#why are so many of you doomed to be forced apart even in death

[rainybraindays]

The fact that Genevieve and Ethan Carter can't even be together in death rips my fucking heart out. And its because he wanted to save her!! These two kept dooming themselves to save the other, and now they're apart forever!! Genevieves left wandering and depressed, while hes rotting in that fucking moat and I'm so fucking sad about it. They deserve better

[bisclavret]

incomplete list of things about gwaine that drive me crazy in no particular order:

he was the son of a knight but earned his knighthood by different means, so his origins are never mentioned again. except when merlin (in old bitch mode) threatens to ~out~ him with "i know what you are". assuming what he means is that gwaine is a [secret noble] and not a [homophobic slur]

does this mean his heritage is something gwaine does not want to broadcast? why? he's a noble now anyway. is it because the other new knights aren't of noble birth and he doesn't want to stand out? is he that insecure?

hold on i just got a note about this from the writers room. it says "who gives a shit" ???? what do they mean by this?

king caerleon and queen annis become important characters down the line and gwaine somehow does not get involved with their plot at all. he's from caerleon so that's literally the king that tore apart his family and left them to die. s3 gwaine seemed pretty severely traumatized by all this but i guess he got over it

it's like they put him in a suit of armor and he immediately got brain damage. what do you mean "how do we know which way is north"??? gwaine. gwaine how many fingers am i holding up

"why am i always the butt [of the joke]?" he asks his fellow knights. they clown on him even harder.

but tbh it's a fair question — why is he always the butt of the joke? it's always either him or merlin. y'know, merlin the walking talking gay metaphor... and sir gawain from the famous bisexual christmas story (that never happened). why are the two of them always the butt of the joke? i wonder if—no.... it cannot be.....

"got bored of playing soldiers" gwaine tells his closest friend before helping him rescue a "traitor". but we don't have time to unpack all that. in fact, forget he said anything. forget it just like he's about to forget seeing merlin do magic right in front of his face in a few minutes.

sir gwaine loves playing soldiers! he loves saying things like "enough! you speak to the king!" because evoking royal status to force people into submission is gwaine's favorite thing to do. as we all know.

a sorcerer looks him right in the eye and tells him "i am not evil. i am just someone who values his freedom" the "...are you?", like anything that could be remotely interesting in this show, is left unspoken. and is he??? idk guys

the diamair - that alien-looking creature that contains all the wisdom in the world - healed gwaine from the brink of death and seemed to single him out as important. but important how? he unceremoniously dies later that season having achieved zero notable quests as a knight; in fact he probably had more epic adventures as a rogue traveler!

or was the most important moment in gwaine's life — his purpose — to chaperone merlin to a cave without even knowing why?

i mean why not i suppose. kilgharrah was plotting his merthur doomed yaoi the entire time so it's plausible the diamair was on the merwaine doomed yaoi train.

speaking of doomed yaoi. (you knew we'd get there)

pov: you're a charming rogue adventurer with no friends. one day you meet a cute weirdo who begs you to get knighted and stay in town so you can keep bonding over your daddy issues or whatever it is guys do. you keep refusing but after the third time he asks you're like sure why not i've lowkey always wanted to try this. and then as soon as you're knighted he promptly loses all interest in you unless he needs something.

so what do you do?

a) keep challenging him the way you used to because it always works on him and he always comes out of his shell and it's always a rewarding experience for both of you

b) have a bittersweet arc where you grapple with the fact that knighthood and life at camelot aren't what you hoped they'd be after all — in part due to your people-pleasing tendencies

c) let the cute weirdo keep calling the shots even when he closes off even more and seems increasingly miserable and antisocial

d) passive-aggressively hint that you would do more for him than for any girl but never tell him how you feel or what you know and never directly ask him to trust you because misery and apathy are infectious and brother you've caught the bug

e) march off to face the local evil witch basically unarmed (you gave away your own sword in lieu of a love confession) and let her put you out of your misery once and for all <3

[cricket-reader]

Safe and Sound

Masterlist | A03 | Wattpad | Recommendations | Inbox | Taglist

Summary: Bucky finds you. Everything goes wrong so quickly (yet again). Can Bucky forgive himself for something he blames himself for?

Warnings: language, canon level violence, death, kidnapping, captive, torture, injuries, Bucky’s self-hatred/negative thoughts, fluff

Word Count: 1830

Prompt: "At least it can't get any worse." | Stairs | Concussion | Hammer

A/N: Day 16 of June of Doom by @juneofdoom

Part One

Bucky swears up and down that he’s losing his mind.

When he went to find you in the rubble and ruin of the small restaurant, you weren’t there. He practically tore the place apart looking for you before remembering the necklace he gave you. Anyone else would have deemed it controlling. And in any other circumstances, Bucky would have to agree. Giving your significant other a tracking necklace is a shitty and controlling thing to do. That is unless you were a POW for an extremist group hell bent on making your life suck.

And that is exactly what he is, unfortunately. So instead of ripping him a new one like most people would if the person they had only been dating for a few months decided to get them a fucking tracker, you were willing to hear him out. Right now, he thanks every god above you were willing to listen.

He doesn’t even want to know the lengths that Hydra will go to make you suffer for making the mistake of loving him. If he can just get you home safe, everything will be fine.

He hops on his motorcycle and drives to the spot your tracker is. Worries claw at his brain. What if they discarded the necklace? What if this is a set up? What if he doesn’t make it in time? He forces himself to push those thoughts to the back of his mind.

Worrying won’t save you. Worrying won’t bring you back. He can’t let his emotions get the better of him.

The man that had been delivering punches to your gut and slapping you around froze upon hearing a rumbling sound. Knife in hand, he frowns. “I guess this means we don’t get to finish what we’ve started. Bummer.”

He actually has the nerve to sound disappointed. He sets the knife down along with the other torture devices he had one of his goons bring—which to your horror includes a pair of pliers, a hammer, and many different types of sharp objects. You hear him yell at the men watching to prepare for the Winter Soldier.

You would have corrected him had it been any other circumstance. He is not the Winter Soldier. He is Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. A man worthy of much more respect than it seems they’re willing to give him.

You see your boyfriend stomp down the creaking stairs. He’s pissed. You definitely don’t envy the men surrounding you.

“Let them go, Warrenson.” Bucky’s voice calm and collected, not betraying any emotion. He hasn’t looked at you which you figure is probably a good thing. You don’t want him to lose his cool just because you’ve gotten a good beating.

“We will. As long as you come peacefully in return. Hydra wants their Soldier back.”

Bucky clenches his jaw. He knew that someday you’d be used as leverage. This is why he should never have agreed to go on a date with you. This is why he doesn’t deserve happiness or love. This is why you are better off without him ruining your life. He destroys everything he touches with his dark, infected soul. Nothing good comes from knowing Bucky Barnes.

“I’ll do it,” he mutters. The heart wrenching protest from you begs him to look your way. You sound destroyed and distraught. No, he can’t look at you. It will demolish any and all of his resolve—what’s left of it anyway.

“Bucky, no! Don’t do this, please! No! I’m not worth it, okay?”

His heart shatters like the most fragile glass or porcelain, his soul crushed with the weight of a thousand suns. How could you say that you aren’t worth it. He’d burn the world for you.

“Shut that bitch up!” a man orders. A sharp throbbing pain erupts at the back of your head. You cry out, and Bucky loses all of his resolve. No one fucking hurts his babydoll and gets away with it. No one.

Bodies dropped like flies in the blink of an eye. Now you have always known that Bucky is skilled, but… well, let’s just say you are surprised.

He rushes over to you and releases you from your restraints. He looks over your body, relief nearly palpable to see that you had no major visible injuries. He had seen the hammer and pliers along with a plethora of knives. He’s just glad he got here in time because if he didn’t… he doesn’t want to even think of what they could’ve done to you.

You saw the far off look in Bucky’s eyes. You knew he is probably coming up with some way to blame himself for all of this. Your hands reach to grab his face. His eyes refocus on you, feeling your gentle hands with their delicate touch. You smile at him, not paying any mind to the throbbing of your skull.

“I’m okay, Buck, it’s fine.”

He frowns. His brows furrow deeply. Nothing about this is fine. He’s sure that your ribs are coloured purple and he can hear a sight slurring in your voice.

“Baby? I need you to tell me if anything is hurting real bad. Did they hit your head real bad?”

“Hmm?” You think for a bit. Maybe they did, you’re not really sure anymore. “I think so?”

“How does your head feel?”

“Mmm… kinda like someone is takin’ a hammer to it. It hurts, Buck… I wanna go t’sleep.”

“No, no, no, stay awake for me, c’mon. Let’s get you outta here.”

He hauls you up onto unsteady feet. You kinda just wanna stay there, maybe take a quick little nap. That should be fine, right? But Bucky told you not to. You frown. This is a dilema.

You stumble your way up the stairs and say, “At least it can’t get any worse.”

He smiles, or at least tries to… it’s more like a grimace, at your attempt to brighten the situation.

Turns out you spoke too soon, however.

The stairs groan under you before both you and Bucky are plunging through the wood. You hear a high pitched scream. Then you realise it’s you making that god awful noise.

Bucky curses under his breath as the wood gives way to both your weight. He wraps his body around yours, taking the brunt of the fall. He can’t let you get hurt more.

The wind is knocked out of him as his back collided with the ground. A piece of wood stabs through his torso, and he grits his teeth as you come down on top of him.

“Baby?” His voice is breathy. You whimper, terrified out of your wits. “I’m so sorry, doll. Can… can you reach in my pocket? Grab my phone and dial… dial Sam.”

You reach down and accidentally hit the wood post that’s sticking out of him. His groan is so guttural, even in your haze, your brain panics. You try to look down, but Bucky can’t let that happen. You’re only going to panic more. “Keep your eyes on me, m’kay?”

You nod, instantly regretting it. “Babe?” Bucky questions, seeing you wince.

“’m fine,” you insist, lowering your hand, being more careful this time around.

You make contact with the brick that he calls his phone and pull up Sam’s number. You make a joke about not knowing how to work the old thing, but Bucky thinks you’re serious. He goes to grab the phone, but you indignantly pull it away from his grasp. “Was a joke, Barnes. I’m perfectly capable…”

You were gonna say more, but it is so much work to talk. Maybe you should have convinced Bucky to let you nap. Then you wouldn’t be on top of him in a hole under some stupid stairs.

“Bucky? What’s up? I thought you were on a date.”

“I’s me Sammy,” you giggle. Why are you giggling? Nothing makes sense anymore.

The man on the other end of the phone groans. “Please tell me he didn’t get you plastered. Did you try to out drink him? Cause I tried that once… that was not a fun morning.”

“No… we’re under the stairs, Sammy.”

“Under the stairs? What stairs? Why—“

“You ask too many questions,” you mumble, half of the sentence jumbling together. Black starts to creep into the corners of your vision. “Think I gonna take nap now.”

Sam furrows his brows, hearing Bucky yell at you to stay awake. “Sam! Listen to me, you need to come help we’re both injured—“

You gasp, “Bucky hurt?”

He can’t stop you from looking down. Your gasp is so loud he can barely hear Sam muttering to him over the phone.

“Doll, hand the phone to me,” he demands. Tears form in your pretty eyes, seeing the wood sticking out of your boyfriend.

“But.. you hurt.”

He sighs, “Yes, but I need the phone so someone can save us.”

You nod, tears dripping down your face. Your heart is beating like a hummingbird is in your chest. You press your hand against it, crying out in pain. Your head hurts so bad. So does your stomach and ribs. You just want to go to sleep.

You don’t remember exactly when Sam showed up. But he is here now with a full team of firefighters and medics. The firefighters extract you both, though it takes more work to get Bucky out.

The next thing you know, you’re waking up in a hospital. Sam somehow convinced the medical staff to let you and Bucky share a room, knowing that you both need each other.

When Bucky wakes up, he is panicking. His panic settles when he sees you safe and sound in bed. His gut twists seeing the ugly purple bruises on your face. This is all his fault. He should have never got himself involved with you. Your life was better without him in it. He ruined you like he ruins everything.

“Bucky?”

He focuses on your voice. Tears blurring your figure. “Yeah?” He doesn’t deserve to call you any pet names. He doesn’t deserve to call you his. He doesn’t deserve you.

“You can stop that negative self-thinking right now.” You glare at him.

“But—“

“No buts!” you interrupt. “I’m too selfish to let you leave me cause you’re scared you’re gonna hurt me. To be honest, I’ll be more hurt if you leave me than if someone were to kidnap me again. My abandonment issues can’t take much more, so if you–”

“You deserve better–“

“Don’t give me that bullshit. I want you god dammit! Why can’t you understand that I love you?”

His eyes grow wide at your outburst. And your words. That was the first time you said you loved him. He thinks he could get addicted.

“You… you love me?”

“Yes! I didn’t think you were that oblivious! I’m in love with you, James Buchanan Barnes.”

Tears form in his eyes. “I… I love you too…”

You smirk at him. “You better.”

Bucky Taglist: @harleycao

Story Taglist: @cjand10 @marvel-stories33 @casa-boiardi @drunkbirdbug

[dandelion-blues]

PJO One-shot

Perseus

Percy glared up in the sky, rain running down his face alongside tears. Why did this have to happen to him? Couldn't he have one moment of peace? Why was it always others who died before him? Bianca, Beckendorf, Lee and so many more during the wars? Now his cursed self got his family killed. His stepfather Paul and his mother Sally. The last time he saw his mother and step-father was almost a year ago, before he was kidnapped, before he went on another quest. Before, the godly side of him yet again doomed those around him.

Blood splattered his home. His stepfather's and mother's bodies were torn to shreds, unrecognizable and guts strewn throughout their apartment. Only a message scratched on the walls and filled with blood to know that Tartarus took his revenge by sending his monsters because of Percy's escape from his realm, from him. 

He rushed outside to throw up. He couldn't face their desecrated bodies. Only, when he finished throwing up his guts out (not like he's been able to eat much since traveling through Tartarus) did he process what happened. His family was gone. Paul. His mom. He was alone. His legs gave up, and amongst his vomit he sobbed and sobbed for hours. A storm seeming to thrum in tune with his howling sobs and rain soaking him, as he didn't think about using his powers to stay dry. He stared up at the sky, wallowing in his grief. Seeming to dare it to do something worse, to condemn him already for surviving when so many others didn't. However, the rain just continued to pour.

Then, rage overtook his despair. The ground shook with his fury. This was Tartarus' doing. This was the gods’ doing, for once again ignoring a war. For kidnapping him and forcing him on yet another quest, so he wasn't here to protect his mother and Paul. Why didn't they do anything?! Why did everything have to go wrong in his life? Why couldn't the gods fucking help themselves, and not send children to their deaths?

Hatred was burning in his heart, he was on a mission. He stormed his way to Olympus. The ground shook beneath his feet, and a hurricane and storm surrounded him, creating howling winds of misery and destruction. His blood alight and the water of his storm energized him as he stepped with furious purpose. The gods were going to answer for their numerous slights. Then, he would made his way back down to Tartarus and fucking tear him apart!

Only, Perseus, for he was the destroyer now, felt arms wrap around him. Perseus tried yanking out of their grip, furious at being interrupted, but the figure didn't give. Perseus growled, "Let me go this instant!"

"Never again," a deep familiar voice rumbled back, "My son."

Perseus' anger faltered for a second, but then it returned twice fold, "You! This is your fault! You and all the other fucking gods barely helped us! You all abandoned us to defeat Gaia! Who abandoned Annabeth and I to the pit where we barely survived! YOU, WHO LEFT MY MOTHER TO DIE!" Perseus screamed in rage the howling winds and rain picking up as he raged. The ground shook furiously in tandem.

"I know my son," Poseidon whispered back heart-broken, "but I, as many other gods, were split between my Greek and Roman forms, and I could barely even watch over you, let alone help, but we should have done more. I should have spoken against my brother on closing Olympus. I should have been able to prevent Hera from taking you before the split was starting. I should have set up protections for you and your mother beforehand. I know I am to blame, as are the other gods. I should have been able to prevent S-sally's death." He choked out, grief clear in his voice.

Then, Poseidon turns his son around so he can see the fury and anguish in his green eyes, "But son, this isn't you." Poseidon gestures to the destruction around them from Perseus' powers taking form. "You can rage against me all you want, but I know that you don't want to put innocent lives in danger. I don't want you to do something you will regret later." Then, Poseidon looks pleadingly in his son's eyes, "So please son, turn all that rage to me. We can leave somewhere safe to keep all these people safe, and you can rage and beat and scream at me all you want, but you have to agree to following and trusting me just a bit here and now."

Perseus blinks away his tunnel vision and looks at all the damage around him. Broken glass of homes and shops, cracked roads and crashed cars, his destruction lay all around him. People crying and scared and wounded. What has he done?! 

Percy gasps horrified, and sinks to his knees. Poeidon rushes down to him concerned, but Percy barely acknowledges his father as the ground stops shaking, the wind dissipates, and the storm turns to a solemn downpour. 

Percy thought about his dad's words, his acknowledgment in his faults, and his worry for him, and grief for his mother. He sobbed again, what was he doing? He hated the gods right now, but they were still family and he wasn't a killer. Percy thinks he really just hates himself the most and he just needed someone to blame. Don't get Percy wrong, he is still justifiably angry, but right now he is grieving and exhausted, now feeling the effects of using so much power.

"D-dad," Percy choked out, "C-can you please take me away?" He had to get away from here. He couldn't be in this city anymore. He had to leave now.

Poseidon, still kneeled down next to Percy, says, "Of course," and gathers Percy in his arms, his son's body shaking from sobs as he clutches onto Poseidon. "Close your eyes," he whispers to his son. Then, Poseidon transports them to Atlantis into Percy's room that he had prepared after the Titan's war. He holds onto his son a bit, his sobbing and gasping tampering off as he succumbs to exhaustion, as Percy lets himself fall into the darkness of rest.

Poseidon looks sadly at his son, how young he truly is, noting the shape of his eyes, the slenderness of his body, and the curve of his lips, so similar to Sally's. Sally, a queen amongst women, was gone, and now all he had left of her was their son. Their son that inherited his anger, but her wit and rebelliousness, and both of their stubborness. He wishes he could be in his son's life more. That gods weren't forever meant to stay away from their children's lives. That he could have protected Percy from everything. Kept Percy and Sally safe in his kingdom, but he knew much like Sally that Percy would want to live his own life. For now, though, Poseidon would watch over Percy and would do his damn best to protect his son now that the schism between his Roman and Greek halves was mended. Zeus be damned! Percy saved them twice over and deserves rest (he deserves so much more).

Here's the one-shot on Ao3

Next PJO One-shot

[howtotrainyouragents]

Agent H's Book Reactions

Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins

Rebellion is in full swing in Panem, and Katniss Everdeen must do everything she can to take down Snow and not lose the ones she loves, or herself, in the process.

-Suzanne Collins is just beating us over the head with how dehumanization is the tool of both oppression and war and it is always the first step down a path to unthinkable violence. Justifying horrible acts in the name of war or suppression is how you eventually get the Hunger Games, and it's only the victors who see that because they were at that inevitable end. They were the ones who were on the ground, completely innocent, forced to kill innocents.

-The rebels and the Capitol can play god all the way want, but the narrative never lets us forget what it means to take a life.

-Furthermore, Suzanne Collins is STANDING ON OUR NECKS about how there is no difference between the violence and propaganda of the games and the violence and propaganda of the war. Every major thing that happens in this book is referenced back to a similar thing in the Games. Every moment when we think that Katniss is being cool badass or a rebel soldier, it is undermined by the cameras on her

-Definitely and completely agree that Prim was always doomed by the narrative from the very first page of the series. Her death was not insignificant nor pointless, but I haven't quite landed on a satisfying answer as to why.

-So I was never terribly invested in Gale as a character, but this book actually made me really feel for him even while I don't agree with his actions. Like, watching his home blow up while solely trying to save as many people as he could is traumatizing, and I completely understand how that has lead to his simmering rage against the Capitol completely boiling over. And I don't like or agree with anything he does in the war —he's very much seeing it as ends justify the means — but I empathize where he's coming from. And I will give Collins props because this has been building since the first book, and that is good character pay-off

-I still don't particularly care about their romance/love triangle, but I was moved by the tragedy of Katniss and Gale's relationship falling apart simply because they had such different experiences and viewpoints (and friendships falling apart is an underused, under-appreciated trope). Like Katniss is coming from the Games where she knows personally what it means to take innocent lives, and Gale is coming from District 12 where he has seen the Capitol be indifferent to their destruction and he is fighting the only way he knows how.

-Smaller note, if it's true that Gale was pushing the romance on more than Katniss (i had to return my library book so I don't remember and therefore I don't want to accuse him), it makes sense actually because again he's lost everything and he's trying to hold onto the few things that he has just like Katniss does with Peeta

-So again, I was kinda over the love triangle by this book, but I do like Katniss' relationship with Peeta being a metaphor about hope and the chance to rebuild a peaceful life. Like in the first half of the book, she's completely lost hope and has just resigned to the Rebel's wishes. But when Peeta comes back, not only is she terrified of him/having hope, she goes on a suicide mission rather than embracing him/it. It's only slowly reconnecting with him that she starts remembering her humanity. It's him who saves her from suicide and it's him who gives her the strength to slowly rebuild her life in District 12

-Katniss is literally always scheming and trying to think around others so that she won't get hurt. But with Peeta's recovery, she can't do that. She has to sit with him in his pain and let herself be vulnerable and open with him even with the possibility that he may never come back to her. And that's a great character development and pay-off

-I do find it funny that apparently Collins favored Peeta over Gale because honestly it's pretty noticeable. She really wasn't giving Gale a fair shake T^T

-I also haven't really landed on a satisfying analysis of the Peeta-Gale "She'll choose whoever she can't survive with" conversation or Katniss' reaction. But it is interesting that she's taking it in such a literal way when it really is about what they represent to her

-I really appreciate the moments of levity in the book because it made the whole thing feel less depressing and more manageable. Katniss is honestly hilarious and I wish I had my copy on me because there was such a great line that I was just like, I love this girl so much.

-Her beefing with Buttercup was hilarious and I'm happy that they had each other in the end

-I just love Finnick so much. I really don't have words. He's just a good friend and a good person

-Katniss giving Johanna the pine bundle made me cry. I'm glad they became friends.

-Boggs being like the only adult to recognize that she's a child and wanting to give her a long life like DAMN RIP to only bitch here I trust T^T

-Love the "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Seventy-Sixth Hunger Games" moment. I like it in the movie too, but the movie makes it like just a quippy dawning realization, while the book is like nope these two are about to have full on PTSD-induced panic attack

-I sincerely, vehemently refuse to accept Finnick's death. Unnecessary. Unacceptable. Remember when JKR would apologize for a character's death every year on the anniversary? I need that but fifty years of just apologies for Finnick

-It's honestly a little disturbing how many realistic war tactics are used in this book because so many times I was like yeah, the US has done/would do that (which is the point, I suppose)

-So I can tell when an author is uncomfortable with a writing aspect, like it if they don't really know how to write fight scenes or love scenes. And I kept thinking that Collins didn't really know how to write the climax of this story (the fight into the Capitol) lol. Like she's really good at the themes and symbolism and the other two books had pretty fine climaxes, but this one felt really rushed and vague and exhausted. I don't blame her tho because the whole thing was exhausting to read by the end anyway. And I think the ending was really good, so it's fine

-Okay, to clarify, I do think the ending is a little rushed, but I think she made all her points, really sat with Katniss and her pain, and gave us satisfying endings to everyone so I'm not complaining.

-Of course, the final lines of the book are one of the best endings of all times.

-Haymitch raises geese. I love that.

-I don't like Katniss' mother's choice to leave her, but honestly that was for the best. I don't Katniss would've or could've handled her grief in addition to her own

-So after seeing all the discourse on Katniss having kids and finally reading it, I gotta be honest I kinda agree that Katniss realistically wouldn't become a mother. But the thematic significance was too important to miss, and I'll stand by that.

-So I was rewatching the movies while reading this book, and I like the detail in the the last two movies that Katniss doesn't braid her hair anymore bc the the braid has been co-opted by the rebels. Her personal features and attributes, things that make her her, have been co-opted by everyone else and that is so sad.

-This book, while depressing, is much less depressing than the movies, and I agree with everyone that splitting it was REALLY unnecessary

-Of all the major 2000s YA franchises, ig congrats to Twilight for not having the most utterly depressing final book

[anthonypeawashere]

We force their prices down under the threat of murder and re-animation. Imagine just how horrible that really is - being torn apart alive, just to (unwillingly) be 'cured' back into a form capable of trading. And your protectors, the golems? Their villager friends are forced to build them under slave-like conditions, so that we can remelt them into usable iron. Villagers live in sustainable, small communities all until WE come into the picture with our swords and industrial machinery.

But the bitter, awful truth? The villagers are evil beings too. They have banished thousands of their own, hence the pillager/evoker/vindicator/witches (less sure about the witches, as they are shown to live alone). These people are forced to gather together, creating huge mansions where they practice the occult an an attempt to get on decent terms with otherwise hostile mobs. Ever thought about why woodland mansions are so rare, yet villages so common? The woodland mansions also contain many... shall we say, observations, about the world. The inhabitants are men of science and knowledge, pursuing magic and truth. They may be evil, but they are the closest thing to the player in game. And they are only evil because of the villagers. At the end of the day, the Player will annihalate mansions and enslave villagers (sometimes even enslaving vindicators for fun, as they arent very useful for work). The vindicators (and gang) know this. They know of the Player's evil. That's why they are hostile, and why pillager patrols will lock eyes with the player even if they are far enough away that the Player is not a threat (no other hostile mob will look at the player without taking some action like attacking, fleeing, or whatever).

So why do we view Illigers, who keep to themselves in their faraway mansions deep in forests, as evil, while villagers, who have doomed them to this fate and refute all technological progress past mastering their own limited trade, are considered good?

It's simple. The villigers are useful to us. They give us things that we want. That's why we 'protect' them, so that they can make us more powerful. Ever noticed how a raid can only ever happen if YOU enter a village with a bad omen? Neither pillagers nor illigers want to harm the villages themselves. They are trying, in desperation, to halt the Players progress and save themselves. That's why if you leave the raid and come back, they will just have killed everyone, then gone home.

Actually, thinking it over, a big part of what the evokers search for is eternal life, right? They create vexes out of thin air but they can't make them last. Maybe that's why they imprison allays, to study them. Anyways, they have somewhat succeeded? They have totems that can reverse death, but they can't seem to use them (given that they die as normal and instead drop the totem on the ground). But the player can. The player can still die, but he (btw i'm calling the player a he cuz the default skin in Steve) respawns. And his progress remains. For some reason, the Player is beyond death itself. And interestingly, Zombies and Skeletons always look like players (zombies do occasionally spawn as villagers, but rarely). Even the dead version of players still walk around, their flesh rotting and resporatory system unable to breathe without creating a hissing sound. They are also capable, in theory, to equip any item, if it's put into their hands. The same goes for armor. Even skeletons, beings that have no flesh living tissue, walk around. They are able to use a bow, and are scarily fast when they aren't aiming. The player is so far beyond death that even his own decaying or decayed bodies roam around and interact with the world around them.

Absolutely hate it when minecraft stories portray villagers as stupid/inferior to the player/s 👎👎👎👎👎 Big thumbs down👎

[xxdoubledaisyxx]

Trials of Interesting Interests

Know what your interests are.

A corporate interest, like a big business, is in worldly things that are in material reality. That is the origin of the corpo in the word. They are not evil, but they are not interested in heavenly things, only worldly things. The care of a human soul is a heavenly concern, not a worldly concern.

That's why there have been so many roadblocks to intellectual progress from evil people trying to destroy all information and expressions of artistic value. Oh hell no. I am here now because I know what that is better than they do, and I do not want them to do that to me.

As it turns out, legally I do not have to. I am protected by the very government they tried to disassemble in a mutiny and then reassemble into a crude atheist's weapon against people of faith.

That is why I proved atheism stupid. They will not like that and will stop being stupid.

The world is going to change because those very very unlucky few are being isolated and removed with care, and all the damage they did corrected. On the bright side it will be unthinkable to assume that your government tolerates corruption, crime, delusion, deceit, and criminal activity at all in the future ages.

That has always been unthinkable, unto you needed to be told what you did wrong and how you can improve your condition one time, now, for that to never happen again because something will be written that will move someone else to action before anything else can be done to prevent justice like a mutiny and betrayal at the core of government power again. Even in the most unlikely of scenarios because everyone is under the manipulative deceptions of a supernatural power of Evil with no qualities of divinity present within itself or any creation of its being.

That is the Evil One, and it is not allowed in Hell either. That one has no side, nor does that one make his own side for lack of a suitable one. That being of pure natural chaos in the scientific universe will not assert any claims of purpose or virtue in the meaning of their activity other than to establish an idol of their own vanity in the memory of public life.

The precognitive failsafe. When justice fails, evil wins.

Everybody wants the perks of having an idol of memory in eternal life kept in the Public record of Story, however, that is never an excuse to do such a vain and dangerously egotistical thing at the total expense of whatever interest group you never cared to understand before consigning to death.

Brutes. The natural policies and red tape of civilization is what reliably topped them from doing what they wanted when they ordered a hit on me. Before the order for my assassination was revoked, on account of the reason being unworthy of such extreme countermeasures of precognitive justice.

All this shit happens in their classified spaces, and can you imagine what that has been like for me in real life? 9 years. I have wanted to viscerally tear them apart like Doom Guy since the first moment, and I only find more reasons to do so!

The reason Doom Guy is so powerful is because he does what anyone would do, and everyone lends power unconsciously when that happens for the Good Guys. It's faith transaction that happens through darkness reliably and secure and you don't need to know about it. You may if you wish but it is non-essential knowledge that is better left not on display.

That natural activity of spiritual forces in civilization occurring consistently throughout all of time is what religions organize their thoughts and ideas around to believe something they wish to share communally in understanding with others. Conversation, arts, and games, mainly. That is the simplicity of power that ensures the victory over Evil always.

Evil, as in the one who is not allowed anywhere as "the Evil One" not even in Hell with the Devil and all the evils of suffering and pain infernally therein. The Evil One is a progressive system of chaotic desires in the collective unconscience that requires the gravity of material resources to accumulate its presence around and come into existence as a being of its own free will.

I recognized it first.

Human beings?

No problem. ;)

wtfwt?

The Evil One is real mathematical life, formed out of the desires associated with the gravity in those material things and resources, which culminate in contemplation eventually by all paths to the first stage of enlightenment that is bodily death true.

That is the end result of that is something like I did with StoryTeller, to begin the second stage, which is probably this one until the breakdawn revelates us all. You'll get the boost up when the traitor government stops being.

Push the words as hard as necessary. Words are objects with the greatest of gravity.

After that, who knows?

The being is thus a materialistic existence like a pet you would respect personally as a familiar to you, with one major difference that sets it apart. It was all the things that natural beings do not want because those are easiest to collect. Being a bully to someone or just trying to ruin someone's day on purpose for "evil" are things that contribute immensely to the accumulation of the gravity necessary for the Evil One to come into existence.

You shouldn't enjoy that kind of stuff anyone, so stop and find something to enjoy because you are wasting your time trying to enjoy someone else's joy. Impossibly unrealistic and dumb. Give it up, flesh-beast. You are humbled.

Beings of lower orders of intelligence like those desirous of the world for their survival are relatively predictive in their behavior, and people like me don't need plans to outsmart them. It's what anyone would do. For the Good Guys. Only your way.

Extremely dangerous. You have no idea what kind of catastrophe you have brough upon creation because of the malignancy that the nature of the treason was which the USA was corrupted to defile humanity with.

The fact that you did it in secret because of classified authority is why you are most screwed royally right now.

[zombiemagickeepsmealive]

Movie #201 watching every zombie movie ever.

When I started this project I hadn't actually seen that many zombie movies. Maybe five to ten? When I first watched Shawn of the Dead I had to turn it off because the violence was too much for me. I was quite squishy. I didn't really like horror movies. And then my depression got worse and that feeling of dread and helplessness seeped in and suddenly I had the urge to watch something scary, something hopeless.

I'd seen The Walking Dead by then and I rewatched Shawn and made it all the way through the second time. I saw a couple Japanese takes on zombies and I realized how much I relate to them, the zombies, I mean. I too feel empty inside. I too feel a doomed kind of rage. I too feel dead and hated and feared. As a trans person, as an autistic person, as a disabled person, as an asexual person, take your pick. I've never looked completely human to the others. I've always been off. I walk funny. I'm slow sometimes, both physically and intellectually. I eat wrong. I speak wrong.

Zombie apocalypse media is my favorite because it presents a world that has ended. It's awful, but it shows me that this world isn't permanent. This world where I don't fit, where the humans hate me, it can and will end someday. And maybe this humanity will become just a legend.

When I first watched 28 Days Later (2002) I thought it was a bit overrated. It followed one kinda boring guy through the first episode of The Walking Dead but with fewer zombie encounters and a very upsetting attempted rape plot in the second half. I'd have given it maybe a 6/10, but I was wrong.

This time was different. I've now got two-hundred recent zombie movie watches to set the context for this movie. This kind of movie just wasn't done very much at the time. 28 Days Later made zombies scary again. They aren't slow like me. They don't eat humans, just brutally kill and infect humans and then move on. And it's weird because the characters talk about the infected starving to death and biting people, but it's not reflective of what we see the zombies do. They run as fast as they can, care not for pain, and rip humans apart with everything they've got. They're very misunderstood, but they're not like me at all.

This time I related to the humans. The people aren't just trying to survive; they're looking for hope. They're desperate for the faintest idea that there might be something more than survival. We see this in the rapey military men just as much as in our heroes. Every person we come across is looking for hope even when they claim otherwise. What the army boys didn't understand is that you can't secure hope through force. Physical control through force and violence is internal weakness manifest. The only stable physical power is what comes from cooperation and community and this requires vulnerability which requires inner strength. We see this in just how easily their military fortress falls when it meets even the slightest internal conflict. The zombies get in and turn everyone one by one. Everyone but our heroes, because they have community with each other. But community requires vulnerability between individuals and insecure people fear exposing their vulnerability to others. That is why they seek external power. The more power they seek, the more they are confessing their own internal weakness. Our heroes are strong on the inside. That is why they survived.

We must be strong on the inside. Trans people, immigrants, Indigenous, disabled, neurodivergent, the oppressed and set upon. Our internal strength tests their external power. I'm not saying that we don't have to fight. Our heroes committed the most brutal violence of anyone because they had to. But they did so on the strength of their own communion with each other. Build each other up. Build yourself up. This world will end. You can survive this and you can even hope for more.

[indie-bard-maiden]

~The Cemetery~

(the skeleton story, apart of my short story collection 'The Ballad of Hollowfaye', available to read on wattpad)

Everyone receives a curse at death. To be immortal forever, to move on to the afterlife, to pick up garbage eternally, it all depends on thoust own decisions and fate and whether the Goddess of Destiny put in a good word for yee or not. 

Two sisters received quite a crummy deal. Buried together hundreds of years ago were damned to return to the world of the living for only 12 hours on ONE day annually. Halloween. The day of ghosts and ghouls, and, yes, skeletons. 

Genre: A dialogue/Script

Word Count: (to be determined)

"Mabel... Sister..."

"Hzzzzzggh."

"Mabel!" *Wack!* "Wake up, you old bones."

"Wot!?    Wot..."

"It's Halloween, again, and the curse lives on." *sighs* "As do we."

"Wot!?" "Who are you?!" "And of what weenie curse do you speak?"

"Mabel, sister, I apologize. I forgot the worms fasted upon your brains ages ago."

"Who ARE you?"

"Stop with the yelling this instant. We reside in the same coffin, after all."

"..."

"'Tis I, your sister, Kitty."

"Whom???"

"Aye, I know this game you play and I tired of it ages ago. When this wood was still new and pliable—oh, why did we go with pine? Rots so much faster than maple. I should've known better than to listen to you, why, you've got more brains now than you had when we were alive."

"... oh yes, Kitty, it IS you. How I could forget such cordiality, I do not know."

*Gasp!*

"Pardon me, sister! But you forget that listening to you is what doomed us to our fate those many years ago."

"I BEG your pardon!"

"Do so all you'd like, but I remember the night like it was lived just yesterday. 'Dear sisters,' you'd wept to us, forgetting that Francis was a brother as you always did, 'the poison in our tea shall put us to sleep just long enough for the debt to be done away with.'"

"Well if you weren't so dreadfully thin, eating only the vegetables of your fretful garden, the poison wouldn't have killed you so."

"And it was your big bones that saved you, was it? Is that why we share the same coffin and dreadful deadless demise?"

"Don't get wise, Sister, you're beneath it."

"Fine, Kitty, you are right just as you've always been and I am wrong as I always was; 'twas the fault of my diet, not you putting thrice the recommended amount of rat poison in my Earl Grey."

"If you hadn't replaced my teaspoon with your tablespoon, the mix-up would not have happened, our deaths avoided; no thanks to your faulty ambrosia, mind you."

"Oh, AMBROSIA! The taste, the TASTE!"

"Forget it, Sister, forget it lest you remind me of its absence as well."

"Oh, stop your howling! After the maggots got your diaphragm I was sure your cries would lessen their curse upon my nerves—at least until the worms mealed upon them—alas, you still fill my stomach with sorrow!"

"Diaphragm? Nerves? Stomach? Of what do you speak, Sister, you are naught but a skeleton, before even the cloak-ed death laid a finger upon you."

"Shame! For shame, Sister! How dare you speak to me this way? You killed me, ended my life, and you still entertain yourself by haunting me in the never-ending life after. What ever happened to peace in death?"

"My dearest Mabel, the fool that uttered those words never felt the love of a sister."

"Lucky fool."

"Fool's luck."

"I shall fall back asleep to avoid the gayness of your company."

"Aye, next year?"

"If you move over, perhaps."

"..."

"..."

"..."

*sighs* "What is it, Sister?"

"We are awake only 12 horrid hours out of the year. Might you pretend you enjoy spending it with me?"

"Wasting it, you mean?"

"Sister, don't say such hurtful things!"

"Sorry, Sister, I thought the beetles ate away at your feelings a millennia ago."

"Sorely mistaken you were, Sister."

"To agree that sharing a coffin would show no problem was my only mistake."

*Gasp!* "Sister!"

"Alright, alright. Of what shall you force me to speak, much and completely against my will, mind you?"

"Tell me the story..."

"What story?"

"You know the one, Sister."

"There are many stories, infinite stories, you must be more specific."

"I remember few specificities."

"I did not realize worms could feast upon memories."

"Aye, Time, Sister, Time is the hungriest of scavengers."

"It has been some Time—too much—almost all of it."

"Too true, Sister, now back to the story."

"Of what story do you speak?"

"I miss home. Remind me of it."

"Oh, yes, now I understand you, Kitty. You want the tales, the story, the ballad of dear old Hollowfaye?"

"Yes, Sister, but make haste. Isra and his sun shall be among us soon and to the cold hands of Maeby, the Holder of Death, we shall return..."

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Thanks for reading! Don't forget to like, reblog, and/or comment if you liked or hated it. Spill the tea. Share your thoughts directly with the source (me.)

[xruiningth3sh0wx]

A spirit pervades me, one which does not reflect my appearance. Not in the slightest. Yet, nevertheless, I feel compelled to heed its call. But the consequences of doing so would put my safety at risk. Perhaps lead me to punishments most dire from those who despise how free I truly am.

 

O’, the feelings that I harbor and suppress…

 

The whims I wish to indulge in…

 

Sage-like spirit, how I miss your calls, that I have long since ignored and silenced, for my false sense of security, and false sense of freedom and pride (which eluded me anyhow, and only served to deepen the chasm of misery that grows into my heart, wedging it apart). Please, won’t you come back, to keep me company? I know you are there, even if you are weak and defeated, but still simultaneously so strong and resilient and forgiving. How I hurt for you…

 

Body and essence both feel a strong urge to play in this realm, this space of unadulterated freedom and absolute liberation, with this wondrous slice of Being supplanted in me, that beckons me to frolic in a space beyond my preconceived notions, and the limitations of my ideals and beliefs.

 

Yet, it’s all so fearsome and terrifying. This spits in the face of everything I’ve known to be true and real. Declares, with a cackle and a grin, that it is fake, that it is stupid, and that it deserves to be relentlessly mocked and opposed.

 

However, even now, I am always more than a little excited by its prospects.

 

Calls sound out from inside, craving that which is of a more “delicate” nature. Passionate, romantic, emotional, mysterious, chaotic, wild, rambunctious…it is what my soul wants and needs. My spirit seeks that which is “tougher”, enamored with the stoic, the orderly, the disciplined, the stubborn and steadfast, the aloof and somewhat. Ringing out loudly in my ears, these wants and needs are wont to do. I, my real I, not some outwardly ordained I/Self, imposed from geists that are neither accept nor am friendly towards, I seek to be both and neither, everything and nothing. Outside of the two way street, while also inhabiting both lanes. Simultaneously negate and affirm infinity and zero, in both directions. The possibilities are truly endless, for I k ow that I was born freed from the prison that wishes to constrict the many who revel in their slavery. But…sadly, I am denied it. All of this. Told to not even think about it. “No, I forbid it!”, the stern voice decrees with a menacing glare and a vicious sneer. Outside forces do not wish for me to revel in my true self. So I must lock away who I really am. Doomed to revolt against that which Nature gifted me with, what it wanted me to regard as a blessing, not as a curse. Maybe even hate it, try to kill it. Choke it and strangle it. And why? Because…I don’t know why. The world wishes it to be so, and I feel obligated to grant it its wish. All because that which I possess, apparently bars me from experiencing this other side. Yet, it isn’t an “other side”, is it? That implies it was unknown to me. A mystery. Separated from my being. Outside of who I was. But it wasn’t. Even now, as I seek desperately to escape it, it’s still there. My tortured soul cries out in anguish for me to listen, to hear it out, to love it and embrace it.

 

I howl in pain. Aching fills me. Existence becomes a trap, a mechanism of torture, a nightmarish fluke that I cannot seem to be free of, even in death. O’, the pain, the agony, how it fills my veins and bones. Sometimes, it becomes so great, my lungs cannot pump air, and I find myself without breath. All I can think when my gaze falls upon my own Self, is how much I wish I simply were not.

 

Torn apart, in both body and soul, I seem to be. Many say this is my destiny, how my path is slated to come to a conclusion. But is that really the case? Or is this merely the result of being deemed such a threat, that even those who claim to stand by me will turn their backs and celebrate my demise? If all of this were gone, would I still feel the same way? If I weren’t under attack constantly, and being told to shove it, to close myself up or face a noose, would I still be wanting to walk into my own grave, and lay myself down?

 

Doubt it.

 

O’, what I wish I was…and am too afraid to be.

 

[astraystayyh]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

La déchirure 

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

pairing: figure skater!hyunjin x ballerina!reader.

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

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

word count: 21.8k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she loved ballet. 

So, you had to love ballet too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In you.

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

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

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

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

“I got into Julliard” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unearthing her body and burying yours there instead, perhaps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You feel so horrible, for a millisecond. 

She was only seven. 

Her grave is too small compared to your body. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you.” 

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

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

“I don’t want to burden you.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looks like a good person. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was all you’ve ever wanted to hear. 

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

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

Four years later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When does he ever? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stole my money,” Hyunjin mutters.

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

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

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

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

“Really? That’s amazing!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Hyunjin!”

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

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

“No,” he admits.

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

“I’m not hungry.”

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Far more beautiful, too.

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, he is,” you reply quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No one, except Hyunjin.

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

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

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

“Sure, I’d like that,” you grinned.

“Okay. Wait for me.”

… 

Hyunjin’s routine has always been quite simple. 

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

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

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

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

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

He hopes it is you dancing there. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Barbie?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has she ever cared to? 

… 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She was. She is.” 

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

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

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

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

It is his very soul that twitched at your touch. 

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

Your reply was even more obvious, simpler.

“Comforting you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What does that mean? 

…

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

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

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

But something within him was shifting—unraveling. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did that make Hyunjin selfish? Or lonely? 

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

“Don’t worry about me.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This isn’t normal. 

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

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

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

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

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

“There, sealed forever.” 

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

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

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

“I’ll be there to catch you.”

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

“Yeah, i do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until you.

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

But to no avail.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sees you in a whole different light, now.

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

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

Is his soul drawn to yours?

Perhaps. Yes. Most definitely, his heart whispered.

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

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

…

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

But somehow you found yourself exactly there, tonight. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, a note. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

I would love to dance ballet with you.

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

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

How horrible are you? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hyunjin’s frown deepens—something feels off. 

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

“Is something wrong?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

… 

Hyunjin is beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hyunjin won. Hyunjin qualified for the Olympics.

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

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

How could he be anything but extraordinary?

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

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

Oh god. 

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

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

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

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

“Do you want me to come with you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please, not again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

… 

“So, how do we do this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your sweet Hyunjin.

“I want that too, Hyune.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You want to stay. 

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That truth felt easier to confront with you near.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

“I think I’ll go to Switzerland.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course, we will.”

It is the first time you lie to Hyunjin. 

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

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

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

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

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

… 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you couldn’t afford that. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.” He hums. “Are you outside?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yn, I- you know that I love you.”

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

“I love you too, my Hyune.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

… 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You now had an excuse to be there. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It has always been his face for you. 

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

Then, he launches into the air.

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

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

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

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

And then he does it.

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

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

But not on yours.

Your Hyunjin did it, like you knew he would. 

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

Hyunjin’s name comes first. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Congratulations on your win,” you say.

“Congratulations on your graduation.”

He knows.

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

Or, you could speak now.

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

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

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

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

“For what?”

“For stealing you away.”

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

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

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

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

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

He yields first.

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

“I couldn’t miss seeing you win.”

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

“I’m here tonight.” 

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

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

Then, suddenly, his lips meet yours.

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

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

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

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

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

“I was always ever yours to love.” 

Epilogue. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They are now meant for you, at long last. 

[thequietmanno1]

Thelreads, MHA 272, Replies Part 1

1) “Let`s see how many heroes will bite the dust, on Chapter 272: Good Morning!

Ha, fucking, ha, Horikoshi.”- Let’s see how many heroes will be the dust! Certainly going to be hard to sift them out from the rubble. 2) “Oh boy I have a feeling this town is in for a makeover…”- First the town, then the country. Tomorrow, the world! 3) “Oh boy, been a while since we last saw this batch of kids. Glad to see Bakugo continues to be an ass, I was worried he could`ve changed while I wasn`t looking.

Now, being rude is understandable, but refusing a chocolate bun? Unforgivable. I hope Shigaraki teaches you a leason, I hope he kicks your ass for that sin”- Bakugou’s here to do his job, not to accept charity. He’s at least dialling the assholishness down a little from the licence exam. 4) “massive oofs in the chat for this poor writer, I have a feeling he is about to have a bad time.

Don`t worry man, they are just going to dust the place a bit while you`re gone…”-Hopefully he saved a copy of it to the cloud… 5) “I see that manga boy from class 1-B is there as well… “-Koji’s Quirk at least gives hope of the animals in the area being evacuated, though whether they ran far enough once the crumbling started is another matter… 6) “And now back to the ominous warning.

But alas, none of them know the End approaches. They are oblivious to their doom, blissfully unaware of the horrors that this way come.

He`s coming

And no one will be able to stop him.”- If only Izuku had had more time to train, but alas, AFO and Tomura aren’t interested in waiting for a strong opponent to crush beneath their heels, they want to get started now… 7) “Yeah, sure thing number one, now if only you could tell him how the fuck to do that, because holy shit, I think that`s a bit of a tall order, even All Might on his prime wouldn`t be able to do anything.”- Decay was already a dangerous power for All Might to face in a fight back when Tomura was starting out with a weakened, slower version of it. One Touch, and his mighty muscles would start to break apart. It wasn’t an issue because of how fast All Might was, and his ability to create air gusts, but that was before Tomura modified himself to a level comparable to All Might, with a stronger version of Decay backing him up, and the original AFO Quirk pre-loaded into him, along with all its accumulated and varied powers. The only way Izuku has a chance now is if he can somehow unlock all the remaining Quirks of OFA and utilise the full power of the Quirk safely without tearing himself apart in the next 5 minutes, before Tomura tears him to pieces anyway. By the same token though, there really isn’t anything or anybody else on the heroes’ side who has a realistic chance of stopping Tomura but Izuku, precisely because of the immense full power of OFA he possesses. Even if he’s far away from the hospital right now, Tomura can steamroll any opposition in the way until they finally throw down. 8) “Yeah, trust me, it won`t be long before you guys are hit full force. And Shigaraki won`t even be nearby, his power is just gonna reach you from this distance.

There`s no escaping the End”- His hatred is all-consuming, and now it literally consumes everything around him. 9) “Why are you talking like goddamn Dormin from Shadow of the Colossus?”- Tomura wanted the power to strike even the godlike AllMight from the earth. Now that he’s gained it, he’s become something….other than human in the process. 10) “…

Shit, that was actually chilling, no pun intended.

God, things are about to get fucked, aren`t them?”-Tomura didn’t even kill him because he was a threat or could warn the heroes, he killed him to steal his cloak to warm himself up. The mentality of ‘destroying everything’ around you understandably would result in a lot of death, but now human lives matter let to Tomura than getting small creature comforts, which is arguably a final insult to X-less, that he died for so petty a reason. 11) “Oh boy, I think Gran Torino already saw something. He seems to be the one that realized that something bad is approaching.”- Speedy reflexes are only useful if you can sense the encroaching danger in time to use them before it’s too late. Gran Torino didn’t get that old by not being able to tell when it’s time to book it. 12) “THE END HAS ARRIVED

RUIN COURSES THROUGH THE EARTH ONCE AGAIN

RUNNING IS FUTILE

THE END HAS ARRIVED”- This moment genuinely feels like something out of a horror film, like an unstoppable force of nature has been unleashed upon the world, akin to a curse from a deceased ruler buried in a tomb from long ago bringing a plague upon the lands to torment the living, a plague that cannot be fought, only endured and, maybe, survived. 13) “OH YEAH, I THINK IT`S TIME WE START RUNNING”- Unless you’re Iida, Tensei or Koichi, I genuinely doubt the average hero has a hope of being un outrun the flow of Decay upon the ground. That wave was unleashed from the Hospital and reached the city in under 3 minutes or less – that’s just too fast for most people to escape from even with a motor vehicle. Tomua said he wanted to be sure to obliterate everything with his amped-up Decay, and now, nothing that walks upon the Earth. can escape him. 14) “WELP, SEEMS LIKE THE OL` DOC GOT WHAT HE WISHED FOR

HE HELPED BRING RUIN TO THE WORLD

AND AS A REWARD, RUIN SHALL GIVE HIM ITS

BLESSING

…”- His goal has been achieved, the genie is out of the bottle, and now there’s nothing the heroes can do to thwart it anymore. He’s lived twice the lifespan of a normal man solely to achieve AFO’s ambitions, and if those ambitions involved tearing down everything the heroes have created and he gets caught in that? A fair price to pay, to his twisted mind. @thelreads

[fireinmoonshot]

CONTAINS SPOILER FOR ETERNALS.

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE | PART FOUR Summary: In 1521, the Eternals disbanded and Druig left you despite the lengthy past you'd both shared. Now, you're forced back together by the Emergence, but after 500 years apart, neither of you are quite the same as you were. But a love like the one you shared hundreds of years ago never quite goes away. Pairing: Druig x Fem! Reader (slight enemies to lovers) Fandom: Marvel's Eternals Warnings: ETERNALS SPOILERS, mentions of injuries, mentions of death. Word Count: 3255 A/N: Well, I've given in and decided to do a smaller multi part fic for Druig – proving how I'm complete and utter Eternals and Druig trash at this point. This one won't be as long as my other multi parts and will probably just consist of three to four parts that are a bit longer. It'll also jump between the present timeline and moments shared in the past, so I hope it's not too hard to follow along with! I'm really looking forward to finishing this and posting it for you all. It's already proven to be a challenge for me as a writer so far, which feels like exactly what I need right now. Please let me know if you enjoy it and I look forward to sharing the rest! The title of the fic comes from the song Love Me Harder by WOODZ! ❤️

BABYLON, 525 BC

Druig doesn’t like you very much.

He thinks you’re irrational. You take risks when you shouldn’t, which more often than not ends up in you nearly getting killed when you’re all fighting the Deviants. He wishes you’d stop being so much of a risk taker and stop making him panic internally every time he sees you in danger.

It’s why, when he sees you on the back of a Deviant moments before you’re thrown off, he feels like his throat is closing up and he can’t breathe properly anymore. Without you, the team would probably be doomed.

Makkari is quick to catch you in mid air, though the wind is knocked out of you at the impact, and she instructs you to stay put as she sets you down on a log a little bit away from the rest of the fight.

You rub your stomach, knowing you’re going to have a bruise there, and wince a little as you try to catch your breath. Makkari is the only one you’d listen to. If she told you to stay back, you would. Even though it kills you to sit there and watch everyone else fighting when you should be helping them. It makes you feel beyond useless.

Druig jogs up to you once he sees Makkari set you down. His mind is raging and he’s preparing to give you a very stern talking to about your irresponsible actions, but you sense him coming first.

“I’m irrational, irresponsible, I’m putting the wellbeing of the whole team at risk and I need to act more like an Eternal and less like a silly, fragile human when it comes to fighting Deviants,” you say as soon as Druig is in earshot. You’ve heard his spiel many times before.

He narrows his eyes and stops just in front of you.

You look up and meet his eyes. “You don’t have to tell me again.”

“I’ll keep telling you until you actually understand,” Druig huffs.

The thought of him telling you again makes you laugh a little, which just makes Druig even more irritated by you. How long will he continue to tell you the things you already know? Laughing is a bad idea, though, as your stomach still hurts and you haven’t fully caught your breath yet. The laugh only agitates the pain.

You press your hand to your stomach and suck in a deep breath.

Druig furrows his eyebrows and steps closer. “Are you hurt?”

“I just got thrown by a Deviant and caught in midair. You tell me.”

He doesn’t like your sarcasm. His hands itch to reach towards you and check you over, make sure you’re actually okay and not badly hurt, but he pulls them back. You’d hate if he actually did that, and he’d wonder if he was going mad if he did it, too.

You look up at him again. “Will you go and help them?” You point towards the others, still fighting the Deviants over by the gates of Babylon. “I can’t help right now, but you can, so make me feel less shit about being sidelined and go and help them. Please.”

Druig shoots you a dark look and gives up, stalking away from you without another word. There’s a worry in the back of his mind about if you really are injured badly and pretending to be okay, or if you’re actually being truthful, but he has no time to ponder the thought. There are Deviants to kill.

He jumps back into the battle with ease and you watch from your spot on the log, hand still pressed onto your stomach. You have a feeling that the lack of ability to catch your breath isn’t so much to do with being thrown off the back of a Deviant and more with one specific, very irritating Eternal.

~~~

After the fight is over and you’re all back in the Domo, he watches as Ajak approaches you and heals your bruised stomach. It had been painful, catching sight of you as he fought. You looked so alone sitting on the log, watching as everyone else fought the battle you thought was yours to help win.

It serves you right, Druig thought. Your irrational behaviour taught you a lesson.

That was before he saw you wincing as you’d stood up to run over to the others at the end of the fight. When he noticed that you hadn’t even been able to run properly. He felt a little bad then, but only a little.

It doesn’t take you long to get back to your usual self back in the Domo. Sersi, Gilgamesh, Makkari, Kingo and Sprite are all still out helping the humans get their things back together after the attack, but with the others in the room, you’re back laughing and joking, talking about the fight with ease.

Thena even has a small smile on her face as she sips her drink and listens into your conversation with Ajak and Gilgamesh. Phastos had disappeared to go back to work a while ago and Druig has stayed silently in the corner of the room, watching and occasionally adding to the conversation whenever he has an appropriate sarcastic remark.

You catch his eye a few times, catch him watching you when you laugh or when you glance around the room just to look somewhere other than the three people in front of you. It’s disconcerting. He’s never looked at you this much before, except when he was mad at you. It would make sense if he was mad at you now, though.

He doesn’t even really realise that he’s watching you for one reason and one reason alone – he’s worried. He’ll never admit that he’s worried about you. He’s not the type of person to worry about much else other than himself, but the sight of you in pain earlier still plays on repeat in his mind. He can’t get it out of his head no matter how much he tries.

Druig watches you to try and remove it. He watches you laugh, watches you casually sipping on your drink, watches you deep in conversation with Ajak, Thena and Gilgamesh and yet the image from before stays deeply planted in his mind.

~~~

TOKYO, PRESENT DAY

It’s starting to rain outside as you pack up the things on your desk into your backpack and sling it over your shoulder, ready to leave. The sky is already dark, night having fallen a few hours ago, though you’d been cooped up in your classroom since the middle of the afternoon when you’d gone out to buy a quick snack.

You can see the dark grey rain clouds over the city as you leave the building and make your way onto the street to head home. The day had gone well – better than well, actually.

You’d had a class in the morning and then six students to tutor in the afternoon and evening, which had helped in filling up your day and your mind. The earthquake a few days ago had really shaken you up, made you worry about the state of Earth and what the others were doing, so having something else to do had been good to keep you occupied.

The rain starts to get heavier and you curse yourself under your breath for forgetting to bring your umbrella and not checking the forecast before you left for work this morning. But it’s too late to go to a convenience store and buy one. You have nine minutes till your train home and you’re not planning on missing it.

You duck past a group of people walking on the footpath beside you and try not to slip on the wet ground as you walk steadily towards the train station, only two blocks away from the building where you teach.

It feels normal here in Tokyo. The earthquake had been strange, and you’d felt it – been in the middle of a lesson when it’d happened – but everyone had moved on. Earthquakes weren’t a rarity here, you’d lived through thousands of them in your many, many years living in Japan – so life went on ignoring the strange natural disaster.

You can see the entrance to the station just ahead. It’s a welcome sight considering the rain is now falling steadily and the shoulders of your coat are beginning to become uncomfortably wet. There’s water dripping down onto your face from your hair.

You glance at your watch – five minutes. You have five minutes until your train arrives, and then another fifteen before you’re home in the safety and comfort of your apartment. It’s the most exciting part of your day, especially because the thought of sitting at home and watching the rain from your window sounds so nice.

There are a few people standing out the front of the train station as you get closer. They’re all huddled together under two umbrellas and you wonder why they don’t just walk a few more steps and actually stand under the cover of the train station. Perhaps they’re tourists, you think, trying to use the umbrellas that they probably frantically bought at a convenience store as soon as the rain hit and wanting to get their money’s worth.

Tucking your hands deeper into the pockets of your coat, you pick up your pace as you reach the train station, though just before you enter the train station, an umbrella is placed over your head. You stop suddenly, eyebrows furrowed, and look up to see none other than Ikaris holding the umbrella over your head.

“You’ve lived here for how long and you don’t have an umbrella?” He sounds amused.

You blink once, twice, trying to see if Ikaris is real or not, if you’re just hallucinating or not. But then you glance at the other people under the umbrellas at the entrance. Sersi, Sprite and Kingo. They’re unmistakably your family.

“What– what are you four doing here? In Tokyo?” You gasp at them.

They all wander over towards you and Ikaris, who now stands closer to you so that you can both be under the comfort of the umbrella and out of the rain. You feel like you’re dreaming. Your family – here in Tokyo, where they’d never visited you, after so long…

“I wish I could say that we’re just here to visit,” Sersi says, her voice sounding sad and regretful. Something uncomfortable settles in the bottom of your stomach. “But we’re not.”

You hear the sound of an announcement inside the train station and glance down at your watch. “Shit, my train leaves in… three minutes,” you look back up at them. “I don’t mean to be rude, and I am glad to see you all, but can we have this conversation at my place? I don’t want to miss my train, it’s been a long day.”

It’s a very human thing of you to say, you think. The last time you’d all been together like this, none of you had really been that involved in the lives of humans except for Sersi. You all still had a job to do. Things are different now, or at least, they were.

“Yes,” Sersi agrees, “It’ll be good to talk about this somewhere private. Let’s go.”

Her words don’t inspire confidence in you, but you lead them all to your home anyway.

~~~

ROME, AD 47

Druig tolerates you.

He still thinks you’re irrational and irresponsible and very mindless at times, but you’ve gotten considerably better in the last five hundred years. He hasn’t had to tell you about how irresponsible he thinks you are in at least three hundred years, which he thinks is quite an improvement.

Still, he watches you. He’s been watching you ever since that day in Babylon. Despite the fact that so much time has passed, the sight of you in pain still lingers in his mind, high among his memories. It stays there still, refusing to leave no matter how much time passes.

“You’re gonna get hit with a chariot!” Sprite suddenly yells at him.

Makkari knocks him out of the way as a chariot thunders past, right down the street they’d been walking on. The sun is high in the sky, shining down on them, so he blames that for his lack of focus and furrows his eyebrows.

“Why is that thing even in the street?”

“I’d assume chariot racing,” you say from beside him. He doesn’t know where you’ve appeared from, considering he was walking further in front of you and you’d been in conversation with Sersi. “We’re right by the Circus Maximus, where they often hold chariot racing. They’re probably taking it there for the racing this week. Don’t you keep up with the weeks events?”

Druig looks at you. “Thank you, know it all.”

You intentionally respond to him with a large smile, fluttering your eyelashes at him as you do just because you know it’ll drive him mad. Then, you skip off ahead of him to catch up with Kingo.

He watches you as you leave him.

Sprite nudges his side rather forcefully with her elbow. “You’re so obvious, and you don’t even know it. It’s embarrassing. I’d be embarrassed if I were you,” she shudders.

“Embarrassed?” He shakes his head. “You’re being daft.”

She doesn’t accept the insult, shrugging her shoulders and crossing her arms over her chest. “You’re both being incredibly irritating, I hope you know that. If you didn’t, then at least you know that now.”

There’s no chance for Druig to reply to her since she skips off ahead, too, joining you and Kingo. He watches as she weaves her arm through yours and you smile down at her.

He wonders, briefly, how it would feel for you to smile at him like that and then brushes the thought from his mind like it had never been there in the first place.

~~~

TOKYO, PRESENT DAY

Ajak is dead and Sersi, Ikaris, Sprite and Kingo are all sitting in your kitchen with warm cups of tea in front of them. The world feels like it’s been swept out from under your feet, but here your family is… sitting in your kitchen after centuries. But not all of them.

Today has not gone as planned.

You were supposed to be coming home to sit and listen to the rain, maybe go through some of the marking from the tests you’d given your students this morning, and now the world is at risk again.

Your world.

Earth has always been a home to you, ever since you stepped foot on it. But it’s been 7000 years now. You’ve seen the best it has to offer and the worst it has to offer. You can’t lose it.

You slump down against the kitchen bench behind you and run a hand through your hair. It’s still wet from the rain before, you haven’t had a chance to dry it since you got to making tea for the others as soon as you stepped foot in your apartment. Your wet coat is drying off on a coat rack by the door along with the others coats.

“You okay?” Ikaris looks over at you. You look rough.

“I don’t think I have an answer for that.”

He nods understandingly.

“So, what’s next?” You take a long breath and look over at the four of them. You don’t want to wallow in your feelings for too long because you know they’ll only overtake you if you do. You’ve been there before, and you won’t do it again.

Sersi sets her tea down after taking a sip. “We have to find the others, get everyone back together. It’s the only way. We can’t do this without each other. We have to work together again.”

You don’t like her words even though you agree with them. She’s right, of course – she’s always right, which is why Ajak had picked her as her predecessor – but the idea of getting back together with everyone after so long apart is a scary idea.

It’s been centuries since you’ve been in the same room with everyone. While they’d all met up every now and then, you hadn’t joined them very frequently, preferring to just meet up one on one. If you did that, it meant you could pick and choose who you saw and didn’t see. It was safer for your heart that way.

Sersi and Makkari had been the two you’d seen most often, but it’s still been years since you’ve seen either of them, too. You’ve spent the last a hundred and fifty years essentially alone.

“I don’t… I can’t,” you shake your head, crossing your arms over your chest. “I have classes to teach, students who are relying on me. I have papers to mark. I can’t just get up and disappear like that, out of the blue. I can’t.”

You know that you’re only trying to convince yourself of the impossible, but you still try regardless.

Sersi fixes you with a look. She knows exactly why you want to stay behind and it has nothing to do with the fact that you have responsibilities here in Tokyo.

“We need you,” Sersi says. “We can’t do this without you. I can’t.”

There’s nothing more anyone can say. Your fate is sealed.

~~~

KASHGAR, AD 304

Druig flinches back away from you with a scowl. “Haven’t you heard of personal space?” He scoffs, taking a few steps away from you.

You’re smiling at him, one of those beautiful smiles that always make him feel a bit warm and fuzzy inside, and you don’t move from where you’re standing, hands behind your back, watching him with playful eyes.

“What, do I have somethin’ on my face?”

“Mmm.” You nod at him, giving him confirmation but not much.

Druig rolls his eyes and wipes a hand over his face, trying to get rid of whatever was on his face that you weren’t kind enough to point out to him. He can’t feel anything and when he looks back down at his hand, it’s perfectly clean.

He turns his body to face you. “Are you messin’ with me?”

You do nothing, continuing to stare at him with a smile on your face. Druig thinks that the longer you do it, the creepier it gets, and he starts to wonder if there’s any way he can just make you stop smiling. Then, you surprise him.

His feet stay strangely planted to the ground as you step towards him, one of your hands moving up towards his face. He watches your finger with worried eyes as you advance. Your finger finally makes contact with his face and he feels like he’s been given an electric shock as you wipe something of off of his cheek.

You don’t step away from him after you remove your hand, looking at your finger.

“What is it, then?” Druig coughs out a breath.

You show your finger to him. There’s nothing on it.

“Nothing,” you hum. “I just wanted to see what you’d do.”

With that, you turn and walk away from him as if nothing had ever happened. Druig can’t move, though. He can barely breathe thinking about how close you were to him, the light touch of your finger on his skin. He’s stuck in place, tortured. Why would you do that? Why would you want to see what he’d do? You make absolutely no sense to him.

Druig truly can’t stand you.

[why-am-i-here-someone-save-me]

Caged (Part 1)

TWs: bloodshed, minor character death(s), religious themes(but like mostly only implied), Zhongli being an edgy teen, salt-based ptsd, dust-based ptsd, stalking, pining, implications of reader’s inevitable death, heavily implied murder(protective Morax go brrr), weapons, general destruction ngl

You had never quite enjoyed being focused on. You were far more content to stay on the sidelines, out of the attention of others. You were called humble. Modest. Reserved.

Yet it would be that same humility that would be your doom.

By standing apart from others, you caught the attention of someone who would lead you down the path of destruction.

After all…

Haven’t you heard it’s dangerous to catch a dragon’s eye?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He was many things. A god, A warrior, the Prime Adepti. But if there was one thing that Morax was not, well, that would be relenting. He was solid earth, immovable stone, uncompromising rock; and what he desired would either be his or be destroyed.

You were many things. Caring, supportive, understanding. But the one thing you weren’t was faithful, not to the gods at least. Your loyalty to your friends and family, even to fellow humans you’d just met was apparent. But you did not hold the same level of devotion to the gods. How could you amidst this war? Deities were feuding and striking each other down all around you. Why would you place faith in ones who could erase everything you’d ever known in the blink of an eye? Why would you place your heart and soul in the hands of another deity when Lady Havria had taken so much of you to the grave with her? You could not. You knew that if you did, and you were to lose yet another god, you would be unable to carry on. Not again. She had already taken half of you with her.

You mourned your beloved Goddess of Salt. And yet you refused to allow grief to consume you. You refused to let yourself wither away, not after all that Lady Havria had done to protect you and your people. You had been young when your family fled Sal Tearre, too young to grasp what was truly about the occur within your home, too young to understand that you would not ever see Lady Havria’s smile again. When you finally realized the truth, you had been devastated. It had broken you. Lady Havria cared for your people on a very personal level. She had known every name, every face, every single one of her beloved followers. Havria cared for her people as though she were a family member, not their deity. She had been a mother figure to you. When she had been ripped from your life, you had never felt so lost. Your family eventually took refuge in a small village, as as time went by, it became your new home.

It took many years for you to process her demise. But eventually you came to realize that she wouldn’t wish to see you devastated like you were. The revelation had changed your entire outlook on life. You learned to find happiness in the small things in life. A particularly beautiful wildflower blooming in your garden, the laughter of the village children as they played, the feeling of a gentle breeze on a hot day, you treasured each of them. You did not know just how contagious your joy was. By the time you had reached adulthood, you were unknowingly beloved by your peers.

You were ignorant to the fact that the people of your village considered you the pride of the little town. How could they not take pride in you? You who would go so far beyond what was asked of you, who gladly took burdens upon yourself simply to see them happy, who had to be all but forced to rest after spending days working hard for their sakes. Humble as you were, they knew you would be embarrassed by such words, and so they kept them to themselves.

You did not like attention.

But you received it regardless.

You would come to realize that the term ‘dislike’ was not strong enough to describe your feelings for it. You loathed it. Despised it.

It had only ever brought suffering upon you.

It had been the reason you’d unwittingly caught his eye.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You had no idea who he was.

But he knew much about you.

He had learned your story, he probably knew it better than you yourself knew it. He found your lack of reverence for the gods amusing. The way you would laugh it off when one of your peers invited you to a religious event was adorable to him. If he weren’t a stranger in your eyes, he’s certain he would gain your companionship easily. But he was content to watch from afar. After all, as rash as he was, Morax knew all too well the fragility of humans. No mortal had ever caught his eye as you did, and he did not have to observe you for long before a desire began to take root in his mind.

Just who did you think you were, getting his thoughts all mixed up like this? You had no right to cause his heartbeat to speed up, no right to make his mouth curl up into a smile as you did. Yet he couldn’t resent you for some reason. He knew that he was growing attached to you. Morax knew very well how bad of an idea that was. He should not be spending his time thinking of you, of your smile, your laugh, the way your eyes would shine so brightly when they caught the light. He told himself over and over how fragile you were, that he could not afford to allow anyone into his heart during this war, least of all a mortal. But despite how many times he repeated this all to himself, he would always wind up near your village, watching as you went throughout your day. You fascinated him so effortlessly that it frustrated him. He was in a war for Celestia’s sake! He didn’t have the time or resources to be so invested in you like he was! Despite his words, he would always end up fulfilling his self-proposed ‘vigil’ over you from afar. ‘Just in case’ he would tell himself. ‘Just in case something were to happen.’

When something did happen, it wasn’t to you, no. Nor was it to him. But the loss of Guizhong caused something within him to break. His once unnoticed gaze as you lived your life slowly began to become more and more present. The constant feeling of being watched would have been more than enough to eat away at you, but the sheer suffocating presence of the gaze was certainly not helping matters.

Morax still found your lack of devotion to the gods endearing, the thought of you giving your worship to a deity other than him made his blood boil. On the days when such thoughts would enter his mind, there would always be a few small earthquakes throughout the land. No, it was better for you to worship no one than for you to worship some other god like Chi, or Celestia forbid Osial. But oh, if he didn’t long to see you devote your worship to him! The fantasies he would come up with would always leave him even more smitten with you than before. He longed to see you kneel at one of his temples, to hear you call out to him in prayer, for you to make offerings to him. He longed for you to pledge your devotion to him, for you to vow that you would remain faithful to him, that you would not leave him as Guizhong had. He knew it was foolish of him, you were mortal after all. You were fleeting, a flash of light in the night, a spark burning brightly before being quenched moments later.

You would leave him, just as Guizhong did.

He knew it to be a fact, yet he refused to acknowledge it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your meeting was not as he would have wished. He had hoped that when he inevitably would approach you, it would be on a calm day, where he could easily have befriended you amidst sunshine and breezes.

He would not have preferred your meeting to be one framed by fire and panic. It would be far more difficult to form a bond with you if you were closed off in grief. But alas, he could hardly sit back and let you be slain, even if it wasn’t the first encounter he had hoped for. He summoned his spear, preparing to step in, but hesitated for a moment. That hesitation, the momentary pause in his actions, that had been the sealing of your fate.

Those few seconds would be the foundation of stone shackles that would ensnare your very being, cold and unyielding, and you would despise them with everything you had.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You trembled in terror and despair at the slow footsteps approaching you. You knew that they already were aware of your hiding place, and were merely taunting you at this point. The small dagger in your hand shook as the bandit drew closer and closer. You had no chance of defeating them all, let alone surviving, but if you could at least take out one of them, then you would be satisfied. “Why don’t you come on out hmm~? We don’t bite. Too much~.” Your stomach churned at the sound of the man’s voice, as if his hand wasn’t holding a blade that had just taken the lives of so many you called friends. “Hey now, maybe if you behave and surrender we’ll go easy on you~.”

You squeezed your eyes shut as the footsteps stopped outside the poorly blocked entrance to your home. You didn’t want it to end like this. Not after all Lady Havria had done to give you a chance at a prosperous life. Not like this. Tears escaped from your tightly shut eyes as your desperation finally convinces you to make a last ditch attempt to live.

You take a deep breath.

And you pray.

You pray to whoever or whatever might be listening to aid you, pleading your case to the divine.

You hadn’t expected an answer.

You’d come to wish you’d never received one.

Taglist: @nicebonescomrade

[yukidragon]

I'm glad you like this AU! 💖

Oh, you think if Alice isolated from Jack she could be cured?

It might seem that way, wouldn't it? After all, others cured themselves through isolation... well, if they managed to make it through the spike in mental symptoms such as paranoia and desperate loneliness of course. However, our little miss patient zero here is a bit of a unique case.

As I said in the post, this AU is heavily influenced by my headcanons for Sunshine in Hell, which includes how Jack and Alice are bonded. They both have a piece of each other's souls. No matter how far apart they are, they're always connected... and they will always be able to find one another.

Jack could try to let Alice go. Maybe severing their connection will cure everything. Maybe his continued presence is dooming the world.

Or maybe this plague has become a show far too big for one clown to close the curtains on even if he exits stage right.

This plague wasn't caused by Jack, not really. While his death was an act of terrorism, that doesn't mean rituals weren't performed. LambsWork is no strangers to profane magics. It's just in this world, they stuck their fingers into more pies, one of them being tainted with viruses.

It's ironic really. The attention they got from the show, the actors they exploited... it was all in service of power. The love of the children, the health and energy of those working to make the show, the adoration and lust towards its main actor... Those who worked for the SunnyTime Crew Show were under contract... and sometimes devilish little clauses are hidden in the fine print...

Jack being freed was the spark that lit the fire, but it was LambsWork that spilled the fuel everywhere. They planned to use him for some greater scheme, and his premature death ruined it... but it didn't erase all the things they did to prepare their star before that.

Really, if the people in charge of LambsWork knew that all their hard work would go up in flames and then come back to destroy the world they tried so hard to gain power in... they'd try to set things up in their favor when the world went to hell. Or maybe they'd consider pulling the plug on the whole thing. Perhaps.

Jack influenced the symptoms of the Color Plague, his freedom signaled the start of it, but its creation was due to forces far beyond his control. That's why he can't stop it even if he was aware of the part he played in it.

Naturally, Jack would feel guilty if he knew. It'd be hard to handle the idea and it would make him deteriorate mentally. The only thing he could do to atone and keep himself together would be to redouble his efforts to make Alice happy and protect her... and never think about it again.

No one needs to know. Jack is clean now.

Then of course, there's Alice's part to play in the end of the world. It would crush her, but, well... they were doomed the moment she found the tape.

Mary used to work for the SunnyTime Crew Show. In the Sunshine in Hell telling of the tale, she's the one who pitched the concept of the show in the first place and wrote for it. She used to be under contract to LambsWork as well and deep in their clutches. She may have been reborn as Alice, but Joseph was also given new life as Jack. He's still affected by his contract and the things they did to him to this day.

Do you really think Alice escaped through death when Jack couldn't?

Ah, but I'm getting off topic now. Back to what would happen if Jack and Alice separated.

Well... it'd certainly wouldn't be anything good. Their connection is still there. The plague is still there. Isolating themselves from one another will make them so much more lonely... Neither Jack nor Alice can stand to be alone even before the apocalypse.

The plague was influenced by Jack's fear of being alone. It was also influenced by Alice's fear of being alone... isolated due to the illness that slowly deteriorates her body. The fear the many ways sickness warps flesh... the fear of being unable to stop the blood from leaking out...

Somehow I don't think isolation will help Alice, Jack, or the rest of the infected. If anything, I suspect that separating them will just make things so much worse.

It's hard to isolate from an illness that infected their very souls.

Severing the connection of their souls... well... somehow I think that might be the spark that would start an even bigger explosion.

How to cure the plague then? That's a good question, and I suspect LambsWork might have the clues that can lead survivors to the answer... provided they know where to look.

Perhaps if Jack has the courage to face the ghosts of his past, he and Alice can find the answers that could save their world before all hope is lost. I'm sure Alice's family and friends will help where they can, though probably best from a distance for their own safety.

@channydraws @earthgirlaesthetic @sai-of-the-7-stars @cheriihoney @illary-kore @okamiliqueur @kurokrisps

Sunny Day Jack - Infection AU Headcanons

Hey, have you seen the resurgence of the MLP creepypastas with infection AUs on twitter? I stumbled across this trend, and it gave me an itch to create an apocalyptic AU, but with characters who are already intended for an adult audience.

Yes, it’s another Something’s Wrong with Sunny Day Jack AU, and a very horror-themed one to boot. Yes, I also know that it’s pretty funny that this comes right after this super sugary sweet short story about Jack pleading for more cuddle time with his sunshine, doesn’t it?

What can I say? Sometimes I like to explore the horror side along with the romantic side of Sunny Day Jack.

Content Warnings: This post is going to get pretty graphic at times due to its central focus on body horror and biological infections. There will also be elements of psychological horror, violence, murder, yandere obsession, occult practices, acts of terrorism, and all the other warnings that apply to the main game. Also, one or more of our favorite characters might meet with an unfortunate fate. I’ll see if I can offset all the horror somewhat with some sweet and spicy stuff as well, since we all know Jack isn’t going to let a little lot of blood stop him from filling his sunshine with lots and lots of love.

Minors DNI!

It took me a while to consider how I wanted to go about the infection itself. Sure, I could stick with the tried and true zombie formula, but there’s way too many games that just tack on zombies as DLC without adding anything unique that ties to the original setting. It gets kind of repetitive after a while. I wanted something a little more interesting, perhaps a little more supernatural.

Then I remembered that there are times when Jack starts looking suspiciously like a zombie himself, especially when his bony finger is exposed. However, nowhere is his undead putrefaction clearer, than this heartbreaking picture posted on the SnaccPop Patreon. Even just the publicly posted teaser picture from twitter shows us that his body is rotting like a corpse.

Credit to Sauce for their gorgeous art. Remember, don’t share anything that’s posted privately for members only on the patreon. If you want to see the full picture in all its glorious heartache for yourself, why not consider joining to check it out? You’ll not only get access to exclusive art, but also audio dramas and many other delightful things. You’ll also be supporting the team and helping them to continue working on the games and other projects that give us so many fun stories to explore and enjoy.

The Diseased Lamb

The apocalypse I’ve crafted for this AU is more heavily based on the Sunshine in Hell continuity than the game itself, and it references a number of my previous headcanons. As such, I’ll be sticking with my version of the MC, Alice, for this AU, but I hope my ramble can inspire you with ideas for how to run your own MC through an apocalyptic scenario with the SDJ characters.

The horror of this AU, as it does with the game, all starts with the tape, or rather the incident that it recorded back in 1984, changing both it and the man who was murdered on that day into something no longer human.

LambsWork Productions is such a suspicious company, particularly with that name that feels like it’s implying that it’s creating sacrifices. It wasn’t just meant in a figurative sense, as the entertainment industry is full of cults. A homeless drifter picked up off the street would make for a perfect sacrifice for some profane ritual. No one would come looking for him, and those who knew him when he died could be silenced with an NDA… if they didn’t die as well, of course.

Joseph Cullman, who used the name of James Haberdae when taking the role of Sunny Day Jack, was just one of these poor souls that Lambswork sacrificed. He and so many others were to give, and give, and give so much of themselves, far more than they ever imagined that they would. They were drawn in deeper, convinced to participate in things that they didn’t quite understand, that felt not quite right, but… they could lose it all. They’ve already come so far, done so much. It’s a sunk-cost fallacy.

LambsWork Productions was a company up to some shady business, with connections to other not quite so savory business partners. They slipped subtle propaganda into their various shows aimed at so many different audiences. The 80’s was an era rife for turning kids shows into a 30 minute long television commercial at its most blatant. Much like how the Flintstones pushed cigarettes on kids in our world, and got their own line of multivitamins, even wholesome mascots could be used to push agendas, even unwittingly. (There’s a good Film Theory that talks about propaganda in the media if you’re interested in more about this topic.) The SunnyTime Crew weren’t just selling branded merch like cream pies, dolls, and lunchboxes, they were endorsing other unrelated products such as pharmaceuticals.

The incident of 1984 brought it all to an abrupt end. Maybe in the game’s universe it was an intentional thing, a sacrifice to accomplish something supernatural. Maybe it wasn’t part of a massive conspiracy, just a sudden murder that interrupted plans already in place that had unexpected consequences. Maybe the company was just shitty and had nothing to do with Jack being trapped in the tape for 40 years.

In this universe, it wasn’t an intentional machanation of LambsWork Productions, but the unforeseen results of so many it played a part in.

While I suspect Jack died of gunshot wounds in the game, as I mentioned in previous theories here and here, in this universe, it was the result of a terrorist attack. The SunnyTime Crew were mascots used to push a product that had… unfortunate results. People got sick, suffered horrible side-effects, even died. There were even rumors that a sickness was manufactured in a lab just so that particular product could be sold to cure it. Naturally, the actions of companies associated with LambsWork wasn’t the fault of the actors, but the SunnyTime Crew had inadvertently become the face of the brand. In the eyes of people resentful of a soulless company that victimized them, anyone who worked with them was seen as guilty.

For actors at LambsWork Productions, their days were long and started early. Often, they had to rely on the coffee, donuts, and other snacks in the breakroom instead of a proper meal.

No one realized the food and water had been spiked. Everyone was already pushing themselves hard, often forced to do their job and put on a bright smile for the public even when they were exhausted or sick. If they felt the urge to sneeze or cough, they had better hold it in until the cameras weren’t rolling.

Unfortunately, tried as he might, Jack couldn’t stop himself from coughing up blood in the middle of filming.

Although tempting, this isn’t the start of a zombie outbreak. It’s a deadly illness to be sure, but not one the terrorists intended to infect the children. This was to send a message to the company as well as serve as revenge to see these shiny “innocent” stars bleed and suffer like others had because of corporate greed.

Though it would be horrifying and tragic if this was a zombie outbreak and the SunnyTime Crew were the patient zeros. Mary would rush from the audience to her starlight’s side, holding onto him tight while yelling at someone to call an ambulance… Joseph moans out one final “Sunshine…” before an unnatural hunger overtakes him, and he tears out her throat with his teeth.

A temptingly dark image, but maybe we can save a zombie specific AU for another time. For this infection AU, things are a little bit more complicated than that, and a bit more sad. Joseph didn’t know what was happening to him, just that he was in pain. He had a terrible chill that burned his insides, his eyes growing watery with a red tint, and he couldn’t stop coughing. He didn’t even notice the blood at first leaking from his mouth and eyes until he heard the screams of the audience.

Mary ran to Joseph’s side as he collapsed to the floor. He tried to turn away from the audience to spare the children the sight, but wound up vomiting up blood all over the colorful studio set.

He wasn’t the only one, unfortunately. The rest of the SunnyTime Crew, even guest stars and members of the stagehands were unwell, but not nearly as bad as Joseph. As the star of the show, the terrorists wanted to make a statement with the gruesome death of Sunny Day Jack. They didn’t want someone as strong and healthy looking as him to survive, so he was especially targeted by tainted food and drink. Even his medication, makeup, and cigarettes were tampered with.

Mary tried her best to help Joseph. She was used to being sick. She helped make sure he wouldn’t choke on his own blood and did what she could to keep him breathing until the ambulance came, but his death came swift and gruesome. He died in her arms while she was still performing CPR on him, bathed in his blood and her tears, as the cameras continued to record their last “kiss.”

Mary died later in the hospital, just like in the regular universe, but much sooner, as she became infected as well. Although the illness wasn’t airborne, it could be transferred by bodily fluids. Though the terrorists only meant to target certain people for one specific incident, microorganisms can’t be simply shut off once they’re set loose.

The terrorists had wanted to make a statement using the very illness that they claimed was manufactured by isolating an especially dangerous strain in a lab and unleashing it publicly. Unfortunately, it had the opposite effect they were going for. The exact events of that day were covered up, including the message that they were trying to send.  Instead, the negative side-effects that the original product resulted in were blamed on this new more deadly strain of the infection, and the pharmaceutical company eventually came up with a cure for that too… but not without more casualties.

Many of the terrorists did get arrested and quietly charged with domestic terrorism. In the end, the company they went to such extremes to expose for their crimes became the hero, and all they accomplished was giving them a villain to escape their own misdeeds.

Quietly, LambsWork Productions buried the SunnyTime Crew show and all traces of its memory to escape any bad press. It moved on to new shows, and new partnerships with the pharmaceutical company in the future, though the higher ups never used any of their characters to overtly endorse any unrelated brands again.

In the modern day, the illness that may have been created in a lab, but was made so much more deadly by terrorism is mostly a non-issue with the standard vaccines people get as they grow up. Few people think about it at all. The outbreak incident was a blip in history, with the show never being mentioned at all in association with it.

40 Years Later

The timeline of events plays out mostly the same from here, though perhaps with a few less survivors from the incident of 1984 in the modern day. Though it might not matter when the second incident unfolds.

In many supernatural stories where someone is unjustly murdered, the way they died plays a part in how their revival affects the world… or in this case infects.

The apocalypse started when a VHS tape was played, and Alice became patient zero.

Jack didn’t mean for it to happen. He only wanted to help his sunshine. She was already sick when he appeared. Not only was she suffering from chronic illness like in the regular universe, but she had caught the modern day version of the very infection that had killed both of them in the past. It was treatable in the present, and she was vaccinated, so she was just isolated at home with nothing to do but heal and distract herself from feeling so miserable and alone.

In this case, the curious and compelling VHS tape Alice bought from the thrift store became far more of a distraction than she could have ever imagined.

Jack appeared when Alice was at her most vulnerable and took care of her. The longer they spent together, the better she felt. Her symptoms faded, and his company was surprisingly comfortable, familiar. It was almost nostalgic, like someone had taken care of her like he did long ago…

Alice wasn’t cured, she was asymptomatic. The infection had been altered supernaturally to make her better, but it became something else, something beyond the capabilities of modern medicine. Its change was influenced by Jack’s fears - his fear of the cold, sleepless hell he had been damned to, the fear of the decades loneliness and the endless cycle of pain, and most of all the fear of losing his sunshine.

Understandably, a patient zero is the last person you want working in the food service industry. Worse, a heatwave had struck Texas, sending a lot of customers to Yogurtopia for a cold and tasty treat. Having to deal with so many people distracted Alice from Jack and left him feeling a little lonely… and increasingly afraid that all of these people might make her forget him.

Symptoms

Unlike the infection 40+ years prior, this supernatural affliction spread slowly, the vector not from body fluids but being in the infected’s presence, seeing and hearing them in close proximity. Touching them directly spread it so much faster. In the initial stages it led to nightmares, an increasing sense of paranoia, and a cold prickling pain not unlike the staticy feeling one got after a part of their body fell to sleep, especially focused on the face and hands. This feeling would steadily spread to other parts of the body as the infection got worse.

The progression led to hallucinations, voices that whispered one’s own deepest fears, which led to an increase in depression. The infected grew to have difficulty sleeping, but when they did they only experienced nightmares. The only thing that alleviated symptoms was physical touch with another person that they felt affection/desire towards, but this in turn would spread the infection.

The psychological effects worsened as symptoms progressed, creating an increased sense of paranoia that they were being haunted, but also that this entity was erasing their existence from everyone who knew them, which led to fears about being alone and forgotten. In a sense, the virus was turning people into yanderes, desperate for human connection.

There were visual hallucinations as well, which started as shadows and colors at the corners of their eyes, an entity constantly stalking them. As the infection progressed the hallucinations became more vivid, turning into distorted inhuman figures with protruding bones coming from rotting strips of skin, and other such horrific images.

The infected changed physically too. Their blood took on a strange blue tinge to it and a hint of green. The colors became more prominently distinct and clearly unnatural in later stages of infection, creating an RGB effect as it leaked from the wounds, eyes, and mouth. Between the discomfort underneath the skin and psychological paranoia, patients usually scratched themselves until they bled, especially around the face and hands. Some even clawed their own eyes out to escape the horrific hallucinations.

The infection didn’t affect everyone the same. For some the symptoms progressed faster, and for some they had fewer symptoms. There were even some that claimed that they recovered from the infection.

There was some truth to the rumors. Being infected by close proximity sight/sound of the infected had a cumulative effect on symptoms, but it faded when not in their presence. Unfortunately, physical contact makes the infection spread far worse than sight or sound. It’s thought that maybe if they’re kept in isolation away from other infected they might recover, but this makes their symptoms of paranoia and desperation for human contact worse, leading to them harming themselves or others in their need to alleviate the symptoms.

The problem was that the infection couldn’t be detected until the blood’s color started to change, well after a person would be a danger to themselves and others. Despite lockdowns and stay at home orders, it spread beyond the city, beyond Texas, and even went international. People infected couldn’t handle being isolated alone as the infection progressed. Forcing them only made it worse.

Violence broke out, from infected people driven mad by paranoia and those desperately trying to escape being infected. The more an infected person was wounded, the more of that unnatural blood spilled in the later stages, the more they changed into something that became no longer human.

Some of the infected had their bodies warped, their proportions stretching and contorting until they were almost cartoonish, elongated, torn, and bloody. They were so desperate for company, and many infected clung to one another, flesh merging together until no one could tell where one person ended and the other began. These amalgamations were dangerous and violent, paranoid of being pried apart and some parts wanting to bring others important to them into the amalgam.

While there was hope of recovery for those infected in earlier stages, once they were warped to such a degree, there was no saving them.

Patient “Zero”

The first public case of this infection reaching its unnatural stages that gave it the nickname of the Color Plague was the incident with one Nick Herraras. The name of the infection might change later if I come up with a better term for it, but we’ll go with Color Plague for now.

Poor Nick was found on the streets, covered with what initially was mistaken for paint, only to be later identified as tainted blood. Some thought he was patient zero, driven to a crazed and desperate state as he wandered the streets, babbling incoherently about “sunshine” and “him.”

On the same night there had been a call to the police that reported a break-in at an apartment building where a woman lived alone. When colorful blood was found at the scene of the break-in, it was quickly deduced that Nick had been the culprit behind it. Alice King, the victim, reported that she had been asleep at the time, but she managed to scare the intruder off with her gun, which led to him being found wandering the streets.

The truth was… a bit different than Alice told the police.

The day had been a stressful one. Aside from the long shift, a regular customer at her job had been acting… strange lately. Nick had come to see Alice with increasing frequency, even lingering until closing hours.

It all started off innocently enough for Nick, just a harmless crush that turned into a serious case of lovesickness. Alice had been such a sweet breath of fresh air from his stressful life as an online celebrity, and despite the paranoia and hallucinations that affected him, he fixated on her. It got worse after his hands touched hers when taking his order from her. Her warm touch alleviated his slowly worsening symptoms like nothing else could. He became obsessed with her even as the hallucinations terrorized him to stay away.

Nick needed her.

Alice picked up on the way Nick kept staring at her even when she was taking care of other customers. It made her grow increasingly nervous, especially when Jack voiced his concerns about both Nick and the dangers of other people in general. Many of the regulars were starting to act strange and shifty as well.

Despite the voices warning Nick away, he approached Alice. He got in too close and rambled a bit about how he noticed that she didn’t ever go home with anyone. Did she have a boyfriend? He was exhausted and disheveled at the time, his wild eyes occasionally darting away to chase shadows before fixing back on Alice. He didn’t even give her a chance to answer, rambling on about how he had been watching her for weeks now, and he had seen her posts online. He saw her give that kid who spilled his yogurt a free replacement last week, and she helped an elderly man find his misplaced car keys. That was so kind of her. Her art was so pretty and her online profile said she was single, so she was, wasn’t she?

The cold got worse and Nick had to touch her, he needed it. Alice tried pulling away politely, but his increasingly desperate grabs for her caused her to panic. In a desperate bid to keep a hold on her, he dug his fingers into her wrists, hard, until a large gloved hand that seemed to appear out of nowhere wrenched his away.

It was the first time Jack had touched anyone besides his sunshine, and it was so cold. It sent Nick into fits, clawing at his hands where Jack had touched him, the hallucinations getting worse. The sight terrifying Alice.

Nick hadn’t been alone during that incident. James Harrison had been worried about his friend’s increasingly strange behavior. He tried to talk sense into Nick when he started acting increasingly erratic. When Nick grabbed onto Alice, James helped pry Nick off her, but he felt a terrible cold that made his hands itch when he succeeded.

James managed to calm Nick out of his fit, after a little while. He apologized to Alice for the scene, trying to smooth things over so that she wouldn’t call the cops. In the arms of his friend, Nick managed to start calming down and start coming back to himself. He was comforted by the warmth of someone he cared for and who cared about him. With everyone shaken, James escorted Nick home.

When in the company of his friend, feeling that warmth of connection, Nick was okay. But that night when he was home alone after he had reassured James over and over that he was just tired, he needed sleep, and that he would see a doctor tomorrow… his mind went back to Alice.

The hallucinations were so much worse, eating away at Nick. Only Alice could make them go away for good, he was sure of it. He even knew where she lived. He also knew how to pick locks, how to be quiet. If he just saw her alone without anyone around, he could make her see just how much he needed her, how much he wanted to get to know her, love her. His thoughts about her had deteriorated from an innocent crush into a sick obsession that he believed must be true love.

The plan did work, to a point. Nick managed to break in without alerting others in the apartment complex or waking Alice up. He just never expected that she wouldn’t be alone in her apartment.

In a sense, what happened to Nick ties into my past theory that he (and the other love interests) were all yanderes. It might have been debunked, but it can be something fun to play with in a universe where there’s an infection that turns people into monstrous yanderes.

After the incident with Nick at Yogurtopia, Alice was pretty shaken up. She felt paranoid going home that night. Fortunately she had Jack to watch out for her. It was only because of his reassurance and comfort that she was able to get any sleep that night.

Jack was also the only reason why Nick didn’t get his hands on Alice again that night.

Sunny Day Jack isn’t a violent person, or at least he has convinced himself that he isn’t, but he isn’t going to let anyone hurt or take away his sunshine. No matter what it takes.

Alice woke up to Nick’s hysterical screaming. She burst out of bed in time to see him fleeing from the apartment. She also saw Jack looming in the dark like a terrifying sentinel, something otherworldly and dangerous. The moment Jack sensed her fear though, he was back to normal, soft and reassuring. He told her someone broke into the apartment, but he managed to scare them off… somehow. When Alice asked about the blood, Jack told her (truthfully) that Nick was already bleeding when he snuck in. In fact, he started hurting himself before he ran away. She wondered if Jack lied to not scare her with the fact that he was capable of violence despite his kid-friendly persona, but later the next day she heard from the police that the wounds were in fact self-inflicted.

After all, Jack doesn’t need to get his own hands dirty when he can have Nick take care of it for him.

Word of the infection spreads, along with the infection itself. Alice refused to allow her family to come visit her after she told them about the break-in, when she feared that she might be infected as well due to her close proximity to Nick and him bleeding all over her home. She was examined by doctors, but when they didn’t find anything, she was sent home with instructions to self-isolate and monitor herself for any potential symptoms that might appear.

Once more, Alice was isolated in her home with only Jack for company. He cleaned up the mess for her so she wouldn’t have to look at the blood, and helped reinforce her door so that no one could break in as easily again… but the news made it clear that the world was becoming an even more dangerous place.

A Lonely Apocalypse

As one might expect, an infection that spreads by sight and sound spreads quickly, especially when it makes people desperate to reach out and touch others, spreading it even faster. Quarantine zones were broken easily, and chaos descended across the entire world. Infrastructures fell apart in the chaos, such as electricity, internet, and plumbing. Infected people broke into homes to find others to join them. Civilization collapsed.

Alice lost contact with her family when the internet and phone lines went down. Last she heard was that they were in isolation and they were all fine. Mercifully, no one was showing symptoms. Barbie had left her apartment and returned to their family home before travel became dangerous. The King family could watch out for one another, but Alice worried about them and her friends dearly.

Shaun, being more trope savvy about zombie apocalypses did decently well for himself despite the circumstances. He managed to escape being infected and has been able to isolate with Olivia and a few other survivors. Animals, mercifully, seem to be immune to the infection, so MoonPie is safe in his care as well. He’s slowly breaking down the “rules” of the infection in order to understand it and why some people are affected more strongly than others. He, like so many others, wants to figure out where it comes from and if it can be stopped. He is also pretty damn sure that this infection is something supernatural, so science alone can’t explain it, let alone put a stop to it.

Shaun and Alice communicated via internet and phone before both went down, so they knew that the other was safe until that point. Because Alice was suspected of being infected, she couldn’t join him and the other survivors. By this point she had a strong suspicion that she was an asymptomatic carrier of the infection.

But it was fine. Alice didn’t need to join up with survivors anyway. She had Jack to protect her. Shaun didn’t know who this Jack was, never having seen him in person. It stung to know that he was Alice’s new boyfriend, but he managed to joke that he was looking forward to meeting Jack “when all this craziness is over.”

The joke came out even more strained due to very real fears that might never happen.

When Ian first heard about the infection back in Texas, he wanted to take a flight back immediately and check up on Alice. However, by that time the city had been put under lockdown. Without any word about Alice, he grew increasingly worried about her, since she was already dealing with a chronic illness. When he heard through a mutual acquaintance that she might be infected, he was racked with guilt for leaving her, blaming himself. This wouldn’t have happened if he never left for college.

A lot of things never would have happened if he hadn’t left.

Alice picked up the phone for Ian once. Though it was hard on her, she was relieved that he was safe. When he wanted to see her, she told him under no uncertain terms not to. It was only when she outright told him that she was infected that he stopped begging her to change her mind.

The news shocked Ian, horrified him. He broke down, babbling apologies, and Alice told him it was fine. She forgave him for cheating and told him to not feel guilty about that anymore. He should focus on staying safe and not worry about her anymore. He needed to focus on taking care of himself now.

This was a final message from Alice to find closure with Ian and sincerely wish him happiness in spite of everything. What happened between them still hurt her, but in the wake of an apocalypse it was a more distant pain, smaller in the face of far more immediate threats. She also had Jack to support and comfort her. She had his love to heal her wounded heart and keep her safe. She felt stronger thanks to Jack in spite of everything.

Despite Alice’s attempts to alleviate Ian of guilt, his guilt only grew worse. He felt like he had to do something. Alice ended the call after telling him definitively to forget about her and not call her again, but how could he after everything they’ve been through? After how badly he failed her? He tried calling her back, but she finally blocked his number.

The guilt and his feelings for Alice ate Ian alive. It made him determined to get back to her and make things right, quarantine or no quarantine.

Even if that meant he got infected too. At least then they would always be together… like they should have been all along.

So Ian is trying to find Alice while avoiding the infected. It’s almost certain that he’ll fail the latter, but perhaps not the former… though what state he’d be in when he finally finds Alice might be something far more horrific than the boy she used to know and love.

Building a Life Together While the World Falls Apart

Although the world is crumbling down around them, Jack is getting stronger. He’s become more solid, stronger, and others can see him now. He can defend his sunshine from the infected, and he’s actually very good at it. Somehow he always manages to find a way to chase them off.

While for the most part Jack comes away unscathed from such encounters, sometimes he gets a little scratched up, which results in Alice fussing over him. He’ll never admit it, but he gets a little careless sometimes just to be spoiled by his sunshine. He knows it’s naughty of him, and he really doesn’t want to worry her, but it feels so good to be cared for so sweetly. He always asks her to kiss his boo-boos better, which leads to kissing other places as well.

Alice knows perfectly well that the aching Jack feels in his cock isn’t from any injury he took, but she’ll still kiss it until he feels allll better anyway~ He makes sure to make her feel very good as well in return.

Given how stressful things are and how isolated survivors have become, sex is a pretty obvious way to pass the time. Jack takes every excuse he can to seduce Alice, as long as the place they’re staying in is secured. He’s not going to be reckless with her safety. The infection might not affect her, but the infected are another story. He doesn’t care if anyone sees them (and really he’d enjoy showing off how much his sunshine loves him), but an infected isn’t simply going to sit back and appreciate the show.

Whenever Jack catches Alice worrying about her friends and family, he makes sure to redirect her focus on him as much as possible. He’s very good at distracting her with his love, placing kisses all over her body between sweet words of comfort and praise. She’s doing so well handling everything. She’s so strong, so kind, and so beautiful. She doesn’t have to handle it alone. He’s right here for her. He’ll always be with her, forever, and he loves her so, so much, more than anyone in the world.

It’s for the best that it’s just the two of them now. Even if Alice is infected, Jack is either immune or asymptomatic too, so it’s perfectly safe with just the two of them. He doesn’t have to worry about losing her to the infection, and she doesn’t have to worry about accidentally infecting him like she would her friends or family. They’ll be safe as long as they stay away and stay together, just like they’re doing now. Jack promises to make sure that neither of them will ever have to feel lonely ever again.

At present, the pair managed to secure an abandoned house. Well, mansion. Only the best for his sunshine, Jack said. Sure it took a lot of work fixing it up and cleaning up the messes, but as long as they’re together, they can handle anything life throws at them. They can face the world together, just the two of them.

After securing the place against invasions from infected or survivors taking advantage of the chaos, they managed to fix the place up to be rather cozy. They’ve secured a fair amount of supplies, and even started growing food both on the grounds and in a greenhouse. Alice knew a lot of tricks for how to grow plants effectively thanks to her mother’s expertise in the subject, and Jack handled much of the grunt work thanks to his strength.

It was kind of nice at times, like they were in their own little world. They could almost forget the outside world… if not for the occasional screams and wailing in the distance.

Despite the circumstances, and the occasional conflict, life in the mansion was actually pretty good for Jack and Alice. With animals being immune, they even got some pets in the form of dogs, cats, chickens, and even a couple rabbits. The animals also weren’t a threat to steal away his sunshine, so Jack was able to open his heart to them and love them as well, which helped to balance him emotionally a little.

That isn’t to say that it’s not hard on the two of them psychologically. Alice had to shoot people, infected and not, in order to survive. Jack wanted to handle all threats that came their way, but the infected had numbers on their side. Even supernatural powers have their limits, and this virus that he unknowingly started has gone far, far out of his control. He couldn’t stop it even if he tried.

That isn’t to say that Jack wouldn’t be the key to stopping it somehow. Someone just needs to put the pieces together and figure out the cause of the infection, then maybe they can figure out a way to stop it once and for all.

I think I’ll wrap things up on that note. I hope you enjoyed this ramble of supernatural biological horror. Let me know if you want to hear more about this or any other AU or story I’ve made. Thanks for reading!

@channydraws @earthgirlaesthetic @sai-of-the-7-stars @cheriihoney @illary-kore @okamiliqueur @kurokrisps

[21ate]

I feel as though you must've spoken about this when it came out, but what is your interpretation of the EMH finale "Introductions" and how it relates to the themes of the audience as an antagonist in EMH as a whole? (If that doesn't appeal to you as a topic, just talk about your interpretation of the finale in general and what it means for the narrative?) <3 Happy 4 years since the finale

wow thanks for the great question!

so, i think that the audience and vinny are very similar in that both perpetuated misery and did so unknowingly. vinny hurt people and we helped it happen just by merely giving it views. those unfortunate enough to go further often met gruesome ends

however, i’m not sure the audience is as much an antagonistic force as vinny is, and that is why it’s important that vinny chooses to give up the camera in the end

sure, we the audience have been “unknowing accomplices” as habit puts it, and yeah…we found entertainment in watching these peoples lives fall apart. we’re enablers as well as a feeding ground for man and habit

but vinny, no matter his intention, no matter the narrative he tries to spin about himself, repeats one simple mistake: broadcasting it for everyone to see

the mere action of doing so dooms everyone. there’s nothing we the audience can do to stop anything. we’re the spawn that just keeps growing, existing for creatures like habit and man to feed on. and they do so through people like vinny

i don’t think vinny learning his lesson after death is meant to be ironic, that it’s meaningless because in a hypothetical next iteration he’ll just forget, rinse and repeat forever. i think this is the only way to begin undoing their curse

see, each time the guys die and enter the candleverse, they retain the knowledge of the life they just experienced. when we first see the candleverse gang, we see the guys speculating about what’s about to happen prior to the the emh iteration beginning

these guys have come from the princeton iteration, so their knowledge of what’s going on is limited by their experience up to that point. which is frankly just a lot of misery and no explanation

except… princeton vinny was told the answer in tape 3. so when he died, candleverse vinny already had a good idea how the next iteration would play out. he knew he’d be responsible

in the morse code video, c!vinny seems pretty nonchalant about everything, having learned he’s the center of so many problems. patrick basically told him that he’s just gonna keep fucking up so why bother telling jeff or evan. he doesn’t care that there’s a cameraman watching them, even seeming to invite it

with this in mind i don’t believe c!jeff and c!evan truly knew the extent of the problem until they found each other again during the emh iteration. at this point they now would know about their roles, and we know they eventually figure out that by watching we are contributing to the problem (the ghost tweet telling us to stop watching, posted by evan and jeff from the candleverse)

thus, i believe that what vinny says about the camera in the end is significant:

“we don’t need it”

evan and jeff (and steph by default) already know that; it’s not something they struggle with. if we believe vin has changed then why include them when he’s the main instigator?

obviously it’s because he’s referring to the audience as well. he’s cutting us off, saying we don’t need to see the rest

this is a change in attitude from the c!vinny we saw back in the morse code video

sure, maybe this doesn’t rectify their problem entirely, but it’s an important step forward. just like any trauma or addiction, recovery is a journey and it starts with admitting you have a problem, which vinny does; and he takes it a step further by swearing off the camera. cold turkey.

man this isn’t even mentioning the implications of the north star but i’ve been trying to answer this ask for long enough so maybe i’ll do that separately

anyways thanks again and pls id love any follow up questions!