#it’s time to write or plot or something

[dykebehaviour]

Would you be willing to write some jealous/possessive Ellie smut? Please please please I’m ovulating and need something to ease this gay yearning💔

absolutely yes i am. hope you like it !!

possessive!ellie reminding you that you’re hers.

cw: smut, porn w no plot, dom!ellie, sub!reader, possessive, needy, feral, strap, grinding, oral, claiming, hickeys, cumplay, messy, overstimulation, praise + dirty talk.

it starts at a party. one of those too-hot, too-loud, too-crowded kinds where you spend most of the night with ellie’s hand wrapped around your waist and her stare locked on anyone who looks at you too long.

you don’t even notice how tense she is at first. you’re just talking to someone - some girl from your psych class. you’re tipsy. laughing. her hand touches your wrist for maybe two seconds.

and that’s when you feel it.

ellie’s behind you in a heartbeat. her body flush to your back, hand sliding down your side like it owns you. she leans in and kisses your neck, smiling against your skin like she’s sweet.

but her grip says something else.

“you good, babe?” she murmurs, lips brushing your ear.

you nod, oblivious.

but when she walks you out of the party ten minutes later, fingers laced tight with yours, jaw set, there’s something dangerous simmering under her skin. you feel it when she drives. when she unlocks the door. when she presses you to the wall of your apartment the second it shuts behind you.

ellie’s eyes are dark.

“you let her touch you,” she says, low.

you blink up at her. “el, it was nothing…she was just-“

she kisses you. hard. all teeth and tongue and need. her thigh slots between yours, her hand already sliding under your shirt.

“don’t care,” she breathes. “you’re mine.”

she says it like a fact. like a reminder.

she kisses you again; deeper this time, hungrier, and pushes her knee between your legs, grinding slow until you whine into her mouth.

“that’s it,” she murmurs, smirking when your hips jerk. “don’t need anyone else makin’ you laugh like that. you come home to me.”

you nod, already hazy. “always. just you.”

her lips ghost your ear. “gonna prove it, then. gonna fuck it into you so deep they feel it when they look at you.”

you’re naked across her thighs, head back against her shoulder, while she makes you watch in the mirror. her strap is buried inside you - thick, black, strapped low on her hips with the harness snug against her abs. she grinds up into you slow, deep, her hand between your thighs spreading your slick around in lazy, messy circles.

you’re already a mess. dripping.

“look at you,” she groans, biting your neck. “fucked dumb already and i haven’t even started.”

you moan, head rolling to the side. “ellie, please-“

“shh, baby. look.”

she grabs your jaw, turns your face to the mirror, presses a kiss to your throat as she fucks up into you again: slow, brutal, perfect.

“look how good you take it,” she murmurs. “look how fuckin’ pretty you are like this. full of my cock.”

you’re shaking. legs spread wide across her lap. your pussy squelches wetly every time she thrusts. it’s filthy, leaking down your thighs, soaking the strap, your slick making a mess of her abs.

she watches you the whole time, like she can’t get enough. her eyes drag down your body - your bouncing tits, your red bitten lips, your twitching thighs.

“gonna make you come,” she says, low. “right here. just like this. wanna see you cream on my cock, baby. wanna feel it.”

she circles your clit while she fucks into you, slow and deep. your eyes roll back. you’re crying by the time you come; wet, messy, spasming around the strap.

ellie moans loud in your ear. loses it.

“fuck-yes. that’s it, baby. show me who owns this pussy.”

and she doesn’t stop.

she flips you over. gets between your legs. spreads you open with her hands and spits on your cunt, then licks it back up like she hasn’t eaten in days.

you scream when her tongue hits your clit. your thighs shake. she doesn’t care.

she holds you down and devours you, messy, obscene, her nose pressed against your pussy, strap grinding against the mattress beneath her like she needs to come too.

and when you sob her name, legs locked around her shoulders, thighs trembling from the overstimulation, she just smiles against your pussy.

“again.”

you’re gasping. “c-can’t-“

“you can. you will. be my good girl, yeah?”

you come again. and again. until your thighs are soaked and her face is dripping with slick.

when she finally climbs back up, her body flush to yours, you’re trembling.

she kisses your cheeks. your neck. pushes her strap in again, slow and deep, until you’re sobbing into the sheets.

“just one more,” she whispers. “one more and i’ll come too. promise.”

you feel it, her grinding hard against your ass, her wet cunt rubbing against the base of the strap, desperate to get herself off.

“come with me, baby. come one more time. be good for me.”

you do. you both do.

she moans when she finishes, her hips jerking, strap inside you as she grinds it deep, riding her orgasm against your soaked pussy. you feel it in her legs. her shaking thighs. her breathless groan against your back.

you’re panting when she pulls out, legs shaking, pussy wrecked.

she kisses your shoulder, still trembling. then slides two fingers back into you, slow.

you whimper, extremely overstimulated. “ellie…”

she shushes you, kisses your ear.

“just wanna see it drip out,” she whispers. “just wanna feel you one more time.”

perm taglist: @yasmilks , @natsheretic , @lovemiraamira , @ellies-real-wife , @wewerewildandfluorescent , @jullsii , @eyesttokill , @dmenby3100 , @bunchogravie , @oneinameliann , @intheshadowofthestars , @pariiissssssss , @vanpalmertruther , @madsxh1022 , @rbnvrnxoxo , @firefly-ace , @alyaserrax , @silly-pigeon69 , @glassofgreenteapls , @pearlsiie , @aj0elap0l0gist , @sincerelyherz , @imsiriuslycool , @0phantom0 , @ggutpunch , @leeidk87 <3

[winnie-wine]

I wonder how much of it is the prevalence of plot twists.

Like. People realize that you may foreshadow stuff that's NOT a plot twist, right? Horror movies do it all the time. It's not a plot twist that the monster will kill a protagonist. Showing the monster lurking in the background behind them for a few scenes is foreshadowing, but not a plot twist. The point is to build suspense, and dread. Horror literally doesn't work without the audience picking up on foreshadowing, because if YOU don't know a monster is following the character around, then you're just watching a shitty slice of life movie with no point until they're killed out of nowhere. It's the foreshadowing that is the whole point.

Having clues spread throughout a whodunnit isn't necessarily foreshadowing a plot twist. Glass Onion does this really well. There's not really a plot twist that it was actually aliens all along or a suicide, it's just revealed that the murderer wasn't very smart about it. Again, the genre doesn't work if there isn't foreshadowing that at least makes everything click in hindsight. Like, half the fun of this genre is picking up on stuff and when the reveal happens, screaming "I CALLED IT!" At everyone you're watching the movie with as they groan good naturedly bc you DID call it.

TLDR if there's something important enough to foreshadow then do it. If an audience member picks up on it it's not a failure of writing because you actually accomplished what foreshadowing is SUPPOSED to do: clue them in that something is going to happen, even if they don't know what/how.

that some people respond to any well-foreshadowed reveal with “ugh that plot twist was so predictable” proves bad faith criticism has rotted their brains to the point they think it’s bad writing if they can correctly identify information the writers were intentionally giving them

[miange1]

could you do an older man and male reader who's nervous around him because he's got daddy issues?

definitely sex after :3

PUT ME IN A MOVIE — drabble

pairing: older character insert x younger male reader

tw: male reader, age gaps, daddy issues, "lana" mindset, daddy kink, slight feminization, reader is described to be smooth and soft, kinks stemming from trauma(kinks as in a daddy kink don't be weird), fantasies, constant teasing

note: wanted to off myself writing daddy. for the plot tho fr. reminder, i NEVER proofread.

older man, who had no clue why you acted this way around him. always so fidgety, never looking him in the eye, late responses, the stuttering. the stuttering really got on his nerves, give him a damn straight answer.

older man, who was much more perceptive over you as time passed. he would try to ask you what the matter was, but you'd brush it off and instantly change the subject or just plain out left. but he'd see it, he would notice it

older man, who'd see the way you'd look at him. notice the way your breathing seemed to stop or quicken once he got closer, see the way you'd get tense. he could see the way you'd flinch and shake, your face looking like you had a fever, the way you were huffing like you ran a mile.

older man, who'd realize almost too late. he figured it out, and used it to his own advantage. started bumping elbows on "accident" , tiny touches he knew would drive you crazy, making you look him in the eye when you spoke to him. yeah, he loved that part. you looked pathetic, looked like you needed him as a vessel to keep you alive. you looked at him like he healed something inside of you.

older man, who finally had you. or rather to you, you finally had him, but this wouldn't be the case if he hadn't made the first move. cornering you, asking you what the hell was wrong until you confessed. he loved it just as much as you did, and he didn't even think that would happen. you tagged along him all the time, hung onto him and couldn't take your eyes off of him,

older man, who took in every single sound you made like it would come loose from his grasp. taking in the way your body wiggled and arched from his touches and his teases. your skin glistening with sweat, he'd ask if you want a break but no– "daddy please.." you'd beg, trying to push him inside deeper

older man, who'd spoil you till your teeth rotted. getting all them clothes and things you wanted. as long as he could pick something out for you as well. he could dress you up like a pretty little baby doll, getting you all pretty and ready for him whenever he wanted. like you wanted.

older man, who'd only laugh and shake his head when you claimed the outfits were embarrassing. they weren't embarrassing, so stop covering yourself and that pretty body. he'd extended two fingers, telling you to come here so he could get a real good look at you. that skirt that covered nothing, giving him a real good look at that smooth cock that stood and leaked so pretty all for him, all because of him.

older man, who couldn't help himself. you wanted him, and now you had him. and then he had you, twitching and grinding all on him for more. "daddy.." oh, he'd get high off of it. "mhm, daddy's got you."

[mommyhwa]

bring back real writing.

i don’t use tumblr like i used to or any reading site. not because i’m too grown but because the writing is weak now. where’s the plot? where’s the emotion? where’s the stuff that kept me up all night rereading scenes like they were mine?

y’all be writing the same smutty paragraph 10 different ways and calling it a story. it’s not. it’s just porn with pretty words. and half the time, not even that pretty.

as someone who’s been writing since the first grade, i can tell when something’s got weight. real writers take their own experience, twist it up with imagination, and give it life. that’s not the same as writing “he moaned” 37 times and slapping a fake name on it. i’m sorry, but writing about dick going in pussy isn’t groundbreaking it’s easy. and y’all eat it up like it’s fine dining.

porn with plot writers? most of y’all got no substance. trauma dump, snarky banter, sex scene. repeat. it’s tired. there’s a few anime smut blogs with 30k notes on every post who genuinely couldn’t move me if they tried. no tension. no emotion. no teeth.

and i would name names, but i know all their horny little freaks would bite me in the notes like trained dogs. so i’m chilling. for now.

and can we talk about how the aesthetic of your account matters more than the actual writing? y’all care more about headers and moodboards than building a sentence that breathes. some of my fellow readers are shallow as hell. you’re part of the problem too.

you’ll read something soaked in blood, sweat, and tears and your first comment is: “do they fuck tho?” “part 2! part 2!” not “why did you write this?” not “what inspired this moment?” not even a fuckin “good job.” yuck. no curiosity, no connection, just consumption. and y’all wonder why writers get burnt out. you don’t deserve good stories if you treat them like fast food.

and writers? yeah, i’m talking to you too.

you know you can write a masterpiece, but you’re chasing the smut trend like it’s the only way to eat. YES YOU and i’m bashing myself too, because i fell into that trap. i followed the trend and it crushed me creatively. don’t be like that. don’t water yourself down for attention.

and for the love of words proofread. i don’t care if you told your followers it’d be out tonight — PROOF. READ. you sound tacky and all over the place. take your time. finish the piece, close the tab, then read it again with fresh eyes.

rookie writers? get on Pinterest. read actual books. learn what your beat is. find filler phrases. expand your vocabulary. practice makes perfect, but you’re not practicing… you’re performing. stop.

fuck what your followers want. write what you want. write about that fairy. write about that soft boy. write that sad ass little story no one asked for but you needed to get out. you are not a word porn machine. you are a creator of words. people like me will appreciate it.

with AI rising and everything getting copy-pasted to hell, you are the last hope for stories with real soul. be the person who makes someone stay up all night. be the one who makes them feel. write something that makes you proud.

if this offends you, maybe it should. i’m tired of fake-deep smut being treated like it’s revolutionary. writing takes heart. skill. effort. if you’re not putting any in, you’re not a writer you’re just a horny fucker with a keyboard. I’m not hater, i’m begging. bring back storytelling with teeth. with heart. with voice. i want messy metaphors, too-long paragraphs, dialogue that breathes. i want to read something that makes me clutch my chest and reread a line five times just to feel it again.

we owe it to ourselves and to each other to write like it matters. because it does.

now go write something that keeps someone up at 3AM smiling at their screen. or crying. or both.

just bring back real writing. period.

[somewheres-woods]

I know I said that I wouldn't write gendered readers... but it's for the bit/plot.

Male reader.

Cross dressing.

Was gonna be short and silly but ended up being longer than anticipated. Still silly though.

You barely recalled how you ended up in this situation.

It all started when... hey! Maybe you did recall how you ended up in this situation after all!

It all started when you made an idiotic bet with your friends. A bet that was promised between several drunken men. The most competent group to make bets with obviously. So competent that it ended up with you cross-dressing as a woman to try to get some laughs and a free drink.

A lean of the shoulder here, a bump of the hip there, and you practically had these men eating out of the palm of your hand.

You felt like Black Widow.

...

If Black Widow was an average bloke and not an attractive woman.

All you know now is that you've been dragged out to the back of the pub, behind the dumpsters in the car park. You count at least five men. Despite being drunk, these are still dangerous people. People who had ill intentions with a vulnerable looking woman.

And he had something to say about it.

Now here you are.

Flung over this beast's shoulder like a sack of rice.

He— you assume it's a he— carries you with the ease of someone holding a bag of grapes. No matter how many times you jab at his neck, scratch at his back, or try to bite those weird alien dreadlocks... he always tosses you to the ground like a ragdoll, throwing you against trees to wind you until you're too sore and exhausted to fight back before picking you up again.

You hear his garbled words speaking to another, from where you are unsure, but he does speak one word you understand perfectly.

"-Mate--".

Do these things mate? Like animals? You aren't about to fuck around and find out. In more ways than one.

Maybe you could talk him down?

"Uh– wait, we can't be mates." You hiss lowly, your bruised ribs still aching from the thrashing earlier.

Trying to reason with an alien while dressed in drag. That's certainly a first.

Probably the first in human history. If you would be so bold as to declare that.

There's a stutter in his step. Yet a short growl is huffed out of him. Grinding his mandibles together as if to ask why.

"Well, first of all, I'm wearing hair extensions." You wince as you chew your lip, tearing some dead skin off between your teeth as you anxiously think of shallow reasons why a man wouldn't date a "woman" like you.

At least, that is assuming that he cares about superficial perceived flaws such as that.

He tilted his head to the side as he hauled you further up his shoulder, making more room for you as he contemplated your translated speech. Something about fur... are you referring to the longer locks on your scalp?

Why would he care about that?

A deep grumbling growl rises from his chest and into his throat. A warning.

Sure, longer dreadlocks are considered sexy in his culture, but there was nothing wrong with shorter ones.

And many other yautja add extensions to their own dreadlocks, too, typically tying and knotting up the dreads of deceased enemies in their own. He's at a loss as to what your point was.

He kept walking.

"I... I, I, I smoke! All the time." You place your hands on his back to try lift your torso to look at him. He only places his hand on your shoulders to push you back down.

Smoke...

Smoking is bad for humans.

Smoke is bad for all animals, this he knows. No matter. He can remedy this by taking this addiction of yours away. It wasn't like he was planning on giving you cigarettes when he brings you back home with him anyway.

Hardly a deal breaker.

You sniffle as you prepare another superficial reason.

Your window of opportunity is fading as you're taken deeper and deeper inside of the large forest behind the town.

You can barely recognise the landmarks, but you know that even if you escaped, you wouldn't get far.

"I can never have children..." You make a dramatic show of wiping away imaginary tears, not like he's watching anyway.

Ve'theal digs his claws into your midsection. His growling getting even lower and more impatient. He has sired several whelps of his own over the centuries he's been alive for.

He's an older yautja. An Elite.

Why in Paya's name would he ever breed a human?

It's forbidden anyhow.

Sure. He's taking you as a lifemate, but that doesn't mean he wants to ruin his bloodline with a human. No matter how strong or impressive you are. No matter how much he likes you.

An engine loudly purrs to life, blinding lights surrounding the clearing as Ve'theal prepares to load his cargo onto the ship and leave the planet. He's already taken what he's desired. Leaving you to panic on his back as you mentally prepare yourself for whatever cosmic horrors await you.

You start pushing on his back and struggling again. But one flex of his forearm around your waist has you groaning in pain as he presses down on your bruised ribs.

You let out a heaving sigh. Finding it utterly unbelievable that you didn't think to pull this card out yet.

"Oh, for the love of--" You grip your wig and rip it off, the net covering your real hair still in place on your head, "I'm a man!" You grunt, your nails digging into his shoulder.

He barely glances over his shoulder to look at you. Weaveless in all your glory.

While it is true that he can't tell the difference in gender between humans with just a glance, he can't see what all the fuss is about. You're such a dramatic man. His kids— who are grown— will certainly like you.

A thought he finds irritating.

"Irrelevant." He grumbles as he steps onto the ship, his voice deep and scratchy, trying to mimic something human.

Maybe it's good that he can't see your face right now.

Taglist [OPEN] — @nerdylawyerbanditprofessor-blog , @distinguishedprincesstrash , @gremlinartstudio , @me753 , @juuuuno-o , @badbye666 , @yoonsilly , @mei-simp , @theclownkisser

[dawngyu]

im not gonna cry im not gonna cry im not gonna cry im not gonna cry im not gonna cry im not gonna cryim not gonna cry im not gonna cryim not gonna cry im not gonna cryim not gonna cry im not gonna cry

the very first scene completely drew me in. rain, the way you write is truly incredible. it’s amazing how effortlessly you’re able to bring a moment to life, how you build an atmosphere so vividly and quickly, like it’s second nature to you. i think it’s because you write with such rich, intentional detail... the kind that catches a reader off guard in the best way. even this early into the story, i can already tell your writing has that rarity. honestly, it’s the kind of work that deserves to be paid for.

It was your mother’s idea, or maybe your father’s, or maybe the friend who found you crying in the kitchen and didn’t know how else to help.

the way i teared up at the line "crying in the kitchen"... it hit me so deeply. there’s something so vulnerable about that image. it’s not just about crying; it’s the weight of breaking down in a space that’s usually so ordinary, so open, where anyone could walk in and see you at your lowest. that kind of emotion in the middle of everything, feels too much to bear. you captured it so powerfully.

He stands there in the doorway, framed by the flickering fluorescent light. A boy; no, a young man, but with a reckless, hungry energy that feels too big for this small, sorrowful room. He’s tall and lean, dressed in a black hoodie that hangs loose around his shoulders and jeans torn at the knees. His hair is dark, falling across his forehead in careless waves, and there’s a glint in his eyes that doesn’t belong in a place like this; mischief, or defiance, or maybe both. He walks in like he owns the space, his steps unhurried, each one deliberate and almost lazy. There’s a kind of swagger to him that seems out of place here, where everyone else is weighed down by loss and uncertainty. He moves like he doesn’t care who’s watching, like the world could fall away around him and he wouldn’t miss a beat.

what a vivid piece of writing — oh god, i could almost see him standing right in front of me. that’s the kind of magic your words hold. this is exactly why i say i love reading more than writing. it’s because of writers like you, who can bring characters to life in a way that makes them feel real UGHHHHHH

Your family would take one look at him and see every mistake you’ve ever been too careful to make.

and this one sentence UGHHHH rain

Nari grins, satisfied. “You’ll come,” she says with the certainty of someone who’s already decided for you. “I’ll see you there.” She winks, and for a moment, the air feels brighter; like the soft glow of stage lights just before the curtain rises, or the hush of the audience as they lean forward in anticipation. You just smile, the knot in your stomach unraveling one by one.

i completely crashed out reading that, i really did. i already told you this hurt me, and yet you still managed to HURT ME. how can you just drop us right in the middle of her pain like that, only to hit us with a flashback that makes everything hurt even more? the way you structure your story is unreal. the pacing, the timing, the emotional weight.... it’s all so masterfully done. your plotting is absolutely wild!!!!!!!!

The clink of cutlery on china fills the hush of your family’s dining room, each sound a brittle punctuation in a conversation that has long since dried up. You’re pushing your food around your plate, letting the fork drag through the creamy potatoes in swirling patterns that feel like they should mean something. The roast sits in thick slices, glistening with juices that have already gone cold. It tastes like nothing in your mouth, like dust and memory. Your parents are seated across from you, the soft glow of the chandelier casting their faces in warm light that doesn’t reach their eyes. Your father’s brow is furrowed, the way it always is when he’s trying to figure out how to reach you without knocking you further away. Your mother’s lips are pressed into a line that might have once been a smile, but now it’s just another careful crack in the façade she wears for dinner.

I AM NOT BREATHING. I AM NERVOUS. the way you built this scene is UGH

“I don’t deserve to socialize,” you say, your voice hollow and aching. “I don’t deserve to sit there and smile and pretend I’m okay when I killed their daughter.”

:((((((

heeseung’s relationship with his father :((((( oh god, that adds such a heavy layer to the burden he’s already carrying. it breaks my heart. i always tell myself that everyone deserves at least one solid support system — a friend, a parent, someone. and to see him like this, carrying so much on his own, with no one to fall back on... :(((

AND AGAIN THE FLASHBACK TO HIS BROTHER

You don’t care. Maybe you want it to be. Maybe if it shatters, it’ll mirror something inside you that already has. You bite your lip hard enough to taste iron. Your eyes sting. You haven’t spoken to Beomgyu since the funeral. He hadn’t looked at you, not once. You’d sat three rows back, your nails digging into your palms, your throat like paper. He’d held Nari’s mother’s hand and stared at the coffin with a hollowed-out look that made you nauseous. You’d wanted to crawl out of your skin. You should’ve.

i'm tearing up.

“Yeah,” he spits, voice rising. “He died picking me up. That’s why he was in that car. Because I was too drunk to drive myself. Because he was always the one who cleaned up my messes.” His voice cracks at the edges; just slightly, but enough to make you feel like something inside you is cracking with it. “I killed him.”

WHAT THE FUCK JUST KMS

He stands there for a moment, breathing hard, eyes burning like twin eclipses. No one dares speak. The silence wraps around him like a noose, taut and thick. And suddenly, he looks so young. So lost. Like he’s still standing on the side of that road, glass in his skin and his brother’s blood in the air. You’re stunned; not just by what he said, but by the way it pierces through you. Because for the first time, you see him — not as some reckless, charming bad boy you were warned about, but as someone broken in the same places you are. Someone who walks with a ghost too.

im crashing out im crashing out im crashing out im crashing out im crashing out im crashing out im crashing out im crashing out im crashing out im crashing out im crashing out im crashing out im crashing out im crashing out im crashing out im crashing out im crashing out

You were a different person then. Back when your world made sense. Back when you could still recognize yourself in the mirror. When you danced like your life depended on it, when your report cards came home like trophies, when your smiles were real. You’d never smoked, never drank, never snuck out. You’d dated the kinds of boys who brought flowers for your mother and shook your father’s hand. You were the girl everyone trusted, the girl who never let anyone down. But now?

IM FCKING DEPRESSED THANK YOU

“I’m sorry,” you say, voice cracking. “I don’t know who I am anymore.” Your mother nods, slowly, like she’s known that for a while but didn’t know how to say it aloud. She reaches out to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear the way she used to when you were little. “I know you’re hurting,” she says. “We all are. But I don’t want to lose my daughter.”

YOURE DESTROYING ME THANK YOU

You jerked back like you’d been burned, scrambling out of his lap, your breath caught in your throat. “Oh no,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Oh no, no, no.” Tears welled up fast, hot and full of shame. Your lips still tingled from the kiss, but the pit in your stomach was already growing. This wasn’t just a mistake; it was a betrayal. Beomgyu looked stunned, his eyes wide, mouth parting like he wanted to say something.

I AM AT THE EDGE OF MY SEAT THE WHOLE TIME

the dialouge between heeseung and beomgyu was so well done hello?? THANK YOU HEESEUNG CRYING

that car scene with the reader and heeseung... let me just say, well done. seriously, so well done. it’s one thing to hear you talk about the behind-the-scenes process and the thoughts that shaped it, but actually reading it fully written out, seeing it all come together on the page, it’s incredible. the emotions, the tension, the way every word feels intentional… it’s just amazing. i feel lucky to have seen both sides of it T^T

You buried your face in your hands and stayed there until the music ended, until the applause rose and fell, until the night air numbed the sting of your scraped palms. By the time a teacher found you, voice gentle, jacket draped over your shoulders; you had already decided you were done. With ballet. With pretending. With believing you deserved good things. Because the monster inside you had spoken, and the stage had listened. And you felt certain — absolutely certain that nothing would ever be bright again.

SHE DESERVES ALL THE SUNSHINE AND RAINBOWS OH MY POOR BABY

Your words failed. Every explanation tasted like ash in your mouth. Nari shook her head in disgust, chest heaving, shoulders trembling. “I felt bad for you,” she hissed. “I was here crying for you after you fell at the showcase. I was the only one defending you, worrying about you — and you were falling in love with my boyfriend?”

am i watching a movie right now? because that’s exactly what it feels like... this entire scene was cinematic. i’m sorry, but you absolutely nailed it. i’m losing my mind. i’m actually sick. i’m throwing up. this is all beomgyu’s fault, and i don’t care what anyone says. you don’t drive another girl home alone when you already have a girlfriend. you definitely don’t kiss someone who isn’t your girlfriend. and the worst part? that girl is her best friend. are you kidding me? the betrayal!!!!! everything was written so well i could barely breathe reading it.

the car accident.

i was always so curious about why she kept saying she killed nari and now i finally understand. knowing they had an argument right before nari died, and that it was an accident the reader wasn’t even at fault for… it just makes it all so much heavier. of course she blamed herself. how do you even begin to forgive yourself when the one person whose forgiveness you need the most is gone? when the last memory you have of them is their angry face? that kind of guilt doesn’t let you rest.

you’re really hurting me with this, rain. i’m not okay :(((

Heeseung’s breath caught. A sob clawed its way from his throat. It was all his fault. It was too late. And Heeseung had never hated himself more.

him calling his brother and telling him to wake up :((((( and the way everything is tied up. IM BROKEN

“Not one bit. We’re all carrying so much. And grief… grief makes monsters out of moments. It twists things until we forget where they really began.”

everybody should bow down to you for ever coming up with this.

“Take a bath with me?”

The words are so simple, yet intimate in a way that leaves you breathless. Not lustful; this isn’t about escape or distraction. It’s about presence. About being in a space where nothing else exists. You nod, and he stands, offering you his hand.

they deserve the world.

You don’t know where life will take you from here. You don’t know what redemption will look like, or if you’ll ever forgive yourself for what happened. But right now, wrapped in Heeseung’s arms, you believe in the small, aching miracle of this moment. Of choosing to stay. Of choosing to feel. Of choosing each other. You were ready to fall into the ruin. But not let it ruin you.

officially bawling my eyes out.

"You would love Heeseung, Nari, you really would.” Your voice came out tender, barely above a whisper. “He makes me laugh. He never lets me lie to myself. He doesn’t try to fix me, just holds me when it hurts too much.” You reached down and brushed away a few stray leaves that had gathered at the base of the headstone. “I wish you could’ve seen me now. I wish I could’ve said goodbye the right way.”

officially bawling my eyes out some more

“Did you talk to Han?” you asked, voice gentle.

He nodded, smiling faintly. “Yeah. It was good. I needed that.”

officially bawling my eyes out and crashing out

“I’ll keep living for both of us, Nari,” you whispered. “I promise.” And this time, when you stood, you didn’t feel like you were leaving her behind. You felt like she was walking with you.

thank you for writing this and adding it to one of my favorite fics of yours. truly. the way you masterfully crafted every scene, every line of dialogue, every flashback — it’s nothing short of breathtaking. it honestly makes me want to shout that you’re one of the greatest writers here. you are unmatched rain. there’s something about your storytelling that just stays.

i’m crying, yes, but i’m also so grateful. grateful that you’re here, that you shared this, that you poured so much into it. thank you for giving us this ending.

i believe in it. i believe heeseung and the reader will keep walking side by side. together.

FALLING INTO RUIN l.hs

೨౿ ⠀  ׅ ⠀   ̇ 22k ⸝⸝ . ‌ ׅ ⸺ word count.

pairings 𝜗𝜚 bad boy .ᐟ heeseung ៹ ex ballerina .ᐟ reader ᧁ ; smut ˒ angst ˒ bad boy .ᐟ good girl

warnings ⊹₊ ⋆ heavy angst lots of deep mentions of death graphic depictions of death centering around the reader and heeseung meeting at a grief group smut car accidents fights drug & alcohol use cheating (not heeseung) reader is a flawed character socialites past and present shifting timelines - this is dark, please read at your own discretion will have a happy ending.

synopsis ୨୧ your world ended the day your best friend died. In the hushed corner of a grief group you never wanted to attend, you find him — the boy with the defiant gaze and a hard exterior. with cracked pointe shoes and a heart still pirouetting in the past, you feel your family’s disapproval tightening around you like an old corset. He is everything you’ve been taught to avoid: trouble, danger, thrill. But in the quiet ache of loss, you discover something soft in him, something that mirrors your own hollow, and you never want to let go.

.ᐟ rain's mic is on ⋆ ͘ . this one is heavy y'all so please read the warnings before reading, I have experienced a loss like this and let me tell you it is not easy. but honestly I think this will be therapeutic to write...I hope you enjoy.

You sit in a circle of battered folding chairs, each one occupied by a stranger cloaked in their own quiet ache. The walls are an unremarkable shade of beige, the ceiling tiles sagging as if even they are tired of holding up this room’s endless, aching confessions. A fluorescent light flickers overhead, buzzing like a fly caught between windowpanes. It hums in your ears, mingling with the low murmur of voices; voices that float around you like a fog you can’t seem to break through. They’re sharing their stories, each word rolling into the next, and yet none of them find purchase in your mind. You hear phrases —“I lost her six months ago,” “he was my brother, my twin soul,” “I don’t know who I am without them.” The syllables tangle together, a blurred melody of heartbreak and hollow confessions that should resonate, but don’t. Instead, your thoughts roam restlessly, slipping past the edges of this circle like water seeking an escape. 

This is stupid. That’s all you can think. This room, these strangers, this forced performance of vulnerability. You don’t need to be here, you don’t want to be. It was your mother’s idea, or maybe your father’s, or maybe the friend who found you crying in the kitchen and didn’t know how else to help. “You’re not okay,” they’d said, their eyes soft, their voice careful, as though your grief were a fragile thing that might shatter at the slightest touch. “You should talk to someone.” But you don’t want to talk. Not to these people, not to anyone. You’re still angry — so angry you can taste it, bitter and bright on your tongue. Angry that she’s gone, that the world keeps turning anyway, that people you love can slip away as easily as breath. Angry that you’re here, forced to sit in this room and pick at the edges of a wound that still bleeds no matter how tightly you try to hold it shut. 

 Your hands twist together in your lap, fingers knotted tight as you stare down at the scuffed linoleum floor. You watch the shadows shift across the tiles, the way the cheap plastic chairs creak as people shift and sigh. You wonder what they see when they look at you; if they can sense how hollow you feel inside, how every breath feels stolen from the silence you can’t seem to fill. A voice cuts through your reverie, sharper than the rest. The instructor; her name is June, but she introduced herself so quickly you barely caught it, leans forward, her kind eyes settling on you. “Would you like to share today?” she asks, her voice gentle but insistent. Her question drifts across the circle, landing in your lap like a stone.  

You hesitate. You want to say no. You want to slip back into the fog of your own thoughts, let the stories of these strangers wash over you without having to offer anything in return. But June’s gaze doesn’t waver, and there’s a quiet determination in her eyes that tells you she won’t let you slip away so easily. “I—” you start, your voice a dry whisper in your throat. The word feels foreign, as though it doesn’t belong to you. You swallow, trying to find something, anything to give her, even if it’s just a shard of the truth. But before you can force out another word, the door to the room swings open with a soft groan of hinges. The quiet murmur of voices stills, the air shifting like a held breath. You look up, startled by the sudden interruption. 

He stands there in the doorway, framed by the flickering fluorescent light. A boy; no, a young man, but with a reckless, hungry energy that feels too big for this small, sorrowful room. He’s tall and lean, dressed in a black hoodie that hangs loose around his shoulders and jeans torn at the knees. His hair is dark, falling across his forehead in careless waves, and there’s a glint in his eyes that doesn’t belong in a place like this; mischief, or defiance, or maybe both. He walks in like he owns the space, his steps unhurried, each one deliberate and almost lazy. There’s a kind of swagger to him that seems out of place here, where everyone else is weighed down by loss and uncertainty. He moves like he doesn’t care who’s watching, like the world could fall away around him and he wouldn’t miss a beat. 

Your breath catches in your throat as he turns his gaze on the room. His eyes sweep over the group, pausing on you for just a moment; a flicker of something electric in the space between you, something that hums along your skin like static. He smiles then, a small, knowing curve of his lips that makes your stomach tighten. June recovers first, her voice steady as she addresses him. “Heeseung,” she says, her tone calm, as though she’s known him for years. “Glad you could join us. Please, have a seat.” 

Heeseung. The name settles in your mind, a word with edges that feel sharp and dangerous. He doesn’t say anything, just inclines his head in a mockery of respect before sauntering over to an empty chair across the circle from you. He sits with the kind of ease that seems to come naturally to him, sprawling back like he’s at home in this room of strangers and sadness. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears. You don’t know why you’re staring, why you can’t seem to look away. He’s trouble; anyone could see that. He carries it in the curve of his grin, the careless way he lounges in his chair like he’s got nothing to prove and everything to lose. Your family would take one look at him and see every mistake you’ve ever been too careful to make. 

But there’s something about him that pulls at you anyway; something that feels like a challenge, or a promise, or maybe just a spark in a life gone too quiet. June’s voice breaks through your thoughts again, gentle but firm. “You were about to share,” she reminds you softly, her eyes encouraging. The others in the circle watch you with polite curiosity, their own pain momentarily forgotten as they wait for your words. You’re too caught up in the magnetic pull of the boy who just walked in, the way he lounges in his chair like it’s a throne and he’s the king of this quiet kingdom of broken hearts. His presence crackles in the air, a live wire of confidence and mischief that feels out of place here; like a thunderstorm that’s wandered into a library. 

Your eyes meet his again, and for a moment, the whole room seems to vanish. The flickering lights, the shifting shadows, the low drone of sorrowful voices, they all dissolve into a hush that’s just the two of you, suspended in a glance that feels like a secret whispered against your skin. Heeseung holds your gaze with an ease that makes your breath stutter in your chest. His smirk is slow and deliberate, a curve of his lips that’s both a challenge and an invitation, and it sends a rush of heat to your cheeks, blooming like a flush of summer in the cold hush of winter. You can feel the rest of the group watching; feel their curiosity flicker and sharpen as they notice the way you’re staring, as if this boy has turned you inside out with nothing more than a look. Embarrassment burns in your veins, a bright, fierce blush that you can’t quite hide. You tear your eyes away, the weight of their collective gaze pressing in on you like a vice, but it’s too late. Heeseung’s smirk deepens, dark eyes glinting with amusement that slices right through you. 

You cough, the sound small and fragile in the hush of the circle. Your hands twist together in your lap, fingers fumbling with the edge of your sleeve as you try to gather the tatters of your composure. “I—I have nothing to say,” you stammer, your voice barely more than a whisper. The words feel like an apology, but you’re not sure who you’re apologizing to, June, the others, or maybe just yourself. June sighs softly, a gentle exhalation that speaks of disappointment and understanding all at once. She doesn’t push further, her eyes lingering on you for a heartbeat longer before she shifts her focus to the next trembling soul in the circle. The moment slips away, swallowed by the rhythm of the meeting, but the echo of it still hums in your bones, a melody you can’t quite silence. 

You risk one last glance across the room, drawn back to Heeseung like a moth to flame. He’s still watching you, his head tilted just slightly, as if he’s trying to see right through the careful mask you wear. His gaze is steady, unflinching, and there’s a kind of quiet challenge in it, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do next, or if you’ll let yourself fall into the gravity of whatever this is between you. You know he’s trouble. The kind of trouble that’s all sharp edges and reckless laughter, the kind that would make your parents’ hearts seize with worry. But you also know that there’s something about him that feels like possibility, like the flicker of dawn on the edge of a long night, a spark of something wild and bright in the darkness of your grief. 

You look away quickly, your pulse a ragged drumbeat in your throat. You tell yourself you’re here to heal, to stitch your heart back together with soft words and shared sorrow. But as Heeseung leans back in his chair, that smirk still playing at the edges of his lips, you can’t help but wonder if healing is really what you’re searching for. 

Before 

You’re back in the old studio, the one with mirrored walls that seem to stretch on forever and floors that smell of rosin and sweat and quiet determination. The soft strains of a piano echo through the room, each note a gentle command that your body obeys without thought. You’re in the middle of your rehearsals, your limbs aching in that sweet way that comes only from hours of repetition, from the careful sculpting of muscle and will. Your best friend Nari is there, her laughter ringing like wind chimes as she prattles on beside you. She’s tying the ribbons of her pointe shoes, nimble fingers weaving them into place as she talks a mile a minute about some party on Saturday. Her voice is a melody of excitement and mischief, rising above the music like a warm breeze. But you’re only half-listening, your mind caught on the precise line of your arabesque, the subtle shift of your weight that can make or break the beauty of a single pose. 

The showcase on Friday night looms in your thoughts, its promise and threat shimmering like a mirage just out of reach. It’s everything; the culmination of years spent spinning your soul into motion, of dawns and dusks blurred by practice and sweat. If you can dance this one performance perfectly, if you can become the music itself, there’s a chance you might be seen — truly seen — by those who can open the doors you’ve been dreaming of since you were a little girl with stars in your eyes and blisters on your feet. Nari’s words ripple through the haze of your focus, a bright ribbon of sound you can’t quite catch. “Are you even listening to me?” she huffs, nudging your shoulder with a grin that’s all playfulness and exasperation. You blink, startled out of your reverie, and offer her a sheepish smile. “Sorry, Nari,” you murmur, breathless from both the dance and the sudden warmth in your cheeks. “Can you say that again?” 

She rolls her eyes, but her smile never wavers, eyes alight with mischief and affection. “Beomgyu’s having a party on Saturday,” she says again, slower this time, like she’s repeating the steps of a new routine just for you. “He wants me to come, and he said I should bring you too. You know, his roommates are going to be there, and they’re… fun.” She raises an eyebrow in a way that makes you laugh despite yourself, the sound of it soft and surprising in the hush of the studio. You pause, your breath steadying, and you brush a stray lock of hair from your face. “I’ll think about it,” you reply, your voice careful even as your heart tugs in two directions, between the shimmering future of the showcase and the siren call of a night that promises a different kind of abandon. 

Nari grins, satisfied. “You’ll come,” she says with the certainty of someone who’s already decided for you. “I’ll see you there.” She winks, and for a moment, the air feels brighter; like the soft glow of stage lights just before the curtain rises, or the hush of the audience as they lean forward in anticipation. You just smile, the knot in your stomach unraveling one by one. 

Present day 

The clink of cutlery on china fills the hush of your family’s dining room, each sound a brittle punctuation in a conversation that has long since dried up. You’re pushing your food around your plate, letting the fork drag through the creamy potatoes in swirling patterns that feel like they should mean something. The roast sits in thick slices, glistening with juices that have already gone cold. It tastes like nothing in your mouth, like dust and memory. Your parents are seated across from you, the soft glow of the chandelier casting their faces in warm light that doesn’t reach their eyes. Your father’s brow is furrowed, the way it always is when he’s trying to figure out how to reach you without knocking you further away. Your mother’s lips are pressed into a line that might have once been a smile, but now it’s just another careful crack in the façade she wears for dinner. 

They ask you about your first day at grief group, their voices careful and measured like they’re afraid of stepping on shards of glass. You shrug, your shoulders stiff and aching with the weight of words you’re not sure how to shape. “It’s stupid,” you mutter, each syllable slipping out like a sigh. “I don’t need it.” Your mother sighs, and the sound feels like a door closing softly in the night. She doesn’t argue, doesn’t push, and for a moment you’re grateful for it, grateful for the quiet that settles like a blanket over the table, even if it’s heavy with all the things you’re not saying. She clears her throat, the small sound snapping through the silence. “There’s a banquet this weekend,” she says, her voice careful as she changes the subject. “I think it would be good for you to come. To get out of the house, to socialize a little.” 

Something in you flares at that, a hot spark of anger that surprises even you. Socialize. Like it’s something you deserve, like it’s something you’re entitled to just because you’re still here and breathing. Your fork stills, the silver tines scraping against the porcelain as you lift your gaze to meet hers. “Why should I?” you ask, your voice quiet but sharp. “Why do I get to socialize when Nari doesn’t?” Her name hangs in the air like a ghost, and your mother’s eyes falter, her gaze dropping to the untouched green beans on her plate. The silence stretches, taut and trembling, and you can feel the shape of the words you’re holding back, a raw scream echoing in the hollow of your chest. 

“Nari’s parents,” you continue, your tone as flat and bitter as the cold dinner in front of you. “Will they be there? Beomgyu? Should I smile and pretend it’s all okay while they’re looking at me, knowing I’m the reason she’s not here?” Your mother doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to. The way her shoulders slump, the way she can’t meet your eyes; it’s enough. It’s everything. You push your chair back from the table, the legs scraping against the wood floor with a grating shriek that echoes in the quiet. Your hands are shaking, but you keep them fisted at your sides as you stand, your breath coming hard and ragged. 

“I don’t deserve to socialize,” you say, your voice hollow and aching. “I don’t deserve to sit there and smile and pretend I’m okay when I killed their daughter.” The words fall into the silence like stones, and for a moment, no one breathes. Your father opens his mouth, but there’s nothing he can say, no soft reassurance or gentle lie that can wash the blood from your hands, even if it’s only there in the quiet chambers of your guilt. You turn away before you can see their faces; before you can see the pity or the pain or the fear in their eyes. Your footsteps are quick and sharp as you leave the table behind, your pulse a drumbeat in your ears. You don’t know where you’re going, only that you can’t sit there under the weight of it all, can’t stand to be in the same room with the echo of your own confession. 

In the hush of the hallway, you pause, your hand pressed to the cool wood of the doorframe. Your breath is shaking, each inhale a jagged cut. You close your eyes, and for a moment, you can almost feel the soft press of Nari’s hand in yours, the bright laugh that used to pull you back from the edge of yourself. But that’s gone now, a memory that tastes of salt and regret. You open your eyes and step away from the door, the shadows of the hallway swallowing you whole. Empty. 

Heeseung moved like a storm in a bottle, all coiled energy and restless, reckless hunger. The girl underneath him was a blur, a placeholder for a connection he didn’t care to remember the shape of. Her moans were a hollow echo in his ears, a soundtrack he barely noticed as he chased his own release. He didn’t know her name — he didn’t care to know. All she was to him was a means to an end. A small glimpse of euphoria in his already fucked up life.

“Oh god.” Her voice was pitched just right, her body taunt with pleasure as her nails deliciously traced the expanse of his back up and down. It sent shivers down his spine, his head falling forward to rest on her shoulder. His orgasm approached fast and unyielding; blinding him completely for only just a second. When it was over, he didn’t bother with softness or sentiment; he just rolled away, breath ragged, the sweat cooling on his skin in the stale air of his too-small room. 

It was then that the pounding came, a hard, insistent thump on the door that rattled the handle and broke through the post-coital haze. Heeseung swore under his breath, his brow furrowing in annoyance as he pushed himself upright. The girl beside him made a soft, questioning noise, but he didn’t answer. Sunghoon’s voice called through the door, muffled but clear: “Hey man… I don’t mean to bother you, but your dad is at the door asking for you.” A string of curses slipped from Heeseung’s lips, low and biting as he turned to the girl. She was sitting up, her hair tangled and her eyes wide with confusion. Heeseung didn’t bother with apologies, he just grabbed her shirt from the floor and tossed it at her, his jaw tight. “Get lost,” he muttered, his voice like gravel. 

She scowled but didn’t argue, her movements quick and sharp as she tugged the shirt over her head and gathered the rest of her clothes. Heeseung didn’t watch her leave — he was already halfway to his dresser, yanking on a pair of jeans and grabbing a wrinkled shirt from the floor. His movements were hasty, all careless urgency as he buttoned the shirt with fingers that didn’t quite stop shaking. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, he was still tucking the shirt into his waistband, his hair damp with sweat and falling into his eyes. His father stood in the doorway, the harsh afternoon light casting deep lines across his face and turning his eyes into cold shards of glass. The girl slipped past Heeseung in a hurry, not even sparing a glance at the older man as she ducked out the door. 

His father watched her go, his mouth twisting into a frown that spoke volumes without a single word. “Is she your girlfriend?” he asked, his tone as sharp and clipped as the cut of his tailored suit. 

Heeseung let out a short, humorless laugh, his shoulders rolling back in lazy defiance. “Nah,” he said with a smirk. “Random girl.” His father’s face darkened, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he shook his head in silent disappointment. Heeseung could feel the weight of that look like a hand around his throat, but he didn’t let it show, didn’t let it break through the practiced mask of indifference he wore like armor. “I’m only here because your mother wants you to come to a banquet this Saturday,” his father said, his voice cold and final. “No questions, Heeseung. You’ll be there.” 

Heeseung’s lips twisted, his laughter gone as quickly as it had come. “No way in hell,” he snapped. “I’m not going to sit with a bunch of prissy rich kids and play pretend. Find someone else.” His father’s eyes narrowed, and the room seemed to go still around them, the air heavy with all the things they’d never said out loud. “If you don’t go,” his father said quietly, his words cutting deeper than any shout could, “I’ll yank your inheritance money right out from under you. I’m done watching you piss away everything your brother worked for.” 

The mention of Han hit Heeseung like a blow to the gut, the name a ghost in the space between them. His father didn’t flinch, didn’t look away, just kept his eyes fixed on Heeseung like he was daring him to break. “Usually we’d be asking Han,” he said, his voice low and venomous. “But obviously, because of you, we can’t do that.” The words rang out, sharp and final, the old wound split open once more. Heeseung’s hands clenched at his sides, his breath a ragged snarl as he took a single step forward. “I’ll be there,” he spat, his voice low and dangerous. And then he slammed the door in his father’s face, the sound of it echoing through the quiet of the house like a gunshot. 

He stood there for a moment, his chest heaving, the anger coiling in his gut like a living thing. The silence in the house felt heavy, the memory of his brother’s name still clinging to the air like a curse. Heeseung closed his eyes, let the weight of it settle over him for a heartbeat and then he turned away, his jaw set and his mind already miles from the echo of his father’s voice. 

Before

The memory snuck in like smoke — thin, curling at the edges of Heeseung’s mind as he lay back on his bed, the anger from the encounter with his father still simmering in his chest. It arrived uninvited, as most memories of Han did, but he never had the heart to push it away.  It was a Thursday evening. Late spring, the windows open to a warm breeze that stirred the curtains and carried the faint sounds of traffic from the road outside. Heeseung had just come home from his job; something menial and forgettable at a music store, the kind of gig he kept for pocket money and for the simple pleasure of thumbing through vinyls all day. His shoulders ached, his hair smelled faintly of dust and old plastic, and there was a smear of something, maybe ink on the hem of his sleeve. He strolled through the front door like he owned the place, calling out lazily, “Han! You alive?” 

The house was quiet except for the subtle shuffle of papers in the den. Heeseung followed the sound, and sure enough, Han was there, tucked behind their father’s massive old desk, sleeves rolled up, brows drawn in that signature furrow that meant he was neck-deep in whatever the hell their dad had dumped on him this time. His tie hung loose around his neck like a forgotten noose, and the desk lamp cast a tired yellow light over his papers and the dark shadows beneath his eyes. Heeseung leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching his brother like a man studying a machine. “What are you doing?” he asked, not unkindly, but with a tone that leaned slightly into mockery. Han didn’t look up right away. 

“Contracts,” Han replied eventually, flipping a page with fingers that were stained slightly with ink. “Dad wants me to review the Q2 proposals before the meeting next week. He’s testing me, I think.” Heeseung scoffed and stepped into the room, hands shoved into his pockets. “You know you’re twenty-six, right? You’re allowed to act your age. Get drunk. Flirt with someone. Sleep until noon. Come on, man, you’re wasting your golden years.” 

Han chuckled under his breath, a soft, familiar sound. He leaned back in his chair finally and looked up, eyes slightly bloodshot, but sharp. “My golden years?” he repeated with an amused snort. “You sound like a commercial. Look; I get it. But I can’t afford to screw this up. If I’m going to take over the company someday, I need to prove I’m ready. Dad won’t hand me anything just because I’m his son.”  Heeseung made a face, as if the very idea bored him to tears. “Yeah, yeah. Legacy, pressure, expectations, whatever.” He waved a hand dismissively. “You sound just like him, you know? Minus the part where he breathes fire every time I walk in a room.” 

There was a beat of silence between them, a moment that stretched like taut string. Then Han smiled again, this time with a hint of warmth. “You’re not so bad, Hee. You just… don’t want the same things I do.” 

“Damn right,” Heeseung said, grinning. “And that’s why I’m inviting you to this party saturday. You need to blow off steam. Come on, it’ll be fun. Booze, music, girls who don’t talk about market projections. Maybe you’ll get laid, huh?” Han threw his head back and laughed, a full-bodied sound that filled the room and warmed something deep in Heeseung’s chest. “God,” Han said, shaking his head, “you’re such an idiot.”

“An idiot who knows how to have a good time,” Heeseung countered. 

Han leaned forward again, reaching for his pen, already turning back to his mountain of responsibility. “Maybe next time. I’ve got to finish this before morning.” Heeseung sighed dramatically, shoulders slumping. “Suit yourself, nerd.” He turned on his heel and headed for the hallway. “One day you’re gonna regret choosing paperwork over parties.” Han didn’t answer that, and Heeseung didn’t expect him to. 

Present day 

The kitchen is quiet, too quiet for a house that used to hold the hum of music and the scent of spices and your mother’s laughter like a cradle. Now, it’s just you, curled on a barstool with your knees drawn up and your fingers clenched around a lukewarm mug of tea you forgot to drink. The steam’s long gone, and the honey at the bottom has settled into something thick and bitter. You stare into it like it might offer answers, like it might bring her back. The fridge hums. A fly taps against the windowpane. Somewhere upstairs, your father’s voice filters down faintly as he takes a business call, every word sharp and clipped, like life never paused for him. Like the world didn’t lose her. But yours did.

Nari’s absence is a bruise that never yellows, never fades. It’s sharp even now, especially now. She would’ve hated this silence. She’d be here, chattering about nothing, raiding the pantry for snacks and nagging you to put down your damn phone and just be present. And maybe that’s why your thoughts won’t stay still, because they’re clawing for a world where she still exists, a version of today where she might burst through the back door in her worn-out slippers and call you “ballerina girl” with that lopsided grin of hers. You press your palms flat against the countertop. It’s cold beneath your skin, grounding. You try to focus on the pattern of the granite, the little swirls and veins, but your thoughts still pulse like static. You feel raw. Like someone scraped out your insides and filled you with salt. Then — Buzz.

The sound shatters the silence. Your heart jerks like it remembers how to beat.

You glance at your phone, already half-hoping it’s no one important. Spam, maybe. A group text you forgot to leave. Anything but —

Beomgyu.Can we please talk?

Four words. But they land like a punch. Your chest constricts so tight, it’s like your ribs are shrinking around your lungs. You feel your breath stutter. Your fingers twitch. The guilt is immediate, overwhelming, a tidal wave you don’t even try to brace against. You slam the phone down onto the table without thinking, the crack of it hitting the wood startling in the still air. You don’t check to see if the screen’s cracked. You don’t care. Maybe you want it to be. Maybe if it shatters, it’ll mirror something inside you that already has. You bite your lip hard enough to taste iron. Your eyes sting. You haven’t spoken to Beomgyu since the funeral. He hadn’t looked at you, not once. You’d sat three rows back, your nails digging into your palms, your throat like paper. He’d held Nari’s mother’s hand and stared at the coffin with a hollowed-out look that made you nauseous. You’d wanted to crawl out of your skin. You should’ve. 

You think of how close they were; how easily they fit together. You’d seen it from the start. Even when Nari denied it, even when she’d said it was “just fun,” you’d known he was her heart. You’d seen the way she softened around him, the way she came alive when he laughed at her jokes. And now? Now he was just another ghost in your phone. Your gaze drifts to the corner of the kitchen where she used to sit, cross-legged on the counter, eating cereal straight from the box and swinging her legs like a child. You can almost see her there, smirking, eyebrow raised like you’re being dramatic again. 

You whisper her name, just once, and it falls out of your mouth like broken glass. You don’t answer the text. You can’t. Instead, you let your forehead fall forward until it rests against the coolness of your arms. The silence returns, thick and absolute. And still, your phone waits. Quiet. Unanswered. Just like her.

The room is stuffy today; warmer than usual, like the air forgot how to move. You sit in the same chair you did last time, in the same semicircle of grief-soaked strangers and their tea-stained paper cups, their fidgeting hands, their voices weighed with sorrow and memory. You don’t bother pretending to listen anymore. Your eyes are fixed on a speck on the wall behind the group leader’s head, June, The voices in the room bleed together like watercolor in the rain, a blur of confessions and pain you can’t bear to carry. They all sound the same now. “My mother was my best friend…” “It’s been three years but I still smell her perfume…” “He was just twenty-two…”

You know you should care. You want to care. But your grief is greedy and cruel, and it’s made your heart a locked box. There’s no room left inside for anyone else’s sadness. You hear his voice before you see him; low, a little rough, carved out of something not entirely soft. Heeseung. You turn your head, eyes flicking to him like gravity pulled them there. He’s slouched in his chair, legs sprawled, fingers twitching restlessly in his lap. The swagger he wore like armor the last time is gone today. He doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t wink. He looks different, heavier. Like something happened between the last session and now, something that hollowed him out and filled him with fire.

June is addressing him now. She’s calm, as always, her voice like a therapist’s lullaby. “Heeseung,” she says gently, “would you like to share something today?” He doesn’t move. Doesn’t answer. “Heeseung?” she prompts again, a little firmer.

He lifts his head slowly, his dark eyes hooded, unreadable. His jaw is clenched. His voice, when it comes, is low and sharp as a blade.

“I have nothing to say.”

There’s an edge there that silences the whispers around the room. Even June falters, just for a second, before she forges ahead. “Sometimes saying something helps. Even a sentence. Even a word.” Heeseung lets out a humorless laugh, short and bitter. He drags a hand through his hair and stares at the floor like it betrayed him. Then he looks up; at her, at the room, and then, briefly, at you. You look away too quickly, pretending not to care. 

“I belong in jail,” he says flatly. A sharp silence follows, sucking all the air out of the room. Someone coughs. Someone else shifts in their seat. Heeseung doesn’t blink. “I killed my brother,” he says, his tone brutal and matter-of-fact, like he’s just telling them the weather. “I don’t belong in a grief group. I belong in a cell.” 

Your breath catches. The words strike you like a slap. You sit a little straighter, unable to look away. June sighs, quiet and practiced. “Your brother died in a car accident, Heeseung. That’s not your fault.” He’s on his feet before she can finish, the chair scraping violently against the tile as he kicks it back. The crash of it slams through the room like thunder. You flinch before you can stop yourself, your heart kicking wildly in your chest. Heeseung’s jaw is tight now, his face pale beneath his sharp cheekbones. 

“Yeah,” he spits, voice rising. “He died picking me up. That’s why he was in that car. Because I was too drunk to drive myself. Because he was always the one who cleaned up my messes.” His voice cracks at the edges; just slightly, but enough to make you feel like something inside you is cracking with it. “I killed him.” 

He stands there for a moment, breathing hard, eyes burning like twin eclipses. No one dares speak. The silence wraps around him like a noose, taut and thick. And suddenly, he looks so young. So lost. Like he’s still standing on the side of that road, glass in his skin and his brother’s blood in the air. You’re stunned; not just by what he said, but by the way it pierces through you. Because for the first time, you see him — not as some reckless, charming bad boy you were warned about, but as someone broken in the same places you are. Someone who walks with a ghost too. 

You’d thought you were different. You, the quiet ex-ballerina with your good-girl past and your polished life. Him, the disaster with smoke on his jacket and grief in his bones. But maybe you aren’t so different after all. Heeseung doesn’t wait for permission. He grabs his coat and storms out, the door rattling in his wake. The room doesn’t breathe until he’s gone. 

You can’t stop staring at the door. You wonder if he’s crying on the other side. Or if he’s just like you, too angry to mourn properly. Too haunted to move forward.

You sit there in the silence, the words echoing in your head. I killed him. You know what that feels like. And somehow, it makes you feel less alone. 

You wake with a gasp, like you’ve surfaced from drowning. The sheets are tangled around your legs, soaked in sweat, your skin clammy despite the cool air slipping through the crack in your window. Your lungs heave, but the air feels too thin, like it’s not enough. Like nothing is enough anymore. The nightmare clings to you, half-formed and shadowy at the edges, but the heart of it remains vivid, cruelly clear. Nari’s hand; slipping out of yours. Her eyes, red with fury. The way her voice trembled not with sadness, but with disappointment, with anger. 

The way she walked away.

How you let her.

How she never came back.

You sit up, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes like you could rub it all away. The images. The guilt. The truth. The silence of the house is suffocating, so you shove off the covers and pad downstairs on bare feet, trying not to wince as the cold tiles bite into your soles. You want water; something cold, something real. Something to distract you from the storm in your chest. The kitchen lights are off, but the refrigerator hums faintly in the dark. You’re halfway to the cabinet when you hear it: the soft, broken sound of someone crying. You freeze.

At first you think you imagined it. But then it comes again — a quiet, trembled sob. Your eyes adjust slowly to the dimness, and there she is. Your mother, sitting at the kitchen island, her shoulders curled in on themselves like the weight of the world finally became too heavy to hold. One hand grips a crumpled tissue; the other is pressed over her mouth to keep the sound contained, like grief should be polite. You hesitate in the doorway, your instincts at war. Once, not so long ago, you’d have gone straight to her without question. But that was before. That was before everything fractured.

You were a different person then. Back when your world made sense. Back when you could still recognize yourself in the mirror. When you danced like your life depended on it, when your report cards came home like trophies, when your smiles were real. You’d never smoked, never drank, never snuck out. You’d dated the kinds of boys who brought flowers for your mother and shook your father’s hand. You were the girl everyone trusted, the girl who never let anyone down. But now? 

Now you move through the world like it’s made of glass. Angry at everything. Detached. Numb. The mirror doesn’t recognize you, and neither do your parents. Especially your mother. You know it. You’ve felt it every time she looks at you like she’s searching for someone who disappeared. Still, something in you softens. You walk forward, slowly, and without a word, wrap your arms around her from behind. She flinches, surprised; your presence, your touch. You used to be so affectionate, but now? Now you rarely even speak at the dinner table. After a moment, she melts into you, her head leaning back against your shoulder. Her sobs taper into shaky breaths. 

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” you murmur into her hair. “I just… I couldn’t sleep.”

She doesn’t respond right away. Her fingers find your wrist, holding gently. Finally, she says, her voice hoarse, “I miss you.”

You close your eyes. “I’m right here,” you whisper, even though the words feel like a lie. She pulls away just enough to look at you, and in the glow of the fridge light, you see her eyes are puffy and red. She studies your face for a long, aching moment, then says, “No. Not really.” It hits harder than you expect. But she’s right. You haven’t been you in a long time.

“I’m sorry,” you say, voice cracking. “I don’t know who I am anymore.” Your mother nods, slowly, like she’s known that for a while but didn’t know how to say it aloud. She reaches out to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear the way she used to when you were little. “I know you’re hurting,” she says. “We all are. But I don’t want to lose my daughter.” 

The silence swells again, thick with everything neither of you know how to say. The memory of Nari hangs heavy between you — so present, so piercing. After a long pause, your mother clears her throat. “The banquet this weekend,” she says, as gently as she can manage. “I was hoping you’d come. Just to get out of the house. Be around people again.” You want to say no again. It’s your first instinct. No to the dresses, to the small talk, to the pretending. No to the judgmental stares and whispered sympathies. No to the pressure of having to act normal when everything in you is still on fire. 

But then you look at her. At the hope trembling behind her exhaustion. And for once, you don’t have the energy to argue. Or maybe, deep down, you want to try. Not for you; but for her. For who you used to be. “Okay,” you say quietly.

She blinks, surprised. “Really?”

You nod. “I’ll go.” Your mother smiles, small and sad, but genuine. And you wonder when the last time she smiled at you like that was. You get your water, finally, and sip it in the dark beside her, not saying much. But for the first time in a while, the silence feels a little less heavy. And upstairs, your nightmares wait. But at least now, you’re not the only one wide awake in the dark.

The night of the banquet arrives like a storm you’ve tried your best to ignore; thunder rumbling low in your chest, your limbs heavy with dread. You stand alone in your bedroom, the soft click of your heels echoing in the quiet, a fragile sound in the space that once held laughter. The mirror before you shows a girl you almost recognize. The dress clings in all the right places, something tasteful your mother picked. Your hair is pulled back with delicate precision, a touch of makeup to hide the exhaustion under your eyes. But there’s a hollowness beneath the polish, a dullness in your gaze that powder can’t disguise.

You stare at yourself and remember a different version of this same moment. You and Nari, side by side in front of this mirror, perfume in the air and bobby pins scattered like confetti across your desk. You remember how she'd curl your hair for you, then laugh when she burned her own ear. How she'd spin you around, tilt your chin up, and say “Look at you! total heartbreaker.”

And then she'd wink, adding, “Too bad you're a prude.” You press your hand to your stomach as if that could keep it from twisting. The ache there is sharp tonight. This isn’t right. She should be here. Not as a memory; but in the flesh, wearing that crimson dress she swore made her look “dangerously hot,” even though she always ended up changing it last minute. You’d have teased her for trying on three outfits, she’d have stolen your lipstick, and the two of you would’ve danced to some stupid pop song before leaving late and in a rush.

But tonight it’s just you. Just you and the ghost of her smile echoing in the silence. Your throat tightens. You don’t cry. You haven’t cried in days, not since the last nightmare; but the burn is there behind your eyes. That cruel, unshed weight. You let out a long, steadying breath, palms smoothing the sides of your dress. It’s too tight across the chest. Or maybe that’s just your heart.

Then, with lead in your limbs, you move. Open your bedroom door. Step into the hallway. One foot in front of the other, like choreography. Like a dance. Down the stairs, your parents are waiting. Your mother looks up and smiles, that practiced, brittle kind of smile she’s worn too often. Your father offers a quiet nod, adjusting the cuff of his shirt, saying nothing but scanning you like he’s not sure what version of you he’ll be dealing with tonight.

You don’t speak, just grab your coat and purse. And as the front door shuts behind you, you don’t look back at the mirror. You don’t want to see what’s missing in the reflection. 

The car ride to the banquet was silent. No music. No idle conversation. Just the occasional turn signal and the sound of tires humming against pavement. You sat in the backseat, your hands clenched in your lap like a child trying to behave, your fingers twisting the fabric of your dress with a quiet desperation. Your mother, riding in the front with your father, was too busy reapplying her lipstick in the mirror to notice how stiff you were, how you hadn’t blinked in a minute. You watched the city pass by in blurs of warm gold and shadow. Each lighted window another life you weren’t living. When you arrive, it’s all so… much. The venue is a grand old hotel downtown, the kind of place people book months in advance, with chandeliers like frozen galaxies suspended above a sea of tailored suits and glittering dresses. A string quartet plays in the corner, the music slow and graceful, and the air smells of wine, floral arrangements, and money. You step inside, and it hits you like a punch to the chest. The whispers come fast.

Your chest tightens as if the air itself resents you being here. You swallow hard, your throat raw, and try to breathe around the phantom hands curling around your lungs. It’s not working. You shift your weight, your heels suddenly too high, too loud against the marble floors. Every breath feels borrowed, like you’ll have to give it back if you stay too long. But your mother doesn’t notice. Of course she doesn’t.

She’s swept into a conversation almost immediately, pulled in by polished friends with tight smiles and hands adorned in diamonds. You can see the way she lifts her chin, her lips curving perfectly, as though this night is a role she was born to play. She’s glowing beneath the chandeliers, nodding graciously, clutching a champagne flute like it’s the holy grail. 

You’re a silent shadow beside her, just a flicker in the corner of their eyes. You hope it stays that way. You scan the room, dread rising like water in your throat.  No sign of Nari’s parents. No glimpse of Beomgyu. You pray, silently, fiercely, that they don’t come. That they stay wherever they are. That you won’t have to meet their eyes and see the grief you gave them staring back. But fate has never been merciful to you. You barely have time to brace before another group approaches. Family friends. Old ones. People who used to pinch your cheeks at holidays and ask how your pirouettes were coming along. You recognize them instantly. The couple with the fox-faced smiles. The man in the navy suit and the woman with silver hair too stiff to move. 

“Darling,” the woman says, voice dripping with pretend concern, “we’ve been thinking about you.”

You smile, tight, robotic. “Thank you.” 

“And how have you been?” she continues, tilting her head like she expects something profound.

You don’t offer anything. Just one word: “Fine.”

A silence settles over the group, awkward and dense, before the man fills it with a polite cough.

“And ballet?” he asks, though it’s not really a question. More of a test. “Are you still keeping up with it?” You stare at him for a moment, then at the swirling wine in your untouched glass. 

“No,” you say simply. “I don’t dance anymore.” 

The woman blinks. “But you were so talented. Surely you’ll pick it up again once things settle?”

You force a smile. “Being a ballerina wasn’t in the cards for me. Not anymore.” The way you say it; final, flat, seems to unnerve them. They don’t push further. Just exchange a glance, murmur something about catching up later, and turn back to your parents. You’re left alone again, more alone than you were when you walked in. A knot forms in your stomach. It sits heavy, immovable, like stone. You sip your wine, but the taste is bitter, acidic. It doesn’t help. 

Across the room, someone laughs too loudly. A toast is made. Another waltz begins. And still, all you can think about is Nari. About how she would’ve hated this place. About how her laugh would’ve cracked through the crystal calm like lightning. About how she would’ve made a joke about someone’s ridiculous earrings just loud enough for you to choke on your drink. She would’ve made it bearable. You set your glass down on a table and press your fingertips to your temples, as if that could stop the spinning. You want to leave. You need to.

But before you can step away, before you can disappear into the safety of some forgotten hallway, your gaze lands on a figure across the ballroom. Heeseung. He’s leaning against the far wall, half in the shadows, dressed in black like the storm he always brings. His tie is loose, his hair slightly tousled, and he looks like he doesn’t belong here either. His eyes, dark and sharp, scan the room until they land on you. 

And just like that, the air shifts again.

Not like before—no, not suffocating this time. Different. This is tension. Electricity. A current you can feel down to your bones. He doesn’t smile. He just stares, unreadable. And you stare back, too stunned to look away. For a moment, it’s as if the crowd fades. The whispers fall away. The chandelier light softens. There’s just you, and him, and everything you haven’t said to each other yet suspended in the space between. 

Before

The studio was nearly silent save for the soft shushing of your slippers against the marley floor, the gentle hum of the overhead lights, and the faint throb of your heartbeat in your ears. Outside, the sky had already turned a deep violet, streaked with orange at the edges where the sun had made its quiet descent. But inside, it was still you and your reflection, looping the same phrase of choreography over and over until your legs screamed and your lungs ached. Friday was the big day. The showcase that could change everything. The one that scouts were coming to, the one your instructors called a turning point. You needed to be perfect. There was no room for anything less. So you stayed long after the others had gone home, repeating your variations in dimmed silence, chasing something close to flawlessness.

You paused, chest heaving, sweat glistening along your collarbones. You stepped to the side and grabbed your water bottle, letting the cool liquid ease the burn in your throat. Just as you lowered it, the front door creaked open. You flinched. No one else was supposed to be here. And then, casually framed in the doorway with one hand in the pocket of his jeans and the other running through his shaggy dark hair, stood Beomgyu. Your heart jumped — not just from surprise. 

He was in jeans and a soft flannel jacket, the collar folded haphazardly. His hair looked like he'd been in the wind, or maybe he'd just run his fingers through it too many times. He blinked when he saw you, a little stunned himself, then grinned. “Didn’t expect to see you here this late. Thought everyone cleared out by now." 

You raised an eyebrow, tugging your towel over your neck. “I could say the same to you.” Beomgyu stepped in, letting the door creak shut behind him. The warm light cast soft shadows on his face, making his features look even gentler. “I came to pick up Nari’s pointe shoes. She said she forgot them in her locker.”

You nodded, gesturing to the changing room. “They’re probably still there. I can grab them for you.” 

“Nah,” he said quickly, taking a few more steps inside. “I know where her stuff is. It’s cool. Didn’t mean to interrupt you.” 

You gave him a small shrug. “Was just running through the piece again. Nerves.” Beomgyu lingered near the edge of the room, watching your reflection in the mirror. His gaze wasn’t invasive, just curious. He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Big show Friday, right?”

“Mhm.” You leaned against the barre, stretching your arms over it. “It’s the one that decides my whole future, apparently.” 

“No pressure or anything,” he said with a lopsided smile. You laughed, a real one. It slipped out without your permission, caught you off guard. Beomgyu seemed surprised too, like he hadn’t expected to be funny. “I get it though,” he added after a moment. “We have our first show this weekend. It’s nothing big, just a coffee shop gig. But I’ve been running lyrics in my head all day and still feel like I’m gonna forget everything.”

You tilted your head. “You’re in a band?”

“Yeah. We suck,” he said, grinning. “But we have fun.”

You leaned one shoulder against the mirror and crossed your arms, amused. “What do you play?”

“Guitar. I write most of the songs too. Kind of emo, kind of indie. We're in a genre crisis.” You chuckled. “That sounds about right.” The conversation stretched on easily after that. What started as a brief chat turned into something warmer, something slower. Beomgyu stayed, leaning against the mirror beside you, the two of you trading stories about rehearsals and routines, stage fright, and the strange way people expected so much from you just because you were good at something. He spoke with his hands, animated and expressive, his laughter full-bodied and contagious.

You hadn’t laughed that much in weeks. Eventually, the clock on the wall struck ten. Beomgyu checked his phone, then glanced at you. “Want a ride home?” You hesitated. You were tired, your legs aching. And the walk back felt far longer than it ever used to.

“Sure,” you said. You gathered your bag and hoodie, flicked off the lights, and walked with him into the cool night. The sky had gone pitch black by then, stars hidden behind gauzy clouds. The parking lot was mostly empty, quiet but for the hum of streetlamps and the occasional car passing by in the distance. His car was older, navy blue with a cracked windshield and band stickers on the bumper. He opened the passenger door for you like it was second nature. You climbed in, the scent of spearmint gum and cheap cologne lingering faintly inside.

The drive was short. You lived only a few blocks away. But the silence that settled in the car wasn’t uncomfortable. He parked in front of your house, engine idling, the headlights casting long shadows across the street. You turned to him, already reaching for your bag. “Thanks for the ride,” you said softly. 

He was looking at you. The way his eyes lingered was different now. Slower. Focused. Under the streetlight, his features looked almost unreal. The softness of his mouth. The mess of hair falling into his eyes. The calm in his expression that made your chest tighten. “No problem,” he murmured. 

You lingered.

So did he.

There wasn’t a single logical thought in your head when you both leaned in. It was instinct. A gravity neither of you had expected, too strong to ignore. The next you know your leaning over all the while he is too. The kiss was soft at first, tentative; but it didn’t stay that way. Your hand found his jaw, his fingers tangled in the hem of your sleeve. It was impulsive, reckless, and stupid in the way only something that feels too good too fast can be. His lips moved against yours like he’d been waiting for it, like he couldn’t believe it was happening either. Your heart pounded. You could feel it in your throat, in your fingertips. 

The kiss deepened. Your limbs felt light, dizzy with adrenaline and guilt, a dangerous cocktail that made you bolder. You shifted, climbing into his lap as though something inside you had been aching to feel this wanted, this close. 

But then; it hit you.

Like ice water over the head.

Nari.

This was Nari’s boyfriend.

Your best friend.

Oh god.

You jerked back like you’d been burned, scrambling out of his lap, your breath caught in your throat. “Oh no,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Oh no, no, no.” Tears welled up fast, hot and full of shame. Your lips still tingled from the kiss, but the pit in your stomach was already growing. This wasn’t just a mistake; it was a betrayal. Beomgyu looked stunned, his eyes wide, mouth parting like he wanted to say something. 

“I—” he started.

But it was too late. You shoved open the door, stumbling out of the car into the cold night, tears trailing down your cheeks. You didn’t look back. Couldn’t. The porch light blurred in your vision as you fumbled with your keys, your hands shaking. The kiss echoed in your bones like an accusation, like thunder in a silent room.

You slipped inside, heart splintering. And upstairs, alone in the dark, you cried until your chest ached; because you had just made the worst mistake of your life. 

Present day 

The air outside was colder than you expected, bracing against the heat still clinging to your cheeks from the banquet. You leaned back on the stone ledge, your palms flat against it, grounding you as your heart slowly tried to even itself out. Too many eyes. Too many voices. You could still hear them; those low, pitying murmurs, the way people glanced sideways and then looked away like the sight of you hurt too much to bear. Or worse, like it was something juicy they weren’t supposed to talk about but would the second you turned away. 

You hated it. All of it. The way the room had swallowed you whole, a ghost of who you used to be.

A failed ballerina.

The girl who lost her best friend.

The girl who killed her. 

The air helped. A little. The night had a stillness to it, only disturbed by the occasional hum of a car in the distance or the soft click of someone else’s shoes along the sidewalk. You closed your eyes, tilted your head up to the stars that were barely visible through the city’s haze. That’s when a voice broke the fragile quiet. “Hey.” Your heart lurched, and your eyes snapped open. You turned, already bracing yourself, and there he was. Beomgyu. You cursed under your breath, low and bitter.

He looked like he hadn’t changed clothes since the last time you saw him, his tie slightly loosened, his shirt untucked like he hadn’t bothered fixing himself up fully. He looked… tired. More worn than usual. But you didn’t care. He was the last person you wanted to see. The last person you needed. “Did you get my message?” he asked quietly. 

You turned your gaze back toward the dark, refusing to look at him. “Yes.”

He hesitated, then took a few steps closer. “Why didn’t you respond?”

That made your blood boil. How dare he act like nothing happened. Like you haven’t betrayed your best friend and now she's dead. Like your word didn’t end the moment the two of you decided hurt her so badly it drove her to her death. You can’t even look at him without feeling an overwhelming shade of shame. 

You turned sharply, your voice cold. “Are you stupid?”

Beomgyu blinked. “What?”

“You really came out here asking why I didn’t respond? You really thought I’d want to talk to you?” His brow furrowed, eyes filled with a hurt he had no right to feel. “We can’t not talk about this.” 

“Yes we can.” You pushed off the ledge, straightening your back, ready to walk away. “I have nothing to say—” He reached for you. His fingers closed around your wrist. And you yanked your hand back like his touch had burned you. And in a way it did. It felt like a zap to your soul. 

“Don’t touch me.” Your voice was sharp, your body trembling.

He looked wounded, frustrated. “Please, Ju—”

“She said let go.”

Another voice cut through the air, low and cold like the crack of a whip. You froze. Beomgyu did too. Your head turned slowly, disbelieving, and there stood Heeseung. Beomgyu looked at Heeseung, eyes narrowing. “Get lost,” he muttered. “This doesn’t involve you.”

Heeseung didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. He took a single step forward, slow and deliberate, his eyes steady. “It does now.”

Beomgyu scoffed, incredulous. “You don’t even know her.” But Heeseung didn’t answer. Not with words. Instead, before you could fully register what was happening, you felt his hand curl gently around your wrist; careful, unlike Beomgyu, and then you were being pulled forward, tucked against him, his arm coming around your waist like it belonged there.  

“Don’t touch my girlfriend,” Heeseung said, cool and quiet, the lie sliding from his mouth like he’d rehearsed it a hundred times. Your breath hitched. What? You stiffened against him, frozen. Your eyes flicked up to his face, searching for a sign that he was joking; but he wasn’t looking at you. His gaze was locked on Beomgyu, steady, unflinching, sharp as cut glass. It wasn’t a threat. It was a dismissal. You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know him. You had barely spoken to Heeseung, and yet here he was, holding you like you were something worth shielding. 

And Beomgyu — he just laughed. A single, humorless sound that cracked open something bitter inside you. “Really?” he said, his eyes sliding between the two of you, his smirk twisting. “This loser?” He turned to you then, gaze challenging, voice low. “You can do better.” 

You felt the blood rush to your ears. Your spine straightened, anger fizzing to life under your skin. All the things you wanted to say for months clawed at your throat. You stepped slightly forward, still half wrapped in Heeseung’s arm. “Really?” you said, voice trembling with heat. “Like with you?” Beomgyu stilled.

For a second, just a second, you saw something flicker in his expression; something uncertain and maybe even ashamed. But then it hardened again, sealed over by the same easy indifference he wore like a mask. He gave a low chuckle. “Whatever.” He turned to leave, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his voice floating behind him like smoke. “I’ll catch you some other time. And we will talk.”

You didn’t say anything. You watched his back as he walked away, each footstep carrying the weight of too many things unsaid. The night closed around him until he was just another shadow swallowed by the dark. And then it was quiet. Heeseung’s arm still hovered around you, tentative now, uncertain. You stepped away slowly, enough to put a little distance between you, enough to breathe. 

You stayed in silence for a few minutes, the kind that lingered not awkwardly, but gently; like fog curling around a streetlamp. The chill in the air touched your skin, but the tension in your body had started to ease, little by little. Then you turned to him, brushing your hair back from your face. “Thanks,” you murmured, your voice low, but sincere. 

Heeseung shrugged, his hands buried in the pockets of his jacket. “It’s whatever.” And maybe it was. Maybe to him, stepping in like that didn’t mean anything at all. But to you, it meant more than he could know. There was a pause, and then Heeseung tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing in the direction Beomgyu had walked off. “What the hell’s his problem anyway?”

The question caught you off guard. You froze for a beat, lips parting. Then you shut your mouth again and gave him the most practiced shrug you had. “No idea.” Heeseung looked at you; really looked at you and you could tell he didn’t buy it. You could see it in the subtle lift of his brow, in the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. He wasn’t convinced. But he didn’t press.

He just nodded once, slowly, as if to say: okay, I’ll let it go. You didn’t thank him for that out loud, you didn’t need to. The silence consumed you for a few more minutes until finally Heeseung speaks, his words surprising you for the second time tonight. 

“Wanna get out of here?” he asks, his voice low, edged with something reckless, something soft.

You blink. “What?”

“This place sucks,” he mutters, glancing back toward the golden-lit banquet hall like it’s a prison, not a celebration. “We don’t belong here.” You open your mouth, about to say something responsible; about your mother, the expectations, the whispers that would follow, but instead, you hear yourself say: “Yeah. Let’s go.”

You don’t know what possesses you. Maybe it’s the tightness still winding in your chest. Maybe it’s the look on Beomgyu’s face as he walked away. Or maybe it’s something else entirely, the gravity of Heeseung’s presence, the pull of someone who seems just as lost as you. The two of you slip away from the banquet like ghosts through a wall, unseen, unnoticed. The air outside is cool and silver. You trail behind Heeseung toward his car, your heels clicking softly on the pavement, each step peeling away the image of the girl you were expected to be. 

You slide into the passenger seat of his dark sedan, a little stunned, a little breathless. He doesn’t say anything. Just starts the engine and pulls away from the curb like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The ride is quiet. Your hands fidget in your lap, your phone buzzes once — probably your mother, and you silence it without even looking. The streetlights blur past like slow-dancing stars, and you feel something rising in you that you don’t yet have the name for. Guilt, maybe. Relief. Fear. Hope. All of them, maybe. 

You glance sideways. Heeseung’s face is unreadable, cast in the faint glow of the dashboard. His hand grips the wheel loosely, like he’s driving nowhere in particular. Like wherever he’s going, he just wants to go there with someone. Eventually, he pulls into a dark parking lot. Some vacant strip mall long closed for the night. A single broken streetlamp flickers near the far end, humming like it’s trying to stay alive. Heeseung parks, cuts the engine, and the silence rushes in like a wave. Neither of you speak.

You sit there, breathing it in, the quiet, the dark, the feeling of being no one, nowhere. You hadn’t realized how much you needed it. Then, after a while, he shifts slightly. Reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls something out.

A small, ziplock baggie.

Weed.

He doesn’t look at you. Just holds it in his palm like a casual offering, then tilts his head. “You cool?” You stare at it. You remember a time — clean ballet shoes lined up like soldiers, your life scheduled to the minute, your mother bragging about you at dinner parties. You remember being the good girl. The golden girl. But that girl is gone.

You turn your gaze to the windshield. The night stares back. “Yeah,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m cool.” And in a strange, twisted way, you think you mean it. 

He watches you for a beat, his expression unreadable in the dark. The silence hums between you, heavy with something unspoken. Then, almost gently, Heeseung asks, “Have you ever smoked before?” You hesitate, then shake your head no. Never. You never had the chance, too many rehearsals, too many performances, too much pressure to be perfect. But you’d be lying if you said the idea never crossed your mind. If you said you weren’t curious. If you said a small part of you hadn’t longed for the kind of freedom where you could just… let go. 

He raises an eyebrow, not in judgment but in quiet surprise. “Huh,” he says simply, like he’s filing the fact away. Then, he holds the baggie up again between two fingers, his gaze flickering to yours. “You wanna?” 

Your heart kicks, once. Sharp and startled. But what startles you more is your answer. “Yes.” You don’t even let yourself think. You just say it. And it hangs there, bold and fragile in the air between you. Because you mean it. If it will help you forget, if it will quiet the scream you’ve been holding in your chest since the day the world cracked and Nari was gone, if it will make the ache a little duller, the past a little blurrier, then yes. You’d do it. Heeseung gives a slight nod, not smug, not surprised. Just understanding. Like he knows exactly what it’s like to want to float outside your body for a while. 

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s make it a soft one.” He moves with practiced ease, fishing out a crumpled rolling paper and pinching the weed between his fingers. You watch, fascinated, the movements almost meditative. There’s something comforting in the way his hands work, steady, sure, deliberate. 

The flame from Heeseung’s lighter flickered to life, casting a golden glow across his face before it kissed the tip of the joint. He inhaled slowly, his cheeks hollowing slightly, and the ember at the end burned a hot, bright orange in the dimness of the car. You watched him with something close to awe, or maybe curiosity, or yearning, or all three twisted into one. He looked so at ease, leaning back against the driver's seat, elbow perched casually on the window frame, his gaze fixed ahead like the night outside held all the answers he didn’t want to say aloud. He turned to you after a moment, his expression unreadable as he held out the joint. 

You wanted it to help you forget — just for a moment; the aching cavern in your chest where Nari used to be, the guilt gnawing at your insides like acid, the unrelenting pressure of being whoever the hell everyone thought you were supposed to be. Heeseung passed it to you. You stared at the joint for a beat too long, unsure how to hold it, how to breathe it in, like it was an alien thing and you were fumbling through foreign rituals. He noticed. Of course he did. A lazy smirk crept onto his lips, his tongue darting out to wet them slightly. 

“Here,” he said. “Don’t baby it. Just put it to your lips and inhale. Deep. But not too deep, or you’ll cough your soul out.” You rolled your eyes at his amusement, but you did as instructed. You placed it between your lips and drew in a breath, tentative, hesitant, but determined. The smoke filled your mouth and then your lungs and then; You sputtered. Violently.

Coughing ripped through you like a storm, your body jerking forward as tears sprang to your eyes. Heeseung cracked up, his laughter echoing in the small space between you. “Holy shit,” he said, wiping a tear from his eye. “I should’ve recorded that. You sounded like you were summoning demons.”

You glared at him, cheeks burning, but then you laughed too. Really laughed. A broken, breathless sound that felt like relief. Like freedom. You passed the joint back and forth after that, the air inside the car growing warmer, thicker with smoke and laughter and something else unspoken. You slouched lower in your seat, legs folded beneath you, and Heeseung mirrored your posture, his thigh brushing against yours now and then. The world outside faded. The banquet. Your mother. The whispers. The ache. None of it mattered. 

You talked about everything and nothing. Dumb things. Childhood stories. Songs you hated. The worst school lunches you ever had. Heeseung told you he once got detention for throwing mashed potatoes at a substitute teacher. You confessed you used to fake headaches to get out of gym. You both laughed until your faces hurt, the high sinking its claws into your skin like a warm blanket wrapping around your bones. But somehow …..the conversation shifted. 

Heeseung fell quiet. His smile slipped. The light in his eyes dimmed, like a shadow passed across his heart. “My brother used to love this song,” he murmured, nodding toward the faint music trickling out of his car speakers, some old indie ballad, moody and atmospheric. “He’d play it every night before bed. Drove me crazy.” You watched him closely, the haze not dulling your senses but sharpening them in ways that scared you. 

“Is he… the reason you’re in the grief group?” you asked, soft, unsure. Heeseung didn’t answer right away. Then, finally: “I’m the reason I’m in that grief group.” His voice cracked, just a little, like something too heavy to carry was trying to escape his throat. He didn’t look at you, just stared ahead, into the dark. 

And you understood. God, you understood more than you ever wished to. “I know the feeling,” you whispered. That made him look at you. Really look at you. And in that glance, smeared by smoke and shadows and sorrow, you both saw something reflected. A mirror image of broken pieces. A matching ache. Something shifted.

He leaned forward, just slightly, and you met him halfway. The kiss happened so fast you didn’t even think. It was clumsy, desperate, tasting like smoke and everything you’d never said aloud. His hand cupped your cheek, fingers grazing your jaw, pulling you closer like you were the only anchor he had. Your hands found the fabric of his shirt, tugging, gripping, needing to feel something — anything that wasn’t grief. It deepened in seconds. Lips parting, tongues meeting. Heated. Messy. 

Heeseung moved with a hunger that mirrored your own, his hands roaming across your back, your waist, your thighs like he needed to memorize every inch. You felt his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your dress, your breath catching as his palm flattened against your bare skin. You didn’t stop him. You didn’t want to. This, whatever this was, felt like the first thing in months that made sense. That made you feel alive instead of just surviving. Your body reacted before your brain could catch up. The car was hot now, windows fogging, clothes tangling. His mouth left trails down your neck, and your fingers curled in his hair, pulling him closer.

You didn’t think of Nari. You didn’t think of anything but this moment, and the way Heeseung’s lips felt on your skin, the way his body pressed against yours like he needed you to breathe. It was exhilarating, your body alight like a flame catching fire. You didn’t know how to explain the feeling that seeped through your bones and laid a nest in your marrow. 

His hand continued its climb on your thigh inching upward for what felt like a mile a minute. You broke away to catch your breath, your forehead resting on his. “I want you.” Heeseung said, his words low in his throat it almost felt buried, like he was trying to conceal himself but his body wouldn't let him. 

“Ok.” You nod because that's the only word you could say that would be coherent. 

“But not all the way. I want to take my time with you.” His breath shot shivers down your spine, his fingers caressing the skin of your knee. His lips find purchase on the skin of your neck sucking the skin slightly. A gasp falls from your lips, quick and breathy. You were not a virgin, that was the truth but you had never been as needy as you were now. In Lee Heeseung’s car of all people. He was trouble, that much was clear. You had just gotten high with the guy for crying out loud. 

You didn’t care. Not anymore, at least. You were tired of caring. So, you let him continue his kisses down your neck, slow and careful, a strong opposition to your rapidly beating heart. A timeless boom let out into the quiet or your entire body and your entire soul. You welcomed it and it came crashing like a tidal wave. 

His hand inched up, and under your dress. His hands caressing your clothed core with his finger. Your breath shook a small mewl leaving your lips. Heeseung smirked against your skin, a slow languid smirk that told you he was enjoying this just as much as you were. His thumb ran across your panties slowly like he was testing the waters. Watching your reactions, keening at your pleasure. Lee Heeseung knew what he was doing, that much was clear. 

“I’m going to touch you now, Okay?” His voice was questioning but not uncertain. Like he knew you wanted this but just had to make sure. It was more appreciated than you could even say. 

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. His finger pulled your panties aside, his eyes never leaving your face, not even for a second. This was a movie and you were the star of the show, the leading lady. You deserved a fucking standing ovation after this one, only it wasn’t an act. This was real; very much so. You moaned breathily watching Heeseung with careful eyes. He was beautiful there was no doubt about it. His finger traced your clit, moving in slow circles over the nub. Your body felt electrified. 

You reacted with a gasp, your hand reaching to grip Heeseung’s arm “Hee–” You whimpered as he slid a single finger into your entrance, eyes still locked on your face intently. “Feels good.” 

“Yeah?” He asked with a smirk. “How good?” 

“So good.” You withered under his gaze, your hips lifting to meet his fingers. It was euphoric. A mind numbing feeling you’d been searching for. It didn’t take long for you to tip over the edge. Your orgasm hitting you like a truck. Your moans ringing through the car and filling the space. Heeseung’s gaze turned dark, drinking you in. 

“Beautiful.” He muttered “So fucking beautiful.” Then it was over. And not a single part of you regretted it. You had felt alive, ablaze with feeling. You needed this. 

“What time is it?” You asked, after a stretch of silence. You watched as the foggy windows cleared your mind becoming less hazy as you came down from not only the high of your orgasm but the high of the weed. 

“Just passed one. Need a lift home?” You nod tiredly, barely gaining the strength to lift your head. And before you know it, he was starting the car and taking off. Your perfect night ending as you knew it. 

Before. 

The house was already thick with tension, the air humid with summer heat and something more suffocating; disappointment, maybe, or something sharper, something older. Heeseung stood in the middle of the living room, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides. The walls around him had once felt like home, but now they felt too close, like they were folding in on him. “You can’t just keep coasting like this,” his father barked, pacing across the living room with his arms crossed, brow furrowed like a permanent fixture. “You’re twenty-three, Heeseung. What are you even doing with your life?” 

Heeseung leaned against the back of the couch, arms folded, expression unreadable except for the faint twitch in his jaw. “I’m figuring it out.” 

“Figuring it out?” his father repeated with a humorless laugh. “You’ve been saying that for two years. Meanwhile, Han’s already lined up for internships, he’s tutoring on weekends, and he’s still pulling top grades. He actually wants something for himself.” And there it was. Han. The golden son. The measuring stick. Heeseung pushed off the couch, tension suddenly uncoiling in his limbs like a spring snapped loose. “Good for him,” he said bitterly. “Why don’t you make him a damn trophy?” 

“Don’t talk about your brother like that,” his father snapped. 

“I’m not talking about him,” Heeseung shot back. “I’m talking about you. You never look at me without seeing what I’m not.” 

His father’s face hardened. “You have all the same opportunities. You just don’t take anything seriously.” 

“Because I don’t want to spend my life miserable just to meet your standards.” 

“God, listen to yourself,” his father muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “You think life’s about doing whatever the hell you want? You think you’re entitled to waste your time and your potential?” 

“I’m young,” Heeseung barked. “Isn’t that what being young is for? I have the rest of my life to hate my job and sit in traffic and drink burnt office coffee. Why the hell would I start now?” 

“You always have an excuse,” his father said. “Always. You’re lazy, Heeseung. And selfish. I’m just glad Han didn’t turn out like you.” The words sliced through the air like a blade. Heeseung went still. His chest rose and fell, his breath shallow. For a moment, neither of them said anything. The only sound was the hum of the fridge in the next room. Then Heeseung laughed; quiet and humorless.

He grabbed his keys from the counter. “You know what?” he said, voice brittle at the edges. “Thanks, Dad. Really. That was the push I needed.”

“Where are you going?” His father yelled after him. 

“Out,” he snapped, walking toward the front door. “To do something useless. Just to spite you.” 

He didn’t wait for a reply. The door slammed shut behind him, the sound sharp as a gunshot. Outside, the sun was still bright, but it felt cold in his chest. A hollowness had opened up inside him, and he didn’t know how to fill it, except to forget. So he texted the group chat, asking what parties were happening tonight. And as he walked down the street, hands in his pockets and jaw still clenched, Heeseung thought only one thing: Han can keep being perfect. I don’t want that life anyway. But part of him knew; even then, that something had cracked open. And that no party in the world would be enough to glue it back together.

Present day 

The car ride home was quiet, the kind of quiet that sinks into your skin and makes a home there. After the haze and heat of that night with Heeseung, the soft high that blanketed your brain, the weight of his body pressed into yours like something grounding, you hadn’t thought about what came next. You hadn’t prepared for the way your real life would be waiting for you like a predator at the door. Heeseung pulls up slowly in front of your house, the engine humming low. The porch light is on. A silhouette moves behind the curtain. Your stomach knots. You should’ve known better. You should’ve gone home earlier. You should’ve texted.

You shouldn’t have disappeared. Heeseung glances at you. “You good?” 

You nod, though you’re not. You open the door and step into the cool night air, the scent of pine and pavement rising with the wind. The moment the door swings open, you’re met with your mother’s worried face, and your father’s fury. “There you are,” your mother breathes, like the air had left her lungs hours ago and only now returned. Her eyes are wide, red-rimmed. Her robe is tied tightly at her waist, hands clenched. “Where have you been? We didn’t know if something had—”

“Where the hell were you?” your father’s voice cuts like a blade. He’s pacing now, his posture rigid, as if he’s been holding himself still for too long and has finally snapped the leash. The living room lamp casts long shadows on the hardwood, your mother’s expression flickering like candlelight. You cross your arms. “Out.” 

“Out?” he repeats, incredulous. “You disappeared in the middle of the banquet. You didn’t answer your phone. We were about to call the police.” 

“I was with someone.”

“Who?” he demands.

You shouldn’t say it. You know the weight the name carries in this house, the implications, the judgment it would bring. But you’re still high. You’re still reeling. And your anger, your rage, has been stewing beneath your skin for far too long. You tilt your head, smirk venomously. “I was busy having sex. With Lee Heeseung.”

Your mother gasps, small, but sharp. A sound of heartbreak and horror all at once. Your father stills. There’s a quiet moment, too quiet, before he explodes. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to your mother?!”

“I don’t care,” you snap.

His face darkens. “You don’t care?” 

“No. I don’t. Because none of you care about me. You only care about what I do. How I act. How I reflect on you. You don’t care about how I feel; about what I’ve been going through.” 

“We’ve given you space—” 

“No,” you cut him off, your voice rising with the heat in your throat. “You’ve given me rules. Expectations. You wanted me to move on quietly. To cry behind closed doors and never, ever make you uncomfortable with the reality of what happened.” Your mother clutches her robe tighter. “We’ve tried—”

“You’ve tried to ignore it!” you cry. “You want to pretend Nari dying didn’t ruin me. You want me to go back to who I was. But I’m not her anymore.” Your father slams his palm against the wall, the sound like thunder. “We’ve given you so much grace this year after Nari’s death but—”

“There is no buts!” your voice cracks. “My life ended the same day Nari’s did.” A silence falls over the room, heavy as snow. Your father’s voice is low, seething. “No, it didn’t. You’re still alive. And you’re treating yourself like some kind of corpse. Wake up.”

“Why should I?” you whisper. “Why should I get to live comfortably, eat dinner, go to banquets, kiss boys in dark cars, when it’s my fault she’s dead?” Your mother lets out a sound like a sob, but you can’t stop now. The words are fire on your tongue, and they’ve been burning there for too long. 

“You don’t get it,” you say to your father, your voice shaking. “You don’t know what it’s like to carry that kind of guilt every single day. To wish it had been you instead. You’re right. I am acting like a corpse; because I should be one.” 

That’s when he takes a step forward, his face pale with fury and pain. “Don’t say that.” 

“Why not? It’s true.” 

“Don’t you ever say that again,” he growls. 

But you don’t listen. You’ve already turned. Your feet carry you down the hall like instinct, your fingers fumbling for your phone. You scroll through your contacts with trembling hands, your vision blurred. You tap his name. He picks up on the first ring. “Hello?” 

“Heeseung…” you breathe, voice cracking. “Please. Come pick me up.” There’s a pause. Then; his voice, calm and certain. “On my way.”

You hang up before your father can say another word, before your mother can cry any harder, before the weight of their stares suffocates you completely. You step outside into the night, wind rushing against your skin like a balm, your heart still thrumming with rage and regret and pain. The world outside is dark, the moon obscured by clouds. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks. You stand there on the sidewalk, arms crossed tightly over your chest, waiting. And when his car turns the corner, headlights cutting through the dark like a lifeline; you breathe again. You don’t know where you’re going. But you know it’s away. And for now, that’s enough.

Before

The theatre smelled of velvet and varnish and a faint current of dust stirred by restless feet; an intoxicating mix that lived in your bones long before you ever set foot in its wings. It was Friday, the day everything was meant to unfold exactly the way you’d mapped it in your sleepless imaginings: the day the scouts filled the back row with clipboards poised, the day your instructors whispered Watch this one, the day your life would pivot on the sharpened point of a single relevé.

But all week your nerves had been a live wire sparking under your skin. You’d flitted through dressing‐room corridors like a ghost, ducking Nari’s bright grin, her lilting voice calling your nickname, the glitter of anticipation in her eyes. Pre‐show jitters, you’d told her, forcing smiles so wide your cheeks trembled. In truth, your heart was a glass ornament rattling in its box, because tucked into it was a secret kiss that did not belong to you; a kiss that belonged to Nari, to her late‐night confessions about Beomgyu, to the dizzy way she clasped your arm and said He’s the one, I feel it. That kiss replayed in your mind on a merciless loop: the blurred parking‐lot lights washing across Beomgyu’s face, the soft rasp of his flannel collar, the unplanned tilt of two mouths colliding in a moment that should never have existed. Every beat of silence afterward felt like a fresh betrayal. You’d tried to bury it beneath pliés and pirouettes, to sweat it out into the marley floor, but guilt is a clever shadow; it clings to the arch of your foot, the curve of your rib cage, rides the breath of every port de bras.

Now, backstage, the hush before the storm pressed in on you. Scuttling crew members tacked stray cables to the floor; the stage manager hissed cues into a headset. Beyond the velvet curtain came the low hum of an expectant crowd; parents adjusting programs, instructors scanning rosters, the occasional rustle as someone leaned to whisper good luck to a performer slipping past. Your fellow dancers flitted in and out of light like dragonflies, tutus trembling, pointe shoes ticking softly on the worn boards. Somewhere out there was Nari, waiting two numbers after you, hair pinned in a sleek crown, eyes surely hunting the auditorium for Beomgyu’s familiar silhouette. And somewhere, closer than you wanted to imagine, was Beomgyu himself, sitting with the audience’s polite hush draped about his shoulders. You had not dared to look for him during warm‐ups; the very idea set your pulse galloping.

An assistant stage manager approached, clipboard clutched, voice gentle yet insistent. “Five minutes, star.” The moniker landed like a shard of glass. Star. The word rang hollow when you felt anything but stellar, when every muscle was soldered to fear. Still, you nodded and stepped into the narrow spill of light at stage left, waiting for the house to black out and the overture to climb. The curtain would rise on silence, a single spotlight blooming down like moonlight. You would step from darkness into glow, offering your first breath to the rafters. You’d practiced that entrance so many times the floor all but remembered your weight. Tonight you would give it everything, because failure, you’d decided, was the only penance big enough to fit this sin. If you danced perfectly, perhaps the universe would not forgive you; so you vowed to dance beyond perfect, to dissolve into movement so wholly that the world could forget it ever saw you kiss the wrong boy.

The house lights dimmed. A hush rippled across the audience like the draw of a single breath. In that hush you caught the faintest sound: a program dropping, a throat clearing, the soft scuff of someone shifting in their seat. And beneath it all, your name inside your chest, repeating like a mantra: remember the choreography. remember the music. remember the reason you began. When the curtain ascended, it felt almost slow like dawn unfolding. The low whirr of the fly‐system chains, the gentle rustle of velvet reaching upward, revealing a stage hushed, waiting. The spotlight found you, and heat flooded your skin. Applause dotted the darkness: a scattering of claps, polite and anticipatory, then fading to a reverent hush.

The first note of the piano slipped from the orchestra pit; soft, deliberate, as if testing the air. You drew a breath so deep it lifted your ribs like wings, and then your body obeyed the command that had been etched into its sinew over months of repetition. You stepped forward, ankle rolling through demi‐pointe to full, the world narrowing to the music, the floor, the fire in your muscles. For a heartbeat, it was perfect. More than perfect: it was transcendence. Each développé carved an invisible ribbon through space; each alignement felt true, as though gravity itself had arced to cradle you. You surrendered to the dance and let it carry you across the stage like wind across water. Every beat of the piano pulled another secret thread tight inside your chest, and yet, incredibly, you didn’t unravel; you soared.

Then your eyes lifted. A reflex. A mistake. Rows of faces climbed into the darkness, features softened by the spill of stage light. Far left, a head of sandy hair, a familiar tilt of a jaw, a pair of wide dark eyes that had once closed under your kiss. Beomgyu.

The breath caught in your throat mid‐pirouette. The world jolted slightly off its axle. In that split second, the clarity you’d fought so hard for shattered like a mirror under stone, and the edges flew at you; every shard a memory: his smile in the glow of the streetlight, the click of his seatbelt as you leaned in, the soft shock of his lips. Behind those shards, the imagined face of Nari when — if — she discovered the truth. Your next placement faltered. The edge of your pointe shoe skidded. You tried to salvage it, shoulders tightening, arms shooting wide but the correction was too sharp, too late. Your ankle buckled, and gravity claimed you in a brutal, inelegant swoop.

You hit the floor hard enough to send a tremor through the wings. A stunned gasp rippled across the crowd; a collective intake of breath that sounded like a verdict. The spotlight kept shining, merciless, on the shape of your failure. For a moment you couldn’t breathe; the air seemed to have left the theatre entirely. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. In that bright, silent agony, one thought screamed louder than the pain: I deserve this.

Your palms slipped on the marley as you scrambled upright, but the choreography was gone, blown out like a candle. All that remained was the monstrous echo of what you’d done, of who you’d betrayed. The music continued, an empty cascade of sound; and you, trembling, stared out at the sea of faces until one face met your gaze: Nari’s. Stage left, waiting for her entrance, eyes wide with horror and a heartbreak you prayed she couldn’t name yet. Something inside you broke fully then. You couldn’t stay. You couldn’t finish. You couldn’t breathe in a world where she might learn the truth. With a ragged sob, you spun on your heel and fled the stage, the curtains swallowing you, the orchestra faltering into confused diminuendo. Behind you, the audience erupted, someone calling your name, others murmuring like distant thunder, parents half‐rising from seats.

Backstage smelled of dust and rosin and your own panic. You tore down the corridor, past startled crew members, tutus swishing as dancers pressed back against scenery flats to let you pass. Someone called after you; an instructor, maybe but their voice drowned in the roar of your pulse. You pushed through the stage door into the alley, the night slapping cold against your fevered skin. The street beyond the theatre was shockingly normal, cars rolling by, a neon sign buzzing across the avenue, the faint peppery smell of a late‐night food truck. But inside you, the world had ended. You bent double, hands on your knees, tears splattering the asphalt. On the other side of the stage wall, the showcase continued; voices, hurried announcements, an onstage piano vamping to fill the space you’d left barren. You pictured scouts scribbling notes: promising, but no mental stamina. poor recovery. not ready. 

None of it mattered. You deserved none of it. You deserved exactly this emptiness, this shame coiled tight as wire around your throat. Because what kind of friend kisses the boy her best friend loves? What kind of dancer lets the stage become collateral damage for her guilt? A monster. You pressed your fist to your mouth to stifle a sob. Down the block, an ambulance siren wailed; shrill, insistent and the sound echoed in your bones. You didn’t know it yet, but hours later you’d meet that wail again in a different key, flashing red against wet pavement, broken glass glittering under streetlights, the night Nari would walk away from you for the last time.

For now, there was only the alley and the wreckage of a dream that had shattered under a single glance. You slid down the cool brick wall until you were crouched amid puddles of stage runoff, trembling with adrenaline and remorse. Somewhere inside the theatre, Nari was stepping into her music, dancing her heart out; maybe flawlessly, maybe faltering because of you. You’d never know, because you couldn’t bear to watch. 

You buried your face in your hands and stayed there until the music ended, until the applause rose and fell, until the night air numbed the sting of your scraped palms. By the time a teacher found you, voice gentle, jacket draped over your shoulders; you had already decided you were done. With ballet. With pretending. With believing you deserved good things. Because the monster inside you had spoken, and the stage had listened. And you felt certain — absolutely certain that nothing would ever be bright again.

Present day 

The streetlights flicker past like ghosts, golden halos warping through the tears blurring your vision. You don’t bother wiping them away. You just hope Heeseung doesn’t notice, but of course he does. Silence may fill the cabin of his car, but it's not a silence that shelters. It’s the kind that listens too closely, hears too much. The air is thick; warmer than it should be for nightfall. The windows are cracked just enough to let in a breeze that carries the scent of damp pavement and something flowering in the dark. Your fingers are clenched in your lap, nails carving half-moons into the soft flesh of your palms.

You feel his glance before you see it. Heeseung shifts slightly in the driver’s seat, one hand loose on the steering wheel, the other drumming an idle rhythm against his thigh. He doesn’t say anything right away, and you cling to that mercy for as long as you can, but then his voice slips into the space between you. “What’s wrong?” he asks, gentle. Like he’s afraid you might break if he presses too hard.

You inhale sharply through your nose and keep your gaze pinned to the window. You watch as the night spills over rooftops and lampposts and blinking store signs, blurry and distant, as if you’re floating somewhere above your life instead of living it. You debate lying. It would be easy. Safer. You could tell him it was just a bad day. School stress. A family squabble about curfews or drinking or some other shallow wound that wouldn’t require stitching. But Heeseung doesn’t feel like someone you can lie to. Not right now. Not after the joint, the kiss, the way he touched you, the quiet understanding that crackled between you like static in the dark. This thing between you, it’s not defined, not shaped into anything real; but it’s honest. And in a world where most people look at you with pity or suspicion or sanitized grief, Heeseung looks at you like he sees past the performance. 

So you speak. Quietly. “I got into a fight with my parents.” Heeseung nods, doesn’t push. Just gives you space. You swallow, your throat tight. “It was about Nari.” 

There’s a brief pause. You can feel the shape of the question before he asks it, cautious and curious. “Who’s Nari?” 

Your eyes close for a beat. The ache swells in your chest again, a slow, suffocating bloom. “My best friend,” you say. And then, sharper, crueler, the words tear their way out of you: “My best friend that I killed.” 

Silence. A heavier one now. Weighted. You brace yourself for the flinch, for the retreat, for the cold rush of judgment that always follows. You wait for him to tell you that you’re being dramatic, that it wasn’t your fault, that grief warps memory and blame. But Heeseung doesn’t say anything. And in his silence, there is no retreat. There is no recoil. You glance sideways. His expression hasn’t shifted into pity or horror. If anything, it’s softened. Eyes dark and unreadable, mouth slack with something that might be understanding, or pain. Heeseung just nods. Like he knows exactly what it feels like to carry something unspeakable.

When he pulls into his driveway, you expect him to say something more, to fill the silence with platitudes or distractions. But he doesn’t. He turns off the ignition, tosses his keys onto the dashboard with a quiet clatter, and says, “Come on.” You follow him into the house. The air inside smells faintly like detergent and something warm from earlier; maybe toast or ramen. The lights are low, and the hallway creaks under your steps. There are photos on the wall, but you don’t stop to look at them. It feels like trespassing, being here. Not physically, but emotionally. Like you’ve brought the rot of your guilt into a space that deserves better.

Upstairs, his room is dim and a little messy; sheets rumpled, books stacked sideways on the desk, a hoodie slung across the back of a chair. You hover in the doorway, unsure, until he gestures for you to come in. You sit on the edge of his bed, suddenly small. Your hands knot in your lap. The air is thick again. Not from heat this time, but from the weight of what’s unsaid.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. Heeseung drops to a crouch in front of you, hands braced on his knees. He looks up at you like he wants to memorize your face in this exact moment. “You don’t have to apologize.” 

Your eyes sting again. “I do. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be doing this. I—” 

His voice cuts you off. Firm. “You’re not a bad person for needing someone.” You shake your head, blinking hard. “I betrayed her. She was always there for me, and I hurt her. I broke something so sacred. She trusted me.”

Heeseung’s expression shifts. Not in disbelief, but in recognition. He knows this guilt. Wears it like a second skin. “I get it,” he says, softly. “I killed my brother.”

He doesn’t look away. “Not literally. But I might as well have. I— I did something. I didn’t mean to. But I did. And now he’s dead. And it’s because of me.” 

Your voice is tentative. “That can’t be true.”

“It is,” he insists. His voice trembles just once, then steadies. “I might as well have put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger.” You stare at him, stunned. Not because of the words, but because of how familiar they sound. Like an echo of your own worst thoughts. 

“I told her,” you say quietly, “that she didn’t deserve him. I told her he didn’t love her. I lied. I said it to hurt her.” You’re not even sure when the tears start again. They fall quietly, steadily, like summer rain.

“I kissed him. Her boyfriend. She found out. I never got to explain. I never got to say sorry.” Heeseung says nothing. He doesn’t have to. He just kneels there in front of you, steady as a lighthouse, his eyes locked on yours.

You can barely breathe. “It should’ve been me. Not her. I was the one who ruined everything. I should be the one—” 

“Stop,” he says, gently but firmly. Your voice cracks. “Why does the world keep spinning when she’s not in it? Why do I get to wake up every day when she’s in the ground?” 

Heeseung places a hand on your knee. Not romantically. Not out of pity. Just to anchor you. To remind you that you're still here, breathing, even if you don’t know why. “Tell me what happened,” he says. “That night.”

You don’t answer right away. You stare past him, past the walls, past the ache. Your throat works around the lump rising in it. That night. The one you’ve rewound and replayed a thousand times. The night everything shattered. You open your mouth. And the scene begins to unwind behind your eyes. But that’s for the next breath. The next storm. For now, you sit in Heeseung’s room, in the quiet aftermath of too much truth. And for the first time in what feels like forever, someone sees you in all your ruin; and doesn’t look away. 

It was the night after the showcase, and you felt like a ghost in your own skin. The stage lights had faded, but their burn still etched itself behind your eyes, mocking you. You hadn’t even made it through the routine. You’d crumbled; right there, in front of everyone who ever believed in you. Your body, trained and honed like a blade for years, had given out at the mere sight of him. Beomgyu. His eyes in the crowd. His mouth, the one you’d kissed in secret. Nari’s boyfriend. Her everything. And you’d shattered. Now, your phone was a storm. Ping after ping, call after call. All from her.

Nari.

Her contact photo was a blurry selfie from last summer — her smile sun-kissed and wide, your arm looped around her neck. You looked so happy. So unworthy. She was worried. Of course she was. You were supposed to be avoiding her for pre-show jitters, remember? But now the show was over and the lies had nowhere to hide. The texts were a blur. hey. 

please say something. i’m worried about you. i’m not mad. just talk to me. i love you. you know that right? That last one made you feel like you were going to throw up. You dropped the phone onto your bed like it was on fire. You paced. You screamed into your pillow. You considered telling her everything. The kiss. The guilt. The way your bones ached with shame every time her name crossed your lips. But you didn’t. Because what kind of monster kisses her best friend’s boyfriend and lets her say I love you like nothing happened? You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes. You wanted to disappear. You wanted to punish yourself. And then she called.

The ringtone split the silence like a siren. You let it ring. Let it go to voicemail. It rang again. And again. On the fourth try, you picked up, breathless like you’d run a mile. “Hello?” Her voice came through, thin and frantic: “Oh my God; are you okay? Why haven’t you been answering? I’ve been freaking out—”

“I’m fine,” you lied. “Just… tired.”

“Tired? You disappeared after the showcase, you didn’t even stay for the closing photos. Everyone was asking about you. Your parents looked — I don’t know, really worried or something. What happened up there?” You couldn’t answer. Your throat locked up. The sound of her worry made you want to claw your skin off. Nari didn’t push. That was her gift and her curse. She gave you space when you needed it; even when you were lying to her face.

“I think you should come to Beomgyu’s,” she said after a long silence. “I know, it’s dumb. I know you don’t like these things. But maybe it’ll help. Just… I don’t know. I want to see you.”

The line crackled. Her voice wavered. “Please.” It was that word — please that broke you. Even after everything, even not knowing what you’d done, she still wanted you there. Still loved you. You whispered, “Okay.” And hung up before you could change your mind.

The second you stepped through the front door, the night swallowed you whole. Music pounded like a heartbeat, loud and consuming, the bass thudding through the soles of your shoes and up your spine until your body seemed to vibrate from the inside out. The house was an explosion of color and chaos; flashing LED lights staining the air red and green, the smell of alcohol and weed thick enough to choke on. Someone shrieked with laughter from the kitchen, their voice edged in hysteria. The living room looked like a scene from a dream gone wrong: bodies pressed together in the dim light, dancing on tables, spilled drinks soaking into the carpet, lipstick-smeared kisses exchanged without meaning. You were an intruder here, a ghost drifting through a world too loud, too fast, too alive for what was rotting inside of you. Your heart beat too loudly, but only with dread. You were here for one reason — Nari.

Your eyes scanned the crowd in desperation. Faces blurred together, a kaleidoscope of strangers and half-friends you didn’t care to recognize. Every movement felt slow, as if your limbs were dragging through molasses. You called out for her once, twice, but no one heard you over the noise. Your throat burned. Every second that passed stretched thinner than the last, stretched like the lie you’d built between yourself and the girl who’d once been your anchor. You grabbed a boy near the stereo, his breath reeking of vodka and his eyes glazed over with party-born indifference. “Have you seen Nari?” you shouted over the music.

“What?” he bellowed, tipping his head.

“NARI!” you yelled again, your voice hoarse.

He squinted, lips pulling into a sloppy grin. “Beomgyu’s room!” He jabbed his finger upward, then turned back to whatever game he was playing with the girl beside him. The words hit like a brick to the stomach. Your legs moved on their own, carrying you toward the stairs, each step heavier than the last. The music dimmed slightly as you ascended, replaced by the echo of your own breathing; shallow, frantic, uneven. The hallway was lit by a single flickering bulb, shadows creeping along the walls like phantoms. You hesitated at the door, the weight of what might be behind it pressing against your chest. You knocked. 

No answer.

You tried again. Still nothing.

You opened the door.

The room was dim, just the low glow of a lamp in the corner casting a soft golden haze. Beomgyu was there, sitting on the edge of the bed, head bowed, fingers knotted in his hair like he was trying to rip thoughts straight from his skull. He looked up at the sound of the door creaking, his eyes dark and distant, the slump of his shoulders too familiar. You stepped inside, heart hammering. “Where’s Nari?” 

He blinked like he’d just remembered you existed. “She’s in the bathroom,” he said, voice low. You nodded, relief flooding your system. You turned to leave, to find her, to finally talk, to explain. 

But his hand caught yours. You froze. “Wait,” he murmured, standing. Your heart leapt into your throat. You turned toward him slowly, your fingers still curled beneath the weight of his. 

“What are you doing?” your voice trembled.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said.

The room tilted, the words crashing into you like a rogue wave. You pulled your hand back, stumbling a step away. “What?”

“I—” He reached up slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, the gentleness of the touch striking terror into the hollow space beneath your ribs. “I think I’m in love with you. And I’m not sorry about it.”

Your breath left your body. The room suddenly felt too small, the air thick and cloying. Your thoughts scattered like dust in sunlight. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Couldn’t remember what day it was or who you were or why any of this had happened. Then he leaned in. And god help you, you didn’t stop him.

The kiss was soft, slow, nothing like what you should have felt. No heat. No passion. Just desperation. A collision of two broken people reaching for something to numb the ache. His lips pressed to yours like a promise he had no right to make, and your body moved on autopilot, not because it meant anything; but because you couldn’t stop unraveling. Because the guilt already inside you wanted to finish the job. And then the door opened.

“Sorry, Gyu, the line was lo—” Nari’s voice sliced the moment in half. You and Beomgyu broke apart instantly. Her figure stood in the doorway, her silhouette backlit by the hallway, her face frozen in pure, heart-wrenching horror. Her lips parted. Her eyes wide and glassy. A silence so violent followed that it rang in your ears.

“Nari—” you began, stepping forward.

“What are you doing?” she asked, voice cracking. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” you whispered, voice trembling. “I…”

Beomgyu stepped in front of you, shielded you. “I love her.” The words detonated. You saw them hit her like bullets, tearing through her chest, her stomach, her soul. Her mouth opened in disbelief. Her hand flew to her face, eyes flooding. A tear slid down her cheek, and then another. 

“You love her?” she repeated, the disbelief in her voice shattering into something sharper. She turned to you, her face contorted. “How could you?”

You shook your head. “I don’t— I don’t love him—”

“Then what the hell was that?” she screamed.

Your words failed. Every explanation tasted like ash in your mouth. Nari shook her head in disgust, chest heaving, shoulders trembling. “I felt bad for you,” she hissed. “I was here crying for you after you fell at the showcase. I was the only one defending you, worrying about you — and you were falling in love with my boyfriend?”

“I wasn’t—I’m not—” You took a step forward, pleading. “Nari, please—”

“Save it,” she snapped, her voice tight with betrayal. Then she turned and ran. You chased her, heart in your throat, vision blurring with tears. The house blurred around you, voices rising in alarm as people stepped back, made room for the spectacle.

“Nari!” you cried out, louder. “Nari, wait!” You hit the yard just as she reached the edge of the driveway. You grabbed her hand, stopping her.

She spun to face you, eyes wild. “How could you?”

Her voice cracked in two. Your breath hitched. “I made a mistake,” you whispered, barely audible. “I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t thinking—I—”

“I loved him,” she spat. “And you knew that. You knew what he meant to me. And you let him touch you anyway.”

You shook your head, helpless. “I was hurting, I wasn’t—I’m sorry—”

But it didn’t matter. She stepped back from you, tears shining in her eyes, her voice growing louder, shriller. “How could you betray me like that?” she screamed. “I gave you everything—I trusted you!”

The crowd that had spilled from the party stood in silence now, some filming, some whispering, none stepping in. She kept backing away, one trembling step at a time, her anger unraveling into sobs. “I hate you,” she choked. “I hate you—” Then headlights cut across the street. A roar of an engine. Screams. Tires screeching too late. 

Your scream ripped from your chest. “NARI!” But the car struck her before she could turn. The impact was sickening. Her body flew; crashed to the pavement like a marionette with its strings sliced clean. Gasps exploded around you, someone dropping a drink, the shatter echoing like gunfire. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. You stood frozen as her body crumpled on the road, limbs twisted, her eyes wide and unseeing.

Time stopped.

The music had gone silent. The world had gone quiet. And all you could hear — over and over and over again, was the sound of her body hitting the ground.

Before Heeseung’s pov 

The world had already begun to blur around the edges. Music throbbed through his skull like a migraine, and every heartbeat pulsed with fury. Heeseung swayed in the middle of the chaos, a red solo cup dangling from his fingers, filled with something that tasted like gasoline and bad decisions. Sweat slicked his back beneath his shirt, his skin clammy and hot. He laughed too loud at nothing, danced with girls he didn’t know; arms flung over their shoulders, mouths close enough to kiss but never quite touching, never quite feeling. He couldn’t feel anything. That was the point.

He hated this place. Hated the way people looked at him like he was just some pretty face with skates on. Hated the smirk that his father wore every time he talked about Han; the good son, the real winner. The one who did everything right. The one who didn’t mess up. The one who didn’t get drunk and high just to silence the noise of expectation. He stumbled into the backyard, stars smeared across the sky like someone had finger-painted them in haste. His phone burned in his hand, screen too bright, too white. His fingers fumbled over Han’s name. He pressed call.

“Hello?” Han’s voice was soft, groggy, that worried older brother tone he always used. “Hee? Are you okay?”

Heeseung let out a bitter laugh, the sound catching in his throat. “You’re not better than me.”

There was a pause. “What? Heeseung, what’s going on?”

“You think you’re so perfect.” Heeseung’s words slurred together like wet paint. “Dad thinks you’re the golden boy. But you’re not better. I’ll show you. I’ll show him. You’re not better—”

“Heeseung, you’re drunk. I’m coming to get you. Stay there, okay? Just wait.” Heeseung hung up. Or maybe he didn’t. He couldn’t tell. Everything was spinning. He staggered forward, gripping the porch railing like it could keep him tethered. He felt like throwing up. Or screaming. Or both. The inside of his head was all static. And then headlights sliced through the darkness. Han’s car. Heeseung stumbled down the steps, nearly eating it on the last one, and staggered toward the passenger side. Han threw the door open, face pale and tight with worry.

“Get in,” he ordered. Heeseung obeyed, limbs heavy and unwilling. He slumped into the seat, slurring more than he was speaking. “You think you’re better than me, huh?” he muttered, leaning against the window, his cheek pressed to the cold glass. “Just 'cause you got your degree and your dumb finance job and your clean record.” 

“I don’t think that,” Han said sharply. “And Dad doesn’t either, he’s just… Heeseung, he’s hard on both of us. You know that.” 

“Bullshit,” Heeseung growled, eyes closing. “You never had to be perfect to be loved. He just loved you.” 

Han’s grip tightened on the wheel. “That’s not true. You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re drunk.”

Heeseung kept going, words bubbling out like poison. “You think I don’t see it? The way he brags about you. Han graduated summa cum laude. Han never got suspended. Han’s never in the papers for fighting or failing.” He laughed. “I hope you’re proud. Look at me now, huh? Look how far I fell.” Han opened his mouth to answer, but he didn’t get the chance. Because just ahead, in the fog of motion and the flash of headlights —

There was a girl.

A blur of limbs and hair and horror, stepping backward into the road. Han shouted. The brakes screamed. But the moment came too fast. The sound, oh god, the sound, of impact was the kind that split your soul in two. Metal and flesh, a sickening crunch, a thud that would echo in nightmares for the rest of time. Heeseung’s body flung forward with the jolt, the seatbelt carving into his chest. Time bent sideways. Han swerved. The world spun. A flash of a tree trunk—then blackness. When he came to, everything hurt.

The car was mangled metal wrapped around bark. Smoke coiled from the hood. Blood ran down Heeseung’s face, sticky and warm, his head lolling forward. His ears rang like a bomb had gone off. He blinked once, twice. Tried to move; glass in his leg. Something was wrong. Something was wrong. “Han?” he croaked. There was no answer. He turned his head and screamed.

Han’s body was slumped over the wheel, motionless. Blood pooled under him, his face obscured. Something primal split through Heeseung’s chest; panic, dread, disbelief. “No, no, no,” he muttered. “Han!” He shoved at him with trembling hands. “Come on, wake up—wake up—” Sirens in the distance. Voices shouting. People running.

Heeseung’s breath caught. A sob clawed its way from his throat. It was all his fault. It was too late. And Heeseung had never hated himself more. 

Present day 

The silence stretches between you like a drawn-out breath, trembling and thin. Heeseung sits beside you on the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched, jaw clenched like he’s trying to bite back the storm surging in his chest. You can still hear the echo of the past in his voice, the shattered edges of guilt rattling in his throat. The room is quiet but not peaceful; it's the kind of quiet that comes after an earthquake, when everything has fallen and the air still trembles with memory. You sit there, skin cold, heart unraveling, both of you held in the soft aftershock of everything you’ve said. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. 

His voice cracks like dry wood. And it catches you off guard, more than anything else could have. Of all the things you expected him to say, an apology wasn't one of them. Not to you. Not when the pain has stained both your lives in different, irreparable ways. You look over at him, eyes red but dry now, exhaustion threading through your bones like a second skeleton. “Why?” you ask him, barely above a whisper. “Why are you apologizing?”

He turns toward you slowly. The lamplight casts his features in shadow, sharp and soft at once; eyes that have seen too much, mouth that’s tasted too much regret. “Because,” he says, voice thick, “this all started with me. I was the one who called Han. I was the one who needed to prove something. I got drunk, I spiraled, I needed to be seen, and now he’s gone. And so is Nari.”

Your heart pulls painfully in your chest, but your voice is steady when you speak. “No. This isn’t your fault.” He looks at you like he doesn’t believe it, like your words are a kindness he doesn’t think he deserves. “I don’t blame you, Heeseung,” you continue, softer now. “Not one bit. We’re all carrying so much. And grief... grief makes monsters out of moments. It twists things until we forget where they really began.” 

His eyes shine then; wet and wide. He opens his mouth to say something, but instead he leans in. Slowly, hesitantly, as though giving you a chance to stop him. You don’t. You meet him halfway. His lips brush yours with the gentleness of someone who knows how much you’ve lost, how much you’ve suffered. The kiss is slow, tender, and reverent. Like a vow whispered against a storm. His hand cradles the side of your face, thumb grazing your cheek, grounding you in the warmth of something fragile and real. When he pulls back, you both stay close. Foreheads touching. Eyes closed. For a moment, you just breathe. Then, he speaks. “Take a bath with me?”

The words are so simple, yet intimate in a way that leaves you breathless. Not lustful; this isn’t about escape or distraction. It’s about presence. About being in a space where nothing else exists. You nod, and he stands, offering you his hand. The bathroom is dim, lit only by the soft orange glow of a nightlight and a flickering candle someone must’ve left on the windowsill. The tub fills slowly, steam curling toward the ceiling like the last sigh of a day. You both undress silently, not shy, not rushed. You slip into the warm water, and he follows after, settling in behind you. His legs bracket yours. His arms wrap around your middle. The water laps at your collarbones like a gentle lullaby.

You tilt your head back to rest against his shoulder. He exhales into your hair. “I’ve been angry,” he says finally. “So angry. About everything. About my dad. About Han. About the fact that I’m still here when they’re not. That I keep waking up and they don’t.” 

You nod slowly, fingers tracing patterns in the surface of the water. “I feel that too,” you say. “Like life just… kicked me. Over and over. Until I couldn’t stand anymore. Until I didn’t know if I wanted to. I keep wondering if this is the part where I break forever.” Heeseung’s grip around you tightens, just slightly. “You won’t.”

“I don’t know how to start over,” you admit. “Everything hurts all the time. Even the good things hurt.”

He kisses your temple. Not as a promise. Not as a cure. Just as a quiet I know. And maybe that’s enough. Because you’re not pretending it’s all better. You’re not trying to erase the pain. You’re sitting in it together. Letting it be real. Letting it matter. And in that space; where the warmth of the water holds you both like a womb, like a prayer, you begin to believe that maybe you can heal. That maybe ruin doesn’t mean the end. Maybe it’s the beginning of something else.

You don’t know where life will take you from here. You don’t know what redemption will look like, or if you’ll ever forgive yourself for what happened. But right now, wrapped in Heeseung’s arms, you believe in the small, aching miracle of this moment. Of choosing to stay. Of choosing to feel. Of choosing each other. You were ready to fall into the ruin. But not let it ruin you.

Epilogue 1 year later

The sky was soft that day, bruised with a gentle gray, the kind that made the world feel quiet; like the earth itself was holding its breath. You sat cross-legged on the dewy grass, fingers tracing the edges of Nari’s name etched into cold stone. A year had passed. A year of aching, unraveling, rebuilding. And now here you were, knees pressed into the earth, a heartbeat steadier than it used to be.

"You would love Heeseung, Nari, you really would.” Your voice came out tender, barely above a whisper. “He makes me laugh. He never lets me lie to myself. He doesn’t try to fix me, just holds me when it hurts too much.” You reached down and brushed away a few stray leaves that had gathered at the base of the headstone. “I wish you could’ve seen me now. I wish I could’ve said goodbye the right way.”

There were still tears sometimes. And nightmares. And those mornings where the weight of memory made it hard to breathe. But there was also sunlight. And laughter. And Heeseung’s steady presence like a compass in your shaking hands. Therapy had taught you to hold space for both joy and sorrow. Grief group gave you words for the things you once buried. But it was Heeseung who reminded you, every day, that you were allowed to keep living; that you didn’t have to stay in the ruins to prove your love for the ones you lost.

“Babe! I got the flowers!” a voice called out behind you, pulling you gently from the past. You turned to see Heeseung jogging toward you, a bouquet of soft blue hydrangeas cradled in his arms, cheeks pink from the wind. He still carried that quiet sadness in his eyes, the one only you really saw, but it was softer now; tempered by time and the work he’d done to understand it. He bent down beside you and laid the flowers in front of Nari’s grave, brushing your knee with his hand as he settled beside you.

“Did you talk to Han?” you asked, voice gentle.

He nodded, smiling faintly. “Yeah. It was good. I needed that.”

You turned back toward the grave, reaching for his hand. “I did too.”

The two of you sat there for a long moment, silence curling comfortably between your bodies. The cemetery was quiet, wind rustling through the trees, birds flitting through the distant branches. Around you, the world kept moving; cars humming down the road, life unfolding in soft, ordinary ways. But here, in this pocket of stillness, you felt grounded. Rooted. Whole.

Grief never left, it wasn’t something that vanished with time or faded into nothing. It changed shapes. Grew quieter. Some days, it bloomed like a bruise. Other days, it shimmered like memory. But always, it walked beside you, not as a shadow, but as a reminder. Of love. Of loss. Of the choice to keep going. You looked down at the stone again, your thumb tracing the curve of her name.

“I’ll keep living for both of us, Nari,” you whispered. “I promise.” And this time, when you stood, you didn’t feel like you were leaving her behind. You felt like she was walking with you.

(♬) - @beomiracles @biteyoubiteme @hyukascampfire @dawngyu @izzyy-stuff @1-800-jewon @xylatox

[lacedwithpoetry]

────★ 976-𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋 ˙🫆 ̟ !!

୭˚. ᵎᵎ summary… Tim Drake finds himself annoyingly drawn to a stubborn, sharp-tongued detective who won’t fall for his usual charm. She’s focused, sarcastic, and unimpressed — and somehow, that only makes him want her more.

୭˚. ᵎᵎ contains… aged-up! Tim Drake. reader inspired by a mix of b99 rosa diaz & amy santiago.

୭˚. ᵎᵎ warnings… contains half-assed porn with plot. — dry humping, sub!tim, cowgirl (reader on top), bit of a control kink, dom!reader, praise, some details of a handjob, choking.

I’ve rewritten this too much to try and proofread it again. I don’t even care if it’s all fluid anymore.

Gotham Central, 10:43 p.m.

The bullpen hummed with the usual chaos — ringing phones, clacking keys, the low thrum of fluorescent lights that flickered like they hated their job. Tim Drake sat on the edge of an old, mismatched desk, spinning a pen between his fingers, eyes locked on the one person in the room who hadn’t looked at him once.

You.

Detective. Homicide. Four years on the force, three internal commendations, and an attitude that could salt Gotham’s icy roads all by itself.

He liked the type.

He didn’t expect him to like it this much.

“You always pace when you’re thinking,” he said finally, loud enough to carry across the shared squadroom.

You didn’t look up from the murder board. “I pace when I’m being stared at like a fresh crime scene.”

Tim smirked. He stood and crossed the room, shoulder brushing yours as he followed your gaze to the corkboard. Your writing — sharp, efficient — lined the edges of the pinned photos and maps.

He pointed to one. “Your spacing’s off on that pin.”

“You could get stabbed for less,” you said, not missing a beat.

God, he liked your mouth.

“I’d take the risk,” he murmured, not bothering to hide the grin tugging at his lips.

You turned to face him — finally — and it hit him again. The cool, appraising look in your eyes. Like you were trying to solve him instead of entertain him. Like you didn’t care he was a Wayne, or that he could shut half this precinct down with a phone call. He was used to being flirted with. Admired. Obeyed, even.

You? You didn’t flinch.

“You flirt with every detective your forced to partner with?” you asked dryly.

He chuckled. “Only the ones who threaten me.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re wasting my time.”

“No, I’m not,” he said, stepping just close enough that your sleeves brushed. His voice lowered. “You’re intrigued. Otherwise, you would’ve walked away five minutes ago.”

There was a pause. Barely a breath. But he saw it. The way your jaw tightened. The flicker of something dangerous in your eyes.

“You’re cocky,” you muttered.

“You’re stunning when you’re irritated,” he replied, soft and smug.

You turned your back on him, scribbling something onto a Post-it. “And you’re in my light, Drake.”

But your ears were pink.

He noticed that too.

It was past midnight when you slammed your case folder down on the cruiser hood.

Tim flinched.

Not because he was scared of you — well, not entirely — but because you were pacing again. Same hard click of your boots, same clipped muttering under your breath. Same furious scribble on your notepad mid-stride. Gotham’s chill hadn’t touched you. You were pure fire.

And Tim?

Tim was mesmerized.

“You’re quiet,” you said, not looking up.

He straightened where he leaned against the passenger door. “I’m reflecting.”

You gave him a glance that could’ve curdled cement. “Try doing it somewhere that isn’t on my fender.”

“I like the view from here,” he said, eyes pointedly dragging from your hands to your jaw to your shoulder holster. “Dangerous. Unforgiving. Pretty.”

“Jesus,” you muttered. “You flirt like it’s your only coping mechanism.”

Tim pushed off the car. Closed the distance.

He liked standing close to you. He liked the way your eyes narrowed like you were assessing threat levels and trying not to acknowledge how much taller he was up close.

“I flirt,” he said softly, “because you pretend you don’t like it.”

That earned him a look. Dry. Cutting. Annoyingly hot.

“You think I’m pretending?”

“I think,” Tim murmured, stepping closer, “you like control. I think you like your space, your work, your iced coffee at exactly 6:00 p.m. I think you don’t trust people who come on too easy. I think the second someone makes it obvious they want you, you go into lockdown mode.”

You didn’t move.

He watched your jaw twitch. Watched you shift your weight like you were torn between decking him and walking away.

And then—

“You rehearse that speech in the mirror?”

Tim smirked. “No. But I’m gonna replay your reaction for days.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You’re deflecting.”

Silence stretched between you. Hot. Tense. Almost vibrating with the things neither of you said.

Then, lowly:

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” you murmured, eyes never leaving his. “You think you do, but you’re still chasing whatever version of me makes you feel clever.”

Tim’s voice dropped to match yours. “I don’t want a version of you.”

His hand brushed yours. Barely.

“I want the real thing. Even if she wants to throw me through a window half the time.”

Your breath caught.

You stared at him for a long, endless second.

Then you leaned in, just enough for him to feel your breath at the corner of his mouth, and said:

“If I ever kiss you, Drake, it won’t be because of your charm. It’ll be because I’m too tired to resist the urge to shut you up.”

Tim swallowed. “That’s… not a no.”

Your eyes flicked down to his lips. Once.

Then you turned. Started walking back to the precinct without another word.

He stood there, stunned.

And grinning like a man with a goddamn death wish.

It was 2:03 a.m. when the case broke.

Two weeks of stakeouts, precinct tension, and Tim Drake leaning into your life like an itch you couldn’t scratch — it all ended with a bad lead that turned into a hot tip that turned into a last-minute takedown in a warehouse full of stolen munitions.

And somehow, he was still talking.

“You have to admit,” Tim said breathlessly, shoving the last of his tactical gear into your trunk, “that was a clean collar. You saw the move I pulled on the guy with the crowbar—”

You dropped into the driver’s seat of your cruiser with a groan. “Drake.”

He slid into the passenger seat, still grinning like he was riding the high of the win. “I’m just saying. For a civilian asset, I’m basically elite.”

You stared at him.

He looked good. Too good. Bruised jaw, messy hair, adrenaline still sparking off him like static. His voice was a little hoarse from barking orders. And his smile — smug, breathless, warm — was threatening to crawl under your ribs and stay there.

“I swear to God,” you muttered. “You’ve been trying to get punched in the mouth since the day we met.”

He turned toward you fully. “You’ve had ample opportunity. I’m starting to think it’s not the mouth you wanna deal with.”

You blinked. Slow. Flat.

He winked.

And that was it.

That was the last straw.

You grabbed his collar and hauled him in, slamming your mouth against his in the space between the seats.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful.

It was the kiss of a woman who’d had to listen to Tim Drake for twelve days straight without losing her badge.

He gasped against your lips, stunned for half a second — and then he melted. Groaned. Kissed you back like he’d been waiting for permission and finally got it. One hand tangled in your jacket, the other gripping the edge of your seat.

You bit his lip.

He swore into your mouth.

“Oh, my god,” he whispered, breathless. “You’re—”

“Shut up, Drake.”

You climbed into his lap.

Right there in the passenger seat.

He let out a guttural sound — the kind you only make when your brain short-circuits and your blood rushes south all at once.

“Jesus Christ—”

You kissed him again, deeper this time, biting, claiming, punishing. You could feel how hard he was beneath you already, his hands grasping for your hips like he didn’t know what to do with all the want.

“I knew you wanted me,” he managed, dazed.

“You’re lucky I don’t write you up for obstruction of justice,” you muttered, lips trailing down his jaw. “Or public indecency.”

“Please,” he rasped. “At this point, charge me with anything. I’ll plead guilty.”

You rocked your hips against him — slow. Deliberate. The kind of movement that made his breath catch and his nails dig into your belt.

“You’re out of your depth, Drake.”

“Let me drown.”

You laughed. Low. Dangerous.

Then you kissed him again — messier, needier. The cruiser steamed up around you, windows fogged, siren light from some distant patrol casting blue glows across his jaw as you rocked against him in rhythm.

“Take the suit down,” you murmured, breath ghosting against his jaw. “Need to see what I’ve been disrespecting this whole time.”

He did it with trembling hands. Chest plate off. Gloves dropped. By the time the blue stripes were peeled halfway down his hips, you were already grinding down over the growing bulge in his suit pants. His head hit the window with a dull thud.

He blinked hard and dragged his eyes back toward you. “You’re killing me,”

“No,” you whispered, leaning forward to brush your lips over his jaw, not quite kissing. “If I was killing you, you wouldn’t be this hard.”

You kissed him again — deep, dirty, commanding. His hands gripped your hips hard, thumbs digging into your duty belt. He was already too worked up, already close, from weeks of fantasizing about this exact moment. Your weight on him. Your breath on his neck. The way your thighs squeezed him like you could disgrace his entire soul.

You rolled your hips once, slow and deliberate.

“Fuck— Detective—”

“Mm. Say it again.”

“Detective.” He gasped it like a confession.

“Good boy.”

He nearly lost it.

You leaned down, kissed the underside of his jaw. “You want me to ride you, Birdie?”

His hands gripped tighter. “More than anything.”

Your hips rocked forward again, just once, and his back arched off the seat like he was in pain.

“Oh my God,” he moaned. “Please.”

“You always this loud on patrol?”

“Only when I’m about to disgrace a government vehicle.”

You chuckled, easing your hand between your bodies and finally, finally tugging his suit down enough to free him.

He was thick, flushed, already leaking. Your thumb swiped across the tip and his whole body jerked.

“Holy shit—”

You raised a brow. “You okay back there, Drake?”

“About to violate half a dozen codes of conduct.”

You smirked. “You’re not even on the force.”

“I know,” he groaned. “That’s what makes it worse.”

Then you sank down onto him — slow, warm, tight — and he saw stars.

His hands scrambled for purchase — your belt, your shirt, the edge of the backseat. You were snug around him, breath hitching as you took him inch by inch, and Tim Drake, notoriously known as the intellectual Red Robin, literally whimpered.

“Fuck, baby—your uniform—your thighs—”

Your hand clamped around his throat.

“Shut up and let me work.”

And work you did.

Grinding down. Rolling your hips with the kind of slow, torturous rhythm that left him gasping, eyes fluttering closed, his forehead pressed to your shoulder like he might black out from pleasure. His hips stuttered. You didn’t let him thrust. He’d finish too fast. You knew it.

“Not yet,” you whispered, nails dragging down his chest. “You’ll wait till I’m good and done with you, baby.”

His cock twitched inside you.

You rocked harder.

The cruiser rocked with you.

[writingwisterias]

sorry I've like never requested a fic before so I'm scared ngl LMAO

I don't have the talents to write well so I was thinking of asking someone who obviously does

An anal fic for leon? I've never seen any fics Like that

The plot can be upto you I don't mind ♡ I'm embarrassed to be doing this tbh sorry 😞✨️✨️

Hiii lovely, I'm honored to be your first request 💕!! I'm so sorry this took so long, don't be embarrassed I hope you enjoy it 😘💕 thank you for the request ily. I hope it's all good it's the first time I've wrote something like this

Leon Kennedy x AFAB!Fem!Reader

Warnings: SMUT, MNDI, Anal, Comfort, Toys, Gentle sex, Soft Dom! Leon, Praise kink, Inexperienced!Reader, Implied age-gap, First time for everything,

Taglist: @senawashere @danigirls-missions @lxzy-bxby @074calicocat @gut1ess @shymoob @vesperaominosum

Since being with Leon he had been nothing but gentle, his hands exploring in places you wanted him to touch, never straying any further than the boundaries he instructed that you placed. He was your first and boy did you strike gold with that; Leon was patient, willing, kind and loving. Providing you with the aftercare you needed whilst adapting his own needs to fit yours all in an effort to make your time comfortable. This behaviour didn't stray when it came to the topic of things you wanted to try to further your experience. Whenever you read it in one of the smut books you liked so much or you saw it online in a late night scroll online. He loved the fact that you trusted him enough to teach you the things you wanted to learn, whenever it was exploring a new kink or position. He admired the attention you had to focus on new things in an attempt to please him, asking to try out the things he enjoyed as well as exploring the ones you had found on your own accord.

His role remained primarily as the researcher, spending any downtime he had during missions to look up porn or other websites to gain knowledge in the topics to make it safe for you. Even going as far as bringing one of the books on the plane because it must have been good if he watched you squirm as you read it.

So when he found you all nervous and shy again, approaching him with your cheeks flushed before you even spoke the sentence, he found himself getting excited to hear the new thing you wanted to try. This was his favourite time of the week, when he finally made it home and you'd approach him with your hands playing with each other nervously as your leg bounced on the spot. 

"What would you like to try this week, Love?" Leon asked, his hands falling on top of yours with a soft smile plastered on his features. You concentrated on the small movements of his thumb, the repeated swipes as he did in an attempt to calm your nerves. "It's okay, you can tell me and we can work it out." He coached further, his cock already stiffening in anticipation as he waited for your admission. Your breath quivered as it fell from your lips, you teeth trapping one of them before the inner battle you had ended and you finally looked at his eyes. "I want to try anal."

You could have approached the topic a bit more gently in hindsight, maybe not been as blunt with the statement considering the reaction you gained from him. Leon's eyes widened, blinking dumbfounded as he looked at you, processing the statement as if it was some inspirational quote that got you thinking. There was no hiding the tent in his trousers now, the bulge he was now sporting twitching like mad underneath the years old sweatpants. He shifted his body, his hips jolting up in a motion that had your eyes following it like a cat playing with a laser. His hands began pulling you in his lap, squeezing your hips as he pressed the prominent display of his excitement against you.

"Are you sure, love? It is intense and can be painful." He asked, jolting his hardened cock against your pussy to direct your eyes to his. You nodded, smiling slightly as he hadn't rejected the idea yet and with his thickening cock beneath you it was a sign he was all for it. "Have you done it before?" You asked him, your hands falling to his lower stomach as you looked at him. His grip on your hips tightened ever so slightly as he shook his head, it was only fair that he matched your level of honesty. Someone willing to do this was hard to come by it seemed, in Leon's life that is anyway. He pondered about his process and how he was going to approach the situation with his limited amount of knowledge. "Give me a few days to research baby and I'll do it with you." He replied, a soft kiss placed against your neck. Another one following with more pressure, a hot trail leading straight towards that sweet spot underneath your ear. Not even a moment later his resistance gave up and you were whisked away towards the bedroom. It would be a shame to waste a perfectly hard boner after all.

It wasn't even a few weeks later when Leon bought the subject up again, standing in the doorway holding a small cardboard box. It wasn't unusual for him to buy toys for the two of you to play around with per your request, except you knew what you were in for tonight when he tipped the contents onto the cotton sheets. Various types of lube. "I figured we could have a few different ones to try but we will start with the basics for now" He instructed.

Leon was gentle with your preparation, softer kisses that almost felt like a ghost was touching you. His hands cupped your breasts gently, thumbs brushing over your nipples watching as they hardened beneath his touch. He had your back pressed against his chest, your legs spread out over his displaying your gushing pussy towards the door. A sight he has seen multiple times when he returns during your own personal exploration time with the toys he treated you with. Your gasps and small whimpers were appreciated as always whilst his hands continued with their exploration, the sounds were always a much loved record he wished to have on repeat.

Leon danced his fingers southwards drawing small circles until they finally reached your folds.He groaned when his fingertips were met with the slick of your arousal. "Such a good girl getting ready for me." He whispered, his teeth nipping against your neck causing you to squirm against him. You nodded eagerly accepting his praise like you were some loyal dog, you were easy to handle as he moved you. Working with him like always to get in the position he needed you in, your back was arched beautifully as he ran his hand along it. “Perfect, stay just like that. I’ll be gentle as always." Leon prompted. 

His hands left you for a moment but his cock didn’t, the tip connecting the two of you with small globs of pre-cum that he eagerly spewed. Normally he would have made you work his cock, smoothing your hand along his length with the surprising cold lube. However with a sight like this, with you easing into the submissive headspace he loved so much, he didn’t need you to do anything other than look pretty and sound pretty. He warned you of his every move, interesting himself on how to deal with the situation just so he never got you by surprise. Once you were both prepped his fingers easily found your clit, working the sensitive bud of nerves as his cock began to intrude on your hole. 

The stretch was painful at first, your fists clenching the sheets with an iron grip as your body subconsciously tried to get away from the pain, however his consistent stream of pleasure through your clit caused you to stay. Your pussy fluttering to be filled, to be stretched with his cock that was currently working on your asshole. The lube made his movements easy, as his tip finally entered, the tightness feeling similar to when he first breached your pussy. Your virgin holes are now tainted by him. “I know baby, you are doing so well, I’m proud of you.” He continued to praise as he fed you more inches. The burn was intense but so was the pleasure that coursed around your clit. 

The small, tight circles he drew around the sensitive bud was the perfect distraction towards the stretching pain he had caused. Whilst you focused on the pleasure he was offering you with his fingers, Leon took deep breaths, willing his impending orgasm away as you clenched onto him tightly. He waited for your approval, the instruction to finally move at a steady pace. He wouldn’t go hard tonight, he would be gentle and patient. A thing you always trusted him to be as you both explored new things. “If only you knew how good you felt baby, this is fuck–” Leon grunted as he slowly jolted his hips beginning the movement in shallow thrusts. You watched as you arched your back further, disgruntled noises slowly changing to that sweet tune he was familiar with. Your body responded faster than your words could. He could feel your clit twitch against his finger tips, your hips eagerly responding to his quickening pace. If he was to die here he would be happy, he wouldn't complain as you squeezed him tightly. 

“Does this feel good baby? You gotta talk to me, how am I meant to know?” He whispered next to your ear. His body encased you, covering you from the world as he fell deeper infatuated with you. You accepted it willingly, tilting your head for a messy kiss, tears spilling down your cheeks as they flushed with heat. “Feels– so good, more leon please.”

He didn’t hesitate as his hips snapped harder, assaulting you with his thrusts as he focused on drilling himself. You met his force with deep,guttural moans; sounds he had never heard leave your lips before. Despite not being inside your fluttering walls he could tell you were close, your breaths lost their volume, your hands outstretched like a cat pawing at the sheets like your life depended on it. “You can cum inside me today” you whimpered, almost pleading to feel his load spill out of you. Leon hadn’t even considered that but as he felt your body tense and fall against the bed he drove himself deep before spilling his warmth inside you. 

Just like always he worked quickly with your aftercare, running to the bathroom to quickly clean himself up and grab a warm cloth. He wiped the spend he left behind, ignoring his stirring cock at the sight of it. Leon’s touch like always was gentle, only intrusive when he needed to be as he helped you calm down. “I’m gonna feel this tomorrow when I sit down.” You whispered, a small chuckle following your weak complaint. Leon’s arms circled around you, trapping your body in a safety blanket of his scent. His kisses were firmer, demanding your body to ease out of the high it circulated in, he looked at you whilst propped up on one elbow. The lighting of the room caused his features to angelic as he gazed at you. “Are you okay? Did you enjoy it?” He asked, smoothing his hair. “It was perfect, thank you. Did you enjoy it as well?” 

His stupid smirk was your only answer. 

[und3ramshood]

saw your post asking for writing prompts :P So we know Jason has the All Blades and DC refuses to do anything with them. What if Jason ends up joining Justice League Dark and becomes goods friends with Constantine? And then doesn’t tell Bruce for shits and giggles. Cue Batman calling Constantine for something and Constantine is all “dw I know a guy who can fix this in less than 5 minutes” and calls up Jason. Cue bat confusion.

Adore this idea!!!!

Constantine and Jason would fw each other so much for the simple reason of annoying Bruce. that’s how it would start anyway, then I feel like they’d actually accidentally become friends. Under all the cigarette smoking and shared glasses of whiskey —and I mean whiskey not bourbon, I feel like John would hate bourbon. A proper english lad—John and Jason would have some heart to heart “I hate life but sometimes it’s alright” typa talk. They’d bond through life’s bullshit. John helping Jason out and them causing chaos (for the greater good obv).

Oh and Zatanna would definitely be informed well before Bruce. She’d keep quiet just for the plot, but definitely debated telling bruce maybe to spite John, maybe to be a good friend to Bruce.

In some sort of mission of the JLA Dark John figured the All blades and Jason’s skill would save them a lot more time than Bruce’s battarangs, and preserve a lot more energy for himself since he wont have to cast spells. John calls Jason in front of Bruce talking to his son like they’re old friends without giving away who he was talking to.

He definitely caught Bruce off guard when that “great pal” of John’s was his second Son.

John being John would def play dumb, and Jason is would act like this is perfectly normal just to mess with his Dad.

Bruce nearly broke his no kill rule when John offered Jason a cigarette. He would genuinely let out one of those annoying dad noises of disapproval.

Either way, Bruce would join them for a drink just because he’s jealous John is spending more time with Jason than he is. A major face of PHOMO.

He’d like be so disapproving when Jason orders alcohol. He’d be lookin at Jason like he’s still the skimpy boy dressed as a traffic light rather than the 200 pound 6 foot- something piece of muscle he currently is.

Oh and when Bruce calls Zatanna letting her know about the new duo and he hears her stifle a giggle, detective instincts kick in which ends up with him leaving her a voicemail that was supposed to be scolding but ended up just him ranting (and potentially crying) about his baby boy.

Jason sends Bruce lots of photos of him and John and the all blades just to make the bat spiral . In secret Bruce is just beaming that those photos put Jasons contact in his “frequently talked to.”

[quiddity25]

Idk this post is rubbing me the wrong way. It's probably all already been said before too so take it or leave it y'all.

Pretty hot take imo when the first paragraph reads as "I'm a firm believer that everyone can write whatever they want, but I judge them harshly for my personal preference for individual words."

Second paragraph reads to me as belittling of younger/less experienced writers. "during her wattpad days". Yeah, I didn't use wattpad, but I've been doing this bullshit for nearly 20 years. It takes a lot of guts to write anything, to put anything on paper, much less POST it to the internet. You're killing newer writer's motivation to share something you all KNOW they've put SO much work into.

People read this and they start second guessing their efforts and their talent. If the choices of individual words are 'wrong' then what about the plot? What about sentence structure? My characterization? My dialogue? How am I supposed to get all of these things right?

I had a professor rip me apart for fucking punctuation in college. In COLLEGE. I was a junior! Even though I can look back now, a decade later, and see how little it matters, it fucking sticks with me even today. Every time I'm down about my writing, I keep hearing "If you can't even do this, you're not gonna be able to do anything worthwhile."

They posted their work for us, complete fucking strangers, trusting that we will accept them. I'm not saying that you have to leave a glowing review on every fic you open, ever. I certainly don't. I don't even read every fic all the way through. I don't comment as much as I should. I just don't. I don't have an excuse. I just don't know how to talk to other people. Am I an asshole on the internet? YES!!

But I would hope that I don't get on a public forum and post boneheaded shit like this either.

Unironically I use the word "member" but I also unironically use the word "cock". It's all about context. Sometimes cock is too harsh of a word for what I'm going for, emotionally. Sometimes it's about what the character themselves would think of their parts. Sometimes "princess parts" can be used in dialogue. Maybe the character thinks it's great. Maybe they're trying to be funny.

What I love so much about writing is that there's a lot of nuance to it. ANYONE can use ANY word for ANYTHING and make it great. They don't have to have years and a million words of writing experience under their belt either. Just because certain phrases make you close a fic does not mean it requires blanket "advice".

It doesn't matter what words anyone uses. Period. Quit gatekeeping, especially over stupid shit. There's no gate here.

I’m a firm believer of “every writer can write whatever they want, however they want” however I physically wince every time I see a writer unironically use “member” to refer to a cock in smut setting and “orbs” to refer to normal human eyes.

from a fellow writer who used to use both of these words in her writing during her wattpad days, member isn’t as sexy a word as you may think it is, and orbs isn’t a normal way to refer to normal human eyes.

also you can say cunt, hole, pussy, anything is sexier, more erotic than “princess parts” I promise

[yuheartss]

oh um.. im back 🫩🫩🫩 ur writing is just tooo goooodddd 🤌🤌🤌

this reqq im not sure if youve done it b4 but basically is just the boring old bimbo reading bla bla but theyre so dumb to the point theyre oblivious to bill's (yes bill again, i cant help it) antics

--like no matter what he just cannot bag them because they brush him off like nothinggggg

theres no specific gender or race for thiss just go wildd 💕💕

DONT YOU GET IT?

no warnings, fluff, bill dickey x gn! reader , bimbo, loser bill, bill with a crush

an: he’s SUCH a loser <//3 thank u for your rq!! i’m sorry this took me so long (even tho it’s kinda short) i took a fat nap and totally forgot to post this

Bill had been rejected before.

Sort of.

In theory.

He once got ghosted by a girl named Rachel who said Warhammer lore made her sleepy (and who probably wasn’t even a REAL girl with an answer like that). Another time, he asked a girl in his English class out and she started screaming out of pure horror. But you? You were something worse. You didn’t even reject him. You just… missed it.

Like someone throwing themselves off a building and landing in a bounce house.

You weren’t mean. You weren’t cruel. You were just… impossibly immune. Dangerously dumb in the most mind-nuking, hot-person way possible.

You floated through life powered by Fruitopia and vibes. You called manga “graphic cartoons.” You once said Donnie Darko was “like if a Hot Topic coupon was a movie.” And worst of all—worst of all—you never noticed Bill’s advances.

Like, ever.

He’d tried subtle at first.

Made fun of your taste in a way he thought came off flirtatious.

“You know those comics are written for normies, right?” he snorted, watching you flip through Witchblade.

You smiled. “Yeah. The girlie has a glowing hand. It’s cool.”

“That’s not even how the lore works.”

“What lore?”

He blinked.

You walked away, humming.

—

He spent three hours that night writing a forum post titled: “The Infantilization of Comic Culture & The Rise of Hot Airheads.”

He made sure to tag it with your username.

You never saw it. You didn’t even have a forum account.

When subtle didn’t work, he tried smart.

You were leaning on a shelf near the longboxes, biting the straw of a Yoo-hoo and reading an issue of Gen¹³ sideways.

“I brought you something,” Bill said, practically materializing next to you.

You looked up, all bright eyes and that vacant, serotonin-radiating smile.

“Oh! Is that for me?”

He handed you a bootleg DVD of Paprika.

“Satoshi Kon,” he said, like it meant something. “It’s high concept. It’s about dreams and identity fracturing under surveillance capitalism.”

You stared at it. Turned it over.

“Oh, cool. This the chair guy one?”

“….Yes?”

“I like the chair guy. He’s weird.”

You never watched it.

The DVD ended up in your tote bag, wedged between a glittery hair clip and a MyScene doll. Bill saw it fall out once when you tripped over a crack in the sidewalk. Still shrink-wrapped.

He didn’t speak for the rest of the week.

—

Then he tried bold.

“You ever think about dating someone who actually gets you?” he blurted one day, sweating. You were crouched on the floor, reading Archie’s Weird Mysteries with the kind of laser-focus people usually reserved for religious texts.

You looked up, gum smacking.

“Huh?”

“Like—someone who doesn’t treat you like a moron.”

“Oh, haha, yeah. That’s why I stopped watching movies with guys.”

He blinked.

You went on, cheerfully oblivious.

“They always get handsy if you fall asleep or try to make you watch stuff with no plot. Like I get it, David Lynch, whatever. But, like, where’s the kissing?”

Bill opened his mouth. Closed it.

You patted his arm. “You’re nice, though. You’re like… a cousin to me.”

A Cousin.

A COUSIN TO YOU.

Bill left work early that day and walked home in the rain. With his head hung low. Like a tragic indie movie protagonist. Except worse. Because he wasn’t mysterious—he was damp and flannel-clad and on the verge of a bimbo-induced psychotic break.

—

He tried to get over it. He did.

Told himself you were too vapid to matter. Too shiny. Too airheaded. “A creature of pure aesthetic with the cultural taste of a Hot Pocket,” he muttered once to Jerry. Jerry nodded, like that was wise.

But then you showed up the next Thursday wearing something so uniquely you and asked, “Hey, does Batman ever die? Like actually die?”

And he was back at zero.

Hard reset.

Spiraling.

-

At some point it stopped being a crush and became a condition.

He wrote about you in his LiveJournal.

June 3rd: They don’t know who Alan Moore is. They said Watchmen was “kinda wordy.” I’m in love. Kill me.

June 10th: I offered them my Criterion copy of Seven Samurai. They asked if there was a color version. I said no. They said “Lame.” I haven’t slept since.

You weren’t even trying. That’s what destroyed him. You weren’t teasing him, weren’t playing a game—you just genuinely, blissfully didn’t care. About his film references. His anime lectures. His edgy monologues about narrative structure.

You once asked if Dune was based on Star Wars.

He actually saw God for a second.

The final straw came in late July.

You were standing near the register eating a Pop-Tart raw, Bill walked in holding two Slurpees. One blue. One red. Subtle. Intentional.

You looked up.

“Oh my god! You got me one?”

He smiled, smug. “Yeah. I remembered your favorite.”

You sipped it.

“Mmm… this is wrong. I like the blue and red together. Like when they mix and get all sludgy. Can I pour this into yours?”

He blinked. “What?”

You had already done it.

The sacred Slurpee merge.

Like it meant nothing.

He didn’t speak for five minutes. He just stared at the cup, mourning the symbolism that only he had built up in his mind

That night he started a draft of a zine called “Too Dumb to Love Me: The Decline of the Modern Crush”. He drew a caricature of you on the front. You had sparkles around your head and were saying “What’s a criterion?” in bubble letters.

He never finished it.

He couldn’t.

[writingwithfolklore]

How to Improve Your Writing

Writing can be done in an infinite amount of ways by an infinite amount of people in an infinite amount of styles. No, I don’t think the monkeys would have written Shakesphere. I think they eventually would have written something we’d refer to as Monkey-Sphere.

What I’m trying to say is that improving at writing is not a one-size-fits-all kind of process. There’s one important thing you need to consider if this is your goal:

What kind of writer do I want to be?

To improve at commercial fiction is going to look a whole lot different than improving at literary fiction. If you’re a bit lost here, check out my post: what kind of writer are you.

Once you have a solid idea of what kind of writer you are/you want to be, you can start focusing on the demands of your style.

Commercial Fiction

You are a writer who focuses on a snappy, engaging, fast-moving plot with fun and equally engaging characters. Think The Inheritance Games, The Maze Runner, Divergent, The Hunger Games.

To improve at writing commercial fiction, you’re going to focus on three things:

Your pacing

Your plot and its hook

Your characters

The expectations of your genre

Literary Fiction

You are a writer who focuses on beautiful language and challenging the reader, either how they think of themselves, or how they think of society (or both). You see your pieces as works of art that hold a greater meaning in society—they aren’t just entertainment. Think To Kill a Mockingbird, The Great Gatsby, The Secret History, Flowers for Algernon.

To improve here, you’re going to focus on these things:

Lyrical prose

Deep character development

Complex themes

Breaking from the “norm” or convention of novel writing

Understanding the world and society on a deep, educated level

Upmarket Fiction

Seen as the best of both worlds, you are a writer who has both the ear for lyrical, beautiful language and the instincts for an engaging plot and characters. Think Blood over Bright Haven, Gone Girl, The Time Traveler’s Wife, The Night Circus

You’re going to focus on these things:

Sensory/lyrical prose – vocabulary!

Character-driven plots with a sharp hook

A solid theme

Expectations of your genre

Taking these pointers, the best way to improve in your area of writing is to read in your area of writing. And read intentionally, really analyzing how other authors build their sentences, their plots, evolve their narratives, etc. Write down interesting word choices, lines you love, details about characters, themes (this is where an inspiration journal really comes in handy!)

Click on the links above to see my related posts!

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[fraktsify]

maki マキ ࿐ more than coworkers

coworker!宏田力 x f!reader 2522 : read only coworkers first for the plot, pretty boy! maki, coworkers to lovers, maki been plotting on that, why maki & reader on that type timing.., eunchae appearance & yuma mention, flirty maki, classic hoodie trope, maki drives a black sports car, slight mention of size difference (buff maki save me), maki calls the reader "my pretty girl", maki low on the freak meter

IT HAD BEEN A FEW DAYS after Maki’s date-night announcement, and to be fair, you were stuck in a dilemma. Stuck between wanting to be friends or something more. You weren’t completely sure if he had a girlfriend, as he never mentioned other girls around you, but you knew you weren’t going to wreck a home. 

The next day at work was normal, just like every other. Clocking in, saying hi to your coworkers, checking the schedule to see what you're going to be on; it was all routine. Coming into work was just pure routine, nothing seemed to change.

 ⠀⠀ “When did you come into work? I didn’t see you…” A voice behind you spoke as you put on your apron, tightening it in the back with a bow. 

You turned around to face the voice. Of course it was Maki, yet something about him was different. His faded silver hair had gone back to black, and it looked good. The young man felt you staring at the top of his head, a small tint of pink rising to his cheeks. 

⠀⠀ “When did you–”

⠀⠀ “Last night, actually. I wanted to go for a new look, you know?” Maki paused before giving you a boyish grin, “Why? You like it?” 

You hummed as yes, before grabbing the headset on the charging station. “It looks good, and it suits you.” You were going to speak more until your manager, Euijoo, called out your name. Giving Maki a quick smile, you dismissed yourself. 

Euijoo gave you a quick heads up about the dishes needed to be washed in the back, to which you grimaced at. It was one thing washing dishes at home, but at work? Yeah, no. Nevertheless, you nodded at his words and excused yourself to the back, not before handing him the headset.

MAYBE IT HAD BEEN HOURS, but you were starting to miss your coworkers up in the front. No one really thought to mention the bonds you would form with people you would never expect. As you were left with your thoughts, you heard someone coming to the back, presumably to throw trash away. The person did a quick peek as to who was washing dishes, and to your surprise, it was your pretty boy. 

A quick “Bro?” came out from your lips as you tilted your head in response to his presence there. An automatic smile rose to your face as he came closer to you. 

⠀⠀ “I was wondering where you went, turns out they sent you back here.” Maki looked over at the coffee equipment you were washing and came back to you. “Wanna show me how you wash dishes?”

His question was harmless to say the least, yet you knew there was something lurking behind each sentence he said. You scoffed, looking to your side, before looking back at the pretty boy next to you. “Don’t you already know how to do dishes? Why should I show you?”

⠀⠀ “What if I wanna see how you do it? Come on, just tell me the steps.” Maki gave you a mock pleading look, leaning in closer to study your facial expressions; the sudden proximity catching you off guard.

Sighing, you pointed to where the things went and their functions. Maki kept his smile as he kept his gaze on you, unwavering. You felt a small wave of embarrassment go through you and you pointed to the front. 

⠀⠀ “Go. Go back to the front, you’re gonna get in trouble.”

⠀⠀ “Aww, you suddenly care about me, Y/N?”

⠀⠀ “No, I care about not getting another write up.”

Maki laughed as he reached the entrance to the front, “Sure, whatever makes you feel better.”

Some time passed and you heard laughter coming from the front to the back entrance. Your coworker friend, Eunchae, and the pretty boy were bringing the dirty towels to replace them. Eunchae waved at you and giggled a bit at your misery (washing dishes). You muttered some words that sounded like “Don’t make fun of me..” yet your heightened sense was focused on the boy standing far from the two of you. 

⠀⠀ “Hey Y/N,” Maki spoke as he leaned over to dump out the dirty, soiled water from the towels, “I’ll be here for a while.. which means I’ll be seeing how you do dishes.” A hint of tease coating his words.

Looking over at Maki and at Eunchae, you pleaded with Eunchae to not leave you alone with that “weirdo.” All Maki could do was laugh, and spoke a sentence which left you wondering…

⠀⠀ “If Eunchae leaves right now, you’re not gonna be safe alone with me..”

To say that didn’t make you pause in your movements is an understatement. You didn’t even know you were lost in thought until Eunchae spoke.

⠀⠀ “Ah, Y/N,” Eunchae looked at you for a second before looking at the clean towels in the washer, “Do you know if these are– Whoa…I'm like so much taller standing here.” 

You looked over to see Eunchae standing on the platform holding the washer and other equipment you couldn’t be bothered to look at. You smiled at her antics, and Maki spoke behind you. “You look about the same height, Eunchae.”

Easy for him to say, what a man standing at six feet. 

Eunchae glared at him and motioned him to come over to where she was at, “Oh really? I bet I’m taller than you standing on this platform.” 

Maki laughed in response, and made his way towards the platform, to which you didn’t even notice. The lack of space to get there is.. a pretty tight fit with a dish rack right behind you and the sink in front of you. You didn’t even feel it when Maki squeezed himself between you and the rack, your sight locked in on Eunchae. The action made you freeze for a moment, your heartbeat going crazy.

It wasn’t like a regular squeeze-by either, his body faced your back. He could’ve faced the other way, yet he didn’t. Laughter rang throughout the area and soon enough, you found yourself alone again. You didn’t mind it though, as it allowed you to collect your thoughts regarding that man. Finishing up the last dishes, you grabbed the container filled with the cleaned equipment and made your way towards the front. The smell of brewed coffee filled your nostrils as you focused your eyesight to the warm hues of the coffee shop. 

Leaning over to properly put away the dishes, you heard a small whistle tune. You didn’t have to look to see who it was, yet you did either way. You made eye contact with Maki as he looked at you while waiting for the iced drink to mix. He flashed you a wink before smiling and laughing at your reaction, leaving you stunned. Looking away before your cheeks warmed up, you focused your attention back on the container of dishes. Just two more minutes left on your shift.

COMING BACK HOME from that shift was the best feeling. You didn’t have to worry about any more confusing advances from the pretty boy. Your phone buzzed, a notification from Instagram coming through. It was a message from Maki, speaking of the devil.

[your user] rikimaus_: hey, r u busy rn?

Opening the message, you were met with your chat log with him. Pausing for a moment, your fingers quickly typed out a response. 

you: no. i just got home, why?

rikimaus_: wanna go out? i need company

The heat rose to your cheeks as you reread the message.

you: sure, what’s the occasion?

rikimaus_: just hanging out

rikimaus_: send me the address, i’ll pick u up

you: okay, sounds good. here [address]

seen just now

It’s like you flew out of your bed as soon as you typed out your address. Opening your closet, you looked for an outfit that wasn’t completely out there but one that allowed you to be comfortable as well. Pairing baggy jeans along with a tube top, you quickly combed your hair, allowing it to take on its natural state. It was cases like these that you were grateful you did your makeup for work. Your phone buzzed on the bed, once then twice.

[your user] rikimaus_: i’m outside

[your user] rikimaus_: hurry, ur neighbors are looking at me weird

Grabbing your phone, you made your way to the door, not before saying goodnight to your parents. Opening the door, you were met with Maki’s black sports car parked right outside. Slightly sprinting to the car, you opened the passenger door and sat in the seat, right after closing the door.

The car’s aroma hit your nostrils like the planes hit the Twin Towers, and the Pentagon. Maki’s car smelt like him, and it was clouding your judgement. 

⠀⠀ “Didn’t think you would actually come. I was thinking you were sleeping or something.”

⠀⠀ “Not really, I don’t fall asleep until twelve or so.”

Maki hummed in agreement before getting the car out of park. The engine revved throughout the neighborhood as he left your house. Some song by The Weeknd was playing and it set the mood throughout the car. As Maki drove through the streets, you couldn’t help but gaze over at him. His laid back demeanor changed as he drove, his eyes sharp at the cars driving by. 

You cleared your throat, “So, why did you want to go out?”

⠀⠀ “Needed a change of scenery, and besides, I wanted to hang out more with you.” Maki gave you a quick glance, eyes softening just seeing you.

⠀⠀ “Valid take. I don’t think I’ve gone out with someone like this on a whim.”

⠀⠀ “Well, there’s a first for everything.”

A comfortable silence filled the car as the only thing interrupting it was Maki’s mumbling of the lyrics. Maki pulled into a drive through of some business you didn’t even bother remembering the name of. As Maki began to order, you took in more of his car. His interior was definitely nice and to think he bought it with barista money… hoo boy. 

⠀⠀ “Y/N, which flavor of ice cream do you want?”

His question interrupted your train of thought, “I’ll just get rocky road.” Maki nodded and said it to the speaker. The employee read back the order and Maki muttered a quick “Thank you” before driving up to the window.

⠀⠀ “Since when were we going to get ice cream?”

⠀⠀ “I was craving it, and besides it’s the perfect time to get ice cream.”

⠀⠀ “Maki, it’s 63 degrees outs–”

You were cut off by the employee asking for the type of payment, to which Maki gave the employee his card. After a while the employee handed him back his card along with the ice creams. Maki handed you the rocky road, hands making contact for a second. The pretty boy drove off and found parking outside of the business establishment, putting the car in park before focusing his attention on the ice cream.

Within the first taste of your ice cream, you shivered a bit. It was too good, yet so cold. Maki, as attentive as ever, reached in the backseat and pulled out a hoodie. Placing it on your lap, he focused back on the ice cream. You paused and looked at the material in front of you then back at Maki. 

⠀⠀ “Your hoodie–”

⠀⠀ “You looked cold, plus I don’t want the ice cream to melt with the heating.”

Sighing, you knew you couldn’t debate Maki when he was set on something. The ice cream cup found its spot in the cup holders of the car as you put on the hoodie, the smell of his cologne hitting you once again. While you knew Maki was pretty buff for his age, you didn’t think his hoodie would’ve been this comfortable and big to say the least. Fixing your hair, you looked over at Maki, who stared at you.

⠀⠀ “Is there something wrong..?”

Maki shook his head. “No, nothing at all. You just look nice in my hoodie.” Feeling the heat go up to your cheeks, you smiled. 

⠀⠀ “Thanks? I appreciate it, truly. I didn’t know I was going to get this cold.”

⠀⠀ “Well, isn’t that why you have me?”

The question felt intimate, personal, like he wanted something more out of it and maybe he did. Like you, he placed his cup in the holder and leaned in, closing the distance between you two. Your breath hitched in a moment, your body frozen from the proximity. If you really focused on what was going on, you could see his eyes scan your face– from your eyes to your lips–or how his breath hit your face. 

⠀⠀ “Maki, what are you doing?” A whisper came out of you, afraid of what was coming next.

⠀⠀ “Testing to see if I can hold out,” Maki paused for a quick second before following up, “Can I? Will you let me?”

You knew what he was referring to, yet you nodded at his words. 

IT WAS LIKE EARTH stopped as soon as his lips touched yours. He pulled away after pecking your lips, staring into your dazed eyes. As you smiled, he smiled back at you and went for another kiss again. Your lips matched a rhythm with his, your hands finding his face. It felt perfect, it felt like a dream come true. As you two pulled away from each other, a small string of spit went down your face. Quickly cleaning it up, Maki laughed at your flushed state and fixed your lipstick. 

⠀⠀ “My pretty girl, so messy.” Maki muttered as he cradled your face, his eyes showing love and a hint of lust behind them. 

⠀⠀ “Yours? Wait, what about that date you had? I thought you were going to see that gir–” The male shut you up by giving you another kiss. 

⠀⠀ “It was just a lie. I wanted to see your reaction and to my surprise, you reacted like how I wanted to. Though I didn’t expect that Luma fellow or whatever–”

⠀⠀ “Yuma–”

⠀⠀ “Right, that guy. I didn’t expect him to budge in and ruin my mood.”

⠀⠀ “He’s a nice guy. Super sweet too, he was telling me about his new collectab–”

It was like Maki formed a new habit then and there: kissing you to make you shut up. Smiling into the kiss, you felt Maki bring you closer to him; the ice cream now longer forgotten. You didn’t mind this new bond at all. Maybe Maki was yours to begin with, even with that fake date he planned to make you jealous. As you two pulled away for a breather, Maki’s red cheeks matched with yours. 

Too many girls think he’s pretty, that just goes with his charm. Your eyes linger on Maki too much, his linger on you even more. Either way, would you be lying if you didn’t like it? 

You like him anyway, so why hide it?

written by monica (fraktsify) —  &.  NOTES   ›   would i be lying if i said i wrote this in three hours.... i love this story and i wish my ending ends like this too. thank u to those who wished for a part two, i hope u enjoy.

[callsigndreadfrost]

• 1 •

Loke: Literally always. Has never had any trouble sleeping. Ever. I hate him for it.

Jelani: When his insomnia isn't acting up. That bitch is chronic so it's frequent. Same, little buddy, same.

Trevor: He's also a sound sleeper and one that doesn't have any trouble.

Angelus: If his ADHD isn't kicking his ass and he's not feeling hyper he'll be fine.

• 2 •

Loke: Never, that man can sleep through anything.

Jelani: When his insomnia goes nuts. Can easily go 2 to 4 days without any sleep or if he does sleep it's something stupid like 1 hour maybe 2 if he's lucky.

Trevor: He never sleeps during full moons because during full moons he never gets sleepy. It's an overall werewolf thing.

Angelus: As a werewolf he won't feel the need to sleep during full moons. Outside of full moon if his ADHD kicks in full he'll have a bit of trouble going to sleep.

• 3 •

Loke: He tends to not really remember his dreams so he says he doesn't dream. To be fair if you have no recollection of dreaming than it's logical to say you didn't dream. Very rarely does he remember his dreams. However, he does tend to have recurring nightmares, usually the same thing and it happens whenever Jelani gets hurt or almost gets hurt. He really doesn't like those, at all, they make him panic because they tend to be extremely graphic.

Jelani: His dreams are very abstract and very incomplete. Like watching a damaged movie so the plot and most of it is nonsensical, usually in black and white or muted colors. It's been like that since he was a teenager. Rarely do they make sense or play out normally.

Trevor: Very vivid, very colorful. A lot of times he'll have like flying dreams, you know, where he's flying. Other times it's just really peaceful though short dreams where he's back in the town he grew up in though as his current self and he's there with his family. He loves those because to him it feels like every so often they'll stop by and check on him.

Angelus: Also very vivid and very colorful, he seems to notice that his sences are very sharp so he he's able to smell grass, tree bark, flowers or anything else that smells nice. Most of his dreams are him in werewolf form running through the woods and quite often he's joined by a massive wolf. Angelus is already huge so this other wolf being bigger than him is intimidating but he feels really safe around this wolf. The fur is so dark that it looks like a living void. They just run through the woods and after a while they just sit next to each other and nuzzle for a bit. He and Ginger suspect the wolf is Jelani and after having that dream he gets really clingy and extra lovey on Jela.

• 4 •

That would be Loke. He never really remembers his dreams.

• 5 •

It's not the same thing but every so often Trevor gets a nightmare where he can see his dead little brother in the distance but no matter how much he runs towards him he can never catch up to him but Trevor can see him signaling words at him. Tristan was mute and deaf so he and Trevor signaled at each other to communicate.

Anyway, Trevor wakes up before Tristan finishes signaling to him but Trevor can remmeber the last few signals. He has a notebook next to his bed where he writes down the last words Tristan signalled with the date and time of the nightmare. He's never been able to make heads or tails of what he's trying to tell him IF he even is trying to tell him anything at all.

More Sleepy Time Prompts

1. When do your ocs sleep most soundly?

2. When do they have the most difficulty falling asleep or staying asleep?

3. What sort of dreams does your oc usually have? What do they consider a good or bad dream?

4. Which oc never remembers their dreams once they wake up?

5. Which oc keeps a dream journal?

[xoxolaw]

aaaa first time sending an ask but a random thought came to me after rewatching whc..

maybe something like reader ends up in the hospital and that's where she meets suho in a coma so she ends up visiting him everyday to talk to him even though they've never met thinking he couldn't hear her, but it turns out that he could hear her the whole time he was in a coma hehahwhwh

love the way you write!!! all your works are so well-written ><

+ 𝗪𝗛𝗜𝗟𝗘 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗪𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗦𝗟𝗘𝗘𝗣𝗜𝗡𝗚

in which she starts talking to a coma patient just to feel less lonely - and doesn't realise he heard every word

+ 𝗔𝗛𝗡 𝗦𝗨𝗛𝗢 𝗫 𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥

fluff

The first time she stepped into Room 201, it wasn’t on purpose.

She was supposed to be getting her discharge papers. A sprained wrist and a mild concussion — not bad, considering the crash. But the halls were quiet, and the vending machine had eaten her last coin. She wandered down the wrong corridor looking for a nurse and paused at the open door.

There he was.

Still. Silent. A boy maybe her age, maybe older. Maybe younger. Skin pale beneath tangled hair. Tubes trailed from his arms like spiderwebs, and machines blinked softly around him.

She wasn’t sure why she stepped in.

Maybe it was the way his room felt too quiet. Or maybe it was the nameplate on the wall: Ahn Suho.

Someone who had a name shouldn’t be so alone.

“Hey,” she said quietly, voice unsure. “Um. I’m not supposed to be here.”

He didn’t move, of course. But that was the thing about talking to someone who couldn’t answer — it didn’t matter.

“So,” she said, pulling the chair closer. “I guess I’ll sit here until I get my discharge, if that’s cool.”

She looked at the heart monitor. Steady.

“You don’t mind, right?”

✮⋆˙

Visit #2

“Okay, hear me out,” she whispered, tugging her hoodie over her hospital bracelet. “Today’s theory: hospital food is a government plot.”

She set a wrapped chocolate bar beside his untouched apple juice. “I stole this from the nurse’s station. You’re welcome.”

She leaned back in the chair and glanced over. “I should probably introduce myself. I’m Y/N. I was in a crash. Umm. That's it.”

Silence.

Except for the hum of machines.

“I used to think comas were like… complete darkness. Like being unplugged,” she continued. “But then someone told me that maybe people can hear things. Even when they can’t respond.”

She looked at him. “I’m gonna pretend you can. Just in case.”

✮⋆˙

Visit #5

She came in mid-rant, sneakers squeaking against the floor.

“I bombed my stats midterm,” she huffed, throwing herself into the chair. “I studied for weeks. Literal weeks. And for what? A 53. A tragedy.”

She turned her head and eyed him.

“Honestly? You’re probably lucky. No classes. No midterms. No group projects from hell. Just… naps. That’s the dream.”

She tilted her head. “...Too dark?”

The corners of her mouth twitched. “You’d tell me if I was annoying, right?”

Stillness.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

✮⋆˙

Visit #9

“Do you believe in soulmates?” she asked one day, legs folded under her in the chair.

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. But she stared at him anyway.

“Like, not in a romantic way, even. Just… someone whose energy feels like home.”

She leaned her head back against the chair, eyes closing.

“My grandma used to say the people meant for you find you. Even if it’s by accident.”

A pause.

“I don’t know why I keep coming back here. But I think it’s helping.”

✮⋆˙

Visit #14

She brought a juice box and a book of crossword puzzles. Not for him — for her. But she left both unopened.

Instead, she spoke softer that day. Slower.

“I had a nightmare last night. The kind that makes you wake up choking on your own breath.”

Her fingers twisted in her sleeve.

“I keep thinking about what would’ve happened if I hadn’t swerved at the last second. I keep seeing the headlights. I keep hearing the metal twist.”

She exhaled.

“I know you’re the one in a coma, but sometimes I feel like I haven’t really woken up either.”

She looked at him then, eyes wet but steady.

“You know what’s weird? I feel safer here. Sitting with you. I don’t even know you.”

She smiled, a little broken.

“But I talk to you like I do.”

✮⋆˙

Visit #17

She came in late this time — hoodie damp from rain, socks mismatched.

“I brought gummy bears,” she announced, holding up the bag like it was treasure. “But I already ate most of them. So now I’m just here to confess my crimes.”

She plopped into the chair and leaned forward, unwrapping the plastic around his IV line just a little so it wouldn’t tug against his skin.

“I think if we were friends, you’d be the kind who judges my snack habits silently,” she mused. “Like, you’d sit there with your stupid perfect posture and side-eye me every time I pulled out something processed.”

She smiled faintly. “But I bet you’d still take one. Even if you pretended you didn’t want to.”

She was quiet for a long while after that.

Then—

“I don’t know why I keep talking like you’ll wake up.”

A breath.

“I think I just… hope you do.”

✮⋆˙

Visit #20

She pushed the door open with one elbow, a juice pouch hanging from her teeth and a hoodie several sizes too big draped over her shoulders. It was the third time that week she’d come by unannounced. The nurses stopped asking questions.

“You wouldn’t believe the kind of day I had,” she said around the straw, dropping her bag onto the chair. “There was this guy on the train, right? Full-on tried to hit on me while I was literally in the middle of chewing a protein bar.”

She took the straw out of her mouth and pointed it at him like an accusation.

“Who flirts with someone mid-bite?”

Silence answered her. Of course.

“I told him I was seeing someone,” she continued, shrugging off the hoodie. “And he asked if it was serious. And I didn’t know what to say.”

She froze for a second, then laughed softly.

“I mean. How do you explain… this?”

Her eyes flicked over to him. Peaceful. Still. Like always.

“‘Yeah, I’m in a one-sided talking situation with a boy in a coma.’ That wouldn’t go over well.”

She sat down and leaned forward, elbows on her knees.

“I didn’t say anything. Just told him I wasn’t interested.”

There was something heavy in the way she said it. Like she meant more than she let on.

She stared at him.

“You know what’s funny?” she murmured. “I don’t even know where you go to school. I don’t know your favorite color. Or what kind of music you like. I don’t know if you snore, or if you’re the kind of person who organizes their apps by color.”

Her voice cracked just a little.

“But I keep coming back.”

She looked down at her hands. Fidgeted.

“Is it weird that I feel like I know you better than people I’ve known for years?”

She glanced back up. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“Is it crazy that I… miss you? Even though you’re right here?”

The heart monitor beeped steady. Soothing.

She reached out and touched his hand, just barely.

“You don’t know me. But if you ever wake up… I’d really like to change that.”

And for a moment — just a moment — she imagined him smiling back.

✮⋆˙

Visit #23

She was quieter this time. Sleepy.

She curled her knees into the chair and whispered like it was a secret.

“I used to talk to the moon when I was little. Thought maybe someone out there was listening.”

She reached out and gently brushed his bangs back from his forehead.

“I talk to you like that now.”

She hesitated.

“Is that selfish?”

No answer, but her gaze lingered.

“If I were you, I’d be annoyed by now. Some girl spilling her whole life in your room every day. No warning.”

But her voice cracked a little.

“Still… it makes the world feel less heavy. Talking to you. Like… there’s a version of me that only exists in this room.”

Her thumb brushed the back of his hand.

“I like you."

✮⋆˙

Visit #27

She was crying before she even sat down.

“I failed a class,” she whispered, words trembling. “I worked so hard and I still failed. And my mom said it’s because I get distracted. That I’m wasting time.”

She sniffled, voice breaking.

“I think she meant you.”

Silence wrapped around her.

“I wanted to scream at her. But I didn’t. I just walked out and came here.”

She curled her fingers around his.

“Tell me I’m not wasting time.”

And for a second — just for a second — she thought his hand squeezed back.

She gasped and looked up.

But nothing had changed.

✮⋆˙

Visit #33

She showed up late. She almost didn’t come.

But she walked in, shut the door softly, and slid her fingers between his.

“I think I’m falling for you,” she whispered. “And that’s probably the dumbest thing I’ve ever said out loud.”

She looked at him like he could hear her heart beating.

“But if there’s even a 1% chance that you remember any of this — I just want you to know.”

She pressed a kiss to his knuckles. Just once.

Then stood.

And left.

✮⋆˙

She didn't plan to come today. Finals were around the corner. Her mom was breathing down her neck. And honestly? She was tired.

Tired of hoping. Tired of talking to someone who’d never talk back. Tired of Room 201 and its terrible fluoresce nt lights and the smell of antiseptic and the sound of a steady heart monitor that somehow felt louder when everything else was silent.

But she came anyway.

Because habits are hard to break. And so are hearts.

She stepped into the room like she always did.

Only this time.

It was empty.

She stopped cold in the doorway.

Room 201 was still Room 201 — white walls, faded curtain, the too-bright glare of sterile ceiling lights. But the bed was stripped clean. The machines were gone.

And he wasn’t there.

The chair she always sat in was tucked neatly under the window. Like she’d never been there at all.

“No,” she whispered, heart stuttering. “No, no, no—”

She backed into the hallway, scanning for someone—anyone. Her throat was tight, like every breath scraped against the inside of her ribs.

Where was he?

She grabbed the nearest nurse she could find.

“Where is he?” she asked, not bothering to mask the panic in her voice. “Room 201. Suho. Ahn Suho. He—he was here yesterday.”

The nurse blinked, caught off guard.

“Oh—uh—” She glanced at her tablet. “Ahn Suho was moved this morning. He regained consciousness late last night.”

Y/N froze.

“What?”

“He’s stable,” the nurse added quickly. “They moved him to Recovery Ward B. Down the south wing, third door to the right.”

Y/N stood there like she hadn’t heard anything after ‘he regained consciousness.’

Because her brain had simply stopped there.

He was awake.

He was awake.

She turned and ran.

✮⋆˙

She found the room by sheer instinct.

The door was cracked open, and sunlight poured through the windows, warm and golden in a way Room 201 never was.

She stepped inside.

And there he was.

A little thinner. Propped up against pillows. Eyes half-lidded but open. Really open.

Ahn Suho.

He looked… human. Fragile, even.

But real. Alive.

She didn’t know what she expected — some cinematic moment where he saw her and smiled like he’d been waiting. But he didn’t. He just looked up slowly, tiredly, like his whole body was still relearning how to exist.

Their eyes met.

Her breath caught.

And for a second — just a second — she forgot how to speak.

Then:

“You’re awake,” she said softly.

He blinked. Then nodded. Barely.

She stepped forward. One hesitant step. Then another.

“You probably don’t—remember me,” she said. “I just… I used to visit.”

His lips parted. It took effort. But he spoke.

“…Y/N.”

She stopped.

“You remember?”

He gave the faintest, smallest smile.

“Gummy bears,” he rasped.

She laughed. Sharp and sudden, wet with tears she didn’t know she was holding back.

“You idiot,” she whispered. “You remember the gummy bears.”

“You… talk a lot,” he said, like it was a compliment. “I didn’t want to miss anything.”

She let out a broken sound. Somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

She stepped closer until she was at his side. Until their hands were inches apart.

“I thought you forgot. I thought—”

She shook her head, smile shaking.

“I never forgot,” he said. “Not a single thing.”

Their hands brushed.

His fingers curled weakly around hers.

“You stayed,” he murmured.

She nodded, eyes shining.

“And now,” she whispered, “so will you.”

✮⋆˙

She sat by his side that evening, telling him about everything he missed. The vending machine conspiracy. The guy on the train. Her failed stats midterm. Her nightmares. Her heart.

And this time—he listened.

Really listened.

He smiled.

He asked questions, slow and soft, voice still gravel.

And when she leaned in to press her forehead to his?

This time, he tilted his to meet hers halfway.

And everything — every visit, every word, every aching silence — had led here.

+ 𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗥'𝗦 𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗘 + 𝗠𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧

Hope you enjoyed this <3

+ 𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧

@l5byrinth @m3sty @inom17 @dna-black-and-blue @mizxuqii @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @mwsrphm @maxinehufflepuffprincess @intoanothermind @cayrelyra @coolasiangal123 @mariii-0001 @susuheartsyou @ineed-myspace @ruhaniii @ohtobelovedbyanartist @choihyunwookie @itzcandy

[yuikomorii]

I genuinely think Ayato is a total pushover. Like, he is the one handing people the doormat and saying, “Please, wipe your feet on me.”

I get that he’s scared of being abandoned or left out, but come on — there’s a limit. He forgives everyone, no matter how horribly they treat him. It’s like he’s running a charity for emotional abuse.

He’s desperate to be “included” by a family that basically treats him like trash. I still remember in Laito’s LE route — after Laito emotionally shredded him into bits — Ayato was like, “What about me? Can I come along?” EXCUSE ME?? Sir?? Have you tried... I don’t know... dignity?

Honestly, he needs professional help. And clearly not the kind Yui offers, because whatever she's doing is not working. I adore Ayato — his sweet, innocent nature is endearing — but there’s a difference between being pure-hearted and being a self-destructive doormat with a masochism side quest. At this point, I want to shake him until his last brain cell files a complaint.

And let’s be real — if any other character suffered what Ayato went through, there’d be no happy ending in sight. Just a bloodbath, a burned-down mansion, and probably half the cast plotting revenge like it’s a full-time job. Meanwhile, Ayato’s over here forgiving everyone like it’s a group therapy session — Honestly, without him constantly forgiving everyone, the game would have ended way earlier .

// Unfortunately, that’s a very common way of writing main characters, especially in shounen series. Someone could deliberately kill the hero’s family, curse them or basically do something to destroy their whole life and the hero will be like, “It’s okay because everyone deserves a second chance and I don’t hold grudges, so I forgive you uwu”. Of course, what Ayato does is very noble, but I do believe it’s also very unfair. Forgiving someone who’s actually showing remorse is understandable, but still holding onto people who don’t care about you as much as you do about them is pretty painful.

In his LE vampire ending and after story, it’s shown twice how he developed PTSD from what happened to him there. LE is for real Ayato’s suffering porn game, because he’s just so pure to the point of losing his self-respect. Like… Ayato, come on now, you’re too pretty for THIS:

Credit to: dialovers-translations

I also wouldn’t call him a masochist. He never starts liking being treated poorly, but he just thinks he doesn’t deserve to be treated any better because he made mistakes throughout his life too.

In his LE route, his brothers were too in-character, which gave us some sort of culture shock. We’d gotten used to seeing a more sugarcoated, softened version of them than in the earlier games, but here they act exactly as you'd expect based on their default personalities. Laito and Reiji are envious, so of course they’d be mean to someone who has what they want. Shu just sits around, but he’ll throw in a cutting remark if he's in the mood. Kanato is a ticking time bomb, so it’s easy to get on his nerves. And Subaru is a coward who will jump on the bandwagon because he doesn’t want to become a target too. Ayato doesn’t get treated like a victim because he doesn’t match the stereotypical image of one. There’s this narrow mindset that unless someone is visibly depressed, crying their eyes out, sui€idal or drowning in self-hatred, they must be totally fine and not worthy of empathy and support.

Regarding your last paragraph, that’s basically the point. Karlheinz confirmed that Ayato is the mentally strongest among his sons. If any of the others were in his position, things would have turned out much worse. Even Rejet has acknowledged that Ayato is the driving force of the story.