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most days like this, he would come flop into your arms, mumbling about his day and eventually falling asleep on your chest. it didn't matter what you was doing before, he would be simply too tired to care.
that's how he is most times.
the rare, other few times, he wanted nothing more than to come home and bury himself to the hilt inside of you.
today is one of those days.
he's got you in a mean arch, face smushed into the pillows and ass arched to accommodate each brutal thrust he has to offer. he's groaning behind you, hand anchored onto your hips to pull you back into each languid stroke.
"you feel so fucking good.." he muttered harshly, like he was almost angry over how warm you were, how you're absolutely soaking his plummeting cock.
he's been thinking about this all day, your pretty moans instead of annoying voices nagging him. pussy clenching his aching cock instead of his own teeth clenching from annoyance.
you're trembling beneath him, clawing at the sheets under your fingertips as his thrusts grew deeper, raising your hips himself to fuck you to the hilt. he wasn't easing up anytime soon either, cock pistioning into your sweet spot, twitching obscenely inside of you every time you clamped down onto him.
you squirmed in his hold, pleasure almost overwhelming as you tried to arch away from his rough thrusts. he pressed onto your back, effectively pinning you to the bed as he leaned over you, fucking into you deeper. “don’t run from it.” he groaned, his eyes glued to where his cock was disappearing into you.
a whine tore from your throat, eyes rolling back behind shut eyelids as his tip kissed places you didn’t know existed inside you. your walls fluttered, arousal soaking him and your thighs as squelches filled the room.
“needed this so bad—fuck.” he admitted through aroused breaths as he leaned down, groaning between each kiss he planted onto your damp neck, tasting the salt of your sweat on his tongue as he bit down onto your skin.
this angle was devastating, allowing you to feel every inch of his dick as he fucked all his frustrations out onto you. he licked over the bite, tongue soothing the sting as both hands went back to your hips, pulling you back into his thrusts.
the headboard tapped against the wall insistently, creaking under the force of his thrusts as his cock twitched violently inside your spasming walls. “that’s it..just take it.” he moaned, coming out a bit more desperate than he would like.
whenever megumi got like this, he doesn’t last as long as he usually does, being so caught up in frustration that he sometimes cums before you by accident.
the sight of you trembling underneath him, moans caught in the pillows, has him teetering on the edge of an orgasm. he threw his head back, letting out incoherent praises on how good you are, how much of a stress relief your pussy is as his fingers sought your neglected clit.
“i need you to cum baby, please. i need to feel you cum for me.” he begged, thrusts losing rhythm as his orgasm built up dangerously high. you whined loudly into the fabric, trembling as he rubbed harsh circles on your sensitive clit.
your orgasm hit like a bomb, body locking up with a drawn out whine as your walls clenched and spasmed around megumi’s pistioning cock, your cum soaked his pelvis and sheets below as you came.
the feeling of you finally cumming on his cock had him tipping over with you, muttering curses as his body shuttered, ropes of warm cum filled you to the brim with a broken moan.
he let go of your sore hips, lowering them down onto the bed gently compared to the rough, thorough fuck he just gave you. his eyes grew gentle, pulling out with a squelch before gently turning you over, pressing a soft kiss to your lips.
“sorry if i was too rough.” he apologized quietly, offering another soft kiss as he looked down at your fucked out expression. you shook your head, arms wrapping around him as he lowered himself on top of you. “i liked it.”
he let out a low groan, cock threatening to twitch back to life “don’t say that..” you’re in for a long night.
Toph crashes on top of you, it’s been a while since she’s been this exhausted, back to back days filled with training, missions, helping others and barely squeezing in her usual banter, leaving you neglected.
She feels so bad but the physically couldn’t get herself off to take care of you how she thought she should. Looking in your direction with a small pout on her lips, You stroke her hair and comfort her. “It’s okay my love, lay on the bed for me.” She tilts her head confused but complies and switches positions.
You straddle her slender waist, her hands sliding up stomachs as she closes her eyes to focus all her attention on your body. She sighs, feeling your thighs, squeezing tight like her body itself craved you instinctively.
“You missed me baby?” Kissing her temple then her cheek while she nods quickly, “so much, you have no idea.” She muttered, whining her hips as if your body weight was nothing.
Moving your knees on either side of her, your chest now in her face while you slid down your panties, afterwards pulling off Tophs pants. Her breath hitched as she leaned up, your left leg under hers and your right leg sprawled out above her hips, aligning your pussy with hers.
She feels the heat of you against her and she covers her mouth quickly. “I don’t think so pretty. I’ve waiting too long for this, I need to hear you.” She wasn’t used to your assertive side. She doesn’t like being told what to do, she never did, but when you boss her around she feels obligated to listen.
Leaning up with her palms flat on the bed, she pushes her ass forward, grinding your sweet pussy against hers. “O-oh fuck princess.” She managed to whimper before a string of moans and swears left her mouth. You move angles to hit her clit even better with yours and you start to join her in screaming. Looking up from her gorgeous body to her stunning face.
Tears prick her cloudy eyes with her face flushed, her breath hitching as she gets closer to her 3rd orgasm
“Please, p-please, n-no more..” she begs, her body shaking alongside the ground around you two once again, definitely expecting complaints from neighbors. “C’mon baby you can take it, world’s strongest earthbender can handle a little pressure on her clit can’t she? Good girl, keep going”
She groans at your mock praise and continues to fuck into you, grinding feverishly into your pussy as you add in another finger for a total of three.
Licking the tears off her face while she wraps her strong arms around your neck pulling you closer with your lips next to her face. Licking the shell of her ear as she finally arches her back even harder and lets her orgasm wash over her.
“You did so good pretty girl.” She’s now curled in your lap, resting her head lazily on your shoulder while she catches her breath.
What do you think of a Toph x Pregnant Reader story where both already have families with Lin and Suyin? But when Reader's baby is born, it turns out years later to be a lava bender, and Toph is incredibly excited, even if she doesn't show it.
Let's say the reader is a fire bender. Toph and the reader were always playfully arguing about which bender the baby would be: Fire or Earth. Imagine their surprise when they both get a mix of both!
Could you please capture Toph and the reader's reactions, as well as Lin and Suyin cheering them on completely?
By the way, I love your writing and I think you're one of the few people who write Toph for the character she is and don't make her completely unchangeable
A Path Of Ger Own
Pairing: Toph Beifong x Wife Reader
WC: 5k+
Synopsis: You have to break the news to your daughter's that you're pregnant and it doesn't go very well. Basically the request.
Content/Warnings: Fluff.
Sitting down and breaking the news to your very grown, very adult children that you were pregnant was not the easiest task. Lin was twenty-two, climbing the ranks at the police department in hopes of one day taking over for Toph. Su was seventeen, though she acted like she was the same age as Lin with the way she bossed you and Toph around the house.
You had just finished dinner, and now you were all sprawled across the living room. Some horror movie Suyin had insisted on was playing as she curled against her mama, who was already beginning to drift off to sleep beside her. Toph didn't see the point of grand reveals. After raising two kids, she'd simply told you to get it over with and just tell them.
But you were stressed, hormonal, and you had no idea how they were going to take the news.
You had talked yourself out of it several times that night. Even now, sitting on the opposite couch and watching your family piled together, it still didn't feel like the right time. But you were going to start showing soon, and they deserved to know.
Taking a quiet breath, you reached for the remote and paused the movie. Su was the first to react. Her head whipped toward you so fast it was almost comical, as though you'd just committed a crime she might never forgive.
“Mom!” She groaned dramatically, throwing her hands into the air. “It was just getting to the good part.”
Toph let out a sleepy grunt from the other end of the couch, one arm still draped around Su's shoulders. “Kid, if you wanted the good part, you picked the wrong movie. It sounds terrible.”
“How would you know?” Su countered, turning in her mother's hold. “You've literally been asleep for the last twenty minutes. I didn't even get to explain the plot to you yet.”
“I wasn't sleeping.” Toph lies easily. “I was resting my eyes.”
“You snored.” Su deadpans.
Toph titled her head, never one to accept defeat. “I was listening.”
Lin, seated in the armchair with a book balanced in her lap, lowered it just enough to glance between the three of you. “Can we settle the debate later? Mom paused it for a reason.”
The room quieted and three pairs of eyes settled on you. Your throat suddenly felt dry now that you were the center of attention. You opened your mouth once then closed it again.
Toph tilted her head in your direction, sensing the hesitation immediately. Even half asleep, she knew you better than anyone. “Baby?”
Your fingers tightened around the remote until your knuckles ached from clenching them so hard.
“There... um..” You swallowed. “There's actually something your mama and I wanted to tell you.”
Suyin straightened like she was bracing herself for something awful. Lin closed her book completely, setting it aside without taking her eyes off you. Neither of them spoke, and somehow the silence that settled over the room felt heavier than the horror movie ever had.
When you didn't answer fast enough, the guesses started.
“Are you sick?” Su asked, her voice wavering more with every passing second. “Because... you haven't really been eating, and the other day I heard you throwing up in the bathroom.”
Lin's head snapped toward her sister, her expression hardening. “Mom's been sick, and you didn't think to tell me?”
“I didn't know it was a big deal!” Su added defensively. “She told me she was fine, so I believed her.”
“You should've told me anyway.” Lin shot back angrily. “I have a right to know.”
“And make you panic over nothing?” Su argued, and she had a point out of the two of them Lin was more likely to freak out.
“It clearly wasn't nothing.” Lin pointed out with huff.
Their bickering washed over you, neither of them noticing the guilty look spreading across your face. They weren't angry with each other, you knew thaf more than anything. You could see both of their sides and that was the problem.
Toph sighed from beside Su, rubbing at her face before sitting up properly. “Hey.” Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried enough authority to stop both daughters mid-argument. “Knock it off.”
The room fell quiet again.
Lin's shoulders were rigid, every muscle in her body tense as she looked back at you. Su had gone pale, her foot bouncing anxiously against the floor.
“Mom,” Lin said more softly this time. “Are you okay?”
Your heart squeezed.
You hadn't expected this. You'd spent the entire day worrying they would think you were too old to have another baby, that they'd be embarrassed, annoyed, maybe even offended that their parents were starting all over again.
Instead, they'd skipped right past every possibility and landed on the one that terrified them most. Losing you to something awful.
You fiddled with your pant leg in an attempt to distract yourself from the anxiety rising in your belly. You coukd feel Toph's energy from the other side of the room, silently telling you to spit it out already before the girls really start to think somethings wrong.
“No,” You answered, your voice barely above a whisper. “I'm not sick.”
Neither of them relaxed after hearing your words. Su leaned forward on the couch. “Then what's going on?”
You let out a nervous laugh, though it came out shakier than you intended.
“I've been throwing up because…” You glanced at Toph, who simply shrugged as if to say See? Told you this would've been easier if you'd just said it. “I'm pregnant.”
The room got eerily silent as you waited for your daughter's honest reactions.
Lin was the first to speak, her brows slowly pulled together as if she'd heard the words perfectly but her brain had decided to reject them anyway. “What?”
“I'm pregnant,” You repeated, unable to stop the small, nervous smile tugging at your lips.
Your children stared at you as if you had suddent grown two heads and Toph folded her arms across her chest, looking far too pleased with herself.
“Took you long enough,” She muttered. “I've been waiting all day for you to spit it out and tell them already.”
Neither daughter acknowledged Toph's comment. They were too stunned to formulate words and you understood this was alot for then and gave them the necessary time they needed to work through it.
“You're serious?” Su whispered.
You nodded. “I went to the healer a few days ago. We wanted to be certain before telling you.”
“But-” Su opened her mouth and closed it again, pointing between you and Toph in disbelief. “You're-you're having a baby?”
Toph snorted from beside her. “Pretty sure that's what pregnant means, honey.”
Lin finally found her voice. “How?”
Toph turned toward the sound with the flattest expression imaginable. “When two women love each other very much-..”
“Oh, spirits, I know how babies are made,” Lin groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “That's not what I meant.”
A grin spread across Toph's face, she'd never tire of teasing her children. “Then ask a better question.”
For the first time since you'd paused the movie, a laugh escaped you. The tension eased, if only for a moment.
“What did you mean, sweetheart?” You asked gently.
Lin rubbed the back of her neck, suddenly looking far less composed than she had a minute ago.
“It's just,” Her eyes darted toward Su, silently pleading for help, but for perhaps the first time in her life, her younger sister had absolutely nothing to say. “You guys aren't exactly getting any younger.”
“Ouch.” You replied dramatically, placing a hand over your heart.
The joke landed, earning a snort from Toph and the ghost of a smile from Su, but beneath your playful tone you had to swallow the lump rising in your throat. You knew Lin hadn't meant to hurt your feelings. She never would. Still, hearing your daughter's first reaction boiled down to your age stung more than you cared to admit.
Lin noticed the shift almost as soon as it happened. “Mom,” She started quietly. “I didn't mean it like that.”
Your eyes stung with tears that you refused to let fall. “I know.”
“No, I don't think you do.” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees as she searched for the right words. For someone who spent every day giving orders and handling impossible situations at work, this conversation had left her fumbling.
“It's not because I think you're too old to have another baby,” Lin said carefully. “It's because you're my mom.”
The room stayed silent, letting her continue.
“I grew up watching you take care of everyone else.” Her gaze flickered toward Toph before settling back on you. “You barely slept when Su was little. You worked yourself into the ground making sure we had everything we needed. You always put us first.”
She paused, drawing in a slow breath. “And now you've finally gotten to a point where things are easier.”
You listened without interrupting, your heart thundering in your chest as her words warshed over you.
“I'm twenty-two,” Lin continued. “Su's almost an adult. You don't have diapers anymore. No midnight feedings. No toddlers climbing all over the furniture. You and Mom were finally getting your lives back.”
Her voice softened.
“So when you said you were pregnant.” She shook her head with a quiet laugh. “My first thought wasn't 'that's weird.' It was..” She looked down at the floor for a second before meeting your eyes again. “Are they really starting over?”
Your eyes burned, Before you could answer, Su finally found her voice. “I kind of thought the same thing.”
Everyone looked toward her, She hugged one of the throw pillows against her chest, suddenly seeming much younger than seventeen.
“I wasn't thinking about your age.” She grimaced. “Well, maybe a little.”
“Thanks,” You deadpanned.
Suyin winced, “Sorry.”
A tiny smile tugged at your lips, encouraging her to continue.
“I just,” She sighed. “I guess I always imagined it'd just be us. Me, Lin, you, and Mama.” Her fingers tightened around the pillow. “Everything's gonna change now.”
There it was, not judgment or embarrassment. It was fear of the unknown, that the family she'd always known was about to become something unfamiliar.
You crossed the room before either of them could say another word. Kneeling in front of the couch, you reached out and took one of Su's hands before extending the other toward Lin.
“This baby isn't replacing either of you.” You tell them firmly, your voice conveying just how serious you were.
“You don't stop being our children because another one is coming.” Your thumb brushed over Su's knuckles. “There isn't a limit to how much your mama and I can love.”
Toph gave a quiet hum of agreement from the couch behind you. “If anything,” She added, “you're both getting promoted.”
Su blinked. “Promoted?’
“Yeah.” A grin spread across Toph's face. “Congratulations. You're a pair of big sisters.”
Lin let out a breath that sounded suspiciously close to a laugh. “I've been a big sister for seventeen years.”
“Now you're gonna be even bigger.” Toph says simply.
“Mama.” Lin started, shaking her head.
“What?” Toph shrugged innocently. “I thought it sounded inspirational.”
Su groaned, burying her face in the pillow. “That was so bad.”
“It was,” Lin agreed.
Toph looked thoroughly pleased with herself anyway. You shook your head, smiling despite the tears gathering in your eyes.
“They're both still in shock,” Toph said, tilting her head toward you. “Give 'em a minute. They haven't figured out they're happy yet.”
Neither Lin nor Su denied it and for now fhat was okay.
‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹
It was a quiet night at home. You sat at the kitchen table with what Toph had affectionately started calling your latest culinary crime—a steaming bowl of extra spicy ramen loaded with shredded chicken, a plate of green grapes on the side, and a cup of hot jasmine tea. Six months into the pregnancy, your cravings had only become stranger. Some days you wanted pickles dipped in honey. Other days it was smoked fish with sweet pastries. Tonight, for reasons neither of you could begin to understand, your stomach had decided scorching noodles, juicy grapes, and tea belonged together.
Toph sat across from you with her own much less offensive dinner, her nose wrinkling every time another wave of chili-laced steam drifted across the table.
“I don't know how you're eating that,” She muttered, leaning back in her chair. “My eyes are watering just sitting here.”
“It isn't that spicy.” You shrugged, holding the chopsticks up to her lips. “You want a taste?”
Toph scooted her chair further away from you creating more distance. “Hell no!”
You lifted another tangled bite of noodles with your chopsticks, blowing on them before taking a contented mouthful. “You're just dramatic.”
“Says the woman eating lava.” You only smiled around another bite, reaching for a grape afterward as though the combination made perfect sense.
Toph tilted her head in your direction, a grin slowly pulling at the corner of her mouth. “That's disgusting by the way.”
“Good thing it's not for you then.” You laughed, rubbing your hand absentmindedly over the curve of your stomach. The baby gave a small kick beneath your palm, earning another thoughtful tilt of Toph's head.
“I think this one's finally breaking the earthbender streak,” You said, smiling to yourself. “We're finally getting another firebender in this family.”
“Absolutely not.” Toph didn't even hesitate. She rested one elbow on the table, her bare foot lightly touching the floor beneath her chair. Though she couldn't see your belly, her seismic sense had become almost second nature throughout your pregnancy. Every tiny stretch, every roll, every energetic kick echoed through the vibrations she felt. “She feels like an earthbender.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Feels like an earthbender?”
Toph nodded, “Mhm.”
“And what exactly does an earthbender fetus feel like?” You asked honestly.
Toph pointed toward your stomach with complete confidence. “Stubborn.”
You laughed. “They're all stubborn.”
“Not like this one.” Toph folded her arms. “This kid plants herself in one spot for half the day, then decides she's gonna elbow every organ you've got because she doesn't feel like moving around them.”
“She's making room.” You defended playfully.
Toph didn't miss a beat. “She's declaring territory.”
You snorted, amusement shining in your eyes. “I think she's a firebender.”
Toph paused mid bite. “Oh?”
“Think about what she's done to me.” You gestured toward your dinner even though you knew she couldn't see you do it. “I've spent six months inhaling anything spicy enough to make normal people cry.”
“You've always liked spicy food.” Toph pointed out, not yet believing your argument.
“Not enough to put chili oil on noodles that already came with chili oil.” You tell her, swirling more noodles around your chopsticks.
Her shoulder dropped a fraction. “Fair point.”
You looked positively smug.
“And she runs hot.” You tugged lightly at the collar of your shirt. “Everyone else is cold while I'm opening windows in the middle of winter.”
Toph waved you off. “Pregnancy does that.”
“I also burned breakfast yesterday.” You responded, grasping at straws now as toph completely dissected each argument.
Toph laughed, the sound warm enough to fill the kitchen. “Now you're just saying stuff.”
You leaned back in your chair, rubbing your stomach again as another kick landed against your ribs.
“There,” You declared triumphantly. “Did you feel that? That was a firebender kick.”
Toph's expression didn't change. “Nope.”
“It was.” You insisted.
“Earthbender.”
You narrowed your eyes at her, you could do this all day. “Fire.”
She turned her head in your direction, her sightless eyas meeting you head on. “Earth.”
“She kicked because she agreed with me.”
Toph barked out a laugh. “She kicked because she heard you talking nonsense.”
“Oh, so now she understands conversations?” You huffed, a pout forming on your lips.
“I've been talking to her for months.” Toph's voice had dropped into something quieter, more intimate.
You still wouldn't let up even when the tone she was using made your heart skip a beat. “So have I.”
“Yeah,” Toph said with a grin. “And every time I tell her she's gonna be an earthbender, she settles down.”
You gasped. “That's because she's waiting for me to defend her.”
Toph pushed her chair back before walking around the table, stopping beside you. One hand rested gently over yours on your stomach, her smile softening despite the playful argument.
The baby shifted beneath both your palms, slowing down just enough for the ache in your lower back to ease.
“There,” Toph said, her voice nice and smug as her point was proven once again. “See? She's already calmed down just by my presence.”
You rolled your eyes. “I felt a little spark.”
“You imagined it.” Toph says, rubbing soothing circles across your belly.
Your eyes fluttered shut as you leaned back in your chair, enjoying the feel of her hand soothing both you and your child. “You refuse to admit I'm right.”
“Because you aren't and that's okay baby we all make mistakes.”
You leaned your forehead against her shoulder with a quiet laugh. “I can't wait until this baby's born.”
“Me neither.” Toph whispered, her voice full of affection.
“So I can prove you wrong.” You added, ruining the tender moment.
Toph smirked, brushing a kiss against the top of your head.
“Or,” She said, “You'll spend the next twenty years raising the most stubborn little earthbender this family's ever seen.”
“And if she's a firebender?” You asked, glancing up at her.
Toph's grin only widened. “Then I'll know she got her attitude from you.”
‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹
You were stretched out on one of the lounge chairs beneath the warm afternoon sun, content to let the breeze drift lazily through the gardens of Zaofu. It had been far too long since the entire family had gathered in one place without politics, police work, or world-ending disasters pulling everyone in different directions.
Suyin had insisted everyone visit for the week, and somehow she had even convinced Lin to step away from her responsibilities with the precinct and watching over the new Avatar.
The peace, however, didn't extend to the training courtyard.
Your youngest daughter, Rin, fourteen years old and stubborn enough to rival both of her mothers, was training alongside her older sisters while Toph paced the edge of the arena. Retirement had never suited her. She still carried herself with the same confidence that had once commanded an entire police force.
Time had left its mark in subtle, beautiful ways. Fine lines framed her mouth whenever she smiled, delicate crow's feet gathered at the corners of her pale green eyes, and her dark hair was now streaked generously with silver that hung in a long braid that rested against the middle of her back. Age hadn't diminished her in the slightest. If anything, it had made her more striking. There was a quiet strength to her now, earned through decades of protecting her family and helping shape an entire city.
“Again,” Toph called, planting her feet firmly into the ground. “Quit thinking so hard.”
“I am trying!” Rin growled, her legs faltering in the stance Toph had her in.
“I know you're trying. So stop and just do as I say.” Toph barked, her arms folded behind her back as she scrutinized her daughter's posture through the soles of her feet.
Rin groaned loud enough for everyone to hear. “That doesn't even make sense!”
“It does if you stop overthinking every little movement.” Toph snapped back just as fiercely. Out of all of her children, Toph and Rin collided the most. She had your fiery spirit down to a tea.
A loud clang echoed across the courtyard as another sheet of metal refused to respond.
From beside you came an exaggerated sigh. Suyin flopped into the empty lounge chair, wiping sweat from the back of her neck before reaching for the pitcher of iced tea sitting between you.
“Rin looks about five seconds away from crying because she still can't metalbend,” Su admitted quietly, all traces of her usual teasing gone. “I hate seeing her like this.”
You looked toward the training grounds. Rin stood rigidly in place, shoulders tight, jaw clenched so firmly you could see the muscles twitching from where you sat. Every failed attempt seemed to chip away at her confidence a little more.
“She's a late bloomer,” You said gently, though the reassurance felt painfully familiar.
The words carried a weight of guilt you couldn't hide. You knew exactly what it was like growing up surrounded by impossible expectations. Lin had become one of the greatest metalbenders in history. Su had mastered styles most people spent decades learning. Every lesson Rin attended came with comparisons she never asked for.
She wasn't trying to become better than her sisters. She was simply desperate not to fall behind them.
“I remember feeling like that,” Su confessed, watching Rin from across the courtyard. “Not with metalbending... but with Mom.”
You glanced toward her, your eyes softening.
“I spent years thinking I'd never be enough for her.” She added, the impossible standards that came with being a beifong will always be a burden your children will carry despite raising them not to care what others think.
You reached out for her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “You were.”
“I know that now.” Su smiled faintly, a distant look in her eyes. “Rin doesn't.”
Another metallic groan rang through the courtyard. Toph crouched beside Rin, saying something too quiet for either of you to hear.
Rin nodded and you watched as she took a breath. Your daughter planted her feet into the earth perfectly only for the metal panel not to move at all, not even a twitch.
Just when Toph was about to comment something that would definitely make things worse the teenager finally snapped.
“I'M TRYING!” Rin shouted, tears stinging her eyes as she slammed both fists toward the earth.
The courtyard trembled under her rage, At first it looked like an ordinary earthbending strike. Then the stone beneath Rin's feet cracked apart and orange light burst through the fractures.
“Mom?" Su whispered.
The cracks widened and split open like spider webs. Heat rolled across the courtyard in suffocating waves as glowing molten rock forced its way through the training floor, turning solid stone into rivers of brilliant orange.
For one impossible moment nobody moved. Lin stared wide eyed and Su's jaw dropped. Even you found yourself frozen in complete disbelief before your maternal instinct kicked in and you were on your feet and across the yard before you could blink.
“She's a Lava bender.” Lin breathed, fascinated.
The realization struck everyone at once. Rin hadn't failed to metalbend, She had just discovered an entirely different talent.
Unfortunately for all of you, She had no idea how to stop it and it terrified her.
“Mama!” Rin cried, stumbling backward as another stream of molten stone spread across the arena. “I-I can't control it!”
Panic flooded her face and your heart hammered in your chest. You couldn't reach them, not with the lava pooling. You were a fire bender yourself, but it seemed the more terrified she became the more it spread amd you couldn't cool it all.
Every frightened breath only made the lava surge farther, swallowing chunks of the training grounds. “I can't stop!”
“Rin.” Toph's voice cut cleanly through the chaos. The single word carried decades of authority. “You're okay, just focus on me.”
Rin's frantic breathing faltered, she listened to her mama, tears streaming down her cheeks freely now. “I'm scared..”
“I know.” Toph sighed, her voice low, still keeping the same calm.
Rin's eyes left her mother as the heat intensified around them. “It's spreading!”
“Lava does that.” She said plainly.
"I don't know what I'm doing!"
Toph stepped closer without a trace of hesitation, stopping only a few feet from the glowing river separating them.
“You don't,” She agreed calmly, another pulse of lava rippled outward. “But you know what?”
Rin shook her head desperately.
“Neither did I.” Toph rested one bare foot against the stone as she continued to calm Rin down.
“When I invented metalbending, you think I knew what I was doing?” Toph asked, a crooked smile tugging at her lips. “I made it up as I went.”
Rin let out a shaky laugh despite herself.
“You don't need to be your sisters.” Toph tells her gently, “Just be you Rin, that is all I have ever wanted.”
Lin stepped forward. “She's right.”
Su joined her, cupping her hands around her mouth. “You hear us, Rin? You're doing something none of us can!”
“You've already done the impossible,” Lin called out to her sister. “Now breathe.”
“You've got this!” Su added. “We're not going anywhere!”
Rin swallowed hard, the fear was still there, but so was her family.
Toph nodded once, feeling the tension leave her daughter's shoulders. “Feel the stone beneath the heat.”
Rin closed her eyes, her heart was hammering in her chest and she listened to the earth and focused on the things around her she could control, which was her breathing.
“The lava isn't your enemy,” Toph said steadily. “It's still earth. Slower. Heavier. Listen to it.”
Rin sucked in another breath, zeroing in to the sound of her mother's voice.
“The same way I taught you to feel every stone under your feet.”
The molten rock quivered ans the ground groaned beneath her feet as she followed her mother's careful instructions.
“Good.” Toph hummed, “Now guide it.”
The glowing current hesitated at first under her unsteady hands. Then, inch by inch, the lava began to retreat. The brilliant orange dulled as it cooled, hardening back into black volcanic stone that spread across the ruined courtyard in jagged patterns.
Nobody spoke until the final ribbon of molten earth solidified. Rin opened her twaeful eyes, her shoulders shaking as terror still flowed through her. “I did it?”
Toph's grin was impossible to hide. “No.” She walked across the newly formed stone and pulled her youngest daughter into a fierce hug. “You did something even better.”
Rin buried her face against her mother's shoulder, sobbing into her chest as her body shook with each wretched cry.
“You found your own path and I'm so proud of you.” Toph tells her affectionately.
Behind them, Su whooped loud enough for the entire city to hear while Lin, usually so composed, actually laughed before wrapping both of them in a crushing embrace.
You remained where you were for only a moment longer, your own eyes misting over as you watched your family gathered together in the center of the courtyard.
Rin had spent years believing she was falling behind her sisters. None of you had realized she had simply been walking toward a destiny that belonged to her alone.
‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹
Later that night, after the laughter from dinner had faded and the rest of the family had retired to their own rooms, you and Toph finally escaped to the quiet of your bedroom.
Moonlight spilled through the open balcony doors, painting silver streaks across the polished floor while the distant sounds of Zaofu settled into a peaceful hush. The air carried the scent of fresh rain and flowering vines from the gardens below.
Toph stepped out of the adjoining bathroom, a towel draped loosely around her shoulders. Damp strands of silver-streaked hair clung to the back of her neck as droplets traced lazy paths down her shoulders before disappearing beneath the collar of her sleep shirt.
Decades had softened some of the sharper edges of her face, leaving gentle lines thst were reminders of every laugh she'd shared, and battle she had survived against all odds. She was older now, but no less formidable and it was moments like this where you really got to appreciate her.
She paused in the doorway, feeling your gaze piercing through her from where she stood. “I can feel you giving me that look.”
You glanced up from your spot on the edge of the bed, trying and failing to suppress the grin spreading across your face. “What look?”
“The one that says you're about to become insufferable,” Toph said.
“I have no idea what you're talking about.”
“You do.” She crossed the room, stopping directly in front of you. “I can practically hear the smugness radiating off you.”
You tapped your chin, “I was just thinking.”
“Dangerous pastime.”
You laughed, leaning forward. “I was thinking,” You began, dropping your voice to a sweet, mocking tone, “that I was technically right.”
Toph folded her arms, her head tilting slightly. “About what exactly?”
You tipped your chin up, amusement warming your voice. “Rin's a firebender.”
Toph let out an exaggerated scoff, rolling her eyes. “No.”
You blinked innocently. “Pretty sure lava glows and burns things, last I checked.” You spread your hands wide, leaning into her space. “So..”
Toph reached out with practiced accuracy, flicking your forehead hard enough to snap your head back. “So, she's not a firebender.”
“Violence isn't an argument,” You grumbled, rubbing the sore spot while shooting your wife a glare she couldn't see.
“It is when you're wrong,” She shot back instantly, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.
You snorted, shifting your weight on the mattress. “You've spent fourteen years insisting she'd end up just like you.”
“And she did.”
“Did she?” At your quiet question, Toph's posture shifted. The playful defiance softened, and her shoulders dropped. The fierce confidence that usually defined her gave way to a quiet, vulnerable stillness.
“She's an earthbender,” Toph said softly, her voice carrying a warmth reserved only for her family. “She just found a road neither of us expected.”
She stepped closer and sank onto the edge of the bed beside you, the mattress dipping under her weight. Her shoulder brushed yours, a steady, grounding presence.
“Lava isn't fire, and it isn't ordinary earth, either.” She stated, as if convincing herself as much as you.
“I know,” You replied gently, dropping the teasing act entirely.
Toph shifted further up the bed and leaned back against the metal headboard, staring blankly ahead with those unseeing pale eyes, though you knew she was processing every vibration in the room. “She's in a category of her own.”
The pride in her voice was impossible to miss. It was a tone she rarely used, reserved only for monumental moments and this certainly counted as one.
You shifted closer, resting your head lightly against her shoulder. “I've never heard you sound so impressed. And you've trained hundreds of earthbenders, baby.”
“Mhm,” She murmured, her hand finding yours on the blanket and squeezing it briefly.
“But today..”
“Today,” Toph finished for you, her voice dropping to a low, reverent whisper, “I experienced my daughter discovering something that can't be taught.”
Silence settled comfortably between you, the ambient sounds of Zaofu humming faintly outside the window.
“I thought she was going to panic herself into passing out.” You admitted with a quiet laugh, you could still feel some of the residual adrenaline in your chest as your daughters terrified face flashed in your mind.
“The only thing going through my mind was that if she didn't stop she was going to melt half the city,” Toph commented dryly, her grip on your hand tightening.
You lifted your head from her shoulder, looking at her profile in surprise. “You looked awfully calm out there.”
“I wasn't.” Toph shook her head, her jaw tightening as she stared blankly at the wall. “I was terrified.”
The confession was so unexpected that it left you momentarily speechless. Toph rarely admitted to being scared of anything.
“I couldn't let her hear that,” She continued, her voice dropping to a rare, gritty vulnerability. “If I'd panicked, she would've panicked harder.”
“Well, you fooled me,” You sighed. “You knew exactly what to say to ground her.”
“But I didn't through.” She muttered, a self-deprecating smirk flashing across her face before vanishing. “I guessed and surprisingly it worked.”
You smiled, leaning your temple against hers. “It was a very good guess, Toph.”
She squeezed your hand again, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she wrapped her arms securely around you. “I've learned a few things after raising three daughters. They don't need me to have every answer. They just need to believe I do.”
A soft knock interrupted the quiet of the room. Three hesitant, uneven taps vibrated through the wood.
Rin looked almost guilty for disturbing you, one hand was gripping the edge of the door while the other nervously twisted the sleeve of her nightshirt.
“Am I bothering you?” The uncertainty in her voice caught both of you off guard. Your youngest was many things- stubborn, determined, loud when she wanted to be, but hesitant was rarely one of them.
“Never.” You said warmly, softening your expression to let her know she was always welcome.
Toph patted the empty space on the mattress beside her. “Get in here, kid.”
Rin slipped into the room, letting the door click shut before padding softly across the floor. She climbed onto the bed with far less of her usual confident swagger, moving hesitantly before settling right between the two of you without a word. For a long moment, she simply stared down at her palms, turning them over as if expecting to see the glowing lava materialize out of thin air.
“I-.” She swallowed hard, her voice trembling. “I keep thinking about today.”
Toph stayed quiet, dropping her hand to the mattress to feel the subtle vibrations of Rin’s uneven breathing, giving her the space she needed to speak.
“What if I lose control again?” Rin asked softly, her shoulders hunching inward. “What if next time I hurt someone?”
You wrapped a reassuring arm around her shoulders, drawing her small frame close against your side. “You didn't hurt anyone today, sweetie.”
“But I could have,” Her bottom lip wobbled, the raw fear finally breaking through. You both knew she couldn't hurt a fly. But Rin was only fourteen and you understood how scary this must be for her especially given how she discovered it on accident.
Toph shifted, reaching over to rest a heavy, steady hand on her daughter's knee. “That's exactly why we train. Lavabending's no different from anything else. It's new, and it's scary. And until this morning, you didn't even know you could do it.”
Rin looked up, searching Toph's blind, pale eyes for any sign of deceit. “So... you don't think I'm dangerous?”
Toph gave a quiet, affectionate huff, a proud smirk breaking across her face. “Kid,” She said, reaching over to rough up Rin's hair until it stood on end. “I think you're a Beifong.”
For the first time since she'd poked her head through the door, a genuine laugh broke through Rin's anxiety. The nervous tension finally melted from her shoulders as she leaned heavily into both of you, letting herself just be a kid instead of carrying the weight of being extraordinary.
AN: Yall be having auch great ideas . Tysm anon for sending this in.
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hiiii just wanna say your ateez works have been my comfort reads for a while and I wanted to request a fluffy omegaverse for ot8, something like omega reader nesting in weird areas of their dorm because certain spots smell like the boys: like the kitchen is drenched in wooyoungs smell for example
hello nonie!!! that's such a nice thing to hear, i'm glad you enjoy the stories I write :)
thank u for the request. I love this idea and I hope you liked what I wrote!
wc: 1.7k
genre: poly ateez, ateez x fem!reader, omegaverse, alpha!ateez, omega!reader, a/b/o dynamics, a lot of scent talk, nesting, mentions of upcoming heat, sappy affection, pet names, ateez are suitably dramatic
masterlist // requests: open
--------------------------------------------
The first time, Hongjoong nearly kicked you. It's early morning and he hadn't got to his bed yet, music and beats still running through his head. he'd transferred from the studio at KQ to the one he had at home, and was prepared to settle in for what would end up being 48 hours without sleep.
his mission to get a coffee - the only thing sustaining him right now - was cut short by the way his house slippers caught on your blanket.
Hongjoong squinted down at it, the soft strands of the fluff tickling the sides of his bare feet. he recognised it instantly. of course he did. it was one of your favourites, the throw always curled around your body when you got too cold. it took a second in his chaotic and half asleep haze to identify the lump wasn't just a blanket but you as well.
strands of your hair stuck out the top of the blanket cocoon you had made, head resting back against the bottom of the kitchen counter. despite the strangeness of the situation, Hongjoong couldn't help the immediate noting of how pretty his omega was when she slept. Soft, relaxed, bottom lip pushed out into a pout that he wanted to kiss away.
he found himself smiling fondly as he crouched down, hands moving to brush loose strands of hair from your cheeks. He whispered your name and tapped your cheek.
you sniffed, shifted and angled your head into his hand, seeking the touch of your alpha even in your slumber. Hongjoong's heart did a leap - if it were possible to fall in love with you all over again, he might have just done it.
he tried again, voice a little louder, touch a little firmer, until your eyelids began to flutter.
"...joongie?" you asked, voice heavy with sleep and confusion.
"hello baby girl," he murmured.
you looked at him through heavy eyes and tried to blink away the tiredness. "I didn't think you'd be back tonight..."
fuck, you sounded so surprised when you said it. not accusing, not upset, just pleased. his alpha whined a little, unhappy that he'd left his omega alone for so long. "thought the change of scenery would help," he admitted and ran his scent mark over your cheek, "what are you doing on the floor baby?"
you untangled your arms to hold his hand there, fingers warm and claiming as you dipped your head to nuzzle at his pulse point. you yawned. "smells like woo here," you admitted, shy but honest.
Hongjoong immediately wanted to lower himself and beg for forgiveness. it was comeback season and it was busy. songs that were supposed to be finished had been sent back with a list of changes. more and more photoshoots and filming schedules were put into their calendars. they'd signed on to do a showcase and that meant extra practice. the days seem to stretch on and on with no end in sight.
they'd apologised, warned you in advance. You'd smiled and promised you understood - "just look after yourself, okay?"
and then in the middle of all that, was you seeking the scent of your pack because you missed them so terribly. god, what a shitty fucking alpha he was.
"woo's bed smells like him too," Hongjoong reminded, "and softer."
you shook your head. "its not the same without him there," you confessed, "none of your rooms are."
his alpha whimpered. Hongjoong might have let it slip out.
"come to bed with me," he said as he urged you to your feet. you followed obediently, let him gather you close and tug your blanket around your shoulders.
"don't you have work?" you asked.
he did but there was no way it was going to get done tonight. not with your words in his head, your scent fresh around him and that hopeful light in your eye. "I was just getting water before I sleep," he lied, "so come with me."
you didn't argue with him, let him lead you across the house - half empty with their pack mates on other sides of the country for work - and into his room. the covers were still messy from the last time he'd slept there and you slid into them as if they were your own.
they were, he supposed, just like he was.
You slept with your face pressed against his scent gland, against the mating mark you'd put there. Hongjoong held you tight, anything to make up for lost time.
-
hongjoong: everyone better get their asses home as quick as possible
hongjoong: our girl needs us
-
jongho had never wanted to get home faster in his life. the message from hongjoong sat in the group chat - the one specifically reserved for work, not pack related things - and any follow up message went unanswered. the flight from jeju to Seoul was only an hour and yet it felt like a lifetime, his alpha pacing and tugging at his control.
he barely held back asking his manager to break the speed limit.
you had been theirs for nearly three years and yet he still felt like it was all so fresh when he thought of you. it was like he was still fumbling, trying to find his place with you and desperately afraid of fucking it up.
jongho looked at the group chat again. estimated arrival times and demands for answers still sat without response. he'd be the first one to arrive, the others on later flights because of their schedules.
of course, his mind jumped to the worst - to hurt and pain and death - and he felt sick. but that couldn't be, right? they were all busy but something like that - Hongjoong would have called. his manager wouldn't be humming songs playing on the radio under his breath. the world wouldn't continue turning.
so he tried to breathe through the initial panic, told himself that he was going to curse the pack alpha out for making him nauseous with worry, and assure himself that you were all in one piece.
he barely said goodbye to his manager, stumbling out of the car with his overnight bag slung over his shoulder, and took the steps up two at a time.
and there you were, on the corner of the sofa. your legs were tucked underneath you, a familiar blanket over your feet and clothes that were definitely Mingi's judging by the size on your body. your messy from sleep and your eyebrows were narrowed in concentration as you read something on your phone.
jongho's chest hurt as it always did at the sight of you.
your face lit up as soon as you saw him. "jjong!"
he dropped to his knees in front of you. his hands slid around, desperately seeking for signs of pain or injury, while his eyes jumped over your face. perfect, unblemished and mildly amused by his wandering limbs. he sniffed but couldn't detect any pain - only your sweet honey mixed with the tinges of delight that he was back in front of you.
your own fingers slid up the plains of his chest, hooking in the chain that hung from his neck. "I thought you weren't going to be back until tonight?"
"hongjoong-hyung said you needed us," jongho said softly, "so I came."
he watched the happy surprise dance across your face before it melted into embarrassment. "I didn't," you murmured, shook your head and ducked it low to hide the flush rising on your cheeks. "it could have waited."
jongho let his fingers smooth the creased the fabric at your waist. "nothing waits with you," he said, patient, honest, "what do you need?"
you ducked your head, the top bumping against the centre of his chest. his alpha rumbled at the contact and he dropped his head to press a kiss to the back of your head instinctively.
"I missed you," you whispered, "nothing smells like you anymore and I'm nesting so I was looking your scent and - did you know that the gym still smells like you and sannie?"
understanding hit him then. the tension he still held in his shoulders let him on the next exhale.
"where's hongjoong?" jongho asked patiently.
you smiled shyly. "getting supplies before pre-heat hits properly," you said.
jongho hummed in understanding. "do you need help making your nest?" he asked, "somewhere not on the gym floor."
the tips of your ears went pink. "help me?"
he kissed the curve of your lips. "yeah gorgeous, whatever you need."
your eyes dancing over his shoulders and jongho didn't even need you to ask. he was already shrugging his coat off his shoulders and tugging the jumper off his body. the way you hugged it close, eyes dilating and the way the tension left your shoulders was answer enough.
"Wait," you hesitated, "you said us? Does that mean the others too?"
you looked so adorably excited.
"will be with you in an hour," he promised.
you scrambled onto your feet. "okay, nest. I gotta get it ready. Ready for you."
it was all omega talk, a blabber about a safe place for your alphas to enter. the usual signs that you were about to start your heat. You never spoke that like that normally, never referred to any of them as your alphas in. normal conversation. still, it made jongho's alpha whine in delight and he watched, fond, utterly in love.
their managers would have a field day about the change of schedules, he was sure, and professionally, jongho knew it would cause more trouble later on. right now though, he didn't care. not with his omega reaching for him, his scent mixing with yours and your fingers interlocked with his.
he pressed a kiss to the back of your hand and nudged his nose along the insight of your wrist. "tell me what you need me to do baby," he murmured, "I got you."
-
jongho: no one is hurt or dying, beautiful is nesting
san: he couldn't have said that???
wooyoung: he made sangie cry
yeosang: you cried too!
seonghwa: why didn't he answer?
jongho: Hongjoong let his phone battery die
mingi: it is acceptable to cuss out our pack alpha?
yunho: he's gonna pay for my medical bills from this HEART ATTACK HE GAVE ME
hongjoong: I was half asleep!
hongjoong: it wasn't supposed to be so dramatic
yeosang: have you forgotten who your pack mates are?
thinking about ... san who uses you as a pillow .ᐟ
you barely make it halfway onto the bed before SAN collapses on top of you like a wwe wrestler. “san—” you gasp, trying to fight for air as his weight sinks into you, arms already wrapping snugly around your waist.
“i missed you.” his voice is muffled against your chest, his broad shoulders nearly swallowing your frame whole as he burrows deeper like a sleepy little kitten. “couldn’t sleep right last night, because my shoulders hurt again.”
you sigh upon hearing this, threading your fingers through his dark hair, it’s not the first time he is telling you this, but you are the only person that makes it comfortable enough to endure the pain. “i told you to try sleeping on your back, or stomach.”
“i can’t,” he groans, nuzzling against your collarbone. “my shoulders are too wide, and i just keep rolling over… i almost fell from the bed.”
he’s ridiculous, like literally utterly ridiculous, but at the same you can’t really blame him for not getting a decent sleep. “so what, i’m your pillow now?”
“the best pillow,” he murmurs, pulling you closer somehow. “so soft and warm, smells like strawberry chocolate cake, and you scratch my scalp just right—ah, there, like that…” he practically purrs under your touch, muscles relaxing beneath your fingertips as you gently massage his head. his biceps flex slightly as he shifts, dragging your leg over his hip like a possessive little monster. clingy, much?
you raise a brow, not because you are not used to this, simply because it comes out of nowhere, and very abruptly. “sannie, you’re being needy today.”
“i’m always needy,” he says without shame, cuddling into your warmth, smiling against your exposed skin. “especially with you.”
rolling your eyes, pretending to be annoyed, however, your hand doesn’t stop moving through his hair, and your fingers trail down his bare arm, tracing the lines of his muscle with just enough pressure to make him twitch.
“also, i’d like to file a complaint.”
“hmm?”
“you’re making it really hard to focus on your face when your arms are out here lookin’ illegal.”
he lifts his head, a grin that reaches his eyes, even making his dimples come out of hiding. “oh? baby, do you mean these?” he flexes, just slightly, watching your eyes follow the movement.
you swat him, not hard enough, but just enough to make him stop teasing you. “san, stop that! you’re too pretty and you know it.” he laughs, before ducking back down to kiss the side of your neck: gentle, lingering, stupidly in love. “i love you, you know?”
you pause, fingers threading through his hair again. “yeah, i know, and i love you too.”
but it still hits you like it’s the first time every time. when san says those three words, you forget about everything, when you look at him, he is the only one you think about. he may be a lovesick idiot, but you are crazy in love. “and i love your stupidly wide shoulders,” you murmur into his hair. “even if they’re the reason i wake up squished half the time.”
at that moment, you felt him relax, and yes, he was asleep. san always falls asleep quickly when you are here next to him, can’t blame him, you do smell like strawberry chocolate fresh cream cake, oddly specific but that’s just san for you.
(•˕ •マ.ᐟ || He thought the concert was the summit of his existence, the moment nothing would ever surpass. But while he was bowing to applause, his wife was bleeding out in a hospital room forty-five minutes away, choosing their daughter's life over her own, and waiting for a husband who never came.
It vibrated through the stadium speakers, through the floorboards of the stage, through San's own chest as he held the mic to his lips with both hands, his eyes squeezed shut, his entire body bent forward like a man in prayer. The high note, that high note, the one he'd spent months terrified of, the one that had haunted his rehearsals and stolen his sleep, poured out of him with a purity that felt almost holy. It rose and rose and rose, impossibly high, impossibly steady, until it wasn't just sound anymore. It was light. It was heat. It was the sum total of every sacrifice he had ever made, distilled into a single, transcendent vibration.
Then the band cut out.
The silence that followed lasted exactly one heartbeat. One perfect, suspended heartbeat where San opened his eyes and saw sixty thousand faces staring back at him in stunned, reverent silence.
And then the world exploded.
The roar hit him like a physical force. It was deafening, a wall of sound so immense and so consuming that he actually stumbled back a step, laughing in shock. Confetti cannons fired from the edges of the stage, spraying gold and silver into the air until it looked like the sky itself was shattering. The lights went wild, sweeping across the stadium in great arcs of blue and white, illuminating a sea of light sticks that pulsed in perfect synchronization.
San stood at the edge of the stage, chest heaving, arms spread wide as if he could embrace every single soul in that stadium. Sweat dripped from his hair into his eyes, but he didn't wipe it away. His body ached. His throat burned. His legs were trembling from three hours of relentless performance. And he had never, never in his entire life felt this alive.
This is it, he thought, the grin spreading across his face so wide his cheeks hurt, so wide he probably looked unhinged, so wide he didn't care. This is the peak. Right here. Right now. Nothing has ever felt this good. Nothing ever will.
He laughed out loud. The sound was swallowed by the crowd's roar, lost in the avalanche of noise, but he felt it in his chest, a giddy, euphoric, almost hysterical burst of pure joy. All those years of training. All those early mornings in the practice room, dancing until his feet bled. All those nights he'd laid awake in a cramped dorm room, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he was good enough, if he'd ever make it, if it was all worth it. All those moments of doubt, of fear, of wanting to give up and go home and disappear into a normal life where no one knew his name.
This moment was the answer to every single one of those questions.
The music swelled again, the closing instrumental, the final build that would carry him to the end of the show. San jogged across the stage, his movements lighter than air despite his exhaustion. He was running on adrenaline now, pure and clean and intoxicating. He pointed to different sections of the crowd, making eye contact with fans who screamed and waved and cried. He blew kisses. He pressed his hand to his heart. He mouthed the words thank you, thank you, thank you until his lips felt numb.
At the center of the extended stage, he stopped. He stood there for a long moment, just breathing, just looking, just trying to memorize every detail. The way the light sticks looked like a galaxy of stars. The way the confetti drifted down like snow in slow motion. The way the screams rose and fell like waves on an ocean. He wanted to freeze this moment, to press it between the pages of his memory like a flower, to keep it forever untouched and perfect.
Well, he amended, a softer thought surfacing through the euphoria, maybe not nothing will ever feel this good. That's not fair. That's not right.
He touched his wedding ring.
It was a subconscious habit, something he did without thinking, his thumb twisting the simple platinum band around his ring finger, feeling the cool metal against his flushed skin. He'd worn it for two years now, and it still felt new sometimes. Still surprised him with its weight, its presence, its quiet reminder that he was more than just an idol on a stage. He was a husband. Soon, he would be a father.
Seeing her walk down the aisle, he thought, the grin on his face softening into something smaller, something private. That was different. Quieter. But just as perfect in its own way. And the baby. Holding our daughter for the first time. That'll be... that'll be its own kind of miracle. A different mountain. A different summit. But I'll get there too. I'll climb that one next.
He believed it. He genuinely, naively, with all the confidence of a man who had never known true loss, believed that life had a hierarchy of joy. That the beautiful moments were stacked like stepping stones, each one leading to the next, each one waiting patiently for him to arrive. He didn't know yet that the summit he was standing on was made of glass. He didn't know that in exactly seventeen minutes, his phone would buzz with the weight of four hundred missed calls. He didn't know that while he was laughing and waving and basking in the glow of his greatest triumph, his wife was lying on an operating table forty-five minutes away, bleeding out, alone, making a choice that should have been his to make.
He didn't know any of it.
And so he was happy. Genuinely, completely, blissfully happy. The last happy moment of his life.
The ending ment was his favorite part of any concert.
The lights dimmed slightly, signaling the transition. The backing track faded to a soft, ambient hum. The members, his brothers, his family for the past decade, stepped back, giving him space. They knew this was his moment. They'd watched him pour his soul into this show, and now they stood in a loose semicircle behind him, proud and protective, letting him have the spotlight one last time.
San lifted the mic to his lips. The crowd quieted, but only slightly. He could still hear individual screams cutting through the murmur, fans calling his name from different sections of the stadium.
He didn't mind. He loved their voices. He loved their energy. He loved that they were still so full of emotion after three hours of singing and crying and losing themselves in the music.
"I don't..." he started, then stopped, laughing at himself. The crowd screamed louder, as if trying to give him their words, their love, their everything. "I don't have the words."
He did, though. He always had the words. He was the one who stayed up late writing in his journal, the one who poured his feelings into lyrics and poems and rambling letters that he'd never send. But right now, standing here, looking out at the galaxy of light sticks and tear-streaked faces, the words felt too small. They felt like trying to catch the ocean in a cup.
"Every single one of you." He gestured broadly, sweeping his arm across the entire stadium. "Every face I can see and every heart I can feel. You made this. You made me. This moment is ours. Not mine. Ours."
His voice cracked on the last word. He wasn't ashamed of it. He let the tears well up in his eyes, let them spill over his lashes, let them trace clean tracks through the sweat and makeup on his cheeks. He had never been afraid to cry in front of his fans. It was one of the things they loved about him, his openness, his vulnerability, the way he wore his heart on his sleeve like a badge of honor.
"I've dreamed about this night for so long," he continued, his voice growing steadier, more earnest. "Since I was a kid. Since I first saw a stage like this on television and thought, I want to be there. I want to stand there and feel what that feels like. And now I'm here. And it's... it's more than I ever imagined. It's bigger. It's brighter. It's more."
He paused, his hand drifting unconsciously to his wedding ring again. The camera caught the movement and projected it onto the massive screens flanking the stage. The crowd screamed. They loved the ring. They loved what it represented, the softness beneath the fierce performer, the private love story behind the public persona.
"This," San said, his voice dropping into something quieter, something intimate, "is for my universe."
The screams hit a fever pitch, but San kept going, his eyes fixed on a point just above the cameras, as if he could see through the lens and across the city to wherever you were watching.
"You know who you are. You're probably at home right now, watching this on your phone with your feet up because your ankles are swollen and you keep texting me to stop jumping around because it makes you nervous." The crowd laughed, a warm, knowing ripple. "But you also told me to go out there and give it everything. You told me to shine. So this... this is me shining. This is me giving it everything. For you. For our little one. For the family we're building together."
He pressed his hand to his heart. The ring glinted under the stage lights.
"I'll be home soon," he said. "Wait for me."
The crowd erupted. The members behind him stepped forward, wrapping their arms around his shoulders, pulling him into a group hug that was part celebration and part comfort. San laughed, the tears still streaming down his face, and let himself be held.
He didn't know that the livestream you were supposed to be watching was playing to an empty hospital room. He didn't know that your phone was sitting on a table in the operating wing, its screen cracked where it had fallen, still connected to the broadcast, his voice echoing unheard through the sterile hallways. He didn't know that your mother was clutching your phone in both hands, sobbing, trying to get through to his manager, to anyone, to someone who could reach him before it was too late.
He didn't know any of it.
He just bowed, deep and long, letting the roar of the crowd wash over him one final time before he turned and walked off stage.
It was always chaos after a show like this, but tonight it felt different. Bigger. More electric. Staff members were running in every direction, their faces flushed with adrenaline and exhaustion. Stylists descended on him the moment he stepped through the curtain, unclipping his mic pack, dabbing at his forehead with towels, handing him a bottle of water that he grabbed gratefully. The members were scattered around the backstage area, some collapsed on couches, others still bouncing with residual energy.
San was floating.
That was the only way to describe it. He felt like he was walking six inches off the ground, his body buzzing with a joy so pure it was almost unbearable. He accepted the water, took a long drink, then threw his head back and laughed.
"Did you hear them?" he said to no one in particular, to everyone, to the universe. "Did you feel that? I can't believe we pulled off that high note. My throat is absolutely wrecked. I need honey tea. No, I need a whole gallon of honey tea. Someone get me honey tea. Does anyone have honey tea?"
A staff member laughed and promised to find some. San grinned and clapped him on the shoulder, then turned to the nearest manager.
"Did someone record the ending? I need to watch it back. I think I blacked out for a second. I think I ascended to another plane of existence. I think I saw the face of God and it looked like a sea of light sticks."
The manager laughed, typing something into his tablet. "We've got multiple angles. I'll have the editors send you the rough cut by tomorrow."
"Tomorrow's too late. I need it tonight. I need to show-" He stopped, his grin widening. "I need to show my wife. She's going to kill me for making her worry about the high note, but she's also going to be proud. She's going to be so proud."
He was rambling. He knew he was rambling. But he couldn't stop. The words were spilling out of him like water from a broken dam, all the joy and relief and exhilaration that had been building for months finally finding release.
A junior staffer approached him, holding out his personal phone. She looked young, an intern, maybe, or someone new to the team. She was holding the phone carefully, almost reverently, like it was something precious.
San glanced at it and waved her off with a grin.
"Give me five minutes," he said. "Let me breathe first."
The staffer hesitated. Something flickered in her eyes, uncertainty, maybe, or unease, but it was gone before San could register it. She nodded and stepped back, still holding the phone.
San didn't notice the way her hands were trembling slightly. He didn't notice the way she exchanged a quick, nervous glance with the manager. He was too happy. Too high on adrenaline. Too completely, blissfully unaware.
He turned away and headed toward his private dressing room, already unbuttoning the stifling stage jacket as he walked. The fabric was heavy with sweat, clinging to his skin. He couldn't wait to shower. He couldn't wait to change into something comfortable. He couldn't wait to call you and hear your voice and let you tease him about how dramatic he'd been on stage, how many times he'd cried, how he'd almost tripped during the second song and tried to play it off like a dance move.
It was small but comfortable, furnished with a couch, a vanity, a rack of spare outfits, and a mini-fridge stocked with water and snacks. The walls were soundproofed, which meant the chaos of the backstage area was reduced to a muffled hum. The lights were dimmer here, softer. It smelled like lavender from the diffuser someone had set up earlier.
San closed the door behind him and let out a long, shaky breath. The adrenaline was starting to fade now, leaving behind a pleasant, heavy exhaustion. His muscles ached. His throat burned. His feet were killing him. But he was happy. He was so, so happy.
He collapsed onto the couch, letting his body sink into the cushions. The stage jacket, a glittering, custom-made piece that had cost more than his first car, was half-unbuttoned, hanging open over his sweat-soaked undershirt. He didn't bother taking it off. He just lay there, staring at the ceiling, a lazy grin still tugging at the corners of his mouth.
I did it, he thought. I actually did it.
He thought about the high note. He thought about the roar of the crowd. He thought about the confetti falling like snow. He thought about the way the light sticks had looked, a galaxy of stars, an ocean of light. He thought about the ending ment, the words he'd spoken directly to you through the camera, the promise he'd made.
I'll be home soon. Wait for me.
A flicker of something soft and warm passed through his chest. He let his eyes close, just for a moment, and imagined you watching the livestream at home. You'd be curled up on the couch, probably, with your favorite blanket and a cup of the herbal tea the doctor said was safe during pregnancy. Your ankles would be propped up on pillows because they'd been swelling lately, and you'd be rubbing your belly absentmindedly, the way you always did when you were focused on something.
She probably fell asleep halfway through, he thought, and the fondness in his chest swelled until it almost hurt. Pregnancy exhaustion and all that. I'll tease her about it tomorrow. I'll kiss her forehead and tell her she missed the best part. She'll roll her eyes and say she saw the important bits, and I'll demand to know which bits those were, and she'll list all the parts where I almost tripped or messed up a lyric.
And then I'll kiss her again.
He smiled, his eyes still closed, and let himself float in the fantasy for a moment. The domesticity of it. The ordinariness. The way the greatest night of his professional life could end with something as simple as coming home to you.
This is what happiness feels like, he thought. Not just the stage. Not just the crowd. But the quiet moments too. The moments no one else gets to see. I have both. I have everything.
He was so wrong. He was so catastrophically, heartbreakingly wrong, and he didn't know it yet.
The junior staffer was still standing outside his door, holding his phone. She was staring at the screen, her face pale, her eyes wide with horror. The notifications were still coming in, a relentless, screaming flood of calls and texts that had been piling up for over an hour. She had tried to give him the phone. He had waved her off. Give me five minutes, he'd said, grinning like a man who had everything.
She didn't know what to do. She was just an intern. She wasn't supposed to be the one delivering news like this. But the phone wouldn't stop buzzing, and the messages on the preview screen were getting worse, and she could hear San's muffled laughter through the dressing room door, and she didn't know how to tell him that his wife was dying.
So she stood there, frozen, clutching the phone like a grenade with the pin already pulled.
And San, blissfully, mercifully unaware, reached lazily for his own phone, the backup he kept in his bag, the one he used for music and notes and mindless scrolling when he couldn't sleep.
He pulled it out, still grinning, still floating, and swiped it open.
For a long moment, too long, an eternity compressed into the space between two heartbeats, San simply stared at the screen. His brain refused to process what it was seeing. The grin stayed frozen on his face, but it had become something else now, something hollow and confused, the smile of a man who hadn't yet realized he was in free fall.
473 missed calls.
That couldn't be right. That was a glitch. A phone error. Maybe his number had been leaked and fans were spamming him, or maybe there was something wrong with the network, or maybe,
He looked at the caller ID list.
"Mom-In-Law ❤️" , the heart emoji you'd added to her contact years ago, because you said she deserved it, because she was the sweetest woman you'd ever met and you wanted everyone to know it.
87 missed calls.
His stomach dropped. A physical sensation. A cold, sickening lurch that made his fingers go numb around the phone.
His own mother. 41 missed calls.
Your sister. 56 missed calls.
Numbers he didn't recognize. Dozens of them. Some with local area codes. Some with the hospital prefix he'd memorized during your first prenatal visit.
The text notifications were worse.
They crowded the preview screen in truncated fragments, each one a shard of a nightmare he hadn't known he was living. He couldn't read them all at once. His eyes could only catch pieces, jagged and horrifying, bleeding into each other.
Pick up pick up pick up
Baby in distress
Where are you San please
Emergency C-section NOW
They need you here
Please god please answer
She's asking for you
Losing her
San where are you
She waited
They're asking her to choose
She said you're not here
She said you're not here to decide
Where are you
Where are you
Where are you
The towel, when had he grabbed a towel?, fell from his face. He didn't remember putting it there. He didn't remember anything. The world had lost all sound. The triumphant cheers still echoing from the stadium, the muffled chatter of staff outside his door, the hum of the air conditioning, all of it vanished, replaced by a high-pitched ringing that filled his skull like a scream.
His hand started to shake.
He tried to unlock the phone. His fingers slipped on the passcode, once, twice, three times. A simple act made impossible by pure, unadulterated terror. He couldn't breathe. His chest had turned to concrete. The glittering jacket he was still wearing, the one that had felt like armor on stage, was now suffocating him, a costume of a person who didn't exist anymore.
He finally managed to open the phone. His hands were trembling so badly he could barely hold it steady. He pressed your mother's contact and lifted it to his ear.
She picked up on the first ring.
She wasn't crying.
That was the first thing he noticed. She wasn't crying. Her voice was a raw, hollowed-out shell, the voice of someone who had been screaming into a void for over an hour and had nothing left to give. It was worse than crying. It was so much worse.
"San."
Just his name. That was all she said. And in that single syllable, he heard everything.
"Eomma." His voice, the voice that had commanded a stadium full of thousands, was barely a whisper. It cracked on the second syllable, splintering into something small and terrified. "What... what happened? What's going on? Is she okay? Is the baby-"
"She waited for you."
Your mother's voice cracked, but didn't break. It was beyond breaking.
"As long as she could. The labor started early. There were complications, the placenta, something about the placenta, I don't-" She stopped. Swallowed. He could hear her breathing, ragged and uneven. "They had to do an emergency C-section. She was bleeding too much. They... they asked her what to do if it came down to it. If they could only save..."
She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't have to.
San's vision went white at the edges. The phone was slipping in his sweaty grip, but he couldn't tighten his fingers. He couldn't move.
"She told them you weren't there to decide."
The words landed like a physical blow. He felt them in his chest, in his stomach, in the back of his throat where a scream was building that wouldn't come out.
"What does that mean?" His voice was rising now, hysteria clawing at the edges. "What does that mean, what do you mean she told them that, what happened? What happened to her?"
"The baby is in the NICU."
The baby is in the NICU.
Not they're fine. Not she's resting. Not everyone is okay, just get here when you can.
The baby is in the NICU.
"And-" He couldn't say it. He couldn't form the words. His lips moved around your name, a name he'd whispered a thousand times, a name he'd laughed into pillows and sung into microphones and prayed into the darkness of early mornings. But the sound wouldn't come. It was stuck in his throat, trapped behind the concrete that had filled his chest.
There was a long, terrible silence on the other end of the line. A silence that told him everything he needed to know. A silence that confirmed the worst thing he had never imagined.
"I'm so sorry, San."
The phone slipped from his hand.
He didn't drop it. It just... fell. His fingers had stopped working. It clattered onto the floor, face-up, the screen still glowing. Your mother's voice was still speaking from the speaker, distant and tinny, words that he couldn't hear anymore over the roaring in his ears.
He sat there on the couch in his dressing room. Still in his stage clothes. Still covered in the sweat of his greatest triumph. Still smelling of confetti and adrenaline and joy. The glittering jacket hung open over his undershirt. His hair was damp and disheveled. His makeup was smeared from the tears he'd cried on stage, happy tears, grateful tears, tears of pure, overwhelming joy.
Those tears were still wet on his cheeks.
He could see himself in the vanity mirror across the room. A man in a beautiful jacket, sitting on a couch, staring at a phone on the floor. A man who had been a god ten minutes ago. A man who had stood on the summit of his entire existence and thought, Nothing has ever felt this good. Nothing ever will.
He had been right about one thing.
Nothing would ever feel that good again.
The high-pitched ringing in his ears grew louder, drowning out everything else. The muffled chatter outside the door. The distant thump of music from the after-party he was supposed to attend. The tinny, faraway sound of your mother's voice still calling his name through the phone on the floor.
San. San, are you there? San, please say something. San,
He didn't answer.
He couldn't.
He just sat there, frozen, a boy in a glittering jacket, drowning in a silence louder than any ovation.
It was the junior staffer, the intern who had tried to give him his phone earlier. She was still holding it, his personal phone, the one with 473 missed calls. Her face was pale. Her eyes were red. She had been crying.
"San-ssi?" Her voice was small. Trembling. "I'm so sorry. I tried to, earlier, I tried to give you, I didn't know-"
She stopped. She didn't know what to say. There was nothing to say.
San didn't look at her. He didn't move. He just stared at the phone on the floor, at the screen that was still lit up with your mother's contact photo, a picture of her smiling, holding a plate of the homemade dumplings she'd made for his birthday last year.
"She's gone," he said.
It wasn't a question. It wasn't even really a statement. It was just... words. Sounds. His voice was flat, empty, completely devoid of the emotion that had poured out of him on stage just minutes ago.
The staffer didn't answer. She didn't have to.
San bent down, slowly, mechanically, like a man moving through water, and picked up the phone from the floor. Your mother's voice was still coming through the speaker, but it had dissolved into sobs now. He pressed the phone to his ear.
"Eomma," he said. "I'm coming. I'm coming right now. Just, tell her I'm coming. Tell her to wait for me. Tell her-"
Tell her I'm coming. Tell her to wait.
But she had already waited. She had waited as long as she could, alone in a sterile room full of strangers, bleeding out on an operating table, making a choice that should have been his. She had waited, and he hadn't come, and now there was nothing left to wait for.
"San." Your mother's voice, thick with grief and exhaustion. "San, she's already-"
"I know." His voice broke. Finally, completely, shattered into a thousand pieces. "I know. I know. I just, I need to see her. I need to see her. Please."
He was already standing. Already moving toward the door. The staffer stepped aside, pressing herself against the wall to let him pass. He walked out into the backstage chaos, the same chaos he had laughed and floated through just fifteen minutes ago, and this time, no one tried to stop him.
They saw his face.
They saw the phone pressed to his ear, the tears streaming down his cheeks, the glittering jacket still hanging open over his sweat-soaked shirt. They saw the man who had been a god on stage just minutes ago, and they saw what he had become.
No one said a word.
The car was waiting outside. Someone must have called it. Someone must have known. San didn't remember getting in. He didn't remember the doors closing or the engine starting or the city lights blurring past the window. He just remembers the phone call. Your mother's voice, still on the line, still saying his name, still trying to reach him through the impossible distance between joy and devastation.
"It's a girl," she said, her voice cracking. "The baby, it's a girl. She's so small, San. She's so small. But she's alive. She's fighting. They said she's a fighter."
A daughter.
He had a daughter.
You had given him a daughter.
And you had died alone, without him, because he had been on a stage, bowing to applause, thinking about how nothing had ever felt this good.
He pressed his forehead against the cold window of the car and closed his eyes.
Wait for me, he had said on stage, just minutes ago, a lifetime ago. I'll be home soon. Wait for me.
But you couldn't wait. You had tried, god, you had tried, but the choice had been yours to make alone, and now the waiting was over.
And all that was left was the silence. The empty seat beside him. The city lights blurring past in streaks of gold and white. The distant, echoing roar of a crowd that was still cheering, somewhere far behind him, for a man who didn't exist anymore.
The hospital rose out of the darkness like a monument to everything he had already lost.
San didn't remember the drive. The city had blurred past the car window in streaks of neon and shadow, headlights and streetlamps bleeding into each other like watercolors left out in the rain. He had pressed his forehead against the cold glass and closed his eyes and tried to breathe, but every inhale felt like swallowing shards of glass. The phone was still clutched in his hand, your mother's voice long gone, replaced by silence and the distant, tinny echo of his own heartbeat.
Now the car was stopped. The engine was still running. The driver was saying something, We're here, sir, this is the entrance, do you need help, should I park, but the words didn't reach him. They were sounds without meaning, floating in the dead space between one moment and the next.
San opened the car door and stepped out into the night.
The air hit him first. Cold and sharp, smelling of antiseptic and exhaust fumes and the faint, sweet rot of garbage from the alley behind the emergency bay. It was nothing like the air on stage, the heat of the lights, the smoke from the pyrotechnics, the sweat and perfume and electricity of sixty thousand bodies pressed together in adoration. That air had been alive. This air was sterile. Hollow. The air of a place where people came to die.
He was still wearing the stage jacket.
He realized it distantly, the way you realize you've left the stove on or forgotten your keys. The glittering, custom-made jacket that had cost more than his first car, the one that had felt like armor under the spotlight, was still hanging open over his sweat-soaked undershirt. The sequins caught the fluorescent glare of the hospital entrance, winking obscenely, a mockery of celebration. He should take it off. He should have taken it off in the car. He should have changed into something normal, something human, something that didn't scream. I was just on stage while my wife was dying.
But he couldn't stop to take it off. He couldn't stop at all. If he stopped, even for a second, he would have to think about what was waiting for him inside. And if he thought about it, he would shatter. And if he shattered, he would never be able to put himself back together.
The automatic doors slid open with a pneumatic hiss, and the full fluorescent assault of the emergency room hit him like a slap. White walls. White floors. White lights that buzzed faintly at the edge of hearing, a sound like insects trapped inside the ceiling. The waiting area was half-full, a woman clutching a crying toddler, an elderly man with a bloodstained bandage wrapped around his hand, a teenager slumped in a plastic chair with her hood pulled up over her face. They all looked up when he walked in.
He saw the moment recognition flickered across their faces. The double-takes. The widening eyes. The whispered murmurs. Is that, no, it can't be, wait, is that Choi San? What is he doing here? Why is he dressed like that? Is that stage makeup? Is he crying?
He didn't care. He didn't care about any of it. Let them stare. Let them whisper. Let them pull out their phones and take pictures and post them online with captions like OMG Choi San just walked into the ER looking WRECKED, what happened?? None of it mattered. None of it would ever matter again.
He walked straight to the front desk. The nurse behind the counter looked up, her professional smile freezing on her face as she registered his appearance, the glittering jacket, the smeared makeup, the wild, desperate look in his eyes.
"Sir, can I help-"
"My wife." His voice came out as a croak, raw and shredded from three hours of singing. "She was brought in. Emergency C-section. Her name is-" He said your name. Your full name. The name he had whispered on your wedding day, the name he had written in the margins of his lyrics, the name he had shouted to the stadium just an hour ago when he told the world that you were his universe.
The nurse's expression flickered. Something passed through her eyes, recognition, pity, dread, and she turned to her computer, her fingers flying across the keyboard.
"Are you family?"
"I'm her husband."
A pause. The keyboard stopped clicking. The nurse looked up at him again, and this time her professional mask slipped. Just for a second. Just enough for him to see the sorrow underneath.
"Sir, I need you to wait here for just a moment. I'm going to call someone to come speak with you."
"No." The word came out harder than he intended, edged with something dangerously close to fury. "No, I'm not waiting. I've been waiting. I've been-" He stopped. Swallowed. His hands were shaking again, gripping the edge of the counter so hard his knuckles had gone white. "Please. Please just tell me where she is. Please."
The nurse hesitated. She looked at him, really looked at him, at the tears cutting tracks through his stage makeup, at the trembling hands, at the glittering jacket that suddenly seemed obscene in the harsh hospital light, and something in her face softened.
"Third floor," she said quietly. "Maternity ward. Room 314. But sir-" She reached out as if to touch his arm, then thought better of it. "There's a family waiting room. Your mother-in-law is there. She's been waiting for you."
San didn't thank her. He didn't say anything at all. He just turned and walked toward the elevators, his footsteps echoing on the linoleum, the glittering jacket catching the light with every step.
The doors closed, sealing him into a small metal box with mirrored walls and a Muzak version of a song he vaguely recognized but couldn't name. The music was soft and cheerful, utterly indifferent to the fact that his entire world had collapsed. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirrored wall and almost didn't recognize the reflection.
His hair was disheveled, plastered to his forehead with dried sweat. His stage makeup, the smoky eyeliner, the subtle contouring, the lip tint that was supposed to look natural under the lights, was smeared and streaked, turning his face into a grotesque mask. The glittering jacket hung open over a shirt that was soaked through with sweat, clinging to his chest and stomach. He looked like a man who had been to a party and stumbled into a nightmare.
He looked like a man who had been celebrating while his wife was dying.
The elevator dinged. The doors slid open. San stepped out into the third-floor hallway and immediately saw your mother.
She was sitting in a plastic chair outside a waiting room, her posture rigid, her hands clasped in her lap like a child waiting for punishment. She looked older than he remembered. Older than she had looked two days ago, when she'd come over for dinner and helped you fold baby clothes and teased San about his inability to assemble the crib. Her face was pale and drawn, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen. She was still wearing the same clothes from earlier, a simple blouse and slacks, now wrinkled and stained with something dark that San's brain refused to identify.
She looked up when she heard his footsteps.
"San."
Her voice was barely a whisper. She stood up, her movements slow and unsteady, like a woman who had aged ten years in a single night. She reached for him, her hands trembling, and San, San, who had been holding himself together by the thinnest of threads since the moment he'd seen those 473 missed calls, felt something inside him crack.
"Where is she?" he asked. His voice was still flat. Still empty. He couldn't let the emotion in yet. If he let it in, he would drown. "Where is she? I need to see her."
Your mother's face crumpled. She pressed a hand to her mouth, her shoulders shaking with a sob she was trying desperately to suppress.
"They're... they're still..." She couldn't finish. She took a shaky breath and tried again. "The baby is in the NICU. She's... she's so small, San. But she's alive. She's fighting. They said she's a fighter."
The baby. His daughter. The child you had carried for eight months, the child you had talked to in the quiet hours of the night when you thought he was sleeping, the child you had promised to love and protect and raise together. She was alive. She was fighting.
But you,
"And my wife?" San's voice cracked on the word, splintering into something raw and desperate. "Where is my wife?"
Your mother looked at him. Just looked at him. And in her eyes, he saw the answer.
"No," he said. The word came out before he could stop it, a reflex, a denial, a prayer. "No. No, she's, she was fine, she was fine when I talked to her, she told me to go, she told me she'd be okay-"
"They did everything they could." Your mother's voice broke completely, dissolving into tears. "There was so much blood. The placenta, it detached, they said. They couldn't stop the bleeding. They had to... they had to get the baby out, and by the time they..."
She couldn't finish. She didn't have to.
San felt his legs give out. He didn't fall, not quite, but he stumbled, his shoulder hitting the wall, his hand reaching out to brace himself against the cold, sterile surface. The hallway tilted. The fluorescent lights flickered. The Muzak from the elevator was still playing somewhere in the distance, soft and cheerful and utterly indifferent.
"She asked for you." Your mother's voice came from very far away, muffled and distorted, like she was speaking through water. "Before they took her in. She was scared, San. She was so scared. But she kept saying... she kept saying you needed to finish the show. She said this was your dream. She said she'd be fine. She said she'd wait for you."
Wait for me.
That was what he'd said on stage. I'll be home soon. Wait for me.
And she had waited. She had waited as long as she could, alone and terrified, bleeding out on an operating table while strangers shouted and monitors screamed and a choice was made that should have been his. She had waited, and he hadn't come, and now,
"Where is she?" His voice was a rasp, barely recognizable. "Where is she now? I need to see her. Please. Please, I need to see her."
Your mother wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She nodded, a jerky, unsteady motion, and pointed down the hallway.
"Room 314. They... they cleaned her up. They said you could see her whenever you were ready."
Ready. As if there was any way to be ready for this. As if there was any amount of preparation that could make it bearable to walk into a room and see the person you loved most in the world lying still and silent and gone.
But San didn't say that. He just pushed himself off the wall and started walking.
It was an unremarkable door, the same pale beige as every other door in the hallway, with a small placard that read 314 in plain black lettering. There was nothing about it that suggested tragedy. Nothing that hinted at the devastation waiting on the other side. It was just a door. An ordinary door. The kind of door you might walk through a hundred times without ever thinking twice.
San stood in front of it and couldn't move.
His hand was on the handle. He didn't remember putting it there. His fingers were wrapped around the cold metal, but he couldn't make them turn. Couldn't make them push. Couldn't make himself cross the threshold from the world where you might still be alive to the world where you definitely weren't.
Because as long as he stayed on this side of the door, there was still a chance. A tiny, irrational, impossible chance that this was all a mistake. A misunderstanding. A nightmare that he would wake up from any second now, gasping and disoriented, reaching for you in the dark. You would stir beside him, warm and sleepy and alive, and you would murmur what's wrong and he would say nothing, just a bad dream and you would curl into his chest and fall back asleep and everything would be okay.
But the door was real. The handle was cold. The fluorescent lights were buzzing overhead. And when he pushed the door open, there would be no waking up.
Not the absence of sound, the hospital was full of sounds, the distant beeping of monitors, the muffled footsteps of nurses in the hallway, the soft whoosh of the ventilation system. But this room was silent in a way that had nothing to do with noise. It was the silence of absence. The silence of a space that had been emptied of something irreplaceable.
The second thing he noticed was the light.
The overhead fluorescents were off, replaced by a small lamp on the bedside table that cast the room in soft, golden shadows. The blinds were drawn, blocking out the city lights and the distant glow of the stadium where, somewhere, the after-party was still going on without him. The room was dim and quiet and almost peaceful, like a chapel. Like a tomb.
The third thing he noticed was you.
You were lying on the hospital bed, your body covered by a clean white sheet pulled up to your chest. Your arms were arranged at your sides, your hands folded neatly on top of the blanket. Someone had washed the blood away. Someone had brushed your hair and arranged it on the pillow. Someone had closed your eyes.
You looked like you were sleeping.
That was the cruelest part. You didn't look dead. You didn't look like a body, a corpse, a shell emptied of its soul. You looked like yourself, the same face he had kissed a thousand times, the same hands he had held in the dark, the same lips that had smiled at him through a video call just hours ago and told him to shine. You looked like you might open your eyes at any moment and smile at him and ask how the concert went.
But you wouldn't. You wouldn't open your eyes. You wouldn't smile at him. You wouldn't ask him anything, ever again.
San didn't remember crossing the room.
One moment he was standing in the doorway, frozen, his hand still on the handle. The next moment he was beside the bed, his knees hitting the cold linoleum floor with a thud that he felt in his bones. He reached for your hand, your hand, your beautiful hand, the hand that had held his on your wedding day, the hand that had rested on your growing belly for months, the hand that had waved at him from the video call and blown him a kiss and signed off with an I love you that he hadn't known would be the last.
It was cold.
Your hand was cold.
San had held your hand a thousand times. He knew the warmth of it, the way your fingers would curl around his, the way you would trace patterns on his palm when you were nervous or thoughtful or just wanted to touch him. He knew the calluses on your fingertips from years of writing, the small scar on your thumb from a kitchen accident, the way your knuckles would crack when you stretched your fingers in the morning.
He knew your hand better than he knew his own.
And now it was cold. A cold that had nothing to do with the hospital air conditioning, nothing to do with the chill of the room. It was the cold of absence. The cold of a body that had stopped being a body and become something else. Something empty. Something gone.
"No," he whispered.
He pressed your hand to his cheek, cradling it against his skin as if he could warm it with his own warmth, as if he could pour enough of himself into you to bring you back.
"No, no, no. Please. Please. I'm here. I'm here now. I came as fast as I could. I'm sorry I'm late. I'm sorry. Please wake up. Please. Just... just open your eyes. Please open your eyes. I need you to open your eyes. Please."
He was begging. He was on his knees on a hospital floor, still in his stage clothes, still covered in the sweat of his greatest triumph, and he was begging your lifeless body to wake up. He was pressing kisses to your cold knuckles, your cold palm, your cold wrist where there was no pulse and never would be again. He was sobbing, ugly, gasping, animal sounds that tore themselves out of his chest without permission, sounds he didn't recognize as his own.
"I should have been here. I should have been here. You told me to go and I went and I should have, I should have stayed. I should have told them to cancel the show. I should have been on the first flight home the moment you said you weren't feeling well. I should have, I should have been here. You needed me and I was on a stage. I was singing. I was bowing. I was so happy, I was so-"
His voice broke. Shattered completely into silence. He pressed his forehead to your cold hand, his tears soaking into the white sheet, and he couldn't speak anymore. There were no words for this. There was no language for the magnitude of what he had lost.
He stayed like that for a long time. Minutes. Hours. An eternity compressed into the space between his heartbeat and your silence. He held your hand. He pressed kisses to your cold fingers. He whispered your name over and over and over like a prayer, like an incantation, like if he said it enough times you might hear him and come back.
But you didn't come back. You couldn't. You were gone, and he was here, and the distance between the living and the dead was one he would spend the rest of his life trying to bridge.
At some point, he didn't know when, he started talking.
Not to anyone in particular. Not even to you, really. Just... talking. The words poured out of him in a broken, halting stream, fragments of memory and grief and guilt all tangled together.
"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner. I didn't know. I didn't know, I swear I didn't know. They didn't tell me. My phone was off. I was on stage and my phone was off and I didn't, if I had known, I would have, I would have been here. I would have been here. You know that, right? You know I would have been here?"
He paused, as if waiting for an answer. The silence that followed was its own response.
"The high note," he said, and a hysterical laugh bubbled up in his throat, choking and wrong. "I hit the high note. The one I was so scared of. The one I've been practicing for months. I hit it. I hit it perfectly. The crowd went insane. They were screaming so loud I couldn't hear myself think. And I thought, I thought this is it, this is the best moment of my life, nothing will ever compete."
His voice cracked. The laugh turned into a sob.
"Nothing will ever compete. That's what I thought. I thought I was at the peak. I thought I had everything. And the whole time, you were, you were here, you were alone, you were-"
He couldn't finish. He pressed his forehead harder against your hand, his shoulders shaking with the force of his sobs.
"They asked you to choose." His voice was barely a whisper now, muffled against the sheet. "They asked you to choose, and I wasn't here. You had to make that choice alone. You had to decide alone. And I was, I was taking a bow. I was waving at the crowd. I was thinking about how happy I was."
He lifted his head. His eyes were red and swollen, his face streaked with tears and smeared makeup. He looked at your face, your peaceful, sleeping, impossibly still face, and he felt something inside him splinter.
"It should have been me," he said. "If someone had to... it should have been me. Not you. You were going to be such a good mother. You were already a good mother. You talked to her every night. You sang to her. You read her stories even though she couldn't understand them yet. You loved her so much. You loved her so much and now you'll never get to hold her and it's my fault. It's my fault."
He was shaking. His whole body was trembling, his hands still clutching yours like a lifeline, like the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
"She's beautiful," he said, his voice breaking on the word. "Mom, your mom told me. She's beautiful and she's small and she's fighting. She's a fighter. Just like you. You would be so proud of her. I'm going to... I'm going to take care of her. I'm going to raise her. I'm going to tell her every day how much you loved her. I'm going to show her pictures and videos. I'm going to make sure she knows who you were. I promise. I promise."
He pressed a kiss to your knuckles. Then your palm. Then the inside of your wrist, where your pulse should have been.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry. I love you. I love you so much. I'll never stop loving you. Never. Not ever. You're my universe. You were always my universe. Not the stage. Not the crowd. Not the lights. You. Only you. And I didn't... I didn't tell you enough. I didn't show you enough. I spent so much time chasing that stupid dream, and the whole time, the only dream that mattered was you."
He fell silent. The room fell silent. The whole world fell silent.
And in the silence, San knelt beside your bed, holding your cold hand, and let the weight of everything he had lost settle over him like a shroud.
Time had stopped meaning anything. The clock on the wall ticked on, indifferent, but San couldn't hear it. The only thing that existed was your face, your hand, the unbearable stillness of your chest. He memorized every detail, the curve of your eyebrows, the sweep of your lashes against your cheeks, the small scar on your chin from a childhood fall. He memorized them because he was terrified of forgetting. Terrified that one day he would close his eyes and not be able to picture you exactly as you were in this moment.
He was still there when the door opened.
He didn't turn around. He didn't acknowledge the soft footsteps, the quiet click of the door closing, the gentle throat-clearing of someone who didn't want to intrude but had no choice.
"San-ssi?"
A nurse. Her voice was soft, kind, the voice of someone who had done this many times before and knew there was no right way to say what she needed to say.
"I'm so sorry to interrupt. But the baby... your daughter... the NICU team is asking if you'd like to see her. She's stable. She's doing well, all things considered. And we thought... we thought you might want to meet her."
His daughter.
The baby you had carried for eight months. The baby you had talked to and sung to and loved with every fiber of your being. The baby whose life had been bought with yours.
He should want to see her. He did want to see her. But the thought of leaving this room, of letting go of your hand, of walking away from you, of accepting that you were really gone, felt like a betrayal.
"I can't," he whispered. "I can't leave her."
The nurse was quiet for a moment. Then she stepped closer, her shoes making soft sounds on the linoleum.
"She'll still be here when you come back," she said gently. "We'll take care of her. I promise. But your daughter... she's been waiting to meet you too."
She's been waiting.
The words hit him like a punch to the chest. You had waited for him. You had waited as long as you could, and he hadn't come, and now you were gone. But your daughter, your daughter was still waiting. Your daughter was still alive. Your daughter was still fighting.
And she deserved to meet her father.
San looked at your face one more time. He memorized the peace in your expression, the way your lips curved just slightly at the corners, as if you had fallen asleep in the middle of a happy dream. He pressed one last kiss to your cold forehead, letting his lips linger there for a long, trembling moment.
"I'll be back," he whispered. "I promise. I'll be back. Wait for me."
Wait for me.
The same words he'd said on stage, a lifetime ago. The same words you couldn't keep. But he would keep them. He would come back. He would sit beside you until they made him leave, and then he would come back again, and again, and again, until the day he could finally join you wherever you had gone.
He let go of your hand.
It was the hardest thing he had ever done. Harder than any choreography. Harder than any high note. Harder than any of the sacrifices he had made to become the man standing on that stage tonight. Letting go of your hand felt like letting go of gravity. Like he might float away into the void without you to anchor him.
But he did it. He let go. He stood up on legs that barely felt like his own. He turned away from your bed and walked toward the door, where the nurse was waiting with sad eyes and a gentle, pitying smile.
"Take me to her," he said, his voice raw and empty. "Take me to my daughter."
San followed the nurse through a maze of hallways and elevators, his footsteps mechanical, his mind somewhere far away. The glittering stage jacket was gone now, someone had found him a plain hoodie, a pair of sweatpants, something that didn't scream I was just on stage while my world ended. He didn't remember changing. He didn't remember who had given him the clothes. He didn't remember anything except the cold of your hand and the silence of your chest and the way your lips had curved just slightly at the corners, like you were dreaming.
The nurse walked a few steps ahead of him, her shoes squeaking softly on the linoleum. She didn't try to make conversation. She didn't offer platitudes or condolences or empty reassurances. She just walked, steady and calm, leading him toward the one thing that might still tether him to the world.
The NICU doors were heavy. Reinforced. They swung open with a low pneumatic hiss, and suddenly the air changed. It was warmer here, more humid. It smelled different too, less like antiseptic and more like something soft and clean. Baby powder. Sterile blankets. The faint, sweet scent of new life.
"Your daughter is in Bay 7," the nurse said quietly. "You'll need to scrub in before you can hold her. I'll show you where."
The scrubbing-in process was methodical. Familiar, almost, in the way that routines could be comforting even in the midst of devastation. Warm water. Soap up to the elbows. A disposable gown over the hoodie. Gloves. A mask. The nurse talked him through it with the practiced patience of someone who had done this a hundred times, and San let her voice wash over him without really hearing it. He was somewhere else. He was still in room 314. He was still holding your hand.
But then the nurse led him through another set of doors, and he stepped into the NICU proper, and everything else fell away.
The room was dim. Not dark, but dim, soft lighting designed to mimic the womb, to ease tiny bodies into a world they weren't ready for. The walls were lined with incubators, each one a small plastic box filled with wires and tubes and monitors that beeped in quiet, constant rhythms. Parents sat in rocking chairs beside some of them, their faces exhausted and hopeful and terrified all at once. Nurses moved between the bays with quiet efficiency, checking vitals, adjusting tubes, murmuring softly to babies too small to understand.
And there, in Bay 7, was his daughter.
San stopped walking.
His feet simply stopped moving, rooted to the floor like the linoleum had risen up and swallowed him whole. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He could only stare at the incubator, at the tiny creature inside it, at the life that you had given him at the cost of your own.
She was so small.
That was the first thought that broke through the static in his mind. She was so impossibly, terrifyingly small. Her body was barely longer than his hand, her limbs thin and fragile, her skin so translucent he could see the faint blue tracery of veins beneath it. She was swaddled in a tiny blanket, a knitted cap pulled over her head, and her eyes were closed, fused shut, the nurse had explained, the way premature babies' eyes often were.
But her chest was rising and falling. Her tiny fingers were curled into fists. Her mouth, a rosebud, a perfect miniature bow, was pursed slightly, as if she was dreaming of something important.
She was alive.
After everything, after the hemorrhage and the emergency surgery and the frantic fight to save them both, she was alive. She was fighting. She was here.
"Would you like to sit down?" The nurse's voice came from somewhere far away. "You can hold her, if you're ready. Skin-to-skin contact is very beneficial for preemies. It helps regulate their heartbeat and temperature. And it helps with bonding."
Bonding. The word felt foreign. Alien. He was supposed to bond with this tiny creature, this beautiful, fragile miracle, while you lay cold and still three floors below. He was supposed to hold her and love her and be her father, when the only thing he wanted to do was crawl into the bed beside you and never get up.
But she was your daughter. She was the last piece of you left in the world. And you had chosen her. You had made the impossible choice, alone in that operating room, and you had chosen her.
He owed it to you to hold her.
He owed it to her to try.
"I'm ready," he said. His voice was a stranger's voice. Hollow. Distant. But steady.
The nurse helped him settle into a rocking chair beside the incubator. She showed him how to position his arms, how to support the baby's head, how to keep the wires and tubes from tangling. Then she reached into the incubator, carefully, so carefully, and lifted his daughter out.
She placed the baby in his arms.
For a moment, San forgot how to breathe.
She weighed nothing. Less than nothing. She was lighter than a microphone, lighter than the rings he wore on his fingers, lighter than air. If he closed his eyes, he might forget she was there at all. But he didn't close his eyes. He couldn't. He was staring at her face, at the tiny nose, the delicate lashes, the rosebud mouth that was now opening and closing in a silent, instinctive rooting reflex.
She was looking for you.
The realization hit him like a freight train. She was looking for her mother. She was looking for the voice that had sung to her every night, the heartbeat that had lulled her to sleep, the warmth that had surrounded her for eight months. She was looking for you, and you weren't here. You would never be here. She would grow up without ever knowing the sound of your laugh or the touch of your hand or the fierce, boundless love you had felt for her from the very first moment you knew she existed.
And it was his fault.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. He didn't know if he was talking to the baby or to you or to the universe itself. "I'm so sorry."
The baby stirred at the sound of his voice. Her tiny fist uncurled, her fingers stretching out, reaching for something she couldn't name. San watched, barely breathing, as her hand bumped against his chest and then stilled, resting there, right over his heart.
She was so small that her entire hand covered less than a fraction of his chest. But the weight of it, the weight of her existence, her survival, her impossible, fragile life, pressed down on him with a gravity that threatened to crush him.
He thought about the concert. He thought about the roar of the crowd, the confetti falling like snow, the high note that had felt like touching heaven. He thought about how he had stood on that stage and believed, with every fiber of his being, that nothing would ever feel as good as that moment.
He had been wrong.
He had been so catastrophically, humiliatingly wrong.
Because this, this tiny hand on his chest, this fragile heartbeat fluttering against his own, this life that had been bought with the blood of the woman he loved, this was bigger than any stage. Louder than any crowd. More important than any dream he had ever chased.
And he had almost missed it. He had almost been somewhere else, somewhere far away, bowing to applause while his daughter took her first breaths without him.
A sob tore out of his chest. Then another. Then another, until he was crying openly, his tears falling onto the baby's blanket, his shoulders shaking with the force of a grief too immense to contain. The nurse, discreet and practiced, stepped back to give him space. The monitors beeped their quiet rhythms. The other parents, lost in their own private joys and sorrows, didn't look up.
And San held his daughter, your daughter, and wept.
Time had stopped meaning anything hours ago. It might have been minutes. It might have been hours. The world outside the NICU, the after-party, the headlines, the fans who were just starting to piece together that something had gone terribly wrong, didn't exist. The only thing that existed was the baby in his arms and the cold, still body three floors below and the impossible distance between them.
At some point, the nurse came back. She checked the baby's vitals, adjusted a wire, smiled at him with gentle, professional sympathy.
"She's doing very well," she said softly. "Her oxygen levels are stable. Her heartbeat is strong. She's a fighter."
A fighter. That was what your mother had said. That was what everyone kept saying. She was a fighter, just like her mother. Just like you.
"What's her name?" the nurse asked.
San looked down at the baby. At her tiny nose, her rosebud mouth, her fingers still curled against his chest.
You had picked the name together. Months ago, curled up on the couch with a baby name book balanced between you, laughing at the ridiculous suggestions and arguing over the serious ones. You had settled on it one night, lying in bed, your hand resting on your swollen belly.
If it's a girl, you had said, I want her to have your mother's name. And mine. Together. So she'll always know where she came from.
San had kissed your forehead and told you it was perfect. And it was. It was perfect.
He told the nurse the name. Your name, woven together with his mother's, a legacy of love and loss and everything in between. The nurse smiled and wrote it down on a small card, which she tucked into a slot on the incubator.
"That's a beautiful name," she said. "Welcome to the world, little one."
Your mother came to the NICU at some point. Her eyes were still red, her face still pale, but there was something different in her expression now. Something that looked almost like hope. She sat beside San in a second rocking chair, and together they watched the baby sleep.
"She has your nose," your mother said quietly. "But her mouth... her mouth is all her mother."
San looked at the baby's rosebud lips, pursed in sleep, and felt something crack open in his chest. She was right. The baby had your mouth. The same curve, the same softness, the same way of pursing her lips when she was dreaming.
He would see your face in hers every day for the rest of his life.
"She waited for you," your mother said after a long silence. Her voice was barely above a whisper. "At the end. She was in so much pain, but she kept asking for you. She kept saying your name. She wanted you to know... she wanted you to know that she wasn't angry. She wasn't scared. She just wanted you to be happy."
San closed his eyes. The tears were coming again, burning behind his lids.
"She said to tell you," your mother continued, her voice breaking, "that she loved you. That she would always love you. And that she was so proud of you. So proud of the man you'd become. So proud of the father you were going to be."
He couldn't speak. He could only nod, his throat too tight for words, his hands trembling around the tiny bundle in his arms.
Your mother reached over and placed her hand on his. Her skin was warm. Alive. A reminder that not everything had been taken from him.
"She would want you to hold onto this," she said. "This little girl. This miracle. She would want you to hold on and never let go."
San looked down at his daughter. At her tiny chest rising and falling. At her fingers curled against his heart. At the mouth that was so perfectly, painfully yours.
"I won't," he whispered. "I promise. I won't let go."
You would have wanted it that way, San told himself. You had never liked being the center of attention, ironic, given that you'd married an idol. You preferred quiet dinners to fancy galas, intimate conversations to grand gestures, the soft and private moments that no one else got to see. So he kept the funeral small. Just family. Just the people who loved you most.
The baby couldn't come. She was still in the NICU, still fighting, still growing stronger every day. But San brought a photo of her, a small Polaroid the nurse had taken during one of his skin-to-skin sessions. He tucked it into the pocket of his black suit, right over his heart, and he carried it with him to the cemetery.
The service was a blur of white flowers and soft music and words that people spoke into a microphone that couldn't capture the weight of what had been lost. Your mother gave a eulogy. Your sister read a poem. San didn't speak. He couldn't. Every time he opened his mouth, all that came out was silence.
But he wrote something.
The night before the funeral, sitting alone in the hospital room beside your empty bed, he had taken out a pen and a piece of paper and written you a letter. He folded it carefully, sealed it in an envelope, and tucked it into the pocket of the dress they had chosen for you to wear. A dress you'd picked out months ago for an awards show he was supposed to attend. A dress you'd never gotten to wear.
The letter said everything he hadn't been able to say. Everything he would spend the rest of his life wishing he'd said sooner.
You were the best thing that ever happened to me. Better than any stage. Louder than any crowd. You were my dream. The only one that ever mattered. And I'm sorry I didn't tell you enough. I'm sorry I spent so much time chasing everything else. I'm sorry you had to make that choice alone.
But I promise you, I promise, I will spend the rest of my life honoring it. I will raise our daughter to know who you were. I will tell her every single day how much you loved her. I will show her pictures and videos and the letters you wrote her when she was still in your belly. I will never let her forget.
And I will never forgive myself. But I'll try. For you. For her. I'll try.
Wait for me.
He watched them lower your casket into the ground. He watched the white peonies, your favorite, the ones he'd given you on your first date, fall from the hands of mourners onto the polished wood. He watched the earth claim you, inch by inch, until you were gone. Until all that was left was a headstone with your name on it and a hole in his heart that nothing would ever fill.
And when it was over, when the mourners had drifted away and the cemetery was quiet, San knelt beside your grave and pressed his palm to the freshly turned earth.
"I'll be back," he whispered. "I promise. I'll come back. Wait for me."
The awards ceremony was the same one he'd performed at the night you died.
San hadn't been on a stage since then. He'd thought about quitting. He'd thought about it a thousand times. Every time he looked at a microphone, he saw your face on that video call, telling him to go. Every time he heard applause, he heard the echo of the moment he'd realized you were gone. The stage had been his dream, his purpose, his reason for being, and it had become a monument to his greatest failure.
But he hadn't quit.
He'd written instead. In the dark hours of the morning, when the baby was sleeping and the house was too quiet and the guilt was eating him alive, he'd sat at the piano in the study and let his fingers find the notes. The songs that emerged were raw and broken and beautiful. Songs about love and loss and the impossible weight of an empty chair at the dinner table. Songs about a little girl who smiled like her mother. Songs about you.
The company had suggested he perform one at the ceremony. A tribute, they called it. A way to honor your memory. A way to show the world that he was still here, still standing, still fighting.
He'd almost said no.
But then he'd thought about his daughter, your daughter, who was now a year old, who had your eyes and your smile and your fierce, stubborn spirit. She was healthy now, thank god. She'd spent two months in the NICU before they let her come home, and those two months had been the hardest of San's life. Harder than training. Harder than debut. Harder than the night he'd knelt beside your bed and held your cold hand and begged you to come back.
But he'd survived them. And she'd survived them. And now she was a year old, toddling around the house on unsteady legs, babbling words that weren't quite words yet, laughing at the cat and the curtains and the way her father made funny faces to make her smile.
She was the reason he got up in the morning. She was the reason he kept going. She was the reason he hadn't given up.
Backstage at the awards ceremony, San stood alone in a dressing room that looked almost exactly like the one from a year ago. The same couch. The same vanity. The same mirror on the wall. For a disorienting moment, he felt like he'd stepped back in time. Like any second now, he would pull out his phone and see those 473 missed calls and everything would happen all over again.
But it didn't. The phone was silent. The dressing room was quiet. And San was not the same man who had stood here a year ago.
He was thinner now. There were lines around his eyes that hadn't been there before, silver strands in his hair that he was too young for. He smiled less. Laughed less. The easy, carefree joy that had once defined him had been replaced by something quieter. Something heavier. Something that looked almost like wisdom.
But he was still here. Still standing. Still breathing.
And in exactly ten minutes, he was going to walk onto a stage and sing a song he'd written for you.
His phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket and saw a text from your mother. A picture. His daughter, your daughter, was sitting on your mother's lap, wearing tiny pajamas covered in stars, her dark hair sticking up in every direction. She was grinning at the camera, her rosebud mouth stretched wide, her eyes sparkling with the fierce, stubborn joy she had inherited from you.
Underneath the photo, your mother had written: She's watching. She knows it's her daddy. She's pointing at the screen and saying 'Papa.' Make her proud.
San stared at the photo for a long time. His thumb traced the curve of his daughter's cheek, the same curve he had memorized on your face a thousand times. Then he tucked the phone back into his pocket, took a deep breath, and walked toward the stage.
They hit him the moment he stepped through the curtain, a wall of white and gold that made his eyes water. But he didn't look away. He walked to the center of the stage, the same stage, the same spot where he had stood a year ago and believed he was standing on the summit of his life.
The crowd was silent. Respectful. Waiting. He could see their faces in the first few rows, fans with tears already streaming down their cheeks, light sticks held high, a sea of stars that stretched into the darkness.
He lifted the microphone.
"Last year," he said, his voice rough and raw in the silence, "I stood on this stage and I said that this was the greatest moment of my life."
A pause. A breath. The silence was so complete he could hear his own heartbeat.
"I was wrong."
He let the words hang in the air. He let them settle into the hearts of everyone listening.
"The greatest moment of my life wasn't on this stage. It was in a hospital room, holding my daughter for the first time. It was in the quiet of the morning, watching her smile. It was in every second I got to spend with the woman who gave her to me. The woman who gave me everything."
His voice cracked. He didn't try to hide it.
"She's not here tonight. But she's watching. I believe that. I have to believe that. So this... this is for her."
He sat down at the piano that had been placed at the center of the stage. His fingers found the keys, muscle memory taking over, and the first notes of the song filled the auditorium. Soft. Simple. Aching.
And then he sang.
He sang about love. About loss. About the impossible weight of a choice made alone. He sang about a little girl who smiled like her mother and laughed like the sun and reminded him every day that life was worth living even when it hurt. He sang about promises and guilt and the long, slow road toward forgiveness that he was still walking.
He sang for you.
When the final note faded, the silence that followed was absolute. A held breath. A suspended heartbeat.
And then, slowly, the applause began.
It built like a wave, rising and rising, thousands of people on their feet, tears streaming down faces, hands pressed to hearts. It was the loudest ovation he had ever received. Louder than the concert. Louder than the peak he'd thought he'd reached that night. Louder than anything he had ever known.
But San didn't hear it.
He was looking up, past the blinding lights, past the ceiling of the venue, past the stars that were hidden by the city's glow. He was looking for you. And in the silence between the applause, in the echo of the final note, in the ache of his own breaking heart, he thought he felt you there.
A warmth. A whisper. A promise.
I'm proud of you.
Wait for me.
San closed his eyes. And for the first time in a year, he smiled, not the wide, brilliant smile of the man he used to be, but something smaller. Softer. Something that looked almost like peace.
He pressed his hand to his heart, where his wedding ring still hung on a chain around his neck, right beside a tiny Polaroid of a baby with rosebud lips.
"Always," he whispered. "I'll wait for you. Always."
i dont think straight people should be allowed to do "enemies to lovers" i think if a man is your enemy you need to trust that you were correct the first time and slay him in battle
Moondancer has quickly and officially become my favorite dragon in ASOIAF and i really wasnt expecting that, but she just moves so gracefully and beautifully. her design is so unique compared to the others, she is fast, and she is just soo agile and impressive in flight. i also love Baela with all my heart and their connection is very special to me yes yes 🙂↕️
and like cmon guys shes so pretty. shes so pretty. i hope we get to see some slower and more close up shots of her, so that we can really take in the details and maybe, if we're lucky, learn more ab her personality
like her rider is Baela the Brave, dragon twin and beloved of the small folk, meant to be the future queen of Westeros, one of the most underrated and amazing characters in the show. like her family tree is insane, she has got some really impressive lineage and lots of royal blood
her father, obviously, is Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, who is one of the most impressive and feared fighters in the time period the show takes place in. he rides Caraxes, also called the Blood Wyrm, who is one of the most battle hardened and ferocious and famous dragons the Targaryens have ever had. he is the brother of the late king and the husband of the rightful queen
her mom was Lady Laena Valaryon, rest in peace queen, who claimed the oldest and most powerful dragon alive at this time, Vhagar who is the only living dragon from the time of the conquest and who played a massive role in the conquest and every following conflict. Vhagar is also a very old and ornery and kind amean dragon, like i dont think shes a very easy personality. Vhagar had a very close connection with Visenya, but her connection with Laena may have been her most pure and strongest of all her riders. Laena was also her only peaceful rider, those years she was with Laena ans their family in Pentos were probably the most healthy and relaxing and safest and most comfortable years of her very long life. Laena was a fucking legend
Baela and Rhaenas grandmother is my absolute favorite character in all of ASOIAF Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen Who Never Was, and whos story is so poignant and formative. her presence in seasons 1 and 2 was amazing, her counsel and her intelligence and experience was always of sound logic and carefully considered. and she rode Meleys, the fastest dragon of the time and one of the largest (my favorite, though perhaps now tied with Moondancer). Rhaenys' death had a massive impact on the events of the story, thats how important and impactful she was
and her grandfather is the richest and most well traveled man in the world. like i dont think everyone is understanding that part, Lord Corlys Velaryon has literally traveled farther and to more places than anyone else in the ASOIAF world at the time of the Dance, maybe ever. he is insanely wealthy, he is one of the most tested and true sailors and navigators, he is a proper self made man, he is wildly intelligent and a formidable warrior and commander. his nickname is the fucking Sea Snake, that goes so unbelievably hard
and like thats just her immediate family, not even counting so many of her extended relatives and ancestors (which most of the characters share bc the Targaryen and Valaryon family trees are more of a family celtic knot, or a family tumbleweed, but i digress)
anyway i just wanted to talk about how cool Baela is and how cool Moondancer is and how much i love them and that i want more of them. and i love LOVE RHAENA TOO and i think Sheepstealer is also fucking awesome and i will not accept hatred or malice directed toward either of them, especially Rhaena, for her actions in s3e1. number 1 that shit didnt happen in the Fire & Blood book, alright this show is now allegedly based off of GRRMs books imo, and number 2 her intentions are incredibly clear, she wanted to help. almost any other character would have made the exact same choice in her position. number 3 of course it was a risky decision, these are giant flying fire breathing magical lizards that live to be hundreds of years old, its always risky. she brought a wild and untrained dragon she just met into battle, not a great idea, but shes also not the only character we see make stupid decisions w their dragon or lose control of their dragon. but her homes at both Dragonstone and Driftmark were being attacked, and her family and loved ones were threatened, and her queen was in danger. she had the power to help and she chose to help, or at least try. she is desperate to prove herself, JUST LIKE JACE (and Baela, but mostly Jace in this situation) WHO EVERYONE PRAISES FOR BEING PROACTIVE AND SYMPATHIZES WITH FOR BEING DESPERATE TO PROVE HIMSELF. i wonder why Jace, the white man, gets more sympathy and forgiveness for this behaviour than Rhaena, the black woman, does for the same behaviour. hm.
i do still wanna see Morning though bc in the book Rhaena doesnt claim Sheepstealer, its a diff dragonseed character named Nettles who does, and instead Rhaenas egg eventually hatches into a pink dragon she names Morning who is literally obsessed with her. everywhere Rhaena went, Morning would be curled around her shoulder just coming along. so fucking cute
n e way the dragon twins are perfect and beautiful and thats because their granny was the incomparable Rhaenys Targaryen and yeah love that, love them
now back to my regularly-ish scheduled yuri pitt posting
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pairing: ballet dancer!san x fem!ballet dancer!reader
genre: angst. smut. fluff. friends to lovers. secret dating.
warnings: 18+ therefore minors do not interact.
word count: 26,1k
a/n: this fic isn't meant to be an accurate depiction of the profession, most aspects are fictionalized for the sake of the narrative. ballet serves primarily as the atmosphere, but i hope you'll still enjoy the story for what it is 🤎
a/n2: there's no need to know about ballet to understand the story, but just in case you get a little lost, i recommend this 6 min video, enjoy.
୨୧
"hello?" her voice drifted through the line, already sounding like home.
"mama," you whispered.
"darling! how is paris? are you eating? is the dorm too cold? i can send more of those wool blankets you liked, just tell me-"
"i got the part."
a gasp was heard on the other end and your heart fluttered. "what part? which one? oh, my sweet girl, tell me!"
"a little swan. i'm… one of the four cygnets."
"i knew it!" your father’s voice boomed in the background, sounding as if he had been leaning against the phone. "i told you she had the precision! we must celebrate! we'll send a package. champagne, as you're an adult now, and that burberry scarf you liked from the boutique in london. we are so proud of you."
"thank you," you murmured, a small smile touching your lips. "i'm nervous. the synchronization is… it's very difficult."
"you have the soul for it," your mother said, her tone softening. "just breathe. dance the way you do when you think no one is watching. the world will follow, okay? don't let them turn you into a machine."
inside your flat, it was your space that smelled of expensive vanilla candles and fresh linens, a sanctuary funded by parents who loved you from three time zones away. when the phone call ended after exchanging small stories of your little life abroad and the constant reassurance that you were doing just fine living by yourself in a foreign country, you got up from the comfort of the velvet sofa and stared at your reflection in the mirror. you looked fragile, a porcelain doll in a city of iron and stone. a little swan or a ghost in a tutu, that felt like a pebble at the bottom of a very deep well.
paris opera ballet school, you've dreamt about it your whole life. the school, a fortress of culture, it's limestone walls holding centuries of discipline and broken dreams.
the following week was a blur of repetition. the studio was a cavern of white light and mirrors that stretched from floor to ceiling, reflecting a dozen versions of your own anxious face that showed every flaw, every wobbling ankle, every misplaced finger. the cygnet dance was a puzzle of interlocking arms and mirrored movements. four girls, moving as one.
you struggled with the language of the instructors, the rapid fire french commands swirling around you like a storm. you focused on the bodies of the other girls, mimicking their angles, tracing the geometry of their limbs as you stood at the edge of the floor, clutching your bag, wearing a pale pink leotard and tights that cost more than some students' monthly rent. you tried to shrink, to blend into the pale walls, but the energy of the room was too electric.
"positions!" the ballet master barked.
you scurried into the formation for the cygnets. the quartet had to move as a single organism of white tulle and precision. you found your spot, heart drumming against your ribs. to your left stood a girl who seemed to vibrate with an intensity waving off of her, you've seen her in the hallways before but never dared to speak to her.
charlotte marsh.
she was a blur of blonde hair pulled into a bun so tight it looked painful, her eyes wide and alert, scanning the room like an apex predator. by just standing alone, she occupied space. all sharp lines, high extensions and presence. she doesn't look at you. she is staring straight ahead, her jaw set, eyes hungry. radiating an intensity that makes the air around her feel thin.
"again! from the top. and for heaven's sake, tighten those arms. you look like noodles, not swans."
the pianist begins again the rhythmic, plucking melody of tchaikovsky, demanding absolute precision.
"and… echappé!"
as you spring outward, feet snapping into second position, your ankle clips her's. it is a glancing blow, but in the world of professional ballet, it's a collision. charlotte stumbles, her balance wavering for a fraction of a second. she recovers instantly, but her head snaps toward you, her eyes flashing.
"merde! you're stepping on my place." she hisses, her voice a sharp blade.
you freeze, your breath hitching. you want to apologize, to explain that it was an accident, but the words die in your throat. you simply nod, shrinking inward.
"again!"
the music restarts. you focus on the mirror, trying to carve out a bubble of safety around yourself. but the choreography is tight, the spacing unforgiving. during the next sequence of jumps, your ankle bumps hers again.
this time, charlotte stops entirely. she turns to you, her face flushed, blonde locks escaping her tight bun.
"c'est quoi ton problème?"
you flinch, the harshness of her tone hitting you like a physical blow. you open your mouth, and without thinking, you respond in your native tongue, the words tumbling out in a rush of frustration and embarrassment.
"i'm sorry, i promise i'm trying to find the alignment."
charlotte freezes. her expression shifts instantly, the anger draining away to be replaced by a softening. she blinks, her eyes scanning your face, noticing the way you clutched your arms, the hesitant curve of your shoulders.
"you're the new girl, right?" she asked, her voice clear and fluent in english.
the relief that washed over you was visceral. you felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted from your lungs by just encountering someone who could understand what you said. "yes," you whispered. "i am."
she beamed, a wide, infectious grin that lit up her entire face. "i'm charlotte. god, i'm so glad someone else here speaks english. i love paris, but sometimes the grammar can be frustrating."
"i'm y/n," you replied barely audible.
"y/n. pretty name," charlotte said, leaning in. she smelled of peppermint and strong athletic rub. "your lines are gorgeous, by the way. really fluid."
the ballet mistress clears her throat, a warning sound. "is there a reason we are having a summit in the middle of the stage? positions!"
charlotte gives you a quick wink, a flash that catches you off guard and snaps back into place. "don't hit my ankles again," she whispers, a small, mischievous smile playing on her lips.
when you slid back into place and held hands with charlotte for the synchronized sequence, you felt a spark of warmth. for the first time since arriving in paris, the studio didn't feel like a cage. it felt like a place where you might actually belong. you smiled, the reflection in the mirror finally looking like someone you recognized.
over the next few weeks, the place became brutal beauty, where the expectations were as high as the ceilings and the criticism was as sharp as the needles used to stitch the costumes. you spent your mornings in a haze of stretching and your afternoons fighting for every inch of space in the studio.
charlotte became your shadow, an inseparable pair. it was a magnetic dynamic. she was the sun to your moon, the fire to your water, a whirlwind of noise and confidence that shielded you from the harsher edges of the academy. she taught you the slang of the dancers, the hidden spots in the opera house where the ghosts were said to dance, and how to sneak pastries into the dressing room without getting caught. she pushed you to be bolder, to take up more space, to stop apologizing for existing. in return, you became the place where she could finally stop hustling, where she could breathe and relax her shoulders.
"you're doing it again."
during a break, you retreated to the corner of the studio, sipping water from a glass bottle. charlotte stood before you, leaning against the barre. she was wiping sweat from her forehead with a towel that looked like it had seen better decades.
"doing what?"
"shrinking," she said. "trying to disappear into the floorboards. you haven't noticed?"
you looked at her, saw the fraying edges of her tights, the way she held herself with an armor disguised as confidence.
"no," you whispered.
she paused, expression shifting before sitting down with you, stretching her leg out in a slow controlled arch. "i can't afford to disappear, i need to be constantly moving."
you knew she was on a scholarship, that her faded leotard had seen better days, that she didn't have the safety net you did. "you won't disappear," you said softly. "everyone sees you."
she turned her head and gave you a genuine smile, like your simple words was all she's been needing all along. "thanks. really."
the door to the studio creaked open, and san, charlotte's boyfriend, walked in. he moved with a groundedness that was almost hypnotic. he didn't bounce or flutter. shoulders so broad that seem to carry the weight of the entire company, skin a deep, warm tan that contrasted with the stark white of his rehearsal gear.
"you're shouting again, charlotte," san said. "i can hear you from the dressing room."
"i'm not shouting, your ears are too sensitive," she shot back, though there was no heat in it.
san walked over and offered her a hand. he lifted her effortlessly, a seamless transition from the floor to a standing position. there was no strain in his arms, no hesitation in his grip. he was the perfect partner. reliable and strong.
"we have the lift sequence in twenty minutes," he reminded her.
"i know, i know. stop being a clock," charlotte teased, patting his cheek.
from an outsider, they looked like the perfect couple. the powerhouse and the pillar. the kite and anchor. both carrying a presence that you feel before you see them.
a few days later, the intensity of the swan lake rehearsals reached a fever pitch. the cygnets were finally in sync, movements a seamless weave. the mistress had stopped shouting, now, she only whispered, but sometimes the whispers were more terrifying than the screams.
after a grueling four hour session, the studio emptied. you and charlotte remained, stretching in the dim light of the late afternoon. the sun was dipping below the parisian skyline, casting shadows across the floor.
charlotte was unusually quiet. she was pressed into a deep split, her forehead resting on the cool wood.
"are you okay?" you asked, your voice echoing in the silence.
she didn't move for a long time. then, she let out a long, shaky breath. "i think i'm going to do it," she whispered.
"do what?"
"end it. with san."
you paused, your hand frozen on your ankle. "but… you two are so good together."
she sat up, her expression clouded. she looked smaller than usual, the bubbly energy replaced by a weary sort of clarity. "that's the problem," she said. "he's a good guy. he's the best guy. he's steady, he's kind, and i know that if i fell off a stage, he'd be the first one there to catch me."
"isn't that a good thing?"
"it is. but the spark… it's just gone, y/n. it just… evaporated. when i look at him, i don't feel that electric pull. i feel… safe. and i love him for it, i really do, but i don't love him the way a girlfriend should."
you listened, the silence of the studio wrapping around you both. you thought about the way san looked at her with a quiet unwavering loyalty.
"does he know?" you asked.
"i think he does," charlotte sighed, rubbing her temples. "san doesn't talk much, but he notices everything. he probably knew like, months ago. he's just waiting for me to be the one to say it because he doesn't want to break my heart." she looked at you, her eyes searching for something. "do you think i'm being selfish? he's so reliable. i could just… keep going. we're a great team. it makes the academy easier."
you are silent, processing the confession. you think of san's hands, his grounding presence, of his loyalty. but you also thought about how charlotte is so used to fighting for everything she gets, about the fluidity of the dance, the way a single misplaced step could ruin the entire. "if you're forcing it," you said slowly, "then you're not really dancing. you're just marking the steps."
charlotte stared at you, then a small, sad smile touched her lips. she leaned over and bumped her shoulder against yours. "thank you for listening, i'm so glad i met you."
"it's nothing," you replied with a small giggle.
"well, thanks anyway," she said, standing up and offering you a hand. "now, let's get out of here before the mistress comes back and makes us do another hundred pliés."
as you walked out of the studio together, the cool evening air of paris hitting your faces, you felt a strange sense of grounding. you had come to this city as a stranger, a quiet girl with a heart full of fear. but in the mirrored halls of the opera, amidst the sweat and the discipline, you had found a mirror of your own.
you looked at charlotte, who was already talking a mile a minute about a new bakery she'd found near the seine, and you realized that the academy wasn't just about the dance. it was about the people who held you up when your toes were bleeding and the world felt too loud. you walked beside her, your movements soft and fluid, no longer afraid of the silence.
but beneath the blossoming friendship, a tension was simmering. the school was a pressure cooker, and as the final rehearsals approached, the atmosphere shifted. the girls in the corps began to eye each other with suspicion. the kindness that had existed in the wings evaporated, replaced by a cold, competitive silence.
one afternoon, you overheard a group of dancers whispering in the hall. you knew they were aware of your presence, speaking in difficult french tongues on purpose and laughing as they looked over at you. you caught some words about your slow dancing and your parents' wealth. the words felt like ice water pouring down your spine. you leaned against the wall, breath hitching. you wanted to defend yourself, to tell them that you worked just as hard, that you spent hours in the studio long after everyone else had left. but the words wouldn't come. you were a creature of observation and internal storms.
you retreated to the practice room, the silence of the empty space feeling heavy. you began to dance, the music of the cygnets playing in your head. you pushed yourself harder than ever, your pointe shoes bleeding through the satin, muscles screaming. you wanted to be perfect. you wanted to be undeniable.
"you're too tight."
you stopped abruptly, your chest heaving. san was standing in the doorway, his arms crossed.
"i'm fine," you panted.
"you're not. you're dancing like you're trying to prove something to people who aren't even in the room."
you looked at him, eyes threatening with tears. "they think i'm only here because of… because of money."
san walked into the room, his footsteps echoing. he stopped a few feet away from you, his expression serious. "people will always find a reason to diminish you," he said. "especially in a place like this. they'll call you too soft, or too hard, or too lucky. but the mirror doesn't lie. the audience doesn't see your bank account, they see you."
you took in his words, looking at the ground and sighing.
"hey, whisperers are just background noise, we're the ones communicating on stage."
you took a deep breath, the scent of resin and effort filling your lungs. "thank you, san."
"don't mention it. now, go find charlotte. i think she's trying to convince the costume mistress to add more glitter to her tutu, and she might be about five minutes away from being banned from the wardrobe room."
you laughed, the sound light and hopeful.
the night of the first full dress rehearsal arrived. the theater was a cavern of red velvet and gold leaf, the air thick with the smell of stage makeup and nervousness. you stood in the white dress, feathers in your hair, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
charlotte was vibrating, her eyes wide, hands shaking slightly. for all her confidence, the stage terrified her.
"i'm going to trip," she whispered, voice trembling. "i'm going to trip and the whole world is going to see me faceplant in front of the director."
you reached out and took her hand, your fingers interlocking. your skin was cool, her's was burning. "you won't," you said firmly. "because i'm right next to you. and if you do trip, i'll trip too."
she looked at you and a genuine chuckle escaped both of you.
the music began. you glided onto the stage, the spotlights blinding and white. the world vanished, leaving only the rhythm, the breath, and the girl beside you.
you moved as one. the steps were seamless, the arms curved in perfect unison. poetry and physics blended together, creating something that neither of you could have achieved alone. small swans, part of a flock, a collective soul moving through the air.
as you finished the final sequence, arms gently posed over your chest in a synchronized beat, the silence that followed was absolute.
the adrenaline was kept the rest of the night, you could say even the following week, it was your first ever big production role after all. between blistered toes and aching muscles, you walked the parisian streets side by side with charlotte and san, no longer feeling like you walked into a labyrinth. you had come here searching for a dream, but found something more valuable: a mirror that reflected the best version of yourself.
୨୧ three years later
the pale sun filtered through the curtains across your duvet. you lingered in the haze of half sleep, the ghost of thailand's humid air still clinging to your skin. then, the sound started.
thump. thump. thump.
you cracked one eye open. charlotte was already on her neon pink spandex, high knee jumps on the hardwood floor. her breathing steady and focused, yet her eyes were wide awake, sparking with an energy that felt far too loud for five in the morning.
you've let her move in after the breakup, you spent everytime together anyway, always attached to the hip. as if that wasn't enough, you even started including her on your family vacations, this year's location being the islands of thailand.
"you're a marshmallow," charlotte chirped, her voice bouncing off the walls of the small apartment. "get up, marshmallow. the academy doesn't wait for vacation brain."
you groaned, burying your face deeper into the pillow. "five more minutes," you mumbled, the words muffled by the fabric.
she leaped up in one fluid motion, landing silently on the balls of her feet. she hovered over you, a whirlwind of enthusiasm. "no five minutes. we have the cast list today. sleeping beauty, remember?"
you shifted, feeling the familiar tug of anxiety and excitement in your chest. you loved the dance, the way the music took hold of your bones and turned you into something ethereal, but the politics of the academy often felt like a storm you weren't equipped to weather. you were content in the shadows of the ensemble, where you could observe the world without the spotlight burning through your skin. so it's not like you were expecting anything fortuitous personally.
"i'm getting up," you whispered, finally sitting up.
your movements were hazy, a contrast to charlotte's sharp, athletic precision. you reached for your dance bag, the leather smelling of expensive creams. as you both dressed, the conversation drifted toward the trip.
"i still can't believe your dad tried to ride that elephant," charlotte laughed, pulling her hair into a severe bun.
"he wanted a picture," you said, a small smile tugging at your lips.
"it was so funny, i've never laughed so hard in my life," she countered. "oh! the souvenirs. we can't forget san's things. he'll kill us if we forget the silk shirts."
"do we have to stop by the gym first?" you asked hesitantly.
charlotte paused, blinking. "why not? he's always there at this hour. plus, it's on the way. come on, let's go before lana decides to start the morning rehearsal without us."
the walk to the gym was a blur of traffic lights and the scent of roasting coffee. paris felt sharper after the softness of the islands, the air crisp and demanding. when you stepped into the gym, the smell of iron and rubber hit you instantly.
san was there, mid-set, working his arms with a pair of heavy dumbbells. his skin glistened under the fluorescent lights, sweat carving rivers down the broad expanse of his shoulders. his eyes were narrowed in concentration, jaw set, intensity of the effort.
charlotte didn't hesitate. she marched right up to him, her voice cutting through the clank of weights.
"look at you, still trying to turn into a boulder!"
he stopped, the weights hitting the floor with a controlled thud. he exhaled a long, heavy breath, his chest heaving. a slow, warm smile spread across his face as he looked at her.
"you're back," he said, his voice deep and grounded. "i thought you'd join the monkeys."
"shut up," charlotte squinted her eyes, leaning against a weight rack. "we brought your stuff. y/n, give him the bag."
you stepped forward, clutching the small shopping bag. you held it out, your fingers trembling slightly.
"here," you murmured as your fingers brushed.
san turned his gaze to you, his eyes softening. "thank you," he said. "you didn't have to."
"it was no trouble," you replied, stepping back to give him space.
"the sunlight did you good, y/n." san noted, then remembered something. "oh, my water bottle. it's right here."
he reached for his gym bag, which sat atop a tall plyo box. the problem was, the box was positioned directly behind where you stood. as san reached up and over, his body momentarily hovered over yours.
the world shrank. you could feel the heat radiating from his chest, the scent of his sweat and skin enveloping you. for a heartbeat, you were trapped in the orbit of his strength, the breadth of his shoulders blocking out the rest of the gym. you held your breath, a trapped bird. you could see the fine droplets of sweat on the front of his neck, the way his muscles shifted under his skin.
he retracted quickly, the moment snapping like a taut string. he didn't seem flustered, but as he gripped his bottle, his eyes lingered on yours for a second too long.
"we're late," charlotte announced from afar, already pivoting toward the door. "if svetlana sees us walking in after the bell, she'll make us do pliés until our toenails fall off… again."
the return to the academy felt different. the air felt thicker, the anticipation of the day weighing on you. once inside the studio, the atmosphere shifted from whimsical to clinical. the mirrors reflected dozens of dancers, all of them vibrating with a mixture of dread and ambition.
svetlana popova, the ballet's director, stood at the front of the room, her posture as rigid as a frozen lake. she wore a black leotard and a wrap skirt that didn't have a single wrinkle. her voice, a sharp blend of russian authority and a melodic french lilt, sliced through the chatter.
"enough!" she barked. "you are not at a garden party. you are at the opera. positions! now!"
the next few hours were a blur of agony and art. you moved through the combinations, your body fluid and soft, drifting through the choreography like a ribbon in the wind. beside you, charlotte's extensions were a blade, every turn a whirlwind. she pushed herself to the brink, her face flushed, her breath coming in sharp gasps. you watched her from the corner of your eye, feeling a swell of genuine pride. lately it had been rare for you to share classes as she was slowly clawing her way up to the principal roles, so you appreciated these moments. she had fought for every inch of this floor, but to you, she deserved the world.
as the afternoon wore on, the tension reached a breaking point. the dancers were scattered across the studio, some stretching, some whispering, all of them glancing toward the door.
then, it happened.
a young staff member entered the hallway, clutching a single sheet of white paper. the reaction was instantaneous.
"the list!" someone shrieked.
the studio erupted. a sea of dancers surged toward the hallway, a chaotic wave of tights and buns. a polite riot, they pretended not to push, but the desperation was palpable. you were swept along in the current, your shoulder brushing against others.
charlotte gripped your arm, her fingers digging into your skin. her usual confidence had vanished, replaced by a hidden fragility.
"i can't look," she whispered, her voice shaking. "i actually can't look. y/n, please. look for me."
you nodded, stepping closer to the paper as the crowd shifted. the list was a grid of names and roles, written in svetlana's sharp, uncompromising hand.
your eyes instinctively dropped to the bottom, to the ensemble. you searched for your own name, your heart drumming a slow, steady beat.
village woman #4 - y/n y/l/n.
a sigh of relief escaped you. it wasn't a lead, but it was a place. it was a safe harbor where you could dance without the crushing weight of expectation. then, you slowly moved your gaze upward. you searched for charlotte's name under the principal roles.
there it was, her first ever lead role.
princess aurora - charlotte marsh.
you gasped, the sound lost in the noise of the crowd. you turned to charlotte, who was still hovering behind you, her eyes closed tight.
"charlie," you whispered.
"what? what is it? did i get a fairy? am i a tree?"
"you're aurora," you said, your voice gaining strength. "you got the lead, charlie!"
charlie's eyes snapped open. for a second, she didn't move. then, a scream of pure, unadulterated joy ripped from her throat. she threw her arms around you, lifting you off the floor in a hug that nearly knocked the wind out of you.
"i did it! oh my god, i actually did it!" she yelled, spinning you around.
you laughed, hugging her back, feeling her heart racing against yours. the joy was infectious, a bright, golden light that filled the sterile hallway.
as you pulled apart, you looked back at the list, wondering about san. you scanned the roles, moving past the princes and the fairies.
bluebird - san choi.
carabosse's minion #4 - san choi.
you smiled. the bluebird was a role of immense technical difficulty and breathtaking grace. it suited him perfectly. strong yet light, grounded yet capable of flight. for a moment, you wondered what it would feel like to dance a different kind of choreography with him, one that wasn't written on a piece of paper.
but the thought was interrupted by charlotte beaming with happiness when the other dancers crowded around her to congratulate her. in that moment, only your best friend's triumph mattered.
୨୧
"to aurora!" san toasted, raising his glass.
the bistro was lit up by amber lights and the scent of garlic butter and expensive red wine. charlie sat at the center of the table, her laughter ringing out like a silver bell, cutting through the chatter of the other dancers. she looked incandescent. the news of her being cast as aurora had transformed her from a hardworking student into a shimmering focal point of energy.
you watched her from the periphery, your fingers tracing the condensation on your water glass. you felt a quiet, humming warmth for her.
you noticed the way san’s eyes flickered to you for a brief second, a question, perhaps, or a silent check in, before he turned back to a conversation's excitement. you smiled, though it didn't quite reach the depths of your chest.
the dinner ended in a whirlwind of hugs and promises of hard work. as you and charlotte walked back to the apartment you shared.
"can you believe it, y/n?" she asked, swinging her bag. "the lead. actually the lead."
"i can," you whispered, your voice soft, barely audible over the distant traffic. "you're the most hard working person i've ever met."
she stopped abruptly, pulling you into another crushing hug. "i couldn't have done it without you keeping me sane. we're going to celebrate every single milestone this season."
but as the weeks progressed, the celebrations grew sparse.
the schedule for the sleeping beauty was a monster that devoured time. charlie, as the lead, was summoned to the studio at dawn and often didn't leave until the moon sat high over the city. your own schedule was fragmented. as a village woman, you were called in for group rehearsals, often in the afternoons or late evenings, filling the gaps in the production's architecture.
you and charlie became ghosts in your own home. you would wake up to find a note on the kitchen counter: love you, gone to studio, don't forget to water the ferns, and you would return home to find her already asleep, her blonde hair splayed across the pillow like a fallen halo.
you felt a drifting loneliness, a sense of being untethered. your heart selfishly missed her.
then came the tuesday rehearsal. the piano player was hammering out a melancholic sequence. you were positioned with the other village women, your bodies draped in simple rehearsal skirts. this was the scene where you begged for the king's mercy for knitting with the forbidden spindles after being caught by a supervising catalavat. it required a specific kind of vulnerability. a fluid, desperate grace. you sank into a deep plié, your arms reaching upward, fingers trembling, feeling the weight of the plea in your marrow. you let your gaze drop, shoulders curving inward, embodying a crushing sorrow.
across the room, the atmosphere was different. san was practicing the bluebird pas de deux. he was a force of nature in the center of the floor, his movements precise and powerful. he was lifting the girl cast as princess florine, but the connection was hollow.
she was technically proficient, but there was a gap between them, a missing bridge of trust. her lifts were stiff, her landings jarring. san's face was a mask of professional patience, but you could see the slight tension in his jaw. he was fighting the lack of chemistry, trying to manufacture a spark that simply wasn't there.
lana stood by the mirrored wall, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. she looked like a sculpture carved from ice. her eyes, sharp and discerning, scanned the room.
"stop," she commanded.
the music died instantly.
"this is not a dance," svetlana said. "this is a gymnasium exercise. where is the romance? where is the air? you are a bird and a princess, where are you?"
the girl playing florine, jisu, looked down at her shoes, her face flushing a deep crimson. san stepped back, his chest heaving slightly, his expression neutral but tired.
lana’s gaze drifted at the periphery. her eyes locked onto you. you were still half-sunken in your pose, your hand grazing the floor, your eyes wide and blinking.
"you," lana pointed. "the small one. come here."
you froze and you looked around, certain she was pointing to the girl behind you. you didn't move for a heartbeat too long.
"did i stutter?" she snapped. "come. now."
you stood up slowly, movements tentative. you walked across the polished floor, the sound of your shoes clicking softly. as you approached the center of the room, you felt san’s gaze shift toward you. dark eyes observant, curious.
"you know the part for florine?" lana asked, her voice slightly softer but still demanding.
you nodded once, a small, jerky movement. "yes, madame."
"good. change your shoes and get in position. let us see if we can find some life in this scene."
you changed into your pointe shoes at a world record speed and stepped into the space where jisu had been. his presence was overwhelming, but he didn't say anything, just shifted his stance, creating a pocket of space for you to fit into.
"from the lift," she ordered.
the piano resumed. the melody was light, airy, designed to mimic flight. you moved into the sequence, your body naturally falling into the flow. you closed your eyes and the story flood your mind. the longing, the ethereal connection.
then came the moment of the lift.
and the first time he lifts you, it doesn’t feel like falling. there’s a moment, right before your feet leave the ground, a split second of terror, when everything should go wrong. timing, weight, trust. you’ve seen it happen before. a hesitation, a misstep, and suddenly the illusion breaks. but not with him. his hands find you as if they’ve done it a hundred times before, steady at your waist, certain without asking. molding to the curve of your sides with intuitive precision. you don’t think about it, you just go, weightless and free. and when you rise, it’s seamless. like your body already knew where his would be.
the connection was instant, a sudden, electric bridge snapping into place between your spine and his strength. you landed softly, your breath hitching in your throat.
"again," lana calls.
you nod, but your eyes flicker to him first, he's already looking at you.
there’s something in it, not surprise, not quite pride. recognition, maybe. like he’s just realized something he didn’t know he was searching for. he looked surprised, not just by the success of the lift, but by the feeling of it. the charged frequency that made your skin tingle. the music starts again. you count under your breath, quiet enough that no one hears, except for him.
this time, your hand lingers when he lets go for a second longer. it's nothing, it has to be nothing.
"better," lana muttered, though her eyes were narrowed. "much better. stay. continue. the rest of you, clear the floor. i want them to refine the transition."
the other dancers filtered out, talking among themselves. the studio empties slowly, the echo of shoes fading into silence. someone laughs in the hallway. a door shuts. the world outside resumes. inside, it’s just the two of you and the distant ticking of the studio clock.
he reaches for your arm, adjusting it slightly, guiding the line until it feels right. his touch is brief, professional. it should be forgettable.
"like this," he murmurs, intimately.
it’s strange, the way something can begin so quietly. glances held too long. hands that don't pull away fast enough. decisions that don't leave.
later, you’ll tell yourself it happened slowly. that there were signs. that you knew what you were doing. but standing there, in the softness of an empty studio, with his hand still warm against your skin. it feels simple, harmless, the beginning of something beautiful when it really, really shouldn't be.
"again?" he suggested, softly. "the turn into the lift… the transition was a bit sharp."
you nodded, unable to find words.
for the next two hours, the world outside the studio ceased to exist. there was no paris, no opera house, no charlie. you corrected the angle of your wrist. he adjusted the pressure of his grip. you spent an hour just on a single transition, moving in slow motion, feeling the way your muscles reacted to one another. every time his skin met yours, it felt like a spark hitting dry tinder.
you noticed the small things. the way a stray lock of black hair fell over his forehead when he was concentrating. the way his chest expanded in a deep, grounding breath before a heavy lift. the way he looked at you. not as just a background dancer, but as a partner.
as the light in the studio dimmed, turning the mirrors into grey pools of shadow, the music stopped. you both stood in the center of the room, chests heaving, sweat dampening your clothes.
the silence was no longer empty. it was full. it was heavy with everything you weren't saying. you looked at him, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. you saw the way his gaze dropped to your lips and then back to your eyes. there was a hunger there, a quiet intensity that mirrored your own.
san stepped closer. the distance between you vanished. he didn't ask, didn't hesitate. he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours.
it was a brief kiss, tentative exploration. it was a soft collision, a sudden grounding of all the electricity that had been building between you for hours. your hands instinctively reaching up to clutch the fabric of his shirt. a surge of vertigo, a falling that was far more terrifying and exhilarating than any lift.
he pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours. his breath was warm on your skin. you gently shook your head and this might've been the first time you heard him stutter.
"i-i'm sorry… i shouldn't…" he whispered, voice strained.
"no, i…" you breathed, eyes fluttering shut.
you thought of charlie. do you have to tell her now? how would she react? they broke up years ago and never looked back. surely they got over each other. oh my god. wait, what were you doing?
san's hand moved, his thumb grazing your jawline, and the guilt was drowned out by a tidal wave of longing. you had spent your whole life being the observer, the quiet one, the girl who faded into the scenery. but in san's arms, you were visible. you were the center of the world.
you reached up, pulling him back down to you.
this time, the kiss wasn't brief. it was desperate. it was a collision of months of suppressed attraction and the sudden, violent realization of chemistry. you kissed him with an intensity that frightened you, your body molding against his. he groaned low in his throat, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you flush against him.
for a moment, you forgot the rules. you forgot the hierarchy of the ballet school. you forgot about the girl who slept in the bed next to yours.
୨୧
your toes throb inside your flats, pulsing matching the rapid beat of your heart. in every step you take, you can still feel it. the ghost of his lips against yours. the way his hand had steadied the small of your back, blurring the edges of the world.
head down, counting the cracks in the pavement. your mind is a carousel of flashing images. it was an accident, a lapse. but it was also the most honest you've felt.
swallowed by guilt, you think of charlie, of the way she laughs, of the first year she spent healing from the break up with san, that period of time where you grew close faster than any thrown arrow of destiny. when people started to think you were actually sisters, even if you looked nothing alike. you think of the way she rebuilt her confidence, brick by brick, until she could now stand center stage as aurora.
she's been the light of your life, the candle that lit the darkest rooms of your insecurities. the gentle push you've been needing, and maybe, that was the push that had led to kissing him back.
by the time you reach the door to your apartment, your breath comes in shallow hitches. you fumble with the key, telling yourself you can handle this. you will walk in, you will smile, and you will bury this secret with you.
the door creaks open, the apartment is dim, lit only by the glow of a street lamps filtering through the sheer curtains. you step inside, kicking off your shoes. you don't notice the silhouette leaning against the kitchen counter. you don't notice the way the floorboards shift. too busy tracing the memory of san's thumb brushing your cheekbone.
"you're late."
the voice cuts through the silence. you jump, a small gasp escaping your throat. shoulders hunching toward your ears. you whirl around to find charlie watching you.
she is wrapped in an oversized silk robe, her blonde hair piled in a messy knot atop her head. she holds a mug of chocolate mint drink, her favorite since the trip. her eyes are narrow, observant, dancing with a mischief that makes your stomach flip.
"god, you're jumpy," she says.
she doesn't move from her spot, but her presence fills the room. she has that effortless power, the kind that comes from knowing exactly where she stands in a room. you, conversely, feel like you are disappearing into the wallpaper.
"i just… i forgot you'd be home before me," you whisper.
your voice sounds thin, fragile. you avoid her gaze, focusing instead on a stray sequin on the hardwood floor.
charlie sets her mug down with a deliberate clack, crosses her arms, tilts her head. the silence stretches, suffocating. every second feels like an eternity where she is reading the guilt written in the tension of your jaw and the redness of your cheeks.
"is there something you need to tell me?" she asks.
the question hits you like a physical blow. you freeze, breath hitching. of course she'd know. mind racing, searching for a lie, a deflection, anything to bridge the gap between the girl who just kissed her best friend's ex and the girl who is supposed to be loyal.
"tell you what?" you manage to ask.
you try to make it sound casual, but it comes out as a breathless question. heat rises up your neck. you are certain she knows. she has to know. maybe she saw you leave the studio. maybe she sensed the shift in the atmosphere. she has always been in tune with her feminine intuition.
just as you spiral inside, charlie steps closer, her expression unreadable. she stops just a few inches away, her bright eyes searching yours. you want to shrink, to fold yourself into a tiny ball and hide. then, she beams. the tension snaps as a wide grin breaks across her face. she throws her arms around you, nearly knocking you over with the force of her enthusiasm.
"oh, stop acting so weird! i already know!" she chirps.
you stiffen in her embrace. "know… what?"
charlie pulls back, her eyes sparkling. she grabs your shoulders, shaking you slightly. "that you got the part of princess florine! i heard it from marie on the group chat. she said lana practically dragged you onto the stage and told the other girls to move aside."
the air rushes back into your lungs in a sudden dizzying wave. you blink, the world coming back into focus. she doesn't actually know. you force a smile, though it feels tight and artificial. "it's… it's not a hundred percent on paper yet. lana just… she's still deciding."
she scoffs, rolling her eyes. she lets go of you and begins to pace the small living room, her robe fluttering behind her. "oh please, princess florine matches you so well. all gentle and soft, restricted, loves quietly… and i bet you and san make a great duo."
his name drops on your stomach. you wrap your arms around yourself, clutching your elbows. "you think so?" you ask softly.
for a moment, the bubbly persona fades, charlie stops pacing and looks at you with genuine warmth. "i know so," charlie says. "besides, like florine, everyone's fucking jealous of you." she lightly laughs and shrugs.
a chuckle of disbelief manages to escape you. "no one's jealous of me."
she scoffs again, sympathetically this again. "sometimes i wish you could understand more french."
as the conversation flows, you look at her, really look at her. you see the trust in her eyes, the absolute certainty that you are her ally. she is talking about the beauty of the dance, of the partnership, completely unaware that it has bled into something far more than a practiced performance.
her humming of a tune from the score of the ballet rings in your ears as you stand in the shower, frozen under the spray, ashamed. caught in a dirty relief of not being caught. you slide down against the tile.
it's like flashes, his eyes, his hands, his electricity. you cover your face with your hands. since when were you so full of poison? were you suddenly trying to step into her place? your weight down and lopsided, every word she spoke was a thin needle, unknowingly praising the very thing that is secretly betraying her. you couldn't risk it, charlotte could never find out about the kiss.
right the next morning, when your blurry vision found the long cold of her sheets, you don't need to think about it, she left early. probably an hour ago, while the essence of his lips still stained your pillows. you stay still for a moment, listening to the distant hum of paris waking up outside your window.
lazy hand finds your phone on the nightstand. the screen glows, blindingly bright for your state. you open your messages, scrolling past the group chats and the reminders from the academy until you hit his name.
it's just his name, san, you've heard it a thousand times in the past three years, yet your heart accelerate against your ribs. you tap the message box, thumbs hover.
y/nie: we need to talk|
you type and stare at the words, before deleting them.
y/nie: about last night…|
too vague. it sounds like you're asking about a missed step in the choreography. you delete it again.
but, did you actually need to talk? if you send a message, does that admit you spent the last twelve hours staring at your ceiling, replaying the angle of his jaw and the warmth of his breath? even in your sleep? it shows you're thinking about him. it shows you're affected.
the blinking vertical line waits for you. if you act like nothing happened, maybe the tension will just evaporate. maybe you can go back to being the quiet girl in the corner and he can go back to being your best friend's untouchable ex. but then you remember the taste of him, the way he sighed into the kiss, and you know that's a lie. that you can't un-feel that.
just as you begin to type a safer version, the phone vibrates violently in your palm and the screen suddenly changes. a photo of san fills the display. he's calling.
the suddenness jolting you, you gasp and the phone slips from your fingers, bouncing off the duvet and disappearing into the folds of the floral blankets. you scramble, diving into the fabric, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your chest. you find the device, clutching it tight, but as the ringing continues, a wave of panic crashes over you. it's him, him himself who's calling. you throw the phone back onto the bed, hot to the touch and decide to pretend to be busy so you could prepare what to say-
"y/n? are you there?"
or maybe you could accidentally slide the answer option when you throw your phone, either or.
"hello?" you slowly press the phone to your ear, barely breathing.
"morning," he says. honeyed rasp of a voice, the kind of sound that feels like a physical touch.
"hello," you manage, your voice sounding small and fragile even to your own ears.
"did you sleep well?"
you freeze. you stare at the wall, your brow furrowing. "what?"
"i asked if you slept well," san repeats. there's a ghost of a smile in his tone. "you sounded exhausted when we left. i figured you'd crash the second your head hit the pillow."
you shift on the bed, pulling the duvet up to your chin. "why are you calling me?"
"i wanted to hear your voice," he says simply. "and to make sure you weren't dreading rehearsal today."
the casualness of it is dizzying. he's talking to you as if this is normal. as if he didn't hold you against the mirror wall while the moonlight streamed through the high windows of the opera house and your mouths devoured each other just last night. "san, you can't just call me like this," you hiss, your voice gaining a bit of edge. "charlie could be here."
there is a brief pause on the other end. "is she there?"
"no."
"right. so, what now?" you couldn't even picture a face he could be doing right now.
"what n-? san, what are you doing?"
"just checking in on you." his tone almost innocent. "this morning i had this delicious, sweet cinnamon roll and it reminded me of you. did you have breakfast yet?"
"stop that." you murmured, shutting your eyes.
"what?" he chuckled and you sighed, over being lost in this unusual and pointless conversation.
"we need to talk." you said firmly.
"we are talking?"
"no, like, actually talk. about what happened."
"what happened?" there was a hint of a smirk and you weren't having it. "we had a nice practice. we worked hard, we clicked, it was a good day for the production."
"san…"
"ohh!" he suddenly seemed to remember. "you're talking about the kiss."
and it's quiet again, your tongue still, holding your breath, waiting for him to say it was a mistake. waiting for him to tell you that the adrenaline of the dance just clouded his judgment and it meant nothing to him. your heart sinks, but you just hear him chuckle.
"i'm just messing with you." you let out a soft breath you didn't realize you were holding. "yeah, we should talk about it. i'll see you today at rehearsal, right?"
"yeah, right." you murmured, biting your lip because apparently you were smiling.
"alright."
"mhmm, see you."
"oh, and wear that cute blue ribbon in your hair, it'll match the choreo."
you freeze. "how do you know i have-?"
"see you soon," he says. his voice is raspy, lingering on the words, a promise wrapped in a goodbye.
the call disconnects and you lower the phone slowly, the silence of the room rushing back in, you stay lying on your back for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, heart still racing.
slowly, you push yourself up and walk toward the mirror wall that lines one side of the bedroom. you stop in front of the glass, looking at your reflection. your hair is a mess, your eyes are wide, as usual. but what's unusual, is the deep vivid crimson on your cheeks, like you've been caught in a storm.
closer to the mirror, you trace the redness of your cheeks. you should be terrified. you should be calling charlie and confessing everything right now. you should be thinking about the social suicide of kissing your best friend's ex in a company as tight-knit as the paris opera ballet.
instead, you find yourself reaching for a secret promise, the blue ribbon on your vanity.
୨୧
through the corridors, you walk with your gaze fixed on the polished marble floors. the security cameras pivoting through your skin, their glass lenses tracking your every movement. it feels as though they are auditing your soul, searching for the guilt you’ve tucked away deep beneath. you can almost hear the whispers of the other girls, the ones who spend their breaks dissecting your posture or mocking your silence in the dressing rooms.
shoulders square, though your heart hammers a frantic rhythm against your ribs. the blue ribbon is a weight, a promise, a danger.
when you push open the double doors to the studio, there he is. he stands near the barre, talking to another dancer, broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his black rehearsal shirt. you don't look at him. you can't. you snap your head away the moment your eyes catch the line of his jaw, pivoting toward the cluster of village women.
if you look at him, the dam will break. the heat will climb from your neck to your cheeks, painting a confession that every eye in the room will read. you slide into the group, blending into the soft pastel hues of the other dancers, trying to become invisible.
"you're late, y/n."
one of the girls whispers, pointing a flaw. you don't answer. you simply adjust your shoes, the satin scraping against your feet. dust motes dance in the shafts of morning light, eyes still glued down. you can feel san's gaze now, like a physical weight that settles on your shoulders.
the studio falls silent as the click clack of heels announces the arrival of lana. she strides into the room like a winter storm, her spine a rigid line of steel.
"enough with the chatter," lana commands as she stops in the center of the room.
you move with the others, your body, a piece of scenery sliding into the familiar, fluid motions of the choreography. emotional artistry, arms curving like willow branches. but your mind is acutely aware of where he is in the room. you can hear the rhythmic thud of his jumps, the controlled breath he takes before a turn.
every time he moves closer, something ionize between, sparking with the memory of last night.
lana's voice cuts through your reverie. "you," the dancers freeze, you hold your breath. "come to the center. i wish to see the progress of the princess florine and the bluebird. san, join her."
a collective murmur ripples through the studio, a wave of jealousy that you can practically feel brushing against your skin. jisu, the former florine, stands to the side, her expression a mask of cold indifference, though her fingers grip her dance wrap with a white knuckled intensity.
you walk to the center of the stage, movements hesitant, still refusing to look at him. chin tucked, eyelashes cascading over your cheeks, creating a private veil between you and the world. you feel small and you feel exposed, as if the mirrors are zooming in on the frantic beat of your heart.
"everyone, move aside," lana orders. "observe. this is how a partnership should breathe."
the room clears, leaving you and san in a vast circle of empty space. the silence is heavy, expectant. you stand there, a fragile point of light in the center of the room, until you feel it. his presence.
he steps closer, closing the gap until you can feel the heat radiating from his body. he doesn't touch you, not yet, but you're cornered by his shadow, tucked between his strength and the gaze of the room.
"are you okay?"
ghost of a whisper, his voice, meant only for you. it is warm, grounded, and laced with a tenderness that makes your knees weak.
finally, you look up.
you meet his eyes, and for a moment, the studio vanishes. the envious dancers, the strict director, the weight of the academy, it all dissolves. there is only san. his eyes soft, searching yours with an intensity that feels like a touch. you see the slight curve of his lips, dimple appearing in his cheek. you nod and he takes your hand, grip firm and sure. he leads you into the first position, and as the music begins to swell from the piano, the tension shifts. it is no longer the tension of fear, but the tension of a bowstring about to snap.
the choreography is demanding, blend of strength and ethereal lightness. but with san, it doesn't feel like work. it feels like a conversation. every lift a question, every landing an answer. as the lifts comes, body soaring toward the ceiling, there's a vertigo crashing over you, but not from fear.
why him? why, of all the people in this cutthroat city, it had to be him. why the boy with the broad shoulders and the quiet heart? why the one who memorizes steps with a freakish speed but underestimates the wreckage his smile leaves in it's wake? you think of the way he looked at you during those long months of silence. the stolen glances in the hallway, the way his hand would linger a second too long when he passed you in the studio, the way he seemed to anticipate your every move before you even made it.
you didn't just fall for him last night. you have been falling for a long time. you had fought it, buried the feeling under layers of introversion and a desperate need to remain unnoticed. you had denied the way your heart leaped at the mere sound of his name, the way you sought him out in a crowded room without even realizing you were doing it.
it is a terrifying realization. to love someone like him is to hand yourself a weapon and hope you don't use it. but as san brings you down from a lift, his arms wrapping around you with a protective force, the fear vanishes.
you are in love with him.
the truth settles in your marrow, heavy and sweet. you look at him and see the warmth in his eyes, the hidden smile that is meant only for you. you see the man who knows your silence and doesn't try to fill it with noise.
flow through the final sequence, your movements becoming liquid. you are dancing the truth of your heart. pouring every ounce of your longing, your secret guilt, and your newfound hope into the arch of your back and the extension of your fingertips. san matches you beat for beat. for a few minutes, the two of you are the only living things in paris.
the music swells to a crescendo and then abruptly stops. frozen, in the final pose, breath coming in ragged gasps. slowly pulling away, svetlana is standing perfectly still. her arms are crossed over her chest, her expression unreadable. then, the corners of her mouth twitch. it isn't a full laugh, but it is somewhat of a smile. there surely is a first time for everything.
the students begin to chatter, the sound a swarm of bees returning to the hive, but it doesn't make you want to shrink.
san doesn't let go of your hand immediately. his thumb brushes against your knuckles, a secret caress in plain sight. he leans in, breath warm against your ear.
"the ribbon looks beautiful on you," he whispers.
and when you feel the blush return, you don't fight it, you let it bloom.
୨୧
narrow space, choked with fabrics of tulle and satin. you were supposed to talk, to seriously figure the incident out. the cold metal of a costume rack bit into your back as san pressed you against it. the impact wasn't violent, but it was absolute, pinning you into a cocoon of hanging dresses that dampened the sounds of the bustling hallway outside.
not even a chance to speak, his mouth crashed against yours with a hunger, less like a greeting and more like a reclamation. it was a fierce, starving kind of kiss. you briefly moaned, the sound swallowed by him, and your head tilted instinctively to the side. the movement opened you up, granting him access. his tongue slid against yours, wet, sliding friction that sent a jolt of electricity straight to the base of your spine.
hands flew up, fingers tangling in the short, dark hairs at the nape of his neck. you pulled him closer, needing to erase every millimeter of space between you. he groaned low in his throat, a vibration you felt in your own chest, and his hands found your waist. his fingers dug into the soft flesh there, gripping you with a possessiveness that made your breath hitch. you felt like water beneath him, yielding.
the friction of your lower bodies was a slow torture. san shifted, his hips pressing firmly against your lower stomach. through the thin fabric of your dance tights and his trousers, the heat of him was an insistent pressure. every time he shifted, every time his weight leaned further into you, a spark of friction made your stomach flip. a breathless giggle escaped your lips, muffled against his mouth.
he broke the kiss for a fraction of a second, lips grazing your jawline, breath hot and ragged.
"fuck… you have no idea," he whispered between small kisses. "how long i've wanted this… how long i've had to pretend i wasn't thinking about this every time you walked into the room."
you couldn't find words. your mind was a blur of white noise and heat. you let your hands slide down from his neck, tracing the hard ridges of his shoulders before settling on his chest. beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, his heart hammered, mirroring your own. you chased his lips again, movements clumsy and urgent, searching for him with a desperation that frightened you.
when you finally parted to breathe, he kept his body flush against you, hands migrating from your waist to cup your face. his palms were warm, thumbs tracing the line of your cheekbones with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the violence of the kiss. he searched your eyes, gaze intense, searching for a sign that you were as lost as he was.
"let me take you out," he murmured.
you blinked, eyelashes damp. the sudden shift making your head spin.
"properly," san continued, his voice softening. "i want to take you to a restaurant. somewhere where we don't have to look over our shoulders. or a museum. we could visit the louvre. i want to see you freely instead of hiding in a closet."
gaze dropped, the image of charlie flashed vividly in your mind. charlie's bright, bubbly laugh, the way she had trusted you with the fragile remnants of her past with san. the guilt, once again, hit you like a cold wave that dampened the heat in your veins.
you slowly shook your head, swallowing a lump of anxiety that felt like a stone in your throat.
"i can't," you whispered. "this wasn't supposed…"
as you tried to shimmy past him, san didn't move, but he didn't let you slip away. his grip tightened on your face, not enough to hurt, but enough to anchor.
"look at me," he commanded softly, you lifted your eyes to his intense focus. "say it. say you don't feel this. tell me you don't look at me the way i know you do. tell me that when we dance, you don't feel the air between us vibrating. tell me this was all a misunderstanding, a moment of weakness, and i'll let you go right now. i'll step back, and i'll never touch you like this again." he paused, his gaze boring into yours. "but don't lie to me. because what i feel… it's genuine. the most honest thing i've felt in years."
you opened your mouth to speak, but no sound came out. you wanted to lie. you wanted to be the loyal friend, the quiet observer who didn't complicate anyone's life. but the words died in your throat, feeling the ghost of his tongue in your mouth, the weight of his body against yours, the way your soul seemed to recognize him. you did feel it. you had felt it for months. during barre work, when he offered a correction, in the silent understanding you shared during the bluebird rehearsals.
"i can't say that," you murmured, voice trembling. "because it's not true."
san's expression softened, relief crossing his features. he leaned in, his forehead resting against yours.
"i know you're worried about charlotte," he said, his voice barely a breath. "i know she's your best friend. and i know you feel like this is a betrayal-"
"it is," you whispered. "it feels like i'm stealing something. or breaking a promise we never even spoke aloud."
he sighed, breath warm against your lips. "i know charlotte. i know we had history, and i still care about her. but i also know how much she loves you. she wants you to be happy, y/n. genuinely. she's the kind of person who would want the people she loves to find each other, even if it's complicated."
"you don't know that for sure," you argued softly.
"maybe not for sure," san conceded. "but we don't have to tell her, okay? not until we know what this is. we can explore this… this little thing. we can see if it's as real as i think it is. and if it doesn't work out, then she never has to find out. everything just goes back to normal."
you closed your eyes. the logic was flawed, a fragile bridge built over a canyon of potential disaster, but it was the only bridge you had. you wanted him. the desire was a physical ache, a hunger that outweighed the guilt.
as you wavered, san began to pepper small, fluttering kisses across your cheeks. he kissed the corner of your mouth, the tip of your nose, the soft skin just below your ear. the tenderness of it broke your remaining resolve. a small, genuine laugh escaped you, sound of surrender.
"fine," you breathed. "just… we gotta be careful."
"i got you," he whispered.
with that, he didn't waste another second. he reclaimed your lips, renewed passion. deeper and slower this time, as if he were savoring the victory. you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him in, body humming with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. you felt the world outside the costume room vanish, there was only the heat of your shared breath.
in eagerness, you stumbled slightly back into the clutter of the room. your ballet slipper landing squarely on something small and plastic. there was a sharp pop and the sound of scattering beads. you had stepped on a small bag of pink glass crystal flatbacks, the tiny embellishments spraying across the floor like fallen stars. the sudden noise echoing in the small space.
before you could even register the accident, san's hands moved with lightning speed. he slid his arms under you, one beneath your knees and the other supporting your back, and scooped you up in one fluid motion. you let out a sharp gasp, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist to keep your balance. hoisted high, at face level with his.
"shhh," san whispered, pressing a finger to your lips before kissing it. "we need to be quiet."
you both giggled and the kisses continued. heart racing, you could feel the strength in his arms, the steadiness of his hold, and for the first time, the secret didn't feel like a burden.
he held you there for a long moment, in the dim light of the costume room, surrounded by a thousand performances, while you began a dance of your own. one that had no choreography, no audience. lips moved slowly together, memorizing each other's breath.
shifting slightly, his grip firm on the back of your thighs. he didn't put you down immediately. instead, he nuzzled into your neck, lips grazing the sensitive skin there.
"you're so soft," he murmured, the vibration of his voice sending shivers. "i can't believe you're actually mine to kiss."
you pulled back slightly, eyes searching his. "i'm not yours yet."
san grinned, the dimples finally making an appearance, flashing a look of pure, unadulterated mischief. "that's right, yet," he whispered, before capturing your lips once more.
the sounds of the hallway, distant shouting of a stage manager, rhythmic thumping of dancers' shoes, it all seemed a million miles away. in the narrow confines of the room, amidst the scent of mothballs and the scatter of pink crystals, you existed in a vacuum of your own making.
you felt the friction of his trousers against your inner thighs, the way his chest expanded against your breasts with every heavy breath. the heat of his skin, the callouses on his fingers, and the overwhelming presence of him. dangerous and fragile, but as san squeezed you tighter, you realized you didn't want to be safe. you wanted this.
slowly, he lowered you back to the floor, but he didn't let go. he kept you pinned against the rack, his body a warm shield.
"we have to go back to rehearsal," he whispered through a thin string of saliva.
"i know," you replied, though made no move to move.
"five more minutes," he pleaded, eyes dropping to your lips.
you smiled. "five minutes."
and as he leaned in to claim those five minutes, you felt drowned out by the roar of your own heart and the insistent, demanding heat of the man who held you.
୨୧
arms curved in soft arcs, san’s hand found the small of your back and the world narrowed. faded into a hum. grip steady, warm weight. he pivoted, sweeping you into a graceful spin. you looked up and found his eyes locked onto yours. quiet heat, a secret shared in the middle of a crowded room.
lana's eyes tracked every movement, cold and calculating. she sighed, a sound of a satisfied acceptance. she hadn't yet officially announced the change, but the way she nodded, the way she stopped correcting your posture and instead watched the synergy between you and san, told the story.
the realization brought a flicker of triumph, a triumph shared with charlie who stood at the barre. she had taken some time off from her own busy schedule to drop by. she caught your eye and beamed, genuine smile that made your stomach churn.
"you look like a dream, y/n!" she called out, her voice ringing through the hall.
you managed a small, tight smile and looked away. the guilt was a cold stone settling in your gut.
the weeks that followed became a messy sequence of double lives. by day, you were the quiet student, the shadow in the sequins. by night, you were san's secret. he took you to a paris that didn't exist in maps. led by the hand, you wandered into hidden bookstores you didn't even know were there before, shelves reaching toward ceilings lost in darkness.
"try it," san whispered, leaning close to your ear. he pointed to a weathered bookseller with spectacles perched precariously on his nose. "ask him for the poetry section. in french."
you froze, fingers tightening around san's hand. "no, i can't. you do it," you murmured.
"come on, you gotta practice your french," san stepped closer, his chest brushing your shoulder. the warmth of him was an invitation. "just like you practiced, okay?"
deep breath and you stepped forward. you stumbled through a sentence, your accent hesitant. the bookseller didn't scoff, he replied and led you to a dusty corner of the shop. instead of the expected embarrassment, you smiled and looked back at san, and the way he was watching you with a quiet tenderness. these were the highs, the moments you forgot about everything.
but the return to the apartment always felt like a descent. the moment you stepped through the door, the mask slid back into place.
"you're late again!" charlie exclaimed, leaping up from the sofa. she was wrapped in an oversized sweater, her fair skin glowing under the warm light. "did svetlana keep you for extra coaching?"
you avoided her gaze, sliding your shoes off. "i got caught up in practice," you lied, words tasting like ash. "i wanted to perfect that one sequence in the second act."
charlie frowned, though her eyes remained soft. "you're already the best one there, y/n. don't let that russian hag get in your head. you'll burn out before opening night."
"i'm fine, charlie. just… tired."
"well, go shower. i ordered crepes."
every lie was a brick in a wall you were building between you and the person who had been the ground beneath your feet for years. charlie had fought for everything, her scholarship, her place in the academy, her dignity. she had come from nothing, hustling through every rehearsal with a grit that you admired. and here you were, the girl from the supportive, wealthy family, stealing the one thing that should have been off limits. the thing you underestimated how fragile it could be.
the next afternoon, the tension in the studio was palpable. jisu spent the rehearsal staring at you with eyes that could cut glass. you felt her gaze on your back during every adagio. every time you and san locked eyes, you could feel her resentment radiating from the sidelines.
during a break, you found yourself alone in the dressing room, staring at your reflection. tracing the line of your collarbone, the fragility of your shoulders. the mirror is a cruel thing. it does not lie, and it does not offer mercy. you looked shrinking, folding inward and utterly terrified. as you look at yourself, you don't see a princess. you see a thief.
the door creaked open, slow and heavy, and san stepped in. he didn't say a word. he simply walked up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist, the warmth hits you, pulling you back against his chest.
"hey pretty," he whispered.
"hey," your voice replied quietly.
"are you okay?" his lips gently kiss your temple.
"yeah i just… made a hole in my thighs and it's ruining my day." you tried to give him a small, childish smile.
it was a snag. a tiny jagged hole in the nylon of your tights, right on the swell of your thigh. it should be a small thing. a nothing. but in the suffocating perfection of the paris opera ballet school, a hole in the tights is a crack in the armor. if the world could see this one flaw, what else could they see?
you feel him huff, amused breath against your skin. his grip tightens slightly, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your waist. you can feel the hard lines of his physique through the fabric of his dance gear. fingers teasingly traveling down the curve of your hips.
"ruining your day, hm?" he murmurs, his lips migrating from your temple to the sensitive shell of your ear. you can feel the heat of his tongue flicking lightly against the lobe, a gesture so casual yet so electric that your toes curl inside your pointe shoes. "maybe i can help," he whispers, his voice dropping an octave. "maybe i should just help you change out of them."
a quiet laugh escapes you. you turn slightly in his arms, looking up at him. he's so unfairly breathtaking. his skin, his jawline, his knowing smirk. his eyes hooded and dark with a hunger that he only ever shows to you. he looks like a predator who has decided to be gentle, and the thought makes your stomach flip.
"you're terrible," you whisper in disbelief.
"what? i'm just thinking of solutions," he replies.
before you can respond, his hands shift. they move upward, leaving the safety of your waist to slide over your ribs, the friction of his palms sending sparks across your skin. then, with a sudden boldness, he squeezes your breasts. you gasp, the sound sharp and sudden in the quiet room. your back arches instinctively, chest pressing harder into his palms. calloused hands against the thin fabric of your leotard. he doesn't let go, instead, he kneads the soft tissue, thumbs brushing over your nipples, which harden instantly under the pressure.
"san," you moan. "someone… someone could come in."
the fear is there, constant anxiety of charlie walking through that door and finding her best friend entwined with the man she once loved.
san doesn't flinch. he leans forward, his lips capturing yours in a claiming kiss. his tongue pushes past your lips, sweeping through your mouth, demanding pull that makes your knees weak.
he pulls back just an inch, "i locked the door," he whispers, his voice strained. "we're alone. just you and me."
the words act like a key, unlocking the last of your restraint. terror transforms, turning into a pulsing need. you want him. you want the weight of him to crush the guilt out of you.
san turns you around fully, pressing you back against the cold surface of the mirrors. the ice of the glass against your back and the furnace of his body against your front. he looks at you with an intensity that feels like it could strip you bare.
his hands move to the straps of your gray leotard. he doesn't pull them down immediately. instead, he hooks his fingers under the thin elastic, tugging them just enough to ask a question, to create tension, his knuckles brushing against the sensitive skin of your shoulders.
"can i?" he murmurs, locked on you.
can't speak, can't even breathe. you simply nod your head. you want this. you need this. you need to feel something other than the hollow ache of longing.
with a slow motion, san pulls the straps down. the fabric slides over your shoulders, sliding down your chest, shushing sound. leotard peeled down, breasts exposed to the cool air of the dressing room.
he stops and stares.
eyes roaming over you, tracing the curve of your breasts, the pale, transparent skin where blue veins map out the path to your heart. nipples peaked, trembling in the chill. you feel a surge of vulnerability. raw, exposed. it makes you want to cover yourself and lean into him all at once.
"you are so beautiful," he whispers, thick with awe. "so beautiful y/n, holy shit."
he leans in, his mouth descending. when his tongue first touches your nipple, you let out a strangled cry. he licks, swirling motion that gathers the moisture of your skin before he closes his lips around you.
vacuum of his mouth creating a pressure that sends a jolt of electricity straight to your core. you bite your lips, teeth sinking into the inner flesh to keep from moaning too loudly. the sound of his suction, the licking of his mouth on your breast fills the silence of the room, echoing off the mirrors.
his other hand isn't idle. he reaches around to massage your other breast, his palm cupping the weight of it, fingers kneading the softness with a focused intensity. he rolls the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, mimicking the action of his mouth. the dual sensation is almost too much to bear. you feel a warmth pooling between your legs, the fabric of your tights suddenly feeling too tight, too restrictive. san moves from your breast to your neck, his kisses becoming more frantic, more biting.
"san… god," you whimper, your head lolling back against the mirror.
he groans, a low, animal sound, and slides his hand down to the waistband of your shorts. he doesn't pull them down, not yet, but he presses his palm flat against your crotch, rubbing the mound of your pussy through the nylon. rough fabric of the tights grating against your clit, waves of heat crashing through you.
through his trousers, you can feel him. hard, thick length of his cock pressing against you. he is just as desperate as you are, his movements jerky and urgent. he kisses you again, a messy exchange of saliva.
then, as quickly as the storm arrived, it begins to recede.
san pulls his hand back, his eyes clouded with lust but tempered by caution. he knows the risks. he knows the clock is ticking. with a tenderness that hurts, he reaches and pulls your leotard back up, smoothing the fabric over your skin, adjusting the straps with steady fingers.
he kisses your forehead, lips lingering there for a long moment.
"you're beautiful," he repeats, his voice returning to that grounded, warm tone. "so beautiful it hurts."
he steps back, giving you space to breathe, though the air feels thinner now that he's not occupying it. , his grip firm and protective.
"i'll take you home tonight," he says. his fingers already interlacing with yours.
flushed, skin still tingling where he touched you, chest still aching from the pressure of his mouth. you nod, feeling marked, changed.
together, you walk toward the door. san reaches for the handle, his hand covering yours for a brief second before he easily opens it. as you step out into the hallway, the cool air hitting your heated skin. you glance back, realizing it was never locked in the first place. not once. maybe he said it on purpose, maybe he forgot, but you don't say anything.
that night you returned late, again. he wanted to stay a little longer to get a thai dessert you introduced him to. when you opened the door, charlie was sitting at the couch, a notebook open in front of her, legs draped over the armrest, sketching out choreography. she looked up as you entered, her expression thoughtful. you instinctively pull the white bag of candy behind your waist, shoulder blades tightening.
"hey ghost, where were you?" charlie said, her voice unusually quiet.
you froze, your hand still on the doorknob. "hey, uh… hung out with jisu." ash in your mouth. at this moment, you wanted to shoot yourself for such dumb lie. of all the people in the academy, you had to choose her. you haven't spoken more than ten words to her in a months. jisu, who you replaced. jisu, who probably hates the very air you breathe.
"jisu? really?"
"yeah," you say, not wanting to explain further.
charlie leaned back. "well, that's nice," a small, sympathetic smile touched her lips. "i heard she's a bit begrudging, but it's nice to see you two get along well."
you felt the blood drain from your face. "y-yeah," you stammered.
"i honestly didn't think she had it in her to be friendly," charlie continued, her voice warm. you feel a dip in your stomach, a sickening plunge. the lie is working, and that's the worst part.
"she's alright." you whisper.
""see, that's why i love you," she stands up and glides toward you. "you have this way about you. you're like a little magnet for the broken and the grumpy. if there was anyone in the entire academy who could make someone like jisu friendly, it would be you."
she wraps her arms around you in a sudden hug. you stay stiff for a second, the bag of thai desserts pressed between your back and the wall, before you slowly lean into her.
"you're too kind for your own good," charlie whispers into your shoulder. "don't let those vultures at the school eat you alive, okay? you've got a heart of gold, and god knows this place tries to turn everyone into stone."
each word a precise strike against your conscience. your integrity innocently praised while you were drowning in your own dishonesty. you close your eyes, a single tear threatening to spill. you want to tell her. you want to scream that you're not kind, that you're a liar, that you're in love with a closed chapter in her life.
"thanks, charlie."
you forced a smile and nodded, mechanical movement. she pulls away, her eyes sparkling.
"oh! i almost forgot!"
she bounces back to the coffee table, grabbing a small shopping bag. she reaches inside and pulls out two sets of knitted leg warmers. one is an innocent baby pink, the other is a muted blue.
"look! i found these at that little boutique near the opera house. they're thick enough for the winter drafts in the studio." she holds them up, one in each hand. "pink for me," she says, waving the bright pair. "and blue for you." she steps closer, holding the two pairs of leg warmers together. with a playful giggle, she makes the fabric ends peck each other like two little birds.
"that's so sweet, charlie. thank you."
"of course! only the best for my favorite person."
she beams at you, her energy filling the room until you feel like you're suffocating in it. she turns toward the hallway, already thinking about the next thing.
"i can't wait for tomorrow," she says, her voice trailing off as she walks toward the bathroom. "i hope we can get photos with our dresses together."
your heart stops. you forgot the dress rehearsal.
"tomorrow?" you whisper.
charlie stops and looks back at you, a look of pure bewilderment on her face.
"yes, tomorrow? the announcement was posted on the board three days ago, girl. did you actually miss the notice?"
you stare at her, mind a complete blank and she lets out a dramatic sigh with a shake of her head.
"honestly, what would you do without me?" she leans at the doorframe, smiling softly. "you always have your head in the clouds, don't you? just make sure it stays there at least until the show."
when she closes the door behind her, the silence returning, heavier than before. you slowly bring the bag of thai desserts from behind your back and set it on the counter. the mango is probably warm now. the lie, too large to hide.
୨୧
screech of the metro wheels against tracks bites, metallic screams and the knot tightening in your chest. you lean your shoulder against the cold glass of the window, watching the grey blur of paris slide past. beside you, charlie's voice a bright contrast to the doom of the train car.
she describes her vision for aurora’s awakening. her eyes sparkling and hungry, hands carving shapes in the air. you only offer a tight smile.
the moment you step into the theater, you feel the sharp scent of hairspray first. frantic bustle. dancers in various states of dress scramble across the marble floors, pointe shoes echoing through the halls.
you find yourself in the costume wing, where the air is humid and smells of steamed fabric. the costume manager, a woman with a face like a crumpled map and eyes that see every loose thread, beckons you forward.
"stand still," she grunts.
you hold your breath as she pins the heavy fabric of the village dress against your waist. the dress is a rustic, peasant style garment, meant to look humble, but the manager is currently sewing a cluster of tiny, shimmering sequins into the bodice to catch the light.
as you stare straight ahead, your gaze drifts across the room. san is there.
near the wings, he's talking to another dancer, but his attention isn't on the conversation. he is looking at you. he doesn't smile, but there is a warmth in his gaze that feels like a physical touch, a secret hand brushing against your cheek. you feel a spike of panic and glance around quickly, wondering if charlie has seen, or if the other dancers are whispering.
you look back at him, and this time, san lets a small reassuring smile tug at the corner of his lips. the warmth of his look makes you soften, your shoulders dropping an inch. you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, eyes lingering on the sharp line of his jaw.
suddenly, a sting pierces your hip. you gasp, jumping slightly.
"damn it," the woman mutters, pulling the needle back. "stop fidgeting, will you?"
the pain is small, but it jars you. the bubble of intimacy with san pops, leaving you cold and exposed in the middle of the room.
when she finishes, she doesn't even say anything, the next dancer is already pushing you off the way. you move toward the stage, taking your place among the other village women, sequins itching against your skin.
"positions!" lana’s voice booms from the darkened house.
the music swells, the opening act of the sleeping beauty beginning it's unfold. you and the other women frolic through the scene, movements light and airy. the choreography calls for you to be playful, carelessly playing with knitting needles as you dance, a picture of innocent rural life.
with a fluid grace, your body remembering the steps, but your mind is elsewhere. you are thinking of the way san’s hand felt on the small of your back last night, the way he whispered your name against your skin in the dark. the guilt is a living thing now, curling around your heart, tightening with every beat of the orchestra.
as you twirl, you glance toward the darkened seats of the theater. charlotte is there. she's sitting in the third row, perfect posture even in repose. you notice her lean forward, eyes fixed on you. she is smiling, proud of you, cheering you on in silence.
the scene shifts. the supervising catalavat enters and catches the village women in their forbidden act of knitting, threatening of punishment. the choreography dictates that the women should beg for mercy, drop to their knees in a theatrical pleading.
the stylized plea breaks. your voice, usually a whisper, rips through the music of the theater.
"i'm sorry!" you sob, raw and guttural. the other dancers stumble, their synchronization breaking as they glance at you in shock. "i'm so sorry!" you scream, heartbroken rush. "please, forgive me! i didn't mean to, i'm so sorry!"
you aren't dancing anymore. you are collapsed on the floor, your forehead touching the cold wood, your shoulders shaking, uncontrollable sobbing. you can't stop the tears streaming down your face, blurring the world into a smear of gold and brown. the dam has broken, and every ounce of anxiety, every moment of hidden longing, every shred of guilt pours out of you in a cacophony of grief.
the music falters. the orchestra slows to a confused halt. the silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the sound of your gasping breaths.
"what in the name of god is this?" lana strides onto the stage, heels clicking rhythmically, and stops in front of you. russian severity, her accent thick and sharp. "you're ruining my show! what is the meaning of this collapse?"
you look up at her, your eyes red and streaming, chest heaving. you can't explain it. you can't tell her that you're breaking under the weight of a secret. you can only shake your head, trembling movement.
"sorry," you choke out, the word barely a breath.
"off! get off the stage!" lana barks, gesturing wildly toward the wings. "go clean your face and find your composure before you ruin the entire act!"
you don't wait for a second command. you scramble to your feet and run away. you bolt past the other dancers, past the confused gaze of the catalavat, and disappear into the shadows of the wings.
the moment you hit the darkness of the backstage area, the walls close in. you lean against a cold brick wall, sliding down until you are huddled in a ball. you are shaking so hard your teeth chatter. the panic is a wave, pulling you under, leaving you breathless and alone.
then, a pair of strong arms wraps around you. you don't have to look up to know who it is. he pulls you into him, protective urgency, tucking your head under his chin. you cling to him, your fingers digging into the fabric of his costume, sobbing into his chest. he doesn't say anything, he just holds you, his hand rubbing slow, grounding circles into your back. for a few seconds, the world is just the two of you.
"i've got you," he whispers. "just breathe. i've got you."
you close your eyes, letting his strength calm you, feeling the beating of your heart slowly align with his.
"y/n?"
the voice is a cold splash of water. you freeze, san stiffens his arms. you pull back slowly, blinking through the tears to see charlie standing a few feet away. she looks small in the vastness of the wings, her expression a mixture of horror and profound confusion. she looks at you, then at san, then back at you.
san steps away from you instantly, the distance between you suddenly a canyon. he clears his throat, his face returning to it's neutral, controlled mask, but his eyes remain troubled. you wipe your face with the back of your hand and step toward her, your voice trembling.
"charlie… i…"
"what happened?" her voice laced with genuine concern. she reaches out, touching your arm. "you just… you started screaming. you looked terrified. what happened?"
you swallow hard, the lie forming in your throat like a bitter pill. you look at san, who is standing perfectly still.
"i don't know," you whisper, letting a few more tears fall. "i just… i got overwhelmed. i think i had a panic attack."
she pulls you into a hug. "oh, you poor thing," she murmurs, rubbing your shoulder. "i had no idea you were feeling that much pressure. you're always so quiet, i forget how much you carry inside. you can't let the role consume you like that, though. you'll burn out before opening night."
you pathetically lean into her, the guilt returning, sharper and more painful than the needle prick from earlier.
"i'm sorry," you whisper into her shoulder, the words carrying a deeper meaning.
"don't be sorry," she says, pulling back to look at you with a bright, encouraging smile. "just take a breath. let's go get some water. san, thanks for looking after her."
san nods once. "no problem."
you both walks away, but before you're too far, you look at san. he is watching you, melancholic. he doesn't move toward you. because he can't.
୨୧
two years ago you, had signed up for this wellness center that offered late night relaxing treatments for frustrating days after work. you were supposed to be there now, at least, that's what charlie believed.
comforting blanket against the lingering chill of humiliation. curled in the center of his bed, the duvet a cloud around you. his room, unlike the vibrant chaos of your shared apartment, was a study in muted tones and precise order. you glanced at the pair of framed mountain landscapes hung above the headboard, their monochrome beauty a quiet statement to his name. it was a space that spoke of careful thought, of a mind that found peace in structure.
a soft clink of ceramic, then the gentle creak of the floorboards as he approached. a warmth spread through you. he settled on the edge of the mattress, the bed dipping slightly under his weight. a steaming mug held carefully in his large hands, herbal promise.
"here," he murmured, his voice a low thrum against the quiet. he extended the mug, it's warmth radiating against your cold fingers as you took it.
you felt the ceramic against your palms, the heat seeping into your chilled skin, a small comfort. you took a tentative sip, sweet liquid, balm to your raw throat.
"how do you feel?" he asked.
you swallowed, the tea warming your chest. "better," you admitted. your voice still felt thick, heavy with unshed tears. the memory of the stage, the blinding lights, the sea of faces, still flickered behind your eyelids.
"still worried about lana?" he prompted, his thumb tracing slow circles on the back of your hand, a quiet reassurance.
"she’ll drop me. i know it. after… that."
he shook his head. "no. she won’t." his voice was steady, a rock you could lean against. "not if i have anything to say about it. you're princess florine. my princess florine."
involuntary laugh escaped you, fragile. "you don’t have to," you said, the corner of your mouth twitching upwards. the thought of him, san, standing up to svetlana popova of all people, a formidable force of nature, brought a faint smile to your lips. he was protective, fiercely so, a trait you had always admired, even from a distance.
you glanced around his room again. "your room is… it's really nice, san. it's so… you." you gestured vaguely with your free hand. "nothing like charlie's and mine, we're always complaining about the mess, but not doing anything about it."
your head lowered, eyes fixed on the patterns swirling in your tea. he saw it, of course. he always did. his hand covered yours. "hey," he said. you slowly raised your eyes, meeting his. "picture it," he began, sketching a scene in the air between you. "charlotte finds out about us. she sees us together, maybe she just knows. what happens then?"
you bit your lip, the scenario playing out in your mind, a horror show you’d replayed countless times. "she’ll be hurt," you whispered. "she'll feel betrayed. i… i can't stand to hurt her."
he squeezed your hand gently. "she won’t be mad. not really. not after a while. she’ll be happy for us. for you. she cares about you more than anyone, y/n. she wants you to be happy." he paused, his gaze searching yours. "you know charlotte, don’t you?"
the question hung in the air, weighted with years of shared laughter, whispered secrets, and unwavering loyalty. you thought of her infectious laugh, her boundless energy, her protectiveness, her deep unwavering love.
"to know her is to love," you replied, soft confession, a truth that resonated deep within you. it was a sentiment so pure, so absolute, that made the secret you were keeping feel even heavier.
at the last sip of your tea, the warmth a fading memory as you set the mug carefully on the bedside table. he shifted, and then, with a gentle hand at your waist, he pulled you towards him. you didn’t resist, instead melting into his embrace, your back settling against the solid expanse of his chest. his arms wrapped around you, strong and secure. your head rested against his shoulder, the soft fabric of his shirt comforting against your cheek. his fingers calloused from years of gripping a barre, began to work their magic on your skin, tracing slow patterns along your arm, then moving to your shoulder, kneading the tense muscles there. he knew exactly where the stress coiled, the places you carried the weight of the world.
"everything will be fine," he murmured, breath against your ear. his lips brushed against the sensitive skin of your neck. a soft sigh escaped you, released of tension.
the gentle rocking motion of his body against yours, the rhythmic massage of his fingers, the intoxicating scent of him, all worked to lull you into a state of blissful oblivion. your mind, so recently a whirlwind of anxiety, began to quiet. you felt the subtle shift against your lower back, a growing hardness pressing into you. his joggers, soft cotton against your skin, now contained a throbbing proof of his desire. the sensation was both a shock and a thrilling affirmation, a silent language spoken between your bodies.
his lips moved from your neck to the sensitive skin just behind your ear, his tongue a warm, wet caress. you tilted your head, granting him better access. his hand, which had been gently massaging your shoulder, now slid lower, gliding over your hip, his thumb brushing against the curve of your bottom. you felt yourself arch into his touch, a silent invitation.
"relax, okay?" he whispered, thick with a desire that mirrored your own. his other hand found your waist, pulling you even closer, eliminating any space between your bodies. the insistent press of his erection against your lower back grew more pronounced, a tangible heat that ignited a fire deep within you.
unconsciously, you shifted slightly, grinding your ass against him. a low groan rumbled in his chest and his grip tightened, his fingers digging lightly into your flesh. he began to pepper your neck with open mouthed kisses, each one a spark, igniting a trail of goosebumps across your skin. your breath hitched, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
body aligned with need, his hand moved from your hip, tracing a path upwards along your side, his touch light, exploratory, until his fingers brushed against the soft swell of your breast. a gasp caught in your throat, and you leaned further into him. the thin fabric of your shirt was little barrier against the heat of his touch.
his thumb began to gently caress the underside of your breasts, tantalizing motion that made your nipples harden in anticipation. you closed your eyes, lost in the intoxicating sensations, the world outside this room fading into insignificance.
"y/n," he breathed. he turned you gently in his arms, so you were facing him, your knees still resting on the bed. your eyes fluttered open, meeting his. his hands cupped your face. silently, you leaned in, parting your lips just slightly.
he took your mouth then, not with a gentle touch, but with a consuming urgency. his lips were soft yet demanding, pressing against yours, molding them. your own lips, still slightly swollen from the earlier tears, responded with an eagerness that surprised you. his tongue traced the seam of your mouth, faint hint of tea, and you invited him in.
with ease, he lifted the hem of your shirt, pulling it upwards, over your head, and then, with a soft rustle of fabric, it was gone, tossed carelessly onto the floor. his eyes devoured you, lingering on the delicate lace of your bra, the curve of your breasts. he traced the delicate lace of your bra, then slipping underneath, brushing against the soft skin. a moan escaped you, and you instinctively pressed into his touch.
"i'll never get tired of these, fuck," he murmured.
a liquid heat pooled between your thighs. you wanted more, desperately. your hips began to grind, seeking friction, seeking release. his hand now slid downwards, over your stomach, tracing the curve of your hip, then moving lower, towards the junction of your thighs. he brushed against the soft cotton of your underwear, the dampness there, a testament to your arousal. he paused, his gaze meeting yours, a question in his dark eyes. you nodded, a silent fervent agreement. he smiled, sensual curve of his lips, and then his fingers slipped beneath the elastic of your underwear, finding the warm, wet folds of your pussy.
gentle at first, tracing the delicate outer lips, then slowly, deliberately, parting them, exposing your clit to his knowing touch. he circled it, a caress that made your entire body clench. you whimpered, your hips pushing forward, seeking more pressure, more friction. he obliged, his thumb pressing down, rubbing gently against your swollen clit. the sensation was exquisite, overwhelming, a spiraling vortex of pleasure that threatened to consume you.
your legs trembled, your fingers gripping his shoulders so tightly your nails dug into his skin. he didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t care. his focus was entirely on you, on bringing you to the brink. his fingers moved with a practiced rhythm, stroking, pressing, teasing, each movement sending fresh waves of pleasure through your already overloaded senses.
the pressure built, sweet, unbearable pressure coiling tighter and tighter within you. your breath hitched, your body arching into his touch, on the edge, desperate for release.
"san," you gasped, his name a desperate plea on your lips.
his mouth found yours again, his tongue plunging in, mimicking the rhythm of his fingers between your legs. the double sensation was too much, pleasure agony. your body convulsed a shattering orgasm that shook you to your core. muscles spasmed, back arching, guttural cry tearing from your throat.
you clung to him, trembling, your body still vibrating with the aftershocks of your climax. he held you tight, his fingers still stroking your clit, even as the intensity of your orgasm began to subside, slowly, deliciously. his mouth was still on yours, kissing you deeply, tasting your pleasure.
when the tremors finally eased, you lay breathless against him, your body heavy and sated. he pulled back slightly, his eyes still dark with desire, but now softened with tenderness. he kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips.
"still good?" he whispered, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.
you managed a weak nod with a contented sigh. your body felt heavy, languid, utterly relaxed. the panic, the fear, the shame. all of it had been momentarily banished by the sheer force of his touch, by the intensity of your shared pleasure.
suddenly he shifted, pulling away just enough to allow him to reach for your underwear. he slipped them off, then reached for his own joggers, tugging them down, freeing his impressive large erection. it sprang free, thick and hard, slick with pre-cum. you watched, mesmerized, as it bobbed slightly. beautiful, powerful thing.
now on top of you, he moved between your legs, knees settling on either side of your hips. you instinctively opened for him, thighs parting, welcoming him. he leaned down, his lips finding yours in a passionate kiss. meanwhile his hand found your pussy again, parting your wet folds, guiding his thick cock to your entrance. you felt the tip press against your slick opening.
"y/n" he whispered against your lips, his eyes locked with yours. "i love you, i really do."
you watched him, breath catching in your throat. "really?"
he sighed a smile, pressing a quick peck to your lips. "really… i love you so bad."
you smiled back, fighting back the tears. "i love you too."
with another reassuring slow kiss, he pushed into you. you felt the stretch, the fullness, the delicious invasion as his cock slowly, inch by agonizing inch, slid into you. mixture of pain and pleasure.
pushing deeper, stretching you, filling you completely. your body, still sensitive from your orgasm, welcomed the invasion, molding itself around his thick shaft. he paused, allowing you to adjust, to acclimate to his size, his eyes never leaving yours.
"so tight," he groaned, his hips still. "so good."
you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, urging him to move. you wanted him, all of him, deep inside you. your hips began to buck, impatiently asking. he smiled, predatory grin, then he began to move, deep thrusts. he pulled back almost completely, then plunged back in, filling you entirely, hitting your cervix.
"do you like that?" he breathed, his voice ragged, his hips still moving.
"yes," you gasped. "more. please, more."
he picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming faster, more urgent. you met him thrust for thrust, hips grinding against his, a dance of desire. the bed creaked beneath you, rhythmic accompaniment to your lovemaking.
you could feel the friction, the delicious rub of his cock against your sensitive walls, the way it stretched and filled you with each powerful thrust. the air was filled with the sounds of your moans, his groans, the wet squelching sounds of your bodies colliding. his hands gripped your hips, lifting you slightly, adjusting the angle, allowing him to thrust even deeper, hitting a spot that made you cry out, a high pitched moan of pure ecstasy.
your orgasm was building again, heat that was rapidly escalating into a raging inferno. your body was a taut bowstring, stretched to it's breaking point, trembling with the intensity of your pleasure.
"i’m close," you whimpered, voice raw with desire.
"come for me, my princess," he commanded. "come for me."
over the edge, your body convulsed again. shattering orgasm that rippled through you, your muscles clenching around his cock, milking him. you cried out his name as your body surrendered to the overwhelming waves of pleasure.
with a final thrust, he spilled his seed deep inside you and collapsed against you. heavy body heavy, breath ragged, heart hammering of genuine love. you lay tangled together, breathless and sated. your legs were still wrapped around his waist, bodies still intimately joined, the warmth of his come spreading through you, tangible proof of your shared feelings.
୨୧
sunlight spills through the gaps of the curtains. syrup-thick sleep, the weight of a muscular arm draped across your waist and the lingering scent of skin on skin. for a heartbeat, the world is small and safe, limited to the perimeter of these sheets.
then, the clock on the bedside table catches your eye. you bolt upright and the sheets slide down, leaving you exposed to the morning air. your heart doesn't just beat, it thrashes. you scramble out of bed, your feet hitting the cold hardwood with a slap.
"shit, shit," you hiss, your voice a dry rasp.
you dive for the floor, hunting for your clothes. the lace bra tangled with your discarded shirt. you clumsily pull them on, nearly tripping over your own balance. you grab your phone and the screen is a wall of notifications.
charlie: babe? where r u??
charlie: going to sleep now, left salad for u in the fridge
charlie: y/n, answer me. i'm getting worried
charlie: istg if ur still at that spa place, at least just text me
before you could reply, a sleepy voice interrupts your thoughts.
"what's the rush?" you turn to see san propped up on one elbow. his dark hair is chaotic and the sunlight catches the sharp line of his jaw. he looks peaceful, too peaceful.
"i have to go," you whisper, struggling to pull your sweater over your head. "i fell asleep. i wasn't supposed to fall asleep, san."
he reaches out, his fingers grazing your hip, trying to pull you back towards the edge of the mattress.
"stay a little longer," he murmurs. "c'mere."
"stop that," you snap, though the sternness is undercut by the tremble in your voice. you yank your arm away. "i told her i'd come home last night. she's probably terrified."
san sighs, he raises his hands in a lazy surrender. small knowing smile playing on his lips. "sorry," he says softly. "i just wanted you for a bit more."
the anger vanishes, replaced by a hollow ache. you lean down, pressing your lips to his. it's a soft kiss, tasting of sleep and desperation. you linger for a second too long, breathing him in, memorizing the warmth of his skin before the cold reality of the academy swallows you whole.
"thank you for last night," you whisper against his mouth.
the walk to the metro is a blur of grey pavement and rushing parisians. your hands shake as you dial charlie's number and think of lame excuses about how you fell asleep at the sauna and the staff just randomly let you sleep there for 10 hours. she picks up on the first ring.
three days later, the atmosphere at the academy is electric. "the sleeping beauty" no longer distant but looming. you are at the barre, at an extra class, working through the basic exercises. the repetitive motion is a meditation for you, after all before being your full time job, ballet used to be your escape.
you feel a threatening bead of sweat trickle down your spine. without thinking, you slide the zipper down of the high neck jacket and peel the garment off, draping it over the end of the barre. you return to your plies, focus narrowed to the movements of your feet. but you can feel it. a shift in the room.
it starts as a flicker. a glance from a girl two stations down. then, a whispered comment from a group near the center. you ignore it. you tell yourself it's just the usual envy, the petty judgments of girls who see your softness as weakness.
as the class transitions to floor work, you step away from the barre to grab your water bottle. but when you turn, jisu steps into your path. she doesn't smile, she never really smiles. she only smirks a cruel expression that doesn't reach her eyes. she looks you up and down, her gaze lingering on your neck.
"you know," jisu says. "some of us are here to dance, not to show off."
you blink, confused. "what are you talking about?"
jisu leans in, her voice dropping to a whisper that feels like a cold blade. "you couldn't you hide it a little better?" she doesn't wait for an answer. she pivots on a dime, gliding away with a mocking grace. your heart stops when you slowly turn toward the mirror, lifting your chin.
there, just below the curve of your ear, is a vivid blossom of purple and red. a hickey. a giant pronounced mark that stands out against your skin like a neon sign. you remember this morning, san's hands, the way he had laughed against your skin, the heat of his mouth. when he drove you to school, his hand resting on your thigh, his eyes dark and playful.
you scramble for your jacket, shoving your arms through the sleeves with trembling hands, zipping it up to the very top until it presses against your throat. you can't breathe. you can't stay here.
ignoring the teacher's call for the dancers to assemble, you bold out of the studio. running down the corridor until you reach the prop storage room.
it's a dusty dim space filled with painted forests, cardboard castles, and velvet curtains that smell of mothballs. you slam the door shut and slide down against it, your chest heaving. you pull out your phone and dial san.
"hey, pretty. you okay? how is your class go-"
"why didn't you tell me?" you whisper-shout into the phone, voice shaking.
there is a pause. you can hear the distant sound of music on his end. "tell you what?" he asks, though his tone suggests he knows exactly what.
"the hickey, san! you left a mark and jisu just pointed it out in front of half the company!" you hear it then. a rumbling chuckle. he is laughing, actually laughing. "are you kiddi- this isn't funny!"
"it's a little funny," he says, his voice warm and teasing. "i thought you'd notice it the second you looked in a mirror. i figured you'd find it yourself before-"
"i didn't! do you have any idea what happens if charlie sees this? do you have any idea how this looks?"
"it looks like you're loved, y/n," he says, his voice softening, losing the edge of the joke.
"she could've seen it!" you suddenly raise your voice, the sound echoing off the fake cardboard trees surrounding you. silence falls over the line. the teasing is gone.
"i'm sorry," he says gently. "i didn't think it would be that obvious."
you sigh, raising your palm against your forehead.
"look, i'll come pick you up. i'll drive you to mine and we can-"
"no," you interrupt, your voice cracking. "no, don't come. don't come near me right now."
"y/n-"
"do you even understand how risky this is?" you whisper. "charlie is already questioning me. she's asking where i am all the time. she's noticing things, san. it's swallowing me."
"we can handle her," he says, though he sounds uncertain.
"no, we can't. because while you get to suck on my neck, i'm the one who has to look her in the eye every single night. i'm the one who has to pretend i'm the 'perfect, quiet friend' while hiding your marks on my skin." you swallow hard, the lump in your throat feeling like a stone. "i can't see you outside of class anymore. i just can't. it's too much. i can't breathe with this secret."
"baby, you're panicked," he says. "let's just talk tonight."
"no," you say, your voice final. "not tonight."
you end the call before he can respond and drop the phone onto the dusty floor. arms wrapped around your knees, pulling yourself into a tight ball. you fight back the sob that threatens to tear through your chest. you can't cry. you can't afford to be this fragile. if you start breaking again, you'll never put the pieces back together in time for the curtain to rise.
he's calling again but you decline it, instead, you look for another name. fingers hovering over your contacts, you scroll past charlie, past the other dancers, and stop at 'mom'. you press call. you hold the phone to your ear, listening to the rhythmic ringing. once. twice. five times. the call goes to voicemail.
you close your eyes and lean your head back against the wall. you know where she is. she's at the salon, the one with the big mirrors and the experts in manicure. she's probably sitting in the chair, letting the stylists perfect her hair, her makeup, her image. she's probably painting herself as the matriarch of the perfect family, the woman with the perfect, successful daughter at the paris opera ballet.
you are supposed to be the perfect daughter, the perfect friend, the perfect dancer. but as you sit in the dark, surrounded by fake scenery and cardboard dreams, unaware of the prying ears pressed against the door, you have never felt so far from perfect in your entire life.
after class is over, the first thing you do when you get into your apartment is covering the hickey with makeup, blurring the evidence inside your skin. only then you realize the ache in your calves from the hours of extra floor work that left your muscles screaming. your toes feel compressed, the skin raw beneath the layers of tights.
inside the apartment, your mind is a storm, so you move to the kitchen. you want to do something, anything, to bridge the gap between the girl charlie thinks you are and the woman you’ve become in the dark.
frozen strawberries and almond milk, her favorite. as you scoop the fruit, your fingers tremble. the blender whirrs. loud, grating, masking the silence of the apartment. you pour the deep red liquid into a glass and set it on the counter, right next to where she usually puts her dance bag.
you sit on the couch, pulling your knees to your chest. the clock on the wall ticks, each second a hammer blow against your nerves. charlie is never late without telling you. she's constantly glued to her phone, even when you're living together, she stills texts you about every minor inconvenience. you expect her to burst through the door, recounting every critique she was given, thrilled about the show getting closer. but the minutes stretch into an hour. the smoothie begins to separate, the ice melting, the vibrant color fading.
the silence becomes oppressive. it presses against your eardrums, making your heart race. you wonder if she’s still at the academy, perhaps staying late to polish her variations, or if she’s stopped at a cafe. but a cold knot forms in your stomach, tightening with every passing second. you know the rhythm of charlie's life, and this is a broken beat.
then, the sound of a key turning in the lock.
you sit up quickly, hopeful smile flickering on your lips. you prepare to greet her, to offer the smoothie, to pretend that the world isn't crumbling beneath your feet.
the door opens, it isn't the usual explosion of energy. there is no "i'm home!" or the sound of her humming a tchaikovsky melody. charlie steps inside, her movements unusually slow, almost robotic. she doesn't look at you. her gaze is fixed to the hardwood floor, her shoulders hunched as if she's carrying an invisible weight. her blonde hair, usually a crown of polished curls, is slightly disheveled, a few strands clinging to her damp forehead.
"charlie?" you whisper her name, the sound barely leaving your throat. she stops in the middle of the room, her dance bag slipping from her shoulder. she still doesn't look up. "charlie, you're late. i made you a smoothie," you say, your voice trembling.
she finally lifts her head. the expression in her eyes stops the air in your lungs. it's hollow, vacant, devoid of anger. as if the person you've known for years has been scooped out, leaving only a shell. her blue eyes are bloodshot, rims puffy and red. she looks at you, but it's like she's looking through you, seeing a stranger instead of her best friend.
your anxiety spikes. the room feels smaller, the walls closing in. you can feel the sweat breaking out on the back of your neck.
"charlie, what happened? are you okay?"
she doesn't answer immediately. she shakes her head slowly, her lips parting as she tries to find the words. her chest heaves, uneven breaths that sounds like a sob caught in her throat.
"you lied to me," she whispers.
there it is. hoarse words, stripped of their usual brightness. you freeze. there's no need to specify the lie. there is only one that could carve this kind of expression onto her face. you stand up and the blade you've been carrying in your gut for weeks finally sinks deep, twisting slowly into your stomach.
"charlie," you say, your voice softer now, pleading.
"don't," she snaps, her voice cracking. "don't call me that."
she takes a step back, as if your voice is a physical contaminant. she looks around the apartment, your shared sanctuary, and her face contorts.
"you lied to me," she repeats, louder this time, her voice trembling with a volatility that scares you. "every single day. every time we sat on this couch, every time we talked about the show, every time you told me you were going to jisu's or wherever the fuck… you lied."
"i… charlie…" your heart was beating out of your chest, you've fucked up.
"jisu heard you on the phone with him… i had to fucking find out through her?" her voice raised in disbelief.
"i-i can explain," you whisper, tears already blurring your vision."please, just let me explain."
charlie lets out a harsh laugh that sounds more like a scream. she finally looks you in the eye, and the void is gone. "explain what? explain how it felt? the timing?" she steps forward, her voice rising. "explain that you're fucking my ex boyfriend behind my back?"
you flinch, standing there, stripped bare, the secret finally dragged into the light of the living room.
"it's not… it wasn't like that," you sob, the tears streaming down your face. "it just happened, charlie. i didn't want to hurt you, i tried to stop it, i swear i tried-"
"you tried?" charlie screams, echoing off the walls. "did you try while you were kissing him? while you were sneaking into his apartment? did you try when you were touching him, thinking about me?"
"no! never!"
"you're a liar!" she yells, her face flushing angry. "i trusted you! you were the one person in that fucking academy who didn't look at me like i was just a scholarship girl from the slums. you were my sister! and you… you took what was mine first, just to satisfy some secret little crush?"
"no, charlie…" you plead. "there's… there's more to it."
charlie recoils as if you've slapped her. the anger vanishes, replaced by fragility. she looks at you with a mixture of pity and disgust. "more to it," she repeats. "how poetic. what is it, huh? are you in love with him or something?"
"please, just listen to me," you say, reaching out to touch her arm but she jerks away violently, instinct of a dancer.
"don't touch me. i can't even look at you anymore. every time i see your face, i just see him. i see the two of you together, laughing at me. wondering when the stupid clueless charlie would finally figure it out… god, i'm so stupid."
"we never laughed at you! we were terrified of this!"
"because you knew it was wrong!" charlie shouts. "you knew it was wrong and you did it anyway! you chose him over me. a few hours of dick over years of friendship." she pauses, her breathing heavy, her eyes searching your face for some shred of the girl she used to know. "how did you even find the nerve to look me in the eye every morning?" she asks, voice dropping to a whisper. "did you smell him on your skin and just… smiled at me?"
"no, i hated myself!" you cry, your voice breaking into a wail. "i felt like i was dying every day! i wanted to tell you, i wanted to scream it, but i was so scared of losing you!"
"well, congratulations," charlie says, cold and dead. "you finally fucking lost me." the silence returns, but this time it's a wall. an insurmountable barrier of ice and resentment. you want to reach out, to pull her into a hug, to beg for a forgiveness you know you don't deserve, but you can see the boundary she's drawn. you are on the outside now. "i would've never done this to you." she whispers sadly, mostly to herself. "i would've never, ever done this to you."
she looks at the smoothie on the counter, the red liquid, now separated and lukewarm. she looks at it for a long moment, then turns her gaze back to you.
"get out," she says. the words are quiet, but they carry the weight of a mountain.
"charlie, please, let's just talk-"
"i don't care! get out of my sight!" she screams, the sudden volume making you jump. "i can't breathe in here with you! i can't stand the smell of you! just leave! go to him! go to your now precious san and tell him you finally did it, you finally destroyed the only real friendship you ever had!"
you sob, your body shaking with the force of your grief. you look at her, searching for a flicker of the warmth, the sunshine, the girl who used to hold your hand when you had a panic attack. but there is nothing left. the light in charlie has gone out, extinguished by the truth.
"i'm sorry," you whisper, the words sounding pathetic and empty. "i'm so, so sorry."
"sorry doesn't fix this," she says, turning her back to you. "just leave. now."
you don't fight her. you can't, she's right. the weight of your own guilt is too heavy to lift. you grab your bag from the floor, you don't even take a coat, despite the evening chill of paris. you just walk out the door, the click of the lock behind you sounding like a gavel coming down on a sentence. wandering the streets once shared with her, vision blurred. you don't remember the walk. you don't remember the cold wind biting at your skin or the confused looks from the people passing by a girl sobbing openly on the sidewalk.
i would've never done this to you.
hollow. stripped, there is nothing left but raw nerves.
legs moving on autopilot, in less than twenty minutes, you reach his apartment. forehead resting on the cool wood, breath ragged, shallow gasps. you weakly knock and when the door opens, san stands there, wearing a simple grey shirt and sweatpants. his eyes widen when he sees you. he looks at your tear streaked face, your shivering frame, and the sheer devastation in your eyes.
"y/n?" he starts. "i thought you said-"
he doesn't finish the sentence. you launch yourself at him, your arms wrapping around his waist, face burying itself in the crook of his neck. you cling to him with a strength you didn't know you possessed, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. san freezes for a split second, the surprise registering in the tension of his muscles. then, he understands. he doesn't need to ask. he can feel the tremor in your body, the way you're shaking with a grief that transcends simple sadness. he knows the inevitable has happened. charlie found out.
୨୧
you knew charlotte’s rhythms. you knew the exact cadence of her breath when she was pushing through a grueling set of fouettés. you knew the specific, sharp scent of the citrus perfume she wore to mask the smell of sweat. you knew how she liked the texture of her blankets, heavy, woolly things that cocooned her against the damp parisian chill, and how she meticulously measured the salt in her pasta, always a pinch more than necessary. you knew the ritual of her pointe shoes, the way she would break in extra pairs weeks before a show, ensuring the satin didn't pinch and the shanks gave just enough to support the arch of her foot.
the hallways of the academy felt longer now that you were hunting for someone you had wounded. the walls, oppressive cream, seemed to lean inward, narrowing your world until it was nothing but the sound of your own slippers clicking against the polished wood. your heart felt like a bruised thing, fluttering erratically against your ribs as you slowed your pace outside studio four. you knew she was inside. that she was definitely rehearsing aurora, treating the ethereal role like a high intensity workout, pushing her muscles until they screamed.
low, mourning creak, you pushed the door open.
charlotte was sat on the floor, her legs splayed, baby hairs clinging to her forehead. she looked like a fallen angel stripped of her grace. in her hands, she held a pair of brand new pointe shoes. she was bending them, her knuckles white, forcing the material to submit to her will.
as the door clicked shut behind you, she froze. she didn't look up. she didn't acknowledge your presence, not with a word or a glance. she simply continued to detach the top of the shank, as if you weren't even there.
you stepped closer, the distance between you feeling like a river you didn't know how to cross.
"charlotte," you whispered.
she kept her gaze fixed on the pink satin in her lap, pretending you were nothing more than dust.
"i know you're mad," you said, your voice trembling, barely audible over the hum of the ventilation system. "and you have every right to be."
suddenly, the silence was shattered. charlotte slammed the pointe shoe against the hardwood floor violently making you flinch, shoulders jumping. you decided to keep going.
"i fucked up, charlotte. i fucked up so bad. i never intended for this to happen, but it did, and i know that doesn't change anything, but i never wanted to hurt you."
she finally looked at you as if you were a stranger, a parasite. she reached into her dance bag and pulled out a silver cutter. the blade clicked open and you instinctively stepped back. she lowered her gaze again, gripped the pointe shoe and sliced through the top of the shank with clinical precision. the sound of the fabric, tiny scream of satin.
"i understand if you never forgive me," you said, your voice breaking. "i know i can't erase what happened. i can't take it back. i just… losing you… it'll stay my biggest regret for the rest of my life."
she remained still. didn't offer a nod, a scowl, or a word of anger, at least that you could understand. she simply sat there in the center of the vast, empty room, figure of grief, murmuring something in french she knew you wouldn't get. you realized then that some bridges didn't just burn, they evaporated.
"i'll leave you alone," you whispered.
the sound of your own footsteps felt final. it was an ending, not the kind with a grand finale or a curtain call. the kind that happens in the ugly spaces between the music.
୨୧
it's the last official rehearsal. charlotte strides through the heavy velvet curtains, chin tilted just enough to signal to the world that she is untouchable. she is the aurora of this production, the sun around which the rest of the company orbits, and she refuses to let the fracture in her personal life bleed into the spotlights. she has worked too hard, fought too many battles against the poverty of her childhood, to let a heartbreak ruin her crowning moment.
then comes the final act. the sequence for princess florine. charlotte settles her weight on one leg, crossing her arms over her chest. she prepares herself for the sight of you. she expects the sting of anger, the surge of betrayal that hums pushed down under her skin. she expects to see you and san, moving in harmony.
instead, jisu glides onto the stage.
the atmosphere in the room drops. there is a void where the soul should be. it's a caricature of a princess, her expressions exaggerated, movements stiff and devoid of the emotional artistry that you had once brought to the role.
beside her, san is a machine, his broad shoulders squared, lifts effortless and stable, but his eyes are dead. he is looking through her, providing the necessary support, but there is no heat, no friction, no spark. it is a dance of strangers who happen to know the choreography.
charlotte steals a glance towards lana, who is standing with her arms folded, her lips pressed into a thin, hard line. she doesn't scream this time. she doesn't even offer a correction. she simply closes her eyes for a moment, a flicker of profound disappointment crossing her features before she masks it with her usual stoicism. the chemistry is non-existent, a forced intimacy, holds that are purely functional and she knows it.
there's a hollow sensation in charlotte's gut. she had wanted you gone to punish you, but seeing the vacuum you left behind is worse. because she realized you did this to remove yourself completely, so she could have her moment.
back at the apartment, the world is reduced to the size of a mattress and crumpled tissues. you are curled into a ball, duvet pulled up to your chin. your throat in a constant ache that reminds you of every word you didn't say and every lie you told.
you haven't eaten anything since a piece of dry toast this morning. the hunger is there, gnawing in your stomach. the clock on the bedside table ticks toward midnight. the silence of the apartment is oppressive, until you hear her coming in. you pull the blanket higher, over your head, squeezing your eyes shut. you hold your breath, praying that she will just go to her bed, then wake up early for the show and leave. leave you in this dark, quiet purgatory, where you belong.
"i know you're awake," charlotte says, voice tired. you don't move. you keep your eyes closed, pretending that the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest is just a deep sleep. "y/n," she says, her voice a bit softer now. "don't do this. don't try to be sleeping beauty now."
you remain still, but a single tear escapes, salty path down your temple and soaking into the pillowcase.
charlotte sighs, draining the remaining tension from her shoulders. she doesn't leave. instead, she shifts, sitting on the very edge of the mattress. the bed creaks under her weight.
"you can't just quit the whole show one day before the premiere," she says. "it's insane, even for a ballet dancer."
you swallow hard, the lump in your throat feeling like a stone. you don't want to speak. you are afraid that if you open your mouth, you will simply dissolve into a puddle of apologies and sobs yet again.
"i saw jisu dancing today," charlotte continues, her tone bordering on a scoff. "she's actually good."
a shaky breath escapes you. you can't help it.
"there you are," charlotte murmurs.
you slowly peel the blanket back, your eyes red and puffy, your hair a tangled mess against the pillow. you look at her, feeling small and exposed.
"it was the least i could do," you whisper, thin and raspy. "i'd figure it'd be easier for you."
charlotte sighs again, rubbing her temples with her fingertips. "god, you love to decide how i feel. look at me."
you sit up, instantly looking into her eyes. "what? no, i just thought-"
"i know what you thought." she looks exhausted, but her eyes are clear, searching your face with an intensity that makes you want to shrink away.
"i just… i didn't want your debut to be about me." your voice cracks for the first time.
she takes a deep breath, her chest expanding. "i've had enough of you thinking for me. you keep making these decisions thinking it'll hurt me less." she says. "they don't, they just make me feel like i don't get a say in my own life."
you pressed a shaking hand against your mouth. "i'm so sorry."
"i am still so mad at you," she says.
you nod quickly, a sob catching in your chest. "i know. i don't know what else to say apart from so-"
"shut up," she interrupts. "just listen to me for one second. please."
you fall silent, your lips trembling.
"i am very mad," she continues, her voice steadying. "but not for the reasons you think." you blink and she looks away, staring at the wall for a moment before continuing. "y/n, you know i got over san years ago. we dated briefly when we were practically children. it was a crush, a summer fling that lasted a few months. i don't see him like that. i haven't seen him like that in a long time. like, there are days where i completely forget we ever even dated."
"it's… it's not about him?" you ask, your voice barely audible.
"no," charlotte says, tired smile touches her lips. "it's not. san is a good dancer, he's a decent guy, and if he makes you happy, then i'm happy for you."
there's a sudden feeling of hope, but it's quickly dampened by the look in her eyes. she isn't smiling anymore.
"what hurt me," her voice dropping an octave, "was that you lied to me. you're my best friend. the one i trust more than anyone in this godforsaken city. and you looked me in the eye and pretended everything was normal while you were sneaking around behind my back."
"charlotte…"
"no, let me finish," she says, her voice trembling slightly now. "if you had just told me, i would have listened. i would have probably been confused for a minute, maybe a little weirded out, but i would have supported you. because that's what we do. but i found out through jisu. of all people, i found out from that viper because she wanted to use your secret as a weapon to humiliate me." she leans in closer, her expression raw. "i was never mad because san was mine. he was never mine to keep. i was mad because you were mine. you are my person, y/n. and you made me feel like i wasn't worth the truth. like a stranger in my own life."
"i was just so scared," you sob, the dam finally breaking. "i was so scared that you'd hate me. i didn't know how to tell you without feeling like i was stealing something from you. i love him, charlotte. i love him so much it scares me, and i didn't want that love to cost me you, so i… i wanted to leave."
charlotte doesn't pull away. she doesn't hug you yet, but she doesn't move. she lets you cry, the sound of your heartbreak filling the small room.
"you idiot," she whispers, though there is no malice in it. "you don't get to give up your role for this."
"no, i… i don't deserve it" you wail, covering your face with your hands.
she reaches out and firmly pulls your hands away from your face. she grips your wrists, forcing you to look at her.
"i can't hate you," she says, her voice cracking. "i tried. i really, really tried. but i can't."
you sniffle. "you don't?"
"of course not," she says, finally letting out a small, watery laugh. "but i'm still angry, i'm still hurt, i don't even know if i know how to forgive you yet. and i'm still annoyed that you're a terrible liar and that you let jisu get the upper hand."
you let out a shaky breath, a tiny flicker of warmth returning to your limbs. "i know. i'm the worst."
"you are," she agrees. she lets go of your wrists and leans back, crossing her arms. she looks at you for a long time, her expression softening. "you need to come back," she says.
"what?"
"the show," charlotte says. "you have to come back for the premiere. i can't do this with jisu. she danced every step perfectly, yes. but she's not you."
"i can't," you whisper. "lana will never let me back. i already dropped out. i sent the email."
"you think lana cares about something other than doing a perfect show?" charlotte counters, her bubbly confidence returning in small increments. "if you show up tomorrow and dance the role of your life, she'll forget you were ever out. she wants the best show possible, and the best show requires you."
"do you really want me there?" you ask, your voice small.
charlotte reaches over and flicks your forehead, a gesture of affection that feels like a lifeline. you yelp and rub your forehead. "i want my best friend back on that stage," she says. "and i want san to stop looking like he's attending his own funeral, i think i even saw him sulking when the dance finished."
you let out a genuine laugh, a sound that feels foreign and wonderful in your throat. you reach out and wrap your arms around charlotte, pulling her into a tight hug. she stiffens for a second, then relaxes, wrapping her arms around you and squeezing back.
"i missed you, charlie."
"i missed you too," she murmurs, her voice muffled by your hair. "now let's get some sleep."
the guilt hasn't entirely vanished, but the air feels lighter. for the first time in days, the weight on your chest has lifted just enough to let you breathe.
y/nie: i'm coming back
sannie: 😃😃😃😃😃
backstage bore little resemblance to the calm world awaiting beyond the curtains. you step over a discarded pointe shoe, left foot, ribbons frayed, and narrowly avoid a collision with a frantic boy in tights who looks like he’s about to vomit into his sequins.
to the audience, the paris opera ballet is a sanctuary of ethereal grace. backstage, it's a collective nervous breakdowns. you watch as a dancer stands frozen in the center of the chaos, her arms awkwardly upward like a sacrificial offering. three other girls swarm her, their faces twisted in concentration as they wrestle with a stubborn zipper that refuses to yield.
"pull harder!" the dancer shrieks, her voice hitting a frequency that could shatter the crystal chandeliers in the auditorium.
"just suck in your stomach!" one of the girls yells back, leaning her entire body weight into the fabric.
"i am sucking in!"
you duck under a passing rack of velvet capes. this is it. opening night. the culmination of endless rehearsals, of blood and blistered toes, and the suffocating weight of the now revealed secret. every time you glance toward the wings, you find san. his eyes searching for yours as well. when they land, a silent current of electricity zips through your skin. you want to run to him. you want to bury your face in the crook of his neck and forget that the world exists outside the curve of his jaw. but right now you can't.
"where is the lilac fairy?" a voice bellows. "someone find the lilac fairy!"
you scramble toward your first position, blending into the sea of pastel fabrics. the curtain rises, and the crowd roars, muffled by the heavy velvet. as the music swells, the world shifts. blinding glare of the spotlights, the chaos of the wings vanishes. you move as a background guest for aurora’s birth, a soft echo to the main action.
as the carabosse makes her grand, menacing entrance, you glide off the stage with a practiced smile, the moment you hit the wings, the mask drops. you sprint.
"out of the way! move!" you gasp, dodging a misplaced tiara that someone has dropped on the floor.
diving into the costume rack, searching for your village woman dress. the transition is a blur of energy. in the middle of the madness, you spot her. charlotte is tucked into a small alcove, earphones plugged in, her eyes closed. she is stillness in the middle of a hurricane. fragile yet unbreakable, gathering every ounce of her strength for the role of a lifetime.
pride swells in your chest. you want to tell her she’s a goddess. you want to hug her and tell her that no matter what happens with boys or whatever, she is the sun of your life.
instead, you just smile. she opens one eye and catches your gaze, a small, knowing smirk playing on her lips.
"move it, now!" a dresser shouts, shoving you forward.
practically thrown into your costume, a hand sprays a cloud of hairspray directly into your face, making you cough, while another set of hands yanks the bodice tight enough to steal your breath.
"thirty seconds!" someone screams in your ear. "go, go, go!"
back onto the stage. the scene: the forbidden spindles. the atmosphere shifts from celebration to dread. body arching as you beg for mercy, haunting quality. before your character is left to go freely and you bow gratefully to the queen and king.
skin damp with sweat, the second act is a whirlwind of minor roles and quick changes. you catch glimpses of charlie through the curtains, because of course you couldn't miss her debut. her poise, her power, the way she commands the stage. you love her, and you love san, and the two truths are currently warring for territory in your soul.
then comes the third act. the tension in the air changes. it becomes thick, electric, and poisonous.
you race toward the costume rack to change into your princess florine dress. as you reach out, another hand clamps down on the fabric at the exact same moment. you don't even need to look up to know the scent of bitter perfume.
"let go, jisu," you say, steady despite the tremor in your hands.
jisu’s grip tightens. she pulls the dress toward her, her knuckles white. her eyes are slits of pure venom. "why?" jisu sneers, her voice a sharp whisper. "i don't see your name on the silk. though, i suppose you're used to taking things that don't belong to you."
you feel the heat rise in your cheeks. "it's my costume for this act. i gotta dance now, now let go."
"your costume?" jisu spits the word out like it's poison. "you little backstabber. did you steal your way into san's bed too? or did he just find you more convenient since you're so good at lying?"
you recoil, but you don't let go of the dress. the tug of war begins. struggle over a piece of satin. both pulling, trying not to rip the delicate fabric but refusing to concede.
"let. go," you hiss.
"make me, you stupid little-"
"hey!" a hand reaches in, grabbing the fabric between you. san is there, half-sewn into his costume, a needle and thread still dangling from the dresser's hand near his shoulder. "stop it, both of you. we are minutes from the curtain. act like professionals."
"she started it!" jisu snaps, though she loosens her grip slightly. "this was my role!"
before anyone can respond, white satin sweeps into the fray. charlotte arrives, her bride dress billowing around her like a cloud. she is already in character, her posture regal, but her eyes are focused. she doesn't hesitate as she reaches out and firmly pries jisu’s hand off the dress.
"let go of the dress, jisu," charlie says coldly. "now."
jisu bristles, glaring at charlie. "oh, you're defending her? god, you're just as pathetic."
but charlotte doesn't flinch. she steps closer, her fair skin contrasting with the stark white of her dress. "the only thing pathetic here is you, standing in the wings throwing a tantrum while the rest of us are trying to put on a show. leave. before i tell lana you're obstructing the cast."
maybe she wanted to scream, maybe she wanted to tear the dress to pieces, but the mention of lana acts like a bucket of ice water. she lets out a sharp, jagged breath and shoves past you, mentioning something about both of you deserving each other. her shoulder slamming into yours as she disappears into the shadows.
you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, you look at charlotte, she doesn't smile, but she reaches out and gives your hand a quick, firm squeeze.
"what is going on here?"
the voice is a whip. lana marches toward you. charlotte steps forward, her voice clear. "lana, y/n is back. she's ready."
"who?" lana blinks, her gaze shifting to you. for a second, you think she’s going to scream at you for the delay. you brace yourself, pulling your shoulders back. instead, she lets out a long, dramatic sigh of relief that sounds like a deflating balloon. "thank god," lana breathes, her expression softening by a fraction of a millimeter. "now get dressed and into your place!"
the dress finally yours to wear, the fabric sliding over your skin. cloud of pale blue and shimmering silver. as you struggle with the fastenings at the small of your back, a warmth blooms against your spine. the touch is sudden, grounding. a pair of hands replace your fumbling fingers. you don't need to turn around to know it's him. the heat seeps through the thin fabric, sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core. he doesn't say anything at first, his movements methodical and steady. he smooths the fabric over your hips, his touch lingering just a second too long to be purely professional.
"stop shaking," he whispers.
he finishes the knot with a deft flick of his wrists and doesn't pull away. instead, he slides his hands up to your waist, drawing you back against his chest. you can feel the steady thrum of his heart through his costume, a rhythmic counterpoint to your own erratic pulse.
san turns you around slowly, his eyes search yours, reading the flicker of doubt and the lingering guilt that still haunts the corners of your mind. he looks every bit the bluebird. strong, poised, utterly focused. he leans in, pressing his forehead against yours.
"just us," he murmurs, his breath warm against your lips. "for the next twenty minutes, there is no one else. only me. only you."
you lean into him, your hands finding purchase on his broad shoulders. you memorize the feel of the fabric under your palms, the solidity of him, the way he anchors you to the earth when you feel like you're floating away into a panic but he closes the gap, kissing you. not for the stage, not for an audience. it is raw and honest, silent vow. it is the feeling of coming home after a long, freezing winter.
the orchestra swells, the music shifting into the heraldry of the third act. the stage manager gives a sharp nod, the cue finally arriving. san offers his hand, his fingers locking with yours. you take a final, deep breath, filling your lungs with the scent of the theater, and together, you step out of the darkness and into the blinding white glare of the spotlights.
the stage is an expanse of gold and velvet. as you glide into position, the audience becomes distant. you are no longer the girl who cried during dress rehearsals, you are no longer the friend who kept a devastating secret. you are princess florine, and the world is narrow, consisting only of the music and the man standing before you.
san moves toward you, his presence filling the space. as the bluebird, his movements are a contradiction, powerful yet weightless, grounded yet ethereal. he offers his hand, and as you take it, the chemistry between you snaps into place like a missing puzzle piece.
you begin to dance.
it is a conversation without words. every extension of your leg, every tilt of your head, every flutter of your fingers is a question, and san’s responses are the answers. you move in perfect synchrony. when he lifts you, you feel as if the air itself is holding you up. you soar, your blue skirts billowing around you like a crashing wave, and for a moment, you are suspended in the silence between notes.
you don't count the cues. you don't think about the placement of your feet or the angle of your chin. you simply feel him. you feel the way his grip tightens slightly when he rotates you, the way his breath hitches in time with yours. it is a magnetic pull, an invisible thread tying your heart to his, pulling you closer with every pirouette.
as you drift apart and then collide again, your eyes lock. unfiltered, you see the love there. you smile, and it isn't the practiced, porcelain smile of a performer. it is a genuine expression of joy that radiates from your chest. you are in love, and this love doesn't feel like a burden.
the dance reaches it's crescendo, a whirlwind of leaps and turns that leave you breathless. as the final note lingers in the air, you collapse into his arms, your forehead resting against his shoulder. the silence of the theater is absolute for a heartbeat, a vacuum of anticipation.
then, the music shifts. you glide to the side of the stage, skin glowing under the lights. you watch as charlotte makes her entrance. she is breathtaking. dressed in a white bridal gown that catches every single photon of light in the room, she looks less like a dancer and more like a vision. her blonde locks are swept up, revealing the elegant line of her neck and the spark in her eyes.
you stand at the side, hands clasped over your heart. you watch her execute a series of flawless turns, her extensions high and sharp, her presence commanding every inch of the stage. she is powerful. she is radiant. she is your best friend.
a lump forms in your throat, but it isn't born of guilt this time. seeing her now, owning the stage with such grace, you realize that the bond you share is forged in something stronger than a romantic entanglement. it is a kinship of survival, a friendship that weathered the storm and came out polished.
the finale arrives. the entire company floods the stage, a sea of color and costume. you find your place beside san, his hand brushing yours. the audience rises as one, a thunderous wave of applause that vibrates through the floorboards and into the soles of your pointe shoes.
the sound, roar of approval that washes over you, scrubbing away the remnants of the anxiety and the shame. you look at the faces in the front row, the critics, the parents, the elite of paris, and they feel small. insignificant.
you look at charlotte as she bows, her face glowing with a mixture of exhaustion and triumph. she catches your eye and gives you a tiny wink.
it isn't total forgiveness. you know that. you know there are still long conversations to be had, quiet afternoons of apologizing and healing, and a slow process of rebuilding the trust you fractured. there will be awkward silences and moments where the ghost of the betrayal flickers between you, and you hold yourself completely accountable.
but as you stand there, enveloped in the warmth of the spotlights and the love of the man beside you, you know that you can handle the slow work of healing. san’s hand slip into yours, his fingers squeezing tight. you don't pull away. you don't hide. the curtain falls, plunging the stage into heavy darkness, but you aren't afraid of what's waiting in the shadows.
you stand there, hand in hand, heart in heart, knowing that the beauty between your friendship is more valuable than any role, any applause, or any secret.
breeding kink because imagine putting her into a mating press, pushing her legs next to her head, my strap ramming her pretty hole till she’s a blabbering mess, eyes rolling back and drooling, dumbed out from her previous orgasms, pretty pussy leaking while i keep squeezing her face and telling her how pretty she would look all knocked up for me.
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TW: 18+, modern!au obvs bcs cameras, inspired by the sleepover challenge in season 8 of love island! masc!toph being w another woman in the beginning but its ok bcs she finds reader towards the end, descriptions of making out...a LOT, ass grabbing, and groping. unedited YET again pls ignore any and all mistakes i'll be coming back to refine everything at a later time</3
SUMMARY: As the newest bombshell on Love Island, your arrival leaves one thing certain, Toph's journey is about to become a mess.
GUYS this is a long one but PLSSS make it through the beginning i swear its worth itttt! just had to get through some background before i can get into the meat of the x reader content towards the end!! ...and maybe in a sequel...
WC: 6.7k
A/N: heyyy i've decided to infiltrate the toph x reader fandom with love biland!! at least that's what i've been referring to it lmaooo, not everyone is bi but they're all here to explore connections!! ALSOOO quick disclaimer, i want to make it clear i'm not trying to take away from toph's feminity by making her take on some of the roles in the villa that the guys have, it's to help the story flow better!
and yes aang is the avatar in this universe, you're just gonna have to suspend disbelief when it comes to how he has the time to ladeedadeedaa around in fiji....
DISCLAIMER: all characterizations are purely speculative and fictional, based on my interpretation of each character's mannerisms and portrayal in their respective source material. please keep this in mind!!
The hot Fijian sun beats down on the villa, the air already heavy with humidity as the islanders begin to stir beside their partners.
In one bed, Aang and Katara remain tangled in each other's arms. Katara is the first to wake, sitting up almost instinctively as the warmth settles over the room. Beside her, Aang lets out a quiet groan, tightening his hold in a half-hearted attempt to keep her from leaving.
The other couples, Zuko and Waika, Sokka and Syzu, and Toph and Kuse, are still asleep, though a few begin to stir when Katara leans down to press a quick kiss to Aang's forehead before slipping away to take a refreshing shower.
One by one, the women slip out of bed and head toward the bathroom, all except Toph, who remains buried beneath her blankets. Their departures leave behind a chorus of sleepy sighs from the men they leave in their wake.
"So," Zuko says, pulling his sleep shirt over his head with a slight grimace as the damp fabric clings to his skin. "What do you guys think of your girls?"
"I wouldn't call her my girl yet," Sokka replies, studying his reflection while trying to tame his unruly bedhead. "Syzu's definitely my type, but we're still getting to know each other. I'm not closing myself off this early."
Zuko hums in agreement before casting his gaze to Aang, who was sheepishly looking back at the other two. "And you?"
Aang smiles to himself, rubbing the back of his head. "I really like Katara."
Sokka's eyes roll so dramatically that both boys swear they nearly disappear into the back of his head. "We know," he says flatly. "You haven't taken your eyes off my sister since the first coupling."
A fierce blush spreads like fire across Aang’s ivory skin. His muscled arm lifts upwards, the palm of his slightly rough hand coming to rest against his bald head and rubbing at it in the same nervous gesture he often did in his confessionals. "Has it really been that obvious?"
"Painfully."
Aang lets out an embarrassed laugh, rubbing his scalp once more. "Right…"
"What about you, Toph?"
The three of them turn toward the final bed, only to find the earthbender sprawled across the mattress, blankets twisted around her legs. Her mouth hangs slightly open as quiet breaths escape her, and her hair has become a frizzy mess from a restless night.
"Toph." Sokka strides over and pulls the comforter off her in one swift motion. "Come on. We have to make breakfast before the girls get back."
"Quit nagging me," Toph mutters, reaching for the blanket and attempting to pull it onto herself again but failing. "I'm sleeping."
"You've been sleeping."
"And I'd like to continue."
A reluctant smile tugs at Zuko's lips before he speaks. "You should probably get up," he says. "Waika mentioned Kuse hasn't exactly been impressed with your breakfasts."
That earns the first, proper response from the earthbender. Toph cracks one eye open before slowly pushing herself upright. "…She said that?"
"That's what I heard." With that, Zuko disappears into the bathroom, leaving the others alone.
Sokka throws the comforter back at Toph, who easily catches it with one hand and throws it back on the bed as she moves to stand up. "I'm just saying, maybe put in a little more effort. If Kuse starts exploring other connections, don't act surprised."
"Kuse and I aren't closed off." Toph responds, a slightly grumble catching the edges of her voice.
"No," Sokka agrees. "You're not."
"If she wants to get to know someone else, that's her choice." Toph stretches, another yawn escaping her. "I'm not going to stop her."
Aang watches her for a moment before speaking. "…Do you even like her?"
Toph stills. For a long moment, she says nothing before turning toward the door of the shared bedroom.
᯽
"Do I like Kuse?"
Toph leans back in the confessional chair, idly rolling a pebble between her fingers. With the smallest movement of her hand, the stone bends to her will, stretching into a narrow spike before collapsing back into a smooth sphere.
"I mean…" she shrugs. "She's funny. Confident. Doesn't take herself too seriously."
The pebble spins lazily in the air.
"But it feels like she's always got something to say about the way I do things."
The sphere sharpens again before splitting neatly into two pieces.
"And she doesn't bend."
She watches the fragments hover in silence.
"I grew up around benders. Almost everyone I know bends. It's hard to picture building a life with someone who doesn't."
The stones crumble into dust and fall into her waiting palm.
"…Maybe that's unfair." A faint frown crosses her face. "I don't know. There isn't really anyone else here I'm interested in, either. So…I think I'm going to try being more open when it comes to exploring things with her."
᯽
Inside the glam room, Waika, Katara, Syzu, and Kuse sit perched on blush pink barstools, chatting as they work through their morning routines.
Katara finishes first, her makeup routine consisting of nothing more than concealer, a touch of blush and contour, mascara, and a swipe of pink lip gloss. She's laughing with Syzu, who has just asked what she thinks of Aang.
"He's really sweet," Katara says, unable to hide the smile tugging at her lips. "Very affectionate, too."
The other women exchange knowing smiles.
Waika tilts her head. "Do you ever feel like he comes on a little strong?"
Katara considers the question for a moment before shaking her head.
"I wouldn't say strong." She smooths a final layer of lip gloss across her lips. "I think he's just very honest about how he feels. If he likes someone, you'll know it."
"See, I like that," Kuse says, adjusting the straps of her light brown bikini top in the mirror. "I like feeling wanted. If a guy's too laid-back, I start wondering if he's even interested."
"I'm kind of the opposite," Waika admits with a small shrug as she finishes the wing of her eyeliner. "I like someone who's independent. Someone who has his own life, handles his responsibilities, and still comes home excited to see me."
Syzu nods. "That's exactly why I'm enjoying getting to know Sokka. He seems like he has that balance."
Katara laughs softly. "You're lucky you're meeting the grown-up version of him. When we were kids…" She trails off with an amused shake of her head. "Let's just say he's matured a lot."
Syzu laughs alongside Katara. "I can definitely see some of that in his humor."
As if summoned by the conversation, Aang steps through the open doorway, a bright smile immediately finding his face the moment his eyes meet Katara's.
"Good morning," he says warmly, setting a magenta plate down in front of her. Fluffy scrambled eggs, a stack of golden pancakes, and neatly arranged slices of fresh fruit decorate the dish.
"Good morning," Katara replies, returning his smile before leaning up to press a quick kiss against his cheek.
Aang's grin widens ever so slightly.
Sokka enters a moment later, carrying another plate over to Syzu while exchanging an easy "Morning." Close behind him, Zuko and Toph each make their way toward their respective partners.
Though Toph cannot see it, the moment she approaches, Kuse's smile falters almost imperceptibly.
"Morning," Toph says, holding out the plate she'd prepared. "Made you breakfast."
"Thank you," Kuse replies, drawing out the last syllable just enough for it to sound almost uncertain. She accepts the plate with both hands before quickly setting it on the vanity.
Instead, she steps forward and wraps Toph in a brief side hug. Toph returns the gesture with a small pat against her back before the pair separate.
With breakfast delivered, the islanders exchange a few lingering smiles and kisses before the boys and Toph file out of the glam room, leaving the women to enjoy the quiet once more.
For a few moments, only the clink of forks against ceramic fills the room.
Katara is the first to take a bite, humming softly in approval. "This is really good."
Syzu nods, her mouth full of fluffy, syrupy pancakes. "Sokka definitely knows his way around a kitchen."
Waika smiles as she cuts into her eggs. "I'll give Zuko this, he seasons everything perfectly."
Across the vanity, Kuse simply stares at the untouched plate in front of her.
The eggs look overcooked around the edges, the pancakes are unevenly stacked, and the fruit is scattered haphazardly across the plate. It isn't inedible by any means, but compared to everyone else's breakfasts, it looks rushed.
She looks away from the food a sighs, the sound catching Katara's attention immediately. The water tribe girl's eyes soften into a sympathetic gaze. She knew Toph to be rough around the edges sometimes, but it was clear to her that the earthbender had tried her best despite her limitations.
"...You're not eating?" Katara asks queitly.
Kuse lets out an awkward laugh. "I know this is going to sound really bad..."
The other three women look over.
"...Can I try some of yours?"
Without hesitation, Katara slides her plate between them. "Of course."
Kuse spears a small piece of pancake with her fork before taking a bite.
Her eyebrows lift. "Oh."
"What?" Syzu asks, her eyebrows creased together with slight worry.
"...It's actually really good." A sheepish smile spreads across Kuse's face before she glances back toward her own untouched breakfast. "I feel kind of bad."
Waika follows her gaze. "You haven't even tried Toph's."
"I know." Kuse sighs. "I just...couldn't get past how it looked."
The four women fall quiet.
Katara rests her chin in her palm. "Maybe you should pull her."
"Yeah, I think I will." Kuse picks absentmindedly at one of the strawberries decorating Toph's plate.
᯽
Kuse descends the stairs from the glam room into the heart of the villa behind the girls. She hesitates for a moment on the last step, but before she can psych herself out Katara gives her shoulder a slight nudge, and an encouraging look.
Kuse lets out a deep breath and nods before taking the last step down and lingering around kitchen. Toph was there, talking with Sokka who was washing the dishes he'd used to make Syzu's breakfast.
"Toph, can I pull you for a chat?"
Toph turns her head in Kuse's direction and nods. The earthbender had abandoned the comfortable shirt she'd been wearing to sleep and now sported bandages across her chest, allowing Kuse to see her her muscly arms better. The green swim trunks she was wearing also exposed her thighs as she kicked off the sink counter she was leaning on. "Sure."
Toph followed behind Kuse's lead, who took her to the cusioned daybeds that overlooked the pool. For a moment, neither of them speaks.
Kuse only shifts in her seat uncomfortably and sighs. Sensing her nervousness, Toph breaks the silence first.
"So..." She leans back against the cushions, one of her arms coming up to cushion the back of her head. "Did you like breakfast?"
Kuse's heart skips. She takes a second to lick her lips before answering. "...Yeah."
A beat passes.
"It was good."
Toph tilts her head in the girl's direction, her expression so neutral that Kuse feels almost blind sighted at her next words."...You're lying."
Kuse blinks. "What?"
"You hesitated." Toph shrugs, "Your heart, it started racing the second I asked."
The firebender's eyes shift to her hands, the heat of embarrassment embellishing her body like a suffocating blanket.
Toph waits. Although she admits it hurt to hear that Kuse hadn't bothered to try the food she had made, part of her almost felt like they were starting to find major holes in their connection.
"It just..." Kuse rubs the back of her neck. "It didn't look very appetizing."
Another long pause cam after her sentence.
"I got the guys to help me make it," Toph says matter-of-factly. "I don't really cook."
"I figured." Kuse's stiff body language clearly conveys that she's on edge, and everyone else in the villa could spot it from a mile away. Syzu and Waika give each other a knowing glance from inside the pool.
"I was trying." Toph adds. "I heard you didn't like how I'd been cooking the last few days so..." She trails off, finding it almost futile to continue what she'd been trying to express.
Kuse closes her eyes and grimaces. "You heard that?"
Toph simply nods. "You could've told me, y'know?"
"I thought I could just suck it up--" Kuse closes her mouth quickly, shaking her head. "I didn't mean it like that.
Neither of them speaks for several long seconds.
Finally, Kuse exhales, mentally preparing herself for the possible fallout of the words she's going to say. "...There's something else."
Toph stretches her arm instinctively so that she can turn her attention fully toward her.
"I think..." Kuse begins carefully, "...I think I want to start exploring other connections."
Toph's expression barely changes. "Okay."
Kuse frowns slightly. "...That's it?"
"What do you want me to say?" The earthbender shrugs, her lips tilting downward.
"I don't know."
Toph lets out a quiet breath. "We're not closed off. We never agreed to be closed off."
Kuse purses her lips, almost looking like she regrets bringing up the topic.
"And if you think you'll find someone you're more compatible with..." Toph trails off before she continues. "...then you should."
Kuse's blue eyes dip downward to study the earthbender's physique again. "I am attracted to you."
Toph raises an eyebrow. She wishes she could say the same about her, but without eyesight, she could only assess on what she felt. And while she could tell Kuse was conventionally attractive, the recent events that had unfolded between them were making her doubt their emotional compatibility.
"But I feel like that's all it's been." Kuse says. "We flirt."
Toph nods.
"We get along."
Another nod.
"But I don't feel like we're really getting to know each other."
Toph doesn't answer right away. "...Fair enough."
᯽
"I knew she was lying."
Toph sits comfortably in the confessional chair, idly rolling the pebble from her previous interview over the backs of her fingers. It glides effortlessly between each knuckle before lifting into the air.
"People hear 'blind' and think that's all I am." The stone stretches into a thin ribbon before curling back into a sphere. "I can't see faces."
A small, confident smirk tugs at her lips, though it never quite reaches her eyes.
"But I hear hesitation." The pebble pauses midair. "I hear someone's heartbeat pick up."
It cracks cleanly down the middle.
"I hear when someone's trying too hard to sound convincing." She catches both halves in one hand easily, letting them rest against her palm.
"Does it suck hearing that Kuse isn't as interested in me as I thought she was?" She lets out a quiet huff of laughter. "Yeah. I'm not exactly used to being rejected."
She rolls the two pieces of stone between her fingers before continuing.
"And it's not like I'm the type to jump into relationships." She shrugs. "Most people don't really hold my attention long enough for me to care."
A brief silence follows.
"So…this one stings a little more than I'd like to admit."
She exhales quietly, the admission sounding almost foreign coming from her.
"But I'd rather hear something that hurts than something that isn't true."
The stones lift into the air once more.
"The breakfast wasn't really the issue." She leans forward to rest her arms on her legs whilst she spreads them. "It was that she'd rather tell me what she thought I wanted to hear than trust me enough to tell me the truth."
᯽
"I really am attracted to Toph." Kuse sits cross-legged in the confessional, her eyes downcast. "I think she's beautiful, and confident. ...Maybe even a little intimidating."
The small smile she had been kindling fades into something more contemplative.
"But attraction only gets you so far." She sighs. "I don't feel like we're building anything deeper."
Kuse glances toward the camera.
"And if I'm being honest..." She pauses. "I don't think either of us is giving the other what we're looking for." She offers a small, apologetic smile. "I just don't know."
᯽
After her conversation with Kuse comes to an end, Toph pushes herself off the daybed with a quiet sigh. She brushes the sand from the backs of her legs before making her way toward the kitchen, her seismic sense quickly picking up the familiar vibrations of Sokka's footsteps.
He was still there.
Or, at least, pretending to be.
The rhythmic clink of dishes against the sink had become noticeably slower ever since she'd sat down with Kuse. If Toph had to guess, he'd probably only managed to wash the same plate three times over while listening in on every word of their conversation.
A faint smile tugs at the corner of her lips despite herself.
She rounds the kitchen island, already opening her mouth to call him out.
Before she gets the chance—
Ding!
The sharp chime cuts through the villa like a lightning strike. The various conversations the other islanders had been holding die instantly.
Everyone in the villa freezes before instinctively turning toward the source of the sound, anticipation written across nearly every face.
Syzu's eyes light up. "I got a text!" she exclaims, already fumbling for her phone as an excited grin spreads across her face.
The girls erupt into a chorus of squeals and laughter.
"No!"
"Oh my goshh!"
"Read it!"
The girls erupt into excited squeals, while the boys exchange noticeably more apprehensive glances.
Syzu clears her throat dramatically before reading aloud.
"'Islanders, it's time to undress and get ready for bed, because tonight the villa will be hosting a slumber party. Try not to dirty the sheets! #PillowTalk #SleepTight'"
A beat of silence passes.
"…That's it?" Sokka asks, his brows knitting together.
Waika snorts. "I don't think production's sending us to bed in the middle of the day just for fun."
"There's definitely a catch," Zuko says, folding his arms across his chest.
"I don't like the sound of 'slumber party,'" Katara admits, eyeing the phone suspiciously. "That usually means a challenge."
"And challenges usually mean drama," Kuse mutters under her breath.
Toph lets out a quiet huff through her nose.
"Guess we'll find out."
Sokka finally tears his attention away from the phone and looks toward Toph, one eyebrow lifting knowingly.
"Talk after the challenge?"
Toph scoffs. "You weren't even trying to be subtle, were you?"
He raises his arms in defense. "I was washing dishes."
"You've been washing the same bowl for the last ten minutes."
"…It was a really dirty bowl."
Toph elbows Sokka in the side, making him let out a surprised sound and groan in pain. "Right." She folds her arms across her chest, turning her attention back toward the group. "After the challenge."
The islanders break off into their respective groups to get ready for the challenge. By the time everyone retreats indoors, the Fijian sky has surrendered to the night, an endless blanket of black stretching over the villa. Neon lights bathe the walkways and pool in shades of pink, purple, and blue, while countless stars shimmer overhead.
Inside the glam room, the girls slip into matching white lingerie sets, each styled slightly differently to suit their personalities. The room buzzes with laughter as they touch up the makeup softened by the island heat and curl loose strands of hair that had escaped throughout the day.
"I need to see all of our partners in boxers," Syzu giggles, fastening a white garter around her thigh before admiring the result in the mirror.
Waika laughs, smoothing invisible wrinkles from the lace hugging her waist.
"I know! The lingerie they gave us is gorgeous." She turns from side to side before flashing the girls a grin. "We all look hot."
Katara adjusts the straps resting on her shoulders, cheeks dusted pink. "I just hope Aang doesn't get too flustered."
"Oh, he's absolutely going to," Kuse teases with a laugh, applying one final coat of gloss. "He's gonna combust."
Katara hides a smile behind her hand.
Meanwhile, across the hall, the boys and Toph prepare in the bedroom. The men are dressed in fitted white boxer briefs, while Toph, after firmly refusing anything with lace, was given loose white boxers and a matching tube top that was much more comfortable.
Sokka looks over at her outfit and smirks. "Didn't know production made exceptions."
"They didn't," Toph replies flatly. "I told them I'd walk out naked if they didn't give me something that covered more than my crotch. and tits"
Aang nearly chokes on the sip of water he'd just taken.
Zuko pinches the bridge of his nose. "…Somehow, I believe that you would."
Toph shrugs. "They made the right choice."
A quiet chuckle passes through the room before Zuko claps his hands together. "Alright," he says. "Let's go get the girls."
The group follows him downstairs, stopping at the foot of the staircase leading to the glam room.
One by one, anticipation settles over them.
Aang bounces lightly on the balls of his feet, an eager smile threatening to break across his face despite the obvious nerves in his stomach.
Sokka rubs his hands together with barely contained excitement. "I've been waiting for this all day."
Zuko stands with his arms folded across his chest, his expression composed, though the faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips gives away his curiosity.
And Toph…
Toph shifts her weight from one foot to the other, hands tucked casually into the pockets of her boxers. Outwardly, she looks as relaxed as ever.
Inwardly, though, her mind keeps drifting back to the conversation she'd had with Kuse.
She'd accepted it.
She meant every word she'd said.
Still…
The knot sitting low in her chest hadn't quite loosened.
Before she has the chance to dwell on it any longer, the doors to the glam room swing open.
Katara and Kuse are the first to emerge from the glam room, carefully making their way down the steps hand in hand to steady themselves on their heels. Waika and Syzu follow close behind, laughing as they do the same. The girls are all smiles, only Kuse's being more pensive than the rest.
The boys instinctively gravitate toward their partners. Toph, however, can only focus on how tense Kuse has become. Every shift of her weight, every subtle change in her breathing carries through the ground beneath them.
Without a word, Toph extends a hand.
Kuse accepts it almost immediately.
"You good?" Toph asks quietly.
Kuse nods before realizing the gesture alone isn't enough. "Yeah," she says quickly. "I'm good."
Together, the islanders make their way toward the center of the villa, only to stop short at the sight before them.
Where the lawn had been only hours earlier now sits an enormous pristine white bed, complete with an ornate bedframe, impossibly fluffy pillows, and enough blankets to fit the entire villa.
"So that's…normal," Sokka mutters.
Before anyone can speculate further, the familiar click of heels echoes across the stone walkway.
Every head turns.
Azula steps into the villa in a floor-length crimson silk gown, the rich red fabric standing out boldly against the sea of white surrounding her. She moves with effortless confidence, her posture flawless and her expression perfectly composed.
"Good evening, Islanders."
The chatter dies instantly. Even Zuko can't suppress the small, awkward smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, he still couldn't believe he had chosen to be on the season his sister would be hosting.
"Oh my spirits," Waika breathes, tightening her grip around Zuko's forearm. "You look incredible."
"You look amazing!" Syzu calls over the applause breaking out among the islanders.
Azula acknowledges the compliments with nothing more than the slightest inclination of her head before letting her golden eyes drift toward the oversized bed.
One of her perfectly shaped eyebrow arches. "It seems you've already made yourselves comfortable."
The islanders glance toward the bed.
The once-pristine sheets are already rumpled from everyone excitedly climbing onto it moments earlier.
Katara winces. "…Whoops."
Aang laughs sheepishly, one hand still resting comfortably around Katara's waist.
A ghost of a smirk crosses Azula's lips. "I'll pretend I didn't see that."
A few relieved laughs ripple through the group.
Azula steps to her designated spot at the foot of the oversized bed before clasping her hands neatly behind her back.
"Islanders."
The chatter dies almost immediately.
"Take a seat."
Without hesitation, they do as they're told, settling onto the mattress in their couples while Azula surveys them with an unreadable expression.
"How are we feeling tonight?"
"Good!" the islanders answer in near unison, several of them clapping enthusiastically.
A knowing smile tugs at the corner of Azula's lips. "Hm." Her golden eyes sweep across the group. "I sense a little hesitation."
Almost instinctively, everyone glances around at one another.
"Boys…" Azula begins, tilting her head ever so slightly. "Do you get nervous in bed?"
A chorus of laughter breaks out.
"No!" Sokka blurts out immediately.
Aang chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. "…No."
Zuko simply shakes his head with an amused sigh.
Azula raises a skeptical eyebrow. "I'll choose to believe you."
The villa erupts into another round of laughter.
Her attention shifts back to the group as a whole. "You've spent the last several days sharing beds, cuddling, and becoming increasingly comfortable with your partners."
She pauses, allowing the anticipation to build.
"But girls…"
Her gaze flicks briefly toward Toph before returning to the others.
"…do you think you could recognize your partner without ever seeing them?"
The women exchange confident looks.
"One hundred percent," Waika answers, earning several nods of agreement.
"Excellent." Azula folds her hands together. "Then tonight's challenge should be easy."
The islanders cheer, several of them slapping their hands against the bed and whooping in excitement.
When the noise finally dies down, Azula continues.
"Here's how this works." She gestures toward the massive bed behind her. "Boys…" Her gaze shifts toward Toph. "…and Toph, you'll each take a position along the headboard."
Toph gives a single nod, climbing onto the mattress and resting her calloused palms against the soft duvet as the others move into place beside her.
"The rest of you will be blindfolded."
The girls glance down in confusion before noticing the small satin pouches clipped to their hips.
"Inside each pouch is a different color of body paint."
Curious murmurs ripple through the group.
Azula points toward a row of blue chairs set neatly beside the challenge area.
"To your right, you'll each find a blindfold and a pair of handcuffs."
Sokka's eyebrows shoot up.
"…Handcuffs?"
Azula doesn't so much as blink.
"They're for the challenge."
"…Right."
More laughter echoes through the villa.
"Collect your equipment," Azula instructs. "We'll begin shortly."
The girls rise from the bed and make their way toward the chairs, excitement bubbling through the group as they inspect the blindfolds, handcuffs, and colorful paint waiting for them.
Only Toph remains where she is, her expression unreadable save for the small, confident smile that rests on her lips.
"Now, take one of the cuffs and secure it around your arm, and make sure you have your blindfolds ready."
When the girls are settled and ready, Azula continues.
"Once those blindfolds go on, you'll have to rely on touch, chemistry, and instinct as you make your way around your each others partners, feeling your way to find your partner." Azula smirks. "Don't be afraid to to enjoy your journey and have a little fun as you go. Just remember, you will be leaving your mark."
Everyone glances at the girl's paint pouches, their hearts racing with anticipation.
"By the end of this, everyone will be able to see exactly where you've been and who you've been with. When you think you've found your partner, lock in your answer by handcuffing yourself to any part of them."
The islanders share nervous smiles.
"Are you ready?"
"Yes!" They all shout in unison.
"Girls, blindfolds on."
With one last look at their connections, the girls put their blindfolds on.
"Boys and Toph, take your positons."
The boys shift around along the headboard in a final attempt to throw the girls off. Sokka settles on the far right, Zuko takes the spot beside him, Aang slides into the third position, and Toph claims the far left.
One by one, they fasten a handcuff around a wrist before securing the other end to the headboard.
Azula surveys them all. "No peeking," she says, her gaze settling on the blindfolded girls. "And those already handcuffed…no talking, no helping, and absolutely no giving yourselves away."
The villa falls silent.
"First up," Azula announces, "Katara."
The Water Tribe woman smiles nervously beneath her blindfold.
"You'll be searching for your partner, Aang. I'll guide you to the edge of the bed."
Aang watches as Azula carefully leads Katara toward the mattress.
The moment Katara's fingertips brush against Sokka's bare foot, she pauses. Rather than feeling across his body, she immediately reaches upward, her paint-covered fingers searching around the back of his head.
The instant they catch the end of his ponytail, she smiles. "My brother," she murmurs under her breath. She quickly moves on.
Zuko is next.
Again, Katara avoids lingering any longer than necessary, brushing her fingers up until they find the small topknot resting high on his head.
"Zuko."
She withdraws her hand almost immediately.
Aang can hardly contain the grin spreading across his face.
By the time Katara reaches the third islander, she barely has to search.
Her fingertips glide across smooth skin before meeting the familiar blue arrow tattoo stretching over Aang's scalp.
"There you are." Without another thought, she cups his face and kisses him deeply.
Aang melts into it without hesitation.
A chorus of quiet cheers erupts around them.
Toph snorts under her breath.
Zuko shakes his head with an amused smile.
Meanwhile, Sokka dramatically gags. "Can we move on already?" He whispers.
Katara laughs as she pulls away. "I think I found him."
"You may handcuff yourself," Azula replies, "or continue searching if you'd like to be certain."
Katara doesn't hesitate. She secures herself to Aang's free wrist before removing her blindfold to a fresh round of applause.
Syzu follows. By sheer luck, the first person she reaches is Sokka.
The girl barely suppresses the grin spreading across his face before Syzu pulls him into a quick, enthusiastic kiss.
"Definitely him." She immediately handcuffs herself to his arm.
"That was easy," Sokka says with a smug laugh.
Waika isn't nearly as fortunate.
Her hands first find Sokka's chest.
The boys have to hold in their laughs as she kisses him, leaving streaks of green paint splashed across his chest and jaw.
Only after moving to the next islander does she recognize Zuko by the broadness of his shoulders and the familiar shape of his hair.
This kiss she shares is slower and more certain. When she finally pulls away, green handprints decorate Zuko's chest and the waistband of his white boxers.
The instant Waika clicks the handcuff around Zuko's wrist, Azula nods.
"Well done."
Finally…
"Kuse."
The Fire Nation woman inhales slowly before stepping toward the bed.
She quickly makes her way to Sokka, and starts kissing him. She rules him out soon after their lips meet before she heads over to Zuko.
Click.
Click.
Click.
A different sound echoes through the villa.
Not footsteps, but heels. Every islander's head instinctively turns toward the entrance.
Toph stills. She can't see the source of the unfamiliar footsteps, but she immediately notices how measured they are.
Confident, unhurried. As though whoever they're attached to already knows every eye in the villa is following them.
Then… a new scent reaches her. It's sweet and warm, completely unfamiliar. Her curiosity piques almost instantly.
The other islanders don't have the luxury of imagination, because they can see you. Nearly all of you.
You step into the villa dressed in delicate white lace that catches the glow of the surrounding lights, the fabric accentuating every graceful line of your figure. Confidence settles naturally into your posture, evident in every measured step you take toward the oversized bed.
For a heartbeat…
Nobody speaks.
᯽
"Damn." Sokka covers his mouth during his confessional, a bright streak of red paint still visible across his chest. "…She's incredible."
᯽
Back in the villa, Azula raises a single finger to her lips.
"Shh."
The handcuffed islanders quickly close their mouths, although their expressions are still filled with shock.
You simply smile. Instead of heading toward Kuse's side of the bed, you walk toward the far left, toward Toph.
Your gaze lingers on the woman sitting quietly against the headboard. The white tube top covering her chest, the defined muscles in her arms. The abs that are clearly visible due to her lack of a long shirt.
Your lips curve into a wider smile. You managed to land on your type as your first kiss in the villa.
Dipping your hands into the pouch at your hip, you coat your palms in vivid crimson paint before climbing carefully onto the mattress.
The slight dip of the bed is all Toph needs. She feels your weight shift toward her, hears your heartbeat, its steady, and confident. Not nervous in the slightest. A slow smile spreads across her own lips.
Interesting.
Gentle fingers brush against her jaw before sliding into the hair at the nape of her neck. Without a word, you lean in and press your lips to hers.
For just a moment…
The rest of the villa disappears.
Toph doesn't hold back. She slides her tongue into your mouth without hesitation, the action makes your insides warm and butterflies burst in your belly.
Toph was an amazing kisser, and her body language matched her actions perfectly. Her free hand found your ass in a split second, grabbing the fat there and squeezing it, a small hum leaving her lips.
Although the kiss was making your head spin and you wanted nothing more than to continue, you had to continue your duty as a bombshell and make a mess on the other islanders.
You reluctantly pull away, your lips lingering for the briefest moment before you create enough distance for the two of you to breathe again.
Without saying a word, you let your paint-covered fingertips brush lightly against Toph's jaw, leaving two vivid crimson streaks behind before climbing toward your next victim.
The blindfolded women handcuffed to their couple were completely unaware of your presence, yet the tension in the air of the villa was undeniably thick.
Toph sits frozen for half a heartbeat, her lips still parted. She can still feel the warmth you'd left behind, but more importantly…
She can hear you.
Your knees hit the cushion of paint-filled bed, Aang watches you with a nervous smile, he can't help but to glance at Katara who is blissfully unaware of you approaching him, worry reaching his eyes.
A quiet huff of amusement escapes Toph. "…Huh."
Sokka's eyes dart between the two of you before a grin slowly spreads across his face. "I don't think I've ever seen Toph speechless."
Toph immediately scoffs, hearing him despite him being on the opposite end of the bed. "I've got plenty to say."
As you move to kiss Aang, you notice the familiar water tribe braid that they sport. That alongside the familiar physique makes a figurative lightbulb go off in your head. You decide to be respectful at the revelation, and settle for a quick peck on Aang's lips, and keep your hands above the neck.
At the same time you get off Aang, Kuse had finished her exploration of Zuko, and was making her way to to the airbender. You bite your glossy bottom lip, making sure to avoid bumping into her as you essentially swap places with her and hop onto Zuko's lap.
He gives you a calm smile, he only brushes the back of his hand against your cheek before you lean down to kiss him. His kiss is significantly more restrained than Toph's although it isn't bad at all. He is also noticeably respectful, and doesn't grope at you. Not that you would be much opposed, anyway.
Simultaneously, Kuse is on Aang's lap, her blue hands starting from his abs before landing comfortably on his chest.
Azula raises an eyebrow, whispering, "She should know by touching his chest."
You end your kiss with Zuko and smile, then turn to his handcuffed partner, you look her up and down before leaning over and placing a kiss on her lips as well.
Blindfolded, Waika seems surprised but she reciprocates, her eyebrows furrowing together, but not in displeasure, but instead slight confusion. Zuko watches you, his jaw nearly dropping but before it does, you leave Waika and wink at him, then shift towards Sokka.
Kuse was still somehow finishing her kiss with Aang by the time you started yours with Sokka. Katara shifts next to her couple, clearly uncomfortable with the prolonged smacking sounds right next to her ear.
Kuse finally pulls away from Aang and shakes her head. The Avatar looks thoroughly stunned and embarrassed because of the kiss, but has no time to process it as the firebender heads to her couple, Toph.
Her counterpart could seem to care less about her clearly exaggeratedly long kiss with Aang. She's far too busy tracking all of your movements with her seismic sense. It's almost ridiculous how she's already jealous of the fact that you're kissing Sokka. She wishes instead you could continue to kiss her, and have your body against her's.
Kuse's blue paint touches Toph's skin far too late, now red is the color seeping into her body and mind. When the couple share their kiss, the fire that used to be there is nowhere to be found.
As you finish with Sokka, Kuse does with Toph, a small frown on her lips. She handcuffs herself to her just as you hurry off the bed, sending an air kiss to the islanders that aren't blindfolded.
Azula smiles as your figure disappears, clearly impressed by your performance. "Islanders, now that you've all handcuffed yourself to your couple...or so you think. Take off your blindfolds and see if you cuffed yourself to the right partner."
The girls all take off their blindfolds, all of them yelling and celebrating in surprise at the fact that they had correctly found their couple.
Kuse gives Toph a small smile, about to speak before her eyes catch two red, distinct steaks on the earthbender's cheeks. "Who's red?"
The boys glance at each other, then look at Azula who can only smirk in response.
Katara looks at Aang, her voice quiet, "I knew I heard you kissing someone for a long time."
Aang grabs her hand and squeezes it tightly. "I'm sorry."
She shakes her head. "It's not your fault. But there's almost no red on you, just a lot of blue..."
Before she can continue, Azula speaks up. "One more thing."
All of the islanders grow quiet yet again.
"You girls weren't the only one getting up close and personal with the boys and Toph."
The girls instinctively bite their lips, their gazes drawn to the crimson handprints decorating their partners' skin. Unease settles heavily in the pits of their stomachs, each of them wondering just how much had happened while they were blindfolded.
Azula calls out your name, "Our new bombshell."
You step back into the center of the villa, now with all of the islanders able to see you. Well, except Toph of course. But she doesn't need to see you to track your movement and presence.
Offering everyone a smile, you step next to Azula, your red palms resting next to your sides. "Hi!"
Reader compliments Toph in a rather feminine way despite how Toph acts all rigid and thuggish. Saying things like how her strength is graceful and her execution itself is beautiful. Toph not knowing how to receive such genuine and girly compliments like these doesn't really know how to handle them. So she just scowls at reader or act angry or replies in a sarcastic or mean way. Reader however, after years of knowing Toph figured out her tell. Which is her feet that twitches or plants itself to the ground firmer than usual when she's flustered or caught off guard.
AN: I think Toph's femininity isn't shown enough in a lot of fics.
So I suddenly thought of this while I was watching the live action. Cause before she was an addition to the Gaang she did live her life getting treated delicately by her family so she knows a lot about being proper and feminine. But because its not her true self she just defies it. This reminds me of the ep she wore a dress and was a bit conscious yet Katara encouraged her to embrace and be more confident in her feminine side. Since she felt how genuine Katara was about complimenting her she gradually became a tad more accepting about it.
tangentwithtanner
jbbartram-illu
dededos
kaledo-art
2087
jacobvanloon
