Part 2 - Blog Posts

Kuroo Back 2/4

Bokuto Back 2/4

Jungkook Bon Voyage Back 2/4

katsudeku/dekubaku gifs compilation to make (my) someones day, just a little bit better part 2

This is just honestly me, missing ✨actual✨ ktdk canon interactions (plus them talking with eachother) moments in the manga...

So here's my favorite anime gifs of Izuku x Kacchan yayyyy🙈

part 2 yaaaaaa 🗣️

Because, I was being bored & depressed random again 🙃😢🤧😔

cue dkbk emoji montage 🧡💚🥦💥🐺🐏🐰😼

Uploaded during: 4/9/2024

P.S: 🚨slight content warning for sensitive scenes plus possible spoilers for those who aren't caught up yet🚨

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

part 1 link of this compilation 👈🏻

Arms (pt.2)

Miles scrambled through his window, almost tripping in the process.

“H-Hobie! Hey man—what are you, um, what are you doing here?” Miles stuttered as he practically ripped the sketch book out of Hobie’s hands.

Surprisingly, Hobie didn’t fight to keep the book. Even more surprisingly, he didn’t look disgusting, disappointed, weirded out, scared, horrified, or any of the other possible outcomes Miles thought would’ve happened if Hobie found out he drew pictures of his very defined muscles on a daily basis.

Well—that’s going a bit far. Miles drew them often, but not every day. Wait did he draw them every day?

He was brought out of his thoughts by the British accent the man in front of him possessed.

“I was jus’ poppin’ in. Comin’ ta see if you were ‘ere.” Hobie replied. He had either a small malicious smile on his face, or a smirk. Miles couldn’t really tell. He was too busy pressing the closed book to his chest like his life depended on it.

“Cool, cool. Why, uh, were you lookin at my sketch book?” Miles tried to seem cool, and chill about it, but by the way Hobie’s smirk grew bigger, he was definitely failing.

Hobie casually stepped closer as he stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Eh, ya left it wide open on your desk. Couldn’t help myself.”

“Valid excuse. But why would you go through someone’s personal things! That’s snooping y’know.” Miles scolded him with little to no heat behind his voice, as he cautiously set his closed sketch book down again.

Hobie held his hands up in surrender and he stepped to the side slightly. “My bad sweet’eart, won’t happen again.” He calmly stated as he lowered his hands back into his pockets.

Miles mutters a small, “Good.” Before the room goes silent. Miles was looking everywhere but Hobie, so he blatantly missed the way Hobie’s lips curled into a huge smirk.

“So.. you like my arms, huh love?”

Those words alone were enough to make Miles freeze, heat creeping up his neck and onto his face. He stared at Hobie wide-eyed for a moment as he stuttered on what to say.

Hobie barked out a laugh and placed his hand on Miles shoulder, completely not helping with the heat in Miles’ face.

Hobie leaned in close, his voice vibrating as he says, “Been thinkin’ about them for a while, no?”

Miles would be lying if he said he didn’t let out the most embarrassing squeak ever at that.

Hobie chuckled as he slowly leaned away from Miles’ flushed face.

“Your adorable love. I gotta get goin’ though, I’ll see ya around, yeah?” Hobie said as he maneuvered his was over to the window.

A small, “Yep!” Was all that left Miles’ mouth before Hobie climbed out and swung away.

Miles stood there dumbfounded for quite a while.

And if for some reason after that Hobie started leaning into Miles more, wrapping is arms and hands around his body, and overall getting closer to him, nobody mentioned it.

(Second mini fic ever! Woo!! Also dramatically writing the British accent into Hobie’s speech makes me happy. So just don’t mention it😀)

Another video I made. This time about Finn doing something stupid that even Mater’s pissed off.

It’s kind interesting to note how Mater rarely gets angry so I chose the one where he’d be at the most angry. Lightning has a lot of angry expression and Holley, I love her reactions. Especially after Finn gives his reason for why he’s got them killed!

HIDDEN pt.2 || Choi Seung-Hyun (T.O.P)

summary: this is part 2 of my original fic HIDDEN. you should read that one first or you’re gonna be very confused!

warnings/this story contains: female reader, age gap (reader is 24 now, seunghyun’s 37) unresolved tension, mutual pining and emotional damage, reader’s life being absolute trash (?), seunghyun and the reader being very anxious people. angst (jealousy, heartbreak, guilt, shame, regret, self loathing, not being able to let go but also not being able to stay. timing never being right and love not being enough like alwayssss, i’m sorry) personal growth, forgiveness, closure, and a tiny little bitty bit of fluff if you squint your eyes very, very hard (lmao).

a/n: i never planned on writing a part two, but here we are! thank you so much for the endless support and for looking forward to this <3 as always, english isn’t my first language! seunghyun’s texts are in blue, reader’s texts are in orange. reader’s dialogue is in bold.

songs: champagne coast — blood orange (yes, again, because this is their song. i’m making it canon) ll all i wanted — paramore || lovers — anna of the north || all too well (10 minute version) — taylor swift

it’s been nine months since the breakup, and your life couldn’t be more different than it was—if someone took a polaroid of you now and held it next to the girl who packed her bags for seoul with stars in her eyes, you’re not sure you’d even recognize her. you’re back in brownsville, no longer coordinating payload systems at starbase—because, well, turns out when your year-long secret relationship becomes very suddenly not so secret, someone decided having you around was more trouble than it was worth. after they cut you off—citing professionalism and image and propriety—you didn’t really have a plan.

you spent a month unemployed, half-heartedly scrolling through job listings you didn’t want while lying facedown on the couch, alternating between waves of quiet panic and nausea that came every time you accidentally thought about seunghyun for more than five seconds. it was still raw then—the kind of heartbreak that didn’t just ache but physically made you feel sick, like your body was rejecting the entire experience. everything reminded you of him, and you hated it—how you could go from brushing your teeth to fully sobbing in the span of a minute because some memory had snuck in through the cracks, as if your own mind was determined to torture you for ever letting someone get that close.

and eventually, when your savings account started looking like a damn joke, you took the first job you could find—bartending at a small spot downtown. it’s not what you studied for. it’s not even remotely what you imagined doing when you walked across that graduation stage in your too-tight heels and got your aerospace degree handed to you… but it’s steady. you’ve memorized the orders of the regulars, learned how to hold your tongue when men call you sweetheart like it’s your god-given name or snap their fingers and whistle like you’re a fucking dog, and you’ve gotten really good at pretending you’re okay—smiling through it. your shoes are always sticky by the end of the night, your clothes reek of grease and cheap vodka no matter how many times you wash them, and there’s a tiny scar on your wrist from a shattered pint glass that slipped mid-shift during a friday rush. but hey… at least the tips are decent.

you’ve also been… seeing someone. the guy your friends had been annoyingly pushing for months (back when you were still secretly dating seunghyun and pretending to consider it just to shut them up). he’s your age, works in construction and is very nice, which sounds like a shitty compliment, but it’s not. you’ve been seeing him for about two months now—hanging out and hooking up. you like him. really, you do… a little bit. but every now and then you catch yourself comparing the way he holds your face to the way someone else used to, and you have to blink it away before it sinks too deep. he doesn’t know about seunghyun, of course. not the real version of it, anyway. just that there was someone before, someone who hurt you. and you appreciate his patience—he gives you space when you need it and doesn’t ask too many questions. and, well, he eats your pussy good, so. there’s that too. sometimes that’s enough to shut your brain up for a bit, enough to make you forget the ache that still sits in your chest like a bruise that never really healed. even though you know it’s not fair. and you wonder, sometimes, if this guy’s waiting for you to fall in love with him and has no idea that you’re still scraping someone else’s fingerprints off your skin.

but the most significant thing—the one that still sits in your stomach like a rock you can’t digest—is that you found out. you finally know. it was her. your mother. you didn’t even get it from her directly. you found it by accident—buried in an old email. you weren’t snooping—just printing a return label for something, waiting for the slow-ass printer to wake up—when your eyes caught the subject line: re: media contact – confidential inquiry. and you clicked it. you scrolled through every line with a growing sense of horror. you confronted her that same night. you didn’t plan it, didn’t rehearse what you were going to say—you just walked into the kitchen, heart pounding, and said, “how long were you planning on hiding the fact that you’re the one who leaked it?” she didn’t even deny it. just looked at you, quiet for a second, then said, “i did what i had to do.” “you had to?!” your voice broke, equal parts disbelief and fury. “you had to sabotage my entire fucking relationship?!” “he was taking advantage of you,” she said flatly. “what the fuck? what the—what the fuck is wrong with you?! you had no right to interfere like that! none!” “you think i didn’t see what he was doing? he was grooming you—” “don’t you dare use that word,” you spat, stepping forward. “don’t you fucking dare put it like that just because you needed a reason to feel better about what you did! i was twenty-two, not sixteen!” “i don’t care! he’s thirteen years older than you, and you—” “he wasn’t using me! i knew what i was doing—” “no!” she pointed at you, jabbing the air, furious and breathless, “you were just following him around like some starstruck idiot, lying to me, running away from your job, from your family—” “oh my god, shut the fuck up!” you snapped, tears hot in your eyes. “shut the fuck up! i was in love! and you fucking ruined it!”

you don’t remember much after that—just fragments. you remember your mother shouting something about protection, about how she couldn’t stand by and watch you throw your future away over a man who was never going to give you anything real. you remember knocking over a stack of books, slamming a drawer so hard it bounced back open, dragging your suitcase out of the closet with shaking hands and yanking things off hangers without looking. she cried, kept repeating that she didn’t mean to hurt you, that she was scared, that she thought she was doing what was best. but you didn’t care. you were too angry and too fucking tired of being treated like you didn’t know your own mind. you haven’t spoken to her since. you don’t know if you ever will. because it turns out there’s heartbreak that comes from losing a lover, and then there’s heartbreak that comes from realizing the person who raised you is the reason you lost them. and now it’s too late to take any of it back.

you’ve been crashing with one of your friends for the past three weeks—sleeping on a futon that creaks every time you turn over and makes your back ache by morning. you didn’t really know where else to go. your job barely covers groceries—forget rent, forget deposits, forget the fantasy of having a space that’s actually yours. so now you’re here, trying not to be a burden, trying not to cry into your friend’s couch cushions at night because she’s doing you a favor, and you already feel like a walking pity case. sometimes you lie there and think about how you used to fall asleep in a king-sized bed with high thread count sheets and a man who kissed your shoulders before falling asleep with his hand in yours, and now you’re in someone else’s place, listening to the hum of a fridge that never stops running—feeling lonelier than you ever have in your entire life.

you thought life would’ve gotten better by now, but you spend the nights crying instead—staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers. you cry because nothing feels right, because everything feels too hard, because you lost your job, your relationship, your home, your sense of direction—and even though you keep telling yourself you’re only twenty-four, that there’s time to figure it out, some nights it just feels like you’re stuck in and endless pain loop. no one warned you adulthood would feel like this.

you’re alone that night. your friend’s covering a night shift, the apartment is quiet, and your body feels like it’s made of wet tissue—fragile and bloated and cursed with every symptom imaginable, because the universe decided you needed your period on top of everything else. the cramps are brutal, your back hurts, your tits ache, and the fucking futon now has a suspicious little stain that you know you’ll have to scrub later. you’ve been crying (again!) and your throat is raw from it, your eyes puffy, your nose sore from wiping it too hard with paper towels. you feel pathetic. like genuinely, award-winning levels of pathetic. and maybe that’s what finally does it. you reach for your phone with hands that are slightly shaky, not because you’re nervous, but because you’re just so damn tired. of yourself, mostly. and maybe the universe too. your fingers open his old messages. you used to do this sometimes—type things you needed to get off your chest. but you never sent them because seeing your words in that annoying green bubble would be worse than anything else. it would remind you that yes, he blocked you. yes, he’s still gone. yes, this is over, and it’s been over. move the fuck on already, girl. so, following your little tradition, you type:

it was my fucking mom this whole time. she’s the one who leaked everything. i found out like three weeks ago, and i still haven’t processed it. i wish you knew. i wish i could make you know so you wouldn’t go on living your life thinking i betrayed you or whatever tf you decided to believe instead of trusting me. but anyway. talk about trust issues now, bc honestly, idk how i’m ever supposed to trust anyone again!🥰 love this for meeeee omg!😍😍 i shouldn’t have told her i was moving to seoul. i should’ve just disappeared from her fucking life and been happy with you and what we had. but no. because life can’t be that easy for me, right? no. life has to be a fucking bitch in every possible way. i’m so fucking tired.

your fingers hover over the delete button as you cry profusely after typing that paragraph—eyes blurry, throat tight, the screen glowing too bright in the dark room. and maybe it’s the hormones, or the sleep deprivation, but something inside you hits send. because why the fuck does it matter? he’s not gonna read it, he’s got you blocked. but the second you see the message go blue—you freeze. your stomach drops and you stare at your phone like it’s just slapped you across the face. he unblocked you. wait—what? since when? you shoot up like you’ve just been electrocuted, eyes wide as the full horror of what just happened sinks in. “what the fuck! what the fuck! shit, shit, shit—” you whisper to no one, pacing the tiny apartment. so much for crying in your period-stained pajamas—turns out all it takes to yank you out of a full-blown breakdown is the absolute fucking horror of realizing you just sent a long-ass vent session straight to the one person on this planet you were least fucking ready to talk to. congrats, girl! you keep outdoing yourself! “oh my—fuck! fuck, fuck, fuck! oh, god. oh my god,” you keep mumbling. when the fuck did he unblock you?! and why the hell didn’t you check?! your heart is in your throat, pulse hammering so fast it makes your vision blur for a second. you swipe back to the chat like maybe you hallucinated the whole thing. maybe the app glitched. but no. and before you can delete it, there it is—read. “huh?!” you stop in your tracks, frozen in the middle of the room. your mouth falls open. your lungs forget how to work. your entire body goes cold and then hot, and then cold again. “no. no no no no no no—fuck!”

you groan into your hands and sink down onto the futon. your palms are damp with sweat and your brain’s screaming. the message is sent. he’s seen it. and no matter how much you want to crawl inside your phone and delete it—there’s nothing left to do but sit in the aftermath. so you do. you sit, legs curled beneath you, staring at your phone screen. you check the time—3:41 a.m. in texas. in seoul, it’s late afternoon. you decide to leave your phone face up on the floor next to you and try to pretend you’re not watching it from the corner of your eye like it’s about to perform a fucking magic trick. every time it lights up, your heart jumps—once it’s duolingo, passive-aggressively reminding you for the hundredth time that you haven’t finished your korean lessons (well… thank you for the reminder, motherfucker!). and another time it’s your period tracker app asking if you’re feeling moody lately. no shit! you lurch forward every time, breath catching in your throat, only to get sucker-punched by disappointment again and again. and still, no reply. you try to sleep, not because you think it’ll work, but because it’s the only other option. but lying down just makes it worse—your thoughts are louder. you flip your pillow, then flip it again. the sheets are damp with sweat, your legs restless, your hands twitching toward your phone like it’s calling to you. you wait for hours… he never replies.

and by the time the sun comes up, you’ve barely slept at all. your eyes sting, your mouth is dry, and you’ve gone full zombie-mode by the time your shift rolls around. you survive your shift at the bar by sheer muscle memory, making drinks, taking orders and smiling through clenched teeth. and when it ends, your body aches like it’s been rolled through the pavement. you go home—your friend’s home—after midnight, feet aching, back sore, and stomach hollow from skipping dinner because the thought of eating made you feel sick. the place is dark when you walk in. she’s probably already asleep, and you tiptoe into the kitchen to grab a glass of water before collapsing on the futon. you check your phone—still nothing. and that’s it. that’s the end of the story. why would it end any other way? of course he’s not going to reply. you should’ve never sent that fucking text. you should’ve stuck to your sad little ritual of typing and deleting and pretending you had closure. because this? this is embarrassing.

you toss your phone onto the floor like maybe breaking it will break the shame too, and flop onto your side dramatically… and then it buzzes. you’ve never gotten up so fast—hands scrambling for the phone. you swipe, thumbs clumsy with nerves because holy shit, there’s a notification from him. but somehow you manage to open the message.

Can I call you?

you stare at the screen. your pulse is pounding loud in your ears, and for a second you’re genuinely not sure if you’re going to throw up or pass out. your entire body is shaking and your blood has drained out of your face. you can feel it. you’re cold and clammy all over, heart thudding like it’s trying to punch its way out of your chest. you try to breathe—in through your nose, out through your mouth—before typing:

yeah, okay

your phone starts ringing a second later—like he’d been waiting. and the sound of it, his name lighting up your screen again after all these months, knocks something loose in your chest. the apartment is quiet—just the creak of the floor beneath your feet as you cross over to the sliding door that leads to the balcony. you slide it open as quietly as you can, since you don’t want to wake your friend, and step outside. it’s darker than you expected, the only light coming from the streetlamps below and the faint orange glow of someone’s window across the way. the balcony chair creaks under your weight as you sink into it, the metal cold against your bare thighs. your breathing’s all uneven now—short little gasps like you just finished running, though you haven’t moved more than ten feet—and you can’t stop staring at the screen. you swipe to answer. for a few seconds, there’s nothing. only silence. then, finally, a voice. “hi.” you grip the phone tighter, trying to stop your hands from shaking. “hi,” you say back. and then silence again. you can’t tell if it’s awkward or loaded or both.

you shift in the chair, curling one leg up underneath you. “how are you?” he asks. oh lord. he was literally fucking you raw less than a year ago… and now he’s making small talk. stop this madness. “i—i’m good,” you say, lying through your teeth, obviously. you clear your throat. “you?” “fine,” he says after a beat, but he sounds anything but—tired, like something in his chest’s been weighing him down. and then another pause, before he finally says, “i read your message.” “yeah… i know. i mean—i saw.” you chew the inside of your cheek, fingers picking at the hem of your sleeve. “was it really her?” you nod before realizing he can’t see you. “yeah. it was.” he doesn’t say anything, so you keep going, just to fill the space. “i saw… an email she sent. and we—we fought. bad. i left the same day and i… i haven’t been back since.” “you—where are you staying?” he asks, and you hear something in his voice, concern. “friend’s house.” you try to make it sound casual. he goes quiet again, and for a second, all you can hear is the low static hum of the call. you bite your bottom lip before blurting, “i didn’t know you’d unblocked me.” “yeah. i did like a month ago, i think.” you hum. you want to ask why, but you don’t. because the call already feels like a glass balancing on the edge of a table, and you don’t want to make it more awkward than it already is. and besides, you know you wouldn’t get the answer you want. if he wanted to talk, he would’ve. if he missed you, if he regretted it, if any part of him wanted to reach out… he would’ve. and he didn’t. so you swallow that sharp little ache, ignore the part of you that still wants to believe in something softer, and you say, “i’m sorry for sending that, by the way. i was… i don’t know. not in a great headspace yesterday.” “don’t apologize,” he says. “i’m glad you told me.” “you deserved to know.” “mmh.” the silence stretches for another second before he says, “thank you.”

the quiet that follows is soft, almost gentle. for a second you think that’s it—you can almost feel one of you hovering over the red button, and you know you should probably let it happen, let it end on something simple and clean. but you don’t want to hang up yet. so, instead, you do what you always do when your nerves start to buzz—you talk. “i’ve typed stuff before. like—messages. to you.” oh my god… shut up! shut up! why the fuck are you saying this? you want to swallow the words back down immediately but nope—your mouth keeps going. “i never sent them but… i don’t know. i wasn’t even supposed to send you that one last night—i don’t know why i did.” you press a hand to your forehead, silently screaming. “anyway i—yeah. sorry. i should just… shut up.” there’s a pause on the other end, heavy enough to make your fingers twitch against your leg. you expect him to change the subject or maybe just hang up altogether, and for a second you even brace yourself for the sound of the line going dead. but then he says, “what kind of stuff?” you blink, eyes still fixed on the quiet street below, unsure you heard him right. “what?” “the messages,” he answers, and his voice is a little quieter now, like he’s not sure if he should be asking. “what were they about?” you’re caught so off guard that you let out this small, breathless laugh that doesn’t hold any humor at all. “seriously?” you ask, more to yourself than to him. you rub a hand over your face. “i don’t know, just… random things about my life. like my day, what i was doing… sometimes just things i wish i could say to you but knew i couldn’t. i don’t know.” you trail off, embarrassed, already regretting every word spilling out of your mouth. “you can tell me now,” he says. you blink, heart stumbling a little in your chest, because you don’t know what you were expecting him to say—but it definitely wasn’t that. your fingers tighten around the phone again. “you… want me to tell you?” “i do.” you hesitate. not because you don’t have things to say—god, you’ve got too many—but because you don’t know what version of your life he’s expecting. probably not the one you’re living. “i didn’t think you’d care,” you admit quietly. “i care—of course i care.” oh… you close your eyes, press your palm to your chest and you can feel how fast your heart is beating. you force yourself to swallow the lump in your throat before you speak. “i’m bartending now.” you immediately want to cringe, because wow, what an opener. “they fired me from starbase. so… yeah. but it’s okay, this job isn’t so bad… i mean—it’s not good either, but it pays.” he hums, a soft sound of acknowledgement, like he’s listening. “and, like i told you, i’m living with a friend. after—after everything that happened with my mom… i couldn’t stay. so, yeah.”

something about saying all of that out loud—narrating your life to someone who once knew it better than anyone else—makes your bottom lip tremble before you can stop it. this tiny traitorous movement that you feel more than see, like the last thread of control slipping quietly from your hands. you swallow hard. try to hold it together and sound normal. “but i’m, um… i’m looking for a place,” you add, voice higher now, too fast. “something small for myself.” you don’t mention that your bank account laughs at you every time you open the app, or that you fall asleep on a futon in the corner of your friend’s tiny apartment, feeling like a burden. you don’t say any of that, because it’s pathetic. but the tears come anyway, completely against your will. not just because of your mom or your job or your life crumbling in pieces so small you can’t even name them—but because you’re talking to him. and everything about this feels so impossibly far from what you used to be. the way you speak to each other now, like strangers, it’s breaking you open in places you didn’t know were still sore. you try to sniff it away, wipe your face with the sleeve of your sweatshirt, but it’s useless. “are you…” his voice cuts through the line. “are you crying?” “no.” you suck in a breath. “i mean—yes. yes, i am. it’s just—i don’t know.” the tears are falling faster now, and your throat is thick with everything you’ve been trying so hard not to feel for the last nine months. you sniff, drag the sleeve of your sweatshirt across your nose, and bite out, “why’d you even call me, seunghyun? seriously. what was the point?” “i wanted to apologize.” he pauses. “i—i’m sorry. i should’ve trusted you, i should’ve listened. i was just… angry. and scared.” you exhale through your nose, trying to steady the shaking in your chest. “it’s okay,” you say quietly, even though part of you wants to tell him it’s not.

he doesn’t reply right away, and for a second you think the call might be really ending this time—that this was all he needed to say, a final stitch to close the wound and move on. but then—“i missed your voice.” your breath catches, and you don’t know what to say to that. because it hurts. it hurts so fucking much to hear it. “you hurt me, seunghyun,” you whisper. “i know,” he says, voice breaking. “i know i did, baby—shit. sorry. fuck, i—i’m so sorry. i didn’t mean to call you that.” you squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your knuckles to your lips like it’ll stop the sting. “don’t. don’t do that.” “i didn’t mean to—” “no, you don’t get to do that,” you cut in, sharper this time, words tumbling out fast. “this isn’t fair,” you say, and now your voice really starts to shake. “you’re not—you’re not being fair, seunghyun.” “listen—“ “no, i don’t wanna fucking listen!” you raise your voice, frustration spilling out faster than you can rein it in. “sorry,” you say quietly. “sorry. i—i didn’t mean to speak to you like that.” “i know,” he whispers. “but i understand. i deserve it.” “no, you—i just… it’s a lot. and hearing your voice like this again—fuck, i don’t know.” he doesn’t say anything, and you’re not even sure if that’s a good or bad thing, so you keep going before you lose your nerve. “you shouldn’t have unblocked me. you should’ve just left it the way it was,” you continue, sobbing between words. “what—” “i was doing okay,” you lie, even though you both know you weren’t. “or at least, i was trying. and then you—you do this, and now i feel like—i feel like i’m right back where i started.” he’s silent again, and it drives you fucking insane—how he always does this, lets the silence do the work for him, like it’s your job to fill in the blanks. “you can’t just show up in my life when you feel like it. that’s not how this works. you don’t get to block me, forget about me, go on with your life, and then crawl back into mine just because you’re curious or lonely or whatever the fuck this is.” your breath is shallow now, chest rising and falling fast. “i can’t do this, seunghyun. i can’t—” you cry. “so do it again. block me. because if you don’t… i will.”

you wait a second—two, maybe three—before you hang up. you stare at the screen for a beat too long after the line goes dead, your own reflection faint in the glass. your limbs feel shaky as you drag yourself up from the chair with the kind of stiffness that makes you wonder if heartbreak settles in your bones like lead. the apartment is quiet when you slip back inside. you don’t even bother changing. and when you fall onto the futon, you collapse. your chest hurts, in the literal, physical way—like there’s something pressing down on it, making it harder to breathe with every passing second. you’re still crying, face crumpling into the crook of your elbow. and even though you try to keep it quiet because your friend is asleep in the next room, your body has other plans. the sobs come in waves, ugly and loud and gasping, and there’s no one to stop them, no one to shush you or hold you or say it’s going to be okay. you press your face into the pillow and scream once, like it might help get it out, but it doesn’t. you cry until you’re too tired to cry anymore, until your body feels wrung out and empty. until your eyelids are heavy, your head pounds and the ache in your chest starts to dull—because, yes, even pain has its limits. and when sleep finally takes you, it feels like relief.

you don’t even hear her come in. it takes a few tries before your friend gets through to you, nudging your foot, then your shoulder, then finally your name, said a little too loudly for how early it is. “hey! you’ve gotta get up. don’t you have work?” you jolt upright like you’re coming up for air, groggy and disoriented, face crusted with dried tears. you mutter something like “shit, what time is it?” before fumbling for your phone. and that’s when you see it. seunghyun texted you while you were asleep.

Hi. I just booked a flight to Texas.

I’ll be in Brownsville for a few days, and I really, really want to see you.

I’ll understand if you don’t want to see me.

But if you do, I’ll be here next Sunday at 4 P.M.

he had sent a location.

We have a lot to talk about.

I didn’t want our call to end like that.

You don’t have to reply, just know I’ll be there, waiting.

And if you don’t show up, that’s okay too.

I hope you have a good day. 🫰🏼

your first thought is no. not even a soft, hesitant kind of no—just a loud, stubborn one that echoes straight through your head. NO. you don’t want to see him. you don’t want to talk. you don’t want to sit across from him pretending like the last nine months haven’t been eating you alive. you lock your phone, toss it somewhere near the futon, and move through your morning like you’re not actively dissociating—getting dressed and slapping on mascara with a shaky hand. you go to work, surprisingly making it on time. and when your shift ends, you go home. you eat leftovers straight from the container, ignore the ache behind your eyes, and tell yourself you’ve made a decision. you’re not going. simple as that.

but as the days creep forward and that sunday inches closer, your initial no—the one that came so fast and full of conviction it practically shouted over your entire body—starts to feel less like a boundary and more like a bluff you’re trying to convince yourself to believe. you find yourself rereading his texts on the bus ride home, or glancing at the clock and thinking about time zones again, something you swore you’d broken the habit of months ago. it’s not that you want to see him (girl… you do, you aren’t fooling anyone) it’s just that you’re curious. and a little bit stupid, apparently. and then, like your brain didn’t already have enough to chew on, instagram decides to kick you while you’re down. you get the notification late at night: TOP 최승현🌙 posted for the first time in a while. you stare at the alert, blinking. no way. how fucking convenient. you open the app before you can stop yourself, and there it is—proof that he unblocked you on your private insta, because you’re staring right at his profile. oh my… you’re a slut in mourning. it’s a selfie. he’s staring straight at the camera, head tilted slightly to the side to flex that stupid jawline, jesus christ... he’s wearing a black hoodie—the same one you used to borrow when you were together. more specifically, the one you were wearing the first time you let him fuck you raw. is he doing it on purpose? is this his way of getting your attention? trying to say he misses you? that he’s thinking about you too? or maybe you’re just being delusional and he’s literally just wearing his fucking hoodie like any normal person would… not everything is about you. right? you zoom in without shame, you stare, you squint and you hate yourself a little. you flip your phone face down and mutter, “fuck off,” like that’s going to do anything—like you’re not already replaying every time you tugged his hair while he was between your thighs, fucking you with his fingers while his tongue circled your clit.

sunday. 3 p.m. comes and you’re still telling yourself no, still convincing yourself with weak half-arguments and imaginary moral high ground, still walking around the room like you’re above it, like you’ve evolved past the the version of yourself who would show up for him no matter what. you’re not going. you’ve already made that decision—made it days ago. in fact, you’ve been repeating it like a fucking mantra: i’m not going, i’m not going, i’m not going. it’s the one thing you’ve been stubbornly sure of. and yet, by 3:07, you’re in front the drawer your friend let you use. you’re not sure when you stood up or how you ended up yanking it open, but suddenly you’re staring at your clothes like any of them will know what the fuck you’re doing. and you tell yourself: what harm could there be in just… seeing? just showing up, looking hot, and reminding him what he lost? right? what could go wrong? you drag yourself into the shower, rinse off the sweat and anxiety, and talk yourself out of having a panic attack while shaving your legs. you towel off, throw on something decent and slap on a bit of makeup as you wonder why the fuck are you wasting your free day on this, when you could’ve been watching reruns of some trashy dating show or doom-scrolling in peace. and before you can rethink your decision again, you’re on the bus, heart pounding harder with every stop.

you show up an hour late—closer to five-thirty than four—but you don’t feel bad about it. if anything, it makes you feel a little less like you’re crawling back and a little more like you’re arriving on your own terms. the place he chose to meet you is a rooftop wine bar in downtown brownsville with thick wooden beams stretched overhead to break the light. string lights hang loosely between them and the tables are spaced out, some close to the railing with a quiet view of the city below. he’s already there, of course, seated near the far edge of the terrace, next to the railing, with a half-finished glass of wine in front of him. you spot him instantly. he’s in a long-sleeved maroon sweater, and you don’t know why the fuck he’s wearing sleeves in this heat. his trousers are loose and slouchy, and his boots—yes, boots, in thirty-degree texas weather—are polished to hell, the soles thick and clunky. his cap sits on the table beside his wineglass, and he’s wearing his glasses—the ones that make him look so gentle. you used to love it when he wore them around you. he doesn’t see you right away—he’s looking out over the terrace, lips pursed like he’s deep in thought—but your stomach still drops like it’s the first time all over again.

you take a slow breath, then start walking. the heels of your shoes click against the tile, and the closer you get, the more surreal it feels—seeing him again. and then he looks up. you don’t know what you expected, but the way his whole face shifts when his eyes land on you catches you off guard. his brows lift just a little, like he’s not sure he’s seeing you right, and then there’s this soft pull at the corners of his mouth, the kind of expression people only ever give to people they’ve missed. he moves quickly after that, chair scraping back as he stands up too fast, brushing his palms down the sides of his pants like he’s suddenly unsure of himself. your heart thuds a little too hard as you close the last few steps between you, nerves spiking even though there’s no reason to be this tense—you’ve seen him like this before, touched him, kissed him, loved him. but now it feels like starting from scratch. “hey,” you say first, because someone has to break the tension. your voice comes out quiet, breathier than you meant. he clears his throat, shifting his weight. “hi.”

he stands there, hovering beside the table, and for a second it’s like neither of you knows how to move—do you shake hands? do you hug? his gaze flickers down to your hands, like he’s expecting you to offer one to shake, and then back up to your face. it’s clear he doesn’t know what to do, and god, neither do you. a hug feels too intimate, but standing here in this weird, polite standoff feels worse. so you do it—you step forward, close the space, and wrap your arms around him quickly, not giving yourself enough time to regret it. he’s surprised, you can tell by the way his arms come around you just a second too late. you pull away before it can get weird, and he lets you, hands immediately dropping to his sides like he’s scared to overstep. you glance at the wine glass, then back at him. “sorry i’m late.” seunghyun shakes his head, quick. “no, it’s fine. i—” he exhales. “i didn’t think you were coming.” you nod, slow and awkward, arms crossed tight over your chest for a second before you remember how that looks and force yourself to let them fall to your sides. “yeah. me neither.” he huffs a tiny laugh, almost embarrassed, and gestures toward the seat across from his. “do you wanna sit?” you nod, murmuring a soft “yeah,” as you move toward the chair. you sit, legs crossed, back too straight, and he mirrors you, settling across from you. the table feels huge between you. ridiculous, really—after everything you’ve done together, everything you’ve been to each other, now you’re playing pretend like two people on a first date who forgot how to talk.

he reaches for his wine glass, turns it slowly between his fingers without drinking. “you look good,” he says, eventually. “i mean… really good.” you meet his eyes, and then, because you can’t help it, “so do you.” he smiles at that, soft, almost sheepish, and then glances down at the wine list sitting neatly on the table between you. “you want anything?” he asks, tapping the edge of the menu lightly. “they’ve got a good selection.” you shake your head, giving a small, polite smile. “just water’s fine.” “water, then,” he says, and signals to the server passing by to order you a glass. there’s a beat of silence after the server leaves, just the soft clink of his glass when he shifts it on the table. he doesn’t look at you—just studies the red swirl of wine for a second like it’s got the right words floating in it somewhere—then finally says, “i’m glad you came.” you nod once, unsure what to say to that, fingers twitching in your lap. “and… i’m sorry,” he adds quietly. “about the phone call. the way it ended… that wasn’t how i wanted it to go.” “i know.” “i didn’t mean to make you feel bad,” he says. “or backed into a corner. i just—my head was a mess, and i handled it wrong. i’m sorry.” “it’s fine. thank you—thanks for the apology.” and you mean it. he leans back slightly in his chair, exhales through his nose. his fingers trace the rim of his wine glass like he’s trying to occupy them. “i didn’t know if you’d ever want to see me again. after everything.” “i didn’t know either. up until like… three o’clock.” his mouth twitches into something that’s almost a smile. “last-minute decision?” “very,” you say. “bad one, maybe. not sure yet.” “i get it. i wouldn’t have blamed you if you hadn’t shown up.” “i almost didn’t,” you admit. “but then i thought—i don’t know. if i didn’t come, i’d just keep wondering what you wanted to say.” he nods, finally meeting your eyes again. “i wanted to say a lot of things.” “like what?” he hesitates, jaw tightening slightly, like the words are caught somewhere behind his teeth. he exhales, slow and heavy, and leans forward, forearms resting on the edge of the table. “i wanted to apologize,” he says. “for how things ended. for—for what i said. for not listening.” “seunghyun—” you start, but he shakes his head. “i didn’t believe you,” he goes on. “and i should have. i should’ve known better—i did know better. but it was easier to be angry than to be scared, and i was so, so fucking scared. scared of being exposed again, of people dragging my name through the mud all over, of losing everything i’d tried to build back up—” “i know. i know, hyun. i understand you. it’s… it’s okay.” it isn’t, though. “and instead of trusting you,” he says, like he didn’t hear you at all, “i panicked. i pushed you away. and i hate myself for it.” you shift in your seat, hands gripping the sides of the chair, aching with the weight of all the things you wish could make this easier. “hyun,” you murmur again, softer now, like saying his name might take the edge off his pain or yours. “you don’t have to—” “i do,” he says. “i haven’t stopped thinking about it… about how fast i let it all go. how fast i let you go. and the worst part is…” he stops, biting down on the inside of his cheek. “the worst part is that i made you think you didn’t matter to me. like it was easy for me to—to cut you off. and it wasn’t. it’s never been easy. it still fucking haunts me.” he pauses. “i just needed you to know that. i needed—i needed to say it to your face.” he exhales shakily, like just getting the words out took something out of him. his eyes stay fixed somewhere past your shoulder, like he’s afraid that meeting yours will make it harder. “and i missed you,” he says quietly. “fuck, i missed you so much.”

the words land somewhere low in your gut, like they’ve been thrown instead of spoken. and for a second, it stings in a sweet way, that traitorous part of your chest aching at the sound of his voice wrapped around something soft again, something that once made you feel safe. but the sweetness evaporates almost instantly, replaced by a sharp kind of heat under your skin, the kind that flares when something touches a bruise you thought had already faded. because you don’t get to miss someone and do nothing about it. not when you’re the one who made it clear, so fucking clear, that it was over. your jaw tightens. because no. no, he doesn’t get to say that. your eyes start to sting, the burn rising fast and sudden behind your lashes. and then, without warning, a single tear slips down your cheek. you wipe it away quickly with the back of your hand. “why didn’t you reach out, then?” he blinks, startled, like he hadn’t expected the question. you sniff once, wipe at your cheek again even though the tear’s already gone. “i waited, you know. for so fucking long. every day, i thought maybe today you’d say something.” you scoff. “but you didn’t. not a word—not until i told you the one thing that finally cleared me.” his lips part like he wants to speak, but you don’t let him. “and now you’re here,” you go on, voice shaking. “saying all the things i used to fantasize about hearing. and don’t get me wrong—it’s nice. it’s—it’s really fucking nice, i needed to hear it. but if i hadn’t sent that message, if i hadn’t broken down and hit send for once instead of just typing and deleting like i always did… would we even be here right now?” you’re not sure what answer you’re hoping for. but you needed to let him know how much it sucked to feel like the only one who kept looking back.

he exhales slowly, eyes falling from yours to the table, like he can’t bear the weight of them. because what you’re saying isn’t just true, but something he’s thought about too, something he’s afraid to admit out loud. “you’re right,” he says, voice low and tight. “you’re right. but i—i wanted to. so many times. but when i thought about saying something, i’d convince myself it would only make it worse. that you didn’t want to hear from me. that you were happier without me.” you stare at him. “you thought i was happy?” “i hoped. because the alternative fucking hurt.” “but you still let me think it was my fault,” you say, voice sharp with disbelief. “you let me sit in that, seunghyun. for months. do you even understand what that did to me?” he doesn’t speak right away—just drags a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to rub the shame off his face. “i know. i know i fucked up.” “you didn’t just fuck up,” you snap. “you abandoned me. you—you went on with your life while i… i lost everything. and all because you couldn’t bring yourself to believe me.” “i wanted to believe you,” he says, a little too desperate now. “i swear to god, i did.” “then why didn’t you?” he looks at you like that question physically hurts him. “you already know. i told you—i told you about han seohee. i’ve been betrayed before, and i just—it felt safer to assume the worst than risk getting hurt again.” “yeah?” you say, and your voice comes out rough, almost trembling with the weight of everything you’ve been trying to swallow. “well guess what, seunghyun—i wasn’t han fucking seohee. i wasn’t anyone but me. your… your girlfriend. and you didn’t even give me the benefit of the doubt. not even for a fucking second.” his jaw tenses, lips pressing into a thin line like he wants to say something but doesn’t trust himself to speak. “i didn’t ask you to be perfect,” you continue, voice softer now. “i never did. all i wanted was for you to believe me—and you couldn’t do that.” he shakes his head, pained. “it wasn’t about you,” he mutters. “it was about me. my past. my shit. it twisted everything.” you shake your head, the frustration rising even though you don’t want it to. “yeah! and you let it win!” you lean back in your chair, exhaling slowly through your nose, trying to collect yourself.

this wasn’t what you intended when you showed up. you really don’t want to raise your voice at him—shit, you weren’t even supposed to get this upset. the last thing you want to do is hurt him. “i moved across the world for you, seunghyun,” you continue, calmer. “i put everything on the line. and the second things got hard, you chose to believe the version of me that fit your fears.” his face falls. “i know,” he whispers. “i know. i thought i was protecting myself—but i should’ve protected you too. i should’ve protected us. all i ever wanted was to keep this thing—what we had—safe.” he sighs. “i’m really, really sorry. for everything.” the interruption comes at just the right time—the server appears, setting down the glass of water with a soft clink. you thank him with a small smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, and seunghyun gives a nod before the server leaves, the space around you settling into silence again.

you take a sip, the cold water almost jarring against the heat crawling up your throat. the moment stretches, and you know there’s more to say. the conversation isn’t finished—not even close—but your chest already feels too full. it’s too much all at once, and you feel the weight of it pressing down behind your eyes. so, you set the glass back down and glance up at him, forcing your voice to steady and offering the smallest smile you can manage. “i watched squid game,” you say. “you were amazing in it.” his face softens and he lets out a breathy laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “yeah?” you nod. “yeah. like… really good. i wanted to text you when it dropped but… you know.” yeah, he knows… he had you fucking blocked. seunghyun nods once. “i appreciate that,” he says, voice a little quieter now, like he’s not sure what to do with the softness in your tone. “wasn’t expecting it to do that well, to be honest.” you hum, tracing the rim of your glass with the pad of your finger. “well, people love a villain. especially when he’s funny… and hot.” that pulls a small, surprised laugh out of him, and his cheeks turn red. “well, thank you.” you smile, gaze softening. “i read the interview you made back in january too, by the way.” “oh. did you?” you nod. “yeah.” “you know, i kept wondering what you’d think if you read it. part of me hoped you wouldn’t. the other part hoped you would.” “i did. twice, actually.” you smile faintly. “once when it came out, and again when i was mad at you. to remind myself you were still in there somewhere.” that seems to knock the wind out of him a little. you continue, “i think… i didn’t expect you to be that honest.” “i wasn’t planning to do it, you know,” he says after a pause. “the interview. for years, i thought if i just stayed silent, eventually everyone would forget. but i didn’t forget. i couldn’t.” you study him. “it read like someone who’s been carrying a lot. for a long time.” and you know that better than anyone—because you were there, in the thick of it, helping him through his worst days. his mouth curves, but it isn’t a smile. “yeah.” you let the silence sit for a beat before speaking. “i thought… i thought it was brave. i actually—i felt proud,” you confess. and there it is. the thing you’ve been meaning to tell him ever since everything ended, but couldn’t bring yourself to say until now. “i’m proud of you, hyun.” he feels it—that familiar, overwhelming tightness in his throat. he swallows hard, eyes watering slightly. he nods once. then, he opens his mouth, tries to speak, to say thank you, but his lower lip trembles before the words can form… so he closes it again. and hopes the nod is enough.

his family never said that to him. at least not after his mistakes were exposed. so this—this thing you just gave him, so casually and so fucking sincerely—it hits like a punch to the ribs. and it comes from you. you, who he’d hurt more than anyone else. it comes from someone who knows. someone who was there when he was a shell of himself, someone who saw the worst parts of him and stayed, until he made it impossible for you to do so. his eyes hurt and his throat burns and there’s a tremble in his jaw he can’t quite stop, and still he says nothing, because there’s nothing that would be enough to meet the weight of what you just gave him. “that part you said about the group,” you murmur after a moment, voice a little hesitant now, “how seeing them felt like looking at a photo of a family you’d been separated from…” “that’s exactly what it feels like.” “i know,” you nod, gently. “i’m sure they miss you too. i don’t know if you’ve been in touch with them or—” “i haven’t.” he cuts in quickly, and there’s a finality to it. you don’t push, but you notice the way his shoulders stiffen, the way his jaw tenses. there’s even a bead of sweat slipping down the side of his face. “sorry. i didn’t mean to bring up something that—i mean, i wasn’t trying to pry. i just thought… maybe after everything, after all these months, it might’ve felt possible. or… i don’t know.” you trail off, suddenly unsure of what you’re even trying to say. maybe part of you just wanted to believe he wasn’t as alone as he used to be. he hums. then, after a moment: “you were the one thing that made that time bearable. everything else was a mess, but with you, it was—” he stops himself, mouth twitching, like the rest of the sentence is too fragile to say out loud. “you didn’t fix it. but you made it hurt less. and i’ve never—i’ve never thanked you for that.” “you didn’t need to. i knew you were thankful.” you pause. “and… i’m not saying the article fixed anything, but it made sense. why you pulled away. i get it more now.” “that doesn’t make it okay.” “no,” you agree, “it doesn’t. but it helps.”

after that, things start to loosen—the conversation shifts slowly, and the air between you starts to feel less dense, less charged with the tension that had been building since the moment you sat down. the heaviness doesn’t vanish, it’s still there but easier to ignore when you’re focused on something else, like the way seunghyun starts tapping his fingers against his glass, or how your knee keeps bouncing under the table because your body hasn’t quite figured out what to do with the weird, awkward comfort of being near him again. it’s not like either of you suddenly forget the months of silence, or the way things ended, or all the shit that never really got said… but eventually, the edge softens, and your mouths start moving for other reasons—comments that aren’t weighed down by anger or guilt, memories that aren’t necessarily painful, and a rhythm that, while still tentative, starts to resemble the way things used to be between you, back before everything got ruined. because at first, you’re both careful—testing the boundaries of what’s okay to say, what’s still too raw to touch—but as time passes and the conversation wanders into safer ground, you find yourself laughing. which then makes him start laughing too, and it feels bizarre and comforting all at once—like your body forgot how easy it used to be to laugh with him, how that sound had once been a constant part of your days. and when he leans back in his chair, a little more at ease, you realize it’s been a long time since you’ve seen seunghyun look like that. it’s still weird. you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t. it’s weird to be sitting across from him, in real life, hearing his voice without a screen in between, seeing the way he moves and talks and exists like a real fucking person again. there are still moments where it catches you off guard—how familiar this all is, and also how far away it feels from who you were the last time you looked at him like this.

and when he asks, “do you want to go for a walk? brownsville’s botanical garden isn’t far from here. and it’s still open for another hour and a half,” you don’t even pretend to think about it. you just nod, and the look on his face, that flicker of relief, tells you he didn’t expect a yes. his driver’s already waiting outside, like always, and neither of you says much on the way. the ride is short, ten minutes, maybe fifteen. you watch the town pass through the tinted window, and beside you, he’s silent, but not in the closed-off way he used to be when things were bad. it’s a softer kind of silence now, where he’s letting himself be here, in this moment, with you. the botanical garden is smaller than you remember, and it’s mostly empty by the time you get there. as you walk, side by side but not too close—under a pink sky that’s starting to fade into something darker—there’s still a nervous flutter in your stomach, still that ridiculous awareness of where his hand is, of how close it would be if you reached out, but you don’t. because you remember—you remember how fucking much it hurt to lose him, how badly it ended and how long you waited for an apology that never came, until today. and as you both slow near a bench surrounded by wildflowers and a few trees that creak lazily in the warm breeze, he gestures toward it with a quiet nod, and you both sink down into the wooden slats. there’s a few inches between you, enough space to feel the gap and remind you both that no matter how easy the conversation’s been, there’s still a line neither of you has crossed yet. for a moment, you both just sit there, watching the wind tug lazily at the branches, listening to the low hum of cicadas starting up somewhere in the distance. and then, very casually, he asks, “so… is there someone in your life these days?” god—he hates how obvious it probably sounded the second it left his mouth. he doesn’t look at you when he asks, just keeps his gaze forward, like he’s talking to the horizon instead of you, like the question is just curiosity and not the thing he’s been thinking about since the second he saw you again. you glance at him. “yeah,” you say softly, honest because there’s no point in pretending. “i’ve been seeing someone.” oh… it hits him harder than he wants it to. not because he thought you’d been waiting around for him. of course not. he knows better than that. knows he doesn’t have that right. but something about hearing it out loud, from your mouth, in that voice he used to fall asleep to—it makes his stomach twist. you can see it in the way his jaw tightens slightly, and in the way his hands suddenly find his lap, like his body doesn’t quite believe the version of calm he’s trying to sell.

a long silence settles in, and he tells himself not to ask the next question, the one that’s pushing at his throat, but it slips out anyway, “does he know you’re here?” you shake your head. “no.” he turns slightly toward you, brows pulling in just a little. “i never told him,” you add. “about us.” and that fucking stings. “i just said there was someone once. but not who. i wanted to respect your choice, you know… you didn’t want it out there, you wanted to keep it private. and i… i guess i got used to it, too. so… i kept that, even after it ended.” he swallows hard, but doesn’t speak. because what is there to say, really? he sits there, listening to your words settle into the space between you, feeling it again—the shame. seunghyun stares out into the garden with a tight jaw, wondering when exactly he stopped deserving that kind of grace from you—and why you’re still giving it anyway. he stays quiet longer than he should, but he doesn’t trust his voice not to crack under the weight of everything he isn’t saying. and maybe he should let it go—but he can’t. “is he good to you?” he asks. he hates how much he wants to know. hates how pathetic it makes him feel to sit here, asking about a man who has what he used to. what he walked away from. “yeah,” you reply, and your voice is careful. “he’s… he’s kind. he works in construction with his dad—they run their own small company, mostly residential stuff. but we don’t see each other a lot… he’s the kind of guy who’s in bed by ten and up by five, and my schedule’s kind of all over the place too, so… yeah. but it works. things with him are—they’re simple… easy.” you don’t mean it as an insult, but fuck, it lands like one. “that’s good,” he says, and the words feel like gravel in his mouth. he forces them out anyway, and forces himself to nod, like that makes it more believable. “you deserve that.”

seunghyun wonders if this guy knows how you like your coffee, if he knows how you get when you’re overwhelmed—how you play with the hem of your shirt, how your voice gets sharp when you’re scared and how underneath that, you’re just trying not to break into a million pieces. he wonders if this new guy has ever seen you cry, and if he did, whether he knew what the fuck to do with it. if he sat with you in it, or tried to fix it, or made it worse by telling you everything would be okay when he didn’t know shit about what was actually going on inside your head. he wonders if this guy knows how you ramble when you’re tired. if he’s heard the stories you only tell when you’ve had one glass of wine too many, the ones that make you laugh even as you wipe your eyes. if he knows the things you’re afraid of. he wonders if this guy’s ever traced the line of your spine with his fingers just to feel you shiver under him, if he knows how your breath catches before you ever make a sound, how your thighs tense when you’re trying not to beg. does he know how to touch you the way you like? and fuck—does he get to hear you like that? whispering his name, nails in his back, legs shaking, voice breaking around the kind of moan that used to make seunghyun lose his goddamn mind? and then, in the middle of all that wondering, he hates himself a little—for being so fucking jealous.

you must feel the shift in the air too, the way his silence has gone from thoughtful to tense, like he’s holding something back. so you add, “we’re not… dating.” his head turns a little at that, eyes flicking over to you for the first time in minutes. “no?” you shake your head. “i’m not ready for that. not again. it’s been—i’ve been figuring shit out. still am.” he nods slowly. you glance at him, like maybe you’re trying to gauge his reaction, but he gives you nothing. “what about you?” you ask after a moment. “you seeing anyone?” “no.” it comes out fast and flat, like the idea pisses him off. you wait, maybe expecting him to explain, but he doesn’t. so you press, “not even casually?” seunghyun lets out a short, humorless laugh. “what would be the point?” your brows pull together, but you don’t answer. “i’m not exactly great company,” he adds, almost bitter. “and i’m not trying to let anyone close just so they can realize it for themselves.” “you are great company, hyun. don’t say that.” he just scoffs under his breath and shifts on the bench like he’s trying to crawl out of his own skin. “yeah, well,” he mutters, “guess that’s not enough anymore.” you turn to look at him. “what?” “nothing.” “no—say it.” you’re watching him now, fully turned toward him, and he can feel it—the weight of your stare, the tension in your voice. he shakes his head. “you’re here, telling me you’ve got someone, and—i don’t know, it’s just… i don’t know.” “you asked, seunghyun.” “i know. i just—i wasn’t expecting that answer.” you blink at him. “so what? you ask me if i’m seeing someone, and now you’re pissed that i answered you honestly?” “i’m not pissed,” he lies, and you both know it. “don’t lie to me. i know you better than anyone—” “do you love him?” he asks, and the question comes out so suddenly, so bluntly, it knocks the air out of your lungs. “no,” you say, after a beat. “i don’t love him. if i did, i wouldn’t be here.” he nods, like that’s what he wanted to hear, but the tightness in his mouth doesn’t ease. “okay.” “what do you want me to say, seunghyun?” you ask, keeping your voice even, though it’s getting harder. “that i waited around? that i haven’t touched anyone since you left? is that what you were hoping for?” “i wasn’t hoping for anything,” he snaps. you raise an eyebrow. “sure.”

he exhales, a short, frustrated breath, and leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring down at the dirt path between his shoes. because the truth is—he was hoping for that. he was hoping you’d tell him that, even after all this time, you were still a little bit his. and hearing otherwise—he doesn’t know what to do with that. doesn’t know how to sit across from you like it doesn’t matter when it feels like it’s fucking tearing him apart—sitting here, stewing in his own mess, wanting things he let go of, wishing you’d stayed stuck when all you ever did was survive the damage he left behind. every twisted part of him that wants you to be okay, also wants you to still need him. he’s so, so fucking selfish. and you’re right, of course. every word. his hands curl into fists. his vision blurs. he doesn’t mean to start crying, but it happens anyway. fuck. he takes his glasses off and drags a hand over his face, hoping you won’t say anything, hoping maybe you’ll look away long enough for him to get it under control. but he can’t. “i’m sorry,” he chokes out. “i’m sorry i’m acting like this. i just—i didn’t think it would feel like this. seeing you. i thought i could handle it, and i can’t.” his throat aches. he wipes at his face again, furious at himself for crying, for falling apart in front of you, for being nine months too late. “seunghyun—“

his name barely leaves your mouth before he’s crumbling again, shoulders shaking. you slide across the bench, closing the space between you, and wrap your arms around him, firmly. he tenses at first, like he doesn’t know what to do with the comfort, and then he just folds into you. his face buries into the crook of your neck, warm and damp with tears, breath shuddering against your skin, and your hand comes up to cradle the back of his head instinctively. “i’m sorry,” he whispers, over and over again. “fuck, i’m so sorry. i fucked everything up.” you close your eyes, heart aching with the weight of it. “i ruined it,” he says again, voice cracking. “i ruined us.” “it’s not your fault.” “it is.” “no—you were just scared. my mom’s the one who put us in this situation. and yeah, you hurt me but i—i forgive you, hyun. you’re forgiven, okay?” you hold him tighter, your chin resting lightly on his shoulder, breathing slow and steady because maybe if you stay calm, he’ll remember how to do the same. and for a while, he just cries. you haven’t seen him like this in a long time—haven’t seen him break this hard, this openly, not since the first time he told you he didn’t know how to live with himself. or the nights he’d curl into you, silent and shaking, too proud to sob until his body gave him no other choice.

when the worst of it passes—when the sobs begin to slow and his breathing evens out—he leans back and sniffles, avoiding your eyes as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small black cloth—one of those soft ones he always carried for his glasses, or for sweat when he was anxious. he dabs at his face, wiping away the tears first, then pressing it against his temples and the back of his neck. he’s sweating like hell, his hair damp, the collar of his sweater sticking slightly to his skin. “fuck,” he mutters under his breath, voice hoarse. “i’m a mess.” you reach for the cloth gently, fingers brushing his as you take it from him, and he doesn’t resist. “let me.” you wipe the tears from under his eyes first, careful and slow, then run the cloth lightly across his forehead, down to his cheeks, around the curve of his jaw. your other hand rests on his shoulder, grounding him. “you’re okay,” you murmur. “just breathe.” he nods, throat moving as he swallows hard. and then, after a long pause, with a voice that’s barely there he says, “i… i still love you.” you freeze, the cloth limp in your hand, your breath catching mid-air. did you hear that right? and then, quieter, he adds, “i don’t think i’ve ever loved someone as much.” yeah, you heard that right. your heart stumbles in your chest and you sit there, watching him. he won’t meet your eyes now, like saying it took the last of whatever strength he had left. his shoulders are hunched, jaw tight like he’s bracing for rejection even before it comes. he looks younger like this, and older too, worn down by months of pretending he was okay, of convincing himself he didn’t still ache for you every fucking day. and you love him. oh, you love this man so fucking much… you wish you didn’t sometimes, wish it didn’t still hurt. you place the cloth down carefully in your lap and reach out without thinking, your hand brushing the side of his face, fingers sliding into his hair like muscle memory. and he leans into it. you let your hand fall to his jaw, thumb gently swiping along the damp edge of it. “i love you too, hyun,” you say. “i never stopped.”

his shoulders shake, and you can tell he’s holding back again, trying not to fall apart a second time. you take his hand in yours. “you said… you said that you missed me. earlier. and the truth is… i missed you too,” you whisper, voice low and breaking now. “i missed everything—us. i tried to forget all of it and i couldn’t. i didn’t want to.” his fingers twitch under yours and he grips your hand tighter. you can feel how warm his skin is, how clammy his palm’s gone from the crying and the heat and all the fucking emotion, but you don’t let go. you just hold on, because this is the first time in months you’ve both said the truth out loud, and if it’s going to hurt, you’d rather it hurt with him right there beside you. his eyes are glassy, and you can tell he’s struggling to find the words. “i used to wake up in the middle of the night thinking you were still next to me,” he says. “and every single time it hit me that you weren’t, it felt—” he stops himself, rubbing a hand over his chest to stop it from aching. “i missed you so much it made me sick sometimes.” and you believe him. because you know that feeling. you remember what it felt like to lie awake with your back to the wall, trying to sleep in a bed that felt too big and too cold, your hand unconsciously reaching for a body that wasn’t there anymore. you remember the mornings you’d open your eyes and forget, just for a second, that he was gone—and how that second was always worse than the rest of the day combined. but sitting here now, his hand still trembling slightly in yours, all you can think is: we can’t go back. “i love you,” you say. “and i want to be with you, seunghyun. i want—hell, i’d spend the rest of my life with you.” your voice cracks on the last word, and your chest pulls tight as the tears finally spill over. “and i mean it. but… what would change?”

he’s silent. not because he doesn’t know what to say—but because he knows exactly what he’d like to say, and none of it would be true. “i can’t go back to hiding,” you continue before he can speak. “i can’t—i don’t want to be that girl again.” he closes his eyes for a second, then nods. “i know.” “but i also know…” you exhale, voice shaking, “i know that’s all you can offer me right now.” he shifts slightly, like he wants to argue. “that’s not—” “there’s no point in lying, seunghyun.” he runs a hand over his mouth, pained. “i could—maybe, in a few months, if things calm down—” “you and i both know that’s not how it works,” you say, cutting him off gently. “a few months won’t change the industry. or the people watching you. it won’t suddenly make us easy. and you know, seunghyun… you know a few months is unrealistic. and i don’t wanna—i don’t wanna wait in the shadows anymore. i won’t do it. i promised that to myself.” he sighs, long and defeated. “yeah. i know—i’m sorry. i just… i didn’t think i’d be getting this much attention again. after everything. the interviews, the show… it’s all been more than i expected. and it could get to you too, for the wrong reasons—” “i know,” you nod. “i know. and i get it, i really do. i’ve already deleted half my socials because of the harassment i got when it was just a rumor, and that wasn’t even real to them.” his face falls, shame coloring every line of it. “i’m sorry about that, too.” “yeah,” you murmur. “it’s fine. or—it’s not, but… it happened. those months were awful. but they’re behind me now.” he watches you for a long second, then says, “if we’d been closer in age, maybe it wouldn’t have been so complicated.” you smile, even though your lower lip is trembling slightly. “yeah. maybe it would’ve been easier.” the world outside won’t stop pressing in, and the timing keeps pulling you apart before you even get the chance to hold each other properly. “i hate this,” he whispers. “i hate that we finally said everything and it still isn’t enough.” “me too,” you say, sniffing. “but love isn’t the problem. it never was.” he nods slowly, and you know he’s holding back more tears.

you look at him—his swollen eyes, the slight tremble in his mouth that mirrors your own—and for a moment, you wish you could be selfish. you wish you could say fuck it, go back with him, crawl into the warmth of what could’ve been, and pretend that love alone is enough. but you can’t. “maybe you were right,” you say, trying to laugh through the tears, your voice catching halfway through. “maybe breaking up was the right thing to do. for both of us.” oh… the way his heart drops when he hears that—how much he wishes he could take those words back. how much he regrets ever saying them in the first place. how much he’s begged time, in every quiet moment since, to let him go back and rewrite your story. but it’s useless. it didn’t feel right then, and it sure as hell doesn’t now. you’re all he ever wanted. you’re all he wants. and deep down, he knows—you always will be. and it fucking kills him. it kills him to know that loving you isn’t the question—he does. with everything. the question is what to do with that love, now that it can’t go anywhere. because if you tried again… if you gave in to the ache and the want and the desperation—nothing would really change. you’d end up right back here. except next time, you’d be even more broken. “if i were braver,” he starts, “if i was different—” “don’t,” you cut in. “don’t do that. you don’t need to be a different person, hyun,” you say softly. “you just need a different life. and you don’t have that right now—and maybe you never will. but it’s okay.” “how can it be?” he says, and there’s a crack in his voice that makes your chest tighten. “how the fuck is it okay to want something this badly and still have to let it go?” you let out a shaky breath and look down at your lap. “we can’t change it. this. it’s… it’s not okay—fuck, i know it’s not. but it’s what we have.”

he goes quiet again, wiping under his nose with the back of his hand, tears still hanging in his lashes. you both sit in it. the sadness. the weight of every missed chance, every wrong timing, every choice that brought you to this bench. “if there’s another life,” you murmur, “maybe we find our way back to each other there.” he nods. “maybe,” he says, and you know he’s picturing it too. the could-have-beens. the should-haves. the soft life you never got to live. but not this one. he’s quiet for a while after that, like he’s still standing in that other life you just painted with your words—still walking through it in his mind, holding your hand in a version of the world where things were easier. and then his voice cuts through the silence, “but i don’t want to lose you in this life, either.” and before you can say anything, he adds, “do you think we could… i don’t know—be friends?” you turn to look at him, and he’s watching you carefully, not with expectation but with something closer to fear. he’s afraid you’ll say no, afraid you’ll cut the thread that still tethers you to him, even if it’s frayed and worn and barely holding. but you smile a little. it’s small and sad, but a smile after all. “yeah. i think we could.” he exhales like he’s been holding his breath. “maybe not right now,” you add gently. “maybe we give it some time. let it stop hurting so much. but yeah… eventually, i’d like that.” he nods again, eyes flicking toward you like he’s trying to memorize your face in this exact light, with this exact expression—still full of love. “i just don’t want to lose you completely.” “you won’t,” you say. and it’s the one thing you can promise. “you’re too much a part of me now, hyun, you always will be. we’ll figure it out.”

the gravel crunches quietly under your shoes. the path back through the garden is dim now, the sun completely dipped behind the horizon, leaving the sky painted in that deep, rich blue, settling into dusk. every now and then, you glance at seunghyun in your periphery—his hands in his pockets, head slightly bowed, like he’s trying to hold on to every last moment of this without showing it. you walk without touching, without speaking, but everything between you is loud. and then, just before the path curves toward the iron gate that separates the quiet of this place from the rest of the world, you stop. “seunghyun,” you say, his name barely above a whisper. he turns to you slowly, like he already knows what’s coming, like he’s been waiting for it without letting himself hope. you reach up with both hands and cradle his face—thumbs brushing over the curve of his cheekbones, your fingers slipping into the soft, familiar edges of his hair. his breath catches, his eyes flicker, and then they fall shut just as your mouth finds his. his hands are on you within seconds—your waist, your back, the side of your neck, fucking everywhere. he kisses you back hard, full of need and every word he didn’t know how to say earlier. you make a soft sound against his mouth, one he swallows greedily, pulling you closer, gripping the fabric at your back like he doesn’t trust the world not to rip you away. your fingers slide into his hair, tugging just enough to make him moan, and when he groans against your mouth, his tongue slips past your lips, deepening the kiss. he kisses you hungrily. because he knows this is the last moment he’ll get to remember what it feels like to be wanted by you. his hands slide up your sides, and then one of them cups your face, the pad of his thumb brushing just beneath your eye, catching a tear you didn’t even realize had fallen. your heart stutters in your chest at how tender it is—how fucking unfair it is that someone can love you this gently and still not be yours. you kiss him deeper, your tongue meeting his, your mouth opening wider like maybe if you just give enough of yourself, it’ll keep him for a little longer. but eventually, it has to stop. your hands loosen in his hair, and his grip on you falters. you pull away first, even though it feels like tearing something out of your own chest. you’re both panting, and your lips are swollen. “sorry,” you whisper. “i just… i needed to do that one last time.” you close your eyes and let your hand rest over his chest, right where his heart is pounding beneath your palm—fast and uneven, like yours. “i needed it too,” he says quietly. you both feel it settle deep in your bones—that quiet, devastating truth: the kiss was goodbye. to everything you were and everything you’ll never be again.

by the time you make it back to your friend’s apartment, the sky has already folded into itself, navy and thick. you step inside, the house dim and quiet, the hallway lit only by the warm spill of light coming from the kitchen where your friend’s probably left a candle burning. you move through the space like you’re not really there. your shoes come off, your jacket lands somewhere near a chair you don’t look at, and you’re halfway down the hall toward the living room with that hollow, buzzing emptiness ringing in your ears—when your phone vibrates once. and you think, for a stupid second, that maybe it’s him. but no. instead, it’s your banking app, and there on your screen, as casual as if someone had just venmoed you for last week’s pizza, is a deposit—an absurd amount of money, like… frankly ridiculous amount—and next to it, the name. choi seunghyun. you stare at it for a second, not really processing it, your brain taking its sweet time catching up, and when it finally does, you quickly message him.

seunghyun

WHAT THE FUCK

what

why

wtf

what the actual fuck

You told me you were staying with your friend while looking for a place.

I thought it might help.

are you crazy?

wtf

this is insane, hyun

It’s nothing🙂

it’s NOT nothing wtf

you wired me enough to pay rent for a year

maybe more

no, no, definitely more

way more

what part of that feels normal to you

this is so much money, what were you thinking

I was thinking you deserved it.

i don’t need you to take care of me like that

i’m not your responsibility

You’re not.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to help you however I can.

it’s too much, hyun

So is everything I feel for you.

i don’t know if i can accept it

Please do.

Friends help each other, don’t they?

i’m being so frl rn old man

Me too, princess.

are u trying to make me cry?💔 be honest

We’ve cried enough today.

I want you to be happy, so please let me do this for you.

thank you seunhyun, really

Of course🫰🏼

i love you

I love you too.

Take care❤️

you too :)

you press the phone to your chest, close your eyes, and sigh. and maybe it’s dramatic to cry over a money transfer, but here you are. not because you need the money, but because you know, this is the only way he knows how to take care of you now—by giving you something tangible and useful in his absence. and that hurts.

it’s been two years since that last conversation with seunghyun—two whole years since that kiss in the garden, since the deposit, since his last message sat in your phone. life didn’t stop after him. it moved forward the way time always does—slow. and eventually, you did too. you moved out of your friend’s place not long after meeting seunghyun—gave yourself permission to look at listings just slightly outside your price range, to stop filtering by ‘cheapest first,’ to imagine something more. and when you found it—a corner apartment on the top floor of a building, all warm wood and tall windows and soft morning light—you said yes. it’s not huge, but it’s beautiful. clean lines, a little balcony that overlooks the street, a kitchen that makes you want to cook even when all you know how to make is pasta… it’s the first place you’ve ever lived that feels like it was meant for you. and yeah, sometimes you think about seunghyun—you think about how he gave this to you. but mostly, you think about how you made it into something your own.

you also dropped the guy you’d been seeing back then and focused on yourself. let yourself learn how to be alone. you got a new job too—something better, something steadier. it pays well, and you don’t come home every night feeling like you’ve been scraped raw, which is more than you used to ask for. things with your mom are better now, or at least better than they used to be. she calls every week, asks about work (because that’s her favorite topic), sometimes even about your mood, and it’s clear she’s trying. but the thing that still sticks in your throat, the thing you can’t seem to move past, is that she’s never actually said she was sorry. she speaks like it was a necessary evil, like leaking your relationship to the press was some calculated decision made for your protection, not a betrayal that burned through your entire life. and maybe if she showed even a flicker of regret—real regret—you’d be able to meet her halfway. but without that, there’s only so far you can go.

you’re not healed. but you’re okay. you wake up most mornings without feeling like you’re drowning, you go to work, make dinner, fold laundry while music plays in the background. you laugh with friends and sleep through the night more often than not. and your screen time is down 12% this week—so, progress. that has to count for something. but some nights, when it’s quiet in your apartment and the city hums softly outside your window, you think of seunghyun. you wonder where he is, if he’s okay, if he ever sees something and thinks of you. you wonder if he’s happy, if he’s sleeping well, if his hands still tremble when he’s anxious or if someone else has learned how to hold them steady. and sometimes, you stare at the ceiling too long, or catch yourself holding your breath when a memory slips through—and it still surprises you, how much he lives in the smallest, stupidest things. because no matter how much distance time gives you, there are people who never really leave. and seunghyun, no matter how far away he is now—he’s one of them.

so when his name lights up your phone one random thursday evening two years later—you almost fall off your bed.

Hi.

Sorry if this is weird.

I was looking through my gallery and I found this.

it’s a photo taken from above—his arm stretched out enough to fit both of you into the frame, the angle slightly off-center. you’re completely out, fast asleep on top of him, arms loosely wrapped around his waist like you were trying to merge with him in your sleep. your cheek is smushed against the ridiculous pajama top—the one he bought for himself first, then ordered a second one for you when he realized how cute you’d look matching. yes, the infamous pajama set that everyone and their mother saw after your mom leaked everything. his hair is a mess, sticking up in every direction, but his face is soft—eyes shining even in the low light of the room, a sleepy grin on his face.

Turns out, the picture those fans took of us wasn’t the only one we had.

I hope life’s treating you nicely🫰🏼

and something about it—about him still having that photo, still thinking of you enough to send it—makes you smile. you write back faster than you thought you would.

omg seunhyun!!! hii!!

when did you take that photo? and why didn’t u tell me about it?😭

I took it when you came to Seoul for my birthday.

I forgot I took it.

You woke up right after hahah😴😄

it’s sooo sooo cute🥹

It is😊

How are you?

i’m good :)) but a bit tired because i’ve been helping my friend paint her house and it’s been a lot of work

my arms are so sore😭

what about you?

you doing okay?

Yes! I’m good.

I missed talking to you.

me too :)) and i’m glad to know you’re doing well!

I also wanted to know if you’d like to go for a coffee next week?

I wanted to fly to Texas to see you.

We could catch up.

If you want to, of course🙂

yesss ofc, i’d love to :)🩷

i’m really happy you reached out

been thinking about you a lot, honestly

You have?

more than i’d like to admit hahah

i was wondering how you were doing :)

I’ve thought about you too.

And I’m really looking forward to seeing you😊

me too🙂‍↕️

I’ll send you the details once everything’s booked, is that okay?

yeah, sure, that sounds perfect :)

See you soon🫰🏼

when the day finally comes, there’s a quiet nervousness in your chest—not the kind that makes your hands shake, but the kind that hums beneath your skin. you don’t know what to expect. it’s been two years. whole seasons, whole versions of yourself have passed since you last stood in front of him. you’ve changed. you’ve grown. but some things stay. he’s waiting outside the café when you arrive—hands in his coat pockets, hair a little longer. and the second your eyes meet, he smiles. and you smile back, like no time has passed at all. the conversation flows without effort. you don’t even notice your coffee going cold—you’re too busy talking and laughing like it hasn’t been two years. and you don’t try to stop the feeling that rushes in, that warm, aching knowing in your chest that says, yeah. it’s still him. even after everything. it’s still seunghyun. you don’t know what’s going to happen next, and for once, that doesn’t scare you. you just let the moment be what it is, suspended in something that feels a lot like peace. because maybe this is it. maybe you don’t need another life to find your way back to each other—you already do in this one.

i hope this lived up to your expectations for part 2 :) i genuinely did the best i could. i’ve spent so much time on this fic and gotten so attached to everything about it that it doesn’t even feel like something i made up anymore?? like someone out there is living through it and suffering bc of seunghyun fr… my brain fully believes it atp😭

thank you so much for all the support you’ve shown to this fic, and for all the kind messages i’ve been getting because of it—i seriously wasn’t expecting it at all 🥹💗

regular taglist: @breakmeoff @sherrayyyyy @infinetlyforgotten @bettelaboure @scream-queen-25 @flwerangii

hidden pt.2 taglist: @ulquiorraswife @rubyylovestoread @youlikeex @liv2cool

UPDATE!

okay sooo… i’ve officially decided there’s gonna be a part 2 for ‘Hidden || Choi Seung-Hyun (T.O.P)’ !! it’s gonna be a lot shorter than the original fic since i never actually planned on writing a second part, but after seeing how much y’all connected with it, i really wanted to give the characters a bit more closure and make the ending hurt a little less.

i’ll be pausing the thanos fic for now (sorry king💜) and focusing on writing this second part—hopefully it won’t take me forever to finish and i can get it posted soon!!

thank u sm for all the love you’ve shown Hidden so far—i seriously appreciate it more than i can say!!🥹💗—lex

Part 2!

Snake, Worm off a string (what crimes shall he do?), and Strawberry frog! (By Heartel Design)

Cool hair ornament! (Only got tangled like 20 times lol)

HSR blind bag shakers (By @akibirds on insta) (HSR)

Sayu and Kazuha lucky charms! (By Blulious) (Genshin)

Mystery Bag Red Junimo! (Stardew)

HSR Star Rail Nyas: Jade, Seele, Boothill, 4* Herta, and Natasha! (By @natsumiclub on insta) (HSR)

So I went to my first Con last Saturday, here's the pics of my spoils! (No pics from actual con yet, I broke my phone and am still trying get all my old photos back ;^;)

FeiXiao poster! (Honkai Star Rail) (By @.yu._.art on insta)

Chuuya Poster (BSD), Arlecchino Poster (Genshin), and Mavuika pin (Genshin)! (All by @.maxlingorange on Instagram)

Shocked Cat plush that I have (not so) lovingly named Dazai

ENBEE

Lil Dice Snake (D20 is removable!) (Also say hi to Tripp or he will cry)

Cool amethyst (My birthstone/favorite stone)

Choco Strawberry Eevee! (alchemyartgroup.com)

The rewards from a Hoyo themed scavenger hunt! (Cards are Brim Hatter & Kumquatt Tea, both on insta) (The artists involved are @.akibirds, @.natsumiclub, @.yu._.art, @.kumquatt_tea, & @.brim_hatter, all on insta)

(PART 1!!!! CHECK REPLIES/PROFILE FOR THE REST)

YOUNG KUVIRA (The Edge p.2)

I can’t believe we get the sequel to Doom Crossing these 2 movies releasing on the same day XD

hope you enjoy this silly drawing, and have an AWESOME day!!!!

Part 2 with the misunderstandings:

Tim was suspicious. He was inherently suspicious – how else did he get to live so long in the superhero community? But he was suspicious for a good reason here. He swears.

Damian was smiling. At a joke. There was something so deeply disturbing about that image – his stoic, 13 year old brother smiling at something someone else said – that he had to pinch himself, to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. The sharp flare of pain proved he wasn’t.

He looked around at his family, in their superhero personas, and sees his disbelief mirrored in their faces. Nothing as large as a dropped jaw or anything resembling a physical reaction. But it can be seen in their widened eyes, the drop of their shoulders. Good. So he wasn’t the only one seeing this; not a hallucination made from a sleep-deprived mind.

He turns back, catching Damian throwing his head back as he laughs. That’s when his curiosity snaps.

There had to be a spell here, a chemical gassed somewhere. Yes, this was the Watchtower, but the chance of something happening was low, but never zero.  Seeing that no-one was going to do anything, he braced himself, preparing himself to save the demon brat from something he wouldn’t thank him for.

Marching himself towards Damian and the unknown, he slips into his Wayne persona.

“Robin! What’s happening over here? We could hear the laughing from the other side of the room!” Jerking his head towards the other Bats, he looks him over, looking for any sign of mental manipulation, any sign that he was feeling unsafe.

His face drops into a scowl, and the unknown laughs at him. “Aw, little –” and here he speaks something in a language he doesn’t understand, “doesn’t like people checking up on him?” he asks, green eyes still laughing at Damian.

The scowl is aimed at the unknown now, and Tim breathes a little easier, knowing that he wasn’t so far gone as to be unable to give anyone a murder glare.

Damian looks back towards him, scowl still in place. “It’s none of your business Red Robin,” he says, chin tilted up stubbornly. Tim internally sighs, knowing that talking to Damian when he was this obstinate was a no-go.  He looks to the unknown, deciding to pursue another avenue.

“So, I’m Red Robin, as you heard the brat say,” he says, fake smile fixed in place. There’s a beat, where the unknown doesn’t say anything and they’re staring at each other. Measuring the other up. The moment stretches on for too long, and Tim thinks that the unknown won’t give the courtesy of giving him a name.

“Phantom,” he says finally – but only after his eyes flick over to Damian. Interesting.

And then he’s back to smiling, but not before his demeanour slips for a second. Not enough for a normal person to catch, but someone obviously affiliated with Robin, and a Meta to boot?

He sees Phantom give a ghost of a smile, fangs peeking through, and internally curses himself.

“So what brings you here, Phantom? It’s not anyone who’s able to be invited into the Justice League’s headquarters,” he asks, doggedly keeping up with the persona.

“Oh, a rogue of mine was able to leave my – kingdom? I guess you’d say, so I had to return her,” he replies, utterly relaxed. In fact, so relaxed that he floats up, white hair billowing around him. It pisses him off, the fact that an unknown was able to be so relaxed in space, amongst the highest calibre of heroes – including Batman. He tunes back into the conversation, compiling the information for a profile.

“Did you have to take her to Walker?” Damian asks, a small frown in place.

Phantom sighs, crossing his arms behind his head. “Yeah, but it’ll only be for a couple weeks at most.”

Damian rolls his eyes, frown disappearing “You know Walker’s a stickler for the rules,” he says, and Tim watches the conversation with bated breath, hoping that they don’t notice him. “She’s going to stay there for at least a couple of months.”

“That was before,” Phantom says, face losing some of the good humour. “It’s my kingdom now; I can say that she doesn’t have to stay for even a day. I’m just giving Walker some goodwill here.”

“Our kingdom,” Damian mutters under his breath snidely. Tim’s stomach drops. Their – kingdom?!

He must have made a noise, because Damian catches his eyes, and his eyes widen.

Phantom looks at him too, and smiles a toothy grin that does nothing to belay the panic he’s feeling.

“Not your kingdom until you’re dead Da-,” he cuts himself off then suddenly, and Tim whips his head to stare at Damian. He’d given out his civilian identity?

But Damian isn’t even looking at him, instead looking at Phantom. His face softens suddenly, and Tim feels his heart drop. He knows he’s not going to like what comes out of his mouth.

“It’s alright نصفي الآخر,” he says, hand going up to catch Phantom’s wrist. “I know you’re still adjusting.”

Tim feels suddenly like he’s intruding on a private conversation, but the panic he’s feeling roots him to the spot. He tunes out the rest of the conversation, translating the Arabic that Damian had spoken.

“نصفي الآخر,” he hears on a loop in his head. “My other half,”

What the fuck?

Dcxdp #22

Danny's human half dying as collateral during a fight. That human half goes into reincarnation and is reborn as Damian Wayne. He isn't born with all of his memories but he definitely feels that something is wrong. they would get their Memories Back at about 8 and have a horrible time dealing with being an assassin. Danny would try to stick to the personality they already had before but there's definitely slip-ups of them being like yeah this is wrong and Talia thinks they take after their father because of it. 

The first thing Danny does when they're not being monitored by their mom or the bat family is to look for Phantom. Phantom to have run away to the ghost Zone and has built a reputation as a merciless ruler. He's a good ruler and he's not a tyrant but  he doesn't have the reputation of kindness. Damien as the moral compass of the duo is really funny to me.

 There's a situation later that involves ghosts which is where Danny/Damian and Phantom meet again. I want there to be a very big misunderstanding that heroes think Phantom is obsessed with Damien but in reality they are literally other halves of a soul. Phantom keeps doing and saying things that no one else would get away with around Damien. Phantom would be saying things like making fun of his height or giving him nicknames but as far as anyone else sees Davian doesn't even flinch.

Danny/Damian and Phantom have lived Separate Lives for a while so they don't automatically fuse into one person. I think they would fuse for a few hours just to feel themselves be one Soul again but they have Separate Lives so they can't stay that way. The bat family is very concerned with Damien continuing to talk to the obsessive ghost that keeps possessing his body.

His manga hat is so TALL

© STEP BY STEP | Do not edit.

god if ace attorney don't stop showing up in my feed i might continue it and never stop and I can't deal with that rn....im weakening....

I woke up with a splitting headache, lying in bed next to the devil himself.

Wait, that may sound weird to an outside observer.

You see, a couple weeks ago, I met the devil himself at a ‘con, and, assuming he was just a cute (and dedicated) cosplayer, I asked him on a date. On the date, he told me what he ‘really’ was.

That was it, until last night, when I came home and found he’d broken into my apartment, helped himself to a couple of my beers, and was watching ‘Keeping Up With The Kardashians’. He was apparently on the run from his brothers, the archangels Michael and Raphael.

So, we did shots. Lots, and lots, and lots of shots. I lost count after about four. I checked under the blanket and breathed a sigh of relief. I was not naked. I looked over at him. He was shirtless, but save for that, he was clothed. I got up, and walked over to the full-length mirror. I was disheveled, and my lower lip was cut – as if…

“Morning,” said Lucifer, getting up and stretching, ruffling his black curls as he scratched his head. “Did you sleep well?”

I turned back to him and pointed to my lip. “Did you do this?”

He smiled, mischief flashing in his eyes. “You are a very naughty drunk, Adam.”

I moved to my shirt to the side a little bit, exposing a small, mouth-shaped bruise on my collarbone.

“And you aren’t exactly an angel yourself,” was the retort I saw fit to utter, and his smile was almost radiant.

“Well, I think my brothers would be inclined to agree. Breakfast? Do you know a place around here that we can get it? Somewhere out of the way?”

I looked at myself in the mirror again. I looked kind of awful.

“Let me shower first.”

Lucifer nodded. “Probably a good idea?”

“What about you, do you… shower?”

He chuckled a little bit. “Unless you’re offering to share, not really.”

“Not really.”

“Well,” he sighed (he’s very emotive, for a being who supposedly punishes the damned), “I guess I’ll have to see to myself, then,” and he waved his hand over his body, and his form seemed to shimmer. His clothes changed into a rather simple set of garb – a hoody over a t-shirt and jeans, with sneakers. He looked like he had showered, shaved and dried.

Shaking my head, I went into the bathroom. Turning on the shower, I looked into the mirror. “What the hell have I gotten myself into?”

I heard a muffled sound from my room. “Me, if you’re lucky!”

After I had finished showering, I returned to the living room to find him watching the news. He switched it off as I entered the room, and walked over to the door. “So, you have any idea where you want to go?”

“There’s a good IHOP near here. You do eat, don’t you?”

He shrugged. “I do, sort of. I can imbibe any mortal faire you please, up to and including liquor. I’m capable of becoming drunk, but I can end my inebriation in an instant if I need to. It’s a handy angelic trait. I enjoy these things, because they’re so…,” he shrugged, “Human, I guess.”

“And… sex?”

“Same thing, really.”

“Okay. Am I driving, then?”

He seemed glad for the change of subject, “Probably for the best. I can’t drive.”

“You can’t drive? You’re the devil for Christ’s sake.”

“Hey, I teleport everywhere. Occasionally I get a chauffeur. I’ve never had to.”

“Cars have existed for nearly a century and a half!”

“And I’m over a half a million years old! Cut me a little slack, please.”

It was my turn to sigh, this time walking to the door and nursing my headache a bit more. Maybe it wasn’t the liquor. Maybe it was just his personality.

When we got into my car (a beaten 1999 Ford Taurus, a dark shade of green and rusting through in spots), I asked him another question. “Is there anything I can call you other than Lucifer? It seems a tad bit…”

“… excessive?”

“Kind of. I mean, most people hear Lucifer and they think… I don’t’ know, goat’s head, human body, caduceus?”

“Sadly enough I left my caduceus in Hell. It was a fun little prop for a while, but once people start expecting things, it gets boring quick. I’ve never dealt well with expectations.”

“So, are there any that you like?”

“Satan?”

“Same problem.”

“Sammael? Lilith liked that one.”

“No, too… Aramaic.”

“Old scratch?”

“Too folksy.”

“Iblis? It’s not my name, but I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t mind.”

“I feel like that’s appropriation somewhere along the line.”

“The French called me Voland for a while, does that work?”

“You have absolutely no clue how human names work, do you?”

“I mean, no,” he seemed a little offended. “You do realize I’ve had more names than you’ve had days on this planet, right?”

“Alright. Luci it is.”

“Luci? Am I a demon or a cartoon character?”

“How do you know about Charlie Brown but you don’t know how to drive?”

“Hell gets cable, not gasoline.”

I began to drive, and he watched out the window. Not like a sullen teenager, more like a child on their way to Disneyworld. He was caught somewhere between obvious excitement and a deep, internal reverie. I noticed his eyes were now green.

“You… don’t get out much… do you?”

He shook his head. “A couple days a decade, typically. I try to keep up with current events – I remember it took Machiavelli half a century to teach me about his contemporaries. Boy, you should have heard what he said about them…”

“Why don’t you….”

“… come to the world more often? Typically, because Michael has taken a liking to beating me up and throwing me back into Hell. Heaven views it as a prison break, usually. The last time I was allowed on the surface was to hunt down another rogue angel. That was the last time that I saw Raphael, too.”

“When was that?”

“About a thousand years ago, I spent six years on the surface.”

“How long do you plan on staying this time?”

“Forever. I left Iblis in charge, he can take care of things for as long as I need him to. He relishes it, poor bloke.”

“What, and you don’t?”

“Don’t get me wrong. It can be fun, for a few thousand years. Getting vengeance for those hurt by the damned, a righteous anger that can’t be sated. But it’s poisonous; you can lose yourself. Also, ruling over the ‘inhabitants’ of Hell can be good too. Some of them have wonderful personalities. Unfortunately, even that gets old. I created Hell, what seems like an eternity ago. From nothingness. John Milton almost got it right. But the problem was, that no matter what I did, I couldn’t recreate home. And maybe ruling in Hell isn’t as good as serving in Heaven was.”

“Can you ever go back?”

He smiled, a wistful expression. He seemed unbearably old then, like an old man who had seen too much of life. “Ta lonsh calz zonrensg, babalon adrpan.”

I heard a sound like thunder from the clear sky.

“As the exalted above have decreed, the wicked are cast down. Until the end of days, I am cast out of Heaven.  I suppose someone like me doesn’t get a redemption arc.”

As he finished that little diatribe, I pulled into the parking lot of the IHOP. I got out of the car, and he followed. “Do they have chocolate chip pancakes here?”

“What are you, twelve?”

“On a scale of one to ten, yes I am.”

“Pride goeth before the fall,” I responded.

“Not as much as you’d think.”

When we got inside, we were met by a server. She had brown hair, a pierced lip, and seemed happy enough to serve us. “Booth for two, please.”

“Right this way,” she said, leading us both to a booth in the far corner of the restaurant, next to the bathroom. She handed us a pair of laminated menus. “Can I start you off with something to drink today?”

I looked at Lucifer, who was staring intensely at the menu, and I guessed I would be the one to speak first. “Water for me. Luci?”

He looked up like I’d interrupted some deep meditation, rather than a decision over what to have for breakfast. “Umm… I’ll take a hot cocoa.”

I raised an eyebrow at this, but he either didn’t notice or feigned ignorance. When the waitress stepped aside, I whispered to him, “Hot cocoa?”

“I have a sweet tooth.”

“Clearly.”

As we waited for the waitress to return with our drinks, I began to ask questions. “So, Michael and Raphael. What do they look like?”

He arched his fingers in front of his face and focused for a second. The waitress arrived with our drinks while he pondered an answer. Taking a sip from his cocoa, he began. “You have to realize that our earthly forms are not our only forms. I’ve taken a particular many forms over my remarkably long life, and this is just one I picked up in ancient Greece.”

He took another drink. “So I suppose that Michael and Raphael could look like anyone. But they won’t. They like specific forms.’

“So what will they choose?”

“Michael is a lot like me, ashamed though he is to admit it. He likes younger forms. Typically androgynous. He is very much an Aryan – blonde hair, blue eyes, the like. He typically goes for lithe but muscular frames. He dislikes facial hair. He’ll stand out in a crowd – he’s vain, he likes to be pretty and he likes to be the center of attention. You’ll see him coming a mile off.”

“And Raphael?”

“He’s a little bit more varied. He likes to look smart, so expect him to look bookish. He likes older forms – middle aged men with grey hair and beards, typically he chooses to look more Arabic, with darker, weather-worn skin. He picked up that tendency in the eighth century or so.”

“Okay. Are you sure they won’t try to disguise themselves better?”

“Nah. I’m the one in the family who got the gift for illusions; they know I’ll spot them regardless. Their goal is to hunt me down like hounds chasing a rabbit, rather than try and sneak up on me.”

The waitress came back, this time with a small notepad. “Can I get your orders?”

“I’ll take the chocolate chip pancakes. And another cocoa.”

She took my order and then went back to turn it in to the kitchen. Within a few minutes she was back with his pancakes and my omelet, and he poured syrup on his food and began to wolf it down. “For someone who doesn’t need to eat, you sure like to.”

He began to speak with his mouth full, then paused, swallowed, and repeated. “I don’t get this kind of luxury very often. In Hell, we have our feasts and the like, but it’s all so much protein. Demons love beef and pork and the like, but we never get the sweet stuff.”

“My heart bleeds for you,” I said, as sarcastic as I could muster.

He had near-finished his plate when he looked alert and then dodged under the table.

“What are you doing?”

I looked down and saw him next to my right knee. He put a finger to his lips and whispered, “Shh. Door.”

I looked over my shoulder and saw two men entering. One was blonde-haired, blue-eyed and young. The other was a middle-eastern man with gray hair and glasses. Both were dressed in matching suits and long coats of wool.

“Are they…?”

“Yes!” he whispered, “Now quiet!”

I watched as he grabbed my fork off the table and jabbed it into his thumb, drawing blood. “What the fu-“

He put his finger to his mouth again and made eye contact. He began to draw on the ground in his blood. I watched as the two men talked to our waitress, and watched her point over to our corner. Goddamnit. The two made meaningful eye contact, and began to walk over, reaching into their coats and pulling out silvery… somethings. They looked like blades, but blades typically don’t blur like you’re watching them through some kind of smeared lens.

They walked over to the table, and began to speak. First it was that strange, guttural tongue which Lucifer had spoken in the car. Then, it was English. “Come out, little brother. We would have words with you.”

Lucifer climbed out from under the table with his hands raised, “Come now, boys, we don’t have to do this right now. I was just having lunch with my boyfr-“

Michael grabbed him by the throat and drew him close. “Quiet, you fool. Had it been my way we would have turned this pitiful city into a burnt-out pillar of salt rather than see you walk here. Your very presence befouls this world.”

Raphael put his hand on Michael’s arm, moving it away. “Not here, Michael,” he said, in accentless English. “We must try to keep a low profile.”

Michael moved his hand away from Lucifer’s neck, and nodded at me. “What about the boy, Raphael. He knows too much, I would suspect.”

Lucifer glanced at me. I recognized the look. It was fear. “He knows nothing. Let him be.”

Michael scoffed. “As if I would trust you to tell me anything, brother.”

Raphael looked at me. His eyes were pale, like ice. “Tell me true. Who are you?”

I couldn’t break eye contact. I was frozen. It felt like the truth was being pulled from me, extracted more thoroughly than torture ever could. “My name is Adam Drakeson.”

With that, he looked at Lucifer, then back at me. “And what has Lucifer told you?”

“That you are angels. That he is Satan. That you wish to send him back to Hell.”

Michael scoffed. “The basics.”

As he went to lift Lucifer into the air again, I got up and tried to stop him. It was mostly an unconscious thing, but I got to my feet and grabbed his arm. I don’t know what I thought I could do, but I do remember him backhanding me back into the booth. It felt like I’d been hit by a small bus.

At this the occupants of the nearby tables became agitated. A man, middle-aged and dressed in simple, everyday clothing got up and went over to him. “Sir, please, this is a restaurant, you shouldn’t –“

Michael looked at him, his eyes blazing pure blue, with no visible iris, pupil or schlera. “Know your place, pond scum.”

The man was blasted across the room, out a window. “Raphael! Wipe the human’s memory, then let’s be on our way.”

Raphael leaned towards me and made eye contact. “Forget whatever Lucifer has told you. Forget Lucifer. Forget us. Forget everything that has been changed because of him. Forget.”

I felt like someone was tugging on the inside of my skull, like my brain was being fed on, eviscerated, reduced. But, inexplicably, it faded. I forgot nothing. I remembered everything. Lucifer was laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Raphael snapped.

“It won’t work, brother. I warded his mind against illusions and alterations the day I met him. You won’t be able to do anything to him.”

Michael laughed, a haughty, hollow sound. “Nothing? I could always kill him. A corpse has no memories.”

Lucifer laughed back, this time shifting form, almost imperceptibly to me. His horns grew back. His eyes glowed red. The laugh became a cacophony of voices, the voice of legion. “Babalon ziltar zien!”

From beneath the table there came a groaning, screaming, as whatever he had drawn beneath it came to life. The table was destroyed as a portal opened, of black and red and shadow and death. Screams echoed as a creature emerged. Dressed in black robes, it was unlike anything I had ever seen. It had black scales, lizardlike features, with two curling ram’s horns. It carried with it two stone tablets. As it appeared, Raphael dived with his blade to strike it. It said a word, and Raphael was disarmed, his blade flying out of his hand and to the ground. “Fugio memet, coeles viventem.”

Raphael screamed as in a flash, he disappeared. Michael dropped Lucifer and went to strike the creature, but it spoke again, and this time, black, tarlike tentacles emerged from the portal to grab him. “Unhand me, infernal creature!”

It dragged him closer to the pit, and the creature looked at Lucifer. “Debitum solvit.”

Lucifer nodded, grabbed me by the arm, and dragged me towards the exit. “Time to go, I think.”

“I’m not the kind of person who gets a redemption arc.”

Today Suzi Q!!! ( ☆∀☆)

I hope you're not a parts skipper ( ￣ー￣)

@angelsbeautifuluniverse

Part 2

Chapter Two: We fucked up.

Part 1

My ao3

That same scenario runs through his head over and over on repeat the entire walk home, and it was bad enough that he was out of cigs or else he'd be turning to crying or something.

It's all he's thinking.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘥𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘴 𝘥𝘰, 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘵. 𝘛𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘺 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘢, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘦𝘵 𝘐 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘱 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘶𝘱 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵, 𝘈𝘭𝘳𝘰. 𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘴 𝘴𝘢𝘬𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦 𝘢 𝘣𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴? 𝘈 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘵?

Sighing, he drags his feet over and over to get home with a deep pout and frown on his lips. He just wants to go home. He doesn’t want this lifestyle anymore. Not the fame or… not the fame it brings. He's not happy. It's doesn't feel right to be here, controlling and being supposed to look after people when he can't even look after himself. Twenty eight years old and he can't even do that: take care of himself. It's pathetic.

__

Opening the door to he and Manjusha's shared.. apartment(?), he drags himself inside with slumped shoulders and a pout. Making the smart decision to at least close the door before slowly trudging his way to the kitchen after stopping by the couch and grabbing a blanket to tightly wrap around himself like his mom used to - But it's /his/ blanket, his worn to softness, rocket blanket that nobody else can touch, not even Manny- before trudding all the way to the fridge. Cool-aid seems like the only thing Manjusha will let him drink these days, after what happened.. he doesn’t think the scar will fade. But at least it wasn’t all that bad.. right? Right-?

But a loud clatter coming from his bedroom tears him out of his thought, already in a bad enough mood given today, not to mention that he's all out of red cool aid.

Taking in a sharp and shakey breath -don’t fucking cry, you pussy- he waddles a little closer to where the sound had come from. His upset pout quickly gone when hearing the commotion, just to be replaced by a scared kid. Arlo may be an odd 6ft something, but helped by the day he's had with all the sounds, bright coulors and lights, he though it was safe enough for him to put his gaurd down even just for a little bit. But he was wrong. He's always wrong.

So instead of walking closer, he quietly whimpers to himself. Stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen with a kids blanket wrapped tight around him and unshed tears in his eyes, he watches as what made the loud sound walks out of his room.. he can't move from the spot he's in, there's so many monsters it could be..

𝘧𝘶- 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘵, 𝘔𝘴. 𝘉𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪'𝘷𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘪 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘥-

And oh.

It's…. Dave.

"Ah- shit. I /seriously/ need to ask Arlo what the hell that is-"

Oh.

Of all people, It's Dave who has to see a scared, younger looking Arlo stood terrified in his kitchen. Eyes glasses over with what could be tears, or just that childlike way his eyes get when seeing something particular. Not that he'd know exactly, but he's seen it first hand, and yep- okay. He's crying.

"Uh, shit, hey man. It's- hey, it's okay. I wasn't trying to rob you guys-" and, okay. Internally he's cursing himself for not parking his car out front, but he didn't know this would happen, okay??? He wad just trying to do something kind, and..

"I am NOT doing that, are you kidding me??? Look, Sasha-"

"No, Dave, shut UP. /You/ are going to fix this, and /you/ are going to cheer him up if it costs you fucking everything just because I can’t be there for him. You're basically like an older brother to Arlo" Sasha exclaims while looking at Dave through her glammed out mirror, trying to get 'these damn lashes on-'

"I have known him for two MONTHS! How does that make me- I'm just not. That guy fucking hates me and I'm not going to go babysit him because he can't take care of himself"

And oh did that hit something in Sacha.

Tightening the grip on her tweazers, Sasha visibly shakes in anger with a glare as she turns in her stool. Trying and failing to fully control herself as she stands up, dropping her prized tweazers and poking Dave hard in the chest when face to face.

"Arlo is, /NOT/ a fucking child" she grits, voice thinly avoiding the tone of pure murder before continuing.

"That boy has been through so fucking much just to be here, and don't think for a /second/ that he's keeping you here out of pity and not because he's the sweetest fucking person you'll ever meet. That 'Manchild' is who's giving you a fucking job and you're going to help him when I can't. Say no one more fucking time and you can see what it's like being in a coma for twenty years. Got it?" she says lowly through gritted teeth as she looks Dave dead in the eye. Shit she's gotten closer-

"Yes. Yeah- I- I've got it. Got it." He says with shaken breath and a stiff nod acompanied with a tight smile to sell that he knows Sasha's being seriously, and that he much appreciates being alive once she mentioned it.

And with that, she nods and steps back enough for Dave to realise he needs to breath. Not realising he'd been holding his breath.

"Good. You better make sure he's okay, I'm not fucking kidding /Dave/." Sasha spits as she backs up, putting on a fake smile after checking her hair in the mirror and throwing the thin strap of her bag over he shoulder. Spitting out his name like it was some sort of poison she didn't want on her breath anymore.

Chapter Two of my Bryce fic: Another Chance To Fuck Up

(@Arlooh on ao3)

June 17th, i've worked so fucking hard to get back into this grey ass state and not even her bitche of a mom will let me talk. It's, not, FAIR. I only know that shes graduating because unique fucking monique and her excuse of a boyfriend have been yelling at each other outside the milkshake mania. I'm trying to sit at the fucking bus stop, not see a whore yell about how she gave her heart to him. Fuck that.

- 

Looking into the mirror of the thrift store changing room, he scans himself up and down, looking for any signs of "hey, I'm fucking poor, mind kicking my ass back to the penitentiary please?" as he forces himself to stand still and stop bouncing on the balls of his feet.

 He's fucking nervous. 

Wiping his hands down his jeans, giving himself a stern and harsh "whispered" talking to (he's been yelling into the mirror for 10 minutes, some employee as been asking him to leave for the better part of that, he won't) and fixing what makeup he has on, he turns and leaves the changing room. Giving a polite "Screw off, asshole!" and middle finger to the worker and swifly walking out without paying for a thing, only after sliding a sick pair of sunglasses off some dude waiting in line. 

-

But all that worry leads him to now, jumping a fence into the graduation event at 'Whatever the fuck' high school, so what if the entery was free, this is cool. 

The first thing he sees is probably the last person he wants to see, Tacky Tammy in the fucking flesh. And god, she looks worse than the last he seen her. That fucking bitch. 

Quickly avoiding that mess, he runs off to the right where he can hear people chatting, yelling, the typical American slang, and to behind the bleachers where he can finally fucking breath. He's only been up a few hours and yet it feels like hes been up for days, all the while having the energy to fight the thing people call god. "Where ever that old bastard is, he sure had a shit plan for me" he hisses as he lights up the last cigarette he's got, stole it from some homeless guy lastnight and yet it doesn’t make him feel any better about it. 

But blasting speakers, which are WAY to fucking loud mind you, go off right by my fucking ear "Five minutes till showtime everyone! I hope you've got your disposables ready! And no /flash/ please, thank you" God. Fucker sound like an asshole to be around, fucks he got to be so stern for. And why the fuck would someone flash the crowd at a high school. This isn't the big bang, we don't need to see that you bleached your ass, Marissa. But shit, 5 minites till showtime. And I was calling it that before grandpa over he did anyways..

He can barely see through the crowd of green gowns and capes to even see the stage from here, it takes him all of 5 minutes to climb out of the prison that is bleachers pressed to a wire fence. Good thing he's scrawny of else he wouldn’t have been able to get out in time to see the show that is Bryce Tankthrust. Fuck. To think that he ever hated her for what happened. All the hate he'd ever bared for Bryce washes away in a second at seeing her up on that stage, when did she straighten her hair? Whatever.

She looks fucking /good/, greens definitely my favorite coulor. Fuck, she can take green if it means he can see her like she is now. Even in a graduation gown. 

And for the first time in a long time, he smiles. Bobby smiles because fuck is he happy. He didn’t /mean/ to look like a smug bastard, even if he is. He's just happy. But nothing ever goes right for him does it. Bryce looked at him, right in the eye, could you belive that? But he just smiled back, but not when her prideful smile turned down and into shock. He hasn't seen that face since.. since he threw up all over her heart, the one that she took out for him to profess her love. Fuck. Shit, SHIT. 

He hasn't ran that fast in, ever. The second he seen Bryce drop, clutching where her heart is (right?) fuck, did he really do that much damage? He didn’t think it was /that/ bad, he just wanted to surprise Bryce after escaping and... he just ran through that crowd. Over the people who were starting to pile up on the stage, he didn’t give a /fuck/ if he got sent back now or to some place worse for doing what he did and all but growling for security to get off her, Bryce was fucking hurt and it was all his fault.

Part 2!!

Hmm... Gotta give our cutie Bokuto a lil beauty friend too right?!?! Here's Apathy-kun<3~ Original inspo (Credits: @suncelia-art)(Plz be aware that the poster on pinterest is NOT Suncelia, it's someone else, I posted the link here cuz I found it on pinterest originally. The post had NO credits given either, so I didn't really know it before TvT)(The previous Bokuto art was also from Suncelia's art!!)(This is Part 2!!)

*hands over a moon ball with moon in it*

The Beginning part 2

Early in the morning at about 7 Karru wakes the dirty alley boy sleeping in her bed. His brown hair is a mess as he slowly wakes up and heads to the bathroom.

“There’s some new clothes in there for you to put on and some shampoo to wash with.” Kaaru says, looking through her bag for clean clothes to wear.

“Thank you Miss Mcada.” The boy yawns, closing the door.

By the time they’re making their way to a café for breakfast, the boy is asking more questions about the story. 

“Kid, do you want me to continue or not?” She laughs.

He nods and she thinks. 

“Where was I?” She asks.

“Galaxy hair and K-M-S-M’s broken arm.” The boy says and she nods.

“Right.” Kaaru chuckles.

~storytime~

K-M-S-M tears up and looks away from Mccree, his hand still outstretched. He waits patiently as Hanzo retrieves her gun.

“Just gimme yer hand Kiddo. We’ll get ya healed up and ya can go right back to yer little hidey hole of a room.” Mccree says and that hit her hard. 

It hit her so hard she took his hand and he pulled her to her feet. Hanzo returns her gun and she’s led to the lift to get them back to the base. K-M-S-M got her arm casted during the flight and then slept off the painkillers with her dog Toby in her lap, her galaxy hair in her face. 

“Did ya see her glare?” Mccree chuckles as he sits with Hanzo. 

“It terrified me.” He said simply.

Mccree looked at him surprised. Never once had he ever told him that he was scared let alone terrified. It was unusual.

“Hanny, did somethin’ happen?” Mccree asks, unsure what else to ask.

“My father’s glare was a pillow compared to hers.” He says and Genji looks up from sharpening his katana.

“That’s all fine and dandy but that ain’t what I meant.” Mccree says, pulling him closer to help give him enough reassurance to tell the truth.

Hanzo doesn’t say anything for a moment, considering his options at the current moment. For now Mccree didn’t phrase it as an order, thus giving Hanzo an escape route to not tell his boyfriend the terrifying thing he witnessed from the young girl. But Mccree had put his trust into Hanzo over and over again and he kept making reasons for him not to. Lying on the top of the long list. 

He considered it some more before realizing he had been staring at the sleeping girl on the opposite side of the plane.

“Han, did something happen between you and the kid?” Mccree asks and Hanzo gulps. “Tell me what happened.” He states and Hanzo sighs, not having a choice do to the tone in his boyfriend’s voice. 

“Her gun had the shimada insignia carved into it.” Hanzo says, shock running through Mccree and Genji like a quickly caught fever. 

~reality~ 

“And then?” The boy asked eagerly, his mouth full of fried egg.

Kaaru laughed and waved it away. 

“Finish your breakfast. I’ll tell you after we get back to the hotel.” Kaaru smiles at the young boy who’s pouting. 

“Can I ask a question about the story?” He asks, trying to get more out of her. 

“Depends on what the question is.” She says, sipping her tea.

“Are these people real?” He asks and she smiles at him again.

“They will be.” She says and the boy smiles widely. 

He shovels the food into his mouth, trying to hurry to hear the end of the story. Little does he know that his story has only begun.

Part 1

ok so apparently my blog was like…hidden. So, Introduction Re-Do!! Hiii! I’m Blue!

All about About me:

avid gamer

Diagnosed with ADHD(and probably has autism-)

very very silly.

birthday is on October 23!

loves fettuccine Alfredo. It’s so good. Like actually.

sleep deprived

artist (in more than one way)

loves genetics

sometimes gets a lot of nature pics

can I put whatever I want here?

chicken.

very disorganized (sorry)

What I do:

I write fanfics, some original writing, draw, make headcanon for my fandoms and remix songs! (Plus some og songs but like…I barely make any-) Speaking of, I should probably list my-

FANDOMS!!!

Legend of Zelda! (In particular, BotW, TotK, OoT, ALBW, I’ll add more as I beat more games-)

Pokèmon! (In particular: Gen 1, 2 and 4, Pokèmon Legends, Scarlet/Violet, Sun and Moon)

Friday Night Funkin’

VOCALOID (I’m relatively new to the vocaloid fandom, please please PLEASE into dump on me about it. I’d love it if you did!)

Undertale and Deltarune

Cookie Run (Kingdom is my main focus but I do play Ovenbreak)

Cave Story

Kirby

Sonic (I’m not too familiar with a lot of Sonic content/Lore but I really like the series as a whole! One of these days I’ll get around to leaning the lore, one way or another-)

Hollow Knight

Starbound

Probably something else I forgot to mention because I am into way too many things-

What this entire thing is for:

I want to spread happiness with my art and drawings (though if I’m sharing angst…😈 [I love angst-]) ok but besides that, I want to make people smile and to share what I love with other people! This blog in particular is where you can ask about my OC’s, headcanons, give me short writing prompts and such, or just ask something in general, I don’t mind. Most of my post will be about my fandoms, character development/characterization, reblogs, and just whatever I feel like honestly.

Favorite Characters:

(Characters in Bold are the ones I’m likely to talk the most about.)

LoZ:

Link/Wild (BotW, TotK)

Zelda/Flora (BotW, TotK)

Link/Time/Shade (OoT)

Malon (OoT)

All of the Champions and their Descendants/TotK Sages (BotW, TotK)

Cookie Run:

Shadow Milk Cookie (CR:K)

Pure Vanilla Cookie (CR:K)

Wizard Cookie

Black Sapphire Cookie (CR:K)

Mystic Flour Cookie (CR:K)

Dreamweaver Cookie (CROB)

Dark Choco Cookie (CROB, CR:K)

Pokèmon:

Gold/Blake (Gold - Silver Edition, Blake - SoulSilver)

Dawn (Platinum)

Red

Silver

Grey..? (Don’t quite know where to put this goober, he’s from an FNF mod but he’s also a Pokèmon trainer and I gave him a game?)

Undertale + Deltarune:

Mettaton (UT)

Papyrus (UT)

Alphys (UT)

Frisk (UT)

Chara (UT)

Kris (DR)

Noelle (DR)

Susie (DR)

Friday Night Funkin’:

Boyfriend

Girlfriend

Pico

QT

Senpai

Big Brother

Soul Boyfriend (From the corruption mod, love that mod sm…)

Cave Story:

Quote

Curly

Kazuma

Misery

Toroko

Kirby:

Kirby

Adaline

Ribbon

Meta Knight

Susie

Magolor

Sonic:

Sonic

Shadow

Metal Sonic (HOW DID I FORGET MY HUE HUE HUE WHEN FIRST WRITING THIS POST?!)

Tails (And Nine)

Silver (Can I say that even if I haven’t played 06? I really like him he’s a skrungle..)

Hollow Knight:

Grimm

Hornet

Ghost (Or The Knight)

Myla

OCs:

Fandom specific: (so many..)

Melody (LoZ, Malon and Time’s daughter)

Aryll (LoZ, reused name because it seems to be fancanon that Wild’s sister has the same name as Wind’s.)

Sojul (LoZ, Gerudo OC)

Akai (LoZ, Yiga OC)

Mabel (LoZ, Wild’s mom)

Dark Chocolate Cookie (CrK)

Feta Cheese Cookie (CrK)

Blood Hand Cookie (CrK and CrOB)

Max (PKMN Sun & Moon)

I have plenty more from different fandoms but I’m just gonna post this as is for now, I’ll edit more in when I get the chance.

True OCs-: (They spawned from my last braincells.)

Blue (Also my Sona and pfp)

Soul (Blue’s big brother)

Eliz (Blue’s bestie, full name is Elizabeth)

Amy (Full name is Amethyst, she’s Soul’s wife)

Nightmare (Completely unrelated to anyone mentioned above lmao)

Show

Eternal

Rachel

Pi

(not actually an oc but im so good with naming characters totally.)

Other Details: Kinda important!

I currently do not have an Ao3 account, so most of my fics and writing will be posted either on this main blog or on a separate blog depending on how long it is. Currently the only blog I have for writing is Re-Writing Cave Story. Also I am not open for commissions YET, but sometime in the future I will be! Also, just a heads up that my art might be uploaded poorly. I’ve tried everything I can to fix it, but every doodle I try to upload ends up looking really bad. Paper drawings seem to work better, and hopefully when I get my online artworks that will be at least acceptable quality. Sorry in advance :(

My tags:

#blues silly yapping (me just well, yapping, also sometimes reblogs with thoughts)

#blues silly writing (ignore the fact that this didn't work for the one writing i did post-)

#blues silly art (self-explanatory-)

#The (silly) Blue Crew (My favorite lil guys)

#blues original headcanons (also self-explanatory--)

#blues silly songs (my music :) [both og and remixes]

Anyway haiiiiii :D welcome to my blog sillies

Testing Tombow Alcohol-Based Markers: Nature Pallet