#BUT i think that there is a lot of depth to her!!!

[rafayelxsylusho]

The land of no return part 8

Hello everyone!!! Thank you so much for the comments and all the love given to this fic ❤️❤️❤️

Now, look at this beautiful art! Isn't it gorgeous? It's based on this fic. Go follow @roschea-arts she is amazing!

Also i reached 2000 followers!🥳🎉 I have no idea how but I love you all!

"I once loved a flower so much that instead of picking it, I left it alone."

Zayne

Caleb leaned back against his desk, arms crossed over his broad chest, a look of mild annoyance on his face.

"What exactly do you want, Zayne?" Caleb asked, his voice tinged with a note of impatience. "You show up here, unannounced, looking like you haven't slept in days..."

Zayne barely heard the criticism in his friend's tone. "I want to know how she is doing, she cancelled her appointment last week, with no reschedule date." He knew he was treading on dangerous ground, that he was overstepping boundaries, but he couldn't help himself. "After Elijah left..."

Caleb cut him off, his expression hardening "She is doing fine," he said shortly. "She is a big girl. Perfectly capable of taking care of herself."

He pushed off from the desk, straightening to his full height, a clear signal that he wanted this conversation to be over. "You can leave now," he said, a note of finality in his voice. "I have a lot of work to do right now."

Zayne's jaw clenched, a surge of frustration and desperation rising up inside him. He took a step closer to Caleb, his eyes flashing with a intensity that made it clear he had no intention of leaving until he got the answers he needed.

"I'm not going anywhere..." Zayne began, but Caleb cut him off again with a sharp, biting remark.

"You could have done with adopting that viewpoint two years ago" 

"Do you know why Elijah left?" Zayne asked, his voice rising with a note of urgency.

"If I knew why, do you really think I would tell you?" he asked with a note of mocking incredulity in his voice.

He walked to the open door of his office, his hand gripping the handle tightly, a silent command for Zayne to leave. His posture was rigid, his shoulders tense, a clear indication of his growing irritation and reluctance to engage in this conversation any further.

Zayne, however, remained rooted to the spot, his eyes locked onto Caleb's face, a desperate, almost pleading look in their depths. He was pushing the boundaries of their friendship, knew that he was being a burden, but he couldn't bring himself to care, not when it came to her well being.

"I hate to pull this on you...but you owe me one, Caleb."

"You're really going to pull the 'you owe me' card right now?"He shook his head, a look of disgust on his face as he turned away from Zayne, striding back to his desk.

"She's a mess, alright?" he said shortly, his voice tight with an emotion he couldn't quite disguise. "She's hurting. Hurting like hell. Elijah leaving...it hit her harder than I think anyone realized it would."

He paused, a shuddering breath leaving his lungs as he struggled to find the right words. "She's strong, though. Stronger than you give her credit for. She's picking up the pieces, bit by bit, day by day."

"Caleb, I need her back" Zayne said, his voice raw with longing and regret.

Caleb's expression softened, the anger draining from his eyes as he looked at his old friend. The tension in the room shifted, the animosity giving way to a tentative, fragile understanding.

"I know, and I think..." Caleb began, his voice hesitant, as if he were wrestling with his next words. He paused, his jaw clenching as he tried to find the right way to express the truth he had been holding back.

"I think she still loves you, Zayne," Caleb said at last, the words coming out in a rush, as if he had to force himself to say them. "She's angry, she's hurt, but the love...it's still there. It hasn't gone anywhere."

"What if she hates me more?"

"She hates what you did, not you"

"I don't know what to do anymore"

"You chased her until you got her, so now chase her until you get her back. But if you screw up again, if you hurt her again..."

Zayne nodded at Caleb's warning, the gravity of the words sinking in like a stone in his gut. He couldn't afford to screw up again, not just because of the pain it would cause her, but because he knew his friendship with Caleb would be irreparably broken. And he had no doubt that Caleb's retaliation would be far worse than the single punch he had received before.

With a heavy heart, Zayne turned to leave, his footsteps echoing in the sudden silence of Caleb's office. He had taken only a few steps towards the door when Caleb's next words stopped him in his tracks.

"I will not get in the way this time," he said, a note of support in his voice. It was a small olive branch, a sign that perhaps their friendship could be salvaged if Zayne succeeded in his mission.

But then, with a glint in his eye and a smirk that was equal parts encouraging and threatening, Caleb added, "But I'm not so sure about the rest of her friends." It was clear that he took a dark delight in imagining the obstacles that lay ahead for his friend.

"Good luck."

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

"Just because I carry it so well, it doesn't mean it's not heavy"

Y/N

It had been nearly three long weeks since Elijah had walked out of your life. The pain had begun to feel more familiar, like a constant dull throb that you had grown accustomed to. This heartache was different, though. This time, you couldn't blame anyone but yourself for the mess you were in.

As you sat at the bar, the dim lighting casting shadows across the polished wood, you found yourself contemplating the wisdom of drowning your sorrows in alcohol. A certain doctor swore by the numbing effects of alcohol, claiming it made the pain of a broken heart bearable. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and you were nothing if not desperate to feel something other than the constant ache in your chest.

The bartender, a man with a thick beard and a tattoo snaking up his arm, slid another shot of tequila in front of you. You didn't bother to ask how many you'd had already. Three, four, five? Who was counting? It was Friday night, and for once, you didn't have to worry about being at work tomorrow. Tonight, you could let yourself go, could indulge in the sweet oblivion that alcohol promised.

As you knocked back the shot, you couldn't help but think about how much your life had changed in such a short amount of time. Just a few months ago, you had everything you ever wanted a successful career, a home, and a man who loved you.

You glanced at your watch, realizing that Rafayel was running late, as per usual. He was probably running around the city, trying to find the hottest new bar. Rafayel always did have a flair for the dramatic. But tonight, his tardiness only gave you more time to wallow in self pity and drown your sorrows in cheap tequila.

The alcohol began to take effect, you felt a faint buzzing in your head, a pleasant warmth spreading through your limbs.

As you were about to down another shot of tequila, a firm hand suddenly wrapped around your wrist, stopping your hand mid motion. Startled, you looked up to see who dared to interrupt your self destructive quest for numbness.

Standing beside you was the last person you expected to see, Zayne. Without a word, you unwrapped his fingers from your wrist, using your other hand to break his grip. Your skin tingled where he had touched you, a sensation that you both welcomed and feared. Swallowing the tequila shot defiantly, you felt the liquid burn its way down your throat.

You choked slightly, your eyes watering from the sudden onslaught of alcohol.

Ignoring Zayne's presence, you turned back to the bartender, your voice slightly slurred as you asked for another shot. "One more," you said, holding up a finger and gesturing to your empty glass. The bartender, sensing the tension between you and the man standing beside you, hesitated for a moment before pouring another generous measure of tequila.

You turned to face Zayne, your eyes narrowing as you searched his face for any sign of deception. The tequila had started to cloud your judgment, but not enough to ignore the coincidence of running into him here, of all places.

"Are you following me?" you asked, your voice sharp and accusing. You held the shot glass aloft, the lime wedge perched precariously on the rim. Without waiting for his response, you knocked back the tequila.

His face mirrored your own, a slight grimace flashing across his features as the memory of the alcohol's burn echoed in his mind. He had tasted it before, many times, when he had tried to drown his sorrows in the bottom of a bottle.

"This is a coincidence," he said, his voice unconvincing even to his own ears. He shifted his weight, running a hand through his dark hair in a gesture of nervousness.

You sucked on the lime wedge, the juice mingling unpleasantly with the lingering taste of tequila on your tongue. You made a face at the bitter combination, before fixing Zayne with a hard stare.

"Then why did my coworkers say they saw you outside HH all week?" you demanded, your words slightly slurred but no less accusatory. "And don't try to tell me it was just a coincidence, Zayne. I know better."

 "I'm just worried about you"

You scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping your lips as you shook your head. "Well, I'm not yours to worry about," you retorted, a sharp edge to your words. You were tired of being a source of concern for Zayne, tired of being a problem that he felt the need to solve.

Glancing around the bar, you hoped to catch a glimpse of Rafayel, desperate for a distraction from the tension that had taken root between you and Zayne. But alas, your friend was nowhere to be seen, leaving you to fend for yourself in this awkward encounter.

Undeterred, Zayne slid onto the barstool beside you, his thigh brushing against yours in the close quarters. "Did you break up with him?"

You cut your eyes at him, a look that screamed, 'How dare you ask me that?' But even as the thought crossed your mind, the words spilled from your lips. "Maybe he dumped me," you said, a shrug of indifference in your shoulders.

Zayne chuckled "He isn't that much of an idiot"

You turned to face him again "Then what does that make you?" you asked, a challenge ringing in the words.

Zayne's fingers toyed with the small glass in front of you, turning it slowly on the bar's smooth surface. A rueful smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, a look of self deprecating honesty in his eyes.

"An asshole"

"That's right," you agreed, a note of grim satisfaction in your voice.

You leaned back on the barstool, crossing your arms over your chest as you studied Zayne's face. The alcohol had begun to blur the sharp edges of your anger.

"And yet, here you are," you said, "Why do you keep showing up, Zayne? What is it that you want from me?"

"I'm here because I can't stop thinking about you. Because every day without you feels like a day wasted. Because I'm going to fight for you"

Please Zayne, whatever it is we can work it out, you won't hurt me

"What if I don't want you to?"

Please don't leave...

"What if I don't care?" he countered, stubborn determination in his tone. "What if I can't just walk away and pretend that I don't love you anymore? You might not want me to try and win you back, but I can't stop myself from trying. I won't stop until I've proven to you that you mean everything to me."

Please

"Just give me a chance. One chance to show you that I'm not the same man who walked away from you."

I can't...2 words, 5 letters

You could only stare at Zayne for a long moment, his words hanging heavy in the air between you. The weight of them pressed down on your chest, making it hard to breathe, let alone formulate a response.

You fumbled for your wallet, your fingers trembling slightly as you pulled out two twenty dollar bills. You didn't trust yourself to speak, afraid that if you opened your mouth, you might say something you'd regret. So you simply placed the money on the bar next to your empty shot glass.

Without giving him the satisfaction of seeing the turmoil written all over your face, you slid off the barstool. The sudden movement made your head swim, a side effect of the alcohol and the emotional whirlwind you found yourself in.

You took a deep breath and made your way towards the exit, your heels clicking against the floor. You could feel the weight of Zayne's gaze on your back, could almost hear the unspoken questions and pleas that hung in the air between you.

As you pushed open the heavy door, the cool night air hit your face, a stark contrast to the stuffy, alcohol tinged atmosphere of the bar. You took a step forward, blinking in the sudden brightness of the streetlights, when you spotted the salvation you needed.

A cab sat idling at the curb, without hesitation, you made your way towards it. You needed to get away, to put some distance between yourself and the man who had once again turned your world upside down.

As you slid into the backseat of the taxi, you gave the driver your address, not trusting yourself to think clearly enough to give him directions. The cab pulled away, and as you watched the bar recede into the distance, you couldn't help but wonder if you had just made the right choice.

Only time would tell if walking away from Zayne had been the smartest move, or if you had once again let fear and pride guide your actions. For now, all you could do was stare out the window, watching the city lights blur past as you tried to make sense of the tangled mess that was your heart.

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

"If you can't pick, flip a coin. Because for that split second it's in the air, you know exactly what side you want it to land on"

Months later

Zayne

Zayne stood at his door, surprised by the late night knock echoing through his home. It was pouring rain outside, the sound of it pattering against the windows a constant backdrop to the usual silence. He had been about to retire for the night when the unexpected visitor interrupted his plans.

Opening the door, Zayne found himself face to face with the one person he had been longing to see. She stood before him, her hair plastered to her head from the rain, water dripping down her face and onto her clothes. In her hand, she clutched a bouquet of roses, the same kind he had been sending to her house every week for months.

The flowers were a last ditch effort at trying to win her back, a desperate attempt to show her that he was sincere in his apologies and regrets. But it seemed that his efforts had been in vain, for here she was, standing on his doorstep, a look of frustration etched on her beautiful face.

"Stop this, Zayne," she said, tossing the flowers at his feet. They landed with a soft thump on his doormat, a soggy mess of petals and stems. "I sent them back for a reason, all these months. And now you send them to my job?"

Zayne opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off before he could utter a word. She shook her head, her wet hair whipping around her face as she turned to walk away.

In that moment, something inside Zayne snapped. He couldn't let her go again, not without a fight. Not without telling her everything he had been holding back, everything he had been yearning to say.

So he did the only thing he could think to do. He reached out and grabbed her arm, pulling her inside his home with a sudden jerk. The door slammed shut as he pushed her up against the wall, his hands gripping her shoulders tightly, the rain soaked fabric of her clothes leaving damp patches on the painted surface behind her.

"Just hear me out," Zayne pleaded "For fuck's sake Y/N, please just listen to what I have to say." He braced himself for her anger, knowing that he deserved every ounce of it.

She pushed hard against his chest, the force of it a physical manifestation of the pain and fury that had been building inside her for years.

" I don't..."

But before she could finish, before she could unleash the anger that had been simmering within her, Zayne covered her mouth with his hand. His fingers trembled slightly as he silenced her.

"I know you're mad at me," he said, his voice rough with feeling. "I know I hurt you, and I know I fucked up. I made a mistake, and to be honest, I hate myself even more for making you cry than you could ever hate me." His eyes searched hers, a profound sadness and regret etched into their depths.

Zayne's other hand came up to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear that had escaped her angry gaze. "I'll never forget every single tear you cried for me," he vowed "I'll pay them all back, every single one. But we both know this isn't the end."

He paused, letting the weight of his next words sink in. "Punish me, make me beg and crawl, make me wait and torture me by ignoring me. I'll take it, I deserve it, but when you're ready to forgive me, I'll be here waiting. It doesn't matter if it's next week, next year, or ten years from now," he murmured, "I'll be waiting," Zayne continued, his voice dropping to a fervent whisper. "Because you are it for me, Y/N. We belong together, and nothing, not even your anger or my mistakes, can change that."

As he spoke, Zayne's hand slid from her mouth to the back of her neck, his fingers threading through her damp hair. He leaned in closer, his forehead coming to rest against hers, their breath mingling in the scant space between them.

"I know I have to earn your trust back," he murmured, his lips brushing against hers with every word. "And I'm willing to do whatever it takes, to wait as long as it takes. Because you're worth it. You're worth everything to me."

Zayne's other hand slid down her arm, his fingers lacing with hers. He brought their clasped hands up to his chest, holding them over his heart as if to emphasize the sincerity of his words.

"So go ahead," he said, a note of challenge in his voice. "Hate me, ignore me, make me suffer for the pain I've caused you. But know this, I'll be here, waiting for the day when you can look at me without seeing the man who broke your heart. And on that day, I'll be ready to love you the way you deserve to be loved, for the rest of our lives."

Her lips were so close, so tantalizingly close that he could almost taste her. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to close the distance, to claim her mouth and pour every ounce of his love and longing..

But he held back, forcing himself to exercise the restraint he had once lacked. He knew that he couldn't take this step without her consent, without her active participation. It had to be her choice, her decision to bridge the gap between them.

So he waited, his eyes searching hers, silently begging her to make the next move. As he looked into her eyes, he saw them flicker down to his mouth, a momentary distraction that told him everything he needed to know. His heart leapt in his chest, a fierce surge of hope and anticipation coursing through his veins.

"Thank God," he breathed out, the words scarcely more than a whisper. They were a plea of gratitude for this second chance, this opportunity to make things right.

And then, before he could say anything more, he felt it. Her lips brushed against his own, nipping and teasing, a fleeting whisper of contact that sent a shiver down Zayne's spine.

He could feel the softness of her mouth, the warmth of her breath. It was a tantalizing preview of the passion that had once burned between them, a memory of the way she used to kiss him .

He endured the torturous teasing, his body tensing with the effort of maintaining control. Until, with a sudden boldness that made his heart race, her tongue flicked out to lick at his lower lip.

It was a subtle gesture, but it was enough to break the last of his restraint. A low groan escaped him as he pulled her flush against him,his hand gripping her hair possessively as he slanted his mouth over hers. The hesitation was gone, replaced by a deep kiss that spoke of a love that had only grown stronger in the time they had been apart.

His tongue delved into her mouth, stroking along her own, a sensual dance that quickly turned passionate. He kissed her like a man starved, a man who had been wandering in the wilderness and had finally found his way home.

The kiss deepened, turned hungry, turned desperate. Her moan, muffled against Zayne's lips, spurred him on, urging him to take more, to claim her completely. His hands slid from her hair to grip her thighs, squeezing the soft flesh as he hoisted her up.

Instinctively, her legs wrapped around his waist, locking him in close. Zayne groaned into her mouth, feeling her heat, her softness pressing against him.

He carried her, stumbling in his urgency, towards his bedroom. The hallway stretched out before them, a long expanse of polished wood and artwork. But the bed seemed too far, too distant.

Her hands fumbled with the hem of her shirt, yanking it up and over her head in one quick motion. Buttons popped in her haste, scattering across the floor. Before Zayne could react, she had his shirt in her grip, tugging at it desperately.

In a flurry of movement, Zayne shrugged out of his shirt, not caring as it joined hers on the floor. His hands slid under her skirt, gripping her hips, pulling her harder against him.

With a sweep of his strong arm, Zayne brushed everything off the desk in the hallway, papers, pens, a lamp, all crashing to the floor in a clatter. With the surface now bare, he sat her down on the edge.

Zayne's fingers found the clasp of her bra, unhooking it deftly and tossing it aside. His hands cupped the soft swells of her breasts, thumbs teasing over the hardened peaks.

She gasped as Zayne's hot mouth descended upon her nipple, his lips wrapping around the sensitive bud and suckling hard. Her back arched, pressing her breast more fully into his mouth as a sharp cry tore from her throat. "Please, Zayne..." It was a plea, a prayer, a demand.

She took him out of his pants and his cock throbbed, hard and heavy against her stomach. Her hands fumbled with her panties, shoving them to the side in a desperate bid to feel him, to have him inside her.

And then, with a thrust of his hips, Zayne buried himself deep inside her. A guttural groan ripped from his throat at the exquisite sensation of her tight, wet heat enveloping him.

He started to move, his thrusts slow but incredibly hard, each powerful drive of his hips rocking her body and making her breasts bounce enticingly. The desk creaked beneath them, a lewd rhythm accompanying their lovemaking.

Zayne's mouth never left her breasts, kissing, licking, biting at the soft mounds as he pounded into her. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hips, holding her in place.

She could only cling to him, her nails raking down his back, her heels digging into his ass as she urged him on. Each thrust struck deep, reaching places that made her see stars, made her scream his name into the relative quiet of his home.

It was a joining that felt both achingly familiar and thrillingly new, a coming together of two souls who had once known each other intimately, but with a depth of emotion and hunger that was more intense than ever before.

Zayne could feel every inch of her, every flutter and clench of her inner muscles as they gripped his thrusting cock. He could hear every breathless moan, every whispered plea and gasp of pleasure that fell from her lips. And he could see the way her eyes, hazy with lust and desire, gazed at him with a trust and longing that made his heart swell in his chest

He knew he had to slow down, to savor this moment, to pour every ounce of his love and devotion into each powerful drive of his hips. So he forced himself to rein in his urgency, to focus on the feel of her body, the taste of her skin on his tongue, the scent of her arousal perfuming the air.

He felt her body begin to tense beneath him, he knew she was teetering on the brink, just as he was. No words were needed, no explicit instructions given. They were both so attuned to each other's bodies, so desperate for release, that they moved in perfect sync.

As if reading her mind, Zayne's fingers found her clit, circling the sensitive nub with a pressure and rhythm that he knew would drive her wild. His mouth latched onto her nipple once more, suckling hard as he thrust deep and grinded against that special spot inside her.

"Zayne!"

Her walls clamped down around him like a vice, pulsing and milking his cock as she came undone. The sensation was overwhelming, the feel of her coming on his cock, her arousal flooding his shaft, pushed Zayne over the edge.

He buried himself to the hilt as his own release overtook him. His cock throbbed and jerked inside her, spilling hot and thick, painting her insides with his seed.

They clung to each other as the aftershocks rolled through them, their bodies trembling and shaking, their hearts pounding in tandem. The hallway was filled with the sound of their ragged breaths and the musky scent of sex.

In that moment, nothing else mattered. Not the past, not the future, not the mistakes they had made. All that mattered was the feel of their bodies joined together, the knowledge that they had found their way back to each other.

There is another chapter after this, it will be the last chapter. More smut and fluff coming after all the angst.

@lioria @midiplier @gawa-ng-gabi

@certainduckanchor @asakiyu @crazyzombieblaze @roschea-arts @feralkuromi @redhead-maiden @zaynies-wifey @lorddyz @hoe-in-deepspace

[xandezsims]

L&D Trans Sim Tagging: EA Made an Oopsie

Xan here. Remember how I never got into Fullbody outfits, in the original Trans Sim tutorial? Well, I am honor-bound to get into it a little. Why? Because I made a discovery, and it's...not great.

TL;DR: The Part Flags for most of Life & Death are messed up. Trans Sims are wearing the wrong meshes and it cannot be avoided; EA has to fix it.

If this concerns you, please upvote the report, and spread the word. They have ignored the Sims community about gender-related glitches in the past. Help us make them fix this, so we don't have to.

In-depth explanation about the problem below.

I was stoked to see we got clothes for both frames in the newer packs. Finally, Sims can wear whatever gender clothing they want! That's the goal, right? But, recent testing made me wonder how they handle opposite-frames. I thought I could learn something to help with inclusive tagging. So, I stuck Carmen in a dress from L&D, and:

It passes from the front, but...her chest. That's the opposite gender distortion. The one caused by putting a AM (masc frame) mesh on any AF (female) Sim, trans or not. I've definitely talked about this.

I went and cloned both meshes to check the tags, and sure enough:

Quick tagging lesson: toggling Restrict Opposite Frame means Carmen can't wear the AF one. She has to wear the AM frame dress, because as a trans Sim, her frame is AM. (Literally, the Opposite Frame of her gender.) But because she has breasts, she inherits the chest distortion all female Sims get wearing a man's top. The same applies for Erik, her counterpart (AM w/AF frame).

With a sinking feeling, I went back to the game and tried...everything.

I ran out of space, there are more. Trans-men are the same. I got halfway through the AM catalog and ran out of willpower. I'm betting almost every item made for both frames in this pack is tagged wrong. It's locked by frame, instead of gender. With pants, that's not a problem--but tops, dresses and suits will all be swapped.

So, now we know Fullbody meshes work similarly to tops. They need to be locked by Gender. And it's really just that tag. To test, I went back to my cloned dresses, and fixed it with two clicks:

This means all women regardless of frame can use the AF, and all men can use the AM. And here's the result: AF dress on AF Sim, AM dress on AM Sim. They literally swapped dresses.

So, easily fixed! That's 2 files out of...all of them. (sigh) I filed a Bug Report, linked above. Hopefully the amount of evidence I provided will get an actual response. That, or they'll think I'm an arrogant prat for telling them how their game works. But, I didn't break it.

Moral of the Story: this is a great example of what not to do if you make cc, or if you retag what you download. Remember, if you want to limit who can wear a mesh:

"Restrict Opposite Gender" for Tops and Fullbody; this makes sure all AF and AM Sims wear their meshes, and don't end up with chest lumps.

"Restrict Opposite Gender" for AF Bottoms; Trans-AM Sims break in half. Don't Restrict AM Bottoms at all. They fit everyone.

Or, Don't Restrict Anything, if you want all options. Note: distortions will happen. Mark your gender filters. They help a lot.

Earrings, Hats, Makeup, Gloves, Socks, Tights work for everyone

Necklaces and Nails are "Restrict Opposite Frame"; Trans Sims can't wear these from their own gender. They don't fit.

If you got this far, thank you for sticking it out. My innocent question turned into a tagging lesson (again). But, if it helps anyone in the future, I'll be glad. At least now we know there's a problem.

Please boost the Bug Report, share if you found it useful, and thanks for reading. I'm on the soap box again re: trans inclusion, but it's still Pride and I can't not stand up for my people. The more we know, the better we can do on our side.

Finally, tagging some folks who might want to know, if they don't already (feel free to ignore): @sejianismodding @the-crypt-o-club @yooniesim @whyhellosims @thefoxburyinstitute @sims4tutorials @mmfinds @gncc

[doctormohansamira]

Samira and Robby's interactions throughout the last four episodes are everything to me. She's one of the only main characters he doesn't have a lengthy exchange with in those episodes – he talks about religion with Whitaker. He stops to tell Mel that she was awesome and that he's glad she's with them, and he has multiple one on one interactions with her over the course of the treatment of the measles kid. He has that confrontation in the ambulance bay with Langdon. He talks at length to McKay about David and the broader meaning of her actions. He bursts into laughter about how this was Javadi's first shift, then tells her the next one will be easier, a moment very much specific to the two of them, even as there are a bunch of other people around, sharing in the laughter. It's really just Samira and Santos whom he doesn't talk to in any kind of depth.

This is...going to get long, I'm gonna add a read more.

When he tells Samira she's doing a good job, it's casual, in the middle of the chaos, while they're rushing around trying to do their jobs. When he asks if she's hanging in there after the crisis is over, it's not a one on one conversation, it's a general question about both her and Javadi. But even without a conversation, there's so much going on there. They're working so closely the entire time, even when they're on different patients, and as much as I would always want more of them interacting, because they are my favourite dynamic in the show by so much it's not even a contest, I didn't feel the loss of them in the last quarter of the show despite them not really talking about anything!

Before the patients start coming in, she follows him to ask where Collins went. He stops to check in on her, and she's explaining the case without so much as pausing what she's doing. He says, less to her than to the room in general, that she's on fire. Unlike every other time he compliments her, she doesn't stare after him in shock – she's too busy stabilizing the patient. She calls him over and explains another case, but it turns out, she doesn't really need him – he asks her what she's thinking, she tells him, and he confirms she should do what she thought she should. They work on intubating a patient together and he jokes about her having been spoiled by technology – and it's a line that could so easily be a criticism, but clearly isn't. He does not blame her for this in the slightest, because it's so out of the ordinary – the attending anesthesiologist was struggling with the same thing. She asks him about hospital procurement and why they don't stock something. She rushes to his side when Leah comes in, then jumps around to help other patients. He calls for her to go check on Mel when he's busy with Leah. When we're getting shots of pretty much all the residents, making it clear that everyone knows it's going poorly and Robby should be giving up, it's Samira that goes to stand next to Robby and ask if she can help. They do David's neurological workup together. He calls out specifically to her to finish up and go home. When he's yelling at Gloria, she's one of the three characters whose reactions we get a shot of. She's the one that asks what's funny when he's dissolving into laughter and the one that waves goodbye when he leaves.

These are all just brief interactions, spread out across several episodes, but the Robby and Samira dynamic is just this constant presence, and I adore it. There is so much happening in these last four episodes, and in them, as intense as everything is, as much pressure as they're under, Robby and Samira are in a better place than they were all season. Their interactions are lighter. After so many episodes of this lack of trust being a big thing in their relationship – Robby not trusting her clinical judgment, Samira not trusting him to not blow up at her – we get to see that when the chips are down and there's a crisis, there is a lot of trust. They work incredibly well together! He trusts her on the most critical patients and to go help the younger residents when he's otherwise occupied. She calls for his help repeatedly, and he drops whatever he's doing to go to her, knowing it'll be important. She knows pretty much immediately that Leah isn't going to make it, and she steps up to fill in for him elsewhere.

It means so much to me that Samira is the first person to indicate that she knows Leah's not going to make it, very shortly after she's brought in, and that while all the residents later are glancing over at Robby, very much aware that it's going poorly and he should have given up, Samira is the one resident to actually say something to him. They are constantly talking past each other. They are both trying to solve different systemic issues that, given the resources they have, are almost impossible to reconcile by a single person, and the fact of the matter is, the ER needs both of them, because it matters that people are trying to address both these problems, but it still is a huge strain on their relationship, not helped by how Robby lashes out at her when he's angry at himself. But when it’s Robby in distress, when it’s Robby doing what he accused her of doing all day...she has so much empathy and concern for him.

She's not Abbot, a peer that can straight up tell him that it's time to give up, that they're going to lose ten others if he keeps trying to save Leah. Not yet. What she is someone that deeply understands the impulse and the hard time he's having, who will step up when he can't. It's just such a phenomenal series of interactions to get across with so little conversation.

[rpwprpwprpwprw]

Disclaimer: okay … this will be long. If you want to read a emocional rambling with personal details about my life (because i apparently like to over share) then stay with me.

• So for starters, i was craving for something like this for two weeks or more. To be simple, i miss namjoon a lot and i miss some depth too. I really enjoy smut of course, but i loooove this: the build up, the yearning, the emocional depth and some layers. Like a really well cooked meal that makes you think “damn… this tastes really nice”.

• I have to repeat myself as i say this for the million time but it is very hard to find fanfics with namjoon. Like i’ve been looking for weeks… (i have some saved to read, but i mean new ones) and there’s nothing. The difference between other members are absurd, the attention is different inside the own fandom. So there’s that…. but when i find something like this…. i just can’t let go yk? it keeps reverberating in my soul.

• The writing deserves an exclusive topic cause what is this? I’m talking about real quality content, well written, thoughtful and raw. This goes beyond fanfic, for me this represents something more. Because someone can explain to me how @cigarettesuga knows all those details about the breakup i had when i was just 19. I had to stop the reading a few times just to look to nowhere and repeat to myself “damn, that’s exactly how i felt or that’s exactly how it sounded”. So i will quote some parts cause i mean… you’re a real poet or something. But i genuinely feel the need to dig inside an authors mind to know exactly how that person perceives reality. Like, people are just living their lives meanwhile there’s someone noticing everything!!!! the shifts in the air, the micro expressions and unspoken feelings… i just want to sit with that person and talk for hours about anything and everything. Before my quotes, let me praise your writing baby cause i’m really admiring you right now, as a writer and as a human being. The flow… you took me by the hands, my breathing was so heavy, my eyebrows furrowed… i mean is this what you wanted from me? I felt EVERYTHING. The yearning, the bass, the loud music and sweaty bodies… i was there. I know it’s easy to connect when there’s similarities but it’s more than that.

——- QUOTES!!!!!!

“she'd dyed her hair, moved apartments, started journaling again like she was a teenager with a heartbreak playlist” — ✋😔 that’s embarrassing stop exposing me fr give me the credits

“like it hadn't ended in the kind of silence that made her doubt the entire thing ever happened” — 🫥 no comments

“just another reminder that he was still good at walking away” — this one is actually nice to comment KKKKKKK so this song i linked here is one of my favorites and i listened A LOT when i broke up and let me quote the lyrics real quick:

“Tell me what I got to prove

I don't mean nothing to you (I hope you're hurting)

You ain't got nothing to say (while I was working)

You're too good at walking away (I hope you're hurting)”

😳😁 so yeah…. my life is made of connections all around.

"you were vulnerable. that's brave. and it doesn't make you desperate, it makes you human. but let's also not pretend that this isn't who he's always been

—someone who disappears when you hand him something fragile."

“amara continued, voice gentler now. "you don't have to chase someone who doesn't know what to do with your heart. it's not your job to teach him how to hold it."

LIKE WHAT THE HELL YOU GUYS CANT TALK SHIT ABOUT FANFICTION IN FRONT OF ME OKAY?

but men….this was needed it. My friend told me something similar this week, so again… connections. I need Amara, like please make her real and put her on a plane to Brazil.

"this feeling. the ache. the shame. you won't always be this girl who sent the text and got ignored." - this is too personal i have to delete this review kkk

“you're allowed to have things that used to belong to both of you” - stop reading my journal please that’s call privacy invasion. That part stuck with me cause i’m obsessed with music and yes indeed i introduced him to a singer and he got to the concert without me with other girl (which was my best friend that now is his girlfriend BUT ANYWAY) i guess you realize i can relate to the feeling…….

——————

• that ALL being said, the smut part was awesome too, like crying during sex cause i missed you SO BAD dear god merge our souls together.

• another disclaimer: i don’t miss my ex and i don’t want him back i promise! this is just a big lore in my life, a piece of my personal museum and i just like to over share to strangers. for no reason.

•My apologies to @cigarettesuga because i’m sure that they’re not expecting this bible and you don’t have to read it if you don’t want 😭 i just HAD to express my feelings

——— The end, if you got until here i don’t know leave some 💜 below KKKKKKKKKKKKKK i’m joking thank you 🫶🏻🌹💌

(forgive any grammar mistakes i’m too tired to fix anything)

꒰꒰⠀⠀⠀text me when you get lonely⠀✸⠀(⠀⠀knj⠀⠀)

pairing: non-celeb!ex!namjoon x f!ex!reader

genre: exes-to-lovers, angst, bit of romance, slow-burn, smut

warnings: explicit consensual sex, graphic oral sex (fem receiving), face ridding implied, overstimulation, rough sex, hair pulling, fingering, slight breath control (hand on throat, not choking), cum on body, praise & degradation mix (if you squit your eyes), possessive behavior, size kink, deep penetration, leg on shoulder position, wet/messy sex, begging, post-orgasm sensitivity, soft dom!namjoon, desperation and emotional vulnerability during sex, unprotected sex , aggressive kissing, marking (bites), mild semi-public sexual tension, emphasis in mutual pleasure and yearning (let me know if i'm forgetting something)

word count: 14.3 k

summary: after a night out stirs old feelings, a late-night text opens a door (y/n) swore she’d locked for good. when fate brings them face-to-face at a packed underground gig, sparks fly, wounds reopen, and the line between anger and desire blurs. one reckless night later, they confront what’s left between them—no promises, just raw truth and the fragile hope of second chances.

lu's note: this is officially my longest one-shot ever—and i loved every messy, tender, smut-filled second of writing it. 🖤

i’ll be shifting focus to finish chapter 3 of opposites don’t attract, they destroy (finally, i know lmao) so if content slows down a little, that’s why!! thank you for always being patient with me and letting me take my time with these chaotic little love stories

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ masterlist⠀ | ⠀taglist⠀ | ⠀more to read

the music was loud, someone had spilled beer on the floor, and (y/n) was clutching a half-warm drink like it was her lifeline. she was supposed to be having fun. that had been the plan—get dressed up, laugh too hard, maybe flirt with someone cute and harmless just to feel something again.

but then steph, all glitter lids and tipsy honesty, leaned over and tilted her head like a curious cat.

“hey... didn’t you used to come here with namjoon?”

and just like that, it was over.

it wasn’t the question itself—it was the way the energy shifted. the air changed. the people around them—friends, old classmates, acquaintances that still followed her on instagram out of habit—went quiet in that careful way. like everyone expected her to shatter.

(y/n) smiled. it wasn’t fake, exactly. just... practiced.

“we’re not together anymore,” she said, tipping her cup back. the alcohol went down rough. “it’s been a while.”

steph’s eyes widened. “shit, sorry—i didn’t mean to—”

“it’s fine,” (y/n) cut in, voice light. too light. “i mean, you didn’t know.”

there was a beat of silence. one of her friends, amara, looked like she wanted to say something comforting, but thought better of it. someone else cleared their throat. the music kept playing but it felt like it had gotten quieter.

no one asked anything else.

the hallway outside the bar was dim, lit only by a flickering exit sign and the vague hum of someone’s vape cloud still hanging in the air. (y/n) leaned back against the peeling brick wall, cold seeping into her spine through her thin shirt, and took a slow breath in.

not to cry.

just to breathe.

the night buzzed behind her—voices, basslines, laughter. it all felt far away now, like she was watching it from underwater. her buzz had dulled. or maybe soured. she couldn't tell anymore.

she hated that a name—just a name—could still change the temperature of her blood.

a year. it had been a year. she’d dyed her hair, moved apartments, started journaling again like she was a teenager with a heartbreak playlist. she’d told everyone she was fine. and she was. mostly. enough.

but the way steph had said his name…

namjoon. like he was still hers. like it hadn’t ended in the kind of silence that made her doubt the entire thing ever happened.

“fuck,” she muttered under her breath, rubbing at her arms. the night was cooler than she expected. or maybe that was just what regret felt like.

she checked her phone—reflex. no messages.

she shouldn’t text him. not now. not like this.

her fingers hovered. it was so stupid. she knew it was stupid. but the truth was—

she did miss having him around.

not just the sex, not the shared playlists or the stupid way he folded her laundry like a librarian shelving books. she missed the quiet. the safety. the way he’d always known when she needed to be held without being asked.

and before she could talk herself out of it, her thumbs were moving.

i miss having you around.

she stares at her phone just a moment before locking the screen. “this is so stupid” mumbling under her breath.

the bass was still pounding when she walked back in, like nothing had happened. like her stomach wasn’t twisted and her throat didn’t feel like it had been scraped raw from the inside. someone handed her another drink—she didn’t even catch who. she nodded her thanks, forced another smile, and knocked it back too fast.

the warmth never hit her chest. it just sank.

she hovered at the edge of the circle, letting her friends’ chatter wash over her like static. the laughter felt too loud. the neon lights too bright. she wasn’t in it anymore—just floating above, watching herself nod, sip, grin. a ghost in her own skin.

steph tried to meet her eyes once or twice. (y/n) didn’t let her.

after another drink, she checked the time. 3:08 a.m. perfect excuse.

“hey,” she said, interrupting a story she wasn’t listening to, “i’ve got things to do in the morning, so… i’m gonna head out.”

a couple of her friends blinked. amara pouted. someone offered her a ride.

“nah,” she smiled. “i’m good. thanks.”

steph didn’t say anything. just looked at her like she knew.

(y/n) ignored it, squeezed a few arms goodbye, and slipped out before anyone could stop her.

the night air hit her like a slap—cold, sharp, honest.

she pulled her phone out of her coat pocket. her unsent message was still open on the screen.

i miss having you around.

still there. still blinking.

she didn’t delete it.

but she didn’t send it either.

by the time she stepped into her apartment, the quiet almost made her flinch. no voices, no music, no bass crawling under her skin. just the soft hum of the fridge and the dull echo of her own steps against the floor. 

she toed off her shoes in the dark, letting them fall sideways by the door. her makeup still clung to her skin, smudged slightly under one eye, and her jacket was slipping off her shoulder, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. everything felt too heavy. her arms. her chest. even her thoughts.

she didn’t bother changing out of her clothes. didn’t brush her teeth. didn’t even check her phone again. she just dropped her bag somewhere near the couch and made the short, autopilot walk to her bed, collapsing onto the mattress like something hollowed out. the city buzzed faintly through the window, a distant lullaby of car horns and wind, and within seconds, sleep took her like a blackout.

when she opened her eyes again, the light was harsh.

her head ached in that familiar, dehydrated way. her throat was dry, and her limbs felt tangled in fabric she couldn’t remember putting on. the sun was too bright. the room smelled faintly like whatever perfume she’d sprayed hours before and the remnants of sweat and bar smoke.

she groaned, dragging her arm over her face. reached blindly for her phone.

6 unread messages. none from him.

she was halfway through a notification from a food delivery app when she noticed the chat still open behind it. his name. his thread.

and there it was.

the text she swore she didn’t send.

i miss having you around.

right beneath it:

read 4:17 am.

she blinked at it. once. twice. waiting for something—anything—to change. maybe a reply would pop up. maybe it had glitched. maybe this was a dream and she hadn’t hit send after all.

but no.

he’d read it.

and that was it.

no typing bubble. no three dots. no follow-up. no you too. not even a dry hope you’re good.

just silence.

the kind that wrapped around her like cold water.

her stomach twisted, hot with humiliation. god, had she really sent it? like that? no punctuation, no explanation, just—that? a drunk confession disguised as a throwaway text?

she dropped the phone onto her sheets and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. she wasn’t going to cry. this wasn’t something to cry about.

it was just a text.

just a ghost.

just another reminder that he was still good at walking away.

she didn’t even get out of bed until noon.

and even then, it wasn’t because she wanted to—it was because her bladder forced her to. the sun spilling through the curtains made her wince, and every part of her mouth felt like sandpaper. she moved like she was made of rust, each step slow, dragging, her thoughts heavier than her body.

she didn’t check her phone again.

not right away.

instead, she wandered to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, and leaned against the counter in that hunched-over way she only ever did when she was hungover or emotionally bruised. this morning, she was both.

by the time she sat down at her desk and opened her laptop, her phone was right there next to it—staring at her. taunting her. the temptation was unbearable. not to look at his message—she already knew what was (and wasn’t) there—but to do something about it.

like text him again.

maybe something casual. ironic. a recovery joke.

lol sorry drunk me got sentimental ignore that, rough night lol forget it

but what was the point? he read it. read it. and said nothing.

what the hell else was she supposed to do? follow it up with an apology? beg him to talk to her? no—no, fuck that. she’d already handed him a piece of her vulnerability on a silver platter. she wasn’t about to keep spoon-feeding it to him.

still…

she thought about it.

the entire day, it circled her like a mosquito—tiny, buzzing, impossible to swat away. every time she opened another tab, washed another dish, tied her hair up, the thought came creeping back in: what if he’s waiting for me to say more?

what if he wants her to chase him?

what if he’s just being cautious?

what if he read it and regretted not answering, but didn’t know how?

what if.

what if.

what if.

she typed at least five different drafts of a follow-up. none of them made it past the keyboard. each one felt weaker than the last. some were angry. some were sarcastic. one was just a string of question marks she didn’t even remember typing.

eventually, she just set her phone screen-down and pushed it to the far corner of the table. opened a new document. tried to work. but even her words—normally her safe place, her breath—betrayed her.

every sentence reminded her of him. or worse, of herself with him.

she was halfway through pretending to write an email when the memory of the message hit her again like a slap: i miss having you around.

how pathetic. how raw.

and he hadn’t said a thing.

the knock came just after seven.

soft at first, then impatient. then followed by the sound of a key in the lock.

(y/n) didn’t move from the couch.

she was still in the same hoodie she threw on after her shower, the sleeves tugged over her hands, one leg curled beneath her and the other hanging off the edge like a question mark. a half-eaten banana and a cup of tea sat forgotten on the coffee table, next to her phone, which she hadn’t touched in hours. not since the last time she opened their thread. not since she stared at the word read until it blurred.

the door creaked open, and the scent of bulgogi and rice and something fried cut through the stale air of her apartment.

“i swear to god if you’re dead in here i’m going to bring you back just to slap you,” amara called out.

a beat.

then: “...oh.”

(y/n) didn’t look up. just mumbled, “hi.”

amara’s boots clicked across the floor, and then she was dropping two plastic bags onto the coffee table and kneeling in front of her like some kind of holy intervention.

“jesus christ, you look like a sad victorian ghost. have you even eaten?”

“kinda.”

amara narrowed her eyes. “do fridge grapes and ibuprofen count?”

(y/n) cracked the ghost of a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

amara sighed and sat beside her, her presence immediate and grounding. she unpacked the food with practiced ease, muttering something about “soy sauce therapy” and “emergency carbs.” they ate in silence for a few minutes, chopsticks scraping against containers, the only soundtrack a soft playlist humming from (y/n)’s laptop.

then amara said, casually, “so… how bad is it?”

(y/n) didn’t answer at first.

she took another bite of kimchi, chewed slowly. tried to pretend it didn’t taste like regret.

then, finally: “i texted him.”

amara didn’t blink. “namjoon?”

(y/n) nodded.

“when?”

“last night.”

“what’d you say?”

(y/n) swallowed hard, looking down at her hands. “i miss having you around.”

amara’s eyebrows shot up. “oh damn. straight to the throat, huh?”

“i didn’t mean to send it. i thought i didn’t. but i did.”

“...and?”

“he read it.” her voice cracked, just slightly. “and he didn’t reply.”

amara leaned back against the couch, exhaling through her nose. she didn’t look surprised. but she did look like she was calculating something in her head.

“bitch,” she finally said, “i love you, so i need to ask—what were you hoping he’d say?”

(y/n) blinked. “i don’t know.”

“yes, you do.”

“i didn’t expect anything, i just—”

amara gave her a look.

(y/n) sighed, letting her head fall against the couch cushion. “i guess… maybe i wanted him to say he missed me too. or that he’d been thinking about me. or that it sucked for him, too.”

amara nodded slowly, eyes soft but steady. “and instead, he gave you silence.”

a beat.

“again.”

that last word landed hard. (y/n) flinched, just a little. but she didn’t argue.

she hated how familiar this feeling was. the waiting. the not-knowing. the pretending not to care while dying inside.

amara nudged her with her foot. “you know this doesn’t mean you’re pathetic, right?”

“sure feels like it.”

“you were vulnerable. that’s brave. and it doesn’t make you desperate, it makes you human. but let’s also not pretend that this isn’t who he’s always been—someone who disappears when you hand him something fragile.”

(y/n)’s throat tightened.

amara continued, voice gentler now. “you don’t have to chase someone who doesn’t know what to do with your heart. it’s not your job to teach him how to hold it.”

that was when the tears finally came.

not loud. not many. just a couple that slipped down her cheeks quietly, like they’d been waiting all day for permission.

amara didn’t make a big deal out of it. she just scooted closer, wrapped an arm around (y/n)’s shoulders, and pulled her into her side like they’d done this a hundred times before.

and maybe they had.

you don’t have to chase someone who doesn’t know what to do with your heart.

the words hung in the air like incense smoke—sweet, heavy, lingering long after they were said. (y/n) didn’t answer. she couldn’t. her throat was too tight. so she just leaned into amara’s shoulder, blinking up at the ceiling like if she stared hard enough, the tears would slide back in.

amara let her sit there in silence for a moment, fingers tracing idle circles on (y/n)’s back.

then, gently: “you know this won’t be forever, right?”

(y/n) made a soft, scoffing noise. “what won’t?”

“this feeling. the ache. the shame. you won’t always be this girl who sent the text and got ignored.”

she didn’t believe that. not yet. but hearing someone say it out loud made it hurt a little less.

amara sat up a little straighter, nudging her side. “wanna hear something stupid?”

(y/n) wiped under her eyes. “always.”

“i’ve been holding onto this for three weeks.”

“holding onto what?”

amara reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out two crumpled, slightly bent paper tickets.

“you remember Still Moss?”

(y/n)’s head jerked up. “no fucking way.”

amara grinned. “they’re playing saturday. small set. underground venue in itaewon. i saw the flyer on some niche subreddit and snatched the tickets before they were even posted officially.”

(y/n) blinked. “amar—what the hell, why didn’t you tell me?”

“because you were doing better,” amara said, voice soft but honest. “you weren’t thinking about him every day. you were flirting with the guy at your gym. you were laughing again. and i didn’t want to pull you back into memories of the past just because one of our old favorites decided to crawl out of their indie cave.”

(y/n) took the ticket with both hands, staring at it like it might bite.

“but,” amara added, “now? i think you need something real. something alive. not a text thread. not a read receipt. not silence in a chat that used to be your whole world.”

(y/n)’s lips parted, but no words came out.

amara shrugged. “you don’t have to go for me. but you should go for you. for the part of you that wasn’t just his. the part of you that screamed lyrics and danced like a lunatic in your kitchen and wore that ugly green beanie just because they mentioned it in a b-side.”

“that beanie was iconic.”

“it was moldy avocado vomit and you loved it.”

(y/n) laughed. just once. and it cracked something open.

the grief didn’t vanish. but it shifted. made space for something else. not quite joy. not even hope. just a sliver of maybe.

“you really think it’ll help?” she whispered, still clutching the ticket.

“i think it’ll remind you that you’re more than what he didn’t say.”

(y/n) looked down at the printed text again. the date. the time. the name of a band that once meant everything.

she wasn’t sure if she could face it. but something in her chest fluttered anyway.

“okay,” she said. “i’ll go.”

amara raised her brow. “with me?”

“obviously with you.”

amara grinned and tossed a napkin at her. “cool. you’ve got two days to get your shit together, wash your hair, and remember who the fuck you are.”

(y/n) rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered this time.

-----

she stared at her closet like it had offended her.

clothes were already strewn across the bed—black mesh tops, a beat-up denim jacket with a fading patch on the back, her favorite pants that somehow always made her feel like she was too much and not enough all at once. she had half a mind to cancel. text amara and say she got sick. or had work. or—fuck it—just ghost the entire thing.

because this was his band.

not officially, obviously. not legally. but still—he was the one who found them. the one who burned their first EP onto a cheap CD and played it in his car at full volume while they drove through the city with the windows down and their hands out like wings. he was the one who paused every other song to say “listen to this part, wait, right here—this is the line that wrecked me.”

they used to talk about seeing Still Moss live like it was some bucket list item. one day. someday. a future tense wrapped in shared laughter and tangled limbs.

and now she was going without him.

(y/n) sank down onto the bed, the air suddenly thick, her fingers trembling as they pulled at the edge of her comforter.

what was she doing?

what the fuck was she trying to do? prove something? distract herself? reclaim something that maybe never really belonged to her alone?

she reached for her phone, scrolled back to his name—again. the message still sat there like a bruise on the screen.

i miss having you around.

read. still no reply.

and now she was going to the show they used to dream about, pretending it didn’t mean anything?

who was she kidding?

she dropped the phone face-down on the bed and covered her face with her hands.

it felt like treason. like stepping into that venue without him was rewriting history, erasing the version of herself that once existed in his arms. she’d be surrounded by music they once called theirs, lyrics that felt like inside jokes, moments only they knew how to hold. what if they played that song? the one he always hummed when he kissed her shoulder half-asleep?

how could she stand in that crowd and not feel his absence like a blade?

still.

not going would mean something, too. it would mean he still owned that part of her.

and maybe—just maybe—going would be her way of saying: you don’t get to have it all.

her reflection caught in the mirror across the room. she looked tired. haunted. but underneath the exhaustion was something steadier. the shadow of resolve.

she stood up.

grabbed the mesh top.

and started getting ready.

the street outside the venue was already humming with life—groups of twenty-somethings crowding the sidewalk, passing around half-smoked cigarettes and cheap convenience store beers, the faint thrum of bass leaking through the brick walls like the night had a pulse.

(y/n) tugged her jacket tighter around her body, scanning the crowd for a familiar face.

no sign of amara yet.

she checked her phone for the third time in five minutes. 7:48 p.m. she’d said they’d meet a little before eight, but amara was always early. always waiting on the curb with snacks shoved in her bag and a too-loud story to fill the silence.

and then her phone buzzed.

a text.

[amara :] babe i’m so sorry. something came up. i can’t make it tonight. pls don’t kill me ily :(

(y/n) stared at the message.

read it again.

then once more, just to make sure she hadn’t misread it. but there it was. soft. apologetic. and devastating in its own casual way.

for a second, everything felt like static. the noise around her, the lights, the laughter—it all flattened into white.

she looked up at the venue entrance.

the line was shorter now. people were already filtering inside. the music inside was getting louder, familiar bass lines testing the sound system. Still Moss. she could already picture the setlist in her head.

she hesitated.

every cell in her body told her to leave. to turn around. take the train home. crawl into bed and pretend none of this ever happened.

because now it wasn’t just a gig. it was a battlefield.

but the thing was—she’d already fought this fight with herself earlier.

in the mirror, while deciding on her top. while wiping mascara smudges from under her eyes. while whispering to her reflection, you’re allowed to have things that used to belong to both of you.

and now, standing in front of the venue alone, she realized something else: leaving would feel too much like surrender.

to namjoon.

to the past.

to the version of herself that thought rejection meant she had to disappear.

no fucking way.

she took a breath.

pushed her phone back into her bag.

and stepped into the venue.

it was dim and loud and crowded, the floor sticky under her boots and the air thick with anticipation. the lights were still up. people milling around, drinks in hand, conversations half-shouted. she squeezed through the crowd toward a spot near the back—not close enough to feel suffocated, but just enough to see the stage, to feel the throb of the speakers in her chest.

and despite everything—the anxiety still clawing at her ribs, the faint echo of read 4:17 am playing on a loop in her head—she felt it.

a flicker of excitement.

this was her night.

and she wasn’t going to let the ghost of a man who couldn’t even text her back take that from her.

the venue had that familiar, half-feral energy only places like this could hold—dim ceiling lights hanging from exposed pipes, old show flyers layered on the walls like bark, the faint hum of something spilled and sticky in the air. voices rose and fell around her, half-drunk excitement wrapped around slurred words and laughter. no one here knew her. no one looked twice.

it helped.

for a second, it helped.

(y/n) found a spot near a worn pillar toward the left side of the room, far enough from the stage to breathe, close enough to see the instruments already arranged—drum set lit in soft red, mic stands waiting like they knew secrets. she crossed her arms and let herself sink into the pulse of the crowd. the subtle rhythm of people shuffling, talking, sipping, swaying.

Still Moss would go on soon.

she could feel it.

and beneath her nerves—below the tension stitched into her shoulders, below the phantom sting of rejection still lodged in her chest—there was something else. something familiar.

want.

not for him. not for the past.

for the music. for this night. for this version of herself that had always existed under the hurt.

someone brushed past her and muttered an apology. she nodded. took a slow sip of her drink. let the noise rush around her like static. the pre-show playlist crackled overhead, layered with old demos and deep cuts, and when the familiar intro of one of their early tracks started up—their song, the one from their first EP—her throat tightened.

but she stayed.

she didn’t flinch.

the lights overhead flickered once. twice.

and then they dimmed.

a hush spread through the crowd—not silence, but reverence. anticipation. the kind that hit you low in the gut.

she smiled.

just a little.

and for a moment, she forgot about the message. the rejection. the ache.

for a moment, she was just a girl in a crowd, heart beating in sync with the rest of them.

the stage lights snapped on—white-hot and gold—and the band filed out one by one to the kind of roar that felt earned. the guitarist adjusted his strap. the drummer spun his sticks once, twice, like ritual. the lead singer stepped up to the mic, tugged his cap low, and said—

“you guys ready for a loud fucking night or what?”

the room answered with a scream.

(y/n) screamed with them.

and for those first few songs, she let go.

she danced. not like she used to—not wild and fearless—but she moved. she let the bass hit her ribs and the guitar wrap around her neck and the lyrics pull her mouth into half-remembered shapes. her hands were in the air by the second chorus. her voice raw by the third.

she was alive.

she was alive.

and that’s exactly when it happened.

a shift in the air. not dramatic. not cinematic. just something off. like the static changed frequencies.

she turned her head.

and there he was.

namjoon.

standing maybe twenty feet away, half in shadow, eyes already locked on her like he hadn’t stopped looking since she walked in.

her pulse stuttered.

she didn’t look again. wouldn’t. she turned back to the stage with the kind of sharp, practiced movement that screamed I didn’t see you and I don’t care, even though her lungs had forgotten how to work and her drink suddenly tasted like regret.

the crowd surged forward with the start of another song, and she let herself be pulled along, like if she just moved fast enough, she could outrun the sudden roar of thoughts in her head. she focused on the band—on the flicker of stage lights slicing through fog, on the way the lead singer’s voice cracked in the chorus like a prayer, on the guy next to her who was already elbowing into her space trying to get closer. she focused on anything but him.

but she could feel it.

his stare.

like heat at the back of her neck, heavy and deliberate, digging in like he was trying to memorize the way she stood now. the way she danced without him. the way she still came, still claimed this night as her own. it wasn’t romantic. it wasn’t tender. it was invasive. unbearable.

she swallowed hard and lifted her hands, let herself sway with the rhythm, kept her body in motion just to give her mind something to anchor to. the crowd was louder now, rougher—people pushing forward, eager, half-drunk on adrenaline and cheap whiskey. someone brushed up against her, a hand catching too low at her waist before slipping off. another person stumbled into her back, barely catching themselves with a muttered apology and a laugh that didn’t reach their eyes.

the unintended groping, the crush of sweat and sound and strangers—it was a lot. too much. normally she’d lean into it, lose herself. but now every brush of skin felt like static. like him. like memory bleeding into muscle.

she didn’t dare look back.

but she knew.

he was still watching.

maybe trying to figure out if it was really her. maybe trying to decide if he should come over. maybe just… feeling it. the pull. the hurt. the consequence of silence.

her heart beat against her ribs like it was trying to break out.

stay cool. that’s what she kept telling herself. over and over, like a mantra between lyrics. stay cool. stay cool. he doesn’t get to ruin this for you. not again.

and god, she almost believed it.

almost.

but beneath it all, there was still that other voice—small, traitorous, terrified—asking: why is he here? did he know you’d come? is this some kind of joke? or is it fate, sick and stupid, dragging you both back together just to watch you fall apart again?

the lights flashed. the bass hit. the song climbed to its peak.

and she danced.

not for him.

but in spite of him.

she didn’t notice how thick the crowd had gotten until she tried to move.

one song bled into another, and suddenly the bodies pressing in around her weren’t dancing—they were shoving. climbing. surging toward the stage like it was salvation. someone behind her yelled something she couldn’t make out, and the girl to her left kept pushing her elbow into (y/n)’s ribs, eyes locked on the front like she’d sooner break bone than give up her view.

she tried to shift, just enough to step back, maybe slide toward the edge of the crowd—but there was nowhere to go. her foot caught on someone’s bag, someone else’s arm tangled with hers, and in the chaos she realized—fuck—she was stuck.

her breath hitched.

it wasn’t panic. not yet. but it was close.

the air was getting tighter, hotter. the music roared in her chest like thunder, no longer comforting, just loud. she ducked her head, tried to wedge her way sideways—but the wave of bodies moved again, and this time it nearly knocked her off balance. her shoulder clipped someone’s back. her hands went up instinctively, useless.

and then—

a hand.

fingers wrapping around her wrist—firm, familiar, undeniable.

she froze.

looked up.

and there he was.

namjoon.

right in front of her now, eyes wide, mouth tight, brows drawn in that exact expression she remembered from every argument they never really finished—worry twisted into anger. or maybe it was the other way around. either way, it hit her like a punch to the ribs.

his hand was warm.

his grip steady.

and his face—

god, his face.

he didn’t look surprised. not exactly. more like—rattled. like seeing her here was something he’d rehearsed a hundred times in his head, but the reality of it still threw him off balance. his jaw clenched. his eyes scanned her face like he was checking for damage, like he expected her to be bruised and broken just from being here.

she didn’t know what to say.

she couldn’t say anything.

the crowd pushed again, and this time he pulled her toward him—closer, instinctively protective, his body shielding hers like it was second nature. and maybe it was.

he leaned in, voice low but urgent in her ear. “you okay?”

she didn’t answer.

she couldn’t.

because all she could think was: you left. and I still wanted to marry you.

and now here he was, dragging her out of the storm like nothing had ever broken between them.

the crowd didn’t care who they were or what cracked, fragile history hung between them—it just kept pressing in, louder, harder, all elbows and shouted lyrics and spilled drinks. someone bumped into her back, hard enough to make her stumble, and she felt namjoon’s grip tighten around her wrist immediately. not rough, not possessive—just instinctive. like his body was answering a question before his brain could form the words.

he pulled her closer, chest brushing against her shoulder now, his other hand moving to the small of her back without thinking, guiding her through the tide like muscle memory. even after all this time, he still moved like someone who wanted to shield her from the world, still held her like she was precious and breakable—even if he had been the one to shatter her last.

“we should move,” he said, close enough that she felt the shape of the words more than heard them. his voice was low, almost calm, but the tension in his jaw told a different story. his eyes—those warm, unreadable eyes—searched her face in the flickering stage light, darting over her skin like he was looking for bruises, for signs that she’d been hurt. not just by the crowd.

by anything.

and she hated that it still made her want to cry.

she nodded, or maybe she didn’t. maybe her body just leaned into the pull of him, because the next thing she knew he was gently—gently—pressing her ahead of him through the crush of people, using his frame to carve a path through the chaos. every time someone got too close, he shifted, stepping between her and the noise, that quiet, seething frustration radiating off him like heat—not at her. never at her. just the situation. the pushing. the closeness. the way she’d been caught in all of it, small and alone and so vulnerable.

and she could feel it—how hard he was trying not to let it show. the anger simmering under his skin. the fear, maybe, buried somewhere beneath it. but it was there, plain as breath: he cared. he still fucking cared.

and that—more than the hands or the eyes or the words—was the most dangerous thing of all.

the bathroom corridor was narrow and dim, lined with peeling posters and flickering overhead lights that buzzed like flies. the smell of stale beer clung to the walls, and the occasional echo of the concert leaked through the cracked door down the hall, muffled now. distant. the adrenaline from the crowd hadn’t faded, not fully, but out here, in the quiet, everything felt sharper. more dangerous.

namjoon turned to face her the second they stepped into the space. he didn’t let go of her wrist until he was sure she was steady on her feet, and even then, his fingers lingered for a moment longer than they should have. like he didn’t want to. like maybe part of him still remembered what it felt like to hold her like this for no reason at all.

he stepped back then, ran a hand through his hair, and started in before she could even catch her breath.

“you shouldn’t have been in there alone,” he said, voice low but tight, like he was trying not to snap. “you know how packed these places get. it’s not safe, not when you’re by yourself. what if I hadn’t been there? you could’ve gotten hurt, trampled, or—”

she blinked, still catching up, heart pounding like a drum in her chest.

namjoon’s eyes stayed locked on hers, jaw clenched like he was still trying to hold the anger in his mouth, but it was starting to fracture—splinters showing through the edges. the fluorescent light above them flickered once, casting shadows across his face, and she hated how familiar he still looked in this lighting. like every too-late night in their old apartment, like every fight that ended with her curled up in his hoodie and his hands in her hair whispering, we’re okay, aren’t we? we’re okay.

but they weren’t okay now.

they hadn’t been in a long time.

“i wasn’t alone by choice,” she said, arms folded tight across her chest. “amara was supposed to come with me.”

namjoon’s mouth parted slightly.

she didn’t wait for him to speak.

“she bought the tickets. said i needed to get out of my head for once. i was going to cancel when she bailed but—” she swallowed hard. “i told myself i’d be fine.”

his expression shifted. not dramatically. not in that open-book way most people’s faces moved. but in the subtle ways she still remembered—his brows pulling in just enough, the set of his mouth softening like it suddenly hurt to keep it closed.

“seriously, what were you thinking? you don’t even like crowds like that. and if amara was supposed to be with you, why didn’t you just leave when she bailed? jesus, you could’ve—”

“you’re such an asshole,” she muttered.

the words slipped out before she could stop them. not loud. but loud enough to cut through him.

he froze.

the silence between them was immediate, electric.

she shook her head, chest tight, throat burning. “you don’t get to do this. you don’t get to show up out of nowhere and act like you’re worried about me when you left me on read.”

he stared at her, jaw tight, but he didn’t interrupt.

“you don’t get to act like it’s still your job to take care of me,” she said, her voice trembling just enough to piss her off. “i sent you one fucking message. one. and you couldn’t even be bothered to answer. and now you’re here lecturing me like you give a shit?”

his eyes darkened. “what was I supposed to say, huh?” he snapped, stepping forward. “you text me in the middle of the night after we haven’t spoken in over a year. what the fuck was I supposed to do with that?”

her mouth opened. then closed.

namjoon kept going, voice rising like he was finally letting himself feel the thing he’d been pushing down. “you think that didn’t mess with my head? you think I haven’t spent the last few nights wondering if I should’ve said something? if I was allowed to say something? because for a second I thought—fuck, I thought you were drunk, or lonely, or both, and if I said the wrong thing, I’d make it worse.”

she laughed, bitter and breathless. “so you decided saying nothing was the better choice.”

“it was a dick move, on both ends” he said, quieter now. not denying it. just... laying it out.

they stared at each other.

her back against the wall. his shoulders drawn tight like he was holding something back with both hands. and the air between them? thick with everything they didn’t say after they broke up. everything they still don’t know how to explain.

the silence after his last words stretched taut between them, like the air was waiting for one of them to break it. (y/n) felt her breath coming fast, too fast, chest rising and falling like she’d just run a mile. her heart was pounding for all the wrong reasons—rage, confusion, grief. want. all tangled together so tightly she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

namjoon was standing barely a foot away, his jaw clenched, arms stiff at his sides like if he moved even a little he’d reach for her, and he didn’t trust himself to do it.

and fuck, she hated how familiar he still felt.

the heat between them was unbearable. it had nothing to do with the venue. nothing to do with the crowd they’d escaped. it was just them, trapped in this too-small hallway, skin prickling, hearts racing, eyes locked.

his gaze flicked down—her lips. then back up.

hers did the same.

and it was like time held its breath.

her mouth parted just slightly, and he leaned in a fraction of an inch, like he couldn’t help it, like something in him needed to be closer. and for a second—one long, shattering second—it felt inevitable. like their mouths were going to meet, and this whole night would collapse into something hot and reckless and full of everything they’d been avoiding.

but they didn’t kiss.

neither of them moved.

and the restraint hurt worse than any breakup ever could.

namjoon exhaled shakily, his voice suddenly quiet. “i should walk you home.”

just like that, the fire between them shifted. cooled at the edges. but didn’t go out.

she blinked, throat thick. “what?”

he met her eyes. no anger there now. just something raw. something so tender it made her chest ache.

“it’s late,” he said. “and i don’t want you going alone.”

her lips parted, but she didn’t know what to say.

because she should say no.

she should tell him to go to hell. to let her be. to stop doing these stupid, soft things that made it so hard to hate him.

but the part of her that sent that text? the part that never really stopped missing him? that part wanted to say yes.

god, it wanted to say yes.

the walk back to her place unfolded like a dream they weren’t sure they were awake for—quiet, disorienting, charged with too much everything. neither of them said a word, not at first. not when they left the venue. not when they crossed the street or turned down the familiar blocks of her neighborhood, shadows stretching long under the streetlights, the faint pulse of the city flickering somewhere behind them.

they didn’t have to speak to feel it.

every step buzzed with unsaid things. every brush of his arm near hers felt like an accident that wasn’t. she could feel his body heat like a second skin. like he was walking too close, not quite touching her, but there—solid, steady, present in a way he hadn’t been in over a year.

and she hated how natural it felt.

hated that her body still remembered the rhythm of him. the pace. the weight. the subtle, invisible pull like gravity still worked differently when he was near.

she didn’t know how they got to her building so fast. one second she was replaying their argument in her head like a song stuck on loop, and the next—she was unlocking the front door, his hand hovering behind her like it used to when she fumbled for her keys, like he still had the instinct to catch her if she dropped anything at all.

they stepped inside.

dim hallway. elevator out of service. and then the climb—three floors of quiet tension, every footfall like punctuation. they didn’t speak, not even as she led him to her door, not even as she stood there with the key halfway into the lock, heartbeat thudding in her throat.

and when she turned to face him again, everything came rushing back.

the fight.

the guilt.

the aching, unbearable want.

“you’re still mad,” he said quietly, eyes locked on hers like he couldn’t bear to look away.

she scoffed, soft and tired. “of course i’m mad.”

“i didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“yeah?” she said, voice tight, bitter. “then why did you act like i didn’t exist?”

his face twitched, jaw clenching. “because i didn’t know how to handle it, okay? you don’t get to show up in my messages like that and expect me to be fine.”

“i didn’t expect you to be fine,” she shot back, stepping toward him now, all the space between them collapsing. “i didn’t expect anything, namjoon. i was drunk and stupid and—god, i just missed you. i wasn’t trying to trap you or make some kind of fucking dramatic statement—i just… i don’t know. i didn’t think. but you did. you saw it. and you chose nothing.”

he was breathing harder now. so was she. neither of them looked away.

“do you know how much it hurt?” she whispered, voice breaking. “after everything? to be left on read by the one person i thought would at least… at least say something?”

his mouth parted. something crumpled behind his eyes. but he didn’t speak.

they were so close now that she could feel the edge of his breath against her cheek, smell the faintest trace of something warm and familiar clinging to his collar. the scent of him broke her more than anything he could’ve said.

she wasn’t sure who moved first, but suddenly they were standing toe to toe, barely a breath apart, the keys in her hand forgotten, her back nearly brushing the door. his hands clenched at his sides like he wanted to reach for her but didn’t trust himself. her fingers curled around the hem of her jacket like they were the only thing keeping her grounded.

the silence between them? it wasn’t empty.

it was full. heavy. breaking at the seams.

they weren’t done.

not even close.

namjoon’s eyes searched hers like he was looking for an opening, like if he could just name the thing between them, maybe it would make sense. but it didn’t. it never had. and now, standing inches from her door, with his chest rising and falling like he’d just run here barefoot, all he could manage was, “i didn’t want to make it worse.”

she blinked. slow. disbelieving.

“worse?” she echoed, voice low and razor-sharp. “you think ignoring me made it better?”

he flinched, just a little. his gaze dropped to the floor, like the tile pattern suddenly held the answers. “i thought if i said something, it would… reopen everything. and i didn’t think you wanted that.”

“so instead you just pretended i didn’t exist?” her voice cracked, raw now, too open. “you were the one person who knew how hard that year was for me and you—god, you didn’t even ask if i was okay. you just watched me bleed.”

he took a step back, not far, just enough to pace, to get his bearings—but even that small distance made her feel cold.

“you think it was easy for me?” he said, louder now, no longer calm. “you think i’ve just been—what—fine? do you know how many times i almost called you? how many fucking nights i picked up the phone just to hear your voice and had to put it back down because i didn’t trust myself not to fuck everything up even more?”

“then why didn’t you?” she snapped, stepping toward him again. “why didn’t you call? or text? or do anything?”

“because i loved you too much to hurt you again!” he said it like it burned coming out, like it wasn’t meant to be said at all, not now, not here. but it was out there now. between them. sizzling like an exposed wire.

her breath hitched.

he stared at her, wild-eyed and wrecked. “i still fucking love you, okay? even when i shouldn’t. even when it’s a terrible idea. even when i know you deserve someone who doesn’t keep you waiting at two a.m. for a message that never comes.”

her hand went to the doorknob, like she needed something to hold on to. like if she didn’t, she might collapse under the weight of his words.

“you don’t get to say that now,” she said, barely above a whisper. “you don’t get to stand here and tell me you still love me when you spent the last year pretending i was nothing.”

“i never pretended you were nothing,” he said, voice breaking, “i’ve been pretending you were everything, and that i could live without it.”

and just like that—the thread snapped.

they didn’t move toward each other so much as fall into the space between them, mouths colliding not with grace but with desperation. her back hit the door with a soft thud, his hands finally finding her waist like they were made for it, her fingers tangling in his hair like no time had passed at all. it wasn’t soft. it wasn’t sweet. it was feral—the kind of kiss that tasted like every word they didn’t say, every night spent apart, every second of missing wrapped up in heat and teeth and breathless curses.

there was no going back now.

not after this.

his mouth tasted like all her worst decisions and all her best memories.

they didn’t stop kissing when they left the hallway. they didn’t even pretend to. his hands stayed glued to her hips, dragging her closer with every step like he was afraid she’d disappear if he let go. and she couldn’t let go, not when every inch of him felt like muscle memory, not when her hands had minds of their own, sliding under his jacket, fingers curling into the soft cotton of his t-shirt like she needed to feel the warmth of him to believe this was real.

her keys fumbled in the lock, hands shaking too much to find the hole, her mouth still locked on his, lips bruising against his, his teeth catching her bottom lip just enough to make her gasp and drop the keys entirely.

“fuck,” she breathed, laughing against his mouth, frustrated and drunk on him.

he reached around her, growling low under his breath, picked up the keys, found the lock like it was his apartment and not hers, and shoved the door open.

they stumbled in, mouths never parting. she kicked off her shoes without looking, dragging him inside by the collar. his jacket hit the floor with a dull thud, followed by hers. the air in the room was warmer than it should’ve been. or maybe it was just them. heat radiating from every inch of skin, every frantic touch, every groan pressed into a mouth too busy to stop.

they didn’t bother turning on the lights. didn’t need them.

his hands were everywhere—fisting the fabric at her sides, sliding up her ribs, down her back, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. like he was still angry, still caught in the argument, and this was the only way to speak now. she didn’t mind. she wanted it. wanted to be touched like this. wanted him like this—desperate and undone, like he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her either.

they reached the bedroom door, breath ragged, foreheads touching, lips still grazing each other’s in frantic, broken passes. her hand was on his chest, nails dragging lightly down muscle, his fingers pressing bruises into her waist like punctuation marks.

“this is a stupid idea,” he whispered, voice strained, wrecked, like the words hurt to say.

she grabbed his face, pulled him in again, kissed him like she could erase the thought.

“i don’t care,” she whispered against his lips. “stay. just tonight.”

the way she said it—soft, cracked, a little too close to pleading—broke something in him.

he didn’t answer. didn’t have to.

his mouth was back on hers before she could take another breath, rough, needy, starving, like he was trying to carve his name into her all over again. their bodies collided in the doorway, hands fighting with layers of clothing, mouths locking again and again, each kiss more desperate than the last.

they were already past the point of no return.

and neither of them gave a damn.

they didn’t make it to the bed right away.

he had her pinned to the wall just outside the doorway, their mouths crashing again like every kiss was a bite, a battle. namjoon’s hands gripped her hips hard, dragging her against him, and the low groan he let out when their bodies collided was guttural, like something primal had been knocked loose.

his lips broke from hers only to move down her jaw, his breath hot and heavy against her skin. “fuck—do you know what you did to me?” he muttered, voice rough, gravel-thick. “a year, and you text me like that... then just disappear again?”

her fingers scrambled at the hem of his shirt, yanking it upward, her breath hot against his throat. “you think i didn’t suffer too?” she snapped, dragging the shirt over his head. “you think it didn’t kill me to say nothing when you didn’t reply?”

he stepped forward, forcing her back again, until her shoulder blades hit the hallway wall. his bare chest pressed against hers, skin to skin, and he didn’t pause—just dipped down and pulled her shirt up with both hands, ripping it off in one quick, frustrated motion. his palms roamed her sides, rough and urgent, fingers curling around the waistband of her jeans like he couldn’t stand one more second of fabric between them.

“then why’d you do it?” he growled, mouth crashing to hers again. “why’d you send that message if you didn’t want me to come back?”

she gasped into the kiss, nails dragging down his spine, her jeans already half undone by his fingers, tugging hard, yanking them past her hips. “i didn’t know what i wanted,” she breathed, teeth grazing his bottom lip, “i just—i missed you.”

something in him snapped at that.

his hands locked under her thighs, lifting her with an easy, angry grip. she wrapped her legs around his waist instinctively, clinging to his shoulders as he carried her into the bedroom. their mouths never parted—just shifted, hungrier, rougher, teeth clashing in the dark. he dropped her on the bed like he couldn’t stand not having her underneath him any longer, following her down with a kiss that was all teeth and tongue and fuck, finally.

her bra was gone next, pulled off with a practiced twist, his hands covering her like he was making up for lost time. he kissed down her neck, over her chest, marking her with lips and teeth, every touch bruising, claiming. her moans were breathy and desperate, her body arching into him like it remembered every time he’d touched her before.

“you should hate me,” he murmured against her skin, voice strained, like the words were choking him.

“maybe i do,” she whispered, dragging his belt open with shaking fingers, “but not tonight.”

he kissed her again, harder this time—his hips grinding against hers, both of them still half-dressed, bodies slick with heat and hunger.

“then don’t stop me,” he whispered, teeth on her jaw, one hand gripping her thigh so tight it made her gasp. “because i don’t think i can.”

his mouth found her neck first—hot, open kisses dragged along her skin like he was starving for it, tongue tasting, teeth grazing. she tilted her head back with a breathy gasp, giving him more, and he took it like a man possessed. he sucked hard just under her jaw, the kind of kiss meant to leave a mark, and she arched beneath him, hands threading into his hair, tugging as if that would tether her to the moment.

he groaned low in his throat, one hand already sliding between their bodies, palming her over her underwear—rough, slow circles of pressure that made her gasp again, hips twitching up against his touch. the fabric was already damp, and he swore under his breath like that fact physically wrecked him.

“fuck, you’re soaked already,” he muttered against her throat, voice dark and hoarse, almost angry about it. “you miss me that bad, huh?”

her fingers dug into his shoulders, nails biting skin. she didn’t answer—not with words. just a moan that caught in her throat, a roll of her hips into his palm that said everything.

his mouth trailed lower, dragging over her collarbones, down the center of her chest, pausing only to breathe her in like she was the last clean thing in a filthy world. and then he was on her breast, hot mouth closing around her nipple with an obscene sound, tongue flicking before he sucked hard, making her back arch off the mattress. her breath hitched. her thighs tightened around his hips.

his other hand gripped the other breast, rough fingers toying with the sensitive peak, thumb brushing, pinching lightly, just enough to make her whine. he switched sides without warning, lips wrapping around the other nipple like he’d been starving for it, groaning into her skin as if he could get drunk off the taste alone.

his mouth never stopped moving—sucking, kissing, biting gently—while his hand between her legs kept working her over the thin cotton barrier, dragging slow, cruel circles over her clit that made her legs tremble.

he pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes half-lidded, mouth slick, chest heaving.

“you think about me when you touch yourself?” he rasped, fingers curling against her cunt through her panties. “you still moan my name when it gets too much?”

her eyes fluttered shut, lips parting with a shuddered breath, and god—he wanted to hear her say yes. wanted her to admit that she’d been ruined for anyone else.

and he hadn’t even gotten his mouth between her legs yet.

his mouth trailed lower, leaving a hot, open path down the center of her stomach. her skin jumped under his tongue, her body twitching as he nipped along her waist, his hands spreading her thighs wider, slower, like he wanted to savor the shape of her more than the act itself. like being between her legs again was holy ground—and he was a man at the altar, worshiping through gritted teeth.

he looked up, caught the way she was already squirming beneath him, her chest heaving, lips parted as if every breath was costing her something. and fuck, she was beautiful like this—undone and trying so hard to hold it together.

then he got to her underwear.

he pressed a kiss just above the fabric, then let his eyes drop to the soft elastic hugging her hips. he hooked one finger under the band, tugged it lightly—just enough to make her feel the tension of it. a quiet, predatory smile played on his lips as he murmured, “you look so pretty in these.”

his voice was low, dark, velvet-drenched and filthy. he snapped the band gently against her skin, then ran his thumb along the curve of her pelvis, dipping dangerously close to where she was already soaking through the cotton. he let his mouth follow, mouthing her through the thin fabric, slow, wet drags of his tongue that made her hips buck up off the mattress.

and then—rip.

one swift motion. the fabric gave with a sharp tear, and her gasp echoed off the walls, eyes snapping open just in time to see him toss the ruined panties aside like he didn’t give a damn what they cost.

“i’ll buy you new ones,” he muttered, voice rough as gravel. “but fuck, i couldn’t wait. not with how wet you are.”

and then he was between her legs.

not teasing. not easing in.

devouring.

his tongue licked a long, slow stripe from the bottom of her slit all the way to her clit, ending with a soft suck that made her choke on a moan. his hands gripped her thighs hard, thumbs digging into her skin, keeping her spread open as he buried his face in her like a man possessed.

he groaned into her, the sound low and almost pained, like tasting her again physically undid him.

“missed this,” he growled between licks, one hand sliding under her ass to pull her closer, his mouth working her over like it was his job. “missed how you taste. fuck.”

her hands found his hair, tugging, anchoring herself. her hips rolled, helpless, chasing the pressure of his tongue as he sucked her clit into his mouth again, harder this time, relentless now. his tongue moved fast, slick, filthy strokes while he moaned into her like he was getting off on the sound of her falling apart.

“joon—” she whimpered, voice cracked, fingers curling tight in his hair.

he didn’t stop.

if anything, he smiled against her cunt.

and then—two fingers slid inside her. slow at first. deliberate. crooking up, finding that spot that made her eyes roll back as his mouth never left her clit, his tongue flicking faster, filthy, precise, focused. like he was making up for every second they’d lost.

she was close. so close. and he knew it. he could feel it in the way her thighs trembled, the way her moans got higher, tighter, more desperate. he pressed his hand against her stomach with his free hand, holding her down like he wanted to feel her break from the inside out.

“cum for me,” he murmured against her, voice dark and hungry, “right on my fucking mouth, baby. let me taste you fall apart.”

her orgasm hit hard, sharp and fast, like her body had been waiting for his mouth for too damn long. her back arched, her thighs clamped around his head, and a broken, high-pitched moan tore out of her throat as his fingers kept moving inside her and his tongue never stopped. he held her through it, firm hands pressing her down like he needed to feel her shake apart against his mouth, like he didn’t trust her to stay grounded otherwise.

she whimpered his name like a prayer, like a curse, like she didn’t know what else to hold onto—and still, still, his mouth was on her, tongue dragging through her, catching every twitch, every pulse, like he wanted to memorize the shape of her climax.

only when her body gave out, slumping into the mattress with a wrecked, gasping breath, did he pull back—slow, deliberate.

he licked his lips once.

his chin was glistening. soaked in her.

his mouth was swollen, cheeks flushed, and there was a wild, wrecked look in his eyes as he hovered over her—something between pride and hunger, like tasting her had only made him more desperate, not less.

“fuck,” she breathed, staring at him like he was a hallucination.

and then she dragged him down.

no hesitation. no time to breathe.

her hands curled into his hair, and she kissed him—hard, filthy, open-mouthed, tongue tasting herself on him, moaning into his mouth like she was trying to suck the soul back out of him. his weight pressed down on her, solid and heavy, but it wasn’t enough. she needed more.

“please,” she whispered into the kiss, nails digging into his back, hips lifting up against the weight of his still-clothed cock pressing into her thigh. “joon—please. keep going. i need you inside me. now.”

he groaned into her mouth, like her begging physically hurt him. his hands fumbled at his pants, pulling them down far enough to free himself, the sound of his zipper and her ragged breath the only thing between them. her hands went to her own thighs, spreading them wide beneath him in an offering, desperate, ready—wrecked.

“you sure?” he panted against her lips, forehead pressed to hers, cock in hand, lining himself up with a grip that looked almost painful. “you say the word, i’ll stop.”

she looked him in the eye, voice shaking but certain.

“don’t you fucking dare.”

he slammed into her in one deep, brutal thrust.

his hips slammed into her with one long, deep thrust that knocked the air clean out of her lungs. the stretch burned so good she cried out, legs shaking around his waist, hands fisting the sheets as her head dropped back in utter shock.

“fuck—joon,” she gasped, voice raw, almost stunned at how full she felt, at how much she’d missed this. missed him.

he groaned like the sound of her voice broke something in him. his hands grabbed her thighs, yanked her even closer, then pulled out almost all the way just to slam back in again—harder, sharper, each snap of his hips making the bed creak under the weight of it all. her body jolted with every thrust, his cock thick and heavy inside her, dragging against every spot that made her legs tremble and her breath hitch in real time.

“you feel so fucking good,” he growled, leaning over her, teeth gritted as he fucked her like he meant it. “so fucking tight. fuck—i forgot how tight you get when you’re losing it.”

his hand reached up, tangled into her hair, pulled just enough to tilt her head back. she moaned for it—loved it—the little edge of pain sharp enough to drive her crazier, her back arching up into his chest. his mouth was on hers again before she could speak, all tongue and teeth and gasping moans, swallowing every breath like he couldn’t stand the space between them.

their mouths clashed, messy and open and hungry, like kissing had turned into its own kind of fight.

she clawed at his back, dragging nails down muscle, digging in every time his hips snapped forward and buried himself to the hilt inside her again. each thrust hit so deep she swore she saw stars, his pace fast, merciless, like he was punishing both of them for every second of distance they’d ever had.

“you missed this?” he panted into her mouth, voice low, almost mocking, like he knew. “missed getting fucked like this? stretched out on my cock like you were made for it?”

she choked on a moan, nails raking down his spine. “yes—yes, joon—fuck—don’t stop.”

“wasn’t gonna,” he growled, grabbing her wrists and pinning them above her head with one hand. “not until you’re screaming.”

and then he really let go.

hips slamming into her, deep and fast, skin slapping skin, her whole body sliding up the mattress from the force of it. his free hand went to her waist, holding her down, keeping her steady as he wrecked her, thrust after thrust after thrust—her mouth open, no sounds coming out at all for a second, just wrecked gasps and the kind of expression that would stay burned in his memory forever.

he dropped his forehead to hers again, breathing heavy, fucking her so deep and so hard that tears prickled at the corners of her eyes—not from pain, but from relief. from the way everything in her finally broke under the weight of him.

he pulled out just long enough to manhandle her into a new position—grabbing her thigh, lifting one of her legs and pressing it high onto his shoulder, folding her open for him like a fucking gift. the angle changed everything. he slid back in slow just to feel it, to watch the way her mouth fell open and her eyes rolled back the moment he bottomed out again, deeper now, better.

her moan broke open the silence like a scream, one hand gripping the sheets, the other clawing at his forearm as he started fucking into her again—hard, relentless, that new angle making her feel everything more. every thrust hit home, punching a whimper from her lips, her cunt wet and hot and clenching around him so tight he nearly lost control.

“fuck, baby,” he groaned, leaning over her just enough to bring his hand to her jaw, gripping it, thumb pressed under her chin to tilt her head back so she looked at him. “you look so fucking good like this. making a mess on my cock. soaked all the way down my thighs—shit.”

she couldn’t answer. not really. just breathless, broken sounds, tears threatening to fall because it was too much—not just the sex, but the feeling of it. the heat of his skin, the grip of his hand, the filthy way he was watching her like she was something he’d been dying to touch again.

he leaned in, close enough that their faces almost touched, still pounding into her like he needed to fuck the memory of her into the walls.

“you missed this?” he whispered, voice rough, dark, mean. “missed me splitting you open like this? filling you like no one else can?”

her hands grabbed his wrist, her nails digging into his skin, nodding frantically, eyes wild and desperate. “yes—fuck, yes, namjoon—don’t stop—don’t fucking stop.”

he growled, pure animal, his grip tightening on her jaw as he kissed her again—messy, filthy, tongue and teeth and moans—his other hand sliding down to where they were joined, fingers finding her clit and rubbing in tight, fast circles while he thrust into her like he was chasing a high he couldn’t come down from.

“gonna cum again for me?” he murmured against her mouth, thrusting harder now, faster, body slamming into hers like he meant to break the bed. “you gonna make a mess all over me, baby?”

she was already there. legs shaking. body locking up. her breath caught in her throat and she whimpered, choking on his name like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to earth.

“cum for me,” he growled again, voice raw, mouth at her ear now. “fuck—cum on my cock. i missed this so fucking much—missed you.”

and then she shattered.

again.

her body convulsed beneath him, legs trembling, thighs twitching around his hips as she came again—louder this time, back arched, mouth open in a soundless gasp that broke into a moan when he kept thrusting through it. her nails raked down his back, her whole body pulling him in, tighter, deeper, like she wanted to keep him buried inside her forever.

he couldn’t hold it anymore.

the way she clenched around him, the heat, the mess of her under him, the way she looked when she came—completely ruined, all soft and raw and his—it tore the last thread of restraint out of him.

“fuck, i’m—shit, i’m gonna—” his voice cracked, low and hoarse and wrecked, his thrusts stuttering as his body locked up.

he pulled out fast, just in time, his hand wrapped around himself once, twice, and then he came with a broken, strangled whimper right into her ear, forehead pressed to hers, breath hot and fast. thick ropes of his cum landed across her stomach, slick and warm, and he let out a shaky breath as he collapsed halfway over her, chest heaving, fingers still gripping her thigh like he couldn’t let go.

for a moment, neither of them moved. just the sound of their breathing—heavy, ragged, in sync.

but then—he kissed her again.

soft this time.

just under her jaw, then across her throat, right where her pulse still fluttered like a drum. his hand smoothed down her side, his lips slow and deliberate as he pressed them into the soft spot under her ear—the place that used to make her shiver when he loved her gently.

and then—he slid back in.

slow.

gentle.

soothing the ache he’d left behind.

his cock was still hard, still thick, but now every roll of his hips was tender, like he was apologizing with his body. like he couldn’t bear to stop touching her just yet. he buried his face in her neck, groaning quietly as her walls fluttered around him, warm and slick and still so damn tight.

“could stay like this all night,” he whispered, voice barely a breath. “just like this. fuck, you feel so good. like you were made for me.”

her fingers found his hair again, gentler now too, stroking through the sweat-damp strands, her own breath shaky but steadying.

“then don’t go,” she murmured, barely audible.

and he kissed her again.

not fast. not hard.

just full of everything they’d said without words.

the shift was almost too much. like the weight of it all finally sank in once the sweat cooled and the urgency dulled into something deeper. something unbearably tender.

he was still inside her—moving, slow and careful, like he wanted her to feel every inch, like he was afraid to lose the warmth of her if he stopped. their bodies rocked together, hips moving in soft, deliberate rolls, his hands planted beside her head, his chest pressed to hers, their foreheads touching.

he kissed her again, slow and deep, tongues brushing with the kind of hunger that had turned gentle, reverent. her arms wrapped around his shoulders, clutching him close like she was scared he’d vanish. she moaned softly into his mouth, breath hot and broken, each little sound spilling into his throat like a secret.

“you feel so good,” she whispered, voice tight, shaking, almost tearful.

and he felt it. every syllable. the way her voice cracked, the way her body clung to his like she couldn’t let go.

he kissed her harder, but not rough. not anymore.

his hand cupped her cheek, thumb brushing the edge of her jaw as he pulled back just enough to look at her. his eyes were heavy, glazed with lust and something aching behind it—something close to regret, or maybe grief, for everything they’d lost between then and now.

“i missed this,” he murmured, his forehead pressed to hers, the rhythm of his hips slow and steady, still buried deep inside her. “missed you.”

her breath hitched, eyes fluttering closed as her legs tightened around his waist. she didn’t say anything for a moment, couldn’t—not when her throat was closing up, not when every slow thrust made her feel everything she’d spent the last year pretending didn’t still live under her skin.

“me too,” she finally whispered, brushing her nose against his. “so much.”

he kissed her again. deeper. longer. her lips trembled against his, but she didn’t cry—not yet. just held him tighter, her soft moans landing in his ear like confessions, her hands running down his back, memorizing every ridge of him like he might slip away again.

he moved inside her like they had all the time in the world.

and for a moment, they did.

he was still buried inside her, hips moving in those slow, shallow rolls like he never wanted to stop. but the urgency had passed. the storm had calmed. and when she brushed her fingers gently along the nape of his neck, murmuring his name soft and low, he sighed against her mouth, like her touch was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

he pulled out with a soft groan, breath catching as he left her warmth. but before the space between them could feel too wide, she reached down and wrapped her hand around him—slow, smooth, and intentional.

he hissed, his body jolting from the sudden touch, already so close from everything they’d done that he twitched in her palm, leaking for her.

“shh,” she whispered, lips brushing the shell of his ear, “just let me take care of you.”

her hand moved slow at first, slick and steady, her thumb brushing the tip every so often in a way that made his hips jerk and his breath come harder. her other hand rested on his hip, anchoring him as she stroked him with a rhythm that was both loving and filthy. his eyes fluttered shut, forehead falling to her shoulder, chest rising and falling fast as she murmured to him—sweet nothings and soft gasps of filth.

“you’re so fucking perfect like this,” she breathed, kissing his temple, “so hard for me still. you liked fucking me that much, huh?”

he groaned—whimpered—a quiet, broken sound that made her clench around nothing. she could feel him tensing, his muscles twitching under her hand, his moans getting tighter, shorter, more desperate.

“gonna cum for me, baby?” she whispered, lips dragging along his jaw now, her pace quickening just a little. “all over my hand? let me feel you lose it, joon.”

his hips stuttered once—twice—and then he did, cumming hard, hot, thick spurts painting her hand and her stomach again, his mouth open in a soft, wrecked sound that died against her throat. he trembled, completely spent, and she held him close, kissing the corner of his mouth as he shuddered through the aftershock.

he collapsed on top of her a moment later, body heavy and boneless, his breath loud in the quiet room, mouth still parted against her skin.

she didn’t mind the weight. not one bit.

her clean hand slid into his hair, damp with sweat, fingers gently massaging his scalp, nails lightly grazing as she whispered soothing little circles into his crown. he hummed against her chest, nuzzling in deeper, her heartbeat loud and steady beneath his cheek.

neither of them spoke for a long while.

but in that silence, her hand never left his hair. and he never moved from the curve of her body.

he stayed on her chest for a moment longer, breathing deep, eyes closed like he could hold back the tide if he just didn’t look up. but even with her fingers carding through his hair, even with her heartbeat steady beneath his ear, the weight in his chest kept growing.

he lifted his head slowly, and even that felt like too much. the air shifted. the warmth between them cooled by a breath.

“what are we doing, (y/n)?” he asked, barely above a whisper, his voice already frayed. his eyes searched hers—deep, dark, desperate. looking for something. for regret, maybe. a sign that she wanted to take it back, that this had just been a moment of weakness, a one-night undoing they’d sweep under the rug come morning.

but there wasn’t any.

not in her eyes. not in her touch.

she blinked, then gave a small smile that didn’t quite reach all the way. “well,” she said, breathless, trying for lightness, “you  fucked the shit out of me just now. so… i’d say we’re about four orgasms past asking that question.”

he let out a short, breathy laugh—but it didn’t last. not really.

his eyes didn’t leave hers. and hers… started to falter.

because she could see it. that flicker behind his gaze. the one that said he was trying not to feel too much, not to fall too hard all over again when the edge of her skin still felt like home.

and god—she could feel herself starting to unravel.

“joon,” she whispered, softer now. her clean hand cupped the side of his face, thumb brushing along the line of his cheekbone. “it’s okay.”

“is it?” he asked, the words sharp but the tone anything but. it wasn’t anger. it was fear. “because it doesn’t feel like it should be. it feels like I just—like we just opened a wound we spent a year trying to close.”

she bit her bottom lip. looked up at the ceiling for a second like she was searching for the courage not to let the sting in her eyes turn into tears.

“i’m not sorry,” she said eventually. quietly. “not for a second.”

he looked at her for a long time, as if her answer both soothed and destroyed him.

his hand found her waist under the sheets, gentle now, grounding. like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to hold her—but he couldn’t not.

“me either,” he said.

and yet… the silence said everything else.

“we should probably clean up,” she murmured, voice husky but gentle as she traced lazy fingers down the line of his spine. “we’re both covered in sweat and cum.”

he let out a low, sleepy laugh, forehead still resting against her collarbone. “mmm, that we are.”

it took them a minute to untangle. not because they were too tired, but because every time they shifted, one of them stole another kiss—slow, unhurried, more lips than tongue now. soft breaths, forehead touches, the kind of kisses that meant stay without ever needing to say it.

they padded to the bathroom in silence, limbs heavy, hands brushing. and once inside, under the dim overhead light, the intimacy only deepened.

he turned on the shower and stepped in first, then held out his hand for her without a word. she followed, the water pouring down over both of them, steam curling around their skin as he reached for the shampoo like it was the most natural thing in the world.

he moved slowly, fingers in her hair, massaging her scalp with gentle care. her eyes fluttered shut, arms resting around his waist, her cheek pressed to his chest. and when it was her turn, she did the same—dragged her fingers through his hair with a touch that made his knees weak, washed his shoulders and his neck with the pads of her fingers like she was memorizing him all over again.

there was no hunger in it. no spark of lust.

just something closer.

every few moments, one of them would lean in to kiss the other—wet, slow kisses that tasted like water and exhaustion. a kiss to the shoulder. one to the temple. one on the mouth that lingered longer than it should’ve.

they dried off together, standing close, sharing a towel, her eyes following the slope of his back like she was afraid it’d disappear.

he pulled on the shirt she handed him. it was one of his, left behind long ago—somehow still folded in the back of her dresser drawer. she didn’t say anything when he smiled at it. didn’t have to.

and when they were standing in her bedroom again, the air thick with the scent of clean skin and old memory, he moved toward the door almost instinctively—like he should go.

like this had been enough.

“you don’t have to leave,” she said softly, her voice cutting through the quiet like a thread pulled loose.

he turned slowly, met her eyes.

and god, she looked so bare. not just physically—wrapped in nothing but a towel and damp hair—but emotionally. open. honest. a little afraid.

“stay,” she added, quieter this time. “please.”

his throat worked. like the word caught there.

and then, finally—he nodded.

not dramatic. not with a speech. just a quiet, yes written into the way he came back to her, climbed into her bed, and pulled her into his arms like she belonged there.

because maybe she still did.

they slipped under the sheets like they’d done it a thousand times before—because they had. the weight of the covers settled over them like a secret, like something sacred. her head tucked under his chin, one of his arms curved tightly around her waist, the other splayed across her ribs, his thumb brushing gentle lines over her skin like he had to keep reminding himself she was real.

his breathing was steady against her hair, his legs tangled with hers, the kind of closeness that was impossible to fake. and for the first time in over a year, they weren’t bracing for the next blow. no accusations. no fear.

just truth. in its rawest, sleepiest form.

“i thought you hated me,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath.

his hand tightened around her waist, just a little. “never,” he said, almost immediately. “i just… didn’t know how to stop missing you without falling apart.”

she closed her eyes, felt that break something in her. a soft exhale left her mouth. “i never stopped missing you,” she admitted. “even when i said i was fine. even when i laughed with my friends and told them i was over it.”

he didn’t answer right away. just pressed his lips to her forehead, long and warm. like he was apologizing for the space that had stretched between them.

“every time i passed that coffee place you loved,” he said, voice low, “i had to walk the other way.”

she blinked hard, tears threatening. “i deleted your number like three times. memorized it anyway.”

he let out a soft laugh through his nose. not happy, not sad. just knowing.

the silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was full. full of everything they’d carried in their chests for twelve long months. full of what-ifs and why-nots. full of the ache of having loved each other and the even deeper ache of still loving each other now.

she turned in his arms, nose brushing his, their eyes meeting in the dark. “i didn’t mean to send that message,” she said. “not really. i was drunk, and sad, and tired of pretending i didn’t still—”

“i’m glad you did,” he interrupted softly. “i’ve read it at least a dozen times. didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t ruin us all over again.”

she reached up, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “you didn’t ruin anything, joon. we just… broke. but we never stopped meaning something.”

he kissed her then.

slow. deep. different.

like he heard her.

when they pulled apart, their foreheads stayed pressed together, their breath tangled, hearts pounding in quiet sync.

“can we stay like this?” he murmured, not quite a question, not quite a plea.

“for as long as we want,” she whispered back.

and they stayed.

no promises.

just warmth, and weight, and the hope that maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t the end.

he stayed quiet for a moment longer, just watching her, the way her eyes blinked slowly up at him in the dark. the way her breath steadied when he touched her like that—gently, reverently, like touching something breakable but beloved. his thumb traced her cheekbone, her jaw, the curve of her lip, and when she kissed the pad of it—just a light brush, soft and sure—something inside him settled.

“okay,” he said at last, the word nearly swallowed by the stillness.

her brows furrowed, and he saw the flicker of uncertainty before he caught her chin between his fingers and smiled, just a little.

“we can try,” he said, clearer this time. “if you want to… really try. no more running. no more pretending we’re fine when we’re not.”

her lips parted—surprised, maybe—but she nodded almost immediately. like she’d been waiting to hear that exact thing from the moment he walked into that bathroom corridor and looked at her like she still mattered.

“i do,” she said. no hesitation. “i want to.”

he exhaled then, not shakily, but with the kind of relief that made his whole chest sink into hers.

“me too,” he murmured. “so much.”

they kissed again. slower now, but full. full of things they hadn’t said. full of the ache and the years and the breathless kind of hope that blooms when you stop lying to yourself.

his arms wrapped tighter around her. hers curled beneath his. their legs tangled like they’d never been untangled in the first place.

and this time, when the silence settled around them, it wasn’t heavy.

it was safe.

the kind of quiet you only get when the worst part is over, and something better is starting.

they’d hurt. they’d healed. they’d found their way back through the noise and the hurt and the time.

and now—together, in the dark, skin warm, bodies still humming with memory—they were choosing it.

again.

and this time, they meant it.

quietly always, cigarettesuga.

taglist Ꮺ @aaclariww @mar-lo-pap @h6rtf9lt @wynterlove

[darkeangel]

GQuuuuuux

Now that I’ve slept on it and had time to digest, I’ve come to the overall conclusion that I liked GQ but it is riddled with issues.

First off; the good:

- I genuinely loved the mecha design. I loved the Zeon redesigns and I loved the GQuuuuuux design, EVA homages and all. Shout out to the Gyan, the Dom and the Gelgoog.

- Haro! Despite the show setting him up to be more than he ended up being; still Best Haro.

- Shiiko Sugai! ❤️❤️❤️ Best Character. I wish we had seen more of her, or more characters like her.

- Battle Scenes! So good! All of the ClanBats were fantastic, the NotTitans attack on Side 6 was one of the highlights of the show, and can we give GQ props for making the BrawBro Kikeroga actually look cool and dangerous? Nice.

- Amate! Our little danger tomato. Our little rage gremlin. Said it before, will say it again; it is SO refreshing to have a Gundam protagonist who actually emotes and has a wide range of facial expressions. Decent character development too.

- Challia Bull! I liked the redesign, I liked that we got to explore this character who only appears once in the original MSG, but has a much larger and in-depth role in both the original novel and The Origin manga. A fascinating character.

- Music! OP and ED are bops and the call-backs to the original MSG, Zeta and Char’s Counterattack are well placed and hit exactly how you want them to.

- Psycho Gundam. I keep thinking about her.

- The Sodon crew. I wish we could have spent more time with them, and more time on the ship. I would have been interested to get to know them better.

- The Sodon itself! A great take on a classic. Loved every scene she was in; especially the imposing scenes of her above the city.

- Conch! Little robo Crab. No Notes.

Now, The Bad:

- pacing, obviously. Tried to fit too much into too short a run time. I’ve ranted about this before, so I’ll leave it at that for now.

- Nyann. Sorry folks, whilst she honestly had some of the best scenes in the series, she ended up feeling a little flat. Despite appearing to be one of the strongest Newtypes in the show, we never get to fully explore her potential. I wish we could have explored what being a Diablo was and seen more of the GFred and the secrets of its Kappa Psycommu. A lot of missed opportunity there.

- The Pomeranians. Again, lots of missed opportunity. Too many unanswered questions about Annqi. They kinda feel like the Sky Pirates from Laputa: Castle in the Sky, only with a tenth of the charisma and about half the plot relevance.

=

??

- Comoli. *pokes with stick*

- Deux. Completely wasted character.

- NotTitans. Another concept never properly explained or explored.

- GUNTANK! How do you make a redesign this Peak and then never feature it?! It appears for maybe 2 seconds the entire show!

I’ll be honest, most of my gripes come from the incredibly short run-time. The show relies on foreknowledge of the U.C. way too much, and even with that it still feels way too rushed. The best episodes are the 1st and 4th, and they never lean into the world that was created there.

I can see how folk whose first Gundam was TwfM would be super turned-off by GQ, not even to mention newcomers to the franchise. It’s a very dense, convoluted plot that speeds by too fast. If you need a bible’s worth of lore before going into the show then you’ve failed as a piece of media.

The series leaves plenty of unanswered questions too: who is Shuji? What is the Endymion system? (Wasn’t Mu La Flaga the Hawk of Endymion?) What is the Quuuuux’s real name? What are Diablo? Why does that Haro appear to know so much?

The symbolism of the GQuuuuuux beheading the specter of the OG Gundam that looms over everything is a little heavy handed, but could possibly be poignant for the franchise going forward (apart from all the projects already announced). The series seems to be a call to action, for us to abandon the chains (Gundam) that bind us and to experience the freedom to explore the possibilities of creation without being weighed down by Gundam’s gravity. This has been Tomino’s message since the Turn (A) of the century; and shows like IBO and TWfM seem to be trying to do that but by leveraging the Gundam name they are opening themselves up to criticism and comparison by and of the Fandom to other Gundam shows and can never truly express themselves as their absolute self. In the meantime Bandai and Sunrise keep catering to the U.C. stans with shows like Hathaway and RfV which sometimes hit but oftentimes miss, and Gundam becomes this multi-faceted thing that tries to be so much to so many that its core gets lost in the Kira-Kira.

In conclusion; I liked it. I enjoyed the show, I liked what it had to say and the way that it said it. But the show is plagued by a way too short run time, with pacing issues that don’t allow us to explore the characters and the world and relies too heavily on nostalgia and Lore-Knowledge.

I still think I’m gonna go rewatch ZZ next. Or maybe rewatch Tomino’s vaulted multi-versal tale (Turn A) for the nth time.

Cuz that’s the thing about Gundam. There’s a lot of it. And if there’s one that you really like, you can just go watch it again.

[m0th-person]

MARSH! His lore was already spilled in an ask that you can probably easily find.

his voice claim is Aleph from Reverse:1999.

long ramble but while making this i got super into the lore of outlast (AGAIN) more particularly the outlast trials and I think some of Easterman’s voicelines sound like stuff David would say ngl (ONLY SOMETIMES THO, THAT MAN IS SO CREEPY IN SOME OF HIS LINES) (David Example: “I’m doctor Easterman, I want you to think of me as a friend, a father, a confidant.” “You will be a sun in an eclipse, they won’t know they’re blind until they look away.” “This is progress, but I need you to be making more progress.” “if you think you recognize someone, you’re seeing who they used to be” “don’t bring it up, that person is dead.” “What if they aren’t what they say you are, what if they’re afraid because they know you’re special, just like I do.” There’s more but this is getting long)

development:

Marsh himself has gone on a wild ride in just a day ( the same day I made the ask lol). His ORIGINAL original concept was just A NICKNAME that Kim could’ve possibly called Layla’s parent that was Kim’s offspring and had dark marsh green hair (I think Kim would do something like that) because unless there’s another parent for that child, Kim probably created that child the same way Flores created her dad. Then I listened to one song and it went to shit. The song is sweet Rosalie by American murder song, you should probably listen to the song for some context but let’s moving on. Add a weird deity+ obsessed worshipper relationship into it plus my strange and general “let’s make it darker” attitude and that’s how Marsh was made.

I think he shares a lot of design elements with Oliver and Mayflower Melanie and his pre-curse form is incredibly poorly drawn + his hair and facial hair wasn’t supposed to be THAT long in his pre-curse form.

afterthoughts:

To me, Marsh has no unique depth, he may be fun, sure. But he is what he is on paper. He isn’t complicated, he isn’t interesting to me. I like Edmund more. The most depth you can go into detail for is that he, just like David, is still waiting for Kim but Marsh is locked up in the temple prisons and over time has made a mural or weird religious scene out of his blood on the stone walls of his prison. I really want to draw that. I’ve already done a draft on the right drawing page.

the only thing I’ll say is that I wonder how Dahlia would react to him given that she’s the canonical #1 David and Kim fan as I see Marsh’s tale as a spooky story told to children about Kim’s trickery with what is essentially a ‘creepy big tree man’. (Like Dahlia hears about the story on the Organa version of Halloween and then later once she’s in the temple she randomly stumbles upon Marsh rotting in his cell making his ‘mural’ to Kim out of his blood)

[ghostcreaturetypething]

EXACTLY!!!

I have very strong feelings about this, not just because I love Dean and feel that he has a lot more depth than people realise, resulting in him often being greatly misunderstood (understandably, to be fair, the boy does a fair job of acting like a moron sometimes), but because as an older sibling I recognised this behaviour immediately.

That isn’t to say I don’t get frustrated with Dean when Sam is clearly trying so hard to be there for his brother, so willing to let Dean lean on him both because he’s a deeply empathetic person and wants to help and because he himself desperately needs the connection and closeness that emotional honesty brings in times of hardship, and Dean pushes him away — affectively walking himself off from the person who loves him the most in all the world — but, despite all of that, to me this behaviour makes sense. For context:

My younger sister is my baby. Just like Sam, she is deeply empathetic, and always wants to know what the matter is. However, I often end up discussing strong negative feelings with almost anyone but her. Not because I don’t love her. Not because I’m not close with her. Not because I’m so repressed that I don’t even know what I’m feeling, not because I’m not processing things in my own way. But because she is my little sister. She is not my protector, I am hers. It is not her job to listen and make everything okay, it is mine.

I hide those parts of myself because I love her.

So, no, Dean is not as repressed as people think. No, he’s not pushing Sam away out of pettiness or emotional ineptitude. He’s just doing his best to protect his baby brother where he can, because there are so so many other times where he can’t.

Yes, he’s hurting, yes he’s grieving, yes he’s having a hard time coping and, yeah, maybe talking to someone would make him feel better. But not Sammy. Not if he can help it.

Gotta keep my game face on.

DEAN Yeah. Yeah, you know. He was just one of those guys. Took some terrible beatings, just kept coming. So you're always thinking to yourself, he's indestructible. He'll always be around, nothing can kill my dad. Then just like that (snaps) he's gone. I can't talk about this to Sammy. You know, I gotta keep my game face on. (clears throat) But, uh, the truth is I'm not handling it very well.

And this right here is the crux of every single time Sam tries to pressure Dean to be vulnerable and talk about his struggles / trauma / feelings before he's ready to do so, or when he simply just does not want to talk about those things with Sam.

In this scene Dean easily opens up to Gordon, a near stranger, and is vulnerable with him, divulges personal feelings about his childhood, experiencing things his peers couldn't understand, his feelings about John and his complicated grief about John's death. Dean is self-aware of his own feelings. He's not repressing his grief or the fact that he's not coping well. He openly admits all of this to Gordon. He just can't bring himself to talk about it to Sam. Because Dean feels he needs to be a pillar of support for Sam. He needs to keep his game face on, be the strong older brother.

A lot of fanon tends to reduce Dean to the one who never wants to open up or talk about feelings. The one who is RepressedTM and can't cope or isn't even aware of the root of his feelings. This is partially how Sam views Dean, though, but Sam's POV isn't the objective truth. We see Dean contradict Sam's POV (and Sam isn't here in this scene with Gordon to know that Dean is opening up, that Dean is talking about these things with other people). But reducing Dean to the biased and limited POVs of other characters while disregarding what we literally see Dean do on-screen is just bad media literacy. This is only one example, because this is the episode I am currently rewatching, but we see Dean open up to others and acknowledge his own feelings of worry, fear, grief etc all throughout the show. The fanon misconception that Dean is allergic to all feelings and can't have honest vulnerable conversations with others is truly just that, misconception.

[dangerliesbeforeyou]

me: hmm yeh i kinda get the criticism of this female character, she's not overly complex or interesting but she's Cool so that's basically why people like her which is fine

me 3 seconds later when i hear others shit talking her: actually fuck that, she IS complex AND interesting and i will defend her with my LIFE

[cactussxd]

Severus was already canonically bisexual before this reboot was announced, what are you talking about?

"that one character that..." ??????

I think that if there is any character that would stop to keep as a white heterosexual man in that case is James (it's my personal opinion anyway, but there are valid reasons behind that that I won't mention in depth because I just woke up and seriously, what the fuck?).

If you think that making Snape bisexual is ruining his character then I recommend you hypothetically go outside and touch some hypothetical grass, and, if you get around to it also read the books a bit again too, because if you really REALLY think Snape hated harry for petty reasons it's because you either read a different book or you just didn't care or I don't know, you didn't read in the first place (I doubt it, I don't know, I don't know you).

(Harry and the stupid classes with Snape arc was for, you know Voldemort, and also for Harry to rediscover the people he thought he knew from a different point of view. Harry feels bad, he felt disgusted, he felt ashamed; he doesn't correlate the things he saw with what he'd been told about his father, soooo)

Also yes, Lily, But one thing I've never figured out is where this distortion of the meaning of love came from as far as Snape is concerned in this fandom. Like, you know there is such a thing as non-romantic love, right. It's important to me that you know that, because Harry Potter is a saga that is set precisely on the basis of that kind of love (the love of family, of friends, that's why Voldemort is defeated in the first place, he just conceives of love as a distorted version of desire; so he doesn't give it any importance)

And uh, you mentioned that if anything he would be bi, and since I'm not really up on the news of the series, could you tell me what it's specifically about? If it's no bother of course. I'm just curious, it's not like if making Snape Queer will change anything.

You left me speechless here? JSOSOSOS the fact that you think mereodaderoes will look bigoted (as if they weren't already) tells me a lot about how much you care about violence towards a specific individual as long as that individual is not a minority, but really, how would it make Lily homophobic to make Snape Queer? Explain to me, my brain can't handle that much nonsense.

Ahhh Ok, I get it, so to you that she married her best friend's abuser doesn't matter if not until he's black and queer? I understand (I don't)

Honestly this gives me a good laugh, thanks for making my morning LALALSOSOSLS

soo snape in the new reboot is queer now too!

if we really need to increase diversity how about, now hear me out here, make james and harry desi like we already established in the fandom!

make seamus and dean date,

give us deamus! give us wolfstar!

show us that dumbledore is gay!

the ONE character that it’s actaully important to keep him as a white straight man should be kept as that.

you are completely ruining snapes character, he is supposed to be PETTY and not have huge reasons behind bullying harry,

and also, his entire character is about being inlove with LILY. so is he bi, in which case

not only are you making the marauders all racist homophobic picks but now lily too!

because she chose the racist homophobe ratheor then the poor queer black kid who she abandoned.

[snailfen]

after the easter update, in relation to the new note from delilah- i keep seeing people depict delilah as being a really awful person who doesn't care about bassie/the toons when they aren't good enough for her. and while yeah obviously delilah is responsible for Something and also why did she make the holiday toons Like That. i think people should analyze her tone in the easter note a little more? because i feel like theres more to understand about delilah from this note and no one's seeing it.

while the first part is just about as distant as her other notes, i don't think she sounds very dismissive of bassi! her tone is mostly analytical until that last part, which is really important to me because her tone is a lot more considerate ("i know this is very last minute."), and definitely the most concerned-sounding we've heard her.

that last sentence could very well be taken as her pinning the blame on arthur and not actually caring somehow, but i do think she wrote this with at least a LITTLE concern for bassie in mind based on her wording. she specifically notes that bassie probably won't be able to handle the pressure of being a main entertainer in gardenview as expected of her and i think that delilah sounds genuinely worried about the outcome if they didn't try to work this out.

with bassies obvious fear of replacement, and clear dislike of cocoa (the only other toon with plushies of her in the easter map when usually only mains have plushies) i do think it isnt unreasonable to come to the conclusion that their solution to this was replacement, however!!! i don't think this decision was made without bassie in mind, in fact i don't think this "replacement" was wholly against bassie for being too dependent on others.

my personal theory is: while yes cocoa has plushes, very odd for a non-main toon, theres still quite a lot of bassie plushes that assumingly were still being sold every easter event in the easter gift-shop. also, bassie's design sort of implies bunny features. it's kinda weird to have a toon that somewhat looks like a bunny, and then make a straight up bunny after that. finally, bassie seems to try to hide her problems/doesn't accept any help or concern (her dialogue with astro, flutter, cocoa too ig but thats Different).

by making another bunny-like toon, giving her helpful and insistent tendencies that would contrast bassies tendency to make it seem like nothings wrong with her, and then selling her merch alongside bassie, i think they intended for cocoa and bassie to end up being a pair that would share bassies role as the easter main to take pressure off of bassie. bassie however doesn't seem to be able to let go of her inability to live up to whats expected of her and when cocoa was introduced, she ended up taking this to mean absolutely worst case scenario. not to mention, cocoa doesn't seem aware that shes meant to "replace" anyone, and while she could've just been kept in the dark about this, she also calls bassie her friend and just kinda... assumes bassie acts the way she does because its who she is.

that all being said gardenview is Twisteds & Lack Of Security Regulations Georg, the 1000 security violations and 100 abominations against nature outlier that should not have been counted so maybe the idea of the founders even SLIGHTLY making a responsible decision for a toons actual well-being and just accidentally messing it up instead of just trying to full on replace her is silly. i mean i wouldnt be surprised

[jamandjazz]

My personal headcanon is that Pony got his love for reading from Darry. When Darry was in high school he’d read the books he got in class out loud to Ponyboy and straight up just handed him some of the easier ones so they could talk about it later. In my brain the reason Ponyboy clings onto it so much is because it’s one of the things he and Darry REALLY bonded over when he was a kid and it just brings back good memories of when they got along better.

[qoldenskies]

actually genuinely depressing that when people write april's mom as an actual character she's just kind of a one note Good Caretaker Mom... and like i know why this happens (let the the mammy trope dieee) but i still think there's a lot of untapped potential. im not saying she has to be a BAD parent but there are infinitely more interesting things you can do with april and her relationships with her parent(s), especially because she's WROUGHT with insecurity and is shown to develop a close bond with splinter, who she seeks out approval from, not to mention the absence of her likely working parents is so loud despite it never being mentioned as a reason for her issues, really.

april can take on the front of confidence because she's excitable and courageous but she is so deeply insecure. her being so tenacious despite that doesn't negate it. she notices how she doesn't seem to get along with other people and desperately desires balance between her love of the weird and her need for normalcy. april will work hard to fit in and she'll never succeed (also i really do relate to the fact that the one "friend" she has at school before likely sunita is kind of a creep that she doesn't like, can we talk about that more), and she does seem to find it frustrating that her only actual friends dont understand how that feels. being in the in-between point. wanting the best of both worlds and not truly fitting in either.

i think these are problems that can come with having a bad social life at school even with great parents, but unintentional emotional neglect due to being working class would be interesting, and parallel with splinter in a really fascinating way (+ they do say she has parents but i do prefer the idea of her having a single mom, more to be done with that. maybe they're divorced? that'd add something).

actually april's dynamic with splinter is really unexplored in the fandom because i do think there's a reason she finds his approval so validating,,, i think april's strong personality is mistaken for genuine confidence when it's really not.

SHE THINKS SHE'S A FAILURE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[rustedleopard]

Part of the reason why I defend Ceroba so much is that I initially didn't like her character. Her personality is pretty big from what we saw of her with her quips with Starlo in the Wild East, so when she joined up with Clover in my Pacifist playthrough, I was expecting... more from her. Instead she stuck to the sidelines for the fights (understandable since it would've been dumb to take fighting away from the player) and almost all she would talk about was her husband and his accomplishments and meanwhile she was just a housewife. Then I found out that she injected her daughter with an experimental serum and was like "Oh, she just straight up sucks :/" I felt shafted, cheated out of an interesting character because it felt like there was more to her and then she was just your standard-fare housewife who loves and supports her husband and daughter.

But then on a subsequent playthrough, I started paying attention to what she was saying more and thinking about her and I realized "Holy shit, that's the point!!" Ceroba is a character who placed so much blind faith in her husband that she let it cloud her judgement. That's why she injected her daughter with chemicals. She saw her husband as this flawless, larger-than-life character and that's why she let herself recede into his shadow. She wasn't the supportive housewife by choice; that's what she had to become in their relationship so Chujin could continue being the altruistic hero of the Underground. She couldn't have hobbies and be her own person if she was taking care of Kanako and making sure the family had money and food on the table, meanwhile her husband is doing fuck all to contribute. I felt cheated because life cheated her out of the chance to be her own character. It all makes sense now! Ceroba Ketsukane, I love you forever and I'm sorry that there are people out there that don't get you.

[rosemaries-shroom]

Oooh see that's where I think we differ a bit cause I absolutely can see Zooble and Ragatha shaming him as he's forced to confront himself

And I think they'd be completely valid if they did. There are plenty of actions and beliefs that Jax holds that could benefit from being shamed. I don't think they'd target his identity (if he ends up being trans) but I definitely feel Zooble especially would have some shit to say about his internalized problems

(Unrelated ramble about favorite characters below, I don't know how to seque lol)

Gangle and Kinger are always gonna be my favorite characters, even if I don't talk about them a lot

Ragatha is my favorite traumatized people pleaser ready to break, I relate to her in so many ways it kinda hurts 😅

Jax is my favorite antagonist after episode 5, though he kinda ties with Caine. I'm still terrified of what Caine is actually capable of

There's so much depth put into all the characters in this show, I love it so so much

With some anxieties quelled, I have a moment from episode 5 I haven't brought up about Jax that is 100% projection

Remember the bar segment where Jax kept making offhanded comments about Zooble's work?

My headcannon is Jax grew up somewhere unsafe for lgbtq people, somewhere that made it necessary to hide that you were "one of them 🤮" if you didn't want to have your life abruptly ended

Zooble couldn't figure out what the jab was supposed to be with the comment above. I have two reasons for why that might be. The first being, they're desensitized to Jax's behavior after dealing with it for so long. They're so used to Jax being a jerk that it's second-nature to assume malicious intent.

The second being, Zooble grew up somewhere a bit safer for queer folks. Somewhere that didn't require hiding who you are 24/7. The difference in life experience could be enough that they never had to learn "queer code" to survive

Personally, I see the bar segment as Jax attempting to connect to Zooble while trying not to out himself to everybody and having it fail spectacularly

[mcytegg]

omg i didn't even mention how excited i am that squiddo and spoke have apparently been online together since spoke got back from twitchcon ^-^ the dear beloved world enders will surely lock tf in...

[tixdixl]

I return to this thread with more notes on how Vil signals her views on her own gender based on deeper dives into her language use:

To start, in Japanese, there is a grammer marker known as かしら which roughly could be translated to "I guess". It basically signifies a wonder or uncertainty about the phrase/clause that precedes it. Vil uses it a lot, and I noticed in an another examination of the Japanese transcriptions that none of the masculine-identifying characters use かしら throughout the entirety of the game, including events. (For ease, I CTRL+F ed it in my transcriptions and I'm not seeing anyone but her using it.) In the documentary I watched this evening, I noticed that only women were using it, so I thought to check something, and it turns out that, "although the original forms of か知らぬ, or かしらん were useable by anybody, かしら is thought to be very feminine in modern Japanese, and therefore is not often used by men" (source).

For contrast: Epel regularly uses かな (kana), which is the gender neutral/masculine leaning grammar marker for the same concept (source).

If that wasn't enough, in a conversation with a friend of mine who is an L1 speaker of Japanese, and we had an in depth conversation about how exactly Vil uses the words that translate to "beautiful"/"fairest" and "ugly" in contrast.

So I want to highlight her use of 美しい (Utsukushī) for "fairest", which is a female only adjective. There are multiple different words that can be translated to "beautiful" in Japanese- all of which carry different connotations and are used in a variety of specific circumstances. (Another example being "きれい" which can be translated to "aesthetically pleasing" but it carries a more gender-neutral tone. It's also not commonly used with people despite also being considered "well dressed." I have heard that locals almost never use it with people as a result of issues directness and miscommunications.) But it's because there are both masculine, feminine, and gender-neutral (object oriented) versions of "beautiful", the fact that Vil states that she is the "Fairest Of Them All", using the female-only word for "beautiful" should bring us pause, especially when she openly demonstrates to us that masculinity can be beautiful, and uses other words to describe her dormmates too.

To contrast the femininity in "fairest", I want to discuss the term she uses for "ugly", especially in that Book 7 OB fight. The word 醜い [minikui] is different from the word usually used for "ugly" which is キモい [kimoi]. For some context, キモい is more like "gross" or "disgusting". In contrast, 醜い is more like "othered", "different", "strange" or even "undesirable".

But as we dig deeper, we also learn more about why this selective usage is so important:

1. 醜 is the kanji for "oni" as in the monster. Oni are INCREDIBLY masculine monsters, almost never depicted as feminine or female. I honestly don't even think true female oni exist in the Japanese mythos. (There is also a conversation here about how this adds an additional layer of intersectionality to her conflict with Epel, but that's a conversation for a different day.)

2. 醜い [mi ni kui] can be written as 見にくい, using the kanji for "to see". When its written as 見にくい, it no longer means "ugly"; it means "uneasily distiguishable" or "difficult to differentiate".

We can deduce from Leona's usage of "herbivore" [草食系] (which is a double entendre to describe a man who is more worthless than a woman; contributes nothing to society; and is so submissive that his manliness is questioned) that TWST is no stranger to double meaning and euphamism. And when using the Japanese language, every word you use has to be deliberate and intentional because as you noticed, they can carry multiple meanings.

If Vil is referring to herself as "fairest" in the feminine, there is an added layer of understanding to her presented dysphoria in Book 7, when she refers to herself as "ugly monster" and "indistinguishable" largely when referring to a version of herself that solely utilizes masculine language.

I keep seeing folks talk about what Femme Vil would be like, and it really hammers home to me just how much people are missing out on because of the localization. And honestly, with absolutely 0 shade to the folks who love those headcanons- cause they are FASCINATING headcanons to me- it makes me genuinely heartbroken to see it. It makes me genuinely heartbroken to know how much of Vil's intersectionality is lost because the English localization erased her gender expression.

She... is.... femme. She's canonically trans in the Japanese. Whether she is transfemme or some form of gender neutral is unfortunately not explicitly stated. However, in the Japanese, her self-identifying language and her explicitly feminine mannerisms exemplify how she views herself. The way that other characters speak of her is also extremely telling about how the audience is supposed to see her.

Speaking from a language perspective, Vil uses the female only "I" pronoun あたし [atashi] whenever she speaks, would be approximated to "she/her" in the English.

Vil uses either feminine or strictly gender neutral connotated grammar patterns, which are commonly used in anime/manga to notate levels of formality, rudeness, as well as self identifying information about the character. You can also see these patterns used subtly in real life conversations in Japan, though often difficult to actually catch in conversation. (There is a whole conversation about this and how it is intertwined with formality and gender-roles/expectations but that's not the point of this ramble.)

Vil also uses predominantly feminine connotated intonation patterns, often stereotyped and used to identify alluring femme tropes in anime. Again, while sometimes heard in real conversations, you are more likely to hear the explicit feminitity in certain circumstances and/or in media.

Not to mention, most of the other characters refer to her only by name or strictly with gender neutrality. And because of the behind closed doors mentality that Japanese folks have, along with the sense of 建前 [tatemae] that is displayed between Vil and the other characters, it makes total sense why the other characters say nothing directly, but linguistically acknowledge that there is some form of discrepancy between Vil being at an all boys school, and Vil using the Japanese equivalent of "she/her". Because of their omoiyari [思いやり] - literally "compassion" but culturally is the deliberate action to notice and consider others, it makes sense that at the bare minimum, they would refer to her with that modicum of formality and respect.

We could also have a very real conversation as to why she wears a women's kimono in the New Year's event; why she wears a woman's cut suit in Tapis Rouge; why she deliberately uses makeup and hairstyles that in Japan read as feminine or "female"- especially in a society that accepts post-transitioned Transness as it conforms with the overarching collectivist society; in a society that accepts those changes so long as they are done behind closed doors and without disruption. And this is done in a society that believes heavily that the exterior is a direct reflection of the interior - the house/clothes are a representation of the person who inhabits them. So her choices in her appearance are a direct representation of who she wants to be, who she is becoming, and how she wants others to perceive her.

The audience is left to draw conclusions about Vil's sense of self and her incredibly strong connection to feminity, beyond strictly her connection to the Evil Queen. And as I've mentioned in a previous post, it really adds a layer of intersectionality to the multi-layered tension and cultural conflict between her and Epel.

Idk... I just think the English absolutely ignoring her joseiteki [女性的]- female-like gender expression, her rashii - specifically onnarashii [女らしい], or lady-like mannerisms, and her sociolinguistic choices, as well as how they impact her dynamics with the other characters results in a loss of understanding of her as a character and a loss of depth to the story in my opinion.

For those of you who are genuinely interested in the conversation of Transness in Japanese media, how it's presented, and how its been deliberately and historically erased in Western localizations, this extremely well-informed video essay is a phenomenal place to start:

This is a topic that is very near and dear to my heart as someone who studied Japanese Anthropolgy and taught various courses on Gender and Language in higher education. The cross-cultural divide here is something that I am so so passionate about, and anyone who knows me knows that I could absolutely rabbit hole on the topic for hours with credible resources and citations. It's also something that I first-hand experienced a bit of while I was in Japan. And because of that, as much as I know its a risk to share these thoughts publically, I do feel like it is an important discussion to have.