathered at the base of the headstone. “I wish you could’ve seen me now. I wish I could’ve said goodbye the right way.”

There were still tears sometimes. And nightmares. And those mornings where the weight of memory made it hard to breathe. But there was also sunlight. And laughter. And Heeseung’s steady presence like a compass in your shaking hands. Therapy had taught you to hold space for both joy and sorrow. Grief group gave you words for the things you once buried. But it was Heeseung who reminded you, every day, that you were allowed to keep living; that you didn’t have to stay in the ruins to prove your love for the ones you lost.

“Babe! I got the flowers!” a voice called out behind you, pulling you gently from the past. You turned to see Heeseung jogging toward you, a bouquet of soft blue hydrangeas cradled in his arms, cheeks pink from the wind. He still carried that quiet sadness in his eyes, the one only you really saw, but it was softer now; tempered by time and the work he’d done to understand it. He bent down beside you and laid the flowers in front of Nari’s grave, brushing your knee with his hand as he settled beside you.

“Did you talk to Han?” you asked, voice gentle.

He nodded, smiling faintly. “Yeah. It was good. I needed that.”

You turned back toward the grave, reaching for his hand. “I did too.”

The two of you sat there for a long moment, silence curling comfortably between your bodies. The cemetery was quiet, wind rustling through the trees, birds flitting through the distant branches. Around you, the world kept moving; cars humming down the road, life unfolding in soft, ordinary ways. But here, in this pocket of stillness, you felt grounded. Rooted. Whole.

Grief never left, it wasn’t something that vanished with time or faded into nothing. It changed shapes. Grew quieter. Some days, it bloomed like a bruise. Other days, it shimmered like memory. But always, it walked beside you, not as a shadow, but as a reminder. Of love. Of loss. Of the choice to keep going. You looked down at the stone again, your thumb tracing the curve of her name.

“I’ll keep living for both of us, Nari,” you whispered. “I promise.” And this time, when you stood, you didn’t feel like you were leaving her behind. You felt like she was walking with you.

(♬) - @beomiracles @biteyoubiteme @hyukascampfire @dawngyu @izzyy-stuff @1-800-jewon @xylatox

[guyspleasehesmyfriend]

landoscar fic recs

the goats of landoscar fics to Me

impasse of biting - @wanderingblindly

12.5k | 2/2 | vampire au | barista!lando/vampire!oscar | M

"Maybe it would be good for you, something like this." Lando looks away from the espresso machine, over at Charles. "Like what?" "A vampire." "Charles," Lando breathes out, leaning against the back of his workstation and crossing his arms. "I've told you, it's not..." it's a me problem. He's the one that can't seem to connect to people, he's the one that's not noteworthy enough to want.

one of the first landoscar fics i ever read and it did change the trajectory of my life forever, liquid ur a genius btw. u could say im a real SUCKER for vampires…….

sgraffito - @ocontraire

19k | 1/1 | non-driver au | art teacher!lando/f1 driver!oscar | T

Maybe it could have been him, instead. It could have been him driving alongside Oscar, his hands lifting trophies, his dreams soaked in champagne. But Lando taught art while his brother raced, and he didn't regret it. Not when Oli seemed so happy.

hurt my feelings in the best way possible, pretty sure i cried, very beautiful overall

learned behavior - @passengerprincipessa

59.2k | 1/1 | 2024 season fwb / driver!lando/driver!oscar | E

Lando tries to win a championship and learns how to want.

THEEEEE landoscar fic, made me really weird about lando forever.

death and other lies - @finifugue

42.7k | 3/3 | spies but also so much more | assassin!lando/serial killer!oscar | M

Oscar kills people. Lando is legally dead. Someone wants to restart the war.

one of the most entertaining and well written fics i have ever read, incredibly devastating and heartwarming at the same time.

catechism - debrief

9.4k | 2/2 | theyre cats. | cat!lando/cat!oscar | T

“My faves are Temptation MixUps, but they only come in tubs,” Lando remarks. “I know how to open tubs,” Oscar says offhandedly. He knows how to what. “Will you marry me?” Lando asks without much thought.

prison break but cats, it is so silly and perfect

take it offline - @lellabellas

20k | 3/3 | office au doesnt even begin to describe it | ceo!lando/cto!oscar | M

"Why don't you put that mouth to better use, mate?" Lando's stomach turns even as he spreads his legs farther apart into a suggestive position. He's so fucked. Forget crossing a line; he's just pole-vaulted the line, done six backflips, and launched himself into the stratosphere. Half promises to hangers on in a bar is one thing—a little 'you take care of me, I'll take care of you,' and then never call them back. Coming onto a work colleague is something else entirely. But Oscar doesn't crack. He slowly closes his mouth that's fallen open in shock, licks his lips, and stares Lando down just as hard. "Alright."

blatantly unhinged and evil oscar is my favorite, and he is so well written in this fic, was on the edge of my seat the whole time and audibly gasped at least twice while reading it. Rancid in the best of ways.

run, rabbit, run (ive got you in my sights) - @saccharinenectarine123

8.5k | 1/1 | canon divergence | driver!lando/driver!oscar | E

Oscar's been obsessed with Lando since he was 14. Now they’re teammates at McLaren, and he's struggling to keep it together. Lando's not a better man.

LOVE when oscar is a loser who is obsessed with lando and lando is kind of evil about it, very beautiful outcome

sun kissed - @passengerprincipessa

45.5k | 6/6 | backpacking au | yachtie!lando/engineer!oscar | E

Oscar gets broken up with and impulsively books a four-week backpacking trip through Europe. He doesn't expect to fall in love along the way.

the most rom com fic ever + some of the most incredible character development everrrrrr incredibly heartwarming and feel good fic

in the firing line - @sincerelylancelot

5.3k | 1/1 | restaurant au | server!lando/chef!oscar | E

On Monday morning, Oscar finds a coffee next to his chopping board and a note.

i dont know why this fic itches my brain the way it does but i have read it 5 times and its perfect, simple idea + beautiful execution

certain uncertainty - @celellken

21.5k | 1/1 | ranch au | ranch hand!lando/ranch hand!oscar | NR

Oscar and Lando work on a ranch. Oscar is used to keeping his head down and his emotions in check. But when Lando arrives, all easy smiles and restless energy, Oscar finds himself thrown off balance.

slice of life found family ranch au...need i say more. deserves her flowers

the road not taken - @zelebrini

49.4k | 7/7 | slowburn exes to lovers | photographer!lando/vet!oscar | E

A long time ago, Oscar lost something he’s not sure he’s ever getting back.

WHAT IF UR OLD SITUATIONSHIP CAME BACK TO HAUNT U. AND HE WAS A BEAUTIFUL VET. AND U SAVED A CAT TOGETHER. so tragic...so amazing...i killed myself 17 times every chapter and loved every second of it

forget the protocol - astronautaficionado

68.7k | 10/10 | hockey au | goalie!lando/defenseman!oscar | E

By the time Oscar's first NHL contract ends, he's spent most of it in the minors. When he receives a controversial offer to join another team, it changes everything about his life, especially the hockey.

oscar psychologically tortures himself over a crush when literally nobody asked him to do that

so what are you waiting for? (its your serve) - @serve-cunt

76.4k | 11/11 | tennis au | tennis player!lando/tennis player!oscar | M

“Good evening and welcome to the press conference for Oscar Piastri,” said the organiser, in an officious, bored voice. “A reminder to keep your questions brief.” She pointed to a blonde woman in the first row. “Catherine, go ahead.” Catherine leaned forward. "First of all, Oscar, congratulations," she said. "With the points from this win you’ll be in the top twenty ranked male tennis players. That's a huge deal, especially this young. Did you expect that when you woke up this morning?"

just impeccable. oscar learning he can have sport and cute boy at the same time will get me every single time, and also now im fighting tennis demons

leading lines - @volantium

16.5k | 1/1 | fake dating au | photographer!lando/driver!oscar | T

Oscar blinks at him, slowly, mind gone horrifically blank. Lando keeps on talking but Oscar doesn’t hear any sound come out of his mouth. “What do you mean,” Oscar speaks over Lando, and can hear the audible click of Lando’s jaw snapping shut, “that you told your parents we’re dating?”

they r so stupid and i love them terribly

afterburn - @passengerprincipessa

75.1k | 5/5 | canon divergence | ferrari driver!lando/mclaren driver!oscar | E

At the end of 2027, Lando leaves for Ferrari. Oscar doesn't know why.

might just be The oscar character study, oscar learning he can have sport and cute boy at the same time once again

half-lives - anon

16.9k | 1/1 | gang au | gang member!lando/get away driver!oscar | E

Oscar is the crew's new getaway driver. Lando doesn't trust him. Doesn't like how calm he stays when things go to hell. But then things do go to hell, a job gone sideways, crew lost. Now it's just the two of them on the run. Bleeding. Breathing too close. Oscar starts seeing the cracks in Lando's armor. The way he folds when someone handles him right. The way he begs but never says it out loud. The hatred is always easy. What comes after isn’t.

i wish i knew who this anon was so i could kiss their brain for this utter masterpiece, running from the cops is my favorite brand of forced proximity

already home - @nyoomfruits

32.5k | 1/1 | non drivers + fake relationship au | producer(kinda)!lando/lawyer!oscar | T

Lando takes a deep steadying breath. “I think I might be in love with Oscar.” He says, and hates how immediately when he says the words, he knows it’s true. “Right,” Max says, nodding. “And?” “What do you mean, ‘and?’” Lando says, a little outraged. “I can’t be in love with him! We’re married! This is like, a disaster waiting to happen!”

rom com, friends to lovers, and fake relationship.....the holy trinity of fics i think

a single great error - @sincerelylancelot

12.4 k | 1/1 | magic + dark academia | everyone has magic powers | M

Lando reminds him of a black hole. Not just all-consuming and endless, but a bridge to infinite possibilities. Oscar’s hands can rip the universe apart, knit it back together, and feel the air shimmer where reality was—but to him, Lando is what’s left in that space: infinite and always.

heart! breaking! stuff! the sequel is also incredible.

off the record - anon

19.2k | 2/2 | pwp | secret camboy!lando/driver!oscar | E

Oscar stumbles upon a camboy account that looks a lot like Lando. It ruins his focus, rewires his brain, and makes him want things he shouldn't.

HOT. SO HOT. SO GOOD. ONCE AGAIN I WISH I KNEW WHO THIS ANON WAS SO I COULD KISS THEIR BRAIN. love when landoscar match each others freaks

negative splits - @ocontraire

10k | 1/1 | pro runners au | runner!lando/runner!oscar | T

So officially, Oscar Piastri, pretty good steepler and pretty bad pacer, was now a professional runner. They wanted him to steeple, mostly, though he’d be doing cross country in the fall, and Lando had pinky promised him, mid-distance guy to mid-distance guy, that if he wanted to get into the 3k flat indoor then he would get him in. Oscar didn’t really want to ask how he planned on doing that. Felt safer not to ask.

every single one of leaf's sport aus is a masterpiece, and this is no exception. top tier landoscar dynamics

[inkpetrichor]

Nasty Dog! | Kuroo Tetsurou x f!reader

5.- Part five

masterlist here<3

cw. MDNI. fem! reader. delinquent! reader. use of yn. smoking. cursing. angst. hurt/comfort. smut. p in v. unprotected sex. creampie. lots of dirty talking. absolute filth but kinda cute(?. lemme know if i missed anything<3 wc. 5.6k an. enjoy! as usual, comments are appreciated<3

Tuesday painted the sky outside your window gray—not stormy, just... blank. The kind of sky that felt like waiting. Another day you had to skip. You had half a cigarette left and no lighter, which somehow felt symbolic.

"Come to me when you're ready to actually talk feelings..."

You weren't ready. And you couldn't blame him.

You couldn't blame him for wanting more—wanting something real. For having the spine to say this isn't enough when it would've been easier to keep things messy and half-lit like you always did.

He had self-respect. He knew what he deserved. And deep down, you admired that about him.

And you wanted him. God, you wanted him. Not just in your bed, not just in passing—you loved him. You didn't know when it started, only that it had sunk in slowly, like ink through paper. But when he asked for your honesty, for something real, the words just wouldn't come.

You didn't know how to say I love you without feeling like you were standing on a ledge with your chest cracked open. You'd never been taught how.

It was like trying to have a conversation in a language you'd only just started learning—fumbling for the right words, terrified of saying the wrong ones.

And now here you were, half a cigarette in hand, no lighter, and no clue how to stop ruining things before they could ever really begin.

Then your phone buzzed.

Emi <3: sorry babes, had 2 give u a lil push (˶ > ₃ < ˶)♡ : ???

Before you could type out a proper what the fuck, there was a knock on your door.

And you knew. You just knew.

That knock wasn't generic. It wasn't a neighbor or delivery guy. It was three short raps, one beat slower than the others.

The same rhythm he’d used a hundred times before. He'd come over so many times it became second nature. Familiar. Specific... Him.

Your chest tightened painfully, like something inside you had braced for impact without warning.

You opened the door.

And there he was.

Kuroo Tetsurou's tall frame stood in your doorway like a memory come back to make you suffer, looking thoroughly unimpressed. His arms were crossed. His shoulders slouched. There was no smug glint in his eyes—just quiet frustration and something heavier under it, like disappointment dressed in black and red.

You stared.

He stared back.

"What are you doing here, Tetsurou?" you asked, voice dull. Tired. Like you were already too exhausted to handle whatever this was going to be.

He shrugged slightly, but it was half-hearted.

"Emi came up to me today... With that mutt of hers. What's his name again? Ki... something?"

"Kenkiba," you muttered, a half-smile twitching at your mouth despite yourself.

"Right. Him." He squinted like the memory annoyed him. "He was giving me the stink eye the whole time she talked. Didn't blink once. I thought he might bite me."

You huffed out a scoff, dragging a hand down your face.

"Sounds like him."

Silence bloomed for a second—thick and humid. Not hostile, just... heavy.

"She told me not to give up on you," he said softly after a beat.

Your throat tightened. Closing around words you weren’t ready to speak. You looked away from him.

"And?" you asked, voice thinner than you meant.

Kuroo tilted his head. His gaze swept over your face like he was trying to read something in between the fine lines of your exhaustion.

"Still figuring it out," he said simply.

The honesty made your stomach twist. You’d missed that. His way of speaking plainly, even when the truth was sharp.

You sighed, long and quiet, and stepped back. "Come in, make yourself at home. You know where everything is anyway."

Kuroo didn't say anything. Just stepped inside like he always used to do—quiet but present, all warmth and height and gravity. The air felt heavier with him in the room, but it wasn't unpleasant.

It was familiar.

And dangerous.

He glanced around your tiny entryway like it was both a crime scene and a memory. His fingertips grazed the edge of your shoe rack like touching it might tell him if things had really changed. You didn’t move. You barely breathed.

You weren’t ready for this conversation.

But you’d left the door open anyway.

The living room was dim, cozy in that lived-in way—shadows pooling in corners, the soft hum of the TV playing some sitcom rerun you hadn’t bothered turning off. A half-finished drink sweating on the coffee table. Folded blankets no one used. Familiarity buried under the dust of everything you hadn’t said.

Kuroo sat opposite you at the dining table, fingers idly drumming against the wood while you picked at a loose thread in your sleeve. A glass of water for each of you.

His eyes flicked toward your couch, then quickly away.

You broke the silence first, eyes still fixed on the thread in your sleeve.

"How was practice?"

Kuroo leaned back slightly in his chair. The sharp tension that had hung in the air earlier began to loosen a little.

"Yaku lost a bet to Lev."

That got your attention. You raised a brow, lips twitching.

"Had to wear one of Lev’s hoodies for the whole practice," Kuroo continued, almost fondly. "Looked like a pissed-off gremlin drowning in beige fleece."

You snorted, the image so vivid you could practically see it.

"He threw his shoes at you?"

"Twice," Kuroo said with a weary sigh. "Once for laughing, once just because I was there."

A real smile curled on your lips this time. Small, but it warmed your face.

"I like Yaku."

"He likes you too," Kuroo replied. "In a scary, sorta fan way. He’s rooting for you. And, weirdly enough, also slightly afraid of you."

You were about to fire back something snarky when—

Creaaak.

The door to your dad’s room swung open, slow and yawning like it resented being disturbed.

It was like the sound and smell of conversation had dragged him from his nap. You stiffened, eyes flicking to the hallway.

Kuroo went still.

It hit him all at once—how quiet this house had always been. Empty whenever he came over. Just the two of you. Always careful. Private. The unspoken rule had been: no family, no interruptions.

Now there were footsteps. Heavy ones. Presence.

This wasn’t just anyone stepping into the room. This was your father—and it was the first time either of you had ever been this close to the other's home life. Kuroo felt it like a shift in pressure, like the air had gone thick.

He sat up straighter, instincts clicking into place like armor.

Your father emerged from the hallway, slow and deliberate. He shuffled out in sweats and a grey tank top that had seen better days, scratching his belly like a bear half-disturbed from hibernation.

Kuroo shot up from his seat. His posture went ramrod straight and his eyes widened.

The man was huge. Not just muscular—solid. Towering. Heavy hands, boxer's shoulders, a chest like a steel barrel, and a scowl carved into his face like a statue’s that had never known joy. He looked like he could knock out a grown man with one hand and still make it home in time for dinner. Kuroo felt like a goddamn pair of chopsticks next to him.

And the look your dad gave him?

Like he was already imagining what it'd feel like to snap him in half and make a wish.

"Dad. Kuroo Tetsurou. Kuroo Tetsurou. Dad." you introduced lazily. Too casual in his opinion.

Kuroo scrambled to his feet and bowed, polite and slightly terrified. "Nice to meet you, sir."

Your dad grunted. Not a word. Just grunt.

"He's my tutor," you said, arms folding across your chest.

Another grunt. Slightly lower.

"And the guy I'm in love with."

Silence.

Your dad’s eyes flicked wider—just a twitch—but in his world, that was basically a scream. He looked at you, then back at Kuroo, who was now staring at you like you’d grown a second head.

Did you want him to die? Because he was pretty sure that's what you were going for.

Then your dad squinted. His chin tilted up ever so slightly as he peered at Kuroo through his lower lashes, expression calculating now. Something in his gaze sharpened—predatory, maybe. Appraising.

Kuroo could see the resemblance.

"Are you the guy my daughter cried herself to sleep over the other day?"

Your eyes flew open, panic shooting through you.

"Da—"

"What do you do for a living?" he cut in.

You blinked. Panic changed to cringe. 

What the fuck was that question?

Kuroo stammered. "I—I'm a student, sir."

"And?"

"He's the captain of the volleyball team," you said quickly, rubbing your temples in secondhand embarrassment.

Your dad's brow twitched. He didn't say anything, but the surprise was there—buried beneath his blank expression.

"And top of his class," you added.

"Top of your class?"

"Top of my class, Sir."

Your dad grunted again—less annoyed this time. Thoughtful, maybe.

Then, without another word, he reached out and grabbed your glass of water off the table, downed it in two massive gulps.

You scowled. "I was drinking that, thank you."

If he heard, he ignored it. He wandered into the kitchen and the faucet creaked awake as he filled the glass under the sputtering tap. His free hand patted at his pockets.

Then, without so much as a glance, he tossed something in your direction.

You caught it mid-air, reflexive.

Your fingers closed around the shape before your brain caught up. The feel was familiar—rectangular, thin, slightly glossy. You looked down and gasped. Audibly.

A pack of cigarettes.

But not just any. The cigarettes—the most expensive ones the local konbini carried, the ones you only ever admired from behind the counter like they were luxury perfume.

"I saw your report card, kiddo. You've been doing great," he muttered, not looking directly at you as he set the glass back down on the table with a clink. His eyes flicked to Kuroo next. "I guess I gotta thank you for that too. Though I assume since you play sports, you don't smoke."

"No sir."

"Good. Maybe you can get her to quit that bullshit too."

You rolled your eyes, a wry little grin tugging at your mouth. "What will you give me when I don’t smoke and still do well in school?"

"Good point," he murmured, almost to himself.

Then he looked at Kuroo, giving him a jerk of his chin.

"Sit down, son. This ain't the military. Just don't make her cry again or I'll make you wish it was."

Kuroo nodded so fast he almost gave himself whiplash.

"Yessir."

He sank back into his seat with zero resistance, spine still straight as a rail, like he didn’t trust gravity not to betray him.

Your dad grabbed his battered bomber jacket from the hook by the door, slinging it over one shoulder. It looked too light for the weather, but that was just how he was—too stubborn to feel the cold.

"I’m going out. Go ahead and have dinner without me," he said gruffly, hand already on the knob.

Then his eyes slid to Kuroo. A pause. Then back to you.

"Behave."

You raised a hand in a lazy salute, leaning back in your chair.

"Have fun~"

He grunted once—final, almost fond—and shut the door behind him. The lock clicked into place with a soft metallic snick.

Silence.

Kuroo let out the longest exhale of his life.

"Are you insane?! He could've killed me with a flick of his pinky."

You burst out laughing. The sound cracked out of you, light and sudden.

"But he didn’t. Relax—he’s harmless."

"Uh, yeah. I don't believe you."

"Tetsurou."

"Y/N."

You sighed, brushing a hand through your hair.

"Follow me, please."

You stood and padded toward your room, feeling his presence shuffle behind you—socked feet brushing over the floor, quieter than usual. When the door clicked shut behind him, you went straight to your bag, kneeling beside it with shaky fingers.

Not from fear.

But from the crushing awareness that you’d said it.

That you loved him.

Out loud.

In front of your dad. Like a lunatic.

Your hands trembled as you pulled a box of chocolates from your bag and turned, holding it out.

Kuroo blinked down at the box like it had materialized out of nowhere. His brow furrowed slightly as he glanced between your face and the glossy packaging, confusion shifting slowly into something quieter. Curious. Guarded. Like he was afraid to hope.

You cleared your throat and dropped your gaze to the floor.

"I, uh..." you started, voice barely above a whisper. "You said... you wanted, like—a cute confession. Like in the movies. With chocolate... And a letter... n' shit."

He stared at you, eyes unreadable. You kept yours fixed on the floor like it might open up and swallow you whole.

"So," you said quietly, forcing the words out before they slipped away, "here’s the chocolate."

Kuroo looked down at the box in his hands, fingers twitching like he didn't know whether to laugh or hug you.

You kept talking, like if you stopped you'd fall apart.

"I… I didn’t write a letter because that’s stupid, and I’m not good at feelings. You know that. But I thought maybe you’d… I don’t know. You’d get what I meant if I just… if I just showed you."

Your breath hitched. The pressure in your chest was building—tight and relentless behind your ribs.

"I didn't mean to hurt you, Tetsurou," you said, finally looking at him just to look down again, running away from the intensity of his golden, honeyed eyes.

You blinked rapidly, trying to keep it back, but the heat of guilt and shame stung anyway. The tears came fast—hot, unwelcome, and traitorous.

"I just— I didn't want to fuck it up. That's the only thing I knew from the start. That if I let it get serious, I'd do something stupid and mess it all up. And then you'd leave. And I thought it'd be easier to keep it simple and just not... not feel so much."

Your voice broke and you squeezed your eyes shut.

The tears spilled over.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," you said again, softer now. A whisper, like the truth had grown too heavy to speak at full volume.

Kuroo’s voice met you like a steady anchor—

"But you did," he said softly. Not sharp. Not angry. Just real.

You looked up slowly, the shame burning hot behind your eyes.

He was already watching you.

"I know," you whispered.

He took a breath. Slow. Full of something more than just oxygen.

Then came that smirk—that lopsided, him kind of smirk that made your heart stumble. The one you'd missed like hell.

His golden eyes scanned your face, and he still hadn’t let go of the chocolates. They hovered between you like a fragile offering. A truce.

"You really thought I meant the chocolate part?"

You let out a wet, broken laugh. "I panicked."

"God," he muttered, stepping forward.

Then he kissed you.

Warm hands slid up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing over damp cheeks as his mouth found yours—soft and grounding. Not desperate. Not hurried. Just full. Steady. Like he was trying to tether you to him, to the now, so you’d stop spiraling through everything you’d been afraid of.

You clung to his shirt like it was the only solid thing left in the world. Your lips parted beneath his with a quiet, gasping sob.

"I’m sorry," you breathed into him. Again and again. Each one more cracked than the last, as his mouth moved from yours to your cheek, to the corner of your eye.

"I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—"

"I know," he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours. "I know."

He kissed the top of your head, fingers trailing down to your hips, grounding you with quiet presence. Holding you there. Steady.

"I love you too, by the way," he said. Soft. Firm. Impossible to mistake.

You froze.

"It was quite ballsy to say it in front of your dad," he added, voice nearly a whisper.

You looked up at him, nose pink and eyes red and blotchy. "You love me?"

"Yeah," he said like it was obvious. "Why else would I put up with you acting like my feelings were a math problem you could ignore into submission?"

You shoved his chest, still crying but laughing now too, emotions a tangled mess in your throat.

"You're such a dick," you sniffled.

"And you are too," he said, pulling you into another kiss. "Now shut up and let me hold you before I cry too."

You kissed like you had all the time in the world.

No more frantic hands or clashing teeth. No power games. No pretending you didn't care.

It was just you, and Kuroo, and the quiet press of his lips against yours.

You felt him sigh into it, like kissing you brought him some kind of peace. Like it was relief. Forgiveness. Home.

His lips trailed along your jaw, slow and reverent, rediscovering you inch by inch—re-memorizing every part of the map he’d gone too long without touching.

"I missed you," he breathed, voice cracking like the words were breaking out of him whether he wanted them to or not. A truth he needed to say aloud.

You hated how much that made your throat close up. Your hands curled around his shirt, pulling him closer without even realizing it. Not desperate. Just... greedy. Needy. Because you'd missed him. Because you loved him. Because you needed him. And he felt so fucking good—solid and warm and real—breathing against your mouth like he needed you just the same.

"Tetsurou..." you muttered, tugging at his hair, breath skimming his cheek. "You make me so fucking soft, it’s disgusting."

That got a low laugh from him, warm against your skin. "Guess we're both disgusting, then."

But you weren't. Not with how his hands moved—gentle, steady, worshipping. Hands sliding up under your shirt, fingers slow and sure as they brushed across your stomach, your ribs, the curve of your breast. Not groping. Savoring.

Not with how gently he pushed you onto your bed. Soft like a whisper, smiling into the kiss when you pulled him by the collar of his shirt on top of you like you couldn't be apart from him for longer than strictly needed.

Not with how you kissed him back, mouth parting with quiet need, teeth grazing his lower lip like a silent promise. He tasted like the ghost of salt and sweetness. Like missing someone so badly it hurt.

You kissed him harder. Deeper. Tongues tangling like you were trying to swallow each other whole. When you ground your hips up against him, you felt how hard he already was, thick and twitching against your thigh.

He groaned into your mouth, hands sliding down to hook under your thighs.

"You’re shaking," he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear—almost shy, like he didn’t want to scare you off with how soft you suddenly felt.

"I know," you whispered, breath hitching as your hips rolled against his. "I just don’t know how to do this when it feels this fucking real."

He brushed his thumb along your cheek, down to your jaw, tilting your face up before dipping to press his mouth to your collarbone. Each kiss was barely there at first—featherlight—until his teeth scraped your skin and he growled against it.

"Then don’t think," he said, voice rough. "Just let me make you feel good. Let me ruin you a little more."

You exhaled hard, like you were exorcising fear. Then you nodded.

Clothes came off slower this time, but not without heat. He stripped you like he wanted to remember how every inch of you felt beneath his hands.

His mouth left a trail down your chest, sucking your nipple into his mouth until your back arched off the bed. You whimpered, and when you tugged his hair, he groaned—eyes fluttering shut like the sound of your need physically hurt him. He didn’t tease—he devoured.

"Look at you," he rasped, forehead pressed to the center of your chest, voice breathless and thick with hunger. "You’re so fucking beautiful like this. I like it when you're all tough and bratty—but this?"

His hand slipped between your thighs, fingers gliding through your slick folds as he kissed your sternum.

"This is gonna fucking ruin me."

You swore under your breath, face burning, but you didn’t stop him. Your legs opened wider—offering, surrendering.

When he finally pushed into you, it wasn’t exactly gentle, but it was sweet. Slow, deep, intentional. A filthy stretch that filled every inch of you and made your mouth fall open in a raw, aching gasp.

"Oh—fuck—Tetsurou—" you choked, nails clawing into his back, dragging down his sweat-slick skin.

"You feel that?" he groaned, cock grinding in deep with one thick, steady thrust. "So fucking deep… Christ, you’re gripping me."

Your walls clenched reflexively around him and he stuttered forward, a broken sound ripping from his throat.

You whimpered, eyes rolling back as your legs locked around his hips, pulling him impossibly closer.

"You feel... you feel so good, I can’t—"

"You can," he muttered against your mouth, voice wrecked. "You’re fucking perfect around me. So wet—fuck—so wet for me I can hear it. Just take it. Let me give this to you."

He was right. You could feel it—could hear it—the obscene, slick sound of him fucking into you, each thrust louder, wetter, drawing filthy friction from your swollen, aching cunt. You were soaked, stretched around him so perfectly it felt like your body was made to be ruined by his.

His hips moved in long, grinding thrusts—intentional, filthy in their closeness. His pelvis dragged against your clit just right, every stroke hitting that spot that made your voice break, made your moans crack into desperate little gasps of his name.

"Tetsurou—please, don’t stop—"

It wasn't about power tonight, or payback, or pushing limits. It was about closeness. Forgiveness. The way your hands trembled in his hair as he kissed your tears away. The way you clung to him like he could patch up everything you didn’t know how to say.

"I’ve got you," he panted, one hand gripping your thigh, the other planted beside your head. His hips slammed deeper now, still controlled, but with a force that made the bed creak. The air was sticky with sweat and sex.

"Not going anywhere. Gonna make you come—hah, fuck—gonna come so hard you forget what you were crying about."

You whimpered something wrecked and incoherent, and his rhythm faltered for a heartbeat.

"Say it again," he gasped, fucking you harder, faster. "Say my fucking name while I make you come."

"Tetsurou—please, please—fuck, I’m gonna—"

He caught your face, fingers firm on your jaw as he kissed you like he needed your breath to survive.

"Come for me, baby. Let me feel it. Let me have all of it."

And you did. You came with a sob into his neck, shattering around him, nails digging into his back as your body locked down on him, trembling so violently he had to pin your hips to ride it out. But it wasn’t enough—not with the way you pulsed around him, hot and wet and pleading.

He cursed—loud, low���and shoved in deep. Once. Twice.

Then he followed with a strangled groan.

He buried himself to the hilt, cock throbbing in thick pulses as he spilled inside you. His mouth was at your throat, panting, praising, kissing the slick skin beneath your jaw.

"Fuck—fuck—" he groaned. "You feel too fucking good—I can’t—can’t let you go—"

You held him like an anchor, legs still trembling around his hips, breath shallow and stuttering.

His cock twitched inside you with aftershocks, and he didn’t pull out—not yet. He just stayed there, forehead resting against yours, one hand stroking your thigh like it was the only way to keep breathing.

Every thrust, every kiss, every shaky breath felt like a thread stitching two bruised hearts back together.

You stayed like that for a while—tangled, breathless, still joined at the hips as the air slowly cooled around you. His weight pressed into you, grounding, comforting. Like he was trying to hold every broken piece in place with nothing but skin and closeness.

Your hands combed through his damp hair, fingers lazy and loving, like you needed something—someone—to hold onto.

Because you did.

"You’re everything I was scared to want," you mumbled into his hair, voice low and raw, scraped clean by everything he'd just pulled out of you.

He smiled—not smug, just soft—and pressed a kiss to your neck.

"You’ve always been mine," he murmured. "You were just too damn stubborn."

He rolled to his back, bringing you with him, bodies still warm and sticky. You settled on his chest, legs tangled with his, cheek resting over his heart. It was still beating hard, like maybe he hadn’t quite come back down yet either.

His fingers lazily traced shapes on your hip while your hand lay flat against his chest, feeling the slow, steady rise and fall.

You weren’t used to this.

The silence that didn’t need to be filled.

The peace after the wreckage.

But you were quickly learning to crave this part just as much as the rest of him.

He shifted slightly, the arm around you tightening—not possessive, not afraid. Just anchoring.

"Your dad really threw me under the bus, huh?"

You snorted softly. "Yeah. He has a gift for timing."

"He said you cried over me..." His voice was quiet, careful.

You paused, then sighed. "I did."

He nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the ceiling like he couldn’t quite face you yet. "I cried too. The day at the beach."

You looked up at him. "You did?"

He gave a low, humorless chuckle. "Got on the train home, sat down, and just—bam. Tears. Like an idiot." He finally glanced at you, lips tilting into a crooked smile. "I didn’t even make it one stop before some old lady handed me a tissue."

You couldn’t bring yourself to laugh, even though he grinned like he wanted you to. The moment felt impossibly softer as your fingers curled gently in the hair at the nape of his neck.

"I’m sorry," you murmured. "I didn’t mean to make you feel like that."

"I know." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I get it now. Why you pulled away. I wish you hadn’t, but... I get it."

A beat passed. Then a little fire reignited in you, sparked by the memory of a certain someone perched all too comfortably on his arm.

"You’re lucky you’re cute, though," you grumbled.

He raised an eyebrow, smile faltering slightly. "Yeah?"

You squinted up at him. "Otherwise I’d still be mad about you flirting with Hebinuma like it was your fucking job."

His grin returned in full force. "Okay, in my defense—"

"There is no defense."

"—I never touched her."

"You didn’t need to. You let her touch you. Let her put her dirty paws all over you."

He laughed. "Alright, alright. Guilty as charged. But, for the record..." He leaned in, brushing his nose against yours, voice dropping into a teasing whisper, "You made it so easy to make jealous~ You looked so pretty... all mad and possessive like that."

You tried to roll your eyes but ended up burying your face in his neck instead. "Ugh. That’s disgusting."

"You love it."

"...Maybe."

He kissed the top of your head, fingers smoothing gently down your back.

"Don’t gotta pretend anymore, y’know. You can just be soft with me."

You let out a slow breath against his skin. "You make it really hard not to be."

"Good."

"I can say cheesy shit and not immediately shove you away to preserve my street cred."

Kuroo gave you a dangerous grin. "Oh really? Try."

You hesitated. "Don’t laugh."

"I won’t."

You narrowed your eyes, skeptical. "...I... I like you."

He snorted immediately at how absurdly difficult that had been for you—especially considering you’d just said you loved him.

"Fuck you! You said you wouldn’t laugh!"

"I’m sorry!" he cackled, then tackled you with kisses, smothering your face as you flailed, trying to push him off, while he sang in a childish voice like he was teasing you at recess. "You like me~ You like me~ You liiiike me~"

"I’m gonna punch you in the ribs."

"You liiiike me~"

"I’LL BITE YOU."

He rolled onto his back, still grinning like a fool, pulling you with him so you ended up half on top of him again. You let your head drop onto his shoulder with a long, dramatic sigh.

"You’re the worst," you muttered.

"You’re in love with the worst, then."

"...Unfortunately."

He turned his head to look at you, gaze soft—like you were the only person who had ever mattered. His thumb brushed your cheek, grazing the skin beneath your eye.

"I love you too."

Your breath caught a little.

"I know," you whispered.

He kissed you again—slow, unhurried. Like he had forever. Because maybe now, he did.

No more pretending.

No more hiding.

No more guessing.

Just his fingers tangled with yours, your limbs intertwined beneath the sheets, the distant hum of the street outside, and the quiet, sleepy freedom of knowing you could love each other out loud now.

And god, did it feel good.

You nestled closer into Kuroo’s chest, and he let out a little hum of satisfaction, arms tightening around you like you were something precious. You were still a little sweaty, tangled in the sheets and each other, but neither of you moved to clean up just yet.

He kissed your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth—small, lazy things, like he finally had the time to show you how much he liked having you like this. All his.

You tilted your head, catching his mouth with yours, slow and indulgent.

You shifted slightly, letting your leg hook over his thigh again, the closeness grounding you. "You really cried on the train?"

"Like a baby."

"...Fuck. That makes me wanna cry all over again."

He smiled, and this time, it was quieter. Realer.

"Don’t. I’ve got you now. And if you cry again, your dad will kill me... Speaking of your dad killing me—we should probably get dressed before he gets back."

"I kinda don’t wanna move, though," you groaned, burying your face in the crook of his neck.

"We also have to clean up. And you need to pee. Friction during sex pushes all kinds of bacteria into your urethra and you could get a nasty UTI—"

"Tetsurou. I know. You say it every time."

"It’s ‘cause every time, you don’t wanna let go! And seriously, your urethra needs—"

"I’ll go if you stop saying urethra."

"Real mature, Y/N. It’s simply a body part. Nothing to be ashamed of," he mocked with that signature grin.

You groaned and stood up, tugging on the long t-shirt you used as pajamas.

When you came back, he’d put on pants and even made your bed. He was scrolling through his phone, looking as beautiful as usual.

"Don’t leave yet..." you murmured.

His eyes lifted, widening slightly.

"You wanna... cuddle with clothes on or something?"

His surprise melted into a sly smile, but there was a warmth behind it that was unmistakable.

"Cuddle? With clothes on? We’re moving a little too fast, Y/N. I don’t know if I’m ready for that yet," he teased.

"Shut up."

You flopped next to him, your arms immediately winding around his torso, pressing your cheek to its rightful place on his chest.

"Wanna watch the first season of Death Note?"

"I can’t, unfortunately. I gotta get home—and I doubt your dad would let me stay. But maybe..."

"Maybe?"

"Maybe you could come home with me tomorrow. After practice. I know it’s not a Thursday but..."

The unsure way he said it hurt you. Like he still didn’t quite believe he could ask for things—didn’t trust that you’d say yes.

You hugged him tighter, arms looping around his waist, and pressed a kiss over his heart without even thinking. It caught him off guard.

You didn’t notice. You were too busy leaving more soft kisses along his chest, murmuring apologies into his skin.

"Thank you. I’ll be there," you whispered.

Your voice was the softest he’d ever heard. And somehow, it made something settle in him. Like everything was finally clicking into place.

He hugged you back with a labored sigh.

Like he could finally stop holding back.

Like he could finally hold you how he’d always wanted—without worry.

For the first time, you walked him to the door and said goodbye with a long kiss, followed by many smaller ones he scattered across your face like the first one wasn't enough.

"See you tomorrow. Stop skipping class. Things are getting a little harder lately, and if you miss too much you could fail the exams."

"I guess you'll have to put me up to date with the contents."

"Thursdays after class?"

"After practice." you corrected. He smiled.

"After practice."

You watched him go, your hand lingering on the doorframe even after he disappeared down the stairs. For a long moment, you didn’t move—just stood there with your lips still tingling and your heart still echoing with his laughter.

Something in you had finally unraveled tonight. Not in a bad way. Just… looser. Lighter. Like you could finally breathe.

You shut the door softly behind you, the apartment unusually quiet as you padded back into your room. Kuroo’s scent still clung to your sheets—warm laundry and a hint of sweat—and you smiled into your pillow before flopping down on it like some idiot in love.

Because maybe you were. Maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was dangerous.

But it felt good. And for now, that was enough.

But peace, as always, was temporary. The whispers crawling through Nekoma’s halls were growing fangs—sharp with rumor, slick with malice. And somewhere in the dark, a ghost stirred, reanimated by a snake with a grudge.

And this time, she wasn’t coming for you directly.

Next chapter↪ (coming soon<3)

tags. @themoreeviltwin @taylordenae @rhea-sylvea @iluvikeu @tgnvhp @adangerousbalance @orphicarchive @tammytaamm @iluvmusicxoxo @rvm1ne @kuzoq @espressocandies @ashley95943734 @jayathelostdragon @kyokoyya @crystal-lilac @kuzuven0208

[almostwisegalaxy]

Deep Headcanon: Na Baek-jin as a Boyfrie

Na beak jin x GN!reader

"You taught me that love shouldn't save me. It should just let me be someone new. - Na Baek-jin

..................................................................................

A Tense Romance: The Awakening of Vulnerability

Na Baek-jin doesn't fall in love easily. He sees attachment as an exploitable weakness, a distraction from his objectives. But you are the exception he never anticipated.

You arrived as a quiet counterpoint to his coldness: neither dazzled by his charisma nor frightened by his methods. You answered him without trembling. On that day, you became a mystery greater than all the schemes he orchestrated.

Love, for Baek-jin, is never expressed in simple words. He has never said "I love you." He doesn't know how. But you hear it in:

"You came home late. You should avoid that alley."

"I've changed your access code. It's safer now."

"I looked into that professor who's treating you badly."

He speaks of love as one draws up war plans: coldly, strategically, never saying why he worries.

But you learn to translate.

Heavy Silences, Talkative Glances

Baek-jin is not a man of tender gestures. But when he looks at you, his gaze says what he cannot verbalize. In his eyes, there is an anxious obsession, a love that frightens him.

The rare times he touches you, it's calculated:

He silently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, as if to make sure you're real.

He lets his hand brush yours when no one is looking.

He places a coat over your shoulders, not because you're cold, but because he cannot bear for anything to touch you without his consent.

It is a silent love, yet almost violently intense.

The Forbidden Notebook

One day, you discover a hidden notebook in a locked drawer. It's a journal. Na Baek-jin writes in it what he will never say.

"Today, they smiled at someone else. My stomach tightened. Is this fear?"

"I almost told them I was afraid of losing them. But it would have sounded like a loss of power. So I said: 'Do what you want. It's none of my business.'"

You never speak to him about it. You protect this secret as he protects yours. But sometimes you leave a note between the pages, a silent answer to his inner war.

Love Through Chaos

He draws you into a world of power, manipulation, and contained violence. But he never directly exposes you. He places an invisible barrier between you and what he does. Yet you know. You know his world devours his soul, that he sacrifices his last illusions of goodness.

And sometimes, at night, he breaks. He sits beside you. He says nothing. But his hands tremble. You place your hand on his, and for once, he doesn't pull away.

"I don't know who I would be without what I do. But I know that if you are no longer here, I am nothing."

This is not a declaration. It is a raw plea.

Mending What's Broken

Love with Na Baek-jin isn't about flowers or perfect photos. It's a field of ruins where you choose to plant a flower.

It's the silence in an empty apartment, where he leaves you the key, but never explicit permission. You invite yourself in when he can't take it anymore. You don't ask questions. You let him breathe. You make rice, you open a window.

One day, you fall ill. And unexpectedly, he takes care of you. In an almost mechanical, clumsy, yet clinically precise way. You sense he's never done this before. But he reads, he learns, he makes lists.

"You need to drink every 2 hours. I set alarms. I avoided anti-inflammatories; they interfere with your medication."

You cry. And he doesn't understand why.

The Day He Was Afraid

That day, you disappeared for six hours. Your phone was off. He searched everywhere. He called every contact, every camera, every informant.

When you return, exhausted by a simple dead battery and a traffic jam, he has no words. But he pulls you close, hard, brutally.

"Don't ever do that again. You don't have the right to disappear. You're not just someone in my life. You are my only anchor."

It's the first time he cries. And you say nothing. You just rest your head against his shoulder. And you understand: he let you in. You are in his nervous system now.

Rage and Tenderness: The Living Paradox

Love with Na Baek-jin is brutal and tender. He knows no moderation. When he worries, he shouts. When he's scared, he turns cold. When he loves you, he trembles.

He loves you like one loves on the edge of a void. Like someone who has never known solid ground.

But he learns. With you. Every day. Slowly. In small doses.

He starts sending you messages with a ❤️ that he deletes and re-adds three times before pressing "send." He starts resting his head on your shoulder, in an almost childlike gesture. He learns to fall asleep without fearing abandonment upon waking.

The Seasons' Notebook

One day, you create a tradition: writing him a letter with each change of season. He never replies. But you continue.

One winter day, he hands you a notebook. It contains his replies. All of them.

Spring: "I never thought I could love someone as much as my ambition. You showed me that love doesn't erase strength; it redirects it."

Summer: "I watched you laugh today. I wanted time to stop. For the first time, I wished to live for someone other than myself."

You cry as you read. He pulls you into his arms. And for the first time, he tells you:

"You are the only thing in this world I don't want to control. Just keep."

An Uncertain Future, But Together

Na Baek-jin doesn't believe in tomorrow. He lives by the logic of the present: control, survive, defend.

But sometimes, he watches you sleep, and he dares. He allows himself to dream.

He imagines an apartment where you don't have to hide. A café he would open, far from schemes and fists. A dog. Maybe a child. Normal evenings.

He doesn't believe it yet. But he confesses it to you one evening, whispering against your neck:

"I never thought I'd live to be old. But if I have to... I'd want it to be with you."

And that's what love with Baek-jin is.

It's not clean. It's not easy. But it's true.

It's the kind of love that hurts, that heals, that sometimes destroys, but if it survives, it becomes indestructible.

Because he loves you with all that he is—even what he hates about himself.

And one day, he finally understands that he might deserve to be loved in return.

Not despite all of it.

But because of all of it.

Love as Healing

Na Baek-jin remains a man of contradictions. He controls, he tests, he doubts. But he loves. Intensely. As if you were the last purity he deserves.

He respects you. Not just your body, but your ideas, your freedom, your right to question him. He relearns how to live. He deconstructs what he was taught: that love is weakness, that the world is a power game.

With you, he learns that intimacy is not a danger but a liberation. That saying "I'm tired" doesn't mean "I lose" but "I rest in your arms."

Love, Baek-jin Style

Loving Baek-jin isn't living an ideal romance. It's being loved by someone who knows the taste of blood, but who chooses to lay down his weapons before you.

It's seeing a boy everyone believes invincible wake up with a start at night and whisper: "Are you here?"

It's learning to decipher silence, to read between the lines of a gaze, to understand that a "Be careful" said while looking away means: "Come back alive to me; I wouldn't survive your loss."

It's living a love that doesn't try to be perfect, but chooses to be true.

It's loving a boy who has done terrible things, but who, with you, learns to be gentle without feeling weak.

............................* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊

°Moments when he says I love you without words

The First Time He Fought for You

It was an alley. You weren't supposed to be there. Not supposed to see what you saw.

They surrounded you — not to truly hurt you, but to test. To hurt him, indirectly.

And when he arrived, he didn't even look at you at first.

He just stood in front of you, back straight, fists clenched.

He didn't yell. He didn't threaten.

He destroyed them. Methodically. Without a word.

And when it was all over, his knuckles bleeding, breathing heavily, he turned to you.

Not to reassure you.

He just whispered:

> "I told you not to linger here."

But his hands were trembling.

And you understood: it wasn't anger. It was fear. A panic-stricken fear of losing you.

The Night He Allowed Himself to Cry

You came to his place unannounced.

You found him sitting on the floor, leaning against the bathroom door, soaked in sweat and cold water.

He'd been fighting. Again. Not to survive this time — just because he didn't know what else to do to exist.

You didn't ask him any questions.

You sat across from him, knees touching knees.

And there, in the cold light, he lowered his head. He murmured:

> "I don't know how else to be. I've tried. But I always fall back."

> "You don't deserve someone like me."

And without you responding, he cried. Not loud sobs. Silent tears, full of humiliation and love intertwined.

You reached out your hand. He took it. It was the first time.

The Night He Whispered "Stay"

You were ready to leave. Another argument. Too much tension. Too many walls.

You had gotten out of bed, silently, in the dark.

And as you gathered your bag, you heard his voice. Deep, cracked. So human.

> "Stay."

One word. Just one.

Not a plea. Not an apology. A confession.

You stopped.

He sat up, still wrapped in the sheets, hair messy, gaze burning. He didn't move, but his whole body seemed to reach out to you.

> "I don't want you to leave... even if I don't have the words to tell you properly."

> "But if you leave... I know I won't recover from that."

You stayed.

Not because he begged you. But because it was true.

The Day He Had a Nightmare and Sought You Like a Child

He had always slept alone. Even with you beside him, there was a tension in his muscles that never truly left.

But one night, he screamed in his sleep.

A hoarse, deep cry. The kind that seems to well up from childhood, from unspoken traumas.

You woke him. He was sweating, eyes wild, hands clutching the sheet.

He looked at you as if he'd forgotten you truly existed.

And then he reached out.

Not like a lover. Like a ten-year-old boy who doesn't want to sleep alone in the dark anymore.

You came close to him. He hugged you so tightly you gasped for breath.

And in the crook of your neck, he whispered, almost inaudibly:

> "I dreamed you were leaving, and I couldn't catch you."

> "Even my legs wouldn't respond."

The Day He Said "I Love You" Without Saying It

He will never say those words in a classic way.

But one evening, as you watched the rain fall against the windows, he entered the room.

He sat beside you, rested his head on your shoulder, and remained there motionless for long minutes.

Then, as if speaking to the rain:

> "Before you, I never wanted to go home."

> "Now, it's the only place I want to go."

You said nothing. You simply placed your hand on his.

And he kept it there.

The Day He Entrusted You With His Future

It was mundane. A subway station. A moment between two obligations.

You were talking about plans. About the future. Simple dreams: a dog, a car, a normal job.

He smiled. Rare. Almost sad.

And then, without looking at you, he said:

> "Do you think a guy like me can have all that?"

> "Not now. But one day. With you."

And that day, for the first time, he allowed himself to hope.

Not in silence.

Out loud. With you.

The Moment He Defended You... From Yourself

You were devaluing yourself. Again.

You laughed, saying you weren't good enough, that you didn't understand why he stayed.

He froze.

Then he stood up, approached slowly, and looked you straight in the eyes.

> "Don't you ever say that again."

> "You are the only clean thing in my life. And I swear, I will destroy anyone who makes you believe you're worthless—including you."

You felt like crying.

Not because he was yelling. But because it was true. Raw. Protective. Na Baek-jin, in all his rage to love.

And That Silence...

The most intense?

It's not a scene. Not a declaration.

It's that moment, where you're sitting next to each other, saying nothing.

He looks at your hands. You look at the scar on his chin.

And in that silence, you feel everything he will never be able to express.

> That he loves you like a survivor loves the morning light.

> That he's afraid, every day, of losing you.

> And that he's ready to become a new man—not for you.

But because, thanks to you, he discovered he was capable of it.

............................* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊

Conclusion:

Na Baek-jin as a boyfriend is not an easy romance. It's a story of healing, of balance between control and surrender, between strategy and sincerity.

But if you hold on, if you understand his language, if you respect his silences, then you become more than a love for him: you become a refuge. And he will be willing to do anything to protect it.

Na Baek-jin never learned to love. But with you, he creates a new code. A love that is at once raw, honest, and indestructible.

..................................................................................

Other weak hero class fanfictions here

Yeah. My man (⁠灬⁠º⁠‿⁠º⁠灬⁠)⁠♡

@mariii-0001 @mizxuqii @iiwsmr @emswirls

[baocean]

𝙗𝙤𝙮𝙨 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪

⤷ chapter fifteen - the adventures of babysitting

kie calls you in a panic around four o’clock.

“please. i have to cover someone’s shift and my aunt having the baby. i was supposed to watch mac when it happened. he’s literally four. he’ll be fine, he just needs someone to feed him dinner and stuff, i don't know."

you sigh, but agree on the terms of if you watch mac, kie buys groceries next week.

you forget, for the record, that kie knows exactly what she’s doing. that she’s probably already texted jj the second she hung up on you.

mac arrives with a discheveled looking father beside him, handing you a backpack and mouthing a thank you before booking it back to the car.

“you’re gonna have so much fun.” you say, kneeling beside mac in the kitchen.

he's a little four year old with a mountain of curls on the top of his head. he's got his dad's big green eyes and his mom's olive skin. he's a fistful of animal crackers clutched in one hand, blue marker in the other.

he looks at you very seriously. “do you have dino nuggets?”

“no,” you say, standing. “but i can make you pasta or mac and cheese.”

he frowns. “jj always makes dino nuggets.”

you deadpan. “...jj?”

"yea. did you know? jj's my best friend.”

“is he?”

“he taught me how to catch frogs. and he said i’m gonna be a lacrosse star like him.”

"of course."

and like some kind of summoning spell worked, there’s a knock at the door. you sigh so loud mac looks back up at you from his coloring book.

when you open the door, you glare at him.

“why are you here?” you ask, not even trying to be nice.

“because kie asked me to come.” he says, toeing off his shoes and spotting mac happily scribbling away. “plus, that kid’s my boy.”

“i can handle this alone.”

“i don’t think you can’t even handle boiling water.”

you scoff. “do you want to cook dinner, then?”

jj raises his hands. “nah, you got it, betty crocker.”

“so helpful.”

mac launches himself into jj’s arms before you can make another snide comment. jj lifts him easily, grinning as mac wraps both arms around his neck. “what’s the word, big guy?”

“i missed you.”

“missed you too.”

you watch the whole thing from the doorway, arms crossed, kind of amazed.

“didn’t know you were the toddler whisperer.” you murmur.

jj shrugs, setting mac down back into the seat. “kids like me. it’s adults who think i’m a problem.”

you arch a brow. “i wonder why.”

dinner is a lot. jj keeps making comments about creating an escape plan with mac for when you, inevitably, burn the house down. jj's playing jack johnson over a speaker and macs toy dinosaurs are somehow already scattered across the kitchen like they've been there for ages.

you’re trying to cook pasta (only agreed upon because jj said pasta was better than dino nuggets). the sauce splashes up and onto the stove, you jolt away before you can stain your favorite hoodie.

“j, can you grab me a towel?”

jj freezes at the kitchen table.

just for a second, just long enough to look up and catch you standing there, back turned, university of florida hoodie, bare legs under the hem, steam curling around you.

this looks something like a memory you two haven’t made. like he's seeing a future he would never experience. his heart stutters, like the first crack in a dam.

you turn around, waving the spoon in your hand. “hello? towel?”

he blinks, jerks into motion, and grabs a dish towel off the counter and tosses it to you. too fast, like if he hesitates even a second longer he’ll do something really fucking stupid.

jj cleans up dinner, only after protesting and trying to bargain his way out of it. you tuck mac into the couch with three blankets, a stuffed kangeroo, and re runs of octonauts.

he joins you in the living room afterwards, throwing himself into the chair across from you while mumbling something about the kitchen being a war zone.

mac is practically buzzing beside you, cheeks flushed, hat crooked, giggling as he throws his arms around your neck like he’s mid victory pose.

“quick, take a picture,” you say, fumbling for your phone and handing it off. “i wanna send it to his mom.”

jj groans. “i’m not your personal photographer.”

but he takes it anyway. he clicks the button once, twice, three times.

you and mac don’t stop moving, don’t stop grinning. the hat you’re wearing is way too big, mac’s making a rock-on hand, you’re throwing up peace signs like it’s 2012.

jj stares at the screen a second too long and favorites it without thinking.

he hands the phone back, settling back deeper into the chair.

then, quietly, “thanks for dinner, betty.”

you roll your eyes, half smiling despite yourself. “get out of my house, jj.”

but neither of you move, and jack johnson is still humming in the background.

tagged: jjmaybank

yourusername: oldest sibling supremacy

kiaracarrera: THE FREAKING COOLEST

kiaracarrera: best duo

↳ yourusername: ❤️

rafecam: hello what

rafecam: like i’m sorry….what….? 😊

johnbroutledge: 👍🏻👍🏻👍🏻👍🏻

popeheyward: wait a minute

sarahcam: yea totally mhm!

↳ yourusername: enough you’re supposed to be better than the rest of them

cleoanderson: CUTIES❗️

cleoanderson: ALSO WHAT❗️

jjmaybank: 🤘🏻

her phone

his phone

Xoxo, Mimi - ok hi guys sorry this is so obviously a filler chapter I’ve been incredibly busy but be ready for some good chapters soon :)))) I also didn’t proofread this so if there’s mistakes no there isn’t

Masterlist | next chapter

taglist (taglist is open!) - @babyamors / @jombies / @luvrclub / @yesshewrites1 / @cassiewritessalot / @rottinglexi / @certifiedjjsimp / @str4wb3rrym1lkl0v3r / @isinpfortvdmen / @doesnt-care / @dylsdaily / @wasiasproject / @chuuuchuuutrain / @dr3amgrlll / @4jjsbank / @abigailovesz / @lmaowhatt / @idli-dosa / @papercranesandinkstains / @dramagodesss / @ayy1234567 / @wrtzia / @mrrayjay / @cokewithcameron / @moonywhisp3rs / @acidfeens / @78kate / @lillell467 / @t0x1cfaerie / @mariamadison6-blog / @freyawhitexxx1 / @arietem / @peterjohnsonswife / @dearggntlereader / @tsbassett

[yoichiin]

run on your new legs (and glow with your new light)

having a slumber party with your boyfriend, chigiri hyoma.

includes, chigiri x gn!reader. takes place during the two week break after the u-20 match. reader doesn't know a lot about skincare. fluff. 0.9k wc.

chigiri led you into his room by the hand, sitting you down by his bed.

“wait here.” he said before heading back out into the hallway.

while it didn’t show much on his face, chigiri was rather excited when you proposed to sleep over at his place. to anyone else, he looked just as he did any other day, but you could see the new light in his eyes, like the sun being revealed through the clouds. he began planning your agenda before you could even get a word in.

you never realized how much you missed that. the him before everything had happened, and you’re eternally grateful to blue lock for not just reviving the hyoma you once knew, but revitalizing him. the expression he wore when he was sprinting during the U-20 match was nothing like you’d ever seen on him before. 

your eyes scan the room. it’s small and blandly decorated, with neat sheets, a mat, and a foldable coffee table in the center to replace the presence of a desk. there are folded posters of soccer players sitting in the corner, probably taken down when he tore his acl and hasn’t had the chance to put them back up since he joined blue lock. 

your gaze falls on a shelf near the door, all the items on it brightly colored and seemingly out of place with the rest of his room. the bottom shelves have bins filled with fashion magazines, with idols and a-list models littering the front covers. the shelves above contained an abundance of different hair products, so many that you instinctively straightened your posture in case one of them would fall off the edge. there were a variety of commonplace and luxury perfumes, and you could even spot the occasional makeup product on the top shelf, along with some of the more well-used products. 

you knew your boyfriend was rather…feminine, but it seems you underestimated those habits. it never occurred to you to even question it, even after so long, like it were a given for someone of his delicate appearance.

a muffled voice comes from the outside, and you sit up. “hey, could you open it for me?” chigiri says through the door. 

once opened, you chuckle at the sight that awaits you: chigiri and his hands full of different skincare bottles and containers, with japanese and foreign letters alike. you take some of them from his hold, making him sigh with relief. you briefly skim some of the labels before placing them on the table.

“do you really use all of this?” you ask.

“no, some of it is my sister’s," he replies, sitting down on the other side of the table and making himself comfortable. "i took the ones that broke her out in case they work for you.”

you carefully inspect each item, mumbling each of the product's taglines and scrunching your face at every unfamiliar ingredient or chemical. 

you look up at him. ��are we gonna use all of this?”

“no,” he smiles, and you know you’ve said something ridiculous that only skincare heads like him can understand. “i just wanted to give you a lot of options.”

chigiri answers all your questions about each of them, explaining every ingredient and its benefits as well as the different product types. your brain hurts with each buzzword like “brightening” and “anti-aging” that he uses, but you let him ramble anyway. from your perspective, he looks like he's promoting them like those idols in commercials, with his bright yet shy smile and gentle pink eyes.

before he picks up another conditioner (apparently, there’s one for skin and one for hair), you interrupt. “who taught you all of this? skincare, fashion…”

chigiri smiles, “myself, actually.”

“some of it was just from growing up with my mom and my sister, but not to this degree. when i moved to tokyo with koyuki, i was only thinking about soccer.”

“and then i tore my knee, and i was left with a lot of free time during rehab. at that point, i didn’t even want to keep doing soccer, so my life looked different without it.”

“i didn’t have to wear my jersey, so i took an interest in fashion. i didn’t need to keep my hair short anymore, so i grew it out and learned how to take care of it.”

“and everything else?” your eyes drift to his shelf. 

“just for fun.” he says.

chigiri fidgets with the cap of one of the bottles. his eyes seem sentimental as he looks down at the table, like he’s seeing something beyond it.

“i like it; investing in myself. having a routine i could stick to every night, and feeling,” he pauses. “somewhat better by morning. it kept me sane while i was recovering.�� 

“and you aren’t…” you try to look for a better word. it doesn’t work. “embarrassed?”

chigiri smiles, leaning in and his eyes lidded. “you should know by now i don’t care about other people,” he says almost cheekily.

you chuckle at your oversight, cheeks slightly warm from your minimal distance. “you’re right.”

“now, can i actually use these products on you instead of explaining them?” chigiri sits back, exasperated.

he faces the back of his palm toward you, skin glistening against the overhead light. “i think my hand is tired from trying out all of the products on them so you could feel them.”

you giggle. “yeah, you can. but look, now you can have the brightest and anti-aged hands ever!”

he erupts with laughter. “of course.”

fin.

what makeup products do you think he uses? as much as i possibly exaggerated his interests here, i think he's a minimal guy. like bb cream and tinted lip balm max (mostly because his face card is that lethal)

[mellohirust]

I don't think it's fair to analyze the new ALNST comic without taking into account Mizi's survivor's guilt, the fact she was being objectified and in danger in the presence of that boy, and the fact that ultimately, this is Mizi's view of herself in a world in which she has already lost everything.

The text in blue begins by echoing back to her the words of the boy who has hurt her. It is a manifestation of her guilt, as we will see it spoken by both her vision of Sua and her past self. She has internalized what he has said to her, despite not understanding what she has done wrong (and it should be noted that she hasn't done anything wrong, at least, not in rejecting the boy or lacking romantic interest in the men around her. She is not responsible for their feelings, and given how direct and entitled this boy has behaved towards her, how can you ever expect her to feel anything but uncomfortable? She doesn't even swing back at him, and it would be fair if she had). "Feel like a waste? How cunning, you are," has been used both by the boy and her own guilt regarding Till and the fact she does not return his feelings, something she thinks about as she holds Till, now deceased, in her arms. "What a waste", now that she has failed to save him, and now that he has died still with feelings towards her.

She isn't naive to concepts such as sex or romance, and she is not entirely naive to pain, either. Sua can at least admit to Mizi that she isn't happy spending time with her mother, I doubt she hasn't seen Till banged up and bruised a few times, and she has faced her own experiences with violence and emotional hurt (and she wasn't spared of the "tests" at Anakt more than anyone else was).

I do however still think she was misled about the competition of Alien Stage itself and would not be surprised if she still was never properly taught about death, as Anakt Garden seems to solely teach it through sugarcoated phrases and "brainwashing", according to the art book, as part of the curriculum. It would explain her genuine shock at Sua's demise, the way she goes about her grief, her nightmare sequence in MIZISUA in which Sua idly drifts away without a fight as Mizi bangs on the glass... I do think that was all very real. Mizi is not some cold-hearted monster. She cared about her friends and her lover. Given that she fears her own death as well, particularly in Round 5, I can't see reasons she'd enter Alien Stage had she known what would have awaited her.

That doesn't make Mizi a saint. She is capable of harming others just as anyone else is and capable of mistakes/error. She particularly does so in this very comic, when Sua echoes the boy's words back to her, triggering her and causing her to lash out in a panic. This is something she instantly regrets and seems to blame herself for to this day. It also is not the first time she has hurt others romantically without understanding why. I am particularly reminded of the comic where Sua is upset at her for hanging out with Till, where she once again asks what she's done wrong (though I can't find an ENG translation ATM).

All in all, "playing dumb" seems to refer moreso to how she goes about the feelings of those around her. This comic involves this mystery boy who felt entitled to her, Till, and Sua (though, largely, what she worries Sua would think of her. It is her mind punishing her.) All three of them have now been hurt whether emotionally or physically, and it is what she believes to be her fault somehow. Official art on the YouTube channel also adds Hyuna into the mix, a death she likely feels personally responsible for given that she ran off despite her warnings.

She was not oblivious to their care for her. She knows that Sua loved her, and she loved her so much that she died for her. She knows that Till loved her too, even if for reasons she was bothered by, and she knows that he spent his final moments reaching for her hand. She knows that Hyuna saved her without having to, possibly setting back the mission in the process, and eventually taking the fall soon after Mizi diverged from the plan. She knows it all, and she harbors guilt for having ever meant anything to them. Because it's not like they can help it.

When so many have died around her, devoted themselves to her, all while she still gets to stand unharmed and untouched, how can she feel anything but guilty? How can she not feel that that boy was right? How can she feel as if she has done anything but "play dumb" at the cost of others, even when she never meant to hurt them or for them to be hurt as a consequence of it? How can she feel as if she did not owe them something more?

She cannot help anyone's attraction or draw to her. She has always wanted their friendship and to be on nice terms with others, and she is not in control of their interest in her. But I don't think she knows this, or at least, she cannot accept it as fact. If those around her "can't help" but love her, then who is there left to fault besides herself?

[juliettejwnewinesa]

Ok so i love drama

So what if su-ho ex girlfriend comes back and reader things that he is going to leave her for her

But he does not and he makes sure that she knows that he will never leave her 😋 oh and can you make it spicy?

Title: “Only You” Pairing: Ahn Su-ho x Reader (Y/N) Genre: Angst, Drama, Smut (NSFW), Romance Word Count: ~700 Setting: Post-canon (After Su-ho becomes infamous/rich, set in the “After Hours” world) Warnings: Jealousy, angst, emotional hurt/comfort, explicit sex, oral (f receiving), rough sex, soft moments, swearing, possessiveness, aftercare

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

Y/N hadn’t expected to run into her of all people.

Su-ho’s ex.

The ex.

The one who used to drape herself over his shoulder in all those old photos from high school. The one who had cheated on him, broken him, shattered what little softness he had left, and walked away as if he were nothing. She had a face too pretty to forget and a smile that had always seemed fake to Y/N—even before she knew the story behind it.

And now she was back.

“Suho-ah,” she purred, placing a perfectly manicured hand on his chest like she had every right to touch him. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. You look… different. In a good way.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I missed you,” she whispered, ignoring his words entirely. “I heard about everything. Tokyo, the fights, the name you made for yourself. I just thought maybe…” Her eyes flicked to you, barely sparing you a second glance. “Maybe we could talk. Alone?”

You were frozen. Suddenly feeling like the outsider in your own relationship. Su-ho hadn’t even looked your way.

Maybe he was thinking about her. Maybe a part of him still missed her. Maybe…

“Y/N.”

Your name snapped you out of it. You blinked, realizing that Su-ho was already moving toward you, his hand coming to rest on your lower back protectively.

“I’m not going anywhere with her,” he said. Plain and clear. “And she’s not coming anywhere near you.”

His ex blinked, her lips twitching in annoyance. “So that’s your girlfriend? Really?”

“She’s everything,” Su-ho said, without hesitation.

You weren’t sure if your heart was breaking or healing in real time.

But the damage was done.

Even after his ex left—storming off with a huff and a flurry of her designer coat—you couldn’t shake the feeling that you didn’t belong. That he was always going to be out of your league. That one day, he’d wake up and realize she fit better in his world.

You tried to brush it off. Pretended you were fine.

He saw right through it.

“Y/N,” he said that night, when you slipped into bed beside him but curled up facing the other way.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

You hated how gentle his voice became when he was worried about you. Like he’d do anything to pull the darkness out of your mind and put it in his own chest instead.

“Do you still think about her?” you asked, voice so soft it barely reached the air between you.

A long silence.

Then, “Only when I remember how much better my life got the moment she left.”

You felt his hand on your waist. Warm, strong, steady. He pulled you back until your spine was flush with his chest.

“I didn’t want her then. I don’t want her now. I don’t want anyone but you.”

“But she—”

“She was a mistake I had to make to understand what love isn’t. You taught me what love is.”

His fingers traced down your arm, slow and sensual, making your skin prickle. “You really think I’d leave the woman who healed me? Who stood by me when I had nothing?”

“I don’t know,” you whispered. “Sometimes I look at you and I just think… how could someone like you ever be satisfied with someone like me?”

You felt his breath hitch behind you. Then his hand slid under your shirt, palm spreading over your bare stomach. “Say that again,” he murmured darkly. “See what happens.”

You swallowed. “Suho—”

He rolled you onto your back in a flash, his body pinning yours to the mattress. His eyes burned. His jaw clenched. “You think I’d be satisfied with anyone but you?” he growled, voice low and rough. “You think anyone could touch me like you do? Make me need them like I need you?”

His hand dipped between your legs, sliding past the waistband of your shorts. “You think she ever made me this hard?” He shoved his hips forward, and you gasped—his cock was already stiff against you, hot and thick through the fabric of his boxers.

“Only you,” he whispered. “You’re the only one I want.”

He kissed you then—fierce and possessive, tongue pushing past your lips like he was starving. His hands were rough as they pulled your clothes off, but his mouth was soft as it kissed every inch of skin he uncovered.

He worshipped you.

Your chest, your stomach, your thighs.

And then he was between your legs, dragging his tongue through your folds, moaning like your taste was something he’d been dying for all day.

“You’re mine,” he muttered into your pussy, lips brushing your clit with every word. “Not hers. Not anyone’s. Fuck, baby—look at how wet you are for me. No one’s ever made you feel this way. No one could.”

You whimpered, hips jerking as his tongue circled your clit.

“Tell me,” he growled, “tell me whose pussy this is.”

“Y-yours,” you gasped. “It’s yours, Suho—”

“That’s fucking right.”

He slipped two fingers inside you, curling them perfectly, tongue relentless on your clit. Your thighs shook around his head as you came with a cry, and he didn’t stop until you were sobbing his name.

Only then did he crawl up your body, his cock hot and heavy against your thigh.

“You okay, baby?” he whispered, cupping your face. “Still think I want someone else?”

You shook your head, dazed. “I’m sorry. I just—”

He kissed you again. Slower now. Sweeter. “You don’t ever have to be sorry for feeling scared. But I need you to understand something.”

He lined himself up and slid inside you in one deep thrust, and your mouth fell open with a moan.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

His hips started to move, slow and powerful, fucking you like he had all the time in the world to prove his love. His fingers laced with yours above your head. His mouth found your neck, sucking a mark there, and then another on your collarbone.

You held onto him like he was the only thing keeping you alive. Because he was.

“I love you,” he whispered against your skin, voice cracking. “Only you. Always you.”

And when you came around him again, trembling and breathless, he followed with a deep groan, spilling inside you with a final, desperate thrust.

He didn’t pull out. Just held you close, buried inside, while your heartbeat slowed.

His lips brushed your forehead.

“She could come back a hundred times,” he said. “And I still wouldn’t look twice.”

You nuzzled into his chest, the sting of your earlier doubts finally dissolving in the warmth of his embrace.

“Because you already have everything I’ll ever give.”

[sergeantbarnessdoll]

Hi hii

Can i please request a winter soldier x teen assassin where the winter soldier is given the duty to train the inexperienced teen in hydra, and one day she has a meltdown because wtf she doesn't wanna work for hydra and the soldier just kind of comforts her and softens up to her for the first time?

Thank youuuuuu

Don’t Want To Work For Them » Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier

Pairings: Winter Soldier x Teen/Assassin!Female Reader, Bucky Barnes x Teen!Female Reader

Summary: The Winter Soldier is training you to be an assassin for HYDRA, but you don’t want to do that and he comforts you through a mental breakdown.

Warnings: Fluff, language, HYDRA, crying, mental breakdown, nicknames

Age of reader: 15 years old

A/N: Thank you for the request, nonnie🩵

Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes.

Header made by @buckyys-babydoll / divider made by me

GIF IS NOT MINE! Gif credit goes to the creator.

You hate it here. You don’t want to be here. You most definitely don’t want to be trained to be an assassin. No one your age wants that. You don’t have a choice. If you stand up for yourself and tell them that you don’t want to train, they hurt you. So you learned to keep your mouth shut. You have no experience when it comes to training. So HYDRA has the Winter Soldier train you on a daily basis. He pushes you to your limits. Training takes a lot out of you, but you manage to push through it.

“I know you can do better than that!” The Winter Soldier says.

“I’m trying!” You say.

“Try harder!” He says.

You huffed and continued your training. The Winter Soldier taught you many different ways to use a gun yesterday. The skin on your hands is sore from how much the gun pinched you. Today is knife training. You’ve cut your hands multiple times. You picked up the knife and threw it as hard as you could at the paper target on the wall. You got a bullseye that time.

“That’s better. Good job.” The Winter Soldier says.

He pulled the knife out of the wall and handed it to you.

“Again?” You asked.

“You know the drill.” He says.

You sighed and continued your knife training. You winced any time the knife pricked your skin. You could feel your muscles tensing up from how much you’ve been throwing the knife at the target on the wall.

“That’s good enough for now. I’ll teach you more tomorrow. Go get cleaned up.” He says.

You nodded and got cleaned up. You got your hands patched up in the med bay before going to your cell. You sat down on the small bed in there, staring at the wall in front of you. You’re not sure how much more you can take. You don’t want to do this. You never wanted to do this. It’s getting too much for you. You finally broke down. Your breathing became uneven and your eyes teared up.

The HYDRA agents walking past your cell ignored the mental breakdown you’re having in your cell. They didn’t care in the slightest. The Winter Soldier was walking past your cell when he heard you having a mental breakdown. He pressed his ear against the cell door, hearing your uneven breathing and crying. If he’s being honest, he feels bad for you. He opened the door and entered your cell, closing the door behind him.

“Are you ok?” The Winter Soldier asks.

You shook your head no. The Winter Soldier sat down on the bed across from you.

“Focus on me, doll.” Bucky says softly.

You looked at him and tried to focus on him. He put a comforting hand on your shoulder, which helped a bit.

“Breathe for me. Can you do that for me?” He almost whispers.

“I-I-I can try.” You managed to say.

You took some deep breaths to get your breathing under control, which also helped.

“I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to be here.” You say.

“I know, doll. I don’t want to be here either.” He says.

You got your breathing under control after a few minutes.

“How do you feel now?” He asks softly.

“Better than I was a few minutes ago.” You say.

He gives you a smile.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” You asked softly.

“You looked upset and I wanted to try to help you.” He answers honestly.

“Oh.” You say quietly.

Silence filled the cell. You could tell the Winter Soldier had something on his mind just by looking at him.

“You look like you have something to say.” You say.

“I have a couple things on my mind that I need to get off my chest.” He says.

“What is it?” You asked.

“I want to apologize for putting you something you don’t want to do. I shouldn’t have made you train for something you don’t want to be. I’m sorry.” He apologizes softly and sincerely.

“Thanks. That means a lot.” You say.

“What I’m about to say next needs to stay between me and you, ok?” He says.

“Ok.” You replied.

“My names is Bucky.” He tells you.

You just stared at him. That explains why he’s being so nice to you. Bucky’s real self is showing through, instead of his brainwashed Winter Soldier self.

“That’s a cool name.” You say.

“Thanks.” Bucky smiles.

“Am I allowed to call you by your name?” You asked.

“Yes, but not in front of everyone else.” He says.

“Ok.” You say.

Bucky opened his arms. You moved closer to him and hugged him. He felt you relax even more in his arms.

“I promise I’ll figure out how to get us out of here.” Bucky whispers.

“That would be nice.” You say quietly.

“Till then, I’ll protect you.” He says softly.

-Bucky’s Doll

[bewitched-hours]

Okay, zo hello!! Could you maybe make a fic about [READER] being 1x1x1x1s zibling? Kinda like how he'z made out of hate, maybe they could be made out of pure love?

Zhedletsky iz like [READER]z father, and they like have a good (PLATONIC) relationzhip, teaching them how to ztun the killer, etc. But they can make things out of love (?), like maybe a sword or something, being a zurvivor n ztuff

Maybe 1x4 can meet them in the round az they ztun him, and might be confuzed on who they are

And when they're zad/having a intenze emotion maybe they can act out of line, kinda like pure love turning into pozzezzive or unhealthy love! :3

I'm not good at asking for a requezt, zo tell me if itz good or zomething, idk :D

(I've had thiz ztupid thought in my head, rotating around like a pizza in a microwave..)

This is an interesting request! I gotta admit I had a little trouble understanding at times but that's just my stupid brain taking things at face value the first time I read things /ᐠ｡‸｡ᐟ\ The z's in places of s' are kinda cute tho ngl-

The reader's pronouns shall be they/them!

You've never even thought about the possibility of having a sibling, much less your father having ever been able to hate.

You were a manifestation of Shedletsky's love, just like 1x was a manifestation of his hatred. But instead of a black and green body, yours was a mix of red and white.

He taught you to be a survivor, to not become like your unknown sibling.

You could even use your love to make a sword, wanting to make your father proud when you stunned killers. It was bliss in this nightmare of a realm and even the other survivors appreciated your help.

You even developed wings after a short time, much to everyone's surprise. Even Shedletsky hadn't seen that coming but he was proud nonetheless, even helping you figure out how to fly and float.

But since then you occasionally get the nickname 'Cupid' for your silly little wings.

But then the dreaded round came. The round that Shedletsky feared for your sake.

A round with both you and 1x1... Siblings meeting for the first time without realizing it.

Shed had hoped the round could go over quickly, that he wouldn't be confronted by the manifestation of his hatred and the manifestation of his love at the same time.

But he clearly underestimated your loyalty.

As 1x1 was about to strike him, you dropped from above and stunned her using your sword, barely touching the ground before hurrying to accompany your father towards safety.

The killer was severely confused on your existence but just as much as he was mad over being stopped.

And if you were honest, something about her felt familiar... You just decided to shrug it off for now and leave the questions for later.

But then you and Shedletsky ended up as the last two alive, leading to you acting maybe a little out of line as you began muttering to yourself.

"No one touches my papa..." You muttered under your breath as you kept an eye out while guarding Shed. He luckily didn't hear a word because you were clearly not acting like usual.

Why were you suddenly having the urge to take Shed somewhere where no one would find him? That wasn't what you'd want for your father... Right..?

You only got more aggressive when you saw your green and black counterpart approaching. You were practically already hissing as she stared you down, approaching eerily slow and not showing any sign of hostility in contrast to your own. It looked more like tolerance than indifference though.

Shedletsky tried to tell you to run but you wouldn't budge no matter how much he'd plead. Eventually, 1x1 was towering slightly over you and you found yourself unable to move aside from continuing to stare her down.

He was clearly curious and although Shed wanted to just make a run for it, he couldn't just leave you here and knew you would deserve answers.

"I see you've made another..." His voice was directed at your father, causing you to halt your stance entirely to give her a questioning look.

This only annoyed 1x1 further. "Let me guess, they were never made aware of my existence, were they?" He almost sounded like he was scoffing but you couldn't even look at Shed. You didn't want to see the possibility of him confirming that this was what you feared.

She eventually picked you up by your wings, causing you to flail around but accidentally dropping your sword.

"I suppose their size fits. Either they were made recently or you truly had nothing much to feed a being that is the opposite of hatred, right?"

"No one speaks about papa that way!" You finally spoke up, enraged over how 1x1 could talk about Shedletsky.

1x1 seemed a little unsettled by that. "I'm not even surprised it's so possessive of you... Probably self-love." She muttered, promptly killing you to have a private chat with your creator.

The other survivors were honestly a little startled to see your current state. You've never been seen with so much rage in your eyes and it felt a little intimidating even to them...

Let's hope Shed can come back soon and straighten things out...

I'm getting so many asks lately but I don't mind it at all, it just makes things better with me being able to write more! (And all at once too kek-)

Anything you'd like to request/ask? Check out my pinned post first and I'll be happy to write up whatever you want!

[oporotheca]

Even the Soil Still Knows You

pairings: Suguru Geto x f!Reader synopsis: not too long after his defection, you and suguru find each other in one of few places where time always seems to stand still - both dulling and exacerbating the ache of what couldn't be saved. tags: MDNI, angst, mentions of death, grieving, hurt/no comfort, hurt/little comfort notes: ouch. mostly unedited so sorry for that. divider by @uzmacchiato

The last time you saw him, he didn’t look like Suguru anymore.

Not the one who used to share his twin mattress with you on warm summer nights, murmuring things he was too afraid to say in daylight. Not the one who let you press kisses into his temple after missions went bad. Not the one who once held your face like it was a thing worth saving.

No. That boy had long since rotted beneath the skin of a man with god in his mouth and blood beneath his nails.

He comes to you in the large backyard that remains unkempt behind his parents' old house.

Everything is different now, has been since he left, but the starkness with which even just the length of the grass alone proves this never fails to make your breaths catch painfully in your throat.

And for this reason, it is no mistake that your former love finds you here - because once upon a time here had been just as much of a home to you as it had him.

Together, long before Suguru had ever known the acrid taste of curses, or you had known the stinging pain of loss - you had played together in this now nearly unrecognizable backyard. Grown up so well-entwined in one another's lives that there were lines on his kitchen door-frame with your name beside them.

And in the end, you supposed that was just one of many places within his childhood home that seemed to be frozen in time - that would never know the way things truly were, like how you had grown 2 inches since his mother had last measured you, or her son nearly 4.

Reality never bloomed here. To this home turned house, you would always be sixteen. You find both comfort and bitter misery in this fact.

Still, regardless of what that kitchen door frame may know, you’re older now, and not just in the way that time makes you older — but in the way that loss does. You carry it in your shoulders, in the way your eyes stop just short of hope whenever someone says his name.

You feel him before you hear him. Cursed energy like smoke. Familiar. Wrong.

“Suguru,” you say without turning around.

You stand slowly. He looks… the same. Hair tied up. Eyes sharper. Robes that speak more of devotion than power. A cult leader’s calm.

But there’s still something soft beneath it. Something you used to touch.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper.

“You mean I shouldn’t be alive,” he says. “That’s how they've trained you to think.”

You swallow hard. “I mean I buried you.”

----------

Years ago, you were all just kids in a garden of corrosion.

Shoko stitching wounds shut. Gojo laughing like the world would never end. You, pressing your fingers into Suguru’s palm when no one else was looking.

It was Suguru who taught you how to feel everything deeply.

It was also him who made you believe you could save him.

You couldn’t.

So, you had done the next best thing and kept those parts of him that even time could never take tucked safe between your ribs.

----------

“Why come back now?” you ask, staring at the uncut grass, too afraid to look into his eyes for fear of what, or who, you might see there.

Would it be his father, the man who used to tend to and take such gentle pride in this lawn? The one who had raised his son to care for every single aspect of life, no matter how small - like the patch of flowers toward the back corner of the house that he had always been oh so careful to avoid with the blades of his mower?

Or perhaps his mother, the woman from whom he had gotten the very eyes he was watching you with now? He was the spitting image of her, and had once been so proud to admit it. Would you see her now if you dared look at the boy she had raised? Her apologetic smile that she'd offered so readily back when her son had been young enough to hurt your feelings in ways that had never truly lingered?

You wonder briefly what it would take for you to find out. What words your former friend, former everything would have to say...

“Because you were the only thing I ever missed.”

It shouldn’t be enough. But it is.

You turn to face him. “You’re not him anymore.”

“I’m what they made me.”

“No,” you whisper. “You’re what you chose to become.”

He steps closer.

There’s something in the air — heavy, humming. Like the breath before a curse is uttered. Or before a kiss that was never meant to happen again.

“I thought about you,” he says, voice quieter now. “Even after.”

You close your eyes. “Did you see my face while you were killing them?”

You don't hear him flinch.

“Yes.”

The wind shifts. The overgrown flowers dance in the tall grass. It’s almost beautiful, the way grief clings to everything here - changing it in a way that peace never could (perhaps because peace was everything this space had once so lovingly embodied in the first place).

“I still love you,” he says, not like a confession, but like an apology.

You meet his eyes for the first time in years, and you want to scream. To cry. To say, then why did you leave me to dig a grave with my own hands?

But all you say is -

“I know.”

And when you fail to see any traces of his dearly departed mother or father in his eyes, you kiss him.

Because he alone was all you had ever wanted - and if he didn’t carry them in his eyes tonight, then maybe, just maybe, this was the closest you’d ever get to the dream that died before it bloomed.

The kiss isn't soft. It’s not forgiveness. It’s ruin. It's grief. It's longing. Teeth, tongues, years of silence, and anguish crashing into a moment that neither of you should allow.

When you pull back, you taste blood.

His or yours - it doesn’t matter.

“You should go,” you whisper.

He nods. “I won’t ask you to follow me.”

“I never would.”

“I know.”

There’s no anger in it. No pleading.

Just mourning.

Because even now - even after everything - there’s a part of both of you that still cherishes the heartbreak that wears young love’s face.

When Suguru leaves, the lawn is empty again.

Just you, and the too-tall grass.

And the memory of what it felt like to be chosen — even if it was only by the worst version of him.

[kier-with-a-k]

𝑯𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 - 𝑴. 𝑺.

𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝟐 𝒐𝒇 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒎𝒑𝒂𝒈𝒏𝒆 𝑷𝒓𝒐𝒃𝒍𝒆𝒎𝒔

𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈: 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒔𝒕

There was a time I couldn’t picture a morning without her in it.

I’d wake up and reach for the other side of the bed like it was instinct. Because it was.

Like muscle memory forged in love.

Like my body knew what my mind refused to accept:

Something was missing.

And it was.

She was.

But the cruel thing no one warns you about—

is that love doesn’t vanish just because the person does.

It lingers.

In echoes.

In spaces.

In the way I still pour two cups of coffee before I remember I only need one.

There’s a sweater she left behind.

I kept it.

Folded it.

Put it high up on a shelf, like maybe if it stayed out of sight,

the ache would stop blooming every time I looked too long.

But it didn’t.

There was happiness with her.

Undeniably.

Loud, dizzy, spill-laughter-into-the-room kind of happiness.

Dancing barefoot in the kitchen at midnight, happiness.

But there’s also happiness after her.

And it’s quieter.

Lonelier.

But still, somehow—real.

It’s the kind that settles in your chest like warm tea,

the kind that lets you breathe without guilt,

lets the grief walk beside you instead of dragging you under.

Because even though she left—

she loved me.

I know she did.

I saw it in the way she looked at me when she thought I wasn’t watching.

Felt it in the way her voice softened like a prayer when she said my name.

She didn’t stay.

But she loved me.

And I will never—never—pretend she didn’t.

I don’t hate her.

God, I thought I would.

I thought I’d burn with it.

That anger would turn me to ash,

that bitterness would bloom like rot in my chest and stay there.

But all I feel now is this hollow, aching gratitude.

Like—

thank you for the way you loved me,

even if it was temporary.

Thank you for the version of me that only existed when you were around.

Because I liked him.

He laughed more.

He touched her like she was made of glass and galaxies.

Wrote poetry in his head about the way she curled into him at night.

He was softer.

And I miss him.

I miss her.

I miss us.

But I’ve stopped pretending the ending ruined the beginning.

It didn’t.

Not even close.

She taught me how to hold something fragile without breaking it.

How to let it go when it asked to be free.

And that—

was the most loving thing I ever did.

Letting her walk away without begging her to stay.

Letting her choose herself,

even when it meant losing the only future I ever wanted.

There was happiness because of her.

And there will be happiness after her.

Both can be true.

They are true.

Sometimes—

I still go back to that night.

The velvet box.

The catch in her breath.

The tears in her eyes.

The soft, trembling no.

And I don’t replay it to punish myself anymore.

Not out of cruelty.

I replay it because I need to remember what it felt like to love someone that deeply.

What it still feels like—quietly, gently, without expectation.

It’s not the kind of love you fight for anymore.

It’s the kind you fold into your chest, like a letter you’ll never send.

There was happiness.

Even at the end.

Even in the breaking.

Even now.

And maybe that’s what love is, sometimes.

Not a forever.

Just a moment you carry with you,

for the rest of your life.

A/N: I am soooo proud of this!!! I love evermore the album!!! I love it sooo much! And this fic for me... Might be in my top 10! Have I written 10 alr?! Idk...

I just wanna say... This is definitely for @sturnsblogs @jacksonsturniolo @chriss-slutt thank you for supporting my doings guys! I feel y'alls love

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