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spikedfearn · 9 hours ago

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I Thee Bled

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

Summary: On the eve of your arranged wedding, you flee into the woods with trembling hands and a bloodstained gown—only to slip a ring meant for another onto a graveyard root and wake something ancient beneath the soil. Remmick is not a man, not anymore, but he remembers how to be tender. Touch-starved and centuries dead, he offers you the one thing the living never did: choice. In a forest that breathes and remembers, where the dead dream and the moss learns your name, you find yourself questioning everything you left behind. After all, what is a monster—if not a man who waits for you? And what is love, if not something you’re willing to bleed for?

(or: A Corpse Bride au)

wc: 15.2k

a/n: thank you all so much for the overwhelming love and support you’ve shown my fics, it means the world to me!! I originally planned to release I Thee Bled on Monday to celebrate one month since Brittany Broski posted Mercy Made Flesh to her Insta story (!!!), but life had other plans, so she’s arriving fashionably late. This one’s especially close to my heart, and I want to dedicate it to the lovely Moga @somnolenthour, whose beautiful fanart for this fic when it was still just an idea (completely unprompted!!) lit a fire under me, this one’s for you <333 shout-out to my beta readers, starting with Liz who also came up with the title: @fuckoffbard @titaniasfairy @jaythewriter @anhelconhmuda @kkniveschau

warnings: Corpse Bride!au, gothic horror, supernatural romance, blood, vampirism, smut, oral sex (f!receiving), praise kink, dirty talk, creampie, touch-starved monster, monsterfucking, sub!remmick, ghost town setting, period-typical misogyny, vague Victorian era, Tim Burton aesthetics, mutual pining, tragic undertones, Remmick in his final monster form

likes, comments, and reblogs as always appreciated, please enjoy!!

Masterlist

It was a quiet kind of death—to walk toward a future that never belonged to you.

The candlelight danced in its sconce like it too was afraid of the dark, throwing gold and shadow in uneven patterns across the walls of your bridal chamber. The air was heavy with the scent of crushed lilies—white, thick-stemmed, and already browning at the edges—as though the blooms themselves had second thoughts. A bridal veil hung limp from the mirror. You had not put it on.

You sat at the edge of the chaise, corseted to breathlessness, the bony ridges of your knuckles straining beneath the thin layers of skin from how hard you're clutching the ring.

Not your ring. Not yet. It was his—your would-be husband's—a man who smiled without his eyes and spoke of love like it was transactional. Whose name alone made your face pucker like you just smelled curdled milk. Mr. Langdon. So old your mother whispered “distinguished.” So cold the maids whispered other things when they thought you couldn’t hear.

Outside, the wind howled through the wrought iron balcony rails, shrill and wild like something mourning. You stood slowly, your bare feet silent against the marble floor, gown whispering around your ankles like the ghosts of every woman who’d gone quietly before you. The gown had been sewn for beauty, not for running. But you would run in it anyway.

You packed light, brought a white shawl and gloves to combat the chill. You brought the ring.

Not because you meant to keep it. Not because it held sentiment. It didn’t. It had no warmth, no story, no soul—just gold, cool and dull beneath your thumb. But it was worth something. Enough to pawn. Enough, maybe, to buy a train ticket. A meal. A room somewhere with a bed that didn’t come with a price pinned to your spine.

You told yourself that was why you kept it clenched in your fist as you slipped out the servants’ gate and into the dark. Not because it was his. Not because it had ever touched your skin. But because the world beyond your wedding had no place for a girl with nothing—and a gold ring, even one never worn, could be a lifeline.

Or a curse.

Fate hadn’t decided yet.

A band of simple gold, dull with fingerprint smudges, too loose for your thumb. You had not even worn it yet. It was handed to you this evening after supper, set beside a slice of blood-orange cake you hadn’t touched. “Keep it close, darling,” your mother had said, smoothing your hair as if you were already a corpse. “It will be yours come morning.”

You slipped it into your palm. And now it pulsed there like a secret.

The hallway outside your chamber creaked and groaned, the house settling into its evening sighs, and still you waited. You waited until the grandfather clock struck eleven, slow and solemn, each chime echoing like nails hammered into your future. Then—silently, so silently—you fled.

The woods did not wait to welcome you.

They swallowed.

The moment your slippered feet hit the dirt path behind the manor gates, the trees leaned in like they were listening, thick with Spanish moss and shadow. The moonlight fractured through their limbs, casting the path in broken, silver stripes. Your breath came out fast, clumsy, fogging in front of you as the night grew colder with every step, every frantic press forward into bramble and black.

The hem of your gown—once bone-white satin—darkened with mud. Then blood. A snag of thorns caught your ankle, sliced skin. You barely flinched. Pain felt like permission.

You weren’t sure where you were going.

Only that it has to be away.

You didn’t stop until your lungs burned and the trees had turned unfamiliar, too thick, too silent, the air tasting of copper and something older—stone, earth, iron. You collapsed against the base of a twisted tree, your gown a tangle of ripped silk and smeared petals, a bridal bloom gone to ruin.

The ring was still in your hand.

You looked at it—glared, really—angry at its weight, at the heft something so small contains. “To have and to hold…” you muttered under your breath, voice bitter, breathless, a mockery of a vow.

Your fingers fumbled blindly through the loam, sticky with sap and rainwater, until you found what you thought was a root. Something slender and pale rising from the earth like a bony finger.

You laughed, delirious. “Here,” you whispered, sliding the ring onto it. “Do you, strange tree, take me to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

The wind rose.

“I do.”

You reached out to steady yourself against the gnarled bark—but as your hand met the tree’s twisted surface, a sharp edge of wood caught the pad of your finger, snagging your bridal glove and the soft meat underneath. You hissed.

Blood welled—bright and living. It wobbled off your fingertip and fell. One drop. Then another. The red hit the base of the tree and sank into the soil like ink into paper. The bark beneath your palm felt warmer now. Almost…breathing.

Something moved. Beneath the dirt. Beneath you. You blinked. Sat up straighter. Listened.

Nothing.

Then—again.

A twitch. A shift. Like the earth itself was exhaling after a long silence. The root curled, moved, wrapped just slightly around your finger. Cold as the grave.

You yanked your hand back with a startled gasp. But it was too late. Blood had already spilled from your hand, sliced on bark or thorn or bone, and soaked into the black, thirsty soil. You watched it disappear.

The tree shuddered. Not in the breeze—there was no breeze anymore. The air had gone still, heavy as boiled milk, clinging to your throat, your hair, the space behind your knees. Your breath hitched. The birds had gone quiet. The crickets. The frogs. The world was listening.

And below you, the earth moaned.

A sound like old wood splitting. Like ribs breaking beneath dirt. Then, suddenly, a violent lurch—wet, sucking, earthly. The ground near the tree root cracked open, moss peeling back like flesh. You scrambled backwards on your palms, your gown tangling around your legs, but you couldn’t look away.

It didn’t feel like waking the dead. It felt like being watched by something that had never closed its eyes to begin with.

First came a hand.

Wide-palmed, thick-knuckled. Fingers unnaturally long, his nails cracked and gray and dirty, like shale. A gold ring gleamed faintly from the third finger. The wedding band you slid onto what you thought was a gnarled uproot.

Then the second, this one skeletal, stripped clean of flesh and muscle and tendon.

And finally, the rest of him.

He rose in pieces, as if gravity itself hadn’t yet decided whether to allow him back. His body pushed through layers of sod and clay and root like a memory that refused to stay buried. His shoulders were broad, shoulders that had once carried something heavy—tools, a body, a burden. One arm braced against the edge of the grave, veins bulging under pale, slick skin.

You saw the sweep of a dark, deep blue tuxedo, its fabric dulled by dirt and time, stitched with the memory of ceremony. The jacket clung to his shoulders unevenly, one side sagging low with centuries of damp, the lapels wrinkled and soil-smudged. Beneath it, a white collared button-up lay partially unbuttoned at the throat, the linen stained faintly at the seams.

A slightly lighter blue tie hung askew from his neck, knotted but loosened, the silk puckered where it had weathered through the grave. His trouser legs matched the tuxedo, tailored once, but now creased and grimy at the hem. Shoes to match—oxfords, maybe—scuffed to near ruin, soles coated in moss and wet earth.

He pulled himself from the dirt slowly, deliberately, like someone waking from a sleep they weren’t meant to return from—each breath thick in his throat, each movement dragging time behind it.

And his face—God, his face.

He was beautiful. In the way statues are beautiful. The way a ruin is beautiful. Pointed cheekbones beneath a mask of grave-filth. Mud in the seams of his short, messy brown hair, clinging in dark curls across his forehead. His mouth parted as he panted for breath he didn’t need, and you saw the right side of his jaw was ruined—torn open, exposing ribbons of raw muscle and the gleam of sharpened teeth. All of them sharp. Uneven. Crooked in places, silver-fanged and jagged like they weren’t made for a human mouth.

He drooled. Milky and thick, slow as syrup, threading from his teeth to the black soil.

His skin was a deep, post-mortem blue—something between bruised flesh and storm-lit sea, like teal left to darken in shadow. In the moonlight, with his veins just barely visible beneath the surface, it looked like cracked glass. His chest heaved. His head turned. And then—

He looked at you.

His eyes were wide as a frightened dog’s. But in the shadows, they shifted—black, almost red, glowing from somewhere behind the pupil like dying coals still clinging to that cherried spark.

He didn’t speak. He just…stared. Watched. Not like a stranger. Like someone trying to remember you. Like someone who knew you. Maybe before. Maybe in another life.

“Are—are you…” Your voice broke, shamefully small. You didn’t finish the question. Couldn't.

He swallowed, thickly. The sound was wet. And then—he smiled. Not cruel. Not ghoulish. Soft, tender.

“I knew ye’d come,” he said.

His voice came low and lilted, thick with the cadence of an Irish accent—rounded consonants, vowels pulled soft and long, a kind of music in his throat whether he meant it or not. The kind of voice made for stories. For lullabies. For oaths.

He took a single, stumbling step forward, mud pulling at his shoes, laced tight enough to keep the soil from suctioning them off his feet.

You couldn’t move.

“Ye put a ring on me hand,” he said again, gentle this time. Coaxing. He held up his fingers, all blood-caked and twitching, the wedding band glinting faintly beneath the filth, fractals of moonlight dancing off the polished gold, a stark contrast to the dirt and grime clinging to his skin. “And ye spoke a vow. That counts, don’t it?”

He tilted his head, like a curious animal. “Didn’t reckon ye’d be so bonnie.”

You should have run.

You knew that. Every part of you knew that. The sensible part. The terrified part. The part that still heard your mother’s voice whispering warnings about strange men, and worse things still, things that didn’t breathe right, didn’t die right.

But something rooted you.

Maybe it was the ring still snug around that pale, twitching finger. Maybe it was the way he looked at you. Like you were the first warm thing he’d seen in centuries.

He took another step forward. Then another. His oxfords left deep, sucking impressions in the soil, and his gait wasn’t quite right—like a marionette with its strings pulled too hard, or a man remembering how to be one. You flinched when he got too close, but he didn’t reach for you. Not yet. Just stood there, arms slack at his sides, mouth slightly open, that thread of spit still hanging from one fang like an afterthought.

His head dipped low, curls shadowing his brow, and when he spoke again, his voice was almost shy. Like he feared you might bolt.

“Was it the blood that roused me, then?” he asked, one brow raising slowly. Thoughtful. “Or the vow ye whispered?” He swallowed, working his jaw with a faint wince. “Might’ve been both. Hard to say.”

You blinked at him. Swallowed the lump that had risen hard and high in your throat. “Who…who are you?”

His smile faltered. Just a flicker. Not hurt—more like confusion.

“Don’t remember me, do ya?” His voice dropped low, almost tender. “But you called, lass. I heard ya—clear as day, so I answered.”

He tapped his skeletal palm against his chest, right over his sternum, his eyes round and brows raised in a puppy dog look, a pleading little tilt to his head like he's desperate for you to believe him.

“I felt you in here.”

You opened your mouth. No sound came out.

The man—the thing—before you cocked his head again, just slightly. His eyes were too soft for the rest of him, too warm. And the accent in his voice made everything worse, somehow. Made it gentle. Comforting. It stripped you of fear, piece by piece, until all that remained was the strange throb of something you didn’t understand.

“What’s your name?” you asked, finally.

His gaze lit up like the question pleased him. He didn’t answer right away. Just dragged a hand through his hair, leaving streaks of mud and grit and grave soil across his temple.

“I’ve been called a lot o’ names,” he said after a pause. “Some of ’em I earned. Some I didn’t. But the name I remember best is…” A thoughtful frown pulled at the less-damaged corner of his mouth.

“Remmick. That’s what me ma called me,” he said, almost shy now. “Back when the sky was still thick wi’ peat smoke and the land hadn’t yet learned the sound o’ English steel. When we carved prayers into stone ‘stead o’ paper, and the rivers boiled not from fire, but from the rage o’ gods long buried.”

He glanced at you then, as if expecting you not to understand. But you didn’t flinch, causing his smile to grow like a decaying flower that didn't know it was dead yet.

“Back when the forest had a name you weren’t meant to speak after dark,” he added, voice gone soft and faraway. “And folk still left cream out on the stoop, hopin’ to keep the hills quiet.”

You said nothing. You had no words.

He glanced down at himself as though just now noticing the state he was in. Fingers touched the torn lapel of his jacket before dusting the front off next. His nose wrinkled faintly, sheepish, eyes round and sorry.

“Would’ve cleaned meself up a bit had I known,” he said, glancin’ back up at you with a crooked smile. “But by Gods, ye caught me right in the middle of me dirt nap, didn’t ye?”

And then he laughed. A soft, broken sound. It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t hollow. It was almost—sweet. You didn’t realize you’d taken a step back until your spine hit bark.

He noticed.

“No need to fear me, lass,” he said, quickly, voice pitching soft, hands raised just a little, his eyes bleeding red like a freshly weeping cut, “I won’t hurt ye. I wouldn’t.” His fingers curled back toward his chest again. “Not you.”

“Why me?” you asked, finally. “Why—why do you think I called you?”

His smile returned, slow and tender. He lifted his hand—the one with the ring, the one that was intended to collar you to Mr. Langdon before you turned tail and fled, looking sleek and shiny against grimy blue skin.

“’Cause ye put this on me finger,” he said. “Ye made a promise. A vow.”

You shook your head, your breath catching like a bird startled mid-flight, wings beating frantically in your throat. “It wasn’t real.”

“It was real enough for me.”

He looked down at the gold band, turned it with his thumb. “You bled for it, didn’t ye?” he murmured. “Spoke words into the trees. Placed a ring on a buried hand. That’s old magic, love. Older than graves. Older than the Gods above.”

His eyes flicked back to you—red blooming around the edges now like ink through water.

“Old magic don’t care whether you meant it.”

You didn’t know if it was the way he said love, like it meant something eternal…or if it was the silence of the woods, how they held their breath around him…but your world had suddenly been flipped upside down like you'd been living inside a snow globe and someone decided to just come along and shake it. All because you'd gotten cold feet. All because you couldn't bring yourself to walk down the aisle and wed a man who barely made your acquaintance prior to the arranged ceremony.

You recall last night in great detail, the last time you were alone with Mr. Langdon. It had been in your father’s study—dark-paneled, smelling of tobacco and power. He hadn’t touched you, not exactly. But his hand had rested too long on the curve of your shoulder, fingers splaying toward the top of your spine like he was trying to gauge how much pressure it would take to snap it.

“I prefer quiet girls,” he’d said with a smile that didn’t reach his shrewd eyes. “Ones who don’t ask so many questions. Obedience is a virtue, you know.”

You had smiled. You nodded. Because what else could you do?

He had leaned in close, breath stale with wine and something bitter, suppressing the reflexive urge to recoil, “After tomorrow, your body belongs to me. That’s what marriage is. Best you start getting used to the idea.”

You hadn’t answered. You’d gone to your room and vomited in the basin. And tonight? Tonight—you ran. You didn’t bring a bag. You didn’t bring a plan. You brought the ring.

And you brought the no you hadn’t dared speak aloud.

It’s only then that you start to notice—the world around you moves. Not with the subtle rhythm of wind or wildlife, but with a kind of strange, theatrical breath, like the forest is alive.

The tree behind you creaked like a yawning coffin, bark groaning against your spine as if waking from its own long sleep. Overhead, the moon hung too round, too large, almost theatrical in its glow—more paper lantern than celestial body. It cast light not white but a washed-out bluish silver, the kind that made every shadow look like it was up to something.

There were no clouds. The sky didn’t need them.

Instead, the forest itself began to shift—bending at the edges like a curtain drawing inward, branches twisting and stooping with exaggerated grace, their tips curling into crooked little hooks. The trees no longer stood tall and noble; they hunched and leaned like gossiping old women, knotted spines cracking as they bent to get a better look at you.

The leaves above clinked faintly like dry metal. One branch spiraled down and hovered beside your shoulder, like it was waiting for permission to touch you.

And still, Remmick didn’t seem to notice.

Or maybe he did.

Maybe he was used to it—the way the world rearranged itself around him, the way nature bowed and blinked and breathed differently wherever he walked.

Maybe he’d never known a forest that didn’t follow.

He took another step toward you.

He was close enough now that you could see where the flesh on his cheekbone pulsed faintly, still clinging to old life. Where blood had dried in a crooked path down his exposed jaw. Where some of his teeth weren’t perfectly sharp at all—some had chipped, split, yellowed in ways that proved he hadn’t always been what he was now. He had once been a man.

You stared. Not at the horror. At the detail.

His collar was unbuttoned. There was a ring of skin just below his throat that was somehow clean, as if protected by the chain that still hung there.

“You’re real,” you breathed, as much to yourself as to him.

He smiled again. Small, head bowed slightly. Like the thought embarrassed him.

“Aye,” he said. “At least I was.”

Your heart skipped. The accent curled around that last word—was—turning it melancholic and soft. He sounded deeply lonely in a way that didn’t scream or shudder, but bled slow and quiet—like a candle left to burn itself out in a chapel no one prayed in anymore.

You didn’t realize your hand had risen until he caught it. His grip wasn’t strong. In fact, it was hesitant. Loose. Like he feared you might flinch, and he was giving you time to do it. To reject it.

You didn’t.

His thumb dragged over the small wound on your finger where your glove was torn. The one you’d cut on the tree. Your blood had dried there, rust-colored and still.

“’S’what woke me,” he murmured. “This wee thing.”

You tried to speak, but the words tumbled over each other, panic and fascination tangled in your throat. “What are you?”

Remmick looked up at you, then down at your hand in his. He didn’t let go.

“I was a man once,” he said. “Before they put me in the ground like a secret.”

There was no anger in his voice. No grief. Just barebones honesty.

“I remember cold,” he continued. “I remember bein’ bound.” His brows drew together. “I remember hunger.”

You swallowed.

His head tilted slightly again. “But now I remember you.”

You opened your mouth to deny it, to tell him he was wrong, that you weren’t anyone, that this was all a mistake. That you weren’t his. That you weren’t meant to be anything.

But the woods behind you had gone too still. And he was staring at you with a gaze so tender it made your stomach twist.

“Ye came in white,” he said, voice softer now. “Like a bride. Ye gave blood. Ye spoke vow.” He brushed a skeletal knuckle to your chin with aching slowness, the bone surprisingly soft, “don’t reckon the veil’s far behind.”

The branches rustled above, though there was still no wind. You realized the forest wasn’t closing in. It was gathering.

And Remmick…he was looking at you like he was home.

It was no longer night in the way night should be.

Time moved differently now. The sky above bled grey and silver and rust, but the moon never shifted from its throne behind the trees. The light stayed fixed in place, like the forest had slipped sideways into some pocket behind the world. Hours passed like fog. You slept, but never fully. You walked, but your feet left no prints.

And Remmick—Remmick stayed near.

Not hovering. Not leering. Just there, always just far enough not to crowd you, yet always within reach, like the forest had redrawn its laws to keep him at your side. Like you were its axis now.

You thought of Langdon.

Of his voice—measured, polished, practiced. The kind of voice that never raised itself above a certain register, as though passion was unsightly. He had a way of looking at you that always felt more like study than affection. Like you were something to be assessed, not adored. His fingers, when they grazed yours, were cold from gloves and colder still beneath them. Everything about him had been lacquered to a shine: his shoes, his manners, his hollow future he spoke of with such sterile pride.

You remembered one night, not long ago, when you’d dined together at his family estate. A private supper. Three courses. Too many forks. You’d asked him if he liked poetry.

He blinked. Set down his wine glass. “I tolerate it,” he said. “In women.”

That had been it.

No questions in return. No warmth. No wanting.

You’d spent the rest of the meal smiling at your plate, wondering if it would be considered madness to simply climb out the window and run.

And now—here.

Now, you were with a man who’d crawled out of the earth, with dried blood under his nails and a ruined jaw, and somehow he made you feel safer than any lace-draped parlor ever had. Remmick, who flinched when he touched your skin like you were the sacred thing. Remmick, who didn’t ask you to perform, or flatter, or prove anything—who simply stayed close because he wanted to be near.

He was a walking corpse.

And he seemed more human than Mr. Langdon had ever been.

Remmick spoke in murmurs. Half-conversations.

“My folk used to call this part the belly,” he said, gesturing toward a clearing that bloomed only with pale fungi and white moss. “Said the trees grew too thick with memory. Said it weren’t safe for the livin’.”

You stepped forward slowly, the hem of your gown brushing through the hush of strange underbrush. The clearing pulsed in stillness, like something held its breath just beneath the surface.

The fungi were long-necked and ghostly, some capped in translucent bells, others curled like fingers mid-spasm. They glowed faintly in the dark—not enough to see by, but enough to feel seen.

Overhead, the trees now leaned inward with impossible arches. Their bark smooth and gray as drowned bone, and where knots should’ve been were instead hollowed faces, soft and suggestive, as though the trunks had grown around someone who once leaned too long against them. One of the branches creaked in a slow, pendulum sway, even though there was no wind.

You tilted your head. The white moss underfoot looked soft, inviting—until you noticed it wasn’t growing in any natural pattern. It coiled in tight spirals, some large enough to circle your slippered feet, others small and delicate as lacework.

When you asked what he meant, what memory had to do with the trees, he only gave a crooked smile and pointed at your feet.

You looked down. The moss had formed perfect circles beneath your heels.

Spirals.

“See?” he said. “She’s already learnin’ you.”

And sure enough, even as you stood there, the spiral beneath you shifted. Just slightly. Not like a plant reacting to pressure, but something alive—tracing the shape of your sole, marking your weight, remembering the heat of your blood. It liked you.

Or worse—it recognized you.

He never called the place a graveyard. He called it “the kept.”

You first saw them while following a worn path between black pines—stones laid flat into the dirt, unmarked, sunk deep with age. You almost stepped on one before he reached out and caught your wrist, not harshly—just quick.

“Aye, mind where ye tread,” he said, voice gentle, Irish vowels lilting around the warning. “They don’t take kindly to bein’ disturbed.”

You stared at the stone. And then you realized it was moving. Not rising. Not moaning. But the soil above it—it breathed.

You took a step back, heart climbing into your throat.

“They don’t wake unless they’re called,” Remmick said softly. “But they listen.”

Far off, from a hollow deeper in the woods, a chime echoed. High and delicate, like a piano key played underwater. Another answered, lower, more metallic. You didn’t see the source, but you could feel them vibrating in your bones. And yet it didn’t frighten you.

He never told you how he died. You tried to ask. More than once.

The first time, he looked away. The second, he closed his mouth mid-sentence and didn’t speak for a full hour. Not angry. Never angry. Just—withdrawn. The third, he reached up and touched the ruined side of his jaw, as if he’d forgotten it was there.

Then he whispered, “Not yet,” and nothing more. You didn’t press.

Some things, you could feel, were kept buried by more than soil.

It was on the fifth day—if you trusted your own body’s clock—that you tried to leave.

You didn’t make a show of it. You waited until Remmick went still beneath the shade of a hollow tree, head tipped back, eyes closed like he was listening to something beyond your hearing. You crept away quietly. You didn’t look back.

You hadn’t meant to stay that long. You told yourself it was only curiosity, only caution, only until you understood what he was. But the forest had begun to feel too quiet in the right places. Remmick had begun to speak too softly, like a prayer meant only for you. And that was precisely the problem. He was too gentle. Too kind. Too patient.

You weren’t supposed to like any of this—weren’t supposed to be lulled by a dead man’s voice or find comfort in a world where bones lined bird nests and laughter came from unseen mouths. You ran not because you feared him. You ran because, terrifyingly, you didn’t.

At first, the trees parted for you. The path unfolded.

You ran.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t call his name. You just ran. But the forest…it shifted.

The branches overhead grew too low, too tangled. Vines curled beneath your feet like hands reaching out to stop you. A bramble reached out like a whip and slashed across your collarbone, slicing clean through the dress, nicking your skin just enough for blood to bead along the uneven seam of your cut. Still, you kept going.

Until you hit it.

The edge.

It wasn’t a wall—not exactly. It was air. Thick, humming, wrong. The veil between life and death. When you stepped into it, your skin felt like it peeled. Your lungs refused to fill. The world blurred and bent at the corners like warped glass.

You stumbled back, coughing. Gasping. Remmick was there. Not chasing. Not angry. Just there.

He caught you around the middle before your knees buckled, arms strong but careful, like you were made of spun sugar and he was afraid you'd shatter.

“Sshh, now,” he whispered, curling you to his chest, soothing, the brush of his lips, the bloodied network of muscle fiber and tendons woven through his jaw pressed to the side of yours, wet and textured, “easy, easy, you’re alright.”

“I—I had to try,” you managed, fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket. “I didn’t want to stay. I didn’t mean to—I can't stay.”

“Shhh,” he soothed again. “I know.”

You felt him exhale into your hair. Slow. Shaky.

“I know wee bride,” he murmured, the accent softening everything it touched. “But she don’t open the same way twice. Not once she’s taken a name.”

You pressed your forehead into his shoulder, trembling. And for the first time—you wondered. Not how you got here. Not how to undo it.

But if you even should.

You thought of Langdon. Of his thin lips, the contracts, the expectations. Of your mother, her quiet threats tucked into lace gloves. Of the veil that felt more like a burial shroud than a blessing.

And then you thought of the way Remmick had caught you—like a man catching the last soft thing left in the world.

Later—how much later, you couldn’t say—you sat with him in the moss-ringed clearing where the mushrooms bloomed like broken teeth, soft and damp and glowing faintly blue at their tips. The forest had gone quiet again, but not heavy this time. Not watching. It simply…was.

Remmick had taken to lying on his side, propped on one elbow, his ruined jaw turned slightly from view, though you were never sure if it was for your comfort or his.

His fingertips brushed through the withered stems, and chose one near the base of a crooked stone. It was long-dead, crumpled and brittle at the edges, the color all but drained. He held it up between thumb and forefinger, and as he rolled the stem, you watched something shift. The petals darkened—deepened—like blood soaking back into flesh. It bloomed, slow and unnatural, into the shape of a dried red rose. Not living, not quite—but remembering life. Like something dressed for mourning.

“These only grow where the veil’s thin,” he said quiet-like, voice laced with that low, lilting Irish bend. “Where things slip in and out. Couldn’t say for certain which side they’re meant for, if I’m honest.”

You didn’t reply. You just looked at him.

There was dirt under his nails. sediment clinging to his collarbone. His oxfords were still caked in grave mud, but he hadn’t touched you with anything other than gentleness.

Your voice felt small when you spoke. “Why did you wait?”

Remmick blinked slowly. His fingers stilled.

You clarified before he could pretend not to understand. “All this time. You said you felt me. But you were already down there, weren’t you? In the earth. Waiting for someone to call you back. Why?”

He didn’t answer right away. Didn’t shift. Didn’t look at you. And just when you were sure he wouldn’t speak—he did.

“I didn’t know I was waitin’,” he said, voice gone low, just a touch rough. “Not truly. Time goes quiet when you’re laid under like that. Y’don’t count the years. Some days, y’don’t even remember your own name.”

He looked at the sky through the trees.

“Sometimes I’d dream o’ faces. Yours, maybe. Or someone who looked like ye. Sometimes I’d think I heard someone weepin’. I’d think, was it me?”

You felt your chest tighten. Remmick smiled again, faint and lopsided, like a man recalling a song he hadn’t sung in years.

“But when I felt ye, I knew. I knew it weren’t just hunger or ghosts or wind. I knew it was real. Ye bled for me. Ye called for me.” He glanced over. “No one’s ever done that before.”

You stared at him. At his hands, broad and veined. At the faded chain around his throat. At the ring you’d slipped, thoughtlessly, onto the hand of a tree like a promise.

A tree that had promised back.

“I didn’t know what I was doing,” you said.

“I don’t care.”

You swallowed.

He said it without venom. Without accusation. Just—resolute. And maybe something softer curling underneath. He rolled onto his back, the moss giving way beneath him like a cradle.

“I’d have waited another thousand years for that drop of blood,” he said, quiet now. “Another thousand after that just to hear your voice say I do.”

You turned away. Not because you didn’t believe him. But because some part of you did. And it made your throat ache.

Your gaze drifted to the edge of the clearing, where the trees stood thick and close.

“Will it ever open again?” you asked. “The forest.”

Remmick didn’t move. “Aye. Someday. When she’s good and ready.”

“And if I’m not here when it does?”

He was quiet for a beat too long. Then:

“Then I’ll follow.”

That made you look back. He didn’t smile this time.

“I’d walk through fire to find you, wee bride.”

His voice was still Irish—but there was something else behind it now. Something old. Ancient. Something so sure of its longing it didn’t need to shout. It just was.

You realized, in that moment, how terribly lonely he must’ve been. How quiet his world had become. How loud your heartbeat must be to him now.

And how warm you still were.

He asked if you wanted to see the rest.

Didn’t demand. Didn’t lead without waiting. Just…offered.

With a hand half-outstretched and those eyes still puppy-wide, still lit like you were a miracle he was afraid to touch too quickly, lest you vanish into smoke.

You hesitated. But not long.

The forest parted for you both this time. Not like it had when you tried to run. Now it was more like—inviting. The way a house might creak its doors open when it recognizes one of its own.

You slipped your hand into his, the one that still wore flesh. His fingers were cold, yes—but not corpse-cold. Not the kind that bit. His hand was rough in places, as though he’d lived long enough to carry calluses even through death. His thumb flexed gently along your knuckles, testing. Not possessive. Just…checking.

Reassuring himself you were real.

He showed you the orchard first. Or what was left of it.

A grove of trees that no longer bore fruit, only ribbons—hundreds, thousands of them, hanging from the branches like wilted party streamers. Blue, white, ivory, pale lilac. Some patterned, some torn, some fraying from centuries of wind.

You reached up and touched one.

“They’re wishes,” Remmick said, voice softer than ever, his breath beside your cheek. “Made by the dead. Before they were buried.”

You turned to him.

“But they never came true?”

His expression shifted—fond, wistful.

“Some did. Some didn’t. Doesn’t matter.” He touched the ribbon nearest to him, the pad of his thumb brushing its edge. “It’s the hoping that counts, innit?”

You said nothing. The breeze moved the orchard like a lullaby.

Further in, he showed you a town of sorts.

Carved into the side of a crumbling cliff where the rock split into ribs and the stone seemed to breathe, the little village clung to the earth like a half-forgotten secret.

The houses were squat mudstone cottages, weathered and slouched, their chimney pots crooked like snapped fingers. Moss crept up their sides in thick velvety bands, swallowing old lanterns, window frames, and entire doorsteps. Windowpanes blinked with eyes pressed from the inside.

The doors were low and arched, some made of driftwood painted in peeling funeral hues—deep violet, waxy blue, iron black. A few homes had teacups balanced on their roofs. Others had shingles shaped like fingernails or pressed flowers. Bones hung from strings between rafters, clacking gently in the hush, arranged like wind chimes or family crests, each one carved or etched with little initials, or painted with the ash of something you couldn’t name.

A skeletal cat darted past your ankles, all jangling vertebrae and twitching tailbone, its paws clicking faintly against the cobbled path. Its jaw hung open in a rictus grin. You didn’t scream. It looked up at you once—empty sockets glittering faintly—and carried on.

And then the town began to move.

A shutter creaked open. A door whined on its hinges. A hatless man with no lower jaw swept the stoop of what looked to be a bakery, the scent of charred sugar and burnt cinnamon floating faintly from within. He nodded at you politely, bits of soot falling from the collar of his shirt, and kept sweeping. Further down the lane, a trio of old women sat in rocking chairs that had been nailed directly into the wall of a house—sideways, five feet off the ground—and knitted with thread made of silver hair. One of them had no eyes. The second had too many. The third winked at you with a socket.

“Don’t mind them,” Remmick murmured. “They been there long as I can remember. Like to keep to themselves.”

He led you past a crooked fountain that spewed a slow, syrupy trickle of black water, and through a crooked square strung with dim, blue lanterns that hung from lengths of discolored intestine braided like ribbon. In the center was a music box the size of a carriage, its brass bell warped and dented, still playing a waltz you could swear you remembered hearing in a dream long ago. No one danced to it—but some of them swayed.

There was a tailor’s shop with mannequins made of stitched skin and bent spoons. A chapel whose bell tower rang without sound. A bar, glowing faintly green from the inside, where shadows moved across the windows though the glass had long since clouded over with frost from the wrong side. A child floated by without legs, giggling into a jar that held a swarm of candleflies. You saw a man with a flowerpot for a head watering it with tea. A woman selling buttons shaped like teeth.

This was not a place that mourned death.

This was a place that remembered it, wore it, built tea tables from it.

Remmick led you down a sloping path toward a cottage built halfway into the stone, the door crooked, the curtains made of faded funeral veils.

“This was mine,” he said, his voice almost sheepish. He toed at the dust near the doorstep, head ducked slightly.

“When?” you asked.

He smiled faintly, lifting a shoulder. “When the veil was thinner. When the dead and the livin’ shared more than just memory.”

He said it like someone recalling the smell of something they’d never taste again. Like someone who’d tried, once, to live after he’d been buried.

You looked around you.

The town wasn’t decayed. It was…rearranged. It had rules you didn’t yet understand. Gravity worked only where it felt like it. The dead did not walk in straight lines. Some glided. Some bounced. Some stitched themselves together fresh each morning and wandered about humming.

And the strangest thing of all?

You didn’t feel afraid.

Not in the way you should have. Not even when you turned around and the fountain had grown teeth. Not even when a man tipped his hat and his entire scalp followed. Not even when a door sighed open with a voice like your own and whispered, Stay.

Remmick was beside you, his body casting a shadow even here, where most things didn’t. He looked at you not like you were lost—

But like you were home.

That night—you still called it night, even though the moon hadn’t moved—he brought you to a bridge.

It spanned over nothing. No river. No ravine. Just a stretch of fog and sky. A ghost bridge.

You sat beside him at the edge, your legs dangling off as if you could fall somewhere, though you knew you wouldn’t. He sat close. Close enough that your shoulder brushed his.

He didn’t move away.

“Used to dream o’ this,” he admitted, after a long silence. “Not the forest. Not the dirt. Not the blood.”

He looked over at you, slowly.

“Just this. You. Here.”

You couldn’t answer. Your throat ached again.

His voice dropped, deep in his chest, accent thick with emotion he couldn’t hide. “Haven’t been touched since they put me down.”

The confession wasn’t vulgar. Wasn’t even pleading. It was starved. He smiled, crooked and small. “Can’t remember the last time someone just…looked at me. Like I wasn’t somethin’ to be feared.”

He didn’t touch you again, not even your hand.

He didn’t need to.

Your fingers brushed his pinky. Slowly. Once.

And his breath hitched so sharp you felt it in your bones.

By the next day—if you could still call it that—you weren’t watching the sky anymore. Weren’t thinking about what the world looked like outside these woods.

You walked the paths beside him. You listened to the hush of wind that sang like violins through cracked branches. You let him point out where the ghost-lanterns grew, little flowers with glass bell-heads that chimed when you passed them. You started remembering the feel of his shoulder bumping yours and missing it when it wasn’t there.

And you started to wonder.

Would it really be so terrible if you stayed?

You asked yourself that once. Then again. Then again.

At first it was just a whisper behind your ear. A suggestion. But now it nestled behind your ribs. Grew there. Took root.

Because you remembered Langdon, didn’t you?

You remembered his hand on your waist at supper, always too firm, like you were something to steer. You remembered how he spoke over you in every conversation, like a man correcting a child he hadn’t bothered to raise. You remembered how the ring—his ring—had been handed to you by someone else. No kneeling. No asking. Just expectation.

You remembered the way his lips never curled unless he was closing a deal.

And then there was Remmick.

Who asked if you wanted to see the rest. Who offered you his hand like it might be too much. Who waited every time you hesitated, and looked like it hurt him to do so.

He smiled with his whole mouth—ruined and all. He grinned when you laughed, even if he didn’t understand why. He softened around you like someone desperate to remember warmth. Every time he brushed against you, it wasn’t accidental. It was careful. Measured. Hopeful.

He looked at you like he was still not sure he deserved to.

You sat on the bridge again. Together.

Remmick had his hands in his lap, thumbs tracing nervous circles against each other. Every now and then, he’d glance at you. Say nothing. Then glance again.

You finally looked back.

“What is it?” you asked.

He startled slightly, sheepish. “Ah—nothin’. I just…”

His jaw clicked when he closed his mouth, then tried again.

“Ye don’t wear nothin’ on your finger,” he murmured.

Your breath caught. “Remmick—”

“No, no, love, I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, huffing a laugh with no sound. “I know ye didn’t mean what ye said under the tree. I know ye weren’t…ye weren’t askin’ for all this.”

He paused, eyes dropping to the ring still on his own hand, the one you'd given him. “I just thought,” he added, quieter now, “maybe it’d feel a little less lopsided, is all.”

You didn’t know what to say. But your silence wasn’t rejection.

He must have felt that, because something flickered behind his eyes. He turned his palm over, and reached into the inside pocket of his coat. From it, he drew something strange.

A spool of hair, spun fine as thread—white and silvery-blue, like spider silk in moonlight. A broken thorn. A sliver of bone, no longer than a sewing needle. And the petal of one of those ghost-lantern flowers, shriveled but still glowing faintly at the edges.

He looked at you. Not for permission, exactly. Just to be sure you were still there.

Then he began.

He wrapped the hair into a loop, whispered to it in a language you didn’t understand—soft, low, rhythmic, like a lullaby hummed through soil. The thorn pierced the bone. The petal melted as it touched the band, fusing everything together in a slow flicker of light. It wasn’t magic like fireworks. It was quieter than that. Sadder. But it was real.

When it cooled, it had taken shape.

A ring. Fragile-looking, but solid. Matte white, like pearl gone to sleep. Veined faintly in red.

He offered it, resting on the flat of his palm like an offering. You looked at it. Then at him.

“It’s not a bindin’ spell,” he said softly. “I’d never do that to ye. It’s just a…a mark. That ye’ve been seen. That someone loved ye enough to make it.”

Your breath caught. You reached out, fingers trembling, and took the ring. And when you slipped it on—

The forest sighed.

Branches curled in. Flowers blinked open. The bridge beneath your feet thrummed like a harp string plucked once, gently.

And Remmick—Remmick made the smallest sound.

A choked inhale. Then, in a voice so soft it broke your heart:

“Ye look like someone worth waitin’ for.”

You don't remember dozing off.

But you did—still sitting beside him on the bridge, the soft weight of the ghost-ring warming your finger, his presence beside you steady as the moon that never shifted in the sky.

And when you woke, he was gone.

You startled upright, heart lurching. Your hand flew to the ring first—still there. Then to the edge of the bridge—still solid. The air felt heavier. Scented with something faint and iron-rich.

You called his name.

No answer.

Not at first.

You stood, blinking the fog from your lashes—and that’s when you saw it.

Laid carefully across the planks of the bridge, stretching in a line from your feet to the treeline beyond, was a trail of dead butterflies.

Hundreds of them. Each one perfectly intact, wings folded like prayer hands. Black as pitch with veins of crimson. Their bodies still. Sleeping. Dreaming. Waiting.

You followed.

Each step brought a rustle beneath your slippers, the softest stir of powder-dust wings. And up ahead—beneath the crooked trees that hung low like eaves—there he stood.

Remmick.

He had one hand behind his back, and his head tipped, sheepish as ever, like he’d been caught with something sinful in his pocket.

“Didn’t mean t’worry ye,” he said, voice soft.

You looked at the butterflies. Then back at him.

“What…is this?”

His smile wobbled.

“A bit of foolishness, maybe. Or maybe not.” He stepped forward, still holding whatever it was behind his back. “Back where I’m from… when we had no coin, no land, no dowry to offer—only things we’d taken from the earth—we’d still find a way t’make a gift.”

He stepped closer.

“An’ the most prized thing a man could offer…” He brought his hand forward.

In it, he held a locket.

But not gold. Not silver. It was made of bone, carved smooth and rounded into the shape of a heart. Not anatomically perfect—no, it was whimsical and off, a little uneven, the way a child might draw one. Etched into the surface were little spiral markings—like the moss had made beneath your heels that first day.

He opened it.

Inside was a pressed bluebell, perfectly preserved, its color dimmed to twilight. Across from it was a single moth’s wing, paper-thin and gleaming dully like wet stone—its veins iridescent, its edge slightly frayed. It shimmered like dusk and felt like a secret, as if it had been plucked from some dream before it could end.

Remmick didn’t explain right away. He only watched you open it, watched your thumb trace the curve of the petals, the fragile line of the wing. When he did speak, his voice had gone quieter, almost reverent.

“Th’bluebell,” he said, “they grow o’er graves where the dead were loved. Not all graves. Just the ones where someone wept hard enough t’water the earth.”

Your fingers stilled.

"And the wing?" you asked.

He hesitated. His eyes—those soft, wolf-sad things—lowered.

“She followed me once,” he said. “When I had no body. When I weren’t really a man at all. She’d land on me shoulder. Wouldn’t leave. Thought maybe she’d carry me soul somewhere if it ever got light enough.”

His smile came crooked. “She never did. But…I kept her. Just in case.”

You looked down at the locket again. At the love tucked carefully inside it—not gaudy, not gold, not spoken in flowers or poems, but in grief. In memory. In quiet things that didn’t ask for attention, only to be kept.

That was how he loved, you realized. Not loudly. Not demanding.

But devoutly.

With mourning in his blood and hope in his teeth. And you, wearing that little bone heart, felt something ancient stir beneath your ribs. Like maybe you'd been waiting for this place—this grave-bound man—just as much as he'd been waiting for you.

You blinked. Then laughed. It startled even you, the sound of it. But he didn’t flinch. Just watched, like you’d handed him the sun.

“I know it’s not what you’re used to,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, that left side of his face pulling with a skeletal twitch where the wound exposed too much. “But I’d like you to have it. If you want it.”

You took it with both hands.The weight of it pressed into your palms like a heartbeat. You looked at him.

At his eyes—those wide, sorrowful things that glowed only faintly red now, not from hunger, but hope. At the way he didn’t reach for you, didn’t presume. Just stood still. Waiting.

You reached up. Tied the chain around your neck. It settled just above your collarbone. Close to your throat. Close to where he watched your pulse.

When your hand brushed his chest after—just lightly, just shyly—he let out the breath he’d been holding like it was his last. That was the moment you knew.

Not the rose. Not the bridge. Not the ribbon orchard. Not even the ring.

This.

This strange, mournful creature who had carved you a heart from the bones of the dead. Who watched you like you were worth every moment of his waiting. Who asked for nothing except to love you.

And you thought—

I feel more alive here, in this place of ghosts and ghouls and goblins than I ever did among the living.

You didn’t say it. But you didn’t have to. Because the forest heard you.

And so did he.

You held the locket in your palm long after it cooled, long after the weight of his gaze had eased—but not faded. He didn’t speak again. Only watched you with that tremble behind his smile, like he was scared his own heart might make too much noise and scare you off.

You looked at him. Really looked.

The sharp, wolfish teeth. The wound yawning over the right side of his jaw, red-veined and lipless but somehow not grotesque—just raw, unhealed, honest. The way his suit jacket hung slightly crooked over his frame. The moss in his hair from when he’d laid down in the grove beside you and listened to your voice like it was music. The wedding band still on his finger, slightly dirty with time passing but not with meaning.

You thought of the bluebell. Of the moth wing. Of all the things buried. And you asked, gently, “you never did get to kiss your bride, did you?”

He blinked. His breath caught like a match about to light. “No,” he said, slowly, voice cracking around the edges, thick with barely restrained emotion. “Never did.”

You stepped closer. Bare feet brushing bone-white moss, slippers silent as ghosts. The town behind you stirred like something dreaming—warm, moon-drowsy lamplight spilling from crooked windows. A cart creaked past on rusted wheels, pulled by a skeletal mule with eyes like glow-worms. Somewhere overhead, a thousand paper bats took flight from the belfry, flapping on stringy wings like dying leaves.

You lifted your hand.

Touched his face—gently, gently—cupping the uninjured side, but letting your thumb rest just at the edge of that ruined jaw. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t lean in.

He just…stood there. As if he was scared his own desire might shatter him.

“Then kiss her now,” you whispered. “She’s right here.”

Remmick’s eyes burned. Not metaphorically. Literally.

A ring of red swallowed his dark gaze—glowing like coals in a hearth that hadn’t felt breath in years. His lips parted, a tiny whimper caught between them. His hand twitched at his side, then lifted—hovering over your waist, then pulling back, trembling.

“I—” he choked. “Tell me if y’don’t want it. I’ll wait, I swear, just—just say it, an’ I’ll wait ‘til the grave grows cold.”

You didn’t answer.

You kissed him.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t chaste. It was raw and starved and aching. His hand finally landed on your back, gripping your gown in a fist like it was the only thing tethering him to the world. His mouth was cold—unnaturally so—but the longer it moved against yours, the warmer it got, like you were coaxing heat back into him.

He whimpered into you.

That sound—ragged and small—was almost too much.

His other hand found your cheek. Not greedy. Just reverent. Like he couldn’t believe you were solid under his fingertips.

And all around you, the forest bloomed.

Not with roses or lilies—but with boneflowers and glowing toadstools, with lantern-bugs that lit the air like constellations. Wind chimes made from ribs began to sing, and the belltower rang once, a low, humming note that quivered like a heartbeat.

You didn’t want to pull away.

Not because it was perfect. But because it wasn’t. Because it was messy and trembling and stitched together from grief and longing and the quiet, sacred madness of being wanted exactly as you were.

When you finally parted, his forehead dropped to yours.

“Christ above,” he whispered, voice gone soft and accented and wet with disbelief, “Ye taste like warmth. Like bloody spring after a thousand years o’ frost.”

You smiled.

Because for the first time in your life, you believed someone meant it.

His forehead rested against yours, breath shaky and uneven as if he’d forgotten how to need anything until now.

The world around you hummed in its stillness. Lantern-light flickered like breath behind gauze. Something in the cliffs sighed—the sound of wind moving through the hollow spaces of a place not meant for the living. The scent of old parchment and smoke-moss clung to the air. The boneflowers glowed dimmer now, like candles burned low in anticipation.

Remmick’s hand still cradled your cheek, reverent as a benediction. His thumb moved once, a trembling stroke along your jaw.

You looked at him. Really looked. The way his lashes fluttered like he couldn’t hold your gaze too long. The way his lips—wet, bitten, parted—trembled just slightly even though he’d stopped kissing you. He looked stunned. Like a man waking from a century-long dream and realizing heaven hadn’t been a lie after all.

You pressed your hand over the one still clutching your back.

And you asked, very softly, “Is there somewhere we can go?”

He blinked. “Go?”

Your thumb brushed his wrist.

“Somewhere private,” you said. “Somewhere we can be alone.”

You let the weight of your meaning hang there, open. Raw.

His eyes—still rimmed in that glowing red, still almost black where the light didn’t touch—widened just slightly.

He didn’t speak right away.

Then: “Y—ye mean…”

You nodded.

He let out a breath that wasn’t a laugh, wasn’t a sob, but something caught in the middle. His jaw flexed, the muscles around the torn part twitching as if it ached to smile and didn’t remember how.

“Aye,” he said at last, breathless. “Aye, I—Christ. C’ourse there is.”

You followed him through the quiet town, through paths lined with broken gravestones and wrought-iron gates wrapped in black ivy. The skeletal mule lifted its head as you passed, but didn’t move. The sky flickered between colors that didn’t exist aboveground—indigo, absinthe green, deep plum, midnight rust.

The house he led you to was small, crooked, nestled between two weeping trees. Its windows were frosted over from the inside, but lanterns glowed behind them—soft and inviting, not gold but something bluer, like the edge of candlelight seen through tears.

He opened the door and held it for you, eyes not leaving your face even once.

And when you stepped inside, the house breathed around you.

Like it had been waiting too.

The moment you stepped inside, the door shut behind you with a hush like a drawn curtain. No click. No finality. Just the sound of something sealing the world away—just the two of you now, cocooned in this crooked little house where time didn’t dare intrude.

It was warm, impossibly so. Not with fire, but with memory.

Lanterns floated untethered above the room, bobbing gently like sleeping fireflies in glass cages. Their glow was the color of old violets pressed between pages—dim, wistful, soft. A chair sat crooked beside a hearth with no fire, its frame carved with sigils too old to name. The walls were mismatched wood and stone, patched in places with stained-glass panels that bled moody light across the floor. Dust danced in the air like confetti made from ash and pearl.

And across the room stood a bed.

Not some pristine matrimonial thing. No, this was older. Lovingly worn. A frame of twisted wrought iron and bone-white wood, headboard etched with curling ivy and crescent moons. The sheets were moth-gray and velvet-soft, tucked in neat but frayed at the edges like they'd been waiting for years—centuries—to be touched again.

Remmick lingered behind you, his presence like a shadow you didn’t want to outrun. He hadn’t stepped closer yet. He was giving you space. But you could feel the way he vibrated with restraint. His hand hovered just inches from your back, like he couldn’t trust himself to touch without unraveling.

“If ye…” he began, and his voice cracked down the middle. He cleared his throat, tried again. “If ye’ve changed yer mind, just say the word. I’ll not take a thing ye don’t want to give, not even a breath.”

You turned to face him.

There was nothing hungry in his stance. Not yet. Just reverence. Just awe. But something in you had already begun to ache with want.

You stepped closer, silent as snowfall, until your fingers found the button of his collar. He startled at the contact—but didn’t stop you.

“I’m not scared of you,” you said, voice hushed. “I want this.”

You slid off the suit jacket, palms skimming the broad expanse of his shoulders, Remmick's lashes fluttering in response. Underneath, you found a pair of suspenders stretched taut over his chest, creating wrinkles in the fabric of his collared dress shirt.

You undid the top button. He didn’t move. Then Another.

His throat worked around a swallow, breath trembling. The glow in his eyes flickered, pulsing, softening. Like it responded to your touch.

Another.

You watched his chest rise and fall, slow and shallow as he tried not to pant. As if the sheer fact of you, undressing him—not in horror, not with trembling hands, but deliberately—was too much.

Another.

You laid your palms flat against his chest now, pushing the shirt from his shoulders. The white wife beater underneath clung to him, threadbare and soft, stretched over his broad frame. He was muscular in that quiet, devastating way—someone who’d labored long past death. His chest heaved with breath he didn’t need.

He hadn’t stopped watching your face.

Not once.

“I dunno if I remember how to do this slow,” he murmured, voice hitching on every word. “I’m too far gone for gentle if ye ask me to take too much control.”

You smiled, cupping the side of his neck. The unbroken one.

“Then let me.”

You stepped back once, your own hands now at the hem of your gown, torn at the hem, blood dried like rust at your shin. You pulled it loose now, bit by bit, letting it fall from your shoulders with the softest sigh of fabric meeting floor, leaving you in just your panties.

Remmick stared. His lips parted. No sound. His knees bent slightly, like he was fighting the urge to fall to them.

“Sweet hell,” he whispered, reverently. “Ye look like…like the night I died dreamin’ someone might love me anyway.”

And then, as if the words had summoned it, the lanterns above bloomed brighter, casting kaleidoscope patterns over your bare skin. The stained-glass windows threw ribbons of blue and red and indigo across your collarbones, your hips, your thighs.

Remmick reached out—slowly, slowly—and let the backs of his fingers trail along your arm. He didn’t dare touch your breasts. Not yet. He touched the hollow of your elbow. The dip of your wrist. The edge of your shoulder where your gown had once kissed your skin.

“Are ye sure?” he breathed.

You nodded.

“Lay with me.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath since his last life.

And then he moved.

He moved like he wasn’t sure he was allowed.

Like the spell might break if he touched you too boldly—if he let himself believe for even a moment that he could have this. Have you.

You were already on the bed, the velvet beneath you rich and rippling like ink-stained water. Your head resting against moth-gray pillows. The locket he’d given you pressed cool against your breastbone, shifting with every breath. The air smelled of petrichor, moonlight, and something sweeter—something you’d begun to associate only with him. A scent like charred lilac and old longing.

Remmick knelt beside the mattress on one knee, wide palms gripping the edge of the frame like it was the only thing keeping him from coming undone.

“Christ, darlin’,” he rasped, his voice thick, slurred just slightly with his Irish cadence. “Ye don’t know what ye’re doin’ to me.”

But you did.

You could see it—see the way his jaw clenched, the left side twitching faintly where the skin had long since been torn away. The way his fangs caught on his lower lip, not bared, but there—unavoidable. You could see how hard he was fighting himself, how deeply he was suppressing the parts of him he feared you’d flinch from.

You didn’t flinch.

Instead, you reached for him, fingers curling into the front of his thin undershirt. Pulled him closer.

“Remmick,” you whispered. “It’s alright.”

He froze above you, nose inches from yours.

“I can’t—”

“You can.” You cupped his cheek, gently thumbing along the edge of exposed muscle. Not in disgust. Not in pity. But in affection. “I want all of you.”

Something in him broke.

He surged forward with a noise caught between a sob and a growl, his mouth crashing against yours. It was not the kiss of before—this one had heat, had desperation, the kind of longing that hadn’t been touched in over a thousand years. His lips were cold, but his tongue burned. You tasted the salt of old grief and something copper-sharp beneath it. His hands—God, those hands—one cupped your jaw while the other slid around your ribs, feeling flesh and bone simultaneously, cradling your back like you were sacred, like he might be punished for touching you too hard but couldn’t stop himself even if he tried.

“So soft—” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your neck. “So fuckin’ soft, love, like the world before it soured…”

His fangs dragged the faintest line along your throat. Not piercing—just testing. Just tasting. His breath hitched like it pained him to hold back.

And you whispered again:

“It’s fine.”

That was all he needed.

A low, guttural moan tore from his chest as he finally let himself grip you harder—your hips, your thighs, hauling you into his lap like he needed you closer, needed your skin pressed to his or he might rot again right there on the floor. His body was strong, stronger than a man’s should’ve been, and you could feel that strength now as he spread your thighs wide and settled between them, the weight of him pressing down deliciously heavy.

He groaned when he felt the heat of you beneath the fabric, when your legs wrapped around his waist. He wasn’t shy anymore. His teeth caught on your lower lip as he kissed you again, hungrier now, drooling slightly with want—not from gluttony, but from sheer, unbearable starvation.

“Ye smell like everythin’ I’ve ever lost,” he murmured raggedly. “And everythin’ I thought I’d never be allowed to touch again.”

His hips rolled once, helplessly, against yours. You felt the hardness of him, thick and restrained behind old linen and buttons. His breath hitched, head dropping to your shoulder.

“I’m tryin’, I swear it, I’m tryin’ to be slow…”

“You don’t have to be,” you told him, voice gone small and shaking. “I’m not afraid of you. I want you. All of you. Even the parts you’re trying to hide.”

He lifted his head slowly—eyes glowing red now, the pupils huge and blown with need.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathed. “Marryin’ me twice over, sayin’ that.”

You hadn’t meant to tempt him. Not exactly. But you’d said the words—I want all of you—and now you could feel what that meant in the trembling of his fingers as they hovered over your body. Not touching. Not yet. Just breathing you in like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening. That you were happening.

His voice cracked through the hush of the room. “D’you know what yer sayin’, love?” He cupped the back of your neck, gentle as a grave flower. His thumb dragged along your pulse like he was listening to it. “A thousand years o’ hunger in me…an’ you go sayin’ that?”

Your answer came not in words but in action—pulling his hand down, pressing it against your chest so he could feel your heart race for him. For this. For the way his eyes glowed like twin embers in the dark.

That did it.

He surged forward, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “Then lie back for me, mo chroí,” he breathed. “Let me see what I’ve been dreamin’ of since before I knew what dreamin’ meant.”

You reclined against the velvet, heat curling low in your stomach, and Remmick followed you down—kneeling between your legs like a knight in a fairy tale gone all wrong and better for it. His skin caught the light, that blue like moonlight over still water, marred only by the right side of his jaw—where muscle and bone were laid bare, yet never once did he try to turn his face away from you.

Because you didn’t flinch.

You reached up and traced the edge of the torn flesh, and he shuddered, a sound like something old breaking loose in his chest.

He kissed you then—not hurried, but deep, wet, needy—and his hand came to rest between your thighs, warm despite everything. His fingers traced the seam of your inner thigh first, featherlight, before his mouth followed. Down your jaw. Your throat. Lower.

Praise spilled from him like prayer:

“Look at ye—soft as sin, warm as summer rain—ain’t never seen anythin’ like ye.”

He mouthed at your thighs, biting down just enough to make you gasp, but never break the skin. He lapped at the indentations like he wanted to memorize every tremble, every twitch. When your legs started to close reflexively, he hooked an arm around one, spreading you wider with a low, sinful groan.

“No, no, love. Let me see. Let me taste. It’s been so long—I’ll be good, I swear it, I’ll make ye forget everythin’ but me.”

His hand moved between your legs again—rough palm against soft heat. He doesn't remove your panties yet, content to tease you through the., letting the slick there soak into the cotton. He rutted his palm against you, slow and grinding, until your hips started chasing it.

You keened. And he moaned in response—open-mouthed, desperate.

“Fuckin’ drippin’ f’r me already…ain’t even had a taste…”

And he did.

One long stripe with his tongue over the damp cotton. Then another. Until he was panting into you like a starving man nosing through the seam of your underwear. One hand splayed over your belly, keeping you still.

Then he sucked the fabric into his mouth like he could wring the taste of you through it.

When you gasped, he looked up—eyes blown wide, red rimmed, lips wet and parted.

“Beggin’ ye,” he whispered. “Let me have ye proper, yeah? Just me mouth for now—let me make ye sing, mo chroí, let me worship ye like the altar ye are.”

And when you nodded—more a whimper than a yes—he pulled your panties aside and groaned, deep and broken.

You didn’t expect him to kiss your cunt.

But he did.

Like he meant it.

Like it was holy.

He parted you with reverence—his breath hot against your folds, one trembling hand holding your thigh like it anchored him to the earth. The other lay against your belly, fingers twitching as though resisting the urge to claw, to grasp, to sink into your softness and never let go.

And then…he kissed you.

Not rushed. Not ravenous. Just lips to flesh, slow and aching, as if the act itself might undo him. As if his very mouth might shatter around you—and he’d welcome the breaking.

Your back arched.

Not from shock—but from the texture.

Because his mouth wasn’t whole.

His lips were soft, yes. Warm, even. But where the skin gave way—where bone and sinew lay exposed, where every sharp, imperfect tooth glistened with preternatural hunger—his kiss became something otherworldly.

It should’ve been frightening.

It wasn’t.

It was devastating.

You felt it not just in your cunt, but in your spine, your ribs, your soul. He didn’t just use his tongue—though God, that tongue, wet and thick and curling with practiced strokes that told you he hadn’t forgotten how to ruin a woman—he used his mouth in full. The broken parts. The jagged ones.

He scraped—not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to tease. Just enough to remind you this wasn’t a dream. That this was him. Remmick. The dead man with the living hands. The monster with the gentle touch.

He licked you like you were spun sugar and sacrament, and when he pressed his tongue flat against your clit and sucked, your hands shot to his hair, tangled in it, dragging him closer—

He moaned. Moaned into you, like the taste alone could kill him.

“Christ alive,” he rasped, pulling back for half a second to pant against your slick. His voice was wrecked, thick with emotion and want, thick with his Irish cadence.

He ducked back down—open mouth, flat tongue, slow circles that made your thighs tremble—and then slid two fingers inside you in one smooth, devastating motion.

“Tight little thing,” he whispered, “grippin’ me like ye missed me your whole life.”

You sobbed something between his name and God and yes, your thighs clenching around his ears, and he groaned again—deeper this time—rutting against the bed like he was getting off on the noises you made alone.

And somewhere between the moaning and the wet pop of his mouth over your clit, somewhere between the slurp of his tongue and the squelch of his fingers moving inside you, the thought came—

My mother warned me of what goes bump in the night.

She whispered it when you were little. When the winds howled. When the floorboards creaked.

She said, “There are monsters, my love. Stay in the light.”

And now here you were, sprawled beneath one, flushed and soaked and gasping, letting him drag you apart with teeth and tongue.

You wondered what she’d say if she saw you like this.

If she knew that you’d chosen the dark—and begged it to keep you.

You felt it coming.

Not like a storm—fast and brutal—but like a tide, rising slow. Heat bloomed between your hips, slow and dangerous. Your thighs ached with the effort of keeping him there, like if you let go he’d vanish back into the earth that made him.

And still he stayed. Mouthing at your cunt like a man devoted. Like a man damned.

His eyes fluttered shut as his tongue circled your clit, drawing wet, lazy shapes—infinity, you thought, or a name—until you couldn’t tell where his mouth ended and your body began.

And then—

His eyes opened.

They glowed dimly at first, that reddish hue flickering like coal beneath ash. But when he felt your hand trembling against his scalp—when you whimpered “Remmick, I—”, his gaze snapped to yours.

Locked. Frozen. Held. It wasn’t lust you saw there. It was awe. It was reverence.

It was a man who hadn’t been touched in thirteen hundred years, now watching you—bare, flushed, trembling—fall apart beneath his mouth like a blessing.

His lips glistened. His fingers curled inside you, stroking something sharp and sacred. And still, he didn’t look away.

He stared at you like he was watching the stars be born. Like you were the only heaven he ever hoped to find.

And you knew—without him saying it—that if you asked him to stop, he would. If you asked him to die again, he would.

But you didn’t want that. You wanted more. So you said nothing.

You only whispered, voice shaking, “Don’t look at me like that.”

His jaw twitched. His breath caught. Then came his voice, low and ruined:

“Can’t help it, darlin’. Ye look like salvation.”

And you broke.

Your thighs clamped around his ears. Your back arched. You came with a sound so soft it felt like mourning. Like prayer. Like surrender.

And Remmick—beautiful, monstrous, trembling—moaned like he’d been given breath again.

He kept licking you through it. Slower now. Gentler. One last kiss to your clit, soft and grateful. He pressed his cheek to your thigh, jaw wound resting against your skin like it belonged there.

And still, his eyes never left your face.

After, you pulled him up.

He came willingly. Crawled over you with something almost shy in the set of his shoulders, the way his body trembled despite its strength. You reached for him—and for a moment, he hesitated, like he couldn’t believe you were still here. That you wanted this. That you wanted him.

You cupped his face.

Cold skin. The torn edge of his right jaw like worn marble. One fang brushing your thumb where it passed his lip. His eyes flickered between black and red—uncertain, afraid he might be dreaming.

“Remmick,” you said, your voice thick and still breathless, “do you want me?”

The question broke something in him.

He nodded too fast, like a man who’s never been given permission to hope. “Aye. Christ, aye, I do—been wantin’ ye since the trees took yer scent. Since ye bled on the bark and woke me.”

Your fingers trailed down his chest, down the wife beater—until you reached his belt. He sucked in a breath, whole body twitching when your knuckles brushed the tented front of his trousers.

“Then show me,” you whispered. “Show me how much.”

His mouth twitched into a smile, wide and crooked. “Ye don’t know what ye ask, lass.”

You leaned up, lips brushing his jaw, your whisper soft and sharp against his skin. “Then show me anyway.”

He kissed you—harder this time, desperate now, hips grinding against your thigh with the ragged rhythm of a man barely keeping himself leashed. His tongue pushed into your mouth, all heat and hunger, and you could taste blood and lavender and something older, something wild, on his tongue.

And God, he kissed like he meant to die in your mouth. When he pulled back, his voice rasped, thick and low:

“Ye sure?”

You nodded once. Twice. Then said it, clear and sure:

“I want to feel you inside me.”

He shuddered. Not just a tremble—but a full-body quake, as if your words went deeper than skin, straight to the buried places inside him.

“Then lie back, ma wee bride,” he murmured, voice shaking, thick with that Irish lilt you’d grown to crave. “Let me make a proper mess of ye.”

He moved slowly, reverently, as he undressed you fully, fingers shaking as they peeled your underwear down. His breath caught at every inch of exposed skin, like he was memorizing it with his mouth slightly parted.

He bent low, kissed the inside of your thigh again—then your hip, your stomach, your ribs. Worshipful. Starved.

And when he reached for himself, undid the buckle of his trousers with fumbling hands, he looked up at you once more, almost apologetic.

“I—ah—may not last long,” he confessed, shame flickering across his face. “Not when ye’re lookin’ at me like that. Not when I’ve waited this long. I’ll—I'll make it up to ye, I swear it—”

You touched his face again.

“Then come undone for me, Remmick,” you whispered. “You’ve waited long enough.”

He lowered himself between your thighs like a man preparing for worship, not fucking.

His forehead pressed to your sternum. His breath trembled. You felt him—not just the weight of his body, but the heat of him, pulsing against your thigh, thick and straining beneath your touch.

And God, he was big.

You glanced down and saw it—long and flushed dark at the tip, veined like marble, so hard he twitched in time with his breath. The way his cock curved heavy toward his stomach made your breath catch. He looked like something carved from sin.

He saw your eyes widen and started to pull back.

“I—I’ll wait, love, I’ll—”

“No,” you breathed, grabbing his arm. “I want it. I want you. Just…slow.”

He swallowed, hard. His throat clicked.

“Gonna ruin ye,” he whispered, voice thick with Irish dusk and awe. “Gonna stretch ye wide and deep and still wish I could go deeper.”

Your legs parted further on instinct. Your heels dragged the sheets. He looked down at you like you were something sacred, worshipped and half-afraid of.

Then his hand moved between your thighs.

His fingers—two at first, slow and careful—slid back into your soaked heat, working you open gently, watching for every flinch, every sharp breath. His jaw—half-torn and glowing faintly with the light of his hunger—tightened.

“Look at ye,” he whispered hoarsely, breath like a vow. “So soft f’r me. So warm already.”

Your hips arched into his hand. You whined when his thumb brushed your clit, your hands clutching at his shoulders, his name escaping your lips again and again in half-sobs.

“Please, Remmick,” you gasped.

He kissed your knee. Your hip. Your inner thigh again. Then—

He lined himself up with you, shaking. “I can feel ye callin’ f’r me,” he said, voice low, trembling. “Can feel yer body beggin’ mine to belong.”

You didn’t have words for what he made you feel. Only need. Only the hot, aching stretch inside as he finally pressed forward, the thick head of his cock nudging into you with aching slowness.

And God—the burn. It wasn’t pain. It was too much and not enough all at once. You clutched his arms. Gasped. He froze.

“Too much?” he rasped. “Do I stop?”

“No—Remmick—don’t stop,” you moaned, “just—go slow—”

And he did. So slow, like he was trying not to shatter.

His cock dragged deeper, inch by inch, your walls clutching at him, your slick coating him as he bottomed out in you with a shudder that shook his whole body. His arms shook. His forehead dropped to yours. His mouth opened but nothing came out—not until your name escaped his throat on a cracked, desperate sound that felt more like prayer than pleasure.

“Fookin’ Christ,” he choked, barely moving, buried to the hilt inside you. “Ye feel—Gods above—ye feel like fire.”

You were full. So full. Stretched in a way that left your eyes fluttering, your voice catching in your throat. You didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to breathe. You only wanted to feel him there, pulsing deep inside, trembling like you were the first sunrise he’d ever seen.

And maybe you were.

He stayed there, deep and still, as if even the smallest movement might break you. His eyes squeezed shut. His jaw flexed against the side of your throat. You could feel him shaking—not from strain, but from the restraint it took not to move.

You wrapped your arms around his neck.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, mouth brushing the shell of his ear. “I can take it.”

He didn’t answer at first. Just trembled, breath warm on your shoulder. But the sound he made when your hips tilted up—when your walls squeezed gently around him—wasn’t human.

It was a groan wrenched up from the deepest part of him. A sound centuries old.

“Ye don’t know what ye’re sayin’,” he rasped. “Ye don’t know what I’ll do if ye tell me I can…”

“I do,” you whispered, meeting his gaze. “I want you to.”

And that’s what broke him.

The first thrust was shallow, but sharp—his hips twitching forward, grinding deep. Your mouth fell open, a gasp slipping past your lips. He did it again. Then again. Each movement just a little rougher, a little more desperate. Until he was fucking you with the kind of pace that spoke of appetite, not lust.

He pressed you down into the sheets, breathing ragged, body arched over yours like he couldn’t get close enough. His lips dragged down your throat, over your collarbone, mouthing at the tops of your breasts like a man starving.

He muttered something in Irish against your skin—raw, thick, ruined—but you didn’t need to understand it. You felt what it meant in the way he rutted into you, deep and fast, his cock dragging along the parts of you no one else had ever touched.

You sobbed his name.

Your nails dug into his shoulders. You felt his back ripple beneath your hands, all sinew and strength, every part of him working to fuck you the way he’d been dreaming of since long before your first breath.

“You feel me?” he groaned into your mouth. “Deep in that sweet lil cunt, aye? So warm—so wet—I could drown in ye.”

You cried out, back arching, thighs trembling.

His mouth kissed down your breast, licking over your nipple before sucking it between his teeth. Your whole body jerked beneath him.

“Fook,” he breathed against your skin. “Ye’re squeezin’ me like you like it when I lose m’self.”

“I do,” you sobbed. “I want you to—Remmick, please—don’t stop—”

He didn't.

He pounded into you, hips snapping, the slick drag of his cock obscene as your bodies slapped together. His jaw wound gleamed faintly with wet, his eyes glowing a deep carnelian red. But even with his mouth parted, his teeth sharp, even with the beast in him taking hold—he still looked at you like he loved you.

Loved you, even if he didn’t dare say it yet. You clenched around him. His rhythm faltered.

He growled, low and broken, “Tell me if I hurt ye, love. Tell me—swear it—”

“You’re perfect,” you whimpered, tears slipping down your cheeks. “You’re perfect, Remmick.”

His forehead dropped to yours. Then he rutted into you with such bruising depth, you saw stars.

He couldn’t stop shaking.

Even as his body rocked into yours, even as your legs wrapped around his hips and your nails raked down the meat of his back, Remmick trembled like a man possessed.

“Can’t hold m’self back,” he whispered, voice rough and wrecked and soaked in longing. “Not when ye’re like this—soft and beggin’ beneath me—so fuckin’ warm—”

“Then don’t,” you breathed. “Remmick, please—don’t stop—don’t hold back—just take me—”

Your words undid him.

He groaned low in his chest, mouth falling open, and something inside him slipped. His pace turned brutal—not cruel, never cruel—but driven. Like centuries of craving finally had a body to answer to.

Like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted, and the wait had nearly broken him.

The frame of the bed creaked beneath his rhythm. Your thighs trembled around his hips, slick and trembling, your body rocked with every deep, ragged thrust. And still—still—he tried to speak.

“You feel me, yeah?” he rasped, forehead pressed to yours. “Deep in that sweet cunt…like I belong there. Like I was meant to be there—"

Your hands curled at his nape. Your lips brushed his ear.

“You do,” you said.

That was all it took.

Remmick let go.

His body slammed flush against yours, hips stuttering hard, cock pulsing deep inside you with a heat so full, so heavy, it knocked the breath from your lungs.

He groaned brokenly against your skin, his whole body arching as he spilled inside you—deep, thick, endless—his forehead resting against yours like he had nowhere else left to go.

You clung to him. His breath hitched. Then again.

And when you looked down between your bodies, when your thighs parted with a sticky ache—you saw the proof of him leaking back out of you, thick and warm where you were still stretched around the base of his cock.

A creamy ring of white.

Remmick saw it, too.

He moaned—deep, guttural—and pulled you closer, nosing at your throat like he was afraid you’d disappear. “So full of me,” he whispered, dazed. “Look at ye. Stuffed so pretty…”

You kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Remmick,” you whispered.

His eyes fluttered open.

And when you looked into them—when you saw the pain, the wonder, the sheer reverence—you knew. He’d been waiting longer than you’d been alive. For this. For you.

His voice cracked, Irish accent trembling:

“Don’t leave me, love. Not now. Not ever.”

You kissed him back.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

The air felt different after.

Not warmer, not colder—but fuller. As if something ancient and unseen had exhaled at last. A spell released. A promise made flesh.

Remmick lay tangled beside you, arms wrapped tight around your body like he didn’t know how to let go. His cheek pressed to your shoulder, jaw wound cool and tender against your skin. His breath was shallow, uncertain—like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

You watched the glow-worm lanterns drift lazily overhead. Somewhere outside, the bones in the wind chimes knocked gently together like teeth. The forest whispered.

You should’ve been afraid.

Of the damp, breathing woods. Of the moss that learned your name. Of the way the moon never moved and the veil hung so thin you could taste it when you kissed him.

But you afraid. You were…calm.

He stirred slightly when you traced a lazy pattern down his back—soft whorls against undead skin still damp with sweat. A low, content sound rumbled in his throat, and he nosed into the crook of your neck, whispering something like “m’wife…” so quietly, you weren’t sure if it was meant for you or just the silence.

And God help you, you smiled.

It hadn’t been love with Mr. Langdon. It hadn’t even been kindness.

It had been a future written in ink not your own. One you’d been expected to accept without complaint, because it was tidy. Respectable. Fitting of a girl raised to smile politely, to never contradict her elders, to marry for property and speak only when spoken to.

Your mother had called it security.

Had warned you to stay away from things that wandered in the woods. From things with glowing eyes and sharpened teeth. Things that hungered.

And now—

Now you lay in a moss-slick bed of dirt and silk, bare and marked and full of one such thing. You wore his locket. His bite. His ring.

You brushed your fingers along the smooth place at your neck where his lips had lingered. A perfect bruise. A signature.

And still you weren’t afraid. You weren’t ashamed. You were…

Content.

“I wish I’d met ye sooner,” he whispered against your collarbone. “Back when I still knew how to be a man.”

You turned your head, met his eyes. Those wide, glowing eyes.

“You still are.”

He swallowed, expression caught between reverence and disbelief.

“I ain’t decent,” he said, voice thick with that Irish lilt again. “Ain’t clean. Ain’t right. I sleep in the dirt, I feed when I must, and I carry more ghosts than I do breath in m’lungs.”

“You’re kind,” you said.

“A monster.”

“You’re mine.”

He closed his eyes at that.

You rested your palm over his heart—cold and still. But when you pressed closer, you could swear something stirred there. Like an echo. Like a wish.

He buried his face in your chest, arms tightening around your waist. And you let him hold you.

You never looked back again.

Not at Langdon. Not at the mother who warned you off the dark but allowed the devil in anyway. Not at the world where your name was written beside a stranger’s in a church you hated.

Instead, you stayed in the belly of the forest. In the town built of bones and moss and memory. You watched the ribbons in the orchard sway like breath. You fed the skeletal cat scraps of peach and laughed when it swiped at your slipper. You kissed your husband when the wind moaned, and whispered promises against his cheek when his hands trembled.

Because you loved him. Because he waited.

And because when you reached for a tree with trembling hands and a bloodstained ring, he was the one who answered.

Not Langdon. Not God.

Him.

On the morning the bluebell bloomed again—only one, shy and frost-bitten—you knelt beside it with Remmick and whispered,

“Maybe this was the wish that came true.”

He stared at the bloom, then at you. And smiled.

“I ran from a man with a pulse,” you whispered, lacing your fingers through your undead husband’s. “But I stayed for the one with a soul.”

#what if you eloped with a folkloric cryptid and it was romantic actually #macbre meet-cute #arranged marriage to a living man? cringe. spontaneous vows to a crypt-dweller? peak.#i hope the world translated well!! Tim Burton is a very visual storyteller so I'm nervous lol #i had a lot of fun writing this one!!#sinners remmick #remmick #remmick x reader #remmick x you #remmick smut #remmick x reader smut #jack o'connell

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em1i2a3 · 8 hours ago

Text

Driver

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Fem!Reader!

Summary: Rhett has been having fantasies about you in only his cowboy hat.

Warning: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut smut smut, and fluff, Rhett and reader are in an established relationship

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up cowboys and cowgirls, yeehaaw), Oral Sex (fem receiving!), Teasing, Dirty Talk (with that ol’ southern twang), Praise Kink, Grinding.

Authors Note: RAF (RHETT ABBOTT FRIDAYS!!!) Yall I frickin love Rhett Fucking Abbott, writing for this man is so fun! I enjoy it so much. Love me a doe eyed cowboy 😭 hope yall enjoy! And thank you for the request @totaldystopiannerd It was so frickin fun to write! Oh my lord! (That gif definitely has the hat in question lol)

Word Count: 6,360

Side Note: thank you to @receedingdawn for the fucking banging banner

It was a lazy Friday night at your place.

Rhett didn’t have any rides tonight, thankfully–no rodeo, no arena lights, no crowds, no eight-second countdowns buzzing in his ears. It was just you and the quietness of your trailer. This was the kind of night he never used to have until you showed up in his life and brought him into the peacefulness of yours.

He was stretched out on your bed in an old t-shirt and a pair of plaid pyjama bottoms he kept in the bottom drawer of your dresser–his drawer now. It had happened quietly, somewhere between all the overnights and the morning coffees and the laundry folded with a little too much care. Now, without thinking, he reached for that drawer like it was always his. Like he belonged here, which was the most precious thing you could ask for.

His hair was still damp from the shower you’d made him take when he showed up smelling like sunbaked pasture and motor oil, a smear of dirt on his cheek and a boyish grin on his lips. You could still smell the cedar soap he liked–the one you bought special just for him–lingering warm on his skin. It wrapped around him like a bubble, and radiated off him like a diffuser.

You were across the room, barefoot in your sleep shorts, standing by your record shelf with a glass of red wine balanced in one hand. A loose tank hung from your shoulders, low in the back, swinging gently with every step as you flipped through vinyl sleeves. And every so often–on purpose–you let your hips sway a little more than intended. Just to hear Rhett breathe funny, because you knew he was watching you, it was easy to feel those beautiful blue eyes burning into your backside.

“Somethin’ on your mind, cowboy?” You asked, glancing over your shoulder with a sly grin teasing the corners of your mouth. You didn’t have to see him to feel the way his breath hitched. That subtle ripple of tension that crawled up his chest like he was trying to swallow it down.

Rhett didn’t answer back right away, he just let his head fall back against the wooden headboard with a quiet thud, lips parting, jaw slack. The bedside lamp cast golden shadows over the side of his face–over the curve of his cheekbone, the bridge of his nose, the faint creases near the corners of his eyes. His light brown hair curled damply over his forehead, still messy from the towel-dry you’d done yourself when he leaned into you after his shower to nuzzle into your neck. And his five o’clock shadow had deepened into something darker since dinner–smudging along his jaw like something you wanted to run your tongue across.

He looked too good in this light.

Too warm, too comfortable, too yours.

And yet there was something unreadable in his face–just enough restraint to tell you he was sitting on something. So you turned fully toward him, wine glass loose between your fingers, and arched a brow.

“Well?” Rhett’s gaze lingered on your bare thighs before he finally spoke.

“I ever tell you ‘bout a dream I had…Week or two ago?” He asked, voice gravel-soft. You took a slow sip of your wine, letting the sweetness linger on your tongue. One droplet slid down the curve of your up, and you licked it away lazily, making sure Rhett’s eyes were on your mouth when you did.

”Mmm…” You swallowed, head tilting playfully, “You’ve told me several, hun. You tell me about every single one, so you’re going to have to be more specific.” He looked flustered now. That rare, almost sweet kind of flustered that only came out when he was too far in his own head–when the words he was holding back were heavier than he wanted to admit.

You weren’t wrong to ask for more detail.

Over the course of your entire relationship–nearly a year to the day–Rhett had made it a habit of telling you his dreams. Always in the mornings. Half-awake, head buried in your chest, voice still raspy from sleep. Sometimes they were abstract and bizarre–running through water, being chased by something without a face. Sometimes they were so vividly sexual they left a flush on his chest all morning.

And he always told you.

Which meant this one? This one had been kept.

Either on purpose…Or because he hadn’t known what to do with it.

You watched him now as his hands raked back through his still-damp hair, messing it up even worse than before. He was blushing a little, too–high along his cheekbones, just under the eyes. Like he was embarrassed for the first time in months.

”Might be seen as stupid…” He muttered, looking off toward the window like maybe the night air could somehow bail him out of this conversation. Your brow arched, slow and sharp.

”Rhett Abbott calling one of his dreams stupid? That was not on my bingo card for tonight.” That pulled a soft laugh out of him–real and low and a little sheepish. The kind of laugh he gave you when he was flustered and trying to hide it behind charm.

God, he was so bad at hiding anything from you.

You set your wine glass down gently on the nightstand. The lamp cast your shadow long across the bed sheets as you walked toward him, slow and teasingly. He didn’t even try to look away.

Your eyes locked as you climbed onto the bed.

The mattress dipped slightly under your weight as you moved to straddle him, knees framing his hips, and the second you settled in his lap, his hands came to rest on your waist like muscle memory. Like he didn’t even think–he just reached for you.

His grip was gentle but possessive. Like you were the thing that steadied him when his mind got too loud. You brushed your fingertips across his chest, feeling the thump of his heartbeat under your palm, and leaned in close.

His eyes met yours. That clear blue–brighter up close. Long lashes. A tiny freckle just under the corner of his left one. His pupils were already wide, already blown a little from watching you all night. But there was something soft in them too. Something unguarded. A quiet vulnerability that had taken you nearly the entire year to fully earn. You tilted your head.

”C’mon now…Enlighten me with this ‘stupid’ dream.” Rhett let out a breath like he’d been holding it the whole damn time. His thumbs stroked slowly along your hips, eyes darting from your mouth to your collarbone and back again, like the memory alone had his body running warm.

“Wasn’t much…” He started, “Not like the usual ones…” You quirked a brow at him.

”The usual ones usually involve you in a barn and me in a sundress with no underwear, so I’d say the bar is high.” That pulled another laugh from him, and it made his whole chest shake beneath your hands. His head tilted forward, resting briefly against your shoulder as he exhaled.

You kissed his temple gently.

When he looked back up at you, his voice dropped–gravel-thick and shy in the way that always hit you deep.

“You were wearin’ my hat.” Your lips parted, but you didn’t interrupt or say anything. His eyes dropped to your mouth, and lingered there.

”You had nothin’ else on.” He rasped, “Just that old brown hat hangin’ by your front door. And you were on top of me…Ridin’ me so slow…” His hands tightened on your hips, voice faltering as he looked at you, like he was picturing it right then and there.

”Like this,” He murmured.

And then–his hands moved.

He pulled your hips forward against his with a slow, deliberate roll, dragging you across the hard line of his erection through the flannel pyjama pants that fit him just right. The friction was deep and unhurried–more suggestion than thrust–but the way he did it…The way his thumbs pressed into your skin, his pupils dilating even further, like they were going to break through the small rim of blue, as he felt the shape of your body align with his–made your breath catch.

A low hum spilled from your throat, and you let your weight sink into his lap, grinding back softly. Rhett’s breath hitched. His fingers dug into you a little harder.

“I dreamt it and woke up so turned on I damn near hurt myself,” He whispered, ducking his head to your neck. His lips pressed there–warm, soft, wanting, and craving–then his teeth scraped the skin just below your ear.

“And ever since then…” He muttered, voice breaking as his hips dragged you against him again, “It’s been stuck in my head. Just can’t seem to get it out…” His mouth traced your jawline slowly, nipping you once–just enough to make your breath hitch. His erection was now straining against the fabric of his pyjama pants, begging for attention and release.

The pressure made you shiver.

One of your hands came up to his cheek. His stubble scratched faintly against your palm, rough and familiar, and you tilted his head gently until your eyes met again.

You kissed him.

And not quick–not teasing.

Slow.

You kissed him like the whole room had melted away. Like it was just the two of you and the flickering shadows and the low hum of the record player turning behind you. His lips parted instantly, mouth soft and eager beneath yours. His hands stayed tight on your hips, but he didn’t move, didn’t grind you against him–he let you kiss him. Let you taste him, guide him, own him for a moment.

It was heady, how easily he gave himself to you.

When you finally pulled back, lips brushing his as you breathed out, your voice was soft but sharp with intent.

“You wanna see me in your hat,” You whispered, “Riding you like you deserve?”

Rhett looked dazed. Eyes blown wide. Cheeks flushed. His erection twitching beneath you.

“‘Course I do,” He breathed. “Baby… I want it so bad it hurts.”

You leaned in again, kissed him once more–just a soft, lingering press of your mouth to his–and then drew back with a grin.

“Then go get it, cowboy.” His eyes widened, almost comically so.

“Really?” He asked, voice thick, stunned, hopeful. You nodded once, slow and deliberate, your thighs still bracketing his, your fingers dragging lightly along the sides of his neck.

“Go on,” You said, a teasing glint in your eyes. “Earn it.” You shifted off of him gently, settling beside him on the bed with one leg tucked beneath you, and Rhett was up like a man on fire–rising too fast, adjusting himself with a sharp inhale as his erection strained visibly against the front of his pyjama pants.

He stumbled a bit with his words, already halfway out the door. “Don’t–don’t you go disappearin’ on me now,” He called back over his shoulder. “I’ll be back in two seconds.” You giggled, unable to help yourself, hearing the way he was half-running barefoot through the narrow hall of the trailer. The floor creaked under his weight, then came the familiar soft clatter of the coat rack by the door as he snatched it down.

His hat…The one he never let anyone touch.

You finished the last of your wine slowly as you waited, letting the heat in your body spread lazily across your chest. A light flush had crept up your neck. Your legs still tingled from how tightly he’d held you just a moment ago.

When Rhett returned, you looked up–and your breath caught just a little.

There it was in his hand: his rodeo hat.

That dusty brown Stetson you’d seen him wear to every meet, every arena, every time he’d stepped into a chute with fire in his veins. Wide-brimmed, sun-bleached around the edges, a little worn on the crown from where he’d fidgeted with it before each ride. You had seen him toss it off before a fight, and cling to it when he prayed. You’d seen how the light hit his jaw just right beneath its brim–and every time, you thought: damn, he was made for it.

But the way he was holding it now?

Like it was an offering. Like it meant something more than a uniform.

Rhett placed the hat at the foot of the bed, eyes locked on you the whole time, breath a little ragged.

And then–he reached for your ankle.

“Before we get to fulfillin’ that dream of mine…” He murmured, his voice dipping low, soft but rough with intent, “I want to get my daily dose of you in my system.”

You swallowed audibly.

Because you knew what he meant by that.

Rhett loved going down on you.

Loved the way you tasted, how you fell apart for him. Loved when your thighs trembled around his shoulders and your voice cracked on his name. Sometimes he’d spend entire evenings between your legs without ever asking for a damn thing in return–mumbling against your skin that it was his favorite way to end the day.

And you felt that now, in the way his fingers gently curled around your ankle.

“Rhett–” You started, but the words caught in your throat when he pulled.

It wasn’t harsh. Just a firm, coaxing tug as he guided you down the mattress, one hand sliding up your calf, slow and careful.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about it all day,” he murmured. “Thinkin’ about comin’over to you, layin’ you out like this. Gettin’ you all wet and shakin’ before I ever even touch myself.” His voice, with that lazy drawl and that mix of devotion and filth made your stomach twist into knots. His mouth found the inside of your knee first, pressing a kiss there–then higher, then higher–until you could feel his breath against the hem of your shorts. You barely had time to breathe before he hooked his thumbs into the waistband.

“Let me…” He whispered, “Let me taste my girl before she puts on my hat and ruins me…” You looked down at him.

And he looked at you like you were his last prayer and first sin rolled into one.

That hunger in his eyes–the ache behind his pupils–it was nearly feral, but somehow still soft. Steady. Like he knew what he was about to do to you and was savoring it in slow motion.

You didn’t speak.

You just nodded–small, slow, sure.

Your hand came down to gently brush his hair back, fingers sliding through damp strands to keep them out of his face. His breath hitched at your touch, eyes fluttering closed for just a moment, like that simple gesture wrecked him more than anything else could.

Then–with that same quiet gentleness–he slid your sleep shorts down your hips. His hands were slow, careful, almost ceremonial, hooking into the waistband with his thumbs and dragging them down over your thighs, your knees, your calves. When they hit the floor, he didn’t look away from your center for a second. His palms smoothed up the outsides of your thighs as he pulled you down the mattress, coaxing you toward the edge with practiced ease. You let him, with your shallow breaths and your heart thudding against your ribs.

And then–he dropped to his knees.

Right there on the floor, between your legs, with his bare chest rising and falling under the thin cotton of his t-shirt, and his jaw slack like he was already drunk on the sight of you. He slid his arms under your thighs and over them again–cradling, anchoring–until the backs of your knees rested over his broad shoulders. His hands gripped the outer curves of your thighs, holding you open, thumbs stroking small circles into your skin like he couldn’t stop touching you even if he tried.

And when his eyes met yours–

God. That look alone made you ache.

Rhett always looked up at you when he did this.

Never shy and certainly never avoiding.

Like he wanted you to see what he was doing to you. Like he needed you to know how much he loved it.

“You’re already shakin’,” He murmured, voice low and rough with heat. “You that worked up for me, sweetheart?” His breath hit your core, and your hips gave a soft jolt in response.

Rhett grinned.

“Thought so.”

Then his mouth was on you.

And not just on you–devouring you and everything you had.

His lips parted around your folds, tongue sliding out slow and wide, dragging upward in one long, unhurried lick that made your spine arch and your toes curl. The heat of his mouth, the scratch of that stubble brushing your thighs–it all rushed through you like lightning.

He groaned against you–like the taste of you filled his mouth too good, too thick–and the vibration of that sound pulsed right through your core.

“Fuck,” you gasped, your head tipping back, one hand fisting the sheets beside you, the other reaching for him–searching for his hair, his shoulder, anything to ground yourself.

He kept going. Lapping and kissing and sucking gently at your clit, alternating pressure, drawing tiny sounds out of you one after the other like he was memorizing every response.

And still–he kept looking up.

Every few seconds, his gaze would flick up your body, pupils dark and blown, and meet yours with this desperate, tender intensity that had your stomach fluttering uncontrollably.

“You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever tasted,” He rasped, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips already slick with you. “Always so warm… always so wet for me…”

Your breath hitched. Your thighs squeezed slightly around his head, and he groaned at that too–loved when you did that–before ducking his mouth right back down and closing it over your clit.

He sucked.

Not hard–but deep. Pulling it into his mouth and curling his tongue around it until your whole body trembled. Then he licked again–quick, focused strokes right where you needed them most–and you could already feel that pressure building fast and thick in your lower belly.

“Rhett–” you gasped, barely able to speak. “Rhett holy shit–”

He gripped your thighs tighter, holding you still as he sucked again, then slowed–drawing a long, slick stroke down your slit before groaning again, low and needy.

“I could stay down here forever,” He mumbled against you, and that sound–the low timbre of his voice reverberating through your center–made your legs tremble even harder. “This–this is the best damn thing I’ve ever had.”

He flicked his tongue just beneath your clit again, then flattened it, slow and firm, circling that sensitive bundle of nerves until your mouth fell open in a silent moan.

“Look at you,” He whispered, glancing up through his lashes. “So fuckin’ pretty when you come apart for me…”

And you did—nearly right then.

Your back arched as the tension snapped. A sharp, desperate cry tore from your throat as your orgasm rolled through you in wave after wave. Rhett didn’t stop. He never stopped. He kept his mouth on you, licking and sucking and moaning like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

Your fingers found his hair and tugged hard as you came, and he groaned like it drove him wild, like your pleasure was the only thing tethering him to earth.

When you finally started to come down–shaking, gasping, your chest rising and falling hard–he pressed one last, soft kiss to your center before pulling back slightly, lips slick, chin wet, eyes wrecked.

“You good, darlin’?” he asked, his voice still hoarse, his hands still warm and steady on your thighs.

You blinked down at him, dazed.

“Barely,” you whispered, your body still twitching from aftershocks.

He smirked, running a hand slowly up the inside of your thigh.

“You still got enough in you to make that dream come true?” He asked, thumb brushing gentle circles into your thigh, lips slick and pink from everything he’d just done to you.

You let out a breathless laugh, voice still trembling. Your gaze flicked toward the foot of the bed–where his hat sat in all its quiet glory–and then back to him.

“I always have enough in me to please my cowboy.”

That made his smile flicker wider, that dimple creasing his cheek just before he surged up from the floor, bracing one palm on the mattress and leaning in to kiss you–messy this time. No hesitation. Just hunger and heat and a mouth slick with your arousal pressing against yours like he couldn’t get close enough. It was wet and open-mouthed and a little uncoordinated, noses bumping, teeth catching on swollen lips, and when you both pulled back to catch your breath, there was a thin trail of spit still clinging between your tongues before it broke and smeared against the corner of his mouth.

You swiped your thumb over it.

He licked it from your skin without shame.

Then his fingers found the hem of your tank top and lifted.

You raised your arms without a word, letting him pull it up and off and toss it aside. His eyes swept down over your now fully bare chest like he was trying to memorize every freckle and curve, every little mark he already knew by heart.

“You’re somethin’ else,” he muttered, a little dazed. “Don’t know what I ever did to deserve this.”

You kissed the edge of his jaw, warm and reverent. “Shut up and take your shirt off.”

He did.

The thin cotton clung a little to his stomach from the heat of his skin, but he peeled it over his head and dropped it behind him, revealing the warm flush across his chest, and the super light trail of hair down his navel that disappeared beneath his waistband.

You leaned in and kissed the base of his throat, then lower–tracing the center of his chest, lips dragging over the rise and fall of each breath.

“God, I want you,” You whispered.

He swallowed hard. “I’m yours.”

And then he was shoving his pajama bottoms down–quickly, too worked up now to be careful. His cock sprung free, flushed red and hard, the tip already glistening.

Rhett had barely finished kicking his flannel bottoms to the floor when he climbed back into bed, propping himself against the pillows, chest heaving with anticipation. His hands twitched slightly at his sides, like he didn’t know whether to grab you or just sit back and let you ruin him.

You stayed on your knees at first, watching him settle. The lamplight painted him in golden hues–his chest flushed and rising with ragged breaths, his thighs taut, cock heavy and twitching where it rested against his stomach. His eyes never left you, like you were the only thing anchoring him to this earth.

Then, with that quiet confidence you knew he loved, you shifted up onto his thighs and slowly climbed into his lap.

You made sure your knees bracketed his hips perfectly. Making sure the skin of your inner thighs brushed against his, and then, still holding his gaze, you reached for the hat.

Your fingers slid under the brim, lifting it from where it lay beside you. The moment the crown settled in your hands, Rhett’s breath caught–audibly. His eyes went wide again, not just with heat, but with something deeper. Worship. Wonder. Like watching you hold it turned a fantasy into something sacred.

Then slowly you brought it to your head, and you slipped it on.

The wide-brimmed Stetson sat low over your brow, casting your eyes in shadow and making your mouth the brightest thing on your face. Your lips curved into a slow, deliberate smirk, and Rhett visibly shuddered.

“Jesus Christ,” He whispered, voice barely there. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.”You smiled wider. He reached up like he couldn’t help himself, and with the gentlest touch—like it was second nature—he flicked the brim of the hat once with his knuckle.

“Looks better on you than it ever did on me,” he murmured, a soft laugh catching in his throat. You giggled back, the brim tipping forward slightly with the motion, and that light, giddy sound made something in Rhett’s chest physically stutter.

Then you leaned forward, just enough for your bare chest to press against his, the heat between your bodies rising, coiling, fusing into one steady burn.

Your hand slid between your bodies.

Rhett inhaled sharply as your fingers wrapped around him–hot, thick, hard, already slick at the tip. You stroked once. Twice. Slow, deliberate movements that had him tipping his head back against the pillows with a guttural groan. His hands flew to your hips like instinct, gripping them firmly, grounding himself in the feel of your skin.

You teased him, letting your slick gather at his head as you guided him through your folds, rubbing the crown against your entrance, but not quite letting him in.

“Jesus,” He hissed, his hips twitching up slightly, fighting the urge to thrust. “Baby… please…”

You didn’t give in right away.

Instead, you leaned in, letting your chest brush his again, your breath ghosting over his jaw as you murmured–

“You dreamed about this, didn’t you?”

His hands gripped tighter.

“Yeah,” He rasped. “Every goddamn night since.”

You held his gaze as you tilted your hips–slow, careful–until his tip nudged your entrance. You paused there, savoring the moment. Savoring the heat, the stretch, the way his lips parted as if to beg, but he held back.

Then, with a steady exhale, you started to sink down.

He was big. You both knew it. Every time you took him it was a stretch–deep and toe-curling, your body adjusting to every thick inch of him.

But this time? It felt even more intense.

Maybe it was the hat. Maybe it was the fuel of the dream behind everything. Maybe it was the way Rhett looked up at you like you were some kind of goddess kneeling above him, his mouth open, his brows drawn, like the sight of you riding him like this might actually break him.

You sank down inch by inch, slow and steady, your jaw dropping open as the burn turned to fullness, and then to pleasure. Rhett groaned like a man possessed, his fingers flexing hard on your hips, his knuckles white.

“Fuck, baby,” he gasped, his voice hoarse and shaking. “You feel so good–so fuckin’ good–”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You were too focused on the way he filled you, stretched you, your hands bracing against his chest as you slid down until he was seated completely inside you. Your walls fluttered around him involuntarily, and he let out a choked sound, his hips jerking up once with a desperate need to move. You let out a shaky breath, lifting your gaze.

You started slow. Just the barest roll of your hips, your thighs trembling slightly as you adjusted to the weight of him inside you. Every inch of him pressed deep, dragging against your walls in that way that made your breath hitch and your belly clench. Your palms flattened over his chest, steadying yourself against the tremble that spread through your limbs.

Rhett’s hands stayed tight on your hips, not forcing, not guiding–just holding.

His eyes locked to where you were joined, and he let out a choked, reverent sound. One of his hands slid up, tracing the curve of your waist, the slope of your ribs, until his thumb brushed reverently beneath the underside of your breast. His other hand reached for the brim of the hat.

He tilted it back slightly on your head so he could see your face better.

“Look at you…” He whispered, voice low and ruined. “My girl…ridin’ me like a goddamn dream.”

You rocked your hips again–slow, dragging friction that had you both gasping. Your folds were slick, soaked, stretched wide around him, and the wet sound of your bodies moving together filled the room, lewd and obscene. His cock pulsed inside you, thick and throbbing, and your walls squeezed around him reflexively.

The brim of the hat shaded your eyes, and Rhett looked absolutely wrecked by it.

You leaned forward, your hair falling in soft strands around your face, and you kissed him again–sloppy, wet, desperate. Your tongue licked into his mouth as your hips picked up a slow, grinding rhythm, your clit dragging over the soft patch of hair above his base with each rock of your hips.

He moaned into your mouth, teeth catching your bottom lip before pulling back slightly. When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse–like it had been scraped raw from how badly he needed you.

“You’re killin’ me,” he groaned. “Feelin’ you like this–watchin’ you on top of me, wearin’ my hat–fuck, baby, it’s too much.”

You rolled your hips again and leaned back slightly so he could see the way your body moved above him, the way he disappeared inside you, the way your stomach fluttered with every rise and fall. His hands slid to your thighs, then your ass, gripping tight, holding you open, watching every slick, filthy grind.

“You want me to stop?” You teased, breathless.

His head shot back against the pillow, eyes squeezing shut as he let out a guttural, almost-pained sound.

“Don’t you dare,” he choked. “I swear to God, I’ll lose my mind.”

You smiled, slow and wicked, and began to ride him in earnest.

Not fast. Not yet.

Just deep.

Grinding circles, pulling nearly all the way off his cock before sinking back down with a slick, breathy moan. Your hands slid down his chest, dragging over his stomach, and Rhett watched with glassy eyes as your body moved in perfect rhythm over his.

Every stroke was a worship. Every roll of your hips drew a cry from him–half groan, half prayer.

“Look at you,” He panted, hands sliding up your waist, thumbs stroking your ribs. “Takin’ me so good…So goddamn deep…”

He sat up, slowly, arms wrapping around you as he buried his face against your chest, mouth hot and open over the swell of your breast. He pressed kisses there–wet, messy, dragging his lips across your skin like he couldn’t get enough. His stubble scraped your sensitive flesh, and you gasped, your hands finding his hair, holding him close.

“You’re all I think about,” He whispered, voice trembling. “You in this hat…ridin’ me like you were made for it…You feel so good, baby–so warm, so wet–I could die right here…”

You rocked harder, your breath catching with every grind, every drag of his cock against that aching spot inside you. His tongue flicked your nipple, then sucked it into his mouth, and your head tipped back as you moaned.

“Rhett–fuck–Rhett, you’re gonna make me–”

“Come on, darlin’,” He rasped against your breast. “Come for me. Wanna feel you all over me. Want you to make a mess. Let me feel you clench around me while you wear my fuckin’ hat.”

You whimpered–high, needy–and rolled your hips faster now, chasing it. Your slick dripped down between your thighs, coating him, sticking to his skin in hot, wet strands. The bed creaked under you, and Rhett’s hands clutched your ass, helping you ride, pushing up into you as you rocked down onto him again and again.

The hat stayed perfectly perched on your head.

And Rhett looked up at you like he’d gone and seen heaven.

“Come on,” He begged, “Show me how good it feels. Come on, baby–I need it–fuck, I need it–”

You came with a cry.

Your hips jerked, thighs trembling as your orgasm tore through you, slick flooding around him. You clamped down on his cock, pulsing hard, your moans broken and raw. Rhett groaned and held you there, grinding his hips up once, twice—and then he followed.

“Fuck–fuck–oh Jesus–” His head tipped back, mouth open, eyes glassy, and he came inside you in thick, hot spurts that you could feel dripping down between your thighs.

You collapsed against his chest, both of you panting, sweating, your skin sticking where it touched.

He wrapped his arms around you, holding you tight.

And then he reached up, breathless, and tipped the hat off your head just enough to press a kiss to your forehead, before he removed it completely and put it on the nightstand.

“You just ruined me for every other fantasy,” He whispered. Rhett’s breath was still coming in soft, uneven waves beneath you, his chest rising and falling in sync with yours.

The afterglow wrapped around you both like a weighted blanket, warm and heavy, laced with sweat and the slow pulse of satisfaction. His arms were still locked around your waist, one hand splayed across your back like he didn’t want to let you go, not even to breathe.

He tilted his head just enough to look at you, still dazed, still flushed–and smiled. That slow, crooked, post-orgasm grin that only came out when he was taken care of, and truly spent.

Then he let out a lazy exhale and murmured, “Now whenever I wear that hat, I’m gonna be so goddamn distracted thinkin’ about this moment right here.”

You bit back your smile, leaning in close, your nose brushing his. “Wasn’t that the whole point?” you whispered, and kissed him.

It was soft at first–just a brush of lips, a sigh passed between mouths–but then his hand curled around the back of your neck, and he deepened it, just enough to let the warmth spread again. A hint of tongue. A little groan. He kissed you like a man still savoring dessert.

When you finally broke apart, Rhett gave a breathless, quiet laugh. His eyes crinkled at the corners in that way that made your chest flutter–genuine, drowsy, gorgeous.

“Well…” He murmured, eyes half-lidded and glowing gold in the lamplight, “In theory, I didn’t really think past the idea of you ridin’ me with my hat on.” He gave your bare thigh a soft squeeze, his thumb drawing lazy circles against your skin. “Or the long-lastin’ effects it’d have on me.”

You couldn’t help but laugh too, your head dropping briefly to his shoulder as your body relaxed against him. You felt him chuckle beneath you, his whole body shaking gently. The sound of it, warm and boyish and sleepy, was your favorite thing in the world.

“You good?” You asked softly, your fingers brushing through his hair again.

“Darlin’, I’m ruined,” he sighed dramatically, but there was nothing but affection in the way he looked at you–like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

You let the silence stretch a beat, then whispered, “We should probably wash off before we pass out like this.”

“Yeah,” He said, groaning a little as he shifted beneath you. “Before I end up glued to you for life.”

You kissed him once more, then slowly rolled off, muscles still trembling as you carefully stood on wobbly legs. Rhett watched every movement, his eyes roaming with unabashed hunger and satisfaction, like he was committing the sight to memory.

As you padded toward the bathroom, trying not to trip over your own feet, you felt the air on your slick thighs and winced at the mess between them.

Rhett caught that little shuffle in your step and gave your ass a light, playful smack.

You gasped in mock outrage, laughing as you glanced back at him over your shoulder.

“Hey!” You teased, swatting at the air.

He just grinned up at you from the bed, completely unrepentant.

Then, without missing a beat, you turned and picked up his hat from the nightstand. You gave it a little twirl between your fingers and then tossed it gently toward him. He caught it one-handed, eyes still glued to you, slipping it on his head as a joke, messing with the brim a bit.

“Maybe next time,” You said, voice sweet and slow, “I wanna see you wear this in the bedroom, cowboy. We can make some more memories that’ll ruin you.”

Rhett blinked.

Then his grin went from lazy to wicked.

“Yes, ma’am,” He said, tipping the hat toward you with that glint in his eyes.

You raised a brow at him, lingering in the bathroom doorway with one hand on the frame, your silhouette soft in the dim light. Steam had just begun to curl from the faucet, misting up the mirror. You leaned your weight on one hip, letting your fingers brush your thigh, voice light and teasing.

“You just gonna sit there lookin’ smug,” You asked, “Or are you actually gonna join me?”

Rhett blinked once, then twice–like your words hadn’t fully registered at first–and then his expression shifted into something downright wolfish.

“Hell yes, I’m joinin’ you,” He said, practically throwing the hat onto the nearest pillow as he stood, bare and flushed and beautifully wrecked. “Can’t miss an opportunity to get you all soapy and wet, now can I?”

You laughed, and so did he–both of you loose and glowing in the afterglow haze, your bodies still humming from everything that had just happened. He was already halfway across the room before you could turn, catching your hand as you disappeared into the bathroom, tugging you back toward him for one more lingering kiss. Hot, slow, and full of promise, that the night was far from over.

#rhett abbott x y/n #rhett abbott fic #rhett abbott smut #rhett abbott fanfiction #rhett abbott x reader #rhett abbott #rhett abbott fluff #lewis pullman the man you are #lewis pullman characters #lewis pullman #sweet Lordy lord we love cowboys lol #give me the strength #Spotify #x reader smut #x reader

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spearofheaven · 1 day ago

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⋆˚࿔ OBJECTS IN THE MIRROR — artist! geto suguru

SUM. Going from being your lover last week to not knowing your name this week.

CONTENTS. 18+ contents, MDNI. 7k words. x fem! reader. non canon compliant/au. smut. angst. amnesia. lovers to strangers. inappropriate use of paint. 69. cunnilingus. face fucking. spanking. unprotected p in v. fingering. missionary. doggy. cum eating. creampie. switching. use of pet names.

A/N. twas truly on a geto run last year. positive comments and reblogs are appreciated <3

Almost every artist's dream is to create a piece that resembles one that stands proudly in museums, the one bewitching masterpiece that garners the attention of everyone around it. That attracts attention the way a light beckons a moth.

Or at least, that's what Suguru had been trying to achieve through the countless doodles and paintings that he'd made throughout college. Using cheap colors that he'd bought at a bargained price after working too many hours at a job that paid too little.

A number of sketchbooks stuffed into a drawer, each of them offering a glimpse into what lingered behind his subconscious. The gorgeous aspects of life that he could only hope he was able to encapsulate through his work and the more.. nasty aspects.

And now that Suguru had all the art supplies that he could dream of (and more), he couldn't bring himself to actually draw something. The cabinets in his office were filled up to the brim with different pigments, oils and watercolors, blank canvases. All just simply begging to be used as the days passed by. "I'll do it tomorrow," he assured himself every time throughout the week after when after that he passed the closed office door.

After many many tomorrows, Suguru finally decided to step into the room. His movements were slow and deliberate as he prepped his workspace, adjusting all the brushes to be lined up against each other uniformly. As if the slightest displacement of his brushes would be enough to get him to mess up the work he'd been planning to do. After rearranging for what seemed to be the hundredth time, Suguru decided to pick up one of the brushes.

Just to firmly grasp it in his hand, the plastic digging into his palm. Standing completely and utterly still.

Suguru could feel himself slowly start his descent into madness the longer that he stood in front of the empty canvas with a paintbrush in hand, his paints starting to dry out with every minute that he was still. He'd been stuck in a creative rut for the past couple weeks, wanting to put one of the many ideas that roamed freely in his head onto the canvas without actually being able to. It was like his mind went black the second he was ready.

The once bright sunlight that'd been peering in through the windows had now started to dim down, leaving behind a shadow that covered a majority of the room. A shadow that would surely ruin Suguru's work if he were to get started now. Surely. That's what he told himself when he decided to call it quits for the day, untying his apron and hanging up on the coat rack at the back of the room.

Even so, he couldn't help himself from walking back over to the canvas. Hoping that some surge of inspiration would come to him—the same inspiration that he'd sacrificed nights of sleep long ago just to be able to create a piece to his liking. The type of inspiration that deeply embedded itself into his brain, begging to be put onto the canvas. Begging to be executed. Begging to be seen.

You stood by the door, quietly making your way into the room to where he stood. "What're you up to?" You whispered, your lips hovering above his ear while your arms were wrapped around his lower stomach from behind. Suguru melted into your touch automatically, his eyes fluttering shut. You'd distracted him—that much was certain. But that seemed to be exactly what he needed right now. Allowing himself to get out of his head.

"Staring at an empty canvas and hoping it magically turns into a masterpiece. You, pretty girl?" Suguru turned to face you, his hands instinctively resting on your hips. "Staring at an artist hoping he magically makes a masterpiece."

"With you in the room, it'd be a hard task not to create a masterpiece."

"That's what I was going for. Been told I'm an excellent muse."

"My excellent muse." Your lips connected with Suguru's in a span of seconds, your eyes fluttering shut as the taste of him completely invaded your seconds. One of your hands reached back to the mess that he'd raked his fingers through countless times, holding a fistful of his hair to pull him closer to you. The exchange was something like two puzzle pieces fitting together perfectly.

And in the midst of kissing you, a lightbulb went off in Suguru's head. The first bit of inspiration that he's gotten since entering the room nearly three hours ago. "There's something in that big brain of yours?" Your question drew out a laugh from him, the small huff of air hitting the side of your neck. "Something like that, yeah. I need your help with it, pretty girl."

Suguru taped piece after piece of white paper together—completely covering the pristine brown floors of his studio. He knew damn well he wouldn't hear the end of it from you if he ended messing up the floors with the little experiment that he had in mind. You could only stare from the doorway with your arms folded, trying to decipher what he was hoping to achieve.

"Come here, please," Suguru gestured for you to join him once the pieces were secured onto each other. You joined him once the floor, watching as he slipped off his shirt with ease. Your clothes ended up on the floor in record time, watching as Suguru grabbed some acrylic paint bottles from one of the overflowing cabinets. "Normally acrylic's a pain in the ass to work with since it dries so fast but it should be fine."

"Should be fine for what, exactly?" Your head cocked to the side, watching as he took off the plastic wrap around the cap. Suguru looked over at you with a sheepish expression, hesitating before answering your question. "Just hear me out," Suguru's hands ran down your bare thighs in some half-assed attempt to soften the blow, "I was thinking we could put some paint on us and y'know.. have sex on the canvas."

Oh.

"That's it?" You retorted, having to stifle a laugh.

Suguru's hands stilled on your thighs, looking over at you with a half glare on his face, "I nearly had a heart attack trying to ask you that and you're laughing?"

"Well, yeah. I was expecting something worse, to be honest," Before the laugh you were holding it in escaped your lips, a spurt of paint landed on your stomach. A small gasp left your lips, grabbing the nearest paint bottle and aiming straight at Suguru. "Not the h-"

"Yeah, yeah, not the hair," you finished for him, covering a majority of his chest and neck in green paint. You weren't sure who even ended up winning the fight between the two of you, the two of you nearly covered from head to toe in several layers of drying paint. "Ready to admit defeat?" You prodded with a teasing smile on your face, hovering just above him.

A teasing smile that was wiped from your face within a span of what seemed to be two seconds. "I thought you were the one about to admit defeat."

Suguru rested above you, his hair tickling the sensitive skin of your neck when he lowered himself down to press sloppy kisses in whatever spots he could reach. In whatever spots he could leave a hickey only for his eyes to see. His teeth nibbled at your collarbone, his lips enclosing around the skin and sucking. Treating you like his very own canvas, painting your skin in a mix of small bites and his teeth marks.

"Get on top of me, pretty girl," Suguru's hair splayed out against the canvas, the golden hue of the sunset hitting him perfectly from the window when he laid down. You were about to sit down on his lap when he cleared his throat, "Not like that. Turn around for me."

"Su-Suguru," your breath hitched when you felt his teeth bite down onto your inner thigh just as you barely adjusted, his lips wrapping around the supple skin to leave a mark on you with something other than paint. Suguru kissed his way up to your clit, giving it a chaste kiss before moving back to your inner thigh. Repeating the process until a soft groan left your lips, your hips wiggling back against his mouth.

"Doesn't this defeat the purpose of the paint all over us?" Your words came out in a breathy whisper, suddenly becoming hyperaware of the drying paint on your skin. Suguru squirted some of the paint onto his hand, bringing his hand to your ass cheek. Squeezing the flesh in between his fingers, a sharp SMACK following. Leaving a yellow handprint behind.

"Are you complaining, princess?" Suguru asked in a taunt, the tip of his tongue tracing against your folds, "Plus, we're mixing the colors together. Variety and all."

Couldn't really argue with that logic. Not that you'd even begin wanting to argue—the tip of his sharp tongue rolling against your throbbing clit.

Suguru's lips enclosed around one of your slick folds, his eyes shut in bliss as he gave it the sloppiest French kiss that you'd seen in your life. "So good, wanna stay like this forever," Just one taste of you had the man intoxicated. Suguru spat up into your cunt, his tongue mixing it in with your slick.

"Wanna fucking drown in your pussy, lemme do that. Please, please," incoherent babbles spilled from his lips, begging for.. you weren't even sure what. "Sugu, don't stop," your moans only encouraged him, your nails digging into his thighs when he pushed a thick digit inside of you. Slowly pushing it in and out of you, his tongue swirling around your clit just as slow. "F-Faster, baby. Please."

The baby was almost enough to get the last bit of his remaining composure to crumble—another one of those sweet whines escaping his lips. Even so, he was determined to tease you, "You sure you can take it?"

"Y-Yes, yes, fuck yes, faster," you felt like a bobblehead with the way you were nodding. Suguru's finger curled inside of you, hitting your g-spot when he pulled it out of you. "Since you were nice about it," Suguru's lips wrapped around your cunt, his tongue swirling against the nerves while another finger pushed inside of you. He moved the two in a scissoring motion, working your walls open slowly.

Your thumb and pointer wrapped around the tip of his cock, your other paint stained hand wrapping around the base. Just the slightest bit of contact and Suguru was already bucking his hips into your hand, a groan leaving his glistening lips. "Please, need you," he babbled, pulling away from your sensitive cunt. You simply traced one of the veins on the side with your fingertip, your touch featherlight.

"What do you mean? You have me, with my hand wrapped around your cock. Be more specific," you executed the clueless act almost perfectly, a borderline whine leaving Suguru's lips. From desperation. From need. From how much he was starting to like when you teased him like this. "Need your mouth on me, pretty. Your teasing's too much."

"Your fault for making it so easy," you drawled out, your tongue darting out. Tasting the precum that leaked out his reddening tip. Your thumb swiped against his cockhead, smearing the mixture of his pre and your spit around it like makeshift lube.

"F-Fuck, just like that," Suguru let out a groan into your cunt, the vibrations shooting up all the way up your spine. You slowly began bobbing your head, your cheeks hollowing out as you tried to take more of his thick cock in your mouth. Drool leaked from the corners of your lips, some of the paint that managed to get onto your chin dripping onto the paper underneath. "Lemme fuck your face, princess. Please, please."

"Just. Like. That," his words were punctuated with his hips snapping up into your mouth, the tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat. You were left a gagging mess, your eyes starting to water from the sting. If Suguru could see you, you were certain he'd make some stupid comment about how good you look.

And almost as if he'd read your thoughts, "B-Bet you look so pretty gagging. So so pretty taking my cock."

"And I bet you'd look better with your mouth on my pussy instead of teasing," you clicked your tongue, your lips wrapping around the sides of his cock. Slowly rubbing them against his shaft, your hand going down to his balls.

Suguru had been putty in your hands long ago—but the feeling of your hand on his balls only reaffirmed that fact. Your fingers gently rolled against his sac, each of your movements completely in tandem with your mouth. Almost like a synchronized dance. "S-shit, pretty," Suguru's moans were muffled, his nose deep inside of your cunt.

Suguru's balls started to grow heavy underneath your fingertips, strained gasps coming out of him. "S-Stop," you pulled away when you heard Suguru's words, your brows pulling together.

"You okay? We can stop if you want," you assured him, moving to get off him. His grip on your hips tightened, keeping you still against him. Suguru didn't move from his spot, his head laying back against the paper in some attempt to catch his breath.

"No, no, nothing like that," Suguru let out a shaky laugh, his words making relief crash over your body like a wave. "Just- You almost made me cum."

"Is that a bad thing?" While your words were innocent, you looked anything but. Looking at you was akin to looking at a succubus incarnate. A succubus that Suguru wouldn't necessarily mind submitting to if it came down to it.

"No. Just wanna do it inside of you instead."

"A true poet. You should consider that as a career," a short laugh left your lips. The sound turning into a moan when Suguru smacked your ass again—this time with red paint. The previous yellow on his hand mixed in, leaving an orangey red tint behind. "And you should consider being a comedian."

Suguru shifted the two of you, having you underneath him yet again. His hand wrapped around his cock, pressing it against your cunt and swiping his shaft up and down your folds. He looked over at you—seeing the way you bit down on your lip to keep yourself quiet. Not that it'd mattered, your pussy couldn't exactly lie the same way that you could.

Your walls clenched around pure air—your dripping pussy coating his shaft with each and every swipe. One of his hands moved to cradle your cheek, tenderly. He moved his thumb to where leftover tears remained, wiping them away with one shift motion. The action was meant to be sweet, loving—and yet it was completely betrayed by the shit-eating grin on his face.

Suguru was completely shameless in sticking his thumb in his mouth, his tongue swirling around it while he licked away your salty tears. All the while he maintained eye contact with you.

"O-Oh fuck!" Suguru reveled in the sharp gasp that left your lips when he pushed the tip of his cock inside of you, your mouth left agape. He leaned down, pressing his lips against your own. Unlike the other kisses, this one was more desperate. More needy. His teeth clashed against your own, your tongue moving against his own messily. Just needing to have him close to you.

"There we go, that's it," Suguru purred in your ear, studying each one of your reactions. Watching as you squirmed the further that he pushed his cock inside you. He stilled his movements, your walls tightly clenched around his cock. Even if he wanted to move, he couldn't.

"Take it so well, you were meant for me. All of you," Suguru's lips moved down to your breast, his paint-covered hands staining the skin even further. His tongue swirled around your nipple, the tip prodding against the hardening buds. "Could never get enough of you. Never want to get enough of you," his babbles served to distract you from the slight sting between your thighs, your hand intertwining in his hair. Getting paint on it despite your previous promise.

"You can move," you assured him, his hips snapping into you almost immediately. Suguru's head hung low, already getting lost in your cunt one thrust in. "So good, so perfect," He panted, his thrusts starting off slow and shallow. Getting you more and more comfortable with each one. One of his hands reached out to grab your own, calloused fingers intertwining with your own. He brought your hand to his mouth, gently pressing a kiss.

Suguru's thrusts began to grow faster—meaner. "S-So deep, Sugu," you breathed out, your nails digging into the back of his hand. "Yeah? You can take it, though. Can't you?" He repeated the same words from earlier back to you, watching your eyes glaze over with lust. Rolling back with each punishing thrust. The sound of skin against skin resounded throughout the room, paint splashing against each other.

"Take it so well, knew you could," Suguru disentangled his fingers from your own, moving his hand towards your clit. He slowly began rubbing circles against the bud, your legs starting to quiver from the overwhelming stimulation. It felt like too much, it didn't feel like it was enough. You didn't know what to ask for. "Please," you managed to get out, your hips bucking up to meet his thrusts.

"I know, I know. I got you," and even though the ask didn't seem that coherent to you, Suguru seemed to have gotten it immediately. His fingertips sped their pace up on your clit, your walls clenching around him. Your toes curled against the paper, that all too familiar coil building up in your lower tummy. "Close, close," you chanted like a mantra. Suguru's fingers continued, pushing you towards your orgasm.

Your walls clenched around his shaft, your orgasm hitting you like a wave when you unclenched. Your release covered his shaft, your folds, and some of it managed to drip down to the canvas. Messing up the messy artwork even further. Suguru pulled his fingers away from your clit, bringing them up to his lips with your slick glistening against his digits.

And just like he'd done with your tears, Suguru completely licked his fingers clean. "Fuckkk, you're so good to me," he groaned out, the taste of you immediately infiltrating his taste buds. The only thing left when Suguru pulled his fingers out was his own spit.

"Come on, get the canvas all nice and covered," Suguru helped you get on your stomach, your back arched and your ass up in the air. Your pussy still wet from your previous orgasm. You rested your elbows onto the paper below you, supporting your weight while Suguru smacked your ass with the tip of his dick. "Got so lucky with you," He mused out loud, sounding completely entranced.

Suguru pushed his cock inside of you, filling you up inch after inch. "That's my little Picasso," he teased, watching you put some more paint onto your hands. His hands gripped your hips, his cock pushing deeper inside of you from this angle. The ridges on his shaft brushing up against your g-spot, brushing up against every right spot. All you could feel was him, him, him.

Your fingers laid across the paper, tainting the white paper below you in a mixture of colors. Drip. Drip. Drip. You weren't sure if that was the paint or your pussy at this point. Probably both. "F-Fuck Suguru, don't stop," you moan out, your cheek resting against the paper underneath. Suguru's grip on your hips tightened, his thrusts growing sloppier and sloppier by the second.

"N-Not gonna stop until my cum's dripping out of you," Suguru practically whined, completely and utterly pussy-drunk. Your walls clenched involuntarily, something Suguru couldn't have missed even if he wanted to. "Tightened up so fucking much. That's exactly what you want, my cum filling you up?"

"Mhm, please. Fill me up," your whines sounded like a melody in his ears, a melody that he'd never grow tired of. Your tight cunt was milking his cock for everything it had, gripping around him tightly like a vice. Suguru's balls twacked against your cunt with each mean thrust, each thrust sloppier than the last. Like he just needed to be inside you—no matter how.

Ropes and ropes of cum painted your cunt white as he came, his breathing ragged. You felt so full. It was so much cum—the sticky substance dripping down your thighs. Suguru's mouth instantly went to your pussy, licking away his cum that dribbled down your folds. Pushing the remainder in with his fingers before allowing himself to lay down next to you.

The two of you laid still on the canvas with dry paint coating the two of you from your cheeks to your other set of cheeks. You'd ended up splattering more paint on each other than on the paper below you. The sun outside had set, leaving only the sound of cicadas outside and moonlight filtering in through the window. A comfortable silence settled between the two of you albeit for the sound of your quick breaths.

Suguru had been to copious amounts of art showings and galleries throughout the course of his career—seen all different kinds of things. Sculptures, oil paintings, photographs, etc. Some of them taking him a second glance to try to see the meaning while some were effortless in the way that they presented their beauty. But somehow all those paintings seemed to dim in comparison to you in this moment.

You in all your post orgasm glory—with beads of sweat dribbling down your forehead, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath, your inner thighs shaking from the after shocks and covered with his semen. A view that he couldn't begin to replicate even with the world's most expensive paintbrushes, the most expensive canvas.

No matter how many times you told Suguru that a painting he'd done of you was nothing short of extraordinary, he couldn't help but feel as if something was missing. As if he couldn't capture your beauty in all its essence. Whether it be that your nose ended off balance by one half-inch, one of your eyes ended up slightly more crooked than the other. Nothing seemed to really encapsulate what he wanted to portray onto the canvas.

But the work that lay below you almost expressed you in a way that he could only dream of achieving in this lifetime—expressing you in one of the rawest forms possible. In pure bliss and ecstasy. Pure bliss and ecstasy that he'd been responsible for.

Suguru was nothing short of gentle, reverent when he swiped the washcloth across your paint covered skin. Wiping away all the dry pieces that started to flake off. "Nothing short of being the perfect muse," He spoke in a way that made it seem like the words were meant just for your ears. Suguru pressed a kiss on your shoulder, his lips trailing a path down to your back.

"All I did was have sex with you on top of a piece of paper," you responded, turning around to face him. His hands immediately found your waist, pulling you all that much closer to your body until you were chest to chest. "Maybe. But I've never felt this surge of inspiration before. All because of you, beautiful."

Seeing the final piece hanging up on the wall of his studio, you almost couldn't help but think that it was disorganized chaos. That it was just splatters of paint showcasing what the two of you had gotten up to just the night prior. "I know what you're thinking, but y'know how art critics are. Chances are that they'll enjoy this piece more than any of the others I've done," Suguru spoke up, standing next to you as he looked up at the painting.

"Even if they don't, thank you for indulging me. Don't think I could forget about this painting even if I tried," Suguru wrapped his arms around your waist from behind you, resting his head on your shoulder. You leaned back into his touch almost instinctively, staring at the painting for a bit longer. All the nonsensical shapes and splatters on the wall slowly starting to become something beautiful—something made out of love.

And enjoy it they did. Not one day passed by since Suguru submitted the painting to be hung up in several art showings where he didn't get a call with some offer. Each of them going higher and higher, each caller trying to outbid the last. Coming back to him with a bigger and better offer, all for the chance to see the painting the two of you made. Nothing at all like the days of being a starving artist, living off ramen and a dream.

Suguru's career had been built from the generous donations from coffee shops around the Tokyo area that were willing to pay for a couple of his pieces, of maintaining relationships with artists he didn't talk to for more than once in college to gain some kind of connections. It felt bizarre—having people practically want to display his work for the equivalent of a down payment on a house. Not only from the Japan area, but a couple galleries from overseas.

"I'll see you when I get back, okay? I love you," You were barely half awake, barely registering Suguru when he moved to press his lips against your forehead. He'd barely gotten of the shower from what you could tell, wet hair strands tickling your face and the smell of amber cologne filling up your nose.

"Love you too. Fly safe," you mumbled back in response, or at least you'd made the attempt to do so. Hopefully he heard. In a span of mere seconds, you'd pulled the blankets back over your body and went back to sleep.

For the second time that morning, you were woken up from your sleep. Only this time it wasn't the feeling of Suguru's lips against your skin, rather the shrill sound of your phone beside you. A rather rude awakening. You rubbed your eyes, sitting up in bed and clearing your throat in all attempt to make it sound like you didn't wake up two seconds ago. Picking your phone up, you were met with the sight of an unknown number.

You'd grown wary to answering unknown numbers—whether it be from a multitude of spam calls throughout your day or one of Suguru's fans that found your contact information. You couldn't really begin to explain it, but something, something, compelled you to answer the call at the third ring. "Hi, we're calling from Tokyo General Hospital. You were listed as Geto Suguru's emergency contact."

If you weren't awake before, that greeting was enough to wake you up. "That's me. Is everything okay?" You felt goosebumps all over your arms, a bad feeling sinking down into your very bones. The person on the other line kept talking—the words not registering inside of your head just yet. He was supposed to be on a plane, maybe on his layover. Throughout the call, you could only pick up certain words. Accident. Critical condition. Stable for now.

Rushing over to the emergency room in nothing but your pajamas and a pair of bunny slippers. "H-Hi, I got a call," you took a moment to catch your breath, your knuckles gripping the front desk. Forcing yourself to try to calm down somewhat. Trying to inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Despite that every breath only seemed to be wearing you down even further.

"I'm here about Geto Suguru. You just brought him in," you managed to get out, your fingers anxiously tapping against the counter. Every second that the nurse spent typing on the computer felt like a second too long.

"He's currently in emergency surgery. The waiting room's in the fourth floor," the nurse finally spoke up after what seemed to be an eternity. "Thank you," your words came jumbled up in a rush, turning around and speed walking towards the elevator. The stench of antiseptic filled your nostrils as soon as you stepped out into the fourth floor, a grim feeling settled into every crevice of the halls.

The clock on the wall ticked by slowly, marking each second almost painfully. Each second marking someone being brought into the world, someone being taken away from the world. Marking tears of agony, dispair, joy, and relief. Your brain continued to spiral every time a doctor came out of the surgical wing—giving you the briefest glance before going over to talk to someone else.

A wisdom teeth removal without anesthesia would've been a more welcome thought than the unbearable waiting.

Despite his farewell, the next time that you saw Suguru wasn't at the airport after the art show that would make his career skyrocket. With a smile on his face when he looked at you, like you held the universe in the palm of your hand. Like you were the only thing really worth looking at. But instead, you had to settle for seeing him in a hospital bed.

You could practically see the gears turning in Suguru's head in some attempt to recognize just where exactly he knew you from, where he'd seen you before. Almost like one of the statues that were around his studio, you stood completely still. You gave him your name after a nod from the doctor and crossed your fingers in the pocket of your pajama pants, waiting for some kind of sign that he knew you.

That he remembered the hour long conversations between you, the feeling of your skin underneath his own, that he at least knew he loved you. The action was for naught, however. Panic slowly began to settle in Suguru's features, his arms straining against the needles attached. His face was cold, detached, his finger pointing towards the door. "Leave!" even with the breathing tube down his throat, you at least made out the command.

Before Suguru ended up ripping all the different IVs out of his arm, you made your way out of the room. Standing by the door, almost like a puppy who'd just been kicked out to the curb. Looking through the small window, you could see that Suguru was still on high alert. His eyes darted around the room, the two nurses attempting to restrain him starting to visibly struggle.

His shouts bled through the thin walls, "Leave! Leave!" Until the room went completely silent in a span of seconds, his panicked breathing starting to even out on the monitor. "You're free to come at another time," the doctor offered a sheepish smile, handing over a guide. How to deal with a family member with amnesia. The smiles on the front page only served to mock you even further.

You opened up the door to his side of the closet when you got home, the silence of the room almost overwhelming. It was never this quiet. You'd grown used to hearing Suguru's footsteps echo in his office while he paced around—convincing you that it got the ideas flowing (spoiler alert: it rarely did). The scent of his body wash and cologne covered the room like a thick blanket from his shower this morning.

Looking around the vast space, you could see a couple of his shirts with the color faded out with years and years of use, of wash, and of love. And with that, you noticed a couple shirts hanging up with the tags still attached to them. Shirts that he'd probably been intending to wear for future art showings. Would he even dress the same? Smell the same? The uncertainty chipped away at your composure, leaving you gripping one of his old band tees at the back of his closet.

You sprayed his cologne first thing in the morning throughout the following week, something that you could hold onto for the time being. The thought of packing up his clothes was one that persisted the longer you kept staring at the untouched articles, yet you couldn't bring yourself to do it. Every time you set out with a box on the floor—you couldn't muster to even get his shirts off the hangers.

It felt wrong, in a sense. To almost be mourning him despite that he was well in the hospital. Doing better than expected, even. You couldn't help but feel like you've lost him completely, though. That Suguru Geto was completely gone after that accident. You recognized his body, the one who'd held your own during cold nights. But you weren't sure who he was, not like you used to. You didn't know who he was going to become.

You willed yourself to keep the same enthusiasm as the doctors had been trying to instill, deciding to pack a couple of his essentials in a bag before visiting him. If he was anything like the Suguru you knew, he was probably desperate to wash his hair with something other than cheap travel sized shampoo.

After days and days of avoidance, Suguru finally stood in front of the mirror and looked into it. At first, all he could see was just how weak he looked. How sickly pale he looked against the bright fluorescent lights, how sunken his cheekbones were, how tired he looked. Even if he didn't know who he was supposed to be—the sight was anything but welcome.

And then Suguru looked at the mirror. Really looked into it. Desperately seeking for some kind of hint of the person that people were expecting him to be. The one he'd seen various art critics write about in overlooked magazines that were around the hospital lobby. Only to come up completely and totally empty. With not one single recollection of what happened before the car accident.

Staring at himself in the mirror was like staring at a hollow shell of himself—a corpse with his face, his body, his hair, his voice, that held no memory of the person that he was used to be. A body without a brain. Who and what was he supposed to be acting like? As much as Suguru stared at himself in the mirror, he couldn't find the answer that he so desperately craved.

The canvas and paint set that you'd left behind nearly a week ago remained untouched in the hospital bed stand, still in their original package. Suguru reluctantly pulled it out, setting it down on his lap. "Stupid thing," he muttered to himself, prying open the plastic and looking over at the palette of colors. After facing the same four grey walls of the hospital room, he found himself staring at them for more than necessary.

But even while Suguru held the paintbrush in his hand, the thought that he was even doing that wrong lingered in the back of his brain like a plague. Every line that was sprawled onto the canvas felt like a mistake, the smallest divergence in between the two points almost made him throw out the canvas out the damn hospital window and never paint again. Everything that he was supposed to be, he simply was not.

A deep breath left his lips, forcing himself to calm down before he went through another spiral in less than ten minutes. Suguru's grip on the paintbrush was unsteady, unpracticed, each of his strokes either coming out too wet or too dry. Lighter colors were starting to mix with the darker colors, turning into a shade of mud brown. And yet, this was the calmest he's felt in a while. The calmest without any sedatives, anyways.

The painting didn't come out to be anything significant—anything that he deemed worth putting into an art museum. But the process of making his splotch of colors was an escape from trying to force himself to be someone he wasn't sure he could ever return to. The one time he didn't feel like he was disappointing someone since waking up. The short moment of bliss was broken when Suguru heard the door knob jiggle, his eyes darting around the room.

Looking for any place where he could hide the canvas. Anyplace where the poor excuse of his work couldn't be found—where he wouldn't get someone's hopes up. Opening up the drawer next to him, he decided that was a decent enough hiding spot. Suguru turned the canvas to face down, the paint smearing down onto the scratched wood when he placed it down. Completely ruining the worthless piece.

"You can come in," Suguru called out, watching as you came in with the grocery bag in tow. Looking at you was nothing less than looking at another stranger—nothing different than one of the nurses who came in to poke more needles into his arm.

"Hey Suguru," you popped your head in through the door, almost expecting for him to have that sudden moment like they did in telenovelas. That just one look, one kiss, one touch would bring back the man that you loved. Waiting for a moment that didn't come no matter how much or how many times you wished for it. He gave a nod, simply just acknowledging your presence.

Everyday that Suguru didn't recognize you just felt like one more stab to your bleeding heart. You could see the way that he slightly inched away from you whenever you got too close. Conversations didn't flow the way they used to—you'd learn to measure your words so you wouldn't upset him. To only ask about how he was feeling, what he ate for lunch even if the nurse gave you the report earlier.

"Can you tell me some things about me?" Suguru broke the silence after you'd taken a seat, his attention solely on you. How would you even begin to address that can of worms? What even was the best way to begin describing him without sounding like a romance novel?

"As I'm sure you're probably aware by now, you were an artist. You were dedicated, not just in that, but in everything that you did," you started off, your fingers tapping against the side of your leg. "Your perspective on the world was interesting, a bit nihilistic though."

"You keep saying were. You don't have the same hopes as the doctors?" Suguru asked almost immediately after you finished speaking. Leaving you completely and utterly speechless. You refused to look over at him, staring at the floor with a newfound interest. Without saying anything, you essentially confirmed the question that lingered in the air.

"Can I see some of the works, then?" Suguru tried his luck with that question next. The tension disappeared from your body almost immediately, a breath leaving your lips. "You're free to look around at a couple of the pictures on there," you handed your phone over. Most of them were just off-guards you'd captured when he was sleeping or cooking, really. A couple of his works thrown in between.

Suguru scrolled through your phone for a bit, bringing one specific work to your attention. The last work the two of you had made before he landed in a hospital bed. "Looks like a bunch of paint thrown on there. What made me do that?" The same piece that he swore to never forget was the same one he was criticizing now.

"You made that piece with me," you had to will yourself to blink back a couple tears that were threatening to spill, keeping your voice steady. "I guess you can just call it a product of love. We basically just covered ourselves in paint and had sex on the canvas." The explanation definitely sounded better in your head. Suguru simply looked at you with his mouth slightly agape, probably trying to figure out how.

"Was.. that comfortable?" A tamer question than you'd been expecting.

"As comfortable as the floor can get. It was messy in the end.. but it was pretty fun," you willed your voice to remain steady as you spoke, only to have the smallest of cracks at the end. You'd never expected the painting you once thought of as nothing but a splatter of paint would be making you this sentimental. Suguru had more questions, if his expression was anything to go by.

But you didn't get the chance to elaborate more on the painting when the door hinges creaked, the door swinging wide open.

"Oh good, you're here," the doctor you'd seen on your first night here greeted you, a clipboard resting on his arm, "So, we have the latest results from Geto's scan and they show no improvement. While he does seem to be recovering without any problems, chances are that the damage can be permanent." The rest of the doctor's words dimmed down into a ringing noise in the background.

You forced yourself to nod along when you deemed fitting—forced yourself to pretend like your hopes weren't just killed within two minutes. "Well, let me know if you have any questions," the doctor finished up, looking between the two of you. "Nothing here," you responded, glancing over at Suguru. When the doctor received nothing in response, he simply nodded and left the room.

Thick silence weighed in the room—the realization that Suguru would never get back to who he was, to what he enjoyed doing, slowly starting to settle in.

Just a week ago, Suguru was scheduled to go to the biggest art show of his career and now he was looking up at you like you held all the answers in the world. And maybe, in his opinion, you did. The only guide that he had through the unknown. Tears of sheer desperation dribbled down his red stricken eyes, tainting his pale cheeks as he babbled, "I don't know how to be who you want and need me to be. I'm sorry."

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lowrisemiller · 20 hours ago

Text

ꜰᴏʀ ɪ'ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴀ ᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛʀᴇꜱꜱ ᴛᴏᴏ ʟᴏɴɢ

ᴊᴜꜱᴛ... ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴀ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ

ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴀ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴀ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ɪ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ʙᴇ ᴀ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ⧗

one - shot inspired by the song “Glory Box” by Portishead — also a tad inspired by @artficlly ‘s lessons in love making

winter soldier!bucky x black widow!femreader

She's Red Room. He's Winter Soldier. Neither remembers what it feels like to be touched without orders, to be wanted without purpose. Hydra pairs them as weapons, but in the quiet between missions—in bruised silence and shared Russian—they begin to find something unspoken. Something fragile. Something theirs.

masterlist | 5.9k words | photos do not depict what fem!reader looks like | mentions of torture, trauma, brainwashing, illusions to assault yk normal red room/hydra things, wee bit of violence and blood, praise, grinding, handjob, unprotected piv sex (not rlly tho if yk black widow lore…) and that’s it pls lmk if there’s more

You were transferred in a box.

Not literally, of course—but it felt that way. Blacked-out convoy. Shackled wrists. A one-way ride from the remnants of the Red Room to a Hydra-controlled facility somewhere in the Balkans. No name. No destination. Just cold metal under your thighs and a silence that felt worse than any scream.

You’d heard whispers of this place. Of him.

They called him the Winter Soldier.

Hydra didn’t send many female agents here. They kept you in Moscow, mostly—tight, quiet, obedient. But after your last handler died during a failed seduction op, you were labeled unstable. Too volatile. Too effective. Hydra saw potential where the Red Room saw disobedience. So they made a deal.

You became someone else’s problem.

The Hydra base was underground, cold as a morgue, walls humming with electricity and cruelty.

They didn’t assign you a name. They gave you a number: Agent 47.

Your first few weeks passed in silence. You trained alone. Slept under surveillance. But being from the Red Room you hacked the camera. Ate without speaking. No one told you why you were there. Not until you saw him.

They wheeled him out of cryo like a weapon being unsheathed.

You were at the edge of the training floor, bandaging your knuckles from solo drills when he appeared—broad, silent, wrapped in shadow and control. Long hair. Muzzle mask. That metal arm. He didn’t look at you. Not at first.

But you looked at him. And you knew.

He was just like you. A ghost in someone else’s skin.

You were paired together two missions later. No warning. No introduction.

They handed you a brief, said “You’ll go with him,” and shoved you toward the drop point.

You didn't ask his name. He didn’t offer it.

The first op was simple. A kill mission in Istanbul. You were bait, dressed like a party favor, coaxing the target toward a hotel balcony. Bucky waited in the hallway like a shadow. The kill was clean. Fast. He didn’t say a word the entire flight home.

You were used to silence. But his silence felt different. It was less about obedience, more about weight. As if words were too dangerous to carry.

You watched him when he wasn’t looking. The way his hand sometimes tremble after a kill. The way he stared at the wall like it was going to scream.

You recognized it. The fracture. The absence of self.

It took three more missions before he looked you in the eye.

Just a glance. After a messy clean-up in Kraków, blood is still damp on your collar. You were wiping a cut on your lip, sitting on the tailgate of the evac van. He stood across from you, face unreadable. Then his gaze flicked to yours.

Not curious. Not judgmental.

Just... knowing.

As if he saw you. Not the mask. Not the makeup. You.

Your fingers twitched.

You didn’t smile. Neither did he.

But something shifted.

Mission Location: Bucharest, Romania Objective: Eliminate asset defecting to S.H.I.E.L.D. Cover Story: Tourist couple at Hotel Beron

You hate hotels.

Not because of the sheets—they’re always clean, bleached, starched into fake softness. Not because of the lighting, though that’s usually cheap and flickering. You hate them because of what they mean: appearances. Playing and acting. Your body as a bargaining chip. Your face as a lie.

Tonight is no different.

You slip the gold earring into your ear with steady fingers, check your reflection one last time. The Red Room taught you to dress fast and fight faster. Hydra doesn't care what you wear, only that the target dies before he talks. Still, the dress they chose for you is low-cut and wine-red, tailored like a weapon.

Across the room, he doesn’t look at you. He’s adjusting the sight on a sniper rifle, calm as the grave.

The Winter Soldier wears a suit like a soldier wears a uniform—wrong, like it's just a disguise for the kill underneath.

You don’t speak. He doesn’t either.

That’s how it works between you.

The hotel bar is warm, glowing with amber light and careless laughter. You step into it like a ghost wrapped in silk.

Your heels click softly against the marble floor, your smile painted on with surgical precision. You're here to lure the target—a Hydra informant who decided to jump ship to S.H.I.E.L.D. You only have to keep him busy long enough for your partner to get in position.

You spot him at the bar. Older. Nervous. Talking too fast to a bartender who couldn’t care less.

You slide into the seat next to him like gravity pulled you there. A warm laugh. A brush of your shoulder. The same tired seduction dance the Red Room taught you at fifteen.

I’ve been a temptress too long.

He looks at you like every man does. Wants you like every man does. You feed it to him like honey over poison.

But as he starts to relax—fingers inching toward yours on the bar—you feel it: a prickle on your spine. The shift in air. The knowledge that he’s watching.

You don't need to turn. You know where he is.

Across the bar, tucked in the shadows near the back service door, sits the Winter Soldier. No mask. No rifle. Just a man in a suit too nice for the way his eyes scan the room—lethal and unblinking.

No one notices him. But you do.

He’s waiting.

The target gets comfortable fast. Too fast. He leans closer, asks if you want to go upstairs. You smile and say yes.

Your earpiece crackles with static, then his voice—cold, barely there.

“Level 5. West hallway. Blind spot in 40 seconds.”

You don't reply. You don’t have to.

The elevator ride up is silent, except for the elevator music and your heartbeat.

The hallway is dim. Carpet muffles your steps. When the door to 509 clicks shut behind you, you let the man touch your arm. You don’t flinch. You’ve played this role before. You already know how it ends.

You count down in your head.

Three... two...

The window explodes inward.

A blur of motion. Shattered glass. You duck before you even register the gunshot. The target stumbles back, screaming—blood blooming from his throat like a second collar.

You look up through your own hair, breathing hard.

He’s standing in the broken window frame.

Wind whips through the curtains. Gun still raised. Eyes locked on yours.

The Winter Soldier.

Back in the extraction van, it’s silent as always.

Your dress is ripped at the hem. There’s a scratch on your collarbone that stings. You can smell the powder burn still clinging to his jacket beside you.

You glance at him. His gaze is forward, unreadable.

But something about the way he watches the road—jaw clenched, fingers twitching—tells you he didn’t like what he saw in that room.

Not the blood. Not the kill.

You.

You wonder if he saw through the act.

You wonder if he saw how your hand shook when the man touched you.

Give me a reason to be a woman, not just a weapon.

He doesn’t speak. But just before the van turns, you feel it—his hand, brief and accidental, brushing yours where it rests on the bench.

He doesn’t pull away fast enough.

The building smells like antiseptic and cement. Cold, old-world concrete, retrofitted with modern surveillance tech and the stench of fear.

You haven’t been back in months. Not since the transfer.

The Red Room occupies the eastern wing; Hydra’s Moscow cell lives in the west. Where steel doors outnumber smiles and most conversations happen under cameras.

You walk the hallway beside him in silence.

The echo of your boots and his heavier tread match in rhythm—military, precise. You glance at his shoulder once, just once. The black tactical coat fits over the metal arm too cleanly, like it was sewn around the violence.

Neither of you speak until you’re summoned.

Inside the glass-walled debriefing chamber, the temperature drops by several degrees.

Your superior sits across from you—Director Volkov, thick-fingered, well-fed, and always two steps away from cruelty. Behind him, an aide prepares the recorder.

“Садитесь,” Volkov says without looking up. Sit.

You and the Winter Soldier obey in unison. Side by side. Chairs too straight to relax in.

Volkov doesn’t waste time.

“Доклад,” he says, motioning lazily with one hand. Report.

You glance once at Bucky. He stays still, metal fingers twitching once before stilling.

You begin.

“Цель устранена. Враг не передал информацию Щ.И.Т.,” you say clearly. Target eliminated. Enemy did not pass information to S.H.I.E.L.D.

“Свидетели?” Witnesses?

“Нет. Один охранник — был устранён.” No. One guard—eliminated.

Volkov raises an eyebrow. Then turns his attention to Bucky.

“And you?” he says in Russian, but slower. As if testing him.

Bucky’s voice is low, sharp like ice cracking.

“Всё прошло по плану.” Everything went according to plan.

His accent is almost native. Almost. But there's something strange in the way he says it—mechanical, hollow. Like he’s repeating words pulled from an old program.

Volkov watches him for a beat too long.

Then: “Хорошо.” Good.

But his gaze slides to you.

“Ты выглядишь усталой, девочка.” You look tired, girl.

Your jaw flexes.

“Я выполняю свою работу.” I do my job.

He leans back, smirking. “Иногда ты больше, чем просто работа.” Sometimes, you're more than just a job.

The edge behind his words makes your stomach tighten. A test. A threat. You don’t blink.

But you feel it.

A shift beside you. The faintest sound—leather glove tightening around a fist.

You don’t look at him. But you feel the Winter Soldier bristle, just for a second.

He heard it. He understood.

Volkov notes the silence like a man lighting a match near gasoline. He lets it burn a moment. Then shrugs.

“Свободны,” he says. You’re dismissed.

You both stand without hesitation.

But as you turn to leave, he speaks again.

“Солдат.” Soldier.

Bucky stops.

Volkov doesn’t look up as he says it.

“Девушка — хрупкая. Не дай ей сломаться.” The girl is fragile. Don’t let her break.

You look over your shoulder.

Bucky doesn’t respond. Doesn’t twitch. Just walks out, silent as death.

You follow.

In the elevator, no one speaks.

Not until the doors close and the security light turns green.

Then, in Russian—so quiet it almost doesn’t reach you—he says:

“Ты не хрупкая.” You are not fragile.

You stare straight ahead. Your heart stutters once behind your ribs.

After a long pause, you whisper back:

“И ты не только оружие.” And you are not only a weapon.

Location: Hydra Training Compound, Belarus Objective: Infiltrate and surveil ex-Hydra weapons broker operating under a NATO-aligned cover Alias Names: Alina & Ivan Morozov Cover Story: Married couple visiting from Kaliningrad for black-market tech negotiation

The base is colder than Moscow.

Not in temperature—though it’s frigid at dawn—but in design. Gray walls. Glass panels. Doors with no handles unless they want to be opened. The kind of place where every hallway feels like a test, and every reflection in the steel has eyes.

You stand in the armory, adjusting your tactical vest, eyes on the mission file. The photos are grainy, black-and-white. Surveillance stills of a man named Konstantin Mirov, former Hydra quartermaster turned freelance weapons broker.

Your job? Get into his meeting. See who he’s selling to. Get out without making noise.

No seduction this time. No backless gowns or hotel bar whispers.

This one’s quiet. Careful. Married couple traveling for business, Hydra’s handler had said.

You’d snorted. The Winter Soldier hadn’t reacted at all.

Now he enters the room, dressed not in his usual black ops gear—but something more civilian. Dark gray slacks. Black sweater. No gloves.

You glance at the arm.

He doesn’t bother to hide it.

Bold.

Or suicidal.

You zip your coat, grab your compact pistol, and glance at him. He’s adjusting his earpiece, expression unreadable.

Your handler enters with a clipboard and two forged passports.

“Your aliases are Alina and Ivan Morozov,” she says, Russian clipped and cold. “You’ve been married for five years. No children. No friends. You’re a quiet couple from Kaliningrad who want to buy access to Mirov’s smart-tech vault.”

She hands Bucky the ring box like it’s a threat.

He opens it.

Two simple wedding bands inside.

You stiffen. “Is this necessary?”

The handler smiles, teeth like knives. “You’ll be staying in a private villa. Shared bed. If Mirov suspects you’re spies, he’ll kill you. Or worse—he’ll sell your location to S.H.I.E.L.D.”

You take the ring.

Bucky slides his on with mechanical ease.

You follow.

Infiltration Point: Moldova border, safehouse en route to Mirov’s estate

The drive is quiet. Trees blur past the windows, and you feel the weight of the silence settle between you like fog. The radio crackles occasionally—local news, rain reports, nothing useful.

He’s driving with one hand, the metal one. The flesh one rests on his thigh, fingers tapping once, twice, in thought.

You speak without looking at him.

“Are you comfortable with close contact?”

He doesn’t respond right away.

Then: “I don’t need comfort. I need control.”

You glance at him. “That wasn’t the question.”

He doesn’t answer.

The Estate — Mirov’s Private Villa

By the time you arrive, the act has begun.

You’re greeted by a security detail with mirrored sunglasses and thick accents. They scan your car. Search your bags. But they don’t find the tracker tucked beneath the spare tire, or the bone mic embedded behind your left ear.

Inside, the villa is all excess. Marble floors. Velvet drapes. Surveillance in every corner. You walk in like you belong.

Your room is on the top floor. One bed. No cameras inside, but you know better. Hidden mics, pressure sensors under the floorboards.

You wait until the guards leave before speaking.

“You take the side near the door.”

He nods once. No questions.

You unpack. Slowly. Deliberately. The room is small. Every time you turn, he’s close. Too close.

You kneel to unzip your weapons case and find yourself eye-level with the holster strapped to his thigh.

He doesn’t move.

Your fingers brush the hem of his coat as you reach for your knife.

He still doesn’t move.

Your heartbeat spikes—briefly.

I’ve been a temptress too long.

Now I just want to be human.

But I don’t know how to be near him without wanting something I shouldn’t.

Later That Night

The mission recon begins at the gala in Mirov’s garden.

You’re dressed in black. Minimal makeup. Armed with a compact camera hidden in your pendant. Bucky wears a suit again—same fit as Bucharest—but this time, you’re on his arm.

For show.

You link arms. Skin to skin.

He is warm.

You keep your smile fixed and your eyes on the crowd. Inside, you whisper:

“Three o’clock. Red dress. That’s the American buyer.”

He leans in slightly—lips brushing your temple in a way that makes your stomach knot.

“She’s carrying,” he mutters. “Ankle holster. SIG P365.”

You smile and laugh, loud enough for Mirov’s man to hear. Just two lovers sharing a joke.

But when you turn away, his hand on your back doesn’t drop right away.

You feel the heat of it through your dress.

You don’t speak on the walk back to the villa.

The guards let you through without questions. One of them gives you a knowing smirk, like he expects you to fuck as loudly as you kill. You offer him the barest smile in return—just enough to keep him stupid.

Inside, the bedroom light is low. Amber and shadow and the faint buzz of some generator humming through the floor.

You unclip your earrings and place them on the nightstand.

Bucky’s already unbuttoning his cuffs. No words. No wasted movement. Just a slow, methodical undoing of the man he pretended to be tonight.

You glance over.

He hasn’t looked at you once.

But his jaw is tight.

You strip off your dress with your back to him. No flourish, no invitation. Just routine. Your spine is bare and littered with scars in the mirror. You catch his reflection when he finally turns.

His eyes flick to yours, just once, before dropping.

He looks away like it hurts.

You slide on the black sleep shirt. One of the few things in your duffel that’s actually yours. Cotton. Worn thin at the collar.

Bucky changes into a pair of Hydra-issued sweats and a black t-shirt. The metal arm gleams under the soft light, all tension and symmetry and weaponized restraint.

He takes the side nearest the door, just like you asked.

You slide under the covers beside him.

The silence is too loud.

The bed dips beneath his weight but doesn't move again. He’s still. A wall of heat and control.

You close your eyes.

And then—after several long breaths—you whisper, in Russian:

“Ты не расслаблялся ни на секунду.” You haven’t relaxed once.

He exhales through his nose.

Then:

“Слишком опасно.” Too dangerous.

You open your eyes. The ceiling is textured with shadow.

“Мне казалось, ты был другим, когда мы танцевали.” You seemed different when we danced.

He doesn’t answer.

But he’s listening. You can feel it. His focus, always so sharp in combat, is now centered entirely on you.

You turn on your side, facing him in the dark. His profile is a study in contrast—scar and softness, human and not. The kind of face built for silence.

“I forgot who I was for a minute,” you murmur. “On the balcony. When you touched my back.”

His jaw tenses.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says.

You swallow hard.

“I didn’t want you to stop.”

The air between you thickens. Warmer now. And dangerous in a different way.

This isn’t flirtation. It's a confession. Two ghosts pressing against the skin of the living.

You feel his fingers move—just barely.

Then:

“Why are you telling me this?”

You don’t know.

Maybe because it’s dark. Maybe because he saw you undressed without leering. Maybe because when you kissed him in Bucharest, he didn’t pull away—he just stood there, stunned, as if you’d woken something up.

“I want to know if you felt it too,” you whisper.

His voice is a thread of breath:

“I don’t let myself feel things.”

You reach for his hand under the sheet. Not the metal one. The other.

Your fingers find his fingers.

And he lets them.

He doesn’t pull away.

You fall asleep like that. Not tangled. Not pressed together. Just a point of contact—skin to skin.

A line crossed.

And neither of you can go back.

Location: Hydra Training Compound Day Three Post-Mission

They call it “recalibration,” but it feels like punishment.

Mission successful. Mirov neutralized. Intel secure. And still, they’re back on the mat like it means nothing. Hydra doesn’t reward precision. It doesn’t reward loyalty.

It rewards silence.

You’re already in the training gear—black compression top, reinforced leggings, bare feet on the polished floor. Your knife is strapped to your thigh even though it won’t be used today. Just a habit.

Across from you, Bucky stands shirtless, gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair damp from the shower.

His metal arm catches the light like a warning.

You circle each other in silence. There’s no music, no overseer today. Just the distant hum of the base and the scuff of movement on the mat.

Then, in Russian:

“Готова?” Ready?

You nod.

He lunges first—fast, controlled, mechanical. You drop low, sweep a leg, and he pivots instead of falling. His movements are brutal but beautiful, like clockwork designed to hurt.

You block a palm strike, twist under his arm, shove your elbow toward his ribs.

He lets you connect.

Not full force. Not enough to bruise.

Just enough.

You both freeze.

Your breath hitches.

He stepped into it—on purpose.

Why would he let me land a hit like that?Why does it matter that he did?

You disengage fast, roll back onto your feet. He stays still, watching.

Eyes unreadable.

Then, quieter:

“Ты теряешь фокус.” You're losing focus.

You sneer. “Ты проиграл.” You lost.

He steps forward again—slow this time. Less like a soldier, more… man. His chest rises and falls in an even rhythm.

“I let you win,” he says.

There’s no arrogance in it. No mocking.

Just a fact.

You bristle. “Why?”

His eyes flick to yours—then lower. Just briefly. Enough to notice the slight swelling on your lip from the earlier blow he did land.

“Because you’re tired.”

You swallow, throat tight.

He noticed. And he cared. Not because Hydra told him to. Not because it helped the mission.Because it’s me.And that scares me more than it should.

You don’t reply.

You rush him again, but this time it’s sloppier. Emotion leaking in through the cracks. He catches your wrist mid-strike, and for one heartbeat, you’re just… there. Trapped in his grip.

His fingers tighten—then loosen.

He releases you.

Your skin burns where he touched it.

You step back.

“Again,” you say.

He hesitates. Just a flicker.

Then nods.

You spar for thirty minutes. No talking. Just the sound of bodies hitting mats, of breath caught and released, of two people pretending not to feel what they feel.

And after the last round—when you’re both on the floor, sweating, chests heaving, his arm braced beside your shoulder—

You ask, quiet:

“Why are you different with me?”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it:

“Because you don’t look at me like I’m a weapon.”

You look at me like I’m still human.You look at me like I deserve to be one.

You could kiss him right now.

You don’t.

You just stay there, breathing next to him.

Neither of you moves.

The sparring is over, but it’s still clinging to you—under your skin, in the beat of your pulse, in the shallow ache of your left wrist.

You sit on the bench in the armory locker room. Shirt discarded. Wrist tender. It throbs in waves now that the adrenaline’s worn off.

Hydra’s med supplies are cold and clinical: gauze, antiseptic, wraps. No painkillers. No comfort.

You’re wrapping the bandage sloppily, one-handed.

“Дай мне.” Let me.

His voice is low. Behind you.

You flinch, but you don’t stop him when he kneels in front of you.

You offer your wrist.

The metal hand holds it steady. Too gentle. The human one does the wrapping.

He’s meticulous. One layer. Then another. His breath fans across your forearm.

Your voice is soft:

“Ты заботишься.” You care.

He pauses.

Then—barely above a whisper:

“Ты не должна была заметить.” You weren’t supposed to notice.

You study him as he works. Down here, kneeling, close like this—he doesn’t look like a ghost. Or a soldier. He just looks... tired.

And young. Younger than you imagined, when he’s not under command.But you’ve seen his file. You know that doesn’t make sense. Unless something’s been taken from him.Time. Memory. Self.

“What do they call you?” you ask quietly.

He doesn’t look up.

“They don’t.”

Not a name. Just a directive. A ghost.Winter Soldier. Asset.

You nod once. You won’t ask again. You’ve done worse to people with names.

When he finishes the wrap, he doesn’t let go right away.

His thumb brushes the edge of the gauze. Not by accident.

Your breath stutters.

He touches like he’s afraid he’ll break you. Like no one taught him how to be soft, but he’s trying anyway.And you… you need it.God, you need it.

“You stay too long after the others leave,” you whisper.

He looks up at you. Those eyes—gray and still and far away.

“So do you.”

You pull your wrist back, slowly. His hand follows for a second longer than it should.

You rise.

He doesn’t stop you.

But before you turn to leave, you glance over your shoulder.

“What's on your mind,” you say in Russian. “Just one thing.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Like he’s trying to remember what counts as real.

Then, finally:

“Я боюсь забыть, каково это — не быть один.” I’m afraid of forgetting what it feels like to not be alone.

You don’t speak.

But something inside you breaks.

And you don’t fix it.

There are nights when the base goes too quiet.

Not silent—because no Hydra base is ever truly silent. There’s always the dull hum of the server banks, the pressurized hiss of sealed doors, the echo of boots in the corridor above.

But this? This is quieter. Hollow. Heavy.

You can’t sleep.

Your bed is too narrow, your bones too wired. There’s a tremor in your hands you can’t shake. Not fear, exactly. Just… residue. From training. From life.

From him.

You slip from your quarters, barefoot. In a tank top and soft black shorts. You don’t bother to put boots on.

The halls feel colder at night. You glide through them like smoke.

Down one floor. Then two.

You know where he’ll be.

There’s a small chamber near the weapons lab—an auxiliary control room that no one uses after hours. No windows. Just a slatted steel vent near the ceiling where moonlight slices in, pale and ghostlike.

He sits there in the corner, on the floor.

Back against the wall.

Awake.

He’s always awake.

You don’t speak when you step into the doorway.

He lifts his eyes. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t rise.

Just looks at you like he knew you’d come.

You sit across from him, knees pulled up. The cold seeps through the floor into your skin.

For a long time, neither of you speaks.

But that’s never mattered. Not with him.

The quiet between you has its own language.

He finally says, “Ты тоже не можешь спать?”

You can’t sleep either?

You shake your head. “Слишком много шума.”

Too much noise.

He nods.

You don’t mean the base.

You mean the static in your blood. The ghost-thoughts. The bruises that don’t bloom until morning.

You watch him. The way he sits so still. But you’ve seen him move—he’s lethal in motion, but now, in this shadowed room, he’s just… there.

Like a monument to some war no one ever won.

You speak again.

“Do you remember who you were… before?”

His jaw flexes. Not anger—hesitation.

Then he says, “No.”

Just that. One syllable that splinters something in you.

“I think I was someone else, too,” you whisper. “Before the Red Room.”

And maybe neither of you can get back to that person.

Maybe that’s what this is. Two weapons sitting in the dark, trying to remember how to feel like people.

You shift a little closer. Not touching. Just near.

“I think about it sometimes,” you say. “What it might feel like. To live outside these walls. Outside orders.”

He doesn’t respond. But his eyes are on you like he’s trying to see that world through yours.

You whisper, “Give me a reason.”

His brow furrows.

You search his face in the low light.

“Give me a reason to feel like a woman again. Not a tool. Not a weapon.”

A pause.

Then he leans forward—barely, barely—and says, so low you almost don’t hear it:

“Because when I look at you, I forget I’m a weapon.”

The air between you crackles.

But neither of you reaches across the space.

You just sit there, two shadows in the dark, a heartbeat apart from ruin.

But after a while sitting on the hard floor gets uncomfortable so you rise up slowly.

You guide him by the wrist—his flesh one, calloused and warm—and not his metal one. That’s on purpose.

He follows you without a word, boots silent on concrete. You don’t need to look back to know he’s watching you. You always know when he’s watching.

Your room’s a concrete box. No windows, no comforts. Just a cot, a gray blanket, a single lamp. But it’s private. It’s yours. And he’s never been here before.

You close the door behind you, fingers slipping the lock into place.

“C’mere,” you whisper, and he does.

He’s quiet, always quiet. That’s how they trained him. But he looks at you like you’re the only real thing in the whole damned place. Like your hands are the only ones he trusts not to hurt him. You pull him close, let your forehead rest against his chest. The cool metal of his arm touches your back as he hesitates—then wraps it around you.

He doesn’t know how to ask. But he wants this.

So you climb onto the cot, pull him down with you. No words, just breathing. The way his nose presses into your neck. The way his body curls toward yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You pet his hair. His breathing slows. You feel the tension drain from his body, even if only a little. You fall asleep like that—his arms around your waist, your hand over his heart.

But sometime in the dark, you feel it.

A slow press of his hips against your ass. The warm breath hitching against your neck. His hand twitching on your belly, the tremble of restraint in his thighs.

You shift, just slightly. You feel the outline of him—hard. Needy.

You whisper into the dark quiet of the room: “Soldat.”

He flinches like he’s been caught doing something wrong. But he doesn’t move away. Doesn’t deny it.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he mumbles, voice rough and ruined with shame. “I— I didn’t mean—”

“Hey,” you say softly, reaching back to touch his thigh, grounding him. “It’s okay.”

He goes still. Like he’s waiting to be punished.

You turn over in the narrow bed, face to face now. You tuck his hair behind his ear. “You want help, soldier?”

His eyes widened—blue and glassy and desperate.

“You sure?” you ask, your fingers brushing down his bare torso, over the soft ridges of his abs. “We don’t have to if—”

“Yes,” he breathes out, like it’s been torn from him. “Please. I don’t… I’ve never…”

That makes your heart ache. But it also makes heat twist low in your belly.

“Let me take care of you, then.”

You kiss him first. He doesn’t expect it, but melts into it like he’s starved for it. Like he doesn’t even know how to kiss back but he’s trying so hard it hurts. His metal hand grips the edge of the bed; his flesh one grabs your hip like he’s afraid you’ll float away.

You straddle him slowly. He’s shirtless, boxers straining against his hard length. His breath shudders when you grind down, rubbing against him through the fabric.

“Fuck,” he mutters, eyes fluttering shut. “It feels… s’good. Don’t stop.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” you whisper, dragging your lips down his jaw. “Just let me.”

He nods, breathing hard. He’s so worked up already, hips twitching under you.

You take your time. Slide your fingers beneath his waistband, and he gasps when you wrap your hand around him. He’s hot, flushed, leaking already. You stroke him slowly, watching him fall apart.

His head tips back against the pillow. His thighs tremble. He whimpers when you twist your wrist just right.

“You like that?” you ask, voice dark and honey-sweet.

“Y-yeah. Shit. Don’t stop—please.”

You press kisses to his chest, his neck, then whisper against his ear, “You wanna come like this? Or inside me?”

He chokes on air, like his brain short-circuits.

“I—inside,” he groans, eyes pleading. “Please.”

You slip your shorts off. Tug his boxers down. You don’t tease. You just line yourself up, wet and ready, and sink onto him slow. He shudders beneath you, fingers digging into your hips.

“Oh fuck,” he groans, brow furrowed, chest heaving. “You feel—god, you feel so warm, so tight—I can’t—”

“Shhh,” you murmur, rocking gently. “You’re doing so good, baby.”

He whines at the praise. Whines.

You ride him slow, deep, keeping your forehead pressed to his, your hands in his hair. Every thrust makes him gasp. Every grind makes him moan, softer than you thought a killer like him could.

You rub your clit, and he watches, eyes glassy and wide like it’s the most intimate thing he’s ever seen.

When you tighten around him, he loses it.

His whole body locks up, and he spills into you with a broken cry, hips bucking helplessly. You don’t stop. You work yourself over him until you come too, clenching tight around him, panting into his mouth.

You collapse on top of him. He wraps both arms around you—flesh and metal—and for the first time, he doesn’t look like the Winter Soldier.

He just looks like a man who’s finally been given something he didn’t have to earn.

The room is quiet again.

You’re both breathing hard, chests pressed together. His skin is slick with sweat, still flushed from the high. But his hands haven’t moved—still holding you like he’s afraid to let go, like the second he does you’ll be taken from him.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, voice hoarse against your neck.

You shake your head slowly, nuzzling into him. “No.You were perfect.”

He lets out a breath, shaky and full of disbelief. You reach up and brush his hair back, gentle fingers gliding over his cheek. You don’t need to say anything else. You don’t need to tell him how good he was, or how beautiful he looked begging under you. He’s still figuring out how to believe those things. But you’ll show him. Again and again, if that’s what it takes.

You shift off of him gently, and he lets you go, reluctantly. You feel him twitch at the loss of contact.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, grabbing the blanket and pulling it over both your bodies. “I’m not going far.”

He blinks up at you, eyes glassy in the dim light. “Can I… hold you?”

“Of course you can.” You curl into him, tangle your legs with his, tuck your head beneath his chin. His arms tighten around you immediately—strong and possessive and scared.

You kiss his collarbone. His breath hitches again.

Neither of you says anything for a while. You just lay there, wrapped around each other. Listening to the hum of the base outside the door, far away from this little world you’ve built.

Eventually, his voice breaks the silence, soft and so vulnerable you almost don’t recognize it.

“I didn’t think it could be like that,” he murmurs.

“Like what?”

“Like it meant something. Like I got to feel good. Like… you wanted me.”

You tilt your head up and meet his eyes. “I do want you. Not just this.” You brush your fingers over his chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath your palm. “All of you. Even the parts they tried to erase.”

He closes his eyes. A tear escapes down his cheek, but he doesn’t wipe it away. You do it for him.

“I don’t want this to be the last time,” he says.

You rest your forehead to his. “It won’t be.”

“You’ll stay?”

You nod. “As long as you’ll have me.”

That does something to him. His jaw trembles. He doesn’t speak. Just tugs you tighter into his chest and buries his face in your hair.

Eventually, his breathing slows again. You feel his body finally begin to relax beneath you. His grip loosens—not because he’s letting go, but because he trusts you won’t leave.

You fall asleep like that, curled around each other in a narrow cot in a concrete room under Hydra’s nose. But none of that matters. Not now. Not here.

For once, he isn’t a weapon.

And for once, you both believe—just a little—that maybe this, whatever this is between you, could be real. That maybe you’ll find freedom not just from Hydra, but from the cold, lonely lives they built for you.

Together.

dividers by @cursed-carmine & @hyuneskkami 🏷️ @zevrra @millersdoll @littlemillersbaby @stell404 @perpetually-fangirling-blog @veraarora @layaispunk @surebutwhy @m00ngazing @devilslittlehelper @bxtchboy69 @cinderblock24 @lilylovesu

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heesmiles · 12 hours ago

Text

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

#enhypen imagines #enhypen smut #enhypen #enha imagines #lee heeseung #lee heesung smut #lee heeseung imagines #heeseung smut #heeseung imagines #heeseung x reader

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mrpenguinpants · 2 days ago

Text

Golden Apple [ Commissioned ]

Word Count: 13.1k

— Phainon, Mydei + Anaxa

Request: [ A Modern AU with each character as a mythological figure/being. Phainon as a guardian angel, Mydei as an undying demigod, and Anaxa as a cosmic horror parasite. ]

Note: Liberties were taken with each character's cultural/mythological backgrounds. More information at the end.

[Masterlist]

Back at it again for another season, baby! Thank you so much for commissioning me, and I hope you like it!

Phainon

Daemon (Daimon / Δαίμων) — A spirit or semi-divine guide, neither good nor evil, acting as a quiet protector or inner voice. Unseen but ever-present, it might steer fate, whisper advice, or guide you toward your destiny.

ACT I, SCENE I

FADE IN:

EXT. DINGY ALLEY BEHIND A RESTAURANT - NIGHT

A flickering neon butterfly sign buzzes overhead, sputtering in embarrassed shades of pink and red. Its failing light spills across a grease-stained back door—the kind that hasn’t closed properly in years. Rain slicks the pavement, pooling into oil-slick puddles that shimmer with distorted reflections. The air reeks of old gasoline, wet cardboard, and something burnt-out and electrical. Trash bags slump against the faded red brick walls, both deflated and bloated. You wonder if there are any dead bodies inside, just waiting to be discovered, then ignored.

And there’s the knife at your throat.

Not an assassin. Not a business deal gone wrong. Not even the aftermath of someone’s drunken spiral. Just a man—desperate, hollow-eyed, with hands that won’t stop shaking. A ratty ski mask clings to his head, threadbare and sagging, worn past the point of dignity. His jacket is soaked and sour with mildew. Cracked fingers clutch a rusty blade too tight, one wrong breath away from splitting your skin. He reeks of cheap liquor, bile, and something sweet that’s been dead too long.

“Money,” he hisses, voice brittle and raw, “Now.”

It's all so...

disgustingly boring.

What happened to the gunmetal briefcases and monogrammed bullets? To assassins who glided over wet pavement without a sound, slipping through shadow and silence with practiced ease? What happened to the paper-screen duels, where silhouettes clashed in ghostly choreography—every movement a whisper before the final blow landed in a burst of stylized violence? Even the black-and-white mafia films had flair: steel-toed boots, pinstripe suits, cigar smoke curling around sneers and snub-nosed pistols. They kicked down doors with bravado, spilled in with bad accents and worse metaphors, and died in poetic slow motion—white rose pinned to their chest, black blood on their cuffs.

But this?

No drama. No build-up. No artistry. Just another man at the end of his rope, waving a blade in the dark, praying fear would do what fate never could. The whole scene screamed low effort—like a student film with no budget, no vision. Pig slop. Bloated. Overdone. You’d seen better tension in a toothpaste commercial. It felt like every review you’d ever gotten: flat direction, overwrought, emotionally shallow. You could practically hear a snide critic’s voice echoing in your skull as your eyes rolled so hard they nearly got stuck.

“Wow. Really phoning it in tonight, huh?” you mutter, voice dry as sandpaper, “Seriously? You think I’m worth mugging? I don’t even have a coat.”

You slump against the rain-slick brick, the mortar biting through your thin button-up. Cold seeps straight into your spine as the knife presses harder—not deep enough to break skin, just enough to remind you this scene isn’t over yet. The mugger’s hands tremble like a marionette with its strings half-cut.

You sigh—long, theatrical, like a curtain call no one asked for.

“Come on. Where’s the emotion? The stakes? You’re desperate—show me that. Cry a little. Maybe scream. I’m all for authenticity, but you’ve got to rehearse your lines before curtain. This kind of improv?” You wag a finger, “It throws everyone off. Wrecks continuity. Makes for very angry sponsors.”

One hand lifts in mock surrender, the other gesturing vaguely, “Honestly, if I were running this scene, I’d cut you entirely. Maybe replace you with a mute clown. At least that’d be memorable.”

“I said money!” His voice cracks—thin, frayed, angry.

“Alright, alright—no need to get moody,” you say, lifting your hands like you’re trying to soothe a diva mid-tantrum, “I’ve got some cash. Right side, pants pocket. Not a lot, but hey—supporting roles don’t pay like they used to.”

The mugger steps in, close enough for you to smell the sour rot of his breath. The blade catches a flicker of neon as he moves. One hand drops from your collar, trembling fingers inching toward your pocket, greedy for the crumpled bills stuffed inside.

Then— A stutter. A splat.

He drops like dead weight.

You blink. You really hope he's not dead. Police on your set doesn't make for great paparazzi.

“Let’s not ruin a perfectly mediocre Tuesday night, yeah?”

The voice cuts clean through the alley’s tension. Behind the crumpled body, a man stands framed in the dim glow of the restaurant’s now-open back door. It swings lazily shut behind him, sighing on its hinges. A sliver of warm kitchen light spills into the dark, casting him in sharp streaks—city haze curling at his shoulders like smoke, neon lights stuttering across the shock of white hair. Tall. Broad-shouldered. He wears a chef’s coat, still dusted with flour. Oil stains splatter faded patterns across the front, abstract and familiar—like he’s been through worse than grease fires. Sleeves rolled to the elbow. Forearms lean, marked by old burns and kitchen scars that tell their own stories.

But it’s his eyes that freeze the moment: too calm. A bit cheeky actually.

And then—he smiles.

“You alright?” he asked, voice warm and casual, as if this were all terribly normal.

You exhaled—finally. “No. Worse.”

His grin widened—easy, lopsided, a bit cute, “Oh?”

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing, amusement curling at the edge of your exhaustion. Slowly, deliberately, you raised your hands, fingers forming two sharp “L”s in front of your face like a makeshift director’s frame. He blinked, puzzled, but didn’t move. Just stood there in his flour-dusted chef coat, letting you silently finish your odd little ritual. In the cooler light, his messy white hair almost shimmers, catching the moonlight like a soft halo. Those cyan eyes—no colored contacts could ever match their intensity—hold you with a magnetic calm. His features are sculpted—sharp jawline, high cheekbones, the clean lines of someone carved rather than born—but softened around the edges by something subtler. A kind of gentleness. There's an almost feminine grace to him, and androgyny like that is rare in this line of work.

Not bad. Not bad at all. He's got leading man energy. Stupid nickname pending already.

“Alright, you’re hired,” you say, lowering your hands with a satisfied smile, even snapping your fingers together. You reach into your pocket and fish out a slightly crumpled business card, the edges softened from wear. Holding it out with a slow, deliberate gesture, you meet his eyes, “Come to this location at 7:00 tomorrow morning. Do not be late.”

The man takes the card between his fingers, pale light glinting off its glossy finish. He doesn’t even glance at it but nods once in acknowledgment. You catch the faintest flicker of curiosity—or maybe confusion—crossing his features. Fair enough. The last few minutes have been strange. Without another word, you pivot on your heel and vanish into the wet night. The neon sign above buzzes faintly, casting an uneven glow over the slick pavement. Rain continues to fall in a soft drizzle, its quiet patter blending with the distant hum of the city.

Phainon stands for a moment, eyes lingering on your retreating form. Then, he tucks the card into the pocket of his chef’s coat and slips back through the swinging kitchen door. Inside, the kitchen bursts with life—the clatter of pots and pans mingling with the hiss of steam and the sharp calls of the night crew. The air hangs heavy with the scent of garlic, hot oil, and sweat. Phainon weaves through the cramped space with practiced ease, sidestepping a precarious stack of dirty plates and a boiling pot. He spots Mydei leaning against the counter, arms crossed, eyebrows raised, furiously wiping down the stainless steel surface.

“Mydei!” Phainon calls out over the clatter, bursting through the swinging kitchen doors with the kind of urgency usually reserved for grease fires or health inspectors. His voice cracks slightly—a blend of panic and poorly hidden excitement, “I need to use my vacation days… like, right now!”

Mydei looks up from wiping the prep counter, rag frozen mid-swipe. He blinks slowly, a slight twitch in his eye, “…What? Why all of a sudden?”

Phainon shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his shoes squeaking faintly on the slick tile. His hands hover in the air, fingers twitching as if trying to physically pluck an explanation out of thin air, “I got hired for a new job!”

There’s a beat of silence before Mydei sets the rag down with exaggerated care, eyes narrowing, “A new—what the fuck are you talking about, Phainon? What job?”

“Uh… I don’t know yet?” Phainon says, scratching the back of his neck, white hair mussing even more. His cheeks flush pink under the harsh fluorescent lights as he avoids Mydei’s gaze. Mydei stares at him. Then, with the dead-eyed precision of someone who’s endured Phainon’s nonsense one too many times, he balls up the rag and chucks it at his face. It hits with a wet smack.

Phainon takes it in stride, sighing dramatically as the rag slides off his cheek and flops onto the floor. That one actually kind of hurt.

FADE OUT:

ACT I, SCENE I

CUT

---

ACT II, SCENE VII

FADE IN:

INT. OFFICE - MORNING

“Phainon,” he says, “Chef, part-time dishwasher. Full-time… problem-solver.”

You didn’t like working with new talent. They were either too chatty, jabbering when silence was gold, or too violent, quick to throw fists instead of listening. Too flashy, desperate to be seen and heard, or too late, showing up after the damage was already done. You’d burned through three rookies this month alone. One choked on his own ambition, pushing too hard to prove he belonged. Another took a contract that nearly tore your lungs out—an amateur mistake you barely survived. The last one vanished without a trace—along with your favorite coat, a souvenir from better days. But every now and then, you find a diamond in the rough. A raw edge of talent, hidden beneath the grime and mistakes, waiting for someone to buff, cut, and polish it until it catches the light just right. It’s a gamble, sure, but when it pays off? The spotlight shines brighter than any artificial light, and it’s worth every scar.

This one was different. For starters, you were pretty sure his name was fake—because seriously, what kind of name is Phainon? Even a pen name wouldn’t be so pretentious as to literally mean “bright” or “shining.” It sounded less like a real name and more something a self-important poet might invent during a late-night epiphany.

And the second part… well.

He was perfect. “Phainon” had no visible character flaws, on or off the set. On set, he delivered his lines flawlessly, every word crisp and natural, as if he were born to deliver. The perfect actor, as if the Grandfather of Cinema himself had accidentally dropped the wrong copy of the script straight from the heavens and placed Phainon in your lap. You’d heard of extreme method actors, but you weren’t sure you’d ever seen anyone quite his caliber. Phainon carried that same cheery, placid smile everywhere—never cracking, never faltering. It was almost eerie, as though he was permanently stuck in character, perhaps a little too comfortable living in that perfection.

It began with a crew light—an aging floodlight mounted too high, groaning under its own weight—teetering dangerously during the shoot. You caught the shift from the corner of your eye, but just a fraction too late. The metal rig wobbled precariously on its worn stand, bolts frayed and rusted from years of use. Its spotlight began a slow, deadly tilt. One more second and it would’ve come crashing down onto you. Maybe on someone else’s head too. Definitely on your budget.

Then: Action.

A flicker of white darted past the edge of the frame. A hood caught in the breeze, revealing a sun tattoo peeking just above the hem—faint, golden, a quiet hum of warmth on an otherwise cold, gray day. The hand that reached up moved with unhurried calm, catching the heavy light with ease and steadying it as if soothing a spooked animal. No grunt, no stumble—just a solid arm. You didn’t even get the chance to ask if he was okay before Phainon turned his head slightly, voice low and soft enough for only you to hear.

“Don’t flinch. You’ll ruin the shot, Director.”

There was a smile in his voice—faint, teasing, but never mocking. A soft flutter of wind caught at his coat as quiet footsteps faded away, carrying him back to his mark as if nothing had happened. You stood frozen for a moment, your throat tightening somewhere between a thank-you and a curse. Then your brain snapped back into motion.

“Places!” you bark, louder than necessary. “Everyone, back to one. Reset the track. Lights, tighten your rigging!”

The crew scrambles, rushing to their positions. The light is back where it belongs. The shot is saved. But your heart keeps hammering, a cold knot tightening in your chest. And Phainon? He never looks your way again.

It happened again on the third day of shooting, past golden hour and well into the frayed edge of everyone’s nerves. The air on set hung heavy with heat and halogen, buzzing lights above throwing sharp-edged shadows. A missed prop cue. A wardrobe malfunction. Too many takes are bleeding into each other. Tension layered thick as smoke.

Then the sponsor snapped.

“You want to run this circus? Then maybe act like it!” he barked, his voice cracking across the soundstage. You stood rigid in front of the monitor, clutching the camera like it might anchor you. Your teeth dug into the inside of your cheek. Around you, the crew shifted—some pretending not to notice, others casting you wary or sympathetic glances. No one said a word.

Your knuckles were bone-white.

Then—quietly, steadily—someone stepped up behind you. Not intruding. Just… present.

“Don't be so wired,” said a low voice near your ear. Smooth. Steady. Certain.

Phainon.

You felt him before you saw him—the calm weight of his hand closing gently over yours, adjusting your grip on the camera. His fingers were cool, the pads calloused but exact, like a pianist’s—or someone used to handling delicate machinery. Probably a knife. You keep forgetting he used to be a chef. The tension in your shoulders began to unspool, though you didn’t loosen your hold just yet.

“They can yell all they want,” he said, his eyes on the chaos unfolding ahead like it was nothing more than set dressing, “But you’re the one holding the lens.”

You blinked.

The words landed somewhere beneath your ribs, quiet but steady—reminding you what mattered. What was still yours to hold.

Still, you couldn’t help yourself.

“Are you saying I should throw it at them?” you muttered, eyes forward.

A pause. Then the faint tug of a smirk at his lips.

“Respectfully,” he said, releasing your hand with the same lightness he’d arrived with, “I don’t think you’ve got the arm strength for that.”

A breath caught in your throat—then slipped out as a crooked laugh. Small, but real.

Your shoulders eased. You raised the camera again, adjusted the lens with new focus, and called out to the crew, “Reset. We’re going again.”

No one argued.

And when you looked back, Phainon was already across the set—sleeves rolled, calmly discussing lighting with a grip. Just another cog in the machine. Seamless. Unbothered. But you knew. He’d been there—in a moment no one else had dared to step into. Quietly, without fanfare, he’d drawn a line around you. Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just enough. Just present.

Another time, it was water.

The shoot had dragged into its twelfth hour. Your eyes were dry from staring at monitors too long, your neck stiff, brain fogged over. You hadn’t moved from your chair in what felt like days. Around you, the set buzzed with quiet urgency—stagehands murmuring, the distant clatter of equipment, the steady hum of overhead lights. You didn’t notice the footsteps approaching. You barely noticed anything anymore. Then, as quietly as a breath, a bottle of water landed beside your elbow. Cool against the warm metal of the table. Condensation slid down its side, catching the light. The cap was already cracked open, like someone knew you wouldn’t have the energy.

“You forgot to hydrate again, Director,” Phainon said—his voice barely rising above the ambient buzz. Not a scold. Not exactly concern. Just… not letting it slide. He didn’t wait for thanks, didn’t even look at you. Just placed the bottle there like it belonged, lingering a moment longer before turning away.

You blinked down at it, then up at him—already halfway across the set, his white sleeves a blur in the chaos.

“Thanks… Phainon,” you called after him, his name slipping out like an afterthought, a little awkward on your tongue. He didn’t stop walking, but the corner of his mouth tilted upward. And you swore, even without turning back, he looked pleased all the same.

And in the quiet, long after the shouting had died down, the lights had dimmed, and most of the crew had gone home, you sat alone, shoulders slumped, eyes fixed on the monitor. The same take played for the fifth time. Then the sixth. You weren’t even sure what you were looking for anymore. Every shot blurred into the next. Maybe it had never been good. Perhaps none of it was working. Your hands hovered near the controls but didn’t move. Self-doubt crept in like mold—slow, patient, and relentless. Then, a soft shuffle of footsteps—quiet, not meant to be noticed. But you noticed anyway. Phainon paused behind you. No grand entrance, no forced comfort—just the faint rustle of fabric as he leaned in slightly, arms crossed.

“It’s starting to feel real, Director.”

His voice was gentle, barely more than a breath against your shoulder. It cut through the fog in your mind sharper than any shout ever could. Never intrusive. Never loud. But always there—flipping the switch, setting the shot, grounding the chaos—until, without meaning to, you realized: your story was unfolding.

“Don’t look away now.”

It didn’t happen all at once. It never does. First, it was the way the sunrise hit the coffee steam just right during a late rewrite session. Then, how an offhand line an actor improvised during rehearsal rang louder than anything you wrote. A casting mishap landed you a last-minute extra whose face—wrinkled, worn, honest—became the heart of the scene. The rain started the second the camera rolled, unplanned but perfect. The crescent moon in the sky reflected in the growing puddles. A location scout tripped into a forgotten alley that looked exactly like the one from your dreams. A song on the radio—static-filled, half-familiar—stitched your ending together like thread through old film. And somehow, by the time the final cut played in front of a blinking crowd, you realized you’d made something. Something real. Not just a movie. A moment. Yours.

Your short film, after more than a decade of nothing, was an instant success.

ACT III, SCENE X

FADE IN:

EXT. OAK FAMILY BUILDING BALCONY - NIGHT

“Isn’t this a non-smoking area?” Phainon asked, his tone light as he watched the rumpled man in a too-tight dress shirt, a wine-red tie slung loosely over one shoulder, spark his lighter and take a long drag from a cigarette. A puff of smoke curled slowly into the air as the man—Gallagher, if Phainon remembered correctly—threw him a sideways glance.

“You gonna tattle on me, boy?” The man’s voice was raspy, but not as deep as Phainon had expected. He chuckled, shaking his head.

With Gallagher positioned right out in the open—perfectly visible from both the celebration hall and the balcony—Phainon figured the old man’s employer, the grey-haired patriarch of the Oak family, had a clear view of him lighting up. Maybe that was the point. Maybe Gallagher wanted to get caught. The man took another drag, the cigarette burning low. Smoke curled around his fingers, lazily drifting upward like something alive and indifferent. His gaze flicked to Phainon again—sharper this time—not just annoyed or amused, but knowing.

“You’re a long way from your post, halo-boy,” Gallagher mutters, exhaling a slow stream of smoke through his nose, “Daemons don’t usually hover around like lost puppies. Unless you’re planning to break the rules.”

Phainon doesn’t answer at first. His hands slip into his coat pockets—those subtle pockets the waitstaff never quite notice. His stance is too casual for someone standing so openly exposed. But his eyes-those unnervingly still cyan eyes—remain fixed on the city beyond the balcony, as if he’s watching the future unfold frame by frame.

“I didn’t break any rules,” Phainon says softly, voice steady as ever, hands folded neatly behind his back, “Not yet.”

The smoke curling from Gallagher’s cigarette wavers. He lets out a low, wet chuckle—gravel and tar caught in his throat.

“Yet,” he repeats, amused. His sharp teeth flash beneath the city’s sodium haze, “So it’s true. You’re attached to them. The ‘Director.’”

He drags the title through the ash with mock reverence, “What’s the game here? Some divine redemption arc? Guilt? Or just bored of the clouds and decided to babysit a trainwreck?”

Phainon doesn’t flinch but he exhales slowly through his nose, thoughtful. The damp night wind tousles loose strands of his white hair. There’s a flicker in his eyes—not irritation, not offense—but something older. Resigned. He hums softly, tilting his head as if Gallagher’s question were nothing more than a passing breeze instead of a loaded jab. His gaze drifts past the demon, toward the ballroom doors, where your silhouette slips out of sight, shoulders heavy but still moving forward.

“Is it so wrong...” Phainon says at last, voice dipped in something quiet and certain, “to have a little hope?”

For a beat, Gallagher goes still, the ember of his cigarette burning just a little too bright in the dark. He snorts, smoke curling from his nostrils, “Doesn’t sound like a good ending.”

The wind tugs faintly at their coats. The city hums below the balcony—distant honks, the low thrum of a passing tram, neon reflected in puddles like half-forgotten memories. Phainon doesn’t answer at first, only glancing over with that strange, unreadable stillness about him. A ghost of a smile, barely there, plays on his lips. Not joy. Not mockery. Something in between.

“It never is,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now, as if the truth might shatter if spoken too loud.

Gallagher’s jaw works. His fingers twitch, the cigarette burning dangerously close to the filter. He doesn’t look at Phainon—just stares out into the night, as if searching for answers buried in the rain-slick skyline. The weight of those words settles between them, heavier than the smog hanging in the air. A silence that doesn’t beg to be filled, only witnessed. Gallagher flicks the cigarette over the railing. Sparks trail behind like dying fireflies.

“Hope your miracle’s worth it,” he says, quieter now. Not a sneer. Almost… reverent.

Phainon doesn’t respond.

His eyes are already elsewhere, drawn past the smoke, the streetlamps, and the flickering signs, back to the celebration hall doors. The faintest hint of movement. A silhouette. You. His charge. His burden. His reason.

And he watches, as if you’re the only real thing in this world of false lights.

Mydei

Warning: It's quite brief, but just in case: Guns, death, fighting, mission gone wrong, PTSD, panic attacks, and blood.

Apotheosis ( ἀποθέωσις ) — The process by which a mortal is elevated to divine status, becoming a god or a divine being. This transformation often occurs after death or as a reward for extraordinary deeds, heroism, or favor from the gods.

/////CONFIDENTIAL MILITARY REPORT

REPORT #: 0319-AMPH/CK DATE: 08 APR 2X25 TIME: 15:01 LOCATION: Outpost 7, Sector 9A, Hospital Room 201 REPORTING OFFICER: CPL. [REDACTED], CALLSIGN: TRIGGER ASSOCIATED PERSONNEL: LT. MYDEIMOS, CALLSIGN: LIONHEART STATUS: SURVIVAL / EXTRACTION COMPLETE CASUALTIES: KIA (8), SURVIVORS (2)

HEPHAESTION [REDACTED], PERDIKKAS [ REDACTED], LEONNIUS [REDACTED], PTOLEMY [REDACTED], PEUCESTA [REDACTED], LEONIDAS [REDACTED], CLITUN [REDACTED], HYLES [REDACTED]

DETAILS TO FOLLOW IN EXTENDED REPORT/////

The sterile white walls closed in around you—a cold, suffocating cage. Your ribs throbbed painfully with every shallow breath, each inhale sharp enough to steal the air from your lungs. A persistent beep echoed steadily from the heart monitor—an unrelenting reminder that you were alive, but barely. You sure didn’t feel like it. Your fingers twitched restlessly beneath the thin hospital blanket, the fabric rough against your skin. Your mind churned with memories you dared not speak aloud.

The door opened abruptly with a sharp knock. For a moment, you were terrified it was Jing Yuan—but a stranger stepped inside, eyes sharp and unwavering. His uniform was crisp, his presence commanding, as if the weight of the entire military bore down on his broad shoulders. A few other men flanked him quietly, their hands folded behind their backs.

“What happened out there?” he demanded, his voice cold and unyielding. You’d never seen this man before, but just from his tone alone, you knew he held a higher rank—probably a corporal. Your throat tightened painfully. The truth felt like a heavy stone lodged in your chest: Mydei falling, the battlefield descending into chaos, and something impossible stirring beneath it all. Swallowing past the lump, you forced your voice into a steady calm. You were secretly relieved it wasn’t Jing Yuan—he would have known you were lying just from your breathing.

“It was bad. Worse than anything I’ve been through. We were pinned down, outnumbered,” You paused, biting back the urge to spill everything, licking your dry lips, “But Myd- Lieutenant Mydeimos- he… he took care of it. Made sure I got out… He saved my life, sir.”

The corporal’s eyes narrowed, sharp and piercing, as if trying to slice through the walls you’d built, “Your mission was intel-gathering on the Titans. Our transcriptions show there was a deliberate shutdown of your recording equipment for 33 minutes and 46 seconds, right when the fire team went dark. Care to explain that?”

You clenched your jaw, mind racing as you scrambled for the right answer—the truth carefully hidden beneath layers of omission.

“No excuse, sir. We’d been compromised, and in my panic, my hand caught the wire…” You trailed off, unsure what more to say. Lowering your head, you let the silence fill the room. The corporal’s gaze lingered, suspicion flickering beneath his disciplined exterior. Yet he said nothing further. The faint scribble of his pen on paper marked every word you’d spoken. Finally, he let out a long sigh.

“We’ll verify your story. Any inconsistencies won’t be tolerated. Rest easy.”.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you swallowed by silence. You let out a shaky breath, the weight of your secret crushing your chest like a vice.

No one could know what you’d truly witnessed.

You closed your eyes and saw it again — the battlefield torn apart, the eerie stillness that had swallowed Mydei’s form, the unnatural twitch that defied every law you’d ever known.

Your fingers curled tightly, knuckles white against the sheet.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

The silence of the hospital room pulsed like a second heartbeat. You blinked slowly, still seeing the afterimages — his silhouette against firelight, still standing after everything.

He should’ve stayed dead.

///// 03 JUNE 2X21 /////

You’d only been in the military for three months. Fresh out of basic training. Your boots still looked too clean. Your shoulders ached under the weight of gear that didn’t quite feel like yours yet. Your weapon was standard issue, gripped tightly in nervous hands, and your stomach knotted with the thrill of deployment and the terror of screwing up. You were running drills in a scorched training field, smoke and noise everywhere. A hail of bullets cracked through the air, and your fingers moved on instinct — pull, reset, pull—

Click.

A high, empty click.

No bang. Dead air. Just silence.

Then— Metal screamed. Something jammed. Heat surged. Your hand jolted back—

Too late.

The gun backfired. A strong hand on the back of your collar, before you felt weightless. Another hand, ripping the gun from yours.

A sudden boom. A fire of bullets rained down on the sand all at once.

Someone’s shouting. Someone thinks you fired intentionally. You didn’t. But in the silence that follows, no one cares what you meant to do. You hit the dirt with a solid, ungraceful thud—ears full of static, smoke curling off your gloves. The scent of gun oil and burnt polymer flooded your nose.

Your weapon skittered across the ground, like it wanted to run away from you.

Then: boots. Heavy. Sure. Grounded like bedrock. A shadow loomed over you—massive, broad-shouldered—his voice cutting through the ringing in your ears like gravel under steel.

“You alive, rookie?”

You blinked through smoke and pain, heart hammering against your ribs. You looked up—and that was the first time you saw Mydei. Everything about him seemed larger than life. Broad chestplate scratched from years of fieldwork. His face is somehow still youthful yet serious, and his pupils almost look like cats. You scrambled to sit up, humiliated, your fingers shaking as you reached for your weapon.

“I—my gun—I'm sorry—sir—” you choked out. He crouched beside you, fingers already moving with expert precision. In less than a second, he popped the jammed receiver and tilted it toward you.

“Double-feed. Barrel overpressured. Could’ve taken your head clean off,” he said evenly.

You couldn’t breathe. You almost died. His voice was calm, almost bored, but the words dropped like lead in your stomach. You glanced down at your rifle—the twisted mess of jammed brass, the blackened edge of the barrel still warm from near-disaster. You hadn’t even realized your hands were still clenched until they started to shake.

You swallowed hard. Ah, crap. This was it. You were done.

They’d kick you for this. Discharged. Maybe even court-martialed. That kind of mistake—you’d be lucky if they didn’t strip your rank before lunch. Your throat burned. You thought about your father’s voice when you told him you’d enlisted. You thought about all the instructors who said you’d never hack it. You thought about how your superior was staring down at you like he was already writing the report in his head.

But he didn’t move to confiscate your weapon. Didn’t call for an officer. Instead—

“But that’s not your fault,” he continued, “Factory flaw. The 8T series has a bad batch.”

You blinked. “…Sir?”

“I’ve seen two of these explode this month,” he said, standing. His armor creaked as he straightened—a towering presence, expression unreadable under the shadow of his helmet, “Not a rookie error. Just a damn bad roll of the dice.”

He held out his hand. Gloved. Firm. Steady. Not a hint of judgment in it.

“Well, Cadet Trigger,” he added with a faint smirk, “you’ve got a guardian angel somewhere. Or maybe just dumb luck.”

“…Trigger?”You stared up at him, still frozen on the floor. Your ears were still ringing from the close call. Sweat clung to your back, but the tension began to loosen—just a little—as your fingers curled around his and he pulled you to your feet.

He gave you a once-over. Not suspicious. Not cold. Just… amused.

“Guns don’t just go off like that,” he said, walking past, “Unless the trigger’s cursed.”

A pause. A glance over his shoulder, “Or the trigger’s you.”

The other cadets were still staring. Some muttering. Some snickering. But he walked away without another word, and suddenly, you didn’t care about your brush with death.

That nickname stuck.

And so did he.

---

Two days later, you were still tasting gunpowder. Your arm was in a sling, fingers scratched and stiff. The medics had said you were lucky—nothing broken, no burns deep enough to scar. “Close call,” they said, like it wasn’t already replaying in your skull on a loop. But your rifle was toast, and so was your confidence. Jeez, you wanted to put your head in your hands and scream like a little girl. Luckily, they let you sit out the next field rotation, but you weren’t allowed to sit still. You cleaned. You logged ammo. You memorized spec manuals until the text started swimming. Anything to stop thinking about the moment that weapon nearly took your life.

That, and the man who’d stopped the storm like it was nothing.

Mydei.

You hadn’t seen him since. Just the image in your head—boots in the dirt, that low voice like gravel and thunder. You thought maybe you'd hallucinated it. Maybe your brain had dreamed up a perfect soldier to soften the fact that you'd almost eaten your own gun. But, because the Aeons were cruel, suddenly it was as if that was all you could hear.

“Hey, Trig.”

The voice came from two bunks over—casual, half-muttered around a protein bar and a yawn. It was that lean guy with the buzzcut, Marcus or Malin or something? Maybe Marcus was correct—always half out of uniform, always in everyone else’s business. You looked up from your cot, still rubbing the dull ringing out of your ears. Your hands itched—ghost memory of the rifle’s weight, the near-silent click before chaos. Your pack sat half-unzipped at your feet. The gun was long gone to diagnostics, but your heart hadn’t stopped racing since they pried it from your hands.

Marcus tilted his head, that loose, crooked grin plastered on his face.

“That was some shit, huh?” he said, nodding toward you like you’d just won a bar figh, “They’re saying the Lionheart pulled your ass out?”

You hesitated.

The cot creaked beneath you as you sat up straighter, biting back the lump of uncertainty in your throat. The name—Mydei—still echoed in your head. You could see him, glove extended, voice calm, while you drowned in embarrassment and adrenaline.

“…I guess,” you said finally.

Marcus let out a low whistle and slapped his thigh.

“You don’t even know, man,” He leaned in, like he was telling you a secret not meant for green ears, “That guy—he’s like a fucking cryptid. You’ve heard the stories, right?”

You blinked.

You hadn’t. Not really.

You’d heard instructors mention him with that weird mix of respect and wariness. Some called him a relic. Others said he’d been transferred so many times that no one knew where he’d actually started. You remembered someone once joking that Mydei didn’t even have a last name—just the call sign and a body count. You thought it was just mess hall gossip.

Now he had a face. A voice. A hand that had pulled you off the floor.

Another voice chimed in—older, gruffer, “Heard Lionheart once got shot in the neck and still held his breath long enough to drag a pilot out of a downed jet.”

“B.S.,” someone muttered. “I heard he went MIA for five days and showed up with five enemy tags and no backup.”

“Five? I heard it was eight.”

“You’re all wrong,” said the lean guy again, eyes gleaming. “He’s not even supposed to be alive. They say he died once. Heart stopped—flatlined in the middle of a rescue op. The whole unit saw it. Then—bam. Woke up. Stood up. Finished the mission like nothing happened.”

You stayed silent.

That last story always stuck to your ribs.

Dead. Then not. Woke up.

You shook it off.

What mattered was the memory: his hand pulling you up. His voice not blaming you. The fact that he noticed the malfunction before anyone else did—and comforted you when he had no reason to.

Whatever else he was—ghost, monster, soldier—He was kind.

“You alive, rookie?”

Yeah. You were. Because of him.

///// 17 MAY 2X23 /////

Your transfer papers came through. You stared at the orders like they might vanish if you blinked too fast.

“Effective immediately, reassigned to Special Task Unit 0-9. Handler: Mydeimos "Lionheart".”

The room spun for a second. Or maybe that was just the five hours of sleep you hadn’t gotten. Special Task Unit 0-9 was a name whispered between barracks with reverence and disbelief. The kind of team they pulled together for missions that never made it to public reports. You weren’t even sure it existed until now. Your palms went slick as you tucked the papers under your arm and headed toward Deployment Hangar C—the one with reinforced walls, heavier security, and the unmarked transport ships that came and went without manifest.

You didn’t feel ready. But you weren’t about to turn it down.

The elevator groaned as it descended into the lower decks. Your reflection in the chrome panel was pale, jaw tight. You adjusted your uniform for the third time before the doors hissed open. The task force’s prep bay was silent. No shouting. No clatter. No wasted movement. Just a group of soldiers in matte black gear, moving like a well-oiled machine. And at the center—

There he was.

Mydei.

He hadn’t changed. Broad shoulders framed by heavier-grade armor. Helmet clipped to his side. Same calm presence—like standing near a thunderstorm that hadn’t decided whether to break yet. He looked over when you stepped in, and your chest locked up. Was he going to remember you? That moment when you were just another green recruit with a broken rifle?

He stared for a moment. Then gave a nod—a small, sharp one.

“Trigger.”

That single word landed like a stamp on your bones.

You straightened. “Sir.”

He handed you a tablet, “Loadout briefing’s inside. Mission clock starts at 0700. Get acquainted with the others.”

And just like that, you were in. No ceremony. No welcome speech. Just his quiet voice, the smell of oil and metal, and the heat of pressure beneath your skin. But even that was more than enough. You followed the others through orientation drills. They were tighter than any squad you’d worked with. Efficient. Sharp. Not a lot of talking. Not a lot of room for mistakes. But nobody doubted Mydei’s commands when they came. Nobody hesitated. And slowly, you found your rhythm.

The first op went smooth. The second, less so—a recovery run that turned into an ambush. You got clipped. Not bad, but enough to knock you off your feet. Mydei was the one who dragged you to cover, kept pressure on the wound while giving orders to the others.

“You alright, Trigger?” he asked, voice low but steady. You nodded, even though your ribs screamed.

“Good,” he said. “Next time, don’t let ’em flank you. You’re sharper than that.”

He didn’t say it with anger. Just certainty. Like he knew you could do better. Like he expected you to. And maybe for the first time, you believed it too.

///// 23 JULY 2X23 /////

That night, you caught him in the makeshift kitchen at the back of the mobile command unit. He was baking. Baking. A giant, undying soldier with hands like thunder—gently stirring batter in a cracked metal bowl. The whole room smelled like cinnamon and almonds.

You blinked, “...Sir?”

“You like cookies?” he asked. He didn't even look up.

“Uh. Yes? I mean—yes, sir.”

He tossed you one without looking. Perfect arc, landed in your palm like he’d done it a thousand times.

“I always bake after missions,” he said. “Keeps the team human.”

Not sure what else to do than stare like a creep, you bit into it and nearly melted on the spot. It was warm. Sweet. A little chewy around the edges. Comforting in a way that hit harder than it should have. You could see why the team loved him. He didn’t keep the people he trusted at arm’s length. Not like some legends did.

There was that time he asked how your side was healing after that shrapnel hit. Offered you water after long marches. Taught you how to disassemble your rifle faster when no one else was watching. Always subtle. Always patient. He showed you how to tell weather shifts by the weight of the clouds. Let you taste his drink choices, pomegranate juice with a splash of milk, because Mydei loved the colour pink. Once, you helped him prep a care package for an orphanage his squad had supported during deployment cycles—baked goods, canned supplies, a letter written in his clean, precise hand.

“You always send them stuff?” you asked, folding socks for the bundle.

“Every quarter,” he said. “And every time I survive something I shouldn’t.”

“Why them?”

Mydei paused.

“Because they’re small. And soft. And the world forgets soft things exist unless someone reminds it.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So, you just nodded and helped pack.

You started watching him more closely.

How his movements were deliberate—always precise, as if every motion had been calculated a thousand times before. How he always stood with his back to the wall, eyes scanning, never fully relaxed, as though the world outside his reach might turn on him at any second. How his jaw tightened when loud noises—especially the sound of distant gunfire or the crack of a falling object—cut through the air. It was a small thing, a barely perceptible flinch, but you caught it every time. He cleaned his gear longer than anyone else, sometimes hours after the others had turned in for the night. The clink of metal tools against steel echoed in the quiet. His hands moved methodically over the rifle, adjusting, re-checking, always making sure it was pristine, even if there was no immediate need. You wondered if he did it to fill the silence—or if, somehow, the repetitive action grounded him, kept him anchored. Sometimes, when he thought no one was watching, you caught him staring out into the distance, eyes far away, lost in some thought or memory you couldn’t reach. The edges of his expression softened, and for a second, he didn’t look like the myth they spoke of. He looked human. Broken. You weren’t sure when it became a habit—this need to understand him. The way you found yourself tracking his movements in the corner of your eye, trying to piece together the cracks in his armor, wondering what made him tick. Maybe it was the quiet, patient way he led—always watching, always observing, as if waiting for you to figure it out for yourself. But it was more than that. It was a quiet curiosity, a pull in your chest that you couldn’t ignore.

But it did. And it stuck.

///// 25 MARCH 2X25 /////

It was supposed to be clean.

Extraction. Quick in-and-out. A scattered outpost hidden in a valley of fog and wire, half-swallowed by terrain and time. Intel said there were no active combatants—just recovery, debrief, then wheels up.

They were wrong.

Your boots sank into the mud just as the first scream ripped through the comms.

Then, the line went dead.

“Guards up. Full spread,” Mydei ordered, voice sharp as always, already moving with purpose, “Trig, with me.”

The outpost was gutted, a carcass left to rot under the weight of time. No roof. No walls. Just broken floors sagging under forgotten weight, rusted tech littered in disarray, wires hanging from the rafters like old veins. Vines curled around shattered terminals, their damp leaves clinging to the remnants of a world long abandoned. In the periphery of your vision, something wet dragged across the floor—slow, deliberate, leaving streaks of dark against the gray concrete. The air was thick, heavy with mildew and rot. The hum of static from broken electronics buzzed faintly in the background, the only sound cutting through the oppressive silence—until the second scream cut through the comms, slicing through the air like a knife. Shadows pooled in the corners, lingering, moving in ways that didn’t make sense. There was no sun here, only the sickly glow from the dying lights above.

It didn’t feel like a mission. It felt like a trap.

One second, the squad moved forward in tight formation, boots silent on the cracked floor. Eyes darted, weapons held at the ready, and every footfall was calculated, precise. The next—an explosion erupted from beneath the ground with a violent, earth-shattering force. The world detonated around you. The floor buckled, throwing you off balance. The air was filled with dust and fire. You fired. So did everyone else. Rounds tore through flesh, the staccato rhythm of gunfire mingling with screams. Bodies fell, some in slow motion, some collapsing all at once. Panic began to creep in from the edges of your vision, as if the world was pulling away, stretching out of focus. But through the chaos, Mydei was at the front, as always—unshakable, unyielding. Weapon roaring, hands steady, posture wide and rooted, as if the storm of fire and death couldn’t touch him. You stayed behind him, as you always did—silent, watching, waiting for the next order.

Then it happened. A single bullet pierced the air, followed by another six, each one cracking the stillness with brutal precision.

“Mydei—!” you shouted, panic rising in your throat as you tore through the chaos, your boots pounding against the blood-soaked floor. You shoved bodies aside, desperate to reach him, to see him move, to know he was still—

—he stopped moving. Not like a man ducking for cover. Not even like a soldier bracing for the next round. He went still. Too still. A sickening silence fell over the battlefield, sharp enough to cut through the ringing in your ears. Your breath caught, lungs frozen with disbelief. Something thudded deep in your chest. It wasn’t the pounding of your heart—it was something worse. Something cracking. Something breaking.

“TRIGGER—GET BACK—” someone shouted over the comms, the panic in their voice barely breaking through the fog of your own fear. But you didn’t hear them. You screamed his name again, the sound tearing at your throat, but it didn’t matter.

Mydei didn’t move.

And then—

He did.

Mydei stood.

But it wasn’t like before.

It was as if his body had forgotten how to move with purpose, how to follow the instincts that had always been so sure. His legs locked, muscles stiff, dragging him upright with a slow, unnatural jerk. The space between his movements seemed to stretch, as if time was slipping through the cracks of his body, leaving behind a brittle shell. Blood soaked his side, dark and pulsing through the torn armor, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t even touch the wound.

His eyes—

They didn’t blink.

The way he stared—hollow, unseeing—made your stomach twist. Something was gone, something you couldn’t put your finger on. He was there, but he wasn’t. A presence that should’ve been solid, comforting, was now a gaping absence, standing in front of you like a phantom. You could barely breathe. The air was thick, heavy, pressing against your chest as if the very atmosphere around you had solidified. Mydei’s gaze shifted toward you, slow and deliberate. For a moment, the world seemed to stop.

His eyes met yours.

Just for a second, but it felt like an eternity. There was nothing in them. No spark. No recognition. Just an endless, blank void that swallowed every shred of comfort you’d ever found in those eyes. Mydei had always been a rock—steadfast, unwavering, a man you could trust without question. But now? The eyes staring back at you weren’t the same. They were distant, vacant. A shiver crept down your spine as the seconds stretched out between you. You felt it in the pit of your stomach—a weight, heavy and cold, pressing against your ribs, making it harder to breathe. His movements were too mechanical, too deliberate, his features frozen in a way that made your skin crawl.

And then, as though he was snapping back into place, he spoke. The words were cold, flat, devoid of the usual authority you’d come to rely on. They hung in the air, hollow and strange, as if they’d been ripped from his mouth rather than formed with intent.

“Leave. Now.”

The command was clear. It should have been enough. You should have been fine. But the voice—it didn’t feel right. It didn’t carry that familiar weight, that subtle but undeniable presence that had always kept you steady in the most chaotic of moments. This was something else. Something distant. Mechanical. You nodded, the motion automatic, a reflex born of years of training. And you moved. You obeyed. Of course you did.

---

There was no squad to regroup with. It felt more like a funeral procession than a recovery mission. You limped your way through the remnants of the outpost, the echoes of gunfire still faintly lingering in the back of your mind. Every step was a reminder of the brutality of what had just happened, but somehow, nothing felt real. The stench of smoke and blood hung thick in the air, but there was an odd emptiness, too, as if the space itself had been hollowed out.

Radioing for evac, you could hear the static crackle, the distant hum of machinery trying to piece together the reality of what was unfolding. Silence slowly closed around the outpost again—an unnatural stillness that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Every corner seemed to hide something else. You couldn't shake the feeling that the land itself was holding its breath, waiting for something else to happen.

You reached the evac ship. They pulled you aboard, your body barely holding together, every muscle screaming as they wrapped your arm and pushed adrenaline through your veins. The world became a blur of flashing lights and the steady pulse of heartbeats, both yours and theirs, too loud in the confined space. The scent of antiseptic cut through the stale air, sharp and foreign. And when they asked you what happened, all the words in your throat turned to stone. Your mind scrambled, trying to make sense of what had just occurred, but the truth—the truth—was too twisted to spit out. How could you explain it? How could you tell them that Mydei had been broken and whole, shattered and moving, all at once?

So you lied.

///// 10 APR 2X25 /////

“You’re saying the enemy forces ambushed your unit mid-recon?" Jing Yuan's voice was cool, methodical, and for the first time, his face was serious, sharpened, and guarded, "And you're saying only you and Lieutenant Mydei made it out?"

You gave a single, sharp nod. It wasn’t a full motion; more like a reflex. A response you’d practiced—taught yourself—to give when it was time to speak. The edge of your jaw ached as you clamped your mouth tight, resisting the urge to chew the words over. You didn’t let yourself breathe too deeply, didn't let your chest rise too much.

“Yes, sir," you said, the words leaving your throat faster than you could stop them. "He didn’t go down.” The lie felt heavier than it should, but you kept going. “Mydei pushed through. Got me out. That’s why I’m sitting here.”

The room felt smaller now, the air thicker. You couldn’t see the sterile walls, the machines blinking faintly, or the dim blue glow of the overhead light without feeling a sense of suffocation. The medical bay’s antiseptic smell of bleach and plastic seemed to crowd in around you, pressing on your temples, suffocating your thoughts. You tried to focus on the General's face, but all you saw were those memories—the twisted image of Mydei standing, bleeding, unblinking—and the words caught in your throat, threatening to spill out, to unravel everything.

Jing Yuan’s gaze didn’t soften. If anything, it sharpened. The way his eyes lingered on you made your skin crawl, though you kept your posture straight. The silence stretched for a few seconds too long, but he didn’t break eye contact. Instead, he scribbled something down on his clipboard, the sharp sound of the pen against the paper like a gunshot in the stillness. The small movement seemed to draw his focus back to you, the weight of his stare pressing down harder than before.

“You’re certain?” His voice was just as calm, though now you could hear the subtle edge of doubt seeping through. He wasn’t asking because he thought you were lying. He was asking because he needed you to say it again. To make sure you were as certain as you claimed.

The temperature in the room seemed to dip lower. Your throat tightened, the heat of your earlier lie still clinging to your words. You swallowed, a dry, painful motion, "Yes, sir. I’m certain."

But the words felt hollow.

Jing Yuan didn’t respond right away. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. The dull hum of the lights, the beeping of machines, the faint shuffling of the medics behind you—it all seemed to fade into the background, as if this moment, this question, was the only thing left in the universe. He watched you too long after that. Pen tapping against the corner of the datasheet like he wanted the sound to dig into your skull.

"Are you sure there's something you don't want to tell me?" Jing Yuan’s voice cuts through the silence once more. He’s set his pen down, fingers now laced together in a slow, deliberate motion. His chin rests on top of his hands, and his eyes—sharp, analytical—never leave you. It's not just a question anymore. It's a statement, a challenge, an unspoken demand for truth.

In that moment, you feel it.

Something clicks into place inside you. Not loud. Not dramatic. But there, all the same. A shift. A decision. Solid. Unyielding. You swallow against the knot in your throat, the taste of steel creeping up again. Your pulse quickens, but you hold firm, your gaze steady despite the chaos still swirling in your chest.

You’re not going to tell him. Not about what happened, not about the things you’ve seen, not about Mydei—about what he had been, what he still was, even if no one else could understand it. You can’t. You won't. Because whatever Mydei was now… whatever the truth really was, in that moment, when the blood was thick in the air and the odds seemed impossible, he’d still looked at you the same. Like a man who trusted you.

Still pulled you to your feet. Still saved your life.

If command ever found out — if they started probing, picking apart every detail, treating Mydei like some kind of asset to be dissected and analyzed — you didn’t know what would happen. And honestly, you didn’t want to know. The thought of them poking and prodding at something that, in your mind, still felt like your responsibility.

“…He saved me,” you said, the words slipping out with a finality you hadn't expected, "That’s all that matters."

Jing Yuan didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. He studied your face, and his eyes narrowed just enough to make you feel like he was weighing the truth in you — maybe seeing something you weren’t saying, some subtle shift behind your words. He didn’t press, though. Not this time. He didn’t call your bluff, even though the tension between you seemed to thicken. Maybe it was the paperwork he was avoiding, or maybe there was something else in the way he was reading you.

Maybe — deep down — he already knew what you were protecting.

The click of his pen as it snapped shut felt like a verdict, sealing this moment, the weight of unspoken words between you both.

“Dismissed.”

Anaxa

Alogon (ἄλογον / A-logos) — A concept meaning “without reason” or “irrational.”.

[ "The performance of life, too, must eventually reach the curtain call." ]

“The students this year are all cotton-brained and leaking spinal fluid from their ears.”

“Good morning to you too, Doctor.”

Veritas—better known as Dr. Ratio—barely glances up at your snarky quip, probably because he gets more than enough sass from a certain blond-haired man who lives to test his patience. He pulls the staff chair across from you and takes a seat, already holding a stack of papers dripping with red ink.

Ouch. Those poor students. It must be their first class—there’s a whole checklist of requirements just to qualify for Ratio’s lectures, and even then, half of them probably walked in thinking they were smarter than they are. You recognize the pattern: wide eyes, overconfidence, and the slow withering of hope by the second week.

“It’s the first week. I think it’s fair to give everyone at least one morning of rest before they hit the ground running,” you hum, poking at your lunch. The colder mornings have been killing your appetite lately—everything tastes like cardboard and regret—but with Veritas parked across from you, you doubt you’ll get the chance to sneak off to the coffee machine without earning one of his patented glances. Not all of us are built like a brick house, Doctor. Seriously, what does he even need all those muscles for? Shoving copy machines? Launching chalk at students like bullets?

“If you’re that lax with students on the first day, they’ll take it as the standard and stay complacent forever,” Veritas says, crossing his arms in that dramatic, exasperated way of his. You can practically hear the quotation marks around the philosophical nonsense he just dropped. Then he levels you with a stare, “Do you even have your syllabus completed?”

Ah—caught. Better to look the other way; it makes that infamous glare feel a little less like walking barefoot over spikes and thorns.

“You always did leave things for the last minute.”

Veritas’s gaze shifts past your shoulder just as the sharp, deliberate click of heeled boots echoes across the staff room floor.

“Anaxagoras,” Veritas greets, tone flat but unmistakably acknowledging.

“Veritas,” Anaxa replies just as evenly, as if they’re exchanging chess moves instead of pleasantries.

The staff room hums with quiet tension, the only sound the faint, rhythmic scratching of Veritas’s pen carving through a stack of papers. His eyes flick up, catching you in a glance before passing over, “Still treating clocks like polite suggestions instead of hard rules.”

Anaxa responded with a casual shrug, slow and unconcerned, as if the concept of time were an amusing joke meant for someone else. A faint flicker of amusement played at the corner of his eyes when they met Veritas’s—a subtle challenge cloaked in indifference, “Didn’t realize I was missed.”

“You weren’t. But your absence was certainly quieter,” Veritas didn’t look away this time. He flipped a page with a crisp snap that punctuated the silence, the red ink staining the margins like fresh wounds—harsh and unforgiving. You couldn’t help but think the only reason these two tolerated each other was because Veritas was one of the few who actually used his full name.

"Alright, ladies, you're both beautiful. How about we settle down now?" you laugh easily, getting matching frowns from the two men.

It’s a nice morning, and the first day of classes unfolds in its usual slow, methodical rhythm. The staff room isn’t crowded—no one scrambling over the microwave, no complaints about the eternally broken coffee machine that’s been out of order as long as you’ve worked at Paperfold University. The hum of distant footsteps and low murmurs barely fill the space. Nearby, your closest work colleague and Anaxa exchange words under the thinnest, debatably professional pretenses—half casual banter, half veiled challenge. Their voices are low, as if the room itself is holding its breath.

Yes, everything feels normal. As it should. Right down to the man you mourned all summer, sitting across from you like he never left—like the months since his death never happened, and nothing has changed.

[ I gained inspiration from death, and should repay as such. ]

Grief is sticky, like humidity.

You stand at the podium, gripping your notecards upside down, your fingers trembling just slightly. You’re wearing black this morning. Sunlight filters through the stained-glass windows, splashing shards of color across the room—but stabbing your eyes with its brightness. Everything feels soft and warm. Outside, summer rages on—the kind of summer Anaxa hated: sweltering, sticky, and alive with the relentless chorus of cars honking, buzzing in the heat.

“Anaxagoras was my best friend,” you begin, your voice barely more than a whisper.

That part is true. You were four when you picked up a smooth stone and threw it at the bully who called a boy a “nerd” for asking why lizards couldn’t fly. The question had seemed strange then, but you didn’t care—because even at that age, you knew some things deserved defending.

You were twelve when you watched from the back of the classroom as that same boy got kicked out for questioning a classmate’s religious beliefs. You’d snickered with the others, trying to be liked and avoid being ostracized, hiding the sting in your chest behind a half-smile.

At sixteen, you found yourself scribbling his name in the margins of your notebooks—small marks of presence, of connection, when words felt too fragile.

At twenty-one, it hit you with the sharp clarity of a late winter morning: the shape of your misery perfectly mirrored the shape of your love, and if he ever left, both would hollow out the same space inside you.

You are thirty-one now.

Anaxa lies in a coffin.

Around him, asphodels and myrtles are arranged with quiet care. The white flowers lend an impossible purity to the man who was anything but pure.

The single red pomegranate flower clutched in his hands only makes the stillness feel lonelier.

You don’t remember the rest of the speech. The words blur and fade into a dull hum beneath polite clapping. Aglaea squeezes your hand gently in the aisle—steady, grounding. The coffin lowers slowly, like a magic trick in reverse: now you see him, now you don’t. Faces around you crumble into tears, but you sit still, the weight of everyone else’s grief pressing down. Not that you don’t feel it—you do. You just don’t cry. Not yet. Instead, your fingers crush the cold metal of the ring he slipped onto your finger—the only thing keeping you afloat. Because if you let go, you know the scream trapped inside you would tear everything apart.

You don’t cry until three days later.

You’re curled up on the cold bathroom floor, wrapped in Anaxa’s ridiculous lizard onesie—the one he never wanted to admit he liked the most. His room has become a museum of ghosts—not the kind that haunt, but the kind that linger in memories. Chipped coffee mugs left half-full. An unfinished book on Yaldabaoth, the bookmark still folded into its pages. A burnt-out candle, faintly scented with juniper and smoke. The old flip phone, blinking with an unread message from you, frozen in time, waiting for a reply that will never come.

And then he’s standing there in your hallway. Paler than you remember—almost translucent—his skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. Skinnier, as if life itself has been siphoned from him. One eye hidden behind a patch, the other sharp and watchful. Still taller than you, looming despite his fragility. And that smile—wide, too wide; full of teeth. But it’s not the smile you once knew. It doesn’t reach his one remaining eye, which flickers with something unreadable.

You don’t scream. You don’t even flinch. Your breath catches, and your eyes blink slowly, disbelieving.

“Anaxagoras?”

“In the flesh,” he says, his voice low but familiar, almost teasing. He steps forward with unsettling calm.

You want to shout at him: You’re dead. I watched them lower your body into the dirt. I still have that gaudy black-and-white capelet that I hated so much. I wear it when I’m alone, like a fragile shield—like some broken, abandoned thing.

Instead, you say:

[ I am incredibly happy now. ]

Veritas was right. The students this year are performing far below average. You’re not sure how half of them even managed to submit their applications, let alone meet the qualifications. During one lecture, you thought you overheard a girl whispering to her seatmate, nervously asking for advice on how to take proper notes, as if that were some foreign concept. It’s reached the point where you find yourself bending the usual boundaries between professor and student, nudging and prodding more than you probably should, because you’re genuinely worried some of them might just roll over and pass out under the pressure. Your lectures and labs are mostly in the mornings, and while at least one student usually answers back to your cheerful “Good morning!”, the majority shuffle in like half-brained zombies. Their glazed eyes stare blankly ahead, as if their spines were leaking fluid that numbs their senses, and they meander toward the nearest seat with all the energy of a fading candle. You suppress a sigh. This won’t fly—there’s a teacher conference next week, and you’re already drafting your points in your head.

“You think loudly.”

You blink, shaken out of your spiral, and glance to the side. There’s Anaxa—your dead husband, a truth you have to repeat to yourself over and over—sitting there, relaxed and almost casual, behind the wheel as snowflakes drift lazily past the window. In the overexposed gray light filtering through the windshield, his skin looks even paler and malnourished: the kind of white you see before blindness, the light inside a star just before it collapses.

“Just thinking about what Veritas said is all…” Your voice trails off as your thoughts drift away again. Your mind screams at you to be afraid. To recoil. To run. Because what you’re seeing defies everything you know about life and death. A corpse—your husband’s corpse—is supposed to lie six feet underground, wrapped in linen and wood, cold and silent. But here he is instead, breathing, blinking, alive, driving you both home through the thickening snow.

“Veritas always has a way of making things sound more incontestable than they are,” Anaxa’s eyes flicker toward you from the driver’s seat, calm and unreadable behind his half-lidded gaze. You grip the edge of the seat, willing yourself to stay grounded. You are not hallucinating. You are not dreaming. You are not losing your mind. You believe in the science of dreams, in the logic of REM sleep cycles—but this feels like neither.

You glance at him, the weight of your thoughts pressing down, “It’s not incontestable. You’ve seen the students... everyone acts like they’re on autopilot. I’m concerned.”

He smirks—a slow, almost lazy curve of his lips that doesn’t quite reach his one good eye, “Life’s exhausting, isn’t it? Especially when people keep insisting on making it harder.”

You remember the nightmare you never wanted to relive: the shrill ring of your phone during lecture, the way your heart dropped as you answered, the trembling voice on the other end delivering the worst news—the news that your husband was dying.

“That sounds like something you’d say just to avoid talking about what really matters,” you almost laugh, though it comes out as a breathy exhale.

You left the classroom without a word, your students’ confused whispers fading behind you as you raced through rain-slicked roads. You reached the hospital, breathless and trembling, only to be told the truth you could barely face—he didn’t make it. You remember standing there, frozen, clutching the ring—the only piece of him left in your grasp. And now, as your eyes meet his in the car, a strange mix of fear, disbelief, and something darker curls in your chest. He’s here. Alive.

Anaxa shrugs, his eyes briefly glinting with amusement, “Maybe. Or maybe it’s because I’ve learned that sometimes, talking about it doesn’t make it better. Just louder.”

The car hums along, tires crunching softly over the snow.

[ Do not fear blasphemy— ]

Winter has made the house feel colder than it should, even with the heater murmuring steadily in the corner. The radio plays a song about “Penrose”—something you’ve never heard before. You shift in your chair, the wooden legs creaking against the floorboards. Your hands are stiff from clutching the fork and knife too tightly, and your plate glares back with its bland stir-fry of wilting vegetables and reheated rice. Thrown together from whatever you could salvage from the fridge, it tastes like nothing. A purely functional meal.

Across the table, Anaxa sits in silence. He eats slowly, chewing each bite with mechanical precision. The overhead light is harsh—it spills over him, casting every sharp angle into stark relief. Hollow cheeks. Gaunt skin. The eyepatch still wound tightly around his head—the same fraying strip of white cloth he’s worn since he came back. It might have once been clean, but it isn’t anymore. You’ve offered him fresh fabric, but he always declines. His ribs show even through the oversized sweater—something you used to wear. His collarbones jut out like they’ve been carved from stone. Yet he chews, swallows, and raises the fork again. A small mercy, you think. He’s eating. He didn’t use to. You try not to stare, but it’s hard not to. Not because of how strange he looks now, but because some part of you is still waiting—waiting for him to twitch wrong. To move in a way no living man should. You hear your own breath more than his. You’ve been counting the seconds between each of his, unsure if that’s even necessary anymore.

He hasn’t said a word all evening.

Neither have you.

Not really.

You want to ask him a hundred questions, but your throat feels dry, words lodged somewhere between hope and fear. Instead, you settle for watching him—the slow rise and fall of his chest, the shallow rhythm of his breath. The way his one visible eye blinks spreads tears across the eyeball, cleaning and moisturizing the surface. They aren’t dead or glazed over. In fact, they almost look brighter than before the accident.

He turns his head up slightly, just enough to meet your eyes from beneath the faint shadows cast by the kitchen light. His movements are slow—deliberate—as if lifting his gaze costs more than it used to.

“You’ve been watching me.”

The words come out flat. Not accusing. Not defensive. A simple truth laid bare—like a bone left out in the snow. You nod once. There’s no point pretending otherwise. No use untangling the silence with lies. His stare doesn’t break. It feels heavy, not with anger, but with knowledge—like he already knows what you’ve seen and is only asking to hear you admit it.

“You don’t have to keep pretending,” you say, voice even but low, “I’m scared. But not of you.”

He shifts; the creak of his chair sounds almost too loud. The overhead bulb flickers once, faint and insect-like. A flicker of something—something almost like a smile touches his lips.

“Funny,” he says softly, “I never thought I’d be the one to terrify you.”

You swallow hard; your mouth suddenly goes dry. The heater in the corner hums uselessly. The warmth it gives off doesn’t reach you—not here, not now. The room feels small, suffocating almost, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath. You shift in your seat, fingertips twitching against your knees, unsure whether to fold inward or reach across the table. You want to touch him—anchor yourself to what’s left of him. But something stops you: an invisible barrier you can’t quite name. His eye remains fixed on you, unblinking.

“Why won’t you take it off?” you finally ask, your voice barely more than a whisper, “The patch.”

His eyes flicker away, dark lashes brushing his cheek, “Some things are better left hidden.”

“But it’s been days,” you press.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifts, the thin fabric slipping slightly to reveal the gaunt outline of his collarbone beneath the threadbare shirt. The sight makes your chest tighten—in that awful, breathless way you still haven’t learned to control.

“One step at a time,” he says at last.

The clock ticks loudly in the silence, each second stretched thin, taut as wire and just as ready to snap. You glance at the eyepatch, at the knot securing it in place, and your breath catches. You know the truth is waiting beneath it—silent, patient, watching—until the moment you’re brave enough, or desperate enough, to look.

[ It is already a sin to transcend the gods, so what if you become a god!" ]

You never meant to open Pandora’s box.

Okay—maybe you did. A little.

But it was coming from a place of concern. People are supposed to take care of their eye sockets, especially when one of them is hidden beneath that ratty white eyepatch. He never takes it off. Not when he showers. Not when he sleeps. Not even when the faintest flicker of movement catches your eye—something writhing, alive, beneath the fragile fabric like a restless parasite. You tried to convince yourself it was your imagination, a trick of shadows and exhaustion. But the truth gnaws at you like a bone you can’t stop gnawing. You remember the first time you noticed it: a barely perceptible twitch beneath the fabric, a faint pulse that didn’t match any normal heartbeat. It made your skin crawl. You wanted to ask. You wanted to pry and demand answers. But Anaxa’s eyes—well, the one you could see—always held that same apathetic calm, as if whatever was happening underneath didn’t bother him one bit.

You told yourself: If it’s infected, he could die. Again. You told yourself: It’s not Anaxa. Not really. Not entirely.

But also: What if it is? You'll be alone again.

It’s 2:59 a.m. The air conditioner hums softly, its steady drone blending with the distant wind sweeping the remaining dead leaves, like a restless insect trapped in the night. He’s stretched out on the bed, limbs loose and limp like a scarecrow abandoned in a forgotten field. The thin sheet draped over him barely reaches his chest; now he’s wrapped in twice as many layers, the winter wonderland outside reflecting through the window. His breathing is shallow, too even, too controlled—a carefully rehearsed performance. You move cautiously, the worn socks you borrowed muffling your steps on the creaky floorboards. Your heart pounds violently against your ribs, threatening to break free and leave you behind.

You kneel beside the futon, every muscle tense, every breath caught.

Your hand hovers, hesitant, trembling slightly as it reaches out.

The eyepatch—frayed and stained from too many nights—clings to his face, held by a crude knot tied at the back of his head. You tug gently, careful not to wake him, just enough to loosen the fabric, just enough to lift the edge.

Just enough to see—

“That’s not polite.”

You freeze.

The voice is low, dry—smooth like cracked leather. Not angry. Not startled. Just… amused. You glance up, meeting his one exposed eye, which glints faintly in the dark, alive with that same crooked humor you thought you’d lost forever

"To know it is to cease to know. To see it is to never see again in straight lines."

Your breath catches, the air growing inexplicably colder as shadows stretch and twist, reaching toward you with silent hunger. You remain frozen, unable to tear your gaze away, even as the patch slips from your fingers, compelled by some unseen force—beckoning you to witness what lies beneath.

And then you see it.

Not an eye.

An abyss yawns open where one should be.

A hollow carved impossibly deep, devoid of blood or bone. Pure emptiness—an endless void swallowed in darkness darker than night itself—a cavernous gulf where life should have been. That void shifts, inhales, and exhales with a slow, unnatural rhythm, as if breathing with a life all its own. Within the darkness, something coils and writhes, its shape fluid and ominous, like smoke caught in a slow storm.

Then, without warning, it turns its gaze toward you. The abyss looks back—its presence a heavy weight pressing deep into your bones, a silent promise of secrets too vast to comprehend. A color out of space.

“So you’re the reason he clings to this meat. How unexpected.”

The voice is curious. Not cruel. Not kind. You want to say something—anything. But all you can do is stare into the depths where his eye should be and feel it stare back. Your hands tremble, but you haven’t screamed yet. You’re not running either.

“This body remembers your voice. It twitches when you laugh. It cried when you touched it.”

And then, Anaxa blinks. The patch is back in place. You don’t remember putting it there.

He exhales—slowly, tired.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t look,” he says. The real him, or something close enough.

You swallow hard.

Because despite this impostor pretending to be your Anaxa, you feel… relieved. You don’t have to stay stuck in the grieving widow phase for the rest of your life. You don’t have to endure the pitiful stares from everyone except Veritas. Most importantly, you don’t have to imagine what your life would be like without Anaxa—because he’s here, in some form. Even if he’s lost the muscles in his arms, even if you can practically see his ribs beneath the heavy layers of clothing, his face sunken and hollow.

“You should clean that,” you whisper.

“It’s not infected,” he says.

“It could be.”

He laughs—quiet, rough. Close enough.

“And you’re not afraid?”

You study him—the hollow cheeks sunken deeper than you remember, skin so white it makes you think of hospital tiles and the static noise between radio stations. His thin frame barely fills out the threadbare clothes. He looks like a ghost tethered to this world—someone who died but didn’t quite come back right.

Still, your voice is steady when you say, “No. You came back. That’s enough.”

The room holds its breath. Silence stretches, heavy and suffocating—like the space between heartbeats. Then, slowly, almost painfully, he turns to face you. His eyes—one real, one an empty void—search yours, as if trying to remember how to exist in this fragile body again.

“You’re either very brave,” the thing inside him murmurs, voice low and rough, “or very foolish.”

The clock’s hands don’t move, but the ticking continues—as if counting something else entirely. Your hand moves on its own, reaching out to his. The coldness of his skin prickles against your palm, a reminder of everything lost and everything still somehow here. It’s cold. But it squeezes back.

[ — One of the echoes in Anaxa's memories after the Grove had fallen, which vanished because nobody discovered it. ]

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*slaps this fic* And that's a wrap! Thank you once again for commissioning me and for being so patient. I hope you all enjoyed this. I don't want to clog this already long fic up too much, so below I've only written research/references in order of appearance. If you're interested in the writing/thought process, I'll be reblogging this with further notes.

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Golden Apple

It is most famously associated with the Apple of Discord, which represents:

Conflict born from vanity or favoritism (since it was labeled "To the fairest")

The catalyst for larger consequences (such as the Trojan War)

Temptation and choice (as seen in Paris having to decide which goddess deserved the apple)

Phainon

Daimon

In ancient Greece, it was believed that each person had a personal daimon, assigned at birth or death, which influenced their fate and guided them during crucial moments. The daimon didn’t dictate actions, but acted as a subtle force, especially in times of crisis or important decisions.

Socrates famously spoke of his daimonion, a divine voice that warned him against certain actions but never told him what to do. As he put it in Plato’s Apology: “The sign is a voice which comes to me and always forbids me to do something which I am going to do, but never commands me to do anything.”

In Plato's Republic and Timaeus, daimones are described as mediators of fate, guiding souls in their choices and destinies, ensuring a cosmic balance without direct interference in individual decisions.

Voicelines

While not directly stated in the fic, these are the voice lines that stuck when writing this particular Phainon:

"Accepting others' wishes and turning them into his own wishes — not all heroes are such blank canvases as him, and that is why the world places such great hopes on him." - Aglaea

"Lord Phainon is kind and friendly to all his companions, but there's always a sliver of pain in his smile... He must have lost something very dear to him." - Hyacine

"Snowy... It always feels like he's carrying too much. Not just his own wishes but also the hatred and expectations of others... Though we all have our own missions, I still get worried... Bearing everything alone is not a good habit." - Tribbie

Symbolism in Numbers (Act + Scene Numbers)

1 (Monad) - Unity, origin, the divine, the source of all things.

2 (Dyad) - Duality, division, balance of opposites (light/dark, male/female, good/evil).

7 (Heptad) - Mystery, initiation, spiritual perfection.

3 (Triad) - Harmony, balance, completeness.

10 (Decad) - Totality, divine perfection, return to unity (1+0=1).

Butterfly (The neon sign in the beginning)

The butterfly was often used as a symbol for the soul or daemon, especially in art. Psyche, the Greek word for "soul," is sometimes personified with butterfly wings.

Masks

A symbol of duality or hidden truths. Daemons could "wear" personas or guide others through identity.

Phainon's Greek Name

Phaenon (Phaínōn / Φαίνων) derives from the Ancient Greek verb φαίνω phaínō, meaning "to shine." The form φαίνων phaínōn is its present participle, meaning "the one who shines."

Crescent Moon (Stroke of luck during filming)

In various cultures, the moon is linked with divine protection, especially maternal or lunar goddesses like Artemis.

"Is it so wrong...to have a little hope?" (Phainon's reasoning to Gallagher)

[ "That person alone will witness the miracle" doesn't sound like a good ending, does it? Why did everyone choose to become demigods even after knowing the price? ]

-(excerpt from Phainon's text messages to the Trailblazer)

Mydei

Apotheosis

While the Olympian gods are immortal by nature, apotheosis suggests a pathway to immortality for mortals. Some famous Greek examples are Heracles and Psyche.

My knowledge of the military is incredibly low, so if there are any inconsistencies, please ignore them. I'm trying my best. I did try to get some of my facts straight, but I used U.S military as a guideline since that's the one I'm most familiar with. My Google searches were wild on this one, baby.

Military Report (I put a lot of effort into it, you people need to know this)

Report # - 0319 (Mydei's release banner date) Amphoreous / Castrum Kremnos (CK) Date - Mydei's banner end date Time - Version 3.1 (Mydei's banner release version) Associated Personnel: Lionheart (Taken from his banner's event name "Fiery Lionheart") Casualties KIA: Taken from the past NPCs from Kremnos (specifically the ones that were warriors)

Trig/Trigger (Reader's Call Sign)

A call sign is a unique identifier, often a nickname, used to identify a unit or individual during radio communications. Personal Callsigns are generally given by members in your unit when you do something that makes you stand out, be it good or bad.

I'm not gonna lie. I needed to have some term to use to refer to reader, and my friend is in love with Trigger from Hoyo's other game, ZZZ. This one's for you (I hope you never find my tumblr)

Time Line

U.S. Task Forces / Special Ops (e.g., Delta Force, SEALs, JSOC Task Forces)

Minimum Time in Service: 2–4 years, usually, depending on MOS (military occupational specialty).

Total Time: 4–7 years on average, but again, fast-tracking is possible for exceptional performance, critical skillsets (e.g., languages, cyber, demolitions), or under urgent need.

Recording Equipment (Corporal asking why there was a shutdown)

Special Operations typically don't use body cams since their missions are highly classified. But they might use recording equipment if it's for training, target observation, or accountability-driven operations (e.g., raids with media or political oversight).

In most modern military systems, cutting off or tampering with communication or recording equipment can often be detected, logged, or at the very least suspected, depending on the gear and the system it's connected to.

"Green"

In the military, when someone is described as "green," it means they are new, inexperienced, or untested — often fresh out of training and just starting in the field. Usually considered "green" for 6 months to a year, or until they've had real combat exposure.

Anaxa

Alogon

Anaxa's prompt wasn’t directly inspired by Greek culture or mythology. The basic premise was to portray him as a cosmic horror parasite, and the closest parallel I found was the concept of the “Alogon.” (So no, unfortunately, there aren't any eldritch H.P. Lovecraft entities in Greek. Honestly, I think I went more domestic horror.)

In Orphic mythology, the term alogon [ τὸ ἄλογον (a-logos) ] —meaning “irrational” or “without reason”—is not a distinct deity or mythological entity, but a philosophical concept representing the chaotic, unformed state of existence prior to creation. It serves as a symbolic contrast to Phanes (also known as Protogonos), the primordial being who emerged from the cosmic egg at the dawn of time. Phanes introduced light, reason, and structure into the universe, transforming the alogon into an ordered cosmos.

Quotes

The first quote line is from Anaxa's lightcone, "Life Should Be Cast to Flames." The rest is what was written in Anaxa's character story, part IV.

Asphodels, myrtles, and pomegranate flowers (The flowers in Anaxa's coffin)

Aspodels: Considered the "death flower" by the Greeks, believed to be the flower of the afterlife

Myrtle: This plant was a symbol of eternity and was often used in funerary arrangements.

Pomegranate Flower: Tied deeply to Persephone, who ate pomegranate seeds in the underworld and is forced to return each year, creating the seasons.

The passing of seasons (Persephone)

Persephone, daughter of Demeter (goddess of the harvest), was abducted by Hades and taken to the Underworld. Grieving, Demeter caused the Earth to wither, bringing on winter. When Persephone was allowed to return, life bloomed again—spring and summer. But because she ate pomegranate seeds in the Underworld, she had to return each year, leading to autumn and winter.

Yaldabaoth (The half-finished book Anaxa left behind)

Also known as Ialdabaoth or Jaldabaoth, Yaldabaoth is a central figure in Gnostic theology, depicted as a false creator who traps souls within the material world.

Juniper (The candle scent Anaxa left behind)

A genus of coniferous trees and shrubs, most notably known for its berries used in gin. Used in purification and protective rituals, especially in ancient Greek and Roman practices.

Penrose (The name of the song on the radio station)

The name "Penrose" is from the Penrose Triangle and Stairs. Two famous impossible objects.

Pandora's Box

A myth from Greek mythology where Pandora, the first woman, was given a sealed jar (later called a box) and told not to open it. Curiosity got the better of her, and when she opened it, all the evils of the world escaped—leaving only Hope inside. It explains the origin of suffering in the world.

2:59 am (The time reader goes to remove Anaxa's eyepatch)

Hecate’s hour is traditionally considered to be between midnight and 3 a.m., often called the witching hour or the hour of the night witch. This time is associated with magic, spirits, and the supernatural—when Hecate, the Greek goddess of magic, crossroads, and the underworld, is believed to be most powerful and present. In folklore and later occult traditions, this period is thought to be when the veil between worlds is thinnest, making it a prime time for rituals, visions, and encounters with otherworldly forces.

"A colour out of space." (The void in Anaxa's eye)

A reference to Lovecraft's "The Colour Out of Space" for my literature fans.

Fun Fact: That line about a girl asking how to take proper notes is real. I was the seatmate.

#commission #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #hsr phainon x reader #hsr mydei x reader #hsr anaxa x reader #phainon x reader #mydei x reader #anaxa x reader #phainon #mydei #anaxa #anaxagoras #hsr phainon #hsr mydei #hsr anaxa

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y2kstarr · 2 days ago

Text

— ᥫ᭡ like that . . . matt sturniolo

where . . . Matt spots you at one of his regular clubs, a new stripper that's caught his eyes instantly. After seeing your moves, talking to you, and noticing that fiery spark you have, he's willing to pay anything just for one night, all night long.

contains . . . smut, ceo!matt, stripper!reader, unprotected p in v, mirror sex, praising, big dick!matt

credits to @delilahsturniolo for the marathon concept

HOT PINK WRITING MARATHON . . . fic #6

The club wasn’t new. Not to him.

It was a place washed in heat and rhythm — a velvet-draped haven of liquor-laced sin, built for the rich to forget how hollow their lives were. The ceilings were low enough to trap secrets, the lighting a decadent blend of low amber and bruised purple, casting everything in seductive half-shadows. Music pumped like a steady pulse, bass curling up the bones, humming beneath the skin.

Matt slid into his regular booth near the back, the one slightly raised from the rest of the lounge, offering him a wide, unobstructed view of the stage. Staff knew him by name. The bottle of expensive bourbon had been brought over before he even asked.

He didn’t usually drink much here — he didn’t come for the indulgence, not really. Routine brought him back. Familiarity. A controlled escape from the sterile walls of his penthouse and the high-pressure glass kingdom of his office.

But tonight felt…different.

Matt leaned back in the leather seat, one ankle crossed over the other knee, long fingers curled around a crystal glass. He watched the girls on stage in the way someone might watch a commercial — half-there, mentally somewhere else. He'd seen it all before.

And then the lights shifted.

A sultry hue of crimson bled into silver spotlight, and suddenly the music changed — slowed down, dragging tension like silk across bare skin. And then you stepped out.

He sat forward, not even realizing he’d done it. His glass paused halfway to his mouth.

You didn’t walk like the others. You prowled. Quiet confidence dripped from every step, every flick of your wrist, every deliberate twist of your waist. The outfit you wore barely qualified as clothing, but it wasn’t the skin that caught him — it was the presence. The way you filled the room without trying to. Like you didn’t need their eyes to feel worthy — like their attention was a bonus, not a requirement.

Matt’s eyes followed you like a tether. Every sway of your hips, every arch of your back, every roll of your body to the beat against the pole on stage — it was hypnotic. You danced like you didn’t care who was watching… which made it impossible not to.

He watched the slow drag of your fingers down your thighs. The way you tilted your chin slightly toward the ceiling, eyes closed, lost in the music. It wasn’t vulgar — it was dangerous. Something about you didn’t feel performative. You were electric, and it had his attention rooted to the floor.

Matt's jaw tensed. Not out of restraint, but fascination. He had no idea who you were, but something primal in him clicked into place, the kind of pull he hadn’t felt in years. Not over money. Not over control. Just want.

By the time the last note hit and you strutted offstage, the crowd erupted — but Matt didn’t hear them. He was already standing. Already moving.

The bartender clocked him right away, nodding respectfully, clearing space at the bar. You were perched at the far end, sipping water, still catching your breath, sweat glinting like stars along your collarbone.

Matt watched as you walked over to the bar, your walk sultry as you now had a sleek fitting dress to cover your outfit. Matt slid onto the stool beside you without a word at first, waiting until you glanced his way. His voice was calm but sure when it came.

“You were incredible, made all the other dancers look like filler,” Matt said, voice smooth but edged with intention.

You turned your head, brow arched in amusement. “Smooth.”

He smiled faintly, eyes locked on yours. “I mean it. I come here often. I've never seen you before. You're new.”

“First night.” you replied, guarded but curious. He was older, sure — late 30s — but striking in a way that made your throat catch. Dark eyes, neatly trimmed beard, the scent of something expensive lingering between you.

“I figured. No one here moves like that." He complimented, his eyes taking you up and down slow. "Name's Matt. Matt Sturniolo.”

You gave a small shrug before replying with your name, sipping your drink like you weren’t entirely sure what to make of him. He was polished, powerful. Something sharp behind the charm — a man used to getting what he wanted, but not one who demanded it with arrogance.

Then he said it.

“How much for the night?”

You blinked. “...Excuse me?”

“One night. No strings. No games. Just your time. Name your price.”

You laughed softly, tilting your head at him like he’d just offered to buy the moon. “People like you always say that.”

He didn’t blink. Just leaned forward, his gaze dark and unflinching. “Try me.”

So you did. A number — absurd, obscene, laughable — fell from your lips like a dare. Enough to buy a car. Maybe two. One that made men choke.

Matt didn’t hesitate.

He took out his phone, coolly typed something in, and moments later, your phone buzzed on the counter, your eyes glancing at it to read the new notification.

Incoming transfer. Amount: Paid in full.

Your fingers froze around your glass. “You’re serious.”

“I don’t waste time,” he said simply. “And you? You’re not something I can walk away from.”

His expression never changed as he held your gaze — still calm, still quiet, but underneath it was fire. Intention. “Now that I’ve proven I’m serious,” Matt said, eyes steady and intense, “will you come with me?”

You hesitated, searching his face for any cracks, any signs this was all some ploy or drunken fantasy. But there was none. Just a man who knew exactly what he wanted — and had the means to take it.

And somehow, beneath all that power, he was waiting for your answer.

You took a breath, heart racing, the club noise melting into the background once again, before a smirk came to your lips as you looked at him with playful eyes. "Alright then, show me a good night, Mr. Sturniolo."

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

The elevator opened with a soft chime, revealing a private corridor washed in golden light, silent and still — a stark contrast to the club they’d left behind. Matt’s penthouse sat on the top floor of a high-rise that kissed the stars, its windows stretching from floor to ceiling, offering a view of the entire sleeping city below.

But neither of you noticed the view.

Your back hit the wall just inside the entryway, a breath caught between a laugh and a gasp, as Matt pressed his mouth to yours — hungry, measured, like a man who’d waited far too long to taste something rare. His hands were firm at your hips, sliding up, memorizing curves like they were currency he couldn’t afford to forget.

You tugged at the lapels of his suit jacket, loosening the perfect structure of his power, unraveling him one breath at a time. His tie came undone under your fingers, and he let it fall to the polished marble floor without a care.

The kiss deepened — no longer cautious, no longer polite. It was heat and intent and something heavier beneath it, something he hadn’t expected when he first saw you on that stage.

He broke the kiss just long enough to whisper against your lips, voice rough and low. “You’re more dangerous than I thought.”

You smirked. “You paid for the night, not a warning label.”

Matt laughed, the sound deep in his chest, then swept you up in one motion, arms solid beneath your thighs. You locked around him without hesitation, nails grazing the back of his neck as he carried you through the open-concept living room, the soft hum of distant jazz playing somewhere overhead — subtle, intimate, like the place itself.

His bedroom door opened with a push of his shoulder, revealing a space that was all dark wood and clean lines, shadows stretching across cool linen sheets.

He pulled from the kiss, pausing only to drink you in — the tousled hair, the kiss-swollen lips, the sparkle in your eyes like you knew exactly what power you held now.

Matt’s hands moved with practiced restraint, like he was fighting the urge to ruin you too fast. You felt the press of his mouth at the curve of your jaw, your collarbone, warm breath trailing behind each kiss like a promise left unfinished.

His fingers traced the hem of your dress before slipping beneath it as he put you back down, knuckles grazing your skin as he pulled it upward, slow, deliberate. He watched your face the entire time, like your expression told him more than words ever could.

You lifted your arms, letting the fabric slide away and fall to the floor in a hush of motion. His gaze swept over you — hungry, reverent, almost stunned — as he took in the gorgeous outfit you'd been wearing on stage, looking even more delicious up close.

"God, you're..." he exhaled like he didn’t even have the word for it, making you giggle and bite your lip.

You reached for him next, unbuttoning his shirt with fingers that trembled only slightly — whether from anticipation or the way he looked at you, you weren’t sure. The shirt hit the floor. Then his belt. Then the space between you closed again, and you were backing him onto the bed.

Your hands touched his chest before pushing him down, smirking at the way his eyebrows raised before you crawled onto the mattress, climbing into his lap and straddling his thighs.

As his hands met your hips, you dove in for another kiss, deep and messy, passionate and needy, your hands sliding up to thread your fingers through his brunet curls, tugging at the strands just to hear the way a groan fell from his lips against yours, a smirk tugging at your own.

Your hips rolled forward in smooth, hypnotic motions, an advantage to being such a fluid dancer on stage. You felt his bulge straight through his boxers and your panties, grounding against him as he made more noises into the kiss until he finally took control, a gasped yelp leaving you as he gripped your hips tight before flipping the two of you over.

Your back hit the mattress as you giggled, biting his bottom lip playfully before teasing. "Ohh, looks like someone's eager, can hardly keep it in your pants, huh?" You teased, before the glint of something caught your eye before you looked up, your eyes widening at the sight looking back at you.

A ceiling mirror. Matthew Sturniolo had a goddamn ceiling mirror above his bed. Of course, what fucking else would he do with his money.

"What? See something you like?" Matt cooed, kissing down your body as he smirked, chuckling against your skin as you looked down at him with a scoff and a grin.

"You are one freaky man, Mr. Sturniolo," You purred in a sultry voice, earning a groan from him, clearly loving the way you called him that, before feeling as his thumbs hooked into the waistband of your panties, tugging them down your smooth legs.

"Keep calling me that and I'll get a superiority complex," He teased, leaning up to kiss your lips as he tossed your panties aside, settling between your legs as your hands unclipped your bra and tossed it aside as well, leaving yourself bare before him.

His eyes drank you in like a hungry wolf, as if restraining himself at the sight of your gorgeous body before him, your ego boosting as you heard the groan that left him as his cock throbbed painfully in his black Calvin Klein boxers.

"God, you're a fucking sight, baby..." He groaned softly, his hands coming down to the waistband of his boxers and slowly tugging them down, freeing his big, thick cock, springing out and already leaking from his flushed tip, your eyes widening at the sight before you.

"Woah... you're..." You breathed out, looking back up at him as he pulled his boxers off fully, blush creeping up your neck in a way you hadn't felt in years, your pussy already growing insanely slick with arousal at just the thought of what he'd feel like inside of you.

Matt chuckled low at your reaction, before leaning forward to his bedside table , your eyes watching as he opened the top drawer, pulling out a wrapped condom. As you looked back down at his cock, biting your bottom lip, you pressed your hand to his chest, making him pause and look at you with almost concerned eyes.

"How about... we do it without the condom?" You asked low and smooth, watching the way a shiver rushed up his spine visibly, before restraining himself.

"Are... are you sure?"

"I think you paid well enough to let me give you a treat," You teased a little, smirking at the way he grinned and tossed the condom back into his drawer. "Just make sure you pull out in time, or I'll really charge you extra."

He chuckled as his lips met yours once more, your mouths moving together in a slow, languid dance as you felt him line himself up, the tip of his cock dragging through you soaked folds and pulling a moan from your lips into the kiss.

Slow and steady, he sheathed himself inside of you, a gasp leaving both of you in unison as he slowly pushed deeper and deeper, your mouth falling open and your head falling back against his pillow at how deep he was inside of you, deeper than you'd ever felt in your life.

"Ohh my— god—" You moaned softly as he finally hilted himself fully within you, his tip kissing your cervix in a way that had your mind going fuzzy, before feeling as he pulled himself back before thrusting forward, a moan falling from both of your lips at the delicious pleasure.

"Fuuuck— This pussy's amazing—" Matt groaned, his hands sliding down your sides to grasp your hips tightly in his hands, sitting himself up before he finally started a steady pace, deep and perfect, your back nearly arching at every thrust.

"Holy shit— Mmm—" You couldn't help but whine, pleasure swimming throughout every nerve ending in your body like never before at each thrust he gave, slowly growing it speed as the bed began to creak in time with you two, the wooden headboard meeting the wall in a steady beat with his thrusts.

Slick, nearly sloppy sounds emitted from your pussy being thoroughly fucked in Matt's silk sheeted bed, moans falling from your lips in time with his grunts and groans, growled praises leaving him as he felt practically drunk off of your pussy.

As you lay your head back on his pillow, your hands gripping the plush fabric on either side of your head, you looked back up to see the mirror, a gasp leaving your lips at the explicit sight playing out before you, your pussy clenching around his cock as he groaned.

"Fuck— You really like that mirror, huh?" Matt chuckled low and breathless, his thrust getting even deeper as he fucked your pussy with perfect form, clean and precise, but also needy and almost obsessed, before you felt his thumb press to your clit and rub the bundle of nerves in tight circles. "You like watching yourself get fucked nice and good on my dick, baby?"

You let out a choked moan, back arching at the overstimulating pleasure coursing through you, your hips rocking in time with his thrusts as your eyes rolled back, a whimpered "mhmmm" falling from your lips, already going dumb on his cock.

You felt that burning pleasure fill your abdomen, your chest sputtering with panting breaths as your grip on his pillows tightened, whined moans falling from your parted lips as it built more and more with each thrust.

"Ma— Matt—! F-Fuck— 'M so close— Please don't fucking stop—" You moaned out, hearing the way Matt groaned out as he kept pace, his thumb keeping his circles firm on your clit.

"That's it— That's it baby— Fuck— Cum on this dick. C'mon, cum f'me—"

The moment the words left his lips, you felt that knot snap within you, your mouth falling open in a loud moan as your back arched hard, you pussy spasming around his cock as you came, eyes rolling back in ecstasy, toes curling and your vision practically going white.

He watched you come undone, biting his lips at he kept his movements steady to ride you through your high, but as he watched your back come back down to the mattress as your chest rose and fell with your panted breaths, he couldn't hold back any longer.

"Fuck fuck fuck—" Matt stumbled over his words with a shaky voice as he pulled out, his body practically trembling as his hand fisted his cock, pumping himself at the same speed of his thrusts before he finally came.

Thick, warm spurts of cum shot from his cock, painting your chest and tummy with his seed as he shakingly panted and groaned, his other hand gripping your thigh tight to steady himself before he finally came down from his high, his body shaking a bit as his hand released his cock.

You were the first to make noise in the midst of your shared pants, giggling breathlessly. "Holy shit... that was... fucking amazing." You panted out, feeling as you melted into his bed, spent and so beyond blissed out.

As Matt hummed and nodded, you felt as he leaned forward to press kisses from your thighs up your stomach and to your neck, loving the way you looked underneath him like this, blissed out and marked by his cum. And you couldn't help but smile lazily, feeling warm and better than you've ever felt after sex, a voice in the back of your head telling you that this was just one of many nights to come with him.

"Was I worth the money, Mr. Sturniolo?" You whispered, your eyes meeting his gorgeous blues as he smiled down at you, his lips brushing over yours as his hands held your sides, pure adoration and love within his eyes as he felt your arms come up to wrap around his neck.

"Worth every fucking cent, baby..."

☆ : sorry this one took so long today, i got too into descriptions for this one 😭 also, mama's got glasses now!! whoop whoop! I can see!! Anyways, yet another pairing I actually really fucking love sooooo 🤭 hope you guys enjoy!! <33

also shoutout to my bsf @wondersofthecosmos222 for helping me with the concept 😋

taglist 🏷️

#y2kstarr★#matt sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo x you #matt sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo blurb #matt sturniolo drabble #matt sturniolo fanfic #chris sturniolo #nick sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo x reader #sturniolo smut #sturniolo x you #sturniolo blurb #sturniolo drabble #sturniolo fanfic

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socialobligation · 3 days ago

Note

U should give bakugo a child and see what happens

static and sunlight | k. bakugo

you and bakugo have trained for high-stakes missions, but nothing in your pro-hero careers readed you for raising your daughter. (2741 words)

the quiet arrived before the light did.

morning crept in gently, not with drama but with a hush, spilling across the bedroom in cool-toned ribbons. pale gray shadows stretched long over the floor, caught in the folds of blankets and the soft dips of lived-in furniture. the radiator crooned in the corner, ticking quietly as it shook off sleep. outside, the city hadn't yet found its rhythm.

bakugo stirred first, but only barely. his breath fanned against the curve of your shoulder, warm and unhurried. one arm rested against your waist, relaxed in its grip. the weight of him was something familiar, constant—something that still surprised you with its comfort. you could feel the heat where he touched you, hear the groan of the floorboards when the wind shifted outside the window.

you didn’t speak right away. there was a richness to the silence that didn’t ask to be broken. the bed held you in its own gravity, and you stayed, suspended somewhere between sleep and the inevitable pull of the day.

“you’re awake,” he murmured eventually, voice sanded down by sleep.

“so are you.”

his eyes didn’t open, but his hand slid higher along your side, fingers brushing over fabric-wrinkled skin. “could stay like this.”

“you say that every morning.”

“still true.”

he cracked one eye open then, the early light turning his irises into rust-colored fire. you reached up and swept his hair off his forehead, thumb tracing the warm line of skin above his brow.

“time’s ticking,” you said quietly.

he pressed his mouth to your collarbone in answer. a kiss or a groan—you weren’t sure.

eventually, the morning demanded more of you.

when the covers peeled away, the bedroom felt colder by comparison. you both dressed in muted movements: cotton shirts and loose sweats, bare feet against the chill of the floor. you padded toward the bathroom with the shared silence of two people accustomed to fitting together in the early hours.

the mirror had fogged slightly from the radiator’s warm breath, blurring both of your reflections. he stood beside you, head tilted as he rubbed a towel over the back of his neck, the ends of his hair sticking up at wild angles. you passed him his toothbrush before reaching for your own. you moved in near-synchrony, shifting only when necessary, the kind of wordless coordination that came from years of sharing space.

his fingers brushed yours when you reached for the hand towel. he smirked but said nothing. you flicked water at his chin in retribution.

“charming,” he deadpanned.

“you drooled on my pillow.”

“that was payback for stealing the blanket.”

you both laughed into the sink.

afterward, you found your way into the kitchen. the apartment was still mostly asleep—the kind of quiet where the refrigerator’s low hum felt almost intrusive. the digital clock blinked 6:38. there was time.

bakugo switched on the overhead lights. you tugged your robe tighter and turned toward the window, where the city stretched beyond the glass in shades of blue and silver.

he busied himself with the coffee. the kettle hissed as it heated, the low, rising sound filling the room as you gathered ingredients from the fridge. eggs. butter. strawberries that were just a little too soft at the edges.

“i’ll start the eggs,” you murmured.

he nodded, already reaching for the bread. “you want the pan hot or medium?”

“medium. she complains when they crisp too much.”

you cracked the eggs slowly, one by one. the butter melted across the pan like sunlight. bakugo moved behind you, retrieving mugs without looking, shoulders brushing yours in passing. his hand lingered at your lower back a second too long to be accidental.

the toast popped. you barely reacted.

“you check dispatch?” he asked, passing you a clean plate.

“briefly. nothing’s on fire.”

“yet.”

you nodded toward the hallway. “think she’s up?”

“she’ll be out here before we sit down.”

you arranged everything on plates, sliding toast beside the eggs, adding a few halved strawberries for balance. he handed you a mug, the coffee darker than you usually made it, and you smiled into the steam anyway.

her place was already set—bakugo had done it the night before, quietly, without prompting. pink cup. smaller fork. napkin folded once. you could still see the faint crayon markings she’d scribbled across the underside of the placemat last week.

you both sat. no one rushed.

“she’s gonna want the light-ups again,” bakugo muttered, glancing at the clock.

“she’ll argue her case with full conviction.”

he leaned back slightly, tapping his fingers against the mug. “think i’ve got it in me to resist today?”

“you never do.”

“you’re worse.”

you smiled, soft and knowing. “she’s persuasive.”

“she’s a menace.”

“she’s yours.”

his mouth curved then, despite himself.

the sound came first—a groan of old hinges, followed by a series of soft, uneven footsteps. you looked toward the hallway, where the figure of your daughter emerged slowly, blinking at the kitchen lights like they’d betrayed her.

her hair stood in a halo of tangles, her blanket trailing behind her like a second shadow. the sleeve of her pajama top hung past her wrist, and she dragged her feet with the sluggish resistance of someone still tethered to dreams.

“good morning,” you said, already reaching out.

she wordlessly climbed into your lap first, burying her face into the fabric of your robe. you held her there, running your fingers gently through her hair, untangling knots in silence.

bakugo watched from across the table, his expression unreadable but his gaze steady. eventually, she stirred, shifting to her seat as the smell of toast and eggs reached her.

“no pepper?” she asked suspiciously.

you raised your hand. “scout’s honor.”

she took a bite. then another. she didn’t speak, but the slow way she reached for her juice confirmed her approval.

you looked at bakugo, and he raised an eyebrow.

“victory,” you mouthed.

he just shook his head and passed the butter.

there was no grand conversation. just the quiet tap of silverware against plates, the occasional yawn, the muted clink of mugs returning to the table. the morning light grew brighter, settling on the walls like watercolor.

she reached for a second piece of toast. bakugo gave her his without hesitation.

you watched the way he looked at her—eyes softened at the corners, mouth twitching upward when she reached across the table and almost knocked her cup over. he steadied it before it spilled.

“clumsy,” he muttered.

“i’m growing,” she replied, mouth full.

you leaned back in your chair, watching them like they were something you didn’t want to disturb. the plate in front of you was half-eaten. the coffee had cooled slightly. but everything felt, in some strange and delicate way, whole.

you didn’t need to rush yet.

the city could wait a few more minutes.

so you stayed.

⋆˚࿔

the kitchen still smelled faintly of eggs and coffee, soft trails of steam rising from forgotten mugs. plates lay cleared but not yet washed, the clatter of breakfast lingering only in memory. morning light edged across the hardwood like it, too, was hesitant to begin the day.

she sat at the table, tiny fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve, legs swinging aimlessly in the space between seat and floor. the last corner of toast disappeared behind her cheek. crumbs dusted the collar of her sweater like sugar.

bakugo’s chair scraped against the floor, sharp in the hush. he stretched, bones clicking in a tired harmony, then leaned down and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head without ceremony.

"teeth," he said. that was all.

she mumbled her reply into her plate, barely intelligible, and slipped off her seat, bare feet padding away.

you were already moving—hands stacking dishes, thumb grazing porcelain, the routine folding around you like a second skin. bakugo brushed past, handing you the juice bottle mid-stride. he was halfway down the hall before his hoodie hit the bedroom floor.

“windy today,” he called. “make sure she wears something with sleeves.”

“you wear sleeves,” you called back.

the closet door creaked in answer.

the faucet ran low and quick while you rinsed dishes, the steam curling over your knuckles. you glanced at the oven clock—still time, though only just. the kind of margin that allowed for no mistakes but forgave a pause.

she reappeared, toothbrush clutched like a scepter, foam still on her lip. she stood just beyond the tile line, eyes on you, waiting.

“hair?” you asked, drying your hands.

she nodded. "can i use the star clip?"

“depends,” you replied, already walking toward the couch. “we’ll see what the outfit says.”

the brush was warm from the radiator nearby. she clambered up between your knees, back straight, neck long, a little soldier reporting for duty. her hair was a bird's nest of sleep, soft and stubborn. your fingers, dampened by the water cup, moved slow and practiced.

“rough night?” you asked, coaxing out the first knot.

“fought a villain in my dream.”

“mm. over what?”

“my snack box.”

you stifled a laugh. “let me guess. he didn’t win.”

“nope. elbow move.”

“classic.”

her smile flickered in the mirror across the room. you caught it just as you parted her hair, comb tracing a clean line.

the bedroom door clicked open again. bakugo emerged dressed in black on black—cargo pants, thermal shirt, sleeves shoved up past the elbows. a shadow of sleep still clung to his face, but his earpiece was already in.

“media thing got bumped to noon,” he muttered, mostly to you. “training’s still at nine.”

you nodded, fingers working through her braid. “easy day, then.”

“for once.”

you tied the braid off with a soft snap of the elastic. she beamed.

“can you help her with clothes?” you asked, reaching for a second tie. “i gotta get ready.”

he gave a grunt of affirmation and crooked a finger. she slid off the couch and followed without hesitation, trailing him down the hall like a shadow.

you sat there for a moment, the brush still warm in your hand, before standing to gather your own things. your uniform was folded across the chair arm. the jacket still smelled faintly of smoke from yesterday's patrol.

you dressed quickly, hair swept up with mechanical precision. the hallway mirror caught you in passing—sharp edges dulled by fatigue, eyes still soft from the morning.

from the bedroom, drawers opened and closed with short, decisive motions.

“this one’s too thin,” came his voice.

“but it sparkles.”

“no lining. wind’ll get through it.”

“but sparkles.”

“corduroy has pockets.”

a pause. a sigh. “fine.”

a minute later, she stepped into the hall—dark red skirt, navy sweater, leggings thick enough to stand a breeze. you recognized the small embroidered detail near her cuff: an explosion, tiny and precise.

“that wasn’t there last week.”

bakugo shrugged as he zipped his jacket. “she asked.”

“you stitched it?”

“told you. she asked.”

you blinked. “you’re soft.”

“you married me.”

you made a noncommittal noise and checked her backpack—lunch, folders, emergency snack pouch. all accounted for.

she danced from foot to foot as you double-knotted her laces, bubbling with the sort of kinetic energy that belonged only to kids and thunderstorms.

“you ready?”

she nodded, a serious expression belying her excited bounce.

bakugo held the door open. the cold spilled in, crisp and impatient. horns honked somewhere below. your breath fogged in the entryway.

you stepped into the day with her hand in yours, the sky pale and stretching above.

just a thursday morning. just another quiet piece of the life you’d built.

and outside, the city began to stir.

⋆˚࿔

the car was cold when the three of you got in, breath visible in the air like smoke signals, hands rubbing against sleeves while the vents sputtered their first few bursts of heat. the windshield carried a crescent of fog where the sun hadn't reached yet, and bakugo muttered something under his breath as the engine groaned to life.

your daughter climbed into the backseat with all the chaos of a tactical mission—boots clunking against the rubber floor mats, her backpack swinging wide and colliding with the headrest. the straps wrapped around her like vines. she gave a loud, theatrical groan, half-upside-down by the time she untangled herself.

"seatbelt," you said, adjusting the vents without looking.

"i know," she shot back, as if you'd asked her to memorize the constitution, slamming the belt into its buckle with a flourish.

bakugo caught her in the rearview mirror, his brow ticking up. "try that tone again and you’re walking."

"you say that every day."

"and one day, i’ll mean it."

"no, you won’t," she said sweetly, already producing a juice box from her pocket like she’d stashed provisions for a cross-country trip.

the car eased into the morning traffic. gray buildings slipped past, framed by scaffolding and winter trees stripped bare. it was only a ten-minute ride on a good day, but their daughter had a gift for stretching time.

"i forgot my folder," she said suddenly, as they rolled past the second block.

you turned halfway in your seat. "what folder?"

"the purple one. with the glitter on the edges. i left it on the kitchen counter."

bakugo made a sharp noise in his throat. "you told me your bag was ready."

"i thought it was."

"then what’s the point of me checking it every morning?"

"moral support," she offered. "you’re good at that."

you covered your mouth with the back of your hand to hide the smile. bakugo's grip on the wheel tightened visibly.

"we’re not turning around," he said.

"but—"

"nope."

"but dad—"

"you’ll live."

"you don’t know that," she argued, winding her hair around one finger. "i could get a zero. my teacher could send an email. i could be—traumatized."

bakugo glanced at her in the mirror. "you’re seven."

"and this is exactly how child prodigies get held back."

"you still can’t spell ‘spaghetti.’"

"neither can you," she replied, unbothered.

"i don’t need to. i just buy it."

"can you buy a replacement folder with glitter and stickers and my homework in it?"

he looked to you with a weary expression. "trade me seats."

"just drive, katsuki."

from the backseat came a snort of laughter. she crinkled the now half-empty juice box, then let her legs swing forward to rhythmically thump against your seat.

you reached behind and tapped her shin. "kick one more time and no tablet tonight."

she froze mid-kick. gasped. "you wouldn’t."

"test me."

she wilted into her seat, chin dropped dramatically to her chest. "this is emotional abuse."

bakugo huffed a laugh. "where’d you learn that one?"

"uncle denki."

"i’m blocking his number."

"you don’t even have it."

"yes, i do."

"prove it."

he reached for his phone. you smacked his hand back down. "eyes on the road."

"see?" she chirped. "you don’t have it."

"you’re lucky you’re cute," bakugo muttered.

"i know," she said brightly, nose pressed to the window as the school came into view—brick façade, chain-link fence, a blur of backpacks and bright-colored jackets.

bakugo pulled to the curb, hazard lights blinking in time with the flicker of the crosswalk signal.

"alright, menace," he said. "you got your lunch?"

"check."

"you got your brain?"

"ehh... partial credit."

"your folder?"

she narrowed her eyes at him through the mirror. "dad."

he twisted in his seat, arm slung over the passenger side. "make good choices."

"no promises."

she unbuckled in a blur of movement, backpack flung over one shoulder. the car door creaked open before it had even fully stopped, and she launched herself out onto the sidewalk.

"careful, kaiju," you called, bracing for the slam of the door.

"love you!" she yelled, already halfway to the gates.

bakugo leaned out the window. "don’t throw hands with anyone before lunch!"

"no guarantees!" she shouted over her shoulder.

the door shut with a bang, and the world shifted. the absence was loud, heavier than her seven years should allow.

bakugo slouched back in his seat, hand dragging down his face. "she’s gonna get detention by third grade."

"third’s generous," you said, re-fastening your seatbelt.

he snorted. "she gets it from you."

"you wish."

he turned the wheel smoothly, merging into the flow of traffic.

"coffee?"

"obviously."

the silence that followed was content, warmed by routine. the city opened in front of you, and the day—already full of its own momentum—waited just ahead.

225 notes · View notes

inseobts · 3 days ago

Note

REQUESTS ARE OPEN, WOWIE!! Id like to request a scenario with a gender neutral reader with the strawhats platonically, where for whatever reason (devil fruit or if they were born like this), the reader is a full on monster in the very literal sense. Like a Lovecraftian beast hellbent on protecting their crew.

The Crew and the Creature

strawhat crew x gn ! strawhat ! reader (platonic)

words count: 2.3k

tags: monster reader, found family, platonic bonds, protective reader, light horror, humor

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The sea is quiet. Too quiet.

Then something massive moves beneath the Thousand Sunny.

“Monster below!” Usopp screams, pointing over the railing “I saw a shadow—huge! With, like, tentacles!”

Franky rushes over “Maybe it’s a Sea King?”

“No,” Robin says calmly, her eyes scanning the water “That’s not a Sea King.”

The crew stares down. Bubbles rise. A thick, black shape coils in the deep.

Then it breaks the surface.

It is you.

You are not pretty. You are not small. You rise from the water like a nightmare pulled from the darkest part of the ocean. Your body shifts, sometimes scales, sometimes flesh, sometimes something else. You have too many eyes. Your teeth are not right. You drip seawater and silence.

And still, Luffy smiles.

“Hey!” he shouts, waving “You’re back!”

You let out a sound. It is not a word. Not exactly. But it means something like safe.

Chopper runs to you “Are you hurt?” he asks, climbing onto your arm, checking your many strange surfaces.

You gently lower him to the deck.

“I missed you,” Nami says, though she hides behind a mast “You scared away those bounty hunters back on Orange Island.”

“Yeah, and half the town,” Sanji adds, lighting a cigarette “Still... thanks.”

You do not speak like the others. Sometimes you speak in dreams. Sometimes in strange sounds. But they always understand.

Luffy laughs “You’re our monster!”

You blink all ten eyes at him.

“I mean it in a good way!” he says quickly “Right, guys?”

Usopp gulps “Y-yeah! Like, a cool, creepy bodyguard.”

“Cool,” Zoro mutters, sheathing his swords “Creepy’s right.”

But he’s smirking.

You settle on the deck, body shifting into a lower, less frightening form. You try to look less sharp. Less shadowy. More… crew.

“Still terrifying,” Brook says, his skull rattling “But I feel very safe. Thank you.”

Usopp looks over at him and says "You're the one talking about terrifying??"

Luffy sits on your back without asking “We’re heading for a new island. Lots of Marines. Lots of trouble.”

You growl low.

“Yeah,” he says “I knew you’d like that.”

You do not eat. You do not sleep like the others. But you stay. Always near. Always watching. Always protecting.

They are your crew. And no god, beast, or man will touch them while you still exist.

As the Thousand Sunny sails through the mist, thick fog clings to the deck. The sea is quiet again.

“New island ahead!” Nami calls “But something’s off…”

Robin narrows her eyes “There’s no wind.”

No waves. No gulls. Just silence.

Then it hits them.

A blast of air. Cold. Heavy. Wrong.

From the fog, a Marine warship appears, black sails, no flag. The kind used for secret missions. Assassins.

“Ambush!” Usopp shouts “They’ve got cannons aimed at us!”

The crew rushes to action.

Luffy cracks his knuckles “Let’s go.”

The Straw Hats move fast, Zoro to the bow, Franky to the cannons, Robin already summoning arms.

You rise from the lower deck.

You are not yet monstrous.

Your shape is tall. Barely human. Your skin shines wet like a deep-sea creature. Your eyes blink down your arms, across your collarbone, along your cheeks. Too many, but still familiar. You walk on two legs, but they stretch and bend wrong when needed.

“Hey,” Luffy calls out, grinning “Feel like scaring some Marines?”

You nod once “Give me a minute.”

Your voice is deep. Cold. Soft, like a wave under the hull.

You leap from the Sunny, arms snapping longer in the air, fingers clawed and sharp. You land on the enemy ship. The deck groans beneath your weight.

Marines freeze.

You stretch, spine cracking, growing taller, skin peeling back just enough to show something ancient.

They aim rifles.

You look at the captain “Don’t.”

He fires.

You disappear into smoke and shadow.

The Straw Hats watch from their deck as screams rise from the mist.

“Still terrifying” Usopp mutters.

“Effective” Robin says.

“Super effective” Franky agrees.

Within minutes, it’s over. You walk calmly back to the Sunny, not a drop of blood on you.

Chopper runs to you with a towel anyway “You okay?”

You blink “Yes.”

Sanji tosses you a can of juice “For your throat. You always sound like you swallowed gravel after a fight.”

You open the can. Sip. You do not say thank you, but you nod, which is more than usual.

Zoro stretches his arms “You went easy on them.”

You turn your many eyes toward him “They weren’t worth more.”

He smirks “Fair.”

Later that night, the fog long gone, you sit alone at the edge of the deck. You’ve shed your shape again. Tentacles hang lazily into the sea. You watch the moon.

Footsteps. Quiet ones.

Robin sits beside you. She doesn’t speak right away. Just watches the stars.

Then, softly, “Why don’t you stay in your human form more often?”

You shift, pulling yourself into it, slowly, carefully. You look almost like them again, though your eyes still glow faintly in the dark.

“Feels wrong,” you say after a long pause “Heavy. Small.”

“Unnatural?” she asks.

You look at her sideways “The monster is more me than the person.”

Robin nods “But both are you.”

You don’t reply. Not right away.

Finally, you say, “I like it better here.”

She smiles “With us?”

You nod “Yes.”

She stands “Good. Then stay.”

You watch her go. The ship rocks gently. For once, the ocean is quiet.

You stay in your human form just a little longer.

The Sunny drifts near a small island. Just trees. Rocks. Nothing dangerous. Or so they say.

“I’ll stay with the ship” you say.

No one argues.

They know you don’t like towns. You don’t fit in them. People stare. Or scream.

“We’ll bring back food!” Luffy grins “Meat for me. Saltwater things for you.”

You nod.

They leave.

You wait.

You sit still as a statue, eyes half-closed. But you’re never really asleep. You feel the ship breathe. You feel the waves talk. You feel something… else.

Something watching you.

It comes out of the forest.

A long, narrow boat. Quiet. Hidden in seaweed and shadows.

You smell them before you see them, old blood and gunpowder.

Pirates. Not smart ones.

They don’t see you until they’re close. One of them points “Thought this ship was empty—what the hell is that?”

You stand.

Limbs stretch. Flesh twists.

You don’t scream.

They do.

You don’t kill them. Not unless they try first.

They try.

So you do.

By the time the crew returns, the pirates are gone. Their boat is cracked in half, floating far from the shore.

You sit on the figurehead, dripping sea-water, arms folded, eyes open. Your "human" shape, but your mouth is wrong, wider than it should be. Smiling.

“What happened?” Nami asks.

You shrug “They were lost.”

Luffy laughs “Bet they wish they stayed that way.”

You tilt your head “You brought food?”

“Yep!” he holds up a sack.

You take it, tearing it open. Not meat. Not fish. Something else, shaped like a heart, but not a real one. Candy. Soft. Sweet.

“I saw it and thought of you” Luffy says with a grin.

You blink at him.

“You thought of me when you saw candy shaped like an organ?”

He shrugs “Yeah. You’re weird.”

You don’t laugh, but you let out a noise. A dry chuckle.

“You’re not mad?” Usopp asks, watching you carefully.

“No,” you say “I like it.”

That night, you stay in your human shape longer than usual. You sit with them around the table. You eat. You speak.

Only sometimes. Only when needed.

But when Chopper starts talking about an old wound, you listen. When Brook plays his violin, your many eyes all close.

And when the moon rises high, and the sea starts whispering again, your shape shifts slowly, carefully, into something ancient and sharp.

But your place at the table stays empty only for a moment. Sanji slides your untouched mug closer to the edge “Come back when you’re ready.” he says.

You will.

You always do.

It starts as a simple raid.

Another island. Another greedy warlord.

The Strawhats get involved because someone asked for help and Luffy doesn’t even think twice.

You follow. You always do.

The man ruling the port has a big gang too. Armed. Smart enough to use traps.

Too bad they’re not smart enough to leave your crew alone.

The fight breaks out in the old dockyard. Smoke. Fire. Screams.

You're already half-shifted, tall, monstrous, voice cracking through the air like thunder.

Zoro cuts down a wave of goons.

Robin snaps arms like dry twigs.

Sanji launches into the air, spinning, fire trailing from his heel.

Usopp covers them all from the back, sniping, covering, yelling tips no one listens to.

Then it happens.

You hear it first, a shout that turns into a scream.

“AHHH—!!”

Usopp.

Your head jerks around looking for him.

He's on the ground. A blade in his shoulder. Blood soaking his jacket. One of the gang stands over him, laughing.

“Little sniper talks too much.”

Something in you snaps.

You drop your shape like dead weight.

The air turns cold.

Even your own crewmates shudder.

You do not walk. You flow.

You grow taller. Eyes open all over your body, the kind that don’t blink, don’t weep. Tentacles rip through your arms. Your mouth opens sideways. No teeth, just depth. Your skin peels back in places, showing muscle made of shadow and ink.

The gang member barely has time to scream before he vanishes in your jaws.

Then you turn to the others.

You don’t care if they run.

You hunt.

You crash through wooden walls. Your roar knocks people to the ground. You move like water, like madness, like hunger with bones.

Luffy watches from the rooftop “They messed up.”

“Big time” Zoro agrees.

"A MONSTER!!!" the enemies start to scream at you.

And then a flash. A cannon. They had backup. One shot slams into your side.

You scream. For real this time.

The blast rips through part of your body, smoke and ichor pour out. You crash into the street, bones (or what counts as bones) twisting.

“Y/N!” Chopper yells, already running.

But you rise again.

Shaking. Bleeding. Eyes still burning.

You don’t feel pain. Not yet.

You leap.

You tear through the rest of them. You don’t stop until they’ve either run or lie broken in the dirt.

Only then do you fall.

Your limbs lose shape. Your body pulls inward. You start to collapse.

But arms catch you.

Usopp, pale and hurt, grits his teeth “I’ve got you.”

You're bigger than him. He’s shaking. But he holds on anyway.

“Stupid,” you whisper “You got stabbed.”

“You got blown up,” he says, coughing “Don’t change the subject.”

Chopper reaches you seconds later, frantic “Lie down—don’t shift again, you’re leaking—everything!”

Luffy walks up, face serious for once “You went nuts.”

You nod weakly.

“Good,” he says, grinning again “I was about to.”

Sanji lights a cigarette “That was terrifying,” he says casually “Ten out of ten.”

You close your eyes. You feel your body melting back into something half-human, half-broken. The pain is catching up now.

“You protected me” Usopp says, still holding on.

You try to say something but for once, your voice is gone.

You sleep for three days.

Not real sleep. Not dreams. Just darkness. Warmth. Weight.

Voices pass through sometimes.

“Stable,” Chopper mutters “Barely.”

“Reattaching muscle with sea-stone thread? That’s insane.” Franky says, awed.

“They’ll make it,” Zoro says “Or I’ll drag them back myself.”

You drift.

Until you wake.

It’s night. The Sunny is quiet. Your body is wrapped in cloth and bandages. Your shape is smaller, closer to human. You're too weak for the other one.

Your eyes open “Hey.”

Usopp sits next to you, one arm in a sling, face tired, but smiling.

“You’re alive. And not screaming in monster-language, so I’m calling that a win.”

You try to speak.

Only a whisper “You’re okay.”

He laughs “You nearly died. I got a scratch.”

You turn your head. The others sleep nearby, or keep quiet watch. No fear. No running. Just… waiting for you to wake up.

“Why?” you rasp “I lost control.”

“You protected me,” he says simply “You chose us.”

Your claws twitch. You remember the way your body moved, without thought. The way you devoured the man who hurt him.

“I’m not like you.”

“No,” Usopp says “You’re not.”

You tense.

He leans in “But you’re one of us.”

That doesn’t make sense.

“I lie,” he says, smiling “Nami steals. Zoro drinks. Luffy eats enough to kill ten men. You? You destroy anything that tries to take us away.”

He leans back “I think that’s fair.”

You stare at him.

Then slowly… painfully…

You smile.

It’s strange. Your teeth are still sharp. Your skin still wrong. But your smile is real.

The next day, you walk on the deck again. Still weak. Still wrapped in cloth. Still you.

Luffy cheers when he sees you.

“Y/N!” he shouts “Back from the dead!”

You nod “Barely.”

He grins wider “Good. We need you for the next fight.”

Sanji tosses you something.

A rice ball. Shaped like a heart again.

You blink.

“You’re part of this crew,” Nami says, hands on her hips “Whether you look like a horror story or not.”

Chopper adds, “But please don’t bleed out again. I can only take so much stress.”

You sit down. You eat. Slowly. Carefully.

The sun rises behind the Sunny. The wind shifts.

Robin looks at you, voice soft “Do you still think you’re just a monster?”

You think.

You look at your hands. At the crew. At the sea.

“No...” you say.

You pause.

Then “I’m your monster.”

They all grin.

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sharieb · 2 days ago

Text

Echoes Through the Fog

Synopsis: In a dreamscape thick with fog and forgotten echoes, he walks through memories that don't belong to him, yet ache like they do. A version of himself waits in the mist, laughing with the girl he doesn’t remember, loved by someone he never met but somehow misses. As silence coils tight around him, the past flickers like lightning across dark water, and envy takes root in the hollows of his chest.

Pairing: LADS x non-mc! (you)

Genre: Angst Writer's note: Hi everyone! Thank you all so much for your love and support in the previous chapters. I would never have reached this far without you all, so thank you all once again. Previous Taglist: @plzdonutpercieveme

youtube

RECAP After MC was gone, he was alone in his darkened room, his thoughts circling that same haunting image—an unknown woman standing just out of reach in the fog. A name he couldn’t remember, a face he’d never seen, but a weight he couldn’t shake.

He felt it deep in their bones, a cold, gnawing guilt for something lost, something broken beyond repair. They didn’t know who she was or what they had done. But the dream clawed at them, a silent accusation they couldn’t answer, a wound that refused to heal.

Even as MC reached out, even as she stayed near, he remained trapped in his cold mind, unreachable, unyielding. She was a lifeline he clung to, but not the key.

And so the fog thickened, swallowing light, and his heart grew heavier with every passing day, haunted by a ghost he could neither see nor escape.

"This fog again."

He doesn't say it aloud, but the thought coils sharply in his mind the moment the weight settles on his chest. Soft and thick, the mist wraps around his limbs, heavy with silence and memory. It's not the first time he's found himself here. A dream, a nightmare—whatever this place is, it clings to him. Familiar with its discomfort. Familiar with its weight.

He walks. There is no ground he can see, yet he moves forward as though pulled. The fog parts in slow motion, revealing broken silhouettes of places he almost remembers: a ruined corridor, a starlit hill, the echo of a name he can never quite catch.

And then, he sees her again.

The mysterious woman.

No face. No name. Just presence. The kind that roots into the marrow and never leaves. But this time—this time she is not alone.

She is speaking to someone.

He moves closer, tension coiling in his spine. Her posture is familiar, easy, animated in a way that doesn’t belong to a stranger. She laughs—soft and knowing—and then he hears the voice of the man she’s with.

At first, he only sees the silhouette—vague, shrouded, shifting slightly with each blink of his eyes, like a mirage that won't stabilise. He narrows his gaze, the edges of the figure tugging at a thread of familiarity buried deep in his bones. There's a growing weight in his chest, something both curious and uneasy, as if a forgotten truth is clawing its way to the surface. The figure steps closer, clearer now. The set of the shoulders. The rhythm of his movements. His height, the way he shifts his weight when listening, is too specific to be anyone else.

The fog coils tighter, muffling sound as if the world itself is holding its breath. Dense and low, it clings to the skin like memory, thick with the weight of something ancient and unfinished. A voice—his voice—rises out of the haze, curling into the silence like smoke from an old fire, and he stumbles back slightly, breath catching. It's him. Undeniably, impossibly him. But different—draped in clothes that tug at the edges of recognition, strange yet faintly familiar. The posture isn’t quite right. The shoulders sit heavier, or perhaps lighter. The eyes are shadowed, not just by the fog, but by history. A history he doesn’t remember living. Recognition slams into him like a cold tide.

He doesn’t move. Not yet. Not even as the shape grows clearer, defined by every second that passes.

That version of him, not as he is now, but altered. Dressed in something that feels misplaced, as if ripped from a dream or buried, forgotten memory. He stands differently. Straighter, more settled in his body. Moving with a kind of quiet certainty that feels both foreign and intimately known. For a heartbeat, he doesn’t connect the man with himself. The image flickers. The voice returns as if to rid any doubt and disbelief that lingers, his own voice, spoken with ease, with something like warmth. The ground beneath him seems to shift. The world tilts.

A version of him lost to time. To memory. To a thread of existence he never consciously followed. The shock punches through him like lightning cracking across a midnight sky. His breath catches in his throat.

He watches, rooted.

At first, confusion anchors him. Who is she speaking to with such familiarity? Who earns the curve of her smile and the glint in her eye? Who makes her lean in, laugh softly, and nudge her shoulder into his like she’s done it a thousand times before? That closeness—it’s not rehearsed. It’s lived-in. It’s real.

Then he heard his voice again, but this time it became clearer as the silhouette sharpened. Her hand brushes his past self’s arm as she teases him, and he responds with a lighthearted scoff and a boyish grin that he doesn’t recognise on himself anymore. The disbelief falters, replaced with a dawning, reluctant clarity.

The man beside her isn’t just familiar.

It truly is him.

The past self teases her back gently, calling her uncanny for always knowing exactly what he needs before he speaks it. She jabs back, playful and warm, her eyes gleaming with a tenderness that cuts.

They walk shoulder-to-shoulder, move in tandem. Speak in half-code, half-memory. She is there in every fragmented scene that follows. Sitting beside him when his strength fractures. Whispering words that seem to stitch him back together when he can’t find his footing. She holds his hand when he tries to retreat from the world. Her presence was never loud, but constant.

Scene after scene plays out before him, stitched together through the thickening fog.

And then comes the moment that makes it unbearable to watch.

His past self seeks her out. Unsteady. Fractured. Vulnerable. He stumbles once, twice, then falls into her arms like he’s falling into gravity itself. At first, he just leans into her, seeking warmth, seeking peace. But then something inside him breaks. And he clutches her, tightly, desperately. Like if he lets go, he'll shatter completely.

And she?... She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t hesitate. Her arms come around him, steady and strong, cradling him as though he were something sacred. Her face folds with concern. She kisses his temple, then his cheek, his brow, murmuring soft, trembling nothings into his ear. Gentle things. Affectionate promises. Things meant to piece him back together.

The current him watches, unable to move.

She pulls his past self closer, resting her forehead against his and whispering with conviction: "I’ll always be here. No matter what. Through every storm, every fall. I’ll stay by your side."

And the past him—god, the way he holds onto her. The way he presses his face into her neck, hands trembling, letting her carry the weight of all his breaking. Slowly, the tremble in his hands stills. The tension in his shoulders eases. His grip loosens not from indifference, but from calm.

Something unspoken passes between them. A quiet surrender. A moment of peace.

Then, he shifts.

With a sigh that speaks of exhaustion and trust, he gently pulls her onto his lap, cradling her now as if she's a cherished plushie he can't bear to let go of. She gasps at the sudden shift, then bursts into a soft, delighted laugh, her arms instinctively wrapping around his shoulders.

"Look at you," she teases, ruffling his hair and fussing over him like a mother bird. "You big, emotional baby."

He grunts softly, burying his face into the crook of her neck as if to hide from her words, but the small smile curling his lips betrays him.

She rocks him slightly, rubbing circles into his back, laughing and cooing at him, her voice full of love and mischief.

The current him—watching from the fog—feels something inside him unravel.

Because the one watching—the present him—feels the ache blooming in his chest, raw and rising. Not from shock. Not from recognition. But envy. Deep, biting envy. Because he yearns for that comfort now more than ever. And it kills him that someone else—even if it was a past version of himself—got to receive it.

She had been there. Through all of it.

And now, as he stands surrounded by fog and echoes, that one question gnaws at the edge of his soul:

So why isn't she here now?

The fog begins to shift again, dragging the memory away into mist, but not before he sees the two of them again—their silhouettes pressed close, inseparable in every fractured glimpse.

And he is left standing in the thick silence.

Why did I never get to meet her?

When long ago, she had been his everything?

#love and deepspace #lad x non mc #lads x non mc #caleb love and deepspace #rafayel love and deepspace #sylus love and deepspace #xavier love and deepspace #zayne love and deepspace #rafayel x non! mc reader #sylus x non! mc reader #zayne x non mc! reader #xavier x non mc! reader #caleb x non mc! reader #non mc reader #angst #Youtube

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obsidian-pages777 · 1 day ago

Text

PAC: Your Twin-flame [pick an ethereal Dress]

Pick an ethereal Dress Pile 1->Pile 2 [top row] Pile 3->Pile 4 [bottom row]

Introduction

Twinflames are two souls who mirror each other and are meant to meet within a life time. This person could be a romantic partner, a best friend or even a business partner you meet in life. You are bound to share a life together with many interesting events once you come across a twinflame. Your life is said to be meant to become more fated in nature with your twin flame. This taps into the version of your best possible relationship with a twinflame if you meet them whilst travelling in the timeline you are in right now.

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✨ Pile 1: If You Chose This Pile… You and your twin flame are the protectors of one another. Yours is a love wrapped in armor—not because you're closed off, but because you both know the value of what you share. There’s something sacred about your bond, something not everyone would understand, and that’s exactly why you shield it from the world. You may come across as guarded or even intense, but beneath it all lies unwavering loyalty. You’ve got each other’s backs—always. This connection may have gone through trials, but instead of breaking apart, it taught you both to stand even firmer beside one another. Over time, you'll learn to let love soften those defenses, without ever losing that fierce protectiveness. This is a ride-or-die kind of love, and you’re in it for the long haul.

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🔥 Pile 2: If You Felt Drawn to This Pile… You and your twin flame are both incredibly strong, self-driven individuals. This is a connection between two people who are thriving on their own but choose to walk life’s path side by side. You’re both on personal missions—to grow, evolve, heal, and succeed. Your bond doesn’t hinder that; it encourages it. At times, you may need space or solitude, and that’s not a threat to the relationship—it’s a strength. Your connection is about mutual respect, not dependency. You lift each other up, inspire each other to level up, and still hold space for personal freedom. Together, you’re not just lovers or partners—you’re powerhouses building something meaningful. And that’s what makes this so rare.

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🎨 Pile 3: If This Pile Spoke to You… You and your twin flame might not look like a typical match, but that’s what makes it magical. Maybe there's an age gap, a style contrast, different career paths, or an unexpected twist to how your lives align—but none of that matters on a soul level. You connect through creativity, through shared vision, and through a deep inner knowing that says, “You’re my person.” You complement each other in all the right ways, often balancing light and shadow in one another. Your love is electric and artistic—it may even challenge norms or turn heads, but that only adds to the charm. You're creating something beautiful together, whether that’s a life, a project, or simply a shared dream. Let the world stare. You’re perfectly mismatched and meant to be.

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🌿 Pile 4: If This One Called to You… Your twin flame journey is soft, serene, and soulful. Both of you carry gentle hearts—perhaps worn down a little by the noise of the world—and your partnership feels like a deep exhale after holding your breath for too long. This is a connection that seeks peace, not chaos. You two may eventually leave your homeland, or the environment you once knew, in search of a simpler life together. A tucked-away village, a quiet seaside town, a cozy home in the hills—something peaceful calls to your hearts. You’re not here for the spotlight; you’re here for the slow mornings, the meaningful conversations, and the kind of connection that whispers rather than shouts. You’ll build a sanctuary together—a home where your love can grow gently, safely, and freely.

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#pick a pile #pick a card #pick a photo #tarot reading #twinflame #daily tarot #tarot notes #channeled song #channeled message #SoundCloud

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ijustmissyouraccenths · 2 days ago

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Group Therapy

✨ Summary: Y/N decides to give group therapy a shot—just once, just to say she tried—and ends up sitting across from someone who understands her silence better than most people understand her words.

📝 Word Count: 8.4k

⚠️ Content Warnings: Hints of anxiety, depression, therapy.

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The room smells like bergamot and old carpet. Muted yellow light filters through gauzy curtains, casting everything in sepia. It’s the kind of quiet that isn’t quite silence—just the absence of anything demanding. A small sound machine hums in the corner, like rain on a window that isn’t there.

Y/N steps inside with a breath she doesn’t quite finish. Her boots click too loudly against the wood floor, so she moves softer, makes herself smaller. She nods politely to the therapist—Margot, she thinks—and takes the seat nearest the window. It’s low and worn, the cushion sagging like it’s tired too. Her fingers fidget with the hem of her sleeve, thumb rubbing over the frayed edge until it burns.

Across from her sit strangers who look just as unsure. A woman with crow’s feet and kind eyes, a man in business attire clutching a travel mug like it’s a lifeline, a girl who keeps her knees drawn to her chest. No one really looks at each other. Not yet.

She exhales slowly, trying to match the hum of the white noise. She’s thinking about leaving. She’s thinking about staying. She’s thinking about the ache she hasn’t been able to name in weeks.

Then the door opens again.

He walks in like the air got heavier outside. Like it followed him in.

The first thing she notices is how tall he is. The second is how tired he looks. Not the kind of tired sleep could fix. He wears a worn sweater in a color that might’ve been cream once, the sleeves stretched long enough to cover his hands. His curls are shorter, a little neater, but still unkempt at the edges—like he gave up halfway through getting ready. There’s stubble along his jaw, a shadow softening the angles of his face.

He murmurs a quiet “Sorry,” not to anyone in particular, and takes the last empty chair without hesitation.

She watches him settle in, quiet and still. His boots are scuffed, laces loosely tied. A silver ring glints when he brushes a curl from his face. He keeps his head down.

Familiar. Not in a have-we-met way. More like a song she used to know but can’t quite place.

“Glad you made it back, Harry,” Margot says softly, her voice a thread in the quiet.

His eyes flick up, briefly. He nods once. That’s all.

Y/N glances away quickly. But she still feels it—that tiny pull in her chest. The way grief recognizes grief.

The silence stretches, but it isn’t awkward. Just thick. Everyone waiting for someone else to go first.

Margot clears her throat softly, folding her hands in her lap. “Let’s start the way we always do. Just a few words. How you’re feeling. What brought you here tonight.”

The older woman speaks first—Ann, her name is. Something about her husband. How the quiet in her house has gotten louder lately. Then the man in the button-down—Greg—says work is bleeding into everything. That he hasn’t cooked in weeks. That his eyes hurt from screens. The girl, Ava, barely speaks above a whisper. “Tired,” she says. “Just tired.”

Then it’s Y/N’s turn.

She feels it before she even opens her mouth—that small tremor of being looked at, even by people trying not to look. Her throat tightens, but she breathes through it. She glances out the window, then down at her hands, then up again.

“I almost didn’t come,” she says quietly.

Margot nods, encouraging. “But you did.”

Y/N lets a tiny breath go. “Yeah. I guess… I don’t know. I’ve just been feeling a little… unanchored lately. Like I’m in a room I used to know, but everything’s been moved an inch to the left.”

There’s a pause. No one fills it.

She picks at her thumbnail. “I’m not good at talking. But it’s been hard to be alone lately. Even when I’m not actually alone.”

Her voice cracks just slightly at the end. She swallows it down.

When she lifts her gaze, she doesn’t mean to look at him. But she does.

Harry is watching her.

Not staring. Just… listening, in that quiet, whole-body way that only a few people do. Like he hears more than what she’s saying. Like he’s familiar with rooms that don’t feel quite right anymore.

He doesn’t say anything. But he gives the faintest nod. Barely there. Like he’s saying: Yeah. Me too.

Margot gives him a small glance. “Harry?”

He shifts in his seat like he hadn’t expected to be called on. Like his name still feels strange in rooms like this.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. His eyes are fixed on a spot in the wood grain of the floor, his hands tucked under his thighs like he’s holding himself still.

Then he clears his throat, just once, low and rasped. “Uh…”

The room waits.

He lifts his head slowly. Not all the way. Just enough to be heard.

“I’ve had a… weird week.”

He almost laughs after that. The kind of breath that wants to be a laugh but forgets how.

He runs a hand through his hair, fingers lingering at the back of his neck.

“I don’t even know what day it is anymore, honestly. They’re all kind of… folded into each other lately. Like pages stuck together.”

Another pause. He rubs his thumb along the edge of his ring.

“I went to the grocery store the other night and stared at a bag of oranges for ten minutes. Not because I wanted them. I just… couldn’t remember the last time I craved anything. Couldn’t remember how to pick something just because I wanted it.”

No one speaks. Not even a shuffle of a chair. Just that soft white noise humming in the corner.

“I guess that’s why I came back. Because I used to be better at pretending I was fine. And now I’m just… not.”

He finally glances up—just briefly—and his eyes catch on Y/N.

“I’m trying,” he adds, quieter now. “But lately it feels like everything I do is just… managing the fall. Slowing it down.”

He lets the words sit in the air for a few seconds before shifting back in his chair, pulling his sleeves over his hands again.

“And I think I’m just… tired of falling alone.”

Margot offers a soft nod, her voice just above a whisper. “Thank you, Harry.”

He doesn’t look up again. Just gives a small, almost imperceptible tilt of his head, like it cost him something to say all that out loud—and he’s not quite sure it was the right currency.

Margot leans forward a bit in her seat, the way she always does when she’s about to thread things together. “What I’m hearing… is that most of you feel untethered. Worn out. Maybe a little invisible in the middle of your own lives.”

Ann hums quietly, a low, understanding sound.

Margot continues, “This space doesn’t fix anything. But it does make room. For you to say things out loud. For someone else to hear you. That’s not small.”

Greg speaks up next, clearing his throat awkwardly. “I get what you mean, Harry. About the oranges. Mine was a pint of ice cream. I stood there trying to remember what flavor I used to like when I was happy. Couldn’t do it.”

Ava smiles faintly, the corners of her mouth barely lifting. “Mine’s music. Everything sounds too loud or too empty.”

Harry shifts slightly. Not in agreement—but recognition.

Margot glances around. “Sometimes we measure healing by big things—breakthroughs, milestones. But often, it’s just remembering what flavor you like. Or letting yourself reach for the oranges. Or showing up to a room like this and telling the truth, even if your voice shakes.”

There’s quiet again, but this time it’s softer. A shared breath. Less like silence, more like rest.

Y/N lets her gaze flick to Harry again, and for a second—just a second—his eyes meet hers.

They don’t smile.

But it’s enough.

A moment passed between two people in the same storm.

Margot glances at the clock. “We’ll stop here for tonight.”

Chairs shift. Someone lets out the breath they’ve been holding for an hour. Coats are tugged on, tea mugs left half-full. No one rushes, but no one lingers either.

Y/N stands slowly, her legs a little stiff from how tightly she’d been holding herself. Her fingers twitch at her sides like they’re used to carrying something—her bag, her keys, a version of herself more composed than this.

Harry moves just after she does. She hears the creak of his chair, the soft scuff of his boots on the floor. He doesn’t say anything. No one does.

The group files out into the hallway, the light there cooler, harsher. A reminder that the world is louder than the room they just left.

She adjusts her jacket. Feels the chill of the hallway settle into her collarbones.

Then—footsteps beside her.

He’s close. Not enough to touch, but enough to feel the shape of him in her periphery. He smells like something faint and clean—cedarwood and laundry detergent. Something ordinary and aching.

They walk side by side down the narrow hall.

Not talking. Not looking.

But she feels it. The awareness. The quiet gravity of another person tuned into the same frequency.

As they reach the front door, he moves ahead just slightly and opens it without thinking. Holds it long enough for her to step through. She murmurs a soft, automatic “thanks,” and he nods—barely.

Then he turns left.

She turns right.

But for a moment, they were moving in the same direction.

And that stays with her longer than it should.

The week unfolds like damp paper—slow, heavy, and a little misshapen.

Monday bleeds into Tuesday without ceremony. She works, she eats, she scrolls. The routine is mechanical. Wake up too late. Make coffee too bitter. Shower too long. She tells herself she’s fine out loud once, just to hear the lie echo.

But the room from Thursday stays with her. It shows up in flashes.

The hum of the white noise machine. The chipped coaster. The way her voice wobbled and no one looked away.

Him.

She doesn’t let herself think too much about him—not directly. But she remembers the way his boots looked worn in. The way his sleeves were pulled over his knuckles. The rasp in his voice when he said he was tired of falling alone. It rings in her ears sometimes, uninvited, like the end of a song she didn’t realize she liked.

On Wednesday, she goes to the same grocery store she always does, but the fruit aisle feels strange now. She finds herself staring at a bin of oranges. She doesn’t want one. She just stands there, lips parted, arms limp at her sides, like she’s looking for something she forgot to need.

She buys a bag anyway.

At home, they sit on the counter for days untouched.

She thinks about not going back.

Thursday morning arrives with a gray sky and a dull ache behind her eyes. She tells herself she’s busy. She tells herself it’s pointless. She tells herself she doesn’t have to go. That no one will notice if she doesn’t. That she didn’t say anything important. That he probably forgot about her the second she looked away.

But then it’s five-thirty, and she’s staring at her coat on the hook like it asked her a question.

She makes tea. Drinks half.

She checks the time again.

She opens the fridge, closes it.

By five forty-five she’s still barefoot, hair damp from a late shower, wearing the same jeans she wore on Monday.

She almost talks herself out of it.

Almost.

But by six, she’s walking out the door with one headphone in, keys jangling in her hand, and that strange flutter in her chest again—the one that feels like maybe something’s waiting for her.

Not everything. Not a miracle.

Just… something.

She’s late.

Not disastrously so—just enough to feel it. Just enough to have to exhale before opening the door, cheeks flushed, fingers cold from the walk over.

The session has already started. Voices low, thoughtful. A laugh, even, from someone she can’t place through the door.

She hesitates.

It’s warmer inside. The familiar hum of the white noise machine, the scent of herbal tea already steeped, a candle burning somewhere that smells faintly of clove.

Seven chairs in a circle.

Only one is empty.

Next to him.

She sees the curls first. The slope of his shoulders hunched slightly forward. A thick cable-knit this time, sleeves still covering his hands. He doesn’t look up when she walks in. No one does. Margot gives her the gentlest nod—welcome back, no fanfare.

She crosses the room quickly, quietly. Her boots are quieter this week.

As she sinks into the seat beside him, something in her unclenches.

Not because she’s close to him.

But because being next to someone means she doesn’t have to face them.

It means she won’t have to hold his eyes if he speaks again like that—if his voice goes low and raw and honest. She can just listen. Without the pressure of being seen.

She tucks her hands into the sleeves of her coat and lets her shoulders ease back into the chair. It’s still warm. He must’ve shifted just before she got here.

Margot’s voice filters in gently. “We were just checking in. Greg was saying he’s been writing more. Not well, but more.”

A soft chuckle from the group. Someone murmurs, “Progress.”

She doesn’t look at Harry. But she feels him shift, just slightly, beside her. His elbow resting on the arm of the chair, close enough that the wool of his sweater brushes her coat with each breath.

She doesn’t know what that means.

But it feels like something.

The circle moves slowly. No one’s in a rush. There’s comfort in the pace, like walking through fog with people who don’t mind the quiet.

Ann talks about a letter she found from her husband—tucked in an old book she hadn’t opened in years. She didn’t read it all, she says. Just enough to know he wrote it for the version of her he was afraid he’d leave behind. Her voice wavers, but she doesn’t cry. She just folds her hands tighter in her lap.

Greg says he made a playlist this week. Just three songs, but they made him feel sixteen again, and that counts for something.

Ava, small and barely audible, shares that she left a voicemail for her mum. No reply. But she did it. She says, “I’m not ready to be okay with things, but I’m trying not to go invisible.”

Y/N listens without moving much. She nods when others do. Offers a soft hum when something lands in her chest.

She doesn’t speak this time.

Her thoughts are tangled, caught somewhere between the smell of clove and the heat radiating faintly off the man beside her.

Then Margot looks to him.

“Harry?”

He pauses. Not out of reluctance, exactly—more like he’s still deciding where to begin.

Then he exhales. “I didn’t sleep much this week.”

His voice is a little rougher today. Lower, maybe. Like it’s caught on something on the way out.

“I kept dreaming about… nothing, actually. Just this feeling. Like I was forgetting something important. Or like someone was trying to reach me, but I was too far away to hear them.”

No one moves. Y/N doesn’t dare.

He shifts slightly, his leg brushing hers—not intentional, not held. Just contact.

“I spent the whole day Tuesday walking around my flat trying to make it feel like mine again. Rearranged furniture. Lit candles. Opened windows. Still felt like I was borrowing someone else’s life.”

He laughs quietly, but it’s dry. No humor in it.

“And then I bought oranges.”

At that, her breath catches.

He keeps going, unaware. “I don’t even like them. They’re too sweet. But I bought them. Left them on the counter. I think I just wanted to prove I could want something again.”

A pause. Then softer:

“They’re still there. Untouched.”

Y/N swallows hard. She stares at her hands. Her coat sleeve is threaded through her fingers.

But there’s a pull at the corner of her mouth. Not quite a smile. Just the sharp ache of recognition.

She doesn’t look at him.

The room holds his words like breath.

No one rushes to fill the silence this time. It’s not uncomfortable—just full. Weighted in the way only honesty can be. The kind of silence that wraps around people like a shared blanket.

Margot lets it settle for a beat longer, her eyes soft as she looks around the circle.

Then, gently: “That’s the hardest part, isn’t it? Wanting to want again.”

A few nods. Small ones. Almost imperceptible. But Y/N feels them. Feels herself in them.

Margot continues, “I think sometimes we mistake healing for erasing the ache. But more often, it’s this—showing up, saying the thing out loud. Noticing that you bought the oranges. That you wrote the text. That you came back, even when you almost didn’t.”

Y/N’s pulse stutters.

It’s not about her. But somehow, it is.

Her shoulders tense, and she shifts slightly in her chair. Her knee brushes Harry’s this time. She doesn’t move away.

Margot’s voice softens even further. “We hold so tightly to the things that hurt us—not because we want to, but because they’re familiar. And we forget that something gentle can exist at the same time. Not instead of the pain. Alongside it.”

Harry’s head tilts, barely.

No one speaks, but the silence feels different now. Not heavy. Not suffocating.

Just real.

Present.

Y/N stares down at her hands again. Her fingers have stopped fidgeting. She doesn’t quite know why.

But her chest doesn’t feel as tight.

And for the first time all week, the thought of next Thursday doesn’t feel unbearable.

The rest of the session winds down like the last notes of a song. No grand finale. Just soft voices, small shifts, long pauses filled with more than words.

Greg talks a bit about his sister. Ann says she finally made an appointment she’s been putting off. Ava doesn’t speak again, but she stays the whole time—and that feels like something sacred.

Y/N doesn’t speak either.

But she listens.

More deeply than she meant to.

She notices the way people breathe before they share. The way they glance down after, like they’re afraid of being seen too clearly. She notices how Harry presses his thumb to the corner of his mouth when he’s thinking. How his foot bounces when someone else is talking, like he’s absorbing what they say in his body.

The hour passes gently. The edges blur.

And then Margot glances at the clock, her expression warm and quiet. “We’ll end here.”

A soft rustle of movement. Coats shrugged on. Boots scraping softly across the floor.

Y/N rises slowly, pulling her sleeves down over her wrists. She doesn’t feel quite ready to leave—but that’s how it always is with things that matter. They end in the middle of a feeling.

She catches the faint scent of his cologne again—something clean and woodsy—and the fabric of his sweater brushes her arm as he shifts beside her.

Still no words.

Still no names exchanged beyond the one they all know.

But when she steps into the hallway and the cold air hits her, she realizes her chest isn’t as tight as it was when she walked in. Her hands aren’t fists in her pockets.

She doesn’t look back.

But she knows he’s behind her.

The days that follow move differently.

Not better. Not worse. Just… different.

Friday is rainy. The kind of rain that soaks through the cuffs of your jeans before you make it to the car. She forgets her umbrella, forgets her lunch, forgets why she walked into the kitchen three separate times. Her mind’s quieter than usual, but not empty—just distant. Like someone rearranged the furniture in her head again.

On Saturday, she does laundry. Folds it while sitting on the floor, back against the couch. She puts on music, lets the hum fill the spaces that used to ache a little louder. A song comes on that she doesn’t remember adding to the playlist. It’s gentle. Melancholy. A little rough around the edges, like it was recorded in a room too quiet. She doesn’t skip it.

That night, she eats one of the oranges.

It’s too sweet, just like she expected.

She finishes it anyway.

Sunday is harder. Lonelier. She stays in bed too long. Stares at the ceiling like it might offer something useful. It doesn’t. She texts no one. Doesn’t check her email. Doesn’t answer the phone when it rings once and stops. But she lights a candle. She changes her sheets. She opens the window, even when it’s cold.

Monday comes and goes.

Tuesday too.

The week is mostly quiet. She works. She cooks sometimes. She forgets to buy more tea. She keeps catching herself looking for something and then not remembering what.

And then it’s Thursday again.

The day sneaks up on her like it always does. She wakes up with that same low, humming ache behind her ribs. The familiar voice in her head says: You don’t have to go. You could just not.

But she doesn’t entertain it for long this time.

Because something in her has started to associate that room—with its mismatched chairs and white noise and flickering candle—with a kind of steadiness. Not comfort, exactly. But a softness.

And him.

She’s not sure what he is yet. A curiosity. A presence. A quiet echo that found its way into her bones.

And so, as the clock ticks past five, she’s already reaching for her coat.

She pulls into the lot with fifteen minutes to spare and immediately regrets being early.

The car engine clicks as it settles. The heater hums low, warm against the cold fogged windows. Outside, everything’s gray—the kind of dusky blue-gray that makes you feel like time is folding in on itself.

She stays in the driver’s seat, hands resting on the steering wheel even though the car is off. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for her bag. Just stares out the windshield, watching the water bead and slide down the glass.

She’s not nervous. Not exactly.

But her heart is beating a little too fast for no reason at all.

She tells herself it’s the weather. The cold. The day she had at work. The ache in her shoulder. The way the week unraveled slowly instead of snapping clean in half.

But she knows better.

She knows it’s because he might already be inside.

Or maybe he’s not.

Maybe he’s running late. Or not coming at all. Or maybe he’s already in that room, sitting in that same chair, the one she ended up in last week without meaning to.

She wonders if he thought about her. Even once.

She hasn’t said a word to him. Not directly. Not yet.

But still, he’s in her mind more than she wants to admit.

Not his fame—though the shape of it hovers somewhere in the back of her mind, unconfirmed but quietly present.

It’s him.

His voice. His stillness. His oranges on the counter.

The way he nodded when she talked about not wanting to be alone, like he understood her in a language she hadn’t realized she was speaking.

She glances down at the dashboard clock. Seven minutes.

She doesn’t move.

She watches her own reflection in the rearview mirror—eyes wide and tired, lips slightly parted like she’s about to ask a question she won’t say out loud.

Then, in her periphery—movement.

A car pulls in three spaces over. Dark. Familiar.

Her pulse skips.

It’s him.

She knows without needing to see his face. The curve of his shoulders. The beanie. The way he lingers before stepping out like he’s bracing for something cold.

She doesn’t duck. Doesn’t move. Just watches.

He walks slowly, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands again. He disappears through the glass front door without looking back.

She waits another full minute.

Then she exhales—long, quiet—and reaches for the door handle.

She opens the door just as he’s walking back toward it.

He’s not inside after all.

He’s standing just off to the side, leaning against the brick wall beneath the overhang. A phone pressed to his ear, one foot braced behind him like he’s holding himself steady. His voice is low but sharp around the edges—frustrated, not loud, but clipped in a way that says this isn’t a conversation he wants to be having.

“I told you I can’t do that tonight,” he says, quiet but tense. “No, I don’t know. I said I’d call back tomorrow.”

He rubs his jaw, thumb dragging along the edge of his mouth as he listens to whoever’s on the other end. There’s something guarded in his posture—shoulders slightly hunched, free hand balled in the pocket of his hoodie.

She pauses for half a second, caught off guard by how real he looks. Raw. Like he peeled something back without meaning to.

He notices her before she can look away.

His eyes meet hers—just for a second—and his expression shifts. Not fully softened, but disarmed. Like he didn’t expect to be seen and is still deciding what to do with the fact that he has been.

She offers a small, cautious smile. Just a twitch at the corner of her mouth. Nothing bold. Nothing big.

But it’s enough.

He looks away for a beat, then into the phone again.

“I’ve got to go,” he says, voice lower now. “Yeah. I’ll text you later.”

He hangs up without waiting for a response.

She steps forward to open the door, and he follows just behind her. Not close enough to crowd her, but close enough to feel the weight of his presence at her back. Quiet footsteps. The faint sound of his breath. The brush of his sleeve against hers as they pass through the threshold one after the other.

No words.

But the silence between them feels different now.

Like it’s holding something.

The room is half full when they enter.

A few murmured hellos, the rustle of jackets, the clink of mugs being set down. The circle isn’t fully formed yet—two empty chairs remain. One next to Greg. One next to Ava.

Side by side.

She hesitates for a fraction of a second, but the decision’s already made. Her feet move before her mind catches up.

She takes the seat on the left.

Harry slides into the one beside her, his coat unzipped, sweater peeking out beneath. He smells faintly like cold air and whatever soap he used that morning—clean, earthy, familiar.

He exhales softly as he sits back, then leans slightly toward her, voice low enough that only she can hear.

“This is becoming a bit of a thing, isn’t it?”

She turns her head slightly, caught off guard—but not in a bad way.

“You stalking me, or are we just really bad at being unpredictable?” she murmurs back, one eyebrow lifted, her tone dry but amused.

He huffs out a quiet laugh through his nose. “Could be both.”

She smiles without meaning to. Looks down at her hands before he can see too much of it.

There’s something easy in the moment. Something small and golden tucked inside the tension. A flicker of warmth beneath the surface.

Neither of them says anything else.

Margot waits until the group settles. Until the shuffle of coats fades. Until the white noise becomes background again. Then she leans forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees.

“I thought we’d try something a little different tonight,” she says gently, voice calm, steady. “Sometimes, we spend so much time sitting near each other without really connecting. So tonight’s about presence. About being seen.”

A few shifting glances around the room.

Y/N’s stomach tightens—not sharply, just enough to make her spine stiffen a little.

“I want you to turn to the person next to you,” Margot continues. “That’ll be your partner for tonight.”

Y/N’s pulse jumps.

She doesn’t move. Just feels Harry shift beside her. The air between them changes—thicker, slower. His knee barely brushes hers.

He doesn’t say anything, but he turns toward her.

She turns too.

They’re facing each other now. Closer than they’ve ever been. His knee to hers. Her fingers curled in her lap. Their eyes meet—and for once, neither of them looks away.

Margot’s voice softens, but there’s steel beneath it.

“The prompt is simple. Tell your partner something you’ve never told anyone else. Doesn’t have to be a big secret. Just something real. Something you’ve held close. Something you think might help them understand you better.”

A slow silence spreads across the room. No one rushes.

Y/N swallows hard.

She can feel the air in her throat. Feel the gravity of his gaze. There’s no pressure in his eyes. Just openness. Curiosity. Like he’s willing to hold whatever she offers—gently, without judgment.

She wets her lips. “I—”

Her voice catches. She looks down, then back up.

“I told someone once that I prefer being alone. That solitude makes me feel safe. But the truth is… I think I just got used to loneliness because it was easier than being left.”

She doesn’t breathe for a moment.

Then she exhales, slow and shaky.

She doesn’t look away.

Harry’s brow furrows, just barely. Not pity. Just understanding. A mirror held up to something he’s maybe felt, too.

He shifts, resting his elbows on his knees. He doesn’t speak right away. When he does, his voice is low. Steady.

“I’ve told people I like privacy. That I keep things to myself because I’m guarded. But the truth is, I think I’m just scared if people knew what I really carry… they’d walk away.”

His words hang in the air between them, warm and fragile.

Neither of them moves.

There’s no comment. No need to respond. Just breath. Just eye contact.

Just knowing.

Openness creates humanity.

And for the first time, they feel more like people than strangers.

The silence between them lingers—but it’s not uncomfortable. It just feels… full.

His words are still hanging in the space, raw and fragile, and she holds them quietly in her chest for a moment, unsure what to do with the ache they leave behind.

Then she leans back just a little. Blinks down at her hands, like she’s weighing whether to say something else. When she speaks, her voice is soft—but there’s a glint of something lighter in it this time.

“Okay, if I tell you this, you’re not allowed to judge me.”

Harry’s lips twitch, a ghost of a smile playing at the edge. “No promises.”

She rolls her eyes, but it pulls a smile from her too. “So… I once dated this guy who told me he couldn’t be in a serious relationship because Mercury was in retrograde.”

Harry blinks. Then laughs—quietly, but for real. It cracks something warm open in the space between them.

“I’m serious,” she says, grinning now. “He said the planets weren’t aligned for emotional stability and it would be irresponsible to ‘merge energies’ before the next full moon.”

Harry stares at her like he’s not sure if she’s joking.

“He had a moon tattoo,” she adds, smirking. “On his sternum.”

That makes him laugh again, breathier this time, head dipping toward his chest. “God. I’ve definitely met that guy.”

“Oh, everyone’s met that guy,” she says, grinning now. “I think he haunts yoga studios.”

Harry leans back in his chair, still smiling, one hand running through his hair. “What happened to him?”

“He broke up with me via voice memo,” she says dryly. “Said our ‘vibrations were no longer in sync.’ I think he actually used the phrase ‘emotional dissonance.’”

Harry shakes his head slowly. “Wow. I don’t know whether to feel bad for you or respect the commitment to the bit.”

“You’re allowed to do both.”

There’s a beat.

Then he looks at her—really looks at her. Softly, curiously. Like he’s seeing something underneath the joke.

“You do that often?” he asks, gently. “Make sad things sound funny?”

She blinks. The question isn’t cruel. Just observant.

She shrugs, the smile fading but not disappearing.

His eyes linger on her for a second longer than they should.

And then Margot’s voice filters back into the space, calling the group’s attention. But the thread between them doesn’t snap.

It just stretches quietly, from one chair to the next.

The session winds down slowly. Margot thanks everyone for showing up. Someone stretches. A chair creaks. Coats are pulled from the backs of chairs with the same silent resignation people use when waking from a long, necessary nap.

No one rushes to leave, but the energy has shifted. The room exhales.

Y/N stands, brushing her fingers against the hem of her coat. Harry rises beside her. Their chairs scrape the floor almost in sync.

Neither of them speaks.

There’s something fragile about the moment now—like if either of them tried to wrap it up with a joke or a thank-you or even a see-you-next-week, it might shrink what they shared.

So they don’t.

They walk out together. Not side by side this time, but close. Close enough that their steps fall into rhythm.

Outside, the air is colder than it was an hour ago. The kind of cold that settles on your skin instead of cutting through it. The kind that reminds you you’re real.

She crosses her arms over her chest, fingers tucked into her sleeves. He pulls his beanie lower, shoulders hunched slightly against the wind.

At the bottom of the steps, they pause.

Not long.

Just enough to almost say something.

He looks at her. His eyes are soft, unreadable, but not closed off.

She meets his gaze, and for a second, there’s something suspended there—like the breath before a question.

Then she gives him a quiet nod.

And he returns it.

No smile. No words.

But something in her chest settles anyway.

She turns left. He turns right.

And they leave the way they always do—

Not together.

But no longer just strangers in the same room.

It’s Tuesday.

Late afternoon, the kind of dusky hour where the light outside is more blue than gold. She’s been aimless all day—ran errands, answered half her emails, stared at a book she never actually opened. So she walks to the little corner market near her flat. The one with handwritten signs and crates of overripe fruit out front. The kind of place that always smells faintly like cinnamon and floor cleaner.

She doesn’t need anything.

But she steps inside anyway.

The bell above the door jingles softly. No music, just the hum of fridges and the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead.

She wanders.

Up one aisle, down the next. Pauses at the spice rack. Scans the shelves without really seeing them. Her thoughts drift—soft, circular things. She thinks about Margot’s voice. About Greg’s playlist. About the sound Harry made when he laughed last week. The way his brow crinkled when she told her ridiculous ex story.

She rounds the last aisle and finds herself standing in front of the freezer section.

Frozen peas. Ice cream. A bag of dumplings with cartoon characters on the front.

And then she’s just… standing there.

Staring at nothing.

Her reflection in the glass is vague, a little warped by the frost.

She doesn’t realize how long she’s been frozen in place until she feels it:

A presence behind her.

Not close, but close enough to register.

She blinks and looks up—

And there he is.

Clear as day in the reflection. A little rumpled, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, beanie low over his ears. His head is tilted, like he’s already been standing there a second longer than she wants to believe.

His voice comes, quiet, gentle.

“You okay?”

She startles a little—just enough to let out a breathy laugh. “God. Don’t sneak up on people like that. You’ll give someone a heart attack in front of the frozen veg.”

He smiles, eyes crinkling just slightly. “Sorry. Wasn’t trying to sneak.”

She turns around to face him fully.

He’s taller than she remembers somehow. Or maybe it’s just that they’ve never stood this close outside the circle. His cheeks are pink from the cold, and he smells like something warm and clean. Like rain on cotton.

“I just—” she gestures vaguely to the freezer, still half-laughing. “I think I forgot what I came in for. Or maybe I didn’t come in for anything at all.”

He nods, looking past her for a second, toward the shelves.

“I do that too,” he says. “Sometimes I walk into shops just to feel like I’m part of the world again. Like if I stand in the same aisle long enough, I’ll remember how to exist.”

The words settle in her chest like something dropped gently into water.

She looks at him.

Really looks.

And smiles.

“Glad I’m not the only one haunting the freezer section.”

His grin spreads slowly, like he doesn’t mind being seen here. Like this—this odd, accidental moment—is maybe a little bit better than whatever else the day had planned.

They stand there for a second too long—neither making a move to leave, but also not quite sure how to keep standing still.

Then Harry shifts, nodding his head toward the next aisle. “I was coming in for tea,” he says. “Ended up here instead.”

She smiles. “Dangerous detour.”

He gives a soft huff of a laugh, then turns. Doesn’t ask her to follow.

But she does.

They walk slowly, not in sync but close. His hand brushes the shelf as they pass it, fingers trailing lightly along labels and cardboard boxes. She notices he reads things quietly to himself—just under his breath. Like the words are for him alone.

“Chamomile,” he mutters, squinting at a row of boxes. “Tastes like wet hay but makes people feel virtuous.”

She snorts. “You’re not wrong. It’s the salad of teas.”

He laughs at that—genuinely—and it startles her how much it lights up his whole face.

They keep moving, drifting through aisles like ghosts in good company.

He grabs a packet of dried mango. She grabs a small bag of flour.

Neither of them really needs either.

“Do you always come here?” he asks after a beat, his tone casual, eyes on a row of jars.

“Only when I want to feel slightly better than everyone at Tesco,” she says.

That earns her another quiet laugh. He glances at her sidelong, mouth tugging at the corner like he’s storing the smile away for later.

They don’t talk constantly. The silences are soft. Not awkward. Just little pockets of calm between low murmurs and sideways glances.

They pass a display of local honey and he points to one shaped like a bear.

“My mum used to keep one of those in the fridge. I thought it was an actual toy until I bit the top off.”

She smirks. “Traumatizing.”

“I still don’t trust bears.”

They round the last aisle and pause again, standing near the register but not quite ready to say goodbye.

They linger near the register, neither making a move to line up. Her bag of flour hangs loosely from her fingertips. His mango slices crinkle quietly in his hand.

He glances down at her, not rushing the moment, but not letting it pass either.

“You busy right now?”

She looks up, surprised—but only a little.

“No,” she says, voice soft, maybe a little breathless. “Not really.”

He nods once, like he already hoped that was the answer. “Wanna grab a coffee?”

Her smile answers before her words do.

“Sure.”

And just like that, they slip back into step with each other, the store and its strange stillness fading behind them. The sky outside is dipped in that late-evening indigo, the kind that makes streetlights feel like little moons.

They walk without hurry, jackets pulled tighter against the cold. He leads her down a side street, quieter than the main road—lined with small shops and ivy-covered flats. Their footsteps echo softly on the pavement.

After a block or two, he nods toward a tiny café tucked between a florist and a bookstore. The windows are fogged up, the inside amber-lit and nearly empty.

“This place okay?”

She glances up at it, already feeling the charm seep into her ribs. “Perfect.”

He pushes open the door, and a warm bell chimes. Inside, the smell of cinnamon and burnt espresso lingers in the air. The barista offers a casual nod—familiar but not overfriendly.

They order quietly—him a black coffee, her a chai—and slide into a small table in the back near the radiator, their mugs warming their hands before they even speak.

Harry leans back slightly in his chair, fingers tapping idly along the rim of his mug.

“I come here a lot,” he says after a minute. “It’s quiet. No one really bothers me.”

She tilts her head. “You mean, like…?”

He gives a soft, almost sheepish smile. “Yeah.”

It hangs in the air for a second—that unspoken acknowledgment of who he is.

But it doesn’t shift anything. Doesn’t make the moment feel different.

She just nods, fingers curled around her cup. “Makes sense. It feels safe in here. Like a place no one’s trying too hard.”

He chuckles, eyes flicking up to meet hers. “Yeah. That’s it exactly.”

They sit like that for a while—soft conversation, long pauses, the occasional spark of a smile passed between them like a secret.

He takes a sip of what’s left in his mug, eyes still on her—not intense, not demanding. Just curious. Present.

Then, gently: “What about you?”

She blinks. “What about me?”

He leans back, resting his elbow on the table, fingers playing absentmindedly with the ring on his middle finger.

“Why do you come to group?”

Her lips part slightly, like the question caught her mid-thought. She glances down, brushing her thumb along the handle of her cup.

For a second, she thinks about deflecting. About making another joke. Saying something like, free tea and emotional whiplash? Who could resist?

But instead, she exhales.

“I think I was afraid of turning invisible,” she says. “Not to other people. To myself.”

He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t shift. Just watches her, eyes soft and steady.

She continues, voice quieter now. “I started feeling like I was floating above my own life. Going to work, answering texts, smiling at the right times… but none of it felt connected to me. Like I was watching someone else do it all.”

She looks up at him again, and the flicker of vulnerability there is so open, so unguarded, it almost startles her.

“I guess I hoped that if I started saying things out loud, I might remember who I was. Or maybe… become someone I could actually live with.”

The words sit there between them. Small. Simple. Devastatingly honest.

Harry nods slowly, his expression unreadable in the best way. Like he’s still holding her words in his hands and trying to fit them gently into the shape of something familiar.

“I get that,” he says quietly.

She gives a faint smile. “Yeah?”

He shrugs one shoulder, gaze dropping to his cup.

“I think we all need a place where we don’t have to pretend we’re fine. Even if it’s just once a week in a room with bad lighting.”

That makes her laugh, soft and real.

There’s a lull between them now. Not quite silence—just a shared quiet, the kind that feels like a thread stretching from his mug to hers, to the space between their knees under the small table.

She shifts slightly, her gaze flicking toward the foggy window. Then back to him.

“I’ll admit something,” she says softly.

He raises an eyebrow, curious. “Yeah?”

She nods, her fingers smoothing the cuff of her sleeve. “When I first saw you… at the group… I was kind of intimidated.”

His brows lift slightly. “Really?”

She nods again, almost sheepish, but still holding his gaze. “Not because of the fame or whatever. I didn’t even realize it was you at first.”

That makes him smile.

“It was just…” She pauses, searching for the right words. “You looked like someone who knew how to carry their sadness well. And that kind of presence… I don’t know. It’s quiet, but it takes up space.”

He stares at her for a beat. Something unreadable flickers across his face—like her words struck deeper than he expected.

Then he huffs out a laugh, tipping his head back slightly.

“I’m flattered,” he says, grinning. “Though now I’m imagining myself as, like, a moody statue in a museum. ‘Man Who Carries Sadness Well,’ by Some Girl Who Buys Flour Without a Plan.’”

She laughs—loud enough that a nearby couple glances over.

“That’s your art installation name now,” she says. “I don’t make the rules.”

He leans on the table slightly, smile still wide, eyes lit with something warm. “If I’m the statue, does that make you the person staring too long at it while pretending not to?”

“I would pretend not to,” she says, mock-defensive. “But I’d definitely be staring.”

He bites his lip like he’s trying not to laugh too loudly.

And for a moment—just a moment—they’re not in a café, or a city, or a chapter of their lives marked by grief and unraveling.

They’re just two people.

Leaning toward each other across a table warmed by mugs and soft honesty.

Eventually, their mugs are empty.

The warmth between them lingers, but the café begins to quiet further, the barista wiping down counters and flipping the chairs on the other side of the room. The outside world calls them back—not harshly, just with a gentle nudge.

Harry stretches slightly in his seat, arms overhead for a moment before letting them drop into the sleeves of his coat. “Should we head back?”

She nods, pulling on her jacket. “Yeah. Guess the frozen peas are waiting.”

He grins, standing as she does. “Poor things. Probably wondering what happened to you.”

They step out into the cold together, shoulders hunched, hands tucked away. The sky’s even darker now—ink blue, smudged with streetlight. Their footsteps echo softly on the pavement, the city moving quietly around them.

They don’t talk much on the walk back. But it doesn’t feel empty.

Just easy.

Comfortable.

Every so often, their hands swing close enough to almost touch. Neither pulls away.

The shop is mostly dark when they return. A single dim light glows near the register, and the door is locked now, the hours posted in faded gold lettering.

They pause near the curb, standing a few feet from where their cars are parked, facing each other again in the kind of quiet that asks nothing more.

“This was…” she starts, then lets it trail off.

Harry nods like he understands anyway. “Yeah.”

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, fingers curled into her pockets. “See you at group?”

His smile softens. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

She nods, holding his gaze for a moment longer than she means to.

Then they part—no hug, no lingering goodbye. Just two people stepping away from something soft they weren’t expecting.

But as she turns toward her car, she realizes:

She’s not floating anymore.

She’s anchored.

And this time, she’s walking away with something that feels like the beginning of whatever comes next.

It’s been three months.

The chairs in the group room haven’t changed. Same faded upholstery, same lopsided circle. Margot still lights that candle that smells like clove and patience. The same quiet hum buzzes in the corner, white noise still doing its best to make grief feel less sharp.

But the energy is different now.

At least, it is for her.

Y/N sits in her usual chair, but she doesn’t feel as tethered to it anymore. The edges of the ache have dulled. She still fidgets with the hem of her sleeve, still watches people talk with that same soft focus—but it’s more distant now. Like she’s slowly stepping out of a room she used to live in.

And Harry…

Harry hasn’t been around much.

He missed two sessions in January. One in February. The last three in a row.

He didn’t say why.

No one in the group asked. Not out loud.

But Y/N noticed.

Of course she noticed.

At first, she told herself he must’ve had a conflict. A work thing. Maybe travel. Something temporary.

But week after week, the chair beside her stayed empty, and whatever gentle rhythm they had started to build between them—the slow blooming of trust, the quiet looks, the way he made even sadness feel like something shared instead of suffered alone—it all began to feel like something she imagined.

Something she dreamed during a colder part of her life.

She still thought about him sometimes.

Not always in obvious ways. But in the quiet. In the grocery store when she passed the freezer section. When she heard a song that sounded like the shape of his voice. When she caught herself laughing at something and remembered the exact face he made when he was trying not to do the same.

But life had its way of folding forward.

She started seeing her friends again. She joined a weekend pottery class, half on a whim. She called her sister more. Even downloaded a dating app—though she deleted it after two conversations with men who used too many emojis and talked too much about crypto.

Still, she felt… okay.

Okay enough to think maybe she didn’t need group anymore.

Maybe she’d outgrown the chair. Maybe she’d said what she needed to say. Maybe healing really was just about staying upright long enough for the fog to thin.

So one Thursday, she didn’t go.

And the next week, she didn’t either.

No one called. No one checked in.

She wasn’t offended. That was the deal with group—you came and went when you could, and the chairs would always be there.

But still, something tugged at her chest that night as she folded laundry with the TV on and the clock blinking past 6:00.

It wasn’t emptiness.

It wasn’t grief.

It was a flicker. A shift.

The kind of ache you only notice after something good has left the room.

She didn’t miss therapy.

She missed him.

Not just the sound of his voice or the way he walked beside her like he had nowhere else to be—but the way she felt when he was near. Present. Seen. Like she wasn’t floating anymore. Like someone had quietly taken her hand without her needing to ask.

But people leave.

That’s just how it goes.

And so she folded another sweater. Closed another drawer.

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ang3lmoans · 3 days ago

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Angel’s grip on the steering wheel eased the moment Garam’s hand left his thigh to cradle his face. The touch was light, almost reverent, like Garam was afraid Angel might break if he pressed too hard. And maybe he would—if it had been anyone else. But it was Garam. Always Garam. And instead of cracking open, Angel leaned into the warmth of his palm like it was the only safe place left in the world. His lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close. There was still so much weight in his chest, coiled tight around his lungs, refusing to let go. But hearing Garam say “I love you” with such gentle certainty, hearing the quiet determination behind “we are absolutely not sleeping in your car”—it loosened something in him. Just a little. He didn’t deserve it. Not really. He had been the one to let Axel get too close, knowing the red flags were so obvious in hindsight they practically screamed. Angel had convinced himself it was fine. Just a bit messy. Just complicated. But the truth was uglier, and the damage had spread far beyond himself. Garam had been caught in the crossfire. And yet here he was. Loving him anyway. “I’m not being nice,” Angel murmured after a beat, his voice rough around the edges. “I’m just… telling the truth.” He could feel the heat of Garam’s hand on his cheek even after it pulled away, the echo of that touch grounding him more than any seatbelt could. The city lights were starting to blink to life outside the windows, casting soft gold over the dashboard. Angel blinked slowly, his focus narrowing on the road ahead but his thoughts wrapped entirely around the man in the passenger seat. The hotel idea wasn’t just smart—it was safe. Practical. It put space between them and whatever version of Axel might be waiting at the apartment. It gave them room to breathe. And even if it meant living out of a suitcase for a couple of days, it was worth it to see Garam’s face relax even the tiniest bit. Worth it to see some of the fear fade behind that coaxing tone of his. “A bubble bath, huh?” Angel said, eyes flicking to Garam for a heartbeat before returning to the road. His voice was low, but it held a spark of something playful—buried beneath exhaustion, but still alive. “I guess that does sound better than sleeping in the front seat with my spine folding in half.” He caught Garam’s soft laugh, and something inside him ached with how much he wanted to hear that sound more often. “Alright,” Angel added, flicking the turn signal on as he veered toward a different exit, one that didn’t lead home. “Hotel it is. But I get to pick the snacks.” Angel didn’t have to look to know he was smiling. They didn’t speak much more as they drove. But silence wasn’t heavy this time. It was companionable. Safe. The kind of quiet that wrapped around them like a soft blanket, letting them be still without fear, without expectation. Angel still didn’t know what tomorrow would look like. He didn’t know what Axel would do next, or how long the shadow of that man’s damage would follow them. But in this moment, with Garam beside him and a plan that didn’t end in confrontation or retreat, Angel felt something rare and deeply needed: Hope.He let it settle into his chest like a heartbeat. Quiet, steady, alive.They’d find a place to rest. They’d lock the door behind them. And for at least one night, they’d let themselves be whole again. Angel headed toward the perfect hotel. One he knew they would be safe when if Axel did somehow find them. They would never tell after all, his family name was on the front. “I haven't seen them in some time. But my cousin will make sure we are taken care of. Just…uh They insist on calling me by my first name” Angel blushed slightly. He didn't really talk about his family or thay he went by his middle name.

his expression softened, his body losing all tension as he let his hand lay flat against angel's thigh now. the reassurance did help him feel better but no amount of reassurance would stop him from blaming himself for what happened. because if he hadn't have gotten involved with axel, if he chose somebody else to hook up with or just left it at that one night, neither of them would be in the situation they were in. angel wouldn't have gotten assaulted, garam wouldn't have had to endure the pain, developing jealousy, and emotional turmoil that was forced upon him. he understood that he couldn't control the choices axel made, of course, but there wouldn't have ever been the possibility of that outcome happening if he'd listened to those who warned him before getting himself in too deep with the man. "you're too nice to me," his words were hushed, garam was thankful that angel didn't put any blame on him. he wasn't sure what he would have done if angel had pushed garam away because of what happened. he was thankful that angel was honest about it, too, so he was able to step away from his relationship with axel. garam wanted to laugh when angel said they'd sleep in his car but he managed to keep his composure, only letting a tender smile show. he lifted his hand from angel's thigh, gently placing it on the man's cheek, allowing his thumb to caress over skin. "oh, honey, i love you but we are absolutely not sleeping in your car." there were plenty of other options if they weren't actually able to go back to his apartment. they could stay with garam's parents, they'd turned his old room into a guest room so there was definitely space for them. plus, the gated community provided them a lot more safety. even though his parents knew what happened — the gist, not every detail, he knew they would press for more information and garam just didn't want to talk about it with people that weren't directly involved. nor did he want angel to feel pressured to talk about what happened with him, either. they could go back to his own apartment, though he was sure angel wouldn't feel comfortable there and axel did have a key — he made a mental note to talk to his landlord to get the locks replaced. hotels were still an option, too. sure, axel could easily follow them there but they could just as easily warn staff about him, too. besides, with the right hotel choice, there'd be far too many floors and even more rooms for axel to be able to find which was theirs. "we could just skip going back and stay at a hotel for a couple nights, instead. i mean, if he's waiting for us, there's no way he'd know where we went after the mall." he still hadn't noticed any cars following them, surely axel's brother wouldn't go as far as following them back home, so he figured they were pretty safe. "we can order room service, watch some movies... take a nice, hot bubble bath." he tried to make it sound more enticing, as if he were trying to convince angel to say yes. "it'll be super laid back, super chill. nobody will know where we are so we won't have to worry about anybody bothering us."

#cherryblossms #angel x garam #queued

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excusetowrite · 3 days ago

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Let Him In (5)

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five

Summary: On the last day on set, our actress and Jack share a quiet, tender goodbye they can’t quite say out loud. Months apart follow—full of longing, stolen messages, and blurred lines. When they reunite for the film’s press tour, the chemistry is undeniable, impossible to ignore. But just as things start to fall back into place, a single photo threatens to bring everything they’ve kept hidden into the light.

Warnings: JEALOUS Jack, as a few have requested. I was feeling very inspired so here's another chapter, I can't wait to work on the next one hehehe

Out of the Shadows

He was still asleep when I woke.

For a long while, I didn’t move. Just laid there and watched him. The soft morning light filtered through the slats of the trailer window, cutting across the bed in golden lines. It painted him in pieces—his shoulder, the curve of his neck, the dip where his collarbone disappeared beneath the blanket. His hair was a mess, sticking up in tufts like he’d lost a fight with the pillow, and his mouth was parted slightly, breath slow and even. One arm lay heavy across my waist, his hand resting against my stomach like even in sleep he wanted to know I hadn’t gone anywhere.

He looked different like this. Less like the man the world knew and more like the one I was still learning how to hold. Like someone real. Someone who might be mine.

It hit me how many mornings I’d dreamed of something like this. Not just being with him—but the quiet, sleepy part. The part where I didn’t have to pretend. Where I could just exist beside him without hiding, without fear that it would slip away the second someone knocked on the door or called “places.”

My eyes traced his face slowly, trying to memorize the way the light kissed his lashes, the faint wrinkle across his forehead, the angle of his cheekbone. There were still moments when it didn’t feel real—that he was here, in my bed, wrapped around me like I was something safe. Especially when I used to fall asleep to grainy interviews and fan-made gifs of him playing reckless, arrogant Cook—the first boy I’d ever really wanted. It should’ve been embarrassing. And it was, in theory. But he’d laughed when I told him. Said it explained a lot about me.

Maybe it did.

Maybe I’d always wanted something a little dangerous, a little too much. And maybe I was finally learning that didn’t have to mean getting hurt.

I let my fingers drift down the slope of his spine, just to feel the rise and fall of his back. He stirred at my touch, nuzzling into my shoulder with a low groan, his arm pulling me in tighter.

“You staring at me?” he mumbled, voice gravel-rough with sleep, eyes still closed peacefully.

“Maybe,” I whispered, smiling into his hair. “You were being pretty.”

He cracked one eye open, mouth twitching. “You always this creepy in the mornings?”

“Only when I’m in love,” I said, half teasing. Half not. The words hung between us, fragile and a little reckless. But that was the thing about Jack. He never flinched from too much. He just didn’t always know how to hold it.

His brow lifted slightly, like he wasn’t sure if I was serious. Then he closed his eyes again with a sigh and shifted, pressing a lazy kiss to my bare shoulder. “Well now I can’t go back to sleep. That’s not fair.”

“You don’t have to say it,” I told him lightly. It was true. I didn’t care if I got it back. I just wanted him to know while I was still here to tell him.

“I know,” he murmured, eyes still closed. A moment passed, then just above a whisper, “You make me want to say things I don’t know how to mean yet.”

I let that hang in the air for a few seconds, a smile tugging at the corner of my lips. “You weren’t going to sleep long anyway.”

“Says who?”

“Says the fact that we’re both leaving in a few hours.”

He let out a long, theatrical groan and buried his face deeper into my neck. “Don’t remind me.”

I held him a little tighter, felt his breath warm against my throat. “I wasn’t going to.”

Because I didn’t want to think about what came next. About the six months of airports and FaceTime calls and aching gaps in my day where he used to be. We hadn’t even said goodbye yet, and already the edges of it were carving into me.

There were things we hadn’t talked about. Questions neither of us had asked. Like what we were going to do with all of this once we stepped off set and back into real life. But I didn’t want to ask those things now. Not while he was still here. Not while the sun was still soft and his hands were still on me. So I lay there and let it be simple. Let myself believe, just for a little longer, as he breathed softly against me, that this version of us could last.

Neither of us moved for a long time after that.

Eventually, it was the knock that broke us. Not urgent—just a soft rap on the trailer door followed by the faint sound of someone calling out, “Any pieces back to wardrobe in thirty!” Like it was any other morning. Like everything wasn’t ending.

Jack groaned into my neck again, less dramatic this time, like he meant it. “I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars to say I died in my sleep and can't make it.”

I smiled, though it didn’t quite reach my eyes. “Tempting.”

We moved slowly. Neither of us said it, but we were dragging our feet like maybe, if we stayed quiet and deliberate enough, the day might forget about us. He dressed with sleepy little sighs, and I watched him tug on yesterday’s shirt like it wasn’t the last time he’d do it in this trailer.

I changed too, still in a haze, brushing my hair in the tiny mirror while he sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, watching me with something soft and unreadable in his face.

Then, without a word, he stood.

He crossed the room in a few slow steps, stopping just behind me. His hands found my waist. My heart jumped.

I turned to face him—and he kissed me.

Not fast. Not rushed. Not even particularly neat. But deep. Lingering. Like he was trying to memorize it. Like this was the last time he’d be alone with me—and he wasn’t going to waste it. His fingers curled in the hem of my shirt like he didn’t want to let go. His breath was warm and careful against my mouth. No heat, no pressure. Just ache. The type of kiss that made me feel a deep throbbing sadness at its touch.

When he finally pulled back, he pressed his forehead to mine.

“I’ll see you before we go,” he said, almost a question.

I nodded. “Yeah. Course.”

But even I didn’t sound sure.

We didn’t kiss again. Too risky, too close to the windows. When I opened the trailer door, Jack reached for my hand—just for a second, just a squeeze—and then let it fall away like he hadn’t touched me at all.

Outside, people were already milling around, tossing call sheets, sipping from paper cups, loading boxes into vans. A few looked up as we stepped out. One of the assistants gave me a long, lingering glance. Not unkind. Just curious. Too curious. Another PA across the lot whispered something into someone else's ear, and their eyes flicked toward us before they both quickly looked away.

Jack noticed it too. I could feel it in the way he tensed beside me, his posture shifting, casual but alert.

“You think people know?” I asked under my breath, as we walked toward our separate waiting errands.

He didn’t look at me. Just kept his eyes forward. “I think people talk.”

And that was somehow worse. There was safety in secrets. But the longer you keep one, the louder it starts to echo.

Before we split, he touched my wrist briefly. “If I don’t see you before—call me when you land?”

“I will,” I said.

And then I watched him walk away. No final moment. Just a quiet, unraveling distance as he got farther and farther from me in the morning light.

I didn’t look back again until I was halfway to costumes with my blouse in my hands. And when I did, he was already gone.

—

It was nearly noon by the time I finished packing.

The trailer looked too clean. Empty in a way that felt deeper than just space. My makeup bag sat zipped on the counter. My jacket was draped over my suitcase. The script—creased and highlighted and dog-eared—sat like a relic on the little table by the window. I kept looking around for something I’d forgotten—something still tucked under the bed or shoved in the back of the closet—but there was nothing left. Not really. Just air and dust and the echo of the last few months humming in the corners.

I crossed to the bed one last time, smoothing the blanket flat.

That’s when I saw it.

A folded scrap of paper, tucked carefully beneath the edge of my pillow.

I knew it was from him before I even picked it up. I didn’t remember him writing anything. But the handwriting was his—slanted and messy, like he’d scribbled it quickly or didn’t trust himself to linger. Still, the words hit like a weight pressed straight to my chest.

Didn’t want to risk the windows. You make it hard to say goodbye. Come visit. I’ll leave the door unlocked. I meant what I said. All of it. Even the parts I couldn’t say yet. Call me when you land. Please. I love you too. –J

I sat down slowly. My throat tightened as I read it once, twice, then folded it in half like maybe that would make it easier to carry. It didn’t. I blinked fast, trying to breathe around the pressure behind my eyes. I hadn’t even realized I was crying until a knock at the trailer door jolted me back.

“Hey,” Hailee called gently through the door. “Van’s here.”

I wiped my cheeks quickly and stuffed the note into my jacket pocket. When I stepped outside, the sun was too bright. Hailee squinted at me, one brow raised. “You get to say goodbye?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

Instead, I pulled the note from my pocket and handed it to her with shaking fingers.

She read it in silence. Her face softened. Then, wordlessly, she wrapped me in a hug. I buried my face in her shoulder and tried to keep my breathing even, but the tears came anyway—hot and quiet and unrelenting.

She didn’t say anything. Just held me until I pulled away, brushing at my face like I could erase the last five minutes.

“Sorry,” I murmured. “I’m fine.”

Hailee gave me a look that said she didn’t believe me, but she didn’t push it. We loaded into the van without a word, just the two of us and a couple of tired crew members slumped in the back row. The engine rumbled to life, and we pulled away from the lot.

I didn’t look out the window. I didn’t need to. I already knew what I was leaving behind.

The ride to the airport passed in a blur. I heard people talking, but the words didn’t stick. Hailee handed me gum and my boarding pass. I nodded and smiled at the right times. Let her lead me through security, through boarding, through the rows of tired faces and too-small overhead bins.

My body moved through it all like it had a script. But my mind was still in that trailer. Still tangled in sheets. Still on a wooden table. Still in the woods. Still somewhere beside him.

It wasn’t until we were seated on the plane, engines humming beneath us, that my phone buzzed in my hand.

Jack: Did you find the note?

My chest cracked open.

I didn’t reply right away. Just stared at the words until my vision blurred again. Then, for the first time since this morning, I smiled.

And somewhere deep in my stomach, the ache started to feel just a little bit lighter.

—

The first few weeks apart were the hardest.

The silence was too loud. The distance too wide. I kept checking my phone like something might change, like he might suddenly appear on the screen just to say he missed me. And sometimes he did. Sometimes at 3 a.m., blurry and shirtless, with a grin so sleepy it made my chest ache.

We got better at it—eventually. Fell into a rhythm. A routine of morning texts and late-night calls, of sending each other stupid videos just to feel closer. There were weeks where we talked every day, and others where the time zones made it impossible. When the calls were short, we sent voice notes. When the calls were long, we left the lights off and let each other breathe into the phone like it could keep us warm.

We made it work. Even when it was messy. Even when we missed each other so much it turned sour at the edges.

And some nights, it got… creative. The first time was accidental. He texted: “What are you wearing?” I sent back: “Sweatpants. Tank top. Absolutely nothing else.”

His responses came immediately.

Jack: I want to see it. I want to feel it. Bet you’re already wet thinking about me. How long has it been?

I hesitated for half a second before replying: “Too long.”

Jack: Slide your hand down. Slowly. Don’t lie. I want you to touch yourself thinking about the way I said your name last time. The way I held your hips. Tell me what it feels like.

By the time I put the phone down, I was flushed head to toe, heart pounding in the dark. He said he was going to sleep with the image of me in that tank top seared into his skull. I believed him.

There were a few fumbled attempts at phone sex in the early days—calls that ended in flushed silence and nervous laughter. But we figured it out. Or, rather, he got shameless and I stopped pretending not to like it. There were texts I couldn’t open in public. Voice memos I replayed with a pillow over my face. Once, he sent a picture from his trailer—pants suggestively low on his hips, hand braced against the counter, captioned: “Thinking about you. Again.” I didn’t even make it to the end of the workday. That nearly got me fired. It helped. And it didn’t. Because every time I came, I wanted him more. And every time I woke up without him, the craving felt deeper than anything physical.

But it wasn’t just that.

As the months passed, I started dreaming about him. At first, it was soft, sleepy mornings and lazy touches, his arm slung over my waist. But the more time went on, the more intense they got. Louder. Vivid. I’d wake up aching, confused, already reaching for my phone.

We were in a similar time zone once for a few glorious weeks. He called me once after I didn’t answer a goodnight text. Just to check. Said he’d been staring at the ceiling for an hour, thinking he’d screwed something up. I was already half-asleep, mascara smudged into the pillow, but the second I heard his voice, I woke all the way up.

“I’m fine,” I whispered.

“I didn’t want to wait until morning to hear it,” he said. “I know it’s stupid.”

“It’s not.”

We stayed on the line until one of us fell asleep. I’m not sure who it was first, but the next morning, my phone was warm in my hand and the call was still connected.

He texted later to say it was the best sleep he’d gotten in weeks.

There was no label, no big conversation. But we kept calling. Kept showing up. He sent me photos of his dog with captions like, “Told her about you and now she misses you. I guess I do too.” I sent him pictures from my new set—costume fittings, bad lighting, notes scribbled in the margins of a new script. He always noticed everything. Especially the men in the background.

“Who’s that?” “Director.” “Too close.”

It was ridiculous. And kind of flattering. I teased him for it until he replied: “Not jealous. Just observant. If he touches you like I touch you, I’ll kill him.”

I rolled my eyes.

But the truth was, I missed the way he touched me too. Missed his hands. His mouth. His stupid, smug smirk when he knew he’d gotten to me. There were whole days where I’d scroll back through old texts or rewatch interviews just to hear his voice again. I kept one of his shirts at the bottom of my drawer. Didn’t wear it, just… kept it. Like an anchor. Like a promise I wasn’t ready to let go of. It still smelled like him. Just faintly. Enough to hurt.

And in the background of it all, I worked. Auditions. Wardrobe meetings. Early mornings and long, hungry days on sets. I buried myself in new characters, new scripts. I was good at it—losing myself. But sometimes, when I caught my reflection between takes, I’d imagine what he’d say. Something possessive. Something sharp. Something soft enough that I’d feel it in my throat hours later. Once, I wore a neckline I knew he’d like. I sent a picture and he replied in under ten seconds: “You wore that on purpose. You’re cruel.”

Then, finally—finally—the planning started.

The premiere was set. Press tour locked in. Travel booked. And just like that, the countdown started.

We started texting more, making plans. He asked what I was wearing to the first red carpet. I asked if he was going to behave. He said no.

The excitement was buzzing underneath my skin now, electric and jittery. I couldn’t believe we were going to be in the same room again. After six long months. After everything.

I didn’t know that the moment I saw him again wouldn’t be the first surprise. That someone else had seen something they weren’t supposed to. And that it was already out there—just waiting for the right moment.

But for now, I just smiled at my phone and typed: “Two more days.”

And he replied: “You’d better be ready.”

—

The ride from the airport to the hotel was almost too smooth—like everything was trying not to jostle me out of the daze I’d been living in for months. Big city buildings slid past the window like moving glass, and every block closer buzzed a little louder beneath my skin. I sat there practically vibrating with anticipation, my phone clutched in my hand.

Jack: You here yet?

The second I saw his name, my stomach flipped. I hadn’t even checked into my room and already my heart was trying to climb out of my chest. We hadn’t seen each other in six months. Not in person. Not in the flesh. Just blurry FaceTimes and filtered dreams and his voice curling around me through a speaker. And now we were in the same city. The same zip code. The same hotel.

Me: Almost. Don’t start the party without me.

I couldn’t stop smiling. God, I’d missed him. I’d missed this. The fluttery, dizzy, can’t-sit-still feeling he gave me without even trying.

By the time we pulled up to the hotel—glass-paneled and gleaming under the afternoon sun—my hands were sweating. Not from the heat. From everything else. My suitcase thumped onto the curb, and I was barely upright before I heard someone shout my name.

I turned and saw Hailee, hair pulled into a high ponytail, oversized sunglasses perched on her head. She looked exactly the same, like no time had passed at all. We hugged tightly, the kind where neither of us said anything at first. Just that squeeze of familiarity, of recognition, of thank god we’re back.

“You look hot,” she said as we pulled apart. “Famous and hot. I hate you.”

I laughed. “Speak for yourself.”

Inside, the lobby was chaos in a glamorous way. I stood there taking it all in while Hailee went to check us both in. Glossy marble floors, gold accents, too many people talking too loudly. Everywhere I turned, there were familiar faces—actors, producers, assistants, all lit up with reunion energy. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it until I was surrounded by it. Until I felt like someone stepping back into a dream.

“Jesus,” Hailee said as she returned, handing me my room key and adjusting her sunglasses on top of her head as she looked around. “Fancy.”

I smiled at her, excitement radiating off both of us as we took everything in. And then I saw him.

Across the room, a window casting a shaft of sunlight over him, Jack was laughing at something someone said, his hand resting casually on the back of a velvet chair. His hair was longer than I remembered, messier and warmer now. Same sharp jaw, short beard to match. Same impossible presence—like the gravity in the room shifted just because he existed inside it. My breath caught. Just for a second. Because there he was. Real. Tangible. Laughing at something I couldn’t hear and still managing to knock the air out of me.

I barely took a step toward him when a voice called out, “There they are!” Michael grinned as he approached, pulling both Hailee and me into a fierce hug before I could react. We giggled as he sandwiched us in, and for a moment I forgot about the nerves. About everything. It was just a friend I hadn’t seen in ages, and I hugged him back tightly.

“You look different,” he said, pulling back just enough to scan me, brow furrowed and teasing. “Like a real movie star or something.”

“Must be the lighting,” I quipped, but I smiled. He was harmless—annoying in the way only friends who used to flirt with you could be. Still, his arm lingered a little too long at my waist. A tiny thread pulled tight in the air.

And when I looked past him, I saw Jack watching. Still smiling. But the edge in it had sharpened. Like his teeth were showing just beneath the curve of his mouth. He started crossing the room before I could say anything.

“Hey,” he said, nodding to Michael, then to Hailee. “Didn’t know we were doing group hugs at check-in.” A smile was plastered across his face, but I saw the emotions simmering beneath. Nearly ready to pop.

“Don’t be jealous,” Michael teased. “I’ve missed your pretty face too.”

Hailee cleared her throat. “Look at us, the gang’s all here.”

“Looks like it,” Jack said, eyes locked on mine now. “You just get in?”

It felt like code. A question buried inside a question. Like: Can I touch you yet?

“Just landed,” I answered.

Jack looked at my bags, then back at me. “Let me carry your bags up,” he said, already reaching for one.

Hailee and Michael exchanged a quick glance. Not subtle.

“You don’t have to—”

He already had the handle of my suitcase, wheeling it beside him like it weighed nothing.

“Not negotiable.”

We headed for the elevator. He stood just beside me, his fingers brushing mine, subtle and fast like he couldn’t help himself. Like he’d forgotten how to behave around me in public. I didn’t pull away. Not even close. I’d been waiting six months for that hand. I smiled as I followed him, only looking back once to see Hailee smirking at me, a little wave playing at the top of her fingertips.

And just like that, we were alone.

The second the elevator doors closed, his whole posture changed.

“Michael’s still friendly, then?”

I didn’t even turn around. “Don’t do that.”

“He had his hand on your waist.”

I turned. “It was a hug.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the floor numbers lighting up above the door. “You think he forgot what he heard at the Mill?” he said finally, voice low. “Because I didn’t. I think about it every night.”

The elevator hummed beneath us, the floor numbers glowing one by one. I could feel him beside me now, sliding up in that oh-so-familiar predator way that I loved. His breath was warm my neck, hands so close he was hovering.

“I missed you,” I breathed.

Jack turned to stand in front of me quickly. “I’m going to lose my mind if I don’t touch you right now.”

And then he kissed me.

Hard. Desperate. Months of waiting poured into it. His hands gripped my waist, tugging me flush against him as my back hit the mirrored wall. I gasped into his mouth and felt his thumb slide just beneath the hem of my shirt, like he needed proof that I was really there.

“I thought about this,” he murmured against my mouth. “So many times I nearly texted you to fly out just so I could taste you again.”

“Why didn’t you?”

His breath hitched. “Because I didn’t trust myself not to keep you.”

I kissed him again, messier this time, until his hands slid down and he groaned softly into my mouth. His heated kisses trailed down my jaw and to my neck, nipping at the exposed skin there before sucking lightly. Not hard enough to leave a mark, but hard enough that I’d feel it echo all night. I roamed his body like it held some sort of answer I’d been desperately looking for. My fingers grazed under his shirt and up his back, scratching lightly when he nipped a particularly sensitive spot, earning a hiss from him that had me biting my lip and tilting my head back harder.

“I’d pull the emergency stop,” he muttered into my neck before letting a deep agitated groan leave his lips, “but I actually have to be somewhere in ten minutes. Fucking suit fitting.”

I laughed, breathless. “You’re the one who offered to carry my bag.”

“Regretting it now.”

The elevator dinged. My floor.

He took a step back, eyes sweeping over me like he wanted to memorize the moment. “Wait up for me.”

“Are you actually coming?”

“I’ll crawl over hot coals if I have to.”

I stepped out, heart pounding. He didn’t move until the doors started to close.

Then he said, “I missed you too.”

The rest of the day passed in pieces. Hair and makeup, wardrobe fittings, press prep. My schedule was full, but I wasn’t really in it. Everything felt slightly off-center—like I was floating just behind myself, watching the day play out while my thoughts stayed stuck in a mirrored elevator, breathless and dazed.

My phone buzzed at least ten times. None of them were Jack.

Dinner was with the full cast, set in a dimly lit private dining room lined with velvet chairs and too many forks. The kind of room meant for pretending everything was fine. Laughter bounced off the walls, champagne sparkled in glasses, and the servers moved like ghosts. I was seated down the table from Jack, but I could feel him anyway. The weight of his stare. The static in the air that only ever prickled when he was nearby.

Every time I laughed at something, I could feel his eyes dragging over me like heat. I tried not to look for him. Failed every time.

Halfway through the second course—something delicate and impossible to pronounce—my phone lit up in my lap.

Jack: That dress is killing me. You know what you’re doing.

I pressed my knees together under the table, biting back a smile as I typed.

Me: Didn’t realize you were paying attention.

Jack: I’m always paying attention when you’re around.

My pulse skittered. I could feel the flush rising in my cheeks, the way my body reacted before my brain could catch up. Dessert arrived—something sweet and airy, barely real—but I could barely taste it.

Across the table, someone raised their glass in a toast to some inside joke I’d missed. Jack's eyes caught mine as he drank, slow and deliberate. I knew that look. I’d dreamed of that look.

By the time I got back to my room, my heart was beating so hard I thought I might pass out. I lit a candle, reapplied my lip gloss, kicked off my shoes, and lay back on the bed like a girl in a romance novel waiting for the story to catch up.

I waited.

The minutes dragged. I counted every sound in the hallway. Every whisper of air conditioning. Every shift in the sheets. I was about to text him.

Then—finally—a knock at the door.

I practically flew across the room, smoothing my hair as I crossed the carpet, heart in my throat.

But it wasn’t Jack.

It was Hailee. She stood in the hallway, backlit by the hotel corridor, holding up her phone with an unreadable expression. Her voice was quiet. “Hey,” she said. “Is this you and Jack?”

My stomach dropped before I even looked.

I stared at the screen. The photo wasn’t perfect, but it caught exactly what it needed to.

Us, tangled in the shadows. Against a tree. My head thrown back. His mouth at my neck. The night in the woods—behind the set. The risk. The way we hadn’t known—or hadn’t cared—who might be nearby. Our faces were blurry, but it was almost unmistakable.

I felt the blood drain from me.

The moment shattered.

I didn’t speak. I couldn’t.

I just stood there and watched the life we’d kept hidden start to unravel in someone else’s hands. Somewhere, someone had turned on the lights. And the shadows we’d lived in were no longer ours to keep.

#jack o'connell #jack o'connell fic #jack o'connell x reader #remmick #remmick fanfic #remmick fic #remmick smut #remmick x reader #sinners #sinners fic

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yukkiji · 20 hours ago

Text

pretend with me

you knew rin itoshi before the headlines and the sharp eyes—back when he was just a quiet boy in hoodies with bruised knees and a dream. now, years later, he’s standing in front of you asking, “can you pretend to be my girlfriend?” just for the cameras, he says. but the way he looks at you says otherwise. and no matter how far you’ve come, part of your heart never stopped waiting for him.

blue lock masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. itoshi rin x fem!reader

genre: fluff, romance, slight angst, childhood friends, fake dating, timeskip!rin

wc: 5.8k

author's note: i was actually supposed to post this yesterday, but i wasn't done proof reading it and in the process it become longer than expected hehe

itoshi rin.

you knew him before the world did—before the stadium lights, the tabloid whispers, the sharp interviews, and even sharper stares.

you knew rin itoshi when his voice cracked mid-sentence, when he still wore bruised knees from playing soccer and too-big hoodies. back when his turquoise-colored eyes held more silence and curiosity than steel. you were the one he walked home with after school and games, sometimes sharing earbuds between the two of you, lost in music and quiet moments.

he wasn't warm, not really. but he was constant—in the way he showed up when you needed him, in the way he listened even when he didn't know how to respond. his affection was quiet, tucked between blunt words and loaded stares. you learned to read between the lines. you learned to met him halfway.

for a while, it was easy.

until it wasn't.

the closer rin got to his dreams, the more he drifted from everyone—especially you. his world shrank to the ball at his feet and the ever-present shadow of his brother. he hated the comparisons, knowing all too well how broken things were between them. more than anything, he was determined to outshine sae.

nevertheless you still supported him in his dream of being the best striker.

even as the words between you grew fewer, you never stopped being there. every match, without fail, you sat by the bleachers, cheering him on with quiet determination.

walking home together had become a rare comfort—most of the time, he stayed behind to practice late into the evening, pushing himself harder. and though those moments together grew scarce, you were okay with it, understanding what he was fighting for.

suddenly, middle school graduation arrived, just as your dad got the opportunity to work abroad. of course, he wanted the whole family to come with him—worried about leaving you behind at such a young age.

you hadn’t told rin about it yet, but you knew you would, eventually.

one night, few days before your flight, you accidentally ran into sae.

the streets near your old neighborhood still felt familiar—dusty sidewalks, a sleepy summer breeze, your hands full with errands you half-heartedly ran before the real goodbye settled in.

he was taller than you remembered, sharper too. he didn’t smile much, but then again, neither did you. still, the silence between you wasn’t heavy. it never had been. you’d always gotten along with sae in that casual, don’t-overthink-it way. maybe because you didn’t ask much from each other. maybe because the one person between you—rin—always seemed to pull away whenever things got too close.

you made polite conversation, asked how spain was, laughed a little. then, without meaning to, you brought up rin.

“i haven’t said goodbye yet,” you said, pretending to browse the bookstore display beside you. “i don’t even know if he’d want me to.”

sae blinked. a beat passed. “tell him,” he said. just that. like it was the simplest thing in the world.

you smiled then, small and uncertain.

“yeah,” you whispered. “i will.”

that night, you texted rin. short and careful.

hey, can we meet at the park tomorrow around 4pm? i have something to tell you.

the next day arrived. there you were, sitting on the bench beneath the cherry blossom tree, a letter clutched tightly in your hand.

it wasn’t exactly a confession, but it carried pieces of the feelings you had for him.

you waited.

ten minutes.

an hour.

two.

the clouds drifted slowly across the sky, now painted in soft hues of orange as the sun began to set. still, you waited.

but rin never came.

you told yourself he was busy. or maybe he hadn’t seen the message yet. or worse—he had, and chose not to answer.

you never knew what happened after you left the park that night. you had no idea that sae had mentioned your conversation to rin, casually, almost offhandedly, in the quiet hallway of their home.

“i met her earlier,” sae said, catching rin’s attention.

“okay,” rin replied, his voice flat, eyes distant.

“it’s good to know you still have someone who supports you, even if you’ve been a bit of an ass to her,” sae added with a small, knowing smile. “she told me she’s leaving.”

rin, who had already been pulling away from everything— from sae, from himself, from you—felt the words hit like a sudden blow to his chest.

you told sae. not him.

rin didn’t ask for details. didn’t let himself hope.

if you wanted him to know, you would’ve told him yourself, right?

so he didn’t come.

and you left with a heart hollow enough to echo every quiet doubt and unspoken word.

neither of you knew what the other had been holding in their hands, what was left unsaid, what could have been.

on the day of your flight, despite a flood of second thoughts and hesitation, you sent rin one last message—short, careful, final—right before you boarded.

hey. this is probably going to be my last text for a while. i’m not sure when i’ll be back. i’m leaving today, and i’ll probably stay abroad for who knows how long. i was supposed to tell you in person, the day we were meant to meet at the park, but you never came. take care, rin. i’ll be watching from afar as you chase your dreams.

once you hit send, you slipped your phone into your pocket. the idea of you two meeting again hung in the air like a heavy question mark—uncertain, distant, and fragile.

years finally passed, and here you were—standing at the edge of a crowded stadium, the roar of the crowd pulsing through the air like a living thing. you had traveled far from the quiet streets of your childhood, carving your own path as a sports journalist covering international matches—a dream you chased relentlessly, even as the memories of home lingered like a quiet ache beneath it all.

while you were in a different country, you watched him from afar, seeing his name in headlines, watching him grow into the player he always dreamed of becoming. you were proud of him—truly happy. but beneath that pride was a subtle sadness, too. sadness that you never got to celebrate those victories together, the way you once did, side by side.

rin itoshi — the pro soccer player whose name once echoed with certainty and promise through your small town — was about to step onto the pitch. the boy you once knew, the one you left behind without the goodbyes you both needed.

the past brushed against the edges of your thoughts like a shadow, but you pushed it down, focusing on the moment. yet as the players took their positions, and the camera caught his familiar profile, something stirred deep inside — a mix of anticipation, regret, and an unspoken hope waiting to be found again between you.

the crowd roared, but for a heartbeat, the noise faded. it was just you and rin, years and stories stretched between you, and the fragile hope that this meeting might finally untangle what time had left tangled.

the final whistle blew, and the stadium erupted in thunderous applause. rin’s team had won—the score etched perfectly into victory. you watched as he jogged off the field, sweat glistening on his brow, his fierce expression softening for just a moment when he caught your eye in the crowd.

later, at the press conference, the room buzzed with questions about the match, the season, and rin’s performance. you waited until the chatter dimmed enough to raise your hand.

“rin,” you began, voice steady but weighted with years, “how does it feel to win this match, especially with all the pressure you’ve been under lately?”

he paused, surprise flickering across his face at seeing you. then his usual composed mask softened just a little.

“it feels like every game is a battle,” he said, his turquoise eyes meeting yours briefly. “but today... today was worth it. for the team, for the fans... and for everyone who believed in me, even when i doubted myself.”

beneath those words, you sensed what went unsaid—maybe even a quiet apology. your heart thudded as the press moved on, but rin lingered just a moment longer, like he wanted to say more but held back.

later, as you were finally packing up your things — your press badge lanyard coiled in one hand, notes half-stuffed into your tote — the adrenaline of the night had worn off, replaced by a hum of exhaustion and something quieter: anticipation. most of the other journalists had already cleared out, chasing deadlines or celebratory drinks. but you lingered. maybe on purpose.

your laptop clicked shut. your chair scraped softly against the concrete floor. and just as you reached for the zipper of your bag, a familiar voice cut through the silence.

“you still take forever to leave places.”

you looked up.

rin stood by the door, hands in the pockets of his jacket, hair slightly damp from the post-match shower. he looked more relaxed now — not by much, but enough that you noticed. there was the faintest curve to his mouth, almost a smile. the kind only someone who used to know him would catch.

“some things never change,” you murmured.

his gaze drifted to the badge around your neck, then to your bag, and then finally back to your face. “i saw your name on the press list days ago,” he admitted. “wasn’t sure if it was really you.”

“and when you realized it was?” you asked softly.

“i kept looking for you.” he said it like it was simple. like it hadn’t taken him years to say anything at all.

you swallowed. “i waited for you once, you know.”

his jaw tensed. that ghost of a smile faded — not harshly, but with a quiet shift that meant he remembered exactly what you were talking about.

“i know,” he said. “i found out later. about what sae said. about the bench.”

there was a beat of silence.

“i thought you didn’t want to see me,” he added, voice quieter now. “i was stupid.”

you stared at him for a moment. at the boy you once waited for, who became the man standing in front of you. at the cracks that still lingered between you — and the way he was finally, maybe, reaching across them.

“i thought you didn’t care,” you whispered.

“i did,” he said. then, “i still do.”

the weight of the years settled between you like fog. but the way rin looked at you now — open, steady, maybe even a little scared — cleared just enough of it.

“walk with me?” he asked, nodding toward the door.

you hesitated only for a second, then zipped your bag shut and slung it over your shoulder.

“okay,” you said.

and when he fell into step beside you, quiet but close, it didn’t feel like you were picking up from where you left off.

it felt like something new was starting.

rin walked beside you in silence, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket as the city hummed around you — neon signs, quiet laughter from passing strangers, the soft rush of cars in the distance. it wasn’t awkward. it just was. familiar, somehow, like the quiet between you had its own rhythm.

your footsteps slowed as you reached the entrance of the apartment building you were renting out for the meantime — a small, unassuming place tucked between a laundromat and a bakery that always smelled like sugar and warm dough.

you turned to him, keys in your hand. “wanna come in?” you asked, voice light, but your heart wasn’t.

rin blinked, just once. you couldn’t tell if he was surprised or just thinking — but he looked at you the way he always used to. like he was trying to read the parts of you you didn’t say out loud.

“yeah,” he said, quiet. “if that’s okay.”

you nodded, leading him up the narrow stairwell, unlocking the door with a click. the apartment was small — lived-in, but still temporary. a couple of your things were scattered across the coffee table, your coat draped over the couch. the space smelled faintly like chamomile tea and whatever candle you'd forgotten to blow out last night.

you slipped your shoes off by the door. rin followed your lead, stepping inside carefully like he didn’t want to disturb anything.

rin sat at the edge of your couch, elbows resting on his knees, eyes drifting across the small apartment like he was cataloging every inch of it. you watched him, back against the armrest, knees pulled loosely to your chest.

“this place,” he said after a beat, “suits you.”

you gave a soft laugh. “it’s temporary. but thanks.”

he nodded. his fingers curled slightly around the edge of the cushion, like he wanted to keep his hands busy but couldn’t figure out how.

“can i ask you something?” his voice was quiet, and you felt the shift immediately.

you set your cup down on the low table. “sure.”

he didn’t look at you right away. “there’s been… talk. around the team. the press.”

you raised an eyebrow, already wary. “about?”

he exhaled through his nose. “this model. she’s been showing up at events, tagging me in posts, getting asked about me in interviews. now people think we’re—” he broke off, jaw clenched. “it’s not true.”

“but people think it is.”

“yeah.”

you leaned your head back against the wall. “that’s showbiz, i guess.”

“i don’t want it getting worse,” he muttered. “not now. not before qualifiers. not when i need my head clear.”

your eyes narrowed slightly, unsure where he was going with this — but not disinterested.

“so,” you said slowly, “what exactly are you asking?”

he looked at you then, gaze steady but unreadable. “i want you to pretend to be my girlfriend.”

you blinked.

“just until the rumors quiet down,” he added, more quickly this time. “just long enough to shut it all up. the model. the tabloids. everyone.”

you stared at him. “you’re serious.”

“it would make sense,” he continued, like he was already trying to justify it. “we have history. we’ve known each other since we were kids. the press wouldn’t question it too hard. and you’re already in media — it’s believable.”

“so that’s why you walked me home?” you asked, only half-joking. “to butter me up for a PR stunt?”

his mouth twitched, like he wasn’t sure whether to be offended or amused. “no. i walked you home because i wanted to. this is separate.”

you exhaled through your nose, considering. “you trust me to do this?”

“yeah.”

you stared at him a second longer. he wasn’t fidgeting. he wasn’t smirking. he wasn’t doing that thing where he pulled away just before things got real. he was just sitting there — quiet, steady, waiting.

and weirdly enough, you trusted him, too.

“fine,” you said, grabbing your cup again. “but i have conditions.”

his brow lifted, just slightly. “of course you do.”

“no acting clingy just to make headlines. no weird comments during interviews. and definitely no falling asleep on my shoulder during team flights.”

a ghost of a smirk touched his lips. “i don’t fall asleep on planes.”

you rolled your eyes. “just putting it out there.”

there was a pause — soft, still. the kind of quiet that settled between people who once knew each other too well.

“thanks,” he said, eventually. not loud. not heavy. but honest.

you nudged his knee with your own. “don’t make me regret it.”

and in the silence that followed, there was a weight you didn’t name — not yet. a shared understanding. not quite longing. not yet something new. just... a beginning, disguised as a favor.

rin stayed the night. not in any romantic sense — there was no pretense of it between you, not yet — but because it was late, and the conversation lingered long after the agreement had been made. you’d both fallen quiet, comfortable in your own corners of the room, as the clock ticked past midnight and into the haze of almost-morning.

he stretched out on the couch after you handed him an extra pillow and a folded blanket, the fabric worn but warm. you didn’t say much, just told him the bathroom was down the hall and to not break anything, and he gave you a small, noncommittal grunt in return.

you watched him for a moment as he adjusted the blanket over himself, long legs half-hanging off the edge. he looked out of place in your tiny apartment — all sharp edges and seriousness, dressed down in a hoodie and sweatpants, but still carrying that quiet intensity like it was stitched into his skin.

“you good?” you asked from the doorway to your room.

“yeah,” he murmured, already turning on his side, back to you. “goodnight.”

“night, rin.”

when you closed your door, you leaned against it for a moment, listening to the soft creak of the couch and the hush of the city outside. and for reasons you didn’t want to dig into just yet, you slept easier that night.

the next few days passed in a blur of coordinated appearances and low-level press chaos.

your name started popping up in whispers on twitter threads and comment sections. a photo from the match night — you and rin leaving the venue side by side — had been picked up by a few gossip sites. nothing official. nothing confirmed. but it was enough to get people talking.

“this her?” a staff member asked during one of the team’s post-practice cooldowns, glancing at their phone.

rin didn’t answer.

you met him outside the training grounds that afternoon, wearing a pair of sunglasses and your most neutral expression. he barely glanced up when you approached, just offered you a bottle of water and kept walking, letting you fall into step beside him.

“you know,” you said as you unscrewed the cap, “we probably should’ve clarified our fake dating backstory. like, when we got together. where.”

“does it matter?” he asked.

“to the internet? yes.”

he gave you a look, then muttered, “fine. you moved back, we reconnected, it just happened.”

“that’s lazy.”

“that’s believable.”

you couldn’t really argue with that.

the day ended with a brief stop at a local café where you let yourselves be seen — just enough. no hand-holding, no dramatic gestures. just coffee, casual conversation, and proximity. close enough to start rumors, but distant enough to keep people guessing.

rin paid. didn’t even ask. just handed over the bills like it was second nature, then stepped aside so you could exit first.

“you’re kind of good at this,” you said once you were outside again, the late afternoon sun casting a soft glow over the sidewalk.

he glanced at you. “being seen with you?”

“playing the part.”

he didn’t smile, but his voice lost a bit of its edge. “maybe because it doesn’t feel fake.”

you didn’t know what to say to that. so you didn’t say anything.

you dropped by his place a few nights later. not planned — just a shared understanding after a long day of media noise and carefully placed moments.

his apartment was cleaner than you expected. minimalist. dark wood, gray accents. very rin. he handed you a drink when you stepped in, sat beside you on the couch without a word.

you scrolled through your notifications idly, then held your phone out to show him.

“they’re starting to call me your mystery girl.”

rin didn’t even glance at the screen. “better than the other one.”

“you mean the model who’s definitely still posting passive-aggressive captions about you?”

he exhaled. “exactly.”

you leaned back against the cushions, letting the quiet settle.

“you ever think about how weird this all is?” you asked eventually.

“pretending to date someone you used to wait for in the rain?”

you nudged his shoulder. “low blow.”

he let the corners of his mouth twitch — not quite a smile, but close.

“it is weird,” he said finally. “but not in a bad way.”

you nodded. let your head tilt until it barely rested against his shoulder.

he didn’t move away.

lowly, eventually, you start to feel like pretending wasn’t really pretending anymore.

there were moments — subtle, passing things — that slipped past the boundaries you were both supposed to keep. like when his hand brushed yours during interviews and didn’t move away. or when he started remembering how you liked your coffee, ordering before you could even reach the counter. or the way he’d glance over during team dinners just to check if you were still at the table, like part of him always wanted to know where you were.

and you hated the fact that the feelings you buried after the park incident — when you’d waited too long to speak, and he’d pulled too far away to reach — were starting to grow again. not all at once. not dramatically. just... steadily. quietly. like they had time now.

you kept telling yourself it was just the proximity. the pretending. the way he was treating you like something real. even if it wasn’t.

but then there was that day — the day that made it harder to lie to yourself.

you were on set for a pre-season documentary shoot, something meant to highlight the league’s younger stars. you were there to assist with coverage, shadowing the film crew for an article you were drafting. it wasn’t your first time around the players, but you made a point to stay professional — polite, distant, uninvolved.

but not everyone was good at that.

one of the newer players — tall, bright smile, sharper jawline than sense — started hovering near your corner of the shoot. nothing dramatic. just little comments here and there, lingering glances, a laugh that carried a little too far.

“so, you’re the one they’ve been talking about,” he said after the third take break, handing you a bottled water unprompted. “Rin Itoshi’s girlfriend.”

you blinked. “allegedly.”

he laughed, leaning against the lighting rig like he did this often. “rumors don’t always lie.”

you gave a polite smile, ready to brush it off, but before you could, a shadow crossed between you and the lights.

“you done?”

rin’s voice was flat. low. not cold, but close.

the younger player blinked. “huh?”

rin’s eyes didn’t shift away. “we’re needed for the next scene.”

the guy straightened slowly. “right. of course.”

he tossed you a look — amused, maybe a little smug — before walking off, a slow swagger in his steps.

you didn’t say anything at first. just stared at rin.

he hadn’t moved. was still standing too close, jaw tense, eyes on the player’s back like he was waiting for an excuse.

“he wasn’t doing anything,” you said quietly.

“he was flirting with you.”

you tilted your head. “is that a problem?”

his gaze flicked down to meet yours. unreadable, steady. “you’re supposed to be dating me.”

“Supposed to.”

there was a pause.

long enough for the background noise to fade a little. long enough for you to hear your own heart in your ears.

he didn’t answer. not with words.

just exhaled through his nose, gaze sharp as ever, and turned back toward the set like the conversation hadn’t just shifted something heavy between you.

you didn’t know what to make of it.

it could’ve been the act — the same way he adjusted the script of your fake relationship whenever it was convenient.

or it could’ve been real. a flicker of something unspoken, pushed down the same way you’d been pushing your own feelings.

but when he brushed your hand again later — when his fingers lingered just a second too long — you didn’t pull away.

and he didn’t either.

the sponsorship gala was another moment that blurred the lines further.

the room buzzed with low conversations, clinking glasses, and the soft pulse of music as the city’s elite gathered under the sparkling chandeliers. rin moved through the crowd with ease, a confident smile fixed on his face, but when he reached you, the way he took your hand felt different — less like part of the act, more like something he wanted.

the model everyone had been whispering about was there too — elegant, poised, flashing that practiced smile as she floated through the guests. she approached rin with a confident grace, the kind that demanded attention without even trying.

rin didn’t hesitate. stepping forward, he slipped his arm around your waist, pulling you close just enough so there was no mistaking whose side he was on.

“this is her,” rin said, his voice low but clear enough for the small circle around you to hear. “my girlfriend.”

the model’s smile didn’t falter, but there was a subtle shift in her eyes — a flash of something sharp, almost calculating.

rin glanced at her briefly, then back at you, his expression unreadable but firm.

there was no hesitation, no awkwardness in his tone. no trace of the fake that had underpinned the agreement when you first said yes.

it was real.

the guests around you exchanged quiet murmurs, the cameras flashing subtly from a distance.

rin squeezed your waist just a little tighter, as if to say: this is who i choose. this is where i stand.

and in that moment, standing under the soft golden light, surrounded by the hum of the gala, it wasn’t pretending anymore.

it was something else entirely.

after that sponsorship gala, it was like rin finally got a taste of his own medicine.

calls and texts started coming in more often—sometimes persistent, sometimes hesitant—but you found yourself dodging most of them. on some days, you told him you weren’t feeling well, hoping he’d back off. when he insisted on coming over, you quietly refused, not ready to let him in.

rumors began swirling. tabloids whispered about a possible breakup, painting pictures of a mysterious rift between you two.

but honestly, none of it mattered. you were too caught up in the mess between the two of you to care about what strangers thought.

what were you two, really? pretending lovers? old friends forced back together? or something neither of you had the courage to admit?

every missed call weighed heavier than the last. every unread message felt like a question left hanging.

deep down, you knew this wasn’t just pretend anymore. but neither of you seemed ready to say it out loud.

rin was frustrated — more than he cared to admit. the questions swirling in his mind clashed with the pounding in his chest. what were they, really? was this just a game to him, or something more? and if it was more, why did he keep pushing her away, leaving her wondering if he was playing with her feelings? he found himself slipping on his coat, the tension twisting in his gut as he stepped out of his apartment. his feet moved on their own, carrying him through the quiet streets, straight toward her place.

he stood hesitantly in front of your door, his knuckles tapping softly against the wood, hope threading through each knock—that you were home, that you’d answer, that you’d let him in.

you were too overwhelmed to even glance at the peephole, a risky choice, but the weight of everything made it hard to think clearly.

so when you finally opened the door and saw him standing there, breath uneven, a flicker of surprise crossed your face.

“rin.”

he stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, closing the door gently behind him. his eyes held a mixture of frustration and vulnerability as he looked at you.

“why are you avoiding me?” he asked, voice low but steady. “is it because of what happened in the past?”

you hesitated, the memories pressing down on you. “no,” you whispered. “it’s not that. i just need time... time to sort through everything inside myself.”

he took a step closer, his gaze never leaving yours. “then tell me,” he said softly but firmly. “don’t keep me out. i want to understand. i want to be here—for you.”

the room felt smaller, the space between you charged with everything unsaid. for a moment, words failed you both, but the silence spoke volumes—of longing, regret, and a hope that maybe, this time, things could be different.

“please talk to me,” he begged, his voice raw with desperation.

his hand reached out, gently taking yours, fingers intertwining as his turquoise eyes locked onto yours—searching, pleading, hoping for answers he wasn’t sure he deserved.

damn it.

tears welled up suddenly, blurring your vision.

“rin,” your voice shook, heavy with hurt, “what exactly are we? am i just someone you keep around when it’s convenient? or are you really here, really with me?”

he swallowed hard, the weight of your words settling between you. “no,” he said firmly.

“then what?” you demanded, your breath catching. “are you here because the press said we broke up, and now you want to fix that?”

he looked away for a moment, then back at you—vulnerable, honest. “i’m here because i can’t stop thinking about you.”

“rin, please, just stop,” you whispered, your voice fragile and trembling, heavy with exhaustion and frustration. “i don’t want to keep going like this — caught in a constant tug-of-war between what we feel and what we’re afraid to say. it’s tearing me apart, and i don’t know if i can keep pretending that everything’s okay when it’s not. just… let me breathe for a moment, please. i need space to figure out who i am without this weight crushing me.”

but before you could finish, rin’s hand gently cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. his turquoise eyes searched yours, raw and desperate, silently begging you to understand. then, slowly, his lips found yours — soft at first, tentative, like testing the water — but soon deepened into something urgent and unyielding.

the world around you faded into nothingness; the hum of the city, the ticking of the clock, even your own frantic heartbeat seemed to slow, caught in the gravity of that moment. his arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you — no room for doubts or fears.

in that kiss, there was an unspoken promise: that he wasn’t just here because of the past or the press, but because he wanted to fight for whatever this was — messy, complicated, but real.

when he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, breath mingling as his voice barely rose above a whisper.

“please don’t push me away. not now.”

his lips softened as he kissed your tears away, each gentle brush a quiet apology. “please,” he murmured against your skin, voice thick with emotion, “please don’t shut me out. i’m right here. i’m not going anywhere.”

his hands cradled your face like you were the most fragile thing in the world, and for a moment, the space between your fears and his hope felt almost close enough to touch.

“i know i’ve made mistakes,” he whispered, “but i want to be better. with you. for you.”

“rin…” your voice barely a breath, filled with a mix of hope and pain.

he swallowed hard, eyes searching yours like he needed you to truly understand. “you know, i was so angry when i heard from sae that you were about to leave. but fuck, my pride got the best of me. i didn’t know how to say anything — how to stop you.” he shook his head, frustration clear in his voice. “and then, when i got your last text that day… i wanted to punch myself. i was so confused by everything i was feeling — guilt, regret, something i couldn’t even name. i realized then how much i’d been pushing you away, how scared i was of letting myself care.”

he took a shaky breath, voice softening. “that’s why when i saw your name on the list of the press, i was so happy — but at the same time, scared. scared because i didn’t know how you’d feel seeing me again. scared that maybe you’d moved on, or worse, that you’d be angry.”

his hands tightened gently around yours, steady and sure, like a silent vow. “and then… i was just going to let the rumors clear themselves up. i was going to ignore all the dating rumors — pretend it didn’t matter. but i don’t know what came over me with that whole fake dating bullshit. maybe it’s because i finally got the chance to be with you again, even if it started that way.”

he looked down for a moment, voice dropping to a low, raw confession. “everything i did, all my actions towards you — they were real. even the jealousy, i hated the thought of some other guy hitting on you. because the last thing i wanted was to lose you again. i didn’t want to fuck up another chance.”

he lifted his gaze back to you, eyes burning with a desperate hope. “please. let me prove it to you. let me show you i’m here, not just for the cameras, but for you.”

you looked up at him, heart pounding in your chest, the weight of everything he said settling deep inside you. without thinking, you closed the small distance between you, pressing your lips gently to his. his lips were warm and hesitant at first, like he was afraid to break the fragile space you were both holding. but then his arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer, grounding you in the moment.

when you pulled back just a little, your breath mingling with his, you whispered, a soft smile breaking through your tears, “you’re such an idiot, you know that?”

rin let out a quiet, relieved laugh, the tension in his body easing. he cupped your face in his hands, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. “yeah, but maybe i’m your idiot.”

you stayed like that for a moment, just holding each other, letting everything you’d both been holding onto for years start to unravel. “i was so scared,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “scared you didn’t want me anymore.”

“never,” he said firmly. “i just didn’t know how to say it.”

the silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was full of everything left unsaid, the weight of missed chances and hopes for a new beginning.

rin reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, then leaned in for another kiss—this time deeper, more certain, as if he was making a promise with every touch. and for the first time since he’d walked through your door, you believed he meant it.

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