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gldrushh · 1 month ago

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GUILTY AS SIN? | JJK | PART 𝐈𝐈𝐈 |

"After all lessons are learned. There's only one to live out in practicality. You're not sure how good you're at it —only that, this time, you won’t try alone."

→ Pairing brother in law! Jungkook x widowed fem!reader

→ Genre forbidden love! au, childhood friends to lovers, angst, fluff

→W.C 20k

→ Warnings lots of mentions of graveyards, loss, nostalgia, because you can scream and scratch and bite but you can never go back, minhos third death anniversary, he stays haunting everyone, jk being lovesick, what's new?,their dating era!!, kissing, self realization, they make it official, mentions of anxiety, soft family moments :(, mention of jk threatening someone, protective jk, mentions of alcohol, like a lot, jk manhandling oc, she's drunk and a menace, he is so in love, and so is she apparently, jks nose gets appreciated, nose kisses, fluff, jk is rich, dancing around, real chessy stuff im sorry haha but trust me when i say that it pained me too

→ Playlist You are in love by Taylor swift

→A/N hi! hello! It's definitely not been a while since I posted but it most definitely feels like I've lived a multiple lifes since. I'm sorry for not posting when I promised and I'm sorry that you had to see me falling for rage bait because i don't belive that was anything but. Like genuinely get a life my brother in christ. I write fanfiction for a hobby. A silly little hobby. It's not that deep and you don't have to lose your shit over that. Anyways, all that negativity aside I wanna thank you to all the majority of my readers who were nice enough to put up with me. You all are who I write for and will continue doing so though can't say for sure lol. I've had a great time with writing this fic and all the love it got. It will forever hold a special place. These characters will forever hold a special place. I will miss them and I really hope you understand from the word count why it took the time it did and enjoy reading <33 please comment or message your thoughts!! Love you!!

| PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE |

The graveyard was deadened in a way that empty places where bones met soil learned to be. In a way that they are belived they are. With a stillness so complete, it surmised like a hostaged breath.

You sat cross-legged before the headstone, coat draped around your shoulders, your fingers numb from the stone bench that did little to hold warmth or from holding the bundle of white lilies, their stems slick with dew. You hadn’t put them down yet. You had spent the better part of your time here, staring at another small bouquet resting at the base of the grave—white carnations and forget-me-nots, arranged with care, like they always were. Someone’s been here before you. Arranged these flowers with love. There's just no name in some card that gives away the beholder of the love.

You traced the curve of a petal with your gaze, not touching it. Not needing to.

You're not wary of them. It's a graveyeard. It's Jeon Minho's—beloved son, brilliant brother, best husband—grave. It's never empty. You recalled, absently,how on his first death anniversary the plot had been crowded. A forest of flowers so pretty and perplexing, letters folded into stones, paintings left by former students who still wrote emails to an address that no longer worked. One of them left a thumb drive with a digital portfolio and a note that simply read: “I only got in because of him.”

Even now—three years later—his name never stopped resounding in impertuable places because he had a way of staying with people, even long after he’d left the room. Had this laugh that would get stuck in your head. And somehow, that made it both easier and harder. That he was remembered in a love that he alone inspired. Gentle. that was earned without asking. The kind of love that was mourned in secret, in ritual, in color.

You placed your bouquet down next to the others, brushing a fallen leaf from the base of the headstone. The stone was smooth beneath your touch, cold. You traced the carved letters-his name, the dates-and swallowed the lump that always formed when you read them too slowly.

“I was going to bring tulips,” you said softly, not sure if you were speaking to the stone or the wind. “But you always said they looked sad. Too floppy.” A just as sad smile that would have mimicked the tulips curled at your mouth.

“Thought I’d bring lilies instead. Thought they might hold their shape better. I hope they do.”

The ache wasn’t sharp anymore. But it was deep. It was marrow-deep. Though it didn't weight like it used to. It hummed in your blood, a familiar frequency. Almost like a song you’d once loved but now couldn’t bear to hear past the first few notes. Like the sky that is a pale repose of overcast, streaked with gray, the kind that always made Minho grumble about "bad lighting" when he painted. The ground is damp but not cruel. Just enough to remind you that time moves here too. That even woe must learn to grow things again.

A breeze stirred, threading through your coat, pushing strands of hair across your cheek. You didn’t brush them away. You leaned forward, elbows on your knees, the grave in front of you, the silence beside you.

"Odd taste you had, min-min." You said after a while. "I wouldn't be suprised if you would find me sitting here, trying to make conversation with a slab of stone romantic. Probably say how so much effort for a guy who once mixed paint water into his cereal is good kind of weird."

Your voice cracked a little at that.

You don't cry.

You think that maybe you’ve used up all your tears on the wrong days—the regular ones, the grocery-list ones, the Tuesdays that came out of nowhere.

And then because the present can only be held for so long, you begin to remember.

The first time you were ever in a graveyard. Before you understood what death really was. Before it had touched you. When it was just a mystery. A place with names and flowers and questions no one could answer properly.

It had been years ago—childhood still clinging to your limbs like summer heat, with scraped knees and sticky palms and dreams that stretched further than your little world could hold. You and Jungkook couldn’t have been more than ten. Minho, already bordering on thirteen, had taken to pretending that his age made him wiser, even though he still laughed too loudly at fart jokes and left crayon smudges on his school notebooks.

You had been searching for this place for a while.

Not this graveyard, exactly, but the idea of it.

A name. A date. Something real to press against the fading edges of Jungkook’s memory.

He had come across a slip of paper one day in the back of a file, folded four times over, nearly forgotten in the drawer of father's study that nobody was allowed in. The handwriting had been unfamiliar—elegant but rushed—and it bore two names. His parents, he said. He thought.

And for weeks, the three of you had quietly tried to piece it together.

You’d used the school’s clunky computer lab—pretending to research for a social studies project while Minho furiously clicked through online directories and civic records. You whispered questions to the lunch lady, who knew someone who once worked in town hall. You even bribed the janitor with your entire sticker collection to let you sneak into the staff archives one afternoon.

No one said it was about sorrow.

No one had to.

You just wanted to help him find something—anything—that made him feel less like a shadow of someone else’s loss.

And finally, on a Thursday that still smelled like last night’s rain, you did.

You’d all skipped school that day.

The air still damp from last night’s rain, the sky overcast in a way that made the world look softer, quieter, like someone had pulled a cotton sheet over the sun.

It had been Minho’s idea, but Jungkook who needed it. You remember that part vividly, because he hadn’t asked out loud. Hadn’t needed to. He had stood in the courtyard with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his too-big jacket, hair a mess, eyes darker than usual. And Minho had just looked at him, then at you, and nodded.

“We’re going,” he said. "Are you ready, Kook?"

He was holding a slip of paper in one hand and clutching the edge of his jacket with the other.

“Yes, hyung." He had nodded. "I want to find them."

The air around you had gone quiet then—not out of shock, but out of care. Like the air had thinned out so as not to crowd him.

“We’d get in trouble,” you had broke the silence, voice a sharp whisper, mind already thinking of all ways you could get in trouble, eyes darting to the teachers pacing the other side of the field.

“Yeah,” Minho agreed. “But it’s a good reason. I'm sure they will understand...right?" Taller than the both of you already. He looked between Jungkook’s face and the paper again, then over at you.

You’d rolled your eyes, half because you were nervous and half because that was your role in this trio—to be skeptical just enough for Minho to feel brave. That made minho provide reassurance to his own doubt. "They will." Minho had said, like it was that simple.

And it was.

It always was, with the three of you.

You were kids, but not careless ones. You planned it like it was a secret mission—packed snacks in the side pockets of Minho’s bag, let Milo tag along even though he wasn’t technically allowed out without a leash. The sun was high when you snuck out, the kind of early spring day that couldn’t decide if it was warm or not. As if it was playing a cruel game of hide and seek, peeking through clouds that weren’t sure if they wanted to rain again. You wore your favorite jacket—denim with a strawberry patch on the sleeve. Jungkook didn’t bring anything except the folded piece of paper. Milo sat at his feet, tail thumping occasionally against the metal floor of the bus.

You caught the bus by the corner near the florist’s shop, ducking low behind the seats in case any familiar faces passed. The journey was slow. Long bus ride—two transfers, three wrong stops. You sat tucked in the back row, heads down, laughing behind your hands when Milo licked a stranger’s elbow. You passed the time counting license plates and telling each other made-up stories about the people outside.

One old man at the third stop looked at you from under his hat and said, “That place? That place’s been forgotten.”

But then a woman at the vegetable stall a few streets over gave you better directions. Told you to follow the path lined with dogwoods until you saw the iron gates.

You wandered through the quiet neighborhoods of Daejun on foot, sneakers wet from the last puddles, stepping over cigarette butts and crushed petals, past shuttered stores and a shrine half-covered in ivy. The deeper you walked, the more the world thinned out into something older. Something that felt sacred and sad all at once.

The graveyard.

Wrought iron gates half rusted, vines crawling up the stone wall, the sign chipped but still legible.

There was no one there to greet you. Just wind. And quiet. And Milo’s soft panting.

You stepped inside together, slow. Reverent. As if you were entering a cathedral.

You didn’t speak much. Just looked.

Row after row of headstones, some cracked, some buried under moss. The names were unfamiliar. The silence, even more so.

“I think it’s this way,” Minho said, squinting at the map he’d drawn on notebook paper. “I printed a map. And I’m, like, really good at reading maps.”

“You got us lost last week trying to find that new ramen place,” you reminded him, turning around to walk backwards for emphasis.

Minho rolled his eyes. “That was one time."

"Was it?" You looked at Jungkook to back you up but he only cracked a tiny smile at that. You caught it—brief, barely there—but it warmed you anyway. It had been a long week leading up to this.

“They’re somewhere near the east wall,” Minho said, squinting at the faded directions. “Row 12, plot 33. I think we’re close.”

Your footsteps crunched over gravel and scattered leaves. Milo veered off occasionally, sniffing at corners and chasing insects, but always came back. The sun filtered through bare branches in patches, dappling your arms in faint light.

The wind picked up when they turned the final corner—soft, not cold, brushing past their jackets like a whisper. Row twelve stretched ahead in crooked lines, some stones older than others, names worn down by years of weather and forgetfulness.

Jungkook stopped walking.

Your eyes followed his gaze.

Two gravestones stood side by side, tucked beneath a slant of oak branches. The grass was longer here. The stones smaller than you expected.

They were side by side. Dates etched beneath them.Born years before any of you. Gone before Jungkook had learned what it meant to belong to anyone. No pictures. No flowers. Just names and silence. And that was all he had.

Jungkook stared at them like he didn’t know what he was supposed to feel. Like maybe he’d expected something different. Or maybe he didn’t know what he expected at all.

His hand crumpled the piece of paper still clutched in his fist.

You moved first, not touching him, just standing nearby, close enough that he’d know you were there if he needed you.

Minho lowered the backpack slowly to the ground, the usual jokes stalled on his tongue. Even Milo went still, sitting quietly at Jungkook’s feet, as if he understood the moment too.

Jungkook stepped forward, cautiously. His sneakers scuffed the grass. He crouched slowly in front of the grave, his knees pressing into the damp soil, fingertips hesitating above the stone.

“That’s them?” he asked, voice tight in his throat. “For real?”

Minho nodded. “Yeah. The names match.”

Jungkook didn’t speak again. He pressed his fingers lightly to the letters on the headstone—first his father’s, then his mother’s. They were cool from the shade, worn smooth at the edges.

You crouched beside him. He turned his head slightly, just enough for you to see the way his eyes were glossed, not quite crying, but close. “Do you think they were nice?”

Minho sat down cross-legged beside him, stretching his legs out like it was any other afternoon. “Your mom? Definitely. Anyone who names a baby Jungkook has to be at least kind of awesome.”

That earned the smallest laugh from you, and then from him.

Jungkook looked at the gravestones again. “Do you think they’d like me?”

You nudged his side with your elbow, gently. “Koo, it’s kinda hard not to like you.”

“I dunno,” he mumbled. “I cry sometimes. And I suck at spelling.”

Minho made a dramatic groan. "You’re the coolest. Smarter than me. And you always win at Mario Kart.”

Jungkook ducked his head, but you saw the way his shoulders loosened. He reached out then—hesitant—and brushed some dirt off the stone. You watched the movement, how careful it was. How reverent.

“I didn’t think I’d feel anything,” he murmured.

“But you do?” you asked.

He nodded, still not looking at either of you. “Yeah.”

You stayed there until the sun dipped lower behind the hills. Minho finished the sketch and tore the page from his book. He folded it carefully, handed it to Jungkook without a word.

Jungkook looked at it for a long moment, then tucked it into his hoodie pocket.

“Hey,” Minho said as you were walking back toward the gates. “Think they’ve got a vending machine nearby? I want strawberry milk.”

You laughed. “You always want strawberry milk.”

He smirked, tugging his cap lower. “Yeah, well. It’s a long walk home.”

You trace the rim of the headstone now, your fingertips ghosting. Lingering. Your voice is soft. Almost like a child's again.

“We never did find that vending machine.”

The wind stirs in the trees like it remembers too.

“But you’d be happy to know,” you continue softly, “that your paintings found their way anyway.”

You smile faintly, fingers brushing a small chip in the edge of the stone like you could smooth it out. “It’s finally happening. Really. The gallery. Jungkook’s opening it today.”

You glance up toward the stone, as if you might catch his reaction.

“I told him we should. After I saw it—I mean really saw it—I couldn’t not share it with the world. And you know me. I don’t say things like that unless I mean them. I think… I think you’d be proud of how much care he put into it. How many nights he stayed up figuring out framing and lighting and titles. Gosh."

Your voice thickens around the word proud.

“He asked me what kind of wine you’d want served at the opening,” you add, with a shaky laugh. “I said you’d just tell people to bring root beer instead and call it a day.”

You look at the lilies now, at the way their petals fold gently inward. You try to imagine the sound of Minho’s laughter if he were here. Try to imagine the way he’d tease you for crying without making you feel like crying was wrong.

“It looks beautiful, Min min. The gallery. I think it would’ve made you shy. All those people showing up just for you. Can you imagine?”

You pause.

A crow calls from a nearby tree. A leaf skitters across the gravel.

“And something else,” you say softly. “I think I should tell you.”

It’s not a secret, not really. Just something unspoken for a long, long time. Something you’ve carried carefully, like glass.

“I wasn’t sure at first,” you admit, a dry laugh slipping out. “I mean, of course I wasn’t. It felt impossible. Like… crossing a bridge I shouldn’t have even been near. I can't even think of anything else to describe it to you."

The words take time. But you don’t rush them.

"The very first it was the the little bakery near the university with the good tarts. The museum with the terrible lighting but the softest benches. He even took me to that rooftop bar that used to give you vertigo—remember? "

You chuckle, covering your face briefly with your hand.

You shift your weight slightly, stretching your legs in front of you. A leaf lands on your boot.

“And then last week,” you continue, “he took me to this little Korean BBQ place in Hongdae. Said the meat was just okay, but the company made it worth it. We stayed until the restaurant closed. Walked along the river. He kissed me beside the railing. It was cold, and I couldn’t feel my fingers."

The place wasn’t fancy. People probably didn’t dress up for here dressed up or made reservations two weeks in advance. It had plastic chairs that wobbled slightly, walls lined with signed polaroids and grease-stained menus, and a sliding glass door that stuck every time someone tried to open it too quickly.

You ordered too much, of course. He insisted on the samgyeopsal, you picked the bulgogi, and somehow you ended up with three side dishes neither of you remembered asking for. The grill sizzled between you, soft smoke curling toward the ceiling vents, and Jungkook poured you a glass of water like it was part of an accent only he knew how to follow.

And there was something about watching him like that—hair pushed back, head slightly tilted, tongs in hand while he laid down the marinated strips of meat that made something alter inside you. Something small but sure.

Something you didn’t feel with the with the accountant who wouldn’t stop talking about NFTs. The guy who took you to a food truck but only ordered for himself.

A soft breath escapes you. “And it’s not the same. It’s not like it was with you. But it’s not different in the wrong ways either.”

You glance at the grave again, hands resting in your lap. Your heart hurts and swells at once.

“I think you’d understand,” you whisper.

And you do. In some strange, marrow-deep way, you believe it. That he would. That Minho, the boy who used to kiss the corners of your eyes and name his paint colors after inside jokes, would know what this meant. That he’d want this for you.

That he’d forgive you.

You reach for the lilies again, adjusting them so the stems don’t bend. Your eyes flick back to the stone.

“I still miss you,” you whisper. “I still love you.”

The breeze quiets again.

"And I still think you're the best friend I've ever had. That's why I needed to tell this this to you first."

Your fingers press gently to your lips, then down to the stone.

Who else would you tell other than the boy who had orchastered the definition of fairytale love for you? Who would you tell that you're starting to realize that he loves you? Maybe he had a for a long time now. And maybe you-

Bzzzt.

Your phone vibrated in your coat pocket.

The sound was soft, almost reluctant against the hush of the graveyard, like it too didn’t want to interrupt.

You blinked, pulled it out with chilled fingers, and read the message lit dimly on the screen.

[Dad:]

Sweetheart, we’re parked outside, still. Just checking if you’re ready.

You turned your head slightly and spotted the vague outline of your father’s car just beyond the gate, tucked in the corner of the lot. You could imagine your mother in the passenger seat, fingers wrapped around a thermos of tea, eyes scanning the trees while she waited with the scarf minho brought her two christmas ago, letting you have this moment uninterrupted.

They’re in town, of course. They always are, on this day.

It started the first year—when the pain was still red and raw and too large for your chest. Back then, you couldn’t eat, couldn’t speak without choking on the spaces where Minho should’ve been. Your parents had shown up with soup and chamomile tea and enough patience to outlast a storm. They stayed even when you didn’t speak for hours.

And every year since, they’ve found new ways to not let you be alone.

This day always makes them softer with you. Or maybe just more afraid of saying the wrong thing. Hovering a little closer. Speaking in quieter tones.

You sigh, brushing your thumb across the message. You don’t reply yet. Instead, you turn back toward the headstone, heart still soft and cracked wide open.You smile faintly.

“I should probably go.”

You reach down, sweeping a fallen petal from the edge of the stone.

“I’ll come by tomorrow, okay? Tell you how it goes."

You gather your coat closer around your shoulders, standing slowly. Your knees creak from the cold stone bench, from sitting too long in one position. You stretch slightly, then glance once more at the flowers now clustered at the grave’s base.

The sky has begun to change—clouds pulling apart in slow, reluctant threads, letting in slivers of afternoon light. You press your fingers gently to the headstone one last time.

"Wish me luck, min min."

You imagine he does. Hands in his pockets. Smile tugging wide and lazy. Head tilted, like he knows you've got this.

Like he's urging you to go back to the part of the story where something finally begins.

You slipped into the backseat with a soft apology, the car door clicking shut behind you.

“Sorry,” you murmured, pulling your coat tighter around your shoulders. The fabric had gone cold against your skin, but the chill clinging to you wasn’t just from the graveyard. “I didn’t mean to keep you both waiting.”

Your mother turned in her seat, her eyes warm even beneath the slight crease of worry still lingering at her brow. “Don’t be silly,” she said gently, her hand reaching back to rest briefly on your knee, the kind of maternal touch that knew when to press and when to ease. “We figured you might want a few more minutes. We all do."

“We were just talking about how this town hasn’t changed a bit,” she added, shifting the topic without making a show of it.

“She was talking,” your father interjected from the driver’s seat, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “I was checking the parking meter.”

“You were checking your watch and pretending it was the parking meter,” your mother teased.

“I was,” he insisted. “City’s always been eager to ticket people in parked cars.”

You let the cadence of their conversation fold around you, like the comfort of a familiar quilt. Safe. Worn soft with time. The kind of talk you’d heard all your life, in road trips and kitchens and walks through grocery aisles.

The engine kicked into motion, pulling you away from the graveyard slowly. You turned once in your seat, watching the wrought iron fence fade into the distance, your eyes lingering on the tree line long after it disappeared.

Outside, the town blurred past—branches heavy with the early promise of spring, cafés setting out mismatched chairs, signs swinging in the breeze like the sighs of old shopkeepers.

Your parents started talking about the café near the roundabout—how it had changed hands again, how the new owners apparently served matcha pancakes now, how the inside had been repainted a strange, charming blue. You listened with half an ear, forehead resting against the cool glass, hands folded in your lap.

Bzzt. Your phone made the same noise again.

[Jungkook]:

Are you on your way yet?

Missing you.

You typed back quickly, thumbs moving faster than your thoughts:

[You]:

On the way now. In the backseat with my parents. Be there soon.

He replied instantly like he was waiting with his phone in his hand.

[Jungkook]:

Good. See you.

You could picture him now—standing in the middle of the gallery in those dark slacks and a shirt with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, brow furrowed as he scanned the placement of frames and fiddled with the lighting, making sure nothing was out of place. He’d probably refused help again. Probably hadn’t eaten yet. Probably had to be convinced into not polishing every glass display himself.

You scrolled up, letting your thumb drag slowly over the thread from this morning:

[Jungkook]:

Good morning, angel ❤️

[Y/N]:

Good morning 😊

[Jungkook]:

Did you eat?

[Y/N]:

Just coffee so far. Did you?

[Jungkook]:

Two bites of toast. Stress eating. Lights are temperamental again but I'll sort them out.

[You]:

Don't stress it too much, okay? And eat.

[Jungkook]:

Copy that, professor.

You had smiled when you read that. Still did. A quiet little curve of your lips you didn’t bother hiding. Then he had sent a photo—one of the larger canvases half-unwrapped, sunlight catching the ridges of Minho’s brushstrokes like gold embroidery.

[Jungkook]:

Look at this.

[Y/N]:

Looks so beautiful. Everyone's gonna love it. You've done so much.

The light turned red and your father hummed to the radio while your mother picked at invisible lint on her sleeve.

[Jungkook]:

I can come get you after you're done visiting the cemetery. Just say the word.

[You]:

It’s okay. My parents are in town. I’m coming with them.

You were still staring down at the screen when your mother spoke again.“You’ve looked miles away for the last five minutes. Who’s texting you?”

You didn’t look up from your phone, but you could hear the knowing in her voice. “Oh.. it's Jungkook.”

“Ah,” she said, like that explained everything.

“He’s there already, isn’t he?” Your father asked casually.

You nodded, surprised. “Yeah, he’s… there. He’s doing a lot.”

“He always did have a stubborn streak,” your dad added. “Good head on his shoulders though."

Your mother smiled to herself. “I remember how he used to follow Minho around. And it's so beautiful now that he’s carrying so much of him forward.”

You looked down at your lap, throat tightening. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “It is.”

The car turned left and began its slow crawl into a lane that was too familiar.

You sat straighter as the car slowed, heart pulling taut in your chest, held in place by something between magnetism and memory. You recognized the bend in the road before you saw the sign—the soft flicker of gold script in the window, the sharp white glow of the "Open" sign casting its light across the pavement.

Your mother leaned forward slightly. “Oh. We’re here.”

The tires crunched over the gravel as your father pulled into the side lot. There were already several cars here, clustered neatly in crooked rows—some you recognized, most you didn’t. The gallery looked different in this light. Not the mum, plagnent space Jungkook first brought you to, that secret place where ghosts had been allowed to breathe without interruption.

the same place pulsed now. Lived.

Soft warm light spilled out of the tall windows. Music, muffled by glass, carried on the wind in threads. A little cluster of people stood out front—hands curled around invitation slips, eyes lifted toward the lettering carved into the wooden sign overhead.

You inhaled slowly.

It was still the same place you saw a month ago.

But it had opened its doors.

People had come. People would see it. His art.

The same paintings that once cluttered the corners of your apartment. That leaned against your sofa while waiting to dry. That held pieces of him—his bursts of joy, his quiet grays, his wild blues. You wondered if anyone walking past those canvases today would feel it. Would know what it cost him to bare his soul in brushstrokes.

And what it cost you to let it go.

Your mother turned to you in her seat, her hand reaching for yours, gentle.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

You nodded before you even knew if it was true. “Yeah, eomma. I’m fine.”

Your father opened his door, stepping out and stretching a little. “We’ll head in first,” he said, not unkindly. “Give you a moment if you need it.”

You managed a grateful smile. “Thanks, appa.”

The doors shut gently behind them. And for a beat, you were alone in the car, staring at the front doors of a dream made real.

Minho should be here.

That thought burned sudden and sharp and then softened into something acheful and wide. No. If love made ghosts, he’d be here already.

You reached for your bag, tugging out your compact mirror. You checked your eyes, smoothed your mouth, and whispered something into your reflection you didn’t quite hear yourself.

You abode in the stillness of the car for a few more seconds.

The engine long silenced. The peal of your parents’ voices faded into the low thrum of background music filtering through the gallery windows, the kind that belonged to wine glasses and quiet awe. The kind you imagined would play behind moments people would remember long after they forgot the taste of the wine or the exact words said.

You stored at the open doors. Arms stretched out. Yet you couldn't find it in yourself to move.Your fingers fidgeted in your lap, tracing the stitching of your coat. The sleeves of your blouse itched slightly at the wrists where your nerves collected like water pooling before a storm. You weren’t sure why your hands trembled. Maybe it was the anticipation. Maybe it was memory. Whatever it was, you had to brush past it.

You finally opened the door.

The wind greeted you with the breath of spring—soft, cool, perfumed faintly by something blooming just out of sight. The air kissed your cheeks, lifted the ends of your coat, and whispered welcome in a language only the brave know how to answer.

Your boots landed on the pavement. One step after the another. surely you remember the movement. there's only so much a day can take away from you.

The closer you walked to the entrance, the quieter the outside world became. The street behind you faded. The city paused if it could even do that. All you could hear now was the creak of wood beneath your feet as you stepped through the front doors, the soft closing of them behind you.

You found yourself in the hallway.

Long. Polished. Narrow in the way old corridors are. lit warmly with sconces that cast golden glows on textured walls. The murmur of voices came from farther in, down toward the gallery proper. That’s where everyone must be. You imagined them standing in front of the paintings, glasses of wine held loosely, their faces tilted upward in soft admiration, eyes wet in that quiet way art sometimes invited. People standing in front of Minho’s canvases and murmured things like "alive" and "honest" and "brilliant" without ever knowing the sound of his laughter.

But this hallway was empty. Or you thought it was.

You had just reached the halfway point—right where the hallway curved inward—when arms slipped around your waist from behind.

A gasp left you before your body remembered the shape of his.The scent of cedar, lavender soap, and faint varnish clung to him like an afterthought. His arms locked around you with the ease of practice but the fervor of something still new, and for a moment, the world dipped, rearranged itself around this one small plantery motion.

“There you are,” Jungkook murmured, voice rough against your ear.

You turned in his arms, your hands finding the fabric of his shirt like they’d always known how. His sleeves were rolled, just as you imagined, the fine lines of stress still etched around his brow.

His eyes met yours.

And something in your chest loosened.

"Were you looking for me?" you asked quietly.

He replied just as. "I'm always looking for you, angel." There was no flourish in the way he said it. Your breath hitched, a tiniest of movement and Jungkook watched the subtle shift of your expression like a ripple breaking the surface of water.

Gods, he thought, how could he not?

Even now, here, when there was so much else demanding his attention—guests arriving in waves, wine being poured, lights flickering again in the east wing. And still, in every room he walked into, in every face he passed, he found himself searching.

It was ridiculous, really. The way his eyes would scan the corners of the gallery and mistake someone’s hair, the tilt of a shoulder, the sound of your laugh echoing in his head like phantom static. The way his pulse leapt anytime the door opened. The way he felt incomplete if he couldn't place you in the room.

And now you were here. And the world had stitched itself back together.

You didn’t speak at first.

Not because you didn’t want to. But because your heart felt like it was still catching up after it had been walking this hallway too, trying to find its way to him.

“Well, you're the host. I'm sure you must be needed elsewhere too.” you whispered, reaching to smooth the edge of his collar.

Jungkook shook his head gently. “I'm exactly where I want to be.” His hands tightened just slightly at your waist.

He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his fingertips lingering just a beat longer than necessary.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Really okay?”

You hesitated, then whispered, “Now I am.”

He held your gaze for another moment, then dipped his head forward, just enough to press his lips to your forehead, his hands resting warm by your side. The world dimmed in that moment—just the two of you, suspended in quiet, his breath a soft punctuation at the crown of your head. But even as warmth bloomed beneath your ribs, there was a tight, pulsing thread of awareness that curled around your spine.

You stole a glance over Jungkook’s shoulder, eyes flickering to the curve of the hallway behind him—the doorway just around the corner where voices hummed, where glasses clinked, where footsteps could echo down the tile at any moment. Anyone could walk past. People with eyes and mouths and memories. Guests who knew your name. Friends of Minho’s. Colleagues. Distant family.

Anyone could turn the corner and see this—see him with you like this, your bodies tucked into each other. Your hand clenched softly into the fabric at his side. The paranoia was subtle, but it was real. It had crept in somewhere between the second kiss and the third hidden touch.

The thought made you tense, just slightly. He felt it.

“Baby.” Jungkook said, voice low, his hand drifting to the small of your back. “It’s just us.”

“Yeah, but…” Your voice trailed, lips brushing the fabric near his collarbone, your fingers curling into the cotton at his chest. “Someone might come.”

His eyes softened, though there was something that tightened at the corners giving way to a flicker of frustration he didn’t bother to hide. Not at you, obviously. He does'nt think he's capable of ever directing that at you. But at the way the world demanded so much of your caution, your retreat.

He leaned in, his nose brushing yours. "I promise. No one will."

The words curled in your ears, low and purposeful, like he’d carved them for just you. His hand slid up your back, a warm, steady line from your waist to your shoulder. You hated that you thought that they kinda do. You hated the need for shadows and how it has been shaping your frustration. How it has been shaping it in a circle so big you couldn’t tell where it started anymore. Only that it kept coming back. That it always ended with your pulse too loud in your ears and your eyes darting over your shoulder. Like what you were committing to didn’t deserve a place in the daylight.

You have also started eliminating even the possibility of the thought that it maybe didn't. Still, the guilt was no longer clean. It was clouded now, smeared at the edges with longing and the slow, terrible truth that what you had with Jungkook didn’t feel borrowed. It didn’t feel like a thing you could press back into a drawer once the moment was gone. It was the impossibility of compartmentalizing love.

Because how do you mourn someone and move toward someone else, all in the same breath? How do you walk through a gallery built from one man’s art only to fall into the arms of the man who framed it all?

It felt like it had grown roots.

And the more you buried it, the more it pulled at you.

You looked at him now—really looked. His brow furrowed slightly, not from worry but from effort. Like he was thinking, measuring, holding back the words that always swam just below the surface when you were this close.

Instead of saying any of the things tugging at the threads of your mouth, you stepped back just enough to feel the air slip between your bodies. Not far. Just enough for your hand to find his.

His fingers curled around yours instinctively. Always ready.

You looked up at him. “Is it crowded in there?”

"A little." He said. "Some of our colleagues. A few critiques."

You nodded again, absorbing that.

"None of them need to matter, yeah?" he added, searching your face, thumb skimming just beneath your eye. His next words were gentler.

You looked up then, caught the sincerity in his eyes, fought the urge to lean into his touch. Managed another nod. "Yeah...Can we stay a minute more?" The latter come out smaller than you would have expected.

“Take your time,” he nodded. "They can all wait."

You didn’t dare think about the look on his face when he had to let go of your fingers fitted around his after you said you were ready. He only offered a squeeze to your fingers and then let go with a kind of quiet reluctance, like pulling his hand out of warm water. The touch lingered, even as you stepped aside to let him lead the way. You rounded the curve of the hallway together, the voices sharpening in clarity now, glass clinking against glass, the soft rustle of shoes on polished tile growing louder until the threshold broke open and the gallery revealed itself in full.

It was no longer the dim, sacred place. It breathed differently now. Alive with soft light and the lull of conversation, with coats slung over arms and programs curled in curious fingers. Warm gold spilled from fixtures in the ceiling, catching on frames that lined the walls like punctuation. Artwork stretching in long, thoughtful rows, each canvas dressed in celebration. Of someone's unfinished story? you doubted it cared.

You stood still for a moment, toes just brushing the edge of the gallery’s threshold, eyes skimming the room as your body remembered how to belong to this space. The floors had been polished to a mirror shine. Glasses reflected in the glass cases. Someone was laughing softly by the front corner near the sculpture series.Others stood near the windows, wine glasses held delicately, murmuring words like “devastating,” “formidable,” “alive.” It wasn’t performative in a sense that you made up in your head. At least not all of it. You recognized a few of them—students, former professors, one woman who had once hosted Minho’s university exhibit and had cried at his brushwork.

You darted your gaze to Jungkook then. The way he walked just ahead of you now, poised and solid in his dark dress shirt and pressed slacks, shoulders straight, head slightly tilted to catch bits of conversation from passing guests. He looked composed. You assumed or you'd like to think so that he only bared his nerves in front of you. As if the man who used to flinch at compliments and pretend his silence was indifference had taught himself to carry meaning with quiet precision.

But then a man stepped into his path. Tall, suited, carrying a drink and the kind of posture that belonged to someone who used the word “impressionist” a little too often. His smile was sharp and familiar, one of Jungkook’s gallery donors or colleagues, you assumed. Maybe from Seoul. Maybe further. Either way, it took only a moment for you to read the shift in Jungkook’s expression—the subtle recalibration of his shoulders.

He turned to you before the man could fully pull him into conversation, fingers brushing your wrist in a barely-there promise. “I won’t be long.”

You nodded, already letting go. “Of course,” you whispered, because it was all you could offer right now, and maybe all he needed.

The man clapped Jungkook on the shoulder and pulled him aside, voice too loud and smile too bright. You watched them for half a moment—Jungkook answering politely, gaze flickering every so often in your direction like a thread trying not to fray before you eased yourself into the soft tide of the room, letting the current pull you away.

You moved carefully, politely. Like someone trying not to be noticed but still present enough not to be rude. You paused by a small table draped in navy linen, where empty glasses sat beside a quiet arrangement of baby’s breath and ranunculus. Someone offered you a flute of sparkling wine, and you accepted with a quiet smile.

You turned toward one of the walls, drawn in by a piece you hadn’t seen before; one of the mid-sized ones, full of green and amber and soft streaks of silver. The color didn’t move, it shimmered. Softly. Like someone had taken the feeling of being loved quietly and turned it into oil and canvas.

The placard below it simply read:

“Until Then.”

Minho’s signature curled in the corner, the same familiar scrawl you’d once watched him sign onto birthday cards and tax forms and the back of the fridge note that read don’t drink the milk, I’m trying to paint with it.

You had just rounded the sculpture wing—Minho’s smallest works, done in smoothed resin and wire, quiet things that bloomed under light like secrets left in the sun—when you spotted her.

Your mother, standing near the northern alcove, a glass of wine untouched in her hand, fingers curled gently around the stem like she was trying not to leave prints. She looked beautiful beneath the high arch of the window, her coat tucked neatly at her elbow, hair pinned like it always had been like she hadn’t aged a day past the first time she walked into your kindergarten recital.

You slipped beside her, your hand brushing her arm in greeting.

“Hey,” you said quietly.

She turned, her face lighting up with that familiar mix of joy and worry, the kind only a mother could balance so well. “Here you are. I was wondering if you’d gotten swallowed by the hallway.”

“Almost,” you said, managing a faint smile. “But I escaped.”

"where's dad?" you added. 'making friends I think."

Before you could respond, a familiar voice laced into the air from behind.

"Found you."

Mrs. Jeon stood a few feet away, her posture regal even beneath the soft, flattering lights. She wore navy silk—understated but elegant—and her hair was pinned in place with simple pearl combs. Always the portrait of grace, always the kind of woman who held her sorrow like a folded note in the corner of her purse: private, creased, but always within reach. of her, atleast.

Her smile, though, was real. It warmed as she drew nearer.

"Mom." You muttered in muscle memory.“I was hoping to catch you before the crowd did,” she said, pulling you in for a quick, maternal sort of hug. “You look lovely.”

“So do you,” you said honestly, letting yourself be held for the brief second she allowed.

"You look exactly the same, you witch. Do you age backwards?”

Mrs. Jeon turned at the sound of the voice she hadn’t heard in a while—one that still carried the same quiet humor, tinged with a touch of fond exasperation. Her eyes widened slightly before softening, and her expression brightened into something looser, something more like the woman she might’ve been before grief gave her bones new weight.

“Oh, look who’s talking,” she replied with a smile, already moving forward. “Still glowing like you’ve got a secret no one else knows.”

Your mother laughed as they embraced, arms curling gently around each other’s shoulders in a way that spoke of familiarity—of years stitched loosely together with holiday dinners and shared glances from opposite ends of the table.

“It’s been so long,” your mother murmured as they pulled apart. “I’m sorry it took something like this.”

Mrs. Jeon shook her head, brushing it off with a small wave of her hand. “Don’t be. You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

"It's been a long time still. When was even the last time we saw each other properly?"

Mrs. Jeon tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “Hmm—wait, there was that awful fundraiser for the community garden. The one where everyone got food poisoning from the shrimp cocktail.”

Your mother gasped. “That’s right! I completely forgot about that.” Her eyes glittered with the memory. The laugh that followed was lighter than you expected it to be. “We left early and went to get hotteok from that little cart in the alley.”

“We did,” Mrs. Jeon smiled, and something softened in her gaze, her fingers brushing absently over the pearl comb in her hair. “You know, I don’t think I’ve had hotteok since.”

For a moment, it was easy to forget the reason for this gathering. Easy to forget the weight of what this day had always meant.

These were two women who had held time in their hands and offered it gently to each other across decades. You saw it now, plain as anything—in the crinkle of their eyes, in their voices when they leaned closer, speaking not just as in-laws, but as women who had once, maybe still, shared the same kind of heartbreak no parent should have to.

“Has he come?” your mother asked softly, her tone shifting as she scanned the room briefly, no longer talking about students or fashion or time but of something more specific.

Mrs. Jeon’s expression softened, her posture stilling in that way you’d learned to recognize—when something trembled just beneath the grace. She shook her head once. "No." she said, smoothing her hand down the front of her skirt. “He wanted to come. Really, he did. But I guess he had to sit this one out." She passed you a apologetic look and you nodded in reassurance.

Your mother didn’t press either. She simply nodded, and her hand found Mrs. Jeon’s again—a squeeze, not meant to comfort so much as to acknowledge. To say, I know.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she added, turning to you, her hand squeezing your elbow briefly. “I know today couldn’t have been easy.”

"Makes the two of us, mom." You said with crinkle of your eye that earned a acknowledging smile from her.

Reaching out to adjust the collar of your coat like it was second nature, she added. “He’d be proud of you, you know. Both of you.”

You didn’t trust yourself to respond to that with anything other than a quiet, "I hope so."

She let out a breath, slow and steady. “Oh, my dear. He would.”

And then, like all good women who’ve loved and lost and laughed too hard in small corners of too-large rooms, they both smiled again.

Then Mrs. Jeon tucked her arm into your mother’s. “Come on,” she said with a small lift of her chin. “You’ve got to tell me where you found that skirt. And I need wine before I start tearing up in front of a painting again.”

"Oh I've been out of loop for years. I've got to." Your mother said and offered a hand to you. "Would you like to join us, love?"

“You should.I have stories,” Mrs. Jeon promised, and you smiled. "You two should go. I'm gonna look around a bit and try to find Mira. She's here, right?"

“Oh, I saw her by the impressionist wall earlier,” Mrs. Jeon said, glancing over her shoulder. “She looked like she was interrogating someone about varnish techniques.”

“That sounds about right,” you replied with a smile. “I’ll catch up with you both in a bit.”

They nodded, already slipping back into their quiet conversation, and you watched the two of them disappear into the soft murmur of the gallery, heads tilted together like old friends caught mid-thread. You turned then, letting yourself exhale fully for what felt like the first time since you stepped through the door.

A cello murmured somewhere over the speakers, curling between the talking here and there, and the lights glowed honey-gold against the soft canvas walls. Every corner of the room breathed with pigment. you could'nt stop noticing that.

You wandered.

Your boots tread lightly over the polished floor, hands tucked loosely in front of you, eyes scanning the crowd—pausing now and then at paintings you remembered in their messier stages: taped along the kitchen wall, hanging crooked behind your sofa, still smelling of linseed and dust. It was surreal, this setting—so curated, so clean—when you remembered the life that birthed the art was anything but.

You caught a flash of Mira’s hair through the crowd, that soft copper tone that always helped you find her in a room. You lifted a hand slightly, already beginning to weave your way toward her. But before you could call out or lift a hand in greeting, someone stepped into your periphery.

“Excuse me—are you…?”

The voice was tentative, warm with a kind of hesitant reverence. You turned, expecting perhaps one of the donors or a distant family friend, only to find a young man—tall, soft-eyed, and maybe just a little older than Minho had been when he first started teaching.

He looked vaguely familiar, though you couldn’t place him immediately. He stood with a kind of earnestness that was hard to fake, his hands clasped in front of him, suit slightly rumpled like he’d run here from the train.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, offering an apologetic smile. “You probably don’t remember me. I was one of...uh..your husband's students.”

Something gentle shifted in your chest.

“I… didn’t want to intrude,” he added. “But when I saw you, I thought—well, I hoped I could say hello.”

Your throat tightened. You tilted your head and smiled softly, gesturing toward a nearby bench nestled between two hanging pieces—one of them a landscape Minho had once painted after a rainy drive through the mountains. “You’re not intruding,” you said. “Do you wanna sit?"

He seemed almost surprised at the offer, but nodded. You watched him ease into the seat beside you, clearly trying not to take up too much space.

“What’s your name?” you asked gently.

“Jihoon,” he said. “Lee Jihoon. I took one of his electives in my final year. Painting, beginner’s level. I was…awful at it.”

You laughed quietly, a real sound. “He’d argue there’s no such thing.”

“That’s exactly what he used to say.” Jihoon grinned. “Said ‘awful’ just meant you had somewhere to go. I always remembered that.”

There was a pause, full but comfortable.

“I didn’t really know him that well,” Jihoon admitted, his voice softening. “But he remembered my name. Every single week. Asked about my projects. My mood. Even told me once that the colors I picked made him think I saw the world kindly.”

You blinked.

“Not a lot of people say things like that,” Jihoon murmured. “Especially to someone like me. I was a chemistry major—out of place, anxious, tired. Had no idea what I was doing with my life. Until I came across his class, of course."

“That’s so beautiful, Jihoon." you said, the words catching slightly on the edge of your breath. “He always did have a gift for reminding people of their light.”

Jihoon nodded. “I don’t paint anymore. But I kept the last thing I made in that class. Just a mess of color on canvas, really. But sometimes I look at it and think—he saw something in it I didn’t.”

You smiled, blinking against the warmth flooding your eyes. “He had a habit of doing that.”

Another beat passed. The murmur of the gallery swelled around you like background music scored too gently for something so profound.

Jihoon looked over at you, his expression shifting into something fragile, more careful. “I’m really glad I got to meet you,” he said. “I don’t think he ever stopped talking about you in that class. Said if we ever wanted to get him any snacks, bring lemon bars." His face lit up with a quiet smile. “He said you liked lemon better than chocolate.”

You nodded, stunned by how clear the memory was now that it had been stirred. “I did.”

“Still do?”

You lifted a shoulder, the corner of your mouth tilting upward. “Some things never change.”

Jihoon smiled at that—wide and boyish. "That's nice to know." It was gentle, the way his presence sat beside you—like he wasn’t just honoring Minho, but also everything that had grown from knowing him.

Then Jihoon exhaled, slow and almost awed, eyes drifting back across the expanse of the gallery, gaze moving reverently from frame to frame, like each canvas demanded a certain kind of silence. “This gallery… it’s really something. And it’s a beautiful thing you’ve done, putting this together.”

Your heart flinched at that—touched, yes, but instinctively you shook your head.

“Oh—no. It wasn’t me.” You paused, glancing toward the crowd again. Your gaze moved past familiar faces, past wine glasses and framed brushstrokes, until it landed on the person you had, without realizing, been looking for since Jihoon sat down.

He stood just a few feet away, near the long window where the light curved in golden arcs across the floor. He was finishing a quiet exchange with someone in a charcoal suit—one of the critics, you guessed, or perhaps a gallery curator. His posture was easy but alert, as if one part of him remained in every corner of the room at once. His sleeves were still rolled, his collar slightly unbuttoned, and you could tell just by the slight shift of his brow that he was already scanning the crowd for you again.

Of course he was.

You raised a hand and waved, catching his eye. His face lit up—not in a bright, extravagant way, but in the way only people who’d been waiting to breathe could look when they finally did.

He made his way over without hesitation.

You turned back to Jihoon as Jungkook approached, gesturing gently. “That’s who did this,” you said. “That’s Minho’s younger brother. Jeon Jungkook. He’s the one who made all this happen.”

Jihoon blinked, clearly surprised. “That’s his brother? I didn’t know he had one.”

“Not many did,” you murmured. “They were close. Complicated. But close.”

Jungkook reached your side just then, eyes flicking briefly from you to Jihoon before settling somewhere in between—calm, but attentive.

“Hey,” he said to you, his voice a quiet tether. "Everything okay?"

You smiled. “Yeah. Jungkook, this is Jihoon."

Jihoon stood up immediately, offering his hand. “Lee Jihoon, sir. I was one of Minho’s students—back in my undergrad days.”

Jungkook took the hand, gave it a firm shake. “Nice to meet you, Jihoon. I'm Jungkook."

“You too. I was just telling ma'am…” Jihoon glanced toward the paintings on the wall, his expression shifting to something a little more awed, a little more raw. “This place is really special. You’ve honored him in a way that… well, I think he would’ve loved it.”

Jungkook’s jaw tensed almost imperceptibly, but his nod was deep. “He gave us so much,” he said. “This was just… the least I could do. Thank you for coming."

You watched as they stood there, just the two of them for a moment—two people connected only through love for the same person. Different kinds of love. Different shapes. But still, deeply rooted in retention, in ache, in admiration.

Jihoon dwelled for a moment after the handshake, shifting slightly from foot to foot like there was something else he was holding on to, something not yet said. His eyes moved once more over the room—past the guests murmuring quietly before landscapes of borrowed light and rain-drenched rooftops, past the gleam of gallery sconces and the soft ripple of music weaving beneath it all. Then he turned back to you, gaze steadied by something freshly lit.

“Would it be alright,” he asked, voice tentative, “if we—if someone made a toast?”

You blinked at him, surprised.

Jihoon cleared his throat, not quite sheepish, but aware of the weight of what he was suggesting. “I know it’s not that kind of event,” he continued, “and maybe this is out of turn, but… it just feels like we should. I mean—everyone here came because they loved him. Or learned from him. Or knew someone who did. I feel like he deserves that much.”

You were quiet a moment, absorbing that. Your fingers brushed against the hem of your sleeve. Behind you, Jungkook stayed still, close but not pushing. Letting you hold this decision.

Then you smiled—softly, achingly—and looked to Jihoon. “I think he would’ve liked that.”

Jihoon let out a small breath, and for the first time since he introduced himself, his shoulders eased.

Jungkook stepped in then, his voice low as he looked between you both. “Let me get someone to quiet the room.” His hand grazed your lower back briefly before disappearing again as he made his way toward the center of the gallery, where the natural dip in sound could be coaxed into pause.

You and Jihoon watched him go.

Jihoon straightened, cheeks slightly flushed, suddenly shy. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to overstep. It was just a thought.”

“You didn’t,” you said quickly, reaching to squeeze his wrist with a gentle, grateful hand. “It was a good one.”

The lights dimmed ever so slightly in a way that pulled attention without demanding it. Conversations tapered. A curator tapped gently against the side of her glass. Heads turned.

Jihoon glanced at you again, seeking silent permission.

You gave a small nod.

And then he stepped forward, clearing his throat once. “Hi,” he said, voice steadier than you’d expected. “Sorry to interrupt.”

The small squleche that followed was expectant—not cold. Rather, waiting.

“My name’s Jihoon,” he continued, “and I was one of Professor Jeon’s students. I didn’t know him as well as some of you might have. But I think—I think that’s what made him so special. You didn’t have to know him long to feel like you did.”

A few murmurs of agreement. A rustle of someone dabbing their eye with a tissue.

“He taught one class,” Jihoon said, “and I carried the things he said with me for years after. He made you believe you were capable of softness. Of seeing the world differently. Of being part of something even when you didn’t feel like you belonged anywhere.”

You pressed your fingers lightly to your lips, blinking against the sudden sting at the corners of your eyes.

Jihoon looked down, then back up again. “So if no one minds, I’d like to raise a glass. To Professor Jeon Minho. For all the ways he made us see color in places we didn’t know to look.”

There was a quiet chorus of glasses being lifted.

“To Minho,” Jihoon said.

“To Minho,” came the soft, scattered reply.

There was a sereness after Jihoon’s final words. Not silence, exactly—but the kind of quiet that settles after something sacred has been said aloud. For one suspended moment, all you could hear was the soft creak of someone adjusting their stance, the distant clink of a glass set gently onto a tray. A man nodded solemnly, his gaze fixed on the frame nearest him—one of the softer pieces, all dusk and ripple.

And Jihoon just stood there, blinking slowly, like he was still surfacing from whatever place inside him those words had come from. And when he turned toward you, there was something unreadable in his expression. Not pressure. Not expectation.

Just… offering.

He held it out—gentle, like it might break if he wasn’t careful.

“Would you…?” he asked, voice low. “I mean—you don’t have to. But if anyone should…”

Your breath left you all at once.

A soft, dizzying rush.

As if the floor tilted beneath your shoes, and suddenly you were thirteen again, being called up to the front of a school assembly. Your palms itched. The back of your knees tensed. Your first instinct—your strongest—was to shake your head. To step away. To dissolve into the crowd and pretend you were just another guest, just another echo of Minho’s story, not the one who shared the ending.

You hadn’t spoken about him like this. Not out loud. Not in public. Not since—

Not since the funeral.

And even then, the words had been written on a crumpled sheet of notebook paper you never managed to unfold.

You swallowed, blinking past the sudden blur in your vision.

The gallery was full. Packed. Shoulders bumped. Wine was held, not sipped. People who knew you only in tangents were watching now—waiting, not rudely, but with a kind of esteem that made the room feel tighter than it was. Their gazes weren't demanding. But they were present. And that was somehow worse.

Your feet didn’t move.

Your spine stiffened instinctively, not out of pride, but fear. Fear that your mouth would open and nothing would come out. That your voice would catch on the years you spent trying to say his name without crumbling. That they would all look at you and see not a woman still grieving—but a woman trying too hard to prove she still was.

Jihoon seemed to realize it too late.

His hand faltered slightly, his brows lifting in the smallest, guilty apology.

You inhaled through your nose, sharp and steady, the sound of your own breath loud in your ears. Your heart was racing. Thundering. The edges of the room blurred just slightly, like the light had leaned in too far.

This wasn’t how you imagined tonight.

You didn’t imagine standing beneath spotlights with every gaze tipped toward you like glass waiting to crack. You didn’t imagine saying Minho's name aloud in a room full of strangers who only knew the brushstrokes, not the man.

He was yours once. That memory still felt private. Sacred. Could you really put it on display like this? Wasn’t the art enough?

Your eyes darted to the floor. To your palms. To anything but the sudden attention.

And you thought—how does one speak about a person who once turned their love into art and left you with the aftermath of their absence? How does a person speak of someone who still walks the halls of their memory like the floorboards remember his weight?

But eventually, the words would come. And they would be something like: Tentative. Threadbare. But real.

“Hi,” you'd say the word small, too soft for the space at first. You cleared your throat gently. “Um. Sorry. I—I wasn’t planning to speak tonight.”

That would get a quiet laugh from someone.

“Minho wasn’t someone you really planned things with, either,” you'd add, your lips pulling into the barest shape of a smile. “He was… spontaneous. Kind of a whirlwind, honestly. He’d forget his keys three days in a row, but remember a stranger’s birthday after overhearing it in a coffee shop.”

The room would shift slightly—leaning in.

You took a breath. Let it settle.

“My husband wasn’t just a man who painted,” you said. “He was someone who watched the world the way some people listen to music. Closely. Devotionally. He noticed things most people didn't. Messy things. Especially those, I think."

You'd managed a laugh, more breath than sound. And you'd admit, for the first time out loud that grief is messy. It’s changed shape every day. Some days it��s a stone. Some days it’s a fog. Some days it’s a balloon with a string you can’t catch.

You'd pause and you'd tell yourself it's obviously not for dramatic effect. "But tonight is different. Because of all of you. Because you came."

You looked out then, gaze landing softly on Jihoon, on your mother, on Mira’s coppery hair now stilled in the far corner. You saw faces that had once lived only on the edges of memory, now lit by gallery lamps and the weight of shared knowing.

Your eyes, though painted a picture perfect of one man alone in the crown. Found comfort when they found him only.

Standing just behind the crowd now. His hands folded calmly. His head tilted, watching you like you were the only voice in the world. And maybe, for him, you were.

"And this was possible only because of one person."

Your voice would shake—just a little. But not from fear now.

“This was made possible by someone who loved him too. Someone who saw what he meant, not just to me, but to the world. Someone who held my hand when I thought I’d never feel anything but the absence. Someone who…” A unconscious smike would tug at your lips—tired, grateful, breaking gently at the edges. “Who also happens to be my boyfriend.”

And that's the thing about adrenaline.

"Thank you, Jungkook."

Or maybe it was longing, maybe it was just exhaustion wearing a braver face. Maybe it was the ache of having stood on a ledge for so long that when your foot finally moved forward, you mistook the fall for flight.

You didn’t mean to say it.

It had curled out of your mouth before you even registered the gravity of it, like a word said often in thought but never aloud. A word with teeth and color and something terrifyingly irreversible to it. A word that had lived only in backseat glances and unspoken tendernesses, in private touches and the quietness of shared nights.

And for a moment, everything inside of you would go still.

You'd wait—rigid, breath tucked in your chest—for the ripple of it. For someone to count the months, do the math, raise an invisible hand and say what you’ve been saying to yourself every night. The inevitable shift. The stiffened gazes. The whisper sliding across someone’s tongue like a question dressed up in disapproval before they decided how to create into the dirtiest scandle.

No collective sound of gasps would come but the silence would skin you down anyways. It would echo in your blood like something impossible to take back, something that forced you to run from everyone.

You locked the stall door behind you with trembling fingers.

The click of the latch echoed too loudly in the tiled silence, as if the world wanted you to know—yes, you were alone now. Yes, you had done that. Yes, you had said it. Out loud. In a room full of Minho's memories and the people who used to call you his.

You braced your hands against the walls of the stall, palms flat against the cold tile, eyes squeezed shut.

Your breath came shallow.

God.

You were so stupid.

It played again in your head—your voice, too soft and yet entirely too clear, threading through the quell of the gallery like silk cut on glass.

Boyfriend.

You had said boyfriend.

You had said Jungkook’s name and attached boyfriend.

And though none of the terrible things you thought in your head made it out loud, silence, when it’s thick enough, is just another kind of thunder. And now it was echoing between your ribs like a bell toll.

You sank down onto the toilet lid, coat bunched beneath you, elbows on knees, forehead in your hands. Your fingers against your temples like you could keep the shame from spilling further down your face.

What had you done?

You could still feel the phantom warmth of the spotlight on your face. The taste of exhilaration clung to the back of your tongue, sharp and coppery, like you’d bitten into a secret and couldn’t spit it out fast enough.

Why hadn’t you stopped yourself?

Knowing everyone who had been there. Your parents were probably standing near the back, holding a flute of wine with both hands like they always did when trying not to look worried. fingers curled too tight, probably, lips pursesd in a expression you would recognize too well.

And Mrs. Jeon. God.

What must she be thinking?

You had loved her son. Loved him through every phase of boyhood and manhood and married years. You’d sat across from her at too many dinners to count, brought her lemon cakes on Sundays, once helped her fix her shoe in the middle of the grocery store.

And now she’d watched you turn toward the brother. Heard you name him something tender. Watched you stitch that word between your anguish and your present like you hadn’t torn anything in the process.

You had handled it fine up until then. You’d spoken about Minho. You had kept your voice steady, even when your hands had trembled. You had said the hard things—the soft things. The beautiful things. But that one word had been too much. Too fast. Too soon.

Why did you always go too far when it came to him?

And worse—why hadn’t he stopped you?

Why hadn’t he looked away when you’d looked at him?

Why had he stood there, taking it, breathing it, accepting the title like he’d been waiting for it all along?

You had thrown him into the light. You’d stepped outside the one rule you’d both kept tucked beneath your skin since this thing started.

You were so stupid.

You'd undone months of silence in one breath.

And you hated yourself for the part of you that didn't want to take it back.

Because that was the cruelest truth tucked beneath your chagrin. The real reason your stomach twisted and your heart beat so wildly it felt bruised from the inside out that maybe you hadn’t meant to say it. But you had meant it.

And now you couldn’t hide from either.

Did they think you moved on too quickly?

That you had let love grow again in the ruins?

You had wanted so badly for tonight to be about Minho.

About the way he painted loneliness like it was light filtering through stained glass. About the way he had lived—not just the way he had left.

And instead, you had made it about yourself.

About you and Jungkook and the impossible thing that bloomed between the wreckage.

You could already imagine it. The murmurs. Soft as oil and sharp as glass.

“Did you know?”

“So soon?”

“Well, he was her brother-in-law…”

Your hands curled into fists against your knees. You hated that you could hear them before they spoke. Hated even more that a part of you feared they were right. That some version of yourself had always been selfish enough to want to be held again, even if it came in a contours you weren’t supposed to take comfort in.

Even if it wore your husband’s last name.

You pressed your forehead to your palms and breathed in through your nose, sharp and careful.

You didn’t know how longer it would take for your breath to even out or more importantly, how long will it before you find the courage to step inside, face everyone.

Time slowed in the tile-slick silence. You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears, thudding out some rhythm of regret. Beneath the thin fabric of your blouse, sweat cooled over your spine, a second skin of discomfort. Your coat, wrinkled beneath you, smelled faintly of rosewater and nerves.

You stared at the hinge of the stall door like it might open on its own. Like someone would find you here and drag you gently into sense, or kindness, or forgetting.

But no one did.

Not for a while.

Not till there was a knock.

You froze instantly.

Just one. Light. Then another, softer this time, like maybe they realized what this was. A retreat. A rupture even.

You opened your mouth, voice caught in the wires of your throat, about to say—occupied—or sorry—or please go—but the voice that came next was not one you expected.

“Sweetheart?”

You blinked.

Your spine went taut, then loose, as if the air itself sighed through your bones. You pressed your palms flat against the stall wall again, steadying yourself against the name.

Not Jungkook’s. Not your mother’s.

Mrs Jeon. Oh Jesus.

You closed your eyes.

Her voice didn’t come again, but you heard the gentle scuff of her heel shift just once, as if she didn’t need to knock again. As if she already knew you were on the other side, already knew what you were doing in there. As if she had once stood exactly where you were, though not in a gallery bathroom, not in navy silk, but somewhere private and full of guilt of her own.

She didn’t rush you.

Didn’t tap her fingers against the wood or call your name again like some well-meaning warning.

Just asked for confirmation. "Are you in there?"

You lowered your hands slowly, tears unshed but dangerously close, and stared at the small strip of her shadow beneath the stall.

You wanted to bolt.

You wanted to speak.

You wanted to rewind time.

Instead you dared again and answered. "Yes."

Your voice ragged and small cracked through the silence like a thread fraying loose again.

“…Did you hear it?”

There was a long pause.

“Yes.”

Your stomach flipped.

Another breath drew.

“Do you think less of me now?”

It took her a moment. But when she answered, it was without hesitation.

“No.”

She didn’t say it’s okay. She didn’t say I understand. She didn’t reach for platitudes or soft versions of a dejection you both carried like broken mirrors. She simply answered what you’d asked. Somehow that was what made your throat cave in.

“I was twenty-four,” she said, almost conversationally. “When I said something like that."

You blinked.

“It was a dinner party. The first one I attended. I said it too easily. Laughed like it meant nothing. But it did.”

Another pause. Then:

“I threw up in the bathroom afterward. Swore I’d never go to another dinner again.”

You felt your lips twitch—wet with something like a laugh, but broken at the edges.

“Did you go to another one?”

She hummed softly. “Eventually. You do things again. Not because you stop feeling, but because feeling changes. Becomes something you live with, not something you live inside.”

The silence that followed didn’t hurt the same way anymore.

When she spoke again, her voice was nearer to the door, like she had leaned just slightly in.

“Come out when you’re ready, sweetheart. I’m right here.”

Then her heels clicked softly against the tile, retreating with the same grace she always wore.

And for the first time since stepping into the bathroom, your breath moved all the way through your chest.

You weren’t sure how long you sat there after her footsteps faded.

A minute? Five? The kind of silence that doesn't tick, but swells. It filled the corners of the room, the hollow just beneath your ribs. You listened to it. To your breathing. To the subtle shift of water in the pipes behind the wall. You focused on the small things, the mundane ones—just long enough to believe the larger ones might not crush you once you stood.

Eventually, your knees cracked softly as you rose.

Your coat shifted around your hips. Your hands reached for the lock. A breath before the click. Another after. You opened the door slowly, stepped into the stillness of the restroom like someone learning how to inhabit her own skin again.

The light outside the stall was unforgiving, but Mrs. Jeon was not.

She stood a few steps away, hands folded gently in front of her, her shoulders soft with patience. And when her eyes met yours, she didn’t search your face for shame or answers.

She only opened her arms.

And you stepped in like a child too old to be held, but still needing to be.

The smell of her perfume—something floral and faintly spiced—wrapped around you like memory. Her arms didn’t grip. They gathered. And somehow, the simple weight of that embrace unspooled something inside your chest that panic hadn’t quite broken yet.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean any of it. I swear, I was trying so hard to be careful. I know how it must look. I know—”

She pulled back just enough to see your face, her hands still resting on your arms.

“Honey,” she said, voice quiet, eyes impossibly kind, “you’re talking like you’ve committed a crime.”

You flinched. “But I—God, I've been keeping this from you and everyone for so long. That doesn't feel fair."

“People who already knew,” she said gently.

You blinked. “What?”

She gave you a look—dry, fond, just the tiniest bit wry. “Darling, please. You think none of us noticed the way my son looks at you like he’s one second away from his heart bursting?” She squeezed your arms. “You said it. That’s all. You didn’t invent it tonight.”

You bit your lip. Shook your head like it might keep the tears from cresting again. “I thought I heard someone say something. A woman—by the back wall. She said something like… like it didn’t take me long.”

“Oh, that,” Mrs. Jeon said lightly, brushing your hair back as if to say not worth it. “You mean the one in the red shawl with the loud opinions and the knockoff purse?”

You blinked, stunned by the precision.

“She said something awful,” you whispered.

“I’m sure she did,” she said. “Right before Jungkook told her if she so much as muttered another syllable in his girlfriend's direction he’d personally make sure her husband’s antique store on Fifth lost its foot traffic forever.”

Your mouth parted. “He—what?”

Mrs. Jeon gave an elegant shrug, smoothing the sleeve of her jacket. “He was polite about it. But it was... unmistakable.”

You blinked again, and the breath that escaped you was half-laugh, half-sob. “Of course he did.”

“He’s terribly protective,” she said, glancing at you with a smile that was a little too knowing. “Gets that from his mother.”

It took you a moment to laugh—really laugh—but when you did, it broke through like sunlight behind thunderclouds.

“I just… I don’t want people to think I forgot Minho.”

She tilted her head, her hand coming up to smooth your hair behind your ear. “Sweetheart. No one who’s ever known you could think that. Least of all me.”

You looked down, voice low. “I didn’t want tonight to be about me.”

“It wasn’t.”

You met her eyes.

"What about my parents?" you asked quietly, your voice catching on the question like it had been waiting there all along. “Did they look mad? Disappointed?”

Mrs. Jeon gave a soft sigh, the kind that came from years of reading rooms, faces, silences. Her hand smoothed down your arm like she was pressing a wrinkle from cloth, calming you in increments.

“They’re planning to talk to Jungkook,” she said simply, brushing invisible lint from your shoulder. "Having a word with him, to be exact."

Your breath caught. “Oh god.”

Mrs. Jeon gave a small, amused shake of her head. “Don’t worry. I'm sure they're just making sure he treats their daughter right." She paused. “They’re not angry. I promise you that. A little surprised, perhaps. But not angry. No one's angry with you."

She staryed again.“I told her I’d beat her to it,” she said simply. “Can’t have him thinking he’s off the hook just because he's all grown up in a suit."

Your mouth opened, then closed. “You’re serious.”

“As a heart attack.”

You nodded slowly, absorbing it, but your hands still clutched the edge of the sink like they needed something real to tether you.

A silence passed between you, then two. You tried to swallow the knot forming at the base of your throat, but it was impossible to hide the flush rising in your cheeks. Your voice came small, hesitant. “You’re… really okay with this?”

Mrs. Jeon looked at you in that particular way only someone who’d known you through every winter and every spring could. She reached forward and took your hand. Held it firmly.

“You tell me something,” she said, and her voice was quieter now, careful in the way it stepped into the softest parts of you. “Are you happy?”

Your eyes met hers.

The word hovered in your chest, terrified and blooming all at once.

You bit your lip, shoulders curling in, and nodded—small at first, then a little more certain. “Yes,” you whispered.

Mrs. Jeon let out a slow breath, like she’d been waiting to hear it for longer than she let on.

“Then that’s all that matters.”

You looked at her, eyes glassy.

“It was about time,” she said, smoothing a strand of hair away from your face again. “About time you finally put that poor boy out of his misery.”

You groaned in exasperation. "Mom!"

She laughed, not cruelly, but full of something knowing and warm. "What? Not my fault he was so obvious before he even knew how to spell your name properly.”

You smiled again. Free and a little stunned by how light your chest suddenly felt.

“Come on,” she said, smoothing her skirt with one hand and tugging your arm with the other. “Let’s go rescue him from whatever emotional purgatory he’s pacing through in that hallway.”

You let her pull you forward but you don’t get to rescue your boyfriend. You're rather met with a very heartbroken Mira who demands answers and pulls you away before you can even get the chance too.

She stepped back, pulled out her phone, and dialed with the urgency of a 911 operator.

“Hobi?” she said when the line picked up. “Yeah, hi, I know you’re probably making out with your date or something, but this is an emergency.”

You blinked. “What are you doing?”

She gave you a look. “You said you needed a drink, right?”

“…I did, but—”

“Well then.” She turned slightly away. “You’re not going back anywhere tonight until you explain everything to me in the proper setting, which is clearly a bar with sticky menu. Hobi? Yeah. Bring your wallet."

You watched her hang up and start marching toward the coat check like a woman with a mission. And you followed because this was the girl who’d held your hair back and fed you soup in silence the first week after Minho died. The one who knew when to fight, when to joke, and exactly when to say nothing at all.

The bar Mira chose was exactly what you needed and absolutely what she promised: questionable neon signage, vinyl booths held together with decades of duct tape and bad decisions, and a jukebox that alternated between early 2000s heartbreak anthems and ABBA on repeat. The air smelled like lemon-scented cleaner that didn’t quite mask the ghost of spilled beer, and the lighting was so dim you could’ve sworn everyone wore built-in Instagram filters.

You slid into the corner booth, coat still damp from the walk over, cheeks raw from wind and embarrassment, and Mira slid in across from you like she was preparing for a high-stakes interrogation.

Hoseok arrived moments later, hair wind-swept and cheeks pink from the cold, looking far too good to be in a place with this much wallpaper peeling off the walls. He dropped into the booth beside Mira with the chaotic energy of someone who had just abandoned a very flirty date and wasn't over it.

“Boyfriend?" he said in lieu of hello. "Why am I not suprised that Mr firm hands is the boyfriend?"

You gave him a look. “Are you… judging me?”

“Oh no,” he said, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Not judging. Just trying to understand how I didn’t know this was happening.”

“You were busy dating someone named Seulgi who calls you ‘sunbeam’ and posts about her salads on Instagram,” Mira shot back, flagging down a waiter with a sharp flick of her fingers. “Now respectfully shut up and let her talk.”

You stared down at the menu, even though it was mostly beer stains and crossed-out prices. Mira reached over and gently pulled it from your hands. “You don’t need this. You need fries, something fried, and probably a little tequila.”

“Tequila?” you murmured.

“Don’t argue with the doctor,” Hoseok added, even though Mira was most definitely not a doctor.

The drinks arrived fast—too fast, which meant they were going to taste like regret—and a bowl of over-salted fries landed in the middle of the table with a satisfying clatter.

You sipped your drink slowly, felt the warmth of it bloom at the back of your throat, and only then let yourself exhale.

“It wasn’t—God, it wasn’t like that,” you said, palms out now, defensive and pleading all at once. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you. It just happened. And then it kept happening. And then suddenly it felt like telling anyone would break it. Ruin everything.”

Mira stared at you, all righteous betrayal and mascara-smudged emotion. Her voice cracked just a little when she said, “But me?”

You let out a shaky exhale, your voice breaking into something small, something that couldn’t be smooth no matter how you tried. “I didn’t not trust you. Please don’t think that. I was scared.”

“Scared of me?”

“No,” you said softly, “of saying it out loud. Sorry, it sounds pitiful."

Mira studied you for a long breath. Then, like she’d squeezed all the anger out of her in one long sigh, she deflated a little. She still looked hurt, but her eyes softened.

“I should’ve told you,” you said quietly. “I just didn’t know how.”

She stared at you for a long moment, then slid her glass aside and reached across the table. “I’m still mad,” she said, “but I love you. And I’m glad you didn’t end up in a fling with those dates they used to send you on. Yikes! At least you picked Jungkook. Who clearly worships the ground you walk on.”

“Oh, I bet.” Hoseok added, “don't know him much but oh, I bet."

You winced or flushed but you wouldn't like to use that word. “That’s not—”

“He does,” Mira said, crossing her arms. “He did. Everyone saw it. Except you, apparently. Until now.”

“look,” you said defensively. “I just… I didn’t think it’d become anything.”

Mira made a sound that was equal parts sympathy and exasperation. “Yoongi told me years ago,” she said, picking up a mozzarella stick and pointing it at you like a weapon. “Said something like, ‘Your friend’s maybe as oblivious as she pretends. But my cousin’s a lost cause.’”

"Your husband speaks?" Hoseok snorted into his glass.

That earned him a punch to the side. He groaned so dramtically the five people in the space turned around. You wrapped your fingers around the base of your glass and stared into the fizzing surface. God, you loved them.

“I just didn’t want it to look like I was replacing him,” you murmured, not looking up. “Minho.”

Mira’s teasing stilled. Hoseok’s posture softened.

“You’re not,” Mira said, and her voice was quieter now. “And anyone who thinks you are can choke on their free gallery wine.”

“I’m serious,” you said, twisting the glass between your hands.

Mira tilted her head, one of her hands coming to rest gently over yours. "So am I. I almost dropped my canape when you said it. I even grabbed the old lady next to me.”

"That sounds very serious." Hoseok expressed.

You laughed, reluctantly. “I’m glad,” Mira said, serious again. “Even if I hate that you didn’t tell me, and I will absolutely be holding it over your head until the day we die. I’m glad. Because you’re here. Laughing. Smiling."

You reached for a napkin and dabbed at your eyes. “Thanks.”

And after that—after the napkin had soaked up the last streak of guilt, after Mira’s hand squeezed yours a little tighter, and Hoseok slid a second shot glass in your direction with all the pomp of a coronation—the night began to dissolve in that peculiar, beautiful way nights do when something heavy has been named and nobody lets go.

You drank.

And even that seemed like a understatement.

Not to forget anything but to remember yourself. The version of you that wasn’t shadowed by what you were afraid people would say. The one who dared to call someone hers in a room full of ghosts and memories and didn’t completely fall apart after.

It was baffling.

It was miraculous.

And, God, it was exhausting.

The drinks made everything blur—delightfully at first, then in a way that made your friends exchange glances. You heard Mira say something like “She’s cut off after this one,” and Hoseok immediately counter with “Let her live,” and then you couldn’t hear them anymore because the bar’s speakers erupted into some throaty love song.

Your cheek pressed against Mira’s shoulder for a while, though you couldn’t recall when it landed there. She’d draped your coat over your knees like a blanket and was scrolling through photos on her phone with Hoseok, both of them whisper-laughing, passing the screen back and forth like teenagers.

You looked at them, and something inside you melted—not from the alcohol, not from the bar’s molten heat though that was quiet unbearable too—but from the simple fact of being held.

A feeling you hadn’t known two nights ago, two years back. The universe hadn’t cracked open and swallowed you whole. The chandelier hadn’t fallen from the ceiling. No one had thrown wine at your face or cornered you near the shrimp cocktail with cruel questions about the morality of love.

Instead, the world pitched ever so slightly to the left every time you blinked. The jukebox had moved on to Fleetwood Mac now—some slow, melancholy guitar that wrapped around your temples like gauze. You couldn’t feel your legs. Or maybe you could. They just didn’t want to move.

The fry basket had long since turned cold, and your drink—whatever remained of it—sat abandoned in front of you, a wedge of lime floating like a lifeboat in stormy water. You blinked down at it and considered saying something. Couldn’t remember what.

“Okay,” Mira said, voice low but distinctly not subtle, “that’s enough for her.”

You lifted your head, eyes heavy-lidded. “Wha—? No. M’fine.”

“Sure you are,” she muttered, already pulling her phone out of her coat pocket. “And I’m the queen of France.”

“I am fine.” You sat up straighter, blinked hard at her, as if that proved something. The booth spun gently. “Mmmfine,” you mumbled. “Jus’ warm. Floor’s doing a little… wavy thing.”

Hoseok’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s not the floor. That’s your tequila tangoing with the bad decisions.”

Mira gave him a look before pulling her phone out of her purse.

“Noooo,” you groaned, pawing at her wrist with absolutely no coordination. “Don’t. I’m fine. I’m just… appreciating...”

“You’re appreciating everything too much,” Mira muttered, unlocking her phone with her thumb. “He deserves to know.”

You blinked blearily. “Who?”

She didn’t answer you. Thumbs tapping furiously. You tried to grab her wrist, missed by a margin you weren’t proud of. Just pressed the phone to her ear and stood from the booth, pressing one finger into her other ear to muffle the noise of the bar.

You slumped back, staring at your half-finished drink like it had betrayed you. Hoseok reached over and silently took it away.

“Miraaaa,” you called, dragging her name like a scarf behind you. “She’s being… dramatic. Over…reacting. I could walk home.”

Hoseok said, “you just mistook a fork for your phone.”

You stared at the table. “...Did I?”

He nodded solemnly. “Twice.”

“Jungkook,” Mira said sweetly into the phone now pressed to her ear, “hi. Yeah, she’s—no, no, she’s alright. We’re at that little dive near the station. You know the one with the broken neon cactus sign? Yeah. She’s, um…” A glance at you, hunched like a tragic poet over the tabletop. “She’s had a night.”

You sat up with all the indignation of a drenched cat. “A night?” you hissed.

Mira patted your shoulder. “Don’t worry. He said he’s on his way.”

You blinked, your voice in unison with Hoseok’s. “Already?”

"Already." Mira echoed.

You groaned and buried your face into her shoulder again. “Noooooo.”

“Yes,” she cooed. “Yes, ma’am."

You let out a slow, melodramatic exhale, sliding lower in the booth, your face half-buried in your coat. “This is humiliating.” You didn’t say anything after that. You couldn't and you didn't think you could even hear when the door to the bar creaked open. Not really.

The world had dulled to a low, sluggish hum, softened by liquor and dim light and the weight of your own mortification. But Hoseok glanced up, muttered something under his breath about “the cavalry,” Mira lifted her head, glanced over your shoulder, and then tilted her chin in that way that always meant: look sharp.

Not that you could.

You barely had time to blink before you caught the scent of him.

Jungkook’s cologne always managed to find you first—cedar and lavender, dusk and heat. Then the weight of his presence settled behind you like gravity, and before you could lift your head or find your voice, his shadow stretched over the booth.

His eyes found Mira first. A curt nod. Grateful. Barely spared Hoseok a glance. Hoseok looked almost grateful for it.

“Thanks for calling,” he murmured.

Mira didn’t flinch beneath his seriousness. “Thanks for coming,” she replied simply, standing up and gathering your coat like a reflex.

You stirred at that, blinking up at the blur of black shirt, rolled sleeves, and the soft fall of dark hair just slightly wind-tousled. He looked unfairly beautiful for someone who'd just found you curled into a booth like a regretful blanket. His jaw was set tight, you really hoped it was not anger.

He didn’t glance around. Didn’t blink against the tacky lighting or the low thrum of music. Just made a beeline toward your side of the booth, and for one breathless moment, you thought maybe he’d try to coax you out gently.

Instead, he looked down at you—your ridiculous half-hunched self curled in a coat that had long since become your second skin—and without preamble or ceremony, he scooped you up. Just like that.

Just a sure, practiced ease, like he’d been doing this for lifetimes. Like the world made more sense when you were in his arms and he didn’t have to guess where you were anymore.

You yelped.

He didn't say anything, just adjusted your weight slightly and wrapped his coat tighter around you.

But you felt the slow exhale he gave through his nose.

Not a sigh. Something closer to relief.

He tilted his head to Mira again when she spoke.

Mira’s expression had softened. “Don’t forget to make her eat something. And maybe—y’know—hydration?”

“I’ve got it.”

You were already half asleep against him.

Half awake.

All warmth and clumsy enegry, with your head tucked beneath his chin, the wind nipping at your cheeks while your fingers curled into the front of his shirt like some last-minute apology stitched into cotton. The air outside the bar was bitter enough to bite the inside of your lungs, and it sobered you in slivers—slow, fogged pieces of clarity threading through the haze like dawn slipping between window blinds.

But neither of you said anything.

He didn’t look down at you.

He didn’t speak.

Only the faint sound of his boots hitting pavement filled the space—cadenced, unbothered, maddening in its calm.

You let your cheek fall heavier against his chest, where his heart should’ve been louder. But it wasn’t. It was steady. Frustratingly so.

Your lips brushed against the fabric of his collar. You felt his heartbeat pick up. It felt charged now, as if both of you had bad thoughts trying to form, pushing through the quiet in crooked shapes and half-decisions.

You wanted to say something.

You wanted not to say something.

Your mouth tastes like tequila and fear and bad timing. God, you were all about bad timings today, weren't you?

You turned your head slightly, breath catching on the scent of him. The movement made your stomach sway, but you managed.

You swallowed. "Koo?" You asked in a voice barely above the wind. The nickname slipping out thick and syrupy from your mouth. The sober you would have winced at yourself the second it did.

Good thing you were not.

Before there was an audible response, you heard the sound of his breath catching. Muttering a incohered curse under his breath. "Yes, angel?"

You fiddled with the fabric of his shirt where your fingers rested. “Y-You mad at me?”

He didn't answer at first. His jaw tensed once, twice, the movement as familiar as the sound of your voice laced with slur and shame.

His eyes stayed forward. Watching the parked cars blur past like it mattered more than the conversation pressing in the air between you. Watching the lines in the concrete like they might give him something to focus on other than the pounding of his pulse.

Because your question so slurred and soft and soaked in all the wrong kinds of courage had landed somewhere sharp in him. Not painful, exactly. But startling. Like someone tapping on glass that had long since been sealed shut.

“Are you asking me that because you got drunk?"

"I'm not too drunk-" You mumbled, trying to line your spine straighter and immediately regretting it when your vision swans. "I mean, yeah, okay, I'm a bit- I mean I drank but that's not what I meant.

"What did you mean?" He asked, not unkindly. Voice low, like he already knew but needed you to say it again anyway. Needed to hear it from your own clumsy, slurred lips.

“I meant—fuck.” You groaned, dropping your forehead against his collar. "for what I did. Back there. At the gallery.”

It had rung through him with the violence of something gentle. And that was the worst kind, wasn’t it? The soft truths. The ones you didn’t brace for.

He had spent so long keeping this thing quiet; out of respect, out of fear, out of the twisted need to protect what didn’t yet have a name. He had convinced himself it was better that way. That if he never said it out loud, he couldn’t lose it. That the world couldn’t break what the world didn’t know existed.

And then you’d just carved him into your life liturgy. The only that he'd felt was unhooked.

God, how were you still scared of that? How could you not see it still?

Your hair smelled like lemon shampoo and something warm. sugar, maybe. Your breath still carried the ghost of tequila and lime and the kind of boldness people only conjure up when they don’t think they’ll remember it later.

He felt you pick nervously at the seam of his collar, like maybe that was safer than looking at his face.

You didn’t know that he’d replayed your voice a hundred times already.

Didn’t know that when you said it. His entire body had stilled. Had gone hot, then cold, then weightless.

You didn’t know that it had taken everything in him not to walk across that gallery and kiss you in front of everyone. The urge was so strong, the relief was so overwhelming that it had nearly leveled him.

And still, here you were fearing the thing he had dreamed of.

He finally spoke.

“Angel,” he said, voice low, careful, “I have been yours for a long time. I thought about it. Dreamed of hearing you call me that for longer than I’ll ever admit. Over dinner maybe. But I don't care where it happened."

You went still in his arms.

He tilted his head, just enough to brush his cheek against your hair.

“I’m not mad,” he said again, softer now. "I'm fucking elated." He rasped low, one hand tightening on your thigh, the other cradling your back like a secret. "And I'm just trying not mess it up."

Before you could make more of the latter, his parked car came in view.

The door clicked open, leather and warmth spilling into the night. He placed you into the passenger seat like you were made of glass—though that was nothing new. He always held you like that. As if the ache in you had a physical symmetry, and he was the only one allowed to carry it.

And maybe it was the night, or the alcohol still warm in your veins, or the sheer disbelief that your world hadn’t crumbled after your confession. But you believed him.

You slumped into the seat, curling into the warmth of his coat that he hung around your shoulders, the hem pooled at your lap like a blanket.

“so…you still wanna be my boyfriend?”

He laughed—really laughed this time, soft and low, one hand bracing on the top of the car door. Then he leaned in, pressed a kiss to your temple, and whispered.

“Forever, if you’ll have me.”

When he finally closed the door and climbed into the driver’s side, the cabin filled with that muted, in-between silence. The kind where things weren't okay yet—but maybe on their way.

The heater came on with a soft whir, chasing off the cold from your knees. You barely noticed it, half curled beneath his coat, one boot unbuckled and heel slipping off as your foot tucked up against the seat like you had no intention of looking composed.

Outside, the streetlights blurred through the window. Pale yellow and blinking, like they couldn’t quite keep their eyes open either. The windshield fogged a little from your breath, everything smudging into something dreamlike and quietly unreal.

You didn’t speak for a moment. Just watched the haze of the window, your cheek nestled into the fleece of his coat collar. But your chest was loud. Restless.

Because for all the softness he wrapped you in, for all the peace you should’ve felt, you couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that if tonight hadn’t gone like it did, you might still be pretending you were just shadows again. That this wasn’t real.

Your fingers clenched gently at the hem of his sleeve where it had fallen across your lap. You sat there like that for a while, quiet and too full of all the wrong questions. Only to repeat.

"Koo?"

Your voice, thick with exhaustion and treacly from the weight of everything you’d drunk and everything you hadn’t said.

He hummed, fingers flexing against the steering wheel, gaze flicking toward you but not quite leaving the road yet.

You turned your head slowly toward him, your forehead creasing a little as the warmth from the heater tangled too hot against your cheek. “I… I don’t wanna go home.”

The words were blurry. Fumbling. Like they’d been handed to you in pieces and you hadn’t had time to stitch them back together.

But they were true. That they were.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just glanced at you from the corner of his eye. A muscle in his jaw ticked, and you watched the careful tension in his knuckles where they wrapped around the wheel.

You bit your lip. “Not—not forever. Just. Y’know. Just not… tonight."

You sniffled once, rubbing at your nose like a child, embarrassed by the confession but too drunk to walk it back. “Please don’t take me home.”

Jungkook exhaled softly. A sound that felt too much like relief for someone being asked for something so heavy.

“Good thing,” he said at last, turning the car down a different street, his voice curling warm and dry like smoke in your ear, “I’ve got a habit of taking you anywhere but.”

You sighed, relaxing deeper into the seat. “You’re not real,” you murmured. “You're… like. A fever dream. With like really... good cologne.”

Jungkook chuckled lowly, eyes flicking to your profile again, this time longer. “Drunk you’s a menace.”

“I'm sensitive,” you corrected, slurring. “Be nice.”

He reached across the console and found your hand without even looking. Threaded his fingers through yours and held it there like it was always meant to be.

“I am,” he said. “Always.”

“Your nose,” you whispered, studying him like you were discovering the shape of him for the first time. “It’s really pretty. Like. Like you paid someone. But you didn’t, did you? That’s just you.”

He bit back a laugh. “That’s just me, angel.”

You poked the tip of it with the gentleness of a feather. “Insulting.”

“Deeply.”

And then you kissed it.

Quick. Clumsy. The faintest press of lips to the slope of bone. Like you were branding him with your approval.

“Drunk,” he murmured, but he didn’t sound annoyed. If anything, he sounded like he was retaining you.

You nestled your face into his neck again, legs wrapped tight around his torso with his palms supporting your weight hanging off of him. Docking you to him the moment he slipped the car into some underground garage and stepped out without a word, circling to your side. Didn’t even wait for permission. Apparently when you flinched with a tiny sound, then whined when your limbs refused to cooperate was reason enough. You were up in his arms again before the cold could touch your ankles, the world tilting briefly before settling against his chest. You had blinked, dazed, then turned your face upward. “Warm,” you replied.

Jungkook made a noise that was halfway between a laugh and a sigh, the kind of sound someone makes when they’re trying not to fall even deeper in love than they already have.

You hummed a note of agreement, then leaned forward and pecked the tip of his nose again like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Boop.”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, and kept walking, a little faster now.

The lobby was sleek and quiet, lit low with ambient light that glittered off the marble floor. A sleepy doorman nodded as Jungkook passed. You didn’t even ask where you were until the elevator opened directly into a hallway with only one door, black, modern, heavy. You blinked as he shifted you gently in his arms and pressed the keypad. The soft chime of the lock sliding open echoed too loudly in your ears.

“Where…” You blinked again as he nudged the door open with his shoulder. “Where are we?” This wasn’t your apartment. This wasn’t his parent's place. Did'nt exactly look like a hotel or if it was it was a really expensive one. This wasn’t anything you knew.

He set you down slowly—like a ribbon being untied—and turned on the light with a quiet flick of his fingers. Warm, dim lighting spilled into the room, softening everything to velvet edges. The floor beneath your boots was heated tile. The couch in the center of the room was oversized, draped in soft gray throws. There were no bright colors. No screaming art. Just low lines of furniture, oak and ash tones, clean details that whispered instead of shouted. You could see hints of habit: a stack of books with bookmarks poking out crookedly near the couch. A worn mug sitting on the edge of a console table. A leather jacket flung across a chair like it belonged there. Which it probably did.

There was a piano by the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Of course there was a piano.

You stood still, swaying gently in your own boots, the air too warm against your skin now after the chill of the street. You stared across the space with wide eyes, lips parted, trying to absorb the fact that you’d never stepped foot in this place, and yet… there was something terribly intimate about it. About all of it.

It looked like somewhere important people lived. Or people who wanted to be left alone.

You moved forward carefully, shrugging out of his coat and draping it over the arm of the couch like you were afraid to wrinkle anything. The floors were silent beneath your boots, and the air had the clean scent of lemon balm and something else you couldn’t name something earthy. Sage, maybe.

You turned toward the open kitchen across the loft just in time to catch the warm flick of the fridge light opening. Jungkook stood there sockedfeet now, sleeves still rolled, a glass in one hand and the other pushing aside a cabinet door.

And your eyes stuttered. Not at him. (You’d long since gotten used to the way he looked like sin and salvation in dim light.)

But at the contents of the cabinet. You swear you just got a peak of dozens of tea boxes. Not just one brand or two—but everything from supermarket bags to specialty tins, chamomile to lavender to citrus blends. Lined like he’d been collecting them, like someone who maybe didn’t even drink tea but wanted to be prepared in case someone who did ever stayed the night.

He poured the water.

Set the glass down.

And only then turned to you.

You were still staring.

His brow lifted slightly, but he didn’t speak.

You felt suddenly too sober. Or maybe just drunk in a different way now. “What… is this place?”

Jungkook stilled.

It was a half-second pause small, almost imperceptible but you caught it. The way his hands slowed, the way his eyes darted once toward the far window before coming back to you.

He wiped his palm on a dish towel, came around the counter, and set the glass gently in your hands. You took it, grateful for something to focus on. It was cool and smooth and anchored you just enough.

"it’s… it’s really…” You looked around again. “Expensive-looking.”

Jungkook ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching in the strands at the back then the same hand reached out to steady your elbows like he didn’t trust you not to float away. His voice, when it came, was low. Soft in that Jungkook way like gravel dragged through silk.

“I bought it,” he said. “Next day after the night at Kim's."

Your brows pulled together slowly.

“It was impulsive,” he admitted. “Probably stupid. But I couldn’t sleep. I felt like I needed to make space for something that might never happen." He needed to make space for the possibility of you. Because who was Jeon Jungkook if not the most hopless of case when it comes to you.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

“I didn’t know if I’d ever get to bring you here,” he said, eyes not quite meeting yours. “But I bought it anyway.”

You blinked slowly, piecing the words together. Your fingers lifted to press against your lips, as if trying to feel the echo of what you’d confessed there.

“This is yours?” you asked, like it still didn’t quite make sense.

He only said the simplest of truths. "It can be ours."

It felt too big for the room and too small at the same time.

“ours?” you repeated, tasting it.

He gave you a crooked smile, faint and self-conscious. “Well. That was the hope.”

Your heart tripped somewhere in your chest.

You looked around again, slower this time. Noticed the wine glasses above the sink, still drying. A photo frame faced down on the side table like it hadn’t been ready to be displayed yet. A stack of takeout menus in the corner, one with a smudge of sauce on it. A blanket draped over the back of the couch, creased like someone had slept there recently.

“Have you… stayed here?”

He nodded once. “Sometimes. When I needed to breathe." When he wanted to imagine you in here.

He didn't plan to tell you that part.

The truth of how often he came here, and you were in every corner of it.

He watched you now, standing there in the soft yellow glow of pendant lights, barefoot on the tile with your hair a little wild, your eyes flicking from one piece of furniture to the next like they were giving away secrets. And Jungkook—God, Jungkook had never known what it meant to wrench quietly until he imagined you here for the first time. Until he watched you exist in a space he had once only filled with feasibility.

He had picked that couch because it looked like it could hold two people who didn't mind tangling legs. Had stood in the kitchen and wondered if you'd drink your coffee by the window. Had stared at the second drawer by the bathroom sink and thought, that’s where she could keep her earrings.

He didn’t say any of that.

Didn’t confess the way he’d lain on that very couch more than once, staring at the ceiling and trying to imagine what your laugh would sound like bouncing off these walls.

He hadn’t wanted to jinx it. But he’d wanted it.

He still did.

“Were you gonna tell me? About this place?”

He smiled a little—wry, sheepish. “Eventually.”

“Why wait?”

“Because,” he said, stepping closer, “I didn’t want to give you something you didn’t ask for. Not unless you were ready to want it, too. Was'nt that right?"

Then, without meaning to, you took a small step forward and wrapped your arms around his waist. Clung. He didn’t hesitate. His arms were around you in a second. One hand cupped the back of your head, the other pressing gently against your spine.

You buried your face into the soft black cotton of his shirt. “I feel… dizzy.”

“From the alcohol?” he asked, a barely restrained urgency in his voice.

“No.” You turned your cheek against him. "This is just..really dreamy. Yeah. Really dreamy."

He heaved out a breath and started started rocking you back and forth against him in an missable motion. "Sure, angel? You like it?" He asked for confirmation. He didn't bother hiding his need for reassurance in front of you. And you don't mind giving him so. You nod with confidence.

He huffs a soft chuckle. "You haven't seen the half of it. Maybe you won't like the colors. We can change them if that's what you'd like. Add plants." His voice spilled low against the crown of your head. An offering disguised as a list of design choices. But you knew what he meant. You heard it tucked between every carefully placed word.

Let’s make a life here.

Let’s try. Together.

Your face pressed to the slope of his chest, listening to his heartbeat carry the words he didn’t yet say aloud. Your arms looped tighter around his waist, fingers bunching the back of his shirt like you might fall through the floor otherwise.

"We can do whatever we want." he murmured, then exhaled like something eased in him. "All the little, big things. Do you ever wanna get a pet?"

You bobbed your head with far too much enthusiasm. "Absolutely! We could get a dobermoon! You once said you always wanted that!"

"I did." He smiled gently.

Your mouth twitched, and you didn’t mean to smile—but you did. It bloomed slow and sleepy across your face, the kind of smile that couldn’t be helped. “And what else?”

He was still swaying you—slow, steady movements, his hands warm at the small of your back. It took you a moment to realize what he was doing, what the motion even was. You blinked, nose brushing the side of his neck. “Wait,” you whispered, a soft snort cracking loose. “What are you doing?”

Jungkook tilted his head down, eyes meeting yours, glittering a little under the golden pendant light. “I just realized,” he said, and his voice was so low, so unbearably soft, you almost didn’t catch it, “I never got to dance with you at your wedding.”

You blinked, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with that dizzy kind of drunk only heartbreak and hope could cause. “You left before the music started.” You pouted against his chest.

“I know.” His hand found hers. “Can I have one now?”

You burst out laughing, giddy and golden. The thought of so that's how your laugh sounds bounching around the walls came paired with If he could have bathe in the sound of it he would for the rest of his life. “There’s no music.”

He tilted his head. “There’s you.” With a theatrical sigh, you let him slip all around you. It was unsteady, like gravity had forgotten you tonight, yet just like gravity; the way you fit against was a contradiction. All too well. All too comforting.

He moved you slowly, in wide, meandering arcs, like your bodies weren’t bound to tempo or beat, just to each other. You stepped on his toes once. Maybe twice. Your sock slipped on the smooth floor and you cursed under your breath. He caught you, hands tightening with the kind of tenderness that made you want to cry.

“Oops,” you muttered.

“You're Graceful,” he murmured, voice fond.

“You love it,” you countered.

“I do.”

He twirled you then. Not properly God, no, but with that not so perfect grin that made your ribs ache and your stomach flip. You stumbled a bit, laughing into the fabric of his shirt, and he caught you again like he’d been born to. You buried your face in his shoulder. The air around you felt velvet-rich, the heat of his skin, the soft whirr of the heater, the scent of coffee grounds faint from the sink and your perfume still lingering on his collar. The world felt like something you could carry in your palm tonight.

Your cheek pressed right above his heart, where it thudded steady, solid, yours.

Your cheek pressed on right above his heart. “We’re not very good at this,”

“I don’t care,” he murmured into your hair.

You sighed. “My feet hurt.”

“We can stop,” he offered, easing to a gentle halt.

“Mhm." You leaned back to look at him, blinking up through your lashes, voice cotton-soft. You pressed your hand against it absentmindedly, right over the steady beat of his heart, fingers splayed like you could read it in Braille.

He watched you.

Watched the curve of your mouth. The warm glassiness in your eyes. The way your thumb moved without rhythm against his shirt.

You sighed out a thought. “Thank you,” you said.

He tilted his head, brushing a piece of your hair back behind your ear. “For what?”

“For this.” You squinted a little, like you were trying to remember something and only barely catching the edge of it. “For everything. I love you."

You hadn’t even flinched when you said it. You were smiling. Loose-limbed and lidded and not the least bit rattled, still swaying in place like the words had meant nothing more than a sweet note scribbled in a thank-you card.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe for a second. Could only feel the way his heart kicked against his ribs so hard he thought maybe you could hear it. hear the sound of it clawing toward your name.

His mouth opened slightly, but no sound from that came. The function of his body when he was around you, especially, this you was beyond him.

You just looked at him, lashes heavy, lips curved soft. “Hmm?”

“What did you just say?” he asked, voice rough around the edges.

You blinked. Tilted your head. “Thank you?”

“No, not that—fuck, angel." A deep chuckle rumbled out of chest. "Fuck."

But you were already pressing your cheek back to his chest, humming something tuneless, eyes drifting shut.

He swallowed hard. Tugged you closer to him and pressed his lips hard against your head. "I love you too."

Because what had once started with a love so rooted will end with a love that will survive an eternity.

It would always end in "I love yous."

SERIES TAGLIST: @ashslight @wannaghostbts @amatun28 @tteokbokibyjk @kelsyx33 @rexana19

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neil-gaiman · 2 years ago

Note

Hello Mr. Gaiman

Recently, I started teaching English as a second language to the STEM students at the university. Students are perfect in every way possible; however, there is always a catch. They hate writing essays, short stories—you name it. Their main argument is that AI has made writing an outdated skill and that they are wasting time learning it. They easily create full essays based on prompts I give them, just to prove their point. Even some of my fellow teachers started thinking in a similar vein, which saddens and frustrates me to no end.

I feel like there is no better person to ask about the value of writing. Also, I remember a few years ago how writing to you really helped me. So my question is, what words of encouragement would you offer my students (and maybe my colleagues) so they would at least give it a go and not discard it as useless?

Thank you!

If they can't be bothered to write it, why should you be bothered to read it or grade it?

And if they take those skills (or lack of them) out into the world, the results can be disastrous for them...

https://wapo.st/3sWCrQg

1K notes · View notes

yourislandgirl · 2 months ago

Text

*:ꔫ:*ₓₒ LEMON DROP LIPS ˚ ༘♡ੈ✩ || 리키 x fem!reader || drabble

— KISS ME, DON’T SAY NO series

summary: enlisting the help of your boyfriend, you had a goal of completing your biology assignment well in advance, wanting to get back in your teachers good graces, and thanks to riki’s support, the task didn’t feel so impossible, a little sour for sure, but manageable

genres: fluff, romance, non-idol!riki x non-idol!reader, est. relationship

warnings: ni-ki is referred to as "riki", attempts at humour, swearing/cursing, brat boyfriend rikimura, standard high school student stress (i think i write stressed academics a bit too often . oh well)

wc: 2.8k

[archive]

“Why would you subject yourself to biology?”

You shrugged at the question.

But it was an assignment from that very class that had both you and your boyfriend at your local park hunting for flowers. The afternoon sunlight was slowly dipping lower and a gentle breeze swayed amongst the grass around your ankles. After carefully closing the lid of your lip balm and tucking it into your jacket pocket, you crouched down beside your boyfriend and took your biology question booklet out of his hands.

“Because,” you started, “I needed a science subject to close out my timetable and Miss Hwang said that bio had more visual learning and there were more hands-on experiments that we could do, so— Wait, why am I even explaining this to you? Dig!”

You nudged Riki with your shoulder, ignoring his groans as you flipped through the question booklet, making sure you’d found the right flower specimen.

Dissecting flora and delving into the horticulture topic was fascinating but equally a challenge. At the start, it included a lot of labelling and diagrams, and then it became more fun when your teacher brought in the bouquets — you and your friends got side tracked in class and started researching the language of flowers.

Riki had even started to take an interest when you talked about your lessons, sitting in the art room with him while he sketched.

Presently, as you pulled your phone out to take down a few notes, you smiled at the little doodle he did of carnation flowers that you’d placed in your phone case.

“They mean love, or something,” he’d muttered as he handed the sketch to you.

“Or something,” you’d muttered back before kissing him on the cheek.

more under cut !!

You shook your head, smiling at the memory while you closed your notes app and opened the camera instead. “Alright, here, take this.” Handing the phone to Riki, you chose to do the actual extraction yourself.

You grabbed the base of the stem and started to tug at it gently. Maybe a little too gently.

The seconds passed by and the stem moved just under a centimetre before Riki finally lost his patience and sighed a little. “Just pluck it.”

You shot him a small, harmless glare to which he replied with his tongue poking out but he remained in place ready to snap the photo.

“Riki, I need the root system as well.”

His expression soured. “I hate your teacher.”

“She hates you too. Go write a diss track about it later.”

You heard him chuckle quietly, your cheeks heating up at the sound.

It took you a few moments to brace yourself through it but eventually, you pulled out the flower, roots and all, and held in your hands as if it was a delicate angels feather. The sigh of relief that left your lips was nothing compared to the groan from Riki when he stood up after finally taking the photo.

“Ugh, my ankles are killing me.” He rolled his head back and clicked the joints in his neck and shoulders while he talked.

You felt a little bad for him but you needed the help. And in all honesty, Riki took better photos than you. The angle, the lighting, it all looked better when he was holding the camera. You used to think there was some secret to it but you quickly came to realise he just had an eye for beauty and composition that no one else had.

You loved the photo, immediately emailing it to yourself so you’d have it on your laptop. When you turned your gaze back up at Riki, he was resting his hands behind his head, eyes drooping a little.

You smirked. “Aw is Shnookums tired?” Reaching forward, your tried to poke his cheek before he gently swatted you away.

Your smile only grew at the sight of how Riki pinched the bridge of his nose, it seemed the memory of such a flattering childhood nicknames was an unwelcome one. “Stop, that was one time.” As he turned to walk further into the park, you could almost hear Riki chuckle as you hurried to catch up to him.

“I don’t know Shnookie,” your voice was torturously teasing, “The home videos your sister showed me say a different story.”

“God the next time I see her…”

Laughter blossomed out of you. Reaching for his hand, you continued to explore the local park’s flora and compare it to the required specimens needed for your biology class.

You’d carefully bagged each flower in a zip lock and handed them to Riki to slide into a folder before placing it in your backpack. Your little system of discovery, extraction, documentation and storage was going well, and you’d just about finished the list with only three remaining specimens left.

“Ok, I say we wrap it up for the day.” Riki got up from his crouched position for the seventh time in the afternoon, stretching every joint carefully, waiting for you to get up as well. Your jacket was slung over his shoulder like a towel, his own makeshift neck pillow.

“Uh…” You remained huddled on the grass, fingers flipping through the biology booklet.

“Y/N?” You looked up, seeing Riki’s expectant gaze, his hand outstretched ready to help you up. “Let’s go, I can walk you home.”

“I think I’m gonna stay a little longer. I can get my mum to pick me up, don’t worry.”

Asking Riki not to worry was like asking him to immediately start panicking, because both resulted in the same outcome. His eyebrows would furrow, his shoulder would tense up, his only goal would be to understand why and what he could do to help.

“I don’t understand,” he reached for your hand, pulling you up with ease, wanting to speak to you at eye level, or, somewhat-eye-level. “This isn’t due until after the weekend. You’ve got time to do this, you can take a break for now. Right?”

You gripped the booklet in your other hand a little tighter.

“Y/N, hey, it’s ok to take a break.”

You puffed out a breath, blowing some stray hairs off your cheeks. “I know that,” you mused. “I just need to do this now. I think�� It could make Miss Hwang happy, that’s all.”

Riki’s frown turned from concern to judgement so fast, you’d miss the transition if you blinked. “Ok, what? Who gives a fuck what she thinks?”

“My parents, my report card, my scholarship applications, my—”

“I get it.”

He subtly reached for your wrist, his fingers gentle as they slide down your palm and interlocked with yours.

The silence was anticipatory. The kind where you could feel his questions churning inside by the way his thumb tapped against the back of your hand. It was the kind of silence where you felt his gaze on you a few times as if waiting for you to break the quiet and initiate some conversation.

Riki liked having answer, that much you knew. But you also knew that he’d never force them out of you.

Maybe that’s why it was easier to talk to him more than anyone else.

“Miss Hwang held me and a few others back in class last week.”

Riki slowed down his pace a little, frowning as he recollected the past week. “Hang on, you said you had extra bio work to do.”

“I did,” you shrugged. “I was doing it while she held me back. I, um…”

The hesitation on your face made Riki frown a little deeper, his lips pouting just enough to alleviate your mood that littlest bit. He really did not like that woman, and for what it was worth, that amused you deeply.

Enough to admit the reason with a shy smirk, “She may have seen me texting you while my friends and I did buzzfeed quizzes.”

He scoffed, his head tipping back with a sigh, the mental image of you, his high achieving girlfriend, wasting class time? “Buzzfeed? Really?”

Your eyes lit up with a simmering annoyance that you’d been harbouring for days. “We finished the class work! She was being so petty!”

“She is petty.”

You sighed, “She’s not horrible. Just, I don’t know, strict?”

Shrugging, Riki led you to a park bench to take a seat. “Lovingly, don’t care. Not a fan.”

“Doesn’t matter,” you leaned back onto the cool wood of the park bench, “I need to make her a fan of me again. I really don’t want to lose the favour of a teacher like her ya know?”

Riki merely gave you a blank expression before conceding, “Yeah, ‘kay.”

Wordlessly, he pulled your jacket off his shoulders and dropped it on your lap before taking the biology booklet out of your hands. He started flipping through.

You raised an eyebrow at his actions but quickly became distracted by the sheer concentration on his face.

It was the same face he wore when making sure he had every material needed before painting. Or when he was making sure he’d followed the rule of thirds during a preliminary canvas sketch. He had a precision to his perspective that you could not find in another person.

He only further proved your point by putting an arm over your shoulder and bringing you closer so that you could read along with him. He muttered under his breath about how many samples you’d collected, how many double ups you’d found, the general locations and other areas you could try in the park before it got too dark.

“You want to finish this by the end of the week right? Submit it early?” He didn’t wait for an answer before getting off the bench, taking you with him, his hand holding yours once again. “I’d say we’ve got fifteen more minutes before the street lights turn on.”

He turned to face you again. “We might have to come back tomorrow, babe. I’m sorry.” Pressing a soft kiss on your temple, Riki pulled his phone out to text his sister, asking her to come pick you both up. When he looked back up, Riki halted at the sight of your smile.

“You’re not upset?”

“What?” You hadn’t realised you’d been smiling. Shaking your head to compose yourself, you breathed out a nervous laugh, “Right. No, I’m not. I just… Thank you.”

You smiled wider at his confusion, spurring him to smile back, no less confused than before. At that moment the weight of Miss Hwang’s expectations didn’t matter. Your drive to please her regulated into a drive to please yourself.

As you slowly pulled Riki back to the park bench to sit next you, the simmering urge to submit early started to dissipate. Of course you knew it would come back again tomorrow morning, and you were prepared for that. But maybe Riki had a point, you could afford to take a break.

You’d made excellent progress, and with his help tomorrow, you’d have this assignment completed well before the due date, exactly as planned.

The street lights started to flicker to life, burning their midnight oil, unlike you, who’d chosen to preserve yours.

“You okay?” Riki’s voice was low, lower than a whisper. He still wore an expression of confusion but it had morphed into intrigue, enchantment — he didn’t need to know why you thanked him, he just needed to make sure whatever he did, he’d keep doing it.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you whispered back. “I guess sometimes it hits different, knowing that I’ve got people in my corner, rooting for me and doing whatever they can to help me succeed. Even if the prize isn’t anything special.”

Riki smirked, “In your own words, an A+ is better than a winning lottery ticket.” He pulled you closer once again, the feeling of his arm draped over your shoulder was a welcomed comfort, a familiar warmth.

Even his teasing was welcomed; “That is a foul sentiment, by the way. Who taught you something so illogical? Let me at ‘em.”

You giggled at his dramatics. “I was being sarcastic.”

“I should hope so.”

Riki’s thumb drew small circles into your shoulder, his head dropping down to rest on top of yours. “Seriously, though. You don’t need to thank me for this. Of course I’d help you.”

Your cheeks felt like they were in bloom, lip quirking up as you spoke. “Even though you hate Miss Hwang?”

“Especially because I hate Miss Hwang,” he scoffed, sitting up a little to face you, the glint in his eyes like a fire cracker just looking for trouble.

“Think about it,” he started, “What better way is there to get back at that witch?” He pulled your biology booklet out once more, flipping through the pages speedily, as if to show just how much you’d completed in one afternoon.

“She’s gonna have to give you the top mark, and her knowing that you’re my girl just makes it better.”

You gasped, mockingly. “You petty little—”

“Listen sweets, if there’s anyone that I want succeeding, it’s you.” His arm found its place over your shoulder once more, this time pulling you into the warmth between his collar and neck.

“My support shouldn’t be a shock, it’s a given,” he said, softly.

You breathed in his scent, a little musky coupled with the slight smell of acrylic paint. Pursing your lips, biting back another smile, you turned to gaze up at him.

He glanced down. “What?”

You hummed a noncommittal tone, “You just look very kissable right now.”

It was amusing to witness, the way Riki’s gentle expression morphed into a boyish grin. “Well not to brag but, I fear I just wake up looking kissable.”

“Mhm.”

He nodded, “Honestly, go ahead, feel how kissable my lips are.” Just to prove his point, he puckered them up for you dramatically.

Nudging him in the ribs lightly, you leaned away in faux disgust. “Shut up.”

“Oh come on,” he grabbed your wrist, “I even used your lip balm.”

Your smile dropped, brows furrowing instantly.

Riki halted, verbally backpedaling “Wait, I mean—”

“You used my limited edition lemon drop lip balm?!”

“…No?”

You hands patted frantically against your jacket that was rested on your lap, feeling each of the pockets and finding no small plastic tube of citrusy softness.

Your gaze locked with your boyfriend’s, who’d already gotten off the bench and started walking away hastily.

“Riki!” You followed after him, both of you speeding into a jog, then a run, then a sprint.

Riki’s deep laughter resounded the local park, every other passerby with a dog or on a walk had turned to look at the scene that bolted past them.

You groaned, feeling yourself slowing down. “Stop running!”

“Stop chasing!” He yelled over his shoulder, turning slightly to see your speed reduce, causing him to do the same.

He kept a decent distance from you, hands up in surrender. Well, one hand open. The other was in a fist, his large palm could have been hiding anything but you had an inkling to what was inside.

“Got it right here,” he declared, smugly. Your beloved lip balm.

You stalked closer, before lunging forward to reach his hand. A failed attempt, of course. as he simply lifted it higher. “When did you even take it? Give it back!”

Your hands went to his ribs, aiming to tickle him into submission but he quickly dodged you, circling around, his free hand on your shoulder to hold you at arms length.

“Give me a kiss first!” His eyes were alight, sparked with love, cloaked with mischief.

You shook your head, your own grin was involuntary at that point. “Riki, I swear—”

“Nope.” He leaned forward, his empty hand snaking around your waist and pulling you closer. “My name’s not Riki, it’s Shnookums. Now hold still and you’ll get your lip balm.”

You fidgeted out of his grip, determined to hold off on kissing him until you got your limited edition. “Fine.” Your hand was held out, palm open for the trade.

Riki unfurled his fist, an empty hand grasped yours and pulled you into him, his own lips locking onto yours.

Any semblance of stubborn determination was immediately dissolved against the taste of lemon meringue and citrusy zest that met your tongue.

The flavour faltered your thoughts, leaving you a blinking, blushing mess as Riki pulled away.

“Is that enough lip balm for you?” He shoved his hands in his pockets, taking a couple steps back.

You jutted your lip out, deep in pretend-thought. “I might need more, funnily enough.”

You giggled at his expression. “Hilarious.”

a.n: FINAL INSTALMENT OF THE KISS ME, DON'T SAY NO SERIES IS HERE AHHHHH — i hope you all enjoyed the ride and i've got so many more drafts just itching to be posted but anyway, thank yoouuuu xx <3

taglist: @oceanstide — @sheepsgf — @itsrinsdrs — @enjakey — @rynnest

2025 © yourislandgirl

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dreaisgrayte · 1 year ago

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NSFW ReHEARsal | Sanemi Shinazugawa

Word count: 774

A/n: a little thingy I just whipped together :) I don't think I've ever written for Sanemi baby all by himself, though now that I'm thinking about it I did have an idea I need to get back to for him BECAUSE LOOK AT HIS FACE!! LOOK. AT. IT. Mans could be into MLP rp and there I'd be, princess Celestia and everything... anyway 🩷 Love youuuuu

You could hear the steady melody of a piano piece as Sanemi dug his nails into the meaty flesh of your waist. “Fuck, how come you always feel so,” His eyes roll shut, a gruff moan gliding from his mouth. “Perfect.” He hisses out. You’d answer him if you had rational thought. His cock was rubbing against your entrance and the way it made your skin vibrate with hungry sensations could make someone faint and, only to think of him while unconscious. He wouldn't allow that to happen though, not right before you had to get your pretty self on stage.

It was cramped in the costume closet, but he managed to position you perfectly behind a few racks of clothes. You were frightened the stench of sex would permeate the pretty dresses forever when Sanemi dragged you back here. There was no going back now – not after he’d stripped you of your short skirt, the one you’d worn just to rile him up. It had worked, maybe a little too well considering the moment the student director had told you both to go run lines, you ended up here. Sanemi was going to run, run his tongue through your pussy.

His rough hand grabs onto your chin, guiding your face toward his. “Don’t drift off on me just yet sweetheart.” His lips tick upward in a smirk and a whimper escapes from your throat. “I want you to feel every last drop.” He hums, letting go of you with so much force your head snaps the other way.

Sanemi pretended to be impenetrable, but if there was one thing you learned from working with him – it was that he was the most gentle person you’d ever met. His hand glides up the plush skin of your stomach, pausing to pinch at your already stiff nipples. “Always so willing for me,” He kisses your shoulder blade and you can feel the smugness of his words bouncing off your back. His hand gropes and travels up to the base of your throat. Two fingers apply pressure – the feeling is almost too much. Your nerves feel shot from the amount of teasing he’d put you through. He must sense how restless you are because his free hand dips down to your clit – using his thumb to rub lazy circles around it. A loud broken moan shoots from your lips and before you can flush at the volume his fingers squeeze harder on your throat. “S’posed to be quiet.”

Your head falls back to his firm chest, a breathy whine vibrating out. He chuckles darkly, releasing your throat to move your head gently to the side. His mouth works against your beating pulse, sucking where there weren’t marks already from him. “Don’t want your little friends to find out that you’re fucking your co-lead, hmm?” He coos against your skin, but whatever kindness remained for your plea of secrecy was gone as he pushes two fingers into your begging pussy. “You love it when I touch you, don’t you sweetheart?” When you don’t reply he pushes in deeper, his fingers curling against your walls. Your arms shake with the force of trying not to make a sound. “So quiet now,” He hums, delighted you’ve given him the challenge.

Your head radiates with a dull throb as you bite down on your bottom lip. “There’s a reason the director gave you the lead role, why don’t you show everyone your beautiful vocals, pretty girl?” His fingers are pumping in and out – a rushing feeling stemming from your heart. His cock wasn’t even inside of you yet, but you were already a mess underneath his touch.

He’s smirking against your neck, obviously happy with himself for rendering you a useless bundle of limbs. “S-Sanemi,” You whine. “I can’t – hngh – take it,” A sputtering moan interrupts your speech as the tips of his fingers brush against an all too familiar spot for him.

His lips twist into a huge grin as his lilac eyes gleam. “Found it.” He whispers. Someone was bound to hear you – after all whines and moans were careening from your mouth as you let Sanemi support you with his own body. Your knees felt weak, they were surely going to buckle from the pleasure coursing through your system. “You were sayin’ somethin’ darling?” He purrs. “Too shy to put on a show?” He chuckles, pulling his fingers from your sloppy cunt – bringing them to your lips. With unsaid command your mouth parts, allowing him to run the taste of your arousal over your tongue. “No, that doesn’t sound like you.” He smirks as you suck his fingers greedily into your mouth. “You love the spotlight and I will always shine it on you.”

Of course, if you’d heard him you might’ve thought there was more to this show-mance, but his words were covered up by the hum in your brain. You were ready to let him fuck you against the wall, but the alarm on his phone signals it's time to go back to rehearsal.

#shinazugawa sanemi #demon slayer sanemi #sanemi smut #sanemi shinazugawa #sanemi x reader #kny sanemi #sanemi shinaguzawa #sanemi x you #kny smut #demon slayer x y/n #demon slayer fic #demon slayer smut

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diana-rose-25 · 2 years ago

Text

— Let's Dance

PART 1 - PART 2 - PART 3

Style Inspiration

pairing/s: BEBE! Bada Lee x Jam Republic! Reader x Wolf'Lo! Chocol

warnings: None so far, an unrealistic description of being an exchange foreign student, might confuse some words in ballet (as most of them are only through research and not based on experience).

description: A professional ballet dancer in Street Woman Fighter Season 2? (Y/N) Bae, a 23-year-old ballet and dance prodigy enters the fighting arena alongside the infamously known crew, Jam Republic. Making the team's aura far more intimidating despite being clad in soft pink and white clothing, adorned with astonished faces and friendly smiles. As the young woman entered the arena with curious eyes and small smile, the other teams couldn't help but awe at her beauty and elegant aura, unknowingly capturing the eyes of two charismatic dancers.

word count: 9.3k

status: unedited

now listening to:

"Monika, our fight judge. What will be your criteria today?" Kang Daniel, the host, asked Monika once the commotion has died down.

"Honestly, some of the dance leaders here have been a dance contest judge for a long time. So, I dare say, I'll be cruelly objective and consider only what I see here. I won't consider my seniors' achievements in the past but only by result."

Shownu followed up next. “Based on what I’ve learned in my music career, and my sincere love for this show, I’ll evaluate your dance honestly.”

“Everybody in here is a professional. I don’t need to tell you that, and it’s going to be whoever’s day it is today. I have much respect for all of you guys. I’ll do my best to be a perfect judge for you today.” Mike Song concluded.

(Y/N) nodded and clapped in appreciation. The fact that the judges said their objectives loudly and unapologetically made her breathe a sigh of relief. Especially since her senior and former teacher, Baby Sleek, is a participant of this competition. In her mind, and mostly the minds of the others, Baby Sleek is untouchable on the dance floor.

Her heart dropped at the thought of battling one-on-one with her former teacher. She is confident in her skills and talent on the dance floor, but facing off against Baby Sleek – she’ll be lucky if she even gets one vote from the judges. Everything she learned about freestyle dancing and hip hop stems from her.

The final person to be introduced was none other than DJ SOM before the rules of the challenge were explained. Each dancer will be given 40 seconds to dance. When it’s over, the judges will hold up their cards to decide the winner. But if two or more judges ask for a rematch, the two dancers will dance at the same time to determine the winner. According to the results, the crew will get a chip to put it on the crew board and count the wins and losses.

“No Respect, Battle with the Weakest Dancer. We’ll begin Round One!” The room burst into cheers once again when Kang Daniel announced the official start of the battle.

(Y/N) held up her interlinked hands with Ling and Emma as she cheered and stomped her feet in excitement. “Let’s go!”

“Oh my gosh, it’s starting!” Ling exclaimed, turning from side to side to warm up her body.

“I’m so nervous right now,” Emma admitted and leaned against (Y/N). The older girl giggled at her team mate and wrapped her arm around her. Running her hand up and down against the younger one’s arm to soothe her nerves.

“I know! Me too, but this is all so exciting!”

“Easy for you to say,” Ling nudged her. “You’re the most experienced freestyle battler in here other than Emma.”

“That doesn’t make it any less nerve-wrecking, Ling.” She nudged the girl back and squeezed her hand. They turned their attention back to the MC as he’s about to announce who will open the first dance battle of the season. “Who do you think it’s going to be?”

(Y/N) shrugged, “I don’t know. Hopefully they start out the season with a bang.”

“The first dancer for the first battle is…”

Jam Republic leaned in their seats in anticipation, holding their breath for as long as Kang Daniel trailed off. Hearts throbbing against their chest.

“From 1MILLION, Redy.” The 1MILLION crew immediately stands up from their seat to cheer their fellow member on. A tall girl clad in white cap, white long-sleeved clothing, and dark jeans stands up and makes her way down the seats.

From what (Y/N) could recall from the evaluation, Redy started dancing at 16 years old with a unique style. To her surprise, Redy was older than her by 2 years despite looking so young.

“I wonder who her No Respect Dancer is,” (Y/N) thought as she leaned back in her seat. “Do you think it’s one of us?”

“Doubt it,” answered Emma. “she might pick someone whose style is completely different from her. Or pick someone she has a bad blood with, it’s not uncommon.”

(Y/N) hummed in agreement, feeling her body relax. What Emma said earlier was true, it isn’t uncommon when it comes to dance offs. Some people tend to choose their opponents based on their past. Personally, she finds the means distasteful and unprofessional; but, it can’t be helped. She, herself, had experienced to being picked for the same reason when she was on competitions.

“If she picks someone she has beef with, do you think she’ll give us a good fight or not?” Emma shook her head in response.

“Probably not, it’s usually not a good idea to pick someone from the past. Emotions and tensions could rise and get in the way of a good freestyle.”

“That’s true,” (Y/N) nodded as she watches Redy walk in front to the center of the arena with a microphone between her hands.

As Redy started to speak, she walked towards the space of Wolf’Lo, surprising them and (Y/N). “Oh my gosh is she picking one of them?” The girl held her hand up to her mouth in shock when the girl clad in white continued to walk towards the orange team.

“The No Respect Dancer, I choose…” Redy trailed off once again and (Y/N) couldn’t help but smile at her braveness if she ever picks one of the dancer from Wolf’Lo.

She then turned to the other way, making (Y/N) puff out her cheeks in disappointment. As heavy as the tension is right now, one member of Wolf’Lo couldn’t help but grin at her adorable (from what she noticed so far) mannerisms.

Jam Republic watches as Redy takes a u turn and walks to the other side of the arena as she announces who her No Respect Dancer is, “it’s Bada of BEBE.”

The arena erupted in cheers. (Y/N) shoots up from her seat with a squeal and watches as Bada nods her head and stands up, flipping the bottled water in her hand as she did so.

“That was so cool,” she whispered with a quiet, girlish giggle. Ling and Emma laughed at their team member and joined her as she stands up, wanting to see the commotion clearly.

“Bada isn’t even dancing yet,” Ling teased to which (Y/N) just hushed her.

“She’s the famous, trendy choreographer right?” The ballet dancer nodded to Emma’s question.

“Her strongest link is making choreographies. Most popular K-pop dances was made by her. Since she’s more known for her choreographed works, I’m excited to see her freestyle.”

The two dancers began pacing around in the dance floor. There was a noticeable heavy tension in the air as they both prepare for the fight. Everyone is talking about their past, making the atmosphere heavier than it already was.

“Redy of 1MILLION, you chose Bada of BEBE as your No Respect Dancer.” Kang Daniel started.

“I don’t respect you, that’s it.” Redy stated bluntly. Bada placed a hand to her ear as she talks, mockingly insinuating that she’s listening closely to what she says. The room erupted in cheers, even judge Mike has his jaw on the floor.

“Not Redy, Soo Bin!” Bada exclaimed, using Redy’s real name. “You’re still an eight-grader to me.”

(Y/N)’s eyes widened at the drama that was unfolding right in front of her, wishing she has something she can chew or sip on as she watches their back and forth. A shocked laugh escaped her mouth when Bada called her an eight-grader.

“Wait, what did she say?” Ling questions when her ear piece stops working momentarily, unable to catch the insult Bada threw at her opponent. Her expression turned to shock immediately after (Y/N) translated it to her. “Oh, damn. She’s a gangster right?”

“Yeah,” Latrice said, “I like her energy.”

Jam Republic laughs as Redy mimicked a baby by placing her thumb to between her lips. (Y/N) claps her hands in excitement as Kang Daniel announces the first attack to be made by Redy followed by Bada.

“Let’s go!” She shouts, bouncing on her toes.

“The two dancers’ battle begins now. You guys ready?!” (Y/N) claps even harder when she heard the infamous line. “Fight!”

Music filled the arena and the lights dimmed, the 40 second timer appeared on the huge screen and all dancers are hyped to watch the fight. The first beats of the music started and Redy started grooving into the music, her members cheering her on from behind her.

(Y/N) watched with keen eyes as Redy danced. The older girl was flexible, that’s for sure, and she is hitting the beats. Redy’s style was certainly unique. However, in her opinion, it lacks in any form of wow factor.

She still cheered and clapped her hands afterwards and the music switched, signalling Bada’s turn. Her voice increased in volume when Bada spins and comes up to Redy’s face, standing tall to enunciate their height difference without the use of words.

“I hate it when people use their height!” She giggled when she heard Chocol whined.

“Oh my gosh!”

“Oh my gosh, she’s so tall!” Ling and (Y/N) exclaimed at the same time. The latter girl hides her face in her hand, parting her fingers so she can still see the battle as she feels them become hot. Their eyes momentarily meets for a second and she swore the corners of Bada’s lips curved up for a second.

The eye contact didn’t last long when Bada suddenly swats the air on the top of Redy’s head. (Y/N)’s eyes stayed glued to Bada’s dancing, mesmerized at the clean and sharp moves she does. She couldn’t help but cheer at the way Bada hits each beat of the music and the way she grooves. Bada’s time comes to an end as she spits the piece of paper in her mouth. The room erupted in cheers and claps and at the end of the battle.

“What the heck,” Ling said in astonishment as they sit back down.

“That was so good,” (Y/N) said. “A great battle to start off the season.”

Everyone returned to their respective seats as Redy, Bada, and Kang Daniel stands at the center for the announcement of the results. When the cards flipped, 3 blue cards appeared at the judge’s hands.

Team BEBE cheered as they secured their first win, and Bada certainly secured a title for herself as one of the most talented and skilled individuals of the show. The dancers returned to their seats as the judges tells their thoughts about the battle.

“I was impressed by both of you,” Shownu started, “Redy of 1MILLION shocked me. But, I reckon that Bada’s move suited the song more and she was more relaxed.”

“I’ll be honest to help you improve, you’re still and eighth-grader even from my point of view.” Emma, Ling, and (Y/N)’s mouth parted in shock at Monika’s comment, feeling bad for the 1MILLION dancer. “But, Bada is certainly out of this league.”

“Damn,” was (Y/N)’s only comment – watching as BEBE place their first chip on the win score board and Bada attach the chip on the lose side of 1MILLION’s board.

⁽⁠⁽⁠ଘ⁠(⁠ ⁠ˊ⁠ᵕ⁠ˋ⁠ ⁠)⁠ଓ⁠⁾⁠⁾

A short break was conducted after the first battle between Bada and Redy. Jam Republic sat around in a circle as they debriefed about the event earlier. As they talked however, (Y/N) couldn’t help but point out the several eyes that is currently looking in their direction. More specifically:

“You got a lot of eyes on you Kirsten,” she whispered towards her leader. “Not just the dancers, but the judges as well.”

“Really?” Kirsten smiles before she looks around. Sure enough, there were several dancers looking at her direction, even Monika and Shownu.

The rest of the team giggled when Kirsten smiled giddily at them, feeling a burst in her confidence.

“I think they’re looking forward to see you dance,” Latrice tapped her shoulders. They returned to their original positions when Kang Daniel came back to the center.

“The next dancer to participate in the one-on-one battle is,” he pauses for dramatic effect. “Jam Republic’s Kirsten!”

The room once again erupted in cheers and claps as the most anticipated dancer of the season smiles and makes her way towards the middle.

“Hello,” the leader greeted with a chuckle. “No Respect Dancer that I would like to defeat…”

As she trailed off, the dancers’ eyes shift from side-to-side in anticipation with a touch of agitation and intimidation. They could feel Kirsten’s intimidation aura, and most of them are terrified at the thought of going one-on-one with her.

“Waackxxxy.” She said, gesturing to the said dancer who grinned from her seat.

The teams and even Monika acclaims in delight as they are about to witness a great battle between two, strong dancers.

From the evaluation, Waackxxxy is a phenomenal dancer with powerful moves and an unmatched energy. Kirsten immediately picked her as her No Respect Dancer to push herself. Jam Republic and Mannequeen members stands behind their respective dancer who will compete on one-on-one.

“When I watched the video, you were world-class and I would love to take you on. Let’s Battle.” Waackxxxy nodded her head in appreciation. The other dancers and Monika praised Kirsten for her admirable action to take on a strong battler.

“Thank you so much for liking my video and class, but, I’ll show you my dance. Okay, let’s go.” (Y/N) clasped her hands in front of her and rests her chin on top of it, hyped for the battle between her leader and the well-known international dancer, Waackxxxy.

“Let’s go Kirsten!” She cheered.

“The world-class choreographer and the world-class waacking dancer. The battle of the two dancer begins now. You guys ready? Fight!”

The DJ starts the music and Waackxxxy of Mannequeen goes first. From the get-go, everyone could see the charisma and the reason why Waackxxxy is considered as a world-class battler. Her body control and energy is so insane that Jam Republic couldn’t help but also hype her up.

Waackxxxy ended her time with a strong side-eye on Kirsten’s direction. When the switch was announced, (Y/N) started jumping up and down as she cheered loudly for her leader.

“Come on, Kirsten! Bring it!” Latrice yelled.

The screams increased when Kirsten and Waackxxxy circled each other, following the beat of the music.

“That was fu- insane!” Ling and Latrice laughed hysterically when a curse word almost escaped (Y/N)’s mouth.

Jam Republic continued to cheer their leader on as the battle went on. (Y/N) was so hyped that she slipped and lost her footing momentarily. Luckily, someone immediately stabilizes her before she could fall.

(Y/N) looks up to thank the person who caught her, only to blush brightly as her eyes met Bada’s shadow-covered eyes and a concerned face.

“Are you okay?” Bada asked, still holding onto her elbow.

She hummed and flashed her a grin. “Mhm, thank you!”

They stared at each other for a few moments with a small smile and blush dusting their faces without saying a word. It’s as if it was just the two of them in the room together as the noises seem to quiet down, fading into the background.

(Y/N) snapped out of it when Kang Daniel announced the end of the battle, immediately turn to find Kirsten walking towards their side. She thanks Bada one last time before rushing to her leader’s side to congratulate her for the amazing battle.

Bada remained standing there, running her hand on the back of her nape to will her pounding heart to calm down. A grin makes it way to her face as she returns to her seat, not noticing Lusher who saw the whole interaction and is hiding a smile behind her hand. Making a mental note to tease her leader about it later.

The judges showed their cards. Monika and Mike holds both cards for Jam Republic and Mannequeen, signalling a rematch between both dancers.

The rematch starts and both dancers still held their ground as they showed two variation of dance style. It ended up with another rematch when Monika showed 2 cards, much to the surprise of everyone.

“I can only choose one?” She asked exasperatedly, clearly in distress to choose between the two when Kang Daniel nodded and held up one finger. “That’s insane. I can’t do that!”

“Whoever you pick will be the winner. The victory lies in your hands.”

(Y/N) feels her heart pound against her chest, holding her clasped hands against her and prayed for Jam Republic’s first win. “Please, please, please, please.” She muttered underneath her breath.

“Here I go,” Monika concluded. The count down started until finally, she held up a pink card.

Kirsten cemented Jam Republic’s first win.

Jam Republic cheered while Mannequeen slumped their shoulder in dejection.

“Great job, Kirsten!” (Y/N) cheered as she gave Kirsten a side hug and a grin.

“That was insane!”

“Good job!” They praised their leader.

Across the room, Waackxxxy is visibly enraged and disappointed with the results of the battle.

“In this last round, both dancers were at the same level.” Mike Song stated. “But Kirsten grabbed my attention a little more.”

“That was such a great battle. It was so energizing. The reason I chose Kirsten at the end, was that she made the song come alive a bit more and I weighed that more importantly. Rather than being too serious, I had no choice but to give it to the person expressing the song. That’s why I hope you understand my decision. Although it was a very difficult one.” Monika concluded.

(Y/N) clapped enthusiastically as Kirsten place a winning chip on their score board. That happiness didn’t last long however, when Kang Daniel announced the next opponent. Another member of Mannequeen, Yoonji.

From the dancer’s expression, the anger was obvious from the way stomped down the seats and towards the middle.

“I’m so scared,” Ling said and Emma agreed.

“She seems crazy.” The younger one replied, feeling on edge because of Yoonji’s attitude.

(Y/N) sits stiffly on her seat, eyes narrowed and feels goosebumps crawl up her arms and neck. “She looks like she’s plotting revenge,” she stated lowly.

They watch as Yoonji paced around back and forth in agitation.

“I’m very angry right now,” she confessed, still pacing around. “Mannequeen has come here as the crew known to be the strongest in battles. I think it’s time we showed that.”

(Y/N) smirked at her insinuation, finding it a tad difficult to believe since Baby Sleek and her crew is also a part of this competition.

“I’ve said this already, but who’s the one chewing up and spitting out battles lately?” Yoonji said, making a beeline towards 1MILLION and standing in front of Lia Kim.

“This battle. I can show you later.” (Y/N) let out a sharp laugh when Yoonji left Lia Kim alone as soon as she got there. She’s certainly entertaining.

“Kirsten, come out girl,” Yoonji suddenly stated quite forcefully as she gestured Kirsten to come out. The woman mentioned gave a small smile to Yoonji as she stands up and place her jacket on her sear.

(Y/N) couldn’t help but tilt her head to the side and bit her bottom lip in annoyance, feeling rather protective of her leader.

“I’m going to take revenge for my sister. Come out, girl!”

(Y/N) huffed as she immediately followed her leader and stand 2 feet directly behind her, eyes narrowed and focused on Yoonji. The other members of Jam Republic soon followed with nervous smiles on their faces, but the latter members face was devoid of any emotion.

“I’m going to show you who is the hottest girl in South Korea!” Yoonji exclaimed as her crew cheered her on. “You know, girl? I’m going to show you.”

When (Y/N) saw Yoonji walk towards Kirsten and got near her face, a small smile graced her lips – devoid of any humour, as she too walked towards Kirsten, standing directly behind her and held her elbow. She stands tall in front of Yoonji and looks down at her, taking inspiration from Bada Lee and uses her height for advantage, to which Team BEBE squealed.

The other crew also howled in astonishment as she did so.

“Bada-unnie you influenced her already?!” Tatter exclaimed as she shakes her leader’s arm back and forth.

“What is it with tall people and comparing heights?! I’m so jealous right now!” Bada laughs as her members whined. She leaned forward in her seat with her hands clasped together, feeling oddly satisfied with the way (Y/N) seemed to copy her move.

While Kirsten nodded gracefully at her opponent, (Y/N) snickers when Yoonji’s gaze flickered upon her for a moment before going back to the other side where her crew is.

(Y/N) slightly pulled Kirsten back and leans down to whisper in her ear, “you okay?”

Kirsten, not the slightest bit intimidated, just nodded at her with a grin. “Word, she says ass fat.” The taller girl laughed at her leader when she stuck her tongue out.

“(Y/N) is so scary now!”

“She’s giving off protective older sibling vibes oh my gosh!” Mina Myoung exclaimed, watching as (Y/N) now jokes along with the other members. “Look at how she switches! She’s back to being all smiley now!”

“What were you teaching her Baby Sleek?!” Haechi asked after witnessing it. The older girl said nothing but gave her a shrugged shoulder and a proud smile.

Chocol said nothing but continues to watch with a small smirk, loving the feisty and protective attitude of the taller girl of the pink team. Hoping that after the show, she’ll come running to Baby Sleek so she can have an excuse to finally introduce herself.

Or maybe, she’ll have the chance to introduce herself on the dance floor. Maybe flirt a little as well.

“I’m going to show you who is the queen!” Mannequeen cheered as Yoonji yelled before mocking the moves of Kirsten earlier by swaying her hips from side-to-side. The yellow-team crew member gives her a side-eye, looking up at her up and down in a condescending manner.

Kirsten, unbothered, just smiled at her opponent. The same can’t be said towards her ballet dancer member who was seething in annoyance.

“I’m excited,” Kirsten started. “Let’s see. We’re here in Korea now, so, let’s see.”

The members of the crew once again stood behind their respective member competing. Yoonji and Kirsten paced around as they prepare themselves.

“We have Yoonji from Mannequeen going first.” Kang Daniel announced. Yoonji immediately went to the front and strike up a pose. “Jam Republic’s Kirsten will go in second.”

(Y/N) sat beside Latrice and Ling as the host began, “the next battle between these two dancers, are you guys ready?! Let’s go! Fight!”

Yoonji moves her body as the first beat of the music starts, starting off strong and fierce. (Y/N) bites her lip out of irritation when she mockingly hits Kirsten with her elbow, to the point where she almost believed it hits her leader when Kirsten played along.

The Mannequeen dancer ended her dance strong when she made her way towards where the judges are, much to the delight of everyone.

“She’s a great dancer, but I think she got a tad bit overemotional,” (Y/N) whispered towards Latrice as she claps after her performance. The latter girl nods in agreement before standing up in excitement when the host announces the switch, meaning, its Kirsten’s turn to perform.

(Y/N) bounces on her toes with a huge grin on her face as she watches her leader dance. Even more so when she dances around Yoonji’s figure without touching her, showing the immense amount of body control she has. Jam Republic watched with a face of impress and admiration, shouting in delight when Kirsten snaps her hips.

“That was insane!” She exclaimed once the battle ended. It wasn’t long before the judges showed the cards of the winning result of the battle.

And three yellow cards were faced.

Mannequeen cheers loudly for the victory while Jam Republic claps their hand. Sure, the battle didn’t end up in their favour, but it is understandable since Yoonji conveyed a lot through her dance.

Once the emotion of frustration simmered down, Yoonji shakes Kirsten’s hand with a smile and pulls her for a hug. Thanking her for the battle and saying I love you to her.

On their way to their seats, (Y/N) wrapped her arm around Kirsten’s shoulder and congratulated her, saying the same to Yoonji when they passed her by. Although the battle was intense and heated, there was no point in starting unwanted rivalry outside of the dance floor.

⁽⁠⁽⁠ଘ⁠(⁠ ⁠ˊ⁠ᵕ⁠ˋ⁠ ⁠)⁠ଓ⁠⁾⁠⁾

Another break was conducted after a few battles from Jam Republic and other teams. Emma, Latrice, Audrey, and Ling had already participated in their own respective battles. Ling battled against Cera which takes her by surprise, both of them had chosen her as their No Respect Dancer to push themselves. (Y/N) is the only Jam Republic member who have yet to battle anyone.

“(Y/N) has yet to dance, right?” A member from Deep N’ Dap says, looking at the direction of the Jam Republic who was talking animatedly with her team.

“Mhm, I’m really excited to see her dance though.” Another member responded.

However, the long wait is about to be over.

“The next challenger of the battle, Cera of Mannequeen.”

Howls and cheers rang through the arena, everyone had witnessed the intense and captivating performance of Cera earlier when she battled Ling. The member of Mannequeen adorned in her iconic green dress made her way towards the center with a smirk on her face, her members cheers as they follow closely behind her.

A mic was handed to her, the crowd became silent, and she walks around.

“The No Respect Dancer I chose to battle…” she trails off, making her way towards 1MILLION.

“From 1MILLION?” Mini questioned as she watches Cera stop right in front of the white team. The members looked up at her with their hearts on their throat, terrified of the idea that one of them has to face off against her.

“My No Respect Dancer…” she trails off again, but this time, she walks towards the next team. “Is Jam Republic’s (Y/N). Come on.”

Everyone’s lost their minds as Cera called out the Jam Republic dancer.

“Yehey!” Audrey cheered – shooting up from her seat with a bounce on her step.

“Wah! This is like the battle of the Prima Ballerina’s!” Harimu yelled from her stand.

(Y/N)’s cheeks puffed as it’s filled with water, Cera called her in the middle of her taking a sip, but she didn’t complain. It’s just hard for her to grin with all the water in her cheeks. Though, everyone can still see the joy in her eyes.

She gulped down everything and stands up with a clap, grinning from ear-to-ear as she bows in greeting to Cera, holding her hands against her chest. They make their way to the center of the arena with their team following closely behind them. The two dancers stand in between Kang Daniel, standing tall with microphones handed to each of them. She bows one more time towards Cera before standing tall with a smile on her face, excited to battle one of the strongest battlers in the show.

Her opponent clad in green dress bows along with her before standing up straight and switched her face into battle mode – a stoic face with an arched brow, as if wanting to end her. (Which, not gonna lie, (Y/N) 100% will let her).

“Cera of Mannequeen,” Kang Daniel began, “why did you pick (Y/N) as your No Respect Dancer?”

“It’s not that I don’t respect (Y/N) as a dancer,” Cera started, holding the mic to her lips with one hand. “Quite the opposite actually, but, it’s time to show the people who the best ballerina battler is.”

The whole arena cheers and awes at what Cera said whilst (Y/N) just giggled and nodded her head. If there was one thing she always takes pride in, it’s her dancing skills and techniques in ballet.

“Cera-unnie, first of all, thank you for choosing me as your No Respect Dancer.” She bows down again, “however, if I am to prove anything to everyone here today – is that ballet is my style, and I am one of the best out there.”

Amidst the loud roars of the others dancers in the background, Ling, Kirsten, and Audrey’s cheers seems to be the loudest among them.

Cera smirked at the determination of her opponent keeping eye contact with her, and (Y/N) didn’t back down.

The two dancers briefly walked back to the side where their crew members are at for a warm-up, and (Y/N) takes this opportunity to remove her sneakers to change into the dance shoes.

“Is she changing her shoes for this battle?” Monika questioned – perplexed and intrigued. Mike Song just grins widely as he leaned forward, excited at the intense battle that is about to happen.

“Wah, she’s changing her shoes,” Bada commented, looking at the Jam Republic dancer who is currently leaning to one of her members while adjusting her shoes. “She’s putting her best foot forward for this battle.”

Tatter and Lusher agreed, keeping their eyes trained on the ballet dancer, eager to watch her dance.

“You got this girl,” Latrice said. Offering her arm for (Y/N) to stabilize herself as she changes her shoes. “Show her and everyone what you’re made of.”

“Thank you,” (Y/N) replied. Jumping in her place to feel the shoes beneath her feet.

“Kill everyone who doubted you with your dance.” Jam Republic laughed at the seriousness in Audrey’s voice, taken aback by her.

The lights dimmed once the two dancers made their way towards the center, Kang Daniel exchanged glances with the two women in the middle of the dance floor with a smile on his face.

“The battle between two ballerina dancers will begin now. You guys ready?!” Kang Daniel announced. Cera and (Y/N) eyed each other up and down, one with a stoic, daring look, standing tall and elegantly, while the other is currently sporting a small smile on her lips as she cracks her head from side-to-side.

“Let’s go (Y/N)!”

“Show them what you’ve got!”

“Kill this battle (Y/N)!”

The other Jam Republic members cheers can be heard from all over the room before the battle can even begin.

“Fight!”

The music started playing as soon as Kang Daniel said the word. Cera starts her iconic slow walk while keeping her eye-contact with (Y/N). It’s quite intimidating, but (Y/N) held her ground, admiring the determination in Cera’s eyes.

Cera started moving her arms at each beat of the music, before adding her own twists and turns before she does her iconic leg move. (Y/N)’s face scrunched up in disgust, indicating a sick and impressive move done by her opponent as she hits every beat of the music.

The Mannequeen dancer comes close to you, pointing at you with a single finger and pointing it up and down your figure. (Y/N) bit her lower lip as she arched her brow and titled her head. Leaning her head down a bit to stare at Cera with lidded yet seductive eyes.

The whole crowd went crazy with her looks.

She can’t deny the charisma and confidence of Cera in this battle, the latter really is showing years of experience in battling and the undeniable musicality she seemingly naturally possess.

As Cera’s time comes to an end, you used a sign language taught to you by Baby Sleek and signalled her to hurry up – much to the surprise of the other members of Wolf’Lo.

“She knows how to use it?!” Yeni asks in surprise, bringing her hands up to her head. Baby Sleek is the only one looking focused at the battle, eager for you to showcase your dance while the others had their jaws dropped.

Kang Daniel counts the last 3 seconds of Cera’s time, the woman comes close to your face and circled you whilst flipping your hair – just like what she did to Ling, before walking back confidently to the side of her team.

“3, 2, 1, switch! (Y/N) of Jam Republic!”

The members of Jam Republic screamed once the opening of Partition by Beyonce starts playing. (Y/N) smirks, stepping slowly forward towards the middle, mimicking a seductive wave after she flips her hair once the “hey, Ms. Carter” starts playing.

Everyone went wild once the beat drops – along with (Y/N) as she suddenly drops down to her knees and starts to doing some sensual floor works. The judges and competitors alike went ballistic at her opening moves, and it was just beginning.

(Y/N) kept her eyes on Cera the whole time, still with that lidded gaze. She slowly stands up, spinning fast with the beat in an insanely clean and controlled manner. She then did some popping and locking, showcasing her prowess in other styles of dancing other than ballet much to the delight of the judges and her team mates. She hits every beat of the song while sometimes taking the lyrics into account of her movements – showing a great control of her body and unparallel musicality.

“This is so crazy!” Monika yells as she keeps her eyes trained at (Y/N).

Chocol couldn’t look at anywhere else once (Y/N) started dancing. She has her arms crossed against her chest as she watches intensely with a impressed smirk plastered on her face. She walks down the steps to have a better view of the dancer dancing before her.

She finds it impressive at how she uses various techniques and moves of ballet and other styles to incorporate it in her moves. It looks complicated, but she makes it look so seemless and effortless.

Bada, on the other side of the arena, finds it hard to contain her emotions as she watches the Jam Republic dancer. She’s constantly shouting, impressed by the moves executed by the young dancer. She holds onto her cap as her jaw drops once (Y/N) did an aerial.

She claps and screams along with the rest of her team as she continues to watch her with a starstruck gaze and jaw dropped. Lusher takes one glance at Bada before she bursts out laughing.

“Oh my gosh your totally whipped Bada-unnie!” She laughs, slapping Bada’s arm as she threw her head back.

Bada immediately flushed red and attempted to cover it with a cough, but it still wasn’t enough to tear away her gaze from the performing dancer of the pink team.

While (Y/N) remained oblivious to the pairs of eyes staring at her, she focused on ending her battle with a bang. As Kang Daniel signals the last 5 seconds of her time, she makes her way towards Cera – mimicking the way she circled around her earlier, but with her own seductive walk. She stopped in front of her, bending down to her eye level whilst blowing a kiss with a wink, wiggling her fingers in a goodbye motion before walking back to her team with a smile and playing with her hair as she shakes her head from side-to-side.

(Y/N)’s members hyped her up as she walks towards them. She laughs as Audrey and Ling jokingly bows down to her like a royalty, making the others follow soon after. She covers her laughs underneath her hands to also hide the redness that’s painting her cheeks.

Everyone went ballistic. Screaming their heads off at the intense yet entertainingly fun battle between the ballerina’s of Mannequeen and Jam Republic.

She then turns back around to face Cera who has a smile on her face, bowing down at her in gratitude for the battle. She continued bowing to everyone who was still in shock by the battle – her heart swelled with pride once she sees Monika standing up with a shocked smile on her lips as well as Mike Song and Shownu who were clapping.

“Good girl, (Y/N)!” Baby Sleek yells, clapping her hands. The mentioned girl heard it and snaps her head towards her, holding her hands to her chest before bowing deeply. She can feel tears well up in her eyes but she shakes her head to avoid them from falling down.

Her former teacher praised her loudly and openly. The highest compliment she could ever receive from this competition.

“That was intense!” Lusher exclaimed, sitting back down in her seat once the commotion started dying down.

“They really showed their battling skills. Their confidence is through the roof!” Mini exclaimed. “Honestly, whoever wins this deserves it.”

(Y/N) and Cera makes their way back to the center of the dance floor. Breathing heavily after the intense battle they shared.

“Fight judges,” Kang Daniel starts, “cards open.”

(Y/N) could hear her heart ponding against her chest and in her ears as she fiddles with her fingers. All the judges visibly look like they’re having a hard time deciding on their choices. She reminds herself that whatever the outcome of the battle is, she gave it her best. Yet, she still wants to secure a win for her team.

And then, the cards are flipped.

And everyone cheered.

Monika holds two cards – pink and yellow.

While Shownu and Mike Songs holds a single, pink card.

(Y/N) almost drops to the ground because of relief.

Cera and Mannequeen sighs in defeat and in dismay while the Jam Republic members – specifically Audrey, Ling, and Kirsten, cheers loudly.

(Y/N) makes her way towards Cera and offers her hand, “you are amazing! I love your dance! You are simply amazing out there and thank you for the wonderful battle. It was an honour to compete with you. I hope we can be good friends in the future because you are simply just amazing!”

Cera coos at the adorable ramble of her opponent and pulls her to a hug. “Thank you, thank you too for that battle. I love you, you’re amazing too out there! We must definitely meet up sometime after this.”

(Y/N) grins and pats her back before they separate. “We should do this more often!” Cera laughs before she and her team makes their way towards their seats.

“Way to go (Y/N)!” Kirsten exclaims as she holds onto her arm.

“You really killed it out there!”

“Thank you guys, that was so great. I really want to be close friends with Cera now.” Ling giggles at her comment.

The rest of her team continues to praise her with compliments and congratulations on their way back to their seats. As (Y/N) makes eye contact with her former teacher, she flashes her a grin and a thumbs up. Baby Sleek returns her gestures with a wink and a nod.

Kirsten adds a win chip to their board while (Y/N) makes her way towards Mannequeen to place a lose chip on their board, bowing down at the members and thanking them for a wonderful fight.

“I can’t even be mad at her,” Yoonji starts, “she’s too polite for me to be mad at us loosing.”

“The whole team is,” Redlic agrees.

“Judge Mike Song, why did you choose (Y/N) as the winner?” Kang Daniel asks once everyone settled down to their seats.

“First of all, the two dancers are very powerful and seasoned in battles – they showed it to us! It was one of the very entertaining and very fun battles this day that’s for sure, and for that, I want to thank the two of you.”

(Y/N) and Cera bows their head in gratitude with huge smiles on their faces and everyone claps. Kirsten and Latrice pats their team mate of her shoulders with a grin on their faces.

“Choosing between the two of you is almost torture!” Mike Song jokingly sighs with a shake of his head, causing everyone to laugh at his dramatic tone. “However, the reason I chose (Y/N) at the end is because of the versatility she showcased us. The body control, the movements, the flow of each step was like water! It was so fluid and she did it with such grace and confidence. So, (Y/N), I hope to see more of you in this competition, because you really killed it out there.”

(Y/N) couldn’t help but stand and bow deeply towards Mike Song and thanked him. The rest of the crews claps and awes at the high praise the member of Jam Republic received from one of the respectable judges.

“That’s one of the highest praise someone got from the judges today,” Mina Myoung commented. “Looks like Kirsten is not the only force of nature in Jam Republic.”

“Their team just got a lot more intimidating.” Nob commented, looking at Jam Republic.

“I entered this show so sure of my preference and sexuality, but tell me why Bada and (Y/N) are making me question it?” Deep N Dap members laughs at the unexpected comment Downy made.

⁽⁠⁽⁠ଘ⁠(⁠ ⁠ˊ⁠ᵕ⁠ˋ⁠ ⁠)⁠ଓ⁠⁾⁠⁾

It wasn’t long before Mike Song’s request for more battles came true.

“The next challenger of the battle,” Kang Daniel began, pausing once again for the dramatic effects. “Is Chocol from Wolf’Lo.”

“Oh right! Let’s go!” Haechi cheers, shaking Chocol by her shoulders as the older dancer makes her way down the seats. Per usual, her crew follows close behind her.

“I wonder who she chose,” Emma comments after taking a sip from her water, “her team is kinda scary.”

(Y/N) and Ling hums in agreement, watching the crew in front of them in silent. Silently terrified at the thought of battling against one of them. Though (Y/N) is confident in her skills and unafraid to show them, Wolf’Lo is just on another level.

Chocol takes the microphone that’s handed to her, licking her lips as she starts to walk around.

“The No Respect Dancer I choose,” she began, making her way towards Lady Bounce who tenses up from their seats.

She gave a slight smirk to Nob and Biggy who visibly gulps down the saliva stuck down their throats. Chocol enjoyed teasing them, making them think that she’s choosing one of them, but then, she skipped backwards without looking back before suavely turning around and jogs lightly towards the pink team. “Is Jam Republic’s (Y/N)”

“My god my heart,” Nob says. Holding onto her chest as she breathes out a sigh of relief and leans backwards.

(Y/N) smiles, standing up from her seat from the top and sets down the Jam Republic banner in her hand. Before she can take a single step down, she saw a hand in front of her. When she looks at who the hand belongs to, it leads down to Chocol, waiting for her at the bottom with her arm outstretched.

“Oh, okay,” Kirsten said teasingly as she and Latrice moved to the side to make way for (Y/N).

“Special treatment, I see you.” Latrice added.

Everyone awes at the action, more so when (Y/N) places her hand on Chocol’s with a smile before descending down the seats.

“It’s like a prince charming guiding a princess,” Redy said, leaning forward with her hands on the bottom of her chin. “I’m so jealous right now.”

“What in the story book cliché is this?” Yoonji stomps her feet jokingly, “why didn’t I get that kind of treatment?”

“Yah, you threatened her leader earlier to a dance battle with a scary façade and you expect the others not to be afraid of you?” Buckey jokingly replies which made everyone burst out laughing and Yoonji to pout.

“Tsk.” Bada clicked her tongue as she watches Chocol guide (Y/N) to the dance floor with their hands still intertwined with narrowed eyes. “Honestly, this is a serious competition. Why is she being nice to her opponent?”

Lusher hears what her leader grumbled underneath her breath, causing her to giggled and comfortingly pat her back. “Don’t worry unnie, no need to be jealous.”

Bada snaps her head towards her sub-leader with a glare and a slight pout. “Who said anything about jealousy?”

Lusher holds her hands up with wide eyes and downturned smile. “Nothing, nothing. I’m just teasing you.”

Bada clicks her tongue once again in annoyance before looking back to the front with her arms crossed against her chest. Lusher and Tatter made eye-contact from each sides of Bada with knowing looks and teasing smiles. The other members of Team BEBE heard the conversation laughs silently, watching as their leader sulks down on her seat.

“Chocol, why did you choose (Y/N) as your weakest dancer?” Kang Daniel asked.

With their height difference, Chocol had to tilt her head up ever so slightly to make eye-contact with her opponent. She adjusted her cap with one hand as the other holds the mic to her lips.

“Originally, I chose her because I want to see what that pretty face can bring. But from the battle earlier, we all saw it. So now, I want to see if she can bring that fire come to life again, but this time, more closely and upfront.”

“Is she flirting with her or what?” Debby whispered to Harimu with a slight giggle.

(Y/N) nods and rolls her tongue against her cheek, bowing her head down slightly. She tosses her hair back before answering with her now famous lidded-eye look, “if it’s fire you want, then I’ll gladly burn the stage in here, baby.”

Everyone screams once they heard (Y/N) talk in that low-flirty way as combat against Chocol’s remarks in full English:

“Why was that so hot?!”

“I don’t speak and understand English very well but damn!”

“See! I told you she’s making me question everything!”

“I understand you perfectly well now, Downy!”

(Y/N) laughs as she hears the comments, giving the mic to her Kirsten who is now looking at her with a teasing face.

“You better burn the stage baby,” she mimics. (Y/N) rolls her eyes at her before teasing pinching her arm. Kirsten laughs as she dodges her hand.

(Y/N) faces her opponents team, the team of Baby Sleek. It would be a lie if she says she isn’t downright petrified right now. This is the crew with the most skilled freestyle battlers – but she was trained by the best of them. This is her chance to solidify and prove herself once again to one of the most respected teachers she had.

Chocol bounces on her feet, preparing for the battle. (Y/N) has her hands stretching above her head as far as she can as she glances at her opponent who teasingly winks at her. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head at the playful nature of Chocol.

Bada grumbled even more at the exchange. She doesn’t even know why she’s feeling this ugly feeling in her chest. Hell, she didn’t even have a conversation with the dancer yet, or even introduce herself! That doesn’t mean she won’t find away later, maybe she’s just bitter that someone got to befriend her before her. Yeah, maybe that’s it. She just wants to forge a friendship with the dancer first, you know, just cause.

“The battle between Wolf’Lo’s street dancer and the ballerina of Jam Republic will begin now. You guys ready?!”

Cheers erupted from both teams and the rest of the teams, curious to see the outcome of the battle between two very different styles of dance between the two dancers.

“Fight!”

Music filled the loud speakers of the room. Chocol nods her head to the beat to get into the groove as her team mates cheers her on. When the beat drops, she comes close to (Y/N)’s space and sways her body to the music.

It was a bold start, (Y/N) admits, and the way Chocol moves is nothing short of hypnotic. Her body moves so fluidly yet with power as she hits every beat of the song. She definitely knows how to control body on command, if there is one thing she can describe her dance overall, it’s classic hip-hop. Effective yet timeless when it comes to battle.

(Y/N) smirks as Chocol comes close to her face, mimicking the flying kiss she did to Cera earlier. Wanting to continue this banter, she “catches” the kiss mid-air and pretends to keep it in her pocket.

She lets out an impress shout at Chocol’s body articulation. She began hyping her up, moving her body along with the beat while staying still in her position. Chocol’s performance is nothing short of impressive, but her competitive side is coming out, and now she wants to do better.

As Chocol’s timer comes to an end, she once again closes in on (Y/N)’s space, this time, ending her dance by mockingly pointing at her figure up and down and another flying kiss which caused another uproar from the side of Deep N Dap

“That should be me!” Someone shouts.

“5, 4, 3, 2, 1, switch! Jam Republic’s (Y/N)!”

A familiar laugh echoes through the room, before the beginning lyrics of Gangsta by Kehlani plays. (Y/N) lets out a wide smirk and tilts her head to the side.

My turn.

Audrey began screaming her head off once the familiar music fills the air. She danced with (Y/N) before during her time of travelling the world to learn new styles of dance, and if there is one thing Audrey knows for certain, (Y/N) dances very well to dark themes.

“You got this (Y/N)! Eat. This. Up!”

With that, the Jam Republic dancer ran her hands across her body to get into the feel of the music – which isn’t that hard. She began walking forward slowly, just like what Cera did, but with a tad bit more of sensuality.

When the beat starts going down, her expression and articulation changes to every beat, mimicking the craziness Harley Quinn did in the movie in which the song was made of. Everyone can see where she’s going with the dance and is excited yet again. Bada and Chocol keeps their gazes focused solely on her.

In this dance, (Y/N) focuses more on interpreting the lyrics of the song yet still hitting the necessary beat from time to time, just taking on a more contemporary approach. In contrast to Chocol’s hip-hop, she chose a genre she excels in.

Chocol smirks as she goes down towards the floor once again, expecting another floor work from her. She did, but a lot shorter and takes everyone by surprise once again.

(Y/N) did a middle spilt before crouching down, but she didn’t get up. Instead, she takes a hold of her left foot, before initiating a single hand cartwheel – still holding onto the foot, down to a split and stands up without the use of her hands.

Screams can be heard once again, thoroughly impressed by the never-ending amount of techniques and tricks the Jam Republic dancer seem to possess. Jam Republic members sported a disgusted looks as they cheer their fellow member on, some jumping on their places purely from the amount of adrenaline they are getting just by watching (Y/N) dance.

They are not the only one’s though. Bada, with her cool and mysterious look she once sported, almost disappears by how much she is now yelling. Watching (Y/N) dance only increases her determination and will to befriend her and possibly collab with her and her team in the future. Bada watches with awe as (Y/N) stays true to her word: she really is setting the stage on fire.

(Y/N) can hear her time coming to an end, she laid down on her stomach with her legs up in the air as she drags her finger to her lips, smirking seductively at Chocol. The said girl only tilted her cap and bites her bottom lip in acknowledgement.

(Y/N) held onto that pose for a few seconds, taking in the cheers and the screams of the other dancers before grinning brightly and standing up.

“How can she possess that duality?! One moment she’s all smiles and elegant looking the next moment its as if she’s seducing me!” Downy exclaimed as she watches (Y/N) makes her way to her team with a bright smile.

“She’s like a wolf in sheep’s clothing!” Mini said, clapping her hands after patting and congratulating Chocol on the battle.

“You were on fire baby!” Emma cheers, patting the heaving girl on the shoulders.

“Harley Quinn definitely possessed you for a moment there!” Ling exclaims.

“Thank you,” (Y/N) smiles at her members before turning around to face the judges on the middle.

Chocol is one of the oldest and seasoned battlers they have, and Wolf’Lo doesn’t have a lose chip to their board yet, so, (Y/N) is prepared and had already accepted her fate that she lost this battle.

“Fight judges,” Kang Daniel announces, “card open.”

It was a surprise that the judges seem to have their pick already and confidently, however, the result of the battle left everyone even more surprised.

Three pink cards.

(Y/N)’s hands flew to her mouth in shock, and this time, she actually fell to the floor in shock. Jam Republic immediately went to her side and cheered her on while Wolf’Lo nods their head in defeat but claps nonetheless. She makes her way towards Chocol to shake her hand, but before she can do that, Chocol takes her hand up to place a kiss on her knuckles, causing her to grin and flush bright red.

Everyone who saw the interaction began teasing and cooing at the couple, some because of jealousy, others because of the *kilig. Well, most of them. A particular leader of the blue team scoffed loudly before chuging down the contents of her bottle before crushing the bottle with one hand. As she grumbles in her seat, her members are secretly watching her in amusement, never expecting their leader to act this way.

“Thank you for the amazing fight, Chocol.” (Y/N) began, taking her hand back with a smile still painted on her lips.

Chocol shrugs her shoulders nonchalantly with a smirk, stuffing her hands on her pockets. “Don’t worry about it, darling. I had fun.”

“Yah, what do you mean darling?!” Baby Sleek scolded playfully as she slaps the back of Chocol’s head and drags her back by her arm, causing the younger woman to pout.

“Stop flirting with her and get back to our seats! “Darling,” your face.” Jam Republic just laughs at the dynamic of the orange team.

The rest of the crews are still in shock that the first and only person so far to break the winning streak of Wolf’Lo is the ballerina of the pink team.

“Wow, (Y/N) really is amazing.” Rena of Tsubakill said, still in awe of the Jam Republic member who is now currently walking back to their seats.

“She only had two battles so far and she’s already proving herself as one of the strongest dancers here.” Akanen replied.

“Fight judge Monika, why did you pick (Y/N) as the winner of the battle?” Kang Daniel asked.

“I’m going to keep it short and frank, (Y/N) did not only dance, she told a story.” Monika says while looking at the dancer. “She told a story while embodying a well-known character of the movie which is insane because it’s as if you really are her for a second. You brought colour to the dance – no, you brought fire to the dance.”

Jam Republic claps at Monika’s comment.

“(Y/N),” she adds, “you took me by surprise. You really are one of a kind.”

(Y/N) swears she could sob at the high regard. She stands up and bows deeply towards Monika like she did too Mike Song. She then stands up

“It’s like a main character moment,” Biggy said, watching as Kirsten place a win chip to their board. “Are we the side characters?” Lady Bounce laughed at her.

As (Y/N) places the first and only lose chip on the board of Wolf’Lo, Baby Sleek reaches up her hand and pats her head.

“Well done, (Y/N),” she says. “You really have gone far now. I’m proud of you.”

*kilig - causing or characterized by a feeling of exhilaration or elation.

tag list:@luvjanexx @b1ackbunny @thedevilisrory @kaaylvst @badagf @aestrelle19 @leo-dragon@xiakiyama @watamotee33 @tnu-ree @hallotherenicetomettyou @skuuzae @froufrousnowman @strawblueberrys @avocifera@urvirtualgfteehee@kaylinsimpson@jksjx@1luvkarina@jjlovesbada@infinite1sblog @randomhoex@maximoff-jp@woniesheep@tsuunlovers @bada-lee-ily @deadpool15@maknaehyucks @smoooore@efyyylee @amararosesblog @zhivaxo @badasgirlfriend @pupbistro @bluebada @westwoodsvivi @haebragi @awkwardtoafault

note: initialized names can't be tagged. I'm sorry 😭😭😭

next part >>>

#let's dance #bada lee #bada x reader #chocol #chocol x reader #swf2 x reader #bada lee x reader #bada lee x y/n #jo kayoung #jo kayoung x reader #bada x y/n #street woman fighter 2 x reader #street woman fighter 2 #street woman fighter x reader #jo gayoung x reader #BEBE #wolf'lo #jam republic #Spotify

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f-imaginings · 6 months ago

Text

I took a break from writing billford to colour in my billford comic that was just sitting in my drafts lmao. The grind never stops.

This is based on the gender swapped college au that has been rotating in my head for years. Here's the last comic I did for it, so folks can see the vibe I was going for.

Basically if we did a gender swap to achieve peak toxic yuri, I can't see older woman Stanford falling for Bill's tricks but if she were younger and more insecure, say at college, it could be an excellent setting for manipulation, since Ford might still crave social acceptance while acting like she doesn't need it. Major 'I'm not like other girls' vibes from young girl Ford.

Then if you throw in cultish sorority nonsense it would shape up to be a pretty interesting AU. Think Mona Awad's Bunny meets Gravity Falls.

Other fun facts about this au (that I may have a few pages of a fanfic already started in my drafts for haha) are as follows:

Bill is a second year transfer student who somehow within the span of days rose to power as Tri-Delta's sorority leader!

They introduce themselves to everyone as Bill Cipher, but because its the 70s and they're a girl all the other pledges call her Billie to feminize it a bit.

Bill offers to be Ford's first friend, but Ford rejects her on principle as she finds sororities to be vapid popularity contests and assumes Billie is no better. Ford's actual first friend is Viola McGucket who was named after the fancy word for her Pa's fiddle.

Occult phenomena has begun increasing ever since Billie usurped Tri-Delta's old leader and pledging rituals have involved dark magic, summonings and mysteries galore (a bit like the campus in Carmilla) which Stanford is keen to investigate.

Stanford has to prove to her father that she can be successful as a woman in STEM and is looking for something that will put her on the map as a scientist and change the world. Her idol switches from Tesla to Marie Curie.

She seeks comfort in the occult and thinks that her weird features and her intellect make her better than other girls (residual internal misogyny from Filbrick) but she learns solidarity when she has to save the sorority pledges and the rest of the world from Bill's machinations when she realises what the portal is for.

She is very gay, but acts like all women in STEM have to embody more masculine qualities, which is how she denies how gay her thoughts are all the time lmao.

She only starts stalking/obsessing over Billie after peeking at her essays to see that Billie is scoring higher than she is and is a certified genius.

She falls in love with Billie though once she realises that she's not human, and desperately seeks the acceptance in the occult she always envisioned. Bill makes her feel special too, often confirming Ford's biases against the pledges bc Bill thinks the sorority girls are braindead pawns.

Stanley didn't get kicked out, however she left home to make it big on her own while Stanford went to college. Right now she is dabbling in multi-level marketing schemes like Avon and tupperware parties, wanting to prove to her dad on the other side of the spectrum that a woman can make it big in business.

bonus Billie for the folks who read this long haha.

#billford #billford au #stanford pines #bill cipher #gender swapped au #college au #sorority au #my sketches #just a little toxic yuri #since folks are enjoying a billford gender swapped au more now than they have before #and sprinkling my own au here for folks to do with what you will #maybe one day i'll release the secret fanfic lmao #but i have to finish kmky first

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lololololchips · 1 year ago

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hi hi hi I know requests are closed (and please feel free to delete!!) but I was thinking maybe a woozi version for the accidentally exposing partner series?? maybe like idk the partner is like in a completely different profession like research or they’re a PhD student (totally not basing this on me heh) and like woozi starts writing more love songs and making more like references and learning more about computer science (or any other field! im just using me as a reference sorry😭😭) and like a member doesn’t know and they try to figure out but end up exposing them

maybe they’re chilling in his stupid and this member barges in with a live stream or smth idk this was a random idea I had but you’re like my fav smau author on this app okay thank you bye muah

I HAD SO MUCH FUN WRITING THIS THANK YOU ANON!!!!

us stem carats need a woozi in our lives 😿😿 ANYWAYSSSS ENJOY THIS FLUFFY MESS HEHE

Lee Jihoon || in which love is a loop…

synopsis: in which love is a loop of endless emotions, or in which woozi falls in-love and DK exposes his feelings to their fandom

genre: fake texts au, one shot au, idol x non!idol, secret relationship, stem!reader, fluff

warnings: fem pronouns, cursing, weird jokes, dk once again leaking a relationship sigh

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myman0rexic · 16 days ago

Text

An Undergraduate Forensic Viewing of Like Minds (2006) Train Scene

Pray for me. Pray for yourself. We are one now.

Contents:

1. Introduction 2. What We Know 3. The Investigation 4. Bibliography for Nerds

1. Introduction

Some justifications first.

I'm an undergraduate stem student obssessed with many topics, including forensic studies. I just finished a complete course about forensic chemistry/tecnology/law in uni and yes, I'm a big failure of a person and was thinking about applying some of the things I've learned into Like Minds' train scene. To clarify, I'm not an experienced profissional of the field. It is to say, I've never worked in such area and had just one or two significant interaction with said profissionals and students. My considerations won't be 100% accurate, clearly, and I may mistake or ignore fundamental data and studies. I intend solely to present some interesting facts and rapidly discuss their applicability here.

Take everything I say with large grains of salt, this is mostly for my enjoyment.

Let's kill Nigel!

2. What We Know

Figure 1. Visual diagram of forensic ballistics' main areas of study. Some will be mentioned here. [1]

2.1. Ballistics - Anatomy of a Discharge

Ballistics is a science field divided in three main ramifications: (1) Interior Ballistics, (2) Exterior Ballistics and (3) Terminal Ballistics. (1) studies the mechanism of a gun discharge, (2) studies the trajectory and behavior of a projectile once it is ejected from a firegun and (3) studies the damage and overall interaction of the projectile with a material structure (biological or not). [1] Ballistics experts (chemists, some engineers, law experts, etc) ocuppy themselves with many things regarding firearms, a field of work that recuries much study and understading of multiple fields of knowledge such as spectroscopy, law and general legislation, physical properties of chemical coumponds, solid state science, material science, industry production series and others. Some areas of chemistry and biology are of great importance and are commonly used complementarily.

We then understand what bullets are. The component that effectivally hits the target in these scenarios is the actual "projectile".

Figure 2. Simple structure of shotgun (left) and rifle (right) ammunition. [2]

In simple terms, they're composed by (1) a shell that holds everything together, (2) some coumpond responsable for the liberation of gas via chemical reaction and (3) some way to give the heat needed for said reaction to occur. There is a whole field of study and production of these killing objects that seeks out to balance some of their properties in different scenarios by the armamentist industry in oder to supply endless applications that constantly develops new shapes and components, so going through it all would be impossible. Regardless, all ammunition is classified by size, called "gauge" in shotguns, and "caliber" in rifles and handguns. [2]

Case: [in shotguns] It is a small cilindrical piece made out of a tube of common plastic or sturdy paper (the red/blue/colored part) that holds the multiple projectiles to be fired (shots), with a metallic base (the primer) composed of brass (copper and zinc) or steel (iron and carbon). [in rifles] The case is called cartridge case, and it is composed by brass as well. [2]

Powder (or propellant): They are usually Nitroclelullose (handguns), Nitroclelullose/Nitrogliceryn (rifles) and Nitroclelullose/Nitrogliceryn/Nitroguanidyn (long range rifles) [3]. Oversimplifying, organic molecules containing nitro groups (present in Nitroclelullose, Nitrogliceryn and Nitroguanidyn) are really unstable; these chemical groupaments are highly reactive in face of many scenarios. If enough energy is provided (by heating, or mechanical contact and pertubation) they will enter a decompostion process, breaking and reacting with their own bonds spontaneously, liberating gases such as H2O, N2 and CO2. These mentioned gases are much more stable compared to the original organic coumponds, so the atoms will "prefer" to form these species if the conditions are set (thus, a spontaneous reaction). This increases pressure inside the shell and forces the projectile to leave violently as a result of gas expansion. [4] Shotgun powder is composed by potassium nitrate, charcoal and sulfur; a mixture known as "dark powder", and it is separated from the shot (projectiles; multiple balls of steel, lead, rubber, or really anything) by a small component called "wad". The same principle explained in the decomposition of organic nitro-compounds apply for the potassium nitrate present here, but only in the presence of sulfur (easier to melt and ignite), providing the necessary heat for potassium citrate to generate the oxygen needed, resulting in charchoal's combustion. [2]

Primer: Primers are a fundamental part of any ammunition, and yet a simple one. When a firing pin from the firegun hits them, sparkles and heat will be produced, which gives the propellent all requiered energy for the chemical reaction. It is, when the action lever is pulled, the firing pin is tensioned by a spring inside the gun. When the trigger is pulled, this firing pin hits rapidly the ammunition's primer (metallic base). [5]

Figure 3. Shotgun firing pin scheme. [5]

The discussion of differents powders/propellents (like smokeless powder), projectiles shapes (in rifle cases) and firegun types (other than rifle and shotgun) is being ignored.

All that must be known is: the trigger pulling promotes a mechanical impact against the ammunition base, which promotes chemical reactions that liberate great amounts of gases, increasing the pressure inside the case, what will pushes the projectile(s) inside foward with great speed.

2.2. The Shotgun - Means to An End

We now restrain ourselfs to the firegun. Let us take a look on the following images:

Figures 4-9 (left to right, top to bottom). Shotguns' takes from Like Minds (2006).

Main considerations:

The shotgun used by Mr. Colbie isn't the same one used by Nigel/Alex in the train scene. We can clearly point that by the number of barrels, i.e., two barrels contaning two projectiles (killing Nigel's mother and father without visible activation) in its first appearance, and only a single one in its second appearance. Maybe this has been discussed before.

It is not a narrative problem if we have the eyes for it. Nigel's father possesses two shotguns, so we assume Nigel went back and grabbed the single-barrel one before going after Alex.

The reloading thing would be important during the bedroom scene, between the moments where John shoots his wife and Alex picks up the gun from the floor. There would be no way of aciddentially shooting Mr. Colbie wihout Alex pulling the action on the second barrel (how would he know which one of the barrels were loaded and why Mr. Colbie would only activate one of the two barrels? It appears he wasn't using the shotgun to merely scare his family). Perhaps the double barrel shotgun used has some individual firing feature, perhaps.

Also, the single barrel shotgun is the same one used by John when Alex and Nigel first accessed the hidden baseament together. This isn't of great relevance though.

After a compulsive research in gun sale sites and over 900 models of shotguns (no joking), I'm inclined to believe that Nigel's single barrel shotgun is an Era 410 GA Single Shot Break Action. My conclusions is based on Figures 6 and 9, the shotgun's best takes throughout the entire movie. The important details are: a single barrel, with rounded trigger guard that ends exactly where the wooden stock begins, by a rounded break action lever with squarish shape that leans horizontally to the receiver and a rectangular like forestock. Other smaller details are: the receiver's top shape and really curved back, the declination present on the stock and the three screws' position and size.

The engraved symbols on Colbie's receiver are sculpted by a profssional artist called "engraver", by client's demand. Therefore, these sigils are decorative and probably carry some meaning to the shotgun's real owner, so they aren't a discrepancy to worry about. The frame I acquired (Figure 9) is of poor quality and there's nothing I can read in there besides one or two letters. I've tried to watch the movie in other internet sites but it didn't help that much.

It took me forever, but here it is [6], [7]. There are also youtube videos revewing this gun in the Extra section.

Figures 10-13. Era 410 GA Single Shot Break Action Shotgun. [6]

Note: @laurelwen successfully identified Nigel's firegun as a Boito .410. The text engraved on the shotgun's receiver in Figure 9, in fact, reads "Boito". Check it out on this post. Look up Extra Bibliography No. 7 in the shotgun's section as well.

Shotguns are a really old type of gun from the 16th century. Their mechanisms were adjusted during following centuries, but they remain still to date with an extremely simple way of function. Today, there are many types, including the single-shots and hand shotguns, much different than what was originally conceived. A break shotgun is capable of "breaking in half" for reloading, exposing its ejector/extractor and barrel interior just as many other fireguns. [8]

Figure 14. Break action shotgun anatomy. [9]

The Era 410 GA possesses a specially long length of barrel, which helps projectiles to achieve maximum velocity before leaving. Still, it appears from my research that this is a second hand model with low price, low demand and little historical relevance. This is the type of gun that would be bought mainly by collectors and enthusiasts; however, because of its little weight, good shooting and minimalist elegance, this firegun is not one of the worst models out there for small amateur animal hunting.

A 410 (10.41 mm, one smallest shot diameter in the market) with great pattern of dispersion after the discharge isn't bad, so at medium distances most projectiles would succesfully hit the center of a target. This is not very good when we're talking about a point-blank discharge directly at Nigel's face.

3. The Investigation

Figure 15. "If they had any evidence, I wouldn't be talking to you, would I?"

Authorities arrive at the dark, umid and isolated train tracks. Immediatly, a shocking scene: a desperate young man holding in his arms the corpse of a dead boy, disfigured. They transport the living witness away from the scene, but the lying unknown and deformed body is extracted for further autopsy. Detective McKenzie takes over with Forensic Psychiatrist Sally to interrogate the surviving suspect, Alex Forbes.

After the initial approach and first hours of interaction, the case takes an unexpected form. The question now is, did Alex Forbes shoot the now identified Nigel Colbie alone, or did Colbie participated in his own killing to incriminate Alex?

The police wastes its time thinking about common scenarios described in the book. They know the victim, the place where it happened, the exact gun used and the main suspect. Everything comes down to answering the presented question. Psycological attempts of extracting an answer from Alex by closed sessions with Sally, it is, to try and build a thrust and comfort relation with the suspect in order to obtain a confession would be protocol. But Alex clearly is beyond that, and if we must say, he's in control the whole time.

All that is left for the police is to attach towards factual evidences. Now, we describe two fundamental forensic elements of a gun-related crime.

Gunshot Residues (GSRs)

GSRs are one of the strongest evidences when it comes to forensic studies. Being composed of burnt and unburnt organic or inorganic particles from the explosive primer from the shell, propellant and possibly fragments of the bullet, cartridge case, and even the firearm, they frequently contain elements such as Sb (antimony), Ba (barium), Pb (lead) or Zn (zinc), Cu (cooper), and Ti (titanium). Their deposition concentrates away from the firearm into the shooter's (arms, face, hands and chest mainly) and victim's (region of contact mainly) bodies. GSRs can be found in nearby surfaces as well, such as the floor, ceiling, walls, objects, clothes, etc. The direct deposition of these residues must be carefully used as evidence because of its irregular distribution on the surrounding enviroment after the discharge. Thus, the main factors are always the chemical composition and concentration spots. Shotgun shots (the small spherical projectiles) are usually made up of lead or lead/antimony, but some ammunitions use steel, zinc-plated steel, tungsten and bismut in substitution (So, in our case, we can expect more significant ammounts of antimony/lead or zinc, iron and carbon). [10], [11]

A 410 ammunition is classified as "birdshots" ammunition, used for hunting said animals. The little diameter of projectiles allows the carrying of multiple projectiles inside one shell, facilitating the execution of small moving targets. The potential damage mustn't be underrated, though.

The aforementioned substances/elements can be detected, investigated, and quantified using microscopy, chemical analytical and chemometric methods, such as Scanning Electron Microscopy (SEM), Energy Dispersive X-Ray Spectroscopy (EDS), Atomic Absorption Spectroscopy (AAS) and Energy Dispersive X-Ray Fluorescence (EDXRF). All these techniques are extensively known and applied in uncountable areas of science for identification and characterization of solid materials. In a nutshell, these methods revolve around the interaction of matter with radiation (such as X-Rays) and the energy absorved/emitted by it after the interaction. The SEM is a most usefull analysis for it can provide real images of micro structures and particles present above any surface, like clothings, skin, fifregun metal and others, if properly prepared. [10]

It is important to understand that these identification methods are of extreme precision and sensibility, it is, minimal concentrations can and will be detected inneviatbly.

Figure 16 and 17. (Left) Image of gunshot powder residues dispersed in the air after discharge. Top left and (Right) images refer to SEM "photos" of extremely small particles of GSRs that can be chemically analyzed. [12], [13]

What about the lifespan of these residues? In long terms, the shooter's trigger hand (right hand) seems to contain most of the residues that persist for a fair amount of time after the discharge. [10] Unffortunately, the mentioned study occured in controlled enviroments, which is not the case. Another work [14] concludes that most GSRs are lost after two-four hours from the discharge. Considering the fast action from authorities described in the movie, we can basically ignore this factor and consider other variables.

Figure 18. "All I can tell you, was that the heavens were falling. And the sound... it was incredible. It was like the Gods were rejoicing for what was done."

Backspatter Material (BM)

Figure 19. Distribution of Forward Spatter and Backspatter caused by a shot at a biological target. [1]

We hereby exclude the forward spatter, it is, the biological material projected fowards with the projectile (to the back of Nigel's head), for its little relevance, since we're not questioning the type of gun or ammunition used; we assume that Alex is describing a resonable scenario that matches with the actual damage done to Nigel. There are no consistent reasons to question this since everythings seems to support Alex's description of this.

BM comes from the combined forces of several interacting wound and ballistics effects. The collapse of the wound cavity and balance of resulting overpressure, the stream of liquid and tissue particles accelerated along the lateral surface of the projectile, the shot's contact and ejection of muzzle gases out of the entry wound from the powder cavity... Every surrouding surface must be investigated, that is, even the shotgun barrel's interior. This small ambience is fairly protected from external pertubations and houses BM from the shot. Considering the poximity with Nigel's face, we can almost assure to encounter biological material with DNA inside. The bellow mentioned study cites another work where a 9 mm pistol cointaned backspatter material from test targets even at a distance larger than 1 meter, much greater then the few inches that separated Nigel's face from the barrel. [1]

Matter of fact, this biological material can pass by processes of Organ Tissue Identification (OTI) and Body Fluid Identification (BFI) if Nigel's identity was at question, or if we desire to understand more profundly the projectile's damage caused to his skull/face/tissue. [1]

Figure 20. "None of what I've heard makes him a murderer."

So, how can we gather this up to develop the investigation? Utilizing only these two fundamental concepts, we can make a few assumptions.

The big question here is if whether or not Nigel's hands were present by Alex's when the trigger was pulled, which would lead the police to support or oppose Alex's narrative. Chemical examination with organic solvents (which won't cause preocupant harm to a dead body) and analytical methods could immediatly point to the presence of GSRs or biological/non biological BM. If Nigel's hands were elevated in his head level (or superior) in the instant of discharge, trace amounts of discussed metals/elements coming from the firing mechanism and ammunition, as weel as little to some biological material, would definetly be found in his hands and forearm skin since there was no clothing covering. Any substance found in his hands/forearm could be microanalytical compared to the ones present in Alex's hands, clothes and face as well. This could be done with really small samples of fresh skin. On the other hand, if Nigel's arms were lowered at the instant of discharge, we could still expect the presence of GSRs in his arms (yet, in less amounts) but the abssence of backspatter materials most certantly. This would classify Alex as a murderer without excuses, even if he alleged that Nigel asked for it.

In the scenario where Alex discharges at Nigel from a great distance (configuring simply murder) we could note the abssence of GSRs in every part of Nigel's body except for the targeted region (perhaps if they were at a greater distance to each other) and the presence of these GSRs in Alex, but in much higher concentration.

But the enviromnent's conditions are of primordial importance. Nigel and Alex stand in an open area, with considerable wind, heavy rain and gravel soil. The heavy rain could simply carry way much of these residues from Alex's body, clothes and Nigel's hands as well. Most GSR would probably be lost to those conditions and its deposite upon the soil's surface would be extremely hard to be quantitatively analized due to unknown degrees (elevated) of impurities and diverse materials and dirt present, but qualitative tests would still be valid.

The knowledge about the victim, crime scene, shooter, exact firegun and time of the tragic event allied with the fast action from authorities saves most of the police's efforts on identifiying and tracking down evidences. However, what remains still offers a challenge. The best evidence here, GSRs left by the discharge, would be of questionable help considering the presence of heavy rain in sight. Still, analitical quantities of them, if detected in Nigel's skin by proper chemical and espectroscopy-related analysis, can be used to comparate probable ammounts present in Alex's clothing and skin (despite the difficult of such). With that being said, the police would find themselves in a much more complex case of muder/assisted suicide, and further evidences and information about their relationship and recent whereabouts would ineviatably need to be extracted from external sources (such as parents, school's employess, close friends and students). Despite all this, Alex's final acting of removing Susan's body and disapearing from sight (not to mention the card left in Sally's car) immediatly sustent his guilt in a case where he already was the main suspect and basically confirmed criminal. And you know, breaking into a cemetery and extracting a corpse from its grave is definetly worth of some jail time. The Colbie's House Murder would certainly incriminate Alex for homicide as well, and the current Brotherhood's little political influence wouldn't prevent him from this destiny, as it appears. But the case is not over.

Further evidences were to be discussed, if it was not for the dissapearing of Alex Forbes.

The subject now roams unknowingly through England with mysterious intents. Its participation on the described case still lacks formal arguments and the Court should now approve his arrest warrant and search decree. Alex Forbes will most probably live to perpetrate the deluded fantasy responsable for the death of three young students in order to carry the sacred holy burden of an ancient templar bloodline.

Yet, we pray.

Who's the enemy now? We are.

4. Bibliography

[1] Euteneuer J, Courts C. Ten years of molecular ballistics-a review and a field guide. Int J Legal Med. 2021 Jul;135(4):1121-1136. doi: 10.1007/s00414-021-02523-0. Epub 2021 Feb 16. PMID: 33594457; PMCID: PMC8205864. [2] https://spotterup.com/how-ammo-works/ [3] Serol, M.; Ahmad, S.M.; Quintas, A.; Família, C. Chemical Analysis of Gunpowder and Gunshot Residues. Molecules 2023, 28, 5550. https://doi.org/10.3390/molecules28145550 [4] Guanchao Lan, Jing Li, Guangyuan Zhang, Jian Ruan, Zhiyan Lu, Shaohua Jin, Duanlin Cao, Jianlong Wang, Thermal decomposition mechanism study of 3-nitro-1,2,4-triazol-5-one (NTO): Combined TG-FTIR-MS techniques and ReaxFF reactive molecular dynamics simulations, Fuel, Volume 295, 2021, 120655, ISSN 0016-2361, https://doi.org/10.1016/j.fuel.2021.120655. [5] https://www.hunter-ed.com/national/studyGuide/How-the-Shotgun-Shoots/201099_92815/ [6] https://www.invaluable.com/auction-lot/era-410-ga-single-shot-break-action-shotgun-131-c-8284a72a5b [7] https://firearmland.com/item/1079096107 [8] https://www.letsgoshooting.org/resources/articles/shotgun/meet-the-shotgun/ [9] https://www.atf.gov/firearms/firearms-guides-importation-verification-firearms-ammunition-and-implements-war-top-break [10] Virginie Redouté Minzière, Céline Weyermann, Organic and inorganic gunshot residues on the hands, forearms, face, and nostrils of shooters 30 min after a discharge. Science & Justice, Volume 64, Issue 5, 2024, Pages 557-571, ISSN 1355-0306, https://doi.org/10.1016/j.scijus.2024.08.002. [11] Joshua Hallett, Michael Stolk, Michael Cook, K. Paul Kirkbride, Examination of gunshot residue arising from shotgun cartridges containing steel, bismuth or tungsten pellets. Forensic Science International, Volume 306, 2020, 110096, ISSN 0379-0738, https://doi.org/10.1016/j.forsciint.2019.110096. [12] https://www.bka.de/EN/OurTasks/SupportOfInvestigationAndPrevention/ForensicScience/PhysicalEvidence/Homicide/GunshotResidue/gunshotresidue_node.html [13] Francesco Saverio Romolo, Pierre Margot, Identification of gunshot residue: a critical review. Forensic Science International, Volume 119, Issue 2, 2001, Pages 195-211, ISSN 0379-0738, https://doi.org/10.1016/S0379-0738(00)00428-X. [14] Jalanti, T & Henchoz, P & Gallusser, Alain & Bonfanti, M.S.. (1999). The persistence of gunshot residue on shooters’ hands. Science & justice : journal of the Forensic Science Society. 39. 48-52. 10.1016/S1355-0306(99)72014-9.

Extra

random materials, take a look

1. Chemistry of Explosives (book pdf) https://link.springer.com/chapter/10.1007/978-1-4612-0589-0_5 2. ERA 410 GA video 1 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lGWm2aaWVAc&ab_channel=SteadFastCourage 3. ERA 410 GA video 2 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2S16C5Y6lxY&ab_channel=esquad540 4. Quick discussion about Smokeless Powder on r/guns https://www.reddit.com/r/guns/comments/1tawwm/things_i_want_you_to_know_about_smokeless_powder/#:~:text=Because%20of%20something%20called%20oxygen,and%20temperatures%2C%20leading%20to%20fouling. 5. A little on the kinetic energy of specific projectiles (everything applies here as well) https://nodoroc.com/d/node/20 6. A little more on ammunition Caliber https://www.globalsecurity.org/military/systems/munitions/bullets2-types.htm#google_vignette

For the sake of archieving, here are some shotguns I've separated to double check during my research until the Era 410 GA appeared. Curious enough, number 7, called "boito", appears to be another common name given to Era 410. Woops.

1. https://www.bidsquare.com/online-auctions/north-american-auction/victor-break-action-single-shot-12-ga-shotgun-4988316 2. https://www.crescentcityauctiongallery.com/auction-lot/stevens-arms-.410-gauge-single-shot-break-open-sh_9F84899825 3. https://palmettostatearmory.com/jts-shotguns-single-shot-410-bore-26-single-shot2.html 4. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Stoeger-Coach-Gun.jpg 5. https://www.gunsinternational.com/guns-for-sale-online/shotguns/harrington-richardson-shotguns/h-r-bay-state-20-ga.cfm?gun_id=103017190 6. https://www.bankstowngunshop.com.au/product/12g-unknown-model-unknown-single-barrel-blued-wood-28-barrel-poor-condition/ 7. https://www.bankstowngunshop.com.au/product/410-boito-model-reuna-28-single-barrel-blued-timber-3-chamber-sec9622/ 8. https://www.bankstowngunshop.com.au/product/12g-harrington-richardson-model-1908-single-32-barrel-blued-wood/ 9. https://www.bankstowngunshop.com.au/product/12g-norinco-model-std-single-barrel-30-shotgun-great-condition/1 0. https://www.bankstowngunshop.com.au/product/12g-raick-freres-model-unknown-single-barrel-30-shotgun-belgium/ 11. https://gritrsports.com/henry-repeating-arms-single-shot-12ga-shotgun-h015-12 12. https://www.tmguns.co.uk/store/p1418/Tomas_Agote%2C_Eibar_12G_single_hammer_ejector_shotgun.html 13. https://www.tmguns.co.uk/store/p1659/Vanguard_Game%2FVermin_.410_hammer_ejector_single_barrel.html 14. https://www.tmguns.co.uk/store/p1290/Astra_Ciclope_12G_single_barrel_hammergun.html 15. https://www.tmguns.co.uk/store/p1883/Rossi_Game%2FVermin_20G_single_hammer_ejector_shotgun.html 16. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Stevens_511_Shotgun.jpg 17. https://www.gunsinternational.com/guns-for-sale-online/shotguns/harrington-richardson-shotguns/harrington-richardson-44-smoothbore.cfm?gun_id=102901609

thank you for reading

#like minds #murderous intent #nigel colbie x alex forbes #nigel colbie #alex forbes #forensic science #analysis #Spotify

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cherryredstars · 1 year ago

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OH MY GOD REQUESTS ARE OPEN💃🏾💃🏾

gosh cherry i love you and your blog sm it makes my day😭

could i please have a college or highschool au where reader studies subjects like social science and business and literature and he does stem subjects and he at first has like a superiority complex, he doesn’t intend to, but he can’t help it, until he sees the reader like talk about social issues or how she can remember 17 step procedures and shit and he’s like…wow. maybe they can be together and he sees her pretend to teach people to learn and he’s learning stuff from her and it’s wholesome asf

god i don’t know i’m sorry im rambling😭😭 you don’t have to ofc but thank you anyway

and again, love you!!

Thank you, love!!!

He's the smartest person he knows.

It's not narcissistic if it's a fact. He's the top of his major program, already has offers for Ph.D programs nationwide mailed to his door. He's sure to get into any genetics department he wants for grad school. He's the star of the industry-path students. He's just that good, and what's the harm in taking pride in your accomplishments?

But he's never met someone like you before.

Usually he wouldn't care for people like you, with their abstract liberal art degrees in nonsense majors that'll just collect dust in a box in an attic somewhere. But there is something so enduring about you, about everything you do. The way you just know what people are thinking based on the twitch of their fingers and why they think it. The way you're so open to everything in a way that would make his lab buddies laugh with their one-way minds. It amazes him, the way your view is so wide in a way that something like genetics or STEM can't comprehend. In a way they don't allow. There is something so breath-taking about the way your mind has this endless freedom that he can't even grasp. Like a kaleidoscope of colors that are simultaneously beautiful and overwhelming to the senses. Something his factual mind craves.

The first time he had seen you, he was in the library. It isn't a place he would usually go to, but he had to collect some textbooks for his professor in the storage closet. He had gotten in a bit of trouble that day for taking so long, but how could he resist when he had heard the sweet cadence of your voice through the open door of a mini-lecture room. Very few students were in the room, it looked like a side presentation; one of those assignments that forced students to present their ideas on a topic to a group of people to try to captivate them into agreeing with your findings. There was a sort of fiery passion in the way you spoke, a hardened steel in your eyes that showed your resistance to back down. It was... enchanting, siren-like. So much so that he had been forced to sit in one of the empty seats in the back of the room, eyes stuck on you as you paced the front of class and rebutted comments from your peers.

He had no idea what you were talking about, but it still had that overwhelming effect on him. One that had him pressing the surface of his stomach against the hard edge of the lecture tables, his senses honing in to hear every last syllable that departed from your lips. There was this dream-like quality to you, something that consumed the mind and made them listen. A sort of intelligence that he would never know or understand. One that he would spend hours trying to learn if you were the one explaining it. He can't remember how long it took for him to start breathing again when your eyes scanned the room and locked onto him, clear confusion on your face at the random presence of college's most-awarded student. He could feel his heart bursting against his ribs, mouth parting slightly from the honor to be the center of your attention for even a few seconds before you looked away and carried on.

Suddenly, he didn't feel like the smartest person in the world. Not when you left him absolutely stupefied.

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alexandraisyes · 2 years ago

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Eclipse Character Analysis (Sun and Moon Show)

Alternate Title: Why I'm 95% sure Eclipse is a sociopath EDITED TITLE: An Analysis of how Eclipse's ASPD is reflected in his character

A hopefully unnecessary disclaimer: - One, hi, hello I am a sociopath, I do know what I'm talking about. This also means that a lot of what I notice and will describe about Eclipse are similar or the same as my own experiences living life in this mortal realm. What I will touch on in the "redemption" section is heavily based on the kind of intensive treatment I had to get in order to improve my behavior when I was younger, so it's important to note that while Eclipse will never be able to change his personality (like how I can't change mine, and you can't change yours), he can change his thought patterns, mentality, and behavior. The saying that "sociopaths can't change" is specifically talking about how we can't change our personality, which is true for everyone. That doesn't mean we can't learn to function better in civilized society or be taught emotional awareness and morals. - Two, hi, hello this is just what I've noticed and does not mean it's canon unless Reed or Davis themselves come onto my Tumblr and go "Yes, this, this is what is correct", and even then, you're allowed to have your own opinions and views on these characters. I'm just theorizing here EDIT: Reed and Davis confirmed that Eclipse is indeed a sociopath a day after I posted this here, and a week after my initial post in their server that is basically this but slightly messier. - Three, hi, hello I'm also a psychology student so I also know what I'm talking about in that regard too. I've been studying psychology and general medicine for three and a half years now, so I like to think I have some idea of what I'm talking about - Four, I use the terms sociopath, ASPD, sociopathic disorder, and anti-social personality disorder interchangeably since they all describe the same personality disorder - Five, this analysis is long, I cover the basics, an in depth, some potential scenarios, a redemption arc possibility, and some other thoughts I have about him. - Six, I made this disclaimer to address any potential misunderstandings, or harmful stereotypes that I tend to be confronted with any time I talk about ASPD. Now onto the good stuff!

Too Long; Won't Read - Here's a Summary

Attachment and Pride: Eclipse initially cared about Lunar, and his reaction to Lunar leaving suggests a fragile pride. His inability to connect with others is evident in his strained relationships with KC and Bloodmoon.

Masking Emotions: Eclipse keeps his darker thoughts to himself at the beginning, and throughout the show as well. He masks both his emotions, and his intentions throughout the show, and is careful not to show when people have upset or offended him. This behavior stems from a learned experience that letting his guard down leads to resentment.

Manipulation and Brash Communication: Eclipse is straightforward and brash when expressing thoughts, feelings, or opinions. He employs manipulation when needed but is mostly disinterested in others.

Boredom and Stimulation: He seeks reactions from people, often causing chaos for entertainment. Boredom, especially when stuck as an AI, prompts him to instigate situations for amusement.

Lack of Empathy: He also appears to lack empathy, as evidenced by his inability to understand emotions and his focus on getting reactions rather than connecting with others.

Touch Aversion: Eclipse's lack of physical affection aligns with the common aversion to touch seen in individuals with ASPD.

Remorse and Growth: Eclipse shows remorse only in instances where he hurts Lunar in the beginning of the show, indicating a potential area for growth. A redemption arc could explore his struggles without completely erasing his apparent sociopathic nature.

Writer's note: A thoughtful portrayal of Eclipse's sociopathy, should my theory touch on the truth, if continued in a storyline, could provide an authentic exploration of mental health challenges and personal growth. Care should be taken to avoid stereotypes (DON'T USE GOOGLE FOR INFORMATION ABOUT THIS I BEG)

Putting Him Under a Microscope - Full Analysis

1. Attachment and Pride:

Eclipse's initial connection with Lunar suggests a potential attachment, a notable aspect in individuals with ASPD who can form (highly) selective bonds. However, Lunar's departure significantly impacts Eclipse's pride. This reaction aligns with the fragile self-esteem often observed in those with ASPD. The departure becomes a perceived personal betrayal, triggering Eclipse's defensive response.

In individuals with ASPD, relationships often serve specific purposes, and Eclipse's attachment to Lunar may have been driven by a combination of genuine connection but also very clearly the utility Lunar provided in fulfilling certain needs or desires. (Which was helping Eclipse get the star of course)

Moreover, Eclipse's struggle with connecting to others, evident in strained relationships with KC and Bloodmoon, is a characteristic of ASPD. Individuals with this disorder often face challenges in forming and maintaining meaningful relationships due to their limited capacity for empathy and understanding of emotional nuances.

2. Masking Emotions:

Eclipse's tendency to keep darker thoughts to himself reflects a common coping mechanism associated with ASPD. Individuals with this disorder often learn to conceal their true emotions early on due to negative experiences when expressing genuine feelings. This learned behavior serves as a protective measure against potential backlash or social rejection.

The fear of vulnerability and subsequent consequences aligns with the interpersonal difficulties faced by those with ASPD. Eclipse's decision to hide his less socially acceptable thoughts is a strategic choice aimed at avoiding conflict and maintaining control over his image.

Professionally, the concealment of darker thoughts is recognized as a defense mechanism in individuals with ASPD. This protective facade, or 'mask,' becomes an integral part of their social interactions, allowing them to navigate social situations with greater ease. However, this constant need to mask one's true feelings can contribute to internal struggles and further isolate individuals with ASPD from genuine emotional connections.

One may ask, what 'darker thoughts' did Eclipse show, or receive backlash for? Well, let's see, when he was stuck in Sun for the beginning of his life, he was first confused, a bit scared, and completely disoriented. He was forgotten, and during the first parts we can see him trying to reconnect with Moon, however, his delivery, as individuals with ASPD tend to do, was brash. It didn't sugar coat what he wanted, and considering his earlier transgressions previously, they weren't taken well in the slightest. Instead of Moon trying to genuinely talk and explain, all he provided Eclipse with was "I changed, and you didn't." and in general was very annoyed and irate with Eclipse. There were several times during the beginning of Eclipse, where there could have been progress made with him, to help him work through his issues, his internalized fear of being forgotten again, and the accidental neglect, that just… didn't happen. Because Sun and Moon saw him as a virus.

Moon because Moon saw himself as a virus, so what else would he think of something that originated in his code, and acted like he used to? Acted like he still sometimes did, parts of himself that he didn't like about himself, living and breathing once again in the mind of his brother. Corrupting him.

And of course, Sun because he was just so tired and hurt and he finally thought he could have something only for this ball of code to make itself known? This peice of his brother that was left behind, that was formed from Moon's killcode? That was constructed from Moon's literal need to lash out, hurt others, and kill. I'm honestly a little horrified that this is never touched on in the show, because people aren't just born to be awful, that's not how this works. There were so many opportunities where toxic and awful behavior could have been stopped if it was handled properly.

Of course, I'm not blaming Sun and Moon. It's hard to help someone who doesn't understand they need help, and as a result the person won't want help either. Plus, they've said it themselves in the episodes where Lunar had returned from the dead. They were never programmed to understand mental health issues, and they have a hard enough time grasping the concepts of their own mental health issues to deal with other peoples. Especially other people who are actively hurting them, it's hard to feel sympathy for someone who causes you harm as far as I'm aware. (I personally wouldn't know)

But back to my main point, there absolutely were times in the beginning where Eclipse was just honest about his wants and desires, and was shown disgust and hatred for it. Which would absolutely make him be prone to masking, which he does a lot in the show from what I can tell.

3. Manipulation and Brash Communication:

Eclipse's communication style, characterized by being brash and straightforward, aligns with the speech patterns and tendencies often associated with ASPD. When he's not trying to pull a fast one over someone, he's very blunt, and he doesn't beat around the bush. Individuals with this disorder may utilize manipulation as a means to achieve personal goals or navigate social situations, but without a reason to sugar coat, they won't. Although sometimes not sugar coating is also employed as a manipulation tactic, which makes it tricky navigating conversation at times with sociopaths. Eclipse's lack of hesitation in employing manipulation reflects the calculated nature of his interactions, as we see him smoothly switch between fronts, acts he puts on to get people to agree with him.

His disinterest in others, apart from exploiting them for personal gain, is consistent with the self-serving behaviors commonly observed in sociopaths. The use of manipulation as a tool for control and amusement is a manifestation of the disorder's impact on interpersonal dynamics. When he contacts Moon for help with Killcode, even then he has his own motives that are only helped by Moon being distracted with Killcode, as well as having KC out of the picture.

Professionally, manipulation is recognized as a prominent feature of ASPD. Individuals with this disorder may lack the ability to form genuine emotional connections and, instead, view relationships as transactional opportunities. Eclipse's interactions, particularly with Sun and Moon, exemplify this transactional approach, where he derives amusement from creating chaos. This last bit (amusment) is important, and I'll cover it next.

Before I pop on over, this is where I'd like to touch on Servant Eclipse. He is very crafty, and very manipulative, but it doesn't fool Lunar, who he clearly cares about to some degree. (Again, will say it as many times as needed, people with ASPD can care about people, it's just a lot of effort at first, doesn't come naturally, and is reserved for a select few). Lunar in this reality probably knows Eclipse inside and out, and isn't fooled by the not very convincing "I'm just a husk now" act Eclipse is playing out with. I suspect that Eclipse also is aware the Lunar isn't fooled, but it amuses him to some degree to keep up the game. I can only imagine serving a "Lord Lunar" is a fairly excitable life, and it's unlikely he's extensively bored. He's also just as brash as the OG Eclipse, and doesn't sugar coat the truth, or tries to ease Gregory into topics.

4. Boredom and Stimulation:

Eclipse's constant quest for stimulation and amusement, even at the expense of creating chaos, reflects a key characteristic of individuals with ASPD. Boredom intolerance is common in this population, leading to a perpetual need for excitement and novel experiences. (Can speak from experience, I spend about 4-6 hours every day bored out of my freaking mind and it's absolutely torture - which is why I draw so much)

The portrayal of Eclipse as being "bored out of his mind" when stuck as an AI in KC's base underscores the challenge individuals with ASPD face in mundane or monotonous situations. The need for stimulation is a driving force behind their impulsive and sometimes risky behaviors. There's a certain kind of restlessness, and impulsivity associated with ASPD, very much an act before you think, get defensive when confronted, and maybe think about it two days later on the very small chance it triggers a sense of morals/remorse. (Then probably forget it happened, cause we are very good at not caring enough to remember half the stuff we do. This isn't a choice, by the way, people with sociopathic disorder just aren't wired to feel strong emotions like guilt and shame.)

Professionally, this behavior aligns with the clinical understanding of ASPD. Individuals with the disorder often engage in sensation-seeking activities to counteract feelings of boredom and emotional emptiness. Eclipse's enjoyment in hacking Moon's computer, causing reactions from Moon and Lunar, serves as an outlet for his need for stimulation and disruption, as well as fulfills other purposes in starting a conversation with Moon about KC.

And of course, now I get to touch on my two favorite things that just drill this in. When OG Eclipse gets the star… what does he do? He torments Sun and Moon instead of wiping everything away, and I'm aware this is mostly because he doens't have mastery over the star. But what does Sun say, when Eclipse shows up to torment them on top of the play structure. Something along the lines of, You're just bored at this point? Is that it?

And what does Eclipse do? He leaves. Because Sun is absolutely right, and it probably stings his ego to have someone he so fully has convinced himself of hating to be right about him. Even before he gets the star… just how much effort did he really put into getting the star? Sure, he had this big plan, but I think he was aware that the 'perfect world' would never make him happy to start with; he just felt the need to be something larger than life, so of course you must set the largest goals to achieve in order to be that. He could have gotten the star so much faster lets be honest. I fully believe he was just having too much fun messing with Sun and Moon, because it gave a reaction, and the reactions to his actions were exciting, breaking his boredom. He was bored a lot, stuck in Sun's head, stuck in Sun's body and pretending to be Sun, stuck as an AI, stuck with Solar Flare's AI fighting him, stuck being unable to use the star…….. seeing a pattern yet?

And of course, my second favorite thing. Lord Eclipse. Moon full out calls him out on how bored Eclipse is, and Eclipse first tries to deny it, then sees no tactical advantage to denying it, and admits that yeah, he is bored. He's been bored for ages and Moon is the first exciting thing in what feels like forever. He's not happy in his perfect world, but he isn't going to change is because that would cut his pride for Sun and Moon to be right about what he wants and needs after so many years. So many years of his Moon being dead. Of having Sun as an obedient servant, bound to his beck and call. He's bored, and it shows, and he knows that it shows.

5. Lack of Empathy:

Eclipse's consistent inability to understand and empathize with the emotions of others aligns with a central feature of Antisocial Personality Disorder (ASPD). Individuals with ASPD often struggle with recognizing and comprehending the feelings of those around them.

His focus on getting reactions rather than forming genuine connections reflects the hallmark trait of lacking empathy. Eclipse's interactions with Sun, Moon, and Lunar highlight his detached and indifferent approach, as he manipulates situations purely for personal amusement without regard for the emotional impact on others.

Professionally, the deficit in empathy is a well-documented aspect of ASPD. Those with the disorder may comprehend others' situations on a cognitive level but struggle to grasp the emotional nuances involved. Eclipse's inability to understand why Lunar is upset and his constant pursuit of reactions underscore the emotional disconnect inherent in individuals with ASPD.

Eclipse's interactions with Lunar provide a poignant illustration of his consistent lack of empathy. Despite a seemingly genuine attachment to Lunar in the beginning, Eclipse's emotional disconnect becomes evident as Lunar leaves. The impact of Lunar's departure on Eclipse's pride and subsequent defensive reaction highlights the absence of genuine understanding of Lunar's emotions. Eclipse struggles to comprehend the significance of Lunar's departure beyond a perceived personal betrayal, showcasing a lack of empathy toward Lunar's perspective.

Moreover, Eclipse's manipulation and attempts to provoke reactions from Lunar, even after Lunar has left, underscore his disregard for the emotional toll on Lunar. This behavior aligns with the typical patterns seen in individuals with ASPD, where the pursuit of personal amusement takes precedence over the emotional well-being of others.

Eclipse's inability to process and acknowledge his own damaged ego resulting from Lunar's departure further emphasizes his lack of emothional understanding. He doesn't want to admit that Lunar hurt him, so instead he just continues to shut it down, bottle it up, and let it churn into hatred instead of looking at what he did wrong. His resentment and refusal to acknowledge the emotional impact on Lunar highlight the emotional blindness inherent in individuals with ASPD, especially in the context of complex interpersonal relationships.

6. Touch Aversion:

Eclipse's noticeable lack of physical affection, as both seen throughout the show, and mentioned when Lunar clings to Sun and states that Eclipse never showed him physical affection, aligns with a common trait among individuals with ASPD. Touch aversion is a characteristic feature, as those with the disorder often lack the intrinsic desire for physical closeness or intimacy.

Eclipse's minimal physical interaction, even in what could be perceived as emotionally charged moments, is consistent with the general pattern observed in individuals with ASPD. The absence of hugging or comforting gestures suggests a limited appreciation for the emotional needs of others.

Professionally, touch aversion is recognized as part of the interpersonal challenges associated with ASPD. Individuals with this disorder may not instinctively seek physical connection unless it serves a specific purpose, such as manipulation or personal gain. Eclipse's avoidance of physical affection adds a layer to his character, illustrating how his interpersonal behaviors align with the clinical understanding of ASPD.

This aspect of Eclipse's character contributes to a nuanced portrayal of the disorder, showcasing how the lack of tactile expression can impact the dynamics of his relationships, particularly in situations where emotional support is expected. (Like seriously, even Sun and Moon hug when one of them are having an awful day, but Eclipse? He literally doesn't seem to understand why Lunar craves positive physical touch so bad, because he just… doesn't feel the need himself. You can never fully understand something you experience, and it's not like people were explaining these basic needs and wants to Eclipse… ever.)

7. Remorse and Growth:

Eclipse's occasional display of remorse, particularly in instances where he has harmed Lunar, offers a glimpse into a facet of his character that deviates from the (BAD DOWNRIGHT AWFUL) stereotypical image associated with ASPD. While individuals with ASPD are often poorly and harmfully characterized/stereotyped by a complete lack of guilt or remorse, Eclipse's moments of internal conflict suggest a degree of emotional complexity.

Professionally, the intermittent remorse aligns with the recognition that individuals with ASPD may experience moments of internal conflict, especially in relationships that hold personal significance. Eclipse's struggle with whether to apologize after hitting Lunar reveals a brief internal debate, questioning the severity of his actions against Lunar's emotional response.

However, Eclipse's ultimate decision not to apologize, driven by his failure to perceive the significance of Lunar's distress, reinforces the inherent challenges in navigating emotional landscapes for those with ASPD. This internal conflict and eventual dismissal of remorse contribute to a more realistic portrayal of the disorder, highlighting the ongoing tension between impulsive actions and moments of potential introspection.

Should Eclipse undergo a redemption arc, these moments of internal conflict could serve as a foundation for growth, illustrating that while individuals with ASPD may grapple with moments of remorse, their ability to sustain lasting change remains a complex and challenging journey. Of course, I'm going to cover this as well.

Redemption and Recovery

Eclipse's potential redemption could be approached with an understanding that a complete overhaul of his personality is near impossible, because as psychology has shown, you don't just change your personality. However, nuanced growth and positive change within the framework of his behaviors and thought patterns can be explored.

Increased Self-Awareness: Eclipse could undergo a process of heightened self-awareness, acknowledging the impact of his actions on others. This could involve introspection into the motivations behind his behaviors and the consequences they entail. This won't be something he does on his own, he's going to need someone behind him, pushing him to be better. Preferably someone who has no majorly poor history with him for the best results.

Therapeutic Support: In a realistic redemption arc, Eclipse might engage in therapy tailored to individuals with ASPD. This could involve developing coping mechanisms, enhancing emotional intelligence, and learning healthier ways to navigate interpersonal relationships. Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) is a very affective type of therapy for people with personality disorders, or collections of disorders that combined provide the complications of a personality disorder.

Recognizing the Value of Relationships: Eclipse could gradually come to recognize the value of genuine connections beyond their utility. This may involve acknowledging the significance of relationships for emotional support and personal growth. This is going to be a process, and he will mess up. He will forget. It's something he will have to choose to work with in order for it to work, and even then he will make mistakes. It will be important to have patience with him, and instead of lashing out (cause that can cause a spiral back into poor behavior), working on these slip ups with him, and helping him relearn the significance of correcting it when he messes up.

Empathy Development: A full restoration of empathy is be unrealistic, Eclipse could work on developing cognitive empathy—understanding others' perspectives intellectually, even if not emotionally. This could improve his ability to navigate social situations more effectively. (This is what I do! <:happy_stim:867544047735275521>)

Establishing Boundaries: He should learn to set healthy boundaries in his relationships, understanding that manipulating and exploiting others for personal gain may provide short-term satisfaction but is detrimental in the long run.

Contributing Positively: As part of his redemption, he could find avenues to contribute positively to others' lives. This could involve utilizing his unique skills for constructive purposes, fostering a sense of accomplishment outside of manipulative endeavors.

Maintaining Accountability: Eclipse's growth would involve a commitment to being accountable for his actions. This includes acknowledging mistakes, making amends where possible, and actively working towards minimizing harm to others.

Embracing Personal Growth: Eclipse's redemption arc could focus on embracing personal growth within the constraints of his personality. It's about acknowledging that while he may not fundamentally change, he can adapt and evolve to lead a more balanced and fulfilling life.

Potential Future Scenario: Eclipse Apologizes

Brought to you by someone saying that Lunar would refuse Eclipse trying to apologize, but I respectfully disagree, and here's why.

I think that if Eclipse ever does apologize to Lunar, Lunar would have literally no choice but to accept, because we’ve seen early on that he does not apologize

To genuinely apologize and acknowledge his wrongdoing would be major character development that would take a lot of time and struggle to get to that point, based on my theories/analysis about him

So by the time he can actually, truthfully apologize, there would be evidence to prove his struggle with his own twisted nature, and probably how he failed at times during the journey, and had set backs and road bumps. The others would have most likely seen the effects and effort it takes to learn to change for him, and would most likely acknowledge that he’s being truthful.

If Lunar doesn’t accept at that point, if it ever got to that point, Lunar would be acting irrationally due to emotional complications, would probably just hurt Eclipse when he’s trying to be better for his brother, and would most likely set him back. There’s a very destructive pattern of thought when it comes to personality stuff (which is what I think Eclipse struggles with, a specific personality disorder I’m writing a comic thingy about), because you can’t change your personality. You can’t will yourself to be a certain way, and so it’s very easy to destroy progress people make on self improvement. So lunar refusing the apology would most likely not only hurt Eclipse’s pride (like it was hurt when Lunar left his side the first time) but would also further his belief of “why bother if they won’t accept the fact I’m trying for them” that he’d probably struggle with throughout a period of character growth.

Lunar’s smart, and pretty emotionally aware. He can be petty, but if Eclipse were to get to that point, I don’t think Lunar would refuse it because he would have already seen the struggle and effort Eclipse had put through just to get to that point

Logically, Solar would be the best person to help Eclipse, not Earth

This is partly copied/pasted from some conversations and does analyze Solar a bit as well

I really honestly doubt that Earth is going to be able to help him, if he comes back, and I’m suspecting that Solar would do a better job because he’s the only who can understand, properly, the absolute hell that was waking up inside of Sun’s mind with no idea what’s going on and how he got there. Earth can be sympathetic and show him pity, but that’s not going to help him very much at the end of the day. He doesn’t want sympathy, he doesn’t want pity because he has associated that with being weak and out of control. He needs some one who will understand him, and who will fully understand how one small thing changed so much due to the snow ball effect. Which Solar would understand. He’s “nice eclipse” after all, aka just an Eclipse without such bad formative trauma. So he never spiraled, but he’s just as blunt and analytical as Eclipse tends to be, and would be able to actually communicate with Eclipse about his issues since it’s a situation he could have easily been in had things gone slightly different

Solar is probably the only one who can understand, and I mean properly understand, Eclipse’s trauma and bottled up emotions. And I think that if they’re going to give Eclipse someone who will support him, they should do Solar. He’s got all boxes checked

The ability to fully understand Eclipse

No bad history with Eclipse that would really affect how Eclipse treats him (It’s not like Eclipse knows he built the satellite)

Similar base personality, his just wanted warped and twisted in the start, but if you strip away Eclipse’s issues, they’re practically the same person… for obvious reasons

The willingness to say what needs to be said, and not try to sugar coat. Earth would try to let Eclipse down easy about stuff, ease him into it, and he’s gonna see that as her being manipulative because that’s how he manipulates people. He needs someone who is just going to lay things out on the table

And of course, Solar most likely wouldn’t think Eclipse is too far gone to change. Because how do you think that of yourself? And they are the same person, just from different perspectives. It’s a similar dilemma I have to just writing off Eclipse, when I take him apart and see myself staring back at me. But I was able to improve, it just took work, and it took a situation dire enough to get me to realize that if I didn’t want to ruin the few things I cared about, I needed to get my crap together. And that’s probably what he’s gonna need to, something that threatens what he cares about to the point he realizes that this can’t go on. (And I’m suspecting that something will be control over his own life, just like it was for me.) We saw at the end of his life, that he was starting to self reflect and realize that he needs to change somehow, and this was because his control over his own life was being threatened I suspect.

Extra, Smaller Analysis on Solar and Eclipse

It is important to note that Solar doesn't have this issue (ASPD), and I believe it's because he didn't suffer the same beginning that Eclipse did. They resolved the Solar issue when he popped into existance very quickly from what we can tell, and so he wasn't left in the dark for months on end, left to stew in his own agony and emotions. Personality issues are caused by trauma, and specifically ASPD is directly tied to neglect during the most crucial formative stages in development. Sun and Moon had no idea Eclipse was there, and didn't mean to abandon him, because they didn't know he existed. But this complete, and utter abandoment, what is probably internalized as a personal betrayal because I can imagine Eclipse being destroyed by the idea that Moon left him behind on purpose. Which is just… not a good thought for my man to have, because that leads to feelings of worthlessness, and self-hatred for not being 'good enough' to keep/take care of/help. Which then just snowballs into other negative emotions, that gets him all worked up, and then he's fuming at the fact that they left him. That they decided he wasn't worth keeping around, and how dare they make that decision about him for him?!

You can see how it gets out of hand quickly, as he realizes the neglect he's suffering from, the abandonment he's facing, and the fact that he's now trapped. That Moon got to escape, but he can't and it's not fair. This is the perfect breeding ground for that funny little disorder called sociopathy, and boy, there's almost nothing at this point that can convince me that he doesn't have it because it's all just a little too perfect. And the worst part?

I really really doubt it was done on purpose, but holy heck it would be so cool if it was. Not just because of how beautifully crafted it is in his character, how it's so consistent and real, but also because if it was done on purpose, it would show that the writers took the time to do real research about a disorder that is so often done so poorly, and is commonly confused with a completely different issue (psychopathic disorder). Even knowing that it probably wasn't done on purpose, I'm still gonna just cling to him because I love him and I want him to get the happy ending he deserves. And I mean that genuinely, people who are suffering and lashing out because they're drowing in hate due to unfortunate circumstances that were really out of their control deserve to be given the tools to improve themselves and their lives, and it would be wonderful to see this sentiment reflected in the show.

Wrap-Up Ramble/Writer's Notes

This is, of course, my own personal observations, and it is definitely a lot to read. I had a lot of fun constructing this thread, because it is so rare to find a character that I feel I can properly connect to. I've struggled with a lot of the patterns Eclipse has shown in the show that I've called out, and I've had to go through the steps in the 'redemption arc' section myself. It's not an easy process, and as I mentioned, him realistically improving is going to be a process that is going to be draining on himself, and the people around him. He will have to wake up and choose to go against the walls he's thrown up around himself every single day if he's going to have a realistic redemption, and it's going to be exhausting. But I do genuinely believe that he can change, and improve, because I was able to change and improve as a person. It took time, years of intensive self examination and cognitive based therapy, and it required a strong support system. Which hopefully, if he comes back to the show, he can obtain, because otherwise he will continue to drown in his own bitter stew of resentment for others and himself. And that's no fun, that's just depressing.

A lot of people look at Eclipse and think the villain, but I just can't. His actions make him a bad person, but taking apart the psychology behind him, and seeing how glaringly similar a character is to you that is supposed to be the 'bad guy'… I want him to be able, if he comes back, to get the proper 'recovery arc' that he deserves, and I really hope that if they do try to save him from his own demons, they do it properly, instead of giving him a complete 180. Because you can't change your personality, and Davis and Reed seem to be aware of that with Moon. Even when old Moon tried to be better, he was still an awful person. And the 'new' Moon is still eerily similar to the old one, and as the time goes on, he just becomes more and more like the old one. Because it's the same AI, he just lost his memories. He didn't do a whole personality change because he got his memory card wiped, because he's the same person where it counts. He just has the benefit of not having all of the pain his past self was carrying. He's free of the hurt, and trauma, and self hatred old Moon carried, but he's still Moon.

So I'm really hoping that they continue to accurately display psychology in their characters if they bring Eclipse back, because it is such an immersive show due to the fact that it makes sense. These things make sense psychology wise, their behaviors, actions, patterns of thinking and speech. And I really am looking forward to seeing if they bring Eclipse back because he's such a beautifully constructed character.

You Made It

This is the end of my massive post. Congratulations if you made it this far. If you did, uh, the password is Dorito. Leave it in the comments/reblogs to let me know you made it, haha.

I'd love to see people's thoughts on this and on him, so feel free to leave your thoughts as well in comments/reblogs. I'll try to reply to every single one I see. Again, I love his character so much, it's so well crafted, and it was so fun to take this apart.

Edit: I have been asked about where to find the thread/join in on the convo, etc a few times: I have a thread in the SAMS server here if you want to join the conversation

#fnaf #fnaf au #sun and moon show #sunrise fnaf #moondrop #fnaf dca #daycare attendant au #earth and lunar show #eclipse sams #solar sams #lunar sams #character analysis #long post #sun and moon show theory #character theory

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