#every time i look back at this girl it's like the void is even bigger. what was i to her. what am i to her. does she even think about me

[autistic-shaiapouf]

Every so often realizing how badly I was fucked up by a 10 year friendship abruptly ending and cracking open to reveal an utter emotional CHASM

[astraystayyh]

La déchirure 

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

pairing: figure skater!hyunjin x ballerina!reader.

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

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

word count: 21.8k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she loved ballet. 

So, you had to love ballet too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In you.

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

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

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

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

“I got into Julliard” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unearthing her body and burying yours there instead, perhaps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You feel so horrible, for a millisecond. 

She was only seven. 

Her grave is too small compared to your body. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you.” 

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

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

“I don’t want to burden you.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looks like a good person. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was all you’ve ever wanted to hear. 

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

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

Four years later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When does he ever? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stole my money,” Hyunjin mutters.

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

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

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

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

“Really? That’s amazing!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Hyunjin!”

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

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

“No,” he admits.

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

“I’m not hungry.”

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Far more beautiful, too.

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, he is,” you reply quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No one, except Hyunjin.

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

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

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

“Sure, I’d like that,” you grinned.

“Okay. Wait for me.”

… 

Hyunjin’s routine has always been quite simple. 

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

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

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

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

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

He hopes it is you dancing there. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Barbie?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has she ever cared to? 

… 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She was. She is.” 

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

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

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

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

It is his very soul that twitched at your touch. 

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

Your reply was even more obvious, simpler.

“Comforting you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What does that mean? 

…

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

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

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

But something within him was shifting—unraveling. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did that make Hyunjin selfish? Or lonely? 

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

“Don’t worry about me.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This isn’t normal. 

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

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

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

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

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

“There, sealed forever.” 

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

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

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

“I’ll be there to catch you.”

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

“Yeah, i do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until you.

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

But to no avail.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sees you in a whole different light, now.

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

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

Is his soul drawn to yours?

Perhaps. Yes. Most definitely, his heart whispered.

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

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

…

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

But somehow you found yourself exactly there, tonight. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, a note. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

I would love to dance ballet with you.

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

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

How horrible are you? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hyunjin’s frown deepens—something feels off. 

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

“Is something wrong?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

… 

Hyunjin is beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hyunjin won. Hyunjin qualified for the Olympics.

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

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

How could he be anything but extraordinary?

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

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

Oh god. 

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

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

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

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

“Do you want me to come with you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please, not again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

… 

“So, how do we do this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your sweet Hyunjin.

“I want that too, Hyune.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You want to stay. 

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That truth felt easier to confront with you near.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

“I think I’ll go to Switzerland.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course, we will.”

It is the first time you lie to Hyunjin. 

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

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

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

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

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

… 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you couldn’t afford that. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.” He hums. “Are you outside?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yn, I- you know that I love you.”

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

“I love you too, my Hyune.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

… 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You now had an excuse to be there. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It has always been his face for you. 

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

Then, he launches into the air.

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

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

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

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

And then he does it.

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

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

But not on yours.

Your Hyunjin did it, like you knew he would. 

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

Hyunjin’s name comes first. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Congratulations on your win,” you say.

“Congratulations on your graduation.”

He knows.

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

Or, you could speak now.

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

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

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

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

“For what?”

“For stealing you away.”

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

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

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

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

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

He yields first.

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

“I couldn’t miss seeing you win.”

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

“I’m here tonight.” 

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

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

Then, suddenly, his lips meet yours.

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

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

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

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

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

“I was always ever yours to love.” 

Epilogue. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They are now meant for you, at long last. 

[hai7ani]

Main masterlist | cw smut, objectification, story happens when reader is still a sex worker (details of reader's experiences working in the field is included), read at your own risk

The way you love me (be my baby)

i.

Sex with Rindou is different, you think.

He's not like the other men who pays you money for a quick fuck, or even booking the whole night with you on special occasions that they decide to splurge on drugs and sluts at the club.

They slap you around like you're just some toy meant for their pleasure. A lot of them share one bad habit in common, you notice 一 that they like leaving their wet condoms on your thigh after they finish, never bothering to dispose of it in the bin, and sometimes even going as far as snapping a quick photo of you despite the club's T&C's and against your will.

You're quick to learn that this is all you're worth for. You're fast to drill it in your head, accepting the fact that you are simply just a girl put into this world for sex and pleasure. A worthless toy that anyone gets to play with if they simply have some money or enough influence to get a membership for such prestigious club owned by a reputable organisation.

That's all you are to them: a toy.

But to yourself?

You're not exactly sure on what you are.

Nights are lonely in your room even when you're surrounded by people.

It's men, most nights, but there'd also be a few older women who'd visit the club every once in a while. Lonely, yearning women who are just as empty as you on the inside, aching to feel something 一 just anything at all 一 in their hearts. You can see it clear in their orbs the second they get to feel your touch on their skins 一 a kind of void in their eyes that you don't think you can fully understand, but could still relate to in a way.

Sometimes many men would also come together and loom over you as you cry. Not from pleasure, but from pain. They are always very harsh and demanding with you.

And as always, you didn't think that sex would be any different when you come face to face with a man in a seemingly very expensive suit waiting for you in an equally expensive hotel room. Long, lilac bangs fanning over his brows and he's a bit tanner than the rest. He has bored, doe eyes that turn bright as soon as they land on your figure playing with your fingers by the door, piercing bullets into your wavering soul as you stand before him and introduce yourself as a replacement for Sakura-chan.

And when you finally dare to look up into his eyes when he doesn't reply a word, nor a simple response to your introduction, you manage to recognise him very swiftly.

He's the owner of the club that you work for. Basically your boss, and the bigger boss of Freida.

Haitani-sama.

You hadn't expected for him to be so... quiet, and soft as a person. He's silent when beckoning you over with a hand from the edge of the bed, and still is when pulling you even closer to himself, placing his palm so warmly on the back of your thigh. His touch is demanding and at a place of absolute power, but he isn't abusive with it. His purples are bold, strong, and pinkish lips stained with wine slowly curling into a small smile while he gaze so deeply into your wide, glossy eyes.

You don't really remember much about your first time meeting him.

You remember talking with him, touching him as per your job's demands, and suddenly you find yourself straddling his hips, hands gripped tightly onto his shoulders while you pant and mewl into the air, cheeks flushed and your head thrown back, as he pistons a few thick fingers into your pussy, occasionally bumping and rubbing your clit with his palm so sweetly under the hem of your long dress and he's kissing down the valley of your breasts.

You've always thought that sex is meant to hurt.

But it is different with him together.

Every night when he returns and somehow chooses you each and every single time, you finally get to feel something in the empty shell that people call 'a heart'. It burns like gasoline in your chest when you feel it coming, but it is something that you find yourself longing for so feverishly on the nights he isn't visiting.

He asks for your legs to fall off his hips 一 to let yourself go and simply enjoy the moment with him 一 and he never hits you for pleasure like what you're used to being treated. He likes fucking in doggy, but always ends the night slow with missionary because it's what you're more comfortable with 一 based on your body language that he'd read through like an open book the first night with you.

He lets you cum as many times as you want, even going as far as making you use your big girl words to ask for it sometimes.

He gave you a voice 一 something that you've never got to have for yourself, and he lets you use it as much as you want with him. As loud as you want.

He never tugs on your hair or pulling your head back and forth whenever you have him in your mouth. It's degrading, and men tend to enjoy it a lot. But he doesn't do that very often, you notice 一 doesn't seem very into the whole blowjob or mouth-fucking thing despite the extreme pleasure he feels, and prefers having his dick inside of you and getting you both off with it.

You like that it's this way with him, that there is never any pain on your end. Guilty as charged, you treat it as an escape sometimes, even though you know damn well that you shouldn't be getting too close or intimate with a paying, returning customer.

Not to mention that he pays really well, too 一 always giving you way too much for your services, and never stealing photos or leaving behind his trash like the others always do either.

You come to learn fairly quickly that his first name is Rindou. Before this piece of information that he'd handed out to you way too early in your exchange, you've only known of him as Haitani-sama. Sometimes you'd call him Sir out of habit, but he prefers that less to Daddy. He fucking loves it, too, actually, and sometimes you'd resort to calling him just that for the whole night because you're not too sure on what else to say.

And sometimes he'd even request (or more like demand, considering that he's the fucking boss of the club you work for) to take you home with him a few nights, and when Freida-baba (all the girls in the club call her that) tries explaining that maybe it isn't such a good idea 一 since you do have returning customers who have booked the next few nights with you 一 he pushes up the bid with two extra zeros in his payment and watch as her eyeballs fall out of their sockets in amusement, but always with sternest, because Haitani Rindou is a man who always get what he wants.

And she'd agree every single time, because there is no way a woman like Freida would be able to reject so much money from selling just one girl and also saying no to her boss' wish.

The subtle things he does to you 一 for you and with you 一 makes your brain go haywire sometimes. And on some days, you seem to find yourself patiently, yet eagerly, waiting for his return to the club, just to be able to pleasure him again out of your own will.

Hanging around the lobby like a school girl waiting for Senpai to finish playing basketball at the court to pass him a love letter, and always finding chances to knock on Freida's door asking if Haitani-sama will be visiting anytime soon...

You can't help it.

ii.

"You know, brother," Ran places his glass on the table after taking a huge sip.

"That slut you've been seeing一"

"She has a name."

Rindou shoots back almost too fast. His brother widens his eyes a little at his words, but leans back into his seat, expression turning amused when he finds it a good motivation to keep going. He hasn't seen this sight since forever, where Rindou is being protective of a girl he's fond with.

"You've been obsessed with her lately." Ran comments. Rindou only swirls his own drink and watch with bored eyes as the ice melts from the heat, but with an impatient heart.

"She's not good news, you know."

Ran grabs his iPad from the side, scrolling through a few documents through the files app 一 the bright screen reflecting on his face 一 before pausing on one and handing the tablet over to Rindou.

"The girl's covered in debt, head to toe." He juts his chin to the screen as the younger reads through the file. His expression remains the same as before 一 still so nonchalant, still so boyish like a teenage boy who doesn't really care for what his mother says.

"She's only here for your money. Can't think of any other idea on why she's stuck to you like glue." He grins. "And that sweet little smile she's always throwing your way, damn. No wonder you're so obsessed."

It's more of the opposite, really 一 but he doesn't make a refutation to prove his brother wrong. He's stoic when he locks the screen after scanning through your background check, before throwing the device on the coffee table with a soft roll of his eyes, letting out a breath through his lips.

"I know."

Truth is, the man's already had his right-hand run your profile for him since the night you'd first met, after being so enamoured by you that he really wants to know everything about yourself 一 even the smallest details about you that you don't even realise. Rindou is already aware of how deep in crippling debt you are 一 a result of having a father with a deadly gambling addiction since you were just a baby and a mother who's addicted to heroine for the longest time ever 一 that no matter how much money you make in your lifetime selling your body and becoming entertainment for lustful men, it'll never be enough.

"But nii-chan," he pauses to look his brother in the eye. There's daggers in them despite him being family.

"She's my girl."

The grin on Ran's face only grows wider as he swipes away a fallen strand of hair breaking through the gel, after hours of being away from home.

"I'll do what I want with her."

He thinks it's fine if you're gonna break his heart and use him for his money. He has money. And at least he'll know that he'd felt good being with you during your time together 一 getting to dive back into a sweet little romance he hasn't felt in years is something that he thinks he's needed so feverishly this whole time.

"That's alright. But still, I'll have you know," Ran trails off his words to lean forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees to look at his brother, face turning serious.

"Love is an expensive thing to afford for people like us."

iii.

He hasn't been visiting you lately.

It's already been three weeks since his last return to the club, and you've long lost count on how much time you've spent moping around the lobby, pretending like you're cleaning up and assisting them on welcoming clients, when in reality, you're simply waiting to see if it'd be him walking through the glass doors this time.

The first week he stopped coming, you've just assumed that it was simply because he was too busy and drowned with work. You know it isn't easy running a club that sells pussy and bags filled with drugs slid under glass tables on the daily 一 having to constantly worry about the feds and possible snitches in the organisation is not easy work that simply anyone can handle.

On the second week that he still doesn't visit 一 even to the other girls in the club 一 you start to grow impatient and worried that perhaps something terrible has happened to him, considering his line of work. But you still see his right-hand that he keeps close around the venue sometimes, and nothing in particular seems to be off about his boss' lack of appearance recently.

On the third week, which happens to be today, you've resorted to retreating into the hallways and dragging your feet when you walk 一 sometimes peeking into rooms to see if he is perhaps inside 一 hoping that he'll miraculously turn up again like he always do.

You so desperately hope that soon you'll finally get to see him walking through the main door, all suave and handsome, and then you'd get to jump into his arms while he holds you close and kisses you and一

"Haitani-sama, would you like another drink?"

Your feet pauses.

Your head turns, scouting for the source of the voice with shakey eyes and hands一

There he is.

Perfectly healthy and legs spread widely on the expensive sofa gripping a glass of whiskey, a side of his lips curled into a handsome smirk. He's surrounded by people 一 a few men and their women, and一

"Haitani-sama, thank you for choosing me tonight." Sakura-chan giggles so sweetly into his ear, all pressed into his side on the sofa like she means something to him, and he's looking at her in the way you've grown used to being admired at, too.

Something bubbles up in your chest as you watch the scene unfold before your glossy eyes 一 that Sakura gets to be by his side for the night, that he didn't come to see you as promised 一 and it's plainly uncomfortable, to say the least. You don't know what else to say. A sticky feeling you haven't experienced before glued onto the walls of your heart, a chain filled with thorns coiling around your poor, beating flesh, stabbing you as it tightens even more一

You turn around.

It's hard to force a smile when a girl passing through the halls greets you goodnight, but you still manage a weak one for her somehow before walking back to your room, eyes bored into space.

You're left with a silence so deafening and empty when you sit on your bed, palms scrunching up the soft material of your dress as you let out a long breath through your dry lips.

It breaks your heart the more you think about it 一 a feeling so suffocating that you don't know what to do to make it go away 一 as you keep replaying scenes of the nights he'd claim you to be his favourite girl when he'd fuck you so beautifully in his room, limbs all tangled up in the sheets.

A favourite one amongst the many, obviously.

Your eyes water and your heart tightens any more in its confines as you bite on your lip and feel your nose souring up一

Silly you, thinking that you actually mean something to these people.

You're just a replaceable toy.

iv. cw: light daddy kink

You're nose deep into your book on the couch when he finally comes to visit for the night.

"Did you miss me?" His voice is deep, teasing, and smuggled with alcohol when he speaks. His tie and belt are in his hands and a few of his buttons are left undone 一 and he leaves them on your bed when he walks over to you.

You're silent when Rindou stands before you seated on your chair and you shut your book with a harsh pang in your chest.

He smells so much of her that it irks you to the core. A rosey, floral perfume that only one person you know uses on the daily, now covering a man head to toe that you find yourself desperately unable to tear away from.

You hate feeling like this so much 一 so helpless and falling deep into a void 一 but you still push away the ache of your heart and showing him a smile so sweet that you hope he doesn't notice.

You still allow yourself a moment to indulge in his warmth when you melt in his arms as he holds you close. You still cheat yourself into thinking that he cares when he sucks on the spot just beneath your jaw that never fails to make you fold.

You still want to believe that you're different among the rest 一 that you still mean something to somebody, that you're not just a worthless toy that people get to play with when they're bored一

You want to believe that you're lovable, too.

You're just a girl who wants to be loved.

"Mhm." You hum into his neck as a reply.

His touch is electric on your hips when he moves you both to bed, while he lays you down so gently on the mattress with drunk but gentle hands.

You help to remove his suit when he hovers above you and you only reach your neck up to peck him gently on the lips when you're finished.

He's obviously very drunk tonight when you hear the low hum full of want that he lets out when you cheekily move away from his attacking lips, and there's a lot of kisses exchanged between you two when he catches you after that 一 from forehead kisses that shows how much he adores you to sweet little eskimo kisses that feels way too intimate for a relationship like yours, to sucking on each other's tongue as you slowly tangle yourselves together under the blanket.

You feel so, so comfortable wrapped in his arms while he tickles your neck with his nose. It's so warm in here compared to the frigid feeling in your heart when watching the two of them all cuddled up together on the couch一

There it is.

It's clouding your head again.

Your smile wavers a little against his skin and it's harder to act like nothing's ever happened before.

It's hard being pressed under his weight as he sobers himself up by indulging in your kisses, while in reality your mind is constantly flying back and forth between letting things be and swallowing your own heart to excusing yourself for the night to go cry in the toilet一

"Something's bothering you."

You twitch a little at that. Rindou is already staring at you with his eyes half-lidded when your own flicker swiftly back to his figure resting on your chest.

"Hmm? Nothing is wrong, Sir." Your voice is extremely soft tonight, he notices.

And for some reason your response rubs him the wrong way. He clicks his tongue, a bit unsatisfied, and moves himself off your chest to rest on the pillow next to you.

But he still pulls you next to him nonetheless 一 clement hands combing through your locks with his five fingers so sweetly as he admires your pretty face.

"What's wrong?" He pushes you even closer to himself with the hand looped under your neck. "Tell me."

A thumb of his own finds its way rubbing on your bottom lip and you feel so mushy when he looks at you that way again, though you still remain silent at that.

"C'mon, tell me,"

He hands you your voice again with a wide open palm.

"My pretty girl."

And you take it with you.

You embrace it this time.

"I saw you with Sakura-chan earlier."

He sighs through his nose before nuzzling at your cheek, a teasing smile on his lips. "That's what this is about?"

He shifts you both a little when you don't respond, choosing to bury yourself into his neck and sulk. He doesn't force you to look at him, though. Still so sweet when he coos and comforts you by rubbing on your back.

"I didn't fuck her, you know. I was only with her for a couple hours."

You smile. "It's okay, you don't have to explain to me, Sir. I was simply waiting for you to visit again. I was worried, but you're okay."

Rindou doesn't like that this is your response to him when you've just hung your obvious jealousy out for him to see. His chest pangs with something unexplainable when you pat on his back instead when in fact, you're the one who's feeling hurt.

"I didn't fuck her." He affirms again, a little stricter but full of sincerity this time. "Why do you think I didn't call you out with me today?"

You shake your head, biting on the inner corners your cheeks as you listen.

"People don't go around flaunting their treasures, no? At least not rational ones," he pauses to nibble at the fat of your cheek, beckoning you to please look at him again一 "that's just asking to be robbed."

"I was with business partners and I don't want them to know you're mine. That's dangerous."

You don't know what's so dangerous about being known as Haitani Rindou's favourite girl, because you want to be known. You want to be shown off, too. You want to be flaunted around proudly, like you're not just some man's dirty little secret that he'll bring to the grave.

But you're sure he has his own reasons for that.

You slowly remove your face from his neck to sniffle.

"And I still came tonight, yeah?" He rubs on your lids, playing with your lashes gently as you nod.

"'Cause I wanted to see you, pretty."

When Rindou spots the light gloss over your eyes and you cutesy lips turn pouty and you're looking at him like he'd just broken your heart into pieces一

He folds.

"I'm sorry, baby."

It's a first, he thinks to himself 一 that he's apologising for being with another girl to the girl he still doesn't know what exactly she is to him, other than the fact that he likes having her around a lot.

"No more of that, yeah?" He cups your cheeks with his hands as he hovers over your face, thumbs caressing your skin as you start tearing up, sniffling.

"Daddy's all yours."

He leans in to smooch on your lips.

"It'll only ever be you by my side today onwards."

A hand of his grabs onto your wobbly ones to place it right where his heart resides, feeling it beat beneath your palm through the layer of his shirt. It's erratic 一 full of panic and heartache the minute your waterworks start, because he hates seeing you cry, especially when it is because of him.

And then he pulls your hand back up to his lips to kiss on your fingers, his purple orbs not once breaking contact with your own, as you whimper and reach yoir arms oit to pull him into your chest, swallowing him into your soul.

Yours and yours only.

Rindou smiles.

How is a girl like you ever going to break his heart?

Stupid Ran.

this 2 love bug's trope summarised: love at first sight but with juicy lore 🔇 this is so poorly written but i dont wanna keep it in my drafts any longer since the year is ending and i really want to post something

[igotanidea]

Smooth criminal: AK!Jason x reader

part 1 : Somebody's watching me

part 2: Run baby, run

Yeah... I know it's been a while. Sorry guys. But here we are :)

***

They say that history repeats itself. That’s its merely a one big circle in which people get lost endlessly, not learning from the past mistakes, instead doing them all over again.

Like an Uroboros, forevermore biting his tail.

And that was how Y/N felt at the moment, shaking over the cup of tea Dick so generously offered her alongside with his hoodie. And even more kindly – not asking any questions of why she showed up at his apartment (or rather under it) in the middle of the night looking crazy.

She was back at the beginning. Back over Jason’s grave, sobbing and shaking while the memories of the news of him being gone forever haunted her mind.

Felt like all her efforts to forget and move on have come to nothing.

“Y/N…”

“No. No please I don’t want to talk Dick-“

“I was just gonna say you can stay here for as long as you like. I don’t know what got you so freaked out, but the Y/N I know – knew­ – was not the one to get scared over a spider or a mouse. So it must have been serious. Stay.” He grabbed and squeezed her hands reassuringly. “I’m serious.”

“No, no it’s too much to ask for—”

“Good thing you did not ask then.” Dick grinned “Cause I believe I offered It myself.”

“You really didn’t change a bit, Grayson. Same golden, sunshine boy.”

“And you’re still the same, not holding back girl. Woman. How long has it been exactly?”

“Two years.” She sighed

“Two years.” Dick sighed too, his eyes becoming a little blurry from the memories. “I missed you, you know. And not only me. So did Tim and Alfred and Damian and I’m sure even Bruce became a little more grumpy without your presence to challenge him.”

“He’s got enough criminals to keep him entertained I believe?”

“Oh, Y/N, criminals he can handle easily, they are no fun. But having a woman with a sharp mind? That’s something Bruce still needs a lot of training in.”

***

 It was shockingly easy to reconnect with Dick.

Or maybe not, given the fact he was always awfully friendly, keeping in touch even with his exes and even having considerably good relations with some villains.

Long story short, in a months’ time she was regularly back in his life and he was back in hers. And much to her surprise, this time it was not a constant reminder of the person she lost, neither filling the void, but rather a soft recollection that she was not the only one who felt the repercussions of Jason being gone.

If anything, after that time apart, it felt like Y/N and Dick’s relationship could finally move past the tragic events and bloom. Not in a romantic sense, because he had Barbara and was making plans in that area, but like a true, deep friendship, cemented with similar feelings.

And she even got the guts to meet with the rest of the batfamily, ditching those girls who left her alone at the party. Slowly, but steadily, she was getting back to her old, familiar self, dropping the act of a girl who wanted to be anything but the version she was when Jason was alive and with her.  She was not running from the past anymore, but rather embracing and accepting it. And that was the real healing.

Only that Jason was not gone.

Observing her carefully from the shadows, watching almost every step, be it himself or using his militia. With explicit orders given to not let her know they were there. He had bigger plans coming, and making the same mistake as before, by coming as close as to touch her, could never happen again. Even if somewhere deep inside, the very subdued part of him screamed for that. For the warmth he remembered and knew would come with tenderness and not pain.

She never gave him anything less but love and devotion.

If anything Jason was only cursing himself that he let her step into the Batman world again. That is was his reckless behavior that drove her back into the arms of people, who were nothing but bad news. Who would eventually end up hurting her too.

And he was going to protect his little, innocent princess from that.

So yes, he was watching.

Sending his goons when he knew she was walking back home from work late, to ensure no one would lay a finger on her.

Causing a commotion in the area that happened to be dangerous only so she would choose another way.

Sending her colleagues threat letters so they would drop the chase for the same promotion at work as her.

Beating up a guy who was trying to flirt with her when she was buying coffee-to-go at her favorite place.

Doing it all smoothly, like a professional he was.

Building up a way to execute his master plan that would keep her safe from any danger, real or hypothetical. Forever.

***

“She got home, boss. Safe and sound, not one hair out of place.” One of his militia officers reported to him

“Good.” Jason only grunted in response. One whole month and he was so close to the finale. The end was right in front of him and he had to hold himself back to not make a single rookie mistake that would derail his efforts.

“If I may, sir, why exactly are we wasting resources on some woman? She’s no one important, just a regular—”

“What did you say?”

If the sinister voice wasn’t enough to make the man stop his sentence, the iron grip on his throat did.

“I- I-“

“No one important? Huh? Was that what you said?” Jason mocked tightening fingers on the man's jugular. “Answer me!”

“I- I-“ he was struggling for air.

“Pathetic!” Jason threw him on the ground, retrieving the gun from his holster, pointing it at the man’s head.

“Please, don’t—”

“I should put a bullet in your head for talking about her like that and second one for questioning my plans.” The gun outlet was now pressing into the man’s temple. “You are doing what I tell you, you hear me? No questions. No doubts. You are here to serve me, unless-“ Jason put a little bit of pressure on the trigger.

“No! No please!”

“You’re a piece of shit.” Arkham Knight muttered, taking the gun away. “But I am feeling merciful today. We can’t have blood on the floor when Y/N arrives. Now go! Get out of my face before I change my mind! And you make sure everything is perfect because if not—” he  caressed the arms with a cruel glint in his eyes, enjoying the way his officer rushed out of the room, throwing commands left and right, halfway out the door.

“Soon, baby… Soon we’ll be back together…” Jason muttered to himself once he was finally alone.

He was so close to having everything he needed.

@vaniasagitaa @gone-batty-fics @astrelz @not-herexo @deans-spinster-witch @calicocat45 @princessbl0ss0m @rosieandthethorns @beingaturtlespiritually @grierpilots @killerwendigo @teenytinytunes

[cherryheairt]

Dragon Dreamer pt. XII

going forward, I will be changing a lot of events. ik GRRM HATES to see me coming. Some will be small, others will be big. I want Daenys to play a much bigger role in the Dance, and take creative liberties on stuff the show did not show us or stuff that would be in s3.

tags: @beebeechaos @r-3dlips @emery-aka-emmy @watermel0nsugarhigh @delaynew @hueanhdang @purple-1995 @fall-winter-heart97 @thelastemzy @saintkittykat @littleblackcatinwonderland @pedro-pascal-love @reyndaisy @theadharablack @thatkindofgurl @alexandra-001 i missed y'all its been almost a week

When Daenys learned that Corlys, her grandsire, was severely injured and may be on his deathbed, she was distraught. Her main concern wasn't for Corlys, she knew that since he survived such a brutal attack to his throat, he would endure well. Salt and sea, the Velayron man was. The sea did not take him that day, nor would it for many years. She did not forsee it, nor did she feel the impending doom of death when she thought of him.

The impending doom did not come from Corlys, who lie in a comatose state in Driftmark, but from Vaemond Velayron. The aura of black and blue surrounded him like a defensive shield, striking out when another got near. Never married or siring any legitimate children, Vaemond only cared for himself and his power-hungry interests.

While she resented being forced to come along to King's Landing while Rhaenyra defended Luke's claim to Driftmark, she was glad to support her brother. If anyone would make a good leader, it would be Lucerys.

She was vulnerable here, in the snakepit that was the capitol. Even in the crowd surrounding the throne, filled with the people who would testify either for or against Lucerys' claim, she felt many different eyes on her.

Alicent Hightower, her soft brown eyes hardened at the sight of Rhaenyra and her children. Every time Daenys glanced her way, even briefly, she looked down upon the younger lady with a scornful sneer. Similar looks were cast to Rhaenyra, who clutched her boys protectively. Daemon stood next to his wife, in between Daenys and Rhaenyra, respectively. An amused smile was placed on his lips during the whole precession.

Aegon Targaryen, who's gaze flitted around the room in ever-increasing boredom. Occasionally, he stared at Daenys, but with a blank look in his eyes that gave away his zoned out mind. He would rather be anywhere but here.

Helena Targaryen, who Daenys missed greatly in their time apart. Ravens had not been enough, she missed her company. Whenever Daenys met Helena's eyes, the bored look that Helena also held brightened, and she smiled across the aisle at her niece.

Aemond Targaryen, who's one eye had not left Daenys the whole time. The dark purple hue seemed to be a void of emotion, with Aemond giving away none of his feelings on his face. He had grown taller and leaner since their time in Driftmark. A true dragonrider. Daenys had only sent him one letter, apologizing profoundly for Luke's actions, sending him an embroidered eyepatch for good measure. An image of Vhagar, though condensed greatly to fit on the small black leather canvas. Aemond had never sent any letters back, to her knowledge. Perhaps he was looking at her with blame and distain, an emotion he didn't hide while looking at Daenys' brother.

Across the aisle, a ways behind Vaemond, who stood in the middle, Rhaenys stood with her ward Baela and her twin Rhaena. Through the years, Daenys had grown much closer to Rhaena since she had lived on Dragonstone with Daemon and them. They had grown to become true sisters, a strong connection between the two. Rhaena was quiet compared to her twin but grew more outgoing during her years at Dragonstone. Baela, during her ward with their grandmother, unfortunately grew distant with her sister and father unintentionally.

Rhaenys greeted Daenys with a hug and kissed the young girl's head during their walk inside the Red Keep. They exchanged many letters after Laenor's passing, bond growing from their mutual loss. Rhaenys was quite lonely, only having Baela on Driftmark for company while Corlys was out at sea for years at a time.

When Otto Hightower summoned Rhaenyra to vie for her son's claim, she began strong.

"I would start by reminding you all that twenty years ago, in this very room—"

The grand doors opened, revealing a guard who announced, "King Viserys Targaryen; King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and protector of the realm."

The court held their breath while Viserys staggered down the aisle. Bedridden for years, Viserys had not attended court in half a decade. Daenys grimaced at the sight of her grandsire, though she refused to look away respectfully. Alicent and her father stiffened at the sight of Viserys, thinking that they had the processesion going exactly the way they planned—in their favor.

Viserys would defend his firstborn, no matter what.

Rhaenyra gave her father a grateful look, relief coming from her in waves as she stood back to her original spot. The rest of Rhaenys' and Viserys' words were tuned out to Daenys. All she cared for was the betrothal announcements between her brothers and stepsisters. The rest was useless, knowing that Viserys would establish Luke as heir to driftmark firmly and without question.

Vaemond's yell tore her from her thoughts. "Her children...are BASTARDS!" He screamed to the courts, making Luke and Jace flinch in Rhaenyra's hold.

Daenys shuffled uncomfortably next to Daemon, while he stepped subtlely in front of her. "Say it." He hissed out quietly, urging Vaemond on as he clutched Dark Sister's black pommel.

Vaemond took the bait, turning to Rhaenyra spitefully. "And she. is. a whore." Every word was enunciated strongly.

Viserys, wheezing, stood from the Iron Throne with his dagger clutched in his bony hand. "I will have your tongue for that."

A sudden 'splat!' caught everyone's attention first. Helena gasped, covering her ears and shutting her eyes tight at the bloody sight. Daemon had cut off Vaemond's head, leaving it to drop to the floor, followed by the rest of his body. Daenys held a gag at the sight and smell of fresh blood, turning her eyes away from the gore.

Aemond, across from her, finally lifted his pursed hips into a smirk, eye gleaming at he stared at Daemon.

"Seize his weapons!" Otto Hightower demanded, though Daemon was swift to clean off his sword and sheath it again.

"No need." He said as if nothing had happened.

When Viserys started to shake and wheeze again, attentions were transfixed to the King once more. "Fetch the maesters!" Alicent called out, genuine concern cracking her voice. Perhaps the once good thing about the Queen was her love for her family and husband.

Rhaenyra ushered her kids out swiftly, leaving the room behind. Passing her uncles and aunt, Daenys glanced briefly towards each one.

Aegon finally held an amused expression, looking around the room for reactions and having no concern for his father's condition.

Helena, still covering her ears and turned from Vaemond, followed after Daenys.

Aemond held her stare as she passed, though he did not move so much as a muscle.

Daenys split from her mother and grandmother, telling them she would return for supper. Supposedly, the Hightower-Targaryen family would sup all together for the first time in years after Viserys rested.

Helena led her niece to a spacious and well-lit room by the hand. The floor was littered with toys, though it still appeared clean. Daenys gasped, met with the sight of two white-haired children quietly playing together on a rug.

Helena proudly smiled, removing her other hand from her ear finally and squeezing Daenys' hand. "This is Jaehaerys and Jaehaera. I know I've written to you about them, but I wished for you to meet them, too."

Daenys nodded enthusiastically, earning the attentions of the twins below. Helena and Daenys kneeled together, quite in sync for two ladies who have spent years apart, to greet them.

Daenys introduced herself as 'Aunt Daenys' although she was technically not. Jaehaera seemed to accept the new presence immediately, holding out a wooden wolf for Daenys to take and play with her, another carving of a dragon clutched in her other chubby palm.

Jaehaerys was decidedly more shy, crawling into his mother's lap while he watched his twin and aunt play. Daenys delighted in the activity, knowing her little brothers must be lonely back at Dragonstone, only in the company of their nursemaids. Helena and her chatted through the rounds of playing while Jaehaera dug through a box of toys, inviting Jaehaerys to pick new ones with her.

Hours passed and well into the afternoon, as Helena and Daenys took turns switching off embroidery pieces to find ways to continue each other's art and add to it (their little tradition since they were both young girls). Both were saddened to hear that they were summoned for supper, eager to finish their work before the day ended. Helena's original work was a centipede, Daenys had continuted the piece by making it weave through a field of grass and flowers. Daenys' started with a blue dragon, much like Dreamfyre, and Helena added a snowy white one intertwined with it, a likeness to Morningstar.

"Perhaps I could convince mother to stay an extra few days in the Red Keep, and return on my own on dragonback." Daenys offered Helena as they walked.

She hated the Keep, but never knew how much she truly missed Helena's company until she spent time with her again. She would bear a few nights here, knowing she could avoid everyone and only spend time in the nursery. Daenys was older now, a woman grown. Surely she could handle such things better.

"I should like that," Helena murmured, arms interlaced with Daenys as they walked towards the table. It was only half-filled with members of their family. A spot was left in the very middle for Viserys, occupied on the sides of his space by Alicent and Rhaenyra.

Aemond sat at one head, while Luke and Rhaena took the opposite.

The table seemed to naturally divide by sides, though Daenys chose to sit between Helena and Aemond rather than next to Jace, lest she also be forced next to Aegon.

Alicent offered to pray before they ate, to which Viserys complied with a pleasant smile for his wife. Having never prayed at supper before, Daenys sat awkwardly as others either clasped their hands and closed their eyes, or politely looked down at their plates while Alicent prayed for Vaemond to rest in peace. Daenys had chosen the latter, though she did so in a much nicer way than Daemon did. He held in a snort at the Queen's words, holding no regret for his murder.

The first to make a toast before dinner was served was Viserys. "My grandsons, Jace and Luke, will marry their cousins Baela and Rhaena. A toast to the young princes."

"Hear, hear!" Daemon was first to say in support. Perhaps he benefited the most. He would be King, then his firstborn daughter would be Queen right after through her marriage.

Goblets clinked in toast to the marriage. Many murmured their congratulations, besides the side that Daenys sat in. She felt out of place with her short cheer.

Viserys clanked his cane to the cobble floor, standing up on shaky knees while leaning against the table for assistance. "It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow. The faces most dear to me in all the world—yet grown so distant from each other."

He unclasped his golden half-mask, revealing a missing eye and half rotted face. Daenys struggled to hold her stare, not wanting to displease her grandsire or offend him. "My own face is no longer a handsome one. If it ever was." He jested weakly. "I wish you to see me as I am. Not as your king, but as your father. Your brother. Your husband. Your grandsire. Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts." He pleaded with the people around him, earning either uncomfortable stares or bittersweet ones.

He sat with a heavy sigh, regaining his breath.

Rhaenyra toasted next, voice youthful and strong. "I wish to raise my cup to Queen Alicent. I love my father, but she has tended to him with unfailing devotion and for that she has my gratitude." She faced the queen with a reminiscent smile gracing her face.

Once Rhaenyra sat, Alicent was quick to take her turn. "I raise my cup to you and your house. You will make a fine queen. To further solidify our alliance and newfound love for one another," Alicent rubbed her husband's shoulder sweetly, smiling down at him. "I wish to propose a marriage. Though Aegon is already wed, as our eldest son, Aemond's hand remains free. As does your eldest daughter's."

Daenys stiffened in her seat, meeting Aemond's eye, which remainded composed and unsurprised. Had be brought this to Alicent? Or did Alicent demand it of him?

Viserys' face lifted at the suggestion, placing his hand over Alicent's and looking to Rhaenyra. Not even bothing to look at Daenys or Aemond. "I think it would be a most wonderful idea. Daenys could live here again, and perhaps all of you could come back, too." He hinted.

Rhaenyra was still in her seat, glancing between her father, Alicent, and the two seated at the end. Daenys held a pleading look in her eyes, urging her mother to not agree immediately.

Rhaenyra nodded subtly, sending a placating smile towards the two next to her. Beside her, Daemon scowled and rolled his eyes. "That is a generous offer. I will take some time to consider it."

Alicent nodded her agreement, sitting once more. Daenys forced her heart to stop its rapid beating, knowing her mother had delayed what might become her life's misery. Daenys would not mind Aemond much, nor living with Helena again. But Alicent and Aegon were two figures she could not bear to live with, nor the court that followed their Queen so blindly.

A silence filled the room, as everyone sipped their wine to the many toasts. Aegon lifted himself from his seat with a coy smirk, flitting to the space between Baela and Jace, whispering something that Daenys was not privy to. Jace slammed his hands to the table angrily, startling its occupants. He cleared his throat lightly while Aegon sat himself back in his seat.

Aemond stood, taller than Jacaerys at full height, staring him down from across the table. A warning to Jace that woefully went ignored as the younger started to speak.

"To Prince Aegon and...Prince Aemond. We have not seen each other in years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth. As men, I hope we may yet be friends and allies. To you and your family's good health, dear uncles." He raised his cup, concluding his shockingly nice speech. Daenys was surprised that he composed himself so well.

"To you as well." Aegon sighed, forced to politeness. Aemond sat, as Helena whispered beside Daenys.

"Beware the beast beneath the boards." No one else must have heard her, and if they did, they decided to ignore her. Helena didn't even seem like she realized that she spoke.

"I would like to toast to Baela and Rhaena. And perhaps, Daenys, if she does choose to marry my brother." She smiled genuinely to each in turn, a breath of fresh air compared to the tense atmosphere. "They'll be married soon. It isn't so bad, mostly he just ignores you—except sometimes when he's drunk." Her words were meant to be comforting to the bethrothed women, but she clearly had no affectionate experiences in her own marriage, so she could not offer such comforts.

Daenys raised her glass high to her stepsisters, following Helena's toast while Aegon melted into his seat. "Yes, to Baela and Rhaena. We will truly be sisters, soon." She grinned to them, earning raised cups back.

Viserys ordered the music to be started, and immediately Jacaerys stood to action. Daenys looked at him warily, wondering if he had meant his speech as a ploy to lower Aegon and Aemond's guard. He stood behind Daenys' seat, offering a hand to Helena. She took it, slightly confused, while he led to the dance floor from Aegon's side.

The two young aunt and nephew jumped and danced around the empty space near the table, with their parents watching on happily. Daenys watched, too, laughing and clapping at their display. Had they ever had a dinner go so well before?

Aemond stood next to her, sighing through his nose. He offered a hand out to Daenys, too. "I didn't think you would dance." She whispered to him, though did not reject his hand.

"I don't." He said simply. His hand was calloused from years of sword training, though unscarred from no real battle experience. Aemond led her past the young dancers, leading her into a more refined and graceful ballroom dance. Further from the table, they could speak lowly without worry of being overheard.

"Did you receive my letter?" Daenys started, avoiding his intense stare. Even with only one eye, he managed to share a similar look that Daemon had when looking at his niece. Possessive and controlling. He was a far cry from the sweet boy he once was.

"Just the one. All those years ago." He said, narrowing his eye down at her. "Though none of mine have been graced with an answer."

She faultered, "I was unaware that you sent any back."

Aemond pursed his lips, "of course. They must be keeping such things from you. Ever sheltered by Rhaenyra and Daemon on that rock, you remain."

Daenys, though embarrassed, knew he was right. She was quite sheltered, more than most ladies who were presenting themselves to court for suitors. But she did not need to trouble herself with such things. She didn't need a husband.

Daenys moved on, "who's idea was the marriage proposal? Last time there was one between our families, Alicent shot it down."

Aemond glanced at the table towards her family. "I did. My mother had a change of heart, perhaps. It would be beneficial to finally have a reason for our families to bridge this distance between us."

He sounded like he didn't believe his own words, like he was reading from a script.

"Indeed...though I doubt it would be so simple. Things never are between us." She sighed.

"They can be."

She scoffed lightly, looking to her mother and Alicent, who were conversing with soft smiles gracing their features. "They are in good moods now, while Viserys is here to be a deterrent. Even if we married, his death will split us apart."

"Marriage is sacred. Your husband and his children would be whom your loyalties lie with." Aemond stated.

"I would never choose a man over my family." She narrowed her eyes, pausing her practiced steps. "Is that what you want? My loyalties to be pledged to you and your family?"

He stayed silent during her barrage, only clenching his jaw as he listened.

"Or perhaps it is my dragon you want?" She challenged. "I thought you were above the manipulations of your mother and grandsire. Smarter than your dimwitted brother. I was wrong."

"Daenys—" Aemond started to speak, but she pulled her arm from his loose grasp and strided out of the dining hall. She had no reason to listen to his words. Years ago, she had sought a friend in Aemond, the one who shared in her torment. Now, she knew he was just like his mother, calculating and deceitful.

That night, as Rhaenyra and her family headed back to Dragonstone following a tiff between all of their children, Daenys did not dream of Viserys' demise. Rhaenys had stayed the night at the Red Keep alone, being locked in her guest chambers while Aegon was being crowned King. After her escape with the Red Queen Meleys, Rhaenys told Rhaenyra of the news.

Visenya was lost that day.

Daenys was unsure why she didn't see such a catastrophic event like the King's death—but for once she did not blame herself. She blamed the Hightowers and their lust for power.

🗡

Most of the day passed fairly quickly. Cregan and Daenys spent it in solitude, only each other as company. She thought of bringing Cregan back to Dragonstone and returning alone, but wished selfishly for some more time with her bethrothed before she left him. One more day together wouldn't hurt.

After their prayer with the weirwood, Daenys felt invigorated with the sunny weather the day had provided. She turned to Cregan, who eyed her excitement with mock suspicion.

"We should swim," she suggested to him, with an excited glint to her violet eyes.

"Swim? Do you mean at the God's Eye?" Cregan asked. It was the only body of water so close to Harrenhall, but she could always fly to another one of her choosing.

"Yes, I did say that I would bring you swimming one day."

"You said that you wished to." He corrected. "I'm afraid I wouldn't know how, I won't be the most pleasant company."

Daenys snickered, "perhaps I might ask Davos, then. A Riverlander would most definitely enjoy a swim on a day like this one."

He gave her a scorned look, pitful grey puppy eyes downtrodden at the mention of her choosing another man over him for company.

She grabbed his hand, giggling all the while at his expression as she led him outside. "I merely jest, Cregan. You can stay on the shore and watch me." She shrugged playfully.

Cregan hummed, looking her up and down pointedly. "In your dress? We have brought no swimclothes with us."

"I have my shift, I'll make due." She brushed his concern off, lifting her skirts with her spare hand to save them from grass stains. She'd hate to dishonor the lady who previously wore them, after all.

Cregan swallowed beside her, nodding. It's not like he hadn't seen her in her shift, or less than that, but the context was different—he was too worried for her life to concern himself with such frivolous thoughts. Now, both spending their leisure time together, they were free to do as they pleased.

According to courting and bethrothal customs, unmarried men and women shouldn't be without a chaperone. However, it was much too late for either to start caring for traditions.

The walk to the God's eye was brief, though the sun shining on them had earned thin sheens of sweat and flushed faces. Daenys was eager to get into the cooling water, oblivious to Cregan's mental struggles beside her. At the shore of the massive span of water, Daenys began to rid herself of her dress, folding it neatly and placing it on a rock, along with her stockings. Left only in a sheer white shift, she stepped into the water, turning to face Cregan, who was still fully clothed and avoiding eye contact.

"You're sweating buckets, Cregan." She stated, amused at his stubbornness. "At least take your tunic off and dip your feet in. It'll help you cool off."

While ladies were made to wear uncomfortable corsets and dragging dresses, Daenys was always grateful that at least they were cooler than men's many layers. Sometimes up to five or six for a day-to-day outfit, not even mentioning the ones presentable enough for court. Jacaerys oft complained about the heat of King's Landing back when they lived at the arid Keep, though he was relieved by Dragonstone's much more appeasing climates.

Cregan, with his thicker layers meant for permanent chills, must be near passing out. Perhaps she got too excited. They could've enjoyed a nice day in Harrenhall's walls. Maybe.

He obliged when she sent him a secondary beseeching look. He shrugged off his heavy tunic, left in a much lighter cotton undershirt. It hung off his frame much looser, allowing him to acclimatize much faster. The unbuttoned 'V' shape of his neckline hung much lower than that of his tunic, revealing the smooth skin of his chest.

Daenys turned back to hide her expression from him, knowing if he saw it, he would think her uncouth. She waded through the swallow water, soaking herself with the cold water. It was a great relief for the Princess, taking away the uncomfortable sweaty stickiness from her body and replacing it with fresh, cold water. Though she'd never swam in the Riverland lake, it still brought back many fond memories of her father Laenor, a simpler time when she swam almost every sennight. Now, it had been months since she last found time to.

With the water up to her shoulders, she dunked her head in and dived under, eyes quickly adjusting to the freshwater. Unlike the saltiness sting that the ocean always gave her, the lake was much more accommodating. By the time she had emerged, silver hair clinging to her body in the same way her shift did, Cregan was sat in the grainy sand, legs dipped into the water as he watched on.

He grinned when she resurfaced. "Refreshed, my Princess?"

"It would be nicer if you joined." Daenys mused, sharing in his light mood.

"I am perfectly content watching." He avoided her offer with a placating smile. Hands resting leisurely over his knees, simply relaxing in the sun and cooling water's contrast, Cregan really did look content. His face was free of worry, and his rigidly straight posture softened.

She hummed her acknowledgment, knowing she couldn't get him to swim with her this time. One day, she would succeed. Daenys did, after all, comvince an ever-stubborn man of Stark blood to ride a dragon.

After some diving and searching for whatever pretty trinket caught her eye, Daenys dained herself to simply float on top of the water, hands rested on her belly. In one of them, clutched protectively, lie a small grey pearl. In the sunlight, it gleamed a rainbow iridescence. In the shade of her palm, it was perfectly grey. It had taken her an umpteenth amount of tries to find, which she stopped counting after the seventh try, and perhaps a hundred dud pearls that she deemed unworthy. One thing she had learned during her escapades was that she had not lost her touch for the water, still able to hold her breath for long periods of time and open her eyes easily. Still, she was no match for her father's abilities. He took to the water like a true Velayron, disappearing under its depths for minutes at a time.

Daenys wondered when she would get chances to swim up in the cold North. Only when she visited her family, once they had reclaimed the capitol? Such sacrifices were the baselines of marriage for women. She would be more fortunate than most with her dragon as an aid to travel—most women who went so far for marriage never saw their homes again. Cregan clearly held no love for the water. How could he? He was not raised being surrounded by it, instead by mountains of snow and dense woods. She did love the wood, too. The serenity and quietness.

The sun had long since left her skin kissed with light brown freckles, the time apart from lengths in the sun having long since faded her previous ones. When she felt the heat start to irritate her eyelids, she opened them and squinted toward Cregan, who lifted his head from his arms and gaze from the gently waving water to her.

Daenys outstretched an arm lazily to him, beckoning wordlessly for assistance. Perfectly capable of swimming herself the few feet she was from the shallow sand, she felt knackered from the warmth and expending activity.

Cregan chuckled at her reaching, shaking his head teasingly. "You just swam laps around the God's Eye, I'm sure you can manage a few more feet on your own."

"Can't." Daenys said simply.

He raised a brow, smiling, "I'm sorry?"

"I'm incapacitated. Cannot move." She elaborated slowly.

He nodded, even slower, leaning back on his forearms. She forced her eyes not to leave his at the movement and sudden shift of his shirt. "I guess we're stuck here, my Lady."

"Seems that way."

They were at an impasse. One waiting for the other to give up. Stubbon Stark and conquering Targaryen. Eventually, one had to cave. Daenys was confident that she could stay in place for hours, even in the sun, while he would eventually burn up and regret even taking a step from Harrenhall's stone walls.

She relaxed in the water again, rolling the grey pearl between her fingertips idly. Cregan watched on, admiring the glow the sun provided her skin It was afternoon already, they had spent almost all day outdoors. Neither complained, though, for the much-needed distraction.

Daenys was reminded of the simplicities of life that the commonfolk lived. Not the ones in King's Landing, who often were criminals or victims of criminals, working day and night with little reward. No, not them. The ones who lived far from courtly society and its selfish royals. Those who lived in small villages far from big cities, who relied on one another and loved their neighbors like family. Worked hard on their family-owned farms and shops, retiring for the afternoon in their homes and laughed with their loved ones while they feasted on breads and cheeses their neighbors traded to them for handcrafted clothes. Those are the people Daenys envied, who lived full lives and never stopped to wonder what their life might be like in another's place.

She would be very content, she thought, to live a simple life like that. With Cregan as her swordsmith husband, and her as a fisherman. Both returning home at the end of their work days to a gaggle of children running around at their feet, squaking loudly about what they had learned that day. People would come nosing their way into their house over the evening, bringing food and smiles into the house while friends and family sat together. Sara and her husband first, living right next to them. Then, Daenys' mother and Daemon, bringing young Aegon and Viserys in their arms to play with their nieces and nephews. Corlys and Rhaenys, telling tales of how their two children were out enjoying a long voyage together on the open seas. The last ones to join would be Jacaerys and Lucerys, with Baela and Rhaena respectively.

The entire family would sit and talk of their days, as they had every night before that, and retell tales that all have listened to a million times before but never interrupt the joyous expression the storyteller held while speaking. The children would all have their own table, though eventually want to be a part of the adult's conversation and squeeze themselves on top of their parent's laps. The adults, after playfully scolding their babes, would still allow it with a gentle kiss on top of fluffy heads.

The perfect life. One that none of Daenys' loved ones could ever achieve.

The sound of sloshing in the water forced Daenys to focus once more, glancing up to meet Cregan's face staring down at her. Gently, he grabbed her hands and slightly dragged her close to himself, turning her to face him. She grinned up at him, "that was fast."

"I've enjoyed the view all day. I'm not so stubborn as to scorch myself for the sake of pride." Cregan chided. With a large hand resting itself on the dip of her waist, the Lord brought her to the shallowest parts before lifting her to her feet. "Now, is the Princess still too tired to walk, or does she require assistance?"

Daenys steadied herself with her hands on his shoulders, narrowly avoiding touching any bare skin on his chest, though it tempted her. His touch was hot on her waist, burning through even her wet shift. She felt breathless despite her lack of movement, forgetting to speak for a long pause of time.

"Daenys," he murmured lowly, brushing his thumb over the soft skin of her stomach. She was reminded of his size—a true testiment of his ancient Stark blood. Looking down at her past his straight nose, hands large enough to engulf her midsection from the curve of her waist to her belly buttom. From behind Cregan, one might not be able to see Daenys, his broad shoulders and height a perfect sheild.

The touch made her shiver, though she brushed it off as the wet cotton clinging to her skin. "I...Yes, I can walk." She finally managed to mumble out. He smiled once more, leading her out of the water by the hand, though he noticed she switched the pearl to the other to be able to grasp his.

"What have you found, my lady sailor?" He asked, leaning down to squeeze water from his trousers and half of his shirt.

She lifted her palm for him to see the grey pearl, showing it off like a dragon would show its prized treasure. Morningstar, too, had oft stolen whatever shiny thing caught her eye during flights, bringing them to Dragonstone's pit and waiting for Daenys to come down to see it. She had her own little pile of knickknacks, though some of the smaller ones lay in Daenys' chambers. Strangely, none of the others (apart from Syrax) had the same interest in material things.

He straightened, lifting the ball to his eyeline. Daenys bit her cheek to stop her grin from getting any bigger. It was a perfect match to his own eye. She only kept the pearl for the theory, being too far from Cregan to keep bringing little pearls back and bother him with silly comparisons. She simply went off her memory, which seemed to serve her perfectly.

"It's a...?" He left space for an answer, not entirely sure of it himself. Right, she thought. He'd never left the North. They don't eat much seafood there, so there's no cause to learn about sea life besides the few species of fish that graced their waters.

"I forgot, you've never been so far down before." She hummed. "A pearl. Formed in clams or muscles—I like to keep any that catch my interest."

"I've heard of them. Used for necklaces, right?" He asked, placing the pearl in her palm again after she twisted her own skirts.

Daenys nodded. "I've made a few of my own, though I can't wear them to court. Too juvenile, my mother says. Sometimes, I can put them into my hair, but the process takes too long to make it a common accessory."

"I'd like to see that." Cregan said softly, admiring the way she scrunched her hair to attempt to dry it quicker. With the retained water, the silver hair looked a darker milky grey. It made the purple hue of her eyes stand out more, especially in the daylight.

Twisting the bottom of her skirts, Daenys laughed. "My maid won't be happy to hear that. Perhaps I'll have to teach you how to put them into braids, if you'd truly like to see it."

He handed the pearl back to her once she finished. "I would be happy to learn, if only to ease the burden of your poor maid."

Daenys picked up her dress from its place on the rock, finding it pleasently warmed. She didn't put it back on, knowing it would only get wet from her shift. She'd have to be swift when returning to her chambers, lest Davos, Simon, or any of Simon's sons see her in such a state. Cregan did the same, carrying both of their clothes bundled up under an elbow.

As they walked, Cregan spoke up. "I have been to the capitol. Once, briefly, but that visit was enough to last a lifetime."

Daenys perked up, turning to Cregan as they walked together. "I've never seen you before. Was it recent?"

He shook his head. "Actually, it was for your nameday tourney."

She groaned. "Of course. I hated those every year, but my grandsire insisted that all of his children and grandchildren got a tourney for their nameday celebrations. Starks do not typically attend tourneys, seeing as they happen so often. What made you come?"

At her complaint, he snorted briefly. "I was one and ten at the time, two years before my father passed. He insisted that I was old enough to attend court at the capitol, and it had been many years since he had attended himself—the last being to swear an oath to your mother.

I was a young, excited boy who was ill-equipped to handle the secret meanings behind Southerner's words. I took everything literally, not knowing that everyone I spoke to was insulting me to my face."

Daenys hummed sympathetically. "Yes, it is a nasty habit. Whatever could they have insulted you for?" She asked, curious.

He blushed slightly, a tinging of red dusting his ears. "My accent, my looks, whatever they saw that seemed 'different'. Back then, I was all gangly limbs and height, not yet experienced in swordtraining. They hid such distastes in compliments, something I was not aware of until I told my father, and he warned me to both speak and listen carefully in the Crownlands."

"Your looks?" She was bemused by the implication. Surely, no one would find Cregan uncomely. Even in the awkward youth years. Or his accent, a small part of her mind said. His accent was perhaps her favorite part of Cregan, it made her mind go hazy whenever he spoke more than his usual curt sentences. Another Stark trait was to not speak more than necessary.

He shrugged, "Starks have prominent genes. We've always had dark hair, straight noses, long faces, and perhaps taller frames than most men. We are not bred to be pretty, like some are."

Her mind went to the peacocking men that were born and bred in the Crownlands and the places attached to it. Of course, ladies of the realm were meant to be pretty, and if they were not, then at least they were trained to act elegantly. Though, the men were often 'pretty' too. The Hightowers, for example, were a picture of good genetics. Otto Hightower's two children, Alicent and Gwayne, were both considered beautiful with their auburn hair and dark eyes. Though Gwayne was a knight, he was sought after by many. The two must have taken after their mother Alerie since Otto looked nothing like either. The Tyrells, too, were considered blooming flowers of beauty, well-groomed and mannered.

The Targaryens, Velayrons, and Daynes all held traits that the realm agreed to be most beautiful. Whores dyed their hair silver just to be paid more, and men sought after them twice as much as a regular looking woman. Tales were written of Valyrion women, even by those who've never laid eyes on one. Songs were sung by bards, poems written by romantics, gossip spread like wildfire when another was presented to court. Daenys had heard a few about herself, to her surprise. Though the realm did not hold her in high regard, her beauty was apparently taken the opposite. A song had once called her 'The Dawn's Light' for her silver waves and lighter-than-most violet eyes. A poem called her 'The Dreamer Reborn' but moreso as a statement than a compliment. She scarsely heard any gossip since her leave from the capitol, so any other poems or songs in her name went unknown. Similar to her mother, 'The Realm's Delight' she was given such titles as a young girl. Women did not earn their titles from great accomplishments but rather their looks alone, most of the time.

The Valyrion-featured men, too, were hauntingly charming in looks just as their female counterparts were. Aemond was considered a handsome young prince before being named 'Aemond One-Eye'. Aegon, too, was conventionally handsome when his mouth was shut. Daenys was quite unsure of Daemon or Viserys' looks, seeing as they were both no longer in their prime youth at the time Daenys was born. Though she was sure her father Laenor was widely known to be a charmingly handsome man, for his sailing adventures had proven him a popular figure to men and women alike.

"Perhaps you are not pretty." She started, smirking up at him. "No Northern men could be, with their laborious lives. Handsome is more fitting, I would say. Though mayhaps other ladies can only assume a Northern man to be a brutish and unrefined beasts of men, simply because they are unused to different appearences."

Truly, Cregan was taller and broader than most, even more impressive for his young age. He would surely make most Andal men question their own masculinity, to which the Andals would turn to insults to counter their insecurities.

Cregan hummed thoughtfully, holding an almost bashful smile. "Not many southern ladies would consider a Stark 'handsome'. Especially a Velayron. None from the North have married a Valyrion." He mentioned.

"We are the first, then."

"Indeed," he took her hand in his, forgoing joining arms for the warmth of their hands. His hand, even interlaced with her own, was calloused and large. Quite like a paw, she bit back from saying. Without his leather gloves that he had to don in the cold, she felt the safety of his protection right in his palm.

"How was the tourney beside the cold welcome you received? I remember that my father Laenor fought in it, as he only cared for those dreadful tourneys when it was one of our namedays."

A part of her wished to have met him back then. Perhaps she could have made a friend, her first one that was not of her own blood.

"More boring than I expected. As a boy, I wished to be a great jouster to show off my house pride, but it wasn't at all what I expected." He said. "Also, I was quite disappointed to find that the star of the tourney was missing from the Royal Pavillion."

Daenys blushed, unable to meet his amused look. "I only stayed to watch my father's joust. I made appearances, then left when no one's eyes were on me."

"Everyone's eyes are on you, Princess." He chuckled.

She nodded slightly. "Unfortunately. That is something I dreaded during those days. Who did end up winning that tourney? I forget."

Cregan shrugged once more, "I don't know either. I didn't stay til the end."

At her confused glance, he continued. "I got bored of watching men fall from horses. So, I wondered off to explore the 'Great Red Keep' I had heard so many things about. I got lost in the halls—which are much too big for one family, in my opinion—and stumbled upon the very princess that was missing."

Daenys furrowed her brows together, trying to recall ever meeting a young Cregan Stark. "I don't think I remember speaking to you."

Cregan shook his head. "I never found the courage to approach you. But I knew who you were, even from afar. You sat at a windowsil, overlooking the crowds of people. You looked so lonely, with that wistful look in your eyes."

"Why didn't you talk to me, then?" She asked him.

"I was scared that you might think of me the same way the other young ladies did. Though you looked lonely, you also had a peaceful aura that I could not dare to disturb."

She nodded her agreement. "I have grown used to enjoying my own company. Though, I have grown to enjoy yours, more."

He squeezed her hand lightly. "You shall not be alone anymore, ever. If I have a say in it."

They reached Harrenhall at a more leisure pace than they had left with. The sun was starting to set now, and their bellies were rumbling with hunger. Daenys and Cregan jogged through the halls of Harrenhall, luckily not running into any people on the way. They shut the door to Daenys' room behind them, giggling and laughing like a pair of juveniles sneaking under their parent's noses. Cregan and Daenys politely turned while changing together, underclothes long since drying during their walk.

Daenys sat at the creaky vanity she was provided, unbothered by the water rotted wood. If it worked, it worked. At least the mirror was clean. She worked to brush through her drying hair, a plain giveaway to her activities. Her hair was famously hard to dry, her vigerous routine for her hair alone taking hours each week. Without any of the oils and soaps that she had on Dragonstone, Daenys found that her hair dulled slightly in the North, only being restored when she returned home. She hoped it would not do so again at Harrenhall. Though she did not think herself to be a vain woman, she cared for her hair greatly. It was something she had grown for years, having not cut it since her father passed.

The last haircut she had was done by her father, who taught her how to take the best care of it and always styled it despite her maids being well able to. Daenys knew she'd eventually have to trim it again, but she'd prolonged it for years already in a weak attempt to keep his every memory.

The pearl sat next to the brush while she started to plait her hair up in a braided romantic tuck, which would leave no hair cascading down her hair. If it was all so bunched up, none would notice its dampness.

Cregan sat himself on her bed, tunic placed loosely on in his idleness. There was no need to trap himself fully in his warm clothing until they needed to be presentable. His eyes never left her as she threaded expertly through her hair, seemingly zoning out as he did.

She finished as fast as she could, perhaps a little sloppy. But, she didn't wish for Cregan to be left waiting in boredom too long. Daenys stood from her stool, turning to her bethrothed. She patted her hair down slightly, brushing over it to neaten it. "Im sorry, I worked as fast as I could."

Smiling patiently, Cregan stood and took her hands from her hair, kissing her knuckles tenderly. "Don't worry. I have never seen such perfection, my beautiful Daenys."

Taken aback, Daenys found herself utterly speachless. Where had that come from?

"Thank you, Cregan." She murmured, finding only enough propriety to unconsciously respond to a compliment. My?

His smile seemed to deepen at her pause, taking her by the same hand he kissed and leading her outside of the room. "Let's have our supper, I'm sure the other guests of Harrenhall are wondering where we are."

Daenys nodded, following at his side to the dining room. The halls had started to become familiar to Daenys, even though it had only been barely two days since they arrived. Around the table already sat the majority of Harrenhall's residents. Simon, of course, and his small family, who mostly stayed quiet as mice. Davos, who sat slouched back in his seat, spinning his utensil upon the table with a frustrated expression. Daemon, too, though he looked drowsy still. Slightly faraway, like he was in a permanent waking dream.

As Daenys passed him, he glanced up at her. His eyes cleared slightly, a nearly horrified look on his face. "Rhaenyra?" He asked, sitting up in his seat.

Daenys exchanged a glance with Cregan, staring down at her stepfather afterwards. "Rhaenyra is still at Dragonstone." She said carefully.

In their shared native tongue, Daenys could speak without giving anything away to the others in the room, who stared at them in bemusement.

Daemon squinted at her for a few more seconds, sitting back into his seat once more and blinking harshly. He nodded, saying nothing else.

Daenys needed to visit Alys again. Perhaps she would know something about Daemon's strange behavior. Or perhaps she was the reason for it. The tea was something she did not partake in and would not attempt to now that she saw Daemon's weariness. But, she would not yet point any fingers until she confronted the woman.

Daenys sat herself between Davos and Cregan, prepared to soothe the impaitients and frustration that she knew Davos was experiencing.

"It has been a full day, Your Grace." Davos shifted in his seat, restless. "I have not heard word of what you intend to do for my father in terms of the Bracken's treason."

Daemon rubbed at his temples. "I will fly out on Caraxes tomorrow. No later than noon. I sent a raven to Lord Willem already, he and the Bracken Lord will meet me in a sectioned place of my choosing."

"Are we to be privvy of this meeting? Or must it be held in such secrecy? Davos asked. Daenys agreed with him. Who knows what the combined tempers Willem and Daemon will bring together. Though she would not say that in front of Willem's own son.

"I will act alone." Daemon glanced at her. "As I have since I arrived in Harrenhall."

"What great that has done us." Daenys muttered. "We seem to be at the verge of turning swords against us rather than rallying them together."

"I will not sugarcoat my demands for a child, this is war." He spat back.

"Telling a boy to kill his grandsire for the sake of expediting his own control is certainly no way to gain loyalty." Daenys sipped her wine, not feeling a heavy appetite when no one else was eating besides Simon's sons.

Davos looked at her bewilderedly as if to ask if he really said that. Daenys smiled into her cup shortly, wiping it off her face before she set the cup down.

"What do you intend to do with the Brackens?" She continued.

"You need not concern yourself with my business. It will be delt with accordingly."

Daenys sighed quietly. "At least answer me this. Will you recruit or burn the Brackens?"

The room silented further. Daemon stared between Davos and Daenys.

"I will do what I must to obtain the best men for our Queen's cause." Was his answer. "While I fly out on Caraxes, you should pay a visit to the Tullys. To...ascertain their Lord's condition. Perhaps things have changed."

"Since the day before?" She scoffed.

Daemon gave her a harsh look. "We do not have time to wait for an old and withered fool to die in order to get the Tully bannermen."

"We certainly had time to wait for Viserys to die." Though her words were unnecessarily cruel, especially towards Viserys' own brother, Daenys couldn't find it in her to care. She was never close with her grandsire, but scorned the way his own closest kin abandoned him to the Hightower snakes' clutches.

"Watch your tongue." Daemon leaned forward in his seat.

"I would not let war change me."

"You've not seen war yet, daughter."

Daemon often called her that. Something he did not share with her brothers when he merely referred to them by their names. It frustrated Daenys, knowing he had no right to call her his daughter when he appeared so suddenly in her life. She was nothing like her stepfather. He was the last man who could be her father.

He's the one who got rid of Laenor. Manipulated Rhaenyra into sending the father of her four eldest children away. Daemon, alone, was the reason she mourned her father for years. Rhaenyra would never have done such a thing to her children if her uncle was not so cunning.

"I will not." She said finally. There was no room for argument in her tone. "Tomorrow, I will deliver the Master of War to the Queen's council, then return to Harrenhall and await the news you bring."

"Fine. Sit idly here as the council and I make moves to take back the throne. It is not like you'd be much use at Dragonstone, either." Daemon leaned forward in his seat, closer to the faces across from him before taking his leave to his chambers.

Seething, Daenys chose not to make a scene in front of the other occupants in the room. Instead, she quickly turned to Davos. "I hope to see you returning to your family soon, Ser Davos. I hate to see you stuck here for menial reasons, I think your father and Daemon will work something out with the Brackens on the morrow."

Davos smiled weakly. "It's only been a day and I feel my mind melting with the idleness. I wish to be on the battlefield, marching with my Aunt Alysanne."

She nodded. "I understand. We share that sentiment, at least."

Dinner passed by quickly, with Simon taking hold of the conversation and switching it to a more appropriate topic. Tension did not leave the air all night, however. When Daenys big goodnight to Davos, Simon, and the rest, she allowed Cregan to lead her to her chambers.

A distant feeling nagged at the back of Daenys' mind, as if warning her something would happen soon. It was a miserable impending feeling that she could not answer. "Goodnight, Cregan." She said before he could stop to check on her, knowing that look on his face meant he was worried for her.

She settled into her sheets, knowing that a dream was awaiting her. It was best to get it over with, to see it, and wake up again to be able to prepare for whatever would happen.

Daenys was correct. She had begun to get better at predicting when she would dream. This time, she was landlocked on a rolling grassy hill, watching hundreds of soldiers holding up Green Targaryen banners marching towards an unknown destination. Greenery surrounded her on all sides, through forests and healthy grass. She followed after the leagues of men, who did not see her, and mapped out every possible landmark in her mind. Eventually, the men reached a treeline where they stopped. For cover, most likely.

Men did not hide in forests from other men, but from a dragon's birdeye view.

Daenys spotted a large castle nearby, the destination that the men must have in mind. Behind her, more men rolled up with large crossbows that had to be dragged with multiple horses. The arrows they held were almost as tall as Daenys. Men from the castle were sent out to defend their home, a meager number compared to the ones marching upon them. But, like any loyal knights, they would all die protecting their Lord and his house.

Men did not hide in forests from other men, but from a dragon's birdeye view. Men did not need to kill other men with five-foot-long arrows. She saw Criston Cole, flanked by Ser Gwayne Hightower, and she knew. They were waiting for a dragon.

🗡

Daenys shot out of bed quickly, finding no time to dress herself in the dress laid out for her. It was just after dawn, the sun was already peaking out over Daenys' bed through the windows and cracks in the roof.

She rushed out to the dining hall, where Davos was whispering hushedly to Ser Simon. "Simon, Davos!" Daenys commanded their attention, making them both swing around on the balls of their feet to see their panicked Princess.

In her white shift, completely inappropriate for wandering strange halls, she earned stares with differing looks. Simon, with concern that only a father could hold, and Davos with a hand at his sword's pommel, ready to defend his Princess if need be.

"Princess?" Simon asked.

"In the Riverlands—What castle holds a tower slightly higher than the rest with a sphere on top?" She panted out. "Forests and grassy hills around it, it is slightly smaller than Harrenhall in size but longer."

The two glanced at each other, Davos answering first. "That sounds like Rook's Rest. It is right between us and Dragonstone. May I ask why, my Lady?"

Of course. Rook's Rest, a perfect spot for the Green's to take and cut off Dragonstone from the land.

"I must go. See to it that Cregan Stark stays here while I am gone, Ser Simon."

"But, Princess—!" She didn't stay, running off to Daemon's chambers.

She pushed at the doors, grunting when she was met with resistance. A clanging was heard, she knew he must have barred the doors with something. She continued to push and pull aggressively at the doors, eventually making the protective bar he put up fall to the ground. By the time she yanked them open, Daemon stood in front of the doors with a sword held high to her face.

"Daemon," She started, gritting her teeth. "You must come with me. We will ride to Rook's Rest, where an amush has been laid for Rhaenyra's dragons."

Daemon did not lower his sword, stuck in that same hazy mindspace that she had seen him in before. "Begone, witch. I will hear no more of this."

"Daemon!" She pleaded, stepping closer. "I need you, now. I don't know who is waiting or who Rhaenyra is sending. What if it is Baela, or Jace? Their dragons are too small and young to fight like ours—Come on!"

Daemon scowled at her, as if he were looking right past her. He stepped forward, too, til his Valyrion steel blade was touching her neck. "You are not Rhaenyra." He said, convincing himself that he was merely dreaming.

She swallowed harshly, shaking her head. She had no time to wait for him to find his own mind. Daenys would not be his mother, she couldn't stand idle as a dragon and its rider unknowingly flew to its own death.

She stepped away, nodding. "If I do not return, Daemon, you can tell your wife that you have doomed me."

In her own chambers, she hastily put on the dress that was laid out for her. A pale grey, resembling a misty morning like the one that graced the Riverlands this morning. It would be harder to see today, Daenys knew, she must be vigilant to guide Morningstar.

Morningstar flew with a vigor, right below the cloudbanks, to be able to see everything. It was a fast flight to Rook's Rest, passing over mountains of green trees before the fields opened up to the plains that the castle stood on. Below, men were fighting already. Shouts were heard from below as Morningstar crossed Cole's forces towards Rook's Rest, where she circled briefly.

She ran outside, calling Morningstar to her at the door. Caraxes followed, though only roared frustratedly as he knew he could not fly with them. They sensed her urgency and fear. On top of Morningstar, Daenys could see Cregan start to race outside, barely dressed himself. He shouted after her only when she shouted her command. Daenys glanced back at him apologetically, knowing he would advise against such reckless actions. She would not let herself be stopped, not this time. She waited too long for Jaehaerys and was only a minute too late to save the boy.

She tried to ignore the helpless look on Cregan's face as she turned away.

There.

It was Rhaenys and Meleys, coming from across the sea to defend Lord Staunton's keep. A breath of relief left Daenys, knowing that her mother had sent the most capable fighter she had available. "Grandmother!" She shouted over the men below, grinning at the sight of the Red Queen. Selfishly, she was glad it was not Jacaerys or Baela.

Rhaenys did not share her joy, instead falling into place beside Morningstar with a worried shout of her own. "Go back, Daenys! This is not your battle!"

In her grand dragonscale and steel armor, she looked just like a Queen. Her commanding presence solidified it even more so. "It is a trap, Rhaenys, I cannot leave you to face a dragon alone," Daenys told her stubbornly. She would not leave Rhaenys, there was no argument about it.

Rhaenys stared long and hard at her granddaughter, an image of herself and her niece. Finally, she nodded curtly in acceptance. It was futile to argue with the young Targaryen.

Together, they spun their dragons around to hover right over the plains. Dragonfire spit out from Meleys and Morningstar both, showering over the enemies in a display of glowing orange and blue. Screams of agony were heard as the fire spread from man to man, no steel armor able to save them from flames so hot.

Daenys cringed at the sounds and the smells. She was killing men by the hundreds, perhaps, it was uncountable over the distance and flames. Only weeks ago, she had wondered if she would be able to use fire against her enemies in such a violent way, now she was doing it without question or mercy.

They did not deserve mercy, but Daenys did not wish to kill. She held in gags at the overstimulating sounds and smells around her, staying firm and strong as Rhaenys was. Her grandmother did not flinch nor faulter, a confident Princess with her experienced dragon, a bond that could never be broken.

Repeatingly, the two dragons lifted and found new targets on any men who dared to still be out in the fields, and any who were too slow to retreat into the woods. When Daenys noticed a steady march of the majority of the men creeping out from their cover, she lifted her gaze to the skies. In the distance, a dragon was flying toward them at top speed from the direction of the capitol.

She squinted, meeting Meleys' turnaround from above the water. "It's Sunfyre!" She shouted to Rhaenys, who silently nodded and ordered Meleys to meet The Golden.

"Angōs, Meleys." She commanded her dragon with a fierce determination. The red dragoness roared in response, speeding up to meet the usurper. Morningstar, perfectly meeting her stride, trilled with excitement.

They were mere yards apart when Daenys heard, "Dracarys!" From Aegon. Immediately, Sunfyre spit his own orange dragonfire at the two. Meleys swooped down, taking the fire to her advantage, knowing it blinded Aegon momentarily. Morningstar flew up sharply, turning to follow behind Sunfyre. That fool.

In the midst of his confusion, Aegon turned his head every which way to locate his enemy counterparts, yelping when Sunfrye was grasped from below by Meleys. The Red Queen dug her sharp talons into the younger dragon's chest, digging deep gouges right through the scales. She tossed Sunfyre down, watching him fumble to steady himself.

Daenys found herself at an impasse. Sunfyre was too small to tagteam in a way that would leave Morningstar's ally unharmed. If either shot fire, they would risk hurting each other and not Aegon. Sunfyre managed to right himself, flying just over the grass and spraying buckets of boiling hot blood on Aegon's own men.

Sunfyre whined in pain the entire ascent back into the air. Daenys felt sympathy for the poor thing. It was only doing as he was bid by his rider. Meleys didn't let him get far, biting at Sunfyre's wing in the air and dragging him across. Morningstar finally took the opportunity to join, Daenys noting that bites and scratches were much easier to aim than fire. Her dragon latched onto the other wing's thin membrane, leaving Sunfyre unable to fly himself and instead hang lamely between the two beasts.

Sunfyre managed to angle his neck wildly, hanging on to Meleys' horn with his jaw. He tore it clean off of the dragoness, throwing it down to the ground. A deep grumble caught Daenys' attention as Morningstar let go of the bloodied and ripped wing. "It's Vhagar!" She shouted to Rhaenys, who turned to see the great behemoth approaching with Aemond.

"Thank the Gods!" Aegon shouted in relief, even as Meleys held Sunfrye's neck in a fearsome grip.

Morningstar sharply flew up to get out of the line of fire, howling out for Meleys to follow her.

A shout was heard from Aemond, though Daenys could not decipher it over the sounds of growls and wings flapping. Fire shot from Vhagar indiscriminately, shooting right at Aegon.

Was Rhaenys even the target for that? Daenys thought to herself, horrified at the sight below her. Sunfyre's ripped wings both caught fire, the blood exposing the insides enough to be lacking shield as they usually would. Rhaenys swiftly met Morningstar in the higher skies, watching with Daenys as the rider and dragon fell to the trees.

Vhagar continued on, Aemond not attempting to check on his older brother.

Meleys and Morningstar flew side by side, both riders turned to assess the situation. Panting, they worked to catch their breath. Daenys pet Morningstar's neck, checking her for injuries. Luckily, she went unharmed from her brief fight with the smaller dragon. Meleys had sustained few injuries, too, bar from the missing horn.

"Grandmother, we can keep going to Dragonstone. Or Harrenhall, even! Vhagar is thrice our size, we should get Caraxes and Daemon."

Her words seemed to go through one ear and out the other to her grandmother. Rhaenys sat straight and proud, ever a picture of grace even in battle. "I will not be leaving this battle, Daenys." She told her solemnly. "But you will. Continue on, without me." She commanded.

Daenys shook her head vehemently, shocked at the implication. "I will not leave you, grandmother. I cannot."

Rhaenys met her eyeline with a pleading look, though only got a determined one in return. "I will follow you into battle." Her granddaughter continued, blinking away watery eyes.

The Queen Who Never Was nodded, only once. "Angōs, Meleys." She murmured to her dragon, who made a similar hollow sound.

"Naejot, Ñāqatubis qēlos!" Daenys shouted, earning a more invigorated sound from Morningstar. Her blood ran hot, nearly burning through the saddle and Daenys' legs if they had touched the scales. She didn't want to back down, and neither did Meleys.

Rhaenys buckled herself into her saddle. Daenys narrowed her eyes at her grandmother but did not speak out against her. She simply followed her actions. She was the more experienced rider, after all.

Ahead of them, Vhagar had her back turned to them. Aemond has thought they fled when Sunfyre went down, they both had the speed to outfly Vhagar easily. He turned in his saddle, cursing. Roaring, Meleys sped up and angled herself to fly upside down, Morningstar quick to mimic her movements more clumsily. Both dragons matched their actions, moving to latch both of their feet to one of Vhagar's. All three dragons jerked at the stop, spinning in circles as if merely dancing in the air.

Though, the fire and roars told the onlookers otherwise. Daenys felt dizzy at being upsidedown and spinning, but held herself steady. "Do not fire, Morningstar! Bite!" She yelled her command, fearful of burning her grandmother. From this angle, it would be hard for flames to reach Aemond anyway. Flames only served to blind the other dragon. Morningstar grumbled but obeyed, forcing fire back down her throat. She bit at any green limbs or scales flying her way, finally managing to latch onto Vhagar's thick tail and biting down hard.

Beside her, Meleys clawed at Vhagar's chest successfully, searing blood running down all of the Dragon's scales as they spun. Vhagar roared in pain and anger, releasing a wave of hot flames into the air.

With Morningstar's grip on the tail's end, she lost control of her talon's grip and loosened it enough to lose it entirely. The now free claw kicked at Morningstar, sending her away and to find her grounding in the air again. Though, it did not come as a success to Vhagar. Lying limp in Morningstar's massive maw was nearly eight feet of her tail. Bit off entirely.

Though it would not kill Vhagar, she dragoness would never fly completely straight or as fluid as she once did. Tails were vital for balance. Morningstar trilled in victory as Meleys threw Vhagar to the ground, both flying up again as the larger was forced to get a running start in order to fly again.

Daenys panted slightly, seeing Rhaenys fly in sync next to her.

"Are you and Morningstar okay?" She asked, rising above the smoke and also out of breath.

She nodded, looking around her briefly. "I think so. Are you two?" Meleys had lost quite a bit of blood from her chest scratch, though did not look any less strong as she flew.

Meleys turned to Rhaenys, whining softly as she glanced at her rider. Rhaenys smiled solemnly, comforting her dragon. It did not go unnoticed by Daenys that she had chosen to stay silent rather than answer.

"Grandmother." Daenys said. "This is a victory. We have injured Vhagar greatly, and Sunfyre and Aegon might be dead as we speak."

Both turned to fly towards the open water, and Daenys breathed a heavy sigh of relief. She would take her grandmother home safely, where she could continue to advise her mother in Daenys' temporary absence.

They flew over Rook Rest's tallest tower, relieved to see that Vhagar had fled.

Meleys, ahead of Morningstar, was suddenly thrown up into the air. Morningstar roared and halted her flight with angled wings as the other two ascended high into the air. Meleys was trapped by the neck in Vhagar's maw now, unable to do anything but cry out in agony. As Morningstar flew up to try and meet them, hot blood poured down onto the dragon and rider. It burned, though Daenys forced herself to wipe it away and cover her eyes with a hand. Morningstar faultered slightly, blindly flying and shaking blood from her face.

High above Rook's Rest, Vhagar let go of Meleys, dropping her down to the shore. Go after Rhaenys or finish off Aemond from behind? Daenys had no time to think, she simply moved on instinct. "Grab her!" She shouted towards Morningstar, who swopped down and grabbed Meleys' heavy body by the sides. The dragon screeched in pain again, though still could not manage the strength to fly again. Morningstar grunted with the effort, barely able to carry Meleys in her claws. She would not be able to save Meleys. She was bigger than Morningstar and too heavy to be carried anywhere but the hover she held her in.

Rhaenys stared up at her granddaughter with apology already written across her face. She was content to die with her dragon, but heartbroken to leave her grandchildren and husband in the living world.

Daenys unbuckled herself swiftly, reaching down and maneuvering her body to hang off the saddle with all but a leg and arm holding her up. "Climb up, hurry!" She begged her grandmother, who was only attached to Meleys through her own buckle. Her hands were at her sides, already accepting her honorable dragonrider's death.

Daenys could not accept such a thing.

Daenys sobbed at the look, shaking her head. Tears fell towards Rhaenys, landing on or past her ashen face. "Grandmother, please—!" Vhagar had returned.

Morningstar was thrown by Vhagar's talons, losing her grin on The Red Queen. Daenys couldn't even watch her fall, spinning around in the air as Morningstar fought to find air. Above, Vhagar roared as Daenys screamed.

"Go!" She pleaded as Morningstar finally straightened out, immediately fleeing towards Harrenhall.

Vhagar did not follow this time, instead clumsily landing near Sunfyre's fallen spot. Daenys panted heavily, looking below and behind her desperately to spot Meleys. The dragon had fallen to the shores below, where the land met sea. So close to Dragonstone. They were so close to Dragonstone.

Daenys numbly looked forward, releasing her death grip on the saddle's handles. Red poured out from Morningstar's scaled side, revealing the damage Vhagar's throw had done to her. "I'm sorry, Morningstar." She whispered, leaning lamely over the saddle and staying like that for her entire flight.

🗡

Upon landing, Morningstar had been silent. Perhaps mourning Meleys just as much as Daenys was mourning Rhaenys. They had lived close together, flying often to Driftmark and Dragonstone as all the other dragons who got along did.

Daenys saw Caraxes waiting by the entrance, where she had left him. Weakly, she couldn't even greet the Blood Wrym as he called out for the dragon and rider. Cregan, too, waited for her. Dressed now, it seemed like he waited outside the entire time since she had left, with no way to follow her.

The thought vaguely registered in her mind as Morningstar huffed and leaned down. Through bleary eyes, she saw Cregan climb her wing and reach out to hold Daenys' face in his hand. He wiped a spot of blood from her brow, frowning.

Her sleeves had burnt off entirely, leaving small bits of fabric to conseal her modesty. The last thing she cared for at the moment, if she were honest. Dragon blood smeared across her as if it were her own: covering her face, hair, neck, arms, and dress. She did not have time to go to Dragonstone and don her scaled armor.

"What has happened?" He asked softly, working with the cuff of his sleeve to gently wipe away at her face. It was in vain, though, only working to smear it further when it had already dried. Daenys slumped her head into Cregan's neck, shaking her head defeatedly. He clutched her in his arms immediately, lifting her from her saddle and carefully bringing her down the wing and to the grass. He glanced at the wounded dragon behind him, who seemed to nod encouragingly at him as she continued laying down.

With only Ser Simon at the entrance, Cregan passed by the older man with a shared concerned glance. Davos had left after Daenys did that morning, to meet with Willem Blackwood and the Brackens before Caraxes and Daemon set off. Horseback was much slower, after all.

His return depended on his father's command, but if he did, it wouldn't be until later that night.

"Have someone bring food and a bowl of clean water to the Princess' chambers." Cregan told Simon, who nodded and went off to find a servant.

Daenys hung in his arms as if she were dead, despite being uninjured. She did not want to live, not with the sins that weighed so heavily on her soul. Three deaths, she was indirectly responsible for.

Two people Aemond had directly taken from her. Kinslayer, twice over. Mayhaps three, if Aegon did not survive his injuries.

Two deaths that Daemon did not intend for, but would be held responsible for by Daenys.

Luke, Jaehaerys, Rhaenys. The three names twirled around her mind like the ghosts themselves coming back to haunt her. She had finally learned to trust herself—trust her mind. And all she had gotten was a front seat view of the death instead of the ability to change it.

No, perhaps she could change it still. She just wasn't trying hard enough. She didn't push Rhaenys hard enough to retreat, nor fought Vhagar hard enough when she had the chance. Rhaenys died for her mistakes.

Morningstar almost did, too. Perhaps Aemond only gave her mercy to torment her with her guilt. He knew she couldn't kill him. Not like she could all those soldiers in front of the castle.

Ik I said Thursday for update day, but I got stopped a lot for various things. I hope this chapter didn't disappoint, wanted some cute and some action.

She was not a kinslayer, not directly. Even so, she had witnessed the deaths of four of her kin. Four would not be the last, not in this dance of dragons. It would not stop until all the dragons and their riders were dead.

🗡

Ñāqatubis qēlos - Morning Star

or Tubis qēlos, I was getting two different answers

Half of this chapter is me trying to make a cute day out. Beach episode! 😋 and procrastinating the process for the last half, which was a nightmare to write. Born to write whimical dreams and drama, forced to write dragons fighting to the death or whatever.

Will Cregan be mad that Daenys didn't come to him first? Left him, waiting for news of her death on dragonback?

Did anyone get the little Phantom of the Opera quote?

Every time I see Vhagar compared to other dragons, the reality of her ACTUALLY being the biggest is still so jarring. She isn't just a bit bigger by technicalities, but a behemoth compared to them. She makes Meleys, the third biggest in the world, look like a baby dragon compared to her. When she crushed those men to basically nothing with her hind foot, damn. Makes me wonder how big Balerion was and why every dragon after the Doom grew smaller and smaller. Probably due to some magic only available in Old Valyria, I would adore a show purely about the dragon country. I love dragons sm, I wish we had more live actions media for them 😪

Daenys talks about her perfect life with Cregan and all of their loved ones. I wonder how Winterfell functions as a society, being less formal than the south but still holding its own type of regality. I think the Starks in GOT were quite like the image she pictured, pre-show. Tight-knit though the siblings squabbled like true siblings do, but always having family dinner and telling each other about their days. They never got to get a normal ending, but I think if they had and the sons and daughters eventually married off, everyone would still visit Winterfell often to have get togethers and see each other. Take Ned Stark's parenting and compare it to Tywin, Robert, Stannis, etc. Very indifferent and detached, only seeing their kids as succesors and political pieces rather than kids to love and cherish.

Did Rhae Rhae name Daenys after her dreamer ancestor or after her father disguised with her ancestor's name, no one will know except for her (every time I type Daemon it trys to correct to Daenys PLS).

Daenys not wanting to seem thirsty for cregan, meanwhile he's getting the opposite idea and thinking she looked away because she was totally indifferent and he's like 🙁 i lost my touch (the winterfell ladies are DEFINITELY all over their Lord Stark) and maybe thinking she doesn't care for his looks, being a different standard of beauty from southern men.

Can you tell I love the gentlemanly hand kiss thing? It's a lost art, not even considered romantic most of the time and simply being a polite greeting or farewell gesture, but its so intimate in its own way compared to a hug or handshake.

ALSO thinking about Silverwing/Vermithor size difference. Silverwing is pretty small, like Syrax size. Vermithor is HUGE and is completely a different size category than the dragons below him including his lovely dragon wife. Syrax and Caraxes are similar sizes. It reminds me of that meme with the tiny male rabbit looking up at his humongous fem rabbit wife and its kinda reversed for Silver and Vermithor, and also mirroring Daenys and Cregan slightly with their size difference and color schemes.

One thing I've unintentionally done is make Daenys insecure about her being deemed mad and unsociable by others, but one thing she's never been insecure about is her looks. In fact, she doesn't deny when Cregan or a bard calls her beautiful or something of the like. I think that part of her character kind of ran away from me and did itself. Shes surprised when someone finds her tolerable to be around and seeks her conpany, but only happy when someone compliments looks. There's a lot of insecure MCs who worry about their looks (no shade to that, it makes characters more relatable) but I think Daenys hasn't been insecure of her appearances, only her actions.

I google a million stupid questions per chapter. This chapter's: can pearls be found in lakes? Of course they can, Cherry, muscles and clams still live in lakes.

[hexhomos]

Can I ask...what actually happens with Viktor in S2?? I keep hearing people being really vague about it being Bad but I haven't seen the leaks and now cannot find out anything that isn't just someone saying they won't say anything;; I just want to temper my expectations bc I was only excited for S2 for his storyline (+ Jayce interactions) and I'm getting the impression they don't do.....much?? with it?

spoiling stuff for real under the cut

As of ep5, Viktor:

-Doesn't have his mask or armor

-Has no outspoken ideological drive

-Has never once expressed interest in the traditional venues of transhumanism ocurring all around him

-Never made blitzcrank, never did shit ONSCREEN

-The only tangible reference we get to the machine herald is this shot of cards back on s1:

I genuinely dont know if he has even 5 full minutes of actual footage across all of these episodes lmfao...

His contributions to the story are, in sequence:

-stuck in stasis. jayce waits by his bedside for over an episode

-emerges from coma, immediately rebuffs all of jayce’s warm affectionate advances to the point its a little comical. looks like a dried grape, barely any bigger. declares that he's mad over not being left to DIE; he has to go away now. he hears... her voice! oh! that girl who spoke one time in s1 and that he ignored in every scene!

-left the lab buttnaked and barefoot with a blanket jayce wrapped around him to explore the streets on zaun. a bunch of sick homeless guys (who are, of course, shimmer addicts, see my note about war on terror) think he must be augmented so they want to kill him for scraps and parts. But they dont know that viktor is jesus now. he turns his stigmata palm to that guy who sold out caitlyn in s1 and proceeds to magically cure the lepers.

-this is his last scene for a little while. we Hear Of Him when one of the disabled councilors is looking for ways to deal with his pain from the accident. arcane loves looking over the shoulder of the rich and powerful like they are the main drivers and movers of the story

-like an hour of footage later, jayce reemerges (from a nexus-type of situation) and he finds one of Viktor’s servants -- its that councilor guy-- doing something unspecified. He's surprised to see jayce and tells him that he may speak to viktor; viktor says he misses him and wants to see him and basically "my bad man i was tripping when i said that shit to you the writers needed some lazy disagreement point," but he sounds really cult-leader sleazy and jayce is really mad over being left behind. Jayce is having some flashbacks to void monsters in the other side and tells servant guy he's not allowed to let him go. Servant councilor guy says well too bad! Im going! So jayce pulverizes him with his hammer. based jayce. he looks like brown bearded dante from devil may cry

That's the ep5 clifhanger. i think you can tell how i feel.

My predictions are as follows: jayce tracks him down to his lair and we get a showdown that is a vague reference to their original character bios battle; the one where viktor sics a bunch of brainwashed people on him and the building falls over everyone from the impact. It's possible that viktor is still not wearing his armor, and in this altercation jayce beats him up so bad or dismembers him enough that in act 3 he will have built one. That feels insulting to me but they legitimately have been very lazy.

oh and jayce also has a magical stigmata now. i hope they get to scissor those things together

[miguel-ohara-lover]

Miguel x Spider-Woman W/ a Baby Pt.2

Part one

Tbh I don’t really know how to continue this but I tried haha

CW: Fluff, dad!Mig, reader has a baby, slight angst cuz of Gabi

It had been a few weeks since that little date you and Miguel went on. He had started encouraging you to bring Alice around more often. He loved seeing your little girl, loved watching over her and taking care of her.

She would never fill the void in his heart that Gabi left behind. Even so… he loved her dearly, as if she were his own. Seeing his smile, his eyes light up when he saw her, it made you happy. You hadn’t felt this love since your ex, Alice’s father.

You didn’t dare confess to Miguel, not until after the third date. Or was this the fourth… you started to lose count, time flying by when you’re with him. Your little girl had started growing bigger, and before you knew it you were celebrating her first birthday with Miguel.

It was a surprised when she started saying mama, a welcomed surprise. You teared up when you heard the adorable babble, immediately bringing her to Miguel excitedly. You wanted to show off her new found speaking skills.

It was an even bigger surprise when she looked up at Miguel with those adorable eyes and babbled something like dada. You both thought it was just nonsense, until her tiny hands reached up to him as she babbles more ‘dada dada!’

He was frozen, and you were confused. You had no idea where she heard this from, and concluded it had to be from Mayday calling Peter that. Miguel didn’t know what to do, he hadn’t been called dad in any form since Gabriella…

The sudden weight and pressure of fatherhood laid heavy on his shoulders once again. Yeah, he wasn’t Alice’s father, but the second she said dada to him… he felt all those paternal instincts fill him. It scared him, after his daughter he didn’t know if he would be good enough.

You saw the pain and worry in his eyes. Your heart sank, knowing exactly why he felt this way, and you placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Miguel…” You started. “I’m sorry if it’s too soon. I understand, and I have no idea where she learned that. I’m really so-”

“It’s okay. Really.” Miguel stopped your apology. “Really…” His voice became quieter, and your hand moved up to cup his cheek. He leaned into your touch. “She can call me that.” He have you a gentle smile.

You smiled back and nodded. “Okay, Mig. I’m so happy she has you in her life.” You felt Miguel’s cheeks warm up as a blush spread across his face. “What is it?”

“Nothing… just admiring Alice’s mami.” Now it was your turn to blush, and he couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “We’ve been spending so much time together… and I’ve grown to love Alice as if she were my own.”

You looked into his eyes as he spoke, listening to his words intently. His sentences are broken only by Alice’s adorable babbles that caught both your attentions. Miguel took a deep breath, taking Alice into his arms like just her presence was calming to him.

“I think I’ve started to fall for you… you’re so beautiful, so kind and you’re an amazing mother. I could go on…” He paused. “If you think it is too soon I-”

“I feel the same.” You cut him off.

He stood there silently for a moment, shocked by this confession. Without another word he leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on your lips. He was so tender and soft, so different from how he was with every other spider person. Only you got to see this side of him, no one else.

It wasn’t long before the society caught on to the new relationship, since you two were always together, or if you weren’t around Miguel had Alice. Hearing her call Miguel papa or dada was a surprise, especially for Peter. He wouldn’t shut up about it for weeks and that made you laugh the few times you heard it.

Maybe Miguel’s walls are coming down, he won’t ever go back to how he had been before Gabriella, but you were helping a lot. And he loved you so much.

———

@lewispool @meeom @deputy-videogamer @aug-ust69 @mythologicalgodsblog @ladyroseishere @autismsupermusicalassassin @ilovespiderman15 @justleavemealoneyeah @maryxlx01x @l3laze @drheinzd @saturnknows @cherrycosmos392 @oxrchd @number1gal @spikedhe4rt @oscarissac2099 @freehentai @obsessed-with-miguels-ass

[gofancyninjaworld]

OPM Manga Update 247 Review

I was puzzled as to why the translation for this was listed as a redraw, as the previous chapters had covered the entirety of the ninja arc to date before the hiatus. Then I realised that it was the numbering foolishness messing with the translators. EH! Not my problem. Shall we go on?

Summary

The chapter opens with Suiryu being discharged from hospital. He's been given a huge bouquet by the nurses and wished a speedy return to hospital, something he understandably has no plan to do. As he makes his way down the road, his attention is attracted by screaming, which turns out to be coming from a woman about to be eaten by a monster giant anteater. He splits it in half with a single chop, noting with satisfaction that his strength has returned.

He turns back to the business at hand, that of finding the Hero Association and Saitama, and is surprised that every online search for 'hero' brings up the Neo Heroes. Things have definitely changed... but he doesn't have much time to muse on it for he is nearly flattened by the enormous head of what had been a much bigger monster giant anteater. Could Saitama be out here? No, the person who'd sent the monster's head flying was an idol. She introduced herself as Webigaza, and that she was back from her hiatus to work as a Neo Hero as well as sing. She pauses to take a deep drink of water -- she's thirsty -- and then encourages people to support the Neo Heroes before flying off.

Suiryu stares after her like a cat seeing baubles hung up on a Christmas tree. Come to that, maybe he's a little thirsty too. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to check out the opposition first... after all, he can quit right away. Elsewhere, we see an unamused Suiko surprised that her brother has discharged himself without telling her. Her concern quickly turns to outrage when she reads the note he's left for her and realises that he's stuck her with the bill.

He's just the nicest guy, isn't he?

Suiryu arrives at the Neo Hero tower and is quickly ushered into the testing facilities. With difficulty, he gets squeezed into a power suit, all while muttering to himself about how uncool it'd make him if he approached that girl looking like that.

Once on though, he feels the enormous surge of power it brings. Excited, he flexes, and the suit crumbles like a badly-baked biscuit. Worse, he now need to pay for it. Five million, which is more than the three million he earned in the Superfight.

If you break it, you've bought it. Love the detail of Suiryu flexing hard enough to break his remaining armband.

The chapter closes with a weeping Suiryu being introduced to Metal Bat. He's stuck in Neo Heroes until he can earn enough to pay off his debts.

Oh yeah, one final detail. Has McCoy handed in his notice before he started moonlighting for the Neo Heroes? He better have, the rat!

Phew, thank goodness this wasn't longer! Shall we do some meta?

Meta

We're a week on, so the outraged whines of fans expecting a showdown between Blast and Void have died down. It's totally par for the course. All I will say is this:

If you were around when this chapter (chapter 67) was first posted, you'll know that it was well over a year (in chapter 77) that we got to find out what happened.

Yup, ONE reserves the right to go 'Meanwhile...' and go somewhere else, sometimes for extended periods of time. Deal with it.

Saturation Bombing

Well, now we're back to the Neo Hero storyline, and man, when they launched, they launched HARD. They've sopped up all the SEO real estate to crowd the Hero Association off the first page of the search engines. Their TV and billboard ads are everywhere. They've even bought up the storefronts around around their headquarters. And all in the space of days. The wallets bankrolling this venture must be abyssally deep (I will return to this in a sec).

A leopard doesn't change his spots

I won't lie: Suiryu is the character I've had the most trouble seeing the point of. I've tried, but I'm still of the opinion that this lazy, feckless, superficially charming, and not-at-all-nice guy gets given way too much real estate. Well, he may be serious about wanting to be a hero but he's still as feckless as he ever was. Yes, he won a considerable sum of money just before being hospitalised and so had no chance to spend it. Yet, true to his nature, he fucks off and sticks his sister with the bill. And true to his nature, he decides to take a pass at an idol (someone who will have hell to pay if she's even thought to be dating), fully intending to cut and run as soon as he gets what he's chasing after. Well, the wheels were always going to come off sooner or later. Might as well be now. Good.

Chef's Kiss

I know that many people were a bit disturbed to find how... normal Webigaza looks but I think it's FANTASTIC. Why? Well, a slightly creepy idol isn't everyone's cup of tea, but they'd be someone's shot of whiskey, unusual and thus not interchangeable. It's a recognisable brand she'd have been able to build on. That worked *against* Webigaza's stated desperation to stand out and gain lasting fame.

Anyone into the 'creepy doll' look really, really is into it, and won't be substituting them for another.

By making her an absolutely normal-looking idol, loveable but totally replaceable, Murata has understood the brief. I can 100% believe that this Webi is desperate to be different in some lasting way when she looks exactly the same as a dozen other idols. I can 100% believe her when she's obsessed with Sweet Mask and wants what he has when she knows that the crowd that cheers for her today will cheer just as enthusiastically next year for someone who looks and sounds almost exactly like her. That she'll be forgotten despite having poured her entire life into entertaining. And that she'd rather die than see it happen.

Because she looks generic, it makes sense that she's painfully aware of how replaceable she is.

This works. This really, really works.

Let's talk cash, pt. 1: suits of contention

As many sharp-eyed readers have noticed, that suit that Suiryu got given looks awfully familiar. It's a dead ringer for the ones that Tongara's team got given by Narinki.

And once those suits hulked out...

... they looked an awful lot like the ones Hammerhead's crew got their hands on.

No prizes for guessing that this Neo Hero thing is most probably a front for one of the most successful conspiracies in fiction, The Organization. Successful because they're able to work to achieve their aims without anyone blabbing prematurely.

Let's talk cash, pt. 2: debtor's jail

It probably shouldn't surprise us too much that Suiryu is in such good shape after leaving hospital. After all, it wasn't just any hospital he went to but a Hero Hospital, a place where exceptional effort is expended in healing people rapidly. Also a very costly place, as McCoy pointed out to Mad Devil Yankee.

The drop of realism that sells the fantasy harder: yes, there's medicine and technology to heal up incredible injuries and illnesses super fast. But the price is steep!

Oh yeah, the apparent throwaway is becoming quite relevant now. I wonder if someone will point out to Suiko that joining the Hero Association would be a quick way to discharge her brother's medical debt?

I wouldn't mind this brewing Neo Hero saga to stick around a little longer. But I'm easy -- I've long since stopped expecting a particular thing to happen at a given time. All will be well in the end.

[jayden-killer]

DREAMS ARE MY REALITY. (pt. 4)

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3]

What would happen if your favourite fictional character appeared in your bed...?

A/N: oh boy. This is 1000% certificated angst. *cries hard* ALSO ITS BEEN ALMOST ONE YEAR OMG I'm back!!!

Taglist (write me down in the comments if you want to be added!): @strxngegirl @d1lf-loverrr @laysmt @musicalhistorical @souichi-sbitch

☆

Miguel and I didn't have much to do that day. My boss had let me take a few days off, and I was somewhat relieved. The possibility of not going to work in those days turned into an opportunity to strengthen the bond with Miguel. Now he lived in my house until his Gizmo adjusted and he was able to get through to Lyla. I didn't mind his presence, because I had always considered him as my friend, or maybe more than a friend, even before I knew he was real.. But that didn't matter. Miguel was going to leave sooner or later. And this would also lead to a void in my heart. I decided to chase those thoughts away and suggest that he take a walk in the city park near my house that morning. He agreed.

°☆°

The humidity was gone, and I remember him blowing a light cool breeze that ruffled our hair and clothes. On our way to the park, we didn't talk much. I had guessed that Miguel was a man of few words, but I still hoped that he had something to say. Anything.

"Here we are" I let my face adorn itself with a smile "A little fresh air won't hurt you. Lately you've always been locked up in my studio trying to find a solution to get back into your dimension".

"Indeed" he agreed, looking around "But it's not a situation to be underestimated. I'm afraid Lyla is broken"

"I'm sure you'll find the right solution, but it's not good for you to be stuck indoors 24/7. Even I go out once in a while!" I replied, joking. There seemed to be a small smile on his face. "Maybe yes..."

My gaze fell on a café, never seen before, which had probably recently opened. I figured a coffee or something might help miguel relax even more. I met his eyes, tired and thoughtful. "Would you like a coffee?" I proposed.

"Okay. No sugar, but milk...and medium"

"Wow, the big boy is thirsty this morning!"

“Whatever, get in line, since there's a lot of them.” He rolled his eyes annoyed. "Okay, you stay here, I think it won't take me long. The queue is flowing" With that, I left Miguel for a few minutes, hoping that nothing had happened, nothing strange or bad. But maybe I was wrong. And I could not have foreseen it.

Miguel remained silent, watching his friend leave. He took a deep breath and looked around for the third time, then sat down on a nearby bench. He admired the children's play area for a while (at least, it seemed to him a while) and tried not to think about it at all. But it was not easy for him not to think of his beloved Gabriella. Her beloved, perfect child. Every time her face came back to him, the memories resurfaced and he always ended up in a difficult situation, in which he either cried or was forced to repress that sadness. And the second option today was the one he would have chosen. Crying in public, at his age... "You're a grown-up adult, O'Hara, act like one! Gabriel wouldn't be happy about that, so don't try to cry-"

"Excuse me, sir, but can you get the ball out of those bushes? It's too high".

That voice managed to bring Miguel back to reality and he noticed a pretty, little girl in soccer gear and her face slightly covered in mud. Miguel's eyes widened, his heart rate accelerated considerably and he seemed to forget what was around him. He almost forgot even the little girl's ball. He was too busy watching the girl smile politely at him, patiently waiting for him to give her the ball back. Nodding weakly, he got up off the bench, plucking the ball from the branches with ease. The little girl jumped with happiness and took back the ball that Miguel handed her, to then give him an even bigger smile.

"Thank you very much, sir!"

"Gabriella..."

His words flew out of her mouth without a second thought. "Is that you, Gabriella?"

"Thank you". Smiles to the bartender, carrying in hand the two glasses full of coffee. On one of them there was written "Miguel :)". I specifically asked the bartender to draw a smiley face, because I thought it was cute. But as I was walking to the place where I had left Miguel a few minutes ago, I almost dropped my coffee by the hand. My mouth opened with surprise. I never expected to find Miguel chatting happily, inches away, with a little girl. His tail was high and he was wearing sportswear, while he was swinging his legs with a football on his legs. That little girl had a very familiar face. I thought I saw her somewhere. It was at that moment that I realized: it was the carbon copy of Gabriella, Miguel’s daughter. But what was she doing there? Why was she there?

My legs moved by themselves, getting closer and closer to eavesdropping on the scene. And so Miguel noticed me: he looked up from the child’s eyes and, unexpectedly, smiled at me. I never thought I’d see Miguel smiling. He radiated a warm, warm smile that made my heart cliff. Gabriella really had a strong influence on him.

"I... I brought you your coffee," I said without a second thought, and I stretched my arm, passing the glass. He nodded, and took it. She opened and closed her mouth when she finally spoke. "She is Gabriella"

"Great pleasure!" The girl gave me a bright smile and waved at me, so I waved back.

"My pleasure. W-Wha..?" My head moved towards Miguel's direction, visibly confused. "What is happening?"

"She, huh... I pulled a football out of a hedge. And now she’s telling me that she had auditioned for a major soccer team" Miguel explained. I had the distinct feeling that he was almost justifying himself as if it was wrong for him to talk to a shameless copy of his daughter. I never thought there was one on this Earth. Where did she come from? All that was missing were anomalies that appeared outside of multidimensional portals and began to disrupt the city. I shuddered at the thought. Maybe not.

"Oh" I sighed, and smiled embarrassed. "Anyway... cool!"

"Yeah," Miguel smiled even more when his eyes fell on Gabriella’s adorable face. "Can I see some dribble? I bet you’re really good"

"Sure, sir!" Gabriella got up from the bench with speed and, without wasting time, showed us some dribble she made with her foot. The ball held its balance on the tip of her foot, and Gabriella took on a real concentrated expression, frowning her eyebrows. At the end of that, she smiled all satisfied, and asked, "Was I good?"

I clapped my hands, clearly surprised by his performance and showed a big smile. Miguel joined too, clapping more than me. He leaned over her and messed up her tied hair. "You were great, mija".

Mija.

He had unknowingly called her mija.

In my heart, I hoped that Gabriella did not know Spanish. But she didn’t say anything, on the contrary, she smiled even more at his praise. That little girl was special to Miguel, I could read his face. " Now I have to go. Bye, sir!" She waved at him, and we did the same, watching her running away and returning to the park area. That's when I decided to finally sit beside Miguel, coffee still in my hand. I didn't want to look up at him. I could sense he had a look full of sorrow, and decided to keep looking at my coffee.

"She's great".

"Huh?".

"I mean, she's... Great." It was his time to sigh now, shooking his head and chuckling. "I didn't know there was one of her here".

"Neither did I".

Our brief conversation ended in an awkward silence. This was until Miguel decided to keep talking to me. "I'm not saying it's your fault. Of course, it's not, you couldn't know. I'm just saying...I miss her".

Oh. I didn't expect that confession. Miguel wasn't one to express to another person his feelings, and maybe this was the perfect occasion to him to show that he really missed Gabriella.

I couldn’t imagine how he felt devastated to see a variant of his daughter here when he didn’t see it coming. It was the last thing on his mind. All those memories that he tried to repress, all the emotions that he felt for his daughter, now surfaced. Maybe I was stupid to take him out that sunny afternoon. Maybe it was better if we both stayed home. But still, as he said, how could I know?

I glanced at Miguel, who was smiling faintly. Nom had still touched his coffee. " Don’t worry. I know you really miss her".

"My precious girl...".

His voice broke and I saw him shaking. He was...crying. Holding tightly his coffee, he shook and put a hand on his face. He didn't hold himself. Oh, god. No, I couldn't see him crying. This broke my heart. Miguel... was crying. He looked like a scared baby. A baby in a man's body.

I gently took his arm and brought him close to me, placing his head on my shoulder. He buried it more and uncontrollably sobbed. "It's okay, Miguel". With one hand I rubbed his back. "None of this it's your fault. It's okay. You're going to be okay". I softly said, almost like a mother comforting his child. But in reality, I didn't know he was going to be okay. I just hoped he would be, someday.

[yurisorcerer]

Holy shit that was fucking incredible.

Warning: major hyped-up ramble session below.

The scheduling of the concert being switched around gives TogeToge a leg up to hopefully make an even bigger first impression at their first festival. Things seem to be going well for them, for once! Let's see if that lasts.

In the leadup to the festival, with Nina and Momoka actually doing pretty much fine for once, the show refocuses on its other three characters for a little while, spotlighting Subaru and how she's still hiding her involvement with the band from her overbearing grandmother, and then moving over to Tomo and Rupa, whose relationship---played to a tasteful tee, neither over- or under-explained---provides a source of strength for the both of them in the face of the loss of their respective families. Physically in Rupa's case, emotionally in Tomo's. Subaru seemingly resolves things with her grandma later in the episode, but Tomo and Rupa's issues aren't so easily packed away. I wouldn't be surprised if the show touches on them one more time before it ends.

Oh hey, Mine's back!

In general the atmosphere of the pre-show buildup reminds me a bit of the pre-concert scenes from Oshi no Ko, although in that show there's a different and more cynical context at play to the upbeat, nervy anticipation on display here.

Oh my god, it's the punk girl from episode one. (Kyouko, apparently.) There feels like a bit of symbolism in how even she's a fan of TogeToge now.

Momoka taking them all to the big main stage to see Diamond Dust play before their own show is gutsy. And at that, we get our rewind all the way back to Nina's confrontation with DD's current lead singer when they were both students. And, as has been previously implied a few times, friends! We still don't precisely know what their falling out was about, as Pink's remark to Nina where she tells her to stop "playing the tragic heroine" are awfully vague. Regardless, DD's performance itself is pretty good, although one gets the sense they're sort of being set up to fail here from a meta perspective. Their little show of rivalry here is admirable, but they aren't the band we've been following this entire time. (And while they sound fine, if we're being honest, they'd be rinsed not just by TogeToge but by most protagonist girl bands from these sorts of anime. Then again, maybe this is the intended reaction, and we're supposed to be feeling some amount of fannish partisanship.)

Rupa's just here for the drama as usual, what a queen.

During the sound check Subaru plays a pretty nice little break beat, and Rupa gets to show off her bass licks.

TogeToge also unveil their new looks here and all of them look genuinely fucking fantastic. Rupa's weird military uniform thing with the goggles, Subaru's pinstriped suit(?!), Nina's underdye and badass long shirt, Tomo's almost pixellated-looking hair bow accessory, Momoka's arm bands. Honestly just a killer visual presentation both in- and out-of-universe.

When the time comes to take the stage, they absolutely kill it. At the end of the day, this is an anime, so of course, Girls Band Cry deploys absolutely every single visual trick it can think of to really sell the performance that serves as the climax of this episode. "Void & Catharsis", the song they play, is a, if you'll pardon the pun, rock solid alternative number with a surprisingly heavy low-end that serves as a bed for Nina's incisive, comet-like vocals. (Also it has what I'm pretty sure is a breakdown??? I'm not a heavy metal expert, but what the fuck.) The show spins out into full music video mode here, taking a page from the otherwise very different Love Live series, as the stage blends into a blurry stitching-together of idealized, crystalized memories; defiance, lies, love, loss. It is perhaps the single most arresting moment in a music anime to air this year. I ended up replaying the entire thing from the start of the song onward, twice. I can't help myself; TogeToge have charisma. Every single one of them sheds tears during their part of the music video, making this episode something of a sideways title-drop.

The single most compelling visual element though has nothing to do with all the crazy camera tricks, overlays, flashbacks, anything like that, though. It's Nina herself. In what I can only describe as an absolute triumph of CGI in anime as a form, this little sixteen year old pipsqueak comes off as a complete and total superstar. She stomps angrily from one end of the stage to the other with her long shirt drooping and billowing dramatically, she grips her head in anger as she sings like the words are being physically ripped out of her throat, she headbangs, she pumps her fist and spins around to egg her own band on, she glares at the audience like she's trying to kill them---maybe Diamond Dust specifically, who are also watching---with her mind, she does weird shit with her hands and gestures around like a rapper. It's mesmerizing. Clearly the result of a ton of love not just for animation as an art form but for concerts as a form of performance. The entire thing is just end to end nuts, and this moment, regardless of what came before it or comes after it, completely validates Girls Band Cry as an artistic endeavor. If the entire rest of the show were to somehow go missing, removed from reality with a surgeon's knife, this performance alone would make the undeniable case that it deserved to exist.

Nina isn't even my favorite *character* in this show. But good god she's great here. I'm just honestly stunned.

As for GBC itself, there is only one real problem. There are still two episodes of this anime left. It's possible I'm just sitting in a sort of concertgoers' afterglow at the moment, but I kind of can't imagine what else the show could really do from here. How do you top that?

Nonetheless, Girls Band Cry wants to try, and that ambition is admirable.

[soulartsblog]

Hey! So I had this short story in my notes for a while and wanted to post it here, tell me how you like it!

The Girl and The Star

I walked out to a field, a summer breeze dances in the folds and ends of my dress, as well as the grass swaying along like a rhythm I can only feel on my skin.

I sit on the grass, looking up at the sky that reflects a dark void with sparkling dots in the sky, so vast and big, it’s so hard to just look at one spot. Just as I relax and sink into the grass, the soil welcoming my presence, a firefly flies by, but it gets bigger as it comes next to me, so bright it could light up a whole room. It twinkles and warps like the tiny speckles I see in that vast void I was just looking up at. It’s not just one color but all the colors all at once. I ask “are you a star?” There’s a pause, I think that the question was stupid at this point and just keep looking at it still in awe.

“I could be star, I could be a rock, I could be whatever you see me as” I look at this weird bright orb confused, thinking it will actually know what my expression means. “What’s that supposed to mean? If you’re anything I think of you as, could you be the universe? Are you god? Are you me…?”

The star replies “if I’m you, then I’m greater than what you are now, think of me as you’re higher, more wiser, more intelligent, version of you” I feel like even though this ball of light is very confusing I still just listen and take its word, maybe this is me, I mean I’ve heard all this stuff about how as people, deep down we are just balls of everyday in a vessel, living a human experience. So maybe it is me. What would I ask me? The higher version of me? I think to myself all these things.

“Well, can I call you star? Like a name for you?” I ask the star, “sure, I’ve never had a name” “mm ok cool, I do have a question though” “yeah go for it” “do we love ourselves in the future? Will there be a day we don’t have to think about these smaller insecurities we find on our body?” The star sings in silence for a minute, but to me it feels like an hour maybe 2, then the star finally replies. “When you look at me, do you see any imperfections, do you think I have things to change about myself?” I’m taken aback by this question, but I answer honestly, “no, I don’t” star says, “well just think of it that way, you’re an orb of light that shows no imperfections, of course someone will come of along and see me as imperfect but I know you don’t see me that way, Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” Before I could think about what this star is saying to me, it speaks again “my time here has run out, but I hope you sit with those words, come here when you need guidance.”

The star stars to warps some more and stars to warp in size and color. It starts to fly away like it flew near me before this conversation. But the time it’s gone, I notice the breeze again, the midnight coldness on my skin, and every hair in my body sticking up. Was what the star said true? Maybe I am without imperfection, so that should make me not see myself with insecurities.

The night starts to settle, as I do laying back in the grass, it swaying back and forth, I look back at the stars in the sky, and for once feeling like they’re not so small but oh so important and bigger than me. I’m like that orb in a way, I see myself so small in the distance but when you see yourself up close, you could blind yourself in the mirror. I lay in the grass, I fall asleep, dreaming of being a star.

[thecheckeredchaser]

Crumbl for You

A young woman of color works at her campus Crumbl Cookie and finds her attention drawn to a regular customer who is somewhat familiar and undeniably getting larger by the visit. *My attempt at an in and out story.

Part 1

Janessa’s entire mind became transfixed on the figure upon his entry to the cookie shop. She stood behind the counter in her pink polo and black bike shorts, feeling like a snack. Her visor encircled a plump bouquet of juicy curls. She had been zoning out, trying to think about what to prioritize when she got off of work, as it was a generally slow night at the Crumbl Cookie. A gaggle of sorority girls laughed and took selfies as they waited for the box her coworker was putting together. She was not sure what about the guy was pulling her eyes so dramatically to him. She was just relieved he couldn’t be mad at her for it, since he was walking up to her to put in an order. She guessed he was in his early twenties. Almost everyone in the college town was. He almost looked familiar to her, but she found the tall white boys with backward snapbacks and Salmon shorts all seemed to blend together. No Shade. To this guy’s credit, his shorts were dark gray. He was a pretty big guy too. Not your typical frisbee bro shape. But he didn’t look like he lacked athleticism. Not that she was there to shop for a man. She was taking a break from boys. Too much drama and bullshit. She rolled her eyes, sending memories of her dumbass ex boyfriend to the void they snuck out of.

“Welcome to Crumbl Cookie. What can I get you,” she said, averting her eyes to the ipad.

“I’ll just do one of each in the 6 pack,” he said. She punched it in and when she went to take his credit card, she saw him staring at her a little harder than she expected. He was a tall guy, and as a short girl at a solid 5’ 3”, she was a bit taken aback. He was even bigger than she had thought. Maybe he thought her chest looked as delicious as she thought it did before she left for work that afternoon. Guys tended to sneak their peeks on the daily at the job. She thought the pink did not help. She didn’t necessarily mind the attention, as a break from dating didn’t mean a break on wanting to be desired. She wouldn’t put it past this guy. Janessa knew she was cute. And nobody could convince her she wasn’t. She spoke her black girl magic affirmations in the mirror everyday, and she found every word more true. It seemed to annoy the people from her hometown, but she was on her way up and out and that was it. Getting the job on campus where the pay was better and parents would tip on the weekends when they visited their kids was a tactical choice she had made at the beginning of the semester.

She started putting the assorted box together and had to wait for two of the cookies to come out the oven. She tried to look busy, restocking ingredients. As she poured red white and blue sprinkles into a glass jar, she could see him scrolling on his phone. She noticed his stomach showing through his shirt and couldn’t imagine how he walked out thinking the shirt fit. Every curve of him was visible. She almost rolled her eyes thinking about it, but saw his eyes flash at her suddenly and they held her gaze. What kind of aquamarine color was that? He awkwardly looked away, making Janessa stop her task to take the cookies out, even though they were a few seconds early. She put the cookies into the box, sealed it with the sticker, and slid it across the counter to him. She looked up at him to take a dip in those pools for eyes one more time. They linked to hers and she felt strangely frozen.

“Thanks. Have a good one,” he said, adjusting his snap back and grabbing the box.

“Yea, you too,” she muttered, almost confused. He walked out and the store was empty.

“Ay yo Nessa, you good?” Brianna looked over at her coworker concerned. “Did that dude say something slick?”

“Nah. He’s good. I don’t know. He had some crazy colored eyes. You ain’t see them,” she said. Brianna shrugged.

“I wasn’t staring at him like you was.” Brianna gave her a suggestive look.

“Do not do it, Bri. I already told you. I am not here to get laid up with some rich Damhurst boy. I’m here for the doctorate.”

“Okay girl. You seemed like you took a long drink from that glass, is all.”

“Well it was a bit to drink, don’t you think,” she said, with a little attitude to help get her off her back.

“You not lying,” Bri cackled. She didn’t like something about how hard she was laughing, even if she herself had started it. She let it go, because it was a nothing level issue. By the end of the shift she and Bri were cracking jokes and laughing. They were a great pair for the Tuesday close shift. By the time Nessa had completely destressed from the day, showered and hair wrapped up for the night. She lay in her single dorm, scrolling through social media. She found herself thinking of the big guy from the store earlier. That shirt really was way too tight. How could she not look at all that? But then she couldn’t stop thinking about it. It was so strange to her. She started wondering if he was going to eat all those cookies by himself. She didn’t know how someone could. But that is the image she had in her mind until she fell asleep.

***

Janessa managed to stop thinking about her obsession by her first class the following day. Life had a way of sweeping her up like a wave. During the school year she worked and went to class, maybe a party on the weekend, after she closed on Saturdays, the busiest day. She had worked exactly a week before she even thought of him again. It was the usual slow Tuesday, and when she looked up at the bell ringing, he was filling the doorway, his head reaching the 6’ 1” marker on the frame. It was an uneventful visit, where he ordered one of each again. She couldn’t help but make a little bit of eye contact with the guy, Declan, she’d learned from his card. She could not have given him a more pretentious sounding name. He was still testing his shirts, and she wondered if he was oblivious or purposefully displaying himself so unflatteringly. She thought it must be obscene as she could not take her eyes from his round body. Bri had noticed his eyes this time and had to admit they were captivating, though she noted he was far too chubby for her taste.

When she saw him the following Tuesday, she could not help but think he looked like he was getting fatter than when she had first seen him. Was building a routine at the store that detrimental to one’s waistline? She figured maybe if you literally ate every one. Maybe he came multiple times a week. She didn’t work every day. But, if he had a standing appointment with the cookie shop, she figured he was probably not a health nut when not at the store. She couldn’t help but feel she was adding to his poor eating choices, but it was his choice. She just worked there. But it was nagging her. It made her feel so weird with how persistent she thought about it. She would start thinking about him and then have to get distracted to not just review the snapshots of his body. It was like she was doing a study on him. But why? His double chin caught her eye and she felt something else bubbling inside her and as it was about to dawn onto her, Declan cleared his throat.

“Sorry. Hi. You want a 6 pack?” Nessa said, hovering her hand over the ipad, glancing up into his eyes. They were something else. Swear. He smiled at her knowing his order, and she felt the corner of her mouth turn up too.

“Uh, yes. That would be great. I guess I’m kind of a predictable regular, huh,” he said, looking a little ashamed. Janessa felt a weird pang in her chest. She didn’t want him to feel bad. Maybe she wanted to keep seeing those eyes.

“You ain’t got the Crumbl Card?” she asked him a little aggressively, maybe flirty?

“What’s that?” His smile revealed strong and glistening teeth. Nessa always appreciated a nice smile and was happy to have turned his expression around.

“You definitely need it,” she said, snatching one and hurrying to explain the reward system, hoping he wasn’t taking offense to her comment. “Every six cookies purchased gets you two stamps.” She proceeded to stamp his card six times. She figured since she knew he purchased the previous sixers, he should get the credit. “Look at that. Halfway there.” Bri, who had been watching the exchange and had started making the order, chimed in.

“Maybe you owe her a drink when you get your free box.” Nessa whipped around to her, giving her a stare down. She heard Declan laugh nervously, like Bri was making fun of him. Was she?

“Ignore that clowney ass fool,” she said, sucking her teeth. “Sorry I shouldn’t be cussing.” She took his card and processed his order.

“Don’t worry. I’m no snitch,” he said, with a goofy smile.

“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t,” she laughed.

“That’s sweet of you,” he said, flashing those teeth at her again. He even had adorable plump lips, nothing extreme, but noticeable. His strong chin was doing its best to keep the soft one pushed back. “I like your braids,” he said as he took his card back. Nessa smiled at him.

“That’s very sweet of you.” She mirrored him. She didn’t even think white boys knew what they were looking at when they saw her hair. She looked into his eyes and felt something gnawing at her. He didn’t walk over to the wall to sit on his phone like he had the last two times. He held her gaze.

“So I do know you from somewhere,” he stated. Nessa felt relieved, but had really wanted to figure it out before he recognized their familiarity.

“I wasn’t sure. But you do look vaguely familiar. You aren’t from Greens Valley are you?”

“I am. I know I blend in well as a Damhurst fuck boy.” She leaned over and saw he was wearing a pair of crisp sneakers, and smiled.

“Okay Declan,” she hooted. “Maybe you are from the Val. Why don’t I remember that name? I would remember the name at least?”

“I think I was a year above you. I played on the football team. They called me Lando,” Declan laid out his evidence of existence at her highschool. She turned her face up and looked at Bri, who she had only just met at Damhurst, and couldn’t offer any support, aside being next to her in a matching fit.

“Nah. That dude was-,” Nessa stopped herself, putting her finger to her lips.

“Not this fat?” Declan offered, sighing knowingly. He chuckled a little.

“I didn’t say that,” she said sternly. But she knew damn well she all but did. “But I just didn’t make that connection. You do look a little different. You were mad popular. Why do you even remember me? I minded my business.” She turned the conversation on him to divert the attention from her instance of rudeness. He was blushing. Now that she could place him, he did look like Lando from highschool. He was just much heavier. He used to be a highly sought-after piece of ass, not necessarily by her and her group of friends, but lots of people. He had sported a man bun ahead of the trend in their school. He still looked like he wore his hair longer under his hat.

“I just noticed you. You were on the drill team right?” She smiled at him, holding back being as flattered as she was. “You were so small. I mean you haven’t really changed at all.” Him mentioning her size only made him seem larger. They stayed looking at each other. Bri cleared her throat.

“Hate to break up the reunion, but here are your cookies,” she said, staring at the two of them, baffled, as Declan took the box without looking from Nessa.

“See you around, Janessa,” he said, with a wink.

“See you Tuesday,” she said. He blushed and walked out. Janessa turned to Bri, already rolling her eyes, anticipating her coworkers reaction.

“Am I imagining things? Did I smoke crack this morning? Or was you just flirting with that chubby blue eyed boy.” Bri put her hands on her thick hips, demanding an answer.

“Shit. I don’t know. Wasn’t that what you was trying to do?” Maybe she had just been teasing them.

“Well damn Nessa. I could go in,” she said, jumping up, getting excited. “I’ll pour a whole mop bucket on you to get your shirt all wet. We can let him back to help. Lock the closet.” Nessa stared at the girl crazily.

“Stop that mess of a fantasy, girl.” Bri rolled her eyes, but smiled. She was in a relationship and seemed to be excited by the chance to play with Nessa’s love prospects, especially after committing to her dry spell. “Don’t do nothing extra. We just know each other, and barely at that.” She grabbed a rag and started wiping her counter.

“And he’s got them gorgeous eyes. And you're addicted to them.”

“They are nice,” Nessa let herself admit. There was a pause in the conversation.

“But you see how fat he looked?” Janessa stiffened. Bri seemed so tuned into those details, just less…favorably than Nessa.

“I hardly noticed,” she lied.

“You will notice next time. Just you wait.”

***

She had seen him another time, since figuring out who he was. He was not absent from his unofficial date with the shop on Tuesdays. He hung around the counter chatting with her about mutual friends they had, which was more than she expected. He had more interests than just football. He had been in the photography club, which is where he knew one of her closeish friends. Janessa couldn’t not notice how he’d looked like he’d gained more weight. It wasn’t drastic, but he just looked bigger, especially in his belly.

The Tuesday after that is when she noticed he was wearing something more size appropriate. He looked big still, but not as explicitly. His curves were concealed, which she guessed wasn’t inherently better, but he just looked so tight in the smaller shirts. “New shirt?” she had asked, hoping it wasn’t too directly pointing out his gain. He leaned up against the counter, in his becoming a usual place.

“It is. Look okay?” he asked, with a half smile that drove Nessa a little crazy. She wasn’t going to concede to complimenting him, so she offered an offhand shrug. He smiled, thinking he was going to get her to finally admit she liked him. They had been very subtly flirting, but neither committing. It had been driving Bri out of her mind to witness, but she tried to butt out.

“Just fits you better.” She felt comfortable saying whatever to him, now that they were in the ‘old friends’ category. He seemed to accept it as a compliment. She prepared his six pack without asking him for his order. She couldn’t stop herself from thinking about how he’d gone up a size. What size was he in now? Maybe a 2x. She wasn’t great with sizes. But her ex, Tahj, had been very athletic and wore a large. Declan was much fluffier and taller too. She walked over with the box, trying to dissipate the thoughts. “Gimme your card,” she said, mock annoyed.

“Oh yea. I’m one visit away,” he casually celebrated.

“Wonder when that will be,” she said smugly.

“As you should,” he said, deviously. He gave an up-nod and made his way out. Janessa’s hand went to her chest watching him walk by the storefront window. He looked back up at the last second and stopped a microsecond to smile at her. “Shit!” she exclaimed.

Brianna looked at her astutely, over her fresh nails. “Nessa. You like that white boy. You like him bad. I did not know you liked white boys. I certainly didn’t think you liked fat boys.” Janessa wanted to say something smart back, but she had been holding her breath since he looked at her and she was suddenly gasping. Bri looked at her, feeling more than confident in her assessment. The truth was she had never even looked at a guy who looked like Declan in that way before. Yet she could not deny that she was beyond curious about him. She was crushing pretty hard, if she was honest. But what was she gonna do? Ask him out? Not a chance. That level of rejection would send her right back to her swearing off dating game. She had found in school there was a hesitance in boys who weren’t black to date a girl who was. They might have flirted with a girl, but would not commit. She couldn’t remember who he had dated in school, but did remember him having a diverse group of friends. It was a pretty diverse city school. She would date outside her race, but up until her hiatus, she chose dates from those who asked, all of which had been other black men. And she admittedly only said yes to those with fit bodies. That made it all the more confusing why she felt so strongly for Declan. How was he making big look so sexy?

“Bri,” Nessa sighed. “I think I’ma have to attempt to snatch him up,” she said, perplexed.

“You have doubts that you can? I see how he’s looking at you. Like he can eat you up in one bite,” she said animated. Did he really?

“Well, I’ll be looking extra fine for Tuesday. I can tell you that.”

“Fuck it up, Ness.”

Part 2

[glitterpaperrings]

I was on canva today. Just making a random design. I added a pink glitter background and magnified the canvas to get a better view. Then scrolled through pics I’ve uploaded in the gallery. Chose one pic, deleted it. chose another, deleted again. Chose one again but this time… time froze before I could think. A magnified image of a girl looking at me in the eyes. With her eyes. Of course I’ve seen that picture before. And I’ve never not looked at it for 2 minutes straight. But this time it was bigger, the picture. I was most certain it was alive. I saw you breathing. I saw your smile widen. I looked into your eyes. And I saw love in the curve of your upper eyelids. Saying it once does not satisfy my heart. How can the curve of someone’s upper eyelids be so kind, so loving. What am I saying. I don’t know if I want someone else eyes to look into yours and see it. If I want it only for mine. Or if I want someone else to see it and be healed. All this time, I didn’t like the profession of doctors. I didn’t like white coats and bland blue scrubs and white floors and white desks and gray lives because that was all I thought of it. But- when that picture of you, your existence, the love in the curve of your eyelids, healed something I didn’t even know needed tending, I saw. How it is in your nature. It’s in your gaze and your smile, even in your eyebrows, in the shine of your cheeks when you grin. You’re the closest person I’ve seen to angels or nymphs. I wish I was joking. It’s not all very good to sound like one’s gone mad but it’s worth it. Whoever comes to you for solace will find it as soon as they meet your eyes. But this is not all you are. In that picture, I felt like my soul was holding yours and I found myself not even caring if it was forever or for a day, it was too beautiful to care, like if I wished for it to be forever I would miss out on being grateful that my being holds this form of you in its crystalline lens right now, like the time i would use for wishing could’ve been used for loving you right now instead. Because that’s how it is. I did not know I was capable of this much love, this much adoration. Love -that word is so feeble compared what I feel right now. It is not something between you and me. It’s as if you’re standing on a sandy beach in front of me looking back at me while I feel all this and the dark green ginormous mountains and every single tree in it and the expanse of peaceful dark clouds behind it is a witness to something so miraculously yet naturally human that no language can string together. Our existence needs no attention or acknowledgement like the majestic creatures in the depths of the sea that no one can reach exist in silent glory. I read somewhere that the sun was great and beautiful before anyone’s acknowledgement of it. It’ll continue to be even after all of us are there no more to look at it. Like when black holes collide into galaxies, it may be happening light years away with no onlookers, in all it’s magnificence, so beyond acknowledgement. It’s only witness is itself and the void in which it lies. We’re something similar to it too.

Your dream and the reason why you pursue it is beautiful. I want to tell you a piece of simple but wonderful advice that I learnt from Cinderella's mom in the movie, "Have courage and be kind" she had said. You are a person who lives and goes through life with grace and resilience. You'll have a great journey no matter what you choose.

I have to bid you farewell for a while now, and I don't want to at all. I'll terribly miss sitting in the same bench as you. I'll wish for us to meet often. I'll hold you in my heart. Time and space may pull planets apart, parvathy, but not me from you.

[seraphicsage]

void stiles but you kill for him to prove you love him and are just as psychotic, maybe trying to get lydia to join too and teasing her coaxing her into being your good girl, almost like she’s yours and stiles pet or something, lots of rough kisses from stiles too

A/N in theory this is part 1 of a 2 part fic. I would love some kind of response from this! Whether you liked it, what you’d like in the second part etc, let me know what you think! (Not proof-read)

It was just so simple. All I have to do is kill someone. Then no one can deny that I’m not some innocent girl who knows nothing about the world. All I have to do is kill someone for him and I’ll prove myself, and prove that I’m not a liability, he’s not the only crazy one here. It’s just, so, simple.

The question is, who? Who can I kill that makes all of his plans so much easier? Lydia would be easy, but I have bigger plans for her. Scott… Allison… Isaac… god so many choices. I need to think about it carefully. If I kill Allison then Scott and Isaac will come after us a hundred times as hard. If I kill Scott then Allison will do the same. The only solution? Kill them both I suppose.

The best part is, they’re stupid enough to trust me. So it’s easy to spike their drinks. Honestly the hardest part was getting something that knocks out a werewolf. Once they’re knocked out I drag them to my storage locker outside of town. I take every measure I can to make sure Scott is as weak as possible when he wakes up.

God is it worth every moment I’ve spent faking a laugh and a smile to him and his pathetic pack. Waiting for something, for this. The look on his face when he realises, the look on both of their faces. And oh, they’re so trusting they think I’ve been possessed. I laugh and quickly stomp on that dream. Poor Allison tries to escape, clearly her hunter training isn’t as good as she thinks.

The next question is who to kill first. I’ve always hated them both, and their whole woe-is-me act. I want to make them suffer for everything they’ve done to me. But I don’t have time. This needs to be swift. I’ve decided I want this as bloody as possible, if I can’t play with them first then I can at least make a mess.

I take my knife out, my favourite one, the handle has such pretty patterns engraved into it. Stiles gave it to me, oh if he knew what his loving gift would be used for. Well, he’ll see soon. I decide to start with Scott, swiftly slitting his throat and watching the blood gush from it. I feel adrenaline rushing through me and fuck it feels good. I can see why people get addicted to this.

I turn to Allison, watching her sob for a moment, hearing her beg. For what? Mercy? Not a chance. I hold her jaw and lift her face so I can look straight into her eyes as I kill her, watching the life drain from her. God that felt good. I close my eyes and replay the moment in my mind, and look at their blood soaked bodies in front of me.

Then I feel him, standing behind me. He walks closer until his front of pressed against my back, I don’t dare lean into him, or look at him. “I was wrong about you.”

“I warned you.” I say in return. I did. I feel him nod, I can’t see his face but I know that it’s the picture of indifference. “I’m glad I don’t have to listen to their pathetic whining anymore.” I smirk, looking between their bodies again.

I feel him chucking and now I know he’s smirking. I turn around to face him, he looks satisfied. Like he got what he wanted without even having to ask. I suppose that’s true. He has.

He looks down at me and I feel him grip my waist. “I don’t usually like to be proven wrong.” He says as he leans down towards me.

“Usually?” I ask when his face is almost touching mine. I watch him glance at my lips briefly.

“Think you can keep up this innocent girl act with that pack if I handle the bodies?”

“I’ve been playing that act my whole life, nothing’s changed.” I confirm. “Besides, I have my own plan, and they need to trust me for it to work.” I would have expected him to be against me having my own plan, my own want out of this. But clearly I was wrong because the next thing he does is curses through his breath before pressing his lips firmly on mine, pulling me closer to his body.

I bring my arms up behind his neck and pull him in further, taking everything he gives me. He pulls away from my lips and starts pressing kisses against my jaw and down my neck. Sucking and leaving marks, I’m not sure how that would go down with the pack but right now I can’t make myself care.

Then he stops and brings his mouth close to my ear. “He’s screaming.” He whispers, and I can feel his grin. “You hurt him.”

“He hurt me first.” I whisper back, teeth clenched. His kisses continue, but softer this time, almost like he’s trying to provide some comfort.

“The screams are getting louder, it’s like he’s sobbing now. He’s begging for you.” He pulls back and grins at me. “He’s apologising.” He says in a teasing voice, like he’s making fun of Stiles. The idea of Stiles apologising, of begging and screaming for me, that only spurs me on further and I pull Void’s head back to me, this time taking control for myself. And he lets me.

We spend the rest of the night together, he takes care of the bodies the next day, leaving me in the clear, and back to the innocence act.

The pack is in panic of Scott and Stiles’ disappearance. I take advantage of the panic by making moves on my plan. I had been working on it for a very long time, before Void even, this just meant I could move the plans forward.

Since Lydia and Jackson broke up, me and her have been very close. It started off as a normal friendship, study sessions, sleepovers, girl talk, the normal. Then I started amping it up, flirting. At first subtle, so subtle she’d feed into it without realising. Then I would build it up, I started being more touchy. Acting more comfortable around her, and she’s done the same.

She even changes in front of me, which is quite the show. She’s so comfortable that I’m able to distract her mid-change so she ends up staying out of her clothes longer than she would think.

One thing I’ve noticed about Lydia over the years is that she doesn’t get much approval from people other than teachers, for anything other than her looks. And as much as she is a beautiful woman, that’s not her whole personality. So, I started praising her for things. Starting with the big things, a good grade, an achievement, that kind of thing. Then I did it more, whenever she did an assignment, whenever she ate, whenever she drank water, literally anything.

And then, I took it away. I stopped. Sure I still came over and spent time with her, but I wouldn’t watch as she changed, I wouldn’t praise her for her achievements, I completely pulled back on all the affection. And it was so pretty how quickly she crumbled.

After a week of this I go over to hers unexpectedly and let myself up to her room, where I hear her crying. I knock lightly and open the door. “Lyds? It’s just me.”

Her body shoots up to look at me and after a moment she starts sobbing harder. I rush over to hear, pulling her in closer asking her what’s wrong, what’s happened. Of course, I already have a pretty good guess but she didn’t need to know that. I feel her pressing herself harder and harder into me, like she’s trying to soak in my touch before it leaves again.

I let her, stroker the top of her head and lightly shushing her until she calms down. When she eventually stops crying I get her to sit up and make her explain why she’s so upset.

“You- you-” She stutters over her words, avoiding looking at me, until I grip her jaw and bring her face towards me.

“Me what Lyds?” I ask gently.

“You don’t want me anymore.” I let my face relax, looking sympathetic.

“What are you talking about? Why would you think that? Why would you even care if I did?”

“I-I didn’t think I did, I thought I just liked the attention but I need it. I know it’s pathetic but I just- you make me so happy. And you’ve stopped paying attention to me. And I don’t want to do anything if you’re not there helping me.”

Her words made a very twisted part of me, very satisfied. I use my grip on her jaw to pull her closer to me. “Darling, I want you. I’m sorry I stopped giving you the attention you clearly need, I’m here now, and I don’t need to leave.”

She looks at me, like she’s checking that this isn’t a trick, I don’t falter. “Thank you.” She whispers.

[prerodinu]

Whisper’s. The kind that would make her turn her nose up had she been in better company. It made her feel SMALL. The hand at her waist gripped her harder. The bruise would be there in the morning. She’d have to explain that to- It was best not to think in this moment. 

That voice, always screaming at her. 

DO BETTER. 

BE BETTER. 

My Princess you can do better. 

Vomit threatened to spill all over the marble flooring, gold invaded her senses as she turned her head too quickly. Absent whiskey hues fell upon HIM. The voice now invading her senses was void of emotion, the smiling and laughing man earlier had been replaced. 

Calculating. 

He always was wasn’t he?

“Don’t worry you can take him. He might be bigger then you but you are faster and stronger.” 6ft something almost 7. Reminded her of T-no at this moment she couldn’t think about them, if she did she would loose her nerve. 

The rod that was crammed into her back that was making her stand up straight to her full height (including heels) was starting to hurt. She HATED these event’s. Blood spilled upon marble flooring that made her think of the snow that-

No. 

No more thinking. 

Delicate finger’s rose, the glass in her hand sparkling as she nodded just a little toward’s the man next to her. She wasn’t permitted to speak unless she was spoken too. Even then she decided it would be best fitting that she didn’t speak. In these such event’s she was arm candy and then later on she would be covered in blood and finding her own way home. 

The bubbles coated her lip’s as she marveled in the feeling, it made her feel for a moment alive. Maybe she could pretend she wasn’t here. 

Distraction was bad, she shouldn’t be distracted. 

“Yes father.” His expectant look softened at those word’s, a kiss was place on her temple as he smiled. 

“Good girl princess. I wouldn’t make you do this if I didn’t think you wouldn’t win.” AT the gesture once more the bubbles in her mouth turned flat and her body wished to expel this man from her body, from her touch. Her wolf paced under her skin wishing to be let out. There would be time for that later. People started to make way, staring at her. 

She had changed, eye’s turning vacant as there was now a circle set up in the middle of the room. 

Had she seen money being passed around? 

When had her father left. She wasn’t even sure, but she seen him, floating through the crowd talking and smiling the while. 

The male stood there, watching every rise of her chest and twitch in her body. Once more finger’s brought the glass to her lip’s, the bubbles no longer having the calming effect as she wanted. 

Everything slowed down, the people’s chatter, the way her breath was starting to come faster, everyone was waiting to see who would make the first move. Her father of course knew who would make the first move. 

Never underestimate your opponent. 

Those words rang true in this moment. Finger’s at his side twitched. She almost smiled, turning her head to the side. The golden tresses in her vision as she felt the rush, the room was silent. 

He moved, he rushed toward’s her planning to slam her into the wall. She was faster, feeling the way her body moved, feeling the wolf side of her take over. She slid between his body and the wall, he hit it square on. 

BLOOD. 

She smelled it before she seen him whip around. She was in the middle of the floor, glass in her hand as she waited for his next move. Anger though, she could see that in his eye’s. He was going to crush her if he ever got close enough to her. 

She felt the wave of disappointment from her father, she was toying with him and her father hated when she did something like this. 

The word’s her opponent spoke made her tilt her head to the side in a teasing gesture. She didn’t understand him, but she understood the feeling’s behind those word’s. 

ANGER AND HUMILIATION. 

When he moved this time, she tried to dodge. His finger’s slammed against her neck pushing her into the ground. The glass in her hand shattered, she flipped it, wrapping slender finger’s around the bottom piece and using it. 

Blood down his arm, the one he was choking her with. He growled and let go, numb and unable to use the hand. She used this to her advantage. Sliding herself against the floor and under him once more. 

He always kept himself from crushing her. 

Finger’s pushed against the ground to flip her body standing. The knife on her side was pulled and she shoved it into the side of his neck slicing his throat open without a second thought. 

HIs arm had just finished healing. 

Marble stained red as she turned away. Blood thirsty, her eye’s searched for her next victim in the crowd. That’s when she felt it. The needle in her neck, she felt like a sack of potatoes into the ground. 

The cheer’s entered her mind, someone was picking her up, she felt weightless. 

She had killed for her father again. 

An alpha was dead his land her own, well her father’s now. Only he wasn’t any where she could see. 

“You disappointed me yet again Katia. I told you to strike first.” She couldn’t scream, the silver around her neck hurt painfully eye’s unable to open as she felt the familiar fire blaze under her skin. Wolvesbane 

“Take her away. I don’t care what you do with her I just don’t want to see her face.” She knew what was neck, the male smelt wrong, lust spiking through the haze of the wolvesbane. She knew what would come next, but the amount in her system compared to the silver would mean she wasn’t able to do anything about it. 

In these time’s oh how she wished for death. 

But that would mean leaving Artem alone. 

Her pack. 

So she took it. 

                                    SHE BORE IT SO THEY DIDN’T HAVE TO. 

[aieeey]

I sit around happy for others. That’s all I do. I smile in the mirror. I smile in ppls faces. I tell them some lame achievement, some silly story I’ve been working on off-and-on for four years, and they tell me that’s interesting.

I look in the mirror. I liked when my hair was braided up, when I was binding my chest, when I wore my arms out and my rings. I liked talking feeling and caring if my rocking on my feet was a nuisance. I liked posting my dark or deeply humors. I liked painting my nails black. I liked holding his hand. I liked those pages for mental health awareness and queerness. I liked reaching out to my old friends, didn’t like how short the reunion was, but I liked getting a “hi” back, okay?

I liked sitting outside at odd hours, watching the stars. I liked being around family, wasn’t my one but they made me feel like it was. I liked joking with the little ones and helping wash the dishes. I liked the mountains, the rural ranch lifestyle, and the waking up early and getting ready. I liked talking with those girls my age like they were my own cousins.

I liked watching out my window with a candle burning and Gregorian chants humming in the background. I liked the dark academia, gothic architecture, and historical documentaries. I liked dribbling the basketball. I liked something.

You know? Sitting in the corner of a library as it grows dark. Like a cat, some places I feel I could sit forever.

I liked when I let myself go completely silent. I liked when I stopped trying to fill the void with nervous laughter and useless words. I liked my solitude. I liked the discord calls and hours on the game. I liked sipping on a beer while watching the sky.

I sit there. Happy for others. She gets to be herself. He gets to be himself. All this family. Friends. Places to be. Events. Identity. Purpose. Their pets. Their careers.

I feel anxious all the time. Never see myself in the mirror. Feel like I’m curled up on a hotel floor every time I go to my room. When will management kick me out? Just a matter of time? Will they ask for rent? Or not even care for it one day?

When people don’t ask you what your favorite song is or are just happy to see you doing what makes YOU happy….you start to feel something wrong. I’ve got narratives of others lives in my head. Every time I see them, I hear about their lives. I ask about their lives. Sometimes genuine curiosity, other times just being polite. Still, they don’t ask me about myself. I try to say something but it gets washed over. I’m not the biggest wave, maybe that’s why I prefer quieter shores. So I can think.

I get scared if drowning away in the noise. Watching everyone else slip away into the sunset. I’m not good enough.

Every day, I think about how I’m not good enough. Whether I’m being my authentic sehr if just hiding in this shell…I’m still just an outcast. No one would perceive me as one. They don’t until they catch me alone. Until they realize I don’t text when I said I would.

I liked that guy, and I forget why. I’m so innocent about love, I giggle like a fool about our smallest interactions. Then, I do see why I like that guy? Maybe I don’t. I curl up in my bed and think about what might lull me to sleep. Ocean sounds again? From the hull of a ship?

…Me, me, me. It’s all I hear from others all day. I’m used to the other waves taking me over.

I think about that. I’m a woman. Maybe this is how I should be. I think about that. I’m not worth it anyway.

I’ll stop here. It’s enough heartache, the things I think about everyday about my own little existence.

Basically…Essentially…I just see myself in that tiny wave rolling up to the sand. I watch the bigger waves topple over it. Mhm. There’s me. In the mirror, knowing grunge isn’t a phase but my expression. My reality. Androgyny feels like me though I don’t loathe my femininity. Sitting here, this quiet room even is too loud.

But I’m still pushing on, you know? I get up and hate myself and my look and my personality and my isolation and my lack of motivation and my lack of determination—resilience. I just live another day. I don’t know what for.

Those big waves still roll over me. Maybe I just think one day I’ll find a quiet beach and someone will take interest in my little wave. They’ll lean in to listen because it’s quiet. My fantasy.

But that’s why people dream about love, you know? We bleibe there is someone out there who will…embrace us for who we are, someone who will give us that attention and judgement free space. I wanted to be that for myself. It ended with me in this same bed, crying, and wondering how long I’d be hidden away in here in clothes that don’t feel like mine.

My shoe size hasn’t change in 11 years. I think about that. I feel like I’m growing. The cocoon gets tighter. The old skin yet to shed is restricting. But it never breaks off. It never sheds away. I’ll suffocate in here, you know? I can feel it. One day, I’ll be too big for this shell but won’t be able to escape it. It’s gonna kill me. Maybe I’m just waiting for the oxygen to run out…. I guess I’ve given up. But even some chicks do that when the fight is too great. We don’t demonize them for it. We have some pitying stare and lay them to rest peacefully.

I won’t get that. There will be screams and cries and anger. But no one…NO ONE will be thinking about the days I tried to speak up, the days I CRIED AND SCREAMED AND WAS ANGRY. Someone even the day of my death will be another day of “Me, Me, Me” for them. A cruel world…. A cruel world. Just…a cruel world.