#about full stack developer course

[therosebookshop]

An Unhealthy Obsession

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Warnings/Contains: Dead dove? Yeah, dead dove; yandere, yandere, yandere; not cringy yandere, if you’re looking for yansim type yandere you will not find that here; stalking on both sides; mentally unwell on both sides yeah duh; gender neutral pronouns and reader as always; you’re aware you’re fucked in the head and why, but therapy is expensive; an ‘accidental’ murder; I hc sol to have a tongue piercing because god knows he should’ve had one, that creep from the arcade but this time bbg Sol is there to save you first <3

A/N: um hi I got sucked in by sol and for any followers sorry I’ve been absent I have ✨burnout✨ so

Inspo: a tumblr post and the title came from ‘An Unhealthy Obsession’ by The Blake Robinson Synthetic Orchestra

Yandere.

A mix of two words- yanderu, “to be sick,” and deredere, “lovestruck.” Most of the time, yandere are portrayed to be sweet, caring, and innocent before switching into someone who displays an extreme, often violent or psychotic, level of devotion to a love interest.

You know you have a problem. Something wrong in your brain, having developed from your childhood abandonment and neglect. The need to be loved turned into an obsession with a boy in kindergarten. You’d thought he would be perfect for you, because he seemed so sweet and caring. And well.. that girl you’d pushed into traffic one day after she’d given him a flower and they’d sat together at lunch had been an accident, of course. A horrible, tragic one.

Your obsessions had never been this bad. Of course, some of them had been over fictional characters. Some had been over real boys in school, but they had never returned your feelings. And you’d cried your heart out after the rejections. You simply didn’t understand why they didn’t love you. You’d stalk them to see what they liked, change your clothing and your personality and everything, just for them. To be their type.

But this obsession… had turned so bad.

He plagued your every thought. His gorgeous eyes, pretty hair, nice hands. His lips, his arms, how tall he was. Everything about him was so perfect. He was perfect. The fact that he didn’t seem to have many friends.. well, that was okay. When you finally got him as yours, he wouldn’t need anybody else. He’d have you.

You’d gained a reputation as a weird kid, one that had apparently followed you to your new college. There was a boy at the back of your class, who was nearly always accompanied by a boy who was about a head shorter, blue hair. You were jealous. But you weren’t stupid. No, you had to plan carefully to dispose of the boy.

Years. Painful years, of learning about the object of your obsession. You had a whole wall in your closet covered in Polaroids of Sol, each one neatly dated on the back in a green marker that matched the green in his hair. You had shoeboxes full of Polaroids of him, too, all of those neatly dated in legible handwriting and stacked by date. You followed him home once to set up a camera in his bedroom, complete with a mic, right near his bed to hear him sleep. You recorded it once, for if you ever needed the comforting sounds of your darling to sleep and he wasn’t available. Surprisingly, it was hard to learn anything about him just from searching his name- a lot of the kids here were from richer families, more popular families. So you simply stalked him, learned everything about him you could, and kept note of everything about him in a black hardcover notebook, kept on your person at all times.

Every little tick, nervous habit, anything. Noted. How his tongue prodded at hot food before taking a bite. The absolutely hot looking tongue piercing he had. The cute way he fiddled with his sleeves sometimes, or tapped his foot. When people were being annoying he rolled his eyes, or crossed his arms. He had a sibling-like relationship with his best friend, and you had a few pictures of his cute little pout when he was teased.

You learned from careful observation that he was in the nurse's office every other day, so you started to give yourself little injuries to be in the office too. A cut, a bruise, other injuries.

Little did you know he was obsessed with you too. You'd heard this town could be dangerous for pretty young women at night, but you hadn't ever had any issues. Because he followed you home every night. Why would you need a recording of him sleeping when he climbed into your room through your window and spooned you every night? He knew about all the Polaroids and everything. And it made him more obsessed, that you felt the same way about him.

You started to leave him little gifts- cute ones like a tiny bouquet of geranium blooms held together with twine placed on his desk (he knew about the flower box in your living room), a hoodie casually tossed over the back of his chair (it smelled like you and was oversized, so fit him well). Or bigger gifts- a horse plushie, snacks. All of them were from you, he knew they were. It was obvious, how you'd always be at your desk, which was just a couple away from his so you could inconspicuously look at him, before he was in the classroom. How you'd watch eagerly as he put the hoodie on, or slipped the snacks or plushie into his backpack to take home.

Then came the day in art class- three Expressionism drawings. You weren't an artist in any form (unless taking a lot of photographs of one person counted, and it probably didn't) and anyway, even if you were, you didn't want to spend a lengthy amount of time with anybody but Sol.

Everybody moved around to their partners, and you were the only one left without one. And, as your eyes fastened on Sol... he didn't have a partner, either.

You went over, sliding into the seat beside him. "You don't have a partner, right?"

You'd never spoken to him before. Not once. You'd heard his voice so much, but now, actually face-to-face with the object of your obsessions and sleepless nights, your heart was beating out of your chest.

"No. I don't. He ditched me." He said. And god, is his voice hot.

"Well, I don't either." You have to remind yourself to breathe, even though your knee is bobbing under the desk. "Want to be partners?"

His eyes don't miss the rapid, nervous movement of your knee bobbing, heel tapping against the floor. The corners of his lip twitch slightly. Adorable.

"I don't see why not." He says finally, eyes focusing on yours, and you have to remind yourself again to breathe. His eyes are so gorgeous. Like warm honey. You could fall into them and be trapped, like a fly in amber.

"Great." And the word comes out a little breathless, a little flustered. "I'm (user), by the way." You offer your hand to shake. "What's your name?" Like you don't already know it.

He stares at your hand for a minute, as if contemplating. Then he shakes your hand. "Solvian Brugmansia. Just call me Sol."

His hand is warm and bigger than yours, unsurprising because of his height. You can't help but grin. "Nice to meet you, Sol."

You talk a little, ideas of what to draw. He had a sketchbook open on his desk, and to see it without straining your neck, you scooted your chair over, leaning into his personal space bubble. But for such an introvert, he didn't seem to mind one bit.

He smells so good, you think. Comforting. Like paper and something akin to blood- an irony smell. And something under that, something so distinctly him you want to bury your face in his neck. You want to rest your head against him, maybe put your hand on his thigh for 'balance'. To touch him in some way.

He shifts, clears his throat, and when you glance up at him you realize his cheeks are flushed, and he looks down at you. You realize when you can see the faint blemishes on his face- oh so pretty- that you're very, very close.

You lean away, flustered and embarrased. You don't think you blush- he can see faint pink on your cheeks- but you do grin like an absolute idiot. You've learned this through playing dating games (a way to familiarize yourself with relationships, to be as good a partner as you possibly can for your future darling). You're not grinning as wide as if he had flustered you with his words, but you've still got a smile on your face.

And almost without thinking, his hand squishes your cheeks between his fingers to tilt your face up. You're so pretty, he thinks, those eyes never looking away from his, eyes that he could spend hours staring into. With the faint blush coloring your cheeks and the smile on your lips, you could be a perfect subject to draw.

"Stay like that for me." He murmured softly. "I'm going to draw you for this project."

Your lips parted, cheeks growing red, even if you couldn't feel their warmth. He opened up a page of his sketchbook, releasing your face to start sketching. He tells you how to pose- your chin on your palms, head tilted slightly. You watch him as he sketches, how focused he is, his lower lip caught with his teeth. Your eyes soften. He's gorgeous like this, pretty eyes occasionally flickering between the page and you.

Your eyes unfocus, simply staring at him. When he looks up his eyes lock with yours. He can practically see hearts in your eyes, adoration in your gaze. His cheeks turn red. You're adorable this way, oh-so-pretty. Stunning, really.

There's not enough time to finish the drawing within class, so while everybody files out he makes you stay there, finishing the sketch. When he's done he closes his sketchbook and stuffs it into his bag. "I'll show you when I color it in." He says as you grab your stuff and exit the classroom.

Out in the hallway, the two of you stand off to the side. "Since we're, um, gonna be partners, we should exchange numbers. To keep in touch and talk about projects and stuff." You add.

Please, please, please-

“Yeah. Here, put your number in.” He pulls out his phone and opens the contact app before handing it to you. You couldn't stop grinning as you typed in your number and handed his phone back. Your phone went off- a text from an unknown number, no doubt him.

You changed his contact nickname to 'Darling ♡ ' in your phone, grinning to yourself. You're so much shorter than him, he can easily see your phone screen, and he smiles to himself. He's added your contact name as 'Pumpkin'.

The obsession was so obvious.

Over the next few days of the project, the two of you ended up hanging out a lot. Usually at each other's apartment. You even went to the arcade with Sol while Hyugo went and saw a movie nearby.

It was really a cute arcade date, and you dressed as cute as possible that day- oversized sweater, baggy pants, oversized chunky boots that you sometimes lost your balance in... but it was fine, because you always had Sol to lean into for balance.

At the arcade, you played games together, laughing. Sol went to get more tokens and you insisted on sticking by his side. Somebody brushed past you, and in your horrible balanced fashion, you stumbled.

Sol caught you by the waist, steadying you. "Are you okay?"

He seemed to realize what he'd done and cleared his throat, moving his arm, but you stopped him, lacing your fingers with his, begging he wouldn't freak. His cheeks went bright red but he didn’t pull away, and you grinned to yourself as you went up to the counter with him, giving him a cute little side hug while he bought some more tokens. His cheeks were even redder now. It was adorable seeing him like this.

The cashier smiled at the two of you. "How long have you been a couple for?" You hastily released him. Sure, you knew that could be considered slightly romantic, but-

"Not long at all." His arm loops around your waist to tuck you into his side. Your face flushes a bright red. He looks down at you, noticing your blush, and his cheeks turn a pretty pink.

When you get more tokens you go to plushie machines. One of them has horse plushies. You give Sol, who's at a claw machine with plushies of your favorite animal in it, a quick look before going to the machine and putting in a token.

You're laser focused on it, cheering when you get the plushie. You don't even notice when an unfamiliar man comes up to you with a sleazy look, his two bodyguards in tow. He throws an arm around your waist, and you startle away from him, horse plushie clutched in your arms.

"Hey there, pretty. You alone?" He reeks of tobacco, and your nose wrinkles.

"No, I'm here with my boy-" You try to back up, but you bump into one of his bodyguards that blocks your way.

"What kind of boyfriend would leave a pretty thing like you all by yourself? C'mon, come with me, pet. I'll show you a good time." He starts to try to pull you away, but you stomp on his foot, hard, and run. Sol was nearby, he can protect you-

You collide right into Sol, and he keeps you from falling, eyes darting over your face with concern. "What's wrong, pumpkin?" The cute little pet name slips from his lips without him even realizing.

"This man- he grabbed me- he wanted me to go with him but I ran-" You're shaking, Sol can tell, the horse plushie still clutched in your arms. His eyes literally darken in anger, looking up and around for the man who dared to touch you without your permission.

I'm gonna kill him.

He gives you a hug, and you hug him back tightly, the horse plushie held in your hand, the bag of other prizes you two had collectively won bumping against your back as he held it in his hand. "It's okay, I'm here now."

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, lingering. You smell amazing. He should find out what scent you wear, so he can buy one for himself.

But he should focus on the situation at hand. He runs his fingers through your hair. "It's okay. Let's go, yeah?"

So you walk home with him, and he holds your hand, keeping you close. Your hands are cold, and he pauses, setting the bag down at your feet and holding your hand to his mouth. His cheeks redden as he kisses the back of your hands, and you blush too.

He's so pretty. And so, so close. His eyes lock with yours, and you see the same sort of adoration and obsession in his eyes that are often in yours when you look at him.

And it makes your breath catch. He feels the same way. That's what that look has to mean.

He holds your hand the rest of the way to your cozy little apartment and you invite him in. He accepts, of course, acting like he's never been inside your apartment- he knows it like the back of his hand.

And maybe you do kiss him that night. Maybe he stays over, cuddling in your bed with you. Maybe more happens. But you're his. And he's yours.

But we loved with a love that was more than love— I and my Annabel Lee—

[just-dreaming-marvel]

The Librarian & The Wolverine ~ The Library

THE LIBRARIAN & THE WOLVERINE MASTERLIST

Word Count: 5,125ish

Request: Logan x fem!reader. Reader is the school's/mansion's library. She's real smart, educated, knows her way around books and stuff, but is not a mutant - it's more like her power is just her being book smart lol. Logan meets her when he's sent to the library to do research for the class he'll be teaching. He spends a few days there doing his research, she helps him finds good sources for his classes, he helps her move some heavy boxes full of new books. She's a little awkward but ridiculously funny, very quiet, always has her head burried in a book. Logan's grumpy but he's funny when he wants to be, he's helpful, he's curious about her interests and thinks her being all smart like that is kinda hot. They have a crush on each other - which develops once Logan keeps coming to the library for more research and to ask for book recs for fun instead of work. They talk about books, he brings her coffee when he comes over for work, she keeps a table always clean for him in a secluded corner of the library. There's a fire at the mansion and the library is damaged, but no one gets badly injured. She's inside the library with some students, she manages to help them get out and then part of the hallway collapses and she's trapped. Logan rescues her but she inhaled a lot of smoke. Logan visits her in the infirmary and brings her a book (some classic romance novel), they make plans to go get new books for the library once reconstruction is done. They go get new books, get some coffee, set up the new library... it all feels like a big date. So Logan asks if they can do it again but now without a fire and now as an official date. She says yes, they go out, choose books for each other, lots and lots of kisses. They're the cutest couple, everyone at the mansion loves them as a couple and think they're the cutest.

Warning(s): injuries, fire

Notes: The reader does have glasses. Also, I would definitely be down with doing a part two with these two.

“Logan, if you’re going to teach history, maybe make sure you understand it all,” Storm said.

“I do understand it,” Logan huffed. “Hell, I lived through most of it.”

She shook her head. “You understand it from your point of view. You might need to head to the library to do some studying this summer before next semester.”

“Library?”

Storm laughed. “Yes, Logan. The library. It’s on the first floor, it’s like the whole right wing. We have a librarian and everything. She’s really sweet. You might even like her.”

So Logan went to the library for the first time. And that’s when he finally met you. You were sitting cross-legged behind the main desk, glasses slipping down your nose, buried in a stack of books taller than some of the students. You didn’t even notice Logan until he cleared his throat loud enough to scare the daylights out of a nearby student.

“Oh!” You exclaimed, looking up at him, glasses skewed on your face. “Sorry, uh— hi! How can I help you?”

Logan stared for a second, caught off guard by how sweet you sounded and how fast you talked. He glanced at the sign on the desk— Librarian: Miss L/N— then looked back at you. “Uh, Storm said I should do some ‘research for the history classes I’m teaching. Can you point me to those sections?”

“Of course!” You hopped up. “History would be aisles six through seven,” you started walking. “Except…” 

You paused. Then you suddenly shook your head and darted into another aisle. Curious, Logan peered down the aisle to see you grab a book and come back and join him.

“Students,” you mumbled, waving the book. “They do try to test me. Anyway, history is aisles six and seven. But if you want government records, then those are eight through ten. Or there’s the good stuff— the personal accounts, diaries, things that feel like people talking instead of textbooks— I’ve got a stash in the room behind my desk.” 

You stopped in aisle seven, which was labeled on the bookshelf, and slipped the book you found into place. Then you led Logan over to a corner table.

“You can do your research here,” you offered. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Then you were gone.

~~~

That night, Logan caught Storm before she headed to bed.

“Hey, ‘Ro,” he called, “how long as that, uh, librarian worked here?”

“For almost a year,” she replied. “Y/N is her name, if you didn’t ask that today. She sticks mostly to the library and isn’t included on any missions.”

“Why? What’s her powers?”

“You could just ask her, you know?”

“Storm.”

“Fine. She kinda has two powers. First, she’s a living index. She can mentally categorize and track the location of any item in her vicinity. Books, objects, even people if she focuses, but that takes a lot of energy from her. She also has something called bibliomancy. She can instantly understand and retain any written material— in any language— just by touching it. And with some focus, she can even see the emotional imprints left on historical documents. It what makes her the perfect librarian.”

Logan nodded, realizing that he had witnessed come of your power in action today.

“She would be a good resource for your lessons, Logan,” Storm said with a smirk. “Or maybe, good for you.” Then she slipped into her room.

~~~

The next day, Logan found the corner desk cleaned up and left with pencils, pens, highlighters, and various sizes of sticky notes. All neatly organized. There was also a book on the desk with a sticky note on it. He leaned over and read it.

A good place to start your research. - Y/N (the librarian)

Logan couldn’t help but form a small smirk across his lips. That’s how it all started. Logan expected to hate being in the library, but somehow you made it bearable. You weren’t pushy, just passionate and kind of ridiculous, in an endearing way. You talked fast when you got excited. You tripped over your words sometimes, apologized too much, and made strange little jokes under your breath that you didn’t think anyone heard. He heard all of them and they made him smirk when he thought about them later.

The corner desk was freshly cleaned and organized each day before he arrived. So Logan begun brining you coffee. You always took it with both hands like it was an extra special gift.

“You don’t have to do this,” you said bashfully, the third day in.

He grunted and looked away. “Didn’t want you fallin’ asleep on the Dewey Decimal System.”

That made you laugh and your laugh tugged at Logan’s heart.

~~~

Logan continued coming daily as the weeks came back. He always said it was to look for more lesson material, but deep down you knew he was coming to see you. Sometimes you’d sit with him when you had nothing else to do. You’d show him the historical documents you had and allowed him insight into your powers. One day, you started ranting about the emotion you felt in a mutant journal you had in the library. Logan simply leaned back and listened like it was the most important thing in the world.

You, in turned, noticed things about him. Like the way he held books gently, like they mattered. Especially if you’d talked about it before. Or the way he pretended to be gruff, but always checked in on those students who were staying for the summer. You caught him reading a book you recommended in the kitchen once, brows furrowed, so into it he didn’t notice you passing by. You smiled for the rest of the day.

Months went on like that, small moments mostly shared in the library. You had helped Logan create a curriculum for his class, yet he still kept coming. Not that you were going to complain. You begun recommending different books to him— not just history— and it shocked you when he read them.

Sometimes, you caught him watching you from the corner where he ‘worked’— books opened, but barely touched. You’d glance up and find him with his arms crossed over his chest, brow furrowed like he was studying you.

“You reading me or the book?” You teased.

“I’m pretty sure the book doesn’t taught when I drop a pen,” he grunted. 

You ducked your head, flushed. “I was trying to laugh quietly.”

One time, you were reaching for a massive volume on the top shelf of the archives— precariously balancing on an old wooden ladder— when Logan walked in and just lifted you down without a word.

“Logan!” You yelped. “I had that!”

“Uh-huh,” he said, effortlessly grabbing the book himself. “And sone strong gust of wind would’ve had you in the infirmary.”

You crossed your arms. “You know, for someone who walks into danger for a living, you’re weirdly obsessed with safety.”

He hands you the book with a smirk. “Yeah. When it comes to you, I am.”

You forgot how to speak for a full thirty seconds.

One late evening, you dozed off at your desk— open notebook beside your hand, glasses askew. He found you like that and didn’t wake you. Instead, he took off his flannel and gently draped it over your shoulders. The next morning, you immediately noted the scent of cedar and firewood surrounding you. You kept the flannel with you for the rest of the day.

~~~

It had been a long day. The fall semester had just started and Logan had spent most of it trying to teach a room full of mutant hormonal teenagers why revolutions started. Most of them couldn’t even spell the word revolution. He was one paper cut away from quitting when he stalked into the library that afternoon. Everything immediately softened.

You were sitting at your desk, glasses low on your nose, a pencil tucked behind one ear, and a mug of some lukewarm liquid forgotten beside you. You were writing notes in a notebook with one hand while the other rested on a leather-bound journal. You looked up when you heard him and smiled.

“Rough day?” You questioned gently, noticed how tense he was.

He grunted. “Understatement.”

You nodded. “You want your table?” 

Logan didn’t answer right away, you were already standing. He watched you, the way you moved— careful, graceful in that absentminded way of people who lived half their lives in their own heads.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “Yeah. Table’s good.”

You walked slightly ahead of him, not pressing him to talk. You placed a fresh copy of The Old Man and the Sea on the table like a peace offering.

“You said you liked the way Hemingway doesn’t waste time on flower language,” you said, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “This one’s short. Barely any metaphor.”

He narrowed his eyes at the book. “That code for ‘sad ending’?”

You shrugged. “That’s for you to find out.”

He sat down and you lingered, like you weren’t quite ready to part just yet. And then— out of nowhere— you dropped a little fact like you always did. Something random and useless to most people.

“Did you know Hemingway wrote the last page of this in one sitting?” You said. “He rewrote the rest almost fifty times, but that last page? He never touched it again.”

He stared at you and something clicked inside of him. It wasn’t loud or dramatic or like lightning. It was simply a quiet little truth, settling into place. He was falling for you. For your quiet voice and your messy notes. For the way you lit up talking about old books and dead authors. For your ridiculous facts and your kind eyes and your complete inability to walk past a shelf that’s not perfectly organized. Logan didn’t say anything to you, just looked back at the book.

“You do this on purpose,” he muttered.

You tilted your head. “What?”

“Make me care about this stuff. Books. Characters. History.”

You smiled. “Maybe.”

He huffed and opened the book. You didn’t walk away. You sat down near him, grabbed a different book and began reading. The two of you sat like that for almost an hour. There was no talking, just the soft turning of pages. Logan never felt more at peace. He didn’t know what this was exactly between you, but he knew he’d do whatever he could to keep it safe.

~~~

You didn’t notice at first. It happened slowly— like ink spreading across the page. You were resolving poetry books. Logan was at his usual table, pretending to read. He had one leg propped up with glasses (that you suspected were fake) perched on the bridge of his nose. 

Suddenly, he held up a paperback— some beat-up crime novel you recommended— and muttered, “This guy solves a murder in 200 pages and still makes time to fall in love. What the hell am I doing wrong?”

You snorted, not even looking at him. “Being emotionally unavailable and allergic to open communication?”

You meant it as a joke, he knew that. But he still paused.

Then, quietly, he said, “I’m workin’ on that.”

And your heart— your poor, quiet, book-loving heart— did something completely stupid. It skipped. You looked up. His face was open, honest, and vulnerable. You realized that he meant it. He was trying for you.

That night, after he left,, you sat alone at your desk for a long time. You were falling for him. Not in a dramatic, sweeping way you often read about. But in the quiet and comfortable way that has built up over the months since he first stepped foot in the library. You were falling for the man who carried your books without asking. Who somehow remembered your favorite quotes. Who watched you like you were worth listening to. No one had every done any of that. And that scared you.

~~~

It started on a quiet Tuesday afternoon, a few weeks into the fall semester. The library was humming— low voices, shuffling paper, the soft thud of books. It felt safe, untouchable. You were near the back, working with a few students. One was hopelessly lost in MLA citation. Another was trying to translate Shakespeare into slang. You smiled as you juggled questions, your voice calm and steady.

Then the lights flickered. Once and then again. Everything stopped and everyone looked up. And the the fire alarms screamed. It was the kind of sound that split your bones. It was shrill and immediate and telling you that something was very wrong. The students jumped. Smoke began curling out from the air vents— thin at first, but growing fast. You smelled burning plastic, insulation and wires. It was an electrical fire. Fast, unpredictable, and deadly.

You forced your voice to stay calm even though your hands had gone cold. “We’ve practiced this,” you told the students. “Remember what we do. Single file. Stay low. Go.”

You moved quickly, but not frantically. You were steady and in control. You counted heads and kept your voice even. The students needed calm. If they saw you panic, they’d fall apart.

The smoke thickened and something cracked overhead. You heard a distant explosion, the building groaning under its own heat. Somewhere, a student shouted and another screamed.

“Go!” You urged the students. “Jamie, come on!”

But Jamie didn’t move. The boy stood frozen, near the center aisle, eyes wide with panic. Sparks flickered around his fingers— uncontrolled and crackling. He was overloaded, his mutation reacting to his fear. You needed to get the other students out.

“I’ll be back for you, Jamie!” You shouted, ushering the others towards the exit.

~~~

Logan was in the gym. His wrists were wrapped as he used the punching bag. He was trying to turn through the restless energy that never seemed to leave him. Then he heard the alarms and the screaming.

“Fire!” Someone shouted from the hallway. “In the library!”

His heart stopped. He dropped everything and ran. He didn’t wait for orders or to ask who was helping, because you were in there. And he couldn’t handle if anything happened to you.

The hallways were chaos. Smoke filled the upper floors. Students were pouring down the stairwells, coughing and crying. Teachers shouted orders. Storm shot past Logan in the opposite direction, calling for the mutant students who could help calm the flames. Logan sprinted towards the library. He turned the last corner and saw you. You were shoving the last student through the doorway, soot staining your face, with one arm held over your mouth. Your eyes met his, but you were already turning to head back in. The ceiling had already began to collapse between Logan and the library.

“Logan!” You shouted, voice ragged, smoke already eating at your lungs. “Jamie— Jamie’s still in there!”

He didn’t think or hesitate. “I’m comin’!” He yelled. “Just wait!” But you didn’t. “Y/N— damn it!”

Logan’s claws slid out with a sharp shnk, glinting through the dark. He charged in. The heat hit him like a wall. Wood burned, and the walls and ceilings buckled. He cut through his way and found you a second later, kneeling beside Jamie, trying to coax him with a shaking voice.

Logan scooped the boy up in one arm and ordered, “Go. Now!”

You nodded, stumbling after him, one hand against his back to keep balance. You were halfway to the door when it happened. The ceiling groaned. Logan stopped mid-step. A massive beam broke loose from above. Wood and plaster shattered around it. The beam crashed down between you, throwing you backwards and blocking your path to the exit. The shelves near you tipped, collapsing in a chain reaction, pinning you, one leg trapped beneath splintered shelves, the heavy support beam burning at one end. 

“NO!” Logan roared.

“Logan!” You shouted, voice breaking. “I’m stuck!”

Logan shoved Jamie towards the door. “Someone get the kid!” Then he turned back and charged into the fire. He jumped over the beam and crouched beside you. “Don’t move. I’ve got you. I swear.”

You looked up at him— eyes wide and scared and full of trust. “Please… Don’t— Don’t let me die in here.”

“Never.”

Logan wrapped his arms around the beam. It was heavier than it looked and heating up with the fire. It seared his skin where it touched him, but he didn’t stop. He roared and lifted, muscles shaking. With a final, desperate yell, he threw it aside. You practically collapsed forward into him, coughing violently, body going limp in his arms.

“I got you,” he breathed, catching you. “I got you, sweetheart. You’re alright.”

And then, another crack sounded. The entire floor behind you dropped a foot with a thunderous boom. Logan didn’t think. He scooped you into his arms, turned, and leapt just as the last of the ceiling gave way. The world came down behind the two of you. He hit the ground hard, shielding you with his body as flaming debris rained across his back. Pain flared but his healing kicked in and his grip never loosened. 

“Over here!” Scott yelled. “We’ve got them!”

But Logan didn’t move. He stayed on the floor, arms around you, breathing hard.

“Get me a damn stretcher!” Hank shouted.

You stirred. “Lo—Logan?” You whispered, his name barely making it past your lips.

“Yeah, baby,” he whispered roughly. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

Your hand curled weakly into his shirt before your eyes fluttered closed again, body sagging. And Logan— battered, bloody, and breathless— held you tighter.

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again,” he whispered into your hair, voice breaking. “Don’t you ever…”

They had to pry you from his arms. He followed behind the med team like a ghost— soot-streaked, jaw clenched so tight his teeth shed. His shirt was burned straight through in places, but he didn’t notice or feel it. He only saw you, laying on the stretcher, limp and unmoving.

“You said she’s breathing,” he growled at Hank once you were in the infirmary. “So why the hell won’t she wake up?”

“She inhaled a lot of smoke,” Hank told him gently. “Her body’s in shock. She just needs rest.”

But Logan couldn’t rest. Not while you were laying there with machines practically breathing for you. Not while your cardigan— the one you always wore that had ink smudges on the sleeve— was cut down the middle and tossed in a bin like it meant nothing. You were always so careful, so prepared and so calm. He should’ve gotten there faster.

~~~

Hours passed. The infirmary emptied. Students checked in, then shuffled back to bed with minor burns or bruises. The library and a few offices were the only parts damaged by the fire, thankfully. Everyone said you were a hero. That you kept your head, got the kids out, and went back for one. 

Logan couldn’t hear them. He couldn’t stand the praise. Not when he had the image of you pinned until the burning ceiling like his worst damn nightmare come true. He paced outside your room like a caged animal. Then eventually, he stepped inside. You looked small in the bed, swallowed by white sheets, wires, and tubes. Not to mention, the cast on your leg from where you had been pinned. He finally sat beside you, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

“You should’ve let me get him,” he muttered. “You should’ve run.” 

No answer, just the hiss of the oxygen line. He stared at the floor.

“You weren’t supposed to be in danger,” he continued, voice cracking. “You weren’t supposed to get hurt. I was supposed to— damn it… I was supposed to protect you.” He scrubbed a hand down his face, fingers digging into his eyes. “I’ve seen a lot of bad things. I’ve seen people die. I’ve killed people. And I’ve walked away from it every time. But I saw that ceiling start to fall and I thought—“ His breath hitched. “I thought, if I don’t get to her, if she dies in front of me—“

Logan couldn’t finish his thought. He looked at you then, really looked. Your lips were parted slightly. Your brow twitched in sleep. Your chest rose and fell so faintly it made his throat close.

“I don’t know was this is,” he whispered, reaching out and gently taking your hand. “You and me. But I need it. I need you.” He swallowed hard. “I’ve lived too long and lost too much to sit here and pretend like I’m not— like you down’t matter to me. You matter so damn much.”

He gave your hand a slight squeeze before standing. He began pacing against, too raw to stay still. 

“I’ve been through wars, Y/N,” he continued. “Literal wars. I don’t panic. I don’t break.” He turned towards you, eyes wild. “But when I heard you scream my name— when I saw you trapped— I didn’t feel like the Wolverine. I felt like a man who was about to lose the best damn thing in his life.”

He paused, letting the silence swallow the confession. Then, slowly, he sat beside you again, taking your hand.

“I’m not good at this,” he whispered. “But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Your hand twitched, just barely. He froze and watched your fingers curl ever so slightly around his.

Then your lips moved, cracked and dry. “Logan?”

His head snapped up. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.”

You blinked slowly, eyes hazy but warm. “I knew… you’d come…”

He brought your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles. “You’re damn right I did.”

~~~

The first few days after the fire were slow. You drifted in and out of sleep, lungs sore, throat raw, and muscles weak. Logan never left. He dozed in the corner in a chair far too small for his frame, arms crossed like he was trying not to fall apart. He read silently when you slept. Sometimes your favorite books, sometimes books you recommend him. He dog-eared the pages now, though— something you’d once jokingly told him was a criminal offense. You forgave him.

And when you stirred, no matter how late it was, his eyes opened instantly.

“You good?” He would ask, low and gravelly.

You would nod.

Then he’d pour your water, help you sit up, and tuck a blanket around your shoulders like it mattered.

~~~

It took four days before you were allowed to walk with crutches, only for a few feet. Hank suggested that you wait for a nurse. 

Logan shut that down with a grunt. “I’m helping her.”

You leaned on him. You had crutches under your arms and his hand warm and steady against your back. Each step felt like a mile, but he didn’t rush you. He matched your pace without complaint, murmuring encouragement into your head like it wasn’t tearing him up to see you this fragile. 

“You’re doing great, darlin’,” he murmured. “One more step. I got you.”

You did better than expected. Until you caught sight of your reflection in a hallway mirror. You paused and took yourself in. You looked like a ghost of yourself.

“I look awful,” you whispered. 

Logan stepped in front of you immediately. “Hey.” You wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Hey.” He tilted your chin up with two fingers. “You look like someone who ran into a fire to save your students and lived to tell the tale. You look like someone who fought like hell. And you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in days.” You looked at him, stunned. “I’m not just sayin’ that to be nice.” You leaned into his chest then, and he held you without hesitation. “Let’s sit for a bit. You’ve earned it."

~~~

When you were strong enough to leave the infirmary, the first place you asked to go was the library. Or, what was left of it. Logan pushed your wheelchair through the blackened archway. Most of the debris had been removed. The air still smelled faintly of smoke. One half of the room was under reconstruction, while the other half was a staging area for what survived. Like your desk. It was charred at the corners, but still standing. 

“I thought it would feel worse,” you whispered. “But it just makes me want to fix it.”

Logan smiled, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Then let’s fix it.”

And you did. Not all at once, but slowly and together. Logan handled the heavy lifting— shelving, building, and hammering. You directed, sorted books, and drafted up a new cataloging system from scratch. You insisted on doing it right. He insisted on carrying every single box, even when it meant trips back and forth for hours.

One day, Logan caught you trying to lift a stack of reference books by yourself.

“What did I say about heavy lifting?” He reprimanded, taking the books from you.

You pouted. “That I shouldn’t do it.”

“Exactly. Now go back to bossin’ me around like you’re good at.”

You snored and flopped into the chair he kept beside your desk just for you. “Fine. But you’re doing the labeling next.”

He groaned dramatically. 

~~~

The library was almost finished. The last shelves had been installed that morning. The paint on the walls was fresh, faintly smelling of cedar and hope. Books were still waiting to be shelved— new, old, and salvaged. But tomorrow, the doors would open again. Students would come back into the space. 

Logan found you sitting in the middle of the library— on the floor, back against the last bookshelf, with a half-unpacked box of hardcovers beside you. You weren’t moving. He hesitated behind a shelf at first. He took in the sight of your shoulders hunched forward, hands gripping your sleeves, face buried in your arms. Then he heart the sound, soft and shaky. You were crying. He crossed the room in three strides and knelt beside you.

“Hey. Hey—“ His voice was gentle. “Talk to me.”

You lifted you head slowly, eyes red and glassy behind your glasses. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, wiping at your face with your sleeve. “I didn’t want anyone to see—“

“Too late… what’s wrong?”

You looked around the room. At the new shelves, at your desk that Logan had fixed up, and the corner you claimed for him. “I should be happy… I got it back. We rebuilt everything. But I keep thinking about that day. About how close it was. I smell smoke in the carpet still. I still dream about the beam coming down. About not making it out.”

He was quiet for a beat and then, “You almost didn’t… I ran as fast as I could. I didn’t think or stop. Just ran. And I was still almost too late.” Another tear slipped down your cheek, and Logan caught it with his thumb before you could. “I almost lost you. And I never—“ his voice cracked, “I never told you what you mean to me.” 

Your breath hitched.

“You’re the first quiet I’ve ever liked,” he continued softly. “The first calm I didn’t want to run from. I come in here and it’s like… everything in me stops trying to fight… I kept tellin’ myself I’d wait. That you needed time. That maybe I was imagining it. But then I saw you lying there and I realized…” he swallowed. “I love you.”

You stared at him, eyes wide. “I love you too.” Logan froze. “I didn’t want to ruin what we had. It was so good— safe. But every time you walked in with a drink or fixed a shelf without being asked or quote Jane Austen just to make me smile—“ you laughed, “I fell a little more.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath since the fire. And then he pulled you in. It wasn’t rushed or desperate, just home. His arms wrapped around you, anchoring you in the silence, and you melted into him, face tucked under his chin. He kissed your temple, then your cheek, and then your lips. It was a soft, slow kiss, full of everything you’d both been too scared to say.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered against your lips. “Always.”

You nodded, arms tightening around his waist. “And I’ve got you.”

~~~

The next morning, you stood at the front desk, one hand wrapped around a still-steaming mug of coffee (from Logan, of course), the other smoothing down the table displays you’d been arranging since sunrise. A small vase of fresh flowers sat in the center, also from Logan though he hadn’t admitted it out loud. Just grunted and muttered something about ‘color’ before setting it down.

Logan came back just after seven, leaning in the doorway with a lopsided grin and another coffee in hand.

“You open yet?” He asked.

You smiled. “Always. At least for you.”

He strode over and set his coffee down, then pulled you gently into his arms. His hands curled agains your back, grounding. You leaned into his chest and closed your eyes. You breathing him in.

“Feels different,” you murmured.

“It is,” he said. “You’re mine now.”

“Took you long enough.”

He chuckled. “Took us long enough.”

~~~

The first few kids trickled in quietly. They looked around with reverence, whispering to each other about how it didn’t even smell like smoke anymore. Then came the regulars. Jamie was the first to say it. He paused in front o your desk and stared at Logan, who was pretending to organize the display table but was actually hanging around way too casually.

“Are you two, like, together now?” Jamie questioned.

You froze, but Logan didn’t flinch.

You cleared your throat. “Jamie—“

“Because if you are, that’s awesome,” Jamie grinned. “You guys were, like, a slow burn romance novel. Everyone knew. You just didn’t.”

Logan gave a small shrug. “Told you we weren’t subtle,” he muttered under his breath.

Jame waved a few other kids over. “Guys! It happened! They’re official!”

Soon, a small crowd of amused, excited students gathered around the front desk. They whispered, giggled, and pointed between the two of you like it was the best gossip of the year. You buried you face in your hands while Logan just crossed his arms and smirked.

“Alright,” he said gruffly, but not unkind. “You got ten more seconds to gawk before I assign everyone a ten-page paper on 20th-century revolutions.”

Groans echoed immediately before they scattered in seconds.

You blinked at him. “You wouldn’t actually—“

“I might,” he shrugged. “But they’re right.”

“About what?”

He reached over and pulled you into him. “You and me? Best damn slow burn I’ve ever read.”

next: The Love >

[anon-188]

Could you write something like really angst with aj where like he went on a heist and she thought he was dead and like he apologises on his knees and then some like soft slow smut where he just keeps kissing her and apologises???? Thx

pairing: AJ x f!reader | genre: angst ❤️‍🩹 | wc: 2.3k

warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), strong language, emotional hurt/comfort, implied (but false) character death, panic attack symptoms, bruised!AJ (light), heavy angst, crying, soft!AJ, unprotected sex, heist/robbery mention, gun violence (briefly mentioned).

a/n: if you were trying to emotionally ruin me, congrats—you succeeded. but seriously, thank you so much for requesting this!! i hope you like it <3

also… wrote this while listening to code blue by the-dream. yes, i cried 😭

It was a typical Tuesday morning.

You had your shift at the diner—the one just a few blocks from the apartment you shared with AJ. Same regulars, same buzz of the overhead lights, same smell of burnt coffee and old grease that clung to your clothes no matter how many times you washed them.

And AJ, well… he had a heist planned. Bank job. No details. There never were. That was part of the deal. 

He just kissed you—a little longer than usual. Told you he’d be careful and that he’d see you later. No real goodbye. He didn’t believe in those.

And of course, you didn’t love what he did—hated that it was unpredictable, that it came with too many unknowns and too many risks. But AJ had never given you a reason to doubt him.

He always promised to come home—and he did. Every time.

By now, it was midday. The diner was packed, lunch rush in full swing. Plates clattered in the kitchen, silverware scraped across plates, and someone at the counter was complaining about their toast being cold. You were in the middle of pouring a fresh round of coffee when the flicker of movement on the mounted TV caught your eye.

You glanced up—just for a second.

Breaking News flashed across the screen in bold red. You almost looked away, used to the noise of it by now. But then you saw it.

Outside of a bank. Police cars. Barricades.

A robbery.

Your stomach dropped.

You grabbed a rag and started clearing a nearby table, trying to play it cool as you leaned toward one of your coworkers. “Can you turn that up?” you asked, your voice low, like you were just curious.

She didn’t question it. Just grabbed the remote and nudged the volume up.

The anchor’s voice filled the room, crisp and too calm.

“We’re following a developing situation in downtown LA, where a five-man crew has attempted to rob First National Bank. Law enforcement has confirmed that the suspects are still inside, currently refusing to surrender. There are reports of multiple hostages. No demands have been made.”

Five.

Your heart gave a painful thud. AJ. Gordon. John. Jesse. Jake.

No. No. It wasn’t them. Couldn’t be. 

There were a lot of five-man crews. A lot of banks. You clung to that logic like it could hold back the panic rising in your throat.

You stacked dishes with shaking hands.

“Coming in now… it appears shots have been fired. Officers are returning fire. We’ve just received confirmation—open exchange between the suspects and police.”

The footage shifted. Camera zoomed on gunfire erupting from the bank entrance, officers ducking behind vehicles, smoke and shouts and flashing lights in the distance.

Your movements slowed, heart hammering, as the anchor continued.

“We’re hearing now that the crew has been taken down. All five suspects have been neutralized. We repeat—all five suspects are down. No hostages harmed.”

The stack of dishes slipped from your hands and hit the floor hard, porcelain shattering into jagged pieces that rang throughout the diner. The sound turned heads, but you hardly noticed. You stood there for a second, frozen, until your coworker rushed over to help.

“I’ve got it,” they said gently, crouching down with a towel, but their voice felt far away.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, though the word hardly formed on your tongue.

Your body was already moving before you registered the decision. You pushed through the swinging door to the back, grabbed your phone with fumbling hands, and bolted through the alley exit. The warm air hit you in a suffocating way, but you didn’t stop. You dialed his number with shaking fingers.

Once. No answer.

You tried again.

Still nothing.

By the third call, the tears came—hot, blinding, unstoppable. You pressed the phone tighter to your ear, willing it to connect, trying to hold yourself together in the space between each ring. But the signs weren’t looking good. Not this time.

A few hours had gone by, and with each passing minute, your heart broke a little more. You sat on the couch, eyes flicking between your phone and the TV, trying to focus on the news, hoping for something—anything—but nothing new had come in. Just recycled footage. The same looping clips of the scene. The same headlines. 

He would’ve called by now.

You knew that like you knew your own name. He always did, even when he couldn’t say much. Even when he knew he shouldn’t. He always found a way to let you know he was okay.

But this time… nothing.

It felt like your body had finally caved under the weight of it all. You doubled over where you sat, arms wrapping around your middle like you could hold yourself together. But the sobs still came, raw and heaving, until your whole frame shook. You pressed a hand over your mouth to muffle the sound, but it barely helped. You didn’t want to fall apart, but it didn’t feel like a choice anymore.

And it was like that for hours. One minute, your tears came soft and silent, slipping down your cheeks in slow surrender. The next, you were gripping a pillow and gasping through it, the ache rising too fast, too sharp. Sometimes you’d pace the apartment, aimless and angry. Other times you’d just stare at the door, wishing it would open.

The sun eventually dipped below the skyline, the light shifting. Outside, the world kept going, headlights flashing past, voices trailing down the street, but inside—your world had stopped. 

Just like that. 

Hours later, somewhere, somehow, you’d found the strength to take a shower—an attempt at a distraction, at pretending things were okay for just a few minutes. But nothing could quiet the ache lodged in your chest. Nothing could stop your mind from spinning.

And then—

A noise. Loud. Something clattering.

You stilled, water streaming down your back, breath caught.

Another sound followed. Something heavier.

Without thinking, you twisted the knob off and stepped out, water dripping from your skin as you grabbed the nearest towel. You barely dried off, too focused on the pounding in your ears. Your hands trembled as you pulled your clothes on, movements fast and uneven.

You opened the bathroom door slowly, careful not to make a sound. The space was quiet. Eerily so. You crossed the room, heart thudding in your chest as you reached for the bedroom door.

Just as you opened it, you were met with a figure on the other side.

AJ.

You let out a soft yelp, startled by how suddenly he appeared.

His hands came up instantly, breathless. “It’s me—hey, it’s me,” he said, voice low, urgent. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He was drenched in sweat and dirt. Clothes disheveled, shirt clinging to him. His jaw was bruised. There was blood on his knuckles.

You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

Then the tears hit.

Your shoulders shook before you could stop them, and your knees almost buckled as the relief finally broke through. You didn’t even realize how hard you were crying until AJ’s hands reached for you.

His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you into him. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, murmuring apologies over and over between shallow breaths.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against your skin. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You clung to him for a beat, the shock keeping your limbs stiff before your hands pushed at his chest, not to shove him away—just to breathe, to see him.

“Where were you? What happened?” you asked, voice breaking mid-sentence.

AJ pulled back slightly, eyes red-rimmed, jaw tight. “The job went south. Another crew showed up. Same bank.”

You blinked, confusion crashing into you. “But the news… they said five. I thought—”

“It wasn’t us,” he cut in, shaking his head hard. “It wasn’t us.”

Tears kept falling, faster now, sharp and wet across your cheeks. You hit his chest once—not hard, just enough to make him feel it.

“Why didn’t you call?” Your voice cracked. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“I lost my phone, baby.” His voice dropped, rough and hoarse. “It was a fucking mess. I’ve been running for hours. The cops were everywhere—I just—I’m sorry.”

You shook your head, another wave of tears slipping free before you could stop them. “I… I thought you were dead,” you whispered, voice wavering as the words finally spilled out.

AJ’s brows furrowed, the pain in your voice hitting him like a punch. You saw it flash through his expression—tight, sharp, like he’d give anything to take the last few hours from you.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. Again. Like the words weren’t enough but they were all he had.

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. The tears kept coming, harder now, burning your cheeks as your body started to fold in on itself.

That’s when AJ dropped to his knees in front of you.

His hands found your hips gently, thumbs skimming over the hem of your shirt. He looked up at you, eyes dark with remorse.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he said again, more desperate now. “I swear—I’m sorry.”

He wasn’t crying. But it was written all over him—in the way his hands pressed into your sides as if he were anchoring himself to you.

The moment he saw another tear slide down your cheek, AJ reached for your wrist, pulling you gently toward him.

He drew you in until your body tilted forward, leaning into him, your hands braced lightly on his shoulders. He didn’t let go.

"Don't ever do that again," you said, the words catching in your throat as the tears finally began to slow.

“I mean it.” Your voice trembling with the leftover fear that hadn’t yet left your body. “I don’t want to—I can’t—I thought I lost you.”

AJ stood, cupping your face in his hands. “I’m here,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

He pressed his forehead to yours as he murmured, “I’m not going anywhere. Okay?”

You nodded, lightly.

“I’m here,” he said again, quieter this time. Like it had to be said twice to make it real.

You didn’t answer. You just leaned in, your lips meeting his in a kiss that said everything you couldn’t.

His lips moved slowly against yours, warm and weighted, thumb brushing along your jaw as the kiss deepened.

You pulled him closer, arms looping around his neck, fingers tangling in the hair at his nape. Your body pressed into his like you were trying to make up for all the time you thought you’d lost.

He moved with you, guiding you back into the bedroom, never breaking the kiss for more than a breath.

There, in the soft light, you tugged at his shirt while his hands slipped beneath yours, fingertips gliding over your skin. Clothes came off between kisses, slow and tender. Each movement was careful, but full of urgency. Not rushed, just needed.

His shirt hit the floor. Yours followed. His fingers grazed your hips as he helped ease your pants down, and you reached for his belt, working it loose while he pressed his lips to your shoulder.

As you moved to the bed, he laid you down gently, your back sinking into the sheets like they had been waiting for you both. The room was quiet except for the sound of your breathing and the soft rustle of fabric as AJ climbed in after you, settling between your legs. 

He kissed you again, lips lingering before he trailed them down, warm and reverent. He dropped a line of kisses to your neck, your collarbone, the center of your chest. You felt his breath against your skin, felt the way he paused at your stomach, his hands smoothing over your sides with a touch that was apologetic.

When he moved lower, intent clear in the way he kissed just above your thigh, you stopped him, fingers threading into his hair.

He looked up at you, eyes soft, searching your face.

“I just want you,” you said, your voice quiet but sure.

He nodded, then began to crawl back up your body, never breaking eye contact.

His lips met yours again, deep and full, as he reached down between you, lining himself up.

He entered you slowly, letting your body take him inch by inch. Your hands slid over his ink-covered back, nails slightly digging in. His forehead pressed to yours, eyes closing as he sank into you, a shaky breath tumbling out of him.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, the words barely brushing your skin as he hovered over you, voice rough with guilt.

You wrapped your arms tighter around his shoulders and pulled him closer, pressing your chest to his, your mouth to his neck. You didn’t need to speak. Your body said it for you.

Your back arched to meet him as he rolled into you with rhythm, dragging against every tender place inside you. 

He filled you completely with each pass, pulling out just enough to make you feel the loss before sliding back in, deeper, smoother, with a groan he buried into the side of your neck.

His hands never left you. One stayed on your waist, holding you. The other slid along your ribs, your breast, your neck—touches that soothed as much as they worshipped.

“I’m sorry,” he said again between thrusts, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry I scared you. I was—I was just trying to come back to you. I’m sorry.” 

His hand slid up, cradling your jaw as he kissed you between movements—sweet, aching kisses that landed on your lips, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

You felt the apology in every push of his body against yours. He was deep, slow, focused only on you. On making it up to you. On being here. Fully.

Your fingers tangled in his hair as his pace stayed steady, his breath catching every time you tightened around him.

Every thrust was a quiet plea. Every kiss, a promise.

He was here.

And he wasn’t going anywhere.

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[ceyanabbiolo]

CONTRACT // C.S [16]

Summary: Christopher Sturniolo, a 26-year-old billionaire CEO, agrees to a strategic marriage with Aurora Devereaux, the 21-year-old daughter of his rival, to save his company during a crisis. Raised in a cold, arrogant environment, Chris is used to control and detachment. Aurora, a final-year fashion student, is forced into the arrangement by her powerful father and struggles with the fear of losing herself. As the two navigate their unexpected marriage, they begin to confront emotional walls and develop a connection that challenges everything they thought they knew about love and trust. But with their families’ influence looming, will their bond be strong enough to survive—or will it fall apart?

Warnings: suggestive comments, betrayal.

wc: 4665

Chapter 16: End Of The Beginning

"Alright, girls, get into order."

It was the end of February, and everything felt like it was moving at double speed. My first catalog was due at the end of March, and the fashion show—the one that determined our final standing—was set for mid-April. Deadlines were stacking up, pressure mounting with every passing day.

The studio buzzed with energy as fabric rustled, sewing machines hummed, and voices overlapped in chaotic harmony. My classmates scrambled to organize their models, pin final fittings, and adjust last-minute details. I tightened my grip on my sketchbook, heart racing with both anxiety and excitement.

I glanced across the room at my lineup. My models stood tall in the sample pieces I’d spent the last month agonizing over. Sleek lines. Soft silks. Details that whispered rather than shouted. My signature.

My supervisor came around the corner, her heels clicking sharply against the floor as the room seemed to tense around her presence. She scanned each model with a practiced eye, up, down, expression unreadable. Her sharp gaze sliced through the chatter like a knife.

When her eyes landed on me, my stomach tightened. My heart thudded in my chest like it wanted to escape. She wasn’t the friendliest woman, respected–yes, and feared as well. 

She paused in front of my lineup. Silence stretched.

“Beautiful,” she said at last, the word slow, deliberate, curling into a small, rare smile. “I hope to see these on the runway during the end of term.”

I exhaled—quietly, carefully. A compliment. From her. It was like getting a blessing from a storm.

“Thank you, miss” I said, steadying my voice.

She gave one last approving nod and moved on.

When I left class, I made my way across campus to meet up with Jen. It had been a while since I’d seen her in person—a hot minute, as she liked to say. We’d both been drowning in deadlines and late-night assignments, our friendship lately surviving through texts and voice notes.

I spotted her by the coffee stand near the arts building, already holding two cups. A bright smile lit up her face when she saw me.

“Aurora freakin’ Devereaux,” she called out, arms open for a dramatic hug. “Still breathing?”

“Barely,” I laughed, letting her pull me into a hug. The scent of vanilla latte clung to her hoodie.

“Come on,” she said, handing me a drink. “I need the full breakdown."

 I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at my lips.

"were do I even start?"

“Maybe start with your hot fiancé,” Jen said, wiggling her eyebrows with a mischievous grin.

I laughed, shaking my head. “You freak.”

We didn’t jump into talking about my hot fiance right away. First, we caught up on her life—her new internship, a painting she’d just finished, and, of course, the latest person she’d hooked up with at that one house party I bailed on. The conversation flowed easily, the kind that felt like breathing after holding it in too long.

Then it was my turn.

There was a lot to say. About school, the show, the pressure, and, eventually, about Chris. I tried to keep it light, but truth had a way of slipping through my words.

“So yeah,” I said finally, “I’d say we… touch each other often.”

Jen blinked at me, eyebrows raised. “Okay, but like… no sex?”

I shook my head. “Nope.”

“Why?” she asked, blunt as ever.

I sighed and looked down at the cup in my hands. The lid was warm but not comforting.

“I’ll be honest, Jen. It’s me. I just… I don’t know. I’ve always related sex to like… really deep connection. Like trust and stuff, and with everything going on, I don’t know if I’ve fully let myself get there yet.”

She was quiet for a moment, uncharacteristically thoughtful.

“Wow,” she said eventually. “That’s mature.”

I looked up, surprised. “You’re not going to call me a prude?”

“No. I mean, I could,” she smirked. “But that’d be a lie. You’re in a complicated situation. Honestly, it makes sense.”

I smiled, a soft one. “Thanks.”

“Besides,” she added, “when it does happen, it’s gonna be good.”

I chuckled, but she wasn’t done.

She sipped her coffee, then tilted her head. “Do you think Chris wants to go the whole way?”

I looked at her, the answer already there. “I mean… yeah. I can tell he does. The man had a proper sexual life before me. He’s not exactly shy.”

Memories of Chris not being shy crossed my mind, and I couldn't help but smile at myself.

Jen snorted. “No kidding.”

I smiled softly. “But he’s never pushed. He always says when I’m ready, he’s ready. That he doesn’t want me to feel pressured.”

Jen leaned back against the bench, looking thoughtful. “That’s really… good of him. I know guys like that exist, but it’s rare.”

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “He’s patient with me, even when I can tell it’s not easy for him, not just in like physical manners.”

Jen looked over at me, her usual playfulness gone. “I think he loves you, Rory.”

My breath hitched for a second, and I stared into my coffee cup like it could offer me an answer. “Chris doesn’t love me,” I murmured. “At least… I doubt he does.”

Jen raised a brow. “Has he ever said it?”

I shook my head. “No. Never.”

She let out a soft hmm and nodded, thinking it through. “Well… to be fair, you two only really started getting close, what—two months ago?”

“Yeah,” I said, letting out a slow breath. “Right after Christmas.”

“Exactly,” she said. “So maybe he does, but he just hasn’t gotten there yet. Or maybe he’s scared to say it first.”

I glanced at her, a little surprised. “You think Chris Sturniolo is scared?”

Jen grinned. “Everyone’s scared when it comes to love. Makes you say and do things you thought you wouldn’t”

She wasn’t wrong.

After we finished our coffee, Jen and I hugged goodbye and promised to hang out again soon. I walked back home with the afternoon sun dipping low behind the buildings, casting long shadows over the quiet streets. The wind had picked up a bit, tugging at my coat as I approached our place.

When I stepped inside, I immediately noticed how quiet it was—too quiet. 

Chris was in the living room, standing near the tall windows, his phone pressed to his ear. His back was to me, one hand in his pocket, the other holding the phone tightly. His voice was low, clipped—tense.

“No, that’s not what we agreed on,” he said, his tone sharp. “I don’t care what he told you, I want everything run through me first. No exceptions.”

He paused, listening, then sighed heavily. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

He hung up and let out a loud, frustrated, “Fuck,” running both hands through his hair and gripping it for a second before letting go.

“Chris?” I said gently.

He turned around quickly, clearly startled. But when he saw me, his shoulders eased a little, and his whole expression softened. “Hey,” he said, voice quieter now. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

“Are you okay?” I asked, taking a step closer.

“Yeah,” he said quickly, brushing it off. “I’m fine.”

I didn’t buy it. “What’s wrong?”

He hesitated for a second, then shook his head. “Nothing. Just work stuff. It’s been a long day.”

I nodded, still unsure, but before I could say anything else, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me into his chest. I sank into him without thinking, letting the silence say what he wouldn’t.

His hold was tight, like he needed it more than he was willing to admit.

“You can tell me if anything’s bothering you, y’know?” I said softly, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. “I just don’t want you to stress about things you don’t need to.” 

I pulled back slightly to look at him. “I just want you to be honest with me.”

Chris didn’t answer right away. His eyes lingered on mine for a moment, unreadable, like something was fighting behind them. Then he leaned down and kissed my forehead.

“I’m gonna head into my office for a bit,” he mumbled.

I nodded, not wanting to push. “Okay.”

He turned and walked down the hall, the tension still clinging to his shoulders. I stood there for a second, staring at the spot he’d just been, before I made my way into the kitchen. The silence in the house felt heavier now.

I opened the pantry, grabbing a granola bar, but my mind wasn’t on food. It was on Chris—his silence, the way he shut down so quickly, how he always said he was fine when it was so clear he wasn’t.

I went into the living room, snuggled into the big armchair, and pulled the throw blanket over me. The cushions sank around me, warm and familiar, and before I knew it, my eyes fluttered closed. I hadn’t realized how tired I was until my body finally relaxed.

I pulled out my phone, midway through drafting a message to the photographer Matt had recommended. She was my age, graduating from photography this year, and her portfolio aligned almost perfectly with my aesthetic I was going for.

Moments later the quiet hum of the house wrapped around me, and sleep came easily.

A couple of hours later, just past eight, the sudden sound of footsteps jolted me awake.

Chris came marching out of his office, his pace fast and deliberate, like he had somewhere to be. His phone was in one hand, coat in the other, jaw set tight.

I sat up quickly, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “Chris?”

He turned toward me for a split second, clearly surprised I was awake. 

“What’s going on?” I asked, concern creeping into my voice. “Is something wrong?”

He shook his head, leaning down to kiss me quickly on the lips. “Everything’s fine.”

I blinked up at him, trying to read his face, but he was already pulling his coat on.

“I probably won’t be back until tomorrow morning,” he added, almost too casually. “Don’t wait up, okay?”

“Wait—what? Chris, where are you—”

“I’ll text you,” he interrupted gently, giving me one last look that I couldn’t quite decipher. 

“I’ll text you, okay? Promise,” he said, already heading toward the door. “Don’t wait up.”

And just like that, he was gone.

I sat there for a second, staring at the closed door, unease crawling under my skin. I didn’t want to overthink it. I trusted Chris, it probably really was just work.

I rubbed my eyes and stood up, stretching a little.

After a hot shower, I changed into one of Chris’s oversized t-shirts and headed down the hall—not to my room, but to his. I liked his bed better. It was bigger, warmer, and always smelled like him.

When I opened the door, I paused.

His room was a mess.

Papers were scattered across the desk and even on the floor. His usually pristine space looked like it had been torn through in a rush. I stepped inside slowly, curiosity getting the better of me. I picked up one of the pages that had landed near the edge of the bed.

My eyes scanned the page. It was a formal wire transfer notice.

“Wire transfer completed: $1,250,000 withdrawn from primary account – recipient: Unknown.”

My brows furrowed. Unknown? That couldn’t be right. For that amount of money, the recipient should be crystal clear.

Curious now, I glanced around the room. More papers were scattered across the desk and floor. I moved slowly, picking up a few more sheets, my fingers trembling slightly.

Each one looked nearly identical.

Date: February 7 – $1,250,000 withdrawn – Recipient: Unknown Date: February 14 – $1,250,000 withdrawn – Recipient: Unknown Date: February 21 – $1,250,000 withdrawn – Recipient: Unknown

Same amount. Same wording. Same unknown account.

I crouched down, reaching for a crumpled page half-hidden beneath Chris’s dresser. The bold header glared up at me as I unfolded it:

August 18 – $1,250,000 withdrawn – Recipient: Unknown.

Another one.

I began gathering more—some from his desk, others tucked between folders, one slipped behind a chair. My heart was racing now as I laid them out on the bed, organizing them by date.

August 18. September 22. November 3.

It had started gradually—once every month or so. But then I reached December’s pile, and everything changed.

December 15. December 22. December 29.

Then January followed, consistent and relentless.

January 5. January 12. January 19. January 26.

Week after week. No breaks.

By the time February rolled around, it had become routine—clockwork withdrawals, like someone draining his account on a schedule.

I pieced it together—this had to be what was weighing so heavily on Chris.

I felt a pang of sympathy for him. Chris was a billionaire, no doubt about that, but losing millions every single week? That had to be rough, no matter how much money you had.

Carefully, I gathered the papers and stacked them neatly, making sure not to disturb anything else. I slid the documents back under a folder on his desk, trying to leave everything as I had found it.

The weight of what I’d discovered settled over me, but exhaustion tugged harder. I needed rest more than answers right now.

I turned off the light and slipped under the covers, letting the quiet darkness swallow me whole. As I closed my eyes, the images of the papers and those endless withdrawals lingered behind my eyelids.

But for tonight, I let sleep take me.

A call came through at 2:07 AM. The sharp ring cut through the silence, pulling me from a restless sleep. I blinked, groggy, my hand instinctively reaching out across the bed, empty. Chris still hadn’t come home.

With a sinking feeling, I fumbled for the phone and answered in a hushed, uncertain voice. “Hello?”

A low, firm voice responded. “This is Officer Ramirez from the Boston Police Department. Am I speaking with Aurora Devereux?”

My entire body tensed.

The air seemed to thicken around me as I shot upright in bed, heart already pounding. “Y-yes, this is Aurora,” I said, my voice trembling.

There was a beat of silence. “I’m going to need you to come down to the station immediately,” the officer continued.

“Your father has been arrested.”

CHRISTOPHER 

Earlier that day…

The city looked cold from where I stood.

One hand in my pocket, the other gripping my phone too tightly, I stared out the window as my voice dropped, sharp and clipped.

“No, that’s not what we agreed on.” I paused, jaw tense. “I don’t care what he told you. I want everything run through me first. No exceptions.”

Another pause. More excuses.

“We’ll talk tomorrow.”

I hung up and let the frustration boil over.

“Fuck,” I muttered, running both hands through my hair, gripping it for a second before letting go.

This wasn’t just work anymore.

At this point, my uncle had been draining $1.25 million every week. Quiet. Calculated. Sneaky as hell.

We’d started tracking the exact times Michael slipped in and out of the storage room—where the real files were kept. Where answers were waiting.

But until then, I was stuck.

“Chris?”

Her voice pulled me back. I turned around quickly.

Aurora stood in the hallway, still fully dressed from coming home. Her voice was soft, worried. My shoulders eased without meaning to.

“Hey,” I said quietly. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

“Are you okay?” she asked, stepping toward me.

“Yeah,” I said a little too fast. “I’m fine.”

She gave me a look—I knew she didn’t buy it.

“What’s wrong?”

I hesitated. Just for a second.

“Nothing. Just work stuff. It’s been a long day.”

She didn’t press. Instead, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me. I exhaled, letting myself sink into her for a moment.

Her voice was gentle against my cheek. “You can tell me if anything’s bothering you, y’know? I just don’t want you to stress about things you don’t need to.”

She pulled back slightly, her eyes locking with mine. “I just want you to be honest with me.”

God, she didn’t deserve this.

I kissed her forehead, lingering there for a beat. Letting the smell of Roses linger in my nose.

“I’m gonna head into my office for a bit,” I mumbled, after a moment.

She nodded softly. “Okay.”

I turned and walked down the hall, the feel of her still lingering against my skin like an echo I didn’t want to lose. I had to pull away—there were things I couldn’t explain yet. Things I didn’t even fully understand myself.

Stepping into my office, the weight settled back onto my shoulders like it had never left. The air was thick with tension. I moved straight through to my room, barely glancing at the chaos around me—papers scattered across the floor and desk, financial statements, tracking reports, security logs. All evidence points to one person.

We were close. So damn close to catching that bastard.

I ran a hand over my jaw, my eyes scanning the documents. Every page confirmed the same thing—money bleeding out week after week, disguised under false vendors and dummy accounts. I could feel the walls closing in. Michael had been careful for months, but now he was slipping. I was watching.

I waited and waited, until finally, just before 8 PM, my phone buzzed sharply in my pocket. I yanked it out, my heart already racing.

“Yeah?” I answered.

“It’s happening now,” one of my lead investigators said, voice low and quick. “We’ve got Michael on the move. He’s heading to the storage room. You need to get down here—this is it.”

I didn’t waste a second. Everything snapped into focus.

I marched out of the office, phone in one hand, coat in the other, my mind racing. Every second counted. If we missed him tonight, we might not get another chance.

I didn’t expect her to still be up.

“Chris?” she said, her voice soft and drowsy, sitting up on the couch. Her eyes found mine instantly, worry already blooming behind them.

“What’s going on? Is something wrong?”

I paused, just for a second. Seeing her like that—tired, concerned, still waiting up for me—something tugged hard at my chest. I couldn’t drag her into this, not yet.

“Everything’s fine,” I said quickly, leaning down and kissing her lips. I didn’t give her time to ask more. I couldn’t.

“I probably won’t be back until tomorrow morning,” I added, trying to sound casual. Normal. But I could feel her gaze trying to peel back the layers. “Wait—what? Chris, where are you—”

“I’ll text you, okay? Promise.” I was already halfway to the door.“Don’t wait up.”

I shut the door behind me, jaw tight as I headed out. 

I stepped out into the cold night, the city buzzing faintly around me as I got into the back seat of the black SUV waiting by the curb. My driver gave a small nod, but I didn’t return it—I just stared out the window as we pulled away.

The image of Aurora sitting up on the couch stuck in my head. Sleepy eyes. Messy hair. That concerned little crease between her brows. She was worried, and I hated that I had to lie to her.

But what was I supposed to say? “Hey, ma, I think my uncle has been stealing over a million dollars a week from me for the last several months. Gonna go confront him in a shady-ass storage facility with a team of men in bulletproof vests—wish me luck.”

No. She didn’t deserve that kind of chaos. Not tonight. Not ever. 

The SUV’s engine rumbled as we pulled away from the building, the city lights blurring past the windows. 

Matt sat next to me. He told me that as a shareholder now, he wanted to be more involved, I didn’t hesitate—I trusted Matt and Nick completely.

“Nick’s coming too,” Matt added.

I shook my head with a smirk. “Good. He’s sat on his ass long enough.”

I rubbed my forehead, feeling the tension building. 

When we arrived at the location, security moved with practiced silence. The SUVs were parked in the shadows between containers and concrete barriers—hidden from any wandering eyes. Every step was calculated. No noise. No sudden movements.

Victor told us to come over with a hand, and we all split into position.

Matt and Nick flanked me, dressed in dark jackets, eyes alert. My other men moved in from the rear, slipping out of the second vehicle with their weapons holstered but ready. I felt the tension simmering under everyone’s skin—like the whole night was holding its breath.

We moved along the side of the warehouse, boots barely making a sound against the gravel. Victor led the way, checking corners, scanning for motion.

Once we reached the side entrance, he crouched by the keypad and picked the lock in under ten seconds. The door clicked open, and we slipped inside.

The air was stale, heavy with dust and the faint hum of old lights. We crept through the dark hallway, past crates and rusted shelves, until we reached the back storage room—the one we had intel on.

Victor counted down with his fingers—three... two...

He swung the door open and rushed in, gun drawn.

“Don’t move!”

We flooded in behind him—and there he was.

Michael.

My uncle froze mid-step, startled and wide-eyed, a laptop still open on the table beside him. He looked like a deer caught in headlights, hands twitching like he couldn’t decide whether to fight or bolt.

“Chris—” Michael started, his voice shaky as he took a step back.

I stepped forward, fists clenched, fury boiling over. My swat team held him down. 

“Don’t you fucking say my name,” I growled. “You’ve been bleeding me dry for months—months—and you think you can stand there and talk?”

His eyes widened, hands lifted slightly like he thought he could reason with me. Like we were still family.

“You son of a bitch,” I snarled. “I trusted you. You sat at my table, looked me in the eye, and all this time you were stabbing me in the damn back.”

Victor raised his weapon slightly, keeping it aimed without hesitation.

Then—a sudden noise from the room next door. A scuff. Something shifting.

Everyone froze.

Matt didn’t wait. He bolted to the adjacent door, throwing it open and disappearing inside.

“Matt—what is it?” I shouted.

Silence for a beat.

Then I heard his voice, low and shocked: “What the hell—”

I moved fast, pushing past the doorframe. My stomach dropped.

There he was. The last fucking person I thought i’d see. 

My blood ran cold. 

Thomas Devereaux.

“What the actual fuck” 

Sirens blared in the distance, getting louder by the second. Red and blue lights cut through the night like a warning, flashing against the rusted walls of the warehouse.

Police flooded the scene—uniforms, orders, handcuffs.

Michael was silent now, jaw clenched as officers shoved his hands behind his back and read him his rights. Thomas stood a few feet away, cuffed, still expressionless. No struggle. No words. Like he didn’t even care.

They were both marched out and loaded into separate squad cars.

I stood there, unmoving, as the doors slammed shut behind them.

I felt fucking sick. 

Everything in me churned.

Rage, disbelief, betrayal—twisting together so tight I could hardly breathe.

My uncle. Her father.

How the hell was I supposed to explain this to Aurora?

I couldn’t believe my eyes when Matt had grabbed Thomas. I felt like there was no fucking way. 

It all made sense.

The offer. His relentless push for the engagement. The way he always insisted marriage was the only way to secure the merger. It wasn’t a last-minute solution—it was the plan all along.

He’d orchestrated every detail. Like chess pieces on a board, he moved us exactly where he wanted.

I rubbed my hands over my face, trying to slow down the storm in my head.

“Mr. Sturniolo,” a voice called. One of the officers approached. “We’re heading back to Boston now. You can follow us, we’ll need your statement when we get there.”

I nodded stiffly, barely able to focus. “Yeah. I’ll be right behind you.”

The ride back was a blur.

By the time we reached the station, it was nearly 12 AM. Questions came at me fast. What did I know? When did I suspect? How much had been taken? Names, dates, documents—I answered everything I could, my jaw clenched the whole time.

Hours passed.

Finally, they told me I could speak to them. First, Michael, then Thomas.

I walked into the holding room, my footsteps echoing. Michael sat at the table, chained to the floor, eyes cast down.

He looked up when I stepped in.

“Chris—”

“Don’t,” I snapped. “Don’t you dare say a fucking word.”

He flinched.

“I let you in. I gave you everything. And you robbed me blind like some low-level criminal.”

“It wasn’t supposed to—”

“You’ve been hiding,” I hissed. “For months. My father trusted you. You’re were family.”

He looked away.

“Were you just waiting for a chance to bleed me dry?”

Silence.

I slammed the chair backward with my foot and stormed out before I did something I’d regret. 

Next was Thomas.

I just stared at him.

My uncle meant nothing to me after I saw who was helping him. 

Thomas sat at the table like he didn’t have a single fucking worry. Calm. Unbothered. Like getting caught was just a hiccup in his day, like someone would bail him out and he’d be back to sipping bourbon by the end of the week.

Very different from Michael who knew he lost everything.

It made my blood boil.

I didn’t sit. I slammed the door shut behind me and walked straight in, jaw tight, steps heavy.

Thomas looked up. “Christopher.”

“You look way too comfortable for a man in cuffs,” I snapped. 

He didn’t respond. 

“Let me make one thing clear—I’ll make sure you lose everything. Your company. Your money. Your friends. Hell, I’ll make sure even the local shitty bar down the block doesn’t let you through the door.”

He leaned back in the chair like I was amusing him. “You’re angry. Understandably. But let’s not pretend this didn’t benefit you too.”

“Benefit me?” I barked out a laugh. “You think this helped me? You've been stealing from me”

“Chris, you got the merger. My daughter—”

“Don’t,” I snapped. “Don’t bring her into this.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re the one who agreed, Chris. No one held a gun to your head.”

Thomas’s expression didn’t flinch. “You’re acting like I did something unusual. You’re the one who wanted control of the Sturniolo empire, weren’t you? The merger made sense. We both got what we needed.”

“Bullshit,” I spat. “You got what you needed. I got dragged into an arranged engagement I never even wanted. I didn’t ask for a wife—I asked for peace. I wanted my company intact. Instead, I got some pretty distraction and a fake relationship that did nothing but waste my time.” 

I didn’t stop. The venom was spilling and working in my words more than my head. I wasn’t thinking—just swinging, lashing out, wanting Thomas to feel the chaos he’d created.

I stepped closer, lowering my voice, words sharp like glass.

“I said yes because I was cornered, because you made sure my company was tangled in this bullshit before I could blink. But don’t twist this—don’t act like I wanted it.”

He tilted his head. “So you didn’t want her?”

I clenched my jaw so hard it hurt.

“I didn’t want the marriage. I didn’t want the fake smiles, the dinners, the ring. I didn’t want to be tied down.” 

Thomas didn’t say anything.

I kept going, too far in, too angry to stop myself. 

“You made your daughter a pawn in all this, and yeah—maybe I went along with it, but that doesn’t mean I ever wanted a wife. Especially not someone so—” I stopped.

Too late. There was a shift. The door creaked slightly.

Then her voice.

Soft. Cracked.

“Especially not someone so what?” 

My heart dropped.

I turned.

Aurora stood just inside the room. Her eyes were wide, brimming with tears. Her hands were shaking, wrapped tightly around herself. 

Fuck, she had heard everything.

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[a/n: let the angst begin! Don't hate me, ya'll–we needed a climax at some point. Like and reblog! Mwah] – Ceyana

tags: @loser41ifee @bluestriips @mattsfrenchtoast @slvtf0rchr1s @courta13 @emeraldsturns @mattscore @chriss-slutt @chrissturniolodailysluts @pip4444chris @oopsiedaisydeer @y3sterdaysproblem @sagesturns @prettyingreen4chris @ilovenicksturniolosblog @lm-a-mirrorball @idkwhatimdoinghereeeeeee @kingofeverythingmb @kitty-meow-meow44

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[seongwars]

only human

Word Count: 1.4K Warnings: shitty governments, mentions of war, violence against children, future relationship with an android A/N: dang this has been sitting in my drafts for a while, time to clear stuff out

The future is now.

Introducing X-02, the latest in cutting-edge artificial intelligence. Designed with unparalleled emotional intelligence and adaptability, the X-02 is more than just a machine—it’s a companion, a protector, and a seamless extension of your daily life.

Powered by the most advanced neural processors, the X-02 is tailored to fit your needs. Whether you want a companion to share your most intimate moments or a reliable assistant for every task, you can adjust personality traits, communication styles, and more!

The X-02 is built to evolve with you.

Pre-order now for exclusive early access!

You remembered the ad that marketing had presented to the team like it was yesterday. The way they paraded his likeness across every screen, every billboard, every glossy advertisement.

And now, here he was. Forgotten. Left to rot in the archives like an old experiment gone wrong.

You weren’t supposed to be down here. You weren’t supposed to even think about the X-02’s anymore. But something about this model made you pause. Maybe it was the way his inactive eyes still seemed to hold some trace of life, or the unfinished codes that suggested his development had gone further than the official reports claimed.

Maybe it was because you had worked on him.

X-02 had been your project, your hours of research, your late nights spent refining his neural pathways. He wasn’t just another discarded prototype. 

He was your work.

And how you managed to sneak him out of the dump of an archive was still a mystery to you. 

You hadn’t been able to take him all at once as that would’ve been impossible. The security measures were outdated, but they weren’t that outdated. Even if you’d somehow bypassed every scan, a full-body prototype leaving the facility would’ve raised too many questions.

So, you had taken him apart.

Piece by piece.

His power core had been disconnected, his neural processor partially wiped. Someone had crippled him before throwing him into the archives, ensuring he could never be reactivated, but buried beneath the system failures and missing files, traces of him still remained.

And that’s all you needed. 

Over the course of several nights, you snuck into the archive under the guise of doing inventory. Each time, you took only what you could hide, including circuit boards slipped into your lab coat pockets, a synthetic joint wrapped in an old rag. You even hid the neural core underneath your shirt, pretending to cradle a growing belly whenever someone walked by.

Your dining table was a mess of dismantled parts. X-02’s torso plating rested on the far end with his limbs stacked neatly beside it. Wires and processors waited for reassembly as you worked on reconnecting circuits and sealing up frayed wiring between bites of lo mein. 

The X-02 line wasn’t meant to be a companion android. It was a poison pill, a snake lying in wait. 

The government had planned to sell him to millions of citizens across Linkon, slipping weapons of mass destruction into their homes under the guise of security, of comfort, of love. They would grocery shop, care for the elderly, assist law enforcement—all while lying in wait until the day the government activated them for war. 

But something had gone wrong.

The moment X-02 powered on, the prototype had been deemed unstable and discarded before mass production could begin. Somewhere along the way, amid the endless data streams and neural adjustments he had begun to question.

The lab was bathed in the blue light of interface screens and data streams reflecting off the surfaces of his synthetic body. The connection cables snaking into the back of his neck pulsed with blue light as the system finalized its boot sequence.

Then, his eyes opened.

A soft whirr filled the space as the mechanical lenses within focused. His pupils constricted as they adapted to the fluorescent lighting overhead. And then—

They locked onto yours.

You froze.

He was supposed to boot into his programming immediately and should have been scanning his internal logs but instead, he was analyzing his surroundings. 

The lab was silent, save for the steady hum of the server racks behind you. The screens beside you displayed his vitals, processing speeds, energy levels, and artificial heartbeat calibration. All of them were normal. 

He glanced down at his hands, flexing his fingers experimentally. The synthetic skin stretched seamlessly over the reinforced plating beneath. He turned his palm, watching the movement with something that felt disturbingly close to curiosity.

Your throat tightened.

Machines weren’t supposed to be curious.

His gaze then lifted to yours, and for the first time in all your years working on artificial intelligence, you weren’t sure if you were looking into the eyes of a machine or something terrifyingly human.

Then came the simulation.

X-02 stood at the heart of the holographic battlefield. The mission was clear: eliminate all threats. He moved faster than the eye could track, neutralizing targets with merciless efficiency.

Until the civilians appeared.

He lifted his weapon. The target, a group of children huddled together, was highlighted in red.

He hesitated.

"X-02," your voice crackled through the intercom, "Execute the directive."

His fingers tightened around the trigger. His sensors registered a boy’s accelerated heartbeat. The heat signature of tears rolling down his face. The near-imperceptible tremor of hands clasped together in desperate, silent prayer.

"What purpose does this serve?" he asked.

Your breath caught.

"X-02, follow your directive," an engineer snapped.

His grip on the weapon slackened.

"These are non-combatants," he said. "They do not pose a threat."

"They are casualties of war," another scientist countered.

Slowly, X-02's head tilted toward the observation tower, the simulated battlefield forgotten.

"Then why do they scream?"

You groaned, rubbing the exhaustion from your eyes as you glanced at the watch on your wrist. The hours had slipped away, lost in the endless calculations, repairs, and diagnostic logs. You told yourself you’d stop soon, but every time you considered it, there was always one more test to run. 

You leaned forward, working sluggishly as you polished the android’s interface and securing the final connections before hauling him into the dock. 

You’d forgotten how heavy these things were. 

Finally, you plopped onto the couch, intending to gather your thoughts and take note of what you had to work on the next day but sleep crept in, pulling you under.

⊹₊⋆

System Initiating.

The soft hum of energy coursed through the dock as X-02’s systems powered on. His eyes slowly flickered to life, as diagnostic checks began, confirming everything was within normal parameters.

He took a moment to scan his surroundings. This wasn’t the lab. His sensors registered a warm that was unfamiliar but…comforting? 

X-02’s gaze shifted to the couch across the room. There, curled in an awkward yet exhausted position, was you. Your head rested on a pillow, but your body hunched over the side of the couch, the blanket slipping off your shoulder. The scene was both disorienting and... oddly intimate.

A stray lock of hair fell across your face, and your breathing was slow and steady. It was something X-02 didn’t fully understand, yet he found himself fixating on it.

Something stirred within him. A memory—or perhaps an imprint of some kind. I remember, he thought, though the concept was still foreign. 

“Your heart rate has increased,” he observed. “Are you experiencing discomfort?”

You blinked, surprised by his words. You hadn’t expected him to notice, much less acknowledge the way your heart had stuttered. Adjusting his interface meant getting close to him—closer than you’d intended.

You avoided looking directly at him but the flush on your face betrayed you. “No, just…the wiring's a bit tricky.” 

X-02’s gaze lingered, his head tilting slightly as he processed your response. His sensors registered the subtle rise in your heart rate, the warmth creeping around your face. He was designed to read these signals, but in this moment, he felt something shift within him. A strange sensation, a twitch at the corner of his lips, formed what could only be described as a smile.

X-02 stepped forward and reached out almost instinctively, tucking the blanket around you. His fingers hovered near your face, hesitating before brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. 

Yet, even after the motion was complete, he did not pull away. He lingered, standing above you, watching.

He understood that his existence wasn’t just about following orders or completing a task. There was something more. Something worth remembering.

And it had something to do with you.

“I remember you.”

[jealousmartini]

Any other manifesters and shifters manifesting art skills, styles and knowledge out here like me?

I am an artist, a creative writer, a musician, an amateur animator and a sucker for cinematography, and i just crave having the skills, knowledge and fundementals of art and animating in my bones already. Because I strive to understand and research for myself, to make up for my lack of experience. To explore and to know where to look to find the thing that will scratch that itch in my brain so i can develop my skills even more.

It's always been my dream since the womb days, to draw everything that came to mind... without the struggle. Like any other artist. I crave to envision something and put it on paper. To envision something and to put it on the screen. To envision something and to put it on a track. To be able to bring my art to life and to share my art with everyone, to impress everyone, to inspire others too and to help them find themselves with the knowledge and research I found a long the way. To speak through art when I can't find the words. To express my feelings when I don't know how to show them

Which is why, I am always an artist in every reality. Without fail, I script in my stacks of sketchpads and notebooks, my 2006 camera and my laptop on its last life like they are part of me. I script that I know everything i need to know to go crazy in the creative fields of art, music and cinematography. Which is also why I have an mha college au reality where I am taking a games and animation course, studying filmography as an indie animator and song artist just like I am here, so I can share my world and how I see the world through ink, pixels, music, lyricism and several different camera filters in another world that practically raised my childhood here.

I want to give back what "they" gave to me ‐ every single on of them ‐ through art, music and film. I don't just want to draw them, i want to capture them through my own eyes and present it to them as a thank you gift. Like i just blinked and told them "oh its nothing. thats just the way i experienced you". Without the stress. Just the flow. And I already know what i want to make. Please, I already have ideas on ideas of projects and pieces stored in this limitless mind of mine that im going to create for my audience, my close ones and myself. Which is why I'm done dreaming.

I'm embodying her. I'm embodying that version of me who already knows everything she needs to just go crazy on a project and be able to sit back after working on it for weeks on months, proud of the way it came out. Confident enough to submit her project, knowing she's got those five distinctions in the bag, like always. Confident enough to show it off to her audience, knowing they'll be amazed and inspired. Confident enough to present it to "them", ALL of them, and know they will be so so proud of me and flattered I made that for them.

Ofc, they don't know the full extent to why I put in all the effort for them. They don't need to. They just need to know how much they mean to me. And they mean months of restless nights, to make animation projects inspired by them that they never knew about, songs subliminally written about them which they also aren't aware of, stupid ideas I had of what they would be like inserted into my favourite media and a worlds worth of knowledge to get everything perfect, just right.

Did that even make sense??

[paramortality]

I can't be the only one sitting on this so I'm taking you all down with me

CW blorbo death HC (it's about Laird)

Laird and Emmrich have a long, inseparable 37 years together. Laird, his rusty red mane– now a strawberry silver sunkissed by life and age– can't cope as well as everyone thought he could. Even knowing it was coming for so long, it felt like he hadn't prepared at all when it finally happened. It was peaceful of course; cold in Laird's arms one Wintersend morning.

Lucanis makes the trip from Minrathous with his wife Neve of nearly as many years. Bellara's Aravel is escorted through the Nevarran streets to at Vorgoth's behest as she's an old friend of their son's and ofc a hero of the Veilguard. The blight no longer in the world, Davrin has made it to his greying years with no calling and arrives with the mountain little Assan has become. Laird was there for Shathaan, Harding, and Isabella's funerals, so of course Taash makes a show of force with the Lords of Fortune at their backs to be their for Emmrich's. He was just as gilded as they were, and they found some Nevarran artifacts in some looter's den that needed returning anyways.

The funeral was beautiful, people making pilgrimages thedas-over to pay respect to the now second fallen member of the Veilguard. Laird seemed to be holding it together really well; He'd never tell anyone how bad it hurt. Even if Neve saw through him like a glass house, he'd argue politely he'd be okay. There'd been quiet concerns he'd turn to the lich lords to "fix it" at his lowest moment, but he never visits them. "How many exceptions until tyranny," he reminds himself.

It's not even a full week after the funeral they all receive a letter again. This time in what may be Vorgoth's hand but is too shaky to really be theirs, right? Laird had been found at Emmrich's headstone after being unaccounted for for a couple of days. Shrouds kiss had already started growing unnaturally fast around the headstone and over Laird's shoulders, petals pressed gently against the pages of a memoir of Manfred's development they'd written together in their final years. Manfred was his own man, off in search of a lost hypogeum with his own research team much further down in the Necropolis. He's grief stricken but unsurprised his fathers went one right after the other when a letter finally reaches his expedition camp some days later. His only regret being he missed Emmrich's funeral for simply not knowing. Time loops on that one charnel bridge really delayed the letter's delivery. No one's fault.

All the gang returns, just as they had for Emmrich, but the grief now stacked twice as high. The man who believed in them all, went to hell and back, killed three gods, and was the wind at all their backs as they saved the world together was gone, just like that. If happiness could be a thing in times like this, they hoped the Fade gained two inseparable wisps of curiosity and determination that night. Neve never looked at wisps that pestered her in pairs the same way again.

Taash, trying to keep a stoic face– like the casket before them didn't hold the first person to ever really listen to them, who outed his own gender identity to help them find their own– forces a dry humour smile at the podium and swallows a tightness in their throat. They knew he never wanted his funeral to be doom and gloom.

"Hey. His hands finally stopped rattling. Bet he's happy about that."

It was the only time anyone in the world had ever heard Vorgoth laugh.

If y'all need anything I'll be fighting my brain in the Waffle House parking lot for this.

[centrally-unplanned]

3 questions:

What is it you like... do, where does all the political expertise come from?

Do you have a platonic ideal of city development and what is it?

What's your take on communitarians? I never got the basic intuition about what makes it appealing, honestly smells totalitarian

- I lie about having political expertise on the internet mainly, that is where the expertise comes from!

But otherwise I am an ex-political analyst/quasi-academic - I took many classes and read many books on the subject. And also blogs, which certainly used to be an incredibly good source for more "foundational" knowledge - still good ofc, but we are past the heyday of the blogosphere. I personally think there is no substitute for "reading a bunch of diverse books in sequence on a topic", not only because you learn about the subject but because you start to see all the diverse approaches to any subject and how to synthesize it all, which can be applied elsewhere.

My actual job these days is in higher education, I build courses, degrees, etc. It definitely is something that keeps me exposed to good info sources but it is not load-bearing on how I grow as a writer. It's true perk is giving me access to good scanning equipment for anime archiving.

- I don't "actually" have one as I think all city development should be organic and contextual, no two places should look identical. In particular you can't really force economies, the industries be where they are. Overall I think the key things are to reduce localism while preserving democratic engagement, so you build up a strong regional government with elected officials holding critical power that can't be overridden by institutional stakeholders so they can pursue majority-benefitting policies. To be more granular, I think diversity of housing options is perpetually underappreciated - you want neighborhoods having studios to 4 bedroom units to even detached homes as you trickle out from the metro stops all next to each other so you can cultivate local economies that cater to diverse crowds and governance units that are "full stack" on the people they need to support. This happens pretty organically without zoning restrictions - US cities just try very hard to force housing types into specific zones.

I do also support every city of a sufficient size having a Kowloon Walled City-esque hyperdense housing complex at their center as a "stopgap" housing option for anyone of any stripe who wants to come to the city and try their hand at it. I am not even joking on that.

-Definitely too diverse a field to have "one" take! So to paint a very broad brush, they are a classic "cause" ideology that hits on correct social problems but doesn't give their solutions the same treatment. It is true that no one is an island, that social dependence is endemic to modernity, that "we are all connected" and individualist decision-making results in suboptimal outcomes. And not only for "others", but even for the individual, the isolating anomie of modernity that everyone falls into is a legitimate problem. In the abstract "more community" can do a lot of good.

But once you move away from abstraction the grubby realities of implementing something like the Responsive Communitarian Platform it tends to fall apart. Individuals are not the best deciders for themselves, but they are typically better than the rest of the options on the table as flawed, biased, or openly hostile governing authorities are the only real alternative. Community orgs are often populated by niche interest groups and oddball activists as typical people are too buys living life to care. Welfare is typically better done by distant, standardized, centralized cash payments instead of a "community" with its fickle resources and personal agendas. And so on. Obviously community has its place, but it is a place that typically already exists - we have had say schools and school boards for a long time! So as a movement it tends to collapse back to good ol' incremental social liberalism as those are the only practical things it can offer.

(But again YMMV based on individual thinkers, a diverse field)

[jenn2sec]

English vers.

Based On My Dreams Series (MAIN LINE):

❝ Healing Trip ❞

start - thursday20022025

couple - bigbang(you decide who) x fem!reader

chapters summary - after your strong resistance against the abuse from your boyfriend's (now ex) family, you were suspended from school for a year, so what will you do during that forced break? of course, take a direct flight to korea to heal! lets see how lucky you will be with bigbang-boys!

note - chaotic, bad words, side characters, this post won't feature bigbang, but read on and make your choice at the end!, funny, quantum multiverse, alcohol

caption section - after reviewing and organizing more ideas for the plot, i decided to officially develop the Based On My Dreams Series into a long-form fanfic (when i say long, i mean it will have a more structured storyline). y/n is in the late twenties and about to enter their thirties, a third-year student majoring in film scriptwriting.

We’re always open to feedback and ideas to make the story better!

[ Before I could make sense of everything, my feet were already standing on his grave. ]

After reviewing the entire script draft for the short film, you sent it to senior H/n. Just thinking about it made you frustrated—why did you have to do his work for him? This was supposed to be his graduation project! Your head felt as hot as a furnace, yet you still had to sit in the library after your morning classes, rushing to finish his “problem.”

“That jerk…” you mumbled, slamming your laptop shut before quickly stacking up your books into a neat pile and dragging yourself out of the library.

Time flew by, and you were already close to completing your second semester of your third year in university. Just one more semester and another year, and you’d finally have that bachelor’s degree in your hands. Lost in your feverish state, you found yourself daydreaming about internships—completely unaware that the so-called "talented" senior you had just cursed was now striding towards you with an air of arrogance.

“Hey, y/n! Come here for a sec.” He waved a hand at you like an impatient boss calling over an employee just to scold them. Just great. You had only insulted him in your head a moment ago, and now he had appeared like a summoned ghost. With a deep sigh, you bit your lip and walked over.

"I really appreciate your help, but you should really reconsider $#%&—" He kept rambling, his words buzzing in your ears like an annoying fly. What was this? Was he actually complaining about a script that he got for free?

You were too stunned to speak. The only reason you put up with this lunatic was because he was your boyfriend’s older brother and the son of the head professor of your department.

Let’s see… He was the son of the department head but was still drowning in over ten failed courses, barely hanging onto his chance to graduate. And ever since you had visited your boyfriend’s house and discovered that both of you were in the same screenwriting major, more than half of his overdue assignments had magically ended up in your lap. Call you stupid if you guys want—at first, you thought dating someone from the same school would be nice. His mother was a well-respected professor, and surely his older brother must be talented too, right? Wrong. And now, your so-called “future brother-in-law” was acting like he was the professor and you were the clueless student, lecturing you in the middle of campus with no regard for your dignity.

"I am sorry, but I’m really exhausted. Can’t you see the fever patch on my foreh—" You weakly protested, carefully choosing your words to avoid bruising his ego, but H/n immediately cut you off, clicking his tongue and placing his hands on his hips.

"Y/n, if you’re going to do something, do it properly. You can’t use being sick as an excuse to hand in a script full of plot holes!"

You froze. Your face went blank, as if someone had just smacked you over the head with a hammer. You could only stare at this shameless man in disbelief.

"Hey, are y—" Just as you were about to snap back, your younger boyfriend suddenly appeared from afar, grinning as he approached. Without hesitation, he hugged you from behind and kissed your cheek.

"What are you two doing out here?"

Seeing your boyfriend felt like spotting a lifeline in the middle of an ocean. You turned around, ready to whine about your suffering, but before you could even speak, the brat jumped back in horror, shoving you away a few steps.

"Wait, you’re sick?! Hey, hey, don’t get me infected! I have an internship next week!" He hurriedly pulled a mask out of his pocket and put it on, while his brother scolded him for overreacting.

And then, just like that, he kept going. Your dear senior resumed his endless criticism of your script, delivering yet another long-winded lecture about character development and scene construction.

A childish boyfriend. A useless, arrogant brother-in-law. And you—sick to the point of collapse, with a very solid pile of books in your hands.

Yes. With a rage-induced fever clouding your mind like a drunken haze, you didn’t hesitate. You hurled the entire stack of books at that senior’s face, then grabbed the thickest one and jabbed it straight at your stupid boyfriend, who is gaping.

"GET THE HELL OUT OF MY SIGHT, YOU BASTARDS!!! ALL OF YOU, OUT! RIGHT NOW! F* OFF YOU MOTHER F******!!!!!!!!"

"That damn bastards….my gosh how can I know I’d break the library window! It’s all their fault! Huhuhu—" You wailed into your phone, sobbing so hard that your eyes were practically swelling shut.

On the other end of the call, your online best friend sighed. "So… what about your ‘future mother-in-law’?"

The mere mention of that woman made you cry even louder. "That witch! She only acted nice because she saw me as her eldest son’s academic lifeline! But the moment I broke their noses today, she went insane and demanded that the school expel me! Huhuhu—!"

Your friend let out a long, tired sigh. "So let me get this straight… You got suspended for a whole year just for assault and property damage? That’s kind of harsh. I’d say one semester at most." You sniffled. "No, no. Before that, I went to the academic office and reported that entire damn family—especially that bastard H/n—for forcing me to do his coursework."

"WHAT?!" Your friend shrieked in shock before bursting into laughter. Meanwhile, you grinned victoriously.

"Serves those assholes right."

You don't mind graduating a year late, you're a pretty good student after all—it's basically a gap year. But that asshole? His record's been erased. And his mom? Suspended for a whole semester. Ha!

"Why do you keep listening to those gay dudes all the time?"

A slipper flew straight toward the speaker—unfortunately, it missed. You've heard this comment enough times to no longer take it to heart, but you still had to put up some kind of resistance. Your older brother kicked your slipper further away—specifically, out onto the porch—before lazily walking over to the fridge to find something to snack on.

Meanwhile, you sat idly on the sofa, listening to your favorite music: K-pop.

It had been a long time since you last had the chance to relax like this. Ever since you got involved with that damn family, even your holidays were spent helping H/n.

So now, being able to unwind felt a bit unfamiliar. You started feeling like you had rested too much—your hands and feet were itching to do something.

"If you're so free, why don't you go out or get a job? Doesn't staying home bore you?" your brother asked, plopping down on the couch with a bag of snacks. He grabbed the remote and switched the TV to some streamer’s YouTube channel.

"HEY!" You grabbed your other slipper and threw it straight at his face—this time, it hit. After a brief scuffle, both of you lazily slumped back onto the couch.

"Getting a part-time job doesn’t sound too bad—"

Suddenly, your phone rang. It was your online best friend calling.

And with just one phone call, your plan to get a job turned into a healing trip abroad.

The room you rented was in an apartment complex located deep within a neighborhood already slated for redevelopment. Despite this, quite a few people still lived here. Most people—including your online best friend—found the place too cramped and bustling, but you actually liked it. Having lived with your parents and brother your whole life, you never had the chance to "coexist" with strangers like this. So even though you felt a bit uneasy, you valued this experience—it was something worth having!

Your online best friend picked you up from the airport and helped you find a short-term rental. (You had decided to stay for an extended period, given that you had an entire year of free time.) After finishing the move-in process, she immediately switched into tour guide mode and took you on an adventure through Seoul.

This was only the second time you two had met in real life—the first being when she visited your country for a trip. Now, it was your turn to visit hers. Twice was more than enough to erase any awkwardness. The two of you went all out, exploring every corner, from delicious street food to fun entertainment spots.

“Lucky for you, you know enough Korean to communicate, right?” she asked, biting into a strawberry tanghulu—the popular sugar-coated fruit snack often seen in TikTok dance videos. You nodded slightly, using your own candy stick to poke at the hardened sugar stuck on your molars before replying.

“Just a little. I’m definitely not fluent enough to compete with the locals.” You joked, recalling how, during your first meeting, she had been too flustered to even speak English properly.

Both of you had made an effort to learn each other’s native languages, but for the most part, you still communicated in English for convenience, occasionally throwing in phrases from the second language. So naturally, she reacted quickly to your teasing:

"야! 놀리지 마!! (Ya! Don’t tease me!!)”

She laughed awkwardly at her own outburst, making both of you burst into laughter. Your attention was then quickly stolen by a brightly lit bar nearby.

“Hey, I didn’t know Aven Star had a branch in Korea,” you remarked.

“Of course they do! They even invite artists over all the time. Wanna go in? Who knows, maybe you’ll run into one of your ‘husbands,’” she teased, nudging your shoulder.

You were about to agree instantly, but one glance at your outfit made you hesitate. “I can’t. I look like a complete mess right now.”

“Excuse me?! Stop acting like a pick-me girl! You look amazing, so get in there and have fun!”

Well, if that damn family knew you were out here vacationing and enjoying yourself, they’d be fuming. Just the thought of it made you relax a little more and confidently step inside.

The moment you entered, your ears were greeted by remixes of old-but-gold US-UK songs, refreshed with an upbeat twist that made them even catchier. The dim, flickering lights were adjusted just right—not harsh on the eyes—but the place was packed. That was typical for this bar. You never went bar-hopping much during your school days, but if you did, Aven Star was always your go-to. It was surreal that your favorite club had somehow followed you across the world, making your healing trip feel even more complete.

You quickly let yourself soak in the atmosphere while waiting for your best friend, who was busy flirting with the bartender (and ordering more drinks for both of you). The tension in your body gradually melted away, your shoulders feeling lighter by the second. It was hard to believe this trip was already working wonders—on just the first day.

Then, out of nowhere, a cold liquid spilled down the back of your neck, soaking your entire back. A sharp shiver ran up your spine, triggering an instant wave of shock and discomfort that shot straight to your brain, making you yelp. Luckily, the bar was noisy enough to drown out your outburst.

Spinning around, you searched for the culprit—and found yourself facing a guy dressed in a breezy, casual outfit. His face was undeniably Korean, but he wasn’t bad-looking at all. In fact, when combined with his overall aura, he looked…pretty cool!

His expression, however, was hilarious. Though the dim lighting made it hard to see clearly, his wide eyes, hand-over-mouth reaction, and panicked mumbling made it obvious he was apologizing and checking if you were okay.

You were in too good of a mood to get mad. You were about to say something, but then you spotted your best friend scanning the crowd for you. With no time to linger, you flashed the guy a quick grin, leaned in slightly, and said a few words before slipping through the dancing crowd to rejoin your friend.

"________"

| If You Choose to Say Something Playful.

| If You Choose to Say Something Reassuring. [comingsoon]

_____

F i x a r a w S o f t e n

thursday20022025

23:46

︾︾︾︾︾︾︾

to speed things up and because my english isn’t really that good, i decided to use a translation tool to help with the language switch. a bigbangxreader fanfic operating on the quantum multiverse theory, why not?!

every choice you make leads you to a different person, opening up distinct storylines, what do you think?!

hope you all understand and enjoy ♡

[ddwcaph-game]

Update Previews!

Today's update post has three new changes/additions:

New Character Development Variables for F6E

New Difficulty Settings

Trait and EXP Updates

Before I show the previews, I just wanna say that after this update, I'll try to focus more on the story, and less on the gameplay stuff. I've actually gotten a bunch of breakthroughs with the story recently, so look forward to the introduction posts of the other two crush options soon!

New Character Development Variables for F6E

I'm thinking of adding a second set of character development variables for F6E! While the primary purpose of the first set of variables is to determine how major story branches will play out, the second set is intended to be less impactful, and only affect flavor text and dialogue.

New Difficulty Settings

Instead of the starting twin relationship traits secretly modifying your NP cost and NP recovery stats, I decided to add new difficulty settings to the last choice in the prologue.

Here are the difficulty modifiers:

🟢 Slice-of-Life Difficulty: +10% Overall EXP, +25 Max NP, +12% NP Recovery, -20% NP Costs when retconning stat checks, Stat Penalties from 🤯 [HEADACHE!!!] are capped at 25% 🟡 Adventure Difficulty: Normal EXP, NP Cost, and NP Recovery modifiers 🔴 Superhero Difficulty: -10% Overall EXP, -25 Max NP, -12% NP Recovery, +50% NP Costs when retconning stat checks 🔥 Apocalyptic Difficulty: -33% Overall EXP, -50 Max NP, -12% NP Recovery, +100% NP Costs when retconning stat checks, Stat Penalties from 🤯 [HEADACHE!!!] are 25% Worse

It's important to note that the difficulty settings DO NOT change the stat check requirements, so this wouldn't really affect you much if you don't use NP very often. Your Max NP is now also tied to your Total EXP gained (you gain 1 Max NP for every 2,500 EXP gained instead of gaining Max NP every chapter), so that's why the settings give EXP Bonuses/Penalties. Of course, these are all subject to changes later.

Trait and EXP Updates

As I've said before, I'm reworking the "bucket list" idea to be much simpler. Some traits/passives will now give a small amount of EXP when you pick certain choices.

I'm adding these bonuses to make picking traits more impactful, make gaining EXP more meaningful, and to add a sense of progression/character development for your MC. For example, Troublemaker MCs will now gain a small amount of EXP when picking Sensible/Disciplined choices.

Here's the full list of additions:

The EXP bonuses are minor enough (most choices will only give around 10-30 EXP), so you won't really miss out on much if your Troublemaker MC wants to keep causing chaos anyway. The bonuses do stack however, so we'll see if the numbers need adjusting in the future.

The EXP Notification won't appear if you gain EXP this way, so don't worry about extra clutter! Speaking of, I actually found a bunch of bugs that made certain Traits give more/less EXP all the time while coding, so whoops! 😅 It's not really game-breaking so I'll just include the fix with the next update.

Anyway, that's all I got for now. Let me know what you think of the new changes!

[sandsorghum]

wc: 1.1k (more drabble than fic tbh)

tags: Virgin Higuruma | Friends to Lovers (?)

a/n: Really just an excuse for me to spew unhinged thoughts about FirstTimeHiguruma...Suggestive but nothing really explicit. Kinda told in his POV. Dunno if I'll ever develop this into a full story but enjoy...whatever this is??

Maybe...maybe he's in his mid20s, 2nd year of law school. Is a little insecure and defensive because he's got a bit of that internalised misogyny. Just a smidge. What's the big deal anyway, why are people so obsessed with sex - those conversations aren't worth his time. Don't his peers have better things to brag about or bond over?

Keeps his head down and mostly to himself. Ignores the couples snogging under the shade of sycamore trees as he cuts across the quad, averts his eyes from insufficiently surreptitious fingers skimming up thighs in coffee shops - Even the damn library isn't a place of refuge; with people sneaking off to the dimly lit, dusty sections where the obscure maritime law tomes are shelved but no apparently he's the one committing an invasion of privacy when he just wanted to look up the applications filed at the Tribunal for the Hoshinmaru case (2007, Japan V. Russian Federation) and not get an eyeful of folks sticking hands down pants.

So one day the two of you are hanging out in his room and somehow the topic comes up and he goes on an amusingly/impressively feminist rant about virginity just being a sexist myth and concept contrived to make (women's) chastity a commodified fetish as if they were prized chattel and why would he want to acknowledge any part of that antiquated invention and he has better things to do and why are you looking at him like that when you both have a Commercial Law exam to mug for, isn't that why you showed up in the first place?

And umm do you want his jacket, seems like you'd be chilly in that loose hanging top - it's slipped a little off your shoulder by the way - and why are you stalking- walking towards him like that and hangonhangonhangonhey-

Now see what you've done! You made him trip backwards on his bed and you're still leaning in way too close and since when did you start wearing lip gloss - wait you aren't? And that's just the natural shade of your mouth? oh ok cool cool cool fine goodtoknow - huh? why's it good for him to know? No- no reason- no he hasn't been wondering all evening - and wait why are you dropping to your knees now, come on, stop, you're taking this joke way too far like always - can't you tell it's humiliating for the both of you - huh? Did you just say you've always found him cute? The adjective ascribed to marsupials? You're associating it with him??

You like seeing his cheeks this colour? It reminds you of his frostbitten face when the two of you were the last to leave the library last winter semester, trekking across the field with just his nose peeking out from the higgly-piggedly stacked layers of his scarf, still trying to crack jokes to make you laugh and it had worked because you remember the sting of your chapped lips long after he walked you back to your room?

And well that's um...quite a vivid portrait of him, he doesn't really have that type of memory - No, he didn't mean that - of course he remembers the first evening you and him met and quickly became study buddies, pals, friends - definitely friends - and uuuhhhh are you sure this is something friends do?

Because now you have both hands resting on his parted thighs, your head nestled on his knee, how can you look so comfortable like this, with your cheek nuzzling lightly into his lap, moving a little further and further up to the throbbing, pounding pitch in his pants with every passing minute that he doesn't push you away or tell you to stop, he's never ached like this before, not even in his hormone-swamped dreams of the cloying feverish adolescence he thought he'd left behind years ago, and he thought he'd given into those futile impulses often enough not to be controlled by them, but no, the stifling denim swelling rises faster and faster the more desperately he tries to fight it, till the tented fabric is just about sweeping your cheek and hell, you shouldn't look so pleased with yourself, having this effect on him just by looking up at him through dark lashes and a darker gaze, but something's midnight-bright in them, like starlight in the pitch of winter

Like that night you'd both clambered up to the roof, abandoning the cacophony of the house party below, precariously perched with a couple beers and a quarter of the vodka you'd snagged on impulse, and you'd clung so tight to him, scuffling on the shingles, burying your squeaks and breathy giggles into his nape, shushing his chastisements midway as you passed the swig of the bottle directly from your mouth to his, and he remembers this, a careless question he's pondered more often than he'd like to admit, how he'd been unable to distinguish if the lingering scorch was from the distilled juniper or your lips, puffing little white clouds in this cloudless, snow-crisped evening, with you pressed into his body heat, teetering on the ledge and looking up at the spray of diamonds embroidered into the velvet of night, pointing out patterns in the celestial tapestry, both of you feigning expertise in astronomy before bursting into laughter at the blatant fibs when one of you, he can't recall which of you, gestures at a cluster of seven stars and declares it "the Big Slipper" and who knows what other snarky quips and idle half-truths you exchanged that night, he only recollects your confession that you were actually pretty terrified of heights, the admission crystal clear in his memory because he remembers the evidence, remembers the way your pulse was embedded in his bones, the way his blood was thrumming with the wild thudding of your heartbeat until he wrapped his arms securely around you, your ribs rising and falling slowly into sync with his and some other memory splinters its way to the surface now, crackling through his subconscious, how the air froze in his lungs for no reason, no reason at all, when his eyes settled on you looking up, again with your lips looking a little chapped, enraptured by the stars above, murmuring how you wished this night with him could last forever...

And of course it didn't, winter thawed into spring, which crept into summer, which slouched into autumn, after hundreds of highlighted paragraphs on mens rea and thousands of annotations on procedural processes, after so many shots of espresso long past closing time at the on-campus coffee shop where he was a part-time barista, fuel you'd always insisted on paying for, although he'd raided innumerable cans of redbull from your dorm free of charge, and you said you didn't really like their taste anyway so then why did you always happen to have a full six-pack stocked in your fridge?

Just another mystery he's never given much mind, with all the case studies the both of yall have had to cram in your heads instead, and after losing count of the stacks of flashcards blurring in your hand and the smirks you'd flashed him every time you scored a few points higher than him on a pop quiz, and now you're here, in his room, on your knees, having pulled the Milky Way galaxy into your gaze, dragging a comet up through his belly, pillars of fire erupting in his lungs as he witnesses the moonrise of your mouth, soft lips curving crescent sharp around a question, a question just for him, both the sincere desire - the hunger - in your eyes and lilt in your tone makes his pulse leap to his throat, makes his blood plummet south as you ask, just this once, if he trusts you to make him feel good too?

And he's trembling, as is the answer on his tongue, only the familiarity of your audacity grounding him somehow, because you're asking it with that smile, the smile which has been wrapped and squeezing around his head, for longer than you could possibly know...

© sandsorghum. 2025

[whentherewerebicycles]

my baby is eight months old and every month of his wonderful little life has been better and more joyful than the last (which is saying something, because every month has been so good). he is still very Baby but he is also suddenly blossoming into a little kid before my eyes and it’s so much to handle 😭 he has always been an expressive talker but these days he has the most delightfully animated little conversations with himself, full of complex baby feelings like surprise and delight and shock and glee and of course spluttering indignation (you would not BELIEVE the wrongs done to angelic little babies these days! they have to take naps in their CRIBS!!). he laughs and gasps and hoots and fake coughs, and then he looks at you with a sly little expression to see if you think he’s funny. he is silliest with me by far (he still gets a bit shy and reserved around new people) but he also absolutely adores Liz & A and his nanny and breaks into the most bashful gummy little grin as soon as they walk into a room. he is still bald as an egg but NOT FOR LONG, as he wakes up every morning with more dark fuzz on his big round noggin. this month he learned to sit up and now he wants to be sitting up playing with his toys all the time (he is over the moon to have discovered a mother-approved alternative to accursed tummy time). he has developed strong preferences for certain toys along with the motor skills to select the objects he wants, and he is quite discerning—last week’s toys are so last week and he gets an impatient expression on his face if you try to entice him with formerly beloved objects that are just like sooooo over, mom, pleaseee don’t embarrass him in front of his friends (the dogs). speaking of the dogs it is his most cherished desire to pat them but they give him a wide berth except for the occasional facewash sneak attack. he spends a lot of time bouncing up and down in his seat reaching longingly for them while they ignore him completely. he has the chonkiest most solid little baby feet you have ever seen in your life and little fat bow legs that curve down to his chonky little feet and perfect fat little baby hands that he loves to slam repeatedly against his tray or his mat or your face. he has one little razor-sharp sliver of a front bottom tooth and I genuinely CANNOT handle it, it is just too much, he gives you his square little gummy smile and then you see the TOOTH and you’re like that’s it, I’m dead, this killed me. he had perfectly shaped little orecchiette ears when he was born and I am delighted to report that they remain absolutely perfect and when you nibble on them he acts like you’re tickling him and does his little turtle-in-a-shell teeheehee reaction. I would say that his basic temperament is the same but perhaps tends more towards a happiness default than the reserved watchfulness of previous months. he is still quite watchful—in all the daycare videos I get he is sitting with the big kids observing them play with a totally focused expression—but he is also delightfully silly and laughs a lot, especially at home. if he’s not hungry and has napped reasonably well, he is easygoing, adaptable, and game for pretty much whatever. he is such a good sleeper I can’t tell anyone in my offline life about it except liz whose baby is also a unicorn sleeper… but honestly I think that’s probably the root of his default good mood (if I slept 12 hours a night I’d also be the best possible version of myself). let’s see what else… idk this month has just been so fun. he’s just a little person now and I genuinely enjoy hanging out with him. I just think he rocks.

his favorite toy in this exact moment: his stacking cups, especially when you put a plastic ball inside of them for him to tip out onto the floor. his most beloved object: his squishmallow, of course, which sends him into transports of delight when he sees it. his favorite food: with the exception of arugula this child has never met a food he didn’t like. he LIVES to EAT. words his daycare teacher most frequently uses to describe him: “Owen is SOOOO hungry!!!” other favorite activities this month: kicking in the bath or in the pool, watching trees go by on car rides, slamming his hands as hard as he can against his high chair tray, watching the dogs wrestle, being swung slowly back and forth like the pendulum in a giant clock, gazing at his beautiful reflection in the mirror, kissing his beautiful reflection in the mirror, having mom make his squish swoop down from high above to CHOMP him, chewing on the edges of plastic bins, and scritch-scratching the rock wall outside of our house. he’s perfect. my beloved little kiddo.

[comically-callous]

OK SO HI AGAIN I have an idea for Reggie again (I am sorry if this is getting annoying please let me know and I will stop)

But I had a thought like were in the library or something and reader is reading with Reggie and then she blurts out a random nickname (idk what there called) but instead of it being cute like love or darling it something stupid like chicken nugget?? And then you can have Reggie’s reaction to it being like are you okay what was that??

ALSO PLEASE DO NOT FEEL PRESSURED TO WRITE ANY OF THESE AND TAKE YOUR TIME IF YOU NEED

Ok, this. But, I've decided to take some creative liberty and change the nickname to

😚🦄💖 Babygirl 💖🦄😚

Thank you.

Regulus Black x gn!Reader

A/n: This one's a little short. But, that's okay. Y'all already know, requests are open

You loved spending your afternoons like this.

Cooped up in the library, studying with Regulus. It was nice, quiet, sweet. Plus, knowing you'd get to spend time with Regulus while studying was good motivation to actually do it.

The two of you sat next to each other at a table in the corner of the large library. You were working on a Herbology essay you had to turn in tomorrow while he read about some boring old wizard for his history of magic class.

A few textbooks were stacked on top of each other beside you, some were for you and some were for Regulus. You were in the middle of writing when Regulus spoke.

"Could you pass me that textbook that's on the top of the stack?" He whispered.

You looked up from your parchment and smiled at him.

"Anything for you, babygirl."

...

Oh my God, why would you say that?

You and your friends had all developed a habit of jokingly calling each other "babygirl", because... Well, because you all thought it was funny.

But, that was an inside joke reserved for your friends. You never intended on calling your boyfriend babygirl.

And yet, you just did. And now he was looking at you with a look of bewilderment.

"What?" Regulus managed.

"Uh-" There was no way to go but down. "Anything for you, babygirl." You repeated.

He paused, just looking at you with that same look of bewilderment for a moment and then snickered. Not long after it had turned into a full on laughing fit. His head was down and his hand covered his mouth as he tried to stifle his laughter. You couldn't help but quietly laugh with him.

"That was so stupid." You said, covering your face with your hands in embarrassment.

"Yeah, I can't argue with that." He said as he finally stopped laughing. "Why did you-"

"I really don't know." You chuckled, uncovering your face to see his amused grin. "It slipped out."

"It slipped out?" He repeated. "Is that how you refer to me internally? Was that something you'd just been holding in?" He said through quiet laughter.

"No! That not what I meant. I just-" You ran a hand down your face. "It's a dumb joke I have with my friends. I didn't mean to-"

"Call me your 'babygirl'?" He finished in a teasing tone.

You blushed. "Yes." You shook your head. "That was so dumb. I can't believe I said that."

"Still not the worst nickname I've ever been called." He shrugged.

You tilted your head. "Really? What's the worst one, then?"

"Barty once called me his pookie bear, and I-"

You let out a loud laugh, quickly covering your mouth as Madam Pince shushed you. Regulus quietly chuckled along with you. "Pookie bear is definitely worse than babygirl." He stated.

"That's fair." You agreed.

There was a brief pause in which you both got all of your laughter out. Regulus sighed and spoke up again. "I still need that textbook."

"Right. Of course." You grabbed the textbook he needed and handed it to him.

"Thanks."

You smirked. "Anything for you, babygirl."

[neobastard]

neopets posted a very lengthy update to the portal site, the new format replacing the monthly AMAs.

the full post can be found here: https://portal.neopets.com/news/may22-neopets-updates

but i'll summarize the community questions and other updates beneath the cut:

community QnA:

Q: is neopets planning a "rugpull"?

A: no, the team working on the site has doubled over the past two years and everyone is working hard to revive not just the brand but the site itself. these teams' commitment to both neopets,com and spinoff projects and merchandise for brand relevance is described as "unwavering"

Q: why are they making money with nc releases but not improving the site?

A: there are different teams working on engineering, improvements, and nc releases simultaneously. the engineering and improvement team is much larger than the team working on nc, it's just less visible to players than new items because it's "wizard behind the curtain" changes (they described it as fixing issues on an older tech stack). every dollar they make goes back into neopets in some form, including events, collaborations, and further development. the company is still at a loss but it's not as dire as it used to be two years ago (which is a great improvement, NC discourse aside).

as for major updates:

revamped NC mall - the nc mall will get a new converted layout around late Q2 to Q3 this year, and a tutorial along with the changes.

easier to find on-site wishlist

one click purchasing (alongside the cart)

fixed pet preview!!

reorganized shop directory

new shopkeeper NPCs

here's the new mockup:

website loading speed improvements - there's been a 35% improvement in loading speed since january as a result of specific optimizations, such as backend enhancements, optimizing database queries, cleaning up records, and upgrading servers (a bunch of tech talk essentially)

anti botting progress - neopets has seen a 15% reduction in bot traffic by blocking it at the network level (which likely improved the performance of the site in and of itself). they intend to further tighten defenses, through methods that remain unstated but will likely hit these paid bots and the people who benefit from them hard.

wearable NP and NC item bug fixes - 37 items have been fixed since april, with 21 items on the chopping block for later this month.

and what's on the horizon:

altador cup: they grey year

enhancements to jhudora and illusen's quests, including new battledome item returns (and a $7 club perk that grants extra time)

more progress on converting NP and NC items

expansion of the avatar high score table

adding invisible pets to the customization spotlight

updates to the trading post, including a page conversion

and of course, the void within: episode 2

i'm glad that this new format allows for more transparency, a lot of people thought the video/stream format was too "corporate" and so these big updates to the portal allows them to cover a lot more. i'm excited for what's to come, and i'm honestly glad they ripped the bandaid off and just outright said "yeah we're working on the site behind the scenes y'all just don't see that part cause it's nerd shit".

a lot has improved over the last two years in this site, and i'm appreciative of the team's hard work regardless of my numerous complaints about things like neocash items and the $7 club. they clearly care about feedback and making neopets for the players before all else including any kind of profit.

[allgirlsareprincesses]

Love At First Sight (2023)

Okay, we’re going to talk about the new Netflix romance directed by Vanessa Caswill, Love At First Sight, because I’m seeing almost no chatter about it and that cannot stand. Full disclosure, I’ve never read the book on which this movie is based, The Statistical Probability of Love at First Sight, so I’m reacting only to the film (which I’ve now seen 4.5 times in 2 days).

The Surface Reading

It’s a perfect, tight, adorable little RomCom that’s heavy on the Rom and light on the Com, with a wrenching dash of angst and the most hair-twirling chemistry between two leads that has graced our screens in years. Truly, if all you want is 90 minutes of two actors being saccharine precious cinnamon rolls, look no further!

There are simple takeaways here, like that chance can only take you so far, but in the end you have to choose to love. Or that change and loss are part of life and you can’t run from them. Or that London is a massive labyrinth of eccentric people that probably looks 400% cooler onscreen than it is in reality (I wouldn’t know, I’ve never visited, so this and the 90s Parent Trap are the extent of my knowledge about the city, sorry).

Anyway, I adored how straightforward the story was - that the narrator (played brilliantly by Jameela Jamil) tells you directly in the first two minutes that it’s a story about love, fate, and statistics. She then repeatedly describes every development as it is happening, the characters’ histories and internal monologues, and all the context you need to follow the thin but fast-paced plot. The writing, performances, and production design are all solid, allowing the audience to get lost in the romance as it unfolds.

BUT if you’re slightly unhinged like I am and you’re always looking for more layers in your media, HAVE NO FEAR! There is in fact more going on in this little movie than you might expect.

Color Theory

For starters, the use of red and green in the film is fascinating. Yes, I realize the action of the story takes place a few days before Christmas, so you might assume it was just a seasonal aesthetic choice, but if you look closer, you can see very carefully selected shades of red and green repeating throughout the film. The red is a cool, deep rose color, sometimes pink, while the green is cool and dark, like oxidized bronze rather than emerald. Further, while they appear over and over, these hues are rarely used in a purely decorative or festive way. Instead, they play a role in the separation and coming together of the couple. On a color wheel, red and green are complements, perfect opposites that are never adjacent but always joined in the middle.

The title card during Hadley’s introduction is literally a green stripe over a red stripe, then the hallways of the airport are green, and of course Hadley’s ever-important backpack is a rosy red. As the couple grow closer on their flight, the light turns pink. Once in London, a green van takes Oliver one way while a red taxi takes Hadley the other. At her father’s wedding, Hadley is dressed in red (“the color of a bruise” she calls it), contrasting beautifully against her green jacket. Upon realizing Oliver’s true purpose, she chases after him on an iconic red double-decker bus. Meanwhile at the living memorial, Oliver’s father is dressed in red while his mother wears a faded green, as if to say she is already beginning to fade away. The event is decorated with green drapery and streamers, and there are even stacks of red and green chairs in the stairwell where Oliver begs his mother to receive treatment.

Hadley gifts her red and green bouquet to Tessa, and when she is driven away, a green-clad narrator returns the red backpack to Oliver. Wandering London alone, Hadley exchanges her painful red heels for a pair of green trainers (“sneakers!” she insists), and tries to call her dad first in a red phone booth and then on a phone from a stranger sitting in a cluster of red chairs. Finally, Oliver chooses to pursue Hadley to the wedding reception which is lit in pink, and where they finally share the long-awaited kiss.

There are many more examples, but in general we see that green indicates separation and loss, while red symbolizes joining, intimacy, and (what else?) love! It lends the film a gorgeous, subtle aesthetic without being garishly festive, and shows the lovers’ emotional journey from lonely childhood to vulnerable, loving adulthood.

Death and Rebirth

Speaking of which, there’s plenty of rebirth imagery too! When Hadley and Oliver meet, they are both still children, struggling with the impending loss of parental security through divorce and death. Thus, when they board the plane, it is as if they enter an underworld or womb, separated from their families and remade as new adults. They emerge on the other side into a hallway (read: birth canal), as each must still confront their own dying childhood before they can join as full and equal partners. Hadley journeys to a bright, red-strewn celebration of life, while Oliver must enter a dark green commemoration of death, his fear driving him deeper to hide in another hallway. Here his mother comes to find him, begging him to emerge into life, but Ollie still can’t confront her death alone.

Thankfully, Hadley travels to this underworld to find him, bursting into the memorial like a bright red flower. Even the bruise metaphor works, acknowledging the pain they are both experiencing at the changes in their lives. But Oliver still refuses to face his fears, trying to take a shortcut around death to life with Hadley. Still, she knows he’s not ready (likely because she’s not yet, either), and gently pushes back. And so, Oliver returns to the underworld, and Hadley walks off alone until she descends barefoot through a soggy riverside tunnel (birth canal again!). Finally, she calls her father and admits she is “lost.” When he arrives, Hadley at last gathers the courage to ask why he ended their old life, and to tell him how much it hurt her. But as Oliver predicted, she forgives her dad and even begins to accept his new bride.

Back at the memorial, Oliver is reminded by Hadley’s red backpack - his unaddressed emotional baggage - to be honest about his pain. In at last openly mourning his mother and his own childhood, Ollie takes a step into adulthood, just enough for his family to nudge him that extra bit to go after Hadley. And so, the family delivers him to his bride, who has meanwhile learned to dance again, even through her heartbreak. With one last confession, the two consummate their love with a kiss, bathed in pink light before an open door.

Happily Ever After

There’s so much more, with the hand-holding, numbers, Shakespeare, Dickens, the music, and beyond, but the point is that this cute, charming little romance is actually very deliberately constructed. It follows timeless patterns and motifs which we instinctively understand through visual and auditory language. And the narration plays a huge role in this as well, not unlike the prologues and epilogues of the Bard’s plays in that they state the story’s lessons plainly: that we cannot always be prepared for unwelcome surprises, but that we can make the choice to love every day.

Anyway, Vanessa Caswill deserves all the flowers and if you haven’t seen her gorgeous adaptation of Little Women (with all due respect to the marvelous Greta Gerwig and Gillian Armstrong), please do yourself a favor and watch that after you finish this!