#oc: turning ever inwards

[worldruins]

weezer. Or, Local Group 84203. Calls To Stony Skies, former senior and fading voice of reason; Ink Stained Psalms, antisocial biologist and enthusiast of puppet modification; Four Scythes, failed icon of prosperity now struggling under the mantle of seniority; and Turning Ever Inwards, overlooked center of commerce who becomes more and more enamored with oblivion and simulacrum as the outside world encroaches.

[dawngyu]

WHAT REMAINS THE SAME

pairing: choi beomgyu x single-parent reader

On the hardest, most terrifying day of your life, when your body is tearing open and everything feels like it’s coming undone, his name is the only one your heart remembers to call for.

warnings: childhood friends, longing, romance, angst, second chance, pregnancy, set somewhere in 90s, mistakes, parenting, flashbacks, timeskips, guilt, alcohol-induced!manipulation, descriptions of giving birth, subtle signs of postpartum!d, plot heavy, pov switching, drunk in-love beomgyu (lol), abandonment, used different idols as ocs. if any of the warnings above might be triggering for you, please step back. let me know if I missed anything. this is a work of fiction.

smut!warnings: multiple-smut scenes, missionary, nipple-play, fingering, oral!fem receiving, virginity-loss.

wc: 31k — playlist

notes: hiii! took long but she's here. i've dreamt about this once, and i couldn't stop writing. while I’ve done some research to better understand what it’s like to be a mother, there may still be inaccuracies, i did my best to approach the subject with care and respect. xxx

How does it feel to grow up with someone, know their laughter, their fears, the way their voice sounds in the dark and then never see them again?

A part of you is missing and you’re the only one who knows.

Would things be easier if there was closure?

Closure when your parents shattered whatever was left of a home, walking away like love was something that could be unlearned. Closure when you realized your dreams of college were slipping, no matter how tightly you held on. Closure when your anger turned inward—when your foot slammed into a doorframe and the only person you could blame was the one looking back in the mirror.

Would it hurt less if you had said goodbye to him? Or would it have made losing him even worse?

"Mom, I'm gonna be late!"

You hurriedly dab lipstick onto your lips, your other hand frantically smoothing down your hair, hoping it doesn’t look like a complete disaster.

"Mommy?"

"Just a second, sweetheart," you mumble, shoving the lipstick back onto the cluttered vanity before standing up to steal one last glance in the mirror. It’s not perfect. But then again, when have you ever been?

You step out of the room, each movement slower than it should be, the kind of tired that sleep can’t fix clinging to your bones. The stairs creak beneath your feet, groaning like they know how heavy it all is.

At the bottom, she’s already waiting. Your daughter, backpack snug and shoes on the wrong feet again, bouncing like the world is brand new. Her smile hits you like sunlight through a window you forgot was there... so full of life it steals the breath from your lungs.

You force a smile back. You’re getting good at that.

It’s almost cruel, how radiant she looks. Hair brushed, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with a kind of hope you haven’t felt in years. And then there’s you, barely held together, eyes raw from the night you didn’t sleep, wearing yesterday’s grief under today’s clothes.

People say kids reflect their parents. But she glows, and you… you’re flickering. And still, you kneel to tie her shoelaces. Still, you kiss her forehead and tell her she’s going to have the best day. Because even when you’re unraveling, you stitch yourself back together for her.

"You ready?"

"Aye, aye, captain!" she giggles.

You should be laughing with her, but your steps slow as your eyes catch the steady drip of the kitchen faucet. The soft plink, plink, plink echoes, a reminder of another thing left unfixed, another problem waiting for your attention.

You exhale, rubbing your temple. “Guess I’ll have to call someone to fix that… again.”

When you turn back, she’s already watching you—wide-eyed, her face painted with innocent curiosity. She doesn’t ask what’s wrong, doesn’t understand the weight of things like broken faucets, overdue bills, and work that keeps you up at night.

And you don’t want her to. Not while she can still giggle over silly things and believe the world is simple.

You double-check the locks before leaving. It’s muscle memory by now. Stove off, windows closed, doors latched tight. You scan the room one last time. You carry her to the car, buckle her in, and start the engine. The morning air is cold, the silence even colder but she fills it like she always does. Why are there more clouds today? Why are wheels round? Why is it called a car?

And you answer every question, every single one, because as long as she’s asking, you get to speak. You get to be known. You get to be real to someone. She knows your voice. She trusts it. And in her tiny, curious world, you are enough.

You remember the beginning. Those nights when she was barely one and you were… barely human. When her cries echoed through the walls and your body was too heavy with fatigue to even cry back. When no position, no lullaby, no amount of rocking made her stop and you were left wondering what you were doing wrong.

There were nights you stood in the hallway, holding her like a lifeline, tears sliding silently down your face while hers screamed out loud, both of you breaking in different languages.

But you’re here now, driving her to school, answering questions about clouds and wheels and words. You think… maybe you made it through the worst of it. You're still here, hands on the wheel, heart somewhere in the rearview mirror.

"Nari!" The booming voice cut through the air the moment you stepped out of the car, your daughter still nestled in your arms. You barely had time to turn before a familiar figure came sprinting toward you, like a man starved for something he’d only been missing a week. It made you chuckle, he always acted like it had been years since he last saw her.

"Uncle Binnie!"

Nari wriggled free, launching herself into his waiting arms. He caught her effortlessly, lifting her high before spinning her around, her laughter ringing out. Heads turned. Strangers watched. And you saw it too, the way he held her so easily, the way she clung to him, like father and daughter rather than what they really were.

You walked closer, and Soobin stretched out an arm, wordlessly inviting you in. You let him hold you, because you owed him your life.

"So," he said, his voice lighter now, as if this—this reunion, this familiarity—was as much his comfort as it was yours. His arm stayed draped around your shoulders, Nari tucked against his side. "How have my two favorite girls been?"

Nari giggled at the word favourite, her tiny hands clinging to him. "Mommy's been busy all days, uncle!"

The two of you laughed at the words your daughter. "Really? She's not playing with you?"

"Well, she plays with me still." She pouts and Soobin pinches her nose lightly. "But she's always busy."

You rest a hand on your daughter's head, gently smoothing her hair as her words settle deep inside you. After everything, you raised a child this kind, this thoughtful. A proof that you did something right. It burns in your chest.

She is the best thing that has ever happened to you.

The three of you walked toward the restaurant where Soobin had booked a reservation, his voice light as he chatted with Nari about her new teacher and the friends she’d made. You let them talk, let their voices blur into background noise as you glanced inside through the frosted windows.

Families.

Because it was Christmas.

A lump swells in your throat the moment you step inside. Parents leaning close to their children, wiping crumbs from tiny mouths, passing plates with gentle hands. Grandparents pulling little ones into their arms like gravity itself is made of love. Siblings bickering over who got more dessert, only to split the last bite anyway.

Every table holds something whole. Something complete. You hold your daughter's hand a little tighter.

You see it everywhere now, in the drop-off lines where both parents wave from the car window. In the grocery store, where dads lift kids onto their shoulders and moms scold them lovingly for grabbing too many snacks. In the tiny moments that most people take for granted, you see the shape of something you couldn’t give her.

Fate had a cruel way of making sure you never forget.

Nari was a big eater, one of the few traits she hadn’t inherited from you. She sat beside Soobin, happily digging into her food, her small hands clutching her utensils with eagerness. Meanwhile, you barely touched your plate, absently pushing the food around, taking a few bites here and there but never really eating.

Soobin noticed. "What's wrong?"

"Huh?"

His gaze softened, "Are you okay?" For some reason, his words made you smile. After all these years, he was still the most observant person you knew. Well… almost.

Because there had been someone else.

Someone who had noticed things about you without you ever having to say a word. Someone who had memorized the way your hands trembled when you were nervous. Someone that could read you in a glance, catch the shift in your breath before the words ever left your lips, but you haven’t seen him in years. Haven’t said his name out loud in even longer. And you weren’t sure if you ever would.

You weren't sure if you could.

"I am," you say, forcing the words out before glancing at Nari, watching as she happily munched on her pasta. "I guess I just don’t really like the holidays that much."

Soobin blinked, studying you for a moment before offering, "We can go watch a movie after dinner? Nari’s been wanting to see that one."

You nod, giving him another small, grateful smile. You reach for your water, ready to wash down the tightness in your throat, when he speaks again. "I also… heard."

You turn to him, brows furrowing. "Heard what?"

Soobin hesitates, his fingers gripping the edge of his fork. "He’s back in town."

Your heart stalls.

"Who?"

You shouldn’t have asked.

"Choi Beomgyu."

"Choi Beomgyu!" you squealed as the boy snatched the paper from your hands. "Yah! Give it back!"

"Don't cry over this," he said firmly, already folding the paper before you could grab it. Effortlessly, he slung your backpack over one arm while reaching for his own, slipping the paper inside.

A paper you were sure you’d never see again.

"What would my parents think, idiot?"

"I’d just tell them you got passing marks. No way they’d believe a high score anyway—ouch, ouch! I’m sorry! Fuck!" Beomgyu yelped as you tugged at his ear, swatting weakly at your hands in protest. His ears turned red, whether from the pull or the fact that you touched him, you weren’t sure.

"You think I haven’t already tried that?" you huffed.

"Well, no," he admitted. "But your parents love me more than you—ow! I mean, I mean, they see me as their own kid!" He laughed at your pout, eyes crinkling with amusement.

"You wanna be siblings then?"

"Hell no."

You turned away at his answer, crossing your arms as you walked. The buttons of your high school uniform pressed uncomfortably into your skin, but you ignored it. Beomgyu, your best friend, immediately followed. Like he always did.

The Beomgyu magnet to Y/N.

That’s what everyone called it.

Students stared as the two of you walked, their gazes lingering a little too long. A few even called out to Beomgyu, tossing him belated "Happy 19th birthday!" greetings, nevermind that his birthday had been last week.

Maybe that was just the price of being him. The kind of popular where people scrambled for any excuse to talk to you, even if it meant getting the date wrong. He’s smart, been in the school band since forever, and unfortunately, he’s not exactly hard to look at.

Not that you’d ever say that out loud.

"You mad?" he asked beside you. You shook your head, not even looking at him. From the corner of your eye, you caught the smirk tugging at his lips. "Hungry?"

You swatted his hand away when he poked at your sides, barely listening to his words. Beomgyu didn’t get the hint or maybe he did and just didn’t care. Either way, you kept walking, your chest tight, your hands curled into fists at your sides.

That damn test paper, crumpled inside his bag like it wasn’t another reminder of your failure. Like it wasn’t proof that no matter how hard you tried, it still wasn’t enough. You stayed up late. You gave up sleep, let the words blur and the numbers dance until they made sense. And for what? A score so low it made your stomach churn. The people that said they barely studied flashed scores that were twice as high as yours. Effortless. Like success was something they were born with, something they carried in their blood while you were left clawing for scraps.

It’s pathetic, isn’t it? That the only thing you have is passion and even that can’t save you.

"Hey."

You hadn’t even noticed your best friend catching up, too lost in your own head to hear his footsteps, but now he was in front of you, walking backward to see your face, deliberately blocking your path. "Don't think about it," he said,"I told you not to."

"I wasn’t thinking about anything.",The lie barely made it past your lips. You swallowed hard, forcing your voice to stay steady, but it was useless. Especially when he was looking at with the soft eyes of his.

There are moments you catch yourself wanting to pull away from him. Not because he did anything wrong—the opposite, really. He’s everything you’re not. He barely studies but still gets by with decent grades, he’s effortlessly good at almost everything, like life just hands him a script and he nails it every time. And you hate that it gets to you. You wanted to pull away from him.

How do you resent someone who’s never done anything but shine?

"Y/N," His eyes searched yours. "You look like you're about to cry."

You blinked at his words, but they don’t surprise you anymore. Beomgyu has always been seeing you. You clear your throat, a flimsy attempt to steady yourself, but he’s still looking at you. Still seeing too much. And then it happens—the slightest sniff, barely there, but he catches it.

"Can we go now?" Your voice trembles, and the second it does, his eyes widen just a little, something unreadable flashing across them. When he sees the gloss in yours, he reaches for you, fingers wrapping safely around your wrist.

"Come on," he murmurs, tugging you forward. You let him, swallowing back the lump in your throat, willing yourself not to fall apart here.

Not in front of everyone.

Being the daughter of a family of eleven, no one expected much from you. You were just another name in a crowded house, another body squeezed into too little space. School was a luxury, not a necessity. No one thought you’d make it past middle school.

Except your mother.

She saw the way your fingers traced the edges of worn-out textbooks, the way your eyes lingered on words you barely understood but desperately wanted to. And she let you chase that dream, even when it meant stretching what little you had even thinner.

"Hard work never betrays you," they say. But they never tell you how much it can hurt, because what do you do when you give everything; your nights, your energy, your hope, only to fall short? How are you supposed to believe in effort when all it leaves you with is failure?

"Stop sniffing, Y/N!" Choi Soobin snaps, his half-eaten lunch sitting in front of him on the makeshift mat spread across the school rooftop. "Seriously, it's driving me crazy."

You press your handkerchief to your nose again, trying to stay quiet. It’s lunchtime, but your food stays untouched. Just the thought of eating turns your stomach.

"Maybe stop talking with your mouth full," Beomgyu cuts in, not even bothering to look up. Then he glances at Soobin and adds, flatly, "And don’t yell at her."

"I'm just so pissed about that teacher giving her such a low score. Did you see her essay? It was her best one yet, she did so good!" the taller boy grumbles, pouting as he reaches over to pinch your cheek gently.

Your eyes—still a little red—meet his. “I know, right? I did my best.” you say, voice cracking just before the tears start all over again.

Beomgyu clicked his tongue, giving Soobin’s leg a light kick. “You made her cry again,” he muttered, shaking his head as he reached for your unopened lunchbox and popped it open like it was routine. He was already unscrewing your water bottle when Soobin, without a word, placed a tempura on top of your rice, his quiet way of saying sorry.

You wiped at your eyes, the ache in your chest softening just a little at the sight. When Beomgyu handed you your utensils, you took them without hesitation.

The universe didn’t give you everything you wanted but it tried to make up for it by giving you two people.

Everyone had gone back to eating. You reached for your food, slowly scooping the rice balls your mother had packed. Then, you glanced to your right. Your tear-streaked eyes—now lighter—and your mouth still full of rice met Choi Beomgyu’s gaze.

His eyes now filled with relief.

You forget little things all the time; where you left your pen, what day it is, one thing your mom asked you to grab from the market, but somehow, no matter how much time passes, you'll never forget the day you met your best friend.

You met Choi Beomgyu in kindergarten, when you were barely six years old. It wasn’t one of those storybook friendships that happened overnight. You just knew that the other kids were always too loud, too messy, too much and Beomgyu, was the only one who wasn’t. He was quiet. He didn’t try too hard. And then one day, your teacher asked the boys to choose a girl for the class dance. Without a word, Beomgyu walked straight to you. When you asked him why, he shrugged and said, “You don’t annoy me as much.”

It wasn’t exactly poetic but, it felt like the start of something that would last.

The only reason the friendship ever started was because neither of you found the other annoying. That was it. A comfort in each other’s presence. And somehow, that small reason stretched into something that lasted over a decade.

You grew up like that, orbiting each other through school days, lazy summer nights and wordless understandings. Eventually, people stopped calling you just friends. You were best friends. Branded, known. His name was a permanent fixture in your mouth; yours was stitched into every part of his life. His house felt like a second home. His mother always smiled a little softer when you came over, brushing your hair back like you were hers. Beomgyu’s older brother loved teasing him but was always strangely gentle with you.

It was rare to see one of you without the other.

Middle school was when you really noticed it—how Beomgyu started to change. He got louder. Braver. Started laughing with people you'd never seen him talk to before. His circle widened almost overnight. More guy friends, more inside jokes you didn’t quite understand, more people calling his name in the hallway. He picked up a guitar one day and never really put it down after that. It made you scared that he'll change with you too.

But he didn’t. Not once.

He still waited for you after class. Still leaned in to place his head on your shoulders when he was bored, still flicked your forehead lightly just to see you scowl. Still remembered the exact way you liked your ramen, and still offered the last bite even though he pretended not to care. And when someone tried to mess with you once—a cruel joke whispered too loud—Beomgyu didn’t even hesitate. He was there before you could even speak, standing in front of you like a wall you didn’t ask for.

Protective in a way that made your chest ache.

By the time middle school ended, the whispers had started. Are they dating? They’re always together. They have to be something.

You heard it all—in the hallways, behind half-closed locker doors, in the sharp glances thrown your way from girls when you and Beomgyu laughed like the world only existed for the two of you. It made something twist in your chest you got scared, unsure. You didn’t know what you were supposed to feel, or what he felt, or if either of you were even allowed to change the shape of what you’d always been.

So, just for a day, you pulled away.

You ignored him, let your eyes pass over him like he wasn’t there, didn’t wait at the gate like you always did, didn’t answer his questions. It wasn’t meant to hurt him. It was supposed to be space.

And that day, was the first time you ever saw Choi Beomgyu cry.

You never dared again.

In a house full of noise, with siblings, all louder and needier than you, it was easy to feel invisible. Your voice always got lost, your victories overlooked, and your sadness mistaken for silence.

Beomgyu saw you.

Where your family’s attention scattered, he gave you his wholly. He noticed when you were quiet, asked when no one else did. Remembered things no one bothered to learn. The way you preferred your socks mismatched. The way your hands trembled when you were overwhelmed. The way you lit up, just a little, when someone said your name.

With that kind of attention, it made you feel like you and him, alone, were enough.

High school brought a lot of changes. New uniforms, new hallways, new people. And Choi Soobin. The quietest boy you’d ever met. Kind in a way that didn’t demand attention. Always alone, always lingering just outside the crowd, like he hadn’t figured out how to step inside yet. It wasn’t you who invited him. It was Beomgyu.

“He looks lonely,” he’d said one afternoon, watching Soobin trail behind the rest of the class. “Let’s have lunch with him.”

And slowly, Soobin bloomed. Around the two of you, he laughed louder, smiled wider, filled space with stories and inside jokes and that rich, echoing laugh with his dimples that made everything feel a little warmer.

It was beautiful, watching him come alive, because you knew that feeling. You knew what it was to bloom like that.

You, too, bloomed because of Choi Beomgyu.

"You don’t like it?" Beomgyu asks, noticing the frown tugging at your face. His brows pull together in concern. "Why’d you go for that weird flavour?"

The two of you are walking side by side, the street quiet except for the sound of your footsteps. You’d said goodbye to Soobin five minutes ago, he lived on the other side of town, and his path had already veered off.

"It looked interesting," you mumble, pouting as you glance at Beomgyu taking a bite of his strawberry ice cream, one you’ve never seen him pick before. "It tastes awful, Gyu."

He laughs at the frustration in your voice, reaching out with his right hand for the lavender ice cream you picked on a whim. You hand it over without protest, eyes hopeful.

"You give in way too easily, with sales talk." When he offers his strawberry cone in exchange, you grin, already tasting victory. "That one's way too sweet anyway."

"Then why’d you get it?"

Beomgyu shrugs, eyes on the sidewalk. "Because it’s your favourite," he says simply. "And just in case you hated yours."

His words warmed your cheeks even as you keep your eyes forward. You keep walking, heart thudding a little too loudly in your chest, footsteps in sync with his like they’ve always been. You stay close to the edge of the sidewalk, careful not to drift too near. Beomgyu walks beside you, his hand swinging lazily at his side, fingers occasionally brushing against the fabric of his uniform pants. So casual. So unaware of how close he is.

And all you can think about is that space between you.

What would he do if you reached out and held his hand?

"No, Mom!"

Your attention shifts to a wailing child as you near the familiar playground you both pass every time you walk home. The kid is mid-meltdown, clearly not ready to leave, while his mother looks like she’s holding on by a thread. You scoff, shaking your head. "I don’t think I’ll ever be a mom. I can’t stand kids." A laugh bubbles out from beside you. You roll your eyes, already knowing who it’s from.

"Stop laughing," you mutter. He does but the grin stays, soft and a little amused. You catch him looking at you.

"What?"

"Nothing," he says, still smiling. "Just pictured a tiny version of you throwing a tantrum like that."

"As if."

“Do you want to swing for a bit?” he sways the conversation, nodding toward the playground.

You blink. “Huh?”

“The swings,” he says again, a bit more softly this time. “I can push you.” You glance over, surprised, but his expression is sincere, almost serious in that way Beomgyu gets when something small matters more than it should. And you remember…how you both used to love this.

“Okay,” you murmur, “Sure.”

The playground is mostly empty now. The crying child from earlier is gone, carried away by a tired mother. A few scattered voices float in the breeze, but it’s peaceful, quiet enough to hear the rustling of trees, the soft creak of the swing chains. From here, you can see the lower half of the town, rooftops glowing under the setting sun, like something out of a memory.

You finish the last bite of your ice cream, sit down on the swing, and feel his hands gently press against your back. "You ready?"

For a while, he says nothing after that. Just pushes you with that soft kind of attention he’s always had—like you’re something delicate he’s afraid to damage. Every time you glance back at him, he’s already looking at you, smiling.

You think it's because your smile is too wide to hide.

The breeze dances through your hair, and the sun dips lower, casting everything in gold, and when you look back at him again, his hair tousled by the wind, his eyes soft, his face glowing in that dying light; your breath catches.

He’s beautiful. He's always been beautiful. In the way he’s always looked at you.

“Y/N.” The sun has dipped. It’s been about thirty minutes since you first sat down. Beomgyu now sits on the swing next to yours, feet dragging lightly against the gravel, head bowed like he’s studying the way his fingers twist together.

You glance at him. “Hm?”

“I… I have to tell you something.” His eyes stay fixed on his hands.

You try to lighten the mood, like you always do when he gets like this, “You need anything?” you tease, nudging his foot with yours. “Is that why you pushed me off the swings earlier?” He lets out a short, breathless laugh, but his eyes never meet yours.

“I— I’m going out of the country.”

“Oh, wow,” you say, perking up. “That sounds amazing! It’s your first time, right? Who would’ve thought you’d be getting on a plane before me? Where are you going? How long’s the vacation? Are you gonna—"

You stop mid-sentence. He’s finally looking at you, and there’s something in his expression that makes your heart sink. “What’s wrong?” you ask, quieter now.

“I’m not going on vacation,” he says. “I’m moving. For college. My parents got this opportunity… it was all kind of sudden. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

You stare at him.

Leaving. He’s leaving.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Your voice is small. It barely carries over the creak of the swings, but it’s enough, enough to make Beomgyu go still.

You don’t know why that’s the first thing you said. Maybe because it’s easier than saying please don’t go. Your hands are freezing, even though it’s not that cold out. It’s the way your whole body feels hollow now, like something vital’s been yanked out of you. You remember the stories—the ones your classmates whisper like warnings.

People who leave this town don’t come back.

The thought of him leaving terrified you.

Beomgyu shifts in the swing beside you, the chains rattling. “Y/N, I… I didn’t know how. Everything happened so fast and I—” When he finally looks at you, you wish he hadn’t. There’s guilt written all over his face. It makes you feel worse.

“You still should’ve told me.” You grab your bag, his hands flinch as you pull it from them, and you’re already on your feet. You take it without meeting his eyes. “I’m going home.”

He says your name, again and again, but you’re already walking. Fast. Like if you stop, it’ll all hit you at once and you’ll break apart right there in front of him.

You don’t look back.

Because you know if you do, you’ll beg him to stay.

You slipped through the front door of your home without a sound. It was too easy, when no one really looked at you long enough to see the redness in your eyes.

Your family wasn’t rich but they managed to rent a house with just enough space to pretend everyone had their own corner. Yours was the storage room. Barely wide enough for a mattress, with walls that breathed dust and silence. But it was yours. Four claustrophobic walls and a door you could close on everything else. You dropped your bag and sat on the floor. The mattress creaked behind you, but you didn’t move. You just sat there, blinking hard against the tears that threatened again.

This was the one place where it was safe to fall apart other than in front of him.

It’s been hours since you got home. Hours since you last your best friend. Since he told you he was leaving.

At first, you were angry. Furious, even. You buried your face in your pillow and cried like it would undo the words he’d said. It felt like betrayal. You kept thinking: Why didn’t he tell you sooner? He’d told you everything before. Every stupid little secret. Every bad decision. Every dream. And this—this—he kept quiet.

But anger doesn’t last. Not when it’s him.

Why did you react like that? Why couldn’t you have just smiled and said, I’m happy for you? What kind of best friend gets upset when someone they love is finally getting out?

Because of all people—he deserves to leave this town.

He’s always dreamed bigger than these cracked sidewalks and dead-end streets. Always reached for something more while you stayed tethered to what’s familiar. He’s leaving you. You wipe your eyes again, though it’s useless. The tears keep coming, your body hasn’t figured out how to stop grieving yet. You’ll apologize tomorrow. The moment the sun rises. You’ll tell him you were wrong. That you’re proud of him. That you’ll miss him more than he’ll ever know.

Because he deserves that.

You’ll apologize tomorrow... tomorrow?

The thought tastes wrong in your mouth. What if tomorrow is too late?

You sit up suddenly, heart pounding. The clock reads 9:04 PM. You listened outside, the house is still. Silent. You know the rhythm of your family’s sleep—light snorers, tired bones, people who won’t notice you’re gone as long as you're quiet. You grab your jacket, moving carefully across the creaking floorboards. Your door opens with a whisper. One cautious step, then another, and you're at the front door, fingers trembling slightly as they find the lock.

The outside air is cool against your skin as you crack the door open. But just as you take a step out, you freeze.

Across the street, lit faintly by the orange glow of the nearest streetlamp, someone sits on the pavement. Legs stretched out, hands buried deep in the pockets of a hoodie you know too well.

Choi Beomgyu.

Your breath catches in your throat.

“Hi, pretty.”

“You—” A curse almost slips out, but you bite it back, glancing toward the hallway behind you. You lower your voice. “What the hell are you doing here? What if I didn’t come out, idiot?”

The furrow in his brow from earlier is gone now, replaced by that familiar boyish grin, the one that always makes it harder to stay mad.

“But you did come out,” he says simply. He rises from the pavement with that lazy ease he always carries, brushing his hands on his jeans before holding them out—open, waiting—but he doesn’t move toward you. Just stands there. Looking at you like he knew you’d come. Like he hoped you would. You hear it in the quiet expectant look on his face. Come here.

And you do.

Your feet move before your mind catches up, closing the distance between you and him. Without a word, you wrap your arms around his waist, his arms are already around you before your face finds the safety of his chest. He pulls you in tighter, like he's afraid that if he doesn't hold you close enough, you’ll disappear too.

Beomgyu leans down, buries his face in your hair, and breathes in—one deep, shaking inhale that sounds like worry, like guilt, like relief all tangled into one. Because he was.

“I knew you’d come out,” he whispers. His voice is soft, cracking at the edges, and it breaks something in you. Your eyes sting immediately. “I’m sorry,” he adds.

You pull back reluctantly, almost having to pry yourself from his arms because he doesn’t loosen his grip right away. When you finally look up at him, your voice is barely above a whisper. “No… I’m the one who’s sorry.”

He’s staring at you now, like you’re something fragile in his hands. His gaze scans your face slowly, like he’s trying to memorize every flicker of emotion before it fades. His left arm stays wrapped around you, grounding you, while his right hand comes up, gently cupping your face. His palm is warm. Familiar. It fits too perfectly against your skin. You’ve always been close to him. But this—this feels like a different kind of closeness, and you can’t look away.

Not when he’s looking at you like this.

Not when the soft, slow stroke of his thumb across your cheek sends shivers through your chest, makes your breath hitch and your heart stutter.

Is it because he's leaving?

“Have you been crying?” he whispers, voice is barely there, like he’s afraid to ask, afraid to know the answer. His hand stays warm on your face, thumb trailing just beneath your eye. He’s not wiping tears—there are none left—but it’s like he can feel where they were, tracing. “Have you?” he asks again, softer this time.

You try to look away, but his hand gently guides you back, eyes locked onto yours. Your voice comes out in a breath, cracked and small. “It was my fault.”

“No,” he interrupts, voice thick, eyes glassy. “I don’t want to leave you.” He leans in, resting his forehead against yours, and you close your eyes, the burn behind them almost unbearable now. He pulls back just enough to kiss your forehead. Another lands gently on the bridge of your nose. You’re still, barely breathing, as his lips hover close to yours. “I’ve been in love with you for years,”

Your eyes flew open. “What?”

“Did you really not see it?” His voice cracked. “That I’m completely, stupidly in love with you?”

You shook your head, stunned, your cheeks burning despite the ache swelling in your chest.

“God,” he breathed, pulling you into him, “it’s taking everything in me not to kiss you right now.”

His arms tightened around you, desperate. “Since you didn't hear me out earlier, I'll say it now. I swear I’ll come back. As soon as I can. I’ll come for you. I'll make it up to you. You better be ready—I want your bags packed the second I show up. I made Soobin promise to walk you home every day, because I know how easily your mind wanders and it drives me insane.”

You clutched his shirt, the tears finally breaking free. “I’ll wait for you,” you whispered, voice wrecked as you cried. “I promise.”

He pressed his lips to your hair. “Good.”

“And Gyu?” you murmured, voice muffled against his chest. He hummed in response, arms still wrapped tightly around you, your face pressed against the fabric of his shirt, breathing him. “I’ve been in love with you too,”

You didn’t have to see his face—you’ve known him for thirteen years. You felt the way his whole body stilled for a second, then melted, like the words filled something he hadn’t dared to hope for. You knew he was grinning, that crooked, boyish grin that always made your heart trip. He pulled you impossibly closer, like he wanted to fuse you into him.

And under the soft, flickering lamplight, it’s the kind of scene that belongs in a movie. Two teenagers, holding on like the world might tear them apart the second they let go. Two hearts beating too loud, too fast.

Hopelessly, breathlessly in love.

When Beomgyu pulled away from the hug, his eyes flicked to the door of your house. You were meant to go inside but his expression asked you to stay. You slipped your fingers into his.

“Can I come with you?”

He didn’t even hesitate. He never could, not with you. Maybe it was the quiet defiance of it, or maybe it was the way things had shifted—how it suddenly felt like you were his, and he was yours. The truth that the two of you belonged to each other now. He reaches out, his hands waiting for yours.

It only took a second when you did.

That night, you didn’t walk into the comfort of him home, or the usual warmth of his family’s greetings. You followed him up to his room, quietly.

He made sure you were comfortable, tucking you in gently before leaning down to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’ll just turn off the lights,” he murmured, his voice low.

You shifted onto the left side of the bed, heart thudding as you waited. Every creak of the mattress as he moved made your breath catch. The bed dipped with his weight, and you held your breath, listening to the quiet rustle of sheets and the sound of your own pulse pounding in your ears. "Beomgyu?" you whispered.

His response was immediate. “You need something?”

You hesitated, teeth tugging at your bottom lip. “Can you… hold me?”

Two strong arms snaked around your waist as soon as you said those words, and Beomgyu's lips were against your nape. He left trails of kisses on your neck up to the back of your ears, his body pressed on yours. "I thought you'd never ask."

You giggle, breathless, and he laughs too, warm against your skin. He presses a few more soft kisses to the back of your head, then his voice drops to a whisper against your ear. “Can I touch you?”

Your breath hitches, but you nod. His hand slips beneath your shirt, fingers brushing lightly across your stomach. “This okay?” he asks, voice gentle.

You nod again, barely able to get the word out. “Yeah.”

His hand travels higher, fingertips gliding up until they meet the bare curve of your chest. He pauses, just long enough to make your heart race. His lips are at your neck now, breath hot. “This okay too?”

When he feels you nod, his hand moves with more purpose, fingertips gliding over the curve of your breast. He cups you fully, palm warm, thumb brushing the softness, squeezing just enough to make you arch subtly into his touch. He teases, exploring everywhere except where you need him most, drawing out the ache with every careful touch. When his fingers finally graze your nipple, a quiet moan slips from your lips before you can stop it. He pauses, his breath brushing against your neck. “You can tell me to stop anytime, okay?”

Then he pulls his hand away from under your shirt, and the sudden absence makes you whine, your body instinctively chasing after his warmth. Before you can speak, he cups your face gently, tilting your head until your eyes meet. It’s dark—but he's close, so close—you can make out the shape of his face, the softness in his gaze.

He leans in, brushing a featherlight kiss over your lips. Then another. You giggle softly, breath mingling, and when your lips part in a smile, he takes it as invitation. This time the kiss is deep—hungry. His mouth moves against yours with desperation, like he’s been craving your taste for far too long. His hand finds your waist, tugging you closer, bodies aligning in all the right ways as the heat between you builds.

“I need you, Gyu,” you whisper, voice barely there, lost in the way his lips trail along your neck, warm and wet. “Please.”

He pauses just enough to meet your gaze, then his hand slips between your thighs, cupping you through the fabric. The pressure makes your hips jerk, breath hitching.

“Here?” he murmurs, rubbing slow, teasing circles. “You need me here?”

It’s too much, and not enough. Heat pools low in your belly, a need that feels raw and overwhelming. You nod, biting your lip, your voice trembling. “Yes. There. Please.”

He groans, low and deep, and that’s when clothes start disappearing—slowly, messily. Every layer peeled off is interrupted by his mouth; on your lips, your jaw, your collarbones. His hands, greedy and gentle all at once, explore you like he’s memorizing every inch. The room is filled with nothing but breath, the soft rustle of fabric, the occasional hitch of a moan. It takes time—because he makes it take time. Like he wants to savour the reveal, like he’s waited too long to see you like this and now he refuses to rush. He holds and touches you, like your mother made you just for him.

When he finally sinks lower, eyes locked on yours as his lips trace a burning path down your body, you don’t stop him.

“Beomgyu…” You moaned as you clenched your fist on his dark locks. His tongue was doing to your buds as his fingers part your wet folds. You don't know what it is, but it makes your legs quivered as his tongue lapped at your entrance.

Beomgyu grunts as he hears your soft moans, sucking on your clit to hear more. Your taste in his mouth got him drunk as he shook his head from side to side, making your moans go higher as you moved your hips to grind your wetness on his tongue. "Hmm?"

He pulled back, replacing his tongue with his thumb, rubbing her wet clit as he kissed and sucked your inner thighs. Your eyes rolled back as your chest rose up and down, glistening with sweat.

You're fucking beautiful. Beomgyu thought as he looked up at you with hooded eyes. Your lachrymose eyes met his. The sight of your blushing cheeks, eyes asking for more with your lips between your teeth made Beomgyu slightly rut his hips on the bed.

"You'll come back for me, right?" He pumped a finger inside your pussy, curling it to hit your spot as he put his mouth back to work again, flattening his tongue over your swollen pearl before flicking it with the tip. You cried out in pleasure, throwing your head back.

“I’m so sorry, baby. I just couldn't help myself.” He begged as he doubled the finger inside your soaking cunt, making you cry out in pleasure as your hands grabbed the pillow under your head. "I will. I can't live without you."

“I can't resist having all of you.” He kissed your clit, making you whimper at the brief contact. He took off his shirt and pants before pulling you by your arm, sitting you on his lap as he took off your blouse and bra. He kissed around your nipple before taking it into his mouth, moaning at the taste of you.

It’s crazy how you went from crying to rubbing against each other, but both have been craving for this. And now, the situation of him leaving only made his hunger for you increase. Beomgyu thought of everything he could do to show you how sincere he was and how much he loves you. He wanted you to know that you were the only woman he’ll ever touch like this. That he'll come back, that this decision wasn't something he ever wanted. And the growing tent in his boxers is also aching to prove that.

He moved your position to grind on his bulge, letting out quiet moans as he desperately kissed you. He stopped your hips as he moved to your other nipple, lightly biting it while staring at your glossy eyes, making your breath hitch. He hummed as he sucked the pebbled flesh into his mouth, nibbling on it. Once satisfied, he laid your back down, admiring your body as you panted. Your eyes are glistening, and so is your cunt. He groaned at the sight, pushing his hair back and taking his erected member out of its confinement. He pumped it a few times before you sat up and took it into your hand.

“Let me make you feel good.” Beomgyu stopped your hand, giving a kiss on your forehead. “Fuck.” He murmured as he moved to your lips, sucking on them, making you whimper as you laid back down again.

“Beomgyu, please…” You cried when Beomgyu started to rub his shaft on your slit. Every time his head hits her bud, you let out a whimper, eyebrows furrowed and eyes wide as you look up at him.

Beomgyu took his time, grunting before pushing the tip inside. You gasped, grabbing the sheets under, feeling the pain as his length invade you. Your walls fluttered around his cock, making him let out low growls. You felt tears in your eyes as you watched half of his length disappear inside you. Beomgyu took your hand, intertwining your fingers. He kissed your tears.

“Just a little more, love.” Beomgyu shushed when you hissed, feeling a hint of pain as he filled you. His other hand began rubbing circles on your clit to ease the burn from the stretch.

Beomgyu kissed your hand when he was entirely in, giving you time to adjust. You look gorgeous underneath him. Legs wide open,mouth slightly parted, and body glistening under the dim lights of his room. You're all his, and he would never let himself fuck up. He would never let himself do something stupid. He'll come back to you as soon as he can, the thought of you waiting burns him.

Beomgyu started moving slowly when you nod your head, until your whimpers turned into moans. His name echoed in whispers, as you clawed on the skin of his back, leaving red marks. He was cradling your head, and his lips pressed on your ear. He was whispering the sweetest things to you.

“You’re the only one I’d fuck like this, baby. You’re the only one I’d touch like this.” Beomgyu growled, kissing your ear lobes.

“Yes, yes, Beomgyu, please…” You begged as his hips started to thrust harder into you.

“Fuck. You’re the only one I’d make love to, Y/N.” He groaned, feeling your walls clench around him. He could tell that you were both close. Your walls spasmed around him, and his thrust started to stutter.

“I love you and only you. So fucking much.” He stared deeply into your eyes, feeling your orgasm take over your body. His mouth reaches for your sweet lips, your toes curling as your legs wrap around his waist. Beomgyu thrustied into you a few more times before pulling out to spill his thick load on your thighs. He wouldn’t trade you for the world.

After, Beomgyu became the shyiest guy in the world. He silently blushed, cleaned you up before getting under the covers with you.

“I love you,” He started, as he ran his fingers down your back before resting on the lower part of it, pulling you to his chest.

“I love you, Beomgyu.”

“Do you have any plans?” your mother asks softly, her voice barely cutting through the clatter of her hands preparing a lunchbox. You’re in front of the mirror, running your fingers through your hair.

“Plans for what?” you finally say, eyes fixed on your own reflection—not really seeing it.

“It’s your… twentieth birthday.” Your hand pauses mid-motion.

You clear your throat and force a shrug, “Oh. Right.”

She watches as you fumble with the buttons on your blouse, your fingers too stiff, too fast. She sees the shadows beneath your eyes and sighs. “You should take it easy, sweetheart.”

“I am,” you lie, “I just have work. And… I don’t know.” You reach for the lunchbox she’s packed. Transparent. Eggs again. You swallow hard, the sight alone making your stomach twist.

“I’ll get going,” you murmur, already turning away. You don’t meet her eyes. You can’t. Not when you know she’s still watching you—worried, helpless. And not when you’ve gotten so good at pretending it doesn’t matter.

After high school, it wasn’t a shock, you knew college was never in the cards for you. No dramatic moment of realization. Just reality. So here you are, a year later, on your way to work… and you didn’t even remember today was your birthday.

He would’ve remembered. He never missed it.

You shake the thought off like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t stick to the inside of your ribs. You offer stiff smiles to your coworkers as you clock in, grabbing the stack of flyers assigned to you for the day. Real estate. That’s what they call it. What you do is stand outside in the sun, in the cold, in the wind—shoving these papers into passing hands, hoping someone actually cares enough to look.

Most don’t.

But then again… who would take someone like you seriously? Who would even want someone like you?

“Here. It’s on promo today,” you say, holding out the flyer with rehearsed cheer. “You can get ten percent off the down payment if you sign today, and there's a—”

“I’ll do it,” the man cuts in, eyes lingering where they shouldn’t. On you, not the paper.

You blink, caught off guard. “Oh, great,” you say, managing a small smile. Finally. Something good. Maybe you can actually afford to eat something real tonight. Maybe even bring some back for your mom.

“If you sleep with me. One night.” You freeze. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the flyer. You don’t look at him right away—you’re afraid if you do, you’ll either throw up or scream.

“I’ll pay extra,” he adds, as if this is just another business transaction. As if your dignity has a price tag. Your jaw clenches. Slowly, you snatch the flyer back from his hand, crumpling it in your grip.

“Go to hell,” you mutter. You don’t even look back as you turn around, heart pounding—not from fear, not entirely. From exhaustion. From disgust. From the unbearable weight of this being your life. You exhale shakily, trying to bury the sting in your throat.

You thought today couldn’t get worse. But that’s the thing, isn’t it?

Every day’s been worse since.

After that encounter, you had to pull yourself together, force a smile like nothing happened, like the words didn’t stick to your skin and crawl under it. You kept handing out flyers with trembling hands and a voice that cracked more than once. But no one noticed. No one ever does.

You whispered it like a prayer. Please—just one sale. Just one. If there’s anything left out there for you—anyone listening—let today be enough. It’s your birthday, for god’s sake. Let that mean something.

Not a single sale.

Now you’re on the subway, back hunched against the hard plastic seat, eyes locked on the floor like if you move, you’ll shatter. The carriage rocks, people come and go, and still, you sit there, numb.

Your eyes sting, but the tears won’t fall. They never do. Not anymore. Because nothing hurts more than the ache that’s lived inside you for the past year. It's a wound that learned how to stop bleeding and just started swallowing you whole instead.

You pulled out your wallet and started counting what little was left. Bills folded too many times, coins barely enough to matter. You stared at the total for a second, then let out a quiet sigh. Fuck it. A drink won’t fix anything but it’ll help you tonight. You took a different bus route tonight.

The pub is dim, you step inside quietly, hoping not to draw attention. You don’t belong here, but you don’t belong anywhere these days. You could be anyone: a woman with a broken heart, a woman who just lost her job, a woman trying not to fall apart in public. All of them could be true. None of them are far off. You’re still in your work clothes. The blouse is wrinkled, two buttons undone. Your hair’s half-up, half-forgotten, and the look on your face probably says enough to keep people away. You don’t care. You head straight to the bar and order something strong, sitting alone at a stool like it’s the only place left in the world that doesn’t expect anything from you.

"I will. I can’t live without you."

Your breath stutters. The glass trembles slightly in your hand. You almost choke on the drink as the tears sting again—too cruel. You press your lips together and wipe your face quickly, like that’ll stop the pain. You need to leave. Now. Before you break down in front of strangers.

You slide off the stool, heart pounding, eyes glassy ut then the stool beside yours shifts.

“Hi, pretty.”

You freeze. You turn your head slowly, hope rising in your chest before you can stop it—hope that maybe, somehow—

It’s not him.

“Jaehyun,” you say, forcing your features to settle. He noticed the flicker of disappointment in your eyes, the way it sparked and died all in the same breath. You remember him. A batchmate. Schoolmate. Someone who never really talked to you back then.

“What are you doing here all alone?” he asks, already gesturing to the bartender for two drinks.

You shake your head quickly. “No, I’m good.”

He grins, “Come on, just one. I’ve missed you.”

You almost laugh. Bitterness curling behind your teeth like smoke. Missed you? He didn’t even know you. You were never close. You never even talked outside of borrowed notes and hallway nods. And now, here he is, like proximity to your sadness gives him permission to touch it.

Does he miss you too?

You look down at your drink, the ice already melting. “That’s funny,” you mutter, just loud enough.

“What is?”

“You missed me?” you echo, eyebrows raised, voice flat. “We barely spoke in school. Is that a new pick-up line or something?” Your eyes meet his, tired and unamused. You expect him to get defensive, maybe roll his eyes and leave. Part of you even hopes he does. But instead, he laughs.

“Well, sorry,” he says, shrugging, “but you should know, I had this terrible, massive crush on you back then.”

You blink in surprise. He goes on. “Except… Choi Beomgyu basically told me to back off in second year. Guy was obsessed with you.”

Your stomach twists. Choi Beomgyu. You look away, suddenly too aware of your own breathing. The room feels louder, smaller.

Choi Beomgyu that you haven't heard back anything since the day he left.

“He told you that?” you manage to say, voice thinner now, almost brittle.

Jaehyun hums like it’s nothing, like he didn’t just drop a grenade into your chest. “Yeah. Said you weren’t really available. Emotionally or otherwise.” He chuckles. “Dude looked ready to murder me, so I backed off.”

You stare into your glass, watching the light catch on the melted ice. The burn in your throat isn’t just from the alcohol anymore, it’s from everything you’ve buried just to stay standing.

Beomgyu wrote you, at first. The first month after he left, letters came; messy handwriting, little jokes scribbled in the margins, lines that made you cry in secret because he still sounded like yours. His I love yous. And you clung to that. But then… nothing.

You kept writing anyway. Hundreds of letters. You told him everything—about your new job, about how hard things had gotten, about the nights you couldn’t sleep, about how it felt like something inside you was cracking open just from missing him. You even wrote when you were sick, when you thought, maybe this will scare him enough to write back. Still nothing.

You gave him the benefit of the doubt. Told yourself maybe he lost your address. Maybe life got too loud. Maybe something happened. Maybe. But denial only holds you together for so long. One month passed. Then one year. And the silence became an answer you never asked for. You remember checking the mailbox every day like clockwork. Standing there in your pajamas with bare feet on cold tile, praying for something—anything—with his name on it. There was even a day you went to the post office, hands trembling, convinced the letters must’ve gotten stuck somewhere, misplaced, waiting.

But there was nothing.

And now you're outside the pub, crying. You're a mess, knees drawn to your chest on the dim pavement, makeup smudged, throat raw from holding back too long. Drunk, heartbroken. And Jaehyun, this man you barely know, is looking at you like you're shattering.

“Fuck him,” he mutters, his fists clenching at his sides like that might help. “Forget about him, Y/N.” He crouches beside you, his hand awkwardly pressing to your shoulder, trying to comfort you. You barely feel it. Everything inside you is too loud.

Choi Beomgyu.

His name beats in your chest.

“I hate seeing you like this,” Jaehyun says, his voice tightening. “I backed off because of that asshole. And now look. He left. He hurt you. He’s probably living some perfect fucking life while you’re here… like this.”

Choi Beomgyu.

You miss him. You need him.

You can’t say anything. You just keep crying—ugly, silent sobs that make your shoulders shake. There’s nothing left to hold together. Nothing left to explain. No one to explain it to. Your other half isn't here.

Jaehyun’s voice softens, “Stop crying,” he whispers, too close. “You don't deserve this. He forgot you, Y/N. He lied, he's an asshole."

"Come with me. I’ll make you forget him.”

Choi Beomgyu. He'll never come back to you.

Jaehyun reaches out his hand. And just like that, you’re back to that night, back to the night your best friend confessed. You lifted your eyes, only to see his face instead. The man in front of you waves his hand again.

It took long for you to give your hands.

It only takes one decision.

One misstep. One reckless breath you don’t take back in time. People don’t believe that—not really. They think life builds slow, that it gives you warnings, but sometimes, it just tips. One turn down the wrong street. One answer you shouldn’t have given. One goodbye you didn’t mean and suddenly, the shape of your life is different. You think you’re being careful. You think you’re being brave. You think you’re doing the right thing, but the future isn’t some distant, untouchable thing. It's sitting in your hands, waiting for you to move. To decide. Pressed into your palms, like wet clay. You could mold it into anything. Or crush it without meaning to.

You don’t always know which one you’ve done until it’s here.

"You'll take care of yourself, right?" Beomgyu's voice cracks, his lips tremble like they’re holding back everything he doesn’t want to say. His hands cup your face so gently it hurts.

You nod. It’s all you can manage. Your throat is tight, your eyes sting, "I will. I promise."

Behind him, his family waits, luggage in hand, eyes heavy with knowing. The gate is just a few feet away, and it draws a line. A line you can’t follow. A future you’re not invited to.

Beomgyu leans in, kissing you like he's trying to leave pieces of himself behind. A kiss to your forehead. Your nose. Your cheeks. Your lips. "I love you," he says. And somehow, despite the chaos of the airport, the overhead announcements, the rushing footsteps—you hear it. You hear it.

He grips his passport tighter, knuckles white, like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart. He looks at you one last time—eyes burning, jaw clenched—and then he lets go. His hands leave your skin, and something inside you goes with them.

He turns to Soobin, standing behind you, silent and teary-eyed. His voice is low, almost pleading. "Take care of her."

Then he walks away.

You bite your lip hard, tasting salt and copper, as the tears spill freely now. Soobin’s hand rests on your shoulder, but it does nothing to soothe the storm inside you.

Because he's walking away. His figure grows smaller and smaller, swallowed by distance and the sharp fluorescent lights of the terminal.

Then—he stops. He turns around.

And you see it, fresh tears carving down his cheeks. He looks at you. He looks like he wants to run back to you. You shouldn’t be surprised. Not with Beomgyu. Not with the way he loves; loud, reckless, and all at once. He throws his head back, chest heaving, and yells so loud the entire terminal stills:

"I’LL COME BACK FOR YOU!"

You wake with a jolt, gasping like you’ve just surfaced from drowning. Sweat clings to your skin, your forehead slick, and his voice—those last shouted words—still echo like sirens in your ears. You press your palms into your face, trying to ground yourself, but your stomach twists violently. Before you can even think, you’re out of bed, legs shaky, breath uneven. You half-stumble down the hall, grateful that the bathroom’s empty. You barely make it to the sink before the nausea hits.

You vomit. Again. Again. Each heave sends a fresh wave of pain crashing through your skull, like your body’s punishing you for remembering. All you can hear is the frantic thud of your heartbeat, pounding so loud it drowns out everything else.

It’s been over a month since you slept with Jaehyun. A month since you last saw his face. You tried with him—god, you tried, but you can't.

Every moment with him feels rehearsed.

You wipe your face with trembling hands, heart thudding against your ribs like it wants out. The bathroom light flickers faintly above you, and when you finally dare to look up at your reflection, you barely recognize the girl staring back. You’re usually regular. Always have been. But this time… nothing.

The realization hits you like ice down your spine. Your throat tightens as you swallow hard.

You need to buy a pregnancy test.

"I'm pregnant." The words fall from your lips, your eyes fixed on anything but him. The floor. The wall. "I don’t know what to do."

The silence that follows is deafening. You don’t have to look to know he’s staring at the test in your hand—at the two pink lines that changed everything. Then, quietly but without hesitation: “Let’s keep it.”

“I know you don’t love me,” he adds, voice soft even as it cracks at the edges. “I know you’re still…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. The silence stretches, his throat bobbing as he swallows down. “But we can keep it. Together. For the baby.”

And finally, you look at him. Really look. His eyes aren’t pleading. They’re not trying to convince. They’re just… open. Raw. Honest.

“We’ll build something,” he says, stepping a little closer, as if that might make it real. “A home. A family. Just give it time. Move in with me. We’ll make it work.”

Days passed. Somehow, you said yes. You told him you'd try — and he held on to that like it was a promise.

Jaehyun talked more now. About his family in the U.S., how they already knew, how they were surprisingly… supportive. He started picking up little things for the baby, socks, bottles, a stuffed bear with a stitched-on smile. He showed you receipts, color palettes for the nursery. He told you that before the baby comes, he’d have a small apartment ready. For both of you. For your new life together.

You believed him.

Your mother's reaction, on the other hand, was quieter than you expected. No yelling. No disappointment. Just a soft, dull acceptance. Maybe it was because she never expected much from you in the first place. Or maybe she saw how pale you looked, how your hands trembled when you thought no one was watching, and figured silence was the kindest thing she could give. Your father... just ignored it.

You're sitting on a bench in the park, the afternoon sun casting long shadows over the grass. You pop a strawberry into your mouth, sweet and cool against the heat. Six months. You're six months pregnant now. Just a little over three left.

Jaehyun sits beside you, a paper bag in hand, his eyes bright with effort. "Here," he says, pulling out a small container of salad. “I made it. Looked up what’s good for the baby. Thought you might like it.”

You smile, soft and small, and take the container from him. You open it — and pause. The smile fades. “Oh.”

He stiffens beside you. “Why?”

You glance up at him, careful with your voice. “I’m allergic to peanuts.” You’ve told him before. Twice. Maybe three times.

His face falls. He takes the container back immediately, as if it’s burned him. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you murmur. You see it in his face, that flicker of guilt, of failure. He’s trying so hard to be someone good for you, for the baby. But the truth is, you barely know each other. You’re still learning each other’s favorite colours, let alone what makes each other hurt.

He reaches for your hand.

You let him hold it.

That day had been going well. Too well. The sun was warm but not suffocating, the breeze gentle against your skin. Jaehyun was laughing, not just smiling, but actually laughing, the kind that made you glance at him sideways because it still felt strange to hear joy from him, to feel it near you.

And you let yourself imagine it. A future. A home.

A baby wrapped in soft cotton blankets.

“Jake?” It was sharp, high-pitched, almost disbelieving. You turn instinctively. A woman stands a few feet away, dressed in crisp neutrals, her expression caught between shock and something you can’t quite name. She looks to be in her forties, and she's staring straight at you. “Are you joking?”

The sun is gone now, replaced by the fading lavender of twilight. A breeze lifts the hem of your shirt slightly, brushing cool against your skin.

“Mom,” Jaehyun says quickly, already letting go of your hand like he has been caught. He stands, tense, defensive. The word Mom hits you like a shove. You try to stand too, slow and awkward, one hand supporting your back, the other braced against the bench. You can feel the weight of her stare, heavy on your belly.

"Hi, I'm Y/N. Jaehyun's told me about you." You smiled or tried to, under her pining stare. Jaehyun just stands there, caught between you and her, mouth slightly open.

Why does he looks so shock?

And in that awful silence, you feel a rush of embarassment crawl up your neck, because you’re standing here, and she’s looking at you like a mistake he should’ve never made.

“Well,” she says, her tone clipped, “He’s never told me about… you.” Her eyes rake over you. From your shoes to the curve of your belly. You bite the inside of your cheek so hard it stings.

He lied.

“Mom, not here. Please. Let’s talk—”

“Is this why you’ve been asking for more money?” Her voice rises, looks around at the food, the soft blanket, the picnic he prepared so proudly. Then her eyes land on your clothes—the ones Jaehyun bought you—and her lip curls. “You thought we knew? That we’d let this happen? That I’d let my son throw his life away for a girl like you?”

“Mom! Stop!” Jaehyun shouts.

Your chest tightens. Your throat burns. You cover your stomach without thinking, hands trembling as they settle over the place your baby lives like you can protect them from her words. The tears sting, but you blink them back.

You look at the father of your child. He should be saying something, anything. He should be standing in front of you, shielding you from the way his mother's eyes tore into you.

He steps toward her. He places his hands gently on her shoulders, leans in, and whispers something you can’t hear. And just like that, she exhales. Composed again. Her mouth presses into a smug, satisfied line as she straightens her purse strap and turns away. “I’ll wait in the car, son.”

Your chest is burning now, your heart lodged somewhere in your throat. You stare at the ground. You can’t meet his eyes.

“I’ll talk to my mom first, ugh, you can go home by yourself, right? I’ll see you soon after. Be safe." He doesn’t even wait for your answer. He jogs off, his figure growing smaller with every step. And all you can do is watch his back.

It’s not unfamiliar to you now, that view.

You stand there a moment longer than you should, frozen in place, lips pressed tight as tears finally spilled down your cheeks. You wipe them away with the back of your hand, rough and fast, like you’re angry at yourself for letting them fall in the first place. Then, gently, you rest your hand on your stomach, “I’m sorry about that,” you whispered.

You walked home alone.

You weren’t surprised when Jaehyun didn’t show up the next morning. Hope had already begun dying in you the moment he left you in the middle of that park without looking back.

It wasn’t him who came. It was a man in a tailored suit with dead eyes and a briefcase that looked more expensive than anything you owned. The family lawyer. He didn’t ask how you were. Didn’t even sit down. We’ll need a paternity test. He’s willing to pay child support. Don’t get any ideas about taking advantage of him.

You stood there, your mother nodding beside you. Your father crossing his arms with dissapointment in his face. Your fingers numb, barely hearing anything over the sound of your own heartbeat screaming in your ears.

Maybe this was some twisted drama, and you were the girl everyone pities at the end, the one who gets left behind while the world keeps spinning. Not the lead. Not even a real character. Just… a consequence.

The future you had barely started cracked before it even had the chance to grow roots.

“Hold on, okay? She’s almost here,” your mother says, voice shaking as she grips your hand.

But it’s slipping, everything is slipping. The pain is unbearable, a tearing, twisting storm from your waist down, and it doesn’t stop. It doesn’t even give you a moment to breathe. Your body feels like it's being ripped apart from the inside out, like it's punishing you for something you don’t remember doing wrong. You can smell the blood. It clings to the air, to your skin, to the sheets already damp beneath you. The weight of what's about to happen, of bringing life into the world while feeling like you’re dying.

“It hurts,” you gasp, voice cracking, tears slipping past clenched eyes. “Mom, it fucking hurts. Help me, please. Get her out of me.”

Your mother squeezes your hand again, then suddenly lets go. “She’s outside. I think she’s here. Just—just wait for me. Hold on.”

The silence that fills the room is unbearable. You stare up at the ceiling, as if by looking high enough, far enough, you can escape this. The pain. The fear.

They say in books, in birth books, in all those neat little guides—you’re supposed to think of something calming during labor. Focus your mind. Ground yourself in something that brings you peace.

You try. Your baby.

You’re going to meet your baby.

That thought should’ve been enough. It should’ve filled your chest with warmth, should’ve steadied the pain tearing through your mind and body. But the next contraction crashes in like a wave with no mercy, stealing the air from your lungs, and all that escapes is a broken scream. “F-Fuck— Somebody, please—”

Think. You have to think of something.

Anything.

Your head thuds back against the pillow. Eyes squeezed shut. Nails digging into the sheets. You're drowning. You're breaking. You're alone—but through the haze, something small slips through.

“Beomgyu…” you whimpered, voice trembling, pleading. “Choi Beomgyu…”

Where are you? Are you okay? Do you know? You imagine his face; the one you’ve tried so hard to forget. The one you buried behind months of silence and sleepless nights. His voice, the sound of home. His laugh that you know like the back of your hand. You still love him. You always have. It never stopped.

On the hardest, most terrifying day of your life, when your body is tearing open and everything feels like it’s coming undone, his name is the only one your heart remembers how to say.

“It’s uncommon, but still normal,” the town doctor says gently, “Some women don’t lactate. Hormones play a big role. But… please, don’t blame yourself.”

You nod without really hearing her, eyes fixed on the floor, your nails digging into the soft, raw skin of your nailbeds. You shift slightly, rocking your sleeping baby in your arms, trying to ignore the weight in your chest that won’t lift.

“Remind me—what’s the baby’s name again?” You blink. Your lips part, but the words don’t come.

“Uh…” you murmur. “I haven’t… thought of one yet.”

The doctor exhales, not unkindly, but tired. “Alright. But it’s been three weeks. She really should have a name by now. Please try to decide soon so we can get her registered.”

You nod again. But the truth is, you’ve thought about it. A thousand names, whispered into the quiet in the middle of the night. But none of them felt right. None of them felt like hers. Or maybe… none of them felt like yours to give.

And so you just sit there, holding this tiny, perfect girl, feeling the weight of everything you should be and everything you’re not.

You gather your things in silence, careful not to wake the baby cradled in your arms. As you step out of the small clinic room, your eyes instinctively scan the hallway, pausing on the sight of couples dotting the waiting area, soft coos and shared smiles hovering between them. Each one holding their newborn close. Each one together.

You start walking, slow and unsteady, the dull throb of healing stitches pulling at your every step. Your body still remembers the pain, even if the world already expects you to move on from it. You wince, adjusting your hold on her, and try not to think about how you haven’t even given your daughter a name.

You should’ve given her at least that.

You glance down. She’s fast asleep, her tiny features softened in slumber, the faintest blush dusting the bridge of her nose. A little replica of you. It almost makes you want to cry. “Look at you,” you whisper, “sleeping like you didn’t have me up all night.”

The wind hits softly as you step outside, cool and crisp. And that’s when you see them; a small cluster of flowers, blooming stubbornly from the cracked soil lining the pavement. Soft petals reaching toward the gray sky.

Rain lilies. Your eyes linger.

Lily… Nari. Nari that means lily.

You look down again, heart twisting. “Nari?” you murmur, brushing a finger against her soft cheek. “Nari.”

You finally have a name now.

“Nari…” you whisper, voice cracked and shaking as you rock her back and forth, again and again. “Please… what’s wrong?”

She won’t stop crying. She’s been crying for hours. Her tiny fists clench in the air, her face red and scrunched as the wails echo through the small, suffocating space. You’ve fed her. Changed her. Held her. Walked in circles until your legs gave out beneath you. Nothing works.

You feel your eyes burn, the tears pooling too fast to blink away. “Mama fed you, changed your diaper… I don’t know what else to do.”

You bounce her gently, almost frantically now, trying to stay calm, trying not to let your own tears fall onto her cheeks. Your arms ache. Your head pounds. You’re too tired to think. Too tired to feel anything but the raw failure in your chest. Your gaze flickers across the room , the mess of bottles, clothes, diapers. The couch you now sleep on, because your room is too small for the crib. Her rocker sits unused in the corner, surrounded by unfolded laundry. Everything feels too much.

You hear the door creak open behind you. “I have class tomorrow,” your sister says, peeking out with a tired frown. “Can you make her sleep?”

“I’m trying,” you choke out, barely able to speak through the sob in your throat. She sighs.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper quickly. “…give me a few more minutes.”

She doesn’t say anything else, just closes the door. You swallow the scream lodged in your chest and hold Nari tighter. Waking your mother isn’t an option. She’s been sick. She’s done enough. And this… this was supposed to be yours. Your responsibility. Your choice.

"Just pictured a tiny version of you throwing a tantrum like that."

You remembered Beomgyu's words, and you laughed. “Yeah, idiot,” you murmured through your tears, voice shaking but light for the first time in hours. “It’s a mini me throwing a tantrum.”

Nari blinked up at you, her cries halting mid-breath, her wide, wet eyes now focused on your face like she’d just seen something new.

“Nari?” you whispered, tilting your head toward her. “Are you curious about what Mama just said? You want a story, is that it?”

A hiccup. A blink. Silence. And just like that… she stopped crying. You breathed out, stunned. The smallest, most fragile peace settling in the quiet of the room.

“Okay,” you said, cradling her close, your voice soft as cotton, barely louder than a breath. “I’ll tell you about Mama’s best friend.”

Your voice filled the space. Low, warm, laced with something tender and bruised all at once. You told her about him. About how the world used to feel safer with him around. You giggled at the memories, surprised at how easily they came flooding back. The way he used to clicked his tounge but always carry your bag anyway. The way he’d say your name when he was trying not to laugh. The way he looked at you like you were something soft in a world that never was.

You didn’t say his name out loud. You weren’t ready.

But for twenty whole minutes, the past lived again in that tiny room, and by the end of it, Nari was asleep in your arms.

It worked like a miracle.

From that night on, whenever Nari cried, you spoke of him, and she listened. Is it because of how soft your voice is? You found yourself remembering him more often, not just in the obvious ways, but in the smallest corners of your day. The way he used to hum while doing homework when the silence got too loud. The way he tapped his fingers when he was nervous.

It was survival.

Because somehow, in your mind, he was here. In the warmth of a blanket tucked around Nari. In the gentle sway of your arms as you rocked her. In the soft words you murmured when she couldn’t sleep. And sometimes, when the night got too heavy and you couldn’t stop crying, it almost felt like he was holding both of you.

As if he’s... here.

His face, and memories that would carry you through the hardest nights.

“Nari, here, baby. Come on, girl.”

You crouch down, clapping your hands softly, eyes wide with wonder, a grin tugging at your lips even as your heart races. She’s moving—wobbling just a little, her tiny feet unsteady but determined.

She takes one hesitant step. Then another. And then a few more, slow and careful, her chubby arms outstretched for balance as she toddles from your mother’s arms toward you.

“That’s it,” you breathe, laughing through the lump in your throat. “Come on, love. You’re doing so well.”

When she finally makes it into your waiting arms, you scoop her up, spinning her gently with a joyful squeal. Her giggles fill the space like music, bright and unstoppable.

“You did it, sweetheart,” you whisper, pressing kisses to her cheeks. “You walked. You really walked.” From across, your mother watches, eyes soft with pride.

"Y/N." The voice is deep, familiar, and it stops you cold. You turn around slowly, your breath catching in your throat. He looks older but his eyes are still soft. Still searching. He glances at the little girl in your mother’s arms, then back at you. And it’s like something clicks.

"You’ve been here all along?" he asks, disbelief painting every inch of his face.

You force a small smile, bending down to kiss Nari’s forehead. “Wait for Mama, okay?” you whisper. Your mother gently takes her inside, casting you a look before the door closes behind them.

You stand, tugging awkwardly at the oversized T-shirt clinging to your frame, your shorts wrinkled, your hair tied up in a messy attempt to feel somewhat put together. You know you don’t look anything like the version of yourself he used to know.

"Hi, Soobin," you say quietly, and he just stares. “Yeah. I’ve been… here.”

His jaw tightens. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He runs a hand through his hair, like he’s trying to make sense of something that refuses to be clean. “Every time I came by, they told me you weren’t around. That you’d moved. And now—” he exhales hard, eyes flickering back toward the house. He doesn’t finish the sentence. You know what he wants to ask. You can feel the question burning in his chest.

You look down at your hands. “I was ashamed,” you admit. “I didn’t go to college. I didn’t do everything the way I said I would. Life happened. Fast.”

You swallow. “I have a daughter now, Soobin. And… you don’t have to keep looking for me. I’m not who I used to be.”

You try to fix your hair, but his eyes drop to your shoulder—and you know he’s seen it. The faint stain from Nari’s spit-up you missed. You cover it too late, embarrassed. You offer another shaky smile, but it barely holds.

Then he moves. He steps forward, without hesitation this time, and pulls you into him. You don’t even have time to brace for it. His arms wrap around you like they remember. Like they never forgot.

“I want to meet her,” he says into your hair.

It was beautiful, the way Nari took to Soobin, like she’d known him all along. Like something in her little heart just recognized him. The moment you placed her in his arms, she blinked up at him, curious and calm. And Soobin, he melted. Immediately. A soft grin tugged at his lips, and the cooing started, gentle and awkward and perfect.

“She’s so tiny,” he whispered, holding her like she was the most fragile thing in the world. Like he was afraid to breathe too hard. But within minutes, he was bouncing her softly, nose brushing against her cheeks, whispering silly things just to make her giggle. He didn’t want to let go. You could see it in the way his arms curled tighter, like maybe holding her could undo all the time lost between you.

When he saw the place you’d been staying in, he didn’t judge. He didn’t say a word about the peeling paint or the single fan in the corner. He just looked at you, eyes determined. “Come with me,” he said. “I have a spare apartment. It’s clean. It’s yours if you want it.”

And before you could even shake your head, he added, “I’ll help with Nari. I’ll help you get back on your feet.”

You said no at first. Of course you did. You couldn’t be that girl; the one who takes advantage of someone’s kindness. Soobin didn’t push. He just came back the next day. And the day after that. And again. Somehow, after long talks with your mother, after long nights staring at the ceiling wondering if you were doing the right thing—you said yes.

Trusting became hard for you. But you found with Soobin, maybe because, he trusted him too.

Moving in felt less terrifying than you thought it would. Soobin didn’t make it feel like charity. He made it feel like home. You found a job a month later. And Soobin… Soobin became the softest constant in Nari’s world. The man she ran to with tiny feet and open arms. The one who could make her laugh when you were too tired to try.

He didn’t replace anything. He just… showed up.

"I also… heard."

You turn to him, brows furrowing. "Heard what?"

Soobin hesitates, his fingers gripping the edge of his fork. "He’s back in town."

Your heart stalls. There’s only one person neither of you have dared to mention in years.

"Who?" You shouldn’t have asked. You shouldn’t want to know.

"Choi Beomgyu."

The moment his name hit the air, you dropped your gaze. Like it burned. You couldn’t meet Soobin’s eyes. You knew what was there; the same quiet questions he used to ask in softer moments, the ones you always left unanswered.

He had tried to make sense of how someone could disappear so completely. How someone like Beomgyu could vanish without so much as a goodbye. You remember those early months—Soobin asking carefully, kindly, trying not to press too hard. What happened between you two? Did something go wrong?

You never said a word. Not really. You built walls around your silence and stayed inside them. Pretending was easier than admitting you’d been left behind without a reason. A year without word turned into six. And in all that time, Beomgyu never did. Never came back. No letters. No apologies. Not even a rumor to hold onto.

It’s almost laughable, if it didn’t sting so much.

When you told Soobin about Jaehyun—the shame, the mess, the lawyer at your doorstep—he understood. No futher questions. No judgment. Just that steady kind of empathy only Soobin ever managed to offer. But when it came to Beomgyu? He never understood. He couldn’t. Or maybe he just wouldn’t. "Beomgyu's so in love with you that I can’t believe it."

Maybe it was because you were both too young. Or maybe he met someone oversea, a girl who laughed like you but didn’t cry like you, someone who studied at the same college, shared the same dreams. Maybe she didn’t come with too much baggage, or sleepless nights.

Maybe by now, he has a new life. A wife. A child.

And if someone had told your nineteen-year-old self that this would be the ending, you would’ve laughed. Laughed like it was the cruelest punchline to a joke you didn’t know you were part of. You didn’t know what love really was back then. Not until it stayed behind when he didn’t.

Not until six years passed and he still lived in your head.

“Groceries?” you ask as you open Soobin’s car, your voice low. He moves slowly, cradling the sleeping Nari in his arms like she’s made of glass, then settling her gently into the passenger seat, tucking the blanket around her like he’s done it a hundred times before.

“I can go pick them up, if you want,” you offer, watching the way he lingers with her.

“You sure?” he asks, eyes flicking to yours as he reaches over, gently fixing the collar of your coat, you hadn’t even noticed it had slipped. “It’s cold today. You okay to drive?”

“I’m sure,” you nod, tugging your sleeves over your knuckles. “Besides, Nari said she wanted to sleep over at your place tonight. Something about your sister’s pancakes and playing with Han.”

He smiles,“She’s been talking about that all week.”

You nod again, more to yourself than to him. “And I can’t leave my car parked out here overnight. So… it makes sense.”

“Alright.” He exhales softly, “Call me if anything happens, okay?”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Still trying to figure that out… this phone.”

He laughs, “I’ll go, then. I’ve got her.”

You step back as he closes the door. “Bye,” you murmur, watching the car pull away. And when the taillights disappear into the evening, you let out a long, tired breath. The cold bites at your fingers as you turn to your own car.

The drive was short.

You rub your hands together as soon as you step out into the cold, breath fogging in front of you. The night has settled deep. The parking lot is nearly empty. A few cars. A flickering streetlamp. Just like Soobin said, it’s just groceries. A quick stop. Preparations for tomorrow’s feast. His sister always makes a big deal out of celebrations, dragging him into the chaos. You’ve learned to let them. It gives Nari something bright to look forward to.

Inside, the box is heavier than you expected. You thank the employee handing it over and hug it to your chest, shifting your weight so you don’t drop it. You can carry it. You’ve carried heavier things.

You start walking, slow and careful, the edges of the cardboard digging into your arms. You were just about to ask someone for help with the door when—

It opens. From the outside.

The bell rings overhead; a soft chime, but for some reason it sounds like music tonight. It catches you off guard, how comforting it feels. Maybe it’s the simple fact that someone held the door for you. Maybe it’s the smallness of kindness that makes your chest loosen. You don’t even care if he only opened it because he was heading inside himself. He stepped aside, held the door open, and waited.

And lately, that’s more than enough. You smile for the first time in what feels like forever.

“Thank you—” The word barely made it past your lips before it died because standing in front of you, just as stunned, just as still—

Choi Beomgyu?

You blinked. Once. Twice.

It was like the world forgot how to move. Or maybe just you. The cold didn’t bite anymore. The weight of the box in your arms vanished. Even your own breathing, gone, like your lungs decided they couldn’t function with him so close.

He looked older. Not completely different, but grown. His hair was longer now, brushed just past his shoulders, half tied back in a way that made him look effortlessly composed. He looks at you. Behind him, someone cleared their throat—an older man, another customer —the sound snapping the thread of stillness that had wrapped around the two of you like a noose.

You flinched first.

You took a step back, sudden and clumsy, the box in your arms tilting dangerously as your feet fumbled over themselves. He didn’t move — not a word, not a sound, just his eyes following the box, then trailing downward. To your hands. And when his gaze stopped on your ring finger—bare, unadorned, still slightly red from cold—something flickered across his face.

As soon as the old man walks past, you run.

You don’t think anymore, your body moves before your brain can catch up. The cold slaps your face as you push through the door, feet pounding against the pavement. Behind you, you hear it; that soft slam of the door closing too fast, like someone let go in a rush.

“Y/N—” His voice. God, his voice. It hits you like a bullet. Real. Near. Here. You gasp, eyes locking on your car. Just a few steps. Just get there. Just get in, you can’t let him catch up.

You can’t see his face again. Can’t hear what he might say. Because after all this time... You still don’t know who left who.

You still don’t know if he betrayed you or if it was you who betrayed him.

“Y/N, please—”

Three more steps to your car.

Just three.

“Y/N.” You reach for your keys, but something so painful happens to your right foot. “O—ouch.” The box slips, crashes to the pavement.

“Fuck,” you curse, loud and sharp, the sound echoing through the empty parking lot. You see Beomgyu flinch. You lean against the side of the car, pain blooming like heat across your ankle, shame rushing in right after. All you want to do is disappear. Fold into the metal. Crawl into the seat and drive away like none of this ever happened.

It's one of your leg fucking cramps.

One of the cruelest things no one tells you about giving birth… is how your body doesn’t come back the same. You keep your head down, chest heaving, trying not to cry and behind you, you hear him step closer.

“What’s wrong?” Beomgyu asks. You’re trying to reach for your leg, but the muscle spasms again—tight and brutal, like it’s being wrung out from the inside—and your breath catches, a broken sob lodged in your throat. “Y/N, what’s wrong?” He’s closer now, panicked.

You don’t answer. You can’t, the pain twists deeper, radiating up your thigh, stealing the air from your lungs. You collapse back against the car, gasping, then you whimpered; tears burn hot, streaking down your cheeks before you even realize you’re crying.

“It hurts—” you sob, choked and ugly. “It hurts, it hurts, I—”

Beomgyu’s down in front of you before the words finish. He’s on his knees, hands trembling as he reaches for your ankle, for your shoes, for anything he can fix.

“Okay, okay, I got you, I got you,” he mutters like a prayer, but his hands hover, unsure. Like he’s scared to touch you. Like he doesn’t know where it hurts more. You keep crying; loud, unfiltered sobs that rip through you like the pain itself. Beomgyu’s hands are at your ankle now, carefully slipping off your shoe.

“Don’t move,” he says, and you shake your head, clutching at the car door, your body trembling. “Don’t—don’t move, baby—”

“Don’t— ah—” You managed to say, but the pain flares again, and your voice collapses with it.

Beomgyu’s left hand moves up to your thigh, firm but gentle, pressing your leg down to straighten it. His right finds your foot, still covered in your sock, and starts to stretch it carefully—and you felt your body relax as the pain blurs.

“Breathe,” he says. You squeeze your eyes shut. “Breathe, Y/N.”

You do. And slowly, the pain starts to ease. Your breathing staggers, catches, steadies even if your tears are still falling. And for the first time since after accidentally meeting him at the store, you look back at him. Your eyes meet his, and you can see how glassy they are. His eyes—locked on you like you're something fragile and holy and breaking all at once.

Do you know what it’s like to be angry at someone?

Like really, deeply angry; the kind that simmers low for years, slow and bitter. The kind you carry in your chest like armor. You build it up, rehearse it alone in the shower, in the car, while folding laundry like you’re folding the bones of your rage. You prepare your words like weapons. Every line sharp, factual, unforgiving. You’re not going to yell. No. You’re going to ruin them. Intelligently. With every truth they chose to ignore.

And he looks at you like this. With the softest look that he can give, like he never meant to hurt you. Like he miss you.

You don’t feel powerful. You feel exposed. How do you stay mad at someone who still looks at you like you’re everything they lost?

You let him hold your ankle. You don’t even fight it. His other hand moves up your leg again, massaging. You can feel the warmth of him even through the fabric. Fresh tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them.

Beomgyu freezes at the sight of it. “Does it still hurt?”

Yes. How can you miss him for years, and seeing him now makes you miss him more?

“Where?” he asks again, softer this time. “Tell me where it hurts.”

Everywhere, you think. You.

You pull away. No words, just the slow removal of his hands from your skin. You crouch to gather the fallen box, desperate for anything to do with your hands but before you can even reach it—he’s already there. Already picking it up. Already moving toward your car like it’s still his place to help. He opens the back door, gently places the groceries inside then turns to look at you.

"I should go," It was your voice this time, cracking the silence between you for the first time all night. Beomgyu flinches, almost imperceptibly, as if your voice surprised him. "My family's waiting."

You don’t wait to see if he reaches for you. You open the car door, slide inside, and shut it before the moment can stretch any further. The engine rumbles to life beneath your hands, a poor distraction from the weight in your chest. As you pull away, you glance in the rearview mirror; see him get smaller and smaller, watching you.

The car felt like a cage. You could barely breathe, not with the way your chest was caving in, not with the way your fingers wouldn’t stop trembling. You kept seeing him; standing there, just standing there, like he didn’t know whether to run after you or let you go. That image clung to you like a bruise. What were you supposed to say? Hey. I guess you’re back. Did it hurt as much for you as it did for me?

When you finally pulled up, your face was dry, but only because you'd cried yourself empty. You didn’t say anything to Soobin—couldn’t. Nari was already asleep, curled up beside his nephew like nothing in the world had gone wrong. His sister welcomed you with a soft smile and showed you to the guest room, no questions asked. You were grateful for that. You didn’t have the strength to lie. Soobin looked at you like he wanted to ask, but you refused to meet his eyes. You knew if you did, something inside you might shatter beyond repair. He must’ve sensed it because he didn’t say a word either.

Sleep didn’t come easy that night, not when the only thing behind your eyelids was the face you’d missed more than the life you once had.

It's cruel how memory chooses the softest parts of someone to haunt.

A soft knock at the door startled you awake.

The room was too bright, it's morning. You flinched, disoriented. Had you even slept? It felt like you’d just blinked. “Yeah… I’m up,” you mumbled, voice rough with a night that gave you no rest. Whoever it was didn’t respond; the sound of footsteps fading down the hall.

You needed to check on Nari. That much you could focus on. You pulled your hair into a loose ponytail with tired fingers, the strands falling uneven around your face. Your pajamas were wrinkled, your face was swollen from all the crying, but you made yourself somewhat presentable.

The living room greeted you with soft light spilling through the curtains, shadows curling against the floor. “Where’s Na—” You froze.

Sitting casually on the couch, a fresh bouquet of roses rested on the table in front, he turned at the sound of your voice.

Choi Beomgyu.

Right. You kept forgetting he was Soobin’s friend too. Of course.

He stood slowly, looking at you. His hand reached for the flowers. “Good morning,” he said softly.

It pulled you out of your stupor, your instincts kicking in like a switch. You turned on your heel, not giving him the satisfaction of a second glance. You needed to find the criminal.

"Good morning, my Y/N!" Soobin greeted with that stupid smile of his, the one that usually made things feel a little lighter. But not today. Not when you walked straight up to him and grabbed him by the collar, your fists trembling with something dangerously close to panic. His grin vanished.

"What the hell are you trying to do?" you snapped, your voice low, "Where is my daughter?" He winced, not from your grip, but from your stare.

“He kept calling me about you—ouch—okay,” he muttered, raising a hand as if to calm you down. “He was desperate. He somehow managed to reach people I haven’t even spoken to in years. Just calling and calling, he was trying to find me. All because of you." Your grip faltered for a second.

“I think…” he hesitated, then met your eyes. “I think it’s best if you hear him out. He got here fifteen minutes after Nari went out with my sister and Han. They’ll be back in the afternoon.”

You slowly let go of his collar, hand falling back to your side like it suddenly weighed too much. Your chest was tight, heart heavier than it had been in weeks. Did he talk? Did he tell him? About you? About how deeply, thoroughly, and irreversibly you’ve screwed everything up?

Your eyes searched his face, ask but then, almost gently, as if he could read your thoughts, Soobin spoke. “I didn’t tell him anything, It wasn’t my place.” he said quietly. “It’s best if you hear him out..”

Beomgyu’s walking away.

Each step feels like it’s slicing him open from the inside, like the ground’s dragging knives across his chest. The doors ahead glint under the airport lights; the ones that’ll swallow him whole and spit him out somewhere far from here. Far from you. He tells himself not to look back. If he does, he’ll break. If he sees your face, he’ll run back and beg to stay. Worse—if you so much as whispered his name, told him not to go—he would drop everything. The flight. The future. All of it.

So he keeps going. Until something in him caves. He always caves when it comes to you. He stops. Turns.

And there you are; clinging to Soobin, crying like the world’s ending. Maybe it is. He wants to run to you, hold you until you stop shaking. But instead, he just stands there, chest heavy with every breath. He makes a promise right then, like a prayer carved into bone: He'll give you the life you deserve. He'll give you everything.

He tries to smile, but his lips are trembling too much. He can’t fall apart here, not when you’re already crying. You’re always the crybaby, not him. He has to be the strong one.

And when he finally finds the words—words that feel like ripping out his own heart and handing it to you—he shouts them so loud they shake through the air between you.

What do you even say to someone you're leaving behind?

“I’LL COME BACK FOR YOU!”

Even if the world changes. Even if you forget.

He will.

It’s hard, being in a new country. Harder than he ever admitted out loud. His family’s here, but it doesn’t feel like it. They’re always working, always somewhere else. And when he comes home to an empty apartment and four white walls, it hits him all over again.

You’re miles and oceans away.

He walks through streets that don’t sound like home. Every sign is a puzzle, every conversation feels like it’s moving too fast, slipping through his fingers. He nods and smiles, pretends he understands. But most of the time, he doesn’t. Most of the time, he’s just tired.

The only thing that feels real is when your letter arrives.

On those days, everything stops. His heart settles. His hands too excited as he tears the envelope open, like it’s something that gives him ar reason to live for. Your handwriting, your words; they’re a piece of home he can hold. It becomes his favorite part of the week. His only part of the week, really. Writing to you, reading your letters, rereading them until the ink practically imprints itself into his skin.

It was going well. For a while, anyway. Two months of surviving. Of pretending he was getting the hang of it.

Until it all went up in smoke.

He came home one evening and the sky was choked in black. Smoke pouring like a stormcloud, thick and angry, swallowing everything whole. Their apartment—the only place that ever felt remotely stable—was on fire. Gone. His parents’ last coin flip, their last gamble at a better life, reduced to ash. The furniture. The photographs. The little trinkets that made it feel like home.

Your letters. God, your letters.

He’d kept every single one. Folded neatly, worn soft from rereading. He used to clutch them on the bad days, the lonely nights. And now they were gone, burned before he could even say goodbye to them.

Suddenly, they were homeless in a country that still didn’t feel like theirs. The language still felt foreign, the people distant. They stayed where they could; shelters, temporary housing, places that didn’t ask too many questions. He didn’t write for a week. Then another. A month slipped by before he realized just how long it had been. But how could he write, when he couldn’t even buy himself a meal? When a sheet of paper, an envelope, a stamp—things he used to take for granted—now felt like luxuries too far out of reach?

He thought of you every single day. He trusted you’d still be there, still waiting, still believing in him. He had to, because he didn’t have anything else left.

They moved. Again. And again. From shelter to shelter, wherever there was space, wherever someone would take them in. No place ever felt permanent with borrowed beds. While his father scraped together bits and pieces for a future that still felt out of reach—secondhand furniture, donated appliances, hope held together with tape, Beomgyu worked for their family too. Late shifts, early mornings, anything that paid. He kept his head down, hands tired, eyes always scanning for something he couldn’t name.

It took six months. Six months of skipped meals and pocketed coins, of walking past stationery aisles with a lump in his throat, before he could finally afford to write to you again. And when he did, he poured everything into that first letter. Every apology he never got to say. Every cracked piece of his heart. Every I’m sorry it took so long, wrapped in trembling handwriting and the ghost of smoke that never really left his clothes.

He waited for your reply. Days passed. Then weeks. Nothing. So he wrote again. Maybe the first got lost. Maybe you didn’t see it, but then the second went unanswered. And the third

Still, he didn’t stop.

Every week, without fail, he wrote. Even when his fingers ached. Even when the silence on the other end felt like a punishment he deserved. He wrote like it was the only way to stay alive. Like if he just kept going, somehow, you'd hear him. Apologies bled through ink. Cries tucked between the lines. Please. Please say something. Please don’t leave me behind.

It had been over a year.

One year and seven months since he last saw your face, he missed your birthday. He missed everything. Coming back was a miracle in itself. His boss had finally said yes to time off, just a few days, barely enough, but he didn’t care. He had scraped together every cent. Skipped meals. He stopped buying things that tasted like comfort just to save a little more. He told himself he’d apologize the moment he saw you. Fall to his knees if he had to. He didn’t care what it took—he just wanted to explain, to make you understand, but then, on the bus to your neighborhood, holding the small bag of gifts he could afford, it hit him like a punch to the chest.

He’d been writing your address wrong.

All those letters—pages of love and pain, of apologies and hope—had never reached you because he wrote them from memory after everything got burned. He didn’t even realize he was crying until a stranger asked if he was alright.

And then he saw you. From across the street, standing beside Jake Sim. You're pregnant? Jake is laughing at something, one hand resting on your belly. You look beautiful.

Right there, across the street, the boy who swore he’d come back for you was breaking.

The ones left behind mourn with open hands, reaching for echoes, clinging to the warmth of a room that’s already gone cold. They cry in the spaces where laughter used to live, and the grief comes loud, sharp, like a scream in an empty house. But the ones who leave? They bleed quietly. They turn their backs knowing they’re carving wounds into people they love, knowing their absence will echo longer than their presence ever did. And they leave not because they want to—but because the world asks them to; because duty, or fate, or something crueler demands it.

Between the two, who suffers more? The ones who wait for a door that won’t open, or the ones who shut it with shaking hands and walk away?

Beomgyu had kept himself hidden for years—not out of pride, but shame. A quiet, gnawing embarrassment that maybe he had broken too much to ever come back whole. He never wanted to burden you, never wanted his face to remind you of the past. He knew you had your own life now. A family. A world that kept turning even after he stepped out of it.

He couldn’t explain what shifted in him this year. Maybe it was the ache of too many birthdays passed, or the way the past never seemed to loosen its grip. But he found himself wanting. Just a glimpse. Just to know you were okay. He went to your house—stood in front of the door he once called home—and was met with a stranger’s cold dismissal. Your father, grayer now, eyes harder. There was no trace of your mother; divorce, he guessed.

Then he felt oddly drawn to buy himself water and saw you at a grocery store. A mundane miracle.

And now here he is, sitting across from you, heart in his throat, watching your brows knit in confusion as he says the words he’s kept caged for years. The girl he once wanted to give everything to. The girl he still does. He worked through the ache, graduated, got a job, built something steady from the mess he once was. It’s not enough to retire on, but it’s enough to build a life. He tried dating, tried pretending but every time someone got too close, he found himself pulling away, haunted by a laugh that wasn’t yours. He looks at you, you’re here. And your adorable, bewildered expression guts him more than anything else ever could, because it confirms the one thing he’s tried hardest to bury: he’s still so fucking in love with you.

Beomgyu clenches his fist, thumb digging into his palm as he forces himself to meet your eyes. He stopped talking minutes ago—about the fire, the years, except the time he went back and saw you with Jake—and still, you haven’t said a word. Not to him. Not yet. “I know it’s—”

“What do you want me to do?” you ask, your voice flat, unfamiliar. And it terrifies him more than if you had shouted. “I’m sorry. About the fire, and everything, but what do you want me to do with that, Beomgyu?”

The way you say his name, it burns. Beomgyu stares. You still look the same, achingly so, but something in your voice tells him the years have changed you into someone else. Someone harder. He nods slowly, eyes flickering down, again to your hands. Bare. Still bare. The absence of a ring doesn’t make sense. You should be married by now. Any man would’ve been a fool not to. So why is your finger still empty? Soobin never told him anything. Wouldn’t.

“I don’t really want anything,” he says quietly, even though his heart is screaming otherwise. He wants everything. He wants you. “I just… hoped we could talk again.”

Beomgyu sees your face soften with his words, and you're about to speak when the door of Soobin's apartment beeps open.

“Mommy!”

A small voice cuts, bright and sweet, and he turns just in time to see a little girl bounding toward you—hair in low pigtails, uneven but endearing, the kind he used to tie for you in middle school with small fingers and too much care. The lollipop in her hand is sticky, half-melted, clinging to her palm as she throws herself into your arms. And you catch her like you were made for it. Beomgyu’s heart stutters.

“Did you miss me, Mommy?” she beams, eyes wide and waiting. And then he sees it—the softest, most real thing he’s seen on your lips since he sat down.

It tears him apart.

“I did, hun,” you murmur, brushing hair gently from her cheek. “Did you eat yet?”

“Yes! Sorry I didn’t wake you up to eat. Uncle Binnie said to let you sleep.” Beomgyu can’t breathe. His chest feels too tight, too full.

He can’t look away. He knows he should; knows it’s not his place to linger in the picture-perfect moment unfolding in front of him but he’s frozen. The little girl settles in your lap, arms still curled around your neck, and then, her curious eyes flick to him.

“Hi,” she says brightly, the lollipop now forgotten, her smile wide and fearless. Beomgyu blinks, then somehow finds the strength to match her energy.

“Hi,” he says softly. “I’m Beomgyu.” He sees it immediately—the shift in your gaze.

“She’s my daughter,” you say. “Her name is Nari.”

His breath catches.

Of course she is.

She looks like you. Same curious eyes. Same soft, heart-shaped face. A perfect mirror of the girl he fell in love with all those years ago. It stings—how beautiful she is. How familiar. She looks like you. He lets out a small, stunned laugh that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “Yeah, figured she is.”

“Bye, Beomgyu,” Nari chirps from the living room, her tiny hands waving enthusiastically at the man standing by the door. Beomgyu grins, lifting his hand in a playful wave back. Then his eyes find yours.

You shift where you’re standing, arms crossed tight over your chest. Soobin’s already stepped outside, giving the two of you space as he walks ahead from Beomgyu toward the lot. You hadn’t expected Nari to warm up to him so quickly. Nari, usually shy around anyone new, had taken to Beomgyu almost instantly. She’d asked him question after question, tugged on his sleeve, even laughed in that unfiltered way she rarely does; maybe because he kept talking to her like he’d known her forever. Gentle. Patient. Funny in that effortless way.

“I’ll head out,” he says softly, clearing his throat. “See you tomorrow?” He looks like he's about to take you in his arms.

“Yeah,” you murmur, voice barely holding steady. “Drive safe.” You don’t look at him. You can’t. Not when your chest already feels too tight. For a moment, nothing happens.

Then he shifts, and when his hand lifts, you flinch—so subtly he might not even notice; all he does is rest his palm gently on your head. The touch is soft. Careful. With that small, simple gesture, he’s holding the whole mess of your heart right there in his hand.

You look up, just in time to see him step back. He gives you a quiet smile, a small nod, then he turns and walks out the door. You stand there, staring at the space he left behind, at the door that feels like it’s separating more than just a room. And suddenly, it hits you—this aching, desperate urge to run after him. To pull him back. To say all the things you swallowed down.

You felt it the moment he started talking, explaining—something inside you beginning to quietly break. His story unfolded slowly, like a wound being reopened in real time. It was too vivid, too cinematic, the kind of tragedy that scripts are written around. The kind that ruins the heroine, just before the credits roll but this wasn’t fiction, and Beomgyu doesn’t lie.

That’s what made it unbearable.

You sat there, silent, trying not to fall apart, trying to keep your expression flat even as the weight of his words dragged you under. Because somewhere between his grief and yours, a realization slipped through the cracks.

You were the one who gave up first.

Now, you couldn’t pull him into this; this version of your life where everything is held together with fraying thread because of you decisions. Where your daughter’s laugh is the only light in a world that feels dim more often than not. Where you don't even know who you are without the exhaustion.

You love Nari. Of course you do. You love her with a kind of fierce, bone-deep love that no one else will ever understand. But loving her doesn’t mean you don’t ache. You can’t let him back in. You can’t let him try to fit into this life, not when you know it would never be enough.He belongs to a different world, a world of bright lights and movement and choices. He could leave tomorrow.

You told yourself you were protecting him. That someone like Beomgyu—so full of life and possibility—shouldn’t be dragged into the mess of your world. A single mother, anchored to a small town and a quiet kind of loneliness. He deserved someone lighter. Someone with no baggage. You love Nari. God, you love her more than anything. Being her mother is the one thing you’ve never regretted. But that love also demands a kind of sacrifice.

If you let Beomgyu in—really in—you’d hope. You’d start to believe he might stay. And that hope is dangerous.

Worse still, a darker thought lingers: what if Nari starts to see him as more than just your friend? What if she lets herself believe he could be something permanent, someone who doesn't leave? Beomgyu comes from a world that moves faster than this place ever will. A city boy, full of dreams and fire. This town would shrink around him.

There’s an urge—violent, desperate—to throw the door open and run after him, but you don’t move. Your hands… they’re not the same hands that once held him with all the certainty in the world. The naive teenager you once were would’ve said yes without thinking, would’ve smiled and nodded like words was enough to fix anything. Whatever fragile, fleeting thing bloomed between you, it was your hands that crushed it first. Wanting him now would be selfish. Cruel.

You're not heartless enough to ruin him twice. You will be damned if you ever stood in front of his path.

It's still bright out.

The sun hasn't set yet, but when Soobin glances to his right, it feels like someone told the man beside him that it never would rise again. All that light seems to have drained from him, a ghost of the boy Soobin first saw; eyes full of hope, clutching a bouquet of roses like he believed in happy endings.

"Choi Beomgyu," Soobin sighs as the elevator doors slide shut. "What did she say?"

There’s no answer. Just a low, half-hearted grumble from Beomgyu, somewhere between a whine and a sigh, like even admitting it out loud would hurt too much. Soobin turns, already knowing what he’ll see. Beomgyu’s head bowed, eyes glued to the floor, hands stuffed deep in his pockets like he’s trying to hold himself together.

Some things really don’t change. Soobin shakes his head, the corners of his mouth tightening. It's the same Beomgyu from high school—the one who used to trail behind you, heart always half a step ahead of his courage. The one who scribbled love in silence and let it rot there. Back then, Soobin had to push him every damn day just to get him to tell his heart out. Watching him want you but never move was its own kind of torture. And now, years later, here they are again. Did he seriously need to play the matchmaker again?

"Are you…" Soobin clears his throat, the question catching awkwardly on his tongue. "…giving up?"

"No. God, no." Beomgyu finally lifts his head, eyes flashing like Soobin just accused him of something unforgivable. "It's just—she caught me off guard that—"

"That she changed?" Soobin cuts in, sharp. "What, were you expecting her to do aegyo? Say some of that cute shit she used to pull in high school? Oh, I’m sorry, ‘Oh, Choi Beomgyu, I love you too—Ouch!” Soobin curses under his breath, reaching for his shin where Beomgyu’s foot just connected, hard. It wasn't playful. It was frustration. Beomgyu doesn’t say a word, but Soobin doesn’t need him to. He can feel it radiating off him—the heat, his rage.

Good. He’s still so stupidly, violently affected by you. There’s still something left to fight for.

"Are you still in love with her?" — "Yes."

The answer slips out of Beomgyu’s mouth so fast, so effortlessly, it startles the breath out of Soobin for a second. He smirks, "How can you tell?"

Beomgyu exhales, eyes distant. "Because it took everything in me not to kiss her."

"Heol. You pervert," Soobin snorts, shaking his head, but his tone softens, "About your question earlier. About… Nari’s father." He sees it instantly—the way Beomgyu’s smile falters, the way his jaw clenches like he’s bracing for something. Soobin swallows hard, the lump in his throat thick with everything he isn’t saying. There’s so much he wants to spit out. He feels like he’s being ripped in half. One part of him wants to grab Beomgyu by the collar, shake him, scream at him to grow the hell up and the other part just wants to pull him into a hug and not let go—because Beomgyu looks like he’s seconds away from breaking.

"It’s not my story to tell," Soobin finally says, "but for what it’s worth, he’s not in the picture. If that wasn’t obvious already." He pauses, glancing at the still silent Beomgyu, "She changed. I won’t lie about that. She’s sharper now, doesn’t smile unless Nari’s in the room. Harder to reach, but she’s still… our Y/N."

The elevator dings.

A week has passed, and you see Choi Beomgyu every single day.

He hasn’t brought up your last conversation. He doesn’t push, doesn’t crowd the space you’ve drawn around yourself. He just… shows up. Whenever Soobin takes Nari out, even when you’re not there, you’ll find Beomgyu waiting by the car for your daughter, always looking back to give you a small smile.

There was a time when you told Soobin you were thinking about going home. He only shrugged and said, “You’ve already planned your holiday breaks. Leaving now would break Nari’s heart.” So you stayed. And every day, Beomgyu keeps coming back.

He brings flowers—always the same kind as the first time. He never hands them to you directly; places them somewhere nearby, close enough to notice, far enough to ignore if you wanted to. He doesn’t say a word about them. Your fingers always find the stems. You gather them quietly, arrange them in the same vase.

“Do you want some of this too?” you ask, motioning toward the chicken. Nari nods immediately, her mouth open, ready for the next bite. It’s lunchtime. The dining table is full—Nari beside you, Soobin across, his sister and nephew chatting quietly at the end. And then there’s Beomgyu, sitting diagonally from you, close enough to hear every small thing you say. You spoon the food onto Nari’s plate, smoothing it out beside the rice. Beomgyu doesn’t say much, but you can feel his eyes flicker toward you every now and then.

Beomgyu glances at you, then at Nari’s plate—already full, her little fork digging in eagerly. The rest of the table begins to eat, soft clinks of utensils and the hum of conversation filling the space. Then he looks down at your plate.

It’s still empty.

Without a word, Beomgyu reaches across the table and starts serving food onto it. You turn, startled by the movement. “I’ll do it—” you begin, reaching for the serving spoon.

“Eat,” he says gently, scooping the biggest piece of fish fillet onto your plate. “You don’t like it when your food turns cold.”

You go still. The words hit you in a way you weren’t expecting; pulling you back to high school lunches, sitting on worn benches, complaining about lukewarm meals. Back to the way Beomgyu used to sprint across campus just to find a microwave, breathless but grinning as he handed your food back, warm again.

You blink, watch as he quietly adds a little more to your plate. He reaches for your utensils, places them gently in your hand and you take them.

Just like you always used to.

“You sure you don’t need help?” Soobin asks, placing the last plate into the sink.

Your hands are already in the soapy water, working through the pile of forks and spoons. “Yeah,” you reply easily, “this is nothing.”

Soobin gives your head a gentle pat, and you hear his footsteps fade as he leaves the kitchen.

You keep going, the familiar rhythm of washing grounding you—soap, rinse, repeat. It’s peaceful in the way small, ordinary things can be. Then, without looking, you feel someone beside you. A hand reaches for the dishes you’ve already washed, careful and quiet, followed by the soft drag of a towel across porcelain.

“Hey,” you start, half-turning, “I said I’m fine, I’ll do that—” Your words trail off when you glance over and see him. Beomgyu. He’s focused on the dishes, drying each one.

He's helping you.

Beomgyu glances at you, his thoughts loud. You hadn’t pushed him away. You let him stay beside you, in this small, shared space; rinsing, drying, moving in sync. Something so simple, yet to him, it feels intimate. He’d dreamed of this. Not grand reunions. Not tearful apologies or big moments. Just… this quiet kitchen, and you beside him.

“You’re a guest,” you murmur, eyes on the sink. “You shouldn’t be here, doing this.”

He hears it—the softness in your voice, the way it falters just slightly at the end. You talked to him. Directly. A loopsided smile pulls at his lips, unable to hide it, because you talked to him. He doesn’t look at you right away, just focuses on the dish in his hands like it means more than it does.

“I want to,” he says simply, glances your way. "I want to help you." He watches how quickly your hands move through the motions but all he can think about is how much he wants to stop you. How badly he wants to take your hands out of the water, dry them gently, press them to his chest so you’ll feel how fast he’s still beating for you.

He keeps drying the plates you pass to him.

Beomgyu has been watching you and Nari all week. It hadn’t even taken a full day for him to see it: how good of a mother you are. How instinctively, beautifully you move around your daughter, knowing her moods, her hunger before she even says a word. But it’s the other things he can’t stop noticing.

The way you serve everyone first before thinking of your own plate. The way you rush through bites, always half-standing to get something for someone else. The way your eyes stay on others, never on yourself. He remembers lunch—everyone halfway through their meal, and your plate still empty. You were too busy making sure Nari had enough, that Soobin’s nephew got seconds, that nothing spilled. And something about it made his chest twist in a way he wasn’t ready for.

Who’s been taking care of you?

You, years ago, pouting over your favorite ice cream being sold out. You, holding out your foot for him to tie your shoelace, smiling like you knew he’d do it without asking. You, crying over the smallest things, because back then, you were allowed to. Now you're here, taking care of a child like you’ve done it a thousand times before. He sees you—this version of you, all grown up—and it knocks the breath from his lungs.

Beomgyu reaches out before he can stop himself, the sight of a single strand of hair falling across your face pulling him in. His fingers move gently as he tucks it behind your ear. He looks at you, afraid he must have done something wrong, something personal, but in this moment, with you looking up at him, lashes soft and eyes wide, he’s too dazed.

“Thank you, Beomgyu.”

He knows you haven’t said a word since the first day he showed up, but if anything, somehow, impossibly; he’s fallen even deeper.

You were chopping vegetables at the table, Soobin’s sister beside you, lending a hand—at least until the two of you realized a few ingredients were missing, so she went out for a run. Soobin and Beomgyu had volunteered to keep an eye on the kids, leaving the kitchen unusually quiet.

“Y/N?” You looked up to see Beomgyu standing at the doorway, something wrapped in red cradled in his hands. His smile was small, unsure. You returned it without thinking.

“I wanted to give you something,” he said. You set the knife down and nodded. Ever since he’d spoken to you again that day, little conversations had started to creep back in. It felt easy. Light.

“What’s this?” — “Merry Christmas.”

“You do know it’s only 12 p.m. today, right?”

“I know,” Beomgyu says, scratching the back of his head. “But… do you remember that little tradition we had? Back then?”

You pause, looking at him. “Our families always went out of town on Christmas Day,” he continues, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “So we used to pretend Christmas was the day before. At noon. Just the two of us.”

You do remember. How could you not? Your hands move to unwrap the gift slowly, careful not to tear the paper. Inside, your eyes land on a pack of relief patches. Your breath catches. A note, scribbled in familiar messy handwriting.

Can we be friends, again?

"Uh, I didn’t really know what to get you," Beomgyu says, rubbing the back of his neck, voice a little rushed. "I mean… there’s a lot of things I wanted to give you, but," he lets out a nervous laugh, "I heard you talking about these patches. And I know you get those cramps whenever it’s too cold, so I just," He cuts himself off when he sees you smiling, arms open wide.

"If you don’t hug me right now, I’m taking it back and—"

You don’t even get to finish the teasing before he’s already moving, fast enough to startle you. His hands find the back of your head, cradling you gently as he exhales like he’s been holding his breath this whole time. His other arm wraps around your back, pulling you closer. You instinctively hugged him around the waist—just like you used to. You hold him, and tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but you don’t let them fall.

Beomgyu feels your arms tighten, and he presses himself closer. Being in your arms feels like forgiveness. It’s warm.

In the middle of the kitchen, two souls stood still. Remembering, what it felt like to be whole.

You wash your hands, eyes drifting to the nearly rebuilt faucet.

It’s been a month since Christmas. Three weeks since you came back home with Nari. And Beomgyu—just as everyone expected—has been everywhere. He visits for Nari, plays with her like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Sometimes he comes with Soobin, sometimes alone. He stays. He helps. He shows up with flowers one day, groceries the next because he noticed you were running low. And the faucet, the one you swore would never stop leaking, is finally fixed.

You became... somewhat friends.

“Nari?” you called, a small laugh slipping out when she came running in with her backpack already on—hair tie and comb in her hands. You took them from her, settling onto the living room couch as she plopped down on the floor between your knees. Gently, you began brushing her hair, pulling it up the way she liked for practice days. It was her big day. And you—fresh off nearly ten hours at work—had barely caught your breath. Beomgyu had insisted on taking her this time. Said you needed to rest. Said he’d be proud to cheer her on.

Your hands moved on autopilot through her hair, “Do you remember…” you swallowed, fingers pausing for a second, “Do you remember the person I used to talk about a lot?”

You never said his name aloud but something in you needed to know.

“Hm?” Nari hums, eyes fluttering shut a little, comforted by the way you gently brush through her hair. “Oh. Yes, Mommy.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” she says, “Mama’s best friend, right? And I think it’s Beomgyu.”

Your hands still. “What? Why?”

“I saw his dimples, Mama,” she replies, her voice sure. “It's ike the ones you always told me about and he’s big like a bear, like you said. And…” she turns her head slightly, looking up at you with soft certainty, “Beomgyu says you’re his favorite person in the world.”

You blink. Words caught somewhere between your chest and your throat. You never realized how much she was listening. How much she noticed. You were still trying to find something to say when the doorbell rang.

It was the fastest you’d ever seen your daughter run.

You caught the look on her face; pure joy, her smile so wide you thought her cheeks might burst. It was a look she gives to someone she trusts. She knew exactly who was at the door. You followed, slower now, your steps unconsciously softening when you heard him laughing. Then you saw them; Beomgyu practically crouched on the floor, Nari already clinging to him. He looked up, his eyes met yours, and he smiled.

It made you want to dream again.

Beomgyu buckles Nari into the back seat, double-checks the latch, then closes the door with a soft click. When he turns around, you're still watching; leaning against the front door, arms crossed, casual in a plain shirt and shorts, face bare in the morning light.

So fucking beautiful.

He lifts a hand in a small wave. You smile, and wave back. It’s such a small thing, but enough to make his heart race. He gets back in the car, forcing himself to look away. He doesn’t start the engine until he sees you step inside and gently close the door behind you. He’s driving, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror once, then again. “You okay back there?”

“Yeah!” Nari chirps. “Thank you for letting Mama rest. I wanted her to rest too, ‘cause she’s been working a lot. I wanna take care of Mama today.”

Beomgyu’s chest tightens. She’s so small, her voice so light, and she probably doesn't know her words nearly undoes him. That kind of love, intentional, coming from someone who hasn’t even lived a fraction of life yet, it knocks the breath from his lungs.

How did she learn to love like that?

He glances at her in the rearview mirror, and she’s just there. Swinging her legs, looking out the window like she didn’t just crack his heart wide open. He swallows hard. He’s proud. God, he’s so proud. Of her, and of you; especially you. Because this kind of softness doesn’t come from nowhere. You built that in her and now it’s spilling out of her in the backseat of his car, and he doesn’t know what to do with the way it’s making him feel. It hasn’t even been that long. A few weeks. A handful of moments.

But he already wants forever.

He wants school plays and scraped knees. Wants to be the one who teaches her how to ride a bike, how to parallel park, how to survive the kind of heartbreaks he won’t be able to protect her from, chase off the boys who don’t deserve her. He wants to watch her grow into the world. And he wants you there for every second of it. Your laugh in the kitchen, your hand on his arm, your face before he sleeps. He wants you both. And it scares him, how much.

He’s never wanted anything this badly. His eyes sting. He blinks it away. Another glance in the mirror. Another heartbeat held tight in his chest.

“That’s cool, kid,”

The sun was high, painting the day in golden warmth that makes everything feel a little softer.

Up ahead, Nari bounced with excitement, her small hands clasped tightly in Soobin’s and Beomgyu’s. She was all smiles, practically skipping between them, laughter in her face. You watched her, heart full. Watched them. Soobin was talking to her, probably asking which games she was going to beat him at today. Beomgyu, though, kept glancing back, eyes always searching for you. Making sure you were, still close.

Soobin had wanted to take Nari out to the mall today—spoil her a little, burn some energy. And of course, that meant one inevitable stop: the arcade. Beomgyu had tagged along without hesitation. The way Beomgyu’s eyes lit up when you said yes to Nari, was evident.

“You have to press this one,” you say through a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you point to the button. “You used to be good at this, Beomgyu.”

“Hey,” he says, mock offense in his voice. “It’s been a while, okay?”

He steps closer, closer than he needs to. His shoulder brushes against yours, and the warmth of him slips under your skin before you can stop it. He doesn’t move away. Instead, his fingers wrap around yours, guiding the controller, and his other hand settles at your waist.

Steadying himself. Or maybe just finding a reason to touch you. You don’t pull away.

He presses the button like you showed him. The claw sinks down and lifts the small teddy bear. When the prize drops, he turns to you, pride written all over his face. “Told you I could do it,” he says, flashing that grin, dimple and all.

You try to play it cool, rolling your eyes, even as your heart stumbles a little. “Fine. It’s acceptable.” You take the toy from him, trying not to let your fingers brush again.

“I’ll give this to Nari," You start walking, feel Beomgyu fall into step beside you. You halt at the sight.

It’s instinctual, the way your body freezes, breath caught halfway through your chest. The space is loud, chaotic in the way weekends always are, but suddenly it all sounds muffled. Distant. Like the world just dipped underwater. It’s easy to spot Soobin; he stands tall even in a crowd, his frame always familiar but your eyes don’t land on him for long. They find the man standing across from him. The man in front of Soobin. In front of Nari.

The father of your child.

Jaehyun.

Soobin’s standing protective, squared just slightly forward, one arm half out like he’s ready to shield. He’s trying to keep things calm, you can tell. You’ve known him long enough to read the tension in his shoulders. You see him lightly push Jaehyun back. A warning. And then you see her. Nari stands beside Soobin, pressed in his legs, small and stiff, eyes wide but lips pressed in a firm, silent no. She shakes her head—once, twice, over and over. You know that look. You know that body language. The way her fingers twist in the hem of her shirt, the way she leans subtly toward Soobin, away from the man she doesn’t know.

Nari doesn’t like strangers.

You’re frozen. You don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing until your chest starts to ache. You don’t know what part of it hit you first; seeing him again, or the way he’s looking at your child like he has some kind of right.

Jaehyun.

The man who left knowing you were carrying his child. You feel your stomach twist, something sour crawling up your throat. Is it fear? Or is it the anger, the shame? He left you. And it wasn’t just about leaving, it was how easily he did it. How quickly he made it clear that not even a child could make him stay. That you weren’t enough. That he meant none of what he promised. You were humiliated. Why does he know Nari? Why now? Did he know? Did he follow you? Did he have someone watching? Has he been here all along, memorizing the shape of your daughter’s face without ever earning the right? Your hands are shaking. Being a father? What does that even mean?Because he’s the one who gave her half her blood? Is that all it takes? A name on a birth certificate, a twisted smile, a return after years of silence?

“Y/N. Hey.” Beomgyu’s voice is careful but you don’t look at him. Your eyes are locked on Nari. On the way her small frame stiffens, how her lips tremble like she’s holding in a sob too big for her chest. You don’t even know what to say; what do you say to a child meeting the man who walked out before she could even open her eyes? Beomgyu’s hand comes to your shoulder, but it drops the second he hears Nari.

“No—!” It's tiny, a plea, crying out through her tears. And everything goes still.

“Dude, back the fuck off.” Soobin immediately says, aware that Beomgyu who is now nearing them. “You're scaring her.”

Jaehyun steps forward anyway, insisting, and Nari stumbles back. She doesn’t say anything this time, just clutches Soobin’s hand tighter, tears slipping down her cheeks as she tries to disappear into the space behind him.

Beomgyu doesn’t even blink. The second Soobin lifts Nari, turning her away from the scene, hiding her trembling frame against his shoulder; Beomgyu snaps. He grabs Jaehyun by the collar and slams him against the nearest wall, hard enough to rattle the arcade glass. The lights flash mockingly behind them, all blinking reds and greens and blues like it’s some sick joke.

Jaehyun stares him down, cocky despite the blood already blooming at the edge of his lip.

“What?” Jaehyun stares him down, “You gonna scare me off too? Like you did with Y/N before?” Beomgyu’s jaw clenches. He’s shaking with how hard he’s holding back. Jaehyun laughs—laughs, like it’s all a game. “You’re not her father,” he spits.

That does it.

Beomgyu’s fist flies, collides straight into Jaehyun’s face. The impact is loud, brutal. Jaehyun stumbles sideways, nearly collapsing, but Beomgyu’s there again, dragging him back up by the collar like he refuses to let this end with one hit. “Don't even say her name. You left her. You left them.”

Jaehyun punches him back, hard, and Beomgyu hits the edge of a skee-ball ramp, stumbling. “You think you can come back and pretend you care?” Beomgyu growls, eyes wild, blood rushing hot in his ears. “You think one fucking look at her erases years?”

“You don’t know what I went through,” Jaehyun snaps, lunging forward. “You don’t know what it was like—”

“Don’t you talk to me about pain!” Beomgyu yells, slamming into him again. This time they both fall—Jaehyun’s back hitting the carpeted floor with a thud as Beomgyu’s fists come down, one—two—three times.

Soobin rushes forward, grabbing Beomgyu’s arm. “Stop!”

But Beomgyu shakes him off, panting hard. His knuckles are red, maybe bleeding, maybe not. Doesn’t matter. Everything is fire. Jaehyun coughs, blood at the corner of his mouth now, face turned away. “You don’t get to waltz back into her life,” Beomgyu says, voice rough. “You don’t get to show up and make her cry and act like you’re owed something. You were gone. Stay gone-” He raises his fist again. Blinded—by fury, by the ache of every story you ever told him in a whisper. He wants to destroy him for you. He wants to make Jaehyun feel what you felt.

“Choi Beomgyu!” He freezes. Your voice, cracked, frantic, and trembling—catches him in the ribs harder than any hit could. “Let’s go,” you beg, voice softer now, breaking. “Please?”

He turns. He sees you; your arms wrapped tight around yourself, like you’re barely holding it together. Tear-streaked cheeks, eyes wide and desperate. Soobin still has Nari tucked into his chest, shielding her from it all, from him. And Nari’s shaking, tiny hands fisted in Soobin’s shirt, too afraid to even look. Beomgyu’s heart drops.

He meets your eyes and it’s over. The rage leaks out of him in slow, gutting waves. Guilt rushes in to take its place, heavy and drowning. He looks down at his fists, knuckles split, blood seeping between his fingers. Jaehyun groans on the floor, but Beomgyu doesn’t care anymore.

He only sees you.

“…Let’s go.”

Beomgyu doesn’t really know what happened after. Everything moved in a blur. Security guards rushing over. Soobin’s voice, gathering Nari in his arms and carrying her out quickly. The sting of cold air as they pulled him aside. Your hand slipping into his, trembling.

And now this. A small, sterile room in the back of the arcade. Fluorescent lights buzzing above like they’re judging him. His knuckles throb with every pulse of his heart. That little box of first aid in your hands.

Beomgyu watches you. You’re so close he can feel the soft brush of your breath on his skin. Your hand cradles his jaw with the gentlest pressure, a cotton pad in your other, dabbing at the cut on his cheek with delicate focus.

He’s sitting, back against the cold wall, while you stand over him—eyes still glassy from the tears you swore you were done shedding. He doesn’t believe you. Not with how you keep blinking too fast, how your lips press together like you’re holding more in. "Does that hurt?" you ask softly, barely above a whisper.

“No, baby.”

You nod, thumb brushes his cheek as you tilt his face just slightly toward the light, inspecting the damage with far more care than he deserves. He can’t look away from you. Not with the way your brows are drawn in concern, not with the way your skin keeps brushing his, unintentionally intimate. Not with how close your mouth is. Not when he’s this full of anger, of adrenaline, of fear and guilt and the overwhelming ache of you being this soft with him after everything.

He should say something. Apologize again. Ask if you’re okay. But all the words are caught in his throat, dried out from the fire still simmering in his chest. You dab more alcohol gently and he winces, less from pain and more from the way your eyes flick to his for a split second. And linger.

He swallows.

You’re standing between his legs, hands on his face, touching him like he’s fragile. And it’s killing him—how much he wants to grab you and say something stupid like don’t leave me, don’t hate me, don’t talk to him—

“Why did you have to do that?” you whisper, voice cracking, your hands trembling where they grip the fabric of his shirt.

Beomgyu's heart swell, he reaches for you, palm steady on your waist, pulling you in like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he waits even a second longer. You straddle his lap without resistance, your thighs pressing against his hips, breath shallow as you shift closer. Your face is barely inches from his when he leans in, and the moment your lips touch, it’s messy. Breathless. Too much and not enough all at once.

The kiss deepens quickly—months of longing, fear, and pent-up desire pouring into it. You tilt your head, hands sliding up to cradle his jaw, and he groans softly against your mouth, his grip tightening on your hips. His fingers dip beneath the hem of your shirt, skimming the skin of your lower back, tracing slow circles. Your hips move without thought, just enough to feel the way his breath stutters against your lips. His hand slides down to your thigh, squeezing firmly before gliding up, under the fabric of your shorts, rough fingertips against soft skin.

“You were bleeding,” you murmur between kisses, breath hitching as his mouth trails along your jaw, down your throat. “I was terrified.”

His lips pause against your skin, and he exhales shakily. “I didn’t care,” he says, voice low. “I'll do anything for you.” Your fingers tangle in his hair as his hands explore. Needing. His mouth finds yours again, deeper now, hungrier. You rock your hips against him, just once, testing, and the sound he lets out makes your spine arch.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your lips. “Don’t do that unless you mean it.”

Beomgyu gets on his knees before you, hands gripping your thighs, “I hate that he ever got to touch you,” he mutters, lips brushing against your inner thigh, hands pressing on where you need him the most. “That he got to taste you.”

"Beomgyu," Your breath catches, your fingers tangled in his hair as he kisses higher. "Please,"

His mouth is ravenous. As soon as he lets down your underwears, his tongue moved in slow, devastating small licks that make your knees weak and your head fall back. You’re gasping, so sensitive, his grip on your thighs keeping you wide open as he buries himself in you like he’s starving.

Every lick, every kiss feels like a promise. Like he’s trying to erase every memory that isn’t him.

You cry out his name, hips stuttering under his hold, and he only groans in response, like the sound of your pleasure is the only thing he wants to hear. His hands are everywhere—thighs, hips, stomach—like he needs to hold every piece of you down while he builds you up to the edge. He rubs your clit, tounge sucking your entrance and making sure he gets, taste everything.

You’re trembling when it hits you, but he doesn’t stop and it’s too much, too good, your body curling more towards his mouth, hands gripping his hair. He looks up at you like you’re holy. Wrecked. Worshipped.

“You feel that?” he says, breathless. “No one else gets to have this. Just me.”

Soobin sighs from the driver’s seat, fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel. The car is still parked outside the arcade, engine off, the signs of early night settling around them. They’ve been waiting nearly twenty minutes now. He glances toward the entrance again. You and Beomgyu are still inside. No sign of either of you. Must be a serious conversation, he figures. After everything that just happened, how could it not be?

Beside him, Nari is unusually quiet. She sits in the passenger seat, small hands folded in her lap, eyes fixed on the window as if she’s trying to stare through time. It’s not like her. Not at all.

Soobin clears his throat gently. “Nari?” he says, keeping his voice soft. “Are you okay? Do you want anything? We can grab a snack or,” She shakes her head right away, not even turning to look at him.

He watches her for a moment, the tight press of her lips, the little furrow between her brows, her shoulders stiff with something she’s trying not to feel. A minute passes.

Then, finally, her voice; small and uncertain, breaks the silence. “Uncle... is Beomgyu going to be...”

Soobin glances over. “Hm?”

Nari bites her lip, eyes finally meeting his. “Is he upset?” The words are soft. Too soft for a kid who just cried her heart out.

Soobin’s heart twists in his chest. “No, sweetheart. He’s just... worried. About you. About your mom.” She nods once, but her pout only deepens.

“Then can you tell Beomgyu to stay with us? He really makes mommy happy.”

That day had been a moment of weakness.

Seeing Nari like that and hearing Beomgyu, breaking in your defense. You hadn’t been the same since. “Why are you ignoring him, seriously?” Soobin sighs through the phone, “Did something happen?”

You press the phone tighter to your ear, lips parting, but nothing comes out. Ever since that day, crammed in the backroom of the arcade, Beomgyu bruised and breathless—you’d barely spoken. Not to him. Not even to yourself. You couldn’t look him in the eye when you walked out. You’ve been silent ever since. “I’m just thinking,” you murmur, voice low.

“It’s been a week,” Soobin snaps, concerned. “For once, can you at least tell me what’s going on?”

You barely managed a rushed goodbye before the doorbell pulled you out of your daze. Nari was at school. You weren’t expecting anyone. Your legs felt heavy as you made your way to the door, heart climbing into your throat like it already knew.

Beomgyu. He looked like he hadn’t slept. Hair tousled, dark circles under his eyes, jaw tight like he’d rehearsed a thousand things to say and forgotten every single one the second he saw you. He quickly goes inside as soon as you step back and closes the door behind.

“What’s wrong with you?” he breathed, “What did I do?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. He laughed but it was hollow. “Did I cross a line? Say something I shouldn’t have? Did I hold you too long? Look at you too much?”

“Beomgyu—”

“No,” he said quickly, his voice shaking. “No. Don’t do that. Don’t say my name like that. I’ve been trying, I’ve been trying so hard not to push. Not to ask for more than you’re ready to give. I’ve been—fuck—I’ve been so patient with you, Y/N. Waiting. Holding back. Being whatever you needed me to be. And now you’re just… gone?” He choked, looking down. “You just left me there.” Tears welled up in your eyes. You swallowed hard.

He looked at you again, and it almost broke you. “Did that mean nothing to you?” he whispered. “Did I mean nothing to you?” You stepped back, instinctively, like your own guilt was too heavy to hold this close. He saw it.

Your eyes sting. You see him, the exhaustion in his face, the bags under his eyes. You look at him and God, it’s the worst thing, because he looks like he’s already bracing for the worst.

“I fucking miss you,” he says quietly, desperately. “I miss Nari. And if you really don’t want me in your life, say it to my face. If I don’t have a chance, if there’s no space for me in your world… I’ll back off.” He swallows, eyes glassy. “If you don’t want me anymore—”

“It’s not that.” Your voice comes out cracked, a whisper barely stitched together. His eyes snap to yours, and it nearly undoes you. “I’m in doubt, okay?” you whisper. “Because I’ve been there. I’ve heard promises. I’ve believed in forever before and ended up alone with a baby in my arms.” He flinches. “I can’t do it again. Not for me and especially not for Nari. She’s not like other kids. She feels everything. If she loves you and you leave…” You take a shaky breath. “It will destroy her. I know what that kind of pain looks like. I lived through it and I won’t risk her having to.”

“And on top of that,” you breathe out bitterly, “let’s be real. There are a thousand girls who’d love to be yours. Girls with no baggage. Girls who are whole. Girls who don’t carry years of hurt and a child that isn’t yours. Girls who haven’t already given everything they had away.” You shake your head, jaw tightening. “I’m a single mom, Beomgyu. I have nothing left to offer. I’ve been holding myself together with spit and string for years. And one day… one day you’ll see that, I’m not shiny or easy or new. That I’m just work. And when that happens, I won’t be surprised.” You’re shaking now, because the words are pouring out like you’ve been choking on them for years.

Your voice trembles as you say it, eyes flickering to the floor. “I just want to protect her from that moment. What if one day you wake up and realize we’re too much?”

Beomgyu stares at you, chest heaving, and for a moment, all you can hear is the silence between you. His hands are trembling. You see it even as he clenches them into fists at his sides. Then his voice breaks, barely holding back the quake in his chest. “Do you even know how hard it’s been for me?”

“Do you know what it’s like to wake up every damn day thinking about you and wondering if I ever even cross your mind?” His eyes are glassy now, jaw clenched like he’s trying not to fall apart. “Do you know what it does to a person?”

You know, you know that feeling.

He laughs, bitter and quiet. “I came back because I couldn’t stay away and yeah, maybe I was terrified because every time I see you, I wonder if just being here is ruining something you’ve already tried to heal from.” He looks at you, “But I couldn’t stay away. I couldn’t pretend that moving on was possible. Not when my heart—” his voice cracks, “—not when my heart’s been beating for you all this time.”

He runs a hand through his hair, eyes red, pacing slightly as if staying still is too much. “I’m fucking in love with you, Y/N. I have been. And that feeling,” he pauses, chest rising and falling, “that feeling, it hasn’t faded. It won’t. Not in a week, not in a year, not in a lifetime or my next. I can’t look at anyone else and even try to imagine what it could be. It’s you. Always been you.”

He swallows thickly, “And Nari? She’s a gift. She’s part of you. She’s this bright, beautiful piece of you and I love her.” He chokes on the words. “If I walk away now, it’s only me. Just me. I’ll take that. But if you walk away… if you shut that door between us for good, it won’t just be you. I’ll lose both of you. You and Nari.”

Beomgyu breathes, then he sees it. Your tears. They fall quietly, like you didn’t even realize you were crying, and something in him fractures. His expression caves, soft and broken, and before he can stop himself, he steps closer, tentative, like he’s afraid you’ll flinch. His hands are gentle when they reach for you, thumbs brushing the wetness from your cheeks like he’s memorizing the shape of your grief. His touch is trembling, unsure.

“You’re crying,” he whispers, “God, you’re crying…” His voice breaks on the last word. You can feel his hands shaking as he holds your face. “You think I’d ever leave you?” he breathes, eyes locked to yours, full of disbelief and pain and love. “You think I’d walk away from this? From you? After all we've been through? I’ve known you since we were kids. I loved you then, and I love you now.”

You hiccup, the sound small and sharp, like something inside you just split. A soft, strangled whimper slips out at the warmth of his hands; so gentle, so undeserved and your face crumples as fresh tears fall. “It’s all my fault,” you whisper, and makes his breath hitch. “If I had trusted you…” Your voice shakes, breaks, and you force the words out. “If I had waited. Maybe then…” Your chest caves inward, like you’re caving around the memory. “Maybe then she wouldn’t look up at me with those huge, tear-soaked eyes and ask if he ever loved her. If she wasn’t enough.” The words fall like stones. “If that’s why he left.” Beomgyu’s face twists but he doesn’t interrupt. He just listens. He takes it.

“And I, I have to look at her, and I have to lie. I have to lie, Beomgyu.” You’re gasping now, fists clenched. “I have to smile while swallowing every goddamn piece of my grief, and tell her, ‘You are enough. You are so loved,’ while the space beside her is a fucking ghost.” You squeeze your eyes shut. “And she believes me. That’s the worst part. She believes me.”

Your voice goes hoarse, barely audible. “Maybe if I’d made better choices,” you whisper, voice barely there, “I wouldn’t be doing this alone. I wouldn’t be the only one standing on the sidelines during family days, clapping for one when the world cheers in twos.”

You press your lips together to keep from sobbing. “I wouldn’t be the only arms she runs into.”

“I’m here,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “I’m here. Just… just tell me what you need—”

“I love you.” It’s barely a whisper, but it stops the world. Your fingers tighten in his shirt, twisting desperately, “I love you,” you say again, voice cracking. “I never stopped.”

His breath catches in his throat.

“Even when I was pregnant and terrified and waking up alone. Even when the world felt too big and I was too small and everything hurt, I still loved you.” You’re trembling now, eyes locked to his like the truth has finally clawed its way out of you. “When I gave birth, when I held her for the first time and felt everything and nothing all at once—I wished you were there. I needed you there.” Your voice breaks entirely, your forehead pressed harder against his like you’re trying to crawl into him, into that space where it doesn’t hurt so much.

“There were nights I didn’t think I’d make it. Days where I’d stare at the ceiling and wonder if she’d grow up resenting me. Days where I’d hold her and whisper your name… it was you. Always you.” Beomgyu’s eyes are wide, glassy, like he’s forgotten how to breathe. His lips part, but nothing comes out. Nothing can.

Because you just shattered him.

“We survived because of you,” you whisper. “Because I remembered what it felt like to be loved by you, because even when you weren’t there, you were still the reason I kept going.”

His hands slide to your jaw, his chest is rising and falling fast now, like your words punched through every wall he built.

He’s completely undone.

You barely get to speak again before he’s on you. He can't stop himself anymore. It’s how you looked, whispered the words that you loved him after all this time. His hands grip your waist, pulling you flush against him, his body heat searing through your clothes. His lips crash into yours—hungry, desperate, like he’s been starved for you. His mouth moves against yours, claiming, taking.

His fingers thread through your hair, tilting your head back as his tongue slides against yours. His hands roam down, gripping, pulling, making sure you feel every bit of him. He grabs your wrists, lifting them, wrapping your arms around his neck as his lips move to your jaw, then to your neck, his breath ragged as he nips your sensitive skin. "I missed you," he murmurs. Another kiss—hotter, deeper, his body pressing your back against the wall. "I got fucking scared you'd never let me in."

His movements were hurried, frantic, as if he were afraid you’d disappear if he let go. In one swift motion, he lifted you, his steps unsteady as he carried you to the bedroom. Your bedroom. The air felt heavy as he laid you down on the mattress.

"You loved me." His voice softens, almost breaking. He presses his crotch to yours, eyes seeking yours. "You loved me after all this time?"

“Yes,” you said weakly, your hands clutching at his shirt, your voice trembling as much as your resolve.

"You're stuck with me now." His hands moved to your shoulders, then slid down to your waist, pulling you to him. He grinds desperately to you. You never knew that lips could talk without uttering a word as he captures your lips again and again. "I can't stay away anymore. I can't live without you."

You surrendered to his touch, your body softening beneath him. Your hands gripped his shoulders for balance as he pressed you deeper into the mattress, which groaned under your shifting weight. You reached for Beomgyu’s lips, catching him off guard as you kissed him with everything you had, tongues colliding in a heated frenzy. His hand slid between your thighs, cupping your middle and sending a shiver through you. But even in the haze of his taste, a heavy guilt settled in your chest. "Gyu,"

"I need you, baby." His breaths were ragged, syncing with your every moan as his tongue tangled with yours. Your fingers tugged at the hem of his shirt, pulling him closer, urging him on. His body pressed against yours, grinding to yours, while his hands roamed over your skin, igniting every nerve he touched. His lips trailed downward, leaving soft kisses that melted into your flesh, a path leading straight to your core.

He stripped you of every barrier, leaving you bare under his gaze. His eyes shimmered with adoration and awe as they traced your body. You hadn’t realized how powerless you were against him until your legs parted, welcoming him. He's on top of you, looked at you like you were sacred, like you were his entire world. Beomgyu's eyes never left yours as his fingers found your hand, he intertwines your fingers.

“It's going to be okay… I'll be here now.” he whispered between kisses, his voice breaking in a way that made your heart ache. Tears pricked your eyes because you wanted to believe him. You needed to believe him. His hands explored further, his fingers shakily reaching for your clit, pinching softly then roughly rubbing, coaxing sounds from your lips that you didn’t know you were capable of.

"I'll fix everything for us, for you." He looks at you—wanting to see every expression you make. His face hovers and with his fingers he spreads you apart. He swallows, salivating. He sticks his tongue out, lightly licking your clit. You taste so—he buries his face in, tongue inside, hands on your hips. "Shit, you've always tasted this good," He groans, lapping up, sucking the arousal out of you. He moves up, nose bumping on your clit then he suckles more. His cock throbs with every taste of you, the way you melt against his mouth driving him insane. He feels you slick against his chin, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t leave a single inch of you untouched by his warm, greedy mouth. It was as if your body had been crafted for his lips alone, flesh and heat meant to be devoured at his leisure.

When you tug hard on his hair, he groans against you, finally pulling back. His lips glisten as he moves up your body. He crashes his mouth onto yours, the kiss deep and hungry, and you taste yourself on his tongue—messy, desperate, a mix of him and you, blurring the lines between who’s devouring who.

“I love you,” he murmured as he positioned himself, slowly sliding into you. A low, guttural sound escaped him as he felt you, tight and warm, pulling him deeper. He's sure he'll come right there and then. His face buried itself in the curve of your neck, and his words spilled out—

"You feel so so good, don't ask me to stop, please." His touch was gentle even as his thrusts inside you grew more desperate. He cradled your head, kissed away your tears, and pressed his lips to your cheek. “I’m in love with you, Y/N,"

“I love you,” you replied, capturing his lips in a desperate kiss as you both unravelled together, bodies trembling in unison. Your thighs clenched tightly around his waist.

"Beomgyu, I— I'm sorry—" You whispered his name and it made tears well up in his eyes. His hand gently pushed the damp strands of hair from your face, and he pressed tender kisses along your cheeks, your temple, and your jaw.

“Shh, I know baby,” he whispered, pulling you against his chest, holding you like he was afraid you’d slip away. His lips brushed the crown of your head.

All the horrors inside you; every thoughts of abandonment, every sleepless night, every silent scream, begin to dissolve beneath his touch. With every kiss he lays against your skin, something softens. He’s chasing the ghosts from your bones, like he’s replacing every bruise life left behind with something holy. He kisses your cheeks, wet with tears. He kisses you like a man who has memorized the ruins. Who has studied the wreckage of you and decided that this is still his favorite place to be. That you, broken or whole, scarred or shining, were always meant to be his.

You’re starting to breathe.

"I'm not missing anything anymore," Beomgyu murmurs, lips tugging into a soft pout. You laugh quietly against his bare chest, your cheek rising and falling with each of his breaths. His arms tighten around you, fingertips tracing slow, lazy circles along your spine. The two of you lie tangled in the warmth of the sheets, skin to skin. He leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead. "Nari. Her first words. Her first steps. All those nights you probably sat up alone…” His voice trails off, and when he speaks again, it’s rougher. “I wasn’t there. And I hate that. I hate that you had to do it all without me.” He looks at you and for a second the world seems to still. "I'm not missing any more of it."

How can someone like him be real?

“Okay.” You smile, and so does he��quiet and shy, the corners of his mouth lifting just enough to show the faintest hint of dimples. You reach out without thinking, your fingers brushing the soft curve of his cheek, then trailing across the tiny freckles scattered like whispers on his skin. “And how are you supposed to do that, hmm?” you murmur, voice barely above a breath. “Live with me? Or—”

“Marry me,” he says, and your hand stills, but he catches it gently, holding it between his own. He brings it to his lips and presses a kiss to your palm, “Will you marry me?”

You can’t breathe. Your heart stumbles in your chest as you search his face for any trace of a smile, any flicker that he might be joking—that he doesn’t really mean it. Beomgyu takes your silence for doubt, so he keeps going. “Of course, I’d have to ask Nari first, and probably beg. I need her approval before anything,” he says with a nervous laugh, eyes flicking to yours.

“You get to choose where we live,” he adds quickly. “Do you want a house near the coast? Somewhere quiet? We could move. We could adopt a dog. Or do you want a flower shop?” He’s painting visions in the air now, “We could also—”

Beomgyu keeps talking. His words are soft, a little rushed. He talks about futures like they’re right there in the middle of his hands, painted in soft colors and quiet mornings. You, him, and Nari. A little house somewhere warm. A dog with floppy ears. A flower shop if you want it. A life that feels full.

You hear him, but your heart is louder.

They say you’re lucky if you find the man of your dreams. But that never felt like something made for you. Not for the boy rambling in front of you, not for your best friend. You look at him; at his eyes, honest and open, at his lips, red and kiss-bitten from how often they’ve met yours. At the way he watches you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.

And suddenly, it makes sense. It all dawns to you, why you've always find it hard to imagine, to hope, and to wish.

It's all because Beomgyu, is the maker of your dreams.

"Where's my ring?"

You sit at the coffee shop, the cup of coffee in front of you untouched, growing cold. Your fingers keep circling your new ring, turning it absentmindedly, like maybe if you spin it enough, it’ll stop the nerves.

Then the door chimes. Jaehyun walks in, scanning the room, searching, until they land on you; they soften. “Hi,” he says as he slides into the seat across from you. There’s a small pink paper bag in his hands, creased slightly from how tightly he’s holding it. “Thank you for meeting me, Y/N.”

“It’s nothing,” you reply quietly. “I guess it was inevitable… that we’d have to sit down like this.” He nods, gaze drifting to your hand; your ring. A flicker of something passes over his face, but he doesn’t say anything about it.

“I want to be there for Nari,” he says finally. “Time with her. Some kind of custody arrangement. I know it’s late. I know how much time I’ve missed. But I… I regret everything.” His voice trembles, “I’ve spoken to my mom. I’ve thought about this a lot. I don’t expect forgiveness, but let me support her—financially, emotionally. Whatever you’ll allow me to do.”

"Yes." You interrupt gently, before his words spiral too far. "Thank you, Jaehyun. But…" You pause, trying to steady the shake in your voice. “This is going to take time.”

You glance down at on your right, on the windows to the parked car where you know your best friend is waiting, then back at him. “I’ll explain it to her. Slowly. When it feels right. And when she’s ready, we’ll set a day where you can be with her—freely, as her father. Just… not yet. We can’t rush something like this. Not when it’s her heart on the line.”

His shoulders sink just a little as he nods. “I lost my chance,” he says softly, looking at the window, at the same parked car you've been looking at,“With you. With Nari.” It isn’t a question.

He offers a faint smile, and for a second, it looks like he might say more but the words catch somewhere in his throat and never make it out. Instead, he slides the pink bag across the table. “I baked you cookies,” he says. "It doesn't have peanuts on it."

“Nari, be careful!” you call out as your daughter bolts through the front door, laughter echoing off the bare walls of your new home.

Beside you, Beomgyu chuckles, juggling two boxes in his arms. “Careful, sweetheart,” he calls after her, his voice filled with nothing but adoration as he follows you inside.

Your eyes sweep over the space—unfamiliar, but full of promise. It had taken months of gentle convincing, of late-night talks and quiet reassurances from Beomgyu. And now… here you are. Standing in a place that doesn’t feel like home just yet, but might—because he’s here. Because she’s here.

You set your box down on the counter and breathe in slowly, letting the moment settle around you.

A warm hand slides over your back, fingers curling gently at your waist. “You okay, baby?” Beomgyu murmurs, leaning in to press a soft kiss to the side of your face. “Soobin said he stopped to get food.”

You nod, turning slightly to face him. “I want to paint our house,” you say quietly.

Our house.

Beomgyu smiles, eyes crinkling like he’s just heard something sacred. “Then let’s paint it,” he whispers, eyes still on you like you’re the most important thing in the room.

He takes your hand gently, absentmindedly lifting it to his lips. His thumb brushes over your fingers, then lingers on your ring. He kisses it, soft and slow, like it’s second nature now, like loving you in small, wordless ways has become part of who he is.

“We can also have…” he starts, voice trailing off as he imagines out loud, eyes flicking to the blank walls around you. “A wall for Nari’s drawings. Right here, maybe in the hallway. And a shelf for your books. One of those that curves, remember? You showed me a picture of it.” He smiles, that soft boyish grin he only gives when he’s picturing a life with you. “And maybe a corner just for us. A record player. Or a couch we can fall asleep on, when we're tired of chasing Nari around.” He laughs a little, rubbing your knuckles with his thumb. “We can fill this place up with us.”

“Daddy!” The word rings out like a bell, and you both freeze. Beomgyu goes completely still beside you, breath caught in his throat. You turn just in time to see Nari bounding down the hallway, a soft, excited smile lighting up her face.

“Do I get my own room now?” she asks, as if she didn’t just change the world with one word. You and Beomgyu look at each other, stunned; eyes wide, not in disbelief, but in something far softer.

It’s the first time. The very first time she’s called him that.

Beomgyu blinks quickly, like he’s trying to make sure he’s not dreaming, like if he moves too fast it might vanish. Then, he drops to his knees and opens his arms. Nari runs into them without hesitation.

He wraps her up tightly, heart thundering, eyes glassy with everything he’s feeling all at once; shock, love, awe. He buries his face into her tiny shoulder and laughs through it, voice thick.

“Of course you get your own room, sweetheart,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at her. “You can have anything. Daddy will give it to you. Anything you want.”

Shit happens. Life happens.

It breaks you in places you didn’t know could crack. It tests you, takes from you, forces you to let go of things before you're ready. Time passes. Plans fall apart, but no matter how far you go, no matter how the story twists, no matter what you've been through, you always end up where you belong to. Always end up with them.

The ties between may fray. Fate may take unexpected turns. You might walk through fire, lose your way, forget who you were before the world touched you, come back with more scars than dreams. But nothing, nothing, not even all the wreckage life leaves behind… can stop two souls that are meant for each other.

The things that the world can’t touch.

It remains the same.

taglist: @heesmiles @lovingbeomgyudayone @virtaideen @hyukascampfire @fancypeacepersona @bamgeutori @lilbrorufr @beomieeeeeeeeeeees @xylatox @yunverie @imlonelydontsendhelp @moagyuu @immelissaaa @readinmidnight @pagelets @wonderstrucktae @boba-beom @nightblythe @hyuckxtagram @hoefororeo @beomgyusluver @feet4liferss @soobinbunnie5 @soohashits @lostgirlysstuff @demidelulu @love-be0m @razsberrie @strawberryshoujosundae @y2kgyu @usuallyunlikelyfox @xi0riae @giegiemon @okkotsuevie @beomkyum @i-am-not-dal @cherr4es @brrytears @yystarz @moonlightgrleric @lumpynoofles @raspberrii @baekberrie

[littlemissrbf]

Summer Lovin’ (pt. 2)

Robert "Bob" Floyd x fem!Reader

(No use of y/n, reader is a SoCal native & Bob is from Montana, language, reader has an annoying but loving uncle, Jake "Hangman" Seresin is a jackass, & Natasha "Phoenix" Trace is amazing and I love her, the Mickey-Rooster-Reuben department of shits and giggles is my new favorite thing)

Part 1, Part 2 [Word Count: 2.6k]

Until now, you’d only seen Lt. Robert Floyd from across the room, sitting or standing to the side with his shoulders pulled inwards like he was worried about taking up too much space. The distance between the two of you only made him look smaller, more like a “little nerd” according to your uncle.

But now that you have him all up close and personal, you realize just how big this man actually is. He's at least six feet tall with broad shoulders which only seem to add to his height. He practically towers over you, and when he stands too close you have to tilt your head back just to meet his eyes.

You realize you fucked up as he began to set up the pool balls into a diamond shape. You had asked him to play 9-ball but you've only ever played 8-ball, where the balls are set up in a triangle and you have to pocket all the stripes or solids before you go for the 8-ball. You couldn't even last 5 minutes without making a complete fool of yourself.

"You wanna break?" he asked, holding out the cue ball.

You laid your cue stick to rest against the table before making your way over to him, you took the ball from him and laughed at yourself before he could,

"I'm sorry I meant to say 8-ball instead of 9, but I got them mixed up in my head. I actually have no idea how to play 9-ball."

But he didn't laugh at you. He just smiled, grabbed the rack from another table, and started pulling six more balls from the pockets to rearrange them into a triangle.

"I'm really sorry about that, I should've said something before you'd finished setting up." you looked down and began to roll the cue ball in your hands.

He paused from lining up the rack with the foot of the table to look up at you, "It's okay, I don't mind."

When you still didn't look at him he made his way over to you, leaning down to get you to meet his eyes,

"Hey, it's alright. I figured I could show you how to play 9-ball after our bet." then he added "As long as you're okay with that."

You couldn't help but grin. "Yeah, that sounds good. But only after you've bought me a drink 'cause I'm about to destroy you."

"Oh someone's feeling confident all of a sudden." he smirked at you.

You smiled as you rolled your eyes at him.

"I'm still breaking," you said as you grabbed your cue stick and placed the ball on the table.

The two of you probably spent more time chatting than actually playing pool. The initial trash talk quickly blended into full-blown conversations that ended up with both of you forgetting whose turn it was (you ended up using rock-paper-scissors to decide who would go). At one point, you got so distracted that you forgot you were solids, accidentally sinking one of Bob's stripes into a pocket.

"You from around here?" he asked before taking a shot, the cue ball hitting a red one with a satisfying click, it rolled towards a corner pocket but bounced off the rails.

"No, I'm actually from OC," you said looking for an easy shot.

"OC?" he tilted his head.

"Orange County," you lined up for a pocket shot, "I live in Anaheim, it's about a two-hour drive from here." You hit the cue ball and watched as it rolled straight past your target and into the pocket. You sighed and lightly slapped your forehead, this was probably the fifth time you'd scratched. "What about you?" you asked as he reached into the pocket and pulled out the cue ball.

"I'm born and raised in Montana, my family owns a cattle ranch in Whitehall." he placed the ball on the table and leaned over to take a shot.

"Robbie, are you telling me that you're a cowboy?"

"No ma'am," he chuckled and shook his head, "Sorry to disappoint, but I'm just a Weapons System Officer."

"Yeah I have no idea what that means, you mind explaining?"

It's like you just triggered a sleeper agent, Bob immediately stood up, completely forgetting about his shot, and started to explain every last detail about what he did as a WSO. He talked with his hands and the pitch of his voice raised when he got excited.

"So, the pilot flies and you shoot, but you're also like the pilot's second set of eyes and ears?" you asked.

"Yep that's pretty much it," he nodded.

"That sounds... intense." You couldn't imagine being in charge of all of that, not to mention being responsible for someone else's life. "Have you always wanted to do something like this?"

"Well, my mom says I always really liked planes and jets." He made his way back to the table and lined up for one of the side pockets, "When I was a kid I told her 'One day, I'm gonna fly one of those things' and I figured the Navy was the best way to do that." He took the shot and the target ball rolled straight into the side pocket.

"It's really impressive." You started, he just shrugged and smiled to himself, he's too humble. "So is this your first time in Cali?"

"Actually, I was stationed in Lemoore for a bit before I got transferred here."

"San Joaquin Valley area?" That area is mostly farmland, so you can't help but ask, "Is it true that it smells like shit all the time?"

He smiled, "You get used to it."

He took another shot and sunk the ball into a corner pocket.

"You're pretty good at this," you said looking down at the table. He only had one ball left and you had five, at this rate you should just go buy his drink already.

A quiet "Thank you" slipped out as he leaned down over the table and lined up to knock his last ball into a corner pocket. He paused for a second, then hit the cue. He scratched.

He just looked at you and shrugged, trying to hide a small grin.

You raised an eyebrow at him, "Lt. Robert Floyd, are you letting me win to make me like you more?" You asked, hand on your hip.

You expected him to look down or maybe blush, instead, he held your gaze and tilted his head. That stupid grin showing up again,

"Is it working?"

Now you were the one blushing.

"Maybe." You said, brushing past him to grab the cue ball from the pocket.

This went on for a bit, you miss your shot and then Bob misses his (but on purpose), the cycle continued until some of his fellow pilots made their way back towards the pool tables, putting a pause on your game. It was a woman you recognized from earlier, two men who always seemed to trail behind her, and Mr. Mustache aka Rooster. Bob introduced you, and you shake their hands and learn that Natasha, Reuben, and Rooster are all F/A-18 pilots and Mickey is Reuben's WSO. You ask Natasha if Bob is a good back-seater and she laughs,

"I sure hope so, I haven't gotten the chance to fly with him yet. Most of us just got in today."

"Ooo something important about to happen?" You asked

"Well, I'd tell you if I knew." She smiled, and holy shit she's pretty, actually forget pretty, Natasha Trace is drop-dead gorgeous. Maybe the Navy is only taking hot pilots or something?

As if to prove your point, Rooster, who is tall and ridiculously good-looking, decided to make his way into the conversation,

"Nah you wouldn't, 'c'mon we all know you're a goody two shoes." Rooster pipes up and without missing a beat, she reaches up and slaps him up the back of his head.

"Don't mind him, he's an idiot," she says, "So what brings you around here? Family? Maybe a boyfriend?"

"No, no boyfriend," you say, trying not to look at Bob, but you can see Mickey out of the corner of your eye nudging him with his elbow. "I'm here with my uncle, he just retired from the Navy, today actually."

"Oh good for him, you guys here to celebrate?"

"Well he's definitely here to celebrate, I'm sure he just brought me along to be his designated drive-home." It was a good cover story, there is no fucking way you are about to tell these people that you were brought here to find yourself a husband.

"That's sweet," she starts "I love your dress, by the way, does it have pockets?"

You reach down and fluff out the skirt a little, "Thank you so much! I wish it had pockets, then it would be perfect."

You got to know the group better after just minutes of chatting apparently Natasha and Rooster go way back, Mickey is a chatterbox once he starts talking and won't shut up unless he's either eating or asleep, and Reuben's had his (albeit less dramatic than Rooster's) mustache since high school.

While listening to Rooster, Reuben, and Mickey get into it about whether or not pineapple belongs on pizza. You subconsciously start drifting towards Bob, who is standing off to the side and silently observing the heated debate. Once you were side to side you gently bumped him with your shoulder, and he smiled before leaning over to whisper,

"I think it's your turn."

He was so close now and you could feel his breath against your neck, your heart decided to skip a beat and you figured if you didn't move soon this man was gonna give you a heart attack. So you quickly shuffled closer to the table and you locked eyes with Natasha, who saw the whole interaction, she gave you a knowing smirk and you felt the flush spreading further up your cheeks. You look down and try to focus on your next shot, but before you can pick which ball to go for you hear a new voice coming from the bar.

"Would you look at that, 'Baby on Board' actually has some game."

The man standing across from you is tall and blonde, he's got a set of perfect teeth that he flashes with a shit-eating grin, you notice the way Natasha looks at him as if she's fantasizing about punching him in the face or setting him on fire, or maybe both.

"Excuse me?" You tried to sound as polite as possible.

"You know B-O-B, 'Baby on Board'. I'm starting to think that's what his callsign actually stands for"

"Bob is just his nickname," you started, "It's short for Robert."

"No sweetheart, see 'callsigns' are what we fighter pilots use for communication and identification." he explained.

"So like a nickname." you replied with a flat tone.

You can hear Rooster and Mickey snickering, Natasha is still standing with her arms crossed but at least now she's smirking.

You decided to press your luck, thinking maybe if you annoyed him enough, Mr. Pearly Whites would just go away.

"What's your nickname?" you quickly corrected yourself "I mean, what's your callsign?"

More laughter came from the Mickey-Rooster-Reuben department but Mr. Pearly Whites just stood there and grinned.

"I'm Hangman, this here is Coyote." he nodded to the man next to him.

"Hangman?" You asked, you saw a slight crack in his smile and decided to go in for the kill.

"Do you just really like kid's word puzzles or something?"

At this, the Mickey-Rooster-Reuben department fucking lost it, cackling as they leaned on each other for support, Natasha was laughing too but at least she was still standing up on her own.

To your disappointment, Hangman just kept on smiling.

"At least someone's got a sense of humor, isn't that right Bob."

When you turned to glance at Bob, his mouth was pressed in a thin line, he nodded politely but his shoulders were hunched inwards again.

"Listen, it was great to meet you Hangman, and you too Coyote, but if you don't mind I'm gonna go back to playing 8-ball." you said turning back towards the table.

Before you could register it, you felt the pool cue being snatched from your hands and suddenly Hangman was in your place, shooting the cue ball perfectly to sink a ball into a corner pocket.

"I'm really good at this kind of stuff so let me give you some pointers," He started.

"No thank you." You reply immediately, but still polite.

"Aww c'mon I'm just trying to be nice, besides, it looks like you could use the help." He pressed on.

Before you can repeat yourself, Bob made his way around the table and he stood right next to Hangman, bringing his hand down onto his shoulder with a bit more force than necessary.

"You having some trouble with your hearing, Hangman?" He asks.

"Pardon?"

"I guess you are because I just heard her say 'No thank you' loud and clear. Maybe you oughta get your ears checked." He said, smiling sweetly, feigning concern.

Oh shit, he's hot.

Now Rooster got in on the action, "Nah, with that level of hearing loss I say we just let him get discharged."

"It's a shame, I was really looking forward to working with you, Bagman." Natasha chimed in.

And Hangman, the smooth son of a bitch just chuckled and patted Bob on the back, "Looks like we're all a bunch of comedians now." And he turned to you.

He held out the pool cue but when you took it in your hand, he held on, looking straight into your eyes.

"I apologize," he said with his other hand on his chest, it almost sounded genuine. "You have a good night, sweetheart." He flashed his pearly whites again, still holding on.

"Thank you." You replied, not breaking his gaze, not backing down.

He nodded and finally let go, making his way towards the dartboard on the other side of the bar. Before following him, Coyote nodded to you saying "Take care." You nodded back and said, "Thank you, you too."

The second the two men were out of earshot you whipped around to the group, "Oh my god, how do you guys put up with that?!"

Natasha lets out a groan, "He's the worst."

"Tell me about it." Rooster said leaning against a wall.

"You guys deserve a fucking medal of honor or something, I mean he is just such a..." You trailed off while trying to fish out the ball that he sunk.

"Jackass?"

"Dipshit?"

"Asshole?"

You placed the ball down on the table with a thud, "Yes, yes, and yes."

You made your way to Bob and placed your hand on his arm,

"Thank you for sticking up for me, I really appreciate it."

"You're welcome." Is all he gets out, looking down to where your palm rests on his arm, smiling softly.

When you pull your hand away, you barely see the way he leans towards it, as if his body is trying to chase your touch.

Natasha grabs the boys and makes a half-assed excuse about going for another round of drinks, winking at you as she gives you and Bob some privacy. No surprise, Natasha Trace is a solid wingman.

You let out a small laugh, "So, where were we?"

"I think you're about to win."

"Ha ha very funny," you said, aiming for one of your remaining balls. You took the shot and missed with flying colors. "Alright, Robbie go ahead." You said with a defeated sigh.

He sunk his last striped ball then picked a corner pocket for the 8-ball. He lined up his shot, looked at you, and hit the cue ball. It knocked the 8-ball into its pocket before rolling straight across the table and into the other pocket. Scratch on the 8-ball, he lost.

He turned to you and grinned.

"Oops."

Divider by @bernardsbendystraws

(Author's Note: Thank you for reading! Part 3 is in the works. This is still my first ever fic so let me know if you have any writing tips or suggestions!)

[lipglossanon]

October 1st

Kink: Titty Fucking

Pairing: Stepbro!Leon S. Kennedy x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, stepcest, dirty talk, titty fucking, spitting, mean Leon, OC friend for the plot lmao

not proofread

Sandy made herself at home as soon as you both got out of class and made it back to your house. It didn’t really bother you, more than happy to have a study buddy with that physics test looming on the horizon. No, the only issue happens to be Leon who didn’t know you had company—and the kind spending the night at that. 

“Next time text me,” he hisses in your ear, his warm hand wrapping around your bicep to pull you into the kitchen away from your friend. “Why’s she even here?”

“To study,” you roll your eyes. “Besides it wasn’t exactly planned out, she just asked right before we got here.”

“And you couldn’t say no?” His eyes dart over to the hallway leading into the living room.

“Leon,” your tone flattens, “you know how serious I am about passing. One night by yourself isn’t going to kill you.”

“It might,” he sneers at you, that mean streak beginning to peek through. “Don’t think you’re getting off easy, princess.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, big brother,” you bat your eyelashes and his grip turns bruising on your upper arm.

“You better watch that smart mouth,” he pushes away from you and practically storms back upstairs. 

You ignore the pulse fluttering in your chest as well as the low throb in your clit as you smooth out your shirt and make your way back to the living room. Hopefully this study session with Sandy will be worth the trouble. Soon, hours pass and finally you stand up, back protesting the stretch when you raise your arms above your head. 

“God, I’m beat,” you yawn, grabbing up your papers as your friend does the same. 

“Me too,” she tries and fails to stifle the yawn overtaking her face. “And I gotta be up early to go help out my mom.”

Your lips twist in a sympathetic pout, “That sucks.”

“I know!” She groans with a laugh, “But hey, I feel a lot better about Thursday.”

You smile, “Yeah, I do, too.”

Guiding her upstairs, you leave her in your room to change as you grab your clothes to head off to the bathroom. And since nothing is ever easy in your life, a broad palm covers your mouth from behind as your none too gently yanked into Leon’s room. 

“Seems you’ve got some time to spare,” he drags his hand down to your neck and squeezes. 

Spinning you around, he walks you back to shove you down onto his bed, a pillow falling off as the mattress bounces with your weight. 

“What’re you—“

Glancing back to make sure his door is shut, Leon lightly pats your cheek with the flat pad of his fingers. 

“Uh uh,” he smiles the kind of smile that makes your breath catch. “You’re gonna shut up and lay here looking so pretty, little sis.”

He yanks your shirt off, tossing it aside before reaching underneath to unclasp your bra. You watch his pupils expand as your breasts slip free from the fabric. He lets go to run his palms over the soft flesh and grope roughly. 

“Fuck, look at these tits,” he groans in his throat. He jiggles them in his palms, thumbs coming up to press down on your nipples. 

“Leon,” you whine, panties sticking to your wet cunt already in such a short time.

He laughs, “What? You think you’re getting anything? ‘fraid not, princess. Gonna fuck your tits and give you a nice pearl necklace.”

Biting your lip, your clit pulses as more slick fills your panties. He pulls one hand away to undo his jeans and push them and his briefs down until his cock’s freed. Sighing, he reaches down with his free hand and strokes the thick length, foreskin pulling away from the head and making your mouth water. 

“Press’em together, sis, give me something nice and soft to fuck,” he grins down at you. 

Biting your lip, you nearly go cross eyed staring at his dick when he shifts over you until he’s straddling your chest. You grab each of your tits and squeeze them inward, forming a hollow tunnel that he slots his cock in as soon as possible. 

He pulls out halfway and spits down on his dick, giving you a crooked smile, “Gotta lube it up somehow, princess.”

Whimpering, you press the dough of your thighs together trying to alleviate the pressure of arousal in your core. 

“Big brother, you’re being mean,” you pout. 

“Oh, am I?” He croons. “Well, that’s just too fucking bad, isn’t it, little sis?”

He grunts and fucks his cock into the pillowy softness of your breasts, precum smearing along your skin to leave sticky trails in its wake. A few more strokes and he pulls away to spit down on his cock again. You whine softly and he groans, hips snapping forward and rutting his cock between your tits.

It’s torture to lay there as he uses you to get off. The tip of his drooling cock is too much and you loll your tongue out, hoping the drippy head touches the slick muscle. 

“Yeah, that’s it,” he laughs, hands coming down to bring your head forward. “Big brother’ll let you have a little taste, princess.”

Your breath gusts from your mouth when his cock touches your tongue before sliding away. Little salty bursts of precum light up your tastebuds as Leon keeps his thrusts angled just right. Drool leaks down your chin to pool in the hollow of your throat. 

“Fuck, g’nna cum soon,” he rasps out, blue eyes dark. “Keep that slutty fucking mouth open, sis.”

Mewling, you can’t even nod as Leon humps against your tits even harder. With a low growl, he thrusts forward one last time and spills hot sticky ropes of cum all over your open mouth, coating your tongue. Messy strands land all across your throat and upper chest when he pulls back, shooting the last of his load out onto you. 

“Damn,” he sighs, “don’t you look fucking pretty.”

You swallow down his spend with a low whine, pussy soaking wet. Leon smirks at you and slaps your tits to make them bounce. 

“Better go get cleaned up before your little friend starts poking around.”

“But—“

“But nothin’,” he helps you up and lazily wipes the cum off with one of his shirts. “Next time, you won’t just bring someone home unexpectedly, huh Princess?”

With a laugh, he pushes you out of his room and closes the door, leaving you standing there feeling sticky, wet, and so so needy. 

[morganas-pendragons]

Jealousy Is Unbecoming | Celebrimbor

I got denied from my choice grad school AND I am sick. Here you go, have another fic! I have been out of it for a while. Hopefully I can start my OC fic soon.

***

“Celebrimbor? Why have you been avoiding me?” You call teasingly.

“I haven’t been doing anything of the sort. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Okay, then why don’t I go ask Márdan then?” You call over your shoulder, turning back towards the main doors of the forge. You are not very far in to courting. You however, are not naive, and have been around him long enough to know when he’s hiding something.

“You may do whatever you like.” Celebrimbor grumbled. “Márdan certainly won’t have any answers for you.”

Oh. That’s what’s what the problem is. He’s jealous of you spending time with the other Ellon that you’ve come to know from the Gwaith-I-Mírdain.

You cross the room to come stand in front of him, teasing fingers curling around his wrist. “I have a question that only you can answer. Would you like to hear it?”

He looked down at his wrist where your fingers touched him, then back up at you, bewildered. “What?” He asked.

You lean inward to whisper lowly in his ear. “How long was it going to take for you to admit you are jealous?”

Celebrimbor’s eyes widen as his cheeks redden. “What are you-I am not!”

“Márdan has been helping me with education about the forge. Things I need to know if I want to be able to craft with you and beside you.” You hummed softly and laced your fingers together. ‘’Besides, I think I’ve made one thing abundantly clear by now.”

“I am not just some young buck that I am so easily made jealous by another,” He muttered, face red.

“I don’t want some young buck.” You argued. You lean forward, ever so slowly, and touch your foreheads together. “I want you. You don’t have to worry about my eyes ever wandering to anyone else. Especially that young Ellon. He has nowhere the strength you do.” Always teasing, always gentle.

Celebrimbor stared at you, thoughts and insecurities and what ifs whirling around in his mind. After a few moments, he seemed to have calmed his thoughts and sighed. “I have been unfair to you.” He said.

“How?”

You took his hands and pressed them to your face, earnest eyes not once parting from his own.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed that I have a tendency to be…. Temperamental at times.”

“Only towards the ones you care about. It’s usually me as I’ve seen so far, but..” Realization crossed your face. “Oh. Is there a specific reason why it’s usually directed at me?”

Celebrimbor sighed and ran a hand through his hair, which at this point has become a tad disheveled. “You do not deserve it - These moods that come over me. Forgive the irrational fears of an old elf. I saw intent where there was none.”

“Celebrimbor,” You shake your head and stepped closer so you could lean into him, head resting in the crook of his neck. “Your age is of no concern to me. Do you wish to know what it was that drew me to you, and not to any of the other Gwaíth when you brought me into your care?”

“Please.”

His voice is hoarser than he’d care to admit.

“Your kindness,” You said. “Your gentleness, your capacity to love a stranger. I wasn’t drawn to Celebrimbor, Lord of Eregion and greatest of the Elven Smiths. I was drawn to you. You,” She rested her hand against his chest. “Are all I want.”

He lets you stay there nestled against him for a long moment before he pulled away to cradle your face in his hands, unshed tears glistening in his eyes. “I do not deserve you,” Before you can protest, he continued. “Valar take me, but I do not know what I did to deserve one as precious as you are.”

They’ll find out later that you were prophesied over for him, saved for him by Nienna herself. That will come. Right now you have this.

“You saved me,” You whispered. “That was enough. Do you believe me now that there is nothing to worry about?” She twisted your head to kiss Celebrimbor’s jaw. “Or do you need me to-“ And then his cheek. “Convinced you further?”

Celebrimbor took one of your hands into his and kissed the back of it, maintaining eye contact with you for the entire time. There is a playful glint to his eyes now, as if the demons have been chased away for the time being. “I might be interested in hearing more,” He murmured. “Perhaps over dinner?”

“In the gardens?” Your hair swept over your shoulder as you beamed at him. “That is our favorite spot in the city.”

“Wherever you wish it, my dear.”

[velvetsculpturenebula]

Just for the fun... (Side memory from main story project)

~Velvet Symphonies~

Summary: She is a celestial being that speaks in the language of stars and melodies, Rafayel tries to impress her by talking in her native tongue.

-------Rafayel god of tides x OC-------

Disclaimer: English is not my first language. Mc doesn't exist in this universe.

Genre: soft romance with tension

Featuring: Rafayel from Lads, my OC (the architect), and their daughter Aestra

TW: (+18), inappropriate language, intimate fluff, teasing.

...................................................

Rafayel leaned against the archway of her studio, arms crossed lazily, his eyes following the gentle way she painted the curve of a celestial being’s spine across the canvas. He had been quiet, oddly contemplative ~ until he cleared his throat and asked, “You ever heard someone speak in the language of stars?”

She paused mid-stroke. “Only once. It broke a moon.”

He tilted his head. “Perfect. Then I think I’m ready to try.”

She set the brush down, intrigued. “You? Trying to court the cosmos? Please.”

“I’ve been practicing,” he said with a sly smile, pushing off the wall. “Aestra taught me a few words. I added my own flair.”

“Oh stars…”

Rafayel closed his eyes, let his throat relax into that strange, resonant hum. And then ~like something wrapped in vibration and silk ~ he spoke. The syllables shimmered in the air like aurora, vibrating along the walls, sending the paint water into delicate ripples.

She blinked. Once. Twice.

“Rafayel,” she said slowly, blinking again. “Do you know what you just said?”

He stood straighter and very proud of himself. “Something… poetic?”

Her face flushed in degrees. “You just said: ‘Your gravitational pull unravels my temporal seams. ~ undress me between the seconds.’”

Rafayel's expression faltered. “I...wait, what?”

She buried her face in her hands, half-laughing, half-shocked. “That’s basically cosmic dirty talk. You spoke divine smut in the voice of comets.”

“Oh stars,” he muttered, his own ears tinting crimson now.

“Don’t ever say that around Aestra or the stars will implode from secondhand embarrassment,” she giggled, still flushed. “That was scandalous.”

“But… was it hot at least?” Rafayel asked hopefully, biting his lower lip.

She turned to him slowly, grinning. “Honestly? Very. You just accidentally seduced me in a forbidden dialect. Congrats, you’re now officially dangerous.”

He stepped closer, whispering again in the language of stars ~ far more softly this time. Her eyes widened again.

“Rafayel!”

“What?” he grinned innocently.

“You did it again! That means ‘tie me to your light and call it eternity.’ You need supervision.”

“Or you need to kiss me before I cause a stellar eruption... By accident, that would be tragic”

With laughter still in her breath, she kissed him ~ like a galaxy folding inward~.

[yanphobia]

Athazagoraphobia - Chapter 3

Athazagoraphobia: The fear of forgetting, and being forgotten.

Pairing: Yandere Male Merman OC x Reader

Warnings (for the entire story): Yandere, Horror, Graphic Discriptions of Injury and Death, The Ocean, Body Horror, NonCon Touching, Dubcon, Female Reader, Extreme Dead Dove Do Not Eat

Chapter 2 Index Chapter 4

Author's Note: howdy @creepysweetie @my2phetaliaheadcanons @smolnuggie911

You never could have predicted waking up. Your eyelids were so heavy that you had to wait a little bit before attempting to open them, only to be met with a blurry cave ceiling when you did. Your head was pounding, the air was thick and cold, and your aching body felt like it weighed a million pounds... but you were, undeniably, alive.  

You groaned as you tried to lift your head, but the world spun around you when you did. Instead, you had to settle for staring at the ceiling, at the odd plants swaying strangely in the breeze, until you regained your strength. The light danced against the rocks in a way that seemed alien, and yet familiar all at once. You managed to turn your head to the side, and immediately regretted it. 

There was a hand laying there, far too close to your face. It was humanoid in shape, but just barely. At first, you had thought that it belonged to a waterlogged corpse, but your eyes could not tear themselves away from the grotesque claws that served in place of its fingernails. You groaned again and your finger twitched as a reflex, which, to your shock, caused the hand’s finger to twitch as well. You did it again, and again, the hand responded. You curled your fingers inward, and the hand replicated your movement. You could feel the sharp claws of the hand prodding their way into your palm, and you quickly realized that this thing was attached to you. 

You thought of the foreign weight pinning you from the waist down. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at it. You clumsily raised your other hand, now painfully aware of the claws on its fingers, and forced yourself to touch your thigh, only to wretch it away when you felt a heavy mass of flesh covered with scales instead. 

Don’t look, don’t look...!  You told yourself, but you did not heed your own advice. 

Instead of legs, there was only a large fish tail, complete with grey-green scales and fins unlike anything you had ever seen before. When you gasped, the gills on your ribcage flared open, exposing the vibrant red flesh within them. 

The panic was immediate. You struggled in a pathetic attempt to detach yourself from that strange looking thing, crying out as you did so. Everything hurt, everything felt so wrong... and all you could think about was escape. You hadn’t even realized that you were not alone. 

“[Y/N]? [Y/N], it’s okay! You’re not hurt! Just, please try to calm down...!” 

It was a masculine voice, but when you looked up, you saw a disgusting creature looming above you. It’s a corpse, it’s a dead body, your frantic mind screamed at itself as you stared into that horrid face, that greyed skin, those milky eyes. It spoke your name again, and you screamed out loud, only for thick, cold air to rush into your mouth when you did so. No, not air, you realized, water, as you felt it enter your lungs. Oh God...! 

Humans were not supposed to inhale water... You could feel yourself crying, choking, as you struggled to gulp the substance that was currently forcing its way into your system. Oh God, it hurt so much...! 

You screamed even harder. Your chest burned as your vision began to swim. The creature above you said something as it grabbed onto your shoulders. As you looked upon its horrific face, the true reality of your situation began to dawn on you. Somehow, it managed to help you by covering your mouth and forcing you to breathe through those awful things on your ribcage. Somehow, it managed to calm you down enough to attempt to explain everything.  

You felt sick as the creature told you about the things he had done to you. He had destroyed the ship that had kept the two of you separated from each other. He had done everything he could to alter your body so that it may be able to live in the sea with him. He had brought you here, to this underground cave, so that you may recover from your transformation in privacy. 

“Don’t worry, my love,” he said, “I’ll help you. I’ll teach you everything - “ 

It felt like a nightmare. You couldn’t seem to get a grasp on the world around you, only instead focusing on escaping the horrible scene that you were trapped in. You began to crawl, rather pathetically, just to get away from here, anywhere but here...!  “No -! Ugh, no...! I don’t want this. Don’t want to live like this...!” 

You were stopped by an authoritative hand on your... tail. You could feel his claws threatening to dig into your flesh, and when you gained the courage to look at him, you saw him flip his own tail in irritancy. 

“[Y/N],” he said, “it’s time to calm down. This behavior is unbecoming of you.” 

His eyes were so cold, so lifeless... and you felt so terribly alone. There was no one here to help you, no one to make you feel safe or heard, and before you could stop yourself you began to cry. God, it was so shameful! You meekly covered your face with your horrible new hands as you begged the merman for privacy. The more you cried, feeling much like a small child, the harder it became to stop, and eventually you were unable to hear anything that he had to say. 

At some point, he gave up, swimming back into the darkness as you were left alone to console yourself in a cold, undersea cave.  

How could any of this feel real? Your fragile human mind struggled to take in all the information being thrown at it. All the new sensations that you were feeling. The dismal realization that this was your new reality, and that you’d never be able to return to any semblance of the life you had known before. 

You cried again, grieving the loss of your humanity, with only the silent, cold waters of the ocean there to hear you. 

[niseag-arts]

You know what, Vanadium lore dump.

this man does not yet have proper art, nor is he a fully realised OC yet but

In short:

techmarine, iron hand, baby (still in training with the mechanicus), big softy (for an iron hands)

A note on looks:

Vanadium wears Red mechanicus robes overtop his armour, rather than the more standard red techmarine armour. He also Really dislikes taking his armour off and will keep it on almost permanently (yes he is very stinky when he's finally coaxed out of it to clean himself). This, combined with the robes, makes people suspect that Vana would prefer to see his armoured form as his body, rather than the fleshy marine inside the armour.

He's kinda envious of tech priests and their freedom to shape their bodies however they please.

History and things:

Vanadium was born to two tech priest on a yet undecided forgeworld, and had an upbringing befitting for that. That is to say: strictly scheduled and optimised for productivity, whatever that means for a literal baby. However, this did not last long. When Vana was roughly 6 terran standard years old, he was presented to the Iron Hands as a bargaining chip. His forgeworld would recieve a good stack of STCs the chapter had found in return for a good number of new recruits.

He has survived "induction" and training with the iron hands and with that mental mess fresh on his mind he was send to Mars, and honestly, he found great relief and comfort in falling back into the schematic and structured life of the mechanicus after the harsh treatment of his chapter, and he quickly became a well-liked student among the mechanicus for his natural understanding of their "culture". Though they accept no diversion from him, and will discipline vana if he is percieved to be out of line. Possibly because of this, he has mellowed out a little from the hatred and distrust that wrecks his brain ever since the geneseed implementation. Remember, he is young. which brings us to

Personality and stuff:

Vana struggles. a lot. to accept his situation. He is in constant battle with the effects of the Iron Hands' geneseed and a lot of the hatred he feels turns inward and turns into self-loathing quite quickly. Of course, to admit that would be weakness. he hates admitting it. But to admit such things amid the mechanicus is a lot safer than it would be to admit such things amid his brothers, which puts him in a weird dilemma of loyalties. He dreads the day he will be returned to his chapter, and wishes that there was a way for him to progress within the ranks of the mechanicus instead. Of course, this is impossible.

I feel like I forgot stuff about him...feel free to ask questions and things

[nkirukaj]

The Radio Demon & the Billboard Doe (2)

It's a double feature! Here take it! Take Chapter 2!

Pairing: Alastor x Fem! OC

Warnings: Swearing and mentions of sexual activity?

Genre: Angst?

Word Count: 3.8K

<Chapter 1

2. Freaky Face

“You’re a deer!” Was the first thing she said in response

“Indeed I am, darling. Though most tend not to mention it.”

“That’s cool!”

Alastor’s smile grew wider at her child-like reaction “Why thank you.” was all he said

“So what’s your name, you cutie patootie?” Charlie interjected, lovely as ever “We gotta have your name if you’re gonna stay here!”

“My name? It’s…” she stared at herself in the mirror, thinking of what she was now. She was different, yet felt the same. “My name is Voe.” A mix of the old and the new. “Yeah, Voe.”

“Amazing! Love it! Now let’s get you settled, Voe!”

Charlie had felt the need to show her absolutely everything, including the floors that she wouldn’t be staying on. The room she would be staying in was on the 9th floor. The room was equipped with a bed, a small closet, and a full bathroom, including a tub and a shower. She spoke very fast and very much. She spoke about everything. It got to a point that Voe started to tune her out. Her voice became background noise as she studied the patterns and pictures on the walls, wondering how she had the time to do this with every new guest that came to the hotel. Vaggie and Alastor had decided to join them as well, however they were not speaking. She examines the girlfriends’ faces. Charlie had her arms open and was gesturing around quickly, and her eyes were wide and alert, while Vaggie’s eye was somewhat lidded, and her arms were focused inward. Her eye was only focused on either Charlie or the floor. Voe concluded that Charlie was the bright and friendly one, whereas Vaggie was the more standoffish one. 

Alastor though…she could not get as much of a read on him because he chose to stay at the back of the group, and she couldn’t exactly get a clear look a him without very conspicuously turning her head. What she had seen of him that she could picture was his lankiness and his large sharp smile. His smile was constantly in place with only slight deviations between moments. In the time she’d had to look at him, his smile did not budge. 

“And that’s the end of the tour. Any questions?” Charlie beamed at the doe

“Um, so you have like magic right?”

“Well, yes…but I meant questions about the hotel-“ the princess mumbled under her breath

“Can you fix my glasses?” Voe pulls the cracked frames out of her pocket, the lenses gone and legs off-kilter. Charlie leans down and examines them.

“I don’t know, but I’m sure Alastor can help!”

Alastor blinks as if he’s just been brought back down to reality “Hmm?”

Voe turns to him “Can you fix my glasses?” She asks in a flat tone

“Of course!” He puts his hand out and she places the frames in them. Green and black energy starts circling the frames and they pop up as good as new

“Nice!” She takes the frames back and looks at them

“Aww, I’m so sorry! You were walking around here blind and I didn’t even notice!”

“Well, I actually don’t need them,” She smiles “I can see just fine. But I like to have them,” she places the glasses on her face. 

“Oh,” Charlie’s eyes widen as she turns to her partner

Voe turns back to Alastor, who is grinning absentmindedly. She stares at him for a moment before his pupils move down to focus on her

“Did you need something else, my dear?”

She cocks her head “No…” she drags the word out, slowly turning away from him

____________________________________________________________

Voe laid on her back in the bed of the hotel room that Charlie had shown her. What does it mean to be redeemed? How would she know when she was? Or if she was?

There were a lot of things she didn’t know, but what she did know for sure was that she would definitely go stir-crazy if she was kept in this room with nothing for her to do. She left the hotel room and sauntered down to the front desk where Charlie and Vaggie were standing and having a conversation

“So…Charlie!” She interrupts them with a wave “Would it be possible for you to give me money? Because I think that it would make my path to redemption a whole lot easier if I had a phone, a camera, and a laptop.”

“Hmm, I guess that’s true.” 

“Wait wait!” Vaggie stepped in “How is that essential to your redemption?”

“Because…” Voe drags out her words, looking for something to say “It gives me something to do. I personally feel that if I’m being productive, I will be a much better person. You know, instead of feeling awful about myself because I’m just sitting in bed all day.” She glances at Charlie, whose eyes turn sad

“I don’t know about Charlie just giving out money.”

“Oh nonsense! Charlie loves giving out money! She talked about it on the tour!” 

“I did! I do!” Charlie drops a stack of cash into Voe’s open palms

“Amazing, great. You’re the best!” She called to Charlie as she was on her way out the door.

When she returned, she had a plethora of bags. About 10, 5 in each hand. She’d developed the skill of carrying lots of bags in life, and luckily for her, it became easier in death.

“Geez! How much fucking shit did you buy?” A tall and thin white spider. Voe’s jaw dropped when she saw him, she run’s over bringing the bags with her

“Oh my gosh! You’re so beautiful! And you look social! Hi, I’m Voe!” she waves at him

He sits up and smiles “Well thank you. Finally, someone’s appreciatin’ my good looks! And the name’s Dust. Angel Dust.” he does sparkly fingers over his face

“Angie ya bitch! How gay can you be?” A sexy Cyclops woman with a crop top, ripped jeans, a boot, and a flat.

“How much of a whore can you be?” Angel says with a smirk

“I’m a whore?” She laughs, punching him in the shoulder

“Yeah, I do it for pay!”

The Cyclops woman punches him a few more times before noticing Voe “She’s still standing there,” she whispers to him. He looks back over to the doe.

“Welcome to the Hotel! Wait, what I am doin’ I don’t work here.” Angel slinks back down, the length of his body taking up the entirety of the couch.

“Hi, you’re sexy. I’m Voe! What’s your name?” She asks to the Cyclops

“Cherri Bomb…nice to meet you.” She looks a bit apprehensive before turning to the deer. She sits next to Angel, lifting his legs and letting them lay over her lap. He sits up and removes his legs

“Do y’all have Sinstagram? This is mine.” She shows Angel Dust her phone

“Voe the Bee-ow?”

“It’s pronounced like ‘bow’. It’s rhymes!”

“Oh.” Angel looks towards Cherri, silently asking for her to save “That’s nice.”

“Well, we’re gonna go,” She leans down to whisper to Angel “I got some wicked LSD, we can forget whatever the fuck that was”

“Aw Cherri, you know I’m tryna get off that stuff,”

“Alright stay then. Stay here ya’ lousy bitch!”

He scrambles to get up “I’m still comin’”

Cherri and Angel speedwalk out the hotel doors, leaving Voe on the couch alone. They were nice. She thought.

Technically, Voe did ask Charlie for money to get a laptop, a camera, and a smartphone. However, Charlie, being so nice, gave Voe way more than she needed for everything, so she also decided to make some stops at other stores, to get things like a tripod, a ringlight, and maybe some clothes. She set up all her electronics, making sure that the ringlight was in the right place to highlight her best features, and then pressed record.

“Hey, I’m Voe the Beau and I’m here to give you all my opinions on things such as makeup, beauty trends, and technology! Today I’ll start by showing you my outfit hall from today.”

She tried on dresses, blouses, shirts, pants, leggings, and shoes all for the camera, making comments about every single one.

“Now I love the pattern and length on this blouse, but the trimmings make it look like I’m about to go churn some butter,” she chuckles and snorts “and some of these shirts are not ear-friendly. So if you have ears at the top of your head like me,” she points to her ears “Then watch out. Maybe avoid this brand?” Voe zeroes in on the tag “Sinners’eye? Yeah, don’t shop there if you have ears like mine. The hats they sell don’t even have holes in them! So non-inclusive! Also by the way does anyone know a brand or store that sells satin bonnets with ear holes? Because it is incredibly uncomfortable to sleep with my ears covered. I feel like I’m deaf! Or at least like anybody can come into my room without me knowing, like shit! I will say that the shoes come with a hooves-friendly warranty which is great, not for me personally, because I don’t have hooves. No sir, I traded that for this big black schnoz.” She points to her nose. While trying on another dress, she tells the camera “I kinda dig having a tail.” She yanked on it with a bit of force on camera “I’m like a dangerous furry” she growled jokingly with bared claws. She stands directly in front of the lens once more ”I’m thinking of trying makeup next for my video, comment some brands that you think I should try. For makeup, clothes, or tech. I’m Voe the Beau, so let me know!” She wiggles her fingers as a goodbye and gets up to stop recording. 

After sitting in silence for a moment. Voe gets up to retrieve the camera. After connecting it to her computer, she turns it on and sees herself. 

“Hey everybody! My name is Voe! Ugh no. Hey, what up motherfuckers! Ugh, what? That’s way too tryhard. My GOSH, let me just do it.”

She turns on presses record again and suddenly she’s live. 

“Hey, what up Pentagram City? Y’all can call me Voe the Beau, and I’m here to tell y’all what’s Gucci and what needs to go kablooey! As you can see I love rhyming ha ha!” Is heard from demon’s smartphones, tablets, and computers. She hadn’t exactly been expecting zero views, but she definitely wasn’t expecting to get around 1,000 on her first live. 

What can I say? I really am that bitch. 

“So I just got down here to Hell and let me just say, why do we just fall out of the sky into concrete with no idea where we are or what we’re doing? I can goddamn guarantee you that the souls that go to Heaven don’t have to go through that! There’s no welcome committee or nothing. Nothing to ease you in, and I’m like ‘damn’! It’s like getting rammed in the ass with a cactus. And why is everything red? I swear the sky is red, the buildings are red, everyone wears red, or like shades and accents of it. It’s like the only color you see around here is red. I, myself am partial to the color pink. Specifically hot pink, as you can see from the fabulous outfit that I have on right now. Do you guys want to see my outfit? Of course, you do.”

She pushes her chair back and stands in front of the camera, showing off her hot pink blouse and black pants with hot pink wedges.

“I adore these shoes. Do y’all like my shoes? I got them from Sinnera’eye, but beware to all you cats and rabbits, and other animals with ears on your head they don’t carry clothes for you. You can see my full review in the video I’m going to upload later!”

Words begin scrolling up the screen and Voe leans into her laptop to read them.

“Who am I? Well, I’m Voe! I said that at the start. Someone needs a lesson in paying attention. And as you’ll come to learn-I am that bitch Any other questions? How old am I? I’m 27 and like I said, I just got down here to Hell.”

Oh Christ Gen Z is dying now

Do you guys think she’s in Hell ‘cuz she’s gay?

Are you gay?

“Yes, bitch I’m gay as fuck! I love me some pussy! I could eat that shit day in and day out. It’s my favorite snack!”

Is that your real name?

Are you Italian?

“As far as you need to know, yes that’s my name. And no I’m not Italian, I’m blickity Black!”

Does this bitch even know the difference between race and nationality?

“Yes, I know the fucking difference! I wasn’t fucking done. Slut!” She shoots back at the commenter “I just wanted to let y’all know that! No misconceptions. ‘Cuz people used to say I was Hispanic or something all the time when I was alive, and I sure as fuck ain’t letting y’all whores do it!”

Her voice is heard from many devices in Hell, including some in the hotel. Demons are crashing into walls or falling down the stairs from the sheer captivation of her sound and her image.

“So I’m staying at the Hazbin Hotel, run by Charlie...? Charlie something, she ain’t say her last name. And she is cute as fuck. Charlie is so adorable, she’s so light and bubbly and I’m like that could never be me.” She cackles into the camera “Running a Hotel of a bunch of ungrateful ass bitches, could never be me! She got a girlfriend too. Her name’s Vaggie! She is so pretty, honestly, they are both mad cute and they cute together. I’m not gonna break them up like I used to do to people. Hmm? She’s the what? Princess? Holy shit, Charlie’s a Princess? Lucifer? That motherfucker’s real? I need to meet him. Is he hot?”

While walking down the halls a certain facility manager of this hotel seems a bit put off by the lack of people that are running at the sheer sight of him, only to discover that they are glued to their devices. He rolls his eyes. Demons don’t know true entertainment anymore. Back in his day, whole towns used to gather around the radios and listen to what stories the hosts were about to spin. Now everyone’s addicted to these miniature picture boxes that rot their brains even faster than the real thing.

Although walking past these wayward souls had the Radio Demon’s ears pricked at a certain sound. A certain voice. He halts his pursuit to listen from afar.

“Apparently, I’m a doe which is super sick, and I’m the only one that I’ve seen for the few days that I’ve been here. But there’s a stag here with me. Well, not with me, but like-“ the voice pauses “No, here at the hotel. Huh? He’s like tall and really thin. Nah like lanky, bruh.” she laughs “It’s not bad! I didn’t even say anything mean! Yeah, yeah, yeah. And he’s got on a bunch of red, with little antlers on his head. Yeah, he’s got ears on top of his head, it looks like hair, but it’s ears. A doe knows.”

Alastor could hear the smugness in her voice. Who was she to be discussing him on her pathetic technological picture box? Who was she at all?

“Yeah! He’s got this big ass grin all the time.”

The comments start flooding in much quicker than before.

That’s the Radio Demon!

You’re there with the RADIO DEMON

THE RADIO DEMON DIDN’T KILL YOU?

the radio demon isn’t even all that i heard he got his ass kicked 

FUCK THE RADIO DEMON!!!!!!!!11!!!!1!!!!11!

“The Radio Demon..? Huh? This guy said his name was Alastor”

THAT’S THE RADIO DEMON

THAT’S HIS NAME 

OMGGGGGGG!!!1!!1!1!!1!!!!!!!

“Oh. So Alastor is the Radio Demon? Why ya call him that?” 

Alastor’s grin grows knowing that his reputation is still intact and keeps on his merry way. Still wondering why this girl felt the need to bring him up at all. Still, he would find that all out in due time.

______________________________________________________________

Charlie had asked for all the residents to be down at 8:30 in the morning, which is a disgusting time to expect people to be awake and ready to interact with people. So Voe came down at 9, even that was pushing it.  All the other demons were already down, so Voe commanded all the attention when she strutted in like a celebrity.

“Sorry to be late, but 8 AM is ridiculous.” She plops down on one of the couches

“That’s okay!” Charlie reassured her “We just finished breakfast and now we’re doing the first activity of the day!”

Angel points to one of the plates on the table “There’s still toast.” He glances back down at the plate, “Oop, well there’s crust.” Niffty runs by and grabs the plate “Never mind.”

“It’s fine, I don’t need to eat.”

“Huh, I guess you don’t” Angel returns to his phone.

“All right, everyone!” Charlie tries to get their attention “Everyone! Oh gosh, we’ve never had this many guests before” she whispers to Vaggie. She gets slightly louder. “Everyone! We’re just about to get started, okay so everyone listen up, please!” Everyone lowers their volume, though some, including Voe, remain distracted by their phones. The click-clacking of dress shoes is heard descending the stairs, everyone turns their heads to see Alastor approaching the parlor.

“Alastor! You’re just in time for our first activity of that day!” Charlie smiles widely at the red demon

“Oh? So it appears I’m early..” He turns on his heels and retreats back up the staircase.

“Oooo-kay! So, we’re going to go around and introduce ourselves and say one interesting thing you did while you were alive!

Ugh. Voe always hated these when she was alive. It’s always so nerve-wracking to think about. What do other people find interesting? She could never figure it out! They went all the way around, from demons talking about how they’ve hosted the 7’o clock news, to catching butterflies, to fucking 5 bitches in the same night.

“I tried Heroin for the first time and then died.” Angel offered

“You only tried it once before dying?”

“Well, I’d already done a bunch of drugs that day, but when my friend came with the horse, I knew I had to try it! Then I died.” 

“No way! I died with an actual horse! It kicked me in the ribs!”

“This is going great! Not exactly what I had planned but this working Vaggie!” Charlie is filled to the brim with excitement 

“No one gives a fuck about your horse,” Angel responded. “I was talking about heroin.”

“I know…” the girl said, sounding disappointed

“What?”

“Why can’t I make any friends?”

“You’re up new girl,” Angel gestured to Voe, who sat in silence for a moment, still pondering on what to say. She started sweating from all the pressure of the eyes being on her and her being unprepared. She couldn’t think of anything, at all. All that she could remember was her little sexcapades. She was rich of course, she had done cool things, so why couldn’t she remember any of them?

“Hey,” Angel Dust interrupted her thoughts after what seemed like forever “Weren’t you on live yesterday?”

Voe’s demeanor brightens up “Oh, yeah! I’m guessing you caught it?”

“Yeah, I caught that live too!” another demon chimed in, soon the majority of the room was buzzing about her live. Voe beamed at being able to speak on something she was prepared for.

“So you into Freaky Face or something?”

“Angel! Don’t just assume things!” Charlie butt in, also interested in the live

“I’m sorry, Freaky Face?”

“Alastor.” The whole room responded to her

Voe shakes her head quickly, “Oh no no no. I was just commenting on the fact that he’s the only deer I’ve seen besides myself.”

“Mhmm, I guess you could say mating season is open.”

“Ha! That was funny ‘mating season’” said the horse girl, to which Angel responded with a blank stare

“He’s good-looking! I can’t be the only one that thinks that. I am not the only one that thinks that. Stop making me look crazy!”

“No one even said anything,”

“Actually mating season for deer is between October and December” Voe interjects

“Well,” Charlie tries to take charge of the conversation “Alastor is a very nice-looking male.”

Vaggie speaks from behind her girlfriend “He’s…okay. But did we forget that he’s a vicious overlord who not only owns many souls but is a psychopathic, deal-making, mass-murdering cannibalistic monster?”

“Really? But he’s like…” Voe trails off, making gestures with her hands

“Like what?” Angel Dust probes

“Like,” she thinks “Cute.” some of the demons are taken aback by her claim

“You think Alastor is ‘cute’?” Vaggie questioned, hands on her hips and full of skepticism. 

“Yeah,” Voe shrugged “Like, it’s giving…stuffed animal. Or like a pet dog”

“Nah she hasn’t seen all the creepy shit he’s done around here yet. That opinion’ll disappear real soon.” Angel Dust took a swig of his drink “Don’t say that shit to him!” he laughs to himself.

“What is… ‘it’s giving’?” Charlie asked innocently 

“Ugh.” Voe slapped her hand on her forehead “It’s just… I don’t know like, that’s a vibe.”

“Vibe?” 

“It’s just the feeling you get from someone or something,” she shakes her head “I forgot y’all are ancient.”

“Wait, so what do you think of him though?” Angel questioned point-blank

“I don’t think anything about him, I don’t know him.”

“So why’d you talk about him during your live?”

“I don’t know, because he’s a buck! That’s literally it!”

“Mhmm.” Angel takes another swig

“Wait, are you shipping us just because we’re both deer?” Voe looks confused

“I’m so glad that you all feel a sense of community!” said Charlie, after having clearly lost control of the conversation. Vaggie tapped her shoulder to tell her to just give it up. Most demons were just talking amongst themselves at this point, including Angel Dust and Voe, when the very demon they spoke about made his appearance once again.

“I hope that I’m actually on time now.” Alastor stands just outside the parlor, as the demons are instantly quiet in the presence of a supposedly cruel overlord. He had all the eyes in the room on him, saying nothing.

“Well, Alastor we just finished our activity.”

“Wonderful, so I am on time!” He glances at the clock above the fireplace “Well, I have errands to run.”

“You literally just got down here,” Vaggie spoke with annoyance in her tone

“And now I literally have to leave. Best of luck chums!” He exits the hotel and the air is filled with noise again. Voe stares after him. She didn’t notice before that he had a radio filter on his voice. Was that natural or on purpose? 

“Whatcha lookin’ at toots?” he whispers in her ear

Voe looks back at him “Oh, um nothing.”

“Uh huh, maybe you’re not so weird,” he tops off his drink

“Thanks?”

Chapter 3>

[starzzmissthesun]

Drop the OC lore, aesthetics, names (if any), random facts, and other details u never thought u would drop

Drop it

Pls

(｡･ω･｡)

Here's some art I just made of them‼️‼️

Here's some stuff under the cut but here is the biggest post I've made about them both so far.

So the blond one is the one I call The Vampire, they're my dnd character lol. And the one holding their mouth open in the back in The Lover. The Vampire doesn't know anything really about themself or their past life. The Lover does, but they keep it from the other because they crave and Need that control over their lover (they're kinda peak toxic exes). The Vampire cant be alone for too long, they need to serve and hold a purpose for someone else because they're only other option is to be this empty shell. The vampire has about 7 canonical exes, and some of them are repeating on their journey from bounty to bounty. They don't know this obviouslt but the lover that they always keep finding and bumping it to and being with over and over again is The Lover.

The sad part about this is that they will never know this, and they will never feel whole. They won't ever look inwards to see who they are, they feel like after being turned they lost everything. Their memory wiped, their trust, their lover, their life, everything. Ad they won't try to heal or become something new, for they idolize their past self so much they NEED to be that person again. The angel of your past can do no wrong (banger line about them from my bsf).

Their main character trait is unreliability. They have these huge perception issues, even before being turned by their lover. What we as the observer know is that they were this young teen in the deep South with a complicated family life until one day a charming person comes through town and sweeps them off their feet. Theyre immediately in love, they'd do and give anything for this person. Through this, they miss the sharp teeth, they miss the hungry look in their eyes, they miss the wiser and older language they used, they missed the suspicious and vague descriptions of this persons past. They don't even care that their love 'inherited' this mansion they move into despite saying their family was from a whole different place and poor.

Now, they are only left with the blurry memory of their lover turning them into this monster, and what they believe that relationship was like. Accept, they don't realize they were turned out of greed, they think it was because their lover wanted them so bad, they loved them so much. They couldn't help it. So now when they have these intense and frightening visions of their past, every once in a while in dreams, driving their truck, putting on clothes they found in their closet but aren't theirs, even during intimate moments with new lovers. They will never be left alone, it's being hung in front of them. The Vampire and The Lover are in a two man cult.

This tango, this unknown push and pull will last eternally because neither will die. The Lover cant just leave. They cant. The Vampire has this unbreakable invisible pull on them. They are stuck coming back. The Vampire needs to find the person they have this idea of them in their mind. They need something from their past, this idea holds them together. They don't even realize ever that this one person is their past lover, they'll never know. They both think this is out of love, but it's not. The Lover likes the control, they like toying with them specifically. They found this person when they were about 15ish and turned them when they were 19. They took this person who was heavily controlled by their religious family, who was made blank by that religion, and made them Something. And then made them Nothing. And they constantly turn this person around like that in circles. They feel like a god. And The Vampire needs a god and angels to worship. Their past, their old self, their family, and their ex lover as the god. They have never had control, and they don't know how to have it. They cant take control of them self and decide what they're gonna be, they need someone or something to tell them. They don't trust them self, but they will never doubt their ideas of who they used to be.

Anyways, that was rambly, if you have any thoughts or questions lmk! Also if you want some fun stuff(cuz I do have some of that lol) about them both or anything about their life before they turned.

The Vampire and The Lover

[defenseattorneyofneve]

Day 2 of OC Kiss Week, prompt first, with my Rowan Mercar and @classicleechaos 's Ziva Mercar!

Rowan was nervous. It was not something they were used to feeling, or expressing. It was not something they liked.

“I don't think I have ever seen you this nervous.” Ziva’s voice was low and teasing. She was leaning against the wall, mismatched eyes watching Rowan with an almost curious gleam. “What’s the matter?”

Such worry even when teasing Rowan.

“I have an… issue.” Rowan bit their lip and looked away, hair falling over their face. “You’re the only other Shadow who won’t make it weird.”

The other elf pushed off of the wall, each step slow and measured. They moved close enough to where Ziva’s face was inches away from Rowan’s. The glint of her piercings, the way her accent cut through the air - it was distracting. Very, very distracting.

“What sort of issue do you have that I could fix?”

“No laughing.” Rowan warned, looking back up at Ziva.

“I promise. No laughing.”

Rowan looked away again, their words coming out in a rush. “Iwantyoutokissme.”

Fingers hooked under their chin, Ziva turning their head back towards herself. “Would you like to repeat that more slowly?” The glint in those mismatched eyes said Ziva knew exactly what Rowan had said.

“You heard me.” Their head was tilted up even further, and Ziva smirked.

“Ah, but I need an explanation.” There was concern wrapped in the teasing, genuine worry. Ziva had been one of the few to be worried about Rowan when they had revealed they would be hunting a would-be god with an author.

“I’ve never kissed anyone. There was never - I never trusted…” Rowan sighed, shoulders slumping inward. “I want to experience that before I follow Varric Tethras into the unknown. I want - I want it to be with someone I trust. Someone I care about.”

“And you think I won’t make it weird?” Ziva was smirking again, and the next words spoken were in a rush of Orlesian. That was a language Rowan couldn’t pick up. Tevene, common, the elvish language - all those came easy. Orlesian was… not. Not for them.

“Can you imagine Tarquins's face if I asked to kiss him?”

Ziva snorted. She moved closer, bracketing Rowan against the wall. It was a rush, and almost hard to breathe, and Rowan wanted. “Last chance to back out.”

“Just kiss me already.”

It was softer than Rowan had anticipated. But the warmth of Ziva’s lips, the feel of their bodies pressed together left Rowan light-headed. They weren't sure how long it was before they separated.

Ziva trailed fingers along their cheek, smirk firmly back in place. “Do survive, Rowan. I would hate for that to be our last kiss as well as our first.”

[worldruins]

Me putting a lot of effort into something and forgetting to post it... UNHEARD OF . Ref for TEI's puppet! With a few bonuses.

[rizlowwritessortof]

Remember Me - Part 5

Michaela’s mundane life takes a strange turn when she has a random encounter with a very attractive stranger in her local bar. It must be déjà vu – or maybe it isn’t.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OC Michaela

Word Count: 4438

Warnings: There be smut here 😉

Dividers by @talesmaniac89

“Yes, Dean, I’ll pick up the pizza before I head out. Okay, and some licorice, and yes, I’ve got the popcorn,” Mikey responded to Dean’s requests with amusement. “Anything else, sir?” She laughed at the raspberry she got in return. “Okay, I’m on my way. Better have some cold beer, mister.”

She had settled into a friendly give and take with the brothers, occasionally meeting for drinks in town, and this was their second movie night at the bunker. The awkward stress between her and Dean had given way to a playful friendship with an edge of sexual tension that neither of them would acknowledge, and Sam had become the friend and confidant that she had never had before – at least not that she could remember.

Sam met her at the door and relieved her of some of the things she was carrying before they headed down the stairs. “Where’s Dean?” she asked as they dropped everything on the table.

“Oh, he’s waiting for you with a surprise – follow me,” Sam grinned, leading the way down the hall towards the bedrooms. They stopped at the room next to Dean’s bedroom, and Sam swung the door inward, stepping back to let Mikey enter.

“Surprise!” Dean shouted, his arms flung wide and a bright smile on his face. Mikey’s eyes widened as she took in the former bedroom, which had been transformed into a living room of sorts. There was a medium-sized TV on a stand next to the door, chairs, end tables and footstools salvaged from other rooms in the bunker, and a huge overstuffed sofa in a hideous shade of green against the far wall. “No more sitting on somebody’s bed when we wanna watch a movie. What do you think?”

Mikey walked over and sat down, sinking into the soft cushions with a smile. “This is the ugliest couch I’ve ever seen – and I love it!”

Dean beamed back at her like he’d won the lottery. “Well, let’s get some food and beer and get this party started.”

A couple of hours later they had laughed their way through Tommy Boy, and Dean was trying to coax them into staying for Caddy Shack. “I don’t know, I should really go home,” Mikey answered, avoiding Dean’s persuasive smile.

“Come on, Mikey – no work tomorrow, you have all weekend to do whatever you need to do. Sam, tell her.”

“It’s true,” Sam grinned. “But I’m going to bed. You two have fun.”

“Sam, seriously? Traitor.” Mikey tossed a pillow at him as he left the room, his laugh trailing behind him.

“You can’t leave now, let me watch this classic all by myself.” Dean’s tempting little smirk and the playful gleam in his eyes were too much to resist, and Mikey settled back into the cushions, shaking her head with a helpless smile.

“Fine. You’re ridiculous, but fine. Bring it on.”

Sam glanced in on his way from the shower to his room, grinning to himself at the sound of Mikey’s laughter at Dean’s imitation of the gopher dance. He continued on his way, happy with his decision to leave the two of them alone. His brother’s resistance was breaking down, and maybe – eventually – he’d actually let her in.

Mikey woke the next morning snuggled into a soft blanket, still on the ugly green couch. It took her a minute to get her bearings, remembering vaguely how Dean had convinced her to stay. “It’s late. Just stay here tonight, you can go home tomorrow. I’ll make you breakfast…” he had teased in a sing-song tone, waiting until she had finally sighed and given in. She had already fallen asleep halfway through the movie anyway, so why not?

“With bacon?” she had asked, laughing softly at his victorious grin.

“Well, yeah. That goes without saying.”

“Okay. I’ll stay. Thanks.”

“I’ll grab you a blanket.” He had gone to his room and brought her back the fluffiest blanket he could find, and she had mumbled, “Good night, Dean,” as he had headed for the door. And she was sure she had heard him respond with a soft, “G’night, sweetheart” as he had left the room.

She swung her legs over to sit up just as Sam stuck his head in the door. “Left you a spare toothbrush on the counter in the bathroom, if you want one,” he smiled, and she thanked him. “Just going for a run, see you later.”

Dean hummed to himself as he cooked, starting the bacon frying and then mixing pancake batter. He had talked Mikey into staying the night, but he was determinedly pushing away thoughts of how the night could have gone if he had just picked her up and carried her to his room the night before instead of tucking her in on the sofa.

By the time he had a short stack of pancakes done, Mikey walked into the room, sniffing the air appreciatively. “Smells great in here,” she commented, and Dean returned her smile with one of his own.

“Coffee’s ready, help yourself,” he responded. “How many pancakes?”

“A couple is fine – thank you. I can’t believe you really did this.”

“Hey, I always keep my promises.” He handed her a plate of pancakes with a large side of bacon, and then sat down at the table with his own plate. “Did you get any sleep last night?”

“I slept great, that couch is amazing,” she laughed.

They chatted while they ate, and then Dean got up, going to the stove to make up a plate for Sam. “I should probably get going,” Mikey said as she took her dishes to the sink. “Thank you, last night was really fun.”

She moved to Dean’s side, stretching up to place a kiss on his cheek at the same time he turned to look at her, and her lips landed squarely on his. They froze for a moment in surprise, but before she could pull back, his hand was on her shoulder holding her in place, his lips gently exploring hers. She leaned into him with a soft sigh, then jerked away as if she’d been burned at the sound of footsteps entering the room.

“Uh… sorry,” Sam mumbled, smothering the smile that still teased at the corners of his mouth. “Didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”

“I was just – umm – heading out. Thanks for last night, I had a great time,” Mikey said in a rush and all but ran from the room.

They heard her footsteps on the stairs and then the door closing, and Sam turned back to look at his brother. “So…”

“It was an accident,” Dean snapped, shoving the plate of food across the table to Sam.

“You ‘accidentally’ kissed her?”

“Yes. Shut up. Just – eat your breakfast.” Dean turned and stalked out of the room, and Sam heard his bedroom door slam. He chuckled to himself, then dug into his stack of pancakes.

Dean paced for a minute, then sat down on the foot of the bed, closing his eyes. What the fuck was happening? He had been determined since the beginning of this whole erased-past fiasco that Mikey would continue her life free from the baggage that came from a relationship with a Winchester. And yet one touch from her and his resistance had disappeared. He had wanted so much more – to tease at the seam of her lips with his tongue until she opened to him, to pull her body close and feel her softness against him, to fit himself between her thighs and let her feel how much he wanted her. “Fuck,” he swore softly, standing to reach for his robe and head for the shower.

Mikey had raced out of there so fast that he had no idea of her reaction, other than being embarrassed by Sam’s interruption. Maybe he’d just text her later, find out if she was okay.

Mikey drove straight home, her mind racing. After all the talk of forgetting about their past, about moving on, the kiss had taken her completely off guard, and she was sure Dean was feeling the same way.

She went about her to-do list, performing her tasks mindlessly, unable to stop thinking about the way his lips had clung to hers, his hand keeping her near as if he had been afraid she’d pull away. If Sam hadn’t come in – her imagination ran wild with scenarios of Dean taking her right there on the counter top or carrying her off to his room, of her mouth on him as he desperately clutched at her hair, of him teasing her, driving her insane with his fingers or his mouth. She was a distracted mess all afternoon, finally going out to mow her lawn, working hard and fast to exhaust her body and relieve the tension.

She was sweaty and weary when she made her way back inside, hitting the shower and then dressing in her comfiest old shorts and tank top before collapsing on the sofa with a cold beer. She reached for the remote, turning on a random sitcom, leaning her head back against the cushions with a sigh. Her phone pinged, and she grabbed it to see a message from Dean. “Hey – are we okay?”

She stared at his words for several minutes, searching in vain for something witty and finally typing back, “Yeah – of course, we’re good.”

“Ok, good,” he responded. “Hey, we’re heading out on a hunt in the morning – so we’ll see you when we get back.”

“Be safe,” she answered, and blew out a relieved breath. At least he hadn’t reverted back to avoiding contact with her, so that was progress. Maybe, someday – she closed her eyes and laid her head back again.

Dean pulled up in front of Harley’s Bar a couple of weeks later, finally back in Kansas after the longer-than-expected hunting trip, and Sam shot him a curious look. “We’re not calling Mikey?”

“Yeah, I figured we’d just call her from here,” Dean answered, exiting the Impala and pulling his phone from his pocket. He called her number as they walked in and grabbed a table, looking up startled as he heard her voice nearby as she answered. She was behind the bar, and her face lit up with a bright smile as she spotted them, heading for their table.

“Home safe and in one piece, that’s what I like to see,” she greeted them. “What can I get you?”

“What – why are you working here?” Dean asked, confused.

“Oh, I’m just helping Harley out – his waitress quit. Ran off with her best friend’s husband, actually, so she won’t be coming back. Kind of left him in a bind, so I offered to help out a couple of nights a week, at least until he finds somebody else.”

“Wow. Well, I guess you won’t be having a couple beers with us, then, huh?” Sam asked, and she smiled his direction.

“If it’s not busy, Harley won’t care. He’s a teddy bear. And he likes me.”

Dean laughed. “He might be a teddy bear if he likes you – he’s a grizzly if he doesn’t.” She grinned and nodded in agreement, glancing over at her ex-biker boss behind the bar. “Couple of beers, please - and come join us if you have time later.”

Mikey dropped off their beers and stopped to chat with them a couple of times, but the bar was moderately full since it was a Friday night, and she was kept pretty busy. Dean’s eyes followed her as she worked, watching the confident, graceful way she navigated between tables, and he smiled at the sound of her voice as she joked and laughed with the customers.

“Dude, you’re staring,” Sam jabbed at his brother, and Dean shot him a glare.

“Shut up,” he said between clenched teeth as Mikey approached their table with two beers.

“On me,” she smiled, “sorry I haven’t had time to hang out.”

“Not closing time yet,” Dean answered. “We’re not in any hurry.”

The guy from the next table gestured to her, and she shrugged. “No rest for the weary.” She headed to his table, took the man’s order and was turning towards the bar when he reached out and grabbed a handful of her ass.

Dean swore under his breath, but before he was halfway out of his chair, Mikey had the side of the jerk’s face smashed against the table top with one hand, his arm twisted painfully behind his back with the other. She spoke quietly, but there was steel in her tone.

“Okay, let’s get something straight. Drinks are on the menu. Food is on the menu. My ass? Not on the menu. Touch me like that again, and you’ll find your balls somewhere up between your ears. Are we clear?” He mumbled a reply as well as he could manage, and she released him, letting him sit back up. “Good boy. Enjoy your beer,” she quipped as she walked away.

“Badass,” Dean grinned, glancing over at Sam, who was doing the same, and he nodded in agreement. Mikey had just moved behind the bar when the drunk swiped his arm across his table, sweeping his beer to the floor where the bottle shattered.

“Fucking bitch,” he spat, starting to stand, but a loud crack resounded through the room, silencing the entire bar. The barrel-chested bartender stood there glowering with his fist clenched around the blackjack he had just slammed to the bar top.

“Get the fuck out of my bar,” he growled, and the asshole scrambled for the door. Harley turned to Mikey, putting a hand on her shoulder, speaking to her softly before she came back out from behind the bar and headed for Sam and Dean’s table.

Dean looked up at her, a concerned frown on his face, reaching for her hand. “You okay?”

She smiled a little shakily. “I’m fine. I – I have no idea how I did that, but I’m fine.”

He squeezed her hand before letting it go. “Well, you kicked ass. Guess a little hunter instinct survived your years in Ohio.” She blushed a little at the admiring gleam in his eyes.

“Harley said I should take the rest of the night off. I’m just gonna make the rounds one more time, then I think I’m heading home.”

Sam turned to Dean. “Why don’t you take me to the bunker quick, then come back and give Mikey a ride home.”

She shook her head. “You don’t have to do that – I’ll be okay.”

“I think you’d feel better if someone stayed with you for a while, right?” Sam asked softly, his eyes searching.

She gnawed at her lip a little, then nodded. “I don’t want to be a pain.” She glanced up at Dean, and he shook his head as they rose to their feet.

“You’re not. Just finish up and I’ll be right back.”

Dean pulled up in front of Harley’s after dropping Sam off, but before he could go in, Mikey came out, her jacket in her hand. She climbed into the passenger seat and smiled over at him. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Any time.”

They drove to her house in silence and Dean parked in the driveway, leaving them momentarily in the dark as he shut off the headlights. “I don’t have to come in if you don’t want me to,” he said. “I mean, if you’d rather…”

“Actually – can you stay for a while? I know it’s dumb, but I really don’t want to be alone right now.”

“It’s not dumb,” he said, lowering his head to look her in the eye. “Besides, you have frozen pizza, right? Kinda hungry.” She laughed softly, nodding, and they headed inside.

They went straight to the kitchen, and Mikey turned on the oven to heat before walking to the fridge. “Want another beer? I need one.”

“Sure, why not,” Dean agreed, and she handed him one, opening hers and leaning back against the counter. Dean parked himself against the kitchen island across from her, taking a long pull from his bottle and watching Mikey as she drank from hers. “So – supreme, pepperoni…?”

“I have both, whatever you want,” she smiled. They stood there silently for a few minutes, then Mikey spoke up softly. “So – about that kiss the other day…” Dean tensed a little, but she fixed her eyes on the floor and continued. “I didn’t mean… I mean, I know you really want to get past all this,” she waved her hand between them, “and I wasn’t trying to push.”

“I know. You weren’t the one who kept it going, that was on me. If Sam wouldn’t have walked in…” She looked up at him, waiting for him to finish, the vulnerability in her eyes more than he could take in, so he averted his eyes and went on. “I didn’t want to stop. I, uh…” he paused, his teeth gnawing at his lip. “I’ve still been dreaming about you – about us. And not memories or stuff from our past. I’ve been having dreams about us like we are now.” He hesitated for a moment, then set his beer down on the counter behind him and moved closer to her, looking directly into her eyes, his hands moving to rest at her waist as he bent to touch his forehead to hers. “I can’t get you out of my head,” he said, his voice soft and desperate, his breath warm on her lips.

She tilted her head up slightly, and his restraint dissolved as he captured her lips beneath his, her fists clenching handfuls of his shirt as she pulled him closer. He stopped for a second, looking into her eyes again as she whispered, “Me, too,” and Dean groaned as he kissed her again, their hunger for each other finally set free.

He tightened his grip on her waist and lifted her to sit on the counter, and she opened her legs to bring him closer. He slanted his mouth over hers, and she moaned as he deepened their kiss, his hands drifting down to her hips to pull her in tight against him.

He finally lifted his head as they both panted for air, staring into her eyes as he began to work the buttons of her shirt free. When he pushed it from her shoulders, he finally let his gaze move down, and he swore under his breath before kissing her again. His lips left a trail of fire along her jaw line and down, nibbling just below her ear. “Bedroom?” he whispered, and she nodded, letting him step back and slipping down off the counter to her feet.

Dean reached over and shut off the oven before taking her hand, letting her lead him to her room. She turned on the little bedside lamp, washing the room in a soft glow before she let her shirt drop to the floor. “C’mere,” he rasped, taking her shoulders and turning her back to him as he undid the clasp of her bra. He slipped his fingers beneath the straps, sliding them down her arms until the garment joined her shirt on the floor.

He moved in close behind her, his hands gliding up over her ribs and cupping the underside of her breasts, his thumbs stroking over her nipples as she leaned back into his chest. “Dean,” she whined, her legs trembling, her head rolling back on his shoulder. “I gotcha,” he murmured in her ear, his hands moving to her waist, turning her to face him and pulling her with him towards the bed.

He sat down, pulling her down to perch on one thigh as he dipped his head down to tongue one hard nipple into the warmth of his mouth. A frantic little sound escaped Mikey’s lips as she jerked, the firm muscle of Dean’s thigh providing the friction her body so desperately craved. Dean moved to the other breast, sucking and nipping at her, driving her to wrap her arms around his neck and rut against him, whimpering against his shoulder as he shifted his hands to her hips to help. He bent his head to nibble at her earlobe, his voice low and seductive as he spoke. “Is that what you need, baby? Something hard and warm?” She whined, and he traced a tongue over the shell of her ear, “You get off like this, and you can have something hard and warm to fill you up inside, you want that? Because I do. I wanna be inside that sweet pussy so deep…” The rumble of his voice, the words he was breathing in her ear, the exquisite pressure from the seam of her jeans as she rode him set her off as she continued grinding into him with a loud cry of his name.

He shifted her away from his chest far enough to take her lips in a forceful kiss, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she rode out her orgasm, finally parting from him with a gasp of much-needed air and dropping her head to his shoulder again. She went limp as he wrapped his arms around her, whispering as his hands smoothed over the soft skin of her back. “That was so fucking hot.” After a moment or two, she sat up, her eyes glowing, shoving his button-down off his shoulders and reaching for the waist of his t-shirt. He laughed softly, mumbling, “Okay, okay,” as he shed himself of both, pulling her against him with a groan at the sensation of her breasts against his skin as he kissed her again.

She finally moved away with a push on his shoulders, rising to her feet and kicking off her shoes. “I believe I was promised something, and it ain’t happening with your pants on.” She smirked at him, and he stood up with a grin as they both rushed to remove the rest of their clothes. He scooped her up and tossed her onto the bed, and she giggled, shifting herself to the middle as he climbed up to join her, fitting himself between her thighs and bracing himself up on his hands. She sucked in a startled breath as his cock nudged up against her sensitive clit, his teeth dragging over his bottom lip as he watched her expression with hunger in his gaze.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, you know that?” he said softly before kissing her, sweet and seductive, gently lowering himself down. “So wet,” he moaned, thrusting against her several times before dipping down to catch at her entrance, and she wrapped her legs around his hips with a needy whimper. He pushed in slowly, drawing out every bit of pleasure from the sensation of pressing into her tight, trembling cunt, pulling back from their kiss to grit his teeth as he finally entered her completely. “Fuck, Mikey…”

“I don’t know how I could ever have forgotten this,” she said breathlessly.

“Me, either,” he panted, looking into her eyes. “You feel like fucking heaven.” He pulled back, watching her mouth drop open and her eyes drift shut as he pushed forward again, grinding a little as he bottomed out.

“Fuck, you did promise me deep,” she rasped out, hands reaching to grasp at his biceps.

“Always try to keep my promises,” he answered, pulling back and thrusting in faster, and her nails dented his skin as he reached the limit. “So hold on.”

He began to drive into her hard, ramping up speed until her head was rolling back into the pillow, her thighs gripping him tight as she met every bruising thrust. Their gasps and moans filled the room until Mikey threw her arms wide and arched her back, coming with a wordless, wavering shout as she clawed desperately at the sheets. Dean swore, fucking into her wildly, the spasms of her climax driving him on until he exploded, holding himself deep inside her, never wanting it to end.

Almost an hour later, Mikey stirred, her eyes fluttering open, a little disoriented at first. Dean hadn’t moved, his face still buried against her neck, and her lips curved in a gentle smile. She moved one hand up to softly scratch her nails through the short hair at his nape, her other hand gliding over the muscular expanse of his back. He let out a quiet little groan as he shifted, and Mikey shuddered as he pulled away and rolled to his back beside her.

“Hey,” he rasped, his voice gravelly with sleep. “Sorry, didn’t mean to fall asleep and crush you.”

“Not complaining,” she answered, accepting his wordless invitation into his arms. He pulled her close, dropping a kiss to the top of her head as she laid it on his chest, her arm clinging to his waist. “I’m really glad that you showed up in that bar in Ohio. At first I thought it was the worst thing that ever happened to me, but it turns out it was the best.”

Dean’s hand moved to her face, tilting it upward for a sweet, gentle kiss. “I doubt if getting mixed up with me is the best thing to ever happen to you – but going into that bar was one of the best decisions I ever made.” His fingers stroked over her cheek as he looked into her eyes. “I’m sorry for the shit you went through, and for keeping my distance for so long. I was just – I wanted you to be safe, to be free from the shit storm that being part of my life always seems to be.”

Mikey stretched up to kiss him, her lips clinging to his for a long moment. “I hate to break it to you, Dean Winchester, but I think being a part of your life is worth any shit storm that might happen. And since I’ve actually lived through one, I think I’m entitled to my opinion.”

Dean’s chest vibrated with a low chuckle. “You think so, huh?”

She traced a finger over his chest, smiling as his muscles clenched when she brushed over his nipple. “Well, I supposed you could try proving it to me a little more, if you insist.”

He grinned, making her gasp softly as he reached over to roll her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “You have anything in particular in mind?”

“I’ll let you use your imagination,” she teased.

“Oh, honey, I’ve got one hell of an imagination,” he growled, rolling her to her back and taking her lips in a searing kiss. “And I’ll give you all the proof you want.”

Tags for my lovelies: 

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@suckitands33    @ej13928    @lmhf1

[eluvianna-ooc]

∇ - TOMBSTONE - who they are versus who they appear to be

In its offer of recognition, the question drew a gentle smile.

“We all wear a mask, don't we?” Her head tilted with candor. “The question is not if, but why. To guard or to manipulate—”

A shoulder lifted. “Perhaps even something between.”

“But what you see, this…allure—” a gesture swept along her form, “my mother named it shame, dressed in etiquette. Wielded it when it suited her. Judged harshly where it would not.”

Her expression touched something weary, thoughts turning inward with memory. “There was once an arrangement. A young knight. I was meant to adorn his life. Desire was his compass. And submission, my supposed virtue.”

“Then came darkness—corruption.” Violet eyes dimmed.

“Expectation became armor. Offer became exile.”

A palm settled at her chest, fingers curling to flesh.

“So where you may find temptation, know autonomy has come to grip ever more tightly. It now yields only to knowledge, and to those who seek what lies beyond the mask.”

Thank you for the ask @kharrisdawndancer!! This is definitely fun oc lore to dig into a bit.

[reigraceee]

SWTOR OCs Infodump (pt I)

I wanted to introduce 4 of my swtor ocs- more aliens coming after I finalize the character designs! Feel free to skip around and read whatever is interesting to you and let me know if there's anything you'd be interested to hear more about <3

Under the cut:

My Echani Cousular Aura'dann

My Smuggler Kai

My Sith Warriors Alykaa (canon) and Hrafen (side OC; not part of class stories)

+little sketches of each <3

Aura’dann (Jedi Consular)- Aura’dann grew up with her Echani, who gave her values of passion and justice. She carried these values into her time as a Jedi when she joined the order at 17. When she left for Tython, she had already been practicing and learning from the force on her own. Aura used her force abilities to become a great, if unconventional, fighter in her community. Among the Echani, combat was a near-sacred art, making Aura’s accomplishments all the more esteemed. Despite all this, Aura had a thirst for more and knew she had plenty of untapped potential outside of what she could teach herself.

As a Jedi, Aura’dann could often forget that the force was more than a tool for her to hone. She always struggled to focus inward and sense the spiritual workings around her, which sometimes left her feeling out of place among her Jedi peers. Aura is also visionary at heart, and craves to serve the Republic and strives to be a shining example for the Jedi.

Kai (Smuggler) is honestly a little doofus. A little himbo goofball, if you will. Upon contact it wouldn't seem he has much to offer, but truthfully Kai is very cunning and will find a creative way out of any predicament. He's always ready for a challenge and can hardly be stopped once he has his eyes set on a goal.

Behind his eccentric personality, Kai really does have a heart of gold. Kai is a strong extravert and will do everything he can to uplift the spirits of others. He's loud and flamboyant and the life of the party. 

To be honest I don’t really have any kind of crazy backstory for him; Kai just exists to be my little goober man and to live out my platinum-blond shag dreams for me.

Alykaa (Sith Warrior)- After Alykaa’s mother passed, she was destined to be her family’s only child. She was part of a kind of Sith royalty, her family legacy having strong influence in the Empire’s affairs. Being the only child that could maintain respect for the family, the responsibility that Alykaa carried was clear from a young age. Her single father, although barely involved in her upbringing, made sure Alykaa knew she had to succeed.

Alykaa grew to be a fierce warrior, with an unmistakably fiery essence. Desperate to prove herself, Alykaa was put on a pedestal from a young age, being a poster child for the perfect imperial. She was always a strong patriot and held her devotion to the empire second only to her family.

Alykaa is ruthless and unforgiving, especially if someone is in her way or acts against her values. For this reason, she fit perfectly into the role of emperor’s wrath and served as a formidable force against those who stood in the empire’s way. This is also the reason why things… didn’t work out with Malavai Quinn. She was uncertain she could ever find a worthy partner. That is, until she met Hrafen who effortlessly shattered her understanding of the galaxy. There was something about his indifference that compelled her. Hrafen was so unimpressed with her power, it should have been infuriating. But there was also a kind of understanding in Hrafen, that Alykaa couldn’t shake. He was able to see untouched parts of her with such casualty, being the first to truly see who she was.

Hrafen (non-canon Sith Warrior) is known for being totally unserious. He can never seem to accept or trust any authority and was known to wander on his own unconventional path. Relentlessly speculative, Hrafen questions everyone and everything, which turns a lot of people off to him. This proves to be a good filter to finding like-minded people, however, and when Hrafen meets someone who he can have respectful debate/conversation with, he is quick to call that person friend. Despite his off-putting demeanor, Hrafen is a big people-person and has a genuine fascination with people and understanding how they work. Hrafen ends up collecting a peculiar crowd of people who are willing to question the Empire’s authority. 

Similar to Alykaa, Hrafen’s family had strong connections in the Sith Empire, although the expectations were never so strong. While Alykaa had it hammered into her mind that she needed to support and honor her family, Hrafen’s family was never so desperate. Being sith purebloods, they already had an inherent and effortless leg up in society.

___

If you're interested, I'm taking asks from here (details) and here (situations)!

Tagging my swtor pals: @califrey @fernfrond-inks @blackberry-command-cap @swtorpadawan and special shoutout to @frauleiiin for her kindness and encouragement.

[dasanye-wet]

Hammering out my oc's lore

Turned into more of a conquest drabble thing but 🤷

Ari was her given name but she was known as Glory.

She was born of war, like all Viltrumites. Bred for conquest, raised for glory. She earned her rank not through brute strength, but strategy, restraint, and the rare ability to inspire loyalty in others. It was that balance-- discipline without cruelty-- that first drew Conquest to her.

He was violence incarnate, fire without a hearth. But with her, he learned to anchor himself. Not to be soft, but to be sharp. Precise. Efficient. For centuries, they fought side by side across galaxies, and the blood they spilled only brought them closer. They were betrothed in battle, in scars, in survival. Hers was the only voice he never ignored.

Then the Scourge Virus came.

It burned through their people like a holy fire, thinning the Viltrumite ranks even further. She survived, but not unscathed. Her strength faltered in quiet ways: healing took longer, her joints betrayed her, her body fatigued too easily.

But their daughters; Ione, freshly 18, steady and disciplined-- and Caia, still a child at 12 years old and wild and brilliant, weren’t so lucky. Whatever anomaly in Glory's biology had let the virus spare her did not pass to them. They died within days of each other, and something in her died with them.

She went on breathing. Moving. Fighting, when required. But the spark was gone. Her voice softer. Her eyes dimmer. As if survival had betrayed her more than death ever could. She hid it well, for a while. Long enough to stay beside him. Long enough to be marked.

When the empire sensed weakness, they called it a mercy. A duty. A quiet execution to preserve the race’s perfection. Conquest begged, then threatened, then bled-- but it didn’t matter. She was gone before he could stop it.

They told him to move on. He did, but not as the soldier he once was. Something in him had snapped. Not just greif. Betrayal. The idea that loyalty, legacy, and love meant nothing if it wasn't backed by brute power. He buried who he was with her. Whatever tenderness she coaxed out of him, whatever hope she represented, died with her bones scattered in the void.

Now, Conquest fights not for glory, but because there’s nothing else left. No home. No future. Only rage carved into flesh, and the memory of a woman who saw a better way and was destroyed for it.

-*-

He didn’t go rogue. He didn’t defect. He kept conquering. Kept obeying. Kept killing. Because if he stopped, it would mean admitting she was right. That strength wasn't enough. That their empire, their cause, was hollow.

But he also didn’t forget her. Couldn’t. She was in the way he fought; she’d hated waste. Hated cruelty for cruelty’s sake, though he sometimes surrendered to it when the silence pressed too hard or the grief cut too deep. But he always returned to the discipline she taught him and tried just as fervently to instill into their wild daughters. They took after his stubbornness. And he kept going, but colder. More surgical. Less a soldier and more a blade honed by grief. And in the wreckage he left behind, he carved out something like a tribute.

His memories were the only part of Glory the empire couldn't kill. And maybe, deep down, he kept moving because she would’ve wanted him to survive. He could still hear her voice sometimes, quiet but unflinching: Don’t throw yourself on the fire, not for me. Don't let my death be a waste.

It already was, he thought.

But, he stayed alive. Out of the same impetuous spite that had always driven her. Out of grief for his daughters that never quite curdled inward into self-destruction.

Maybe he told himself he was waiting for something-- someone-- worth stopping for again. But until then?

He honoured his name.