#and having not ever forgiven them for that

[taeeflwrr]

oh my god was this a rollercoaster of emotions #bringbackangst #imafeministdespiteallthethoughtsthatthisficmademeentertain #forgivemesinceitwashyuck

death by a thousand cuts | l.hc

“but if the story’s over, why am i still writing pages?”

💿now playing: death by a thousand cuts by taylor swift

❯ summary: If you get more than one love in a lifetime, why does your heart still beat for the boy who wrecked you completely?

❯ pairings: haechan x fem!reader

❯ genre: angst, second chance, cheating trope, smut.

❯ words: 9.6k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, smut, cheating (booo), exes, toxic relationship, a therapy joke, lots of angst, swearing, heartbreak, a whole lotta hurt, drinking, insecurities, jealousy, arguing, heavy petting, protected sex, nipple play, oral sex (fem receiving), i can’t lie this is just 9k words of heartache and sex lol.

an: this fic will not be for everyone!! i do not condone cheating in any way, you’re a loser if you cheat. i just felt like writing something heart achey, and this is my favourite taylor swift song that inspires cheating fics whenever i listen to it.

“Give me that!”

Yeji snatches the phone out of your hand with the kind of urgency only a best friend possesses—the kind forged after too many years of watching you do the stupidest things when it comes to boys. Her eyes flare the moment she spots the familiar username. 

@ haechanahceah

“Oh my god. You’re kidding.” Her thumb hovers accusingly over the screen. “Y/N, it’s been a year. A whole year. Why haven’t you blocked Hyuck yet?”

You don’t answer immediately. Just tilt your head back with an exhausted exhale, reaching for the phone. Not because you want it back, but because it feels incriminating in her hands. Like a wound she’s now inspecting. And you don’t need her inspecting it.

“Because we’re okay,” you say, not entirely convincingly. “Mostly.”

It was just a like. On an Instagram post. Of him—with his friends.

(Some of them girls. Most of them girls. All of them tagged. And you definitely weren’t planning on clicking through their profiles in the middle of your best friend coffee date with your screen brightness criminally low. Definitely not.)

“And because we’re friends,” you add breezily. Then you pluck the phone from her hand and tap back into the app, your thumb moving faster than your brain, already leaving a comment beneath his photo.

Something flippant. Something funny. Something that screams: See? I’m a functioning, emotionally stable adult who can totally be friends with the boy who annihilated my heart while he gallivants around Europe on a boat with girls. 

Except probably subtler. 

Yeji stares at you like she’s witnessing a slow-motion car crash. “Oh, absolutely. And when that guy drove me home from the bar last weekend and told me I had pretty eyes, we were just friends too.”

You roll your eyes, swatting the air with your hand. “That’s different. Hyuck’s my childhood best friend. I can’t just cut him off now that we’re not…” you pause, the words catching in your throat like they always do, “you know?”

“No. I don’t know,” she says, arms crossed and chin lifted in that annoyingly perceptive way of hers. “Because you two are in a loop. An exhausting, toxic, ‘I-don’t-know-where-we-stand-with-each-other’ loop. And staying in touch with him is why you can’t move on.”

“We are not toxic.”

You are. 

But you’d already said it out loud like a reflex, before you even had time to make it sound believable. So, you try to fix it. 

“We’re just…”

You trail off, blinking hard like the answer might fall from the ceiling.

 “Co-dependent?” Lia offers helpfully. 

 You sigh. “Yes. That. Thank you, Lia.”

“It’s weird, is what it is,” Yeji says. 

You lean back in your chair, arms folded across your chest like armour. “Ugh. You wouldn’t get it.”

And they wouldn’t. They never have.

Because nobody gets you and Hyuck. Not Yeji, not Lia, not even the therapists you’ve paid a concerning amount of money to explain it all to you. No amount of therapy or psychoanalysis can remove the him-shaped hole inside of you. The way he exists like a second heartbeat.

How many times does a person truly get to fall in love? Not the practical kind. But the kind that rewires you completely. That makes you wonder how you ever existed before this person, and fear who you might become after. 

If love were fair—the answer would be simple. Once. Only ever once.

Because to love someone—truly love someone—is not just to hand over your heart. It’s to fold it delicately, wrap it in every part of your soul, and place it willingly in that person’s pocket. Trusting that they won’t ever give it back frayed or barely beating. 

And if they do (and he definitely did) well, what remains might resemble a heart, but it never beats the same again. You don’t think it ever will.

So yes. One love. One person. One boy—him.

Yeji calls it nostalgia. Says that since he was your first everything, it feels bigger than it was, and that’s why he’s taking up too much space inside your chest. She says you're scared of forgetting. But that’s not it.

You’d give anything to forget. It’s better than remembering everything. Of living in a world where he’s everywhere and nowhere all at once. Where songs feel like him. Where movies feel like him. Where your own body sometimes feels like him because he’s marked it so damn much.

But if you did move on, if you could—you’d still have to ask yourself: where does all that breathless, foolish, all-consuming love go? 

The common consensus is that love turns to hate when it stays too long without being fed. But you can’t imagine a universe cruel enough to make you hate the very boy who made you believe in soulmates.

So you don’t hate him. Even though you should.

“Fine,” Yeji slumps back in her chair, arms crossed, eyes sharp with that familiar fury she reserves exclusively for you—when you’re being like this. “You’re right. I don’t get it. I don’t get why you’re still in cahoots with the same boy who cheated on you and left you a complete mess.”

Lia gasps. “Yeji!”

But the thing is—Yeji has a point. And you know that. But knowing something and truly understanding it is two different things. 

You don’t understand how he put his hands on someone else. How his mouth touched a body that wasn’t yours. How he delivered that line—“I didn’t mean for it to happen”—with the kind of ease that made you wonder just how many times he’d practised it in the mirror before he had the balls to actually tell you. 

You didn’t understand, yet you knew all the same.

You were wearing his shirt when he told you. Still in his house. Still in the space you thought was yours too. And all you could think was: how many nights did he lie next to you like nothing was wrong? How many times did he touch you with hands that had already betrayed you?

He never told you when, or who. Just a sorry. A soft one. A useless one. And a vague promise that he’d do anything to fix it.

But there are some things sorry can’t fix.

You clear your throat, suddenly too aware of how loud your heartbeat feels in a room full of people who love you enough to hate him.

“Because we’re not in cahoots,” you correct. “We’re friends, Yej. Him and I have always been friends.”

It’s not a lie. Not exactly. 

You have been friends with Hyuck ever since he moved in next door to your family when you were six. And even then—when you climbed trees and shared crayons—you think your heart was already beating for him. So much you don’t know what life is without that pulse anymore. Without a hint of him running beneath your skin.

It’s why you plaster on a smile and say, “In fact, I even invited him to my birthday party next week.”

They look at you, eyes full of pity and sympathy. And that hurts way more than him breaking you ever did. Because now your friends are staring at you like you’re some sad, shattered, pathetic thing he left behind.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Lia asks weakly. 

“You’re seriously a lunatic,” Yeji cuts in before you can respond. “You’re just dragging this out for yourself. Death by a thousand cuts and all that.”

“I am not a lunatic,” you say, shrugging her off. “It’s just... he’s still part of my life. It’s not like I’m inviting a stranger.”

“He fucked up your life,” she huffs, the words stinging. “He hurt you.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “But I love him anyway, don’t I?”

And you do. Because some loves don’t end—they just rearrange themselves. 

Yeji yanks her chair back so hard the legs screech against the floor.

“He’s gonna hurt you again,” she spits. “How many times are you gonna let him rip you apart before there’s nothing left? Before you’ve sacrificed yourself and everyone else around you and you’ve got nothing left to give?”

You want to say something, but the words get stuck, because she’s right.

Lia reaches out, “Yeji—”

“If he’s there next week, Y/N,” she says, eyes burning over her shoulder looking from you to Lia, “then I won’t be.”

When Hyuck got a DM from the only girl he’s ever loved—two days ago, now—he sobered.

Which, if you asked Mark, was some kind of divine miracle. Because Mark had been watching his best friend drink himself into oblivion for the better part of a year. A slow, intentional kind of fucked up that was clearly a desperate, pathetic attempt to forget you.

But no shot, no spirit, no stranger’s skin pressed to his could ever do the trick. Not really. Because no matter how hard Hyuck tried, the hangover was always the same: he’d wake up, and you still weren’t his girl.

So when he saw your username light up his phone, he paused. 

Because the preview didn’t give anything away. It did that annoying thing that said “2 new messages.” No hint. No breadcrumb. Just a loaded gun of a notification staring up at him.

And, of course he clicked it. He had to. You knew he would. You’d sent two back-to-back messages on purpose—he’s certain of it. Because that’s exactly the kind of person you were. Always two steps ahead. Always orchestrating even your vulnerability. 

You wanted to see when he’d read it. 

And he did.

At 2:36 a.m. Because you’d definitely be asleep by then. And that meant he had enough time to draft the right response—measured, brisk, detached—like the past year hadn’t cracked him open.

He read it in the half-light of Mark’s living room, surrounded by people he didn’t really like and a bottle of something he couldn’t quite remember picking up.

hey. i’m having a thing next friday for my birthday—just a chill party. nothing major. 

you can come, if you want.

Hyuck stares at the two messages.

It’s not because of the party. He couldn’t care less about the cake or the candles. That’s not what has his heart in his throat. It’s the fact that—for the first time in a year—you actually reached out. None of that accidentally bumping into each other nonsense you two pull. No one buys that it’s an accident. 

At least, it’s not an accident on his behalf.

It’s not an accident when he keeps frequenting the same coffee shop you once claimed made the best lattes in the city—always at the same time. It’s not a coincidence when he drives through your favourite places on rainy days, just in case you need a ride and are too proud to just call him. And it’s definitely not a coincidence that makes him take the long way to your house. He does it deliberately. He selfishly takes more of your time than he deserves.

Because saying goodbye wasn’t an option for him. Not until it had to be. He’d take prolonged suffering. Death by a thousand cuts.

And it’s not his fault. Well. It is. All of the ruin, anyway. But in the twelve months since he blew it all up, you’ve still lingered. You always do. You always will. So he just keeps showing up in your life when he knows you need to move on. Because he doesn’t want you to. 

Because everything in his life is still half-yours. And he won’t board up the windows of that love—not even now. Not when some part of you still flickers inside it, and half of his heart is still in your chest.

Hyuck stares at your message again. He types something. Deletes it. Types something else. Deletes that too.

what kind of thing is it?

Too uninterested.

who’s gonna be there?

Too nosy.

sure, if you want me there.

Too honest. 

Everything felt like a trap—too much, too little, not enough to win you back, but equally too honest and would remind you of his actions that hurt you. 

How was he supposed to respond to the girl who once memorised every mole on his face? Who was the muse of every song he’s written? Who still makes his hands shake on the keyboard? Who he cheated on? Who he destroyed completely? 

Eventually he landed on:

might swing by, angel. happy early birthday, btw.

He hit send before he could change his mind.

11:27PM

Thirty-three minutes left of your birthday, but you’re not celebrating.

Instead, you’re sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter with one leg dangling, the other tucked beneath you, whilst your dress wrinkles and bunches around your thighs because you stopped caring how ruined you looked an hour ago.  

You don’t care that your lipstick is all but gone or that your mascara is smudged under both eyes. You don’t care because he’s not here. 

You were supposed to be smiling by now. 

But he didn’t walk in. 

He still hasn’t.

And you don’t even know why you’re surprised. He’s not your boyfriend. He’s not your baby. He’s not your Hyuck anymore. He doesn’t owe you a goddamn thing—not a happy birthday, or his time. You gave that privilege up the night you stopped being his. Or maybe the night he stopped being yours. You still haven’t decided which one came first.

Still, you hoped he would come. 

It was the only thing keeping you remotely sane—delusional hope that he might still show up. That maybe he’d walk through the door like he hadn’t betrayed you and still want you. You still wanted him. 

You hated that he broke you and still got to keep the pieces. Hated that even now, on your birthday, all you could think about was him. Hated that you still wanted his birthdays, his weekends, his forever. 

You take another drink. Cheaper vodka this time, and let it burn your throat as it goes down. You want the sting. You deserve the sting. Your eyes drift (again) to the front door.

Still nothing.

“You need to stop doing that,” Lia pads barefoot into the kitchen, coming right behind you to smack both her hands on your shoulders. “Stop watching that door like a hawk. Yeji would kill you if she saw you pining after him on your birthday.”

You press your lips together and glance away like you’ve been caught red-handed. Because, well. You have.

“Yeah, well. Yeji isn’t here,” you mutter, taking another sip—longer this time. 

Lia raises an eyebrow. “And why’s that?”

You drain the last of your drink and look her straight in the eye. “Because I invited him.”

Lia looks at you expectantly. You know she hates being caught between you and Yeji, but it’s clear she thinks you were wrong to invite Hyuck tonight, knowing full well how Yeji would react.

And maybe she’s right.

That’s why you sigh.

“Look, he said he might come,” you say finally. “He didn’t promise anything. Yeji was overreacting.”

“He never promises,” Lia says gently. “And yet, you keep prioritising him like he’s still that sweet boy we both used to love, who used to buy your favourite cookies before class, or pick fights with the boys who made fun of you. But he’s not that boy anymore, Y/N. And he’s not yours anymore either.”

You flinch.

She notices. Regrets it. “Sorry.”

You shake your head. “It’s fine.”

But it isn’t, not really. Because this is the first birthday he’s missed since you were kids. Since you were eleven and he showed up with a homemade card. 

It’s not fine because his absence would say something that the cheating weirdly never quite did—that he’s not the boy you fell in love with. Maybe he hasn’t been for a long time.

Lia leans against the counter beside you. “It’s allowed, you know? Being hurt.”

“I don’t get to be,” you reply, glancing at her. “He doesn’t owe me anything anymore. I was the one who didn’t want to forgive him that night. I said I was done. I don’t expect him to grovel forever.”

“No,” she agrees. “But you deserved something. More than a half-assed apology at least.”

That lands in your chest harshly. You press your tongue to your cheek, the way you do when you’re trying not to cry. You’re not drunk enough to cry yet. Give it another hour.

“Come on,” Lia sighs and wraps an arm around your shoulders, tugging you into her side, “I’m not letting you stay in here staring at that door and giving him the power to ruin the rest of your birthday.” 

But even as she says it, your eyes flicker to that door again—still no him.

Lia doesn’t let go of your hand as she leads you out of the kitchen and into the living room, where people are scattered across the sofas and floors. They all feel like strangers at your own party because you’ve spent the whole night looking for one person who never came. 

“Y/N,” Lia says, squeezing your hand, “this is Hyunjae.”

You blink. The boy in front of you is pretty. Dark eyes, strong jaw softened by the curve of a perfect smile, black hair pushed back sexily. He’s holding a drink loosely in his hand as his eyes sweep over you. 

“Happy birthday,” he says. “You look—”

Please don’t say beautiful. Please don’t say gorgeous. Please don’t say anything he would’ve said.

“—pretty,” Hyunjae finishes. “Really fucking pretty.”

You smile. Or try to. “Thanks.”

And look, it’s not that Hyunjae isn’t nice—he is. You can already hear Yeji telling you to give him a chance. He’s the kind of boy who’d text back, who’s safe, who’d never leave you staring at a door wondering if he’ll show up on your birthday or not. Hyunjae is the kind of boy who wouldn’t cheat on you. 

But the truth is, you don’t know if you can be the girl who lets someone call her pretty and fawn anymore. Not without wondering if they’ll still mean it once they see someone better, shinier, hotter than you. 

Just like he did. 

You nod along when Hyunjae talks. You laugh where you’re supposed to. Play nice. Be sweet. But everything he says sounds like static. Everything he is feels like a placeholder. 

And then, you hear it. That deep, honey-smooth, familiar voice saying: “Happy birthday, angel.”

It slices through the room. Through you.

Because there’s only one person who ever called you that. One boy. Lee Donghyuck.

You didn’t even hear the front door open. Typical. But there he is, leaning in the doorway, all tan skin and messy hair. His hands are buried in his pockets, his jaw set tight—too tight, like he’s seconds from grinding his teeth into dust. 

But it’s not you he’s looking at. It’s Hyunjae. Sitting far too close. Arm tossed lazily behind you on the couch, thigh pointing into yours, almost grazing like he owns your space. 

And Hyuck notices. You know he notices.

His eyes narrow. Lips parting slightly as his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek. You know that look. You’ve seen it before. That blend of heat and hurt and possessiveness he has no right to anymore.

It hits your chest all at once—shame, hurt, lust—and you fumble. Your hand twitches with the red plastic cup still clutched tight. The drink tilts before you even realise it’s slipping. Cranberry vodka sloshes, causing sticky, cold liquid to spill down the front of your dress, dripping into the neckline. 

“Fuck—” you hiss, jerking upright as the cup lands onto the coffee table. You paw uselessly at the now soaked fabric, trying to blot it with the hem of your sleeve, but it’s only smearing it worse.

Hyunjae starts to reach for a napkin, concerned. But your eyes have already found Hyuck’s again. And the way he’s looking at you now…

Your throat goes dry. “I—I’m gonna go change.”

You don’t wait for a reply. You’re moving before anyone can stop you, heart hammering against your ribs because this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. 

You barely make it up the stairs, breath coming fast, fingers trembling as you reach for the door to your room. You close it. But you don’t get the chance to lock it. Because the door creaks again behind you. And then it clicks shut. You spin around. And there he is.

You don’t say anything at first. 

Just stalk over to your wardrobe like it’s perfectly sane to have your ex-boyfriend—your ex-best friend, the boy you used to see every single day, the only boy you’ve ever slept with, the only person who knows all the tells on your body, the boy you still love—in your bedroom for the first time in over a year.

You wrench the closet door open. A pair of heels fall out and land with a little thud. You don’t flinch. You pretend to rifle through hangers, but you’re not looking for anything specific. All of it is just something to do with your hands, because looking at him right now would be a sick kind of torture.

“What are you doing here!?”

Hyuck doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, you only hear the soft thud of his shoes on your floor, the creak of your floorboard by the dresser. He’s closer than you want him to be.

“You invited me,” he says, like it’s obvious.

You spin around. “I invited you to my birthday party. Which started five hours ago.”

He lifts his phone, the screen glowing in the dark. “As far as I’m aware,” he says, tapping it once, “you’ve still got thirteen minutes left. So again, happy birthday, angel.”

You stiffen. 

There it is. That.

That fucking word. The one that used to make you feel warm and wanted. Now it feels like an insult wrapped in silk.

“Don’t call me that.”

That stops him. Just for a second. Then, slowly, he lowers the phone. Shoves it back into his pocket.

“I thought you liked it when I called you that.”

“I used to like it,” you spit. “Back when it meant something. You know, before you fucked someone else behind my back.”

His jaw tightens. Good, you think. The truth hurts; you hope it hurts. And maybe that makes you cruel. But then again, he was cruel first.

He rubs his jaw, then exhales. “We’re really doing this now?”

You laugh dryly. “Oh, sorry. Would you prefer we pencil it in for next week instead? Talk about it over brunch sometime, yeah?”

You turn back to your wardrobe, suddenly too irritated. Your fingers find the old grey hoodie you always loved. It looks soft. Comfortable. Definitely not party appropriate. But you don’t care because you don’t want to go back out there. Not after this.

You peel your dress off in one motion, leaving you in the black lace set you picked out this morning—because it was your birthday. Not for anyone else. Not for a boy. Certainly not for him.

Him. 

You forget for a moment that he’s still behind you.

It’s like your brain short-circuits in his presence. Like it still confuses this boy for the lifeline he used to be. Like your heart can’t shout loud enough to warn you: this boy broke us, this boy hurt us, this boy is bad for us. All it says is: this boy is Hyuck. This boy is sweet. This boy—we love.

You only remember when you hear him inhale—sharply—and turn around. 

He’s looking at you like that again. Like he did back when he loved you, and you loved him, and he hadn’t ruined everything yet. He looks hungry, and like the only thing that might satisfy him is you. 

That thought makes you clutch the hoodie to your chest. “Turn around!”

He does. Obediently. But then: 

"So, did you wear that for me?"

His voice is so annoyingly smug it makes you roll your eyes as you reply. “No.”

But your cheeks betray you. Hot. Guilty. Flushed. Thank god his back is still to you, because if he turned around now and looked at you, he’d know. Because he knows all your tells. Always has.

And from just a simple flush, he’d know that yes, you wore this set for him. That yes, despite pretending you were over him in his Instagram comments, your traitorous heart had hoped that he might come tonight and rip the set off of you.

And just in case he caught your second tell (the tremor in your voice), you twist the knife a little more.

“I wore this set for Hyunjae, actually.”

A silence. Then the fucker starts laughing.

Not a little laugh. A full-bodied, head thrown back, belly laugh. You hate how much you’ve missed that sound, how it still makes your stomach flip. 

“Five minutes ago, I might’ve believed that, angel,” he says, turning slightly. Just enough for you to catch the outline of his grin. “And it would’ve driven me fucking crazy.”

Your heart stutters when he nods toward your chest.

“But I wasn’t talking about your underwear,” he says, eyes dipping lower. 

You follow his gaze down to the delicate gold chain resting just above the swell of your breasts. The one with the tiny heart pendant. The one with the H engraving. 

“I was talking about that necklace. The one I bought you for your sixteenth birthday,” He cocks his head. Smirking now. “Did you wear it for me?”

Your fingers fly to it instinctively. You hadn’t taken it off. Not even after finding out. You always wore it underneath your clothes, tucked away like a secret, because Yeji would have a field day if she knew you still wore his necklace.

But in the heat of the moment, stripping down to your underwear, your brain hadn’t realised that he’d see it again. 

“I thought I told you to turn around,” you snap, furious with yourself.

He lifts his hands defensively. “I am turned around.”

“I meant your head, not just your body, Hyuck.”

And so he does, again. Obediently.

You pull the hoodie on. It swallows you immediately. The sleeves dangle past your hands, the hem skims your thighs, and it smells like dust and weirdly like…the boy behind you.

“I’m decent,” you mutter.

He turns around, eyes flicking down before he smiles. Not smug, this time. Just soft and… a little sad?

“That’s mine.”

You roll your eyes, tugging at the sleeves. “No it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is. It’s massive on you. And unless you’ve got a secret stash of men’s hoodies in your closet, that one’s mine.”

You glare. “Oh yeah? And who says I don’t have a collection of men’s hoodies in my closet?”

“I do.”

 So fast. So sure.

You scoff, a single sharp laugh. “God, you think so highly of yourself.”

He crosses his arms—all tensed jaw and too-tight t-shirt—and it’s irritating, how stupidly good he looks whilst being smug.

“Yeah,” he says, deadpan. “I do. Because, despite us being broken up, you still wear my necklace.”  He nods toward your nightstand.  “You still have a photo of us beside your bed.” And then, one step closer. “And you fucking invited me here tonight.”

You lift your chin. “I invited everyone. It was a mass text.”

“Funny,” he says, a fake smile forming, “Mark didn’t get a text.”

“Aww,” you coo, mocking. “You still talk to your friends about me, Hyuck? Christ. Now I’m gonna start thinking highly of myself.”

“You should.”

For some reason, those two simple words hit you like a slap across the face. Because no.

“You don’t get to do that!” you snap at him. “You don’t get to tell me I should think highly of myself when you’re the exact reason I can’t even imagine the top anymore, Hyuck!” You laugh bitterly. “I don’t know my worth because you had me. But you wanted something else.”

And in that moment—maybe it’s your tone, or maybe it’s accountability—a flash of hurt crosses his face, that makes him wince. 

“Y/N, angel…” His voice cracks a little on your name, as he runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck! It was one mistake. You don’t understand—”

But you don’t want to hear it. You’ve already heard it.

You hold up a hand, stopping him from wasting his breath. “I don’t want to understand anything about the night you decided to fuck another girl, thank you very much, Hyuck.”

“Of course, I get that but—”

“But?”  you raise an eyebrow in disbelief. 

“Yes, but, Y/N,” he fires back. “Because I don’t know what you want from me. You say you don’t want to forgive me—and I get it. I don’t deserve your forgiveness.” He’s pacing now. “But you string me along. You comment on my posts, you let me drive you home, you still have my fucking hoodies—”

His eyes flick down to the one you’re wearing now, oversized and drooping around the neckline to show that gold chain. 

“—you wear my initials around your neck, and you asked me to come tonight—you. And now you’re mad that I’m here?”

His voice rises and you swallow—hard. Like maybe if you keep swallowing, you’ll stop the tears from climbing all the way up your throat. Because it’s all too raw. All of it. Him. You.This.

He’s unraveling in front of you. And even though you know—deep in your bones—that he doesn’t have the right to be this angry, a part of you gets it. Because this awful, splintered, aching love you have for him is confusing. It’s contradictory. It fucks with your brain so much that it doesn’t matter that you’re hurting because he’s hurting too. 

And that’s all you can focus on.

It’s like you said:  nobody gets you and Hyuck. 

“I don’t know what you want from me, angel,” he says again, quieter this time. He takes a slow step forward. Close enough to reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, like he used to.

His hand lingers.

“I don’t know what you want,” he breathes, “but if you tell me—I’ll give it to you.”

Your breath stutters. Your throat tightens.

And then, so quiet you almost miss it: “Because. I. Love. You.”

You close your eyes. You don’t want to. You don’t even mean to. But those three words wrap around you tight. 

“Don’t,” your voice cracks. “Don’t say that to me, Hyuck. Not after everything.”

When you open your eyes again, they’re full of tears. Angry ones. Bitter ones. Hopeful ones too—because you’re weak, and stupid, and still a little bit in love with a boy who shattered you.

“I mean it,” he says instantly. His hand twitches at his side—you see it. He wants to touch you. Wants to wipe your tears like he used to because he hates them. But he doesn’t know if he has permission anymore. (He does, but he doesn’t know he does.)

“I’ve always meant it.”

“Then why’d you throw it all away?” You spit the words out like poison. “Why did you ruin us for a quick fuck?”

“I don’t know,” he breathes, stepping back. “But I do know I hurt you. And I’ll hate myself for that forever. But I never stopped loving you. Not for a second.”

You laugh. But it sounds more like a sob. “You have a funny way of showing love.”

“I know.”

“You know everything,” you say, “except why you did it.”

A beat passes. Two. Three.

“You should go,” you whisper. “The party’s over. You’ve said what you needed to say. And I thought I could do this but I can’t.”

“No.”

Your eyes fly to his. He’s shaking his head, tongue in his cheek again as he sniffs.

“No,” he says again “I’m not leaving us like this.”

“I don’t want you here.”

“Liar.”

“Hyuck—”

“You want me to say it again?” he asks, voice rising just slightly. Not angry. Only desperate. “You want me to beg? Fine. I will. I’ll fucking get on my knees if that’s what it takes.”

And then, to your absolute horror, he does. 

“Hyuck, stop—”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I’m sorry for everything. For all of it. For her. For the lies. For shattering everything good we ever had. But I love you, Y/N. And I’m not sorry for that. I’ll never be sorry for that.”

You’re trying to stay angry. Trying to hold onto the rage but it’s slipping. Because you want him. You love him.

He’s still on his knees. Still looking up at you. Still pleading. You wish he’d just stand up. You wish he didn’t look so much like the boy you fell in love with instead of the man who broke you.

“Please,” he says again.“I know I don’t get to ask. But I’m asking anyway. I’m asking because I love you. I never stopped. I swear to God, I never—”

“Stop it,” you say, too fast.

It feels like your chest caves in. Because the thing about love is: it’s loud. Louder than hurt. Especially right now. You love him so much you could scream. But instead, you drop down to your knees. Right there in front of him. And before you know it, your hands are reaching for him. Stupid, traitorous things.

“Stop,” you whisper. “Please, stop.”

But he doesn’t.

Of course he doesn’t.

Because he’s Hyuck. And Hyuck never knows when to shut up.

“I know I ruined it,” he’s saying. “I know I don’t deserve a second chance. I wouldn’t forgive me either. I wouldn’t. But I can’t stop loving you. I’ve tried. God, I’ve tried so hard. I’ve kissed girls who weren’t you and I’ve gone home wanting to claw off my own skin.”

You suck in a breath.

“You don’t have to forgive me now. Or ever. Just let me prove it. Let me try. I’ll wait. I’ll wait for you for fucking ever, I swear—”

You’re kissing him. 

You have no idea why, but it just feels like you have to. Because you physically can’t not. Because the love of your life, him, is bleeding out in front of you and you’re the only one who knows how to stop it.

And when your mouth crahses into his, it tastes like heartbreak and history and every stupid, selfish thing he’s ever done. But you keep kissing him. Because just as much as it hurts—it feels like home. Like you’ve finally been returned to the place you belong. Like his lips have been waiting for yours all this time. 

He’s kissing you back just as fiercely. Like he might die if he doesn’t. And maybe he would. Maybe you would too.

You don’t know who moves first. You think it’s you, but maybe it’s him. You’re both equally desperate—lunging backward until his back knocks against the foot of your bedframe and you’re straddling his hips. 

His hands find your waist, landing heavy and possessive around you. But you don’t mind, because your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him groan into your mouth—and God, you missed that sound. Missed him like oxygen.

His mouth moves to your neck, lips skimming every slither of skin he can reach, greedily not wanting to miss a single piece of you since he’s trying to make up for all the parts he used to take for granted. And you tilt your head back, giving him that access, because you’ve never been able to deny him anything.

“Tell me you’re still mine,” he breathes against your skin, half-choked.

You should tell him no. Should tell him he doesn’t get to ask things like that—not when he gave himself away so easily. Not now when he’ll never solely be yours like you’re solely his. 

But your heart is so tired and so in love it’s ridiculous, so instead you whisper: “I never stopped being yours.”

And then he’s kissing you again—deeper, this time. Until he pulls away and his forehead presses to yours, and he pants against your lips. “Let me love you,” he begs. “Please. Let me love you right this time.”

He feels solid beneath you. It’s making your brain fuzzy. It’s making you whimper.

“Okay,” you pant, tugging harder at those soft brown strands, as your hips shift and grind down against him, making him groan lowly. 

His hands clamp tighter around your waist, dragging you down harder, closer, like he’s trying to fuse you to him. And suddenly your skin feels too tight. You’re too aware of the clothes between you—what little there is.

Because you didn’t put on pants. Just that hoodie of his over your pathetic pair of black panties—thin, useless fabric—and now your pussy is rubbing right up against the thick outline of him through his jeans, and it’s overwhelming. You can feel absolutely everything you’ve missed.

Heat blooms in your stomach and you roll your hips again. It’s so shameless. So needy. But you don’t care. Not when it’s been this long. Not when it’s his fault it’s been this long—because you never would’ve let it be anyone else.

And he meets you in it. Each grind matched with one of his own, more harsh than the last. Until his hips are moving on impulse, chasing you like a man starved. His head drops to your shoulder, and his breath stutters. 

“Fuck, angel, slow down,” he chokes, “You’re killing me.”

You press your lips to his temple, to his jaw, anywhere you can reach, and whisper, breathless, “You deserve it.”

He groans—louder this time—like he agrees.

His hands slide beneath your hoodie, fingers splayed wide, dragging up the warm skin of your back like he’s relearning it. 

“I can’t believe this is happening again,” he breathes into your neck. “You can’t be real.”

But you are. You’re right here. Straddling him. Shaking for him. Letting him touch you like he never stopped having the right to.

He kisses your collarbone. Then lower—your sternum, the tops of your breasts, the edge of lace peeking from beneath his hoodie. His hoodie. That fact alone seems to snap something inside him.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and then he’s pushing the fabric up and up and up, until it pools around your ribs and the cold air hits your bare stomach. You shiver. 

“Take it off,” he murmurs. “Please. Want to see you.”

You raise your arms, let him peel it over your head, and suddenly you’re half-naked in his lap—wearing nothing but that black set you wanted him to rip off, then didn’t, then did… and now, he is. Fingers working at the clasp, slipping the straps from your shoulders and tossing the bra aside in your room somewhere.

And then, he takes his time letting his eyes drag over you. Taking a sick pride in seeing his initial rest in the valley of your breast. 

“Jesus,” he whispers. “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

And something about that word—still—makes your stomach twist.

Your arms fold over your boobs on instinct, shielding yourself from the one person you’ve always felt safest with. Because still means there’s someone else now. Someone he’s looked at. Someone he’s touched. Someone you had to beat—and somehow did.

But you shouldn’t have had to.

He notices the shift immediately—how your arms cross, how your body goes stiff, how the room, warm just a second ago, chills.

“Hey. Hey,” he says, brows furrowing. He cups your face, thumbs brushing just beneath your eyes. “Talk to me, angel. What’s wrong? What happened?”

You’re still straddling him, half-naked, kissed raw and dizzy, and yet you feel like you’re a million miles away. You try to speak, to explain, but the words choke you. How do you tell him something he’s never known? How do you make him understand? You’ve never done this to him before—and just knowing how much it hurts—you don’t think you ever could.

“I just—” your voice cracks. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”

He flinches—just enough for you to know it landed. But he doesn’t pull away.

The thing is, he doesn’t say her name. Doesn’t even mention her. Never has. But she’s here. Right here. In this room. Your room. In the silence. In his presence.

He shakes his head like he’s trying to wipe the thought away. “No. No, don’t do that. Don’t think about her. This—” his hands cup your face tighter, gently desperate, “—this is you and me. Always you.”

Your jaw clenches, your eyes sting. “Then why wasn’t it only me?”

He swallows hard, his gaze dropping to your lips before flickering away. He doesn’t answer—of course he doesn’t. He never does. And that’s been half the war between you. He doesn’t want to tell you the why.

Instead, his hands drift from your face to your waist, pulling you in like proximity might somehow make up for his silence. Like touch could smother your insecurities. 

His breath ghosts over your skin as he leans in.“Forget her. Just for now. Right here, right now, it’s only you. Only us.”

You hate that you melt. Hate that the ache in your chest loosens its grip the second his hands coax your arms from where you’d folded them. Hate that even after everything, he still knows how to make you feel safe inside the wreckage he caused.

He’s infuriating.

“Let me show you,” he whispers. “That it’s always only been you for me.”

His hands skim up your sides, thumbs brushing delicately beneath your tits. His eyes never leave yours—not for a second—as he kneads and explores and feels your body in his palm. And then his mouth follows.

Lips warm, slightly chapped, close around your right nipple. Your breath punches out of you. You can’t help it because his tongue flicks once, then again, then again until your spine arches and pushes the bud further into his mouth.

“Hyuck,” you moan, helpless, feeling the curve of his smirk drag against your skin.

His free hand trails up your other side, rolling the neglected peak between calloused fingers so deliciously because he remembers exactly what used to make you fall apart, and now he’s hell-bent on proving he hasn’t forgotten.

“God, you’re fucking unreal,” he murmurs against your skin, then bites gently, just enough to make you gasp. 

His words make you ache. Everywhere. Especially between your legs, where you’re still pressed tight against the thick, unrelenting shape of him through his jeans. And he hasn’t even touched you there yet, but it’s coming—you know it is. 

His mouth keeps going, warm and wet whilst he stays sucking just hard enough to turn your bones to water. And whenever you whimper he groans. 

“Please, Hyuck,” you plead. “Need more.”

He lifts his head, murmuring, “Yeah? You want me to show you how much I missed you?”

You nod, dizzy. 

“Fuck,” he groans and wastes no time lifting you off the floor like it’s nothing, carrying you to your bed. He lays you down gently, spreads you out beneath him like something precious. And then he peels off his t-shirt.

That tan skin—scattered with moles you’ve memorised, counted, traced with your fingers and your mouth—is on full display, just for you.

“I’ll give you everything,” he says, voice low as he drops to his knees, crawling between your legs. “Absolutely everything. As long as you don’t regret this. Don’t regret me.”

Your fingers sink into his hair before you can think. “I won’t,” you whisper. “Couldn’t.”

And then he dips down.

His mouth finds the inside of your thigh, open-mouthed kisses dragging tantalisingly up your skin. He’s not rushing. He never does when he gives head. It’s his favourite thing to savour. You. On his tongue.

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve thought about this,” he murmurs, nipping at your skin, making you gasp. “How many times I’ve had to stop myself from texting. From begging you to take me back.”

“Who said anything about taking you back?” You say, hips shifting, dying for friction, but he pins them with strong hands, keeping you right where he wants you. 

“I did,” he says, a smirk ghosting over his lips. “Am I wrong, Y/N? Because if I am, we can stop right now?”

“No,” you whine on a trembling breath.

He smiles. “I didn’t think so.”

Then, finally, finally—his mouth finds the place you need him most.

He licks a slow stripe up your center, groaning from the taste of you in his mouth. He does it again, and then again, until your legs are trembling and one of your hands fists the sheets, the other tangled in his hair, pulling and tugging at it, just how he likes. Just how you like.

He flicks his tongue, circles it, moans when you cry out for more.

“God, you taste the same,” he says hoarsely. “Still fucking perfect.”

You try to respond, to say something, but then he sucks again, so hard, you almost shoot clean off the bed.

“Hyuck—please,” it’s half a sob, a half moan, one hundered percent completley ruined.

He growls, arms locking around your thighs to keep you still, mouth relentless as he licks and sucks and worships like this is his penance.

“Shit, Y/N,” he mutters between licks, “I missed how fucking responsive you are. Always so good for me.”

You whimper. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

“Not gonna,” he promises. “Not until you fall apart for me. Right here. Right now.”

He hums, the vibration making your stomach flutter, and you swear your heart forgets how to beat.

“Let me make you come,” he says, voice completely ruined now too. “Wanna feel you fall apart on my mouth. Please.”

And you do. You let him. Because you want this. Want him. Still. Always.

Your entire body coils, legs shaking, hands clawing at the sheets as your orgasm crashes through you. It’s shattering, making you cry out, his name falling from your lips repeatedly. 

Hyuck doesn’t stop. Not until your body finally slumps back to the mattress, boneless and trembling. Only then does he lift his head, lips wet and shiny. He crawls up your body, kissing your thigh, your stomach, the underside of your boobs, your jaw. Everywhere. Until he’s hovering over you, and you’re staring up at him, glassy-eyed and overwhelmed.

“You okay?” he whispers, brushing hair gently back from your face.

You nod, breath catching. “Yeah. I just... I can’t believe you’re here.”

“I never really left,” he says. “Even though I know I should have. I’m too damn selfish.”

Your throat tightens. You reach up, tracing his jaw with shaking fingers. “I want you to fuck me, Hyuck.”

He blinks, then his eyes darken. “You’re sure?”

You pull him down until your foreheads press again and then whisper a soft, “Yes.”

Then he kisses you. Slowly. Passionately in a way you know this about to be more than just fucking. It feels like the before. The soft. His hands coming up to your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. Everything so tender and full of love. 

And somewhere between the kiss and the forgetting, his pants are off. His boxers too. He’s about to fuck you completely raw—like he used to—and for a moment, your body almost lets him. Because it remembers. The blind trust. 

But this isn’t then. And that’s why you reach out, fingers curling gently around his forearm. Stopping him.

“Condom,” you whisper, cheeks flushing as you glance toward the nightstand.

Because it shouldn’t have to be like this. Back then, you were on the pill. You were his. He was yours. There was no one else. But now? Now you’ve had to share him—with her. Maybe with others too. 

He freezes. And for a second, you swear he looks gutted. But then he nods.

Wordlessly, he reaches into your nightstand, gets one open and rolls it on his cock. He doesn’t protest. He never would. Because it’s not the condom that guts him—it’s what it means. It’s that reminder that everything’s different now. And why. A barrier he put there himself because he was reckless, drunk, stupid and ungrateful. A consequence he crafted with his own hands.

But he doesn’t let that thought linger too long. The past is the past—he hates thinking about it. It’s what wrecked him. What wrecked this. What wrecked you.

Now, all he wants is the present. Not even the future. Just this. Just you. Because you’re here. Beneath him. Asking him to fuck you. You’re his—if only for now. And that’s enough.

He slides back over you. And for a second—just one—you both just… look.

You’re looking at him like maybe this could fix it. He’s looking at you like he knows it won’t. Sex doesn’t fix anything. It’s what broke you two in the first place if you really think about it . But he’s still doing it. And so are you.

He pushes inside of you slowly and your breath stutters, nails digging crescent moons into his biceps.

“Fucking hell,” he groans, voice tight and thick. “You feel like—”

“Home,” you whisper, beating him to it.

Because you do. And he does. And it’s pathetic. And perfect. And completely going to destroy you in the morning.

His forehead drops to yours and he lets out a shaky breath, like the kind that comes right before someone starts to cry. But he doesn’t cry—he moves. Gently. Tenderly. 

You cling to him, every nerve alight, oversensitive in that desperate, raw way that makes you breathless beneath him—letting him kiss you through it, through the pain, through the slow, aching stretch of him inside you. 

And in between those kisses and the thrusts and the way your fingers tangle in his hair again, he whispers:

“Missed you.”

“God, I missed you.”

“I’ll never stop being sorry.”

He fucks you like he’s trying to put you back together with every snap of his hips. And maybe he is.

So you let him.

You let him fuck you until you’re both a mess of moans and apologies and, fractured I love yous. Until you’re panting in time with each other. Until you’re cumming—together.

After, it’s quiet.

Not awkward or bitter or biting, but comfortable. You’re tangled in each other, limbs overlapping, as Hyuck brushes his nose against your temple. Eventually, he slips out of you, careful to not hurt you, but you flinch at the loss. He presses a kiss to your forehead, one to each cheek, and then he’s moving—disposing of the condom, finding his way back to your side. 

“Let’s shower,” he murmurs, thumb storoking your jaw. “Let me take care of you first. And after… we’ll talk, yeah?”

You don’t say anything—because you can’t. Your throat is raw from all the moaning and the whimpering. And also because you’re scared of the talking. Terrified, really. Of the hurting that’ll come with addressing it. 

So instead, you swallow and say softly, “I’ll be a minute. Just... need a sec before I move.”

He pauses, like he’s checking you over again, brows pinching. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Not in the way he means.

“No,” you whisper. “Just… been out of the game for a while.”

He pauses but doesn’t argue. Just leans in and presses the gentlest kiss to your cheek. 

“Okay,” he murmurs, brushing a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “I’ll start the shower.”

He slips out quietly, to the bathroom attached to your room. You hear the soft creak of the cabinets. He still remembers where everything is. 

And then—of course—his phone buzzes.

You glance over. You don’t mean to look. You really, really don’t. You know you shouldn’t if you wanna rebuild trust and whatever. It’s just…It’s on the floor, fallen from his jeans with the screen lighting up. 

It was taunting you. 

And anyway, he’s the one that broke your trust first. He’s the one that made you so paranoid. He’s the one who made you like this. 

Yeji

if i find out you went to that party tonight, hyuck, and didn’t tell her the truth, i will.

Your stomach drops straight through the mattress.

Another buzz.

Yeji

i’m serious. how long are you gonna keep it from her that it was lia you cheated on her with?

you’re ruining our friendship!

And suddenly you’re not warm anymore.

Suddenly you’re freezing. And hollow. And very, very awake and out of the afterglow sex haze. 

You can’t breathe.

You feel sick. 

Are you sick? Are you dying? Are you about to have a fucking panic attack?

Because it feels like something has clawed its way into your chest and is now eating you alive from the inside out.

Lia?

It all makes sense. It all echoes.

“That sweet boy we both used to love.”

“He’s not yours anymore.”

The door creaks again. Hyuck walks back in, towel slung low on his hips. Completely clueless. 

“You okay?” he asks, soft and smiling. “Shower’s warm.”

You don’t answer because your heart is hammering against your ribs and because you physically, viscerally, cannot breathe.

His smile falters, just a touch.

And then you say it.

One word. One name.

“Lia?”

You’re not even sure if you want to scream at him, or sob, or laugh—because how dare he. How dare he touch you like that, kiss you like that, look at you like that, when he knew—he fucking knew—he’d fucked your best friend and said nothing.

The same best friend who held you while you cried over him for a year. Who told you it wasn’t your fault. Who had her arms wrapped around you less than an hour ago trying to comfort you about him. 

You hold out his phone, pointing to the screen. “You fucked my best friend, Hyuck?”

He freezes. He lifts an arm reaching out towards you or towards his phone, you can’t tell. Probably the phone to see how much you know so he can spin it. Twist it. Try to manipulate this—manipulate you—again.

“Angel—”

“My name is Y/N.”

The words are a blade. His hand drops.

“Y/N,” he breathes, swallowing thickly, “it’s not what it looks like—”

But it is. You both know it. 

“Yeji seems to think it’s exactly what it sounds like.”

And then it hits you. All over again. Yeji knew. Your other best friend. She knew. 

Did everyone know? Everyone you loved? Everyone you trusted? Everyone you thought was safe? 

And suddenly your knees give out. You drop to the floor, spine hitting the edge of the bed on the way down, but you don’t even register the pain. You’re already somewhere else, hands trembling, vision blurry, gasping like there’s no oxygen. 

That fucking necklace around your neck—the one he gave you, the one you swore you'd never take off—isn’t fucking helping. So you rip it off. The chain snapping in your fist and you throw it. It lands at his feet. 

It’s the first time you’ve taken it off since you were sixteen.

“Y/N—”

Hyuck’s voice sounds panicked now. Hurting. He kneels in front of you, eyes wide, reaching for you—

“Don’t you dare touch me!”

You flinch so hard you nearly hit the nightstand. You can’t stand the idea of him touching you now, even though you know there isn’t a part of you he hasn’t touched.

He freezes. Arm stopping in the air. His face furrowed. And you know that face. The face from the night, the one carved from guilt and horror and regret—but it’s too late.

It’s so late.

You’re sobbing now. And it’s ugly—gasping and choking and curling up on the floor. 

“I—I didn’t mean for it to happen like that,” he whispers. “I never wanted to hurt you—”

You laugh. Actually laugh.

“You didn’t want to hurt me?” You shake your head, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, spit and snot and mascara streaking your face.  “Hyuck, you fucked my best friend. And then you came here, tonight, and touched me like…like I was still yours.”

“You are—”

“No. No, I’m not!” You snap. “I don’t even know who I am right now. But I definitely am not—and never will be—yours again.”

“Please, Y/N,” he whispers. “Let me explain. It wasn’t—”

“You’ve had time to explain.” Your voice trembles, but the words are steel. “I gave you so much of myself. So much trust. So much love.” You swallow hard. “But it wasn’t enough, was it? You needed to fuck my best friend. And keep it from me. And somehow rope the other one into it too, so now—”

Your voice cracks.

“So now I can’t trust anyone.”

He opens his mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to lie, maybe to beg. But then he doesn’t. He doesn’t say a word. He just looks at you, regret written in every line of his stupid, beautiful face.

He doesn’t deny it. And that’s the last straw. You fold in on yourself. Arms wrapping tight around your knees as you bury your head and whisper: “I need you to leave.”

He doesn’t move.

You look up—eyes glassy, voice so quiet and weak.

“Get out, Hyuck. Now, please”

And this time, he listens. And you’re glad he listens. Because this time it feels different. This was it. The final fracture. Whatever you had with him? It’s dead now. You just wish you hadn’t kept it on life support for so long—wish you hadn’t clung so tightly to something already bleeding. 

That thousandth cut finally bled dry.

[lizziesfirstwife]

Inevitable

pt.2 to Guardian Angel

jinu x fem!reader

warnings: mentions of death and blood, depressive themes, possessive jinu, thirsty reader, suggestive language, use of Y/N, banter, slow burn, not proof-read

word count: 4807 (sorry not sorry)

authors note: listened to Ms.Whitman by Bhad Bhabie & watched the Korean Pop the Balloon or find Love halfway writing this. Fought writers block like crazy to bring this out, so enjoy! 🤍

Of all the ways to lose a person, death is the kindest.

It was quick. In most cases.

The air smelled of rain and cherry blossom. The hem of her dress was soaked, her shoes wet from running through the soaked grounds of the forest she had been hiding in for the past few hours.

Sunshine crawled its way through the canopy that the trees created. A desperate consolation, sympathy for her impending doom.

Tears streamed down her face, blisters adorning her feet like a plague, blood and mud sticking to them. She wanted to scream. So many things left for her to do, things she had carelessly written in her diary before going to bed.

I don’t know how to fix this.

The ground gave way beneath her, mud crept further and further up her legs, the lower part of her dress now completely wet.

Silence.

She stood still.

The air smelled of cherry blossoms and death. Her hands, which had once been white with cinnamon and flour, were now stained red.

Was it blood?

I fear that I will love you more than I will ever be allowed to.

Her hair had long since come loose from her bun, the strands knotted and frizzy from running through the rain. Her barrette was lost too far away to retrieve, buried under mud and tears.

Birds were chirping. It was supposed to be a gift. She cried when she found out the price of the hanbok, made of lace and pure silk. Pink silk, hand-dyed with chrysanthemums and madder root. Lace, which was reserved for noble brides only.

She wanted to be a bride so badly.

Out of love for you, I have forgiven the world for what it has done to me.

A tear rolled down her face. She would have made a beautiful bride. An extraordinary one.

Now the dress that was supposed to be her wedding dress, was stained full of blood.

Her feet gave way and her body met the mossy forest floor. The sun shone golden down on her, as if to…comfort her.

Horse galloping. Screams.

Her hand closed around the diamond on her necklace, the only thing not stained by her blood.

She had always known that she would die first. It was inevitable.

˙⋆✮

Her cat jumped off the bed when she woke up screaming.

A week had passed since the strange encounter in the bakery.

She hadn't thought about what the encounter might have meant or why the strange man looked so familiar to her. Thinking about it would bring no clarity, only confusion.

Taking a deep breath, she threw back her blanket and took a sip out of the water bottle she had put on her bedside table. It was rare that she woke up before her alarm, but this dream had shaken something inside her that she didn't know was dormant.

After the meeting a week ago, she went to the post office to send her boss a letter demanding her contractual 14 days of paid leave.

Sonder.

The realization that every soul on this planet has their own story, their own pains to carry silently, ambitions that might never come true, dreams that were shattered, love that was forbidden to be expressed.

She wondered what he was doing with his life. Was he a shop assistant like her? No, he hadn't shown enough feigned niceness for that. When you had to deal with people every day and your survival depended on how convinced they were of you, you quickly learned how to manipulate people.

He didn't come across to her as the kind of person who needed to lie to people in order to survive. Maybe health care? Y/N imagined him in a white coat with a stethoscope slung around his neck.

Doctors didn't really lie, they didn't need to. They earned their living without lying to their patients, mostly. There would always be senior citizens with blood pressure problems, young women with iron deficiency, couples with fertility problems, and more than enough accidents.

She bit her lip before spitting her toothpaste into the sink. He would look good in uniform.

The smell of sandalwood and rain caught her nose, a crow cawed outside.

The sun was almost completely up, the dew still fresh, the sound of rain hitting the streets. The truth was, she didn't know why she had taken vacation. She took her necklace from her jewelry box on the dresser and clasped it carefully around her neck. It was an heirloom, at least that's what her great-grandmother told her before she died. It certainly looked old enough. The silver had a few scratches, the diamond hanging from it a bit dull.

Maybe she wanted to sleep in for once, or stop baking any more cinnamon rolls.

She took her perfume bottle, and wrapped herself in a cloud of sakura and dreamy vanilla. Her hair looked dull. The circles under her eyes were darker than usual, her skin dry from the lack of moisturizer.

When she was little, her mother used to say that her beauty was her greatest weapon. Not her knowledge, or her kindness.

Beauty was like a bullet that you could shape until it fitted into a weapon. You could polish it, improve it, maintain it.

Aim.

And fire if necessary.

In a selfish world, only the selfish could succeed. Y/N was never selfish. She didn't have it in her. She wanted to be. Too many cruel people were wronging humanity, too many evil people became successful. It seemed as if people had to hate each other in order to survive day after day, as if there was nothing left for the good souls in this world, nothing for those who recognized the strength in being kind and did not give up being so.

Sometimes she felt like she could snap, shout at everyone who treated her like shit. But did she want to be admitted to a ward? Hell no.

So she didn’t.

Rain beat against the glass of her windows. A sigh escaped her lips, applying the last bit of blush before going to her coat rack. How could it be that it was raining for the seventh day in a row? Y/N looked down and grimaced. She didn't like her rain boots. Not one bit. They weren't ugly, a simple shade of black, but whenever she had to put them on it felt like she was waddling. Just because it was raining didn't mean she wanted to feel like a duckling.

She loved the rain. The sound made her think a little less about just everything, her personal white noise. It was already warm outside, the early morning hours heating up the air. At work, she had no choice but to wear long clothes. It wasn't a company rule, but she had made the mistake of putting on an expensive dress on her first day at work and had to take it straight to the cleaner afterwards.

There was an indescribable emptiness inside her that she didn't know when or how it had taken root, like a virus trying to claim the happiness inside her for itself. She turned away from her coat stand.

She didn't bother to lock her apartment as she walked out the door.

˙⋆✮

It was Sunday again. But the emptiness, the feeling of not having earned waking up, did not rise with Jinu.

His throat felt dry. He hummed a song as he fished a shirt out of his closet, a black one made of silk, and sprayed a little perfume on his neck and in his hair.

He was leaving the bathroom when he paused.

Two steps back, one reach up. He put the bottle of perfume back in the cupboard, now that his wrists also smelled of sandalwood. Jinu didn't know why he even owned perfume. It wasn't as if demons stank, or needed anything other but their sheer will to bring people to their doom.

He frowned as he looked in the mirror. In the past, before his time as a soul hunter, he used to steal pastries from the palace kitchen, breaking them in two and using the contents as a perfume. He knew that no one would understand why he would have done such a thing, when he was in a good position as a musician at court. He didn't have to steal food from the kitchen to smell good. The most extravagant, expensive and unique perfumes in the whole of Joseon were at his disposal.

Jinu shut the bathroom door harder than necessary behind him. There were things in his past that not even he knew why he had done them.

The sun shone bright when he left his apartment. It had stopped raining half an hour ago, birds were flying around, more pedestrians roaming around and prattling than usual.

Even if he couldn't feel hunger himself, human food still tasted good to him. Paying for something in order to devour it made him feel less guilty than actually devouring lost souls.

Cinnamon, cherry blossoms.

He shook his head.

Since their encounter a week ago, he couldn't stop thinking about the woman in the bakery. How she smelled, how she talked, how she looked at him. She didn’t spare him a second glance. She didn’t scream when she saw him, he wasn’t sure if she even recognized him. And strangely enough, Jinu liked that. It was a change from the fans who usually fawned over him and acted like he was their promised husband and father of their future children.

He didn't want to, he didn’t plan to. He just wanted to stop by the next day, seeing if everything was going fine. The smile on her face when he chose the cinnamon rolls were still etched in the back of his mind. But when he peered through the shop window the day after their encounter, she was nowhere to be seen. So he walked around the block. Maybe she was in the back, in the kitchen, or the storeroom. But when he finished his walk and looked through the window again, the only woman in the shop was an employee over 40.

The wind blew through his hair, begging him to return to reality. There was no reason to think about a bakery employee who had simply sold him a cinnamon roll. He didn't want to be a stalker, like those in the movies he had seen becoming popular over the decades.

Jinu bit his lip. If that were the case, he would also have to think about the saleswoman in the clothing store and the manager for their concerts.

But it couldn’t be described as mere thinking anymore. He was almost embarrassed to have so many thoughts about someone who’s job was to offer him a service.

Get a grip.

What Jinu had learned in his more than 400 years of existence, was that peace, reliability, and good company were characteristics he utterly valued in his life. The second and third were areas for improvement, but he implemented the first into his life as best he could. As peaceful as a demon could exist.

He had been on Earth for several weeks now, their mission to destroy the Honmoon as close to being completed as possible. He was here to steal souls, to destroy them, not to care about their well-being. And he was exceptionally good at stealing souls. Demons could see the worth of a soul just by glancing at a person. There were souls that carried no light within them, souls that were not worth saving. Souls with no value.

These souls were easy targets.

There were hardly any souls left with light within them, souls that tried to live, that protected the flame of purpose within them despite the horrors this world carried.

He had never seen a soul like hers before. Pain, hopelessness, buried under an even greater longing to live, to survive.

A soul written in textbooks. Exactly what they needed.

He tilted his head back.

What was wrong with him? She didn't deserve to be seen as an ingredient. She wasn't a puzzle piece he could grab and adjust until the whole picture was right.

He took a deep breath. She wasn't important. There were plenty of other souls. Weaker souls, souls he didn't have to search for. More work for him.

He didn't care.

The wind blew cold as he turned into a quiet street. He wandered aimlessly, no purpose to his walk.

He stopped. Wind blew in his direction, caressing his face with utter care. Was that... no. He shook his head and walked on. Another gust of wind. A familiar scent, surrounding him, enveloping him, caressing him.

˙⋆✮

"And what did you answer to that?"

Y/N took a sip of her hot chocolate and sighed. She hated coffee; the taste was too bitter to drink every day. But she had a penchant for anything sweet. Her parents used to make snaky jokes about the tooth fairy loving her, because she was going to be her most loyal customer with how much sugar she consumed.

"That I didn't see why I should work another 12-hour shift on a Saturday for the third time in a row, alone with the intern, just because he wanted to go to a resort in Incheon with his mistress."

The man across from her laughed and leaned back in his chair.

"How did you know that the woman next to him was his affair?"

Y/N raised her eyebrow. "Women have a much better sense for these things than you think Joon. I have a sixth sense for shady entities. First of all, I knew he was married, because every year since I started working for him, he took a weekend off in June for his wedding anniversary. Second, his real wife was here last year for the reopening after the big renovation.”

Y/N hummed. Her boss’s wife was a real nice lady, small with a kind smile. What a shame to be tied to an ungrateful cheater who you had children with.

“And third... no man who has been married for 30 years would still deal with the trouble of taking his wife away every week and spending an entire spa weekend on her, three times…back to back.”

She raised her eyebrows and poked her apple pie with her fork.

"I hate men. They will say all women are the same, yet they get upset when you point out their oddly similar and reoccurring behavior."

The man shook his head and took a sip of his cappuccino.

“So you’ve given up on them?”

Y/N shrugged her shoulders. "Difficult to give up something you haven’t even started." Shaking her head, she put her face in her hands.

"I don't know what to do with myself either. On one hand, I don't want to be taken advantage of. I don't want to become one of those crying women who eat tons of ice cream whining about some douchebag. Just thinking about it disgusts me. Being with someone, only for him to break up with me a few weeks later. Or better, a year later! More wasted time."

She sighed.

"But God... I don't want to be lonely. I don't mind being alone, but I don't want to give up the dream of finding someone for myself." Her eyes twinkled as she leaned back in her chair.

"Kind of funny, isn't it?"

Joon just shook his head and sighed. "I'm afraid I can't help you there sweetheart."

Y/N took a sip of her hot chocolate and looked out the window.

"Kind of weird to be the only one not being in a relationship." She shrugged her shoulders and watched people wandering around outside the café.

Her companion eyed her and leaned back in his chair. "You do realize that you're amazing even without someone by your side?"

She laughed, laughed deeply, and put her cup down. "I guess I do. I guess."

Outside, a few teenagers sat drinking juice and eating scrambled eggs with bacon. A mother and her baby sat at a table shaded by a tree, stroller pushed to the side, a cup of steaming something in front of her.

Babies. Y/N hummed and drank the last sip of her chocolate. She always knew she never wanted to have children. The idea of being responsible for another living being, for more than 18 years, was cruel to her. Children were great. She herself had become an aunt two years ago, her older sister now living in Busan with her husband. A niece. Y/N smiled at the thought of her and looked into her empty cup. She loved her, a little angel. But she never wanted children herself. She saw how little time her sister had left for her real family. A repeating pattern.

Y/N shook her head as she looked out of the window again. She would rather put up with 12-hour shifts every Saturday of the week for the rest of her life, than have children of her own.

Her friend sighed and put on his jacket.

"I really hate to leave you alone already, but I still have to pick up the cake for Eric or I won't be able to get everything ready in time."

Eric was Joon's boyfriend from Australia. His family didn't know he was gay, the stigma in South Korea still far too great. You weren't persecuted or arrested for loving the same gender, but it wasn't welcomed. So Joon told his family that Eric was an Erica, and that she was studying in Goyang and therefore couldn't visit him often. His family bought it. He was their only son and they didn't want to scare him away.

Y/N sighed and placed her saucer on his, their cups next to it. "I need to go for a walk anyway. My head's buzzing around like there's no stopping anytime soon." She looked outside and smiled faintly. "Enjoying the five seconds without rain before the flood attacks me again."

Joon laughed and stood up. She looked up at him, stretching as she did the same.

"Is he still calling me halmeoni?"

Joon raised an eyebrow and reached his hand out for their tableware, only to have it slapped away by her hand.

"I could lie."

Y/N rolled her eyes at his answer, somehow managing to put the 2 plates and cups on her left arm.

"Tell the kangaroo I said hi."

Joon laughed and gave her an obscene gesture as he left the café, leaving her behind with the dishes in her arms.

"Idiot."

She shook her head as she placed the dishes on the dish rack. Joon really was a complete idiot, but a nice one. She grabbed her purse and left the café.

The sun was now shining so brightly that she felt ridiculous for taking an umbrella with her when leaving her apartment. Luckily, it was one of those small foldable ones, so she could stow it in her purse.

The teenagers had long since taken off, the weather too nice to stay sitting somewhere the whole time. Y/N frowned. The stroller was still in the same spot under the shaded tree she spotted it in as she looked out the window earlier, but the mother was nowhere to be seen. She hadn't seen her go into the café either.

Y/N sighed and looked to the right and left before approaching the stroller. Her suspicion was confirmed when she spotted a small bundle wrapped in a pink blanket inside, brown button eyes and tiny hands greeting her. Y/N furrowed her eyebrows and looked around again.

"Strange."

She looked down at the baby again and turned back to go into the café. One hand wandered to her necklace as she asked the waitress that has been taking her order earlier, if she had seen a young woman enter the café in the last 10 minutes. However, the waitress just shook her head, saying there had been no new guests for 30 minutes.

Y/N frowned as she thanked her and bowed shortly, then went back outside to the stroller. The baby was still lying there, making little whining noises.

She almost wanted to slap her forehead. Of course the baby hadn't suddenly grown wings so it could fly away. But Y/N was glad that no one had taken it.

"I didn't know you had a daughter."

Her body whipped around, bumping into something big and solid.

A chuckle.

“Easy there darling. No need to rush.”

She looked up, an insult already on her tongue, when she faltered. Dark brown eyes. Sandalwood.

"You?"

Jinu laughed as she looked up at him with confused eyes and glanced to the stroller.

"You remember me? Didn’t think I made such a lasting impression on you."

She pursed her lips and looked away.

"I have many customers. Of course I remember those who buy my pastries."

He tilted his head and hummed.

"You look tired."

Her head snapped up, and he quickly raised his hands in appeasement.

"You still look pretty."

His cheeks were now a light pink color, and Y/N had to fight to hide the small smile that threatened to escape her.

He cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair. "Are you planning to cuddle up to me all day? Not that I'm complaining."

Y/N's eyes widened when she realized that her upper body was still pressed against his, and she quickly took a step back. Or two.

Jinu looked her up and down, and this time it was he who had to smile. "Nice rainy weather outfit."

Y/N narrowed her eyes and looked down at herself. She had put on her black rain boots, which were now making her feet sweat rather than protecting them from the wetness.

And...the dress.

Black with spaghetti straps, barely covering half of her thighs.

Y/N cleared her throat. Suddenly even the little fabric she had on, felt too hot.

"You look good for being an eomma already."

Her eyebrows furrowed before she widened her eyes.

"That's not mine. I think her mother left her here."

Now it was Jinu's turn to look confused.

"She was sitting here the whole time while I was inside with my friend, and suddenly she was gone when I came out. She didn't come back to the café either," she explained.

Jinu frowned.

"Have you called the police yet?"

Y/N sighed. Why hadn't she thought of that?

She just shook her head and pulled her phone out of her pocket.

But the police officer on the phone told her they couldn't send a patrol at the moment. An armed robbery in the city center had required all their officers. If the mother had been gone for more than 30 minutes, they should take the child to the nearest police station and call child protective services, CPS, from there.

Y/N huffed when she ended the call.

Jinu looked at her with a raised eyebrow. He had excellent hearing and could hear everything the man told her on the phone, but of course he wouldn't tell her that.

What harm was there in listening to her voice a little longer?

Y/N threw her cell phone into her purse and sighed as she looked at the now whining baby.

"Police is busy with a robbery right now. Armed and stuff. We're supposed to take her to the nearest station and then call child protective services."

Jinu hummed and nodded.

"But we have to wait another 10 minutes until half an hour is up. He said the mother might come back."

Jinu frowned and shook his head.

"The baby doesn't even look older than 3 months. Who leaves their almost newborn alone in a stroller?"

Y/N shrugged her shoulders. Her heart almost broke as the little girl's cries grew louder.

She tapped her foot on the sidewalk. She looked up at the sky. Watched how the birds flew around the trees.

"Screw it."

She stretched out her arms and carefully lifted the little creature out of the stroller, taking care to support her head, and laid her against her shoulder.

“You! Take my purse and the stroller. I don’t believe a bit that her mother will turn up even if we wait the whole day.”

Jinu raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything.

If he was being honest, he liked her bossy tone. But only if he was being honest.

He took her pink purse off her shoulder, careful not to touch her arm, and placed it in the stroller.

There was silence between them as they walked down the street. He was all too aware of the stares from passers-by. He had forgotten to pull his hood back over his head, which he had taken off when he spotted Y/N in front of the café.

He wouldn't have minded if she had a child.

He narrowed his eyes and looked at the path ahead as he pushed the stroller in front of him. He didn't need to care about something like that.

He could already see the headlines in the fan magazines. Tilting his head back, he groaned silently. He didn’t want to listen to his groups lash-out tomorrow.

"So I guess you don't have any children?"

She looked up at him, and God, the way she had to crane her neck up to look at him, did something to him. He quickly looked away, but his gaze found hers again immediately.

"Nope. But I have a niece. She's 2, so not quite a baby anymore."

Jinu nodded and looked back at the road ahead. "I have—had a little sister. She was nine." He smiled painfully at the thought of her. "I was over the moon when I found out I was going to be a big brother. Unfortunately, I could never get her to be interested in my hobbies. She was always a free spirit."

Y/N smiled, and he couldn't look away when he caught it. She didn't dwell on the fact that he had spoken of his sister in the past tense, stroking the baby's back reassuringly.

She had no right to probe further.

Relief washed over her as the police station came into view.

Inside, they already knew about their arrival and immediately notified CPS. When the lady arrived, she smiled politely when she saw her before taking the baby into her arms.

"You could almost think it was yours."

She looked at the two of them and hummed a tune as she carefully placed the baby in the stroller and gave her her handbag back. She was fast asleep, tired from the morning sun and the clouds that were now gathering again.

Y/N blushed and wanted to say something, but Jinu beat her to it.

“It was good practice”, he thanked the woman.

Y/N blushed even more, stepping on his foot to make him finally shut up.

Jinu had to bite his lip.

This woman.

No, he would not steal her soul. And should anyone even try, he would banish them to depths deeper than hell.

Y/N sighed as the woman pushed the stroller out to her work vehicle and strapped the baby into an infant seat in the front passenger seat.

"What will happen to her now?"

The woman turned to her and smiled weakly. "Well, she'll probably be placed with foster parents until we find the mother or father. The mother will likely be charged with child endangerment."

She looked at the two of them one last time before getting into her vehicle.

"It's nice to know that there are still good people out there."

With that, she drove away, the child now being in safe hands.

Jinu shuddered.

Good people.

He didn't know if that applied to him. Either of those words.

"What's your name, anyway?"

The soft voice beside him woke him from his thoughts, making him look down at her standing there all squeaky on her tip toes.

"Jinu."

Y/N raised her eyebrow when he didn't say anything else.

God, he was tall. At least 6 feet, muscular through and through-

She cleared her throat.

"And what can I call you?"

She looked up at him and struggled not to lose herself in the depths of his eyes.

His voice was like a hand between her legs.

"Y/N."

Y/N.

He knew the name. Something buzzed inside him, something that had been asleep for a long time.

She cleared her throat and reached for her necklace.

"I guess it was nice to see you again, Jinu."

With that, she turned and walked down the street. Jinu stood still, the sound of his name on her tongue mesmerizing.

Y/N.

This time, she was the one to leave first.

Leaving the other speechless.

Distraught. With an incredible urge not to let the other go.

Then the headlines came.

𓍯𓂃𓏧♡

Thank you for reading! If you enjoy reading this, I would appreciate a like, reblog, or a comment! I love that there are more stories about the movie out now. I still have to read them all. I’m still hopeful for a second movie <3 Sorry if I forgot to tag anyone, tagging almost took longer than the actual writing ᥫ᭡.

Comment if you would like to be tagged in a potential part 3! Requests for this movie are open ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

What do you think will happen in ch.3? Vote here!

tag list: @lunaria1 @owe-143 @yaezger @iamatinydinosaur @thaliasnicket @omgsuperstarg @chauchirem @lizzymizzy-blogg @aise-30 @rohjaewonlvr @miffysoo @vvhira @gloomuri671 @purplefluffycows @shoyomybeloved @yue-caelum @yourjustassaneasiamx @mafiulaputaama @ri-eveowe @sheicadaartista @justanindiangirl12 @mimiu3usoft @sparky2020sworld @mayuri-san @mcueveryday @ilovebtsstuff @l4nordina19 @obsessed-tyrant @kangsae-byeokfan @stupendousprincessengineer @thesimppotato11 @kelsxxyawn @zhentheraven @fava-boi @enerofairy @maximillienne @yoongi-tunes @crescent-z @loidswife27 @vieniee @jeewhat @miffysoo @calmmell @hihowareyou456 @koobiiiistar @asgwendollie @vivid11y @gina239 @imloveswans

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖

[vanityangel]

Forgive. Forget. Family.

[itsdefinitely]

do girl jeri and boy jerry exist explicitly to torment me

[unionizedwizard]

.

[thirdtimed]

its so crazy how 3L is literally not that serious. but It Can Be. if you use your beautiful mind

[cuckweeds]

I feel like none of the other girls understand the unique trauma that shauna is carrying. sure they all killed and ate their friends, but shauna is the only one of them that had to butcher them. she was completely right when she wrote in her journal that she was the only one willing to do what it takes to keep them fed. even when they were just drawing cards, she was the one who had to put a knife to natalie's throat, because she's the only one that learned how to bleed animals. she was the one who told them it was okay to eat jackie. she was the one who told them to wait when javi was drowning. and she was the one who had to slice up his body and serve it to them. they couldn't even stand to be around her while she did it because they couldn't stand to watch. they can eat their friends when it's served to them on a platter, but they can't stand to be the ones doing the butchering, thats shaunas job. as much as they feel the guilt of what theyve done, the rest of them can distance themselves. her guilt is so immense and she is so stuck in it because she had to face the horrors of what they were doing more than anyone. that's why she is the only one that can say that there was no "it", it was just them. because she will never be able to forget the fact that it was her who cut up her friends.

[fischtoria]

bro the amount of details sea of thieves did with the monkey island crossover its everything i wanted since sea of thieves came out

[carebeardean]

merlin + all my love, noah kahan

[eternallovers65]

Thoughts about dramatrio as a forever viewer (and occasionally bad and baghera viewer)

RP WISE!!!! DON'T GO BOTHER THE CC'S

From q!forever's perspective, you can see how the dramatrio was always a duo and not a trio. qbad and qbaghera do not trust forever, and if they do, they don't trust him enough for their secrets.

- They never supported qforever during his presidency (qbad did vote for him, tho). qbad always complained about everything forever did, even tho qforever always tried to listen to him and everyone else.

- qbaghera did not told him the secret about her childhood, but she told qbad. Just like bad didn't tell qforever about the fed worker he kidnapped but he told qbaghera.

- "Oh but qforever took his waystone first" he did that because he asked for an item and no one helped him, so he got tired of helping people but no one helping him

- Also, qbaghera is dapper's mom, and qbad is pomme's dad. qforever was never included in this conversation.

- They say forever will get easily manipulated by the federation because he's the president, but yesterday both bad and baghera said they don't think cucurucho is bad

- They both banned forever from their houses

Anyway, they like to have forever around for the fun part of it, to joke and all but when stuff get serious they don't tell him anything and keep talking about him behind his back. And the only people that actually trust qforever is the favelafive

[eyes1nthewoods]

behold. the lannmaercy spawn.

[todayisafridaynight]

Holy fuck I thought Jo was in a speedo for a second 🥵🥵🥵

crying at the thought of jo in a speedo cause i know he's miserable 24/7 and speedos are for people who love life. like adachi.

[mother-of-houseplants-2]

i don’t wish i was catholic but i wish i knew more about catholicism/christianity for the sole purpose of being slightly more insane about lapsed-catholic gallaghers

[polysyndetonaddictsupportgroup]

i love you expanding on the zenin’s & megumi’s dynamic because like — there had to be so much more than gojo just getting megumi. it had to involve more politics, more manipulation, etc & you added to that.

( i always like that detail about gojo teaching megumi everything from the gojo playbook. like it made me realize that megumi was more gojo than zenin, which probably pissed off the zenin )

what made you expand on the great custody battle between gojo & the zenins for megumi? like the visitation rights? did gojo know how badly megumi was going to be treated? also how would you describe megumi dynamic with each prominent zenin clan member (ex. naoya, mai, naobito, maki.)

I am sooo convinced there’s an entire child custody battle political drama lurking beneath canon but gege denies me

Visitation rights:

The decision that the Zenin clan briefly got visitation rights was a combination of where Gojo was at that point in life and what a sheer, unmitigated shitshow adopting Megumi must have caused.

The thing is that the Zenin and the Gojo clan are established in canon as rivals at best and enemies at worst. Gojo swanning in like "I have discovered the Magic of teenaged fatherhood and want to teach this spunky, angry little dude how to Throw A Baseball. Btw he's zenin and the clan already sort of “”””””purchased”””””” him, meaning they already consider him property even more than they usually do with their kids. i will be keeping him tho. xoxoxoxoxo" must have been insulting to the Zenin. It must have been even more insulting that he could legitmately do that and overpower their entire clan without having to even try. It's bad even if megumi is just like, the run of the mill sorcerer. But he had the most powerful techinque in their bloodline. I legitimately think that Gojo almost started a war when he decided that his boyfriend had dumped him and he needed to immediately adopt a child about it.

The thing is that I think gojo really must have been committing the ultimate taboo for a society he was raised within. Older, traditional mindsets tend to think of children as property, and the clans are established to be almost exclusively self governed. Gojo making a Zenin boy his business would stomp right over that standard. Add in the complication of inherited techniques being viewed as almost a highly treasured clan heirloom within the invidual families, and you have a perfect recipe for the entire world being very very angry at Gojo for doing this.

And the thing is that present-day Gojo would have absolutely told everyone to get fucked, he does what he wants.

But this isn't present-day Gojo. This is seventeen year old Gojo. And he's just coming off three of the biggest failures of his life: 1) Riko's death, 2) Haibara's death and 3) Geto's defection.

Gojo has always been extremely self-assured as a character, but teenagers tend to be a little bit more uncertain and vulnerable than their adult counterparts, and Gojo, again, had just been hit by failure after failure. If there was ever a time in his life where he would have been looking for outside guidance, it was this one.

And the number one most likely candidate to guide him in this was Yaga.

I've talked in other posts about how Principal Yaga's dynamic with Gojo suggests he's not in the inner circle of trust the way that Nanami, Shoko, or even Ijichi is. I've also discussed how I think he compromises too much with the higher ups, why that works with his character but ultimately comes to the detriment of the students, and how he ultimately fails to protect the students in his charge.

The thing is that if Yaga was making the decision, he absolutely would have compromised with the Zenin.

Yaga very consistently is shown to care about the students, but to not protect them. It's also established that the most likely cause of that is the fact that he panders to the higher ups, even if he is more progressively minded than someone like Gakuganji.

In the past arc, geto and gojo have a throwaway line in a conversation about how Yaga's busy campaigning to be principal with the higher ups. we also have him 1) excluded from the people who know about Yuuji's survival, which 2) he later punishes Gojo for, albeit partially because of the disrespect towards Gakuganji and for hiding his survival.

That being said, if I was the principal of a school where my sister school's principal set up my entire first year class to die, i would not be punishing a teacher for disrespecting that man. I would be too busy beating him to death with my bare hands. Good luck trying some shit with my fucking students again you dead fuck.

i would simply not make it as an educator in this world.

Gojo would have had the entire world up in arms at him when he took megumi and refused to give him back. The Zenin, for obvious reasons--but also the higher ups trying to preserve the status quo and the other clans, who want to maintain their ability to rear and keep their children without outside interference. He would have most likely said to give Megumi back entirely, but I don't think Gojo would go for that complete of a surrender of him, especially after Megumi asked him to keep him with Tsumiki and to keep them in a place she could be happy.

But very limited visitation would 1) at least somewhat soothe ruffled feathers, even if they are still furious, 2) give megumi access to information on his technique that he could not possibly get otherwise, and 3) supposedly cause minimal damage, since they only get him for a few days a month and are supposed to love him more than anyone. It's the sort of compromise I could see Yaga pitching in the best possible faith--and it's the sort of compromise that I see blowing up spectacularly, because the Zenin are fucking insane.

When I'm dealing with past versions of characters with very defined personalities, I sort of like to trace in the roots of their present-day selves in any backstory i make for them. Gojo of the present day is completely uncompromising when it comes to protecting his students and their youth. He is not afraid to butt heads with the higher ups and ruffle feathers to do it. So i decided to make that because he compromised when he was seventeen and doing his best, and Megumi paid the price, and he is so, so goddamn sorry for that. He doesn't let Yaga into the inner circle by the time we make it to canon because he was in the inner circle, and taking his advice directly resulted in Gojo's absolute biggest regret, which was letting the Zenin have unsupervised access to Megumi.

I think Gojo as a character is someone who refuses to repeat old mistakes, and what happened when Megumi was a child is something that he won't ever forgive or forget. A part of him still blames Yaga for convincing him to compromise with the Zenin and iced him out by the time we hit canon as a result.

Gojo and Megumi's treatment:

He had absolutely no idea how bad it would be for Megumi.

The thing is that Gojo approached it with the severely biased mindset of someone who thought he knew exactly how Megumi would be treated when he was with the clan, because it was supposed to be how he was treated growing up. The Six Eyes/Limitless user and the Ten Shadows were supposed to be corollaries. Megumi was meant to be to the Zenin what Gojo was to his clan, and if anything, the issue with his clan was that they treasured him too much. Gojo get up as this much beloved, much revered godling who was put on a pedestal and had all the distance of it.

In my mind, the issue with his childhood was that he was indulged to the point of being deprived of actual human connection or intimacy that he didn't truly get until Geto and Shoko.

In Gojo's mind, the biggest danger was that Megumi would be treated with too much reverence and distance, but he was spending the vast majority of the month with his big sister and the teen parenting trio. He would get plenty of normal interaction and intimacy from them. He thought that there would be no one in the Zenin clan who would dare raise a finger against him, because no one would have ever done that to him as a child. He never imagined that the Zenin would be legitimately dangerous to Megumi, and there were a lot of red flags he overlooked when the worst of it was going on because he assumed he already knew what was happening. When this was happening, he was completely burnt out, overwhelmed, mourning more than one friend, and struggling to meet the burden of being the strongest alone. He thought Megumi was acting out because 1) megumi already was getting in fights at school, and he made the mistake of thinking that Megumi was just a stubborn kid going through a sort of angry phase and 2) that Megumi hated them so much because visitation days meant he couldn’t stay with his sister. He didn’t realize that Megumi was fighting so hard to not go on visits because he was legitimately afraid of what the Zenin clan would do to him when he got there. For a lot of reasons that I won’t get into now, Megumi thought that putting up with the abuse was the cost of getting to keep his sister. He asked for help, told them that he didn’t like it at the Zenin compound and didn’t want to go, but he didn’t have the words to really explain what they were doing to him and gojo didn’t understand how bad it was. Megumi read this as “knowing and not caring” and thought the teen parenting trio knew how bad it was and that he just had to suffer through it or they’d take his sister away from him. By the time they realized what was really going on, it had escalated beyond the point of repair. Gojo has a lot of regrets.

Megumi's dynamic:

Naobito: Disturbed.

Naobito was the one who initially purchased Megumi from his father. And if Gojo hadn't had intervened, he would have personally taken Megumi into his household and raised him as the Zenin clan heir. He didn't really give a shit about Megumi until he realized he was the Ten Shadows, and after that, he felt completely entitled to him.

I think Naobito was always sort of insulted by Gojo's existence. He predated Gojo, is the thing, and he's the most powerful character that we know of in the pre-Gojo era other than Yuki Tsukomo, who wasn't an active fighter for the higher ups. As far as we know, he was the strongest until Gojo and Geto came along. Gojo potentially represented an immediate and violent shift of power from the Zenin clan to the Gojo, and it definitely would sting to be upstaged by a literal child.

The Ten Shadows returning to the clan represented a chance to correct that balance again.

If we accept that the Ten Shadows is a technique that can rival the Six Eyes/Limitless user, as well as the idea that the universe introduces “balances” to the birth of beings of power, then we at least have an environment where the Zenin may believe that whoever is next born with the Ten Shadows would be Gojo Satoru’s equal. Considering they value strength above all else, that gives them major incentive to desire the assimilation of whoever has the ten shadows technique into the clan.

But this was made a lot worse by the fact that the last ten shadows died.

The timeline in this is generally:

Second to last ten shadows: the one who got in the duel with the six eyes that gojo discussed in canon (~500 years ago)

Last ten shadows: child that was killed within months of discovering his technique (~200-300 years ago)

Current ten shadows: Megumi.

So they had just come off an overwhelmingly powerful Ten Shadows user, only to hurtle into the shame and humiliation of not being able to protect the next one. I like the idea that the six eyes and the ten shadows tend to pop up at the same time, so that means that the last six eyes got to grow and gain power while the Zenin were still licking their wounds from their heir being offed at a very young age. It’s insult to injury.

In the modern age, Naobito is coming off the humiliation of having been replaced by a literal child as the strongest sorcerer. He’s still harboring the ancestral humiliation of having lost the last ten shadows. And then gojo hits the humiliation of taking the new one right out from under his nose. Naobito bears that humiliation personally, because he’s the clan leader who should have brought Megumi into the fold and didn’t.

As a result, he’s just about obsessed with Megumi. He absolutely refuses to give up on bringing him back into the clan and grooming him to be the perfect, promised heir whose idea he’s been clinging to since before Megumi was even born.

There’s just something about how, in canon, Naobito had a clause in his will locked and loaded to make Megumi heir if anything happened to take gojo out of commission. I think that losing Megumi to gojo was personal to him, and that he’s almost fixated on Megumi as a result.

For his part, Megumi hates him and is a little afraid of him, though he’d never admit it. All of his interactions with the Zenin clan are skewed through the lens of “he was fucking six and just thought they were crazy motherfuckers who were weird about blood.” Megumi legitimately does not understand how important his technique is to them—he thinks they’d be possessive with any inherited technique, and he has sort of explained away any weirdness particular to him as it being because of what went down with gojo.

The Zenin view what they do to him as love. He’s the inheritor of their most treasured technique, and the only good thing toji did was name him blessing. It’s like Maki said—any resistance he has to them is attributed to Gojo’s influence, and they’re banking on overcoming it one day and returning him to the clan. Things like wearing the kimono and being called the ten shadows is a sign of genuine honor for them.

Megumi views it as a constant, persistent humiliation that’s probably just meant to spite gojo. They bought him because they’d buy any kid who inherited a technique, and then gojo saved him, which embarrassed the clan, so they’ve been getting back at him for it ever since. They can’t actually hurt gojo, so they hurt the kid he saved.

He’s dressed up like a doll in the kimono to mock him. Being called the ten shadows isn’t an honor to him—it’s dehumanizing. He has a name and they refuse to call him anything but his technique, which is why they bought him to begin with. From his perspective, it’d be like if you were hired for being Microsoft proficient and your boss refused to call you anything but “excel spreadsheet” because that’s all you were to them.

Naobito is the one who had “custody” of him as a kid in the clan, and he’s the one who called a lot of the shots with how he was treated. Megumi remembers him as the source of some of his most painful moments in childhood, and it’s undercut with this growing fear that Naobito won’t let him go. He’s sort of picked up on how obsessed Naobito is with him, and it scares him even if he doesn’t want to admit it.

Naoya: about as bad as can be.

Megumi really hits all of naoya’s inferiority/superiority complex hard. The thing is that Naoya kind of is sour he didn’t get the ten shadows. He was born right after gojo satoru, to the heir of the clan. He wants to be strong more than anything, and the ten shadows is supposed to be one of the strongest things in the world. Megumi is toji’s son, who he’s got that weird obsession with. And everyone sort of presumes Megumi would be heir if gojo hadn’t stolen him, which is a position Naoya would kill for.

In my mind, Naoya was one of megumis biggest abusers as a child. It made him feel strong to be able to hurt him. It made him feel strong to be able to make Megumi feel weak. His father was obsessed with Megumi, but Naoya was just cruel to him.

Megumi is legitimately terrified of Naoya. There was a time in his life where he genuinely thought Naoya would kill him one day.

Mai: A missed opportunity.

Megumi does remember Maki and Mai. Playing with them was the only good memory he has from that part of his life. He thinks of them as fondly as he can think of anything that happened in that place, and occasionally hopes they're okay, but he doesn’t really think of having a relationship with her ever. That would require going back to the Zenin, and he won’t ever willingly do that.

I’ve talked about how Mai thinks of Megumi in other posts, but he really does occupy a slightly less bitter version of the space Maki occupies in her mind. He was kind to her when no one else was, and it really was something that meant the world to her. There was a time in her life where she wished desperately he would come back and be her friend again. He was the ten shadows and the presumed heir to the clan, and he didn’t let anyone hurt her or Maki and agreed that they could all be friends. He sort of fueled her hope that things would get better one day, and when he went no contact, it sort of crashed her into a realization that it never would.

Maki: potential for growth

Maki turned her back on her entire family so she wouldn’t be crushed down, and that’s not something that didn’t hurt her. She convinced herself she would be absolutely alone for the rest of her life, but it would be fine because she would be strong enough to stand alone. It wouldn’t hurt.

(It did hurt.)

The other first years actually started to pull her back from that. It’s that moment after her talk with Yuuta, where she tells herself that she shouldn’t fall for it and go thinking she’s actually been accepted. She thought she would be alone and suddenly, for the first time, she’s not.

Megumi was a half remembered child she played with one time growing up. He didn’t mean the same to her that he did to Mai, because she didn't consider him a source of hope that things would get better the way that Mai did.

At the beginning of the fic, he was a bit of a sore spot, but not because of anything about him. I tried to very lightly hint that she had a bit of a sore spot around the Ten Shadows because there was a time in her life that people used to think that maybe she'd get it.

From birth, people knew Gojo would be the six eyes and limitless user. I like to think the Ten Shadows is the antithesis of the Six Eyes in almost every possible way, so in my mind, the ten shadows is notoriously hard to spot.

And i think that there is some canon to suggest this. Namely, the fact that they didn't know Megumi would have the ten shadows (or they wouldn't have been waiting to see what technique he had), the fact that megumi's cursed energy aura canonically changes with the shikigami summoned (re: his entire cursed energy output changing when he summoned mahoraga for the first time), and the fact that a huge part of his technique is stealth. With Gojo, you feel him from the other side of the block, but Megumi can be hiding in your own goddamn shadow and you don't know it.

I also like the idea that the Six Eyes and Ten Shadows tend to show up within the same lifetime. So from the second that Gojo Satoru was born, the zenin had an eye on the ten shadows finally returning to the clan once more.

Maki is from a branch of the clan that appears to be pretty high in the zenin clan hierarchy. By the time that she would have been developing a technique, if any, Naoya would have been confirmed as having not gotten it. Maki and Mai were the only other kids in that upper hierarchy that we know of. Canonically, it's implied you don't see curses from birth (if i have the right translation, Gojo at one point asks Megumi if he's started to see them, implying it doesn't happen right away, and when the Zenin buy megumi, they talk about how they think he has potential, implying there's an uncertain period where you don't know if a kid will be able to see curses). The clan probably had a lot of hope for them.

At one point, Kamo mentions that it would have been better if maki or mai had inherited Megumi's techinque, and I like to think that was a shared sentiment. Gojo was seventeen and had already usurped their clan as the strongest. They were getting desperate for the ten shadows to return, and a lot of people looked to maki and Mai for potentially inheriting it. And out of the two of them, Maki is the one that came off as having power (because she did--it was just a heavenly pact). Maki was certain, and confident, and moved like someone strong. People really, really wanted it to be her for a while. When she talks about how her dad used to take her to see the kimono a lot, it's because he was hoping she would wear it one day.

Maki was never jealous of Megumi. She's better off without her family anyway, and she's confident in who she is. But at the start, he was a little bit of a reminder of the sort of fall she had from the Zenin clan's greatest hope to their biggest disappointment. She never held any of it against him, but he reminded her of bad memories and set her on edge.

That turned on a dime while talking with Tsumiki in chapter 5, when she started piecing everything together. And megumi sort of became this chance to heal from old regrets.

Megumi will never be what Mai was to her, but a part of Maki still hasn't healed from leaving mai behind and losing her. Her sister hates her, and probably always will, and maki doesn't regret what she did but she does regret that it blew back on mai. She couldn't stay for mai, but she doesn't have to stay to help Megumi. She's sort of been ushered into a perfect opportunity to protect him from her family the way she could never protect mai, and he already means more to her than she really wants to admit out loud. She genuinely wants to protect him from her family, and a bit part of that is so that way she can finally protect someone from them, instead of just... failing and losing them.

For megumi's part, it's the same as mai--he barely remembers Maki, but he did think of her as the source of the only good memory he had in the clan.

He ran off with Mai, and Maki tracked them both down. He stomped his stupid clan clothes into the mud, and they didn't hurt him for it, not even a little bit. They played together, and playing is something he never had time to do anymore. Mai was the damsel, and Maki was the brave warrior coming to save her, and megumi's dogs played the part of the terrible monsters who had stolen mai away. Maki bullied Megumi into carrying her "swords" for her, and megumi honestly didn't mind, because all people did was make him fight at that stupid compound, and he just was relieved no one was hitting him for once. it was one of the greatest days he can remember from that phase of his life, and Maki has since been one of the only two zenin he missed. He hasn't thought of her in a while. He'd be glad to hear she got out.

[moe-broey]

Trying to relax only to jolt up with a start like Wait. What if I fucking got the details wrong. I was just spouting shit off from memory. I've played Book 4 the most I've flipped through it a dozen times and have played it in full at least twice. It's the book that has had the MOST intense grip on me, and WHY, and for WHAT. The beginning it was ABSOLUTELY out of spite, but a seed was planted into my psyche. It has lingered ever since. It has cursed me ever since. It has completely consumed me ever since. But what if I'm Fucking Wrong and I just said the most INSANE fucking bullshit imaginable and oh god I'm gonna be killed. For NO GOOD REASON. If my information was accurate, at least I could die with honor. BUT WHAT IF IT'S NOT... all of that.... FOR NOTHING???????

Anyways it went down pretty much how I remembered it, Peony and Mirabilis in particular saying "I love you" (plus "I wanna be closer to you" <- bit I forgor but DID make me go 😶 upon seeing it), Sharena simply says "Alfonse..." in kind of a ditzy way, Anna remains strong and I actually completely forgot Alfonse had dialogue through this too, actually. He's strong about it too though. To the tune of Ocean Man, Business Man....