#everything he did to her is still apart of them

[demonic0angel]

DC x DP Prompt: Family dinner with the Fenton Family and the Waynes. Chaos ensues.

If looks could kill, Danny would’ve been killed a thousand times over, with his body cremated and his ashes thrown into the farthest volcano with salt then being tossed along the dirt afterwards.

Dan had never looked so vicious as he glared daggers at Danny, who was his eyes closed and his hands in front of him, like a prayer. However, he was definitely praying for patience because he had a dinner knife in one hand that Cass was trying to take back from him to no avail.

Dani had her arms wrapped around Tim’s, a wide grin on her face as she noisily snacked on the roast potatoes and watched the battle between Dan and Danny. Tim was trying to hold back a smile, but he pulled the bowl of potatoes closer to her. Kon, who was sitting on the other side of her and was invited by Tim, was also wide eyed and grinning, an arm wrapped around the both of their chairs when he leaned back.

Jazz just looked at Alfred and Bruce with a shameful look on her face and beading tears of embarrassment in her eyes as she muttered, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over again.

Jason was trying to soothe her and not-so-subtly motion Dick to step in and stop the fight while said man was staring at his boyfriend in horror, looking between both of the psychically fighting men with strange looks.

Damian had his head down, whispering to Stephanie and Duke who also had their heads ducked as they gossiped about the situation. Jon, who was sitting on Damian’s other side, was also leaning in and listening with a grin.

Bruce was just looking back and forth between Dan and Danny with wariness and confusion.

“… do you two know each other?”

“Know each other?” Danny said, looking up and finally opening his eyes. “Oh, we definitely know each other.”

Dan bristled at some invisible offense. Dick snapped back fo awareness and grabbed him, chuckling nervously as Dan growled.

Danny raised an eyebrow and sneered, continuing, “Yeah, I know him, alright.”

Dan suddenly grabbed a fork and threw it at Danny. It sank into the wall and pandemonium erupted as the Bats lunged backwards as Dan flew over the table to jump at Danny. However, Danny wasn’t going out without a fight because they immediately began punching and kicking with even some biting. Cass and Dick lunged forward to pull them apart while everyone else moved away.

Dani burst out laughing, but when Jazz burst into tears, that was when everything got even worse.

(I actually wanted to write something like this lmao.

If I continued this, it would be too long, but basically, Jazz has been on her last nerves for the entire day bc this is the first time she’s ever met her boyfriend’s family, and then SUDDENLY she finds out all of her siblings are dating people from the same family and then now her brothers are fighting bc none of them knew that they were dating a pair of siblings, and they thought they could finally get away from each other, and she’s both so embarrassed and so anxious that she started crying.

Immediately, it’s like a *record scratch*, the fighting stops and both Dan and Danny make up really, really fast to comfort their sister and then all of the Phantoms, including Dani bc she did nothing to stop the fight, help clean up the mess and the day actually gets better bc it becomes a bonding activity between the Fentons and the Bats. Jazz is still very embarrassed but it works out.)

[strab3rr]

(long story and no short sorry) GUYSSS I DID ITT

I INDUCED IT!!!!! I WAS PURE AS A FUCKING BABY

IDK WHAT TO SAY (ok enough w capslock)

i have so much to say and not a thing at da same time idk how

anyway i want to begin with thanking you @b4ddprincess bc youre the reason i realized why i started this thing. thank you for making my life better and make me realized what i need to do: nothing. (its same for you guys, all u have to do is nothing)

two fuckn years ago i said to myself that i need a better life, quiter life, less fight with everthing bc everything was so loud and not clear i was feeling lost like a child in the market, and i wanted to make things better for myself in every way, but the main idea of my reasons to wanting to get in the void was: making anxiety go and having better people in my life. but the ''voidlist'' just never stopped bc im kinda greedy(having the idea of controling on your life, the idea of that power makes you greedy. yes thats a thing) anyway the more i add to the list the more i feel like im movin away from my desires then i feel depressed bc ive overcomplicating it bc theres so many things to do but i dont do anything so nothing happend bc i was waiting to be someth happen. and then i started doing awkwardly silly things such as: void routines and challenges and (im embarrassed of this one bc i was too desperate) drinking water

youve read it correct drinking water.

i was sooo desperate for having those things id do anything to get them.

i am simple. i want what everyone wants🎀🎀🎀: shifting realities bc i have so many crush and i need them to be crush me in bed(for 2020 girlies)

being an academic weapon is so easy for me🎀(bc of the urge to make my family proud) +dream collage

being the girl that everyone gets along w(basic needs)

being the girl who is pretty not cute(trauma response)

glowing aura(cats loves people w glowing aura yes thats a thing too)

dream body n hair(bc i deserve this🎀)

healthy (girlyfriend)friends(basic needs)

and of course him, my sp(i cant tell wich one at that time but i releived that its not him now, bc MY BELOVED CURRENT BF. guyss he is the one. dont u dare ask me how you know? i literally manifested him🎀)

then i realized i can have everything bc its my reality so why not add these:

new phone, +macbook air

dream apartment of my own

pinterest closet

lifa app for this reality

financially free-money(a lot. like really a lot)

knowing 4 languages like a native person(bc i want to be diplomat so bad) +sign language(its in general)

a little drama(its not gonna hurt anybody)

my parents being more lovable and away from me

every time i try to get in, either i was failing or falling

and im sick of it, sick of it so much i quit.(for a year)

then i go to the theraphy(ofc no im jk ilove being crazy)

one day i saw a post ss from tumblr about pure consciousness on pinterest and i was like whaat is thiiss. no mention of void so i thougt its a diffrent thing and i download the tumblr again and search everything abt it. and same excitement again after one year same thougts and same list popes up in my head. and i was like ok maybe this time itll happen.

still waiting to be someth happen so nothing happend, it was such a waste of time trying to get in while i was already be, i was already what i want to become. i was that girl that everyone gets along with but i couldnt even see bc i was too focused on wanting to be. but still tried every night and failed. and again tried-failed-quit circle bc.. have you ever met me🎀

4 month ago i saw the girl, iconic blogger and the goddess of my dreams, her @b4ddprincess thx again love u so much

a post pops in my fyp and i see the words ''pure consciousness'' i was like noo not again. and i was serious abt it i wasnt gonna read the whole thing but it attract me n i couldnt resist it so ive read it from the top to the bottom. and she got my interest so i stalked her page from the last and to the first post. it was quiet a beautiful journey for me. lasted like 3 days, the end of the 3rd day i was ''woaw it was this easy all along? u cant be serious.'' she was. i tried one last time, no breathing exercise, no ridiculous routines and no waiting something to be happen. it was just me being real me chilling out asf.

and it was this easy and it should be this easy bc being your 4d self is being nothing also being everything at the same time. if u wanna be everything you should be nothing first(as wizardliz saying: drop the old story, leave the victimhood, for being better stop being bitter etc.)u should make a space for everything first and then u can be everything.

for being 4d self of yours stop being your3dself.

sooo long story (no)short i am writing this from my mac in my new apartment(in middle of the night bc i couldnt sleep and then one tumblr notification reminded me i have a success story to share too) and my phone buzzing two minutes a time bc of my friends while im writing this, so if theres anything wrong ignore it pls.

oh u asking my bf how cute, hes sleepin in my bed now, exhausted from the work n school balance.

YWS SCHOOL!! im in my dream collage and im going to be in paris for a week. i deserve a vacation i guess(its for another conference), i kinda hate french men bc theyre so mansplaning(not like how i imagined, its hard to be friends w them)girls are cute but i feel like theyre aware im not permanent there so we just con buddies still cute and hepful for this foreigner.

and i canceled the lifa app thingy bc i can be my purest consciousness anytime i want, so i am my lifa app.

and thx to 4 languages i make a lot of money and that brings us to the pinterest closet, yesterday i realiased that. theyre not comes to me w an imaginary way like i imagined! i go outside for shopping casually and theyre there luckily i have enough money to buy them.

and my family theyre living in our hometown now so as i want it to be, we are away from eachother.

and the most magical thing: SHIFTING REALITIESSS

i did 5 world before i met w my bf. it was such a wonderful experience. if you have doubts abt shifting you can go fuck urself

because sir i did it and i am very sure that dean winchester being my husband is not a daydream, fantasy nor lucid dreaming. believe it or not he kissed me GOD HE KİSSED ME(someone should stop me i have a bf)

is there anything i missed let me see.. cats i have 2 cats now and theyre adorable. glowing aura-check

the girl who is pretty not cute- check +make anxietygo-checkcheckcheck

dream body and hair- check and check

i wanna give u a info i didnt have all my desires by being my4dself

not directly actually. but i have them all. and thats the point.

im not trying to be a blogger but if you have any question abt anything, id be happy to help

now i need to upgrade things in my farm byeess

loves, siena.

[tomahachi12]

Meet the Doormans!

see I'm working on AU stuff lol

still no name for it though, but I'll figure that out eventually

Info about them down belooooow

Cyn "Cynthia" Swapped with - Uzi Age - 18 She was 6 years old when her mom died and the trauma from the event caused her to shut down and stop talking. She learned sign language from Noah so she could communicate. For anyone else that doesn't understand her, she'll either use text on her visor or a projected text box. She doesn't interact with anyone and prefers to keep to herself, the only one she really opens up to is her brother. He's the only one who can call her by her actual name, she'll ignore everyone else. Inherited her solver from her mom, which activated after her mom's passing. She's scared of Khan.

Noah Swapped with - No one! Rewritten for story Age 25 7 years older than Cyn. He was 13 when his mom died. No one knows why he's so tall. He took care of Cyn after their mother died. He learned sign language and taught it to Cyn. He's a member of the Worker Defense Force. Loves doing anything! boi stop hiding your pain and get help He wants his dad's approval, not only for himself, but for his sister as well. Does not have the Solver at least not yet

Khan Swapped with - No one! Rewritten for story. Leader of the Worker Defense Force and Outpost 3. Very stoic and closed off, especially after Alice died. After his wife died, he completely threw himself into his work, neglecting nearly everything else (including his kids ): ) Because of Cyn's strong resemblance to Alice, he can't bear to even look at her. He killed his wife.

Alice Swapped with - Nori Huge fukin nerd. Western movies were her favorite. Her pet-name for Khan was "Sheriff" She loved to play "dress up" especially with her kids. She was still part of the Solver Experiments, but did not cause the implosion, that was still Nori's doing. She had pretty bad Solver Moment when it took her over and she slaughtered an entire apartment block. She couldn't stop herself and begged Khan to kill her. She was 33 when she died.

[eupheme]

okay but someone (you !!!) should write a cute little oneshot of that tik tok trend where you call logan your boyfriend (even though he’s your husband) and he is just not!!! happy!!! and all pouty about it !!!

ORRRRR (if not maybe both 👀) one where Logan is your boyfriend and you call him your husband and he just melts and is so happy to be around you and in your presence

everything you do is amazing!!! 💖💖💖

ooh hi hi anon! I’ve seen this trend and it’s so cute to think about Logan being like ‼️ about it - I did a little drabble for each scenario! I hope you like them! 💖 (and ahh, thank you so much!)

little games | logan howlett x f!reader

800 words | logan pov, fluff, possessive thoughts

After another long shift, your smile is all he needs.

Unable to help the tired curve of his lips as he hears your voice - the “hi honey” that you coo, from where you lean against the kitchen counter.

Phone tucked against your ear, a notebook and colorful pens splayed out in front of you.

“Sound goods, Saturday is great. Listen, I gotta go-,” Your attention pulls from him, though his eyes linger as he crouches - working on the laces of his boots.

Standing, just as he hears the rest of your goodbye.

“-my husband just got home.”

He almost trips.

Warmth floods through him, a cock of his head as he wonders if he misheard.

But his senses always had been keen.

“Mhmm.” You hum - as he slowly crosses the room. Coming up behind you, arms wrapping around your waist just as you wrap up your call.

Unable to help the tilt of his head - pressing his lips against your neck. Inhaling you, that pretty layer of scents that now linger in his home.

Something stirs, as he lets his mind run free.

“Yep,” You squirm, your hand layering over his, “See you then. Bye!”

He only gives you just enough space to twist yourself around. Still pinning you against the counter, his eyes darkened.

“Hi.” You smile, tipping your lips up to his, “Missed you.”

It’s murmured back, just as his mouth presses to yours. Sweet, when his tongue licks against your lip, his hands slipping up to cradle your jaw.

Letting himself imagine, for just a minute. Still quiet, when you pull away - the mark between his brow deepening.

Never one to beat around the bush, the words slipping before he can think too much about it.

“Called me your husband.” He husks, “You know that?”

He should catch that you’re not caught off-guard. That there’s almost a guilty flicker in your eye, before you’re inhaling a breath.

Head tilting to match his. His eyes dropping to where your tongue peeks out to wet your lip.

“Sorry, baby. Must have slipped up,” You shrug, shyly, “Did it bother you?”

The name curls in his chest, slipping around his ribs. Only adding to the flicker of desire, the soft warmth that’s settled beneath his skin.

“No.” He husks.

Dipping to kiss you again. Hips pressing flush, the curving ridge of his jeans indicating exactly how it made him feel.

“Not when it’s you saying it.”

Logan never really minds meeting the people you grew friendly with.

You attract them in a way he never did. Picking up the names of everyone in the apartment complex long before he does. The couple that live on the floor above. The old man and his dog three doors down.

Your hand patting his chest, as you stop to chat with an older woman at the base of the stairs.

“You remember Logan, right?” You ask her, “My boyfriend.”

And suddenly, he minds. Head whipping towards you so quickly his neck almost cracks.

Eyebrow arching as the women - Gladys - coos over them, the words petering out to white noise as he frowns.

“Husband.” Logan cuts in, gruffly - the gold glinting off his finger as he reaches out to shake her hand.

You giggle. Gladys only exclaims - and it’s all he can do to keep his jaw from clenching so hard his teeth crack.

A hand at your back, already guiding you towards the apartment before your goodbyes are finished. Backing you against the door the second it’s shut, as you blink up at him.

“Tryin’ to be cute?” He asks - and he can hear the edge in his voice, “Another one of your little games?”

Knows he hit the nail on the head when your teeth sink into your lip. Biting back a smile, as your voice pitches up.

“What do you mean?”

He huffs. Hands flattening against the wood - seeing how your eyes go wide as he leans in.

“Calling me your boyfriend.” Logan grits out, “When we both know how fucking eager you were to take my name.”

How wet it makes you, when he has you beneath him. Fingers entwined, a matching ring around yours.

There’s hunger in your eyes. His lips ghosting against yours - pulling away just as you lean to kiss him.

“Uh-uh.” His head shakes, “What am I?”

You pout, but he only hums - expectant. Possessive.

Logan’s voice dropping low.

“Come on, baby.” He coaxes, “Lemme hear you say it.”

Your scent blooms sweet, and he almost groans. Lets your lips press against his this time, your answer breathed out.

“My husband.”

“That’s my girl.” He smirks.

Kissing you soundly, then.

Already imaging how the cool press of his ring will feel when he’s got three fingers buried deep inside you.

Maybe then you won’t ‘forget’.

[its-stayville-forever]

I stared at my laptop for so long, not knowing what I wanted or needed to say. What do I say? What will I say that will do justice to this beautiful, intricate, detailed piece of art you’ve craved with your hands? Do I start with the tears? Or the smiles? Or the plethora of questions that I have for you?

(Yes. Yes I am taking this apart and reading through the lines, underneath the lines, along the lines, you name it, I’m doing it. I think you knew what you were bringing upon yourself when you started writing this lol)

-The Title.

Listen, I’ve had my fair share of duolingo lessons with French, and I know that the title translates to ‘Tear’. Not the salty droplets of water (that’s la larme, but you don’t need to know that), but the ripping into shreds. So I really, really am soooo curious as to why you chose that word for the title. Is it because both the characters have their hearts torn and shred apart or is it that you ultimately wanted to tear OUR hearts apart? Or is there a reference that just went over my head? 🤓

-The Characters.

To create characters with depth, with hurt and suffering flowing through their veins? And to make it seem so easy for their hurt to seep into you? You know you’re actually fucking insane right? You’re so crazy SAHAR. Coming back to the point ehm ☺️. To write about a character that loathes a dead body, and to write her so intricately broken from the inside, to write a character that hurts from death and loss and to put the two with each other in a GRAVEYARD!? You put a person who’s hurt because of their mother (and father but 🤷‍♀️ ), and another individual who’s hurt due to the DEATH of their mother. Similar but such different causes. I absolutely hated the mom’s character, but I LOVE the way you wrote her and kept her character as it is throughout. The loss of a daughter and the need to see her all the time in the other one, literally everything about her character made my heart throb. I don’t, GOD I really don’t know the way your brain works wonders like these. How long did you put into developing the movie? 

-The Story.

This is a personal preference but I’m a SUCKER for angst (you know that), and this hit alllll the spots. I shed so many tears, so many gasps, so many emotions all together, like you always do with your works. 

Anyways. The story.

You know what this reminded me of? A movie. Reading through this entire thing, i felt like i was watching a movie unfold. Although I did feel that the story was slightly rushed (just a bit, i would’ve LOVED if it was two parts or longer but i ate this up anyways), I think the way you wrote from the beginning, her wishing death, that is her name on the stone than her sisters, to hyune finally putting down the flowers on her graveyard. Red lilies symbolize death and loss (yes baby i saw you there 😞) and i am in so awe of how you took out even the minutest of details like that one. I absolutely adored the quote and its use throughout the entire story and the relationship the two had as a ballerina and a figure skater. NOW. THE SCENE WHERE SHE GOES TO WATCH HIM IN THE OLYMPICS!?!? It reminded me of all the cute scenes we witnessed at the recent Olympics and it was just so 😿 I reached my peak at the end, I burst out crying in the last few paragraphs.

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. 

THISSSSSSS OH MY GODDD 😭

Thank you sahar. Thank you from the depth of my heart for putting something out that I sort of relate to when I need it the most. Just like with this and the poem you posted when you visited Monet’s birthplace, you put it out when I needed it the absolute most. I hope the love and care you put out for others is given three folds back to you. Take care and a big kiss for you, mwah.

-your biggest fan

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. 

[endearng]

Special guest

Pairing: Spencer Reid x single mom!reader Summary: Olivia's birthday is coming up. She has a special guest in mind. WC: 1.7k Warnings: mentions of absent fathers (sorry); reader is borderline paranoid about letting her kid down; they are pining hard - Spencer looks at reader not so respectfully. Please, let me know if I missed anything. A/N: I try my best to not describe the reader so that everyone feels included, but I feel like I should work better on that. If you have any advice on it, I'd be very thankful to hear it! Second fic in less than 24h, ohmy. This is a second part to 'Stranger danger' Feedbacks are highly welcomed and appreciated. <3 Masterlist

A few weeks had passed after the incident with the power in your building. Since then, you saw Spencer sometimes and he always greeted you politely. Olivia once told you that she liked him so much because he was a nice ghost — he told her stories about the books he read and she absolutely loved them, going to the point of asking if she could borrow them once he had finished reading.

Little did she know, she would never have to wait long.

Their interactions always made you speechless. How was your 5-year-old daughter better than you at starting conversations? You could barely look him in the eye, despite the fact that he always made sure to flash you the brightest smiles. You reciprocated, but then Olivia always had something to say: about his funny clothes, about the book she was reading for school, about your moments together — you had a scheduled commitment every Friday, to take Olivia to wherever she wanted to go. She was very observant, and, just like you, had the habit of taking mental notes of the beautiful places you saw during your walks. That's how she knew where the public library was and knew the best coffee in town — she demanded having the same beverage as you, but you told the barista secretly to make it decaf.

As you both put on your shoes in the morning to leave the apartment, you said, "Oli, your birthday is coming up. Do you want to do anything with mommy?"

"I want a birthday party."

That made you freeze in your tracks for a moment. You've been avoiding throwing birthday parties for two years now, because Olivia's day always ended with a tinge of heartbreak by the absence of her father, who had decided to leave the both of you and move overseas to, maybe, start over. It hurt you to try to comfort her with something you didn't have control of, but you did it anyway because you'd rather hurt yourself than let your baby go through that kind of disappointment alone. You didn't really know what he was up to, and honestly, you didn't want to, either. You were doing just fine without him, but she was his daughter and still a child, so you knew she still missed him.

Your hands were shaking slightly as you tied her shoelaces. "Bunny ears, remember?" You asked softly, showing her how to do it: you always did it in the mornings, but you made sure to teach her in case they undid during her day at school. She nodded at you, flashing a little toothless smile. "Okay, baby, we'll do that," you smiled, trying to ease off the tension.

"I want invitation cards. Like the ones you had!" She said, excitedly. You huffed out a laugh, endeared by the fact that she remembered all the papers you showed her with photos and other memories of your childhood.

"No problem, baby," you said, getting up, smoothing your pencil skirt and opening the door. She went to the hall to press the elevator button, "we can do it." You said, more to yourself than to her.

Two weeks passed and you had everything ready for Olivia's birthday with the help of your closests friends, Victoria and Jude. You were planning on throwing her party at your parents' house, which had a big, beautiful yard with space enough for the kids to play all they wanted. You had ordered Olivia's favorite cake, red velvet, and a lot of other treats that you knew she loved.

"You know she'll be drunk on sugar, right?" Victoria asked, laughing. She remembered the last time she took Olivia to the movies and she was electric during the way back.

"It's her birthday, once a year won't kill her. Maybe it'll kill me, but eh, what's the matter?" You joked lightly and your friends laughed.

Jude had a checklist in her hands. "Okay, let's go over this so we can go back to our yearly drinking like there's no tomorrow date. We have the place, the food, the decoration... oh, no. Where are the invitations?"

"Oh, I got it. They're in my room. I had to put it away because Oli wanted to read them over and over again."

They nodded as you left your living room, walking down the hall so you could get said invitations. You felt dread creeping up on you when you couldn't find them in the top drawer of your bedside table. "I can't find them!" You yelled loud enough for the women to hear you.

"Are you sure you placed them here?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Not sure what happened, though." You murmured, already feeling a little disappointed. "I gotta look for it now. She drew it herself and I took a lot of copies. I can't possibly tell her I lost them, she would be heartbroken." You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose.

Victoria approached you to rub your arm, trying to comfort you. "Hey, we can look for it. We still have time." Jude said, smiling reassuringly.

"I know, I just don't wanna be too late." You said, giving them a tight-lipped smile.

So, you started looking for it in every corner of your apartment. You stayed in your bedroom, while Jude and Victoria went to Olivia's. You had cleaned the apartment today, a Saturday, when your daughter usually went to your parents', so that you'd have free time to spend and catch up with your friends. It was almost sundown, daylight fading softly and the lighting in your room was becoming darker as time went by. Suddenly, you heard your bell. Weird. You weren't expecting anybody.

"I'll get that!" You let your friends know.

Opening the door, you weren't expecting your neighbor. Rephrasing: the neighbor who Olivia adored so much. Spencer. That works, too. He has a name, after all. "Hey, hi!" He greeted you with a grin, looking shy.

"Hey, you!" You greeted him back. "Is everything okay?" You asked, a little unsure.

You took in his appearance. He looked tired, that's for sure, but it didn't stop him from looking like the most gorgeous man in existence. He wore his usual attire, carrying his caramel satchel leather bag. You didn't have an immediate answer, so you gulped when you noticed that you were looking a little longer than what's socially acceptable.

"Yeah, it's fine," he chuckled, unable to hold your stare for a moment longer. He considered, for a moment, that your daughter was the element needed for him to have a little confidence to speak when you were around. Well, shit. "I — um. I think these belong to you. I found it when I opened the door to my apartment." He extended you a bunch of papers. You blushed. You busied yourself so much with admiring him that you failed to notice that he had something in his hands.

He studied you for a moment. You looked beautiful that day. Not that you didn't look beautiful all the times you've seen him, but oh, well. Like the first time you met, you were wearing a dress. It was blue and it stopped mid-thigh. He had to stop himself from gulping at the sight of your bare, plush legs. It was different from what he was used to seeing you wear during working days, during the eventual elevator meetings. The dress hugged your curves beautifully, there was no question, like it had been made just for you. Your hair was loose and it fell over your shoulders. When you first answered the door, you had a worried frown on your face, but it quickly disappeared with his words. He felt relieved to see you get rid of your distress.

"Oh, goodness! Sorry about that. I was just looking for these." You gladly took them from his hand and your fingers accidentally brushed his. His hands were warm. "Olivia must have slided them under your door gap," you laughed nervously. You could feel two pairs of eyes looking at the interaction before them. You needed to brace yourself for their questions and very much possible teasing.

"Yeah, yeah. I supposed she did that, too." He laughed, quietly.

You thought for a moment. "You know, you should go. She really likes you. Talks about your conversations all the time and says she misses you when we don't run into you at some point." You revealed. It made Spencer's heart soar in his chest.

"Really?" He couldn't help but smile, even if he couldn't believe it. Not that you were a liar, but that it meant so much to your daughter to talk to him now and then. He felt alive at that moment, felt wanted. “I don’t want to impose.”

"Yeah, I mean, no! No problem, you wouldn’t be. We’d like to have you." You said, smiling adorning your face. You took a card from your hands, offering it to him. "With us, I mean. It's going to be at my parents' house, we'll have a bunch of kids running around and cake." You surely looked like an idiot.

We’d like to have you, was all that he could hear.

Did you want him there for him or just because he was kind to your daughter?

Either way, "Thanks. I'll do my best to be there." He said, utterly happy. Saying your name lowly, followed by a 'goodbye', made your heart jump in your chest. You replied with a wave and a small grin. Your cheeks were sore from all the smiling. It was inevitable.

You turned around and had barely closed the door when Jude said, a little louder than her usual tone, "So, I see you found the invitation cards. I hope you gave one for Olivia's birthday party, not for a hot date." She playfully scolded you.

With wide eyes, you banged the door closed and turned around to yell, "Jude! What???"

Little did you know, Spencer heard it all. You know, thin walls, small distance and all. He grinned to himself, face flushed a deep red.

He was definitely looking forward to seeing you. And Olivia, too, of course. It was her birthday, after all.

[firewasabeast]

Good Day for a Breakdown

(This fic features Juniper from my Uncle Eddie series. You can still read this without ever reading those stories. Juniper is Buck and Tommy's daughter.)

By the time Tommy and Juniper started their day, Evan had been at work for a couple of hours. He wasn't supposed to be working today. They were all supposed to be heading to the zoo together.

But the opportunity for overtime came up, and they'd been saving for a trip in the summer.

So, Papa and Juniper day it was!

Tommy had the whole day planned and everything seemed to be right on schedule for a full half hour... then it all fell apart.

First, Juniper's toast wasn't buttery enough. Then there was too much butter. Then she didn't want toast at all, and wanted cereal instead.

After cleaning up half the cereal that ended up on the floor, Tommy and Juniper headed to her bedroom to get dressed.

That's when the screaming started.

She wanted her white shirt, but not that white shirt. She wanted the specific white shirt that was in the laundry room soaking in stain remover after an applesauce incident the night before.

The pants Tommy tried to put on her were too tight around her tummy, then the next pair were too loose and “wiggly.”

Also, she hated every single pair of shoes she owned.

When Tommy looked at the clock and saw it wasn't even ten yet, he decided right then and there that the zoo was no longer in question.

Cue the next round of screams.

When Juniper turned two, everyone joked that they better get ready. The terrible two's would come, and they'd come with a vengeance.

Except they didn't.

And that made Buck and Tommy feel exceptionally lucky.

Until Juniper reached three. That's when her terrible two's started.

Things had calmed down recently. Her outbursts were less frequent and were usually over within a few minutes.

Not today though. Today was nonstop, and Tommy felt every bit of it.

There was no nap for Juniper today. The mere mention of it had her throwing her books to the ground in the living room, even taking a couple and ripping out the pages before Tommy could get to them.

Playing outside was a disaster, because she wanted to put her hands in the dirt and when Tommy finally said okay and she did it, she hated the feeling of it on her hands and was immediately yelling for him to get it off.

Later on, when he grabbed her up to stop her from slamming head first into their back door, she bit down on his shoulder so hard he yelped and nearly dropped her.

Tommy remembered watching videos when the temper tantrums first began. The gentle parenting ones where the moms tried to reason with their hyperventilating children.

He hated those videos.

There was no reasoning with this child. Not on one of these days.

He gave up on cleaning the individual messes. They could stay right where they were until she went to sleep.

If she ever went to sleep.

He had to get through bath time first. Where the water wasn't the right temperature, and the bubbles were too bubbly, and she threw every bath toy over Tommy's head and against the bathroom wall.

Tommy looked at his watch, 7:00 staring back at him. Evan should have been home an hour ago.

They didn't let themselves worry if the other was late, not until three hours had passed without a text or call. Otherwise, they were to assume the other was simply running late and would be home as soon as possible.

With a sigh, Tommy pulled the plug in the tub to let the water drain. Which was apparently an act of war in Juniper's eyes.

When he finally got her into bed, she denied every bedtime storybook he offered her. She ended up falling asleep while sobbing into his chest.

After gently getting her settled into bed, Tommy headed out into the living room to clean up. That's when the front door slowly opened and Buck walked in.

“Hey,” he greeted quietly with a smile, knowing Juniper would be out by now.

“Hey,” Tommy replied, leaning in as Buck walked over for a kiss. “Get a last minute call?”

“Sort of,” he answered, glancing around at the disaster that was their living room. “Wow. Busy day, huh?”

“Yeah, um.” Tommy turned, bending to grab some of Junie's toys. “What do you mean, sort of?”

“Got a call at like five after six. Didn't expect it to take so long to get wrapped up.”

“C shift wasn't in yet?” Tommy asked.

“They were there. Just getting in. It seemed like it would be a quick call.” Buck shrugged. “It had been an easy shift, so I figured I'd help out.”

Tommy stood there in the dead center of their living room, Juniper's toys tossed all around, with two of her teddy bears in his hand. He nodded, tightening his lips together until they were nearly white. Once he found his voice again, he cleared his throat. “Well, at least it was an easy shift, right?”

“Yeah, it really was.” Without asking any questions, Buck picked up a couple of broken crayons from the floor and headed into the kitchen to throw them away. He acted so nonchalant about it that, had Tommy had any crayons in his own hand, they would have crumbled into little dust with how hard he was clenching his fists.

“Did you cook that chicken tonight?” Buck called out.

Tommy sighed. “Uh, no. No, I never had a chance.”

“Mm,” Buck hummed, disappointed. “Can't refreeze it. We'll have to throw it out tomorrow.”

Tommy tossed a blanket from the floor onto the couch. “I will take it out when I leave for work in the morning.”

“I hate to waste it,” Buck said, opening the fridge and pulling it out. “Maybe I'll make something with it really quick. That way you'll have something for lunch tomorrow too.”

It wasn't a slight against him, Tommy knew that. But it felt like it. It felt like Evan was telling him, “You're basically throwing money away, Tommy. You really couldn't shove some chicken in a pan and throw it in the oven? I guess I could do it after working twelve hours of overtime. Oh, and I'll also be making you lunch for tomorrow, which you didn't bother to do for me today.”

He was usually on the other side of this. Usually the one reminding Evan what he actually said instead of what Evan heard.

But today sucked, and everyone and everything was against him.

“Is there anything you're craving?” Buck asked, heading back to the fridge for more ingredients. “Nothing fancy though. It's gotta be a one pot meal and-”

“So you could have come home?” Tommy questioned, abandoning the mess in the living room to come talk to Buck. “But you went on a call instead?”

Slowly, Buck closed the fridge door and turned to Tommy, staring at him for a moment before asking, “A- Are you mad at me right now?”

“Why would I be mad at you?”

“I think that's a question for me to ask, because I have no idea.”

“Evan, I-” Tommy huffed out a breath, motioning back toward the living room. “Do you not see the disaster back there?”

“Yeah, I mentioned it when I came in.”

Beginning to get a little pissed off at Evan's obliviousness, Tommy walked back over to the living room, grabbing two books off the floor and bringing them to Buck. “She destroyed these before I could stop her. Tore the pages right out. One's the mind-numbingly boring My Two Daddies book you got her-”

“Hey!”

“And the other was the one my mom gave me when I was little. They're trash now.” He dramatically dropped the books into the trash can to further prove his point... whatever his point actually was.

“Tommy-”

“That was right after the second time I had to blow in her face to get her to stop holding her breath.”

That's when the full realization finally hit Buck. “She had one of her breakdown days, didn't she?”

“Ya think?”

“It's been a while. I thought those were over.”

“Oh, no. She just laid dormant until she got me alone. Which I shouldn't have been, because you weren't even supposed to work today.”

Buck paused. “Wait a minute,” he said, glaring over at Tommy. “Are you mad because I took overtime? Overtime that we both agreed I'd take to help pay for our trip this summer?”

“We agreed to taking some overtime,” Tommy replied, “but you didn't tell me you'd taken overtime for today until after you said yes.”

Buck cocked his head to the side. “I didn't know I needed your permission to work.”

“That's not what I-”

“Do I need to ask for your permission on a daily basis? My regular shift starts back in two days, should I ask if it's okay to go now, or wait until the day of? I think Bobby would prefer to have a little extra time to find someone to fill in should it not please you.”

“Evan.”

“Maybe I should have Carla come over on the days you're alone with Juniper if you can't handle her.” Buck knew that wasn't fair before the words left his mouth. He'd been alone with Juniper on one of her breakdown days. It was like endless torture.

The worst part was Tommy stopped fighting back right then and there. He stared at Buck, lips pursed. After a few seconds, he nodded, eyes now wet and red-rimmed. “I'm gonna go for a run,” he said softly, defeated.

He turned for the door, grabbing his shoes on the way out.

“Wait, Tom-” By the time Buck had found his voice again, it was too late. Tommy was out the door, closing it quietly behind him.

*****

When Tommy walked back into the house nearly two hours later, it was dimly lit. He could hear soft jazz playing in the living room. As he stepped in further, he saw that the house had been picked up, all of Juniper's toys put away. The little disasters from the day were gone, just a memory now.

He could hear Evan in the kitchen, could smell something cooking. Tommy's stomach growled, a reminder that he'd never been able to sit for lunch.

When he reached the kitchen, Evan was next to the stove, freshly showered and changed into sweats and one of Tommy's t-shirts. He wasn't messing with the food. Instead, he was working on something beside it. As Tommy got a better look, he could see that it was the book his mom had given him when he was young. Buck was concentrating hard as he taped the pages back together.

Tommy's chest ached. He knew it should make him feel better. Should make him feel relieved, happy, thankful. Anything other than a complete and total failure.

Buck turned then, jumping slightly when he saw Tommy. “I didn't hear you come in,” he said, a cautious smile on his face. “I think we should put your book up until Junie's a little older. I kept the other one in the trash,” he continued with a nervous laugh. “You were right, it sucked.”

And that's when Tommy broke. His face crumpled and his shoulders fell and within a matter of seconds Buck had his arms around Tommy, holding him tight.

Tommy accepted the hug, tucking his head into Buck's neck and wrapping his own arms around Buck's waist.

“I'm so sorry,” Buck whispered into the space between them. “I didn't mean what I said. I'm sorry.”

“I'm not-” Tommy sucked in a shaky breath. “It's not because of you.”

Buck turned his head, leaving a gentle kiss on Tommy's temple. “I'm still sorry.”

“S'okay.”

They stood there for a while in silence, Buck running his fingers through Tommy's hair.

“All I kept thinking,” Tommy said after a few minutes, sniffling as he continued to cling to Buck, “was that my drill sergeants never made me cry. One day alone with a three year old broke me.”

Even as he let out a laugh, Buck rubbed at Tommy's back soothingly. “The army should rethink bootcamp. Let angry toddlers train the soldiers.”

“Graduation rate would go way down.”

Tommy's stomach growled again, and Buck leaned back so he could look at him. “You hungry?” he asked, wiping a tear from Tommy's cheek.

Tommy nodded. “Sorry you had to cook after working all day.”

“I didn't mind,” Buck assured him, taking his hand and leading him to the table. “I told you, it was an easy day, plus I don't have work tomorrow.”

He pulled out Tommy's chair, not letting go of his hand until he was fully seated. He kissed the top of Tommy's head before going into the kitchen to fix them each a bowl of soup.

“Did you wanna get a shower before you eat?” Buck asked.

He shook his head, wiping at his eyes. “I didn't really run,” Tommy admitted. “I walked to the end of the block and sat on the curb for an hour and a half.”

“Did it help at all?”

“Not a bit. God, Evan, it was such a bad day,” he said, resting his head in his hands. “I didn't mean to take it out on you.”

Buck walked over, sliding Tommy's bowl over to him before sitting down beside him. “It's not like I made it any easier. I wasn't even really paying attention.”

“I just... I had the whole day planned. We were gonna go to the zoo, have lunch out, be back home for nap time. Then I was gonna take her with me to the gym so she could go to that kids class she loves, make dinner, have her fed and bathed. We'd clean the house up together, and I'd get to read her a story or two, then she'd be fast asleep by the time you got home. And then we'd have dinner together and, well,” he shrugged, “you know.”

Buck tried to hide a grin, reaching out and taking Tommy's hand. “Honey, she's asleep, I think you can say you'd like to fuck me.”

Tommy groaned, hanging his head down dramatically. “I would. I really would.”

Buck laughed. “Well, some of those things were accomplished.”

“No, she's only asleep because she screamed herself to sleep. I had nothing to do with it.”

“We're also having dinner together,” Buck pointed out. “And I'd be more than happy for you know,” he added with a wink, “after dinner.”

Tommy gave Buck's hand a squeeze.

“This is really good,” he said, taking another bite of the soup. “Thanks for cooking.”

“Thanks for eating with me.”

“Thanks for fixing my book.”

Buck smiled. “Thanks for being such a good Papa that our kid isn't afraid to have a bad day.”

Tommy smiled back at him, even as tears filled his eyes again. “Thanks for being the best partner I could ever ask for.”

“Thanks for loving me.”

Tommy lifted Buck's hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “Always.”

[lazyleafeon]

i put a lot more time into my piece for the serenity zine than I usually do, so ive been wanting to make a write up with more details about what i was intending + stuff thats easy to miss (full piece without the character names can be seen here)

[ID: a drawing centered on a young kim dokja writing in a notebook, surrounded by paper cut outs of ways of survival characters. there are names next to the cut outs to clarify which characters are which. End ID]

1: text on the characters

the text on all of the characters are all quotes from orv. for characters from specific rounds, the text is specifically linked to those rounds (ex: 1863 uriel has text from when kdj is thinking about how gabriel isn't aware of her own betrayal of eden). Where i could, i tried to find text that paralled kdj somehow (sp with changing the 999th worldline, and 41 sys with her resentment towards yjh paralleling kdj's towards lsk for leaving him behind.).

for characters that aren't from specific worldlines (or where i couldn't find text i wanted to use that related to their worldlines) , the text either centers something i feel is central to orv (ex jhy talking about the final wall is used in both of her cut outs), kdjs perception of the character or thoughts of them from wos (ex lsh and his line about not really knowing her), or something about the character that parallels kdj (bihyungs cut outs are both about his ending of sacrificing himself, yma is about yjh leaving in the epilogue and her belief he won't come back (which works doubly as yjh leaving as kdj often did, and yma being left behind by her guardian)).

there is also sunfish yjh. who only says "the sunfish" because of the constraints of being a tiny piece of paper. The full quote is "Maybe I had been lucky until now. I might be the 'sunfish' rather than yoo joonghyuk" from chapter 38.

i don't think everything like, perfectly follows these categories, but that was the intent for the most part. One intentional exception is that the yjh near the bottom of the drawing has the text: "I want to read this story for a little bit longer"

if you want to read all the text, I have it up on a doc here. (you can also ask me about thoughts behind specific quotes if you want to know why i chose them)

2: amount of characters + visual details

there are 2 versions of each character for the most part, with 4 exceptions: kdj (3), yjh (6, counting the sunfish but not the kkoma), and na bori and knw only having 1.

the reason there's only one na bori is because her fate is, for the most part, set before her story can be changed by yjh. there is only 1 of her in all of the characters memories, outside of the 1865 worldline (though given we see knw after kdj kills him, its not out of the question there isn't a worldline where she reappears.)

for kim namwoon, its part because of kdj's hatred for him as someone he sees himself in, and part because kdj in orv like. replaces knw pretty directly by killing him and trying to become yjh's companion. so in kdjs notes and doodles based on wos, knw is here only as an outergod king, where kdj is unaware of him.

the outer god kings all have at least one element that sets them apart from the other cut outs: sp has his crumpled paper cloak, knw's cut out is in the shape of dragons near the edges, uriel is on fire, lhs is partially tin foil, and ljh has a water stain and some of her paper is peeling off into water. this represents them being unbound from the worldlines, but since they're still bound to the story they're still made of paper.

anna croft (near uriel) is intentionally a little more 3D than the other characters, since she has memories from past worldlines. she's supposed to seem like shes going against the tide.

1863 uriel is also a bit of an exception, though not intentionally, since her halo looks better as a separate piece of paper, and i wanted her to have flames too... it fits because shes a constellation and seeing the story from a somewhat outside perspective but is still a part of it, but it wasn't intentional.

near the edges of the piece towards the right, some characters outlines start to become faded, and the paper cut out outlines become more irregular. the outer god kings are exempt because they've managed to keep their sense of self to an extent outside of the worldline.

some of kdjs books are from his library in orv.

the text for all characters is slightly cut off (i tried to make it so most of the quotes are missing some texts so you can't actually read them in full). this is both because they're cut out of a larger page, and because kdj can't actually learn everything about the characters once he meets them by reading them because you can't read people like that. so some of the text is out of view because the characters are viewed as characters to kdj and not "real" yet, so kdj doesn't see their full stories.

some concept art + one of the earliest digital sketches i have. all of my works in progress have a billion notes left on them so i know not to forget something when i get back to them:

[drawing of yjh made of paper, and an earlier sketch of the overall piece]

i sort of wish i kept the paper style of this yjh, but it wasn't meant to be....

3. final thoughts........

this really is the most... orv piece i've ever done (?), in a lot of ways. there is nothing that makes you feel more like kdj like searching up orv quotes from memory and then scrolling through the epub on your phone to find what you want. i even ended up explaining it to my mom and having to show her what a sunfish was.

there are things i would change about it if i did it now (i would probably erase the outline from adult kdjs cut out and emphasize his shadow falling on it instead), and things i didn't get to do that would've made it more like what i envisioned (ideally i would've reread all of orv to find quotes. and i didn't do that).

It's personal to me in ways that are kind of silly. I used to doodle a lot of paper cut out creatures in high school, which helped a lot with getting the sort of paper movement down here. and of course the handwriting is just my own, so i had to actually rewrite the quotes i found. it's probably the most ambitious piece i've drawn yet composition wise, and i don't think ive spent so long on a single illustration besides art studies for school. It feels like a love letter to everything orv means to me.

if you've read this far, thank you :)! i don't normally go into this much depth about my thought process, but there's a lot here i don't expect people to pick up that i wanted to get into

[luviwon]

SHOWER SEX | k.sn

kinktober day 26! back to the masterlist here!

☆ step brother!sunoo x reader

; “what about we just share this one today?” sunoo whisper into your ear, slowly taking more of your personal space inside the shower cabin. “let’s just wash these sinful desires of ours away here for now.”

genre ; smut (very small context + link because you seem to love these <3)

taglist ; @blushbunini @moonpri @blackp1nkfan @mitmit01 @pasteltheghost16 @harukayoiiiiiiizzz @mlywon @lhspeachie @seraphira @kaykay11sworld @winuvs @yuniesluv @shhth @rizzki09 @mylettterstoyou @d-dilemma @aanniikkas @hooneyz-luver @laylasbunbunny @nyfwyeonjun @minniesverse @rikinatorr

and it goes like this. you enter the upstairs bathroom, closing the door behind you in a quick motion. you look at yourself in the mirror, a faint smile on your face as you begin to undress from your pjs. mornings showers are definitely not for everyone, but since you had such an important day ahead, you sacrificed an hour of sleep for that.

soon enough, your clothes were all lying on the bathroom floor, your body feeling slightly cold as to the low temperature in the house. but nothing that a hot shower can not fix, right? you turn on the shower, and the sound of water fills up the bathroom. at first, it’s cool, but it warms up quickly, sending steam spreading across the glass. you step in, feeling the hot water wake you up as it pours over your skin. the warmth relaxes you, washing away any nerves, just letting you focus on the moment.

you work shampoo into your hair, the scent filling the shower as bubbles build up in your hands. then you grab the body wash, lathering it over your skin in slow, easy motions. warm water rinses everything clean, leaving you refreshed. you feel relieved, almost like you found your safe space, and you close your eyes, leaning against the cabin wall as the water keeps painting your body.

maybe that’s why you didn’t notice when the bathroom door opened quietly, a figure standing across from you, on the other side of the glass.

but when you open your eyes, you see him there, sliding the door to the side so he can join you, a finger going up to his lips, guiding you to be quiet. you take a step back, gulping as you find yourself in the corner, gaze unable to move away from the body of your step brother, who did not bother to even knock at the door beforehand. the worst part? he didn’t wear anything now, which shouldn’t be weird since he is inside a shower, but next to you?

that makes it less natural.

you move your hands to your eyes, covering them without second thoughts, almost forgetting that your whole body was still exposed to him. but if you can’t see him, he can’t see you either, right? or that’s what you hoped for, before feeling a warmth growing closer to you, his abdomen against your chest as he is lowering his head to whisper sweet thoughts inside your ear.

“i know you want this just as much as i do”

and that’s when you spread your fingers apart, looking at him through the gap formed there. sunoo is all a smirk, like he was so confident on himself, maybe even knowing how you spy on him when he touches himself? or when you peek through the door when he has a girl over, watching him fuck her rough and wishing it was you? maybe, just maybe there was a small chance of him knowing some of this stuff.

“baby…talk to me”, he whispered again into your ear, right hand grabbing your waist and pulling you into him. he intentionally pushes his body against you, to make you feel how hard he is already, as you refused to look at him when he stepped in. you gulp again, burying your head in his chest, unable to process what’s happening. this felt like a fantasy, like a written fiction.

“let’s just wash these sinful desires of ours away here for now.” are the last words before your step brother turns you around to face the glass, your tits pressed hard against it, while he is getting to stretch you out for, well, as long as you can take it.

[leclarifies]

off the grid - IV

✰ max verstappen x !driver reader ✰

summary: you strived for nothing but perfection. nothing less was expected from you. being a female formula one driver made it even harder for you to make mistakes. you figured that dating max, your biggest rival yet, wasn't a mistake...right...?

genre: kinda slow-burn? mostly angst, eventual fluff at the end.

wc: 3k

a/n: short chapter bc i wanna focus on the pure fluff in the next chapter, this is just an insight on what happened between the two of them and how they reconciled, hope you like it!!!!! mixed a lil smau in there too

PREVIOUS PART ✰ NEXT PART MASTERLIST ✰ ASK ME ANYTHING ✰ REQUEST A FIC!

"i don't know what to do, i'm stuck in a loop, stuck in a loop. i don't know what to do, 'cause i fell in love with you." - chase atlantic, 'you'

"you look like shit," was the first thing lando said when he saw you, you blow him a raspberry and a stink-eye. you raked your hand through your hair as you exit your apartment, he had asked you to go to dinner with him with the other drivers and somehow, even with your big wage, you still didn't have a car so you needed to catch a ride with someone.

"thanks, i think the lack of sleep is finally getting to me," you say as you turn around and close the door behind you, locking the apartment door.

"you haven't been sleeping well?" lando asked curiously, now piqued by interest when you talked about your lack of sleep.

"no, i've been sleeping like shit and my performance is like shit and everything is like shit and all i want to do is sleep but i can't sleep. so cheers to me being a female formula one driver, right?" you asked lando sarcastically as you both started walking to the elevator.

"okay well... before the sleep problem, you've been doing well right? so why don't you go to the doctor and get some... sleeping pills or whatever?" lando asked as he pressed the button to the elevator, putting his hands in his pockets once he was done.

"mate, what the hell do you think i've been doing? i've been popping those pills like it's candy. it's not working," you huff, tonight was not something you were looking forward to. human interaction with more than one person drained your limited energy.

"maybe it's anxiety then?" lando suggested as you shrug, you didn't know what it was. you knew the root of the problem though, but you weren't going to share that with lando.

"fred is going to fire me at the end of this season, i can feel it," you heard the elevator ding and the doors open, it was an empty elevator thankfully.

"that's not fair though, checo's been having two shit seasons in a row but he's not getting fired by red bull," lando commented as both of you get in the elevator, and you shrug once again.

"ferrari is not red bull and checo isn't a female driver—"

a hand stops the elevator doors from closing and you see a familiar dutchman emerge from the doors opening.

"ah max! you live in the same building as y/n?" lando smiles politely at max, those two don't have the friendliest relationship but since the fiascos that happened in 2024.

max smiled at lando and flashed you a quick but polite smile as well, "ah yeah, i live across from her. did she not tell you that?" max asked as he entered the elevator doors as it finally closed, you didn't say anything. your eyes not even on the dutchman but on the doors behind him.

"well she never mentioned it, you're invited to the dinner as well right?" lando perked up when he realized that max did in fact live across from you, you just wanted out of this elevator for once.

"yes, which is why i'm also in this elevator with you, lando," max laughed before the three of you settled in, the elevator ride was short as you reached the basement floor where lando's car was parked and you assumed that max's was there as well.

after a moment of silence and exiting the elevator, max speaks up again, "why don't you guys ride with me? save some gas. i'll drive you home lando."

fuck.

lando had taken the back of max's valkyrie, wanting you to feel comfortable in the front, but what he was oblivious to was the tension between the two of you.

thank god the ride was quite short, you could've died from the tension if that car ride was any longer than ten minutes.

exiting the car was easier than getting inside of it, max's car keys was handed off to valet as the three of you walked inside of the restaurant.

"i think i'm gonna go to the toilet first, you guys go right ahead," lando announced, quickly rushing over to the toilet before you could protest.

your timing is so shit, lando...

max took the opportunity to talk to you, grabbing your hand before you had the chance of even entering the private room the drivers booked.

"can we talk?"

you turned to look at max who was holding your wrist gently, his blue orbs were clouded with something— you couldn't put your finger on it. he just looked so pitiful and sad.

"talk about what?" you ask as you gently tugged your wrist from his grip, crossing your arms in front of your chest. you were full expecting him to rub the issue in your face, that you needed him somehow to keep with your performance.

"you know what i'm talking about, don't act dumb," max looked away and glanced at the private room, knowing that this conversation will soon end after lando rejoins the two of you.

"i don't know what you're talking about," you shrug, feigning stupidity as you turn back around. thankfully max lets it go for now and lets you both enter the room with no more interruptions.

you're met with a table filled with energy, drivers, wives and girlfriends alike cheered as you guys entered the room, all with smiles and greetings.

you smiled politely and greeted everyone as best you could even with your limited energy and conversed with the others.

you were bracing yourself for a eventful night.

you had told everyone that you would retire early and max piped up if you wanted a drive home, but you opted for a walk instead. you wanted to clear your head. then again, the streets of monaco was quiet in the middle of the night.

somehow you found yourself at the start of where the track would've been if it was race week.

you imagined the race cars, the grumble, the cheers, the noise from all the things happening when it was race week.

you remembered the way people screamed when they found out you started on pole that week, the way the headlines wrote itself when you fought hard to get where you were. after two hard and long years in f1, you finally found your breakthrough.

"first woman to win a driver's championship with ferrari"

"first woman to take pole in formula one"

"first woman to score points in formula one"

"first woman to lead a championship"

first woman.

it was etched into your soul.

that monaco win was much needed for your self-esteem. you finally told yourself that maybe you deserved the ferrari, that you clawed your way to the top and you were deserving of all of these titles the fans gave you.

it was short-lived of course, all the other races afterwards were all individual pieces of shit that you couldn't control. whether it was having to do lico because of your overheating engine, or your inability to focus because you felt so tired, everything was going to shit as you reached the end of the season.

you knew the reason why, it was the night terrors that couldn't seem to stop and it made you be too scared to sleep, even with how tired you were.

you just couldn't bring yourself to fall back asleep.

but you knew that if you had just spent one night sleeping at max's—

no he's mad at you. you can't find comfort in him anymore.

your feet naturally followed the track, turn 1, turn 2, turn 3, before you knew it, you were almost back where you started.

it was a good walk, reminiscing of your win in monaco. it was an exhilarating experience, you would've retired right then and there if you could.

suddenly you feel someone following you, but you were too scared to turn around, to look at who it was. it was a bad idea walking the streets along at night, but you didn't particularly care at the moment.

"it's not good walking alone at night, especially if you're a woman," a familiar dutchman's voice rung behind you, you didn't turn around to look. you knew exactly who it was.

you wanted to chuckle at the irony, here you were being scared that a creepy old man wanted a piece of you, but it was the person that gave you the most comfort.

"i think it's creepier that you've been following me around," you say as you continue walking, not wanting to give him time of day, not wanting to hear what he had to say about you or your relationship together.

"i haven't, you didn't notice my car but i saw you walking around aimlessly and i decided to stop and catch you, i just finished dropping lando off," max tells you as he catches up next to you, walking alongside, "can we please talk?"

"i wasn't warling around aimlessly and like i said earlier, there's nothing to talk about," you scoff but that's where max grabs your arm, forcing you to look him in the eye.

you missed him, that was for sure. you didn't fight it this time, just letting him grab your arm as he wanted.

"you haven't been sleeping well," you didn't know how but he made that observation, you didn't want to have this conversation right now.

maybe it was the eyebags underneath your eyes, or maybe it was your performance. you were too scared to confront your feelings and actually say what you felt in front of him. it wasn't the fear that he didn't feel the same way, but what baggage expressing those same feelings would bring.

you were shifting from foot to foot, your eyes were nowhere near max, and then he did the thing.

"look at me when i'm talking to you, y/n," max said softly as he pulled you closer by the arm, hooking his finger underneath your chin to make you look at him, he often did that before when you straight up refused to look at him, "why didn't you come to me?"

"how could i come to you after breaking your heart like that?"

"i still care for you as a friend—"

"so you shut out friends like you did to me?" you ask, your eyes glassy now, tears were threatening to fall.

you were really scared now. you felt like shit after rejecting him like that even when you felt the same way. maybe you couldn't sleep because the fact of the matter was, you caused him heartbreak.

another burden for him to bare, another burden that you gave to him. you hated feeling like a burden to someone else and this was it, you gave that to him. you made him feel like shit and you knew it.

max sighed before looking away then back at you, "i was wrong for that, i just felt hurt. i thought you felt the same way and when monaco happened and you told me you didn't feel the same way, i was crushed."

you felt a drop in your stomach.

you did that to him.

you did that to a person that you cared about deeply.

then you told yourself,

maybe it's alright. maybe i should tell him i felt the same way.

what more pain could i bring other than indirectly telling him that i didn't feel the same way?

what more burden could i possibly bear to give him?

"who told you that i didn't feel the same way?"

"what?"

"i never said i didn't feel the same way, i just told you i was bad with words. i didn't know how to express myself and it hurt seeing you walk away like that when i didn't know what right words to say," you admitted those feelings from all those weeks ago, "i just didn't want to hurt you by the things i couldn't say."

max had that look you knew all to well, relief, excitement almost. he was happy, he thought for all these weeks that you genuinely didn't love him the way he loved you.

he beat himself up for those weeks, putting all of his soul into racing. never resting, never giving him time to think about what happened with you. he didn't want to think about it.

he put all of his energy into his races, making him win back to back to back, even with a "shitbox" (his words not mine). he didn't want to think about you, because if he did, he might've broken down mid-race.

"there were no bad things to say in that situation, you could've just told me how you felt," max breathed out, he was holding his breath before encasing you in a big hug, as if his worries were washed away by the excessive stress you have been giving him.

you stood there, arms gently wrapping around max, melting into the hug, you felt safe in his presence. he was someone that you could be quiet or loud with, someone who could just laugh together along with you over something stupid.

you missed this.

you missed him.

the way he smelt, the way he would touch you, the way he would treat you so gently, as if you could break if he was any rougher.

he took both of his hands and placed them— into your soul.

he was in love with you and he didn't want this night to end.

you placed a gentle kiss on his lips, "can you just take me home? i'm so tired, max."

"i'll take you home, schatje."

when you came to, you were in a pile of tangled limbs, your arms and legs entwined with max's. you spent the night at his, not wanting to return back to your mess of an apartment. you were greeted with polite meows when you did get back to his apartment, the cats happy to see you after so long even though you realistically weren't that far, only barriered between a few steps and a door.

you were the only one awake in his apartment, his cats happily snoozing at the end of the bed with max's face buried in your chest. he was holding you tightly, like you were going to disappear if he let go.

you wanted to chuckle at the thought of that.

you never felt like you meant this much to anyone, and now with max's admission of how he felt for you, you felt at peace for the first time in your life.

last night, he peppered you with kisses until you fell asleep in his arms, not wanting to let him go either. he was a precious man, and you needed to keep him safe at all costs.

your life had been so turbulent, all of the pushing for you to reach the top, all of the abuse you had to go through at home, all of the words you had to hear just because you were a woman when you were racing.

it felt nice to just have to worry about staying at the top.

then you realized, it was the first night you had experienced in the past few weeks that you didn't have a night terror, you slept like a sweet little baby.

your train of thoughts were stopped by a certain sleepy max waking up though.

"when did you wake up, schatje?" max asked, sleep still laced within his voice, you looked down to see a very sleepy max, his cats were starting to wake up too.

"just a few minutes ago, did you sleep well?" you asked max as he laughed before burying his face into your chest again, he shook his head.

"i think i should be asking you that, how do you feel?" max asked as he looked back up, cats now crawling and pawing at max for him to feed them you assumed, but you just planted a kiss on his forehead.

"i slept like a baby, it's the first time i didn't have to worry about night terrors," you told him before he gently untangled his limbs from yours, a soft meow came from sassy, a hungry one.

"we have break for the next three weeks, what do you want to do?" max asked as he sat up from his previous position, tousling with his hair as he always did.

you shrug, sitting up in a similar fashion, not really knowing what you wanted to do. three weeks of absolute freedom accompanied by max sounded like a beautiful experience, but you were just thinking about how well you could sleep, "i don't know, all i can think about is how i'm going to sleep in this bed for the next couple of weeks, i'm not going back to my apartment. maybe it's time for me to change my matress..."

you felt a shove from max, that's when you laughed.

"you slept like a baby thanks to me!" he huffed before pouting, you wished you could take a picture of his dumb face.

you continued laughing as you watch him exit his room and lead his cats to feed them some breakfast, you were surprised you woke up in a timely manner considering that you haven't slept well in weeks.

you decide to get up and start your day, there's isn't a day without starting, right?

max decides on a whim that he wants to plan an impromptu getaway in italy.

"why italy?"

"reminds me of your shit team."

"thanks for reminding me that i have a shit car this season."

yes, that was his reasoning. did you want to smack him? probably.

that's how you were on a jet with max, snoozing happily.

you've realized you haven't really checked your social media recently, you decide to open it up despite a lot of people telling you not to.

that's not good.

liked by 79,000 people.

f1gossip paparazzi pictures from italy has appeared, is that y/n with max verstappen? 0.o

click to view comments.

user1: do my eyes deceive me or is that actually y/n

user2: what are they doing in italy though?

user3: probably enjoying a vacation, why are we speculating their relationship tho,,,,?

user4: did you not slide to the second picture????

user3: yep, i just did. my bad

user5: they look kinda cute together, but do the fia not have regulations for workplace relationships???

user6: i wouldn't think of it if i were them ngl, no other woman has been on the grid before

user7: okay but max looks happy, what is the issue??

user8: yeah some people are in over their heads for no reason

user9: y/nstappen shippers, this is your time to rise.

user10: been here since day 1, they're late

user11: being late to your own ship is crazy

being called by ferrari and red bull simultaneously was a lot to handle.

"you guys have two options, either deny it and not show up in public or announce it," your pr manager had called you the first second you touched down in monaco, you were rubbing your temples and seeing max pace back and forth in the balcony, on a similar call with red bull pr relations.

"or i can just not address it you know, isn't that a good plan?" you scoff sarcastically as jessica tells you that it's a hard no. she tells you further that she wants this issue resolved tomorrow.

you end the call the same time max re-enters the apartment.

"so i think... i was given an ultimatum," max says, he looked a bit sheepish, scared even. you raise an eyebrow.

"announce it or deny right?"

"how'd you know?"

"jessica told me to do the same exact thing, she wants me to die," you groan and bury your head in the sofa throwpillows, you could feel max sit next to you and pat your head.

"well, what do you want to do now?" he asked as he softly gave you reassuring pats, as if to tell you, 'it's okay, i'm here'.

"die."

"y/n."

"BUT THAT'S WHAT I WANNA DO!" you fake-cry as you sit back up right and stare at him, "imagine, the first date we go on, we get caught by paps by me staring lovingly into your pretty blue eyes! kill me!"

"you have pretty eyes too, in your defense—"

"THAT'S NOT THE POINT MAX EMILIAN VERSTAPPEN!"

max holds his hands up in the air in defense before you groan back into your throwpillow, "can't i catch a break? my shitty car with my shittier personal life."

your voice was muffled against the throwpillow, max laughed before speaking up, "so you're saying i'm shitty?"

"no i'm saying my life is going shittily and there's nothing i can do about it," you continue burying your face into the pillow, only releasing yourself from the suffocating position when you needed air.

"you're fine. anyways, do you want me to do it or you do it?"

"ARE YOU CRAZY?"

liked by maxverstappen1, charles_leclerc, alexandrasaintmleux and 987,000 others!

yourusername this is me neither confirming nor denying to the allegations (also my pr manager forced me to do this!!!!!!!!!!) tagged: maxverstappen1

click to view comments.

maxverstappen1: I did not agree to this.

yourusername: do you want to die?

charles_leclerc: chat are we surprised?

user11: WHO TAUGHT YOU THAT?

georgerussell: um, yes we are!!!!!!

alexandrasaintmleux: i think you're the only one not surprised hun

alexandrasaintmleux: congrats love!

user12: the caption is crazy

user13: so the paps caught them when they didn't wanna be caught? that's so sad...

user14: i'm actually so happy for you!

oscarpiastri: Not something I expected for my 2025 bingo, but here we are.

user15: WHY DO YOU HAVE A BINGO IN THE FIRST PLACE?????

user16: can we please talk about this comment?

landonorris: So happy for you mate, was that what the tension was in the car? Sexual tension?

maxverstappen1: I know where you live :D

landonorris: That sounds like a vaguely worded threat.

user17: DHUAWHDNAHD???????/

user18: well good morning to you too y/n

yourusername: you think i wanted to do this??

user18: YOU REPLY???

yourusername: WHEN I AM FRUSTRATED, YES.

user18: i think i might die

yourusername: that's what i said to max when my pr manager called me to tell me to announce or deny the relationship.

user19: CAN WE TALK ABOUT THIS PLEAAAAASSSSSEEEE>>>?<>?>?>

liked by yourusername, charles_leclerc, landonorris and 890,039 others.

maxverstappen1 Cheers to being exposed by paparazzi when we weren't ready, schatje. tagged: yourusername

click to view more comments.

yourusername: i look ugly in the second pic, pls delet :(

maxverstappen1: You look beautiful in every angle, please be quiet

yourusername: ???????

yourusername: ARE YOU FLIRTING WITH ME ON THE TIMELINE RN?

maxverstappen1: What are you gonna do about it?

yourusername: ??????????????????????

yourusername: 24 year old f1 driver, FOUND DEAD IN THE COMMENTS SECTION OF MAX VERSTAPPEN'S POST

landonorris: I wasn't expecting this

maxverstappen1: I still know where you live.

landonorris: Cheers mate!!

user20: oh my god my 433 crumbs

charles_leclerc: the fans can stop the allegations that you're in love with me now

maxverstappen1: Who said I can't love more than one driver?

charles_leclerc: this is where i run

alexandrasaintmleux: @/yourusername your boyfriend is flirting with mine again

yourusername: STOP FLIRTING IN THE COMMENTS SECTION

user21: this is so sweet :(

user22: they really love eachother, huh?

user23: plithhhh, i love the y/nstappen posts, keep em coming T___T

yourusername: i'll try!!!!!

user24: almost all the posts are of them kissing, god when is it my turn?

user25: I'M JEALOUS PLEASE Y/N DATE ME INSTEAD

yourusername: just pick a time and a place baby

user25: Y/N IS FLIRTING WITH ME OH YM GOF

maxverstappen1: Mine >:[

user25: OH MY OFD IM CRYUGN

taglist: @aadu2173 @chelseyyouraverageluigi thank you for enjoying this fic as much as i do writing it :3 just drop a comment if you want to be added to the taglist

[whatinthebuck]

Unspoken truth

Summary: Buck and the reader are best friends who secretly like each other but won’t admit it until one night 

Word count: 1546

 Author's notes: I haven't written since the beginning of this year so it might be a little awkward at the smut part. And my request are open! Lmk on the things I should work on for my future stories

Taglist: @silas-aeiou —------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Buck looked up at all of the windows to all of the different apartments before he took a deep breath and started to walk inside towards yours. He knocked on your apartment door hoping you would answer since it was 2 am. After a minute or so he was about to leave thinking you weren't up before you opened the door. 

“Buck? What are you doing here at 2 am?” 

“Hey, sorry were you asleep?”

“Yeah I was. I just got home like an hour ago but come inside” you say. Opening the door wider for him to walk inside. 

“Okay great” He said as he awkwardly put his hands in his pockets and walks inside/

“Soo I couldn’t sleep” he repeated softley, his voice barely above a whisper. 

“Yeah I would be concerned if you did come here to sleep” you joked 

He laughs and you laugh along with him as things become silent but in a comforting way. The kind that only exists between close friends. 

He leans against the wall in the walkway so you mimic him doing the same but on the opposite wall of him. 

As they stood in the dimly lit hallway, the soft hum of the refrigerator was the only thing breaking the silence. He leaned against the wall, his eyes meeting hers with a mix of nervousness and warmth. 

She felt her heart racing, wondering if he could hear it.  

The moonlight peaking through the curtains in the window at the end of the hall casting a soft glow on both of their faces. She noticed a soft blush on his cheeks and wondered if he had noticed hers. 

They had known each other for years, but lately things started to feel like something changed. 

This moment felt different, charged with unspoken words and hidden feelings. 

He shifted slightly before speaking again. 

“Do you ever think about……….. Us?” he asked, his voice hesitant. 

“What about us?’ 

“I don't know like there's something more. Like we're meant to be more than just friends.” 

The silence was thick between them as her heart raced at his question. She had always had feelings for Buck but never had the courage to tell him directly. You have always tried to deny your feelings to yourself and everyone else around you,  But now under the soft glow of the moonlight, everything seemed different, more intimate. 

After what seemed like hours for buck, you answered “Yes.” your voice barely above a whisper. “I do think about us. More than I should. And it’s not in a way best friends should be thinking about each other.”

His eyes widened slightly as he thought about your words. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. All this time he had been hiding the same feelings but he assumed you thought of him as a friend and nothing more. 

“You…You do?” Buck said softly as a million thoughts raced through his mind.

He pushed away from the wall and slowly walked over to where you were standing, still leaving a little bit of distance just in case he was misreading the conversation. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” You look up towards buck 

“I was scared that you didn’t feel the same way.” Buck said avoiding eye contact. Instead he distracted himself by running his fingers up and down your arm gently, his eyes following the motion of his hands. 

You could sense how nervous he was so you decided to take the lead by grabbing his hand and intertwining your fingers with his. While you do that you bring yourself off the wall and close the distance between you two. Buck’s eyes look into yours before he looks at your lips and back to your eyes. He hesitantly leans down towards you, his hand going to your chin to lift your head up so he has more access to your lips. He paused half way there and his eyes were on you waiting for you to make the next move. You wrap your arms around his neck and bring him down to kiss you. 

First the kiss was gentle, saying the things you and buck haven't said. After you guys pulled away to catch your breath. Buck then leans in again and kisses you more desperately than the first kiss. You know what he wants, and you decide you don't want to wait any longer. You tilt your head to the side and kiss him back just as desperately as he was. Buck takes this as a good sign and he moves his arms around you and moves his hands up and down your body over your clothes. As the kiss becomes more eager he picks you up by the back of your thighs and carries you to your bedroom. 

Laughing you hold onto him so you won't fall as he walks up the stairs.

 “Don't drop me” 

“Not a chance” he said with a smirk on his face 

Buck sets you down gently on the bed before climbing on top of you and continuing the makeout session you guys had before you guys went upstairs. Your hands went under his shirt dragging your nails up his chest. He got the hint and took the shirt off and went back to hovering over you. Buck kissed you from your lips making his way down to the side of your neck. As buck was doing that you were running your hands everywhere he would let you. Buck pulled back. You got what he was saying with one look so you sat up, taking your shirt off. You reached your hands back to buck’s face and pulled him back down to your lips. Both of you smiled into the kiss. 

Buck moved his head to where he previously left purple bruises on your neck, he kissed over them gently knowing they were probably getting sore. He kissed his way down your body. 

Starting with your lips, making his way down to your neck, then to your breast. Giving each one the same amount of attention before kissing a path down in between them. Taking his time to kiss your stomach before leaning back to take off the shorts to your pajama set, taking off your underwear with it. He then kissed your hip then he moved his lips to the inside of your thighs. You sat up on your elbows to look at him. Buck made eye contact with you before wrapping his arms around your thighs and going to the place you needed him the most. 

When you felt his lips suck at your clit, you leaned back against the pillows not knowing where to put your hands so you were moving your hands from the sheets to the pillow then back down to the sheets under you. Buck stopped and before you could ask him what’s wrong he grabbed your hands and put it in his hair then went back to what he was doing. 

“Buck” you whisper breathlessly as your hands pulled his hair slightly, pushing him closer into you. Your breathing quickened as you got closer to your climax. Buck took two fingers and slowly started a steady rhythm. 

“It's okay just breathe. Breathe for me.” Buck said in a seductive tone. 

Your back arched up as you reached your climax with a moan. Buck climbed back up to your face hovering over you. He was about to speak but before he got a word out you pulled him down to kiss you. While doing that you reached your hand down to his sweatpants and pulled the band towards you which made the band snap back against his skin.

You pulled back “I want these off” 

Buck smiled before getting up and taking off his pants along with his underwear before slowly climbing back on the bed.  As buck hovered over you again he asked “Are you sure? We don’t have to do more than what we just did, I mean i’m more than okay with just stop here- he started to speak nervously. 

You pull him down to kiss him gently before stopping and saying “I'm more sure than i've ever been about anything else.”

Buck chucked before kissing your lips before kissing down to your cheeks and to your neck while he pressed himself to your entrance. You gasped softly as buck slowly entered inch by inch. Once he was settled he groaned and put his head down in between your shoulder and your neck.

“Tell me when you're ready for me to move” Buck said in between kisses on your neck. 

“i’m ready” 

Buck moved his hips back before slowly bringing them back trying to find a rhythm that both he and you liked. 

Your hands went to his back from underneath him, leaving scratch marks on his back. Both of you knew there would be questions about it from your co-workers but they would be dealt with when the time came. 

Buck lifted his head from your neck and went to capture your lips with his. Kissing as he still moved in and out of you at a faster pace than before, chasing after both of your highs. 

The night was filled with groans and soft moans from the both of you. 

[jjkarmy091]

Second Best- Jungkook (part 6)

Summary: Being friends with someone who has your heart it’s already hard, let alone when that special someone ends up falling in love with your best friend, the one you think would never make anything to hurt you . Will you be able to ignore it and move on? what will happen when everything gets too much for you to handle?

Genre: Friends to lovers; angst; body insecurities; bullying; friend betrayel;

Pairing: Jungkook x female!reader

Jungkook woke up around 9:30 am. The first thing he did was check his phone in case he had any notifications from Y/n, but had none. He was seriously getting worried about this lack of response. Had something happened with the person Y/n left with? If that was the case he would never be able to forgive himself. He knew he should have gone after her, he's so stupid. 

He got up, took a quick shower, got dressed, grabbed his keys and left, he couldn’t keep up with this uneasy feeling. Putting his helmet on, he drove to the coffee shop Y/n worked. He knew her shifts very well, and that was the only place he could find her. When he got there, he parked his bike, took a deep breath and got in looking everywhere for her but still no Y/n in sight. 

“Hey there moto boy. What can I get you?” Sana asked. Jungkook looked kinda confused. “I was actually looking for Y/n. Is she on her break?” Sana frowned and looked at him suspiciously. 

“You’re kidding right?” Sana exclamed. “You are always together and talk to each otherall the time when you aren’t. You can’t tell me you didn’t know she took some days off” 

The world fell at Jungkook's feet upon hearing that. Y/n took a few days off and didn't even answered to his texts or deign to call? what the fuck was going on. Jungkook nodded his head, said thank you and left, picking his phone up instantly to call Y/n. “The person you called is not available. Please try again later” 

Fuck. Me

------------ 

Y/n fell in love with that place as soon as she saw it. Everywhere she looked she she felt immense peace and everything seemed so quiet and cozy, everything to make the weight on her shoulders disappear. Upon entering the chalet, they were immediately greeted by a gentleman at the entrance who directed them to the reception.

After checking in and receive the keys, they picked up their luggage and followed the gentlemanto the elevator, who was showing them the way to their "apartment”. Y/n couldn’t believe what her eyes were seeing. Walking in, she’s faced with a very nice living room, with wooden walls and gray furniture. It had shelves with books, among other really cute stuff decorating the place. All very neutral and very light, exactly what she needed. On the coffee table was champagne and a plate with strawberries and chocolate with a small note saying "we hope you enjoy your stay as much as we enjoy your presence. Thanks for choosing us. Have fun" 

From the living room they went to the bedroom to organize their things. When they walked in Y/n was even more astonished. From their bed they had a view of the outside. She always loved snow and being there was filling her heart with so much happiness she wished she could live there forever.

“Where did you find this place and how can you afford it for both of us?!” Y/n exclaimed. Lisa looked at her with a funny look “My dad owns it. A benefit of traveling so much and not seeing his family for so long, not everything can be bad. I used to come here for Christmast and New year. It's crazy during those days and you know me, I love crazy and those were my favourite moments here”

Y/n laughed. Only Lisa could say something like that. 

“So… You know how to ski right?” Lisa asked out of nowhere. “Oh hell no Lisa, no way, not right now, we just got here we should—” Y/n argued back but was soon interrupted by Lisa 

“There's a snow suit in the closet on the right. We have a lot to discover we won't wait until tomorrow. You rest during the night. Come on princess, time is money” Y/n huffed while getting her suit to start putting it on.  How could Lisa have so much energy was something she couldn't understand.

They both got dressed and head out of the chalet. Y/n was amazed by the view, everything was perfect. But it’s not an adventure if something doesn't go right for Y/n. Out of nowhere she lost sight of Lisa, making her panick. She had no idea where she was.

Y/n looked around trying to see her friend but couldn’t identify anyone who would look like her. She started walking around worried about straying too far from where Lisa last saw her. Y/n was so distracted that she didn't even notice anyone coming close to her, ending up colliding with that person, causing her to lose balance and fall. The other person quickly knelt down, stretching out his hand to help her until she heard “Y/n?” 

She looked up, took the stranger's hand and straightened her hair a little, trying to understand where she recognized that voice from, until the stranger took the protective mask off his eyes and saw him.

“Taehyung?”  

Tags: @esposadomd @joonlover1207 @eegyo @furrywonderlandwolf @minghaosimp @differentrunawayperson @nikkinikj @jksusawife @11thenightwemet11 @jk97bam @11thenightwemet11 @cryingoverpixelsetc @bhonbhon @lostinneocity @almostpurplelady @meowforluv

[hxney-lemcn]

Late Night Chaos — Daisuke x gn! reader

summery: things aren't looking too good, so the crew decides to open the cargo hold and find out just what you were delivering.

tw: nothing that isn't in the game.

a/n: Updates might be a bit more spaced apart, but I'm gonna see this to the end. I refuse to give up on it.

wc: 2k

Master List

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven

“I didn’t even wanna do this stupid internship.”

An admission into the night you're sure you weren’t meant to hear. Your insomnia grew worse, unable to get Curly’s painful screams out of your head or the plight you all found yourself. Only two months have passed, and you weren’t sure if anyone was even looking for you. Did Pony Express even have any tracking system to see if ships were down? Would they search when it was already too late? 

Your pessimism was shining through, but you tried to keep it to yourself, not wanting to smother Daisuke’s hope. It seems even he was prone to dark thoughts, but you’d be more concerned if he wasn’t worried at all. 

“If I just told my mom no I could be home right now,” Daisuke continued to mutter to himself. “Who am I kidding, I could never tell my mom no.”

“I wish you did,” you replied, eyes still closed and curled up in a ball.

“Y-you’re awake?” Daisuke gasped, but you made no sign of movement.

“Hmm,” you hummed, pressing your face farther into your pillow. “I wish you weren’t here.” Your words were harsh, causing the brunette to hesitate. You had gotten harsher after the crash, becoming more blunt.

But you had also gotten softer somehow. Sending him mixed signals, your harsh words softened when you gently stroked his cheek, eyes finally opening to meet his own. Anger, fear, sympathy, regret, so many emotions spun in your jewel colored eyes he almost felt dizzy. 

“I wish we met before this,” Daisuke said, voice cracking as he felt pressure form behind his eyes. Shit, he didn’t wanna cry, he had to be strong, for you and the rest of the crew. 

Your fingers brushed under his eye, catching a tear that was threatening to fall. Your silence felt warm, inviting, your gaze broke him, the dam breaking as his wishes spilled past his lips.

“I wish we were back on Earth. Hanging out in my room and this all just ended up being a bad dream. My mom calling us for dinner and everything is okay.” 

He was crying now, fat tears falling down his cheeks as you continued to stroke them. Daisuke wrapped his arms around your form, burying his face in your neck as he let out strangled sobs, not wanting to wake the others.

“I’m sorry,” You murmured into his hair, gently running your nails up and down his back in a soothing manner. “You don’t deserve this, none of us do.” 

…

“We ain’t touching the damn cargo,” Swansea argued. “The hold is locked down for a reason. The only thing worse than dyin’ slowly is not gettin’ paid.”

The whole argument seemed redundant. It seemed that Swansea was the only one against opening the cargo hold. He was a stubborn old fool in your opinion. If your speculation is right, and you won’t be looked for until your ship doesn’t come on time, then you’ll all have died from either starvation or lack of oxygen. Both those options seemed terrible to choose from, but a long, drawn out death was worse than a short painful one. For all you knew, you all were shipping food, or water, or something that could keep you all going just a bit longer. Especially since the cryo chambers were out of commission (not like there were enough for the six of you anyway. Besides, Curly had no chance to survive the freeze due to his wounds). 

“But it could be something useful,” Anya argued back. “I think-”

“Could be what?” Swansea cut her off. “Hopes, dreams and marzipan? Hah!”

“Could be food,” You interjected, glaring at the oldest of the crew. “Protein bars, chips, hell maybe we’re lucky enough to be carrying canned goods.”

“If it helps us survive it’s worth it,” Jimmy added with a nod. 

“Man,” Daisuke spoke up. “Pony Express bosses really aren’t chill at all, huh? C’mon, a quick look won’t hurt.” 

You nodded in agreement before Swansea brought up a good point, “How exactly is this group therapy committee planning on gettin’ in there?”

“Oh, right here boss,” Daisuke pointed to himself with a smug grin. “You’re looking at the meanest swing of the regional junior baseball team! Nearly straight up corked a kid once! I can take the utility ax-” You couldn’t stop the snort that came out of you, hiding your face behind your hands as everyone looked at you with various emotions. 

“You were goddamn born fully corked,” Swansea glowered, face twisted in a harsh sneer. 

“That’s enough, Swansea,” Jimmy intervened. “There has to be an ‘in case of emergency’ way inside.”

“If I remember correctly from reading the safety protocols…” Anya trailed off. “The doors should have an alternate access code, but it can only be uncovered using a code scanner device.”

“And only the captain has access to the scanner,” Jimmy continued. 

“Of course! Go ahead, just ask him all about it then,” Swansea mocked. “Maybe he’ll sing ya the blues too.”

“We can just look for the scanner,” You brought up. “It’s probably either in the captain's quarters or the cockpit.”

“I’ll figure it out,” Jimmy waved you off. “For better or worse, I’m captain now.” You tried your best to hide the offended look that fell on your face, but it was hard to do so when Jimmy rubbed you the wrong way. Sure, it made the most sense for him to be acting captain since he was Curly’s co-pilot, but you didn’t like the way he acted like he had to do everything himself. It was giving you ‘I need to do everything my way and feel better about myself’. 

“Right on!” Daisuke cheered, before you all split your ways. Anya ran off to medical, Swansea stopped Daisuke from following him while Jimmy probably went towards the cockpit. That left you and Daisuke to sit in the rest area, the led screen shone an image of a warm sunset, permanently stuck after the crash. 

“You really think there might be food in the cargo?” Daisuke asked, resting his head against the top of the chair.

“It’s probably wishful thinking,” You grumbled, taking the seat across from him.

“Damn,” He sighed. “I was kinda hopin’ for something other than soup.” 

“You dissing soup?” You asked, raising your eyebrows. “I’ll take your portion too if you don’t want it.” Wait! No!” Daisuke exclaimed with a chuckle. “I take it back, I mean I love love love soup and want to eat it every day!”

“You’re such a dork,” You laughed, gently kicking his foot. 

The door slid open, halting your conversation as Jimmy walked up to you both. He stared at you both intently, and you felt a bit uncomfortable at the irritable stare in his eyes. You slowly realized he always looked that way.

“Looks like it’ll be soup again for dinner,” Daisuke spoke up first. “You wanna rock paper scissors for the chicken noodle?”

“That’s my favorite,” You pouted. Daisuke tended to make you feel more relaxed, no matter the situation.  “Ah, nevermind then,” He sighed. “It’s theirs.” Gosh, he never failed to make you feel warm either, even in your dire circumstances. 

“How much food do we have left?” Jimmy cut in, ignoring your banter altogether. 

“I’d say four months-ish,” Daisuke replied. 

“Hmm, less than the remaining air supply, but we can make it last,” Jimmy muttered to himself holding a hand up to his chin. “In theory. We’ll be poking new holes in our belts to pull that off.” The thought of starving unsettled you, but it was an unfortunate possibility. But then the question is how much air supply is left? That was something you couldn’t conserve…well, unless someone died…but even then it wouldn’t be much.

“Man, my mom will straight up stuff me when I get back,” Daisuke laughed, trying to keep the atmosphere light. “I’ll look like Swansea!” You chuckled bittersweetly, shaking your head amusedly. “We’ll have a rad story to tell,” Daisuke continued, looking between you and Jimmy with a strained smile. “They might even write articles about us. We could be on TV!” Once again there was a pit in your stomach. No matter the outcome, you were sure to appear on TV…

Jimmy also seemed uncomfortable, eyes shifting, and posture ridgid, “Uh, it’ll impress the ladies too.” You nearly broke out laughing at how awkward Jimmy was, coughing into your fist to hide it. Even funnier was it seemed he didn’t realize you and Daisuke were already in a relationship.

Daisuke looked confused, glancing at you briefly before uttering a confused, “Uh…yeah…the real problem is running out of toilet paper. Fatal stuff, man.” This time you couldn’t smother your laughter, hiding your face from the two men before you. 

“Seriously!” Daisuke emphasized, grin turning brighter at your laughter. “We should leave that part out for the press.”

“Totally,” You agreed. “Wouldn’t want the ladies to know.” This time Daisuke snorted, Jimmy nodding uncomfortably before leaving. The two of you cackled for a few more seconds before calming down.

“I thought everyone already knew we were dating,” Daisuke said, confused. “Not like we’ve been hiding it.”

“Just goes to show how much he cares,” You shrugged with a sigh. 

“You think he got the code scanner?” He asked, tilting his head slightly.

“I’d think so,” You nodded. “Wanna head to the cargo hold?”

“Yeah.”

…

Mouthwash. 

You were hauling fucking mouthwash. 

It felt like a tiny bit of your sanity slipped away. You weren’t the only one though, everyone looking at the contents of the box in disbelief. 

“Mouthwash?” Anya asked in a shaky voice.

“Un-fucking-believable,” Swansea cursed. 

“There’s gotta be an ocean of the stuff in here!” Daisuke exclaimed. “The room looks freakin’ endless!” You felt dizzy staring at the rows upon rows of shelves, boxes stacked to the brim on each one. 

“This is what they’d have six people hauling for over a year?” Jimmy scoffed in disbelief. “All of this…for mouthwash?!” You tensed slightly at his shout, but quickly focused on Anya as she spoke up.

“The sugar content probably offsets any potential as a disinfectant…” Anya informed, reading the ingredient content. Great, this was completely and totally useless-

“Disinfectant? What’re you-” Swansea grumbles. “Let me see that!” Snatching the bottle Swansea reads the contents as well. “Fourteen percent ethanol.” Suddenly he bursts out laughing, seeming a bit manic. 

“Haha?” Daisuke gave a confused laugh, clearly not understanding the implications. “I s’pose we’ll smell good at least…?”  “That’s right kiddo! You can bet your ass on that!” Swansea continued to laugh. 

“W-what are you doing?” Anya stuttered, eyes wide in concern. “Stop that!” Instead, Swansea starts to chug the blue liquid, causing your stomach to churn. 

“Whew-whee,” Swansea, sighs. “Ohhh, shut up. I’m just an ol’ codger taking care of his dental hygiene.”

“You hear that?” Swansea continues, glancing at you all. “That’s the sound of fifteen years of sobriety popping like a cyst. A glorious, magnificent, red hot cyst. Good riddance and cheers! To Captain Curly! Hear, hear!”

“Guess anyone could get seriously blasted off of this stuff,” Daisuke mutters loud enough for us all to hear. 

“Yeah, and give you a seriously bad stomach ache,” You grumbled. 

“And kill you in the process,” Jimmy huffed. 

“This can’t be real,” Anya bemoans. “I-There’s no way…”

“Now we can go out in style,” Swansea grins nihilistically. “Daisuke! Come here! Anyone ever teach you how to drink like a man?” 

You felt your stomach drop, one alcoholic was bad enough, you would be damned to let Swansea drag Daisuke down with him. 

“C’mon,” You muttered, grabbing Daisuke’s hand and dragging him past the rest of the crew, head down. 

“Somthin’ wrong?” Daisuke asks once you're both back in the main hull. 

You blinked at him like he was dumb, “Seriously? This whole situation is wrong! And now Swansea’s out of commission if he’s gonna nurse that goddamned mouthwash!” You let out a frustrated sigh, running your hand through your hair. 

“And he’s trying to take you down with him.”

“I won’t drink it if that’s what you’re worried about,” Daisuke mumbles softly, eyes filled with concern. 

You side-eyed him, feeling anxiety claw at your chest, “And how do I know you’ll keep that promise?”

Daisuke opened his mouth, but nothing came out, confirming your fears.

[cluelessteam]

Whispers Through Time: {~Whispers of Destiny~}

A/N: IT'S THE FINAL CHAPTERRRRRR!!!! I really hope you guys enjoyed this story and the journey in it!

Summary: After being mysteriously transported into the world of House of the Dragon, a modern-day woman poses as a seer to gain entry into the Targaryen court. Armed with knowledge of the future, she secretly warns Rhaenyra and Daemon of looming dangers while hiding her true identity. As she grows closer to both, romantic tension builds, but so do the risks of her deception. With Daemon's suspicions rising and Rhaenyra’s trust deepening, the reader must navigate her lies while trying to alter their tragic fate—before everything unravels.

Characters: Rhaenyra & Daemon

Pairing: Rhaenyra x Fem!Reader x Daemon

Word Count: 1125

Tag List: @snowtargaryen, @hippiedippiekitty

Chapter 10 (Final Chapter)

The dawn had broken across the sky, casting a soft, golden light over the Red Keep. The air was still, as though holding its breath in anticipation of what was to come. The reader stood at the window of her chambers, watching the city below slowly come to life. But her mind was far from the bustling streets of King’s Landing.

Last night’s confessions weighed heavily on her, the truth she had finally revealed to Rhaenyra and Daemon still fresh in her mind. There was no turning back now. They knew everything—or at least as much as she dared to tell. Her secret had been laid bare, and the future of Westeros teetered on the edge of uncertainty.

She could hear footsteps behind her, the quiet sound unmistakable. Turning slowly, she wasn’t surprised to see Rhaenyra and Daemon enter the room, their expressions unreadable. They had come together, just as they always did—united in everything, including the questions that still lingered in the air between them.

“You didn’t come to us this morning,” Rhaenyra said softly, her eyes scanning the reader’s face. “We were worried.”

The reader forced a small smile, though the weight in her chest remained. “I needed some time to think,” she replied. “There’s a lot to consider.”

Daemon’s sharp gaze lingered on her for a moment before he stepped forward. “You’ve been keeping a lot from us,” he said, his voice calm but with a faint edge of accusation. “Now that we know... what’s next?”

The reader turned away from the window, facing them both. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I never planned to stay here this long. I thought I’d do what I needed to and... leave before anything got complicated.”

“And yet, here you are,” Rhaenyra murmured, stepping closer. Her voice was gentle, but there was a firmness to it. “Inextricably bound to our fate.”

The reader nodded slowly. She had been so careful—so determined to avoid changing the future too much. But now, standing before them, she realized that her mere presence had already altered the course of events more than she could ever have anticipated.

“I thought I could control it,” the reader said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But everything is different now. And I don’t know how to fix it.”

Daemon crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Maybe it’s not something that needs fixing,” he said, his tone thoughtful. “Maybe this is how things were always meant to be.”

The reader’s eyes flickered with uncertainty. “You don’t understand. I’ve seen what’s supposed to happen. I’ve tried so hard not to interfere, but... the closer I got to both of you, the more I feared I would change too much.”

Rhaenyra reached out, taking the reader’s hand in her own. “You think we’ll fall apart because of you,” she said softly, her thumb brushing gently across the reader’s knuckles. “But fate is never as rigid as we might believe. Maybe it was always meant to bend.”

Daemon’s gaze softened as he watched the two women before him, his expression unreadable. He stepped closer, placing a hand on the reader’s shoulder. “The future isn’t written in stone. Whatever happens next, we’ll face it together.”

The reader’s heart clenched at the warmth in their words, but the fear that had gripped her for so long still clung to her. She had spent so much time trying to distance herself from them, to protect the future she thought she knew. But now, she wasn’t sure if she had the strength to keep pushing them away.

“I’m afraid,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Not just of what might happen to you... but of what might happen to me.”

Daemon’s hand tightened on her shoulder, his voice low and steady. “You’re one of us now. Whatever comes, you won’t face it alone.”

Rhaenyra squeezed the reader’s hand gently, her eyes filled with quiet determination. “You’ve already changed our lives in ways you can’t even imagine. And we wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The reader’s throat tightened with emotion, her heart swelling with the intensity of the moment. She had spent so much time running from her feelings, from the fear of what her presence in this world might do. But now, standing here with Rhaenyra and Daemon, she realized that perhaps fate wasn’t something to be feared. Perhaps it was something to embrace.

“You’re both so certain,” the reader said, her voice thick with emotion. “How can you be so sure that this is the right path?”

Rhaenyra’s eyes met hers, and there was a fierce certainty in her gaze. “Because you’re part of it,” she said simply. “We’re stronger with you.”

Daemon nodded, his expression serious. “Whatever comes, we face it together. No more hiding.”

The reader swallowed hard, feeling the weight of their words settle over her. There was no more running. No more pretending that she could somehow keep herself apart from them. They had already bound themselves to her, just as she had unknowingly bound herself to them.

“I can’t promise that everything will be perfect,” the reader said softly, her voice wavering. “But... I don’t want to keep running anymore.”

Rhaenyra smiled, her grip on the reader’s hand tightening. “Then stay,” she whispered. “Stay with us.”

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the reader allowed herself to breathe. The fear that had consumed her began to loosen its grip, replaced by a cautious hope. She wasn’t sure what the future held—none of them were. But for now, that uncertainty didn’t feel like a burden.

It felt like a promise.

Daemon’s hand slipped from her shoulder, and he moved closer, his gaze intense as he looked between the two women. “We’ll carve our own path,” he said softly, his voice filled with quiet resolve. “Together.”

The reader nodded slowly, a sense of peace settling over her. She had been so afraid of changing things—of disrupting the future she thought she knew. But now, standing here with Rhaenyra and Daemon, she realized that maybe the future wasn’t something to fear. Maybe it was something to shape.

With them.

As the three stood together, a quiet understanding passed between them. Whatever the future held, they would face it side by side. The reader no longer felt like

an outsider looking in. She was part of this world now, as much a part of Rhaenyra and Daemon’s story as they were a part of hers.

And for the first time, she wasn’t afraid.

Whispers of destiny echoed in the air, but for now, they were content to let them fade into the background. The future could wait. Because they were exactly where they were meant to be in this moment.

Together.

[ryanguzmanscowlick]

okay hear me out, buck and tommy slowly taking eddie apart in bed ... tenderly spitroating bottom eddie

I'm so sorry Magdalyna, but you don't get a neatly packaged ficlet. You get the stream of consciousness, nonsense, rambling "pre-work" I do when I'm trying to feel out a concept in my brain.

This would be the thing, too, because he's so bottled up. He's so tightly wound and has needed so much for so long. He's forced it all down, sure, but that doesn't mean the pressure didn't mount another notch with every passing day of need, desperate need. Out of all three of them, I think Eddie would benefit the most from a slow, careful, experienced hand unfurling him and being there to keep everything together when he bursts apart. You can't let out that much pressure without expecting a mess to follow.

They wouldn't get to the spit roasting of it all right away. I'm picturing Eddie and Tommy on their knees, Tommy pressed up along Eddie's back - Buck on his knees in front of them so he can lock in eye contact with Eddie the whole while he's taken apart.

Even a handjob feels like getting split open and scooped out of your flesh when you'v wanted it for so long and refused to give it a name, a face, a real consideration. When it suddenly runs up on you with two names, two faces? When you know you can fall into it and be caught in a way you've never been able to? Suddenly there's chunks of you that you don't even remember burying rocketing to the surface to meet them. Buck and Tommy. Buck and Tommy. Tommy. Buck.

"I don't need a provider. I need a partner."

Shannon, Buck, Tommy ... none of them need to be provided for. They can all provide for themselves. What all three of them need, want is Eddie's full self brought to them. All his vulnerability, all his compassion, all his stubbornness and reliability and ache, coupled with all his trust. He loved- loves Shannon. But he only ever knew how to love her by providing for her. He couldn't then. Maybe he could now, if she were still here, with all he's learned, but ... maybe not. Probably not.

He could do it for them, though. For Tommy and Buck. With them.

Even a handjob can turn your mind and body upside down when - for the very first time in over thirty years, you close your eyes and relax into the arms holding you and let your mind go blank. Let it happen. Eddie's never let anyone touch him without a thousand racing, anxiety-rusted, doubting thoughts crowding out every sensation. He's never just felt it. Shannon, Ana, Marisol ... they deserved it, they'd never done anything wrong, really but ... Eddie had never trusted them enough to just feel it.

But Buck's right here in front of him while Tommy takes his weight like it's nothing and wraps a hand around his dick. Buck's cradling his head in his warm palm and Tommy's rumbling reassurances into his neck. Eddie trusts Buck more than anyone in the world. Anyone. With his kid, but also with himself. If he's honest (and he's really trying to be these days), he's never trusted anyone like he trusts Buck, even his unit in Afghanistan.

That tripped him out for a bit. Every time he looked at Buck and realized he trusted him more than those other soldiers in his unit ... the guilt spun him out. They were supposed to die for each other, fight for each other, face any physical or existential threat together. And they did. Until they couldn't anymore. But the trust he felt in them doesn't hold a candle to what his body and mind will do easy as breathing for Buck. No training necessary.

He's learned to accept it.

Eddie is nothing but a feeling thing between these two men. No pretenses, no masks, no walls, no assumptions, no baggage, no guilt. He's just their feeling thing and it's crazy how safe he feels exposed like this.

Tommy is a whole different animal from Buck. They don't have that history yet. They don't have the baggage (the lore, Chim would say). But Eddie's beginning to suspect, with another glob of guilt and horror, that this is what meeting a new person and wanting them should've felt like all along.

He burns with curiosity for Tommy. He thinks about when he'll get to see Tommy next and how soon it can be before their current hangout even ends. He thinks, at random times in his day, about things he should tell Tommy or show Tommy or ask Tommy. He gets dressed and catches himself thinking, what would Tommy say if he saw how this t-shirt clings to the curve of my hip?

Before, in his relationships with women, he thought it was right because it was easy. Now, he thinks maybe you're supposed to think about the person you're interested in even after they've walked away. You're supposed to struggle over the wording of a text a little. You're supposed to buzz with anticipation before you see them. Maybe you're supposed to feel the higher stakes instead of just knowing the correct steps by heart and climbing the relationship ladder.

With women, he knows what he's supposed to do. With Buck and Tommy, he wants. He wants and he tries and he fumbles and they're strong enough together to keep each other upright even when one of them stumbles. The steps aren't laid out in advance. They find the path together.

[maxillness]

╰┈➤Guilty As Sin? || Retired!NR6 x Hamilton!reader

Warnings: 18+, unprotected sex, cheating, semi-public

Wordcount: 0.8k

She knew it was wrong, thinking about him like she did

But, without touching his skin, how can she be guilty as sin?

She walked into Lewis’ apartment, sitting down beside him on the couch with a huff “Am I allowed to cry over someone who’s married?”

“Um… No…? What?” He asked confused, looking at her weirdly

“Hm? Nothing” She shrugged slightly. She stood up again “That was all I wanted” She sighed, leaving Lewis confused on his couch

As she walked down the stairs of the complex, she really wished to bump into him, and she did

“Oh, Nico. I’m so sorry” She apologised after she had bumped into him on the stairs

“No, it’s fine. It’s really my fault, yn” He chuckled slightly

“Y’know, you should stop by the café some time. My treat, of course” A little guilty as sin now

“Yeah? Well, I’ll consider it” He smiled nodding slightly

“Good. See you around” She smiled back before they separated again

She was surprised to see Nico standing in front of her at the café

“You look surprised” He chuckled softly

“Well, I- um. I didn’t expect you to be here, I know I invited you, but…” She shrugged slightly

“Well, here I am” He chuckled again

“You are. What can I get you?”

“Here you go” She placed the coffee and a pastry in front of Nico before she sat down in the opposite chair

“Thank you” He looked kind of confused when she sat down

“Well, I can’t just invite you and then work” She chuckled “Tell me; what have you been up to since 2016?”

They talked about everything and nothing

They stayed so long that it was after closing hours when they finally decided to leave

“I have to stay and clean a little, but you go home” She said as she took their cups and plates

“No, I’ll stay and help, you did get me free coffee and cake” He chuckled, following her out back

“You really don’t have to help” She said as she started washing the cups and plates while Nico was drying

“I want to” He said, his voice lower than it normally was

“Well… Thank you” She smiled slightly, turning off the faucet

She was about to turn around, but Nico had trapped her body between his own and the counter

What if he’s written ‘mine’ on my upper thigh, only in my mind?

It was all she had thought about since she sat down at that table

She barely registered he had leaned closer before he kissed her softly. She kissed him back

Now she was definitely guilty as sin

She yelped slightly as her body was lifted up onto the counter, her legs spread so he could step in between them

“Your wife” She panted as she pulled back from the kiss

“You wanna talk about my wife right now?” He chuckled slightly, kissing down her neck

“I don’t want to be the reason you get divorced” She whimpered softly

“It’s my fault, not yours” Nico said, pulling her shirt up and over her head, throwing it to the floor beside the counter, his lips immediately on the skin of her breasts that weren’t covered by her bra

“I’ll still feel guilty” She panted, unbuckling his belt

“Will you?” He mumbled against her skin, hands on her thighs, pushing up her skirt

“A little” She answered, zipping down his zipper

He pulled her off the counter, bending her over it instead, pushing her skirt back up and pulled her panties to the side “Guess I have to fuck the guilt out of you then” He chuckled slightly as he lined himself up with her

She moaned softly as he slowly pushed into her, his hands tight around her hips

As he slowly started to move, he leaned down, placing wet kisses between her shoulder blades, his nails digging into her hips

“Fuck. Nico, please” She moaned, yelping slightly when one of his hands went to her clit, starting to circle it, making her clench down around him, drawing a groan out of him

“You clench so good around me” He moaned softly as he started kissing her bare shoulder, his thrusts getting sloppy and out of rhythm

“Come on. Come for me” He groaned, which she did a few thrusts later, her walls clenching roughly down around him, her body shaking slightly

The feeling of her rapidly clenching around him, sent him over the edge, his hips still as he came inside her

They both panted heavily, him still buried inside her “Little less guilty” She said

“Mission accomplished” He chuckled as he slowly pulled out of her, kissing her shoulder softly