#someone needs to force me to go back to writing..

[heesmiles]

FALLING INTO RUIN l.hs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Before 

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

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

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

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

Present day 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Before

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Present day 

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

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

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

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

Beomgyu.Can we please talk?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have nothing to say.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The way she walked away.

How you let her.

How she never came back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She blinks, surprised. “Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And just like that, the air shifts again.

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

Before

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You lingered.

So did he.

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

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

But then; it hit you.

Like ice water over the head.

Nari.

This was Nari’s boyfriend.

Your best friend.

Oh god.

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

“I—” he started.

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

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

Present day 

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

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

A failed ballerina.

The girl who lost her best friend.

The girl who killed her. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beomgyu blinked. “What?”

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

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

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

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

“She said let go.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

A small, ziplock baggie.

Weed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Before. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Present day 

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

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

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

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

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

“I was with someone.”

“Who?” he demands.

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

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

“I don’t care,” you snap.

His face darkens. “You don’t care?” 

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

“We’ve given you space—” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why not? It’s true.” 

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

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

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

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

Before

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Present day 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nari.

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

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

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

“I’m fine,” you lied. “Just… tired.”

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” he bellowed, tipping his head.

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

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

No answer.

You tried again. Still nothing.

You opened the door.

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

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

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

“What are you doing?” your voice trembled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nari—” you began, stepping forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time stopped.

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

Before Heeseung’s pov 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a girl.

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

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

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

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

Present day 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Epilogue 1 year later

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[shyoko]

✧Too late. She moans my name now ✦༺⊹

This writing is my own; no copies, adaptations, or translations are allowed. I hope you like it. 𓂃

✦ 1.2K words * Masterlist˚ Taglist₊‧ ✦𓂃 

Ni-ki x fem!reader ⚠️ CW: +18, jealousy, possessiveness, rough intimacy, dirty talk, choking, oral (m receiving), spanking, marking, phone call humiliation, creampie, breeding kink, emotional tension.

He wouldn’t touch you. Not after all the fights. So you begged. Now he’s fucking you hard enough to make your ex hear every moan.

The room was silent. Only the dim glow of the bedside lamp lit the outline of his body, naked on the bed, giving you a perfect view of every tense muscle, every shadow that defined his broad back and narrow waist. Ni-ki hadn’t looked at you once since he entered the room. He hadn’t spoken to you. Hadn’t touched you. Nothing. And you couldn’t take it anymore.

Days without a single fucking touch. No affection. No kiss. Just arguments, shouting in the middle of the night, doors slammed shut… all because of your stupid ex who kept calling like he still had a claim on you. And you, with that naive sense of calm, had tried to de-escalate. Had tried to explain to Ni-ki that the other guy meant nothing, that he wasn’t part of your life anymore. But Ni-ki couldn’t stand it. And you couldn’t stand the silence either.

You walked slowly to the bed. He still had his back to you. The silence between you felt like concrete. “Ni-ki…” you whispered, but he didn’t answer. You moved closer, reaching out, your fingers barely grazing his skin.

He turned around sharply, his eyes burning with restrained rage. “Don’t start. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to fight anymore.”���I’m not here to fight…” you whispered softly, almost trembling. “I came to say I’m sorry.”

Ni-ki closed his eyes tightly, like your words only made things worse. He turned away from you again. “Do you really think a damn ‘sorry’ is going to erase what you defended? What you excused?”You bit your lip. Pride hurt, but your need for him hurt more. “I just want to be with you… I just want you to look at me like before.”

You moved in from behind, wrapped your arms around his waist. He tried to push you off with one hand, sighing heavily. “No. Don’t touch me right now.”“Then tell me you don’t love me anymore,” you murmured, kissing his shoulder blade. “Say it, and I’ll leave.”

Silence. His jaw tightened. “Don’t provoke me.” His voice was low, tense, dangerous.

But you kept kissing him, lower, softer. Your lips drifted to his neck, and his breathing hitched. His hand caught your arm, this time tighter—but not to push you away. He held on. “What if I just want you to hold me…? What if I just want to prove I belong to you?”

That broke him.

Ni-ki turned abruptly, grabbing your wrists and pushing you down on the bed. His eyes were full of anger, yes, but also the desperate kind of need he tried to hide. His lips crashed into yours—brutal, messy, hungry. He kissed you like he hated how much he wanted you, his hands trailing over your body like he needed to make sure you were still there, still his.

His lips devoured you. Nothing soft. Nothing sweet. Just raw frustration. He bit, sucked, held you down with a grip he only used when control slipped through his fingers. His hips pressed against yours, and his tongue forced its way between your lips, like he needed to erase any trace of someone else.

He yanked your underwear off without hesitation. The fabric didn’t stand a chance before it hit the floor. You were left wearing only his oversized t-shirt—too big, too his—and that seemed to set him off even more. “Look at you…” he growled against your neck. “My shirt. My bed. But you’re still acting like you’re not completely mine.”

His fingers slammed into you, two at once, fast, deep, impatient. He fucked you with them hard, hitting that spot inside that made your whole body shake. “You’re so fucking wet… and I’m the one who’s supposed to be angry?” he scoffed, his tone mocking. “Pathetic.”

You moaned beneath him, clinging to his neck as he gave you no space to breathe. His mouth dropped to your chest and bit down through the shirt, leaving a harsh, burning mark.

“Don’t pull away,” he growled when you squirmed. “Don’t you dare tell me to stop. Not tonight.”

Your mind was gone. Your body was melting. Your thighs trembled, your pussy pulsed violently around his fingers. Suddenly, he lifted you with ease and dropped you to your knees in front of him. His erection strained against his pants, bulging, ready to snap. Ni-ki pulled them down, and his cock sprang free, hard and heavy, the tip flushed and dripping.

“Do what you’re good at,” he muttered coldly. “Have your fun. Like it’s the last fucking time.”

He gripped your hair and forced you to look up at him. You didn’t speak. You just opened your mouth and took him in. The taste, the heat, the weight of him—he filled your mouth and your senses all at once. “That’s it…” he groaned through clenched teeth. “My pretty little slut.”

He fucked your mouth without mercy. Each thrust deeper, faster, pushing past your limit. Tears streamed from your eyes, saliva coated your chin, and still, he didn’t stop. His hands were tight in your hair, guiding you like a toy.

Then your phone rang again. The name on the screen: your ex.

Ni-ki froze. He pulled out of your mouth, a thick string of spit trailing. He grabbed the phone, glared at it, and answered.

“Listen, asshole,” his voice was sharp as a blade. “Call again and I’ll break your face. She’s not yours. Never was. She’s on her knees for me, swallowing it like she fucking needs it. And now you’re gonna hear exactly what it’s like to be irrelevant.”

He tossed the phone on the bed—still connected. He shoved you onto the mattress and flipped you over, pulling your hips up roughly. No warning. No pause. He slammed his cock inside you with one brutal thrust.

You screamed, your voice tangled in spit and moans and heat. He started moving fast, punishing, every thrust deeper than the last, smacking into you like he was trying to make a point. “This what you wanted, huh?” he grunted in your ear. “You want him to hear how fucking needy you get for me? Let him know this pussy only gets wet for me.”

A harsh slap landed on your ass. Then another. Your skin stung, your walls clenched. His hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing just enough to leave you breathless as he kept pounding into you.

“You’re mine,” he hissed against your back. “Mine. And I’m gonna fill you so deep you won’t be able to hide it.”

The phone was still on. Still active. Moans, cries, his name over and over. Then, finally, the line cut off.

Ni-ki smirked darkly. “Coward,” he murmured. “He knows he lost.”

He leaned over you, biting your shoulder, his hips snapping into yours with more power, more fire.

“I’m gonna cum,” he warned, his voice ragged. “And I’m giving it all to you.”

He spilled inside you with a guttural groan, shaking as he emptied himself deep. He didn’t pull out. Just stayed there, catching his breath on your back.

“Don’t take it out,” he ordered, breathless and rough. “I want it to stay in. I want you dripping with me so everyone knows what happens when someone tries to take what’s mine.”

He wrapped his arms around you from behind, his lips brushing your ear with a final, vicious whisper:

“I’m gonna put a baby in you, princess. So that fucker finally gets it—you’re mine. Only mine. Fuck.”

✦N/a: Hiii, I hope you all liked it a lot! I love you so much, my loves!

✦Taglist: @lezleeferguson-120 @nuki-riki @ijustwannareadstuff20 @vvenusoncasual @miellette @enhacolor @xxkatsusjinsux @somieverse @ourshin @han-to-my-minho @douqhnxtss @nuggets4lifers @mitmit01 @highway-143

[reiding-writing]

hi lovely, so in love with cold!reader series

i was thinking if you could maybe write about her finally letting spence console her and letting down her guard after what happened with her killing the unsub that reminded her of the professor

love ur work !!!

x

UNDER DURESS. /spencer reid/

spencer convinces you to go to therapy.

s11!cold!reader h/c 3.7k series masterlist. main masterlist.

AN | there’s not actually a whole lot of consoling in this— MENTIONS OF RAPE AND SA. VERY CONTEXT DEPENDENT ON PREVIOUS PARTS OF THE SERIES.

It’s been three weeks since the shooting.

The paperwork is finished, the internal review is closed, and the bureau cleared you. “Justified use of force,” they said. You ticked every box. But none of that matters, not really, because Spencer’s still watching you like you might shatter. He doesn’t say it outright, but you see it in the way he hovers—fingers twitching when you’re quiet too long, gaze narrowing when you stare too hard at nothing.

You’ve barely slept. Barely spoken, outside of the necessary. Even now, curled up on the sofa with a book you’re not reading, you feel the weight of his eyes from across the room.

The silence between you isn’t peaceful. It’s brittle.

He waits until your tea goes cold in your hands. “I think,” Spencer says carefully, like he’s rehearsed it a hundred times, “you should talk to someone,”

You don’t look at him. You flip a page you haven’t read. “I talk to you,”

“That’s not what I mean,”

“I know what you mean.”

There’s a beat. You feel him shift on the armchair, lean forward. He’s not touching you—he knows better—but you can feel him, somehow. Like gravity. Quiet and unyielding.

“I know you said you weren’t ready,” he tries again. “And I’ve been trying to give you space. I just—I think it’s time,”

Your jaw tightens. “I am the someone that people talk to. I’ve done this job for almost ten years. You think I haven’t heard worse?”

“That’s not what this is about,”

“Isn’t it?”

“No,”

You snap the book shut and toss it on the coffee table a little harder than necessary. “I don’t need a therapist.”

He sighs, and that does it—that sigh, the disappointed one, full of worry and patience and all the things you can’t stand. You finally look at him.

“What?” you say, sharper than intended.

His eyes meet yours. Not angry. Not even frustrated. Just worried, heartbroken almost. “I know you don’t think you need it,” he says. “But something’s wrong. You shot a man, and you haven’t said more than three words about it. Not to me. Not to anyone,”

“I don’t need to say anything about it,”

“He was sexually assaulting comatose women,” Spencer says, voice quiet but firm. “You pulled the trigger without hesitation. And yeah, it was justified. But it wasn’t just about him, was it?”

Your stomach flips. Cold and sudden.

“I’m not having this conversation with you,” you mutter, standing up.

Spencer doesn’t follow. Just watches you pace the room like a caged thing.

“It’s not just the shooting,” he says after a moment. “It’s Wittchen. It’s what happened to you. The way you never talked about it. The way you still don’t,”

You freeze.

That name—the one you never say anymore—doesn’t need repeating. You know who he means. You see his face in your mind the moment Spencer mentions him. The mentor you admired. The predator you survived. The man who ripped out women’s wombs and then put a bullet in his own head, right there in front of you, ten years after the first time he ever touched you.

You close your eyes. Will the memories back down. They rise anyway.

Spencer’s voice breaks through again, softer now. “You don’t talk about him. You don’t even say his name. And I get it—I do. But this thing with the doctor, it wasn’t random. And if we don’t talk about it, it’s going to keep coming back. It’s going to keep hurting you,”

“I’m not a wounded animal,” you snap. “I’m fine.”

He stands now. Crosses the room slowly. You feel his hand hovering near your back, hesitant.

“Can we stop pretending I don’t know you better than that?” he says gently. “You haven’t slept more than two hours a night since it happened. You flinch every time someone touches you unexpectedly. You’re constantly on edge. That’s not ‘fine.’”

You shake your head. “Therapy won’t help.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know,” you say, spinning to face him. “I’ve got a PhD in psychology, Spencer. I know every move they’ll make before they even make it. I’ve read every study. Sat in on casework. I’ve written papers on trauma responses. I know the process, the techniques, the language—hell, I could run the session myself. And I promise you, it doesn’t work on someone who already knows what’s coming.”

Spencer doesn’t argue. He just looks at you with those eyes, full of soft, unbearable concern.

“You’re not a theory,” he says. “You’re a person,”

You scoff and turn away again, dragging your handover your face. “Don’t be poetic. It doesn’t suit you,”

He huffs a soft laugh behind you, but it’s humourless. “I’m serious. You’ve built this fortress around yourself, and you’ve convinced yourself that knowing the mechanisms of therapy makes you immune to it. But it doesn’t. It just means you know how to dodge,”

You don’t reply. You’re too busy listening to the blood pounding in your ears.

Spencer steps closer. He doesn’t touch you, not yet. Just lowers his voice and says, “He hurt you. And he kept hurting other people, and somehow you’ve turned it into this thing you carry alone, like you deserve to,”

“Don’t,” you say. “Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Don’t act like you understand,”

“I don’t,” he admits. “Not completely. But I was there, remember? I was the one who stayed up with you, that night on the jet home. I was the one who cleaned the blood off your shoes. I’ve seen the way you deal with pain, and it’s not healthy. You bury it. You don’t even let it scar,”

You want to scream. Or cry. Or break something. But none of those things are you. So instead, you breathe—slow, measured, the way they taught you in profiling.

He finally places a hand on your back. Warm. Solid. Kind.

“I’m not trying to fix you,” he says. “I just want you to let someone in. Just once. Let someone help you carry this,”

You swallow hard. “And if I can’t?”

“You can,” he says. “You don’t want to. That’s different,”

You hate how well he knows you. Hate how right he is.

Eventually, he says, “There’s someone I trust. She’s not bureau. She’s good. And discreet. I’ll come with you. Just for the first session,”

You’re already shaking your head.

“I can’t—”

“Just once. That’s all I’m asking,”

He’s so damn earnest. All heart and quiet strength and unshakeable loyalty. And he’s not just doing this for you. You can see it in the tight line of his shoulders, the tension around his eyes. He’s scared. You don’t want him to worry about you.

You don’t believe in therapy. You don’t believe in healing. You believe in repression and control and building walls high enough that the world can’t touch you. But Spencer does. He believes in you.

And maybe—for him—you can give this a shot.

You exhale slowly. “I’m not promising anything.”

Spencer’s shoulders ease just a little. “That’s all I’m asking.”

“And if she’s a nightmare?”

He smiles, faint but real. “Then we leave. No questions asked.”

You nod once. “Alright.”

He kisses your temple then, so gently it almost breaks you. You close your eyes and let it land.

—

The office is warm, neutral-toned, and utterly unimpressive. You register the little things first—the pale green walls, the bookshelf organised more by aesthetic than utility, the faint smell of peppermint tea lingering in the air. There’s a chair opposite a sofa, both upholstered in the sort of beige that’s meant to be calming. Everything about the space is designed to soothe.

You don’t feel soothed. You feel like an animal under observation.

Spencer sits beside you, close but not touching. He offered his hand in the car. You left it hanging in the air between you. Not because you’re angry with him—though maybe you are, a little—but because you’re trying to contain the slow boil inside your chest. And physical contact makes the pressure worse.

The therapist—Dr. Marin—is younger than you expected. Mid-thirties, perhaps, with tidy hair, sensible shoes, and a file tucked neatly under her arm. She smiles when you walk in. Not too wide. Just the right amount of warmth. Professional empathy, textbook-grade.

You hate her immediately.

You sit with military posture, legs crossed, hands folded. Spencer shifts beside you, clearly trying to act as some sort of emotional buffer. It won’t help him.

“Thank you both for coming,” Dr. Marin says gently, settling into her chair with smooth, practiced ease. “I know this isn’t easy,”

“I was promised discretion,” you say coldly. “So I hope your receptionist doesn’t go bragging about this to her coffee group.”

Dr. Marin doesn’t flinch. “My receptionist doesn’t know your name. She’s instructed not to look at appointment details. Your file is encrypted,”

“Hm.” You glance pointedly at her notes. “Shame about the handwritten file, then. Bit old-fashioned.”

She smiles politely. “I find writing helps me remember what matters,”

“How quaint,” you reply, and cross your arms. You’re already dissecting her—pacing her breathing rate, watching her eye movements, evaluating tone, posture, proximity. You’re sharper than she is. Smarter. You let her know it in every word, every glance.

Dr. Marin looks at you steadily. “Would you prefer not to be here?”

“I was given little choice.”

“Spencer said you agreed.”

“Under duress.”

Her gaze flicks briefly to Spencer, then back to you. “And what is it you feel you were coerced into discussing?”

You snort softly. “That depends. Are we here to talk about the time I shot a serial rapist in the head, or the time my ex-Professor killed himself in front of me after gutting women that reminded him of me?”

Spencer stiffens beside you. You don’t even look at him.

Dr. Marin doesn’t blink. “Why do you think you brought up both in the same sentence?”

“Convenience,” you reply dryly. “I assumed we’d skip the whole 'establishing trust' phase.”

She sits back slightly, tilting her head. “Would you say you trust Spencer?”

“He’s my partner.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t answer loaded questions.”

“Which part do you think was loaded?”

You narrow your eyes. “Let’s not play, Doctor. You know what I do for a living.”

“And you know what I do,” she replies, calm but sharp. “So let’s drop the performance.”

Spencer glances between you both, clearly uncomfortable. “Maybe we could just—start with what happened? At the hospital? Or Stanford?”

You wave a hand. “What happened is I did my job. Twice. And in both cases, men who couldn’t handle their urges ended up dead. One by my hand, one by his own. End of story.”

Dr. Marin’s tone remains perfectly even. “Do you think that’s the end of it?”

“I think if you keep asking the same question with different phrasing, we’re going to waste a lot of time.”

The next half-hour spirals into a game of verbal dissection.

You pick apart her methodology. You challenge her use of person-first language. You point out every time she pauses too long, every instance she uses a textbook phrase you find beneath you. You ask her if she was taught CBT by someone who’s actually published or if she’s just memorised bullet points from a slideshow. You highlight how she crosses her legs inconsistently, which—according to certain behavioural studies—could suggest discomfort or an overcompensation for projected authority.

You’re not just avoiding the subject. You’re laying landmines around it. You know exactly what you’re doing.

And Spencer sees it too.

“Babe,” he says eventually, gentle but exasperated, “Please, this isn’t fair. To either of you.”

Dr. Marin doesn’t speak.

Not immediately.

Then—she closes the folder on her lap.

And her tone changes.

“You’re not avoiding me, with this defensiveness,” she says, voice harder now, cutting clean through the room. “You’re avoiding what he did to you. What it meant. He was a therapist himself, was he not?”

You flinch—barely. But she sees it.

“I read your academic background,” she continues. “I know about your thesis. I know about your clinical work. I know who supervised you.”

You stand abruptly. Spencer’s hand grazes your arm but you shake him off.

“This is unprofessional,” you hiss.

“This is necessary,” Dr. Marin replies. “You’ve turned your trauma into a weapon. You’ve used your intelligence to bury yourself under theory and diagnostics so you never have to feel anything.”

Spencer rises, trying to reach you, calm you. “Let’s just—sit, okay? Just—just listen.” But you’re already trembling.

Dr. Marin presses forward. Not physically. Just with her words. “You’re not here because you want to move on,” she says. “You’re here because you love someone who’s begging you to get help.”

You bark a laugh. It’s humourless. “So what? What’s the grand insight, Doctor? That I’m too broken to fix? That I like being damaged?”

“No,” she says. “That you’re terrified of not being broken. Because then you’d have to figure out who you are without the pain.”

Who are you? Without the guilt, without the memory of his hands on your skin, without the screaming and the silence and the endless dissociation. What’s left of you that matters?

You feel the words clawing up your throat before you can stop them.

“You think I want to dwell on the fact I gave myself an abortion at twenty-two?” you spit, venomous and trembling. “You think that’s something I like remembering?”

“I think you want to punish yourself.”

The silence after that is thick and total.

Spencer looks like he’s been struck. Your jaw clenches so tight it aches. And then— You leave.

You don’t say goodbye. You don’t look back. You don’t even wait for Spencer. You slam the door behind you and step into the cold air like it might freeze the words off your skin.

—

Spencer stands awkwardly. Caught in the aftermath. He looks at the door, then back to Dr. Marin.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, voice thick with shame. “She’s not—she’s not like that.”

Dr. Marin smiles. Not unkindly. Just... knowingly.

“She’ll come back,” she says, leaning back in her chair, her tone calm. Certain. “When she’s ready.”

Spencer nods slowly. He hopes she’s right. He really, really hopes she’s right.

—

You don’t slam the door. You let it click shut behind you and drift to the sofa like your bones are hollow. You don’t even take off your coat. Just curl into yourself, legs tucked under you, arms folded tightly across your chest. Like if you squeeze hard enough, maybe you’ll keep it all in.

Your face is hot, but your tears are long gone. You cried at twenty-two, bent over a bathtub with shaking hands and a mess you didn’t know how to clean. You cried at thirty-three, when a bullet tore through a man’s chest and left you in a lecture hall full of fluorescent ghosts. You don’t cry now. You just sit.

Red-eyed. Empty. Listening to the clock tick louder than it ever has before.

You hear Spencer follow a few seconds later.

He doesn’t speak when he enters. Doesn’t rush to you. He sets down his bag gently, shrugs off his jacket, and walks into the living room like he’s entering holy ground. Quiet. Careful.

Then he sits beside you, close enough that you feel the warmth of him, but not close enough to crowd. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t ask if you’re okay.

He knows you’re not.

So he just waits.

And waits.

And waits.

The silence stretches until you can’t stand it anymore. You shift slightly—just enough for your shoulder to brush his. Then, softly, barely louder than breath, you whisper, “I hate her.”

Spencer smiles. It’s small, but sincere. “That’s okay.”

You don’t respond.

He makes tea without asking. Puts the kettle on like muscle memory, retrieves your mug—your mug, the one with the chipped rim and a faded headshot of Sigmund Freud that Morgan got you as a gag gift—and drops in a peppermint bag without ceremony. No sugar. No lemon. Just the way you like it. You don’t move from the sofa. You just watch him from across the room, as if you might vanish if you blink too long.

He brings the cup to you, holding it out without expectation. You take it. Don’t drink it. Just hold it between your palms like it’s some kind of anchor.

“She was right.”

Spencer looks at you, startled by the admission, but he doesn’t say anything. Just tilts his head slightly, encouraging.

“I mean—she wasn’t, but she was.” You draw a slow breath, eyes fixed on the tea. “She doesn’t know anything about me, but she still—”

Spencer stays silent. Listens.

“I’ve spent years building a life around not being someone who lets things in. And she saw that in ten minutes. She didn’t even blink when I tried to pull her apart. I’ve made grown men cry doing less than that,”

He hums softly. “I know,”

You glance at him. “Do you think I do it on purpose?”

“The tearing people apart thing?”

You nod.

He shrugs gently. “I think… sometimes you confuse being in control with being safe. And people who try to touch the parts of you that aren’t safe—those are the ones who get hurt,”

You exhale. Shaky. But not angry.

“She said I want to punish myself,”

Spencer’s eyes flick to yours, gentle and cautious. “Do you?”

You don’t answer. Because you don’t know. Maybe?

Maybe not in a conscious, theatrical way. Not in the sense of throwing yourself into danger for the thrill of pain. But… in the silence after that abortion, when you didn’t tell anyone. When you went back to class the next day with blood on your jeans and shook his hand like nothing had happened. When you kept the secret even after graduating. When you watched him die and still refused to cry in front of anyone. Maybe all of that was punishment. Maybe that’s what the coldness has been.

“I didn’t want to be that girl,” you say suddenly. “The one with the story. The victim.”

Spencer reaches for your hand.“You’re not a victim,” he says. “But you’re not a villain, either.”

You pull your hand away, slowly. Not rejecting him—just needing space to think. “Why haven’t you ever asked about it?”

“Because I figured you’d tell me when you were ready.”

You look down at your lap, at the half-drunk tea in your grip. The silence feels different now. Not brittle, not heavy. Just… still.

“I was alone,” you say. “I didn’t have anyone back then. No one I trusted. He made sure of that,”

“I know,” Spencer says. “But you’re not alone anymore,”

Something cracks in your chest. Small. Hairline. You take a breath. “She said I’ve built my identity around the trauma,”

He nods. “Do you think she’s wrong?”

“No.”

And that, somehow, is the most painful admission of all. Because you did. You’ve spent years being the cold one, the sharp one, the one who doesn’t flinch, doesn’t feel, doesn’t need. You built a fortress out of diagnoses and defence mechanisms, and somewhere along the line, that fortress became your skin.

“Spence?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think there’s anything left of me underneath it all?”

He doesn’t hesitate. Not even for a heartbeat.

“Yes.”

You look at him. “How do you know?”

“Because I’ve seen it,” he says. “I’ve seen the way you look at children when they’re scared. The way you read three pages ahead in every file, just so you can warn me if something’s going to hurt. The way you wake up gasping but never wake me—not because you don’t feel it, but because you’re protecting me.”

Your throat tightens.

“And the way you laughed,” he adds, quieter now. “That one time we got caught in the rain and ran home. You laughed so hard you couldn’t breathe.”

“I was furious,” you murmur.

“You were alive.”

You go still. Alive. It’s a word you don’t use often. Not when describing yourself. You’ve always described yourself in more clinical terms—functional, operational, stable. Alive implies something else. Messiness. Emotion. Living.

And you’re not sure you’ve been doing that for years.

You sip your tea finally. It’s lukewarm. But you drink it anyway.

“I’m not going back,” you say after a long moment.

Spencer nods. “Okay.”

“Not yet, anyway.”

“Okay.”

You glance at him again. “But you’re going to want me to,”

He gives you a faint smile. “Eventually, yeah. I think it’ll help. But it has to be on your terms.”

You nod. Then pause. “She wasn’t a bad therapist.”

“No,” he agrees. “She really wasn’t.”

You sigh. “I still hate her, though.”

He chuckles softly. “You’re allowed to.”

[flufftato]

Sincerely, who?

Haikyuu! ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Bokuto Koutarou ❥➳·₊˚

ꕀ

〃fluff 〃pairing: Bokuto Koutarou x reader 〃wc: 983

a/n: Special guest - my love Akaashi hehe. Btw i'm so torn. Do you think bo is a "babe" or "baby" guy?

Bokuto is a needy little shit.

If you were to make a playlist for him, “needy” by Ariana Grande would be the first song.

You noticed this trait when you first met him. This loud, oddly owl-like wing spiker was in constant need of praises and encouragement from his teammates in every game.

But you still ended up falling for him.

After years of dating, it has become a habit of yours to leave a little note in Bokuto’s gym bag every day.

It’s really just a simple reminder to stay hydrated, eat his lunch properly, and a ‘I love you’ at the end. It’s a daily dose of affection to keep him going.

And it works. It keeps him going the entire day.

Sometimes when you’re in the mood, you’ll put in some extra loves for him. Maybe a short poem you saw online or a cheesy pick-up line you think he might like. Whenever you do, Bokuto swears he could spike 24/7 straight through the week.

But today just as you were trying to tuck the note into his bag, the phone rang.

You put the folded note down on the kitchen counter before heading to the living room where the phone was.

It was a windy day. Autumn had officially arrived last week, and the breeze was colder than usual.

Autumn has always been your favourite. It’s not too hot like summer, not freezing cold like winter — just cool enough to save on eletricity bills.

You really shouldn’t have opened the window that morning.

While you were still on the call, the wind picked up and fluttered across the kitchen. The note, left too close to the edge, was blown off the counter.

A few minutes later, Bokuto came bounding in, grabbed his gym bag with a quick shout of, “Gotta go, babe! Love you, bye!” and was out the door before you could even say back.

By the time you returned to the kitchen, you spotted the little folded note resting quitely on the floor near the fridge.

Crap…oh well.

You shrugged it off, thinking he would be fine without the note for just one day.

How wrong you were.

The aftermath landed right on his teammates.

Akaashi, specifically, suffered the most.

—

“Akaashiii, don’t toss to me! I don’t think I can spike without y/n’s note!”

“Okay. I’ll toss to the others.”

“Huh—”

Akaashi is so used to this. He knows Bokuto just needs a moment before bouncing back in full force.

But not today.

Bokuto eventually grows restless, so Akaashi decides it’s the perfect time to set for him — only to see the ball lands right past the line. Twice.

That’s when Akaashi knows this is serious.

Frowning at his sulking teammate slouching in the corner of the room, Akaashi sighs. It’s time to act.

He rips a page from his notebook, pulls out a pen from his pencil case, and quietly slips into the storage room.

Akaashi sits on a folded mat, pen in hand, staring down at the torn piece of paper. For a long moment, he just…thinks.

He tries his best to recall the notes Bokuto had gleefully shoved in his face over the past few months. But it’s all a blur now. And he deeply regrets never reading them properly.

So he switches tactics. What would he want to read if someone left him a loving note? What would touch his heart and give him the much needed boost?

“Just a few more hours before you can finally be at peace, honey.”

…Yeah, no. That’s not gonna work.

After what feels like five hours (but was really actually ten minutes), he finally writes something that looks passable. He even makes sure to mimic your handwriting.

“You’re the best. See you tonight”

Akaashi caps the pen with a nod. This should be good enough.

He slips back into the court and casually sneaks the note into the bottom of Bokuto’s bag.

“Bokuto-san,” Bokuto’s hair perks up slightly. “Do you have a spare kneepad? I can’t find the other one.” And the hair deflates again.

But being the sweetheart he is, Bokuto still drags himself over to fetch the extra kneepads from his bag.

When his fingertips brush against the paper, he freezes.

“What is it, Bokuto-san?” Akaashi appears right on cue behind him.

Bokuto stares at the note that he swears was not there before in utter confusion.

“It’s…a note?”

“Ah, it’s from y/n, isn’t it? That looks like her handwritting,” Akaashi says smoothly, almost too smooth.

“I don’t know…it looks kinda off. And it’s usually longer…”

“Maybe she wrote it in a rush. Still sweet of her, though. Even when she’s busy, she still makes time to write them.” Akaashi’s fingers are crossed behind his back.

Bokuto squints at it suspiciously…Well, he did saw you on the phone sounding serious this morning. Maybe you rushed off to answer the call — that would explain the hasty words and handwriting.

Just as Akaashi thinks he’s about to be caught, the little clueless owl lights up and immediately calls you.

As soon as you answer, he gasps dramatically:

“Babe! I saw the note! I thought you forgot! I love you too my little matcha mochi!”

“Wha—”

“Sorry babe, can't talk long. Break’s almost over. I'll see you at home, bye!” Beep.

You’re left standing in the living room, phone still pressed to your ear as your eyes landed on the real note resting neatly on the coffee table.

Later that evening, you receive a heartfelt text from Akaashi, thanking you for hyping Bokuto with all those notes.

And begging you to never stop. Not even for a day.

You made it up to Bokuto that night with plenty of kisses and snuggles, and you made a mental note to buy Akaashi lunch tomorrow.

Oh and burn that real note before Bokuto finds out.

© flufftato • please do not repost, edit, claim, translate without permission •

[petalbcrnes]

❀﹒﹒⇅﹒𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ╱ with JASON TODD & DICK GRAYSON ㄨ BLACK WIDOW ! READER ꩜ .ᐟ ⠀⠀ hcs & drabbles. ⠀·⠀ ୭

　　﹕   (✿˘͈ᵕ˘͈)   ┈ #directory #rules .   ♡   ﹒ this ask made me rethink the whole ‘reqs closed but suggestions open’ deal i gave going on rn. i cannot physically write everything req i get in my inbox,,, so i just take suggestions— no pressure to write it like a request.

❛   ꜝ   ┈   ✺ cw  ﹒ violence and abuse described in this work— it doesn’t take a big part of it though. a bit of angst because i cannot control myself.

𓏲𓏲⠀⠀.. ⠀Your reputation precedes you—former Black Widow, perfectly trained killer, someone who understands that justice isn’t always clean or merciful. But Gotham’s protectors seem determined to complicate things. You find yourself in unfamiliar territory— a certain vigilante has wormed his way into your heart. ✶

. 　 ✺ 　 ⁺ 𝐉𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐎𝐃𝐃 ︶︶

The warehouse explosion lit up Crime Alley like the Fourth of July, and Jason couldn’t help but grin as you dropped down beside him from seemingly nowhere, not even slightly singed despite having been inside thirty seconds ago.

“Show off,” he muttered, but there was admiration in his voice.

“Says the man who literally just drove his motorcycle through a second-story window.” You checked your weapons with practiced efficiency, muscle memory from a lifetime of survival. “Find what we needed?”

“Financial records, shipping manifests, and enough evidence to put half of Falcone’s operation away.” Jason held up a hard drive. “Plus whatever you did in there should send a nice message to the rest.”

You shrugged, the movement elegant even in tactical gear. “The message needed to be loud.”

“No arguments here.” He stepped closer, close enough to see the flecks of gold in your eyes. “Bruce is gonna have an aneurysm when he finds out about tonight.”

“Good. Maybe it’ll keep him busy enough to stop lecturing us about ‘excessive force.’” Your fingers found the edge of his jacket, tugging him closer. “Besides, you didn’t seem to mind my methods when I saved your ass in there.”

Jason’s laugh was rough around the edges. “Pretty, I never mind your methods. Just wish you’d give me a heads up. I like to watch.”

Your smile was dangerous and entirely too appealing. “Next time, I’ll put on a show.”

Jason absolutely gets your approach to justice and rarely questions your methods— if anything, he thinks you’re more efficient than the Bat-family’s usual “catch and release” program.

Will definitely team up with you on missions and enjoys the hell out of it, especially since you don’t try to hold him back from doing what needs to be done.

Gets incredibly protective when other people criticize your past or your methods, even though he knows you can handle yourself— old habits from his own experience being judged.

Loves sparring with you because you’re one of the few people who can actually challenge him, and there’s something thrilling about fighting someone who’s genuinely dangerous.

Sometimes you’ll find him reading up on Red Room techniques or Widow operations, not to judge but to better understand what made you who you are.

Has absolutely gotten into arguments with Dick and Bruce about your relationship. It’s a delicate situation. While Bruce and Dick understand you would never hurt Jason on purpose, they do worry how the methods you two choose will affect not only Jason— you as well.

There’s a twisted kind of understanding between you and Jason. I think in the end Bruce only wants the two of you to be able to find peace and not feel trapped by the blood you two have spilled.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　

. 　 ✺ 　 ⁺ 𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐒𝐎𝐍 ︶︶

The Blüdhaven rooftop was slick with rain as you materialized from the shadows, silent as death itself. Dick didn’t even flinch— he’d learned to sense your presence weeks ago, though he still couldn’t figure out how you moved so quietly in those boots.

“You’re late,” he said, not turning around.

“I’m exactly on time. You’re just early because you’re nervous.” You stepped beside him, close enough that he could smell gunpowder and vanilla perfume. “The target’s already handled.”

“Handled how?” Dick’s voice carried that careful neutrality he used when he was trying not to lecture you.

You tilted your head. “Does it matter? The trafficking ring is shut down, the girls are safe, and the world has three fewer monsters in it.”

Dick closed his eyes briefly. “We talked about this—”

“No, you talked. I listened.” Your gloved fingers traced along his jaw, gentle despite the calluses from trigger guards and knife hilts. “I know you want to save everyone, even the ones who don’t deserve it. It’s what makes you beautiful, Dick Grayson. But some people can only be stopped one way.”

He caught your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “And what does that make you?”

Your smile was sharp as broken glass. “Practical.”

Dick tries so hard to be the moral compass in the relationship, constantly walking the line between accepting who you are and hoping he can influence you toward less lethal methods. (He’s like “I can fix them” and just makes it even worse). It’s not as if he doesn’t want to see this side of you. He does. He just wants to help you navigate the pain jt took to get here.

He’s genuinely fascinated by your skills and will ask you to teach him your stealth techniques, though he draws the line at the more assassination-focused training.

Gets genuinely distressed when you disappear for days on missions, not because he doesn’t trust your abilities, but because he worries about what those missions might be doing to your body and mind.

Has definitely tried to introduce you to everyone else as a “reformed” anti-hero, which backfired spectacularly when you made a casual comment about eliminating witnesses. He learned not to sugar-coat you and your methods after that. Better to accept them head on.

Loves the way you move— there’s something almost hypnotic about your grace in combat that he finds beautiful and terrifying in equal measure.

Will patch up your wounds without question, but always with that worried crease between his brows that you’ve learned means he’s planning another “conversation” about your methods and how you cannot keep putting yourself in so much danger.

Sometimes catches you staring at him like you’re memorizing his face, and it breaks his heart a little because he knows it means you’re always prepared to run.

Has started leaving his window unlocked specifically for you, even though you’ve never actually needed to use the window.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　

﹒   ♪   ┊ INBOX OPEN.⠀⠀feel free to send me asks and suggestions in my inbox. ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

˖ `· . 𓏵 © 𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐁𝐂𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐒 don’t use my work without my consent. ... ��ㅤ Ⳋ ⊹

[naomi-nana]

Hopefully this isn’t too much, can i request Jade, Floyd, Riddle, and Jamil with a female reader who pretends to be a boy in NRC by using a wig and those full face mask (like Momobami Ririka’s mask from Kakegurui), they found out that reader is a female when they saw her asleep in an empty library or somewhere quiet without her mask and wig on. Thank uu and have a great day/night!

✎ᝰ. an amateur disguise . twisted wonderland

in which, you wear a mask to hide your true identity in night raven college. how would they react?

featuring : jade, floyd, riddle, jamil

cw : f!reader, jamil's is short cuz i genuinely don't know how to write his part, may be ooc, bad grammar, not proofread

a/n : helloo! hope u have a great day/night, too!! ╰(*°▽°*)╯ so sorry for taking a little too long than usual ... i lowk struggled writing this, lol. but no worries, i had fun writing regardless!! enjoy reading:)

JADE LEECH

jade is one of the few students many are afraid of, mostly because of his enigmatic nature. so when he sees you walking around in a mask, his curiosity is piqued. he tries everything to see your face beneath that mask—but to no avail.

he'd ask you questions, too. like, "name, is there a reason as to why you're wearing a mask? oh, but don't feel pressured to answer. it is never my intention to force you to tell me—i am just a curious eel, that is all."

you never really answer him, though. you always avoid his question by making up some lies. "oh, look, i have professor crewel's class after this! better get going!" then you sprint down the hallway while he looks at you, smiling to himself and thinking, "is this not the end of the day?"

when jade enters the library to return a book he has been reading, he notices someone sleeping in the library. a girl. wait, a girl? he approaches the sleeping girl slowly, leaning down just enough to examine her face.

and that's when he sees the familiar looking mask beside her head—your head. "oh?" he chuckles upon seeing it. not only do you wear a mask to hide your face, but you're actually a girl? "name, you really need to be careful as to where you put your mask."

he takes it up from the table, gently placing it on your lap to hide it from other people. "it seems like i have succeeded unraveling yet another student's secret." he chuckles again, finally leaving the library while silently wishing to himself that he gets to ask you about it.

but never mind. it's interesting to see you wearing wigs and mask to hide your true identity. he decided to keep that secret to himself.

FLOYD LEECH

when floyd first sees you, his first thought is about how strange and cool you looked with a mask on. he thinks you're like one of those vigilantes he sees in movies.

he asks many questions, too—though unlike jade, he's very blatant about it. "ne, ne~ show me what's under all that mask, shrimpy! no? but why? it's not like you're being hunted by people or somethin'. oh, but are ya actually being hunted?"

you'll have to check first before you leave your classroom because, who knows? floyd could be standing right besides the door (yes, that happened before). of course that won't work. because somehow, even if you're hiding in a top secret place, floyd will find you. creepy, but you've grown used to it.

after running around trying to find you, floyd is bored and decided to just go back to the dorm. and that's when he sees someone sleeping in the courtyard. it's a girl. "woah, no way." he mutters under his breath before approaching the sleeping girl slowly.

he'd poke the girl (is that allowed?) out of curiosity, and when she wakes up, she screams. "hey, don't start screamin'. you're scaring me!" he frowns. "you're the one scaring me with how you're so close to my face!" you yelled back.

huh. the voice sounds so familiar. "whaaat??? shrimpy, that you?? aha!~ is this why you're wearing a mask?? i wasn't expectin' ya to be a girl. what else are ya hidin'? are you actually a super secret agent, too? tell me more!"

RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS

he'd ask you if you have the permission from the headmage to wear that accessory. if you say yes, he'll let you off the hook.

he's not that curious about how your face looked like as jade and floyd are, but he does find it strange and would like to know why you wear the mask. do you perhaps have a disease? or are you some kind of a famous celebrity like vil?

so when he entered the library to borrow another volume of his favorite book and saw a girl sleeping on one of the tables, he froze. a girl? in NRC? is that allowed? is she perhaps one of the staff's daughter? questions starts to enter his mind as he's trying to find a logical answer to the unusual scene before him.

he decided that it'd be the best solution to just approach her and wake her up—mainly because he doesn't really trust the students in NRC enough to let her sleep here. and so he did just that. "a-ahem, miss ... i apologize for disturbing your nap, but i advise you to not sleep in the library. if i may ask, where do you come from?"

though when the girl literally jolts upwards and screams at the sight of riddle, he's startled. "i-i'm sorry for startling you, but please do not scream, miss. this is a library, and—ah, don't run in the library, too!" riddle sighed when she ran out the door. "honestly, why can't people just respect the rule in the library? ... hm?"

he noticed something. a mask. a very familiar mask. riddle stood still in front of the table where you once slept. "... i guess i should return this to her later ...?"

JAMIL VIPER

when he sees you wearing a mask, he paid no mind to it. he understands if you want to keep a low profile—even though wearing a mask just draws more attention to you, but he gets it. jamil has spent his entire life to be an average student, after all.

yet he can't help but feel suspicious of you. what if you're actually a problem waiting to happen? what if you're a bad person? what if you're an assassin? countless possibilities started to fill his head, but he does little to act on them.

all jamil does is observe you from afar quietly, while also occasionally talk to you. like, "if you are trying to avoid attention by keeping a low profile, wearing a full face mask does the opposite, you know?"

though when jamil walk pass an empty classroom and saw the door slightly creaked open, he can't help but take a peek. what he saw inside is a girl—you, with a mask and your wig literally laying on the table you are sleeping on.

"... figures." he mutters to himself before closing the door. the last thing jamil needs is to experience another drama just because your secret got revealed, after all.

naomi-nana. do NOT repost, do not use (with or without permission), do not recommend or talk about my works outside of tumblr.

[juliettejwnewinesa]

HELLOOOO I HAVE AN ANGSTY REQUEST IF YOU'RE UP FOR ITTT

can you do like a scenario where the weak hero class boys take it too far in an argument?? pls i need angst and your stories are literally the bomb.com 🤗🤗

IF SO THEN THANK YOU SO MUCHHH I LOVE UR WRITING SM !!

🩶 Yeon Si-eun

He’s never been good with emotions. You knew that. But when you try to talk to him—really talk to him—about how distant he’s been lately, he snaps.

“If you need constant attention, then go find someone else. I don’t have time to babysit your feelings.”

He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t even flinch. That cold look in his eyes is worse than shouting. You stand frozen, blinking through the silence that follows. He doesn’t apologize. He just walks away. You don’t cry until he’s gone. And he doesn’t come back until the next day, standing outside your door with the same blank expression—but his hands won’t stop shaking.

🔥 Ahn Suho

You catch him after another brutal fight. He’s bruised, bleeding, and refuses to let you clean him up. You’re angry—furious—at how recklessly he throws himself into danger, and he finally explodes.

“Why do you even care? This isn’t your fight. You’re just someone I sleep next to, not someone I need.”

He doesn’t mean it. God, he doesn’t mean it. But your face crumples like he just slapped you. You step back, whispering, “Is that really all I am to you?” And he doesn’t answer. Because he’s scared of what the truth sounds like out loud.

💔 Beak Jin

You try to stop him from going after someone. You grab his wrist, beg him to think. But all he sees is red—and when you get in the way, he yells without thinking.

“You think you can control me? You’re just scared. You want me weak like you.”

You freeze. He realizes the words he’s just said—but it’s too late. You let go of his wrist like it’s burned you and turn your back before he can explain. He doesn’t chase you. For the first time, he’s too ashamed.

🧨 Go Hyun-tak

He's loud. He's explosive. But he's never hurt you. Until tonight.

You bring up something from the past—something he never wanted to talk about—and he lashes out.

“You always do this. You poke at old shit just to make me feel small. Is that what makes you feel better?”

You’re stunned, because all you wanted was honesty. Vulnerability. Instead, he made you the villain. He sees your expression fall and immediately softens, whispering, “Shit… Y/N, wait—” But the door shuts behind you before he can finish.

🕯️ Humin

He’s the most gentle. Always patient, always kind. Which is why it hurts more when he’s the one to cross the line.

The argument isn’t even big—it’s about him not telling you he got hurt. Again. But when you push too hard, he cracks.

“I don’t need you to fix me. I didn’t ask for your help. You just forced your way in.”

He regrets it instantly. You see it on his face. But you also feel your heart crack, because you wanted to be the person he could lean on. And now it just feels like you were never welcome to begin with.

[luvseisagi]

— this one's for you.

read part 1 here.

ft. isagi yoichi x reader. wc. 4k

summary. it all started with breakfast, and now you're quite literally the main character of an american teen romcom movie —whats next, a goal dedicated to you? content. fem!reader, fem pronouns used, fluff, crack, slow burn ?? they don't end up dating like officialy but kinda ?? isagis parents are like . very present here. college students!au. reader realizes shes down bad. isagi plays for the uni team and looks very hot doing it. author's note. remember i said id post this soon. well. uni's got me again im SO sorry, but here it is!! idk ive been meaning to write this for a while now but im not sure if i like it at all now ?? i read it too much i guess, hope u do like it tho <3

𝜗𝜚 english isnt my first language, so any corrections or advice are highly appreciated, as well as feedback (please) !

fuck. you think to yourself, going up the stairs as fast as you can. fuck fuck fuck.

you nimbly and silently dodge the faded blue and yellowish-white seats, crouching slightly, trying not to disturb the crowd already settled in the stands, muttering “sorry, i’m sorry, excuse me" every time you step on someone's foot or have to ask them to stand up so you can pass.

you get a couple of judgmental glances and a few retorts, but nothing embarrasses you more than finally reaching the front row of the stands and approaching the only empty seat next to a couple who are staring at you intently.

isagi's parents.

you hurriedly sit down after the person on your other side clears their throat —you’re blocking their view.

"hello," you dare to whisper, tilting your head forward before making eye contact with them, as if that way they can ignore the red hue that's invaded your entire face. "i'm sorry i was late. i got mixed up with the subway and didn't leave home early enough."

that's not true. you've been fully prepared —makeup done and outfit on—, hours before you had to leave. however, ten minutes before you had to get off the subway, you’d looked in the mirror and decided your hair wasn't right, so you had pulled out the hair straightener and brush again. what was supposed to be a simple touch-up turned into a nearly half-hour hairstyling session in front of your bathroom mirror.

and all your effort only served to have the warm summer wind ruffle your hair as you stepped outside.

"yn, right?" isagi's mother —undoubtedly related to him, they have the same eyes— gives you a warm look that makes your heartbeat slow down a bit. "don't worry, the game's just starting, they’re late too.”

"nice to finally meet you, yn." isagi's father peeks out from behind his wife and waves in greeting, also flashing a smile that's exactly like his son's. "yoichi has told us a lot about you."

you reciprocate his gesture with another smile, and turn your head toward the field in front of you. you have a perfect view of all the players from the spot they've reserved for you —high above the field, but not so high that the teams look like simple colored dots on a green blanket. you assume the ones wearing blue are your university's team, since that’s the college’s official color.

isagi has told you about his teammates and practice many times, but somehow he never mentioned any detail about the team's kit or his number.

you're a little embarrassed to ask out loud.

"uh..." you whisper again, leaning slightly closer to isagi's mother without taking your eyes off the field. "what number is yoichi?"

"yoichi, hm?" there's a hint of amusement in his voice, teasing you for using his son's first name. "he's number eleven —there, near the long-haired redheaded boy. do you see him?"

your gaze follows her directions and rests on the blue back of number eleven. his back is turned, but his disheveled black hair and the way he walks are impossible to mistake.

“oh! yeah, i see him now, thanks." you smile, and your chronic need to fill all silences forces you to add something more “i've really been wanting to see him play."

the woman turns her head toward you, looking at you with the same kind expression you see on her son's face every morning. 

"believe me, if you were eager, he was even more so.” she says. “he won't stop talking about you."

and that sentence is enough to make you not say anything else for a while.

you started to suspect that you liked Isagi a couple of weeks ago, before your sudden disappearance —when you panicked because you had no way of contacting him to let him know that you had a family emergency. you’d been chatting since tuesday, at all hours of the day, every day until the game, and he hadn't pressed too much about what happened, probably so you wouldn’t feel bad. from what you could gather, he had been waiting for you every day —but nothing serious, really, don’t worry about it.

taking into account what you already knew about him, you assumed he'd been sitting at the table with the breakfast set, waiting for you all three days of the week. just imagining it made you want to scream into your pillow —he was so kind it made you sick. it made your stomach flutter with butterflies.

that's why you begged your parents to let you return to tokyo for at least a couple of hours that monday afternoon, because, according to you, claiming you’d left something really important at the apartment and needed to pick it up to finish your proyects. you’d run to the campus cafeteria with half your savings in your wallet, a bright green post-it note with your number written on it, and a message for the waitress.

thank god it worked, and you got a text from Isagi the next day. for a solid second, you truly thought you'd messed up completely —and that isagi hated you.

just when you were starting to process the fact that you really liked him.

because you like him. of course you like him.

more than halfway through the school year, things had started to get a little complicated for you —living alone for the first time, not having any really close friends in the city, having to navigate the capital on your own. sure, you may be a sociable and outgoing person, but sometimes everything felt too big. even for you.

and then you met isagi.

being with him is easy. talking with him is easy. feeling better, comfortable, and safe with him is easy. there came a point over these past months when you’d go to bed thinking about seeing him the next day —and he never failed. every morning, he was there, waiting for you with a coffee, a piece of toast, and a smile that started sending a weird tingling into your stomach the moment saw it.

it only took one night of facetime with your best friend back home to realize that a simple friend doesn't make you smile like a fool just thinking about them.

that, and disappearing for a whole week only to come back with a gesture straight out of an american teen romcom definitely isn’t just friends behaviour, you’d say.

a gesture straight out of a teen romcom. a smile escapes you just thinking about it, and you have to bite your lower lip so no one —not the couple next to you, at least— will notice.

but that’s exactly what you look like, right? the main characters of a movie.

you check all the boxes, if you think about it —you met in the university cafeteria every morning and started talking to share a breakfast set because —surprise— you were perfectly compatible. it became a tradition for both of you, to the point you only looked forward to seeing the other every week. then, suddenly, you disappear for a whole week when everything’s going fine, and he has no way to contact you. very convenient for the plot. but really, you hadn’t thought about exchanging socials, since you saw each other every other day anyway. 

thankfully, you managed to give him your number through the cafeteria waitress.

and now you’re at a soccer match, wearing the first blue thing you found in your mother’s closet —a scarf way too warm for a summer day, but the only thing that could pass as team merch— to show your support. his parents are sitting next to you in the stands after saving you a seat. to top it all off, it's a perfect sunny day.

what’s the next thing? a goal dedicated to you?

oh. well. mental note —you think to yourself, snapping back to reality as isagi’s mother grabs your arm excitedly— don’t be sarcastic with the universe ever again.

because, right after spiraling with thoughts of the guy you like for about fifteen whole minutes, you might suddenly find yourself standing in front of your blue seat with your hands up, that guy’s mother pulling you to your feet. your hand grips the railing of the stands, your voice drowned among the crowd’s victory screams —and your gaze searches the field for the one who just scored the first goal of the game.

don’t be sarcastic with the universe again, because when your eyes land on number eleven from the blue team, you might surprise yourself by widely smiling and joining the choir of voices chanting his name, your voice blending into the roar as his teammates lift him in celebration.

and maybe —just maybe— your gaze meets his. and as he grabs his jersey by the number and presses a kiss to it, he points straight at you and mouths, this one’s for you.

or that’s what you think he says. you can’t really hear him from up here, and now everyone’s eyes are on you, and you honestly have no idea how to react.

the match continues, thankfully, and you sit back down without having to say anything. the crowd’s attention returns the field — though you’re pretty sure isagi’s mother is still watching you, but you’re not brave enough to turn and confirm it.

isagi yoichi just dedicated a goal to me. okay. fine. that’s completely fine and means nothing.

except you don’t feel fine at all. and you’re pretty sure it does mean something.

so this time, for real, you put all your attention on the match —because, if you’re honest, you have no idea of what’s been happening on the field since the game started. you try to follow the ball and recall all the plays isagi has described to you so many times. it’s a bit difficult, though, considering you never really understood them and mostly nodded along just because you liked seeing him light up while talking about the things he loves.

yeah. maybe you’ve been down bad for longer than you thought.

as your eyes lock onto number eleven again, you start to regret not paying attention earlier.

he’s a bit far from you now, waiting on the side of the field for a pass or a chance to steal the ball, while his teammate —the one with the blond streaks— skillfully advances with it, weaving through the opposing team. but you can see him clearly.

he looks focused, deep blue eyes fixed on the ball as it draws closer, his jet-black hair waves slightly in the breeze, a few damp strands clinging to his forehead. his mouth is parted slightly, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of fast-paced breathing from running so much. his athletic shorts hug tightly around his thighs, muscles flexing as he starts to sprint after the now clear ball.

you swallow hard and blink a few times, trying to snap out of it. you're not the one who's been playing for nearly half an hour, but you're pretty sure you need a drink of water more than any of the players.

holy shit. since when is yoichi so hot?

you scratch the back of your neck nervously —a tic you’ve picked up from him—, eyes glued to the field. your face is hot and red, and you know it’s definitely not your too-warm scarf’s fault at all.

still, you can’t look away. you always knew he was handsome —way before you ever gathered the courage to talk to him—, but this is different. he looks confident, almost cocky. there’s a smug little grin when he steals the ball, raised brows when he blocks a goal, and the rest of the time he’s laser-focused, scanning the field. you can’t help but gulp every time his head turns toward the stands and his eyes land on you, even for just a second.

you don’t even catch what he’s yelling, both to his rivals and his teammates —probably not compliments or pretty words, judging by the way the crowd and even his parents react— because it’s impossible to focus on what he’s saying when he looks so aggressive and somehow so attractive doing it.

or maybe you just like him too much, and everything he does seems attractive.. 

either way, it doesn’t matter —because then he scores again, and the crowd erupts. you do too, but not because the scoreboard now reads 3-0, securing the win thanks to number ten’s earlier goal. no.

you turn bright red when, right after scoring, the striker looks straight at you —at your seat— with a confident, satisfied grin, and points at you again.

your legs actually tremble.

he’s driving you insane, and you’re pretty sure he knows it. 

you're so caught up in whatever spell he has you under that, for the rest of the match, you don't process a single a thing —even though your eyes never leave him once.

you do a good job of being a fan, though. 

you stand up with the crowd to clap and cheer when his teammates score two more goals —number 10, whose name is rin, as you've already learned, and the tall, white-haired boy, nagi. you even boo the other team when they get their first and only goal. you nod at all yoichi’s mother comments, who understands the game about as much as you do, and you smile politely at his father when he says something —which you mostly can’t hear over the crowd’s noise, but still respond to with an enthusiastic nod.

the heat gets intense enough that you’re forced to take your jacket off —not technically because of the weather, but no one but you needs to know that. by the end of the match, your jeans are rolled up and you’re left in just a tank top. but the scarf is still around your neck, and you make sure to adjust it carefully across your shoulders before following isagi’s parents down to the field once the crowd begins to disperse.

“what do you think, yn? isn’t he good?” his father asks. 

it’s the first time you can actually make out what he’s saying —the crowd had been way too loud before, and you didn’t want to repeat “what?” twenty times, so you’d just nodded and smiled.

“yeah, wow. he really is.” you answer, walking a little awkwardly between the two of them. you’re not even sure when exactly they managed to surround you “i understand now why you said he’s considered one of the best strikers in japan. i mean, he’s told me a lot about soccer, so i knew he had to be good just from how much he knows… but, wow. he’s amazing.” 

“yes, he is.” his mother adds, flashing you a wide smile. 

you meet her gaze and mirror the expression, and you know she means it when she says “we are very proud of him.”

his father nods in agreement, and something warm and fluttering blooms in your chest. it’s a weird feeling, being proud of someone just because you know others are proud of them too. feeling glad  —relieved, even— that people see him and admire him the same way you do. 

that’s love, you guess.

“he’s really thankful for you” you don’t know where it comes from, but you can’t stop yourself. “he’s told me a bunch of times. he loves you a lot.”

isagi’s mother’s smile softens, her right arm slipping around your shoulders. she adjusts your scarf gently, her fingers brushing your skin as she gives you a warm little squeeze.

“ah, we love him a lot, too.” she replies —then her kind smile shifts into something far too close to a teasing grin. “and something tells me we’re gonna love you a lot, too.”

you’re left completely speechless. you glance away quickly, unable to form a single coherent thought —let alone a response. what are you supposed to say when the mother of the guy you like basically gives you her blessing before you’re even official?

thankfully, isagi is finished talking to his coach and is now approaching you near the edge of the field. 

“yocchan!” his mother calls out, cupping her hands around her mouth to be heard —and removing her arm from around your shoulders in the process. “we’re here!”

you try to laugh at the nickname —you remember him confessing it to you a few mornings ago, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment— but you can’t. you can’t, because you’re speechless again. 

yoichi walks towards you with slow, steady steps.

his face is flushed and glistening with sweat, and his eyes still burn with the thrill of victory—there’re still traces of the same pride and confidence he only ever shows when he’s on the field in his gaze. strands of hair cling to his forehead, and his shirt, damp with sweat, sticks tightly to his frame.

then he grabs the hem of his jersey with one hand and lifts it to his face to wipe off the sweat from his mouth and nose. you try not to stare —really, you try—, but your eyes flick down to his stomach, and then straight back up to his eyes.

he's so attractive you almost choke on air.

isagi's mother starts to take a few steps toward him, but before she can reach him, a small group of girls intercepts him —practically swarming yoichi with flirtatious smiles and compliments that , judging by their tone, probably end with a request for his number.

however, despite how confident he is on the field, isagi’s not like that off of it —he’s more on the shy side. and he clearly has no interest in them at all.

he thanks them politely, as best he can, then awkwardly escapes the circle of attention they’ve trapped him in, practically jogging over to where his parents —and you— are waiting for him.

you know he's nervous when his hands goes to the back of his neck, ruffling his hair. he opens his mouth to say something, but no words come out.

it's funny how the silence is broken not by him, but by the same group of girls from before.

“i have no idea who that is.” one of them says, voice pitched just loud enough to be heard “maybe his sister? or his cousin, or something.”

you both burst out laughing at the interruption—and the assumption— and just like that, the awkward tension fades, letting isagi finally speak.

“thanks for coming.” he says. “i thought you weren’t going to show for a second, when the match started and i didn’t see you.” 

“yeah, had a little subway confusion, so…”

“no! no, i didn't mean it like a complaint or anything —just an observation. i’m really glad you made it.”

you smile softly.

“yeah, i’m really glad i came, too.”

he smiles back, and suddenly, it feels like the first day again, when neither of you knew what to say after that first hi.

you swallow hard, blink, and then break the silence.

“you were… fuck, you were amazing out there.” 

you’re staring at him —a little too openly. and then it hits you: you’re not alone. “oh! i mean- i mean, you were, wow, amazing out there.” you correct yourself quickly, glancing at his parents beside you.

his father chuckles.

“don’t worry. after all the things he’s shouted on the field, a simple fuck is nothing.”

your face burns red —redder than the opposing team’s jerseys— while both his parents laugh.

and you expect isagi to laugh too, or brush it off like he did with the girls earlier. but, instead, he blushes, and looks at you with that small, lopsided smile that makes your chest ache. 

then he looks away again, ruffling his hair.

there’s your breakfast partner again. not the star athlete —just the cute guy from the cafeteria that studies psychology and plays soccer.

"thanks. you, uh..”

he glances at his mom, who subtly gestures, nudging him to say more —like this is something they’ve rehearsed.

"you look very pretty today.” he finally says. 

then he adds, quickly:

“i mean, you always do —not just today. but you look specially pretty today." and he’s babbling again "that blue scarf looks great on you. but, uh, you also look kind of like you’re suffocating?”

you laugh. if only he knew it’s not the weather, but him, what’s making your face so red.

"i remembered uni's color was blue” you explain, fingers fidgeting with the end of the scarf. “didn’t have any merch, so i just tried to support you with whatever i had at home.”

what you don’t mention is that you stole it from you mom’s closet back in your hometown, after having a full-blown crisis over not owning anything remotely close to your college’s colors.

“well, i could give you something.” he offers, voice low and a bit nervous. “i have a few spare jerseys at home." 

you’re about to answer —or collapse, honestly, because you’re pretty sure this is the kind of things official couples do in cliché romantic movies— but then his mom cuts in:

“speaking of that —why don’t you come over, yn?” she asks. “i made yocchan’s favorite meal today. have lunch with us? he told us you live alone, so there’s no issue, right?” 

you start to understand where isagi got his talent for yapping.

“we’ll get to know you better, yoichi thanks you for coming to the game, and he gives you his jersey." 

your brain becomes a chaotic mess of thoughts. you want to say yes, obviously. you want to thank her for the invitation. you want to ask isagi what giving you his jersey means. you want to see his room and his house, but you also kind of want to run back to your place, dive onto your bed, and scream into a pillow.

isagi misreads your hesitation.

"mom, she might have plans. don’t pressure her—" 

"no, no, i’d love to go!" you interrupt quickly. 

yoichi raises a brow, clearly surprised —he knows you don’t really like his favorite dish. you’ve been bickering about it for weeks.

"thank you for inviting me."

"you heard her, yoichi, she said yes.” his mom beams. “now go shower, you’re still red from the match. you’ve got fifteen minutes, meet us at the car. meanwhile, yn and us have lots to talk about.”

somehow, she doesn’t make it sound like a threat, more like an invitation. 

drawing a smile, isagi mumbles a soft "sorry" before heading to the locker room. as he walks away, you call out: “i´ll be fine. i think she likes me." 

isagi’s smile is wide and bright right before he disappears through the locker room door. he’s so wrapped up in his own joy —so stupidly in love— he doesn’t even notice the trap he’s just walked into.

inside, the locker room is already full. his teammates are waiting, ready to tease him.

"i have some spare jerseys" karasu mocks, his voice high-pitched, grinning wide. "i could give you one”

isagi throws his towel at him.

"oh, shut up”

"nah, thats a good move, isagi" otoya chimes in “i've done that a bunch. nothing makes me play better than having a cute girl with my number on in the stands”

isagi doesn't love the comparison. otoya is famous for rotating girls every match —and that’s so not him. definitely not with you. 

he wants you at all his games. he wants you to be the only one ever, actually. for everything. only you, even if it seems too intense.

"its not like that" isagi says "i really like her. like… marry-her-like-her. having-kids-with-her-like-her. celebrate-christmas-with-her-like-her. ” 

otoya blinks.

"huh? well, i like all my girlfriends a lot too.”

isagi doesn’t respond —mostly because chigiri and reo immediately jump into a debate with otoya about how what he just said is probably offensive to, like, every girl in the country. and in the world.

still, one word lingers in his mind.

girlfriend. 

yeah. he wouldn’t mind calling you that at all.

masterlist.

tags ౨ৎ @ireallylikemenalot @rohfulike @numberonenessandnagistan @blu3-l0v3r .ᐟ (i tagged everyone who asked for the part 2, hope u dont mind <3 tell me if u want me to remove u from the list no prob!!)

﹫luvseisagi, june 2025.

[cherrychilli]

Absolutely have to know if you're doing a part two for the Eddie and virgin reader chastity cage bit, because ough! It's incredible stuff.

Either way, thank you for writing it!

Thanks for reading!

So, I wrote it intending for it to be a oneshot and I'm going to keep it that way

but

I woke up this morning with an idea for an extended ending. Just a short scene but I think that's all that's really needed. Hope you like it💛

Everything's so delightfully sticky and wet.

It's all sore between your legs from where his spend drips down onto your thighs. A wonderful feeling you doubt you'll ever tire of.

You're glad you waited too. He couldn't have been more perfect with how he took care of you. Stretching you out with his thick, dexterous fingers. Making you cum with his tongue first before he fit his cock inside you, his hand holding yours. So many sweet whispers of 'I've got you', 'you're doing so well', and 'fuck, you feel incredible.'

Then suddenly, the afterglow crumbles.

Someone's at the door. Someone persistent because they don't let up with their insistent knocking. Both Eddie and you groan, forced to unstick yourselves from one another so he can pull on his pair of sweats once more. Before he goes he makes sure to turn back and reach for you, placing a kiss on your lips that makes your body fill with butterflies.

Walking out of the bedroom, he's half ready to cuss out whoever's knocking on his door, swiftly pulling the thing open only for Eddie to nearly stagger back.

Danny Vaughn. Danny Vaughn is at his doorstep.

"Finally. Listen Munson, I've got a girl waiting", he gestures at his car parked nearby. Convertible. Ferrari red. Douchey. "And I don't have much time. Need some blow if you've got it. Dirty thing, I talked her into letting me do a couple of lines off her tits", he winks at Eddie in that sickening bravado heavy kind of way. "Aint she classy?"

Eddie's eyes turn sharp. "Fresh out", he lies, stony faced with his fist clenched at his side

Danny's face twists with annoyance but only for a moment, taking in Eddie's shirtless state, his body dewy and the smell of sex clinging to his skin.

The prick puts two and two together, clapping a hand against Eddie's shoulder with a thick grin. "You dog. Got someone over don't you? didn't take you for the lady killer type."

If it weren't for the fact that Eddie and you were together now he would have had Danny's beaten, pulpy body to deal with on his doorstep. He restrains himself though, not wanting your first date to be spent visiting him in jail.

"Eddie, I'm going to fix myself a drink. You want one?"

The sound of your voice has Danny immediately straightening up like a meerkat, craning his neck to see you over Eddie's shoulder, passing by in nothing but the tee Eddie had been dressed in a couple hours ago. So blissful, you don't even notice your dick ex at the door.

"Sure. Surprise me", Eddie calls out with his eyes cemented on Danny's face. God, it is so satisfying to see the crestfallen look taking over his stupid face.

"Yeah, so as you can see I'm pretty busy", Eddie goes to close the door, shit eating grin wide on his face. "Got a good thing going on here so I don't want to keep her waiting. It'd be pretty fucking stupid to take a girl like that for granted" he tells Danny pointedly.

Happily, Eddie closes the door on Danny's shattered face, calmly making his way to the kitchenette where he finds you going through the fridge, looking all kinds of amazing in his clothes.

"Who was at the door?", you ask him when he comes by to wrap his arms around your waist from behind. He hasn't been this happy in a long time, half wondering what he'd done to deserve someone as good as you. The other half not caring why, only vowing to become everything you deserve and more.

"No one, baby. No one important."

[almostwisegalaxy]

Hii ! I'm a huge fan of your works! I really love the way u write and how every story isn't boring even if it is long 😭

Anywaysss, can you pls write a weak hero ahn suho x bullied reader? You can plan the whole story, i just really want to see that dynamic 😩😩 Thank you !

Headcanon of Ahn Su-ho as a Boyfie

Ahn Su-ho x GN!reader

"It's dangerous to love me, because I become dangerous to those who hurt you. I'm not perfect. But I'll always know where to strike if someone hurts you."- Ahn Su-ho

..................................................................................

→Prologue: A Look in Silence

You no longer remember the exact moment he started to stay.

Perhaps it was that day, when your fist was bloody and your eyes were red from holding back too many words. You didn't scream. You don't scream. You hit, you withdraw, then you collapse, ashamed to have given in to that rage again.

And him. He was there. Ahn Su-ho. He hadn't touched you. Hadn't lectured you. Hadn't looked at you like the others.

Just that silence. A silence that was neither empty nor uncomfortable. His is made of listening. Of that kind of present calm, like a tree planted in the middle of a storm. You didn't yet know what that meant.

But he stayed.

→Silent Preamble: The Gaze Before Words

He noticed you before you even realized it. Not like one notices someone charming or intriguing. Not with curiosity. No. It was something else. A form of recognition.

Ahn Su-ho has a way of looking at people without staring, but of reading them. As if he's looking for flaws, not to exploit them, but to quietly slip in some gentleness. He saw you lower your eyes one too many times. He heard the voices around you, those that sneer, those that hurt, even if you pretended not to hear them. He saw your fist clench in your pocket, your nails digging into your palm. He felt the rage. And the exhaustion. And that loneliness that sticks to your skin.

He said nothing. Not that day.

He just left a soda can on the bench for you as he left. Without looking at you. As if it were nothing. As if you were someone who deserved things to be left for them, even in silence.

→The Silences Between You

Su-ho isn't a big talker. But he speaks all the time, in other ways.

In the way he always waits for you to go through the door first, as if he knows your body has learned to tense in every hallway. In his hands that discretely close when you clench your fists, as if he wants to offer you an anchor without forcing it on you.

When you say "I can't take it anymore," he doesn't say "I understand." He says: "Come."

And sometimes, that's all. You come. You sit next to him, back against the wall or shoulder against the bench, and you say nothing. But in his silences, there is space. For your exhaustion, your shame, your hatred. He doesn't dismiss them, doesn't try to erase them. He stays. He takes it with you. He offers you his tranquility like a shelter you don't need to earn.

You didn't know it was possible to be loved like that. Without conditions. Without an instruction manual. Without mandatory healing.

→The Kind of Boy He Is

Ahn Su-ho isn't made of grand words. He's not a poet, nor a man of fiery promises. He's made of gestures. Of strong arms and silent embraces. Of chin taps on the top of your head, of hands that caress your neck when words fail. He looks at you as if he knows. As if he knows what you feel, even when you say nothing. And often, you say nothing.

He senses when things are wrong. He senses it before you do. And it eats at him.

He's the kind of boy who'd rather get hurt himself than see you fall. The one who endures, the one who laughs while masking the worry in his eyes. Su-ho always smiles, but that smile, you learn to decipher it. You see the nights when he's more tense, when his hands tremble ever so slightly when he touches you. Not out of fear. Not for him. For you.

He's tactile, Su-ho. As soon as you enter the room, he pulls you close. His hand slides naturally to your waist, his forehead rests against yours. He whispers absurd things to you, just to hear your laugh. And when you don't laugh, he insists. He doesn't give up. He doesn't like to lose, especially when it comes to making you feel better.

But sometimes, he can't win. Not against everything. Not against how you feel about yourself.

→When You Break

One evening, you come home covered in marks. The ones teachers ignore, the ones you didn't look for, but can't explain without hearing that you deserve them. You want to break everything. Your world, your own reflection, his kindness most of all.

He's there. On the edge of the bed. He was waiting for you. Not like waiting for an explanation. Like waiting for a fall.

You scream. Not at him. Not really. At yourself, at the injustice. You accuse him of staying, when he should leave. You tell him you're worthless, that you'll hurt him, that you're not sure you won't end up like them. That you're too angry. Too broken.

And he doesn't flinch. He gets up. He takes you in his arms. Tightly. Not like a caress. Like a dam. You hit his chest, just once, just enough for your shoulder to give way, and for the tears to finally come.

And you cry. And he holds you tight. And you feel that he, too, is trembling. That he, too, is afraid. Not of you. Of losing you.

→When He Learns

That day, he says nothing. You expected a scream. An explosion. You knew Su-ho doesn't accept harm coming to the people he loves.

He clenches his jaw. He lowers his eyes. He turns his head. He just says: "Is it recent?"

And you don't know what to answer. Because shame sticks in your throat.

So you brace yourself for him to say something brutal. Protective. Or foolish. You expect him to want to settle it with his fists. But he does none of that. He sits down, slowly. He sighs. He looks at you.

And he says:

— I'm sorry this is happening to you.

Not: "I'm going to beat them up." Not: "Why didn't you tell me?" Not: "You should defend yourself."

Just: "I'm sorry."

And in that sentence, there is the powerlessness of a boy who wants to remake the world, but who knows that the only thing he can give you is tenderness. And constancy.

He doesn't ask questions. But that night, he stays closer than usual. He lets you cry if you want to. Scream if you want to. Or remain silent, curled up, covered in cold rage.

He's there. And he doesn't move.

But the next day he doesn't stay there, frozen, his back straight as a taut wire. He blinks slowly. Then he gets up, without a word.

You try to hold him back. You say it's pointless. That it's not a big deal. That you can handle it. These are lies, and you both know it. You see his fists clench, his knuckles whiten.

"You're not leaving me a choice," he says. It's calm. Too calm. A storm before it strikes.

He returns later, out of breath, knuckles red. He doesn't talk about what he did. He never will. But you know. And he knows you know. He kneels before you, places his forehead against your stomach, breathes slowly. And then, he says:

"You shouldn't have endured that alone. You shouldn't have thought I would have left you like that."

→The Days After

He acts as if nothing has changed, but everything is different. You can no longer hide your anger. You can't anymore. And when it explodes, you scream. You tremble. You throw words like knives.

And him? He stays. He takes it. He doesn't flee. He doesn't retaliate.

One day, you break down after screaming. You say you're sorry. That you're broken. That you're afraid of hurting people. That you no longer believe in yourself. That you don't even believe anyone can truly love you.

He holds you against him. So tightly you think he wants to melt into your skin.

"Do you think I love you because you're nice, or pretty? No. I love you because you're real. You've survived things others couldn't have endured. You're standing. You're still fighting. You're strong in a way others will never understand."

→The Beginning: Loving Without Hurting

Su-ho isn't the type to say "I love you." At least, not with words. He has a way of gently putting down his keys when he comes home, of making space for you next to him on the couch without forcing you to sit there. He never asks: "Are you okay?" He asks: "Do you want some ramen?" And in that question, there's everything he doesn't dare to say yet.

He understood very quickly that you don't trust. Not him, not others, not even your own judgment. You observe too much. You doubt too much. You expect people to leave, or hit, or laugh. So he never forces you. He learns your map in small steps, like taming ground cracked by too many tremors.

He is patient. With a patience that isn't obvious, because it doesn't need to exist in drama. He's just there, simply. He waits for you. He doesn't flee when you scream. He doesn't recoil when you despise yourself. He stays. That's his way of loving.

→How He Loves

He kisses you without warning. When you laugh. When you cry. When you look at him without knowing why you love him so much.

He sleeps glued to you. Arm around your waist, leg thrown over yours. Sometimes he talks in his sleep. Sometimes he whispers your name.

When you have nightmares, he wakes up before you. He feels it. He pulls you against him, his chest against your back, his hand slipped against your chest to remind you that you're there. That you're alive.

He shares his favorite dish with you without complaining. And yet, God knows he eats a lot. But when you're not hungry and just need a bite, he comes close to you, spoon extended, tender gaze.

"Eat, just a little. For me."

→The Tiny Gestures That Say "I Love You"

He's the kind of guy who notices when you change shampoo but only says it a week later, as if it was a thought he kept warm for when you'd need it. He folds your clothes when you leave them lying around, but never with a disapproving look. He learns the days when you can't stand to be touched, and the ones when you need an arm around you.

He makes mental lists of everything that makes you feel good. And he offers you fragments of them, every day. A piece of sky. A specific candy. A song he didn't like, but that reminds him of your laugh.

He never says "I love you" like they do in movies. He gives it to you. In thin slices. In comforting warmth. In reassuring silences.

→When He Doubts

Sometimes he thinks he's not good enough for you. That he's only good for fighting, for being strong. Not refined enough to understand your darkest thoughts. He feels helpless in the face of your inner world.

But he never tells you directly.

You see it in his silences. In the times he looks at you without speaking, his throat tight. In those moments when he falls silent, not because he has nothing to say, but because he doesn't want to say the wrong thing.

So he does what he knows how to do. He takes your hand. He massages your shoulders. He carries you on his back when you say you're too tired to go home. He offers you his sweatshirt because he says you always look cold, even when it's hot.

And he looks at you. As if you're all that matters.

→The Fear in His Own Silence

But he has his own cracks. And you see it, sometimes. In his silences heavier than usual. In his eyes that seek a fixed point on the ground. In his gestures that slow down. He's afraid of not being enough. Not strong enough. Not good enough. Not strong enough to thwart your demons.

He smiles, but it's an apologetic smile. One that says: "I wish I could do more."

He loves you, but he doesn't always believe it's enough.

And you realize it. And that day, it's you who steps forward. You take his hand. You don't say much. But he understands.

He understands that you're staying. And that, too, is love.

→Finally, Balance: Two Tired Warriors

You don't save each other. You don't fix each other. But you stand upright, leaning against each other, in a world that often tried to make you bend.

And some evenings, you don't talk. You listen to the silence. You breathe at the same rhythm. And that's enough.

It's enough for one of you to say the next day:

— Do you want some ramen?

And for the other to reply:

— Yeah. But stay with me while it heats up.

And he stays. Always.

→The Soothing

With Su-ho, it's never perfect. He makes mistakes. Sometimes he forgets. Sometimes he talks too loudly. Sometimes he gets angry because he worries too much.

But he always comes back. Always. And he apologizes with actions. With arms that hold you so tightly you forget the world. With "I'm here" whispered over and over until your heart stops hurting.

He looks at you like a sanctuary. Like something too precious to be broken again.

And you, you learn. You learn to love yourself a little. Because he loves you enough for two. Because he believes in you even when you're down. Because he fights, not just against others, but to teach you that you deserve love.

And if one day you forget that, he reminds you. With his hands, his simple words, his presence.

With Su-ho, you never need to doubt for long.

Because he's the boy who fights. For himself. For you. For both.

→Learning "Us"

Su-ho doesn't want to change you. He wants to understand you. He wants to learn your language. Not just your words, but your silences, your blind spots, your non-verbal scars. He learns, slowly, how to comfort you without suffocating you. How to be present without overwhelming you.

He makes mistakes. He knows it. He gives you space when you want him to stay. He sometimes stays when you just wanted to be alone. But he apologizes. Always. Without drama. He learns. He grows with you, not for you.

And you, you discover that anger can melt. That you can be afraid and still move forward. You don't change. Not right away. But you take steps towards him. Towards yourself.

→The Future

You don't know what you'll become. But you know that when you look in the mirror today, you hear his voice in your head: "You're still here. And so am I. That's all that matters."

And you find yourself smiling. Not because you're healed. Because you're on your way. And someone is waiting for you on the other side.

Someone like Ahn Su-ho. The one who loves without a sound, but with all the strength in the world.

............................* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊

Moments with You":

→Between the Hours

Su-ho works late. Most nights, or almost. He takes odd jobs after school: cooking in a small restaurant, deliveries on the city's damp streets, his hands tired, his pockets rarely full. He doesn't do it for himself. He doesn't tell you, but you know he's thinking about tomorrow. About the two of you. About what you could build if the days weren't so short.

But even when he comes home late, he never comes home without a smile. Not forced. Just soft. He pushes the door open, sets his bag down, and the first thing he does is kiss you. A kiss on the forehead if you're already asleep. A long, slow kiss on the mouth if he finds you still awake. As if he'd been waiting all day for that moment.

"You're still up? Were you waiting for me?"

You nod. He rests his forehead against yours, his hand gently finding your waist. He inhales slowly. As if you are his respite.

→The Language of the Body

He's tactile. That's how he says the things he can't put into words. His way of loving you comes through his hands. When he sees you're a little tired, he runs his fingers through your hair, lies down near you, and slowly massages your scalp. Sometimes, he takes your hands and traces the lines of your palm with his thumb, as if he's reading your future and wants to write himself into it.

He kisses you often. Not always on the mouth. On your cheek, your neck, behind your ear. Quick kisses when he's running late. Lingering kisses when you're alone. When you're lying together, he always has an arm around you, a leg thrown over yours. He doesn't like distance, even in sleep.

The kisses between you have many languages. There are those given to reassure. Those given to laugh. And those that come from that silent waiting, in the evening, when you finally reunite. Those are slower, deeper. He pulls you against him, one hand on your neck, the other around your waist, and his lips brush yours until you yield, until everything else fades away.

→The Little Touches

He has his rituals. When he sees you're stressed, he cooks. Even if it's late. Even if he's exhausted. He makes you fried rice or ramyeon with an egg cracked in it, and makes you eat spoon by spoon while you watch a show you've already seen a hundred times.

When you get sick, he's worse than a worried mother. He touches your forehead every two hours, gives you your medicine with a glass of water in hand, makes sure you've eaten something. He sleeps near you, one hand always in contact with you, even lightly, even in your feverish sleep.

"You're allowed to be weak. It's okay. You have me."

And when he's feeling down? He doesn't say anything. But you see it. So you reverse roles. You place a warm towel on his neck, you have him sit between your legs and wrap your arms around him. He sighs. And he lets you. Because he knows you understand.

→Conversations Between Silences

At night, sometimes, he talks more. When it's dark, your legs are tangled, and the world seems far away, he tells you things he tells no one else. He talks about his fears. About that feeling of always having to be strong, for everyone. About the weight he carries even when he smiles. About the exhaustion that isn't physical.

"I want you to be happy. But sometimes I wonder if I'm enough for that."

You tell him yes. That he helps you breathe. That his arms are your refuge, his words your security. That even when he thinks he's just an ordinary boy, to you, he's quite the opposite.

And he falls silent. But you feel his hand gently tighten on yours. As if he's saying thank you without saying it.

→Laughter and Light

Su-ho loves to make you laugh. It's like a mission for him. He makes stupid faces, deliberately sings off-key while doing the dishes, invents absurd nicknames. He catches you by the waist to spin you around in the kitchen, kisses your nose telling you you're ugly when you pout.

"You know you're ugly when you pout? But like, cute ugly. Like... love ugly."

You laugh. A lot. Sometimes until your stomach hurts. Sometimes until you cry. Because happiness, in this house, isn't grand, but it's real. It's in the burnt rice on Tuesday, in the borrowed socks, in the arms sprawled on the couch, too tired to move, but not too tired to love.

→Simple and Sacred Intimacy

There are no fireworks in your intimacy. No need. Just shared silences, long gazes, hands seeking each other. When you kiss, it's not rushed. It's a deliberate slowness. A kiss that begins with a look, that passes through the brush of a finger on your cheek, the corner of your lips grazed, the rising warmth.

Su-ho loves long kisses. He likes to feel your breathing change, your body gently tense against his. He likes when you press against him, when you open your arms and he can completely envelop you. He covers you with small kisses afterward. On your collarbone, on your forehead, in the hollow of your wrist.

And he looks at you as if you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"You have no idea how much I love you."

→An Evening Like Any Other

He comes in, phone still in one hand, delivery bag in the other. He smells of rain. He looks for you, sees you on the couch. He collapses next to you, drops everything he's carrying.

"Tell me I don't have to cook."

You show him you ordered takeout. He smiles. He sprawls out, his head on your lap. You run your fingers through his wet hair. He closes his eyes.

"You're my favorite place," he whispers.

And you believe him. Because he has never lied with his eyes.

→Tomorrow

It's not always easy. There are the schedules, the fatigue, the little arguments. But there's also this bond, this thing you've built together. Slowly. Carefully.

And when you doubt, when the world seems too big, too heavy, Su-ho is always there. Arms open. Heart already reaching out to you. A boy who fights by day, but who, in the evening, yearns only for the peace of finding you again.

With him, love is not a storm. It's a soft, constant light. A home.

A "I'm home," whispered against your lips.

............................* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊

Conclusion :

Sometimes the world slows down. Not abruptly, but as if holding its breath. There are those evenings when nothing is pressing. No work. No classes. Just the two of you. The silence between heartbeats.

He's lying beside you, head resting on your stomach, fingers drawing absent circles on your skin. You don't talk much, but everything is said. He doesn't need to look at you to know you're smiling. He feels it. Like you feel the warm wind before the rain.

"You know..." he murmurs, his voice a little hoarse with fatigue but full of burning tenderness, "...sometimes I think that even if I have nothing else, if I have this, you and me, I have everything."

He doesn't wait for an answer. It's not a question. It's a confession. A gentle prayer. A naked truth.

You curl your fingers around his. The sun sets behind the window, leaving an orange light in the room. The walls breathe with you. Nothing threatens. Nothing hurts.

That moment, that simple shared beat in the slowness of the evening, is what Su-ho calls happiness. Not the spectacular happiness of movies or dreams. But the kind you build softly, like a makeshift hut in the rain. Strong enough to protect you. Fragile enough for you to reinforce it together.

And in this home made of gestures, laughter, and secure silences, Su-ho loves you. Unconditionally. Without escape. Completely.

Tomorrow, he'll go back to work. He'll fight again. He might smile a little too broadly in front of others. But here, at home, he doesn't need to pretend. Here, he loves. He is loved.

And that's all he ever wanted.

..................................................................................

Other weak hero class fanfictions here

@mariii-0001 @mizxuqii @iiwsmr @emswirls

Sieun New headcanon

Gotak New headcanon

[dodger432101]

Would it be too far out of your comfort zone to write something, anything really, between Lux and a Trans man reader?

[I myself am not trans, so please forgive me if I got anything about the experience wrong.]

If someone had come up to you a month ago and said “You're gonna meet the God of Light at your workplace.”, you'd be asking what they've been smoking (and maybe if you could have some).

Now, however, you've accepted your fate as the victim of silly pranks from the God in a cartoon’s body. Sweeping up popcorn? You're getting some thrown at the back of your head. Need a light? The one above you keeps dimming just enough so that you can't see what you're doing. Testing the films? A character's gonna pop up and act off script to get a laugh out of you. And you wouldn't change any of it for the world.

After a month of knowing Lux, you have one little secret you feel you need to tell him. But you're nervous about what his reaction will be.

With how you've presented yourself, he's always referred to you as a man. It made you feel all fuzzy, happy that you were looking the way you felt was right. Though you can't help but feel you're lying to him. This wasn't how you were born. Would he feel differently about you if he knew that? Sure he flirted with you plenty, even though he seemed to present himself as a guy, so maybe he would be accepting of you. But you couldn't help your nerves.

So far you'd managed to hide the fact you were trans; taking breaks from your binder while he was otherwise distracted, keeping your hair in a hat or finding someone who'd cut it in a more masculine style. Mr Pye would help out however he could, putting on films for Lux when he saw you pulling at your binder through your work shirt. He'd always been supportive of you, gifting you some of his old clothes back when you didn't have many men’s clothes to wear. “Tell him when you feel ready, not when you think he needs to hear it.” Of course, he didn't want you to force yourself to have a conversation you weren't ready for. You'd delayed it for long enough now. You wanted to tell him.

You're sitting with the God of Light, munching on a shared bag of popcorn while you watch some old classic with him. Mr Pye had gone to get himself a drink, giving you a bit of privacy while you prepared to speak to Lux. You take a glance at the little toon next to you. His eyes are focused on the screen, his head resting on one hand while the other throws a piece of popcorn into his mouth. Right, stop delaying. You can do this. Just say what you need to, the door is right there if he doesn't take it well- oh god what if he doesn't take it well? He's the only person besides Mr Pye that's going to know. What if he gets angry at you for not telling him sooner? What if-

“Hey, you alright, handsome? I can hear your breathing over the film.” You take a deep breath, gripping onto the arm rests of your seat as you try to calm down. Lux couldn't care less about the movie anymore, his attention all on you. “What's going on, sunshine? Haven't seen you this stressed before.” He gives you a soft smile, turning in his chair so he's facing you. Well, here you go. Please don't be too mad, Lux.

“I'm trans.” The words just about spill from your mouth. You can't even look at him with the fear he'll take it wrong, eyes fixated on the movie in front of you. Lux is silent for a few seconds. Then, in your peripheral, you see him lean forward onto the armrest, head resting on his fist.

“What does that mean?”

Ah. Right. You hadn't even imagined that a God wouldn't know about this kind of topic. “It uh.. means I was… born in a body I wasn't comfortable with. So I've changed my appearance to fit into what I want to look like. And I've trained my voice to sound different to what it was before.” You find the courage to look over at him.

He blinks, looking over to the screen while he thinks before he's smiling at you. “Ok! Are you happy with how you look and sound now?”

Oh. “Uhm, yeah, just about. There's still some things I want to change but.. they require money. So I'm saving up for that.” He frowns at the notion of you not being 100% happy yet. “It's ok, Lux, I have ways to manage it. I'm doing alright for now.”

That gets his smile back. “Well alright then!” He rolls over so his back is up against his seat again. “Why’d you take so long to tell me, pretty boy? I've known ya for a whole month! Did you need to know me for a certain amount of time before I could know your big secret?” His tone is light as ever, clearly just joking with you, but you can't help but feel bad for keeping it from him for so long.

Your gaze turns to your lap. “I was worried you.. wouldn't accept me as I am now. I can't help but feel I've been lying to you for all the time I've known you. I thought you might be angry, or you'd treat me differently if you knew.” You fiddle with your hands in your lap, watching as a blue four fingered hand reaches over to lay on top of yours.

Lux is frowning when you look back up at him, but it's not an annoyed expression. His antennae are droopy. That only happens when he's.. sad. “Why would I not accept who you want to be? I don't completely understand what you mean by being trans but, I've known you as this for a month now.” His hand moves to cup your cheek, smiling as the skin warms up with your blush. “We Gods change our looks all the time. All different genders, species, sometimes we can't even be comprehended by mortal eyes.” He moves into your lap as he speaks, both hands now on your face. “I could never be angry at you for wanting to be who you are. Who you feel most comfortable being. Besides,” His eyes scan your face, noticeably lingering on your lips. “You're quite the looker right now, hot shot. You've really done a good job with making yourself a handsome guy.”

Your face is burning as you lean back in your seat to escape his grasp, your own hands hiding your face while he giggles. You feel him gently pry your hands away, his smiling face coming into view. “Well, I'm uh, I'm glad you like it.” His antennae curl into a heart shape as he leans forward.

“Oh, sunshine, I love it.” Just before his lips touch yours he pauses. He's giving you a chance to tell him no. Like hell you're doing that. You close that tiny gap, hugging him to you as you kiss the God of Light. His arms wrap around your neck, humming at the feeling of your lips against his. You jump as his tongue swipes against your bottom lip, making him pull away. “Ah, sorry, got a little carried away there.”

With a chuckle, you cuddle him to your chest, fishing some more popcorn out of the bag to feed to him. “It's ok, sweetheart, you just surprised me.” He hums in relief at that, spreading out on top of you as his attention turns back to the movie. With that weight off your shoulders, you relax into your seat, watching the rest of the film with Lux in your lap.

[soluversworld]

ANNOUNCEMENT

FIRST OF ALL HAPPY PRIDE MONTH EVERYONE!

TW : MENTIONS OF DEATH THREATS

I'll be making the announcement first!

FIRST, Thank you for 500 followers! I seriously didn't expect people will even like my things but they did and I have to thank you all!

SECOND, I have decided to come as NON-BINARY, I'LL BE USING THEY/THEM NOW! MY PARENTS ACCEPTED ME SO WOOHOOO!

THIRD, I'll be unpublishing most of my TKATB Fanfics, because I have been getting a lot of hate! I'll explain- I'm still in the fandom and I am still going to write for the fandom! But, I'll be unpublishing and re-doing them all!

FOURTH, No, I just write smut because I like to write - I gen just enjoy whatever I want to write. I don't see REDACTED as a thing ( a person in my ask said it ) I have to say REDACTED means a lot to me as a character ! The comfort they gave me is so much. So Please, don't say Just because I only published mostly smut for them. I see them as a thing.

FIFTH, explanation- (TKATB) - (WHY DID YOU WRITE SOL SO MANIPULATIVE)

So Basically- TKATB, For the recent ones, I have wrote- There was a issue for people telling me- I wrote SOL (Manipulative) I'm pretty sure that's what Fantasia intended his character to be- So I'm pretty sure I'm not- bad? I am just writing how his character was intended to be. If you HATE that please just block me. He is a yandere, That's how he is written. I'm just writing, what I like to write- Please. No, I don't diss Sol, No- I'm not mistaken the last time I checked! He was obsessive and manipulative. He's a yandere. He is NOT saying the truth. He might be soft with MC, but it's all a act. He's delusional in love. He will use his sweetness to make you fall for him . Please, don't send hate to me in inbox, if you think I am writing sol badly, Please block. Unless you have valid reason to complain. DON'T interact with me.

SIXTH, - (SMUT) (14DWY) - (Why do you disrespect REDACTED so much? You only write smut for them- You "use" them as a thing?) 'First of all, I'm sure many people write smut. So It's not a crime. I did do fluff pieces for REDACTED, I just like to write smut because I think we need more and yes, I'm not ashamed about it. but- Again- I don't see them or use them as a thing. Please, again- REDACTED is a important character for me. He helped my mental health a lot. It's fictional yeah but I only find peace in the fictional world SO, I'm going through a lot. REDACTED gen helps my mental health state. So, I am kinda sensitive if you comment I only see them as a thing. No I don't. I'll stop writing smuts a lot from now on. Being called some names I don't want to say. I'm not- and I do this for free.

SEVENTH, (Lazy why didn't you publish _______ soon ?)

If you realize how much I write? You will know it's a lot. I need time. I need time to write to plan to re-read etc. Please don't be mad. I am writing everything slowly. I gen love it. I need time tho. I don't do great fanfics, I just do good ones- if you give me time. I write fanfics because- It's a comfort for me, if it comforts or makes someone's day that's enough for me

EIGHTH, (You started to publish TKATB less and less why?)

I currently feel less interested in TKATB, I do have like 4 drafts. But again, I feel really forced to write. It will come back but Please wait. I am into 14DWY now. It's my current interest. So I'm happily writing for it.

THING : I DID GET DEATH THREATS LOL, BUT I SORTED OUT WITH THE PERSON SINCE, THEY WEREN'T USING ANONS! I DELETED ALL AND THEY APOLOGIZED SO, LET'S LEAVE IT AT THAT.

END OF ANNOUNCEMENT

SINCE, 500- I'LL BE DOING A Q/A! YOU CAN ASK ME ANYTHING!!!

[runayask]

I am sure that Kevin and Riko were really close to each other before he got insane. But as much as I am analysing it or reading about it, it makes me sick.

(warning, there will be about Riko)

We NEVER saw Riko at the start. We know that all Ravens were abused by the Master. Riko was sent there when he was little, I think even a toddler. (Am not sure if Riko even knows his own birthday, because I guess Edgar Allan doesn't have holidays as we saw in TRK ending.) He is Moriyama, he is the second son. Riko always tried to get his main family's attention. Am sure Tetsuji got enough of the crying and told him if he wants his father to see him, he needs to be the BEST. As a little boy, you would believe that. But that always means that you aren't good enough for your family. You try hard for all those YEARS but nothing. And your uncle says that you aren't the best enough. He punished you even for little mistakes.

You're the best or nobody.

Riko was forced to be the best in Exy, to PLAY EXY, or Tetsuji would punish him. If he wouldn't play as a nr. 1 player, he would be down on knees (even if he is still down.) He needed to know all 13 (there were 13 right?) trains for Ravens long before he got in the team. He needs to be captain.

We don't know how Kevin's and Riko's relationship was. Were they playing together long before Kayleigh died? And even if, that means that he saw a boy whose mother loves his son and she is a friend of Tetsuji. Tetsuji 100% tried to be kind to Riko when he's friend was around (I think that Tetsuji and Kayleigh were friends, at least back in university, that's why they clicked together with an idea of a new sport). Even if Riko wanted that, he still understood enough that it all was just a show to a friend. That's why Riko wanted Kayleigh to be more in Edgar Allan AND he was a little jealous of Kevin's life. I guess, Tetsuji and Kayleigh got into an argument about Kevin sending in Evermore to play exy, you know? But he's mother was so mad at it and she didn't want Kevin to be like Riko (am sure she still saw his terrble life). Or she gets to know about Yakuza. Tetsuji was not so happy about that, that's why maybe he asked to make an accident. Car crash. Kevin's mother died, and because the letter was already writed he was sent to Tetsuji, to Riko. Which means that Kevin needs to learn how to play by Ravens' rules. By the Master rules. They were friends, they played together and all this stuff, but now this all changed, Riko saw how partnership works there and now he has a partner and Tetsuji gives Kevin to Riko responsibility. Which means that Kevin needs to be the best too, the second best. Kevin didn't need to show someone that he is enough, when Riko needed that. Needed his FAMILY to see him and Kevin's family (mother) died, so he doesn't have one (yet).

And still, when did he get insane!?!?!? What was the breaking point in his mentally ill?

But. What if!

Riko wouldn't fall for the Tetsuji game, if he wouldn't be a pawn in this game. What if he would understand (long before TFC) that Tetsuji lied to him about "being enough to family".

They would be real brothers who are holding together to survive, maybe they are even trying to break some rules as teenagers. Yes, they were kids and I'm sure Tetsuji wanted Riko to be the next Master. Making rules for the Ravens. But maybe Riko don't want to do things that was done to him. Or Kevin will say that it's not worth it.

If Kevin will try to run, Riko would be one who distracting Tetsuji. Sure Kevin would beg Riko to go with him, but Riko would NEVER get away from Tetsuji, because he was always in his life, he was the only person from Moriyama who raised him and he is his "family" lets say that. He can't leave his castle, because Moriyamas' cult would always find him (he 100% can't even change his name/surname). Am not sure if Riko in canon could even leave evermore for idk...shopping?

Kevin needed to leave him, because he understands that if TWO of them will leave it will be terrible for them, but he knows what Tetsuji will do if he gets to know that Riko helped him. So he leaves. Now Riko and Jean need to hold together (not as close as Riko and Kevin). But at least no one will hurt them. Only one person. Coach.

Tetsuji Moriyama is the only Villain here. Others are just broken. (Madly broken) [WE ARE NOT TALKING ABOUT DRAKE, F-CK HIM >:(]

We will see Kevin's life in The Perfect Court...and am hoping for Riko's life too! Please Nora 🙏🙏

[ragnarockz]

Ok I’ve been thinking about your 50s!Agnes x reader one shot and it got me thinkin… schemer Agnes and her new found partner in crime rip through cities Bonnie and Clyde style. Just guns and passion.

Tip Jar 💰

THIS HAS BEEN PLAGUING ME SINCE YOU DROPPED IT INTO MY ASK AND I'M SO PLEASED. 🖤🤍

Inspo while writing: Me & My Girl - Theory of a Deadman (Me and my girl, we're the modern day Bonnie and Clyde/Oh it's just the two of us), Leg to Stand On - Theory of a Deadman, Smoke Gets In Your Eyes - The Platters, Pistol Packin' Mama - Bing Crosby, Twilight Time - The Platters (When purple-colored curtains/Mark the end of the day/I'll hear you, my dear, at twilight time), Only You - The Platters, Love Potion No. 9 - The Clovers

DISCLAIMER: Gunplay

She stares you down from the barrel of her gun as she hovers above you, wild eyed and beautiful and you wonder just how the fuck you wound up on the floor in her house with a gun pointed down at your ruined face.

She looks perfect, is the first thing you notice about the scenario, maybe even too perfect in the moment. How the hell can she look like good while she's holding her own; standing over you in such a way you have nowhere to go. Your eyes dart down quickly to take her in and her stance; legs wide and that plaid dress hugging every one of her curves insatiably.

"Now, now, Hon...what do we have here? Someone perfect to play the part of my partner in crime, hmm?"

Her voice comes out loud and clear as she keeps her finger hovering over the trigger; her gaze never leaves your face. She's literally locked and loaded and ready to go; the look in her eye is glossy and crazed.

What had you been doing before you found yourself wound up on the floor anyway?

You try to push your memory backwards but a pang pushes against your skull and it feels like your brain is swelling into something dangerous when you try to remember. There's something blocking you; disallowing you to push that far back and so, you don't allow it to. You're scared of the consequences if you do push a little too far.

"Attagirl...you don't worry your pretty little head over trivial things like that...besides, I need you to get up and help me..."

And with that, you hear the safety click back and her finger slip away and the barrel of the gun dip as she stashes that handgun into the left pocket of her dress which she smooths down and gives you an award winning smile and suddenly, the danger she presents to you turns you on.

"Help you? With what, Agnes?"

You find your voice as you slowly lift yourself up onto your forearms; bending your knees. You feel your muscles shake in fear but Agnes quickly eases that out from your system as she pushes out her hand for you to grab as she helps you back up onto your feet.

You know she can smell the fear coming off of you; she's always been one with intuition you could never rightfully explain. She knows too much at all times; before you can even let the thought out of your mouth she's already spoken and answer it. You wonder if she has some sixth-sense or rather, clairvoyance. Agnes, the woman next door, is more than just your nosy neighbor.

Clearly.

"Why do you have a gun?"

Your question comes out as if you're asking her why it's raining outside or why she has azaleas in her yard and not lilacs. With a wave of her hand, she laughs you off before that same hand comes down to pat the bulge in her pocket. Your thoughts reel away to other things and another time and place where she had you on her couch and-

"Oh don't you worry, Sweetheart. I got you one, too."

You watch as she pats the right side of her dress and that's when you notice the second bulge tucked away underneath the fabric of her dress. She quickly turns on her heels without another word and you're forced to follow you because of course, something draws you in and you cannot pull away from her.

An invisible leash tethered from you to her and it sparks in your brain that it would be of purple light.

She leads you past a door that enters into her garage. Her car is parked inside, a dark colored Ford V8 and something then, nags at the part of your brain that you just can't seem to recall anything. She shoots you a smile over her shoulder as she leads you to the car and opens up the back door. She moves away just a little so you can peer into the backseat. You see a suitcase and shoot her a sideways glance.

"There's an outfit in there for you...put it on...leave your clothes here in the garage and then get into the passenger seat. I'll be right back, Honey."

She slips past you as she heads back for the door and leaves you in her garage. You continue to stare at the suitcase and wonder just what the hell she has in store for you.

-

You're sitting in the passenger seat of her car with your hands flat on the top of your thighs and you're sweating through your wool suit in nervousness. The outfit she had for you was a full men's suit, complete with a hat and tie. She somehow knew your size exactly; right down to your shoes. You gulp as you peer out the windshield and see Agnes' shadow enter through the door frame before she does. She looks exactly the same just as she did except, she's layered on bright red lipstick and added a pillbox hat with a veil that covers over her forehead and just slightly her left eye.

She smiles at you, all teeth, when she catches you staring at her through her windshield.

You can tell she's carrying both guns with the way her dress sags around her hips. She rounds the car, not in a hurry at all, and you can hear the eerie clicks of her black kitten heels strike the concrete below her. She opens and gets into the drivers seat and takes out her gun and then yours; handing yours over to you as she keeps hers in her lap. She digs into her pocket again and takes out two gold bands; one topped with a single diamond.

Your heart lurches in your chest.

She puts hers on on the correct finger before silently handing you your band. It's a man's wedding ring and once again, as you slip it on your ring finger, it fits you like a goddamn glove.

"I do..."

Agnes whispers under her breath before she pulls out her keys from her pocket and starts up her car. You lean back into your seat and close your eyes.

"I do..."

Slips out from under your own breath and you can sense her smiling from your response to her solemn vow.

You've tied the knot in whatever goddamn scheme she's roped you all up in once again.

-

"You see that man over there, Hon? I want you to shoot him for me."

She could have ended that sentence with a hand-drawn heart with the way she said it. All sweetness and sunshine; like the two of you were playing house. And she was, in a way, the two of you posing as a married couple. Posing as a husband and wife, no less. You shifted in your seat and felt the weight of your gun in your lap.

"You've fired a gun before, haven't you, Handsome?"

She turns to look at you now and that sweetness in her voice doesn't betray the sweet look on her face. Her lipstick looks perfect against her lips as does the veil that adds an allure of mystery to her. She's done up like a doll and it makes your mouth water and your clit throb. Husband and wife no doubt about it.

She leans in close to you, facing you, and you cannot make yourself look away from her. Your eyes travel down hers and land on her lips and yours, slightly open in anticipation. She laughs under her breath as she reaches over into your lap and grabs hold of your gun. She angles it in such a way that the barrel is pointed at your body; the muzzle pressing slightly into the crotch of your dress pants. You hold your breath and continue to stare at her lips and watch as they, slightly open up for you.

"Oh...you've definitely fired a gun before..."

You almost don't hear her as she presses the muzzle harder and you can feel it through your pants and gently rub against your clit. Your shoulders sag and your eyes slowly close and you pray to god in that moment, she doesn't have an itchy trigger finger.

"You shoot that man for me...make sure he's down and dead...can you do that for me? For your wife?"

Your eyes open and you go back to staring at her lips. You nod your head yes before you speak in the same hushed tone as she.

"Yes, Dear."

"Good boy. Got get him, Tiger."

She drops the gun in your lap and you feel the weight as it drops; the pang deep inside of you as your mind flutters back to that day on her couch with her on your lap and her cock buried deep inside of you. You stifle a moan as you pick up your gun with your left hand and slowly, carefully, open the passenger door with your right hand and let yourself out of her car.

The edges of Westview are dark but you see Agnes' target. He's standing near the edge of...something...with this hands in his pockets. He doesn't seem too dangerous but Agnes knows best and you know better than to deny and defy her.

Especially when she's literally give you a gun and sends you off to kill a man.

You stay low, crouched. The gun heavy in your hand as you sneak towards your target. Your clothing allows you to move easily; much more than any dress or skirt would have allowed you to. You can feel Agnes' gaze on you as she watches you slink closer, closing in on your prey. It almost feels like she's pushing your back to move you closer; honing in on your target.

You click back the safety and the man turns his head to your direction.

You stand up, widen your stance and bring your gun out and up.

The man barely moves as you see his hand reach down to his pocket and before you know it, you see the flash from the muzzle of your own gun as it lights up the night around you.

The man drops down silently and fades away into the grass but you can't see if he's down for the count.

You close the gap between you and the man with quick, long strides. Your gun still pointed to where the man would be now in the grass, ready for any sudden movements.

You get right beside the man now and when you look down past your gun and see him, something fires in the back of your brain. He doesn't look like you. He doesn't look like Agnes or Wanda or Herb. He doesn't fit in. His outfit is wrong. His hair is wrong. He feels out of place.

Your hand shakes slightly as you slowly bring your pointer finger back and tease the trigger. He doesn't move or speak but you know, in your heart of hearts, he's still alive.

A blaring blast fills the dark again and the flash erupts and the smell of gunsmoke fills your lungs and without another thought, you look back over your shoulder.

Agnes is watching you from the car with a grin on her face that makes you sick.

You click the safety and bring your gun down and away; shove it deep into your pants pocket and turn away from the dead man in the grass. You follow your path back to Agnes' car and watch as you get closer, how big her eyes have become. Saucer-like, excited. She's basically drooling; vibrating with excitement.

You get back to your side, the passenger seat, and close the door behind you. You take the gun out of your pocket and toss it down onto the floor.

She moves quickly; basically climbing of her seat to get into your lap once more. She's straddling you, hard, as she covers your face in hungry kisses. She bites down onto your bottom lip, licks her tongue over your skin before she slips it into your mouth. She moans into you and you feel the same pang throb through your lower body as you try to close your legs.

She laughs into your mouth as her hands come up to cradle your face as she kisses you deeper and grinds herself down into your lap. You can feel her gun in her pocket; basically rubbing against you as she moves her hips.

There's a dead man in that field and she's trying to devour you.

"...Agnes...Agnes...why did I kill that man for you?..."

You whisper into her mouth as she tries to kiss you still; the side of your lips being messily covered now with her red lipstick. She fucking giggles back into your mouth and it makes your stomach lurch.

"...Testing a theory, Love..."

"What?!"

"I wanna see where the border lies..."

"The...border...to what?"

She pulls her face away from yours to give you a hard look; her head tilting slightly to the right. Her eyes squint as if she's really looking at you now. You feel that sharp swell in your brain again.

"To Ralph, of course."

You almost don't hear her as she quickly tilts her head down to look into your laps. Her left hand drags down the side of your face; nails scratching your skin which makes you wince. All the way down your neck to your chest; ghosting of your breasts under your gentleman's clothes. You hold your breath and hear the rustling of her dress as she takes the gun out from her pocket.

"Agnes...what...does Ralph have to do with all of this?"

Agnes, not to your surprise, doesn't answer you with words. Oh no; she's got that gun between the two of you now as she presses it once more into the crotch of your pants. She never looks up at you but you can see the semi-amused look scattered on her perfectly done up face.

"You keep those sweet eyes behind me, Hon...tell Mama when you see him...if you do..."

She lets out a fevered breath as she starts to move her hand with the gun; rubbing that muzzle up and down. Your mind is screaming at you with how wrong this all is; all of it.

You killed someone.

You and Agnes.

Now she's got you in her car, not too far away from the crime with her gun between your legs and hers and-

Your eyes widen and your mouth parts slowly as you see him.

You see Him.

But, it's not a Him.

She.

She's wearing a black cocktail dress with a veil, much like Agnes'. All in black.

Just on the border Agnes was talking about.

Your brain can't really wrap around what's happening but you understand it in some weird way.

"...Agnes...He's...here..."

Her head snaps back up to look you in the face; study your eyes. She never once looks back over her shoulder but from the corner of your own eyes, you can see that wide smile spread across her face.

"Oh, good. Ralph won't think I upped and left her for you, Sweetheart."

You almost don't catch her slip as she tosses her head back. You watch her perfectly curled hair bounce slightly as she goes right back to grinding into your lap along with her gun.

That purple light tugging you tighter and tighter through her fingers.

[saras-almanac]

2024 - Aaron Dingle Story Catch up

Oh man, what long ride this year was, but here's a quick catch up on the other years since I didn't want to reblog that one again. And it makes me feel better to write this out like I'm doing it to help someone else and not to torture myself.

2022 - October - Aaron returns for a short stint in time to make up with Liv for running out on her when she was up for a murder charge, spend some time with his Gran Faith before she passed away, become furious with Chas for cheating on Paddy, and then to say goodbye to Liv when she dies after a fatal accident in the brutal storm that swept through the village. More details here!

2023 - October-December - In October, Aaron returns to the village after being kidnapped by Cain and his new uncle Caleb for getting involved with the Italian mafia. Aaron is still fuming at Chas for what she did to Paddy--despite everyone knowing now and Al being dead--and that he still blames Chas for Liv's death, Aaron takes it out on everyone in the village: bullying Vinny, threatening and beating up Billy, and actually sleeping with Ethan (the vicar Charles's son) just to humiliate Ethan in front of everyone to get back at Charles and Chas for scolding him. Things come to a head when Chas finally tells Aaron off and says that until he's better in control of himself, the entire family--her, Paddy, and Eve--want nothing to do with them. Though still a little off, they do all make up around Christmas. More details here!

2024 - Full Year Back - Aaron is still acting out against his family, specifically Cain and Chas, though both relationships are solved rather quickly--a physical fight with Cain and then Chas sticking up for Aaron when he supports her through her breast cancer diagnosis and double mastectomy. Because Chas's cancer might be passed genetically, she demands her brothers and Aaron get tested, with only Aaron ending positive for the gene mutation. In August, we meet John Sugden first as a random hookup with Aaron and then discover he's a long-lost son of Jack Sugden's apparently. When his van breaks down (again), Cain's garage is the one closest so John is forced to stay in the village while it's fixed and he spends the entire time being an asshole to everyone and winding up Aaron because of sexual tension I guess. Eventually Aaron and John start hooking up in secret, then not so in secret but still not a relationship. They begin having a relationship talk in November after Aaron finds out Rebecca died and Seb went to live with her aunt, but they don't really admit they want a relationship until after Aaron is injured in a fight and John saves him cause he's an army medic. They move in together--cause John lives in a van otherwise--and then go camping in December where John tells Aaron he lost his partner Aidan in the army, tosses Aidan's tags into the forest to "let go of the past," and then both of them confess they love each other.

More unhinged notes under the cut

Chas has breast cancer and tells her brothers and Aaron to get tested. Aaron fights that because he's scared to know but eventually relents and gets the test for Chas and it turns out it's positive

Chas and Aaron have a heart-to-heart about his positive results while Chas is in the hospital after her surgery, which I guess means their relationship is completely fine now

Aaron is still furious at the world and specifically his extended family and convinces Mack to team up with him again to steal cars. They end up stealing Kim Tate's friend's car from Cain's garage, leading to a fight and Aron stealing Cain's car in retaliation

Cain and Aaron have a physical fight that leads to a brain injury for Cain and eventually some tepid apology and then I guess they're good again? Unless Aaron needs to be angry and annoyed for a scene

Caleb has an affair with Tracy who's married to Nate so Cain has a different feud to focus on as well

Aaron is on a hookup / dating app and matches with a picture of a torso. He meets the man (John) on the side of the road on his way to the hotel cause John's van is broken down. Aaron fixes it and then they fuck in the van after sharing a really aggressive kiss.

I think is supposed to be passionate, like they can't hold back their sexual tension anymore, but it just felt really weird. John basically is like "I was wondering when you were gonna shut up" and then they go and fuck

John alludes to it being all right and Aaron wants another round but John up and leaves Aaron behind, taking his wallet, hoodie, and keys to Eric's car that Aaron "borrowed" from the garage for his hookup

Next day Vic ends up driving Eric to funeral where she meets John and discovers he's her half-brother. Desperate for some family connection, Vic tries to get him to come for a visit or take her number, but he's not into it at all

But "fates" have it that John's van breaks down again and he has to take it to Cain's garage, which Vic is ecstatic about, telling everyone in the village that John's her half-brother. Aaron has a mini freak out over this but is very quick to just say that nothing more will happen with them

John is mostly an asshole walking to everyone in the village but I guess it's fine cause he's attractive? He's rude to Vic for wanting to get to know him, an absolute dick to Sarah who's just trying to find family (which Robert better be included in when he comes back), and just rude to everyone at the garage for not working fast enough because he wants to leave

Aaron and John have a little tiff at the garage where John calls Aaron a nag and whiner--might have even called him pathetic--and Aaron takes a swing at him and John hits him in the stomach.

Mack--who's watching and has been nagged by John all day about his van--doesn't take kindly to John saying that about his friend and they decide to teach John a lesson--stealing his van and leaving it on the side of the road, where it eventually rolls back into the lake

There's a lot of "tension" then between Aaron and John after this, with John constantly telling Aaron that he's into him, tries to get Aaron to kiss him only to laugh when Aaron does. He goes to meet a hookup and apparently Aaron is jealous of this? And the hookup comes back to the village the next morning and Aaron doesn't like seeing him with John in the cafe? But like... how and why did this hookup come back with John? At this point, he's living in the van I believe having moved out of Vic's because she's annoying him so like... he got a taxi to go and meet his hookup and then brought them back to fuck in a van? Just wild choices all around here

Mandy and Paddy have a quick last-minute wedding for some reasons I'm unsure about but it was super cute and I actually really like Paddy and Mandy together--Mandy and Vinny are a healthier version of Chas and Aaron where Vinny actually gets to talk back to his mum and remind her that he's a grown man and while he knows she's looking out for him, she needs to back off, and I love that. They can stay in the village.

Super cute scene where no one can find Vinny so Mandy goes outside and just shots for him and he hears her so they have a shouted chat across the village. It was just really funny and cute and honestly the only thing I liked so far of this year watching it

Also Bear's opening speech at the reception: Distinguished friends and tolerated acquaintances (Gonna be using that lol)

Vic has been struggling because she was fired from Hide (I think that's the new cafe's name) by Jai who was asked to do so by Eric who was trying to get revenge on Vic for dating both David and Jacob and Eric blames Vic for David leaving the village

This is only relevant because Vic ends up sort of blackmailing Jai to get her job back once Eric confesses and then when John meets Jai he's all like "I'm Vic's big brother and it's a good thing you took her back" trying to be all protective but literally has been so hateful of Vic the entire time, but whatever. I guess he changed his mind and wanted to be a brother now.

John's been working up at Moira's farm after Mack stole his van as a way of apology from Cain for what happened, though Mack hates it. When Mack goes to help out and has to fix a tractor in the barn, he finds out the barn door has been kept open, meaning the brand new bull Moira bought rushes in and runs after Mack. He gets injured after trying to climb over the fence and is convinced John was behind it

When Aaron confronts John about it, they are so overcome with passion they fuck in the barn, which Vic catches them at the end of and is weirded out because that's Robert's brother... John tells Vic to mind her own business and stay out of his life

Aaron visits Mack in the hospital and immediately starts telling Mack that John wouldn't do something like that, much to Mack's annoyance. Turns out the barn down being open was down to Moira--unknowingly having a brain turmor--forgetting that they had closed the door. Aaron demands Mack apologize to John for accusing him.

They start hooking up in secret, with Vic asking Aaron to maybe not crack on with John (aka Robert's half brother) because she's lonely without any family around and this means a lot to her. Aaron assures her that John's not going to replace Robert for either of them. When Aaron tells John that Vic really wants to get to know him and maybe he could consider sticking around, he calls Aaron needy and says he's not here to be Robert's replacement

Cain and Nate have a massive fight and altercation after Cain finds out from Caleb that Moira and Nate were caught getting it on again--which leave everyone thinking Nate just fucked off to his new job without his wife (Tracy) or their daughter (Frankie) and without saying goodbye. This situation is also because of Moira's brain tumor

Moira accidentally sets fire to her barn with her and Ruby inside as she hallucinates seeing Emma. John and Mack try to rescue them, which everyone falls over themselves praising John who admits he was in the army as a medic

While John's getting looked at in the pub by Liam, Aaron watches anxiously for some reason and tells John that he deserves a proper hero's reward and that maybe he should be the reason John sticks around longer (This is September)

Dingles hold a funeral for Zac and everyone says goodbye to him

After trying to push John to get to know her more, John snaps again at Vic for prying and says that he wishes he'd have never met her, which leads to Vic going to his van and snooping, finding his army medals and some army tags for Aidan

Ross arrives back in October as part of an undergound fighting thing. He admits that Rebecca died during an operation and Seb was taken in by one of Rebecca's aunts--which was signed off on by Robert who Ross went to visit in prison over all this, which upsets both Aaron and Vic--which Ross rightfully calls out Vic for not making any effort to stay in the life of Seb or Robert

Best moment is when Ross tells Aaron he was talking to Vic because "your name didn't come up at all" and when Aaron tries to lash out Ross counters with "shouldn't bother you so much cause you're shacking up with his brother" (ross and rob accidentally besties??)

All this brings up a lot of feelings for Aaron, which causes John to feel jealous since he didn't realize Aaron and Robert were that serious. John also says he's not jealous cause he's got Vic and Aaron and Robert threw them both away when he let his anger land him in prison. (Oh boy was I ready to shovel this man when he was saying that) But it does really upset Aaron and he kicks John out of his flat saying that he doesn't know anything about Robert or what they were together

An illegal fight between Ross and Billy is being streamed online for gambling and as John and Aaron are in a fight, Aaron goes to watch with Mack. Only for John to turn up saying he overheard someone talking about calling the police, which breaks up the fight. Aaron comes back to get Mack--who had stolen the gambling money--and ends up getting punched in the side which caused a collapsed lung which John fixes while waiting for the ambulance

At the hospital, Chas and Aaron have a chat about how lucky they are John was there to save him and that is amazing. Aaron cries about how he always pushes people away and Chas is all-in on #TeamJohn

They also both admit they sort of have a thing for each other and then John ends up basically moving in to Aaron's flat when he gets out of the hospital (early November for those keeping track)

Unknown to everyone, John is the one who tipped off the police seemingly as a way to talk to Aaron...

Chas is hooking up with Liam, which John catches them at, and then she admits as much to Aaron. She also tells him that she can see how happy John makes him

Aaron and Mack have to return the stolen money when Ross is beaten up for it and April was taken hostage to the same structure Donna died on

Aaron and John go camping because John loves it "having four walls is like a prison to him" which again, wild word choice to someone who's literally been in prison. While annoyed, Aaron agrees to go because they can't always just do what Aaron wants to do

In a very strange moment, Aaron mentions camping with Gordon before everything else started and it feels like John doesn't know much about Gordon. And then John talks a bit about his relationship with Aidan in the army and how he needs to let go of things and focus on the future--having him toss Aidan's army tags into the forest

John then says that "now's the time to confess your undying love for me" and pesters Aaron to tell him how he feels, leading Aaron to admit that "might love him" which John reciprocates. This is mid December

I'm gonna be honest y'all, this John stuff is so bad on like every single level. It's so boring and infuriating and also just dumb. And all of it feels so out of character for Aaron, which in fairness he's been that way since he came back in 2023, but this is worse. I genuinely felt like I was being gaslit by this show the entire time watching it because what I was seeing is not what they were saying I was seeing. (You can see that here lol)

But I just have 2025 to go and get officially caught up with Aaron. And then I can do other stuff lol.

[what-even-is-sleep]

thinking about Bodkin again bc I mean,,, ALL THE SYMBOLISM OHHHHHGH. i NEED some tumblr film analysis hobbyists to watch this show and tell me all the themes n such