#i just feel passionately about these characters

[clockwork-hearted]

This was the first queer movie I watched in high school. I remember finally having good, strong WiFi and exploring YouTube one night. Was using my refurbished MacBook that I begged my dad to get me so I can have something to use for school.

I don’t remember how exactly I came across this movie (honestly was probably going through some YouTube rabbit hole of “movies where guys make out” or the classic “two men kissing” search), but it was the full length movie. And it was free.

I was so excited to watch it and see what kind of guy on guy action I would get to see. But being forced to stay in the closet growing up, I couldn’t just outright watch this movie while my parents were home.

So I bookmarked it. Made sure I even saved the link somewhere. And had to wait until my parents weren’t home.

Thankfully, I ended up realizing that I was a teen that was allowed to stay up late on the weekends. So I stayed up, waited until both my parents were in their rooms, fast asleep, and then I went into my room, closed the door (couldn’t lock it though. Locking bedroom doors was an offense that would cause a scene every time for absolutely no reason), plugged my headphones in, and snuggled up and watched it.

I remember sitting upright to start it then getting tired and deciding to lay down. Ended up laying the laptop on its side just so I could keep watching haha

And I remember going through the rollercoaster of emotions seeing these two characters having a connection but being so twisted up about it. Regardless of everything they went through, I still wanted that. I still wanted someone I could kiss passionately. Someone I could go to bed with and wake up next to in our own little world. Someone I could go to the beach with and spend all day with. Someone who wanted to push me for my abilities (don’t have any but it played into my fantasies lol) and strive to be the best I could be at them.

And then reaching the end of the movie and being so happy with it. I remember crying. Crying so much that I thought I wasn’t going to be able to stop. I remember shoving my face in my pillows to try and muffle my crying.

Oh, I learned to cry silently so very quick in my home. How I learned what it meant to be even more suppressed than I already was. How I had to learn to hold back all the choking sounds my throat would utter and just let the tears flow. Silently blowing my nose into tissues so I wouldn’t wake my parents and cause a scene.

“Why are you crying? What’s happening? What did you watch? What’s going on? Etc. etc. etc.” - yeah, like I was going to come clean about my emotions and be able to talk these things out. Pht. How I wished and how I dreamed that I could. Would’ve made growing up easier. But I didn’t have those kinds of parents.

So the first night I watched this movie, it meant a lot in such little time. Movies like this really saved me as a teen.

I started doing a deep dive into any and all other queer movies I could find online for free (but that’s a story for a different time).

Tbh, I had forgotten about this gem of a movie. Made me feel a little guilty for forgetting, mostly because it really helped me continue pretending, and knowing that one day I would find someone to experience beautiful moments with. It allowed me to realize that queer media (that wasn’t porn) was out there, that I didn’t have to feel alone, and that it was only a few key strokes and google searches away.

For anyone who read through this whole thing (I know I blabbed, but I really needed to get this off my chest and my mind), thank you.

And I also hope that even though the world can feel so against you, even in spaces that are supposed to be safe, that there are people out there that know and understand you and can relate to how you feel.

I know it’s always easier said than done, but hang in there. And if it all gets to be too suffocating, please remember there are resources out there to help. But please, please, please, don’t get snuffed out. Let yourself burn as bright as you can. Because at the end of the day, you will always find Shelter- whether it’s with family members, friends, teachers, chosen/adoptive families, online communities, etc. you will find it. And you will be safe. And you will be loved.

I wish you all the very best. May this movie and many others bring you as much joy as it did to me. <3

Shelter (2007) dir. Jonah Markowitz

[kirammanswifey]

Would you be down to write some reverse comfort with the Arcane characters?

Basically just make them go through one of the worst days of their lives then have the reader take care of them (I mostly just wanted to see Viktor in this scenario, but if you want to write for other characters too that'd be awesome)

Either way take your time and I hope you have a wonderful day ~☁️

arcane characters reverse comfort x fem reader

characters: viktor, jinx, vi, caitlyn, jayce, ekko, silco, mel and sevika.

writer's note: i'm always down for this kind of scenarios, make me feel like a teenage girl again. as you already know request are open ;)

Viktor

It has been an exhausting day in the lab. The experiments have failed time and again, each mistake weighing heavier on Viktor’s shoulders. You can see it in his eyes when he finally gives in, letting the tools fall with a long, heavy sigh. He leans against the workbench, his slender, hunched figure casting a shadow of defeat on the walls illuminated by the flickering equipment.

"This doesn't make sense..." he murmurs, as though the words are a burden he needs to release. His fingers drum frustratedly on the metallic surface, and you feel the despair in every tap. "I’ve made mistake after mistake... Maybe this was all a mistake from the start."

His words hit you, but it’s the tone of his voice that wounds you more, filled with a self-criticism that is painfully familiar but no less difficult to hear. You know how much his work matters to him, how much of himself he has poured into these projects. And you know this failure consumes him more than he’s willing to admit. You can't just stand by and watch him spiral.

"Viktor," you say softly, stepping closer and placing a firm yet comforting hand on his arm. "You’re a genius, and even geniuses have tough days. Today was one of those days, but it doesn’t define who you are or what you do."

At first, he doesn’t respond. His gaze is lost, searching for answers in the shadows that stretch across the lab. But then his grey eyes meet yours, filled with doubt and exhaustion. "How can you be so sure? Every day without progress... I feel like I’m wasting time, like I’m failing everyone, even myself."

Your heart tightens at his words. You take his hand in yours, intertwining your fingers gently, feeling the coolness of his skin against yours. "Because I know you, Viktor. I’ve seen your dedication, your passion. Every mistake, every small setback is part of the process. You don't have to carry this weight alone. I’m here to help you shoulder it."

The silence that follows is thick, but instead of uncomfortable, it’s a space where words aren’t necessary. Slowly, you see his posture relax, the tension in his shoulders beginning to ease. Without letting go of his hand, you step even closer, sensing the fragility of the moment.

"Let’s step outside for a bit," you whisper, "You need to clear your mind, get some fresh air. You don’t have to do it all today, not tonight."

He looks at you again, with a mix of gratitude and weariness, and finally nods. "Alright," he says softly, as if it’s hard for him to admit he needs the break.

You walk together to the exit, your fingers still entwined with his. The night air is a balm, cool and light, carrying away some of the day's heaviness. You walk in silence through the almost deserted streets, the distant hum of the city a constant murmur.

"Thank you," he finally whispers, breaking the silence with a voice soft, almost breaking. "I don’t know what I’d do without you."

You stop, turning to face him. "You don’t have to know, because I’m not going anywhere. I’m here for you, through the good and the bad days. You don’t have to bear this burden alone."

He tilts his head, and for a moment it seems like he’s about to say more, but instead, he simply squeezes your hand tighter, a silent gesture that speaks volumes.

"Come here," you say, leading him to a nearby bench. You sit beside him, and for the first time all night, you see him take a deep breath, as if the fresh air could cleanse not just his lungs but also his mind and soul.

Viktor rests his head on your shoulder, allowing himself to close his eyes and savor the moment. You kiss his head and gently stroke his hair, cherishing these rare moments, knowing how precious they are when they happen.

"Today was a bad day," he finally says, his voice tinged with a quiet melancholy. "But, for some reason, it doesn’t feel as overwhelming with… with you here."

You smile softly, feeling warmth spread from his acceptance, from his openness. "I’ll always be here to remind you that even the worst days come to an end. And that you are stronger than you think."

He looks at you, and for an instant, the world seems to stop. His gaze, filled with gratitude and something deeper, envelops you. Before you can say anything more, you feel him leaning towards you, and in that moment, everything falls into place. His lips brush against yours with a tenderness that disarms you, a kiss soft yet laden with unspoken emotions.

When you part, just inches away, his eyes remain closed as if he wants to hold onto the moment a little longer. "Thank you," he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper.

You cradle his face in your hands, gently caressing his cheeks. "There’s no need to thank me, my love."

Jinx

The day had been chaos, even by Jinx's standards. Everything had gone wrong: a botched attack, crumbling plans, and to top it all off, an unexpected explosion that almost trapped her in her own trap. Now, she sat in her lair, surrounded by the wreckage of her shattered inventions, her breath short and pulse racing. Her mind, always a whirlwind, now felt like a hurricane of uncontrollable voices and thoughts.

The laughter of her imaginary "friends" echoed in her head, growing louder, mocking her. "Failed again, Jinx. You always fail." She pressed her hands against her temples, squeezing as if she could silence the voices. But the laughter wouldn’t stop, and the crushing weight of loneliness and failure bore down on her.

You approached cautiously, knowing that Jinx in this state was a minefield. But you also knew you couldn’t leave her alone in her internal storm. "Jinx," you called softly, keeping your voice low and calm. "I’m here, sweets."

She didn’t respond at first, her body tense like a spring about to snap. But as you drew closer, her bright blue eyes, wide and wild, met yours with a mixture of anger and desperation. "Why? Why do you keep coming back? Don’t you get it? I don’t need anyone. I don’t want anyone to see me like this."

"I’m not here to judge you," you replied gently, sitting down next to her without encroaching too much on her space. "I’m here because I care. Because I know that sometimes, even the strongest people need a breather. And there’s nothing wrong with that."

She let out a bitter laugh, dripping with sarcasm. "A breather? You think I can just... breathe and everything will be fine? That’s not how my head works. It’s... broken. Everything’s broken."

Your eyes softened at the pain in her words, the self-loathing and anger intertwining dangerously. Without much thought, you reached out, lightly touching her hand, hoping the physical contact might ground her somehow.

"Maybe you can’t fix everything right away," you said softly, "but at least you’re not alone in this boat. I’m on board with you, and I’m not getting off, even if we hit an iceberg." You joked to lighten the tense atmosphere.

She looked at your hand on hers, and for a moment, it seemed like she would pull away. But instead, her trembling fingers closed around yours, with a grip that betrayed just how desperately she needed something—someone—to understand her.

"Why do you care?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I’m a mess. Everything I touch... I ruin."

"Because you’re more than your mistakes," you said, squeezing her hand gently. "You’re strong, creative, and even if the world doesn’t understand you, I want to be here for you, to help you see that, even when everything gets tough."

Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, her voice breaking as she murmured, "I don’t know if I can do it... but thank you... for not giving up on me."

You smiled softly, leaning closer to her. "I’ll never give up on you. And you know what? Let’s make a deal. Today was a bad day, but just for today, we’ll do whatever you want. How about we start with some ice cream?"

Her eyes lit up slightly, though there was still a shadow of doubt in her expression. "Ice cream? Really?"

"Serious business," you said, smiling a little more. "Pick your favorite flavor. We’ll go get it, and then we can do whatever you want. You can draw, launch rockets, blow things up—whatever makes you feel better."

"Can I dye your hair blue?" she asked, her tone teasing but her eyes hopeful.

"Anything but that," you corrected, not quite understanding her obsession with wanting to dye your hair.

She burst out laughing, pressing a hard kiss to your cheek. "Just kidding, hon. I love everything about you, even your boring dark hair."

"Hey!" you playfully patted her shoulder.

Suddenly, her smile faded again, uncertainty flickering in her gaze.

"But what if everything keeps going wrong?"

"Then I’ll be here to pick up the pieces with you," you said, gently stroking her hand. "You’re not alone, sweets. Not today, not any day."

She launched herself into your arms, hugging you tightly, her body trembling slightly. "Thank you..." she whispered against your neck, clinging to you as if you were her anchor in a storm. And in that moment, you knew the only thing that mattered was her feeling your presence, your unwavering support.

Vi

Vi’s mind was still trapped in the ring, replaying the final moments of that crucial fight. She had bet everything on it—her money, her pride, her reputation. Everything hung by a thread, and she had lost. The cheers had faded, leaving only the echo of failure resonating in her head.

She limped back to her hideout, her knuckles bloodied and her jaw clenched. Dropping onto the worn-out sofa, she let out a frustrated growl, covering her face with a hand as she tried to contain the fury and humiliation. She had risked so much, and now it was all gone.

The whispers of her defeat spread like wildfire. You knew Vi wasn’t one to admit defeat easily, nor to ask for help. So, with a heart full of concern, you went to find her, worried about her state.

The door creaked open as you stepped inside. "Vi," you called gently, finding her on the couch, shoulders tense and gaze fixed on the floor. You approached cautiously and sat on the floor in front of her, your chin resting on your hands as you looked at her intently. "Are you okay?"

"I don’t need your pity," she snapped, her voice sharp but laced with vulnerability. "I’m fine. Just... need a moment."

"Vi," you said softly, "it’s just one loss. You’re incredible in the ring, babe, but you can’t expect to win every time. Besides, we learn more from our mistakes than from our victories. It’s okay."

"No, it’s not okay," she shot back, finally lifting her head to meet your gaze, her blue eyes filled with frustration. "I bet everything on that fight. Everything. And now I have nothing."

"That’s why I’m here," you responded, sitting beside her and gently taking her bloodied hand in yours, inspecting it with care. "You don’t have to carry this alone. Let me help you."

"I don’t want your help," she protested, trying to pull her hand away, but you held on firmly. "I don’t need saving. I can handle this."

"Vi, don’t be stubborn," you chided, your voice firm yet warm. "I care about you, and I’m not going to stand by while you drown over something we can fix together."

Her gaze softened, a mix of wounded pride and unspoken gratitude in her eyes. "I can’t take your money," she muttered, looking down again. "It’s not fair to you."

"Babe, if the roles were reversed, I know you’d do the same for me," you reminded her. "This isn’t about fairness or debt. It’s about caring for someone I love."

The last word hung in the air, making Vi look up again. "You... love me?" she whispered, as if it was something she hadn’t allowed herself to hear before.

"Love you? I’m crazy about you, woman!" you admitted with a chuckle, gently squeezing her hand. "And because of that, I’m going to help you through this. Take the money, just this once. It’s not weakness to accept help, Vi. It’s strength to know when you need someone."

She let out a deep sigh, her body relaxing slightly as the tension began to ease. "Alright," she murmured finally, her voice barely a whisper. "I’ll take your help... just this once."

"That’s all I needed to hear," you said, smiling softly as you caressed her hand. "We’ll get through this, together."

Vi looked at you, and for the first time that night, a faint smile curved her lips. "Thank you," she said, leaning toward you. Her hand suddenly slid to your ass, giving it a playful squeeze.

You looked at her, a mix of confusion and amusement on your face. She just shrugged, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"What? It’s my way of saying thanks," Vi defended, following it up with a loud slap.

Laughing, you climbed onto her lap, leaning in close to her mouth, "Well, if I’d known your gratitude was this charming, I’d hope for favors more often."

Vi leaned in and kissed you, a tender kiss that spoke of gratitude and something deeper, needing no words. "I love you," she murmured against your lips.

"And I love you," you whispered, your lips still brushing hers.

Caitlyn

Caitlyn's office was silent, the only sound breaking the stillness was the soft scratch of her pencil against paper as she reviewed the reports that had come in. It had been a particularly difficult day for her. The weight of the decisions she'd had to make hung heavily on her shoulders, and her mind couldn't stop replaying the latest case she had been handling. Even though she tried to maintain her composure, you knew Caitlyn wasn't invincible.

You approached cautiously, gently tapping on the door before stepping inside. "Cait," you called softly, seeing her immersed in her work, her eyes glued to the desk, but her rigid posture betrayed her exhaustion.

She looked up and forced a smile. "Don’t worry, everything’s under control," she said, her voice slightly tenser than usual.

Leaning against the doorframe, you watched her with concern. "I know you're working hard, Cait, but this isn’t just about work, is it?"

She didn’t respond immediately, her eyes narrowing as if fighting herself not to admit what was clearly troubling her. "It’s nothing. Just... tough cases. Nothing you need to worry about."

You knew her too well. Something wasn’t right. Caitlyn always maintained her facade of strength, never showing vulnerability, but you knew even she had limits. You decided to step closer, gently removing the papers from her hands and sitting on her desk, right in front of her, catching her off guard. Her hands instinctively found your thighs, her fingers pressing into your skin as a silent sign of her pent-up stress.

"You're not doing this alone tonight, Cait," you told her firmly. "I know you feel the pressure, but you don’t have to carry it all by yourself."

She tried to smile, but the gesture only highlighted her fatigue. "I can't afford to show weakness. Everyone expects me to have the answers."

"That’s precisely what makes you human," you replied softly, cradling her face and appreciating her delicate features. "The burden of leadership, the tough decisions... it can’t all rest on you. If you need a break, you’ll take one. If you need to talk, I’m here."

Caitlyn remained silent, her gaze now locked onto yours, as if considering your words for the first time. You could see her defenses slowly crumbling, her breathing easing into a calmer rhythm. "Sometimes I feel like no one understands... how hard it is to keep everything together, always being the one expected to know what to do."

"I understand," you said, gently holding the hand that gripped your thigh. "And you don’t always have to have all the answers, Cait. It’s okay to feel lost. You can lean on me for these things and anything else."

She didn’t speak for a long moment, simply watching you, and for once, her face displayed a vulnerability she rarely showed. Finally, she sighed, letting the tension in her face melt away.

"I know," she murmured, almost as a confession. "Sometimes it’s just hard not to feel like a burden."

"You’re never a burden to me," you assured her, leaning in and wrapping your arms around her, your fingers tenderly running through her hair. She responded with a soft sigh of relief. "You’re the strongest person I know, Cait. And that strength doesn’t make you invulnerable. Don’t be so hard on yourself. You carry so much responsibility and expectation, and you handle it as best you can. You can share that with me too, love. I’m not in your life just to enjoy your company and admire your beautiful face."

With an intense gaze, Caitlyn gently squeezed your hand, displaying a rare tenderness. "Thank you," she whispered, her tone much softer than usual. "Thank you for this. For always being there when I need it. For knowing what I need when I don’t even know myself."

You moved a little closer and, without thinking, kissed her forehead, a warm and comforting gesture. "I’ll always be here, Cait. You don’t have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders."

She closed her eyes for a moment, allowing herself to rest in your presence. And although the day's worries wouldn't vanish immediately, there was something about that small gesture, that silent connection between you two, that made her feel less alone. She knew that, no matter what, she would always have a refuge in you.

Jayce

The door creaked open, and instantly, the tension that Jayce carried with him filled the room like an unwelcome guest. He stood in the doorway, his figure worn down as if each step of his day had chipped away at his strength. His face was a canvas of frustration and exhaustion, the lines of weariness on his forehead barely hidden by his tousled hair. The warm light of home contrasted sharply with the cold night air, but even the comforting ambiance seemed powerless against the heavy burden he bore.

Without a word, you moved towards him, your presence a sanctuary in the storm he was weathering. You gently took his cold hands in yours and led him to the couch, where he sank down with a deep, weary sigh. The weight of the day clung to him, a cloak of responsibility and fatigue. He barely acknowledged you as you spoke.

"Rough day?" Your voice was gentle, laced with concern.

Jayce exhaled sharply, his exhaustion evident as he turned his head to you. "More than you can imagine." His tone was rough, frustration simmering beneath the surface. "Viktor and I... the experiment in the lab was a disaster. Then, the Council meeting... a complete mess. I’m not even sure how I made it back here tonight." His voice cracked for a moment, followed by a bitter laugh. "And tomorrow? I have to give that damned speech to the entire city. I haven’t even started writing it."

The air felt thick, laden with everything he couldn't put into words. You squeezed his hand, holding it with a tenderness that cut through the fog of his mind. "Breathe, Jayce. You don’t have to solve everything at once. One step at a time."

Instinctively, you sat behind him, guiding him until his back rested against your chest. You began to massage his shoulders, feeling the tension slowly seep from his muscles. Each movement of your fingers seemed to ease his burdens, though his sighs suggested the thoughts still swirled in his mind.

"I’ll help you with the speech," you offered softly. "We’ll write it together. You don’t have to face it all alone."

Jayce closed his eyes briefly, as if clinging to your words to prevent drowning in his thoughts. "But... it all depends on me. If I screw this up, the consequences are massive. I can’t afford to fail." His voice broke, and he sat up abruptly, anxiety gripping him once more.

"It’s just a speech, Jayce. It doesn’t define you." You wrapped your arms around his torso, holding him from behind. "What matters most to me is that it doesn’t destroy you. The city needs you, yes. But you need yourself too."

A long sigh escaped his chest, a release of some of the weight he'd been carrying. "How do you stay so calm through all of this? How do you have the patience to listen to my problems over and over?" His tone softened, a realization of what your presence meant to him.

"Because I love you, you big lug. And because I respect you," you said without hesitation. "Now... first things first. Dinner. I made your favorite." You whispered in his ear, the warmth of your embrace surrounding him, offering a sliver of peace. "Then, I’ll draw you a bath. You need to relax, to stop thinking about everything for a while. We’ll have dinner together, and afterward, we’ll stay up as long as you need. I’ll help with the speech. And if you need to rehearse all night, we will. The important thing is you’re not facing it alone. I’m here, Jayce, because I know how much this means to you."

Jayce let the silence hang for a moment, absorbing your words, your support the anchor he desperately needed. Slowly, he turned to look at you, his face finally showing signs of easing. "I don’t deserve you," he murmured, a small pout forming on his lips.

"Don’t be ridiculous. You’re my spoiled giant baby," you teased with a soft laugh, cupping his face with care.

Jayce chuckled, a low, grateful sound that was music to your ears, and you hugged him tighter, feeling the anxiety that had gripped him start to dissipate. "Can we stay like this a little longer?" he asked quietly, his tone vulnerable, more human than ever.

"Of course, love," you whispered. "There’s no rush tonight."

And there, between tender laughs and promises of unwavering support, time seemed to pause. In that moment, there was only the two of you, the warmth of home, and the certainty that, no matter what the next day brought, you would face it together.

Ekko

The sound of gears grinding and tools sparking filled Ekko's workshop, a familiar symphony that usually brought him a sense of calm. But today, the rhythm was frantic, almost as if he believed that focusing on the intricate mechanical details could help him outrun the weight pressing down on his heart. It wasn’t working.

"Ekko, what’s wrong?" Your voice was soft, almost a whisper, yet it cut through the tension hanging thick in the air. You could sense something was off, not just from the hurried way he moved but from the pallor that had taken over his face in the past few hours.

He didn’t answer right away. His fingers continued their precise dance over the wires and components, but there was a distant look in his eyes, a clear sign that his mind was far from the task at hand. Finally, he looked up, and though he tried to hide it, you could see the frustration and pain etched into his features.

"Things are... out of control," he admitted, his voice heavy. "The people of Zaun keep dying, and we can’t do anything about it. The illnesses are spreading, the air is becoming unbreathable, and the solutions... they seem further away than ever. How am I supposed to lead them when I have nothing to offer?"

His question lingered in the air, a cry of desperation in the stillness. Ekko had borne the weight of leading the Firelights since their inception. It was his strength, his refuge, yet also his greatest burden. Every day, he witnessed more of his people falling victim to the oppression and the harsh realities of Zaun, the toxic air swallowing those he cared about, and the seeming futility of their efforts gnawed at his resolve. What could one do when everything seemed stacked against them?

"Ekko," you approached him, gently taking his hands in yours. "Listen to me. I know what you're thinking. I know it feels like everything is collapsing, like there’s no way out. But you're not alone in this. You have the Firelights, and you have me. Caitlyn Kiramman might be able to help with this problem."

Ekko raised an eyebrow, confused. He knew Caitlyn, as an Enforcer, symbolized the oppressive system that had kept Zaun in misery, but he also knew you didn’t speak lightly. You must have had a plan.

"I don’t trust Piltover," Ekko muttered, his tone firm. "Or their damn Enforcers. How am I supposed to ask someone like Caitlyn for help? After everything they’ve done to us?"

"I know," you said, gently stroking his hands to calm him, "but hear me out. You're not just asking Caitlyn for help. You’re asking the person who owes me a few favors. Trust me. I think we can secure some supplies, maybe some of the medicines we need, at least to keep us going for a while. Something to help the Firelights keep fighting. Don’t see it as surrendering, Ekko; it’s a step towards giving us a real chance to make our voices heard."

For a moment, Ekko stared at the ground, lost in thought. It was clear he struggled to trust anyone outside his circle, especially someone like Caitlyn, who embodied Piltover’s oppressive power. But your words resonated with him, and for the first time that day, something inside him eased slightly.

"Maybe you’re right," he finally said, his voice low, as if only partially convinced. "But this... it can’t just be words. We need to do something real, something that actually makes a difference."

"We will," you assured him with a soft smile, trying to instill a bit of hope. "Together, step by step. Let’s start by talking to Caitlyn and see what we can secure. I don’t know how, but I believe we’ll make it happen."

Ekko looked at you, and for a moment, everything in his expression changed. The usual anger gave way to a mixture of gratitude and, perhaps, a hint of relief. He was exhausted, but the idea that not everything was lost gave him a tiny spark of hope.

"Thank you, babe," he murmured, his voice softer than before. "I don’t know how you do it. You always know what to say."

"That’s because I’ve learned how to deal with your stubborn, grumpy self," you said with a light laugh. "Now, how about we take a stroll through the city? Maybe a few hours of disconnecting will help."

A trace of a smile appeared on his face, though still tinged with fatigue. "What? Are you planning to make me forget all this by tagging the walls with graffiti?"

"Exactly," you responded with a mischievous grin. "That way, at least for a while, we can forget the world and do whatever we want."

Ekko finally gave in, his soft laugh filling the air as he grabbed his hoverboard. "You know, that sounds like a great idea. Let’s go before I change my mind."

And as you wandered the streets of Zaun, the weight on his shoulders didn’t entirely vanish, but for a while, Ekko could relax, paint his frustrations on the walls, and most importantly, remember that he wasn’t alone. Sometimes, all it took was stepping back and breathing, even if just for a moment.

Silco

The air in Silco's office was heavy, thick with the unmistakable scent of Zaun: metal, sweat, and burnt chemicals. Yet beyond those familiar odors, the room was saturated with the tension of recent events. The sting of failure clung to him, unsettling the usually composed mastermind. His meticulously laid plans had unraveled, and while his followers proclaimed loyalty, cracks in their devotion were becoming apparent. Zaun teetered on the brink of internal rebellion. The Firelights, the Enforcers, even the streets themselves seemed to be slipping through his fingers.

But what truly unsettled him, what gnawed at his very core, was the ever-present specter of betrayal, the fear of losing those who mattered most. In these moments, when chaos felt imminent, you chose to enter.

Silco stood with his back to you, staring out at the city’s dim lights through the window. You could sense the disquiet within him. His silhouette was somber, almost ghostly, with one hand resting on the glass. He seemed like a man who had lost faith in everything around him. Without hesitation, you approached him with a calmness that contrasted starkly with the storm raging within him.

"Silco," you began, your voice gentle but resolute. You refused to let his fragility consume him, not now. "We've faced this before. You don’t have to bear it all alone."

At first, he remained silent. The tension in his frame was palpable, and you could tell he was fighting a battle he wasn’t ready to share. Yet, you knew that struggle all too well. Beneath his layers of hatred and ambition lay a man as broken and vulnerable as any other.

Finally, he turned toward you, his eyes, usually burning with disdain, now dulled. "You don’t understand," he said, his voice low, roughened by a restrained fury. "This isn’t like before. It’s not just about winning anymore. It’s about maintaining control, about not losing everything. If I fail now, all we’ve built will be for nothing. What’s looming isn’t just a challenge—it’s war, and I need to be ready."

You stepped closer, studying the exhaustion etched into his face. His words were a glimpse into the turmoil that consumed him. "You will be ready. We will be ready. But isolating yourself in this downward spiral won’t help."

Silco’s gaze met yours, and for a fleeting moment, vulnerability surfaced. He appeared more human, less the monster Zaun feared. But his pride fought to keep that part of him hidden.

"I don’t need your pity," he said, though his words lacked conviction, a feeble defense against the truth you were unveiling. "Spare me the empty reassurances."

"They’re not empty," you replied, your voice steady. "I know what you’re feeling. This isn’t just about controlling Zaun. This is about you."

A heavy silence followed, thick with unspoken truths. Silco’s brow furrowed, not in anger but in contemplation. "It’s a war I can’t win. The city hates me, even my own daughter—"

"Don’t speak of her as if you’re some monster," you interrupted gently but firmly. "Jinx needs you, and you need her. This war isn’t just against Piltover, Silco. It’s against yourself. And if you keep fighting it alone, you will lose."

The room was still, the weight of your words settling in the air. Silco’s expression softened, touched by a realization he couldn’t deny. He wasn’t accustomed to being seen so clearly, to having his inner battles laid bare.

You took another step forward and, without allowing him time to withdraw, you took his hand. "You don’t have to do this alone," you whispered. "Not now, not ever."

For a brief moment, conflict flickered across his features, but then it happened—he relented. It wasn’t the surrender of a defeated man but of someone willing to trust, if only for a moment, that there was more to life than his solitary fight.

"I don’t know why you persist in keeping me upright," he murmured, his voice softer, laced with weariness. "Sometimes… sometimes it feels like too much."

"It’s not," you assured him without hesitation. "We’ll face it together. I won’t let you fall."

Silco said nothing more, but he didn’t pull away as you held his hand more firmly, a silent acceptance of your comfort. And for the first time in a long while, the cold steel of his demeanor cracked, if only for a fleeting second.

Mel

Mel's balcony was as sleek and cold, a testament to her meticulous nature. The soft glow of lanterns cast a gentle light over the cityscape, illuminating the endless sea of Piltover's lights below. Yet, amidst the serenity of the night, an unseen storm brewed within her. Tonight, her mind wasn't consumed with political maneuvers or strategic plans. Something far deeper gnawed at her: the weight of her ambitions had begun to manifest in ways she hadn't anticipated, threatening to fracture the carefully constructed facade of her life.

She stood by the railing, gazing out at the city that never slept, as if the twinkling lights could somehow chase away the growing void in her heart. You could see it—the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers gripped the railing a little too tightly. She was a picture of composed authority, yet the subtle cracks in her armor betrayed the turmoil within.

"Mel..." Your voice, soft yet firm, broke the silence. You approached from behind, your footsteps light but deliberate. You didn't need to be loud; she had always been attuned to your presence, as if you existed in a part of her consciousness she couldn't ignore.

Mel turned slowly, her face a mask of unyielding calm, but her eyes... her eyes told a different story. They held a flicker of vulnerability, a silent plea she wasn't ready to voice. "What is it?" Her voice was cool, almost detached, but you knew better. The detachment was a shield, one she had crafted over years of political warfare.

"What’s wrong?" you asked again, your gaze unwavering as you closed the distance between you. You could sense her struggle, her reluctance to admit that something was amiss. "I can see it, Mel. You're not okay."

She sighed—a sound so heavy it seemed to carry the weight of the city. It wasn't frustration; it was the exhaustion of someone who had carried too much for too long. "It’s Piltover. My role in the Council... I can't keep up with it all," she admitted, her words slow, measured, as if each one was a reluctant confession. "I’ve been playing this game for so long, but the pieces are moving in directions I can’t control. And..."

Her voice faltered, and she didn't need to continue. You understood. This wasn't about Piltover alone. It was about her, about the toll her ambitions had taken on her soul. Here, on this balcony, she wasn't the indomitable Mel Medarda. She was a woman, weary and yearning for something she couldn't quite name.

"Mel, not everything needs to be under control. Not everything needs to be perfect," you said gently, stepping closer. "You can handle what’s happening in Piltover, but you don’t have to carry it all on your own."

Her eyes darted away, as if looking at you would make her break. She was so used to being the one in control, to bearing the burdens without complaint. "And if I fail... what then? What’s left after all of this? I've given everything to Piltover… everything."

Her voice trembled with a sadness that cut through you. Despite her steely exterior, you knew there was a part of her that longed for something more—connection, peace, perhaps even love. But the world she had built around herself left little room for such indulgences.

"If you fail, Mel, you’ll have the chance to start over. You don’t have to keep fighting for something that's slipping through your fingers," you said, your voice steady as you reached for her. "Sometimes, letting go of what we fear losing the most is what sets us free."

Mel's eyes met yours, and in them, you saw a vulnerability she rarely showed. She wasn’t used to conversations like this, to empathy. But in your gaze, she found something she hadn’t seen in a long time: safety, support, and perhaps... the promise of something different. Something better.

"I know it’s not easy," you continued, your hand gently brushing her arm. "But you don’t have to carry the weight of Piltover alone. You have people who respect you, who admire you. There are other ways to move forward without losing yourself in the process."

The silence that followed was thick, but not oppressive. It was as if the night itself was holding its breath, waiting for her response. For a moment, Mel said nothing. Then, her lips, always so carefully set in lines of authority, softened. "And if I fail… what happens to you?"

"You won’t fail," you said with a conviction that only you could have. "But even if you did, I’d be right here, helping you rebuild. Because what really matters isn’t the power or the control. What really matters is you, Mel."

For a second, she looked at you as if seeing you for the first time. The iron-willed woman everyone knew, the strategist, the leader, was now gazing at you with a newfound sense of recognition. And in that moment, she allowed herself a rare indulgence: she let her guard down.

"Maybe... maybe it’s not always about winning," she murmured, more to herself than to you. "Maybe you're right."

You smiled softly, knowing that Mel had just taken a step towards something beyond ambition—towards her humanity.

Sevika

The night had fallen with an oppressive stillness, but Sevika couldn’t find peace. The hours had dragged her into a whirlwind of stress and frustration. Each minute felt heavier than the last, and the air around her seemed thick, as if the city itself was pressing down on her chest. The decisions she had to make, the moves she had to plan, the constant need to watch over and protect her people… all of it had left her exhausted. But what weighed her down the most was the lack of control over her own life.

The shadows of the streets seemed to stretch out, enveloping her with an invisible pressure. Silco, as if things weren’t bad enough, was more erratic than ever, his paranoia brushing the edges of madness. To top it off, Jinx had played one of her twisted jokes: locking her in a room with a bomb that looked ready to explode. Sevika had been on the brink of death, only to discover that the bomb was a cruel joke, the kind only Jinx could conjure. If she had the time, she would have made sure the girl paid for it. She despised feeling vulnerable. But there was more. She had to deal with some of Silco’s men, and her day culminated with a direct punch to the face, leaving a visible mark on her otherwise stoic features.

On any other day, Sevika might have sought solace or at least retreated into the quiet of solitude, but today was different. No matter what she did, the sense of losing control gnawed at her insides. She needed to see you. She needed your presence, your calm way of looking at her and making her feel that everything, even if just for a while, would be okay.

Finally, the door creaked open. The sound of your footsteps was a balm to her weary spirit, and Sevika lifted her gaze. The damp night air lent a melancholic intensity to her eyes, now etched with fatigue and disdain. Though she tried to maintain her tough exterior, you quickly noticed the bruise marking her face.

“What happened?” Your voice, soft yet filled with concern, echoed in the room. Sevika tried to muster a smile, but it was futile.

“Just another day, you know?” she rasped, moving to lean against the table. She wasn’t about to crumble in front of you, but the exasperation in her tone was unmistakable. “Silco’s paranoid as ever. Jinx pulled one of her idiotic pranks… locked me in a room with a fake bomb about to explode. I thought I’d die there, amidst confetti and laughter. And if that wasn’t enough, one of Silco’s guys managed to land a punch on me.”

Your gaze, laced with worry and tenderness, softened instantly. You stepped forward, cupping her face gently, trying to ease the storm swirling inside her. Sevika stood still, unresponsive at first, but the hard lines of her face began to relax, even if only slightly.

“Why didn’t you call me?” you asked, your eyes never leaving hers, your words carrying a silent concern. You knew she hated appearing weak, but it didn’t matter; you would never see her that way. Sevika closed her eyes for a moment, letting out a long sigh.

“You know I don’t like to worry you.” Her tone was sharp, but softer than before. She could feel how your warmth affected her in ways she wasn’t ready to admit, but needed more than she was willing to acknowledge.

Without missing a beat, you acted. With a small smile, you stepped back a little, creating some space to prepare something that might bring her some comfort.

“Tonight, I’m making something special for my strong and sexy warrior,” you said, a mix of tenderness and teasing in your voice. “It’s not much, but I know you’ll like it.” You headed to the kitchen, and instead of a typical meal, you decided on something you knew would make Sevika smile: a homemade chocolate cupcake, with a hint of vanilla and a soft cream topping. While the sweet treat took shape, you thought about how this small gesture might lighten the night. The smell of freshly baked chocolate began to fill the air.

Sevika raised an eyebrow, unable to suppress a slight smile. “A cupcake?” she asked, almost playfully, though her voice held a softness rarely heard. “Am I a child needing comfort now?”

“Maybe,” you replied, smiling as you set the table. “Sometimes we all need something simple and sweet.” You playfully tapped her nose.

With the cupcake served and a cup of aromatic tea, the two of you sat together, letting the calm settle for a moment. As she savored the cupcake, your fingers brushed hers gently, as if that simple touch could convey something deeper. Sevika’s gaze, usually so hard and closed off, softened as it met yours.

“Thank you,” she whispered, almost with a humility that was unlike her. “I needed this more than I thought.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” you said with a gentle smile, intertwining your fingers with hers.

And in that moment, it didn’t matter what was happening in the outside world. For an instant, everything else faded away. Only that small space between the two of you existed, where love and understanding felt like the answer to all the burdens Sevika carried within.

[burningembers91]

Rare - The Salesman x Fem!Reader (NSFW)

Follow up piece to:

Freak of Nature

On Display

A Game of Cat and Mouse

Crime of Passion

Synopsis: The Salesman wants to play a game with you. But when he changes the rules, so do you

A/N: I am immensely proud of this series. It’s unlike anything I’ve written before and I love exploring the darker sides of characters. This particular fic is probably my favourite so far. I wanted to thank everyone for the frankly mind boggling love I have received on all my fics so far. Thank you ❤️

It had been two weeks since your mysterious man in the grey suit had saved you. Two weeks since you’d given in to your desires. The day after he fucked you so hard that your bed slats broke, an entirely new bed arrived. One with a plush, cream, fabric headboard and a mattress that felt like you were sleeping on a cloud sent straight from heaven.

His heroics in the alleyway, the transition from something psychological to physical had changed the dynamics of your relationship. He didn’t want to admit it, but he could feel himself falling under your spell. It was a constant struggle to maintain the upper hand, to continue the illusion that you were entirely at his mercy. But you both knew it was a mutual torture, that each of you had the other twisted so deliciously around your respective fingers. The other night he had come so close to telling you his name. It had been so long since he’d spoken it, he wasn’t entirely sure he knew what is was anymore. But there was something about you, something deliciously dark bubbling after your soft, shea scented skin. You could be the death of him, this beautiful femme fatale. He wasn’t quite ready to relinquish control to you though; he still wanted to try and break you.

You received a phone call one day, requesting your attendance at an incredibly high end dress store in Myeong-Dong. As you made your way through the doors, the eye watering price tags made your jaw drop. You could never in a thousand lifetimes afford a dress like this; but you knew someone who could.

You were whisked into a private area, where several women with tape measures took measurements of your body. They didn’t speak to you, didn’t answer any of your questions. You were there less than five minutes, after being instructed to return to the store the next day to pick up your purchase.

“But I didn’t order anything,” you exclaimed, “can you just tell me what’s going on.”

“Our client is very discreet,” the store manager responded. “Please arrive promptly tomorrow to collect your purchase.”

You couldn’t text Mr Grey Suit to ask him what he was up to. You still weren’t privy to any personal information about him, including his phone number. He didn’t come to see you that night, leaving you to stew in your own thoughts about what he could have possibly ordered you.

The next day, you arrived at the time requested, and were once again greeted by the store manager who handed you a dress bag, with a note attached. I will see you tonight, 7pm. DO NOT LOOK IN THIS BAG UNTIL THEN. I will know if you do. You headed home, desperate to look inside the bag. You didn’t dare though, you had absolutely no doubt he would know if you took a peek.

Your grey suited man arrived at your apartment at 7pm sharp. He nodded appreciatively at your immaculate hair and makeup, cupping your chin in his hand as his eyes explored yours.

“Tonight,” he explained, “you will do exactly what I say, when I say it. If you disobey me, you will be punished. If you perform satisfactorily, you will be rewarded.”

“If I perform satisfactorily?” You scoffed. “I didn’t realise I was a circus monkey.”

He wiped his thumb along your lower lip, smearing the lipstick you’d applied not 10 minutes ago.

“You will do exactly what I say,” he growled. “Now, get dressed into the gift I gave you. And clean your face up. You have 5 minutes. Do not keep me waiting.”

You did as you were asked, presenting yourself like a piece of meat on a platter for him. He nodded approvingly, his hand trailing down the burgundy silk of the evening dress that fit you like a glove, the one he’d had made especially for you. You were a vision, an angel sent straight from heaven. He wasn’t going to tell you that though; he didn’t want to give you the satisfaction.

He took you to the most expensive restaurant in Seoul, where a private room had been set up especially. The staff were very discreet, and he’d need exactly that for what he hand in store for you tonight. You sat down opposite him at the small table, classical music quietly playing through the speakers. The room had no windows, lit only by the dimness of the candles dotted around the room.

“I took the liberty of ordering for you,” Mr Grey Suit said. “I’d expect you to eat every single bite.”

Champagne arrived, followed by oysters. You hated oysters with a fiery passion, but you forced yourself to finish every single one. You refused to show your distaste for them, refused to grimace as the slimy substance slid down your throat. Next up was steak, rare, the meat still oozing blood into to your plate, seeping into the accompanying potatoes. Your stomach turned; you hated red meat. You hadn’t eaten it since you were 10, the smell of it sending your stomach churning.

“I can’t,” you whispered, the metallic smell of the dead animals blood seeping into your nose.

“Are you disobeying me?” He asked, tutting as he tucked a linen napkin into his shirt. “I’m supposing you want to be punished then?”

“Please,” you choked, “anything but steak. I can’t, it’s the smell.”

“Stand up.” He told you. You stood to attention, ignoring the rising bile in your throat. “Come here.”

You did as you were told, your breath hitching as he pulled up your dress to your waist.

“Bend over,” he instructed. You obeyed, hearing the sound of his steak knife slide through the fabric of your lace underwear. You cried out as a sharp, swift slap was delivered to your right cheek, quickly followed by another, and then another. Each hit was harder than the last, tears streaking your face. The mixture of pleasure and pain was exquisite and yet so unbearable.

“Will you do as you’re told now?” He asked, his breath slightly ragged. You were soaking wet as you nodded, and he to resist sliding his fingers inside you. He was supposed to be punishing you after all, not giving you what you wanted.

You sat back down, the skin of your ass stinging as it made contact with the leather chair. Mascara smudged your cheeks, your face flushed. You looked down at the rare steak, then back up your mystery man. He was smiling so smugly at you; he clearly thought he’d won this little game. You smiled sweetly back, picked up your knife and fork, and sliced into the meat. You did your best to ignore the blood that seeped from it. You hardly breathed as you ate, swallowing the bile that continued to rise. A flash of anger contorted his usually handsome features; you were besting him yet again.

You proudly showed off your empty plate, sweat peppering your forehead from the immense effort. You refused to show you him how unwell you felt, choosing to down your glass of champagne to remove the metallic taste from your tongue. He begrudgingly poured you more, both of you smiling as you tried to figure out the others next move.

“What do I get then?” You finally asked, when the silence became too much.

“I’m sorry?” He said, dabbing the corner of his napkin as he surveyed you.

“You said if I did everything you asked, you’d reward me,” you reminded him.

“Ah,” he chuckled, “but you didn’t do everything I asked.”

“Yes, I did,” you snapped back. “I wore the dress, I ate the oysters and the fucking steak!” Eating that piece of meat had almost made you sick, but you’d done it. And he was reneging on his end of the bargain.

“But I had to punish you before you would eat he,” he smiled.

“And I did,” you hissed back at him, fists clenched under the table. “You can’t do this.”

“I can do whatever I want,” he whispered.

You looked him up again, his smug face looking entirely slappable in that moment.

“And so can I,” you decided. “Goodnight.” Throwing your napkin down on the table, you headed for the door.

“Wait!” His voice was desperate, panicked. He didn’t want you to leave. You stopped in your tracks, turning slowly to face him. He looked uneasy, wondering why his game wasn’t going the way he wanted.

“Fine, you sighed, “I’ll stay, but you’re going to play one of my games now.”

You fucked him on the floor of that private dining room, straddling him as you pressed the steak knife to his throat, the one he’d used to slice off your underwear. He quivered underneath you, entirely at your mercy as your slick, tight walls swallowed him again and again. He came with a strangled cry, thrusting his hips up into you as you drained every last drop of his seed.

Leaning down, you planted a single tender kiss on his lips.

“Goodnight, Mr Grey Suit,” you whispered. Standing up, you left him lying there on the cold marble floor, his cock still hard and his breathing ragged.

He had seriously underestimated you. What had started as a game of control, was now something entirely new to him. For the first time in his life, he was entirely at someone else’s mercy.

[princesssarahblog]

𝐣𝐣 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝

SFW and NSFW

warnin: alcohol, weed, adventure, sex (first sex too) and romance

author notes: I am writing for the first time smut.. I want to write something like this with many more characters obx, next one might be rafe (idk)

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ SFW

get ready for this naughty blonde diva to come to your house almost every day, at first you thought he just had nothing to do but over time you realized that your house is a new refuge for him, where he can relax and be away from his tyrant father

he is quite clingy to you (only you) jj will hug you almost constantly or especially kiss you. if you both have to be separated, he will grab you by the waist with his strong muscular arm and pull you in for a gentle passionate kiss. before the relationship, he would touch you often and try to touch you subtly to feel your skin.

we all know that jj is also a bit of a wild guy, and he might make bold and spontaneous decisions and you constantly dissuade him from his "brilliant ideas" and advise him to think logically together. but it would be better for you to make a decision yourself, and jj would help you implement it

lets you braid and style his hair when his head is on your lap or stomach, you’ll do little tiny braids or buns all over his head and he’ll love the giggles it brings out of you.

I think he's one of those guys who will sing some stupid songs he made up on the fly if you get offended by him. you start laughing at those moments, and you just shut him up, saying you forgave him, just so you doesn't have to listen anymore.

he's the kind of boyfriend who would go to great lengths to make you happy and will always be there for you when you need him. just be ready for a lot of playful banter and sarcastic remarks, this is just another display of affection from jj

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ NSFW

lots of quick rounds, this blond guy is constantly horny and needs sex urgently. he often gets horny at the wrong time and can take you away right in the middle of a conversation with friends without embarrassment

he likes it when you just turn into a puddle and can't say anything

he drives you crazy in bed, jj is just unrelenting. he needs to fill you with his cum at least 3 times. and he also loves when you hold on to his chest. he basically likes your touching his chest

you both remember your first time having sex very well. it was at your place, you were sweating and your pussy was on jj's thigh when you first saw his dick. and the guy often reminds you of it, teasing you and making you embarrassed

actually he comes to your house not only to hide from the world but also to have a good night with you. you are always afraid if your parents find out about it, your father often checks on you at night and once you almost got caught but everything worked out

will stimulate your sweet spot very strongly using your fingers, mouth and tongue. jj pulls you back in by your ankles when you try to squirm away from him, whining that you're too sensitive, you can't take anymore. it's too much

even during the solstice festival he somehow ended up having sex with you. he found you in the great hall after he escaped from rafe and you locked you in the closet. he showered you with kisses and told you how beautiful you were in the dress you wore for the festival. it was only because of you that rafe lost him and after that you and your group of friends left. and jj got to enjoy you and his favorite sweet spot.

asks you to sit on his face so he can eat your pussy!

jj intertwines your fingers together while you're riding his face cause he like that, murmuring how much he loves you, how perfect you are, how you're such a good girl for him. he also loves to squeeze your breasts and nipples in this position and naturally drive you crazy

- jj is the kind of person that will be hard to just start dating. In order to date him, you need to gain his complete trust in you. he is very protective and devoted, but all this can also quickly disappear. even if you date him, you will date him for a maximum of a week and blonde guy will dump you and you will be another girl for his own entertainment

[everlastingspring143]

Hello!

Okay, so I don’t really write any feedback/commentary on posts that I read because I’m awkward and I feel like it will just be cringe. But I really REALLY loved this fic, so I’ll try my best to write my thoughts.

Many fics of yours I have read and re-read. And you never fail to amaze me. In all of them, the thing that stands out most to me in your writing is the emotion spilling from it. 

I feel like what’s most important in any form of art is emotion. Whether it be painting, dancing, photography or in this case, writing, the artist strives to make the viewer feel something with their art. Like the famous quote goes “Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable”. Art needs to make others feel.

And you, Sahar, do that incredibly well. So in my eyes, you are my favorite artist. :)

This story flows so beautifully, like music, dragging the reader in and captivating them with the emotions, language and characters.

My hopeless romantic ass was thriving while reading. Seriously.

The way you wrote love between the characters, so sweet, but passionate and just so so comforting, had me in a chokehold. 🩷

Another thing I really loved was the concept of time described here. How Hyunjin’s days dragged slowly before meeting the reader, but once their paths intertwined the days began moving quicker and quicker. 

I also absolutely loved the characters’ backstories! It all sounds so well thought out, so real and touching. 

And lastly, I love how passionate you are about writing. It reflects in your pieces, and I think that’s very beautiful. You have what we call in my native language “the writer’s vein” (I’m not sure if there’s a respective saying in English). So, Sahar, I hope you know how truly amazing you are! 🫶

Okay. I think that’s enough yapping for now. I’M SORRY THIS IS SO LONG. 😭😭😭

I hope this was not weird.

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. 

[fidenciocryptidcreechur]

Note: this is me just making a wonderland post about the canonical character in twisted wonderland based on translations, vignettes and manga. everyone has differing opinions and interpretations and I'm not gonna bicker about someone's version of Trey in their writing or their au.

I feel like some folks in twst fandom are realizing that canonical Trey isn't really like early/previous fandom Trey, who was characterized as a sweet completely normal bakerman who's also the heartslabyul mom, but instead of just going "oh yeah no, Trey can be petty and mischievous sometimes. usually in situations where there are others also being petty and mischievous while still keeping on top of his duties and engaging in his hobbies" some of the fandom seems to have swung to the other side of the spectrum and are like "oh? so trey has been living a lie this entire time! He actually HATES baking and he's got a ✨secret agenda✨ and he probably is a mastermind and is part of a heartslabyul shadow government!!!!"

And while i know that there's a good chance many are just being silly and making memes and jokes, i have seen the way fandom genuinely boils down characters and strips them of all nuance. Notable with the leech twins, sebek and rook who are all canonically dorks and goobers with their passions and interests in both the games and mangas. They're all intense but most are just awkward and passionate/invested in their interests. Like Sebek being boiled down to shouty malleus fanatic and ignore his various interests and hobbies. he can and will question Malleus notable in the recent chapters and also times when Malleus acts in a way that makes Sebek confused<- mainly in manga and vignettes. Like Floyd being boiled down to unhinged and unpredictable, when most of his actions and activities happen because he got bored of something being monotonous or tiring or repetitive and goes to look for something more interesting like drama or someone with strong reactions to mess with. Guy just gets bored and goes to look for something interesting. Or Rook who gets extremely invested in whatever is his current interest/passion to the point of ignoring everything else. Jade also does this. They're all goobers tbh. Just guys, just folks.

Trey Clover is also just a guy. He is just conflict avoidant tbh. Trey just wants to keep the peace, to make sure people aren't fighting, people are following the rules and aren't making messes. Like that's something he mentions often and that many of his actions reflect from how he checks in on all the students and makes sure they're following heartslabyul rules but doesn't tell Riddle about any rule breaks so as to keep peace, to holding back in activities so he doesn't draw attention and not mentioning stuff he might know specifically so that he doesn't get asked about it (notably when Jamil wants to read ancient texts and trey only reads it upon finding out it contained an ancient tooth paste recipe). He seeks convenience, peace and calm. He's not exactly a schemer, out to get something specific or complete some goal in life like those such as Jamil, Leona or Azul. He's also not necessarily someone solely attempting to coast by and only seek stimulus/fun like with Kalim and Cater.

He's not secretly cruel and not the secret mastermind behind heartslabyul. Yes, He's mischievous and sometimes petty. Notably he gets this way when other petty and mischievous people are around him and it's usually in response to those that were acting like that (messing with ace, messing with Jade, etc). He does care and he does look out for his dormmates and peers. Honestly if he truly didn't care about Riddle or Ace and Deuce then he really wouldn't have helped them, plus he doesn't necessarily go out of his way to help every person anyways. If he truly didn't care then he could've abandoned Riddle when he was at his lowest like the rest of the dorm, or even just let Ace and Deuce carry out their punishment instead of helping them bake tarts and pies to try to help out with Riddle's anger.

As for if he likes baking? Imma be real, that guy can't not like baking. If he hated baking then he's a masochist (joking) because fucker is baking everyday with a smile and trying get everyone to eat his baking and constantly sharing all the goodies he's made (genuine). He's baking constantly in both the game and in manga. There are so many instances where he bakes experimentally, he bakes recreationally or bakes for his dorm. There're so many instances where he just carries cupcakes and scones and cookies everywhere. He bakes some to share with his Science club members, shares some type of goody with every iteration of the Yuu's (mangas and game). He goes out of his way to buy new recipe books with his own money to bake more things. In one vignette he bought an entire recipe book specifically so he can learn to bake this one (1) type of dessert he saw once because he liked the way the dessert looked so much that he wanted to make it and went and BOUGHT AN ENTIRE NEW RECIPE BOOK just to make that one dessert. That guy likes to bake. Yeah sure, he says "i don't bake with love 😏" but that doesn't mean anything in the context of NRC which is "emotionally repressed anti-feelings" central where nearly everyone can't be genuine and blunt with their feelings and emotions (even the more blunt and jovial characters have some deep sadness or deep trauma stuff that gets hinted at several times like with Cater, Kalim, Silver and Sebek). Folks in NRC are emotionally repressed and hate admitting connection with each other. Seriously, check out Yuurei20's post on how often the term "friend" is used in the original Japanese, there's very few canonical mentions of them calling each other friend EXCEPT WHEN ENGLISH TRANSLATION ADDED IT otherwise they don't normally actually acknowledge their connections and some never actually say friend at all. They'll call each other classmates or something but in JP they don't really like to acknowledge closeness.

Trey clearly likes to bake and invests a significant amount of time into it beyond just occasional cooking duty and he also shares his goods with practically everyone. Yeah sure he's from a family of bakers and I've seen some people say that "oh but he's just baking because of his family job" but it's not like they urgently need their son, who's in class and currently at the magic boarding school, to bake everyday for their baking needs and i guarantee that he doesn't need to go out of his way to get experimental with his baking and wouldn't bake that often if it's just cause of family business or practice. Plus if it's just that then why would he go out of his way to buy recipe books just cause he saw a single dessert that inspired him. He's not just baking for family business reasons. Trey likes to bake.

Honestly, I'm not surprised he says that he doesn't bake with love especially in a place like NRC. As mentioned earlier, everyone gets so weird and pressed about connection and also makes fun of each other for expressing care. Some even get anxious about another's intentions if given unasked for help (notable when Kalim helped Azul get his hat in the manga and Azul stresses about trying to repay this favor). Also baking is just a hobby, similar to crafting, drawing or writing and sometimes people just take satisfaction and joy in simply doing those things. When someone makes something, they don't always have to put in heartfelt feelings in it per se. When someone draws, sometimes it's cathartic or you just felt inspired and just wanted to draw. Sometimes it is specifically to destress or to get out feelings. Sometimes drawing is just because you can do it so you did. Similarly, baking can just be because you wanted to and you like baking. Plus it makes sense Trey wasn't like "i put all my love and feelings in my baking<3" because in the context of that line he seemed to be referencing baking for his peers and strangers. He's baking for people in his school or for events. So Honestly yeah??? Of course Trey wouldn't say he puts love in his baking. He's baking for his friends, for his club and for dorm stuff and also bakes experimental recipes. He isn't stirring that bowl of batter and going "now to put in all of my love and dedication <3" during those times because it would be kinda odd for most of those scenarios tbh. For experimental recipes, you're low-key kinda just fucking around and taking notes to see what works and i imagine trey would be doing the same and wouldn't be emotional over his bowl of batter during this time. For his club and dorm stuff, Trey isn't super close with EVERYONE in there and he's just trying to make sure there's enough so again fitting that he's not going "made with love". If he's making treats for his friends then he certainly tends to put in more effort, usually in regards to taste and diet (notable with vil and Cater as he tends to make things that they will actually like) and seems to like compliments on his cooking especially from those he's closer to. While he does put in that extra care which implies closer bonds, i do think most of the nrc boys would still be put off if trey was like "for you, made with love <3" (i think Ace would make fun of him so hard and even cater would be thrown for a loop). I will also note that in several vignettes as well as in several scenes in the manga, he gets genuinely put out if someone doesn't want to eat his cooking (notably in the manga if people were too busy to eat though this also happens in game) and in a few vignettes he even tries to adjust what he makes and what he pairs it with specifically so they will eat more of what he makes (notably with Vil and trying to make light desserts and pastries as well as pairing it with certain preferred teas) which to me shows he does put care and thoughtfulness into his baking even if he doesn't say it outright.

Long story short: Trey is not uncaring (he looks out for his dormmates and friends even baking treats specifically for their taste when he can), he likes baking (he wouldn't be so invested in trying new recipes, looking for inspiration or going out of his way to experiment with his baking if he wasn't), he's not really scheming so much as he's trying to keep the peace and avoid conflict to the point of either keeping quiet, thwarting shenanigans (notably with ace and deuce), or hiding his abilities (he's not like Azul, jamil or Leona who are aiming for top spot and in fact trey dislikes added fuss and dislikes the spotlight), and he's mischievous and petty at times though notably with those that are also mischievous or petty (he will mess with his younger dorm members though will try to stop them from actually messing up like with the oyster sauce joke for the chestnut tarts, and sometimes messes with others)

[azazel-the-eldritch]

One thing I love about Shadouge as a ship is that whether you view it as romantic or platonic, there's undeniably love in there. There is a tangible candor and vulnerability that neither share with many other characters, if at all.

While Shadow isn't exactly vocal about his feelings, his actions speak for themselves. He is very physically protective of Rouge, often jumping to her aid or standing between her and whatever threat without a second thought. Shadow puts Rouge's safety above his own. Even above his mission. Also some of the games and certain ancillary medias, like '06, Free Riders, and Tailstube, imply that Shadow will readily drop what he's doing to help Rouge. Even if it's ends up being for something small or inane, which... come on, that's so boyfriend coded.

Rouge meanwhile is more passionate and open about Shadow's well-being and her loyalty to him. Admitting to Shadow that he is one of the special few that she genuinely trusts. And it's because of that she felt so compelled to tell him as much, and that if he ever needed it, she would be his shoulder to lean on. As well, Rouge gets almost uncharacteristically fired up when it comes to Shadow and how he keeps getting dealt a bad hand. And though she is flirty and bantering with basically everyone, it feels more... genuine (?) with Shadow. Also Rouge readily raids a launch base run by her employers to help Shadow. As well, I feel like she would've helped Shadow anyways, even if Shadow didn't agree to coming to Sonic's birthday party. But she knew he would agree to it, cuz she knows he's a softy under all the edge.

Also just that moment in Dark Beginnings when Rouge's eyes light up upon seeing Shadow? Even calling him "handsome". Like she's so jazzed to see him, it's really sweet.

Anyways, they should make out or something, idk

[urrmomzfavorite]

PICK A CARD MESSAGE YOU NEED TO HEAR

Pile One: Cards: Three of Cups, The World, Ace of Pentacles, Page of Swords

Pile One, I’m really excited for you, my loves! Your friends are going to play a key role in your success when it comes to your career. You’ve been undergoing a period of deep transformation, shedding old layers, and purging what no longer serves you. There have been tough choices, some that went against your desires but were necessary for your growth. I feel a recognition of childhood trauma and the realization of how it has shaped your life so far. It’s a hard truth to swallow, but you’re emerging stronger. Your luck is turning, and that's the part I’m excited about—finally, we’re entering the rebirth phase! Soon, you’ll face a crossroads, which may feel like a test from the universe for some of you. The advice here is simple: choose YOU. What is best for you, always. Apply the hard lessons you’ve learned in recent years.

Great things are on the horizon for you and your loved ones, filled with celebrations and opportunities for growth. Stand your ground and set clear boundaries. You’re currently building a solid, honest foundation for your life. Your friends, as well as your community, are playing a huge part in your evolution. There are abundant opportunities ahead, and soon, you’ll find yourself in rooms you never even dreamed of.

Pile One, you’re a powerhouse, and I’m so proud of you! <3

(Lenormand Cards drawn: The Whip, The Coffin, The Child, The Mice, The Cross, The Rider, The Clover, The Crossroads, The Tower, The Dog, The House, The Bouquet)

Pile Two: ( I honestly forgot to write the tarot cards that i drew, and now it's next day and i have no idea what they were, adhd brain sorry )

Pile Two, how does it feel to be right? You’re shining and glowing—no one can miss your light because you're radiating. I’m picking up on a "getting my revenge energy," but not in a malicious way. It’s more of a constructive, maybe a little mischievous, but not destructive vibe. I love how you express yourself—you would make an excellent politician. You’ve been through some challenges but bounced back quickly, showing resilience. I feel like you’ve realized you should always go where you’re celebrated, not where you're tolerated.

Now, I have something to say, and if it doesn’t resonate, it’s not for you. I feel like you've started a new relationship, and maybe the honeymoon phase is over. There’s been a lot of communication through messages, and it seems like you know it’s coming to an end. You're scared of what's next. My advice? Follow your childhood dreams. I feel like reconnecting with past hobbies or passions will bring you guidance. Your inner child is calling to you, and you’re finally answering the call. Is that why you’re glowing? BADDIEEEEEEEE. If you're going through this right now, just know that you are protected, and you're in good hands.

Your path is becoming clearer, and you're walking toward abundance and greater strength in your character. Let go of that feeling of being haunted, and trust that you are protected.

(Lenormand Cards drawn: The Whip, The Heart, The Letter, The Coffin, The Cross, The Crossroads, The Child, The Sun.) (Prism Oracle Deck: Abundance, Strength, Ghost, Caution, Protected)

Pile Three: Cards: The Hanged One, The Magician, Knight of Swords, The Devil, Nine of Wands, Knight of Cups

Pile Three, you’re creating significant change around you. I’m getting this feeling that things are finally starting to fall into place. It’s like you’ve found the right key to unlock a door you’ve been trying to open for a while. It’s been a long and sometimes lonely journey, but you kept going, knowing success was inevitable. I want to commend you for your strategic approach, rational thinking, and cleverness. Some might call it luck, but the truth is, you’ve put in the work!

Soon, you will receive news or a message that will bring you much joy. You’ve poured so much energy and passion into this, and now you're reflecting on your growth. Pile Three, perhaps you’ve even gone through a physical transformation recently?

Your finances are set to grow significantly this year, and important people will want to work with you. Once again, I’m so proud of you, and I wish you all the best, my loves.

(Lenormand Cards drawn: The Scythe, The Tower, The Dog, The Fox, The Star, The Fish) (Prism Oracle Deck: Passion, Pain, Reflection, Growth)

[jazzsonly]

౨ৎ blurb. ౨ৎ

ɪ ᴄᴀɴ’ᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ֹ⠀⠀✶ ⠀. sam carpenter, scream.

warning(s): fem!reader, g!p!reader, cheating, smut, public sex, sex in a movie theater, licking cum (?,) handjob, p in v, no protection, size kink (if you squint really, really hard,) dirty talk (barely,) not proof read, that’s it i think (?)

summary: in which, you comfort your girlfriend’s sister a little too well.

***inspired by the gif lol

you had known the carpenter sisters your whole life. growing up in the same town, let alone living in the same neighborhood, you just kind of blended together with all the other kids that played together in your community.

you and sam were the same age, so you graduated high school together—you two always used to walk home together, you both shared a total of three classes (math, science, and gym) so, that added to the factor list of how you guys became close.

you were in college now and things just ironically fell into place as sam ended up attending the same college as you, along with tara, and their little group of friends (who you were familiar with same babysitting.)

it made you happy that after all this time, you and sam were still in contact. you admired sam, she was strong, a hard-ass, but strong. knowledgeable for sure. to you she was the perfect leader, the perfect final girl if she were a movie character.

somewhere along the line, you thought maybe you and sam would just end up together. she were sweet on you, you guys had so much in common, knowing each other for so long, and you’d just always been the person she ran to.

but that’s on what happened—that’s not how things fell into place at all, and you weren’t mad about it, neither was sam but it were just odd it didn’t work out that.

odd that instead of her, you ended up with her little sister tara.

your relationship in another thing that kind of fell into place, unironically though.

you and tara had been up late watching horror movie for horror to celebrate the beginning of october, sam were in her room working on an unfinished essay—and that’s when tara just went for it, she kissed you.

and you kissed her back.

you weren’t sure why you kissed her back but you did. and hen you did tara just confessed that she had been in love with you for as long as you’d been friends with sam—the whole sister’s hot best friend bit.

it wasn’t so strange to think, i mean—you had picked tara up from school multiple times when sam couldn’t, you guys would hang out alone while sam was at work—you’d known the girl as along and you’d known sam, and obviously the girl was no stranger to beauty, and you had as much in common as you did with sam.

you had a why not moment about tara.

a ‘why not give my best friend’s little sister a chance?’ was the start of your now seven month relationship.

and don’t get your wrong, tara was still amazing as ever, she fitted well with you—but the only thing that seemed passionate about your relationship was the sex. all tara wanted to do was go to parties and make out with you, and when we wasn’t doing that she were too busy with homework to even bat an eye with you—

she had no time to watch movies with you, to go to the cafe with you, to walk the city with you—but sam did.

you knew it were bad but somewhere in your mind you found yourself visualizing yourself with sam at times. when she would be sitting across from you cafe rambling about whatever schoolwork she had up her, you would just go into a daydream.

what if sam had kissed that night instead? what does it feel like to kiss sam? is she a good kisser? if her lips are soft, if they fit yours…

or when you were on walks, running errands in the city, you thought would it would be like to cuddle sam. how would her body fit in your arms? how her body would feel against yours? would she do that little thing that tara did when she pushes her ass against—

no. none of that.

ugh.

you shake your thoughts. you can’t be thinking about this right now. you were at the movies, dead split in the middle of the sisters.

tara on your right and sam on your left.

tara’s had was places on your biceps, her nails slightly digging in it.

it wasn’t like you could even hear the movie with sam and tara ‘silently’ arguing.

they had been arguing all the day, hell, they even argued the whole way here. something about tara’s grades and her being on academic probation.

“i don’t know if you’ve forgotten but you’re not my parent, sam! you’re my big sister and only that. you can dictate what i do.”

you bite your lips, keeping your head straight. in the corner of your eye, you could see sam’s eyebrow furrow hard.

“well somebody has to be a parent to you. it’s not like mom is doing it.”

your turn your head to your girlfriend, silently hissing at how hard her nails were now digging into your bicep.

“tar—”

the younger carpenter cuts you off, “well she was doing it before you came back and ruined everything. if you would’ve just stayed awa—”

“tara.” this time you really do interject, knowing the things sam has expressed to

you about her relationship with their mom.

“i would’ve stayed away if i’d known you’d end up just like her. a drunk with nothing going for herself.”

you whip your head to sam, pursing your lips. you weren’t sure what to say, tara was your girlfriend but sam was your best friend.

“fuck you.” tara drops your bicep, standing from the peeling leather of the theater’s chair.

“tara wait—” you stand, attempting to the following the storming girl,

“don’t follow me, y/n.” and you knew not to follow her. past arguments of her storming away being knowledge enough.

you turn back to face sam, taking note of the empty movie theater. only you two left.

sam placed her feet into her theater chair, her head turns to the side almost as if she is trying to hid the very visible fact that she were crying.

pausing, you let out a breath before taking your same seat, hesitantly you place a hand on sam’s head, stroking her hair in a comforting manner.

“she’ll come around. you know how tara can be—”

“i just don’t know what to do…i mean, if i let her out of my site she finds trouble, always, somehow. and if i keep her close i’m

being too pushy or overbearing.”

all you can do is purse your lips, your mind wandering to tara. what sam were saying was true. you understood where the older carpenter came from as you had to get tara out of some trouble a few times. you couldn’t understand your girlfriend, why she craved messy things when their were likeminded people around her.

maybe she were rebelling against her mommy issues and forging them to be about her sister issues.

you don’t know. but all you did know was that it were destroying her relationship with her big sister.

“i’m okay…you should go check on her,” you pause your hand movements as sam turns in her seat, facing you.

your eyes wander, studying her face, watching the way the tears glisten off her read cheeks in the theater’s dim light.

licking your lips, your turn away for a moment, “nah, we both know tara, and she wants to left alone.”

“you’re right. i just—i’m sorry…” the carpenter reaches up, wiping the wetness away from her face.

“don’t apologize, sam.”

she gives a weak smile, reaching over to pat your thigh, rubbing it in what was supposed to be a platonic touch. and it were a platonic touch, that linger and intensified when you made eye contact that read more than just comfort.

“sam—”

“fuck it,”

the older carpenter leans into you with haste, removing her hand from your lap and places it on your cheek, she cups it and forcefully pulls your face and body into

hers.

without doubt she kisses you.

your best friend—your girlfriend’s sister kisses you…and you kiss back. your heart pounding with fear and ecstasy, the feeling of your stomach dropping falls to your pants, creating a bulge in your deep wash denim jeans.

your mind was a whirlwind, back and forth, and back and forth between sam and tara. all you could think were what you were doing to tara, what her sister was doing to her—then again, all you could think was about sam was kissing you right now, the girl you’ve wanted since you’d met her.

her tongue going against yours, collecting each other’s spit, or the way her hands were rugging and tugging in your hair, making your groan into your kisses that mixed with her moans.

your dick pulsing in your black calvin kleins that were behind your jeans, you could feel your tip slightly rubbing against the fabric as your boner grew—it were wet, the pre-cum oozing out.

sam’s fingers grip and pull your head back, breaking the kiss.

“sam, wha—”

“shhh,” the girl leans down attaching her lips to your neck and her hands on your belt buckle.

it’s like she wordlessly knew the power she had over you, that you had almost wanted this more than her—almost as long as her.

her fingers brush against your warm abdomen as she undoes your belt, you can hear the way it jiggles as she moves it out the way and heads for the button; then down to the zipper.

“jesus…sam…” you don’t know what felt better, the sam sucked and bit your neck (definitely creating hickies,) or the way she hand were sliding against the fabric of your briefs as she palmed you.

“you feel so big, god,” she groans into her ear before softly biting it, followed by her tongue licking it.

her words became heavy, making you impulse and hot as you can barely taking waiting anymore, you grip the girl by the waist, effortlessly pulling her into your lap, her left on either side of you and center perfect on top of yours, the only barrier: your clothes.

“i love you,” she rocks back and forth, you head thrown back, eyes shut closed in pleasure as you softly whine at the friction—hands still firmly on the girls hips.

“i’ve loved you since—” the carpenter hisses at the pleasure, pausing in between her words.

“since i can remember, but, fuck—i didn’t wanna ruin our friendship,” sam leans forward in order to places small pecks on your exposed jawline.

“so, i pushed you towards tara because i knew, she, liked you too…but fuck…i can’t take it anymore.”

you groan, “i love you too sam. i want you. i need you.”

you desperately confess to the girl.

sam presses her forehead against yours, her tongue comes out to lick the corner of your mouth before motioning you into a sloppy, soft, and hurried kiss—you were so deep into it with desire you don’t realize sam’s slipped her hand into your boxers until she starts stroking you.

“don’t be a tease.”

“don’t be a baby. i’ve heard you and tara going at it…i know how long you can last, y/n.”

you wanna say something smart back but you feel a familiar pit coming to you stomach, all the pressure building from the pleasurable teasing.

“i’m going cum—fuck, sam i’m gonna—” you let out a deep moan, feeling your load shoot into your boxers, definitely coating sam’s hand in the mix—to which she pulls out, her eyes trained on yours as she licks the substance from her hand.

“you’re sick,” your grimace in awe of her actions.

“what are you doing—”

“relax, i’m taking my pants off.” sam continues climbing off your lap, you mind traveling back to the fact that you were literally in the middle of a movie theater right now. you begging to panic just a little.

“sam, what if we get caught?”

“we would’ve gotten caught the second i started touching you if that were the case,”

you scoff, wordlessly watching as the now undressed girl takes you, half hard, into her hands—holding your member straight up she climbs into your lap and aligns herself above you.

she hovers for a second, and you comment.

“no condom?”

“that requires more waiting,”

“are you sure you can take me?”

“we’ll make it fit,” sam rushes out, annoyed by your questions—she forgot how anxious you tended to get in situations.

the carpenter takes a deep breath, slowly but surely sinking down onto you.

“you can move,” she urges in a grunt, she expected you to be big but wowza.

“jesus, sam,” you wrap your arms around her waist, you head falling into her chest as you move your hips in an introducing pace.

her arms fall around you shoulders, eyes squeezed shut at the slightly pain that was turning to undeniable pleasure by the second. her body was molded to yours as if you were made to fuck each other.

you wanted to feel more bad than you did—you wanted to stop and say that you were a piece of shit for cheating, let alone cheating with her own sister—cheating with someone you call your best friend. but the feelings were outweighed.

you felt electrified having sam here the way she was with you—the fact that she kissed you first, she made you cum—she’s wanted you for long, now that she finally has you she can’t even resist to lick your cum from her own hands.

your dick pulsing into her as you thrust, feeling the way she gushes around and she clutches to you with each stroke.

her nails were in your clothed back and your mouth was attached to your left nipple, licking and biting at it.

“oh my—it’s like your in my stomach,” the girl moans as you move at a faster pace.

“you’re so deep.”

you swirl your tongue, moving up her chest to her collarbone to her jaw, you kissed and sucked, leaving your own marks before finally connecting your lips again—you both moan into each’s other mouths.

you arms still tightly around the girl’s small frame, you thrusts become hurried at pace—sam throws her head back, unable to kiss you from so much pleasure, only shrieks of moans came from her mouth. you intently watched, feeling a sense of cockiness having smart mouthed ‘i don’t need anyone’ sam carpenter like this.

“fuc—now you’re gonna make me cum.”

“cum, sam. i want you to cum for me…all mines...”

sam leans forward, her body going limp on you while her leans twitch, only a silent moan is able to leave her mouth and you can feel her gushed around you.

“hang on,” you lift her up enough to pull yourself out, letting her back down you lap.

you wiggle, lifting you white shirt, just enough to reveal your stomach.

you reach, wrapping your hand around your shaft and start to stroke, using sam’s cum as lube as you attempt to finish yourself off.

“sorry…got a second load…” you utter, embarrassed—sam, however, in a daze and finding your action kind of hot.

due to you already being on the brink, you cum quick—this time the substance lands over your stomach, which you are quick to wipe with you shirt.

“sorry…”

sam leans in for a quick kiss, “don’t. it was hot.”

you shake your head, turning your attention to your phone that sat in the seat beside you—lit up with a text.

tara 💓: come pick me up. i’m at the diner across the street.

…

tara💓: make sam sit in the back 🙄

oh shit.

━━━👩🏽‍💻wrote this while i was stoned so its prob terrible uhmmm yuh 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓀𝓎 #shelyingtomeimlyingtoherbothaintshit

[the-ellia-west]

SO

WHO WANTS HELP WITH THEIR STORY???

Moots and Open tag!

I am providing my free services, Hop in my DMs or my ask box with your Plot, Worldbuilding, Character, or just concept Troubles!

I need practice for helping people with their stories and keeping several people's WIPs straight in my head if I'm going to be the leader of Storytelling Club next year!

I can provide advice, help brainstorming, what kinds of things I would personally like seeing, feedback on plot or scenes, critiques, or help you create something or flesh it out, like a character or a city

Just tell me what you want, I'll send some clarifying questions, and We can get right into it!

I am by no means an expert, but I love helping and I know a lot about Cliches, critiques, tropes, and dialogue! I am also very Excitable and Passionate about storytelling, so if I go off on a ramble, feel free to shut me down or ask me to stop and I will, no hard feelings at all!

That's all! I would also like to Schedule these, in case I have more than one, because I would LOVE to give each and every one of you who ask my full attention

To apply for this, Just... send me an ask or a DM, or comment or reblog this post asking about times, or telling me to DM or ask first!

AND YES, I HAVE THE FREE WILL, AND I CAN AND WILL REJECT HELPING WITH STORIES I AM UNCOMFORTABLE WITH THE CONCEPT OF, I WILL MAKE MY BOUNDARIES CLEAR

Love you! Have a wonderful day! <33

@thewritingautisticat @yolbert @vyuntspakhkite-l-darling @ambersky0319 @lunaeuphternal

@an-indecisive-nerd @homelessnerd @vesanal @thebookishkiwi @write-with-will

@hihopelessromantics @pastellbg @seastarblue @i-do-anything-but-write @darkandstormydolls

@supercimi @blargh-500 @sunflowerrosy @corinneglass @carb0n-m0n0xid3

@tiredpapergirl @whatwewrotepodcast @busybussinbee @urnumber1star

[geneviveleocardius]

arthur morgan, who might have a little (big) crush on you.

the camp was quiet for once. the sky stretched wide and orange as the sun dipped low, the sounds of nature settling into its evening rhythm. arthur walked up to you, his steps heavy but purposeful, a small parcel in his hand. you were sitting by the fire, scribbling in your journal, oblivious to his approach.

“got somethin’ for you,” he muttered, voice low and rough like it always was, but there was a hint of… something softer there.

you looked up, curious. “for me?”

he nodded, shuffling awkwardly before holding out the little package. you took it, fingers brushing his for the briefest moment. inside was a necklace—a small, delicate heart on a thin chain. it sparkled faintly in the fading light, and your chest tightened.

“arthur…” you said, breath catching. “this is beautiful. thank you.”

“ain’t nothin’,” he said quickly, scratching at the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at you. “just… thought you’d like it.”

“i do,” you said, smiling up at him. “would you… put it on me?”

his hands froze mid-air, but he nodded, stepping closer. you turned, lifting your hair. his calloused fingers brushed the back of your neck as he fastened the clasp, and the air felt heavier somehow, charged with something unspoken.

“there,” he said, stepping back. “suits you.”

“thank you,” you repeated, your voice softer now. you touched the pendant lightly before meeting his eyes. “would you sit with me for a while? i was just writing about one of the books i finished recently.”

he hesitated but sat down beside you, his knees brushing yours. as you began talking, your voice lit up with passion, describing plots and characters with a kind of fervor he didn’t hear often. but then your tone shifted, a little quieter, a little sadder.

“i don’t get to read as much as i’d like,” you admitted, eyes on the fire. “my vision isn’t great. i use my father’s old glasses, but the lenses are so strong… they make my head hurt after a while.”

arthur frowned, his brows knitting together in concern. “why don’t you get a new pair?”

you shrugged, the firelight catching the edges of your smile. “they’re expensive. i don’t have much income, and what i do have… well, most of it goes to the camp. it feels more important, you know?”

he sighed, his jaw tightening like he was trying not to show how much that bothered him. “you can’t just go ‘round hurtin’ yourself like that,” he said, his voice softer than usual. “let me see ’em.”

you hesitated but reached for the glasses, pulling them out of your pocket. they were old, worn, and when you put them on, arthur’s breath hitched. the lenses made your eyes look cartoonishly large, and you blinked up at him with a sheepish grin.

“see? they’re fine. i don’t need new ones,” you said, trying to sound convincing.

he stared at you, his face unreadable, though his lips twitched like he was holding back a smile. “you look… real cute,” he muttered after a moment, and you felt your cheeks warm. but his eyes lingered, more serious now, taking in the discomfort you were so clearly brushing aside.

“i’ll figure somethin’ out,” he said, more to himself than to you.

you opened your mouth to argue, but the look he gave you—steady, determined, and just a little too caring—made you stop.

“arthur…” you began, but he shook his head.

“just let me,” he said, voice low, and for once, you didn’t argue.

[hopeforchanges]

okay hot take here don't bash my head in ... Sauron and Galadriel ≠ Orlok and Ellen

idk am i the only one who doesn't see it? i stayed away from speaking on the topic cause i didn't feel i had all the information to engage in any meaningful convo but now that a good amount of time has passed and I have listened and read other people's arguably passionate stances on this (which is great! i love when people enjoy something, it gives me joy too!!) i must say .... i don't get it lol

let me explain myself:

I get that certain aesthetics or vibes might overlap (dark, brooding antagonist vs. a luminous, female protagonist), the comparison completely falls apart when you dig into their actual characterizations.

Ellen as a Symbol of Maidenhood vs. Galadriel as a Warrior

Ellen is basically a paragon of feminine virtue: she's all about purity, innocence, and ultimate sacrifice. She represents a kind of moral ideal that aligns with the trope of the "selfless maiden." Sure there is darkness in here but like ... where? lol in the words of one of my favorite complicated female characters of the silver screen: "I can't see it, I can't touch it, I can't feel it. I can hear it, I can hear some words but I can't do anything with your easy words."

Galadriel is a warrior, a soldier, a power-hungry monarch. She was born a princess into a life of great privilege. Galadriel is ambitious, vengeful, and actively pursuing power. She definitely embodies characteristics that are more commonly associated with male domination. I love both the feminine in Ellen and the masculine in Galadriel. They just don't overlap imo.

Orlok’s Selfish Awareness vs. Sauron’s Delusional “Vision”

Orlok is unapologetically monstrous. He’s a selfish predator who knows exactly what he is and doesn’t care. He’s not trying to justify himself or claim he’s “saving” anyone—he just feeds on people because that’s what he does.

Sauron thinks he’s doing the right thing. In his mind, his actions are about order, preservation, and the “greater good.” That lack of self-awareness is huge—it makes him a completely different type of villain. Orlok leans into his evil; Sauron justifies it - doesn't even think he's the evil force - definitely not in his story.

The Core Dynamic Feels Wrong

Ellen and Orlok’s relationship is built on fear and revulsion. Ellen sacrifices herself to stop Orlok—she lures him to his doom. There’s no room for ambiguity there; he’s the predator, and she’s the prey.

Galadriel and Sauron are equals. None of them can land the killing blow because they don't want to, not because they can't. Their dynamic is tangled up in grudging respect, power struggles, and even a weird sort of kinship. Galadriel isn’t diminished or destroyed by Sauron like Ellen was by Orlok; quite the contrary. Galadriel was empowered by Sauron, healed through him (at least in the show which is the medium i am basing my opinions on, not necessarily the tolkien legendarium). That's why it's so funny to me that in season 2 he can't figure out why she won't say yes to him when she used to drool over his mortal form and so he transforms into Glambrand as his big fix cause he thinks THAT is what the issue is lol you were her friend, dumbass, that's literally it. you supported her and believed in her when no one did and couched her so she could achieve her goals - helped her self-actualize.

There are no such layers and complexities in Ellen and Orlok's relationship. Plus, the fact that he came to her first when she was a kid gives me the ick, sorry. it's giving phantom of the opera. and i HATE phantom of the opera (the original book by Leroux, the musical kinda slaps tbh)

TL;DR:

Yes, Ellen calls Orlok a deceiver, but that’s where the parallels end for me. Ellen = pure, selfless sacrifice; Galadriel = complex, power-driven warrior. Orlok = evil and knows it; Sauron = evil but thinks he’s the hero. Their dynamics are fundamentally different, and the Orlok/Ellen comparison just doesn’t hold up under scrutiny.

If I’m missing something, feel free to convince me otherwise, but for now? Nah, I don’t see it.

[fic-writer-confessions]

I've spent 10 years posting fanfics for a few unpopular characters, pouring my free time and soul into them. Now that the media is seeing a sudden influx of people, people are starting to rec fics about these characters.

I've written 80% of the fics for these two in a variety of different situations from fluff to angst. Just once, I'd love to see my name on someone's rec list for this pair. I've genuinely worked hard and feel like my work is well-written (most pieces complete one-shots, not ongoing WIPs). This could've been my time, all my passion, regular upload schedule, and work promoting myself on Tumblr (with both writing and art) finally paying off.

And yet, I get sidestepped and the fandom gushes over the newcomers' fics. I keep posting new works and don't get anywhere near as many views as the new arrivals. It's been months and no one's rec'd one of my works for this pair (on their public rec lists, at least) despite how many I've written and how long I've been around.

I see people call new fandom members "that guy" for the doodles they post about these two. I know I shouldn't be jealous, but it's hard not to doubt myself when I've gone years without comments on these works and I've been writing this pair for so long. My heart's starting 2025 a little broken, but life goes on.

.

[mya-valentine]

Headcanon: Artistic S/O

Characters: Shikamaru, Deidara, Itachi, and Sai

Shikamaru Nara

Shikamaru is low-key impressed by your skills, even if he doesn’t outwardly say it often.

He likes to lay on the floor, watching you work while cloud-watching out the window. He finds your creativity soothing.

When he’s stuck on strategies, he’ll casually ask for your perspective. “If this were a painting, how would you balance it?” He doesn’t admit it, but your insight helps him think outside the box.

He secretly loves when you draw or paint him, even if he tries to act like he doesn’t care. If you catch him blushing, he’ll just say, “You could’ve picked someone more interesting.”

Shikamaru will fall asleep in your studio sometimes, claiming your space is just too peaceful.

Deidara

He’s obsessed with your work. Being an artist himself, he sees you as a fellow creative soul. He’s constantly hyping you up, calling your pieces “art” in the most passionate way.

If your style is different from his, he loves the contrast and often debates with you about what “true art” is. He claims his explosive art is superior, but deep down, he’s amazed by your skill.

Deidara will absolutely collaborate with you. Imagine him using small clay bombs to add dynamic texture to a sculpture or piece of art you’re working on.

He’d be the type to randomly grab a paintbrush or pencil to “improve” your work, though it’s usually just him trying to bond. “Huh? What do you mean I ruined it? This is genius!”

He keeps your art on display in his personal space, showing it off to anyone who visits.

Itachi Uchiha

Itachi is quietly supportive of your passion. He admires your ability to express yourself through art, as it’s something he struggles with.

He finds watching you create incredibly calming. After long missions or stressful days, he’ll sit nearby in silence, letting the sound of your pencil or brush soothe him.

Itachi is a big fan of meaningful, symbolic art, so if your work has hidden themes or stories, he’ll notice immediately and ask thoughtful questions.

He’ll secretly collect small pieces of your work, like sketches or paintings, and keep them tucked away in his belongings as little reminders of you.

If you ever draw or paint him, he’s deeply touched, though he might not say it outright. You’ll just catch a soft smile and a quiet, “Thank you.”

Sai

Sai is fascinated by your art. As an artist himself, he’s genuinely interested in your techniques, tools, and inspirations. Expect him to bombard you with questions.

He loves comparing styles with you. Sai’s work tends to be precise and controlled, so if your art is more freeform, he’ll admire how expressive it is.

He’ll happily share tips and even teach you some of his ink techniques if you’re interested. In turn, he’s eager to learn from you, no matter how different your style is.

Sai isn’t the best with words, so he often expresses his feelings for you through little drawings or paintings. You’ll randomly find sweet sketches left on your desk or in your bag.

If you draw him, he’ll analyze every detail and take it as an opportunity to understand how you see him. “Is this how I look to you? Interesting…”

.

.

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Masterlist

[sweetbillwriting]

Way Out of Line

THREE

Beneath my perfume and make-up I'm just a baby in disguise. And though I know that it's wrong to be alone with him that "come on look" is in my eyes.

Character: Keith Toshko from Barbarian (2022) played by Bill Skarsgård.

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, heavy themes.

Notes: This will not be everyone's cup of tea. And I'm a rookie haha.

I followed the movement of his soft lips, and instead of feeling the excited urgency, I felt my body become mush in his arms, and my sex pulsed in the same rhythm. I moaned into his mouth, and I could feel him smile.

“That's it, honey…” he whispered encouragingly between kisses, and it made me giggle. It was something about how he guided me that was both sexy but also domineering. It was overwhelming to kiss him, to be so close to him in a way I hadn't been with my ex-boyfriend, Tim. There was a feeling in my chest that slowly spread to my limbs and made me feel dirty in all sorts of ways, and after a while the negative feelings took over. This was not me. I wasn't the type of girl who kissed married men, especially a man much older than me. I had always been the boring girl, who didn’t push the rules. I released his lips with a smack, and he looked at me with big eyes. He must have noticed my change of emotions.

“I'm sorry,” he said, fast and pulled away. I looked down at the ground, but I could see his feet nervously move. “I should go…”

I didn't look up and didn't say anything because suddenly I felt so uncomfortable and shy about it all. I was not a sexual person, and he was old. He really was old. He could have had children my age. I heard him leave my room, and I breathed out in relief. It was not a good idea; still, I could feel a pain between my legs, like a frustrated cramp. The shame got even worse. It was filthy and heavy in my chest. He was my dad's friend; it wasn't okay.

It was hard to sleep after that moment with Keith, and the anxiety crept around in my body like hungry insects, especially because I could still feel the pressure between my legs. I ran to the bathroom every fifteen minutes in the belief that I needed to pee, but I didn't need that relief; I needed an intrusion. I had never really masturbated, but after having laid with my legs crossed without being able to release the pressure, I needed something more effective; I needed something inside me. I didn't have the knowledge to make myself come, but it was enough to be penetrated for me to finally be able to sleep, even if I felt dirty by my own sexual feelings. I didn't want to feel what I did, so I tried to deny them. They weren't real; they were not me, just something my brain created after a bit too much alcohol.

×××

I had a weird feeling in my body when I started to wake up, like a nagging feeling of forgotten anxiety, and even if I wanted to ignore it, I started to search in my brain for the answer. At first I couldn't remember it, but when I moved and realized my panties were off and I just laid in my tank top, I remembered how I had slipped a finger deep inside of me to be able to sleep. I remembered the passionate kisses with Keith that had made me so sexually frustrated I had humped my own hand. It all was so dirty and shameful, and I looked down at my hand, disgusted by how deep my fingers had been in me. I tried to tell myself it was a one-time thing and stood up from bed even if I didn't have panties on. I couldn't even see them, and for a second I imagined Keith had crept into my room and stolen them, but it was then I found them tangled in my cover. I put them on, just to have something on, on my way to the bathroom to take a shower. Just like Christianity had told me, I tried to wash my sins away; I tried to scrub away my dirty thoughts and massage away every shameful feeling. It did kind of work, and I decided that I would forget about it all and leave it all behind. I fooled myself into believing I could do that and got myself to forget Keith actually lived in the house.

It wasn't that easy to move on when the man in my dirty imaginations sat by the kitchen table, eating egg and bacon with my father. He was there, and as soon as I saw him, I forgot my thoughts were sinful and embraced them instead of denying them. I didn't care if I was dirty, I didn't care if he was my dad's friend or that he was older than me. I remembered the image of his bulge in his sweatpants and thought about how his cock looked hard. I wanted him inside of me instead of my short fingers.

“Hey, honey, come and sit down with us,” said my dad who patted the chair next to him. There was a setting for one more person, and it was probably for me because my mom most often ate earlier than me and my dad. My dad was dressed in a comfortable jogging set, but Keith was dressed in jeans and a black zip hoodie. His hair was styled back, and it could be so that he had plans to go out that day. We glanced at each other quickly, but both of us looked away, and I sat down next to my dad, who gave me a side hug and patted my cheek.

“Slept well?” He asked and started to put up eggs on my plate. He knew I didn't eat bacon. I looked away, uncomfortable with the question, but gave him a low, “yeah.”

“Do you have any plans for today?”

He didn't ask me about my New Year's celebration or if I had been drinking; for him, it was probably obvious I had been a good girl and that Mom exaggerated.

“Um, I think I’ll just have a movie marathon…”

My dad grimaced, and I looked at him confused.

“What?”

“I'm sorry honey, but Disney doesn't work at the moment…”

“What?” I asked with a whiny voice. My dad looked at me almost in shame and played with one of my long locks that fell forward over my light yellow robe.

“I know, I can't log in and—”

“You can use my account,” said Keith suddenly, and by reflex I looked at his handsome face even if I didn't want to. He licked his lips that were shiny with grease, and he gave me a fast look before looking down at his bacon again. “Is there something special you want to see?”

“She always starts the new year with hopeful movies, right, honey? So Peter Pan and Alice in Wonderland?” My dad said with a smirk. I just nodded a little. Maybe my choice of movies also was childish and embarrassing, but Disney was such a natural part of my life I didn't think of it like that. I looked at Keith again. He had a stubbly top lip, and a strand of his hair didn't want to be a part of his slicked-back hairstyle and fell down in his eyes. He was too handsome to be a friend of my father's. He was way too handsome to want to kiss me. But he had.

“Thank you…” I mumbled and took the juice pitcher so I wouldn't need to look at him.

“We will go into town soon; Keith has a meeting, and I need to buy some things. Your mom is out with Felice, so you will be alone for a while. But I guess you can handle that? Now when you have Disney?”

“Yes, daddy,” I said and smiled at him. I could hear that I sounded like a ten-year-old, but we had that sort of relationship, so it was hard for me to stop. My dad always worried about me, and I was always eager to please him. Keith cleared his throat, but I didn't dare to look at him, and I wondered if he judged me for my polite behavior towards my father. He probably regretted that he had kissed someone like me, a silly girl.

×××

“You can fly!” Shouted the kids in Peter Pan while I sat stretched out on the couch with a bowl of ice cream in my lap. I still wore just pajamas even if it was 3 pm. I giggled a bit to myself when I thought about how many times I had pretended to be Lena, waiting for Peter Pan to come through my window. My biggest wish had been to never grow up. I had a nice time being alone and had no problems with it, so I was a bit disappointed when I heard the front door open.

“I'm so sorry, Keith, really. Do you want anything to eat or something?” Said my mom with worry. I turned down the sound in curiosity and tried to listen closely. It sounded like there were several feet in the hallway, and I could hear my dad clear his throat.

“No…” said Keith with a wobbly voice and sniffled. “I think I'm going to bed for a while… But thank you.”

It was obvious Keith was crying, and it made my throat dry up and start to scratch. There was something about hearing him like that that made me uncomfortable in so many ways, and I noticed how my hands were shaking too. I listened to him walking up the stairs slowly, but also my dad's deep exhalation after Keith had closed the bedroom door.

“Shit, Giselle… I really thought they would get together again,” said my father with a low voice, so low I almost didn't hear him. My mom's reply I actually couldn’t hear because she was whispering. I paused the movie and laid my hand on my chest. My heart was beating hard, and the dry feeling in my throat was now a painful barbed wire string from my heart up to my mouth. I understood what was happening, but I wanted to know more, so carefully I walked out to my parents in the hallway. My mom was hanging up Keith's bomber jacket while my dad was sitting down on the bench we had by the door. Both of them looked up at me when I tiptoed out to them.

“What's happening?” I asked, pretending like I hadn't heard as much as I had. My mom opened her mouth to say something, but my dad interrupted her.

“He got served with the divorce papers… So he is, of course, really upset.”

I nodded a little bit and looked down at the ground. I tried to keep my facial expressions in check because I was the only one of us three that knew Keith had been with another woman just the night before: me.

“Can you keep an eye on him?”

I heard what my dad said, but at first I couldn't understand the words and what he meant by them.

“Huh?” I looked at him confused and played with the thin bands of my tank top.

“We need to go grocery shopping. Can you take care of him?”

“Like how?” I asked, and I could feel my cheeks heat. My parents must have noticed, but they didn't understand why they became so rosy and must have made their own conclusions.

“Just check if he wants something if he comes out of the room. Nothing more than that.”

I nodded, and my dad gave me a thankful smile. They put on their outerwear again and left me alone with Keith. Their little girl and their old friend. They didn't have a thought, or even a half thought, that something could happen; that their little girl wasn't so innocent and the friend wasn't so trustworthy.

I continued to watch Peter Pan, but my thoughts drifted away to Keith over and over. I felt sorry for him and wondered if I should do something, but I was also afraid he would come down, and that I would need to comfort him. I thought about the night before, and in the light of day, I wasn't ashamed of it. I wasn't ashamed I had wanted him. Now I wasn't ashamed that he was married either because he would divorce, and the rest I could pretend were trivialities. I wanted him but I was scared of how much. I had never felt those sorts of feelings before, and it was frightening to feel how much I could lose myself in them.

“Hey…”

I turned to the doorway where Keith walked into the large room. His eyes were brimmed with red, but he wasn’t crying. He could have just been really tired, but I knew he wasn't, and the sniffle also exposed him.

“Hey…” I repeated and moved my legs and the blanket so that he could sit down on the other end of the couch. He sighed deeply and turned his gaze towards the TV. Something told me he just didn't want to be alone, so I didn't say anything, and just let him watch the ticking crocodile. I looked at him carefully a couple of times, and he smiled a little at the TV, and that made me smile too. After 20 minutes I dared to look at him completely, and he looked back at me and scratched his neck.

“Are you okay?” I asked carefully and sat up a bit better on the couch. Keith also sat up a little and took off his zip hoodie revealing the black t-shirt he wore underneath.

“Yeah… I knew this would happen. I just… It's a lot to take in, you know?”

I didn't know. How should I know? I had never been married, and my only relationship had ended when I was eighteen because Tim felt it became too serious, but I nodded anyway. Keith breathed heavily and dragged his hands over his thighs over and over. Something with his behavior made me feel braver, and I removed the blanket from my legs and scooted closer to him.

“Do you need a hug?”

Keith turned his eyes towards me, and for a moment we stared at each other intensely. As I sat next to him, I could see how he looked down over my body, especially my hardened nipples under my top. He looked up at me again and then moved my hair away so it fell behind my shoulders. He looked down at my chest again, this time more obviously. Just like the night before, a foreign feeling took over me that made me more confident and daring, so I pulled down one of the straps of my tank top slowly revealing one of my naked breasts for him to see. I looked him straight in the eyes while I did it and saw his eyes fall down to my chest when my nipple was exposed. Keith looked up at my eyes again and moved so he sat more towards me.

“You're such a beautiful girl…” His voice was low and raspy, and he laid his hand on my neck with his thumb on my jugular. I could feel the pressure between my legs grow again when he dragged his lips over mine sensually.

“My beautiful baby girl…” he whispered, putting some pressure over my neck. I moaned into his mouth when he kissed me and I laid my hands on his thick thighs. His hand moved down from my neck to my chest, and he released my lips to be able to look at his long fingers playing with my nipple.

“I've noticed your nipples are always so hard... Is it because you think so many dirty thoughts?” He looked up at me with a smirk and pinched my nipple hard. A pained groan left my lips, but the feeling also travelled down between my legs and made it hammer quickly. I didn't know what to say, so I let him kiss me again while my breast disappeared in his wide palm. His other hand held my head and steered me into every kiss. He used more and more tongue which made me feel that overwhelming feeling again. I was a good girl, but something took over me and gave me feelings I had learned to feel shame about. I was horny. I was so horny and wanted him in the dirtiest ways.

I dragged my hand over his crotch and could feel there was something alive under the denim. There was something moving in there. Keith pulled back a little so I could watch while he unbuckled his belt with a jiggle. I couldn't look away; I didn't want to look away. I wanted to see it. I wanted to see his cock. I thought of the word in my head: “cock.” I had never said it, but I knew I would call it that. He had a cock. My ex-boyfriend had a “penis.” Sometimes a “dick,” when I wanted to sound more relaxed, but I knew Keith had a cock.

He unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them down to the floor so that he wore just a pair of white boxers that didn't hide at all what was under them. I could see something long and thick and big balls being restrained under the tight material. Keith dragged a hand over the thick member causing the fabric to stretch even tighter. I could see veins and the shape of the head. I couldn't look away even if I felt I was blushing down to my chest.

“Have you seen one before?” He asked softly. His voice didn't match how dirty he looked with his legs wide apart and his cock trying to break free from the thin fabric. I just replied with a nod because my voice had disappeared at the same time my pussy had gotten wetter and wetter.

“You're not a virgin?” He asked and took hold of my chin so we could look each other in the eyes. I shook my head, and he looked at me with furrowed brows.

“I want you to talk to me. Hmm? Can you talk to me, baby girl?” He asked, pinching my nipple hard. I didn't know if that was some sort of punishment for not talking or if he just wanted to wake me up, but he got me to make a sound and then nod.

“I can talk…”

“Are you a virgin?” He asked again. I wondered why he asked that twice while I looked at him doe-eyed.

“No. I had a boyfriend.”

Keith nodded and gave me a soft kiss. He continued to kiss me softly, which made me relax. I felt safe with him, and when he leaned back and looked at me with kind eyes, I felt I needed to tell him something.

“It was a long time ago… And he was nothing like you. I… It feels new with you. You make me feel things…” Keith smiled a little and pulled me up on his lap. My pussy was pressed against his balls, and I could feel the hammering start again. I looked down at his crotch, seeing the thick line. Was it really that big?

“Do you want to see?” He asked, taking a hold of my chin again so I would look up at him. I looked between his eyes and lips, and that made him lean forward so I could press my lips against his again. I invaded his mouth with my tongue, but he slowed me down again when he took hold of my neck.

“Slow down, honey…”

My hands laid on his chest as I blushed. The feelings were everywhere, and I felt that intense pressure between my legs again. I was forced to sit down on his thigh and press myself hard against him.

“Does your little pussy hurt?” I looked up at him and nodded. Somehow it had become so much of an embarrassment that I worried it would be a permanent feeling. Keith sat up and shifted me from his lap, so I stood between his legs. He dragged his big hands over my hips and then took hold of my pajama pants and panties with his index finger. He looked up at me with a smile.

“Can I take them off?”

I nodded a little, too mesmerized by him and drunk on newly discovered feelings. Carefully he pulled them off, and I stepped out of them, so I stood in just my strappy top. Keith took my hands in his so I wouldn't be able to conceal myself when he leaned back. Now it was him who looked overwhelmed, and I could see his cock twitch.

“Completely shaved?”

“Yeah?”

“That was…” He cleared his throat and stared between my legs like he hadn't seen a woman naked before. “It was a long time ago… Can I touch?” He looked up at me with those big puppy eyes, and to my own surprise, I sat down over his legs. Straddling him with the soles of my feet pressed against the outside of his thighs. He could see everything.

A loud moan fell from his lips just by the sight of me like that as he dragged a hand over and over his member.

“Is this just for me?” He whispered, running his hands on the inside of my thighs. “Or do you give yourself to other men like this?”

I shook my head.

“Just you. You make me crazy.”

“Yeah?” Keith leaned forward and kissed my knee, then the inside of my thigh.

“I don't know what's happening with me…”

Keith smiled sweetly, then he turned his full attention to my pussy again. Carefully he put two fingers against me, shaped like a V, and massaged my outer lips, feeling my smooth skin. He breathed heavily, and after a while he let his middle finger drag between the lips, collecting my wetness. I could feel him stroke a spot higher up that made my whole body tingle, but to my disappointment, he just dragged his fingertip there teasingly. Instead, his goal was to penetrate me with his finger, and I wasn't all prepared for how rough he would do it. His fingers were long and thick, so when he pushed it in quite violently, my entrance cramped up at first and the pain shot out to my limbs.

“So tight... So tight...” he whispered. I had closed my eyes from the shock, but when he had started to pump his middle finger in and out of me in an even rhythm, I opened my eyes. The image before me shocked me because Keith had pulled out his thickness and jerked himself off in the same rhythm that he finger fucked me in. He was even bigger when I saw his cock like that, even while his big hand held it. He let his finger slip out of me and looked at me with such a sweet expression it was hard for me to not giggle.

“What?” He asked, showing off his deep dimple in his cheek. I giggled again, and he dragged his hands over my thighs. After having been watching each other for a while, he moved me away from him. The thought of him being pleased and finished stressed me, but he just pulled off his boxers completely so I could see his cock fully exposed. Had Tim been that big? Far from it. Did he really push that into girls? It wasn't possible. I continued to stare. I had just seen Tim's and had never really looked at it. I had chosen to never go down on him, and we had sex in the dark, but here I now sat next to a grown man that I had the feeling was quite well endowed. I wish I could say it was pretty, but a man's genitals were something else. It looked scary to me.

Keith smiled and pulled me closer so I could have my head against his shoulder, then he laid my hand on his thigh so I could decide myself if I wanted to touch.

“It's okay, honey, take your time…” he said and dragged his fingers through my hair. I looked up at him. It was so nice how sweet he was about it all and how much he took care of me. He really was such a man. I kissed him again and pushed my nose tip against his cheek. It felt like I was falling for him. That sweet, wonderful man. With his big cock. I looked down again and wrapped my fingers around him, feeling his girth and weight in my hand. Keith made a deep exhalation, but let me explore by myself. I dragged my hand all the way up to the head, feeling the mushroom tip against my palm. It was really wet, and I took the wetness in my hand when I dragged my hand all the way down to his balls. I looked at them a bit confused. I didn't know if I should touch them. I had never heard about that. I looked back at Keith, who sat with his head leaned back against the headrest, and he seemed to understand what I was wondering.

“I want you to play with them, roll them in your hands, squeeze them a bit carefully…” His voice was much deeper than before, so I looked at him with the biggest eyes. He smiled at me lovingly.

“You're so cute. Such a good girl.” I giggled a little at his praise and then looked down at his cock again, still in my hand.

I sat up a little so I could use both my hands, so with one hand I started to roll his balls in my hand; it felt a bit awkward, and Keith probably felt it too because he spoke up.

“Spit on them… Spit in your hands, baby...”

I looked at him confused, so instead he took my hands and pulled them towards his mouth where he spit several times into them. Long, watery saliva threads landed in my hands, but I wasn't grossed out. All of it was sexy in the heat of the moment. When I started to roll his balls in my hand again, they glided better, and with his hand over mine, we jerked his slick cock. He showed me the pressure he wanted. His breathing became more heavy with every stroke. I saw how his t-shirt had ridden up and how I could see a deep v-line but also a hint of abs. I leaned back looking at him with furrowed brows and how his wide chest rose and fell with each deep breath. He was so gorgeous. He was so sexy. I released his balls so I could touch myself, but when Keith noticed, he pulled me up over him and steered my pussy towards his cock.

“Take it. Fuck me.” He said it lowly, but I didn't dare. It was too big. “Take my cock. Take daddy's cock, baby girl.”

I looked at his face intensely, meeting his dark, lustful gaze. I wanted to but also didn't. I needed to make a decision. But not then and there, because when I looked out the window, I saw our neighbor Mr. Gardner look through the window, straight at us.

×

[silver-soul00]

This is an extremely sensitive post to make because I am going to try yes to dismantle this narrative that someone have about Tyler, but still trying to be somewhat amenable to confrontation.

I had already made posts inherent in the problematic nature of the ship with Tyler and how unsuitable he is as a partner (or in general just impossible for him to have feelings for Wednesday with the information we have now).

“Tyler genuinely smiled after talking to Wednesday.”

A smile is not necessarily a sign of genuineness. Social psychology teaches us that a smile can be used as a tool to manipulate or reassure.

In the context of the series, Tyler proves adept at earning Wednesday's trust through seemingly sincere behavior.

For example, the way he engages her on their “first date” is carefully constructed to leverage her passions and preferences, a classic example of “emotional mirroring,” a manipulative technique that creates an apparent connection.

Obviously, the date was carried out to cheat and remove Wednesday from her room so that Laurel could enter Wednesday's room and carry out the plan (with Thing stabbed I might add)

Moreover, Tyler's smile may reflect personal satisfaction with her success in manipulating her, rather than genuine feelings.

This type of behavior is common in manipulators, who use nonverbal signals to build a false perception of trust and affection.

“He said he liked killing because he was possessed by the Hyde.”

Tyler's statement during interrogation, “I enjoyed it,” cannot be ignored as simply an expression of his Hyde. Although it is true that the Hyde is a monstrous aspect of his personality, the relationship between the “monster” and the human in Tyler is complex.

Studies of individuals with dissociative behavior show that the sense of pleasure felt in negative actions, even under pressure, is often indicative of an at least partially consensual will.

Moreover, the way Tyler expresses himself suggests not distress or remorse, but complacency. This is a sign of moral disengagement, a psychological mechanism in which a person justifies his actions through emotional detachment.

“Wednesday was furious because of betrayal, not because of the murders.”

Reducing Wednesday's anger to personal betrayal alone ignores the depth of her character. Wednesday is motivated by a strong sense of justice, as seen in her constant efforts to uncover the truth and protect others, particularly the marginalized.

Her reaction is a combination of anger at personal betrayal and outrage at the murders committed by Tyler.

The episode in which Eugene is almost killed is emblematic: Wednesday is devastated by the idea of losing a friend to Tyler's senseless violence.

Her guilt and determination to avenge him show that she considers the murders a central issue, not a secondary one.

"He was tortured, drugged, abused to unlock the Hyde”

It is true that Laurel manipulates and unlocks Tyler's Hyde side through cruel methods.

Tyler is a victim of abuse and there is no compromise on that...but once the Hyde is active, Tyler shows that he is a willing participant in Laurel's plans.

There are no signs that Tyler tries to resist or escape his condition.

On the contrary, he fully immerses himself in the role of assassin and enjoys tormenting Wednesday during the scene in the police station.

This kind of behavior is consistent with what the theory of submission to coercive power describes: an individual who is initially a victim can become an active perpetrator if he or she derives benefit or pleasure from the new condition.

“Wednesday is not an angel, she hurt normies and almost tortured Tyler.”

Comparing Wednesday's actions to Tyler's is a classic example of whataboutism, a rhetorical technique that seeks to distract from the actions of one character by highlighting the flaws of another.

Remember that Tyler still harmed and hurt loved ones in Wednesday's

Wednesday's actions, while questionable, are always motivated by a sense of justice or self-defense.

Her extreme behaviors (such as the piranhas in the pool) are directed against people who have done harm, while Tyler targets innocent victims to satisfy his own instincts or to please Laurel.

Wednesday is not perfect but through the series understands when she is wrong or not, such as admiring Wheems only on the finale.

On this point, however, the novel did a better job, where the vigilante mentality is felt more and she thinks so much about the fact that she cares what people think.

“Tyler hated her so much he kissed her and planned a date.”

The argument that Tyler could not hate Wednesday because he kissed her and planned a date is naive. Emotional manipulation often involves seemingly romantic acts to gain the victim's trust.

Tyler exploits Wednesday's feelings to distract her from the truth and to assure her that he is “on her side.”

This is an example of emotional triangulation, a manipulative technique in which the manipulator alternates between affection and betrayal to confuse and control the victim.

"They liked each other and were in a toxic situation, not a toxic relationship"

Tyler and Wednesday's relationship is inherently toxic because it is based on lies, manipulation, and violence.

According to healthy relationship theories, an authentic relationship requires mutual trust, respect and open communication. None of this is present between Tyler and Wednesday.

Their dynamic is defined by a profound inequality: Tyler is in control of information and exploits Wednesday's emotional vulnerability, while she is kept in the dark about her true nature. This asymmetry is the very definition of a toxic relationship.

But in general, this post presents a common narrative that tends to confuse victimization and personal responsibility.

Being a victim does not eliminate personal responsibility

The fact that Tyler was abused, drugged, and manipulated to activate his Hyde is a significant element of his background. However, the psychology of victimization makes it clear that undergoing trauma does not automatically justify all of an individual's subsequent actions.

According to the concept of posttrauma agency, an abused person still has a decision-making capacity, even if it is affected by the trauma suffered.

After his Hyde is activated, Tyler shows no signs of inner conflict or attempts to rebel against Laurel, his manipulator.

On the contrary, he embraces his role complacently, declaring that he took pleasure in killing.

This behavior suggests a conscious choice to indulge his dark nature, despite the Hyde's traumatic origin.

“Wednesday loves murder, so they are meant to be together.”

This statement is based on a superficial understanding of Wednesday's character. Although Wednesday has a fascination with the macabre and a dark personality, she is not motivated by a sadistic pleasure in killing. On the contrary, her actions are guided by a strong sense of justice.

For example:

The piranhas in the pool are punishment for those who bullied his brother.

Her obsession with the Hyde case stems from a desire to protect her friends and other students at Nevermore.

Wednesday never kills without a reason related to justice or self-defense.

Tyler, in contrast, shows a pleasure in committing murder.

This pleasure is completely incompatible with Wednesday's worldview.

Their apparent affinity is superficial: she loves the macabre in an aesthetic and moral sense, while he embraces destructive mayhem without remorse.

The “innocent victim” narrative in social psychology

The idea that being a victim of abuse automatically makes one an innocent person is common, but psychologically incorrect. In reality, traumatized people may develop destructive or abusive behaviors toward others, but this does not eliminate their moral responsibility.

According to the “cycle of abuse” theory, victims of abuse can sometimes become perpetrators, but this does not excuse them from their actions. Tyler is a victim of Laurel, but he becomes an active accomplice in her plan. He shows awareness and pleasure in his actions, which go beyond mere submission to Laurel's control.

The manipulation of Wednesday's emotions.

Tyler not only kills, but also exploits Wednesday's feelings to manipulate her. He presents himself as the sweet, caring guy who tries to understand her, but this mask falls away completely when his role as Hyde is revealed.

The scene in the police station is emblematic:

Tyler humiliates Wednesday with a monologue in which he reveals how easy it was to deceive her.

He shows a complete lack of empathy or remorse, using betrayal as a psychological weapon.

This dynamic is not a basis for a healthy relationship, but an example of emotional manipulation and relational toxicity.

The concept of “meant to be together”

The idea that Tyler and Wednesday are “meant to be together” because they both have a dark side completely ignores the foundations of healthy relationships. According to John Gottman's relationship theories, successful relationships are based on:

- Mutual trust

- Respect

- Honest communication

None of these elements are present between Tyler and Wednesday.

On the contrary, their relationship is based on deception, betrayal, and violence. The fact that Tyler and Wednesday share an interest in the macabre is not enough to build a relationship, especially when this interest manifests itself in completely opposite ways.

Relationships similar to the one hypothesized between Tyler and Wednesday, which are based on dynamics of manipulation, deception, and trauma, are often considered highly problematic.

According to the work of Lundy Bancroft in her book Why Does He Do That? Inside the Minds of Angry and Controlling Men,” relationships in which one partner manipulates the other cannot be considered healthy. Manipulation, such as that displayed by Tyler toward Wednesday, undermines mutual trust and creates an environment of emotional control and abuse.

Healthy relationships require transparency and respect.

Tyler exploits Wednesday's feelings by building a connection based on lies and betrayal.

This type of behavior creates an unbalanced power dynamic in which one partner maintains control by exploiting the other's emotional vulnerability.

Victimization does not excuse toxic behaviors

Abuse cycle theory (Walker, 1979) shows how victims of abuse can develop abusive behaviors, but emphasizes that this does not excuse or justify such actions. Tyler, despite his traumatic past and manipulation by Laurel, demonstrates an active pleasure in killing and manipulation.

Furthermore, a study by McNulty and Fincham (2008) on forgiveness and personal responsibility in relationships points out that:

Suffering trauma does not eliminate personal responsibility for subsequent actions.

Healthy relationships require mutual commitment to avoid destructive behavior, even in the presence of trauma.

Tyler, as far as we have seen, does not show remorse or an attempt to right his wrongs, which makes it difficult to imagine a redemptive relationship with Wednesday.

The importance of equality and respect

According to Gottman's model of successful relationships (The Seven Principles for Making Marriage Work), relationships flourish when partners share a sense of mutual respect and engage in open communication.

However, in the Tyler-Wednesday dynamic, Tyler exploits an advantageous position by knowing the truth about his identity as Hyde while Wednesday is kept in the dark.

Recall how betrayed Wednesday felt because, thinking placing trust after so long might be good for her, she eventually found herself stabbed in the back

The relationship is based on systematic deception, which makes genuine trust impossible.

Gottman points out that without a foundation of respect and transparency, relationships are doomed to failure or, worse, become toxic.

The idealization of toxic relationships

A study by Knox et al. (2000) on the idealization of toxic relationships in the media shows that romantic narratives involving manipulation and toxicity can negatively influence audience perceptions of real relationships.

Young viewers, in particular, tend to normalize abusive behaviors when portrayed as romantic or inevitable.

In the case of Tyler and Wednesday, the idea that “both are dark and therefore meant to be together” is an example of this idealization:

It ignores the real harm caused by manipulation and violence.

It romanticizes a dynamic that, in real life, would be devastating to the psychological well-being of both partners.

Psychological impacts on victims of manipulation

Studies on victims of emotional manipulation, such as Stark's (2007) in Coercive Control, reveal that relationships such as the one hypothesized between Tyler and Wednesday can lead to:

Chronic distrust: The difficulty of trusting others after such a profound experience of betrayal.

Emotional trauma: Victims of manipulation often suffer from anxiety, depression and a distorted perception of future relationships.

Self-isolation: Wednesday, already naturally inclined to protect her emotions, may further close herself off from the world after being betrayed in such a brutal way. But still in this case we could specify that Wednesday will be even more careful about placing her trust, since right now she trusts Enid and the other Nevermore friends who fought against Crackstone much more

IN CONCLUSION

Remembering that this is yes an analysis but not necessarily a gallows, anyone who appreciates the ship is not necessarily a bad person, you simply have to bring data and sources to the table when you have to discuss and from my perspective rather than romanticize this relationship, it would be more constructive to use their dynamic as a narrative example of how toxic relationships can negatively affect both partners and serve as a warning to recognize and avoid similar dynamics in real life.

Rather create stories where Tyler is not a murderer, Weyler stories like this I would love to read so much