#its just i write things and never like them...

[sealsshitpostden]

Get into other fandoms, we will welcome you happily, Your feelings of attachment to the franchise ARE valid...but you HAVE to face them, and learn to move on.

I am very sure that if you ask anyone in a fandom ¨hey, i wanna get int something new, i want to get away from hp ¨ they WILL help you out, and i know i myself would too! Its always fun to get into a new hobbie...But as it stands, hp is a cancer that needs to be extirpated, please, please see it as it is...i beg of you...Others can make it easier for you, but...you have to make the choice to move on yourself. Fuck it, literally DM me if you are interested! I will get you into 7 different things that will completely take over you if you let them, i am into so many fandoms. Play limbus company if you want something gritty, yet wonderfully written, and with a fair share of silly! I have 1300 hours on that game, and its a gacha game so you WONT have time to even think about hp, or if you dont want that, try out library of ruina! it is an amazing story with a greatly designed ¨beat enemy, get to use enemy's power¨ that i think you guys might like! Lobotomy corporation also exists, if you like the thrill of overcoming impossible odds, and SCP...AND the fanbase is welcoming to an almost fanatic degree! Join us, we are totally not a cult. Get into retroachievements, play games from before you were born, or from when you were a kid but never played, some games can take months and months Play VRchat if you want to meet people or, fuck it even get into ERP, i do not care and noone else will in the slightest Balatro exists, You probably know of it. Read Percy jackson, its a classic for a reason...and fuck it, if you wanna keep at it with ¨magic school¨ you can play a minecraft modpack with some friends that is focused on magic! theres a ton of them HELL, get into writing! make your own, legally distinct magical world with your friends and enjoy yourself! Writing is great And if that sounds appealing, but too much work, Try out Dnd! TTRPGs have never, ever been more accesible, and 5e is super easy to pick up with the help of literally anyone who knows how it works, you can make your OWN magical story, where you do not even NEED to be the main character, you can perfectly play the role of a side character watching/helping the protagonists do their thing, while being equally as important if you so choose! the possibilities are endless! I have had to discard my childhood completely, I am transgender, and it was miserable...But you can do it, i believe in you! AND i do mean it, Harry potter's actor, Daniel Radcliff (Who is quite *rad*) whose entire thing was being known AS ¨guy who played harry potter¨ has manage to overcome that completely, and just does his own thing now! i love his acting even if im not a big movie gal. You can do it, you do not need your past, even if it may be a comfort, to be a worthwhile person today, to be happy. I feel like this is what people, angrily, think when they say ¨READ A NEW BOOK¨ but its veiled in so much exhaustion due to JK's horrible, horrible actions that...I feel like some people could do with this post! Anyways, have a nice day, i do mean it, thanks for reading this far.

Let me make this clear. If I see you reblogging Harry Potter, if I see you doing that "Hogwarts house" in bio bullshit, if I see you writing hp fanfic or whatever I assume you are a transphobe. "But it's my special interest!" Don't care. "But it's just fanfic!" Didn't ask. "But I'm trans!" You should know better.

Don't like it? Stop putting the works of the world's worst terf on your blog. I don't care if you pirate it, you're still giving the series continued relevance and you're publicly making yourself look unsafe for trans women to be around.

[theonottsbxtch]

WHEN THE CITY FALLS | OP81/LS2

an: hello! so this is what ive been cooking up behind your backs recently, a 14k logan? oscar? fic i dont exactly know who the love intrest is per say but its a spiderman!oscar au. so enjoy this story as it has taken a long long time to write lol

wc: 14.8k

summary: three close friends drift apart when one disappears for two years and returns with wealth, ambition, and a dangerous invention. as his creation spirals out of control, the city teeters on the edge of destruction. in the chaos, hidden truths emerge, and one of them may be the only hope left to stop it.

NEW YORK IN THE WINTER WAS ALWAYS A LITTLE CRUEL. The wind rolled in off the river with a bitterness that got under your skin, finding the gaps between scarves and sleeves, and the sky sat heavy above the skyline like it had nowhere else to go. Snow hadn't fallen yet, not properly, but there was the threat of it in the air, sharp and metallic, like something unsaid.

She stood at the corner of Delancey and Ridge, boots damp from the puddles left by yesterday’s half-hearted rain, a coffee gone cold in her gloved hands. Across the street, the lights of a bodega buzzed with the familiar, uninviting warmth of too-bright fluorescents. She could hear someone shouting in Spanish two blocks down, the rumble of the subway far beneath her feet, and above it all, the ceaseless, aching pulse of the city.

Logan used to say New York had a heartbeat. That you could feel it if you were quiet enough. But Logan was never quiet for long.

She hadn't seen him in months.

Not properly, anyway.

Logan Sargeant had always been too much. Too sharp, too quick, too beautiful in the kind of way that hurt to look at for too long. He’d grown into a man that mirrored the city. Cold on the outside, burning with something dangerous just beneath the surface. Blond hair, now cut short, framed eyes too blue to be kind. His childhood had carved out pieces of him, taken soft things and turned them to steel. And still, for a long time, he’d been theirs, hers and Oscar’s. Until he wasn’t.

Oscar Piastri was different. Always had been. Quiet, but not shy. He had the sort of presence that didn’t need to announce itself. A boy with calloused fingers from too many sketchbooks and eyes that saw more than they ever let on. He still lived two floors above her in the same battered brownstone they’d all grown up in, still fixed her leaky taps when she asked, still brought her takeout when she forgot to eat. Sweet, reliable Oscar. But even he was changing, these days.

There were nights he didn’t come home. Cuts he didn’t explain. That distant look she caught in the reflection of a window, right before he smiled and asked her how her day had been.

Everything was shifting, and she could feel it, like standing on the edge of something vast, something waiting to fall apart.

She remembered a time when the three of them had belonged to each other. Summers on rooftops with cheap beer and even cheaper laughter. Nights spent stargazing through fire escapes, hands brushing by accident. Secrets shared like promises.

But that was before Logan disappeared for two years. Before he came back stranger than before—richer, smarter, colder. Before Oscar started vanishing into alleyways and coming back with bruises and excuses.

Now, something hung between all of them. Not quite memory, not quite betrayal.

And she was standing in the middle of it, still hoping, naively, foolishly, that maybe she could hold the pieces together.

Even as they splintered around her.

The wind changed, and she caught the distant clang of scaffolding in motion, another high-rise going up on the Lower East Side, another piece of sky eaten by glass and ambition. She turned down a narrow street flanked by graffiti-covered brick and bins overflowing with city decay, the coffee still untouched in her hand.

There were footsteps behind her: light, familiar.

"You're late," she said, without turning.

Oscar fell into step beside her, his jacket dusted with street grime, hood drawn up against the wind. There was something restless in the way he moved, like his skin didn't quite fit anymore.

"Sorry," he murmured, giving her a sheepish glance. "Had to... help someone out."

She didn't press. Not anymore. The last time she’d asked, he’d lied with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

"You look like you've been in a fight," she said instead, eyeing the faint bruise along his jaw.

He gave a quiet laugh. "You should see the other guy."

It was a joke, but it didn’t land. The silence that followed was too familiar. Worn in, like old denim.

She paused at a crosswalk, watching as a cab tore through a red light like the rules didn’t apply. That was the thing about New York. It moved too fast for second chances.

"I ran into Logan yesterday," Oscar said, and the words hit like ice down the spine.

She turned slowly, the name sitting between them like a fault line.

"Where?"

"Midtown. He was just... there. Like he hadn’t disappeared for two years. Wearing some tailored coat and that look he gets when he knows something you don’t."

That look. She knew it too well. The one that made you feel like a puzzle he’d already solved and was just humouring.

Oscar shoved his hands into his pockets, jaw clenched. "He said he wanted to talk. Said he was back for good this time."

"Do you believe him?"

Oscar didn’t answer right away. When he did, it was soft. Tired.

"I don’t know. He’s not the same."

Neither are you, she thought, but didn’t say it.

They walked the next block in silence. It was colder now, the clouds thickening, and her coffee had definitely gone bad. Still, she didn’t let go of it. Something about the weight of it grounded her.

"He asked about you," Oscar said suddenly, his tone unreadable.

Her throat tightened. "What did you say?"

"That you were still here. Still... you."

She looked away. That word felt fragile these days. Like it didn’t mean what it used to.

They stopped outside her building, the stoop still half-covered in yellow leaves that no one had bothered to sweep. The same chipped door. The same rusted letterbox. A world still standing while everything else was quietly coming undone.

Oscar hesitated, eyes lingering on her face like he was memorising it.

"Be careful, yeah?" he said.

"With Logan?"

He gave a short nod.

She wanted to ask him what he knew. What he suspected. But the city was humming again, loud and unrelenting, and she felt suddenly very small beneath it.

Oscar left her with a quiet goodbye and the echo of footsteps on cracked pavement.

She stood there a while longer, staring up at the sky as the first snow began to fall, soft, almost shy, like the city had remembered how to be gentle.

But she knew better.

Some storms didn’t come with thunder.

They came wearing familiar faces.

The lift in her building had been broken since August. The landlord kept saying it was “on the list,” but she wasn’t sure he even knew what a list was. So she climbed the stairs. Twelve floors, each one creaking like it might finally give in under her boots.

By the tenth, her breath was shallow, and her limbs ached with the kind of fatigue that had nothing to do with the stairs. She reached the twelfth landing, paused to collect herself, and then pushed open the heavy fire door.

He was there.

Leaning against the railing of the communal balcony like he'd never left. Like he hadn't vanished without warning and taken something irreplaceable with him. The skyline was a blurred grey behind him and for a second she almost saw the boy he'd been. Grinning, brilliant, with a laugh that carried across rooftops.

"Thought I heard someone dragging their feet up here," Logan said without turning, his voice still that maddening blend of silk and smirk.

She crossed her arms, wary. "You're not supposed to be up here. They locked this level last year after the whole scaffolding incident."

He looked over his shoulder at her, blue eyes lit with mischief and something darker. "Good to know some things never change. You, playing by the rules."

"And you, breaking them."

He laughed, low and easy, and it stung how much of her still responded to that sound.

"Come on," he said, pushing off the railing and walking towards her, hands in the pockets of a coat that looked expensive, like everything he owned now. "I haven’t seen you in how long, and that’s the greeting I get?"

She tilted her head. "You’re lucky you’re getting anything at all."

He stopped in front of her, closer than comfort allowed, and for a breath she thought he might apologise. But Logan Sargeant had never been good with guilt. He just looked at her like he was still trying to work her out, still trying to stay two steps ahead.

"You look the same," he murmured. "Only sharper. Like the city’s finally caught up with you."

"And you look like you just stepped out of a stock portfolio."

He grinned. "Guilty. I’ve done alright for myself."

She narrowed her eyes. "Doing what, exactly?"

He glanced away, then back, the grin fading into something more deliberate. Calculated.

"That’s actually why I’m here."

"Right. You didn’t just come back to loiter on rooftops and haunt old friends."

He chuckled again, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "I’ve been working on something. A project. Something big."

She didn’t answer, just waited, still as the concrete beneath them.

"It’s tech," he continued, leaning on the railing again, gaze drifting out over the city. "Osc—well, he wouldn’t get it. He’s got his whole... moral compass thing going. But you always saw things clearer."

"You mean I didn’t try to stop you when you crossed lines."

"No," he said, with a flash of sincerity. "You understood why I crossed them."

That silenced her.

"I need someone who can help me with the neurological interface part," Logan said after a pause. "It’s experimental. Military-adjacent, but I’m reworking the design. Smarter, more elegant. I’ve hit a wall."

"And you thought of me."

He looked at her again. This time, there was no smirk. Just that boy she used to know, hidden somewhere behind too many sleepless nights and bad decisions.

"I never stopped thinking about you."

The lights flickered above them, a thousand pinpricks in the corridor.

"I’ll send you the specs," he said, without much more, heading toward the stairwell. "Just have a look. That’s all I’m asking."

He paused at the door.

"I missed you."

Then he was gone.

And she stood there alone with her cold coffee and thoughts, because the boy she’d loved was still in there somewhere.

But something else was growing in him, too.

Something dangerous.

Her flat still smelled faintly of jasmine and burnt toast. Comfort and chaos in equal measure. She tossed her keys onto the counter, kicked off her boots, and tried not to think about how Logan had sounded when he said I missed you.

She failed, obviously.

The email came in not long after she’d switched on the little lamp by the sofa, its warm glow chasing away the creeping dusk. Subject line: Interface: concept files. No message, just the attachment. Classic Logan. All mystery, no manners.

She hesitated before opening it. Something in her gut twisted, instinct honed over years of knowing when things seemed fine but weren’t. Still, curiosity had always been her fatal flaw, and Logan had always known how to wield it.

The file was... extensive. Schematics, neural maps, prototype visuals. It wasn’t just “tech.” It was weaponry. Not in the conventional sense, but in potential. A sleek glider prototype integrated with AI feedback loops. A cognitive synchronisation helmet that could read and respond to neural signals in real time. And then there were notes in the margins, written in Logan’s exacting hand.

Emotional override needed. Current model reacts too strongly to fear.

Must correct aggression triggers. Still too unpredictable. Or not?

User = control. No limits. No interference.

Her heart beat faster the more she read.

It was brilliant. Unquestionably. Years ahead of what most companies were developing. But there was a coldness to it, a ruthlessness she didn’t recognise. Or maybe she did, and just hadn’t wanted to see it before.

She pushed the laptop away, stood, started pacing. There’d been late-night conversations once, Logan talking about power, about how the world didn’t reward kindness, about how if he had control, things would be different. Better. He’d laughed when she called him dramatic. Said she didn’t get it.

Maybe she hadn't.

Until now.

A knock rattled the door. Sharp. Three taps.

Her heart lurched, she didn’t know why, but she opened it without checking the peephole.

Oscar stood there. Hoodie up. Eyes wide.

“You saw him,” he said.

She nodded.

“He gave you something, didn’t he?”

She stepped back silently, let him in. He stalked to the kitchen like he lived there, which, in some ways, he always had.

“I didn’t open it right away,” she said, like it mattered.

Oscar didn’t look at her. His jaw was tight.

“He’s not just back to catch up,” he said. “He’s working with people. Dangerous ones.”

“How do you know?”

He finally turned, and there it was, that look again. Like he’d seen too much. Like he was balancing on a knife’s edge between exhaustion and something heavier.

“Because I followed him last night,” he admitted. “I saw him meeting with Oscorp defectors. People no one good wants to be seen with. And I found this.”

He pulled something from his jacket, crumpled, faintly singed. A test printout. Identical design language to the file on her screen. Same logo Logan had tried to scrub from the schematics. Only this version had a name scrawled across the top.

“Project Harpy.”

She stared. “Harpy?”

Oscar nodded grimly. “Old military codename. The original model was meant for field destabilisation, crowd control through terror. They scrapped it. Too unstable. Logan’s trying to rebuild it.”

She sat down, hard.

“So what do we do?” she whispered.

Oscar’s expression darkened. “We stop him.”

But she wasn’t sure if he meant to stop the project.

Or stop Logan.

She didn’t speak for a long time.

She just let Oscar talk while he moved around the kitchen like he needed to, like stillness might swallow him whole. He talked of what they could do with liminal information until the sunset. He had poured two mugs of tea even though she hadn’t asked, but at no point did she talk about the file, until she did.

The sun began to set through her small window when she pointed at her screen.

“He’s not building a weapon,” she said eventually. “Not just that. It’s like he’s building himself into it.”

Oscar’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?” She hesitated. The words were thick in her throat. “He used to talk about it. Control. Power. Not having to be afraid anymore.” Oscar leaned against the side of the sofa, his shoulders taut. “He was afraid. All the time. You know that.”

“I know,” she said. Quiet. “I was there.” And suddenly she was back there. Fourteen, rain on the fire escape, Logan shaking with cold and rage after another row with his dad, her arms around him, his whisper against her skin: Don’t let go. Promise you won’t let go.  (By the way the devilish idea i have for this part)

And she hadn’t.

Not until he made her.

Oscar watched her carefully. Like he saw too much and said too little.

“You cared about him.” It wasn’t a question.

She didn’t deny it. She didn’t look at him either.

“It wasn’t just friendship,” she said finally. “But it never became anything, not really. Just moments.”

Oscar nodded slowly, like he was memorising the shape of that hurt. He didn’t push. He never did. 

“You should get some rest,” he said. His voice was gentler now. “You’ve been up since early this morning, and this isn’t something we’ll figure out in one night.”

She didn’t argue. Her limbs were heavy, and the anxiety had started to settle somewhere deep in her chest, too wide to dislodge. Still, when she walked toward the bedroom, Oscar followed, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It had happened before. Sleepless nights and old films, falling asleep shoulder to shoulder on the sofa when the city felt too loud. This was just that again. Except it wasn’t.

He hesitated at the door.

"You sure?" he asked, quiet.

She nodded. "Yeah. I don’t want to be alone tonight."

And he didn’t say anything more. Just stepped inside and laid down on the far side of the bed, facing the ceiling. There was space between them. Not enough, not really.

She lay on her side, back to him, staring at the wall.

Her mind was still on Logan.

On the way he’d looked at her, like she was still his. The way he’d said ‘I missed you’ and made it sound like a promise and a warning at once.

He wasn’t just back with a plan. He was back with purpose. And she knew, deep in her bones, that he’d find a way to use what they’d shared. Twist it. Weaponise it, like everything else.

Oscar shifted behind her. She could feel the warmth of him, the rise and fall of his breathing.

He didn’t touch her. Didn’t try to.

But there was something unspoken in the air between them, like maybe he wanted to. Like maybe he had for a long time.

She closed her eyes.

And all she could see was Logan.

The morning came grey and low, clouds pressed against the windows like the city itself couldn’t quite wake up.

She blinked against the dull light, the bedsheets twisted around her legs. The other side of the bed was empty, cold already. Oscar was gone.

She sat up slowly, brushing her hair from her face, the weight of the night before still knotted in her chest. For a moment, she let herself wonder if she’d imagined him being there at all, just another ghost in an apartment full of them.

When she stepped out into the front room, the kettle was cooling down. A cup of tea waited in the microwave, hastily made, eliciting a small chuckle out of her. He’d always done the same thing in the past couple of months.

From the corridor she could hear her neighbour’s cat meowing for access to the balcony. She walked to the front door, turned the bolt then pulled, only to get halted by the chain still being on. 

She frowned.

Oscar couldn’t have left that on from the inside. Not unless…

She stopped herself. Told herself he’d maybe left through the fire escape even though he knew it was dangerous. 

But something about it itched at the edge of her thoughts.

Brushing it off, she let the cat out and walked back into the kitchen, pulling out the cold tea, not bothering to heat it.

Logan’s file still sat open on her laptop, the schematics staring back at her like a dare. She skimmed them again—lines and circuits, symbols she recognised from years of university lectures, annotated with little notes only someone who knew her would write.

You always hated redundancies. Fixed it for you.

Bet you’d tell me this is idiotic. (You’re probably right.)

It was the kind of thing he used to do. Tease. Impress. Show off. It used to make her laugh. Now it made her heart sit wrong in her chest.

She walked up to the laptop and noticed something she hadn’t earlier, then she grabbed her coat.

Fuck looking like a normal human being, she thought.

Then in her head she heard sixteen year old Logan in her head, “Who would even care if I walked out the house in my boxers, we’re in New York!”

The note had an address, the building across town where her and Logan went when Oscar was working. An old sublet on East 19th. Classic Logan.

She told herself she was only going to get answers, that she wasn’t seeking him out. 

The streets were quieter than usual. Maybe the weather had kept people in bed longer. Or maybe the city was holding its breath. 

She reached the building just after eight. Tall, red brick, windows like hollow eyes. The lift here did work, and she took it up to the aforementioned floor, her heart shuddering harader with every number that ticked past. It wasn’t normal for an office this big to be so empty.

When the doors opened, he was already waiting.

Like he’d known she’d come.

“Morning, love,” Logan said, barefoot, tousle haired, mug in hand. He looked too at ease in this makeshift studio. “Miss me already?” She stepped out slowly, ignoring the flutter in her chest. “Where is everyone?”

He tilted his head. “Funny thing about abandoned buildings. They tend to be, well. Abandoned.”

“You’re working out of this?” she asked, eyebrows lifting. “Seems dramatic, even for you.”

He took a sip of his coffee, unbothered. “Bit of peace and quiet does wonders. Besides…” He leaned against the doorframe, gaze trailing down her like a memory. “Nice of you to drop in first thing in the morning. Makes it less lonely.”

“You’re working out of this?” she asked, raising a brow. “Seems dramatic, even for you.”

He took a sip of his coffee, completely unbothered. “Bit of peace and quiet does wonders. Besides…” His gaze flicked over her, slow and deliberate. “Nice of you to drop in first thing in the morning. Makes it less lonely.”

She folded her arms. “You left that address on purpose.”

Logan didn’t deny it. Just smiled. “Wasn’t sure you’d catch it. But I figured if you did, you’d come.”

“I came for answers.”

“No, you came because you’re curious,” he said, stepping back into the open space of the studio. “Same as always. You can’t help yourself.”

She looked to her left where she could hear some whirring. The makeshift lab was cleaner than she expected, industrial, minimal. Wires looped neatly along the floor, diagrams pinned in lines along the concrete wall. In the centre, the table buzzed softly with low-power tech, a prototype glinting in the low light like something half-born.

She walked past him, slowly, keeping her distance. “Oscar said you’ve lost it.”

Logan gave a low laugh. “Oscar’s always needed someone to blame. You know that.”

“He’s not wrong about this.”

He came to stand beside her, not too close, just enough that she could feel the heat off him. His voice lowered.

“But you didn’t turn away either, did you?”

She looked down at the schematics spread across the table. Her fingers itched to move the pieces around, rearrange the formulae like puzzle pieces, solve it before he could ruin it.

“I’m not saying it’s safe,” she murmured. “But if I help you. If I take charge of the framework, maybe it doesn’t have to be dangerous.”

His smile deepened. “There’s the girl I remember.”

She shot him a sharp look, but he only stepped closer.

“I don’t need saving, you know,” he said, voice softening. “You’re not here to fix me. You’re here because part of you gets it. Part of you wants this.”

She swallowed. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make it sound like we’re on the same side.”

“But we are,” he said, and this time his hand brushed hers as he reached past her, innocent, almost, except for the way his fingers lingered. “You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

She could feel the pull of him then, quiet and dangerous, like gravity had changed its mind about how the world worked. Her skin was humming with it.

“I knew you’d come around,” he whispered.

Her breath caught, just for a second. His face was close now, the warm edge of his smile only inches from hers. Not cocky. Not smug. Something gentler. A softness that wasn’t supposed to be there.

And that’s what made it dangerous.

She should have stepped back.

That would’ve been the smart thing, the right thing. But her feet didn’t move, and neither did his, and between them was a silence that thrummed with everything unsaid.

Logan's eyes searched hers, not in that arrogant way he used to do when he knew he had the upper hand, but quieter. Something unreadable settled behind his lashes. Like he was trying to remember the shape of her from the inside out.

"You’re shaking," he murmured, voice barely above a breath.

She wasn’t. Not really. Just, wired. Overcaffeinated without the caffeine. Her nerves pulling taut in ways they hadn’t in years.

"No, I’m not."

"You are," he said, and there was something close to amusement in his voice, but not cruel. Just observant. Just Logan. "You always do, when you’re trying to make a decision too fast."

She looked down. At his hand on the table beside hers. At the blue glow of the screen reflecting off the metal. Her voice came out smaller than she meant it to.

"You don’t get to do that. Pretend like nothing’s changed."

His head tilted slightly. "Who’s pretending?"

"You left." She met his gaze again, steadier now. "You disappeared and let us believe—"

"I didn’t want you part of it," he said quickly, not sharply, but with a force that startled her. "You and Oscar. You still see the world like it’s got rules. I see it for what it really is."

"You think that makes you better?"

"No." He paused. "I think it makes me prepared."

She stared at him. "You’re planning something you can’t undo."

He didn’t argue. Just leaned in slightly, enough that his breath hit the edge of her cheek. “Maybe. But if you’re there to build it with me, then maybe it won’t need undoing.”

The worst part was, a part of her understood. Not agreed. But understood.

And that part of her wanted to reach for the plans. To take the mess he’d made and drag it into something better. Safer. Less like him.

Her throat was tight. “This isn’t fair.”

"What isn’t?"

"You. Doing this." Her hands balled into fists. "Looking at me like that."

He smiled again, soft. Painful. “Like what?”

“Like you’re still sixteen and I’m still stupid enough to believe you'd never hurt me.”

That landed. She saw it flicker through him, fast, behind his eyes.

“I never meant to,” he said quietly.

Silence fell again, sharp-edged and too loud.

Then, softer this time, gentler: “You don’t have to say yes right now. Just don’t walk away.”

She should. She should. But instead she found herself sitting on the edge of the table, just beside him, her shoulder brushing his.

She didn’t look at him. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

“Sure,” he said, a little laugh curling under the word. “Of course not.”

His thigh pressed lightly against hers. The contact was nothing. Barely there.

The distance between them had dissolved without her noticing, and now it was all heat and unspoken things sitting heavy between them.

The blue light of the schematics cast soft shadows across his jaw. He looked almost gentle like this, in the stillness. Almost.

And then her phone buzzed in her pocket, she pulled it out.

They both glanced down at the screen.

Oscar.

She froze.

Logan looked too, and smirked. “Well, well. Speak of the boy scout.”

She hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen.

“You should answer,” Logan said, casual, but something about the way he leaned back slightly told her he was watching very, very closely.

She swiped to pick up, bringing the phone to her ear. Her voice came out thin, too even. “Hey.”

“Where are you?” Oscar’s voice was immediate. Concerned. “I’m at yours, doors open but unless you’re hiding from me I can't find you.”

She glanced sideways, heart pounding. Logan had turned away, giving her space, but not really. His head was tilted just enough to hear every word.

“I’m getting bagels,” she said quickly. “Sorry. Forgot my phone was in my pocket.”

A beat. Oscar didn’t sound suspicious, just soft. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just… needed air. I’ll be back soon.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll wait.”

She hung up before he could say anything else. The quiet in the room returned like a blanket pulled too tight.

Logan turned back to her, expression unreadable.

Then he reached out, slowly, fingertips brushing a strand of hair behind her ear before trailing lightly down to her cheek. The touch was maddeningly soft. Familiar.

“Some things never change,” he murmured, thumb grazing her skin. “You’re still covering for me.”

Her breath caught. She was furious at the way her chest responded to it.

“I used to cover for you when you skipped school or snuck out past curfew,” she said, voice sharp. “Or when your dad came asking where you were and I had to lie to his face.”

“This isn’t that,” he said, quiet now. “I know.”

She looked away, jaw tight. “Don’t make this something it’s not.”

His hand dropped, but the air still felt like it was holding its breath.

“I don’t have to,” he said simply. “You’re already here.”

Two weeks passed, just like that.

The city moved around her, traffic and sirens and steam rising from manhole covers, but it all felt quieter somehow. Like her world had shrunk down to two flats, a laptop, and a dozen unsent texts.

She was spending her mornings at Oscar’s, helping him track down fluctuations in the local power grid, strange pulses he swore weren’t natural, though he never quite said what he thought they were. Afternoons were spent in Logan’s repurposed studio, surrounded by circuitry, algorithms, and a headache that wouldn’t quite go away.

She told herself she was keeping both of them from doing something stupid.

Logan’s work had evolved. Rapidly. Too rapidly, if she was honest. The first few days were just sorting through the wreckage of what he’d built alone, poor shielding, over-ambitious neural syncing, feedback loops that would’ve fried the average person’s spine.

She’d streamlined it. Quietly, carefully. Introduced control parameters, adjusted the safety thresholds. He let her, too. Even seemed to enjoy having her close, watching over his shoulder like she was the only one who could keep him steady.

Sometimes he didn’t even say anything, just looked at her like he was memorising the way she moved.

Other times, he flirted like it was breathing.

“I still think the copper’s a bad call,” she muttered one afternoon, squinting at the prototype’s inner casing.

“Still bossy, I see,” Logan replied, crouching beside her. “Haven’t changed since you used to correct my spelling.”

“I was right then, too.”

He laughed, low and warm. “Yeah. You usually are.”

He was close again. He always was. There was always a reason for him to lean in, reach past her, touch her arm or shoulder in a way that felt like an accident and wasn’t.

And she let him. She told herself it didn’t mean anything. That this was about control. Keeping him from spiralling.

But when he looked at her, sometimes it felt like the ground wasn’t solid beneath her feet.

Meanwhile, Oscar…

Oscar had started keeping things from her.

She noticed it first in the small things. His laptop slammed shut when she walked in. A folder buried too deep in his hard drive. The time he said he was on a walk but came home bruised and didn’t explain why.

She didn’t push, not yet. But it stuck to her, that unease. Oscar didn’t lie. He never lied.

And that, somehow, made it worse.

“You’re working too hard,” he told her one night, curled up on her sofa, hoodie pulled over his head. “You haven’t had a proper meal in days.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. I can see it.”

He passed her a takeaway container without a word. She took it. Ate. Didn’t mention the thin layer of grime under his fingernails or the split on his knuckle.

She couldn’t be in two places at once. Couldn’t keep playing translator between two boys who wouldn’t speak to each other, both of them caught in some war she didn’t fully understand.

But she stayed.

Because part of her believed she could still save this—save them.

Even if it cost her something she hadn’t yet named.

The prototype pulsed with light now. Not constant—irregular, like a heartbeat gone wrong.

She sat on the floor of Logan’s studio, cables tangled at her knees, half a dozen failed failsafes spread out in a messy sprawl beside her. The heat off the core was stronger than it had been yesterday. Too strong.

“You pushed it again,” she muttered, pulling off her jumper and tossing it aside. The room felt like a greenhouse.

Logan crouched beside the desk, tools in hand, utterly unbothered. “Tweaked the resonance field. It’s stabilising, relax.”

“No, it isn’t,” she snapped. “You’re running through safeguards faster than I can write them.”

He looked over his shoulder at her, smirking. “Don’t sound so impressed.”

She didn’t answer. She was too busy running diagnostics on the regulator he’d overclocked while she was out yesterday. Again.

“Logan, if this field collapses, you’re not walking away. I won’t be able to stop it next time.”

His smile faltered, just slightly.

“You could always walk,” he said after a beat, soft.

She didn’t reply. Couldn’t.

Because he knew she wouldn’t.

That night at Oscar’s, she barely spoke. She sat at the window while he worked on his computer behind her, typing fast, a faint tremor in his right hand. She stared down at the streetlights blurring in the rain, her thoughts still half in the lab.

Oscar’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, frowned, then stood.

“I’ll be back in a bit.”

She looked over. “Now?”

“Yeah. Just need to check on something near the subway. Weird power spike.” He shrugged on his jacket.

“Want help?”

He hesitated. “No. It’s… not that kind of thing.”

She nodded slowly. “You’ve been saying that a lot lately.”

Oscar didn’t respond.

She found the first real clue two days later.

She was at hers, rummaging for the spare charger Oscar kept leaving behind, when she noticed his hoodie hanging on the back of her chair. Not unusual. But when she picked it up, something dropped out of the pocket.

A small, torn scrap of red fabric. Coarse. Like something from a costume.

And blood. Dried.

Her stomach turned.

In Logan’s studio, the tech was louder now. Humming, thrumming. Hungry.

“You need to slow down,” she said firmly, voice hoarse from too many sleepless nights.

He looked at her, really looked, and for a second there was a flicker of something that unsettled her.

“I can’t,” he said. “We’re so close.”

“Close to what?”

He didn’t answer.

She opened the interface, scanning the data. “You adjusted the neuro-link sequence without telling me.”

“I knew you’d try to stop me,” he said simply.

She stared at him. “That’s not how this works.”

“It is now.”

And still she didn’t leave.

The following night she didn’t sleep.

Not really.

Between the hum of Logan’s project, now an ever-present pressure at the base of her skull, and Oscar’s half-answers, dodged questions, and suspicious bruises, sleep had become more theory than reality.

The next time she saw Oscar, it was because she followed him.

She hadn’t meant to. She told herself she was just walking the same way. That she was being ridiculous. That the scrap of red in his hoodie pocket meant nothing.

But then he ducked down an alley. Pulled something from under his hoodie.

A mask.

Her heart stopped.

Not metaphorically. Actually, stopped.

She stepped back, too fast, her heel scuffing the concrete. A tiny sound. He heard it.

“Hello?” Oscar turned, eyes narrowing behind the red half-mask. The rest was still bunched in his hand.

She froze.

He stared. She stared back.

Silence swelled.

Then, quietly: “…You followed me?”

She didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to breathe, let alone speak.

Oscar’s shoulders dropped. His hand dragged down his face. “Shit.”

“You’re Spider-Man.”

It wasn’t a question. She already knew. Knew in the pit of her stomach, where every late night and bruised knuckle and sudden disappearance made a sick kind of sense.

He didn’t deny it. Just looked at her, gutted.

“I was going to tell you.”

“When?” Her voice was sharp. “Before or after I found your blood all over my living room?”

Oscar winced. “I didn’t want to put you in danger—”

She laughed. Bitter. “Bit late for that.”

She left before he could explain more. She couldn’t hear it, not then. Not while her phone buzzed again with another update from Logan’s build log, another late-night adjustment she hadn’t signed off on.

When she got back to the studio that night, the air felt wrong. Too charged.

The prototype was alive now. She didn’t know what else to call it. It moved, pulsed, responded.

Logan was there, barefoot, sleeves rolled up, eyes wild with possibility.

“You’re back,” he said, barely glancing away from the display. “Look at it. It’s listening to me now.”

“It’s not supposed to listen to you,” she snapped, storming in. “It’s supposed to run on code, not instinct.”

He shrugged, unapologetic. “I rewrote the framework.”

“You rewrote the laws of physics, Logan. That wasn’t the deal.”

He finally looked at her. Really looked. And for the first time in days, he frowned.

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re asking me now?” she snapped. “After pushing this thing to near-collapse? After locking me out of your logs for twelve hours?”

“I knew you’d try to stop me.”

“You don’t get to cut me out and still act like we’re on the same team.”

The lights on the core flared, hot, blue-white. She stepped back.

“This isn’t what we started,” she said, quieter. “You’re not building something. You’re becoming it.”

Logan’s eyes softened, but it didn’t comfort her. It made her skin crawl.

“You sound like him.”

“Don’t,” she said.

“Why? He’s the hero now, yeah?” Logan’s voice was almost calm, but it carried teeth. “Little Mr Boy Scout. You going to run to him now? Tell him how to stop me?”

“I didn’t run to anyone. I tried to fix this.”

He stepped closer. Too close.

“But you knew. All this time, you knew you’d have to choose.”

She didn’t answer.

Because he was right.

And she hated that more than anything.

She didn’t remember getting home.

Her keys had slipped once at the door, hands shaking, and she’d stood in the hall for a full minute before trying again. Inside, the apartment felt alien, like she was walking through someone else’s life. Same chipped mugs in the sink. Same plant in the corner. But her breath wouldn’t steady.

She dropped her bag in the hallway, still half-zipped. Kicked off her shoes. Didn’t even bother with the lights.

She collapsed onto the sofa, knees to her chest, arms wrapped tight like she could physically hold herself together.

Then the tears came.

Silent at first. Just that awful stinging behind her eyes, the kind that made you clench your jaw until it ached. But then they spilled—fast and hot, her face buried in the sleeve of her hoodie, sobs breaking loose in sharp bursts.

She cried for Logan. For Oscar. For the version of herself that used to laugh when they bickered and dreamed about changing the world.

She cried because she didn’t know who to save anymore. Or if she could.

And eventually, exhausted, she crawled into bed and let the darkness take her.

Somewhere else in the city, Logan didn’t sleep.

He stood in the centre of his makeshift lab, hands trembling slightly with the excitement. He had done it. He had done it.

The prototype was alive. The neural interface he’d spent weeks perfecting hummed quietly beneath his fingertips. Every line of code he’d written, every sleepless night, all the warnings he’d ignored—he could feel it now, like a rush of euphoria. It was working. It was all working.

The helmet sat next to him, sleek, matte-black, perfect in its design. But that wasn’t the prize. No, the real victory was the neural link, the thing embedded deep into his spine now, fusing with him. The prototype wasn’t just a tool anymore. It was an extension of him. It was him.

He grinned, sliding the helmet onto his head with a steady hand. The system activated almost immediately, a soft pulse across his temples as the neural interface kicked in. He could feel it, like a second mind connecting with his own, feeding him streams of data in a way he'd never known before.

For a moment, there was only clarity. Pure, untainted clarity. He could see everything, every problem, every solution, unfolding right before him like an intricate map.

Logan’s breath was slow and deep, taking it all in.

“This is it,” he muttered under his breath, a satisfied grin spreading across his face. “I’m better than I’ve ever been.”

But something shifted in that moment. The device, still humming beneath his skin, pulsed again. Stronger. A sharp, sudden sensation rippled through his back as if a small surge of electricity shot through his spine. He flinched, but only briefly. It was... new. But it didn’t hurt. No, it was something else. Something... right. He wanted to feel it again. To keep pushing, to see how far it could go.

He let the neural link go further, feeling it sync even deeper. His movements were faster now, every thought sharper, more precise. His hands moved on their own accord, as if his body had learned a new language, a secret code he hadn’t known existed.

Then, with a sickening click, the mechanism inside him did something unexpected.

It shifted.

He froze as the connection between his mind and the device deepened, spreading like roots beneath his skin. His spine arched involuntarily. The sensation was so strong, like a burning thread threading into the base of his skull and down into his very bones.

“Shit,” Logan breathed, but his voice was strange to him. As if someone else were speaking through him.

The machine responded, not in words, but in need, an urgent pressure building in the back of his mind.

He could feel it now. A presence. Something more than just the tech he’d so carefully crafted. It wasn’t just a tool anymore. It was beginning to take control.

But there was no panic. No fear. Logan didn’t fight it. He welcomed it.

Because this... this was power. True, unbridled power.

The device shifted again. It was deeper now, rooted inside him, crawling into places his mind could no longer reach. He could feel something warm spread under his skin—a new sensation, foreign but thrilling. The neural link was more than he’d ever imagined, connecting him to a world of data, a world of control.

And that was when it happened.

The device, a part of him now, locked in.

A flash of metal. Then, suddenly, his back screamed as the device pressed itself fully into his body, sharp, invasive, but unmistakably his. He felt it—like a part of him had been replaced. A pulse of satisfaction rippled through him, and Logan gasped, arching his back with the sensation.

He laughed then. Giddy. Overjoyed.

“I knew you’d get it right, mate,” he whispered to himself, eyes wide with exhilaration.

Then, with an almost casual ease, he lifted his hand. The suit flickered to life around him, surrounding him like a second skin, sleek and dangerous.

Logan’s grin spread wider.

This was only the beginning.

It wasn’t long before Logan’s chaos began to bleed into the city.

The streets had always been a chaotic tangle of New York life, but now it was... different. A sense of purpose flowed through the air, heavier, more suffocating. The city had no idea what was coming for it.

First, it was the banks. Security systems shorted out, alarms blaring as vaults cracked open. But there was no robbery, just the vault doors hanging open in a strange, silent invitation. Then, the power grids flickered, like the entire city was breathing under his control. The hum of lights and machines warped, flashing erratically as if they were under a spell.

And then came the sky.

Logan hovered just above the city, a dark silhouette against the glow of Manhattan’s skyline. He watched as the skyline bent to his will, grinning, watching the chaos unfold. His body, still bound in that sleek suit, pulsed with the unnatural energy the machine had given him. His back burned with every pulse, but it wasn’t pain—it was power.

And the power tasted sweeter with every second.

Back at her apartment, she jerked awake.

A crash. Her eyes shot open. A sound too loud. Too close.

For a moment, she didn’t move. Just stared into the dark, trying to will the sleepiness out of her bones.

The next crash was louder. A thud against the fire exit door. Her heart skipped a beat.

She shot up, breathing shallow, slipping out of bed. She grabbed her phone for light, but instinct told her exactly what she’d find.

Her bare feet hit the cold floor, and she made her way towards the balcony, hesitating just before the door. The night air pressed against the glass.

She reached for the handle, taking a breath, and then—

The door swung open.

She froze.

There, standing tall and too at ease on the balcony, was Logan.

But he wasn’t the Logan she knew.

The suit he wore was alive with that strange pulse, glowing faintly like it was breathing. It wasn’t just a suit anymore. It was part of him.

He turned to her, a flicker of recognition behind his eyes, but it was distant. Cold. Something had shifted.

A slow smile spread across his face, but it wasn’t playful. Not the teasing grin from their past.

“Hello, love,” Logan’s voice was flat, empty. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

She swallowed. “Logan...?”

He stepped closer, his eyes locked on hers with an unsettling focus. Then, without hesitation, he reached up and pulled off the helmet, tossing it aside.

And for a moment, everything was still.

His eyes, empty. Hollow. Not a trace of the boy she used to know. No warmth, no playfulness, just this void.

Her heart twisted painfully in her chest as the entire suit shifted, shrinking away from his body. It detached slowly, too slowly, as if the suit was resisting coming off. But eventually, the black, sleek material slipped away, revealing his bare chest. His torso was toned, but marked with strange, angular scars, and along his spine, there was a faint glow beneath his skin. The machine inside him, pulsing like a second heartbeat.

Logan stood there, chest rising with the faintest of breaths, eyes cold as ice.

“It worked,” he said, voice low, almost a whisper. “You helped me make it work. And now…” He took a slow step forward, closing the space between them.

She took a step back. “What... What are you doing, Logan?”

His lips curled upward into something that was not quite a smile.

“Doing?” He stepped closer again, his presence overwhelming, suffocating. “I’m taking control. Taking what’s mine. This city—hell, the world—it’s mine now. And I’ll do what I want with it.” He gestured to the machine on his back, an almost reverent look in his eyes. “I’ve earned this, haven’t I?”

Tears welled up in her eyes. Her body trembled, unable to contain the sharp, raw sorrow that hit her all at once. “Logan, please, this isn’t you. This isn’t what we wanted.”

Logan chuckled, a dark, cruel sound. “This is exactly what I wanted. This is the future. The one I should’ve had all along.”

The pain in her chest deepened, and she couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. She stepped back, clenching her fists as sobs wracked her body. “I—I tried. I tried to stop you...”

Logan’s gaze softened for a moment, just a moment. But it was fleeting. He stepped forward again, closing the distance.

“Sometimes people just need a little... push.” He brushed a hand across her cheek, the warmth of it a stark contrast to the coldness in his eyes. “Thanks for helping me get here. I couldn't have done it without you.”

She flinched away from his touch. “Please, Logan... don’t do this. You’re not a monster.”

He didn’t reply. He only stepped back, looking at her one last time, eyes unreadable.

“You’ve got your own path now. And I’ve got mine.”

With that, he turned, stepping into the night putting his helmet back on, the suit forming back around him as he disappeared into the city’s skyline.

She stood there, trembling, heart breaking in her chest. The tears fell freely now, silent, unstoppable.

She collapsed onto the floor, pulling her knees to her chest, shaking as she let it all out.

And then, almost instinctively, she reached for her phone.

Oscar’s name flashed on the screen, a call already incoming.

She answered before she even thought about it. Her voice was shaky, tear-filled.

“Os... Oscar...” She couldn’t hold it together. “I—I need you.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice sharp with concern. “Where are you?”

“I—I’m at my apartment. But it’s...” She choked on the words. “It’s Logan. He’s... he’s gone too far.”

Oscar was quiet for a long moment. “What happened?”

“I couldn’t save him, Oscar,” she whispered. “He’s not the boy we knew. He’s something else. And I—I couldn’t stop it.”

Another beat of silence.

“I’m coming,” Oscar said, the urgency in his voice clearer now. “I’ll be there. Just hang on.”

But as she hung up, all she could do was sit there, hands trembling, staring at the dark, empty space where Logan had stood.

The city had just gotten darker.

She didn’t move.

The night had cooled, but she didn’t feel it. The city buzzed and breathed beneath her, unaware of the shift that had just taken place. The world looked the same, and yet everything had changed.

She stayed crouched, arms wrapped around her knees, eyes fixed on the spot where Logan had stood. The faint imprint of his boots was still on the concrete, the last ghost of him. The boy she’d known, laughed with, fought with, loved in some strange, quiet way, was gone. She’d seen it in his eyes. There was nothing left to reach for now.

The machine had taken him.

And worse, she had helped.

She didn’t hear him at first. There was just a breeze, a shift in the air, then the soft sound of the railing above just shifting.

Her breath caught.

She looked up.

There he was, silhouetted against the sky, crouched in that way only he could, black and red suit hugging to every line of him. The mask was off.

Oscar.

His brown hair was messy, eyes wide, searching. 

His expression dropped when he saw her.

“Hey,” he said, soft, like she might shatter.

She didn’t respond.

He stepped off the railing and landed with barely a sound, moving toward her like he wasn’t sure if she’d let him close. She watched him the whole time, as if she was trying to reconcile the boy next door with the man in the suit. She hadn’t let herself picture him like this, not really. But now, here he was.

Not a rumour. Not a hunch.

Spider-Man.

She blinked at him. “It’s really you.”

He nodded, a bit helpless. “Yeah.”

She let out a quiet breath, something bitter on her tongue. “God, of course it is.”

Oscar crouched beside her, close enough that their knees nearly touched. “I wanted to tell you so many times. I just, I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”

She let out a small laugh, raw and humourless. “Oscar, I’ve just watched someone I love walk off my balcony with a machine in his spine and a war in his eyes. You actually being Spider-Man barely makes the top three things ruining my week.”

His face faltered, and she saw the guilt tighten around his eyes. She hated that it made her want to comfort him, when she was the one falling apart.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She shook her head. “It’s not your fault. None of this is.”

Oscar hesitated, then reached out slowly, his fingers brushing hers where they rested on the cold concrete. She didn’t pull away.

“Was it really that bad?” he asked.

She turned to look at him then, really looked at him.

“It wasn’t Logan anymore,” she said. “He took off his mask and there was just… nothing. Like he’s not even in there. Just this thing. This machine. And he thanked me. He thanked me, Oscar, like I was the final piece he needed to destroy everything.”

Oscar didn’t say anything. He just took her hand properly now, fingers curling around hers. She let him. It was warm. Grounding.

“I tried to save him,” she whispered. “I thought if I stayed close, if I made the plan safer, I could stop it getting this far. I really thought I could pull him back.”

Oscar’s thumb brushed over her knuckles. “You don’t give up on people. That’s what makes you... you.”

Her throat tightened.

“I think I’ve finally lost him.”

Oscar looked away, jaw tense. “Then we’ll stop what’s left of him.”

She glanced down at their joined hands, then back at his face—open, earnest, a little scared. She saw everything now. The boy she grew up with. The man he was becoming. Spider-Man. Oscar. All of it.

“I didn’t want you to be this,” she murmured, more to herself. “Didn’t want you to have to carry this, too.”

His voice was soft. “I don’t have to. Not alone.”

The tears came again, but quieter this time. She leaned forward and let her forehead rest against his. He didn’t move. Just stayed there with her, in the quiet, in the heartbreak.

The city roared on below.

But for a moment, there was only the two of them.

Still.

Together.

Waiting for the dawn.

Logan was quiet for a few days.

Too quiet.

The news blamed the citywide power outage on a transformer fault in Queens. A minor fire, a bit of faulty wiring, easily fixed. No casualties. Nothing to worry about.

She didn’t believe it for a second.

She’d seen the look in his eyes that night. The machine in his back hadn’t just bonded, it had chosen him. The silence that followed wasn’t peace. It was the kind of stillness just before the storm breaks.

She went through the motions. Helped Oscar with patch-ups, tracked minor disturbances around the city, and pretended, poorly, that she was sleeping at night. But the weight in her chest never lifted. It sat there, heavy and constant, like something had already begun to rot.

It was the fourth morning after Logan had crashed onto her balcony when she woke up with that feeling.

It wasn’t panic. Not quite. It was deeper. Older. Something primitive, instinctual. Like the way birds knew when to fly south. She blinked at the ceiling, her body still, her skin prickling.

She knew where she needed to go.

She didn’t shower. Didn’t dress properly. Just jeans, a hoodie, old trainers. The studio on East had been left untouched since Logan vanished into the sky, but the thought of it sat stubbornly in her gut.

She walked. No cab, no train. Just her and the cold spring wind, biting through her sleeves and keeping her sharp. The city was halfway between sleep and wakefulness, too early for full chaos, too late for quiet.

When she got to the building, the doors were jammed with a piece of scrap metal Logan had clearly wedged there. It took effort to get inside, but eventually, she slipped past the creaking frame and stepped into the hushed stillness of the lobby and up the stairs.

Dust floated in the light like falling ash.

The desk was as he’d left it. Blueprints scattered, wires half-soldered, bits of tech that buzzed faintly with residual charge. She moved carefully, like disturbing anything might trigger some dormant trap.

She pulled the schematics towards her, different from the ones he’d left on her laptop. These were earlier. Cruder. Full of aggressive red ink. One line circled in particular, over and over again: Adaptive neural integration interface.

She stared at it. Below, a note in his handwriting: If it bonds properly, it learns. Improves. Evolves.

She felt cold all over.

Then she noticed something else, a flash drive tucked beneath a paperweight. No label. Just a scratch down one side like it had been jammed into too many ports too fast.

She slipped it into her coat pocket.

That night, the city began to burn.

She didn’t see the first explosion, she felt it. The tremor in the air. The faint hum through the soles of her feet. Then came the sirens, the lights, the swell of panic rising like a tide.

People pointed at the sky. Phones were raised. Social media lit up.

A shadow swept across midtown, unnatural, too fast to be a drone, too erratic to be human. Police scanners scrambled to keep up. A laboratory in Tribeca collapsed in on itself. A substation in Brooklyn sparked, then died.

And then, at 1:07 a.m., she opened her window and saw him.

Logan.

Hovering, back arched with the pulse of the suit. The device on his spine glowed like an exposed heart, veins of light crawling up his neck, down his arms. He moved like liquid shadow, graceful, terrifying, wrong.

A building behind him erupted in a blossom of fire.

She gripped the window ledge, breath caught in her throat.

This was no test run. This was war.

She stayed by the window for too long.

Too long to pretend she wasn’t watching. Too long to convince herself she wasn’t hoping, praying, that he’d turn around and look at her. But Logan didn’t glance her way. He just soared higher, then dipped low toward the skyline, fast and sleek like a blade. The machine moved with him, or maybe he moved with it. It was impossible to tell where the man ended and the weapon began.

By the time the screaming sirens reached her block, she had already stepped back inside.

She didn’t turn on the light. Just the television.

Every channel was the same, static, noise, hysteria in different tones. Fires. Blackouts. Emergency services overwhelmed. Civilians told to shelter indoors. Then, on one of the live feeds, the camera caught it.

Spider-Man.

Oscar.

She sat on the arm of the sofa, staring at the screen like it might offer answers. He swung down from a rooftop, landed in the middle of a crumbling intersection, and caught a falling girder mid-air like it weighed nothing. There were shouts, flashes of red and blue. More drones, or things, shot past overhead. He flung himself after them without hesitation.

He looked small on the screen. Fragile, even. But she knew better. Knew how strong he really was. How he fought like it mattered.

Because it did.

Because it always had.

Her fingers twitched.

She stood up suddenly, heart racing now for an entirely different reason, and crossed the room to her coat. She pulled out the flash drive and stared at it, the scratch on its side catching the light.

Whatever Logan had left behind, whatever he hadn’t wanted her to see, it was on this.

She booted up her laptop on the kitchen table, fingers trembling slightly as the machine hummed to life. The screen blinked awake with a quiet whirr. She hesitated only a moment longer, then slotted the drive in.

It didn’t load immediately.

There was a pause. Like it had to think. Then the screen flickered, and a window opened on its own.

NEURAL LOG SEQUENCES – LOCKED

[Enter override credentials]

She stared at the prompt, breath held.

It was protected. Of course it was.

She tried the obvious first, his birthday, their old lab login, his mum’s name. All rejected. But then she remembered the sketchpad he'd carried around at university, the one he'd covered in graffiti-level drawings and handwritten equations.

There’d been a name on the back, in big crooked letters.

PYTHIA.

She typed it in.

The screen shivered, then shifted.

Override accepted. Begin sequence.

And then it began to unfold, video, files, half-recorded logs. Logan, speaking into a mic, wild-eyed, frantic, rambling. Diagrams of the neural link. Schematics she hadn’t seen before. And beneath it all, buried in subfolders, something labelled:

Secondary Protocol: Autonomous Control – ENABLED

Her heart dropped.

Autonomous?

She clicked into it, pulse quickening.

The code was dense, written in loops she couldn’t untangle on sight. But the gist was clear enough: the device was more than just a conduit. It was learning. Growing. Thinking. And if it ever deemed its host compromised...

Her hand flew to her mouth.

It could override him.

She stared at the screen, stomach twisting. Somewhere outside, the sky lit up again. The TV blared with the sound of sirens and glass breaking. Spider-Man’s suit flashed red across the screen as he leapt from another collapsing building.

She looked at him.

Then at the code.

Then back again.

Logan wasn’t the only one in danger now.

The whole city was.

She barely noticed the sun come up.

The screen cast her in blue light, soft and cold, as line after line of code scrolled past her tired eyes. Her fingers hovered above the keys, pausing only to scribble something down on a notepad already crowded with frantic, looping handwriting. There were equations she hadn’t touched since university, frameworks that were half-Latin, half-madness. Logan hadn’t just built this system, he’d buried it beneath ten layers of arrogance and desperation.

Some of it she recognised. Neural feedback loops. Power modulation. Synthetic stability thresholds. The kind of tech that could map a mind in real time and reroute its impulses. And then—

That secondary protocol again. Buried deeper than before, like it knew it shouldn’t be found.

Failsafe active. Host override requires dual-auth.

Failsafe. Dual-auth.

She exhaled shakily, raking a hand through her hair.

He’d written a backdoor. Somewhere, hidden in this madness, Logan had coded a way out, but it needed two keys.

Hers… and his.

A laugh escaped her, dry and bitter. Of course. Even in his descent, he’d tethered himself to her. Even now, when he was burning the city to the ground, he’d built the lock with the hope. No, the assumption, that she’d come looking for it.

That she’d come for him.

Outside, the chaos was escalating.

More sirens. The screech of tyres. At one point, a distant blast shook the windows in their frames, and dust from the ceiling rained down onto the table. She barely flinched. The TV was still on, the volume low, but the footage was relentless.

Buildings damaged. Streets overrun.

Spider-Man caught on every screen, swinging, diving, shielding people with his body, his suit scuffed and singed. And always trailing behind him, a blur of green and black and red, fast as hell and twice as cruel.

Logan.

Or what was left of him.

She pulled her focus back to the code. She couldn’t think about Oscar now, couldn’t think about the way his voice had trembled the last time they’d spoken. Couldn’t think about the ache in her chest when Logan had said her name like it still meant something.

All she could do was work.

She didn’t have a suit. Or powers. Or a symbol to rally behind. All she had were her hands, her brain, and the blueprint of a boy she’d once known, before the noise, before the machine, before the world shifted beneath their feet.

So she dug deeper.

Piece by piece, she traced the architecture. Tried to isolate the command lines. She could see where it had learned him, mirrored his rhythms, his instincts, his anger. It didn’t just amplify Logan.

It became him.

But it was still code.

And code, at the end of the day, could be broken.

She scribbled a new set of instructions. A loop. Something rudimentary. Crude. It wouldn’t dismantle the suit, but it might delay it. Mute the feedback for just long enough to slip in a second override. If she could get close enough.

If Logan hadn’t already been consumed entirely.

Her hands stilled.

And for the first time in hours, she allowed herself to feel something.

Not fear.

Not guilt.

Resolve.

She snapped the laptop shut, tucked the flash drive into the pocket of her jacket, and grabbed the notebook.

There was still time.

Not much.

But maybe, just maybe, enough.

She ran.

Half of Manhattan was still gridlocked from the chaos, so she took side streets, back alleys, her boots slick from rain and city grime. The wind had picked up, warm and electric, the kind that came just before another storm. By the time she reached the gates of the old university lab, dusk had begun to stretch long fingers across the skyline.

The side door was still jammed the way she remembered, too old to lock properly. She slipped inside.

It was all exactly as they’d left it years ago. Dust on the shelves. Faint smell of solder and burnt coffee. A poster on the far wall still read “Innovation Starts With Curiosity”, curling at the edges from time and apathy. She moved quickly, muscle memory taking over. Lights on. Equipment powered up. She opened her laptop, connected the drive, started reworking the patch code.

The room filled with the hum of machines, old fans stirring warm air as night fell thick outside the narrow windows. It was like stepping back in time, except everything was burning now, and she didn’t have Logan at the next station over making jokes under his breath.

She barely registered the sound of footsteps behind her.

Not until the door creaked.

She turned, already knowing.

Oscar stood there, mask in hand, hair sweat-dampened, face drawn tight with exhaustion and something close to fear.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice low.

She didn’t look up from the code. “And you shouldn’t be out there alone.”

He stepped inside, glancing once around the room like it was foreign to him. “I was at the dockyard. He’s not slowing down.”

“I know.”

“I mean it,” he said, more firmly now. “That thing, it’s not Logan anymore.”

She paused. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, just for a second.

“I can fix it.”

Oscar’s silence filled the space like smoke. She finally looked at him.

“I can,” she repeated, quiet but certain. “He built it with an override. I found it. I just need time.”

Oscar came closer. “He almost levelled a power grid and threw a firetruck into the East River.”

“I know,” she said. “But I can’t just, leave him. Not like this.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s too dangerous. You get close to him again and he won’t let you walk away.”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, her mind flicked, uninvited, to a memory.

Summer. They were nineteen. Still cocky, still stupid, still full of fire.

She’d fallen asleep on the floor of this very lab, cheek against her notebook, and woken to find Logan sat beside her, hoodie half-off, legs stretched long in front of him. He’d scribbled something into her notes in his messy handwriting.

Don’t drool on the equations. It’s not cute.

She’d punched him in the arm. He’d grinned like he always did—sharp, dangerous, charming.

But then he’d looked at her.

Really looked at her.

“D’you think we’ll still be here in ten years?” he asked, quiet, for once. “Changing the world and that?”

She’d snorted. “We’ll be lucky if we haven’t blown up the chemistry block.”

He’d gone quiet again. Then: “If I ever do something stupid. Proper stupid. You’d stop me, right?”

She’d blinked at him, half-asleep. “Course I would.”

He’d smiled.

“Good. Then I won’t need to be scared.”

The memory faded, ripped away by the whirr of her laptop and the weight of the moment.

“I promised him,” she said softly, eyes burning now.

Oscar stood frozen for a long moment, then exhaled. “You’re not sleeping. You haven’t eaten. You can’t carry this alone.”

“I’m not alone.”

“Yeah?” His tone was sharp now, but not cruel. Just scared. “Because it feels like you’re walking into fire and locking the door behind you.”

She didn’t reply. She just turned back to the screen and started typing again, faster this time. She felt, more than heard, Oscar step back. The sound of the door closing behind him was softer than expected.

She didn’t cry.

Not this time.

There wasn’t time for that.

The hours bled together.

She barely felt them pass.

The world outside could’ve stopped spinning and she wouldn’t have noticed, except it hadn’t. It was spinning faster, spiralling downward, chaos growing in concentric rings. And every minute she didn’t find it, Logan moved further out of reach.

He was losing control.

She could feel it, see it in the footage that looped endlessly in the corner of her screen. At first, there’d been a strange precision to his destruction, almost deliberate. Now it was messier. Unpredictable. The drones no longer moved like extensions of him; they twitched erratically, glitching mid-air before launching into full attack. Bridges crumbled, rooftops sparked and smoked. People fled from shadows they didn’t understand.

He wasn’t just hurting the city anymore.

He was unravelling with it.

The code showed the same thing. She saw it in the neural sync logs, spikes and crashes in the feedback loop. Moments where Logan fought the system and lost, over and over again. The machine was still learning, evolving, tightening around him like a vice. Every time he lashed out, it pulled tighter.

God, Logan…

She didn’t sleep.

Didn’t eat.

She drank cold coffee from the faculty fridge and paced the lab like a caged thing, the override protocol always just out of reach.

And then, just past four in the morning, it surfaced.

Buried beneath three false folders, nested in what looked like corrupted code. A failsafe, just like she’d suspected, but not for stopping the machine entirely. That would’ve been too clean. Too merciful.

No, this was something else.

SYNC INTERRUPTION: Host Reboot

Her pulse kicked.

She opened the code and began skimming, fast, desperate. If she could isolate the connection for even twenty seconds, she might be able to destabilise the link between Logan and the core AI. That would give him time, her time, to force the manual override and reset the system.

It wouldn’t destroy the suit.

But it would give her a window.

She was shaking now. With relief. With adrenaline. With something dangerously close to hope.

She hit compile, shoved her hair out of her face, and turned to the TV as she reached for her phone.

The channel blinked into view.

Breaking news. Live feed.

Midtown skyline. Fires glowing like veins through the dark. Smoke curling into the morning light. Cameras struggled to keep up with the movement, drones dipping and swerving above a cluster of skyscrapers. Then—

A flash of red.

A figure swinging in low, catching the edge of a crumbling crane and launching upward again.

Oscar.

She stepped closer.

The camera jerked suddenly, and then, there he was. Logan.

Hovering like a shadow against the buildings, wind flattening his hair, the exposed machine in his back pulsing with frantic light. He wasn’t wearing the full suit now. His shirt was gone, and the interface curled like metallic vines across his spine, lit from within. His face was twisted, something between euphoria and rage, and for a second, even on screen, it looked like he was screaming.

She pressed a hand to her mouth.

The skyscrapers. It had to be downtown. She could get there.

She could end this.

She grabbed her drive, stuffed it into her jacket pocket, and ran from the lab without even shutting the door behind her.

The city was on fire.

Not literally, though close enough. Sirens howled through the dawn, lights ricocheted off glass towers, and somewhere above it all, two shapes danced a deadly arc across the skyline.

She sprinted through the last blocked-off street, breath ragged, shoes pounding against the pavement. Her lungs burned. Her head was ringing. But she could see them now, Oscar and Logan, silhouetted against the breaking light. The drone-suit glinted with a mind of its own, flaring whenever Logan lifted his arms, the neural plates at his back twitching like muscle.

He was slipping, completely.

She pushed through the crowd, ignoring the yells from NYPD, ducking a toppled barricade and scrambling over the scorched bonnet of a car. A figure swung low—Spider-Man—webbing across a collapsing crane, then launching himself up again.

Then he saw her.

He landed in front of her so fast the wind nearly knocked her over.

“You shouldn’t be here!” Oscar’s voice was muffled by the mask, but his posture was tight, shoulders hunched, heart in his throat. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’ve got it, Oscar, I’ve got the override, I can stop it!” she said, pulling the flash drive from her pocket, her hand trembling.

“You don’t understand,” he said, stepping closer. “It’s not him anymore, he’ll kill you.”

She shoved past him. “Then let me die trying to save what’s left of him!”

Oscar hesitated, but it was enough time for her to break into a run, heading towards the fire escape of a nearby tower.

“I’m serious!” he shouted. “You need to get back, now!”

Then: thwip.

A line of web shot past her, too fast to dodge, and stuck to her wrist, yanking her sideways. She screamed as her hand was slammed against a metal bollard, locked in place with a quick twist of white tensile silk.

Her chest heaved.

“Oscar!” she yelled, her voice shattering the air. “You didn’t—you can't—!”

He froze at the sound of his name.

It hung between them like smoke.

She realised too late what she’d done, called him that, here, in front of everyone.

His masked head tilted, almost slowly, like the moment itself had hiccuped. Then he backed away, leapt upwards into the fight again, vanishing behind clouds of debris and twisted scaffolding.

Her arm pulled at the webbing. It wouldn’t give.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck’s sake!” she muttered, kicking at the post.

A man nearby, mid-forties, in a delivery jacket, hovered awkwardly. “Uh—d’you want help with that?”

She looked at him, wild-eyed. “Yeah—yes—get it off!”

He reached into his satchel, pulled out a penknife. “Mate of mine works NYPD. Says these webs dissolve in acetone, but, don’t have any, so…”

“Just cut it!” she snapped.

With a few frantic scrapes, the fibres began to tear, and her wrist came free, red-raw but usable.

She was already running.

The rooftops. She needed height. A direct line of sight to Logan’s core. She dodged a toppled pylon, shoved open a cracked door, and started up the emergency stairwell of the nearest skyscraper.

Ten floors. Fifteen.

Her legs screamed.

But she had to get to him.

Had to make him hear her.

Because if she didn’t, he’d be gone forever.

The door to the rooftop flew open with a slam that echoed off the concrete.

Wind slapped her in the face, hot with smoke and static.

Below, the city churned like something alive, sirens and screams, the low thrum of failing power grids, the crackle of burning air. But up here, it was clearer. She could see everything. The skyline was broken in half, and above it, like a god gone rogue, Logan hovered.

The machine in his back pulsed, erratic now, convulsing in jagged beats. It glowed an unnatural blue, veins of energy crawling up his spine like lightning caught mid-strike.

She dropped to her knees near the roof’s edge, tugged her laptop out of her bag, jammed the flash drive into the side. Her fingers flew.

The code opened like a wound.

Override sequence. Neural interrupt.

Come on. Come on.

Far above, Logan turned mid-air.

The suit twitched.

Her screen glitched. Static burst across her files, like interference from a signal too close, too aware.

She gasped as her laptop jolted in her hands.

The machine had noticed her.

“Oh, shit.”

A whine built in the air, low and sharp like feedback from a speaker. Logan’s silhouette flickered, just for a second, and then he dived.

Straight for her.

She scrambled to her feet, laptop tucked against her chest, backing towards the roof’s water tank. Her heart beat so loud she thought it might break through her ribs.

He landed like a thunderclap, skidding across the concrete.

The metal across his body sparked and shuddered, the plates shifting of their own accord, iridescent and alien. But his eyes, when she dared meet them, were still blue. Still his.

Almost.

“What do you think you’re doing?” His voice came out raw. Filtered. Like the machine was speaking through him.

She gritted her teeth. “Finishing what I started.”

The interface on his spine whirred, and without warning, a drone peeled off from his shoulder, slicing the air between them. She ducked, just as it fired, blasting a chunk from the water tank behind her.

The shockwave threw her sideways, her laptop skidding across the gravel.

She reached the device just as Logan’s boots crunched against the roof behind her.

“You’re clever,” he said. “Always were. That’s what I liked about you.”

His voice faltered for half a second—glitched again.

She clicked into the override field, half-blind with panic. “You still like me, Logan?” she whispered, not looking up. “Or is that just the parasite talking?”

A pause.

Then a guttural sound—half-laugh, half-growl.

Another drone rose beside him.

She had seconds.

Fingers flying, she bypassed the firewall. The override sequence popped into place—final confirmation blinking red.

“Don’t,” Logan said, stepping forward. “You do this… I might not be able to stop what comes next.”

She looked up. Her face was streaked with tears, hair whipped wild by the wind.

“I know,” she whispered. “But I’m still going to try.”

And she hit enter.

The override hit like a jolt, Logan staggered, a distorted scream tearing from his throat as the neural plates along his back sparked violently. One of the drones spun out mid-air, crashing into the neighbouring rooftop in a shower of metal and flame.

She crawled forward, watching in breathless horror as the machine writhed against him. It was peeling, slowly, like something alive being torn from flesh. Wires sparked where metal met spine, smoke curling upwards into the dawn.

And for the first time in weeks, she saw him.

His chest heaved. His eyes flickered—blue, clear, human.

“Logan?” she breathed.

He looked at her. And for a second, just a second, it was him. Her Logan. The boy with the bright smile and sarcastic mouth and stupid drawings in her notebooks.

Then another drone swooped low overhead and she ducked, heart hammering. Across the sky, Oscar was still fighting, swinging between cranes and girders, webs snapping taut as he tore drones apart mid-flight.

The machine shrieked through Logan’s mouth, and suddenly he turned on her again.

She scrambled backwards, nearly tripping over loose cabling. Her laptop was fried, screen cracked down the middle, override incomplete. He stumbled after her, his movements disjointed, like the machine was losing control but still fighting to keep him moving.

Her hand hit something cold.

A metal pipe. Bent and rusted at the end.

She didn’t hesitate.

With a cry, she swung it, hard. It caught him across the side, knocking him sideways. Sparks flew from the exposed tech in his back as he dropped to one knee, groaning.

“You have to fight it!” she screamed. “Logan, please, you have to fight it!”

His face twisted, not rage, not pain. Fear.

Then the parasite’s voice came, warped and layered, more hiss than speech. “You should’ve let him die.”

He stood, half-dragging his limbs, half-possessed by the thing trying to survive.

And then, it happened.

The edge.

The roof was crumbling under the chaos. A drone hit one of the girders supporting the fire escape, and Logan, caught in the aftershock, stumbled backwards, right to the ledge.

His heel slid.

He tried to steady himself, but the machine spasmed, twisting his body the wrong way, making it worse.

She bolted forward without thinking.

He slipped.

“No, Logan!”

Her hand snatched his wrist just as he went over the edge.

They teetered there, weight balanced on the brink of nothing.

His eyes locked on hers.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered, voice cracking.

He was trembling. The machine twitched violently across his spine, cables whipping against the wind. For a terrifying second, it looked like it might rip him out of her grip.

Then, in the quiet, broken like a breathless memory, he said it.

“Don’t let go,” he choked. “Promise you won’t let go.”

Tears streamed down her face. “I won’t,” she said. “I never would.”

Her fingers ached with the strain, the sharp bones of his wrist slipping against her grip. The metal was hot, burning hot, sparking and writhing as the machine fought back, twisting Logan’s body unnaturally, trying to pull him down.

“No—no, I’ve got you—Logan, hold on!”

He was trying. God, he was trying. His free hand clawed at the ledge, feet scrambling against thin air. But the parasite wanted free, it wanted to fall, to vanish into the wreckage, to consume him entirely.

And he was so tired. She could see it in his face.

He looked up at her, lip bloodied, eyes filled with a kind of quiet terror. “I don’t— I can’t—”

“Yes, you can!” she sobbed, whole body shaking. “You’re not going to die down there! Not like this!”

But the slick of oil and blood and smoke was too much. Her grip slipped.

“No—no, no, no—”

And then he fell.

“LOGAN!”

The scream tore from her like it ripped something inside her open. Raw and ragged, it echoed across the rooftops, down the streets below, every inch of heartbreak threaded through the sound of her losing him.

Oscar, mid-air, froze.

He turned toward the sound, toward her scream, and saw Logan drop like a stone through smoke and broken glass.

No hesitation.

Oscar dived.

He twisted through the air, webs snapping out towards building edges, traffic lights, anything he could latch onto.

The wind howled in his ears.

He reached out, arms outstretched—

Come on, come on—

And just before Logan vanished into the chaos below, Oscar caught him.

The impact jostled them both hard, nearly yanking Oscar’s shoulder out of its socket, but he held on, webbing them into the side of the nearest tower, both of them swinging low before slamming into a scaffold.

Above, she collapsed to her knees, gasping for air, hands still out like she was trying to grab him back from the edge.

She didn't realise she was still crying until the salt hit her lips.

Her voice was hoarse now, the scream still lodged in her chest.

But he was alive. Somehow.

They were both alive.

She didn’t remember how she made it down. She flew through the stairwell, lungs burning, knees nearly buckling with each turn. Her ears rang with the sound of her own blood rushing, feet slipping on concrete, heart pounding so violently it felt like it might give out altogether.

The scaffolding came into view at last, twisted and dented where they’d landed.

And there—

Oscar was kneeling beside Logan, the mask torn halfway off his face, chest heaving. His hands were slick with blood and oil, arms braced around Logan’s body as he leaned in and yanked.

A wet, sickening crack echoed out as the machine tore free from Logan’s back, an unholy thing of metal and wire and exposed circuitry, screeching as it detached. Logan let out a strangled cry, barely conscious.

“Jesus—” Oscar swore, tossing the machine away like it burned him. “I need a medic! We need, someone call an ambulance!”

She sprinted the last few steps, nearly falling onto her knees beside them.

Logan was sprawled out, blood spreading beneath him. His chest rose in shallow, stuttering breaths, skin pale, eyes fluttering.

She reached for him, cradling his face in shaking hands. “Logan—Logan, stay with me, yeah? It’s me, I’m here—just stay with me, please—”

Her voice cracked, a sob breaking free as she pulled him against her, his blood soaking into her sleeves. He didn’t move much, just the faintest turn of his head toward her, like he knew.

“I couldn’t save you,” she whispered. “But I’m here. I’m still here.”

Behind her, Oscar stood frozen.

He watched as she held Logan, rocking him gently like they were sixteen again, back before any of this, back before wires and drones and masks.

His hands, still trembling from the fight, curled into fists at his sides.

This was the girl he’d grown up with. The girl he’d loved quietly, patiently, always from the corner of the room. The girl he thought, maybe, one day.

But here she was. Crying into Logan’s chest like the world had just fallen through her hands.

Oscar looked away.

The sirens wailed in the distance now, growing closer.

And all he could do was stand there, watching her stay for someone else.

Oscar didn’t wait for the medics.

Didn’t wait for her to say anything, or even glance back.

He just pulled his mask down over his face again, jaw tight, breath sharp. The webline hissed as it latched to the edge of the building. And then, he was gone. One smooth motion, vanishing into the skyline with a thud of wind and fabric.

She didn’t even see him go.

One week later:

The hospital smelt like antiseptic and regret.

Late afternoon light filtered in through the blinds, striping the floor in gold and grey. Machines beeped steadily, too steadily, and the occasional murmur of nurses bled in from the corridor beyond.

Logan lay still in the bed, tubes in his arm, bandages pressed tight across his ribs. The scars down his spine were fresh and angry, burnt-in reminders of the thing that had burrowed into him. He hadn’t said much since they’d pulled it out. Mostly, he just stared.

The door creaked.

Oscar stepped in.

No mask now. Just him. Shoulders tense beneath his hoodie, one hand still faintly grazed and bandaged. His eyes flicked to Logan’s, but neither of them spoke straight away.

It was the first time they’d been alone in weeks. Maybe months.

Logan gave a faint smirk, dry as dust. “Thought you’d swing in through the window.”

Oscar didn’t smile.

“I wanted to look you in the eye when I asked why.”

A beat. The machine beeped in the silence between them.

Logan’s gaze drifted back to the ceiling.

“You wouldn’t get it.”

Oscar stepped closer, brows furrowing. “Try me.”

For a long time, Logan didn’t speak. He looked… small. Not physically, Logan was still tall, still built like he could hold the weight of the world, but there was something hollow behind his eyes now. As if the parasite hadn’t just burrowed into his body, but had found the last untouched bit of him and snuffed it out.

“I was tired,” he said eventually. “Of being nothing. You remember what it was like. Always someone better, always someone smarter. I thought… I thought if I made it mine, I could control it. The chaos. My name would mean something.”

Oscar’s jaw clenched. “So you built a machine that nearly levelled the city. Brilliant.”

“She was trying to help me.” Logan’s voice was quiet, bitter. “She believed in me. Even when I didn’t.”

Oscar looked away at that, just for a second.

Then he stepped closer to the bed, eyes hard.

“You used her.”

“I loved her,” Logan snapped, voice cracking like brittle glass. “And maybe that makes me worse. But don’t stand there pretending you didn’t want her to choose you.”

Silence. Electric. Sharp.

Oscar’s fists were tight at his sides now, but he didn’t move.

“You broke her heart,” he said, softly. “And you’re not the only one who has to live with that.”

He turned toward the door, one hand already reaching for it, before pausing.

“She’s not here,” he said without looking back. “Because she’s tired, Logan. Because she nearly died trying to save you.”

Logan didn’t respond. He just lay there. Staring at the ceiling. Staring at nothing.

The door clicked shut.

And Logan was alone again.

the end.

taglist: @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @dragonfly047 @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @sluttyharry30 @n0vazsq @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @iimplicitt @geauxharry @hzstry @oikarma @chilling-seavey@the-holy-trinity-l @idc4987 @rayaskoalaland @elieanana@bookishnerd1132 @mercurymaxine

[cinnamanz]

✦ ─── 𝓒hampagne 𝓒oast , 𝓢ophia 𝓛aforteza do you miss me too?

─── 𝓨ou think about reaching out. just a text. just a line. this song still sounds like you. but you don’t. not because the love is gone—but because some stories are meant to live in the quiet. in glances. in songs. in memories. because letting go doesn’t mean you ever wanted to. and sophia—sweet, golden, soft at the edges and sharp at the center—was never really yours. but she was real.

❝𝓪ll my last strength against you,

𝓫aby tell me what you need.❞

౨ৎ 𝓹airing. predebut!sophia laforteza x female reader ౨ৎ 𝓰enre. fluff if u squint, undefined relationship, was it ever casual? no. angst (i tried) like a ton of it but i wasn't trying to drown u, hurt no comfort, wc. 3299 a/n. my exams js finished nd i thought id give yall sumn as compensation for the lack of mamma mia updates LMAO i was trying sumn new w this oneshot—writing style wise—nd im ngl it didn't quite go how i wanted to nd i ended up writing less bc of this experimental oneshot 😭😭😭 anyw, this is a long overdue angst from me i tried my best💔💔💔 i saw smn on tiktok say sophia is the type of person ud have a crush on high school nd that mainly inspired this so thanks random tiktok editor. this is mostly how i imagined champagne coast

❝𝔂oung as i want to know,

𝓲'll never let you go.❞

YOU REMEMBER HER BEST IN SHADES OF GOLD. not the kind that glitters, but the kind that glows. sun-warm. skin-close. the kind of gold that poured through her bedroom blinds every time you snuck in past midnight and stayed for as long as you could before school dawned, heart thudding, breath caught between wanting and wondering.

sophia.

sophia with the smile that felt like a secret sunrise. with soft pink polish barely clinging to her nails and the habit of humming songs she hadn’t written yet. her voice always held a lilt of laughter, like a secret being shared. 

she had a laugh that caught sunlight in its rhythm, and a way of remembering everyone's name like it was the most important one she'd ever heard. she moved through the halls like spring after a long winter—bright, warm, impossible not to notice. her presence made lockers bloom and linoleum shimmer. 

she’d offer a compliment with such genuine ease that it felt like sunlight breaking through clouds. she held eye contact like she was seeing you for the first and last time all at once. sophia, who always smelled like vanilla chapstick and the faintest trace of gardenias after rain. you said her name like a prayer you didn’t believe in but kept whispering anyway. just in case it could save you.

she’s everywhere now. bigger than memory, louder than youth. katseye headlines every festival lineup, and her voice spills from every speaker like honey and summer. but back then, she was just a girl with stardust in her laugh and music in her fingertips. her family’s name opened doors and booked venues, but sophia walked through them like they didn’t matter. she made time slow down. she made you feel like you were being seen through a softer lens.

sophia’s world had always been lyrical. she moved through life like she was humming a song only she could hear. each step light, each smile like a melody lingering in the air long after she’d walked away. 

everything about her felt improvised yet effortlessly right, like the first draft of a poem that didn’t need editing. she spoke in rhythm, thought in metaphor, lived in verses. there was music in her hands, in her laughter, in the way she leaned her head back when she was thinking—as if catching something only the sky could offer.

your world, on the other hand, was cinematic. made of still frames and silences. you didn’t move through life—you watched it. framed things, paused them, looked for symmetry in the ordinary. 

you didn’t always speak, but you noticed everything: the flutter of her lashes when she was about to say something vulnerable, the exact tilt of her smile when she was hiding a bruise of sadness. where sophia saw a lyric, you saw a shot list. where she saw wonder, you saw composition. where she breathed melody, you caught meaning in the silences between.

she narrated the world in chorus; you captured it in light. you were opposites in the way a poem and a film are different ways of saying the same thing. 

and somehow, in those precious months where your lives tangled and bloomed, you translated each other.

you met her in late march. spring still a whisper, flowers barely blooming, the sky bruised with indecision. your film teacher read names off a list, pairing students for the semester film project. you weren’t paying attention until you heard it: "y/n and sophia."

she turned to you with a smile that looked like it belonged to someone in a film already. sharp and soft at the same time. her voice was breezy, casual. "guess we’re partners."

you nodded, blinking, caught in her gravity already.

when you sat together to brainstorm, her notebook was full of lyrics—descriptions of faces in profile, sunflowers, waves crashing over shoulders. 

she wanted to create something that felt like breathing. you wanted to shoot something that felt like dreaming.

so you made a film about nature and people. about how vines wrap around fingers like lovers. how wind braids hair. how skin glows in golden hour like the earth is passing its light into it. sophia became the muse. barefoot in tall grass. spinning in white linen. half-submerged in a creek, laughing. you directed and held the lens like it was a heartbeat.

"you make the world look softer," she said once in awe, watching a playback.

"it only looks like that because you’re in it," you replied. your voice almost cracked from saying it.

she didn’t say anything then. just smiled at the screen, her reflection flickering over her shoulder.

that project was the beginning. the spark. long editing nights that bled into morning. coffee shared from the same chipped mug. the camera always between you—until it wasn’t. until it was just her, and you, and the quiet understanding that bloomed beneath everything left unsaid.

it started, maybe, on the hill.

that nowhere hill behind her high-rise, just past the stillness of manicured parks and closed cafés, where city light softened into starlight. you called it your chapel. the place where time slowed down and everything else disappeared.

every summer night, you’d sneak into her room at twelve-oh-something. her window creaked like it missed you. sophia would be waiting in a hoodie three sizes too big, her braid unraveling like ribbon. sometimes she brought snacks. sometimes she brought a poem. sometimes she brought nothing but herself.

and that was enough.

you’d walk, fingers brushing, shoulders bumping. and when the world was quiet enough, she’d start to sing. something half-formed. breathy. beautiful. you never interrupted. just listened. memorized the shape of her in the dark.

you brought your guitar once. not to impress, not to perform—just to fill the quiet with something that wouldn’t spill over into words. sophia lit up when she saw it, eyes shining like she’d been waiting for this without knowing it.

"you play?" she asked, voice full of something like awe.

"just a little," you said, shy.

she grinned and sat cross-legged in the grass, hoodie sleeves tugged over her hands. "can i sing?"

and so you played. soft, simple chords beneath your fingers like the beat of a heart learning a new rhythm. and sophia—god, sophia—she sang like her voice belonged to the sky. high, clear, breathy in the way that made your lungs forget how to work. you caught her gaze mid-song, and she smiled at you—not the kind she gave to the world, but the one that felt like it was stitched from your name.

you harmonised by instinct, your voice falling in beside hers like it had always belonged there. no one told you how music could feel like holding hands in the dark. no one told you it could be the first time you really felt someone without the need for physical touch.

when the last note faded, you didn’t speak. just sat there, letting the silence gather around you like a blanket, the ghost of melody still hovering between your mouths.

she leaned her head against your shoulder.

"you think stars remember us?" she asked.

"i think we remember them enough to make it count," you replied.

she looked up at you, pupils wide, eyes full of summer and something softer.

"i don’t want to be forgotten," she whispered.

"you won’t," you promised.

because that was the night something began. not loudly, not clearly, but with a strum and a hum and a shared breath beneath stars.

you'd never play that song for anyone else again. not because it was sacred. but because it already belonged to her.

the first time you kissed, you could feel the earth shift beneath you.

her lips were soft, trembling against yours like they were learning how to be still. the air between you was thick, humming with the kind of tension that seemed too big for both of you, yet you moved closer, closer still, until it was only her and the night and the stillness of a world that didn’t seem to matter anymore.

her hands were on your face, fingers delicate as they traced your jaw, as if committing every contour to memory. and then her mouth was on yours again, and this time, the kiss was deep and slow, a kind of sweetness that burned hotter than you ever imagined. you ran your hands up her sides, fingers exploring the soft curve of her waist, mapping it to memory like it was the only thing you’d ever truly need to know.

you could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her hoodie, the heat from her body seeping into yours. it spread like wildfire, quick and alive, until every nerve inside you was set alight. you held her so close—so impossibly close—that her breath mingled with yours, her heartbeat a steady thrum in the rhythm of your own.

god, you thought, as you kissed her deeper like she was air and you were addicted, letting yourself succumb and drown in her warmth. i have never felt so close to heaven as i have now with my lips on hers, and holding her so close to me that her warmth spills and spreads over me in waves, lighting every nerve lining of mine on fire.

“i think..." you whispered, your voice shaky with something raw, something tender. "i think i like you."

she smiled at you, the softest, saddest smile you'd ever seen, as if she already knew that what was happening between you was fleeting even before the hushed confession, a fleeting thing that would burn bright and quick before it was gone.

but for now, it didn’t matter.

for now, it was just you and her and the kind of kiss that felt like everything.

and for just a moment, you let yourself believe that everything was enough.

senior year rolled in with deadlines and early applications and the kind of weight that makes your bones feel older than they are. you and sophia partnered up for another media project. a short film. something dreamy, something about the in-between. something that felt like both of you.

one afternoon, everyone else had gone home, and it was just you and her in the empty classroom. she was sitting on the windowsill, the wind playing with the ends of her hair, painting her in soft light. you lifted the camcorder, pressed record. through the viewfinder, she looked unreal. backlit, untouchable. like something borrowed from a dream.

and it struck you again—how sophia's world was lyrical, and yours was cinematic. where she sat in that golden light, she looked like a line of poetry you’d never forget. but through your lens, she was also something else—framed, finite, fading even as you filmed. it hit you with a sharp kind of knowing: this would only ever be a memory. the footage would last, but the moment would not.

"what?" she asked, turning to you.

"nothing," you said, even though everything was happening all at once. because in that moment, with her framed by the sky and the silence, you knew. this wouldn’t last.

some people are moments. not destinations.

and sophia? she was a meteor. blazing. brief.

that footage still lives somewhere on your hard drive. you haven't played it in years. you’re not sure you could survive the sound of her voice saying your name in that soft, sun-drenched tone again.

some days, she was distant—her mind lost in melodies you hadn’t yet heard, her gaze turned inward, like she was looking at something beyond you. other days, she clung to you like gravity, as if the weight of her presence alone could pull you back from drifting too far into your own thoughts. 

you started to learn the language of her moods: the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was uncertain, how she bit her lip when she wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words, as if speaking them would unravel something fragile that was better left unsaid.

one night, there was nothing but the quiet between you. the hum of distant cars, the weight of the stars above. you could feel her next to you, close but just out of reach in a way that made everything feel too heavy, too raw.

"i wish i could keep this forever," you said, your voice barely more than a breath. the words fell from your lips before you could stop them, the kind of wish you didn’t know you had until it was already there, full and aching.

“this?” she asked, her voice soft, laced with something you couldn’t quite place.

“you. us. this...whatever this is,” you murmured, unable to name it, afraid of the weight of what it could mean if you did.

she didn’t say anything for a moment, just looked at you, the kind of look that made you feel like she could see into the places you didn’t let anyone touch. her smile came slowly, tinged with something tender and sad, as if she already knew what was coming, what was always coming, but wasn’t ready to let go yet. 

"you know some things aren’t meant to go on forever, even if they feel like they could."

you wanted to argue, to tell her that this—whatever this was—felt too big to be just a passing season. but the truth was, you didn’t know what it was. nothing about it was defined, and maybe that made it even more real.

"maybe," you whispered, the ache tightening in your chest. "but even a song gets stuck in your head for years."

and in that moment, with nothing else left to say, you both let the silence stretch between you.

when katseye began to bloom into the world’s consciousness, you watched her from the quiet. from the sidelines. where you had always been. tv interviews filtered through your screen late at night, their light flickering across your bedroom walls like ghosts you couldn’t name. 

there she was—sophia—draped in gowns that shimmered like the sea on moonlit nights, lips painted the soft red of a closing day, laughter threaded with rehearsed charm. people loved her. how could they not?

but you listened closely—not to her words, but to her voice beneath the voice. and god, it still sounded like her. like the girl who once sang barefoot beneath the stars, who curled into your side with wind-tangled hair and asked if heaven could be a person. that voice hadn’t changed. it still held the ache of midnights, the tremble of wishes no one ever said out loud.

but her eyes—her eyes had learned something you hadn’t. they were no longer the windows that once opened only for you, soft and unguarded and impossibly full of wonder. 

now they shimmered with something distant. practiced. eyes that had seen too much, learned how to hold just enough back to be adored but never known. she had become someone the world could look at, but never touch. someone who had learned how to let go.

you didn’t go to the farewell party that night of graduation.

you told people you were busy. that you forgot. but the truth was quieter than that, more fragile. you couldn’t stand the idea of watching her say goodbye to a place she always belonged to, to a chapter she had always meant to leave behind. you couldn’t watch her smile at the crowd and thank them for memories that brushed her skin.

so instead, you went to the hill. the hill that started it all. 

alone.

the one you both used to sneak off to when the world felt too sharp. the one where you’d bring your guitar, and she’d bring her voice, and between the two of you, you created something unnamable. you didn’t bring the guitar this time. there was no need. even the silence was loud with her absence.

you lay on the grass and stared at the sky until the stars blurred, your throat aching with a name you refused to say out loud. but it was there. it always was. in the hush between crickets. in the wind brushing against your cheek like a goodbye you never received. her name lived in the quiet. in the stillness. in the ache.

and maybe that was love.

not the kind that stays, but the kind that marks you anyway.

and sometimes, on the loneliest nights—when the world feels too quiet, and the sky hangs heavy with all the things you never said—you still look up at the stars and wonder if they remember.

two girls. a camera. a song.

you wonder if the stars recall the softness of her voice beside you, how it curled into the night like incense smoke, how your name sounded different when she said it—more alive, more whole. you wonder if they remember how her hand brushed yours in the dark like it meant something, like everything unspoken between you was understood anyway.

one of you rose—like the crescendo of a chorus, like light breaking over a stage. the other stayed—quiet, still, holding onto the echoes.

you don’t talk anymore—an outcome that didn’t come as a surprise—not really. just likes on old photos buried beneath filters and captions that meant more at the time. sometimes a tagged memory surfaces from the past—a birthday, a laugh, a behind-the-scenes shot—and her username feels like a paper cut across your chest. she never shared it, and neither did you. a reminder. a timeline. a pause you never quite recovered from.

every once in a while, champagne coast plays—that damned song you’d both fought over whether to use for the short film or not, that cost hours of editing over something so petty you’d won anyway—. maybe in a café, maybe in the shuffle of a playlist you forgot you made. 

the first few notes are enough. your breath stutters. and suddenly you're seventeen again, filming her by the window of an empty classroom, wind tugging gently at her hair, sunlight turning her into something god might’ve carved by hand.

you still remember the last day of filming. how she laughed at something you said. how you almost kissed her again, but didn’t.

how the golden hour touched her skin like it was saying goodbye too.

that day replays sometimes, in slow motion, like the final scene of a movie that never made it to theaters. you never really wrote an ending. just...stopped filming.

and maybe that’s the cruelest part. that there was no goodbye, no final bow. just the quiet unraveling of something too beautiful to hold.

you think about reaching out. just a text. just a line. this song still sounds like you.

but you don’t.

not because the love is gone—but because some stories are meant to live in the quiet. in glances. in songs. in memories. because letting go doesn’t mean you ever wanted to.

and sophia—sweet, golden, soft at the edges and sharp at the center—was never really yours. but she was real.

and that’s what you carry. not the goodbye. not the could-have-beens. just the memory. just the thought.

the way she looked at you once, when the camera was rolling and she didn’t know it—blissfully unaware she’d changed your life for the better or worse or in between, if that even made sense. the way your name lingered in her voice when no one else was listening.

the stars. the song. the stillness.

her.

and you. forever changed.

not by what lasted—but by what burned bright enough to leave a mark.

even now, you still look up. you find the time to. and sometimes, she’s still there. in the sky. in the silence. in the memory. like light you never forgot how to follow.

masterlist.

— please do not repost, copy, translate, or take from my work in any way without permission. thank you! xx

[xylatox]

One In A Million || csb

The first spin-off of The Slow Surrender is here :’) After I was left literally going through it (I cried so hard and my heart broke multiple times), I am so glad to be back in this universe and even more ecstatic to read Soobin’s romance especially as the brother of the mc from TSS. Excited to see where exactly his story is interlaced with the original story or if it happens after the main events! A special congrats to Raya for reaching 800 followers as I’m reading this, so glad people are recognising and loving your work <3 Anyways, unto my thoughts!!

Before I even begin, I am always a sucker for flowers, their language, practically anything to do with them. The way you’re able to silently convey feelings through something as simple as a flower really just warms my heart.

You cherish the minuscule things, not out of whimsy but out of habit, because you grew up knowing that gratitude was not just a virtue but a necessity. You learned to say thank you for everything placed into your hands, whether it was something you longed for or simply something to fill the space on your plate. Even at nine years old, a meal was never just a meal... it was a gift.

Is it too early to say I already love everything about her? Just from the way she thinks to her past, I cherish every bit of her. My heart breaks just seeing everything she’s been through (thankfully my tear reserves are dried up for now [we hope] so no crying today [again only a distant dream knowing myself]). It is heartwarming that despite everything at least she has her grandmother with her, I feel like that’s a relationship like no other.

And you do. More than anything. Even if one day, she forgets. Even if, someday, she doesn’t remember you at all.

Raya, I will always wish to see how you think.To me your mind is literally such a beautiful place, the way you seem to just flawlessly write the words down, its something I admire greatly.

And we find out where their romance begins :( I’m taken back to that moment with the MC from TSS and God, the pain was unimaginable, familiar and heartbreaking.

His eyes catch yours, and the words die between your parted lips, caught somewhere too deep to reach. Slowly, he stands from his chair, his hand slipping away from the pouch. You watch him smooth out the front of his coat, before stepping toward the center of the table. His fingers reach for the rose in front of you. The stem just one thorn away from being trimmed. The same thorn that had cut you earlier. “I’ll take this too, then,” he says. “Is that alright with you?”

Something about this moment just gets to me, maybe its the hidden tension, maybe its something else, whatever it make be, it speaks to me. The way MC (rightfully) assumed it was Soobin’s wife that suffered a loss and then the way he still comes a year later, my god. Man, the moment she asked him out I smiled and giggled like an idiot, shes so cute, they feel like puppies who’re scared of going into the water right now and its so endearing.

I felt so bad when Soobin was late oh my god 😭😭 I had no clue what was going to happen but I’m so glad he eventually came (his reaction to her still being there was also so cute)

His brows lifted slightly, softening — not in mockery, but in surprise. “Stop acting so cute, will you?” he murmured, and his words only deepened the flush on your cheeks. “You’re making it harder for me.”

Soobin, god. The way this line alone actually sent me insane. I do love that despite the initial awkwardness/tension from Soobin being late, they have a kind of flirtatious banter going on; they eased into conversation so nicely. I love them :) 

“You’re beautiful,” he says, voice steady, unflinching. “Every time I come to see you… you’re even more beautiful. And you take my breath away.” That ache—the one you’d fought to swallow down minutes ago—surges back with a quiet ferocity. Your bottom lip parts, breath hitching in surprise.

I feel sick oh my god, oh to be viewed like this.

Man. The vulnerability, The kiss. The kiss. The kiss. (yes 3 times was very necessary). The moment was just so soft?? It took me by surprise.

"You taste divine," he breathed against your neck, the words threaded with awe and desire.

Raya, youre going to make me pass out.

“I’ll be gentle with you then,” he promises, voice so gentle it nearly breaks you apart. His forehead rests against yours as his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, his touch light as silk. “You don’t have to fear anything with me. We’ll go slow. You just tell me everything you want… everything you don’t.”

The instant reassurance?!?!? Goodbye.

“Just think of it as my way to say sorry… for making the prettiest girl wait so long.”

MAN. (I was trying so hard to have my thoughts match the vibe of the fic; very cute, very calm but I fear I’m losing it.) CHOI SOOBIN THE MAN YOU ARE.

Before you could even set down the last plate, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest with a soft exhale of relief. His lips found your hairline in a series of slow, affectionate kisses, "You didn’t have to make breakfast, baby. I could’ve called someone."

RAYA. I literally went like “Oh, fuck” out loud because I could not handle it, Jesus. On another note though, the sleeping pills have me sad :((( and also slightly anxious. Man, the way mc single-handedly made him not think about it oh my god. Hes so downbad.

“All my life,” he murmured, gaze dropping to the untouched food on his plate, “I watched my sister become trapped in a marriage. Watching her lose herself made me believe I shouldn’t chase anyone… or anything. But then, I saw you.”

I love this Soobin so bad. He’s literally so in love with her oh my god.

Her eyes sweep over you unblinking, as though weighing you against some invisible scale. “Are you the woman seeing my son?” A chill skips down your spine.

Did I forget about their mother who I absolutely dislike? Yes. I immediately remembered her from the beginning of TSS, and the distaste I feel is ever present

Her head tilts, something sharp glinting behind her expression. “Why did you stutter?” The question is too sharp for someone who doesn't know you. Before you can even try to answer, she lifts her hand in a small, dismissive gesture. “Go on. Change your clothes. Make it fast. I don’t like waiting.”

I fear this just made my dislike her so much more, the MC is so sweet please dont speak to her like that, she doesnt deserve it, no one does.

The young woman settles beside her mother, her gaze drifting to you with a kindness that wraps around you like a soft blanket. No scrutiny, no sharp edges, it's curiosity. “I’m Soobin’s sister,” she says her name gently, her lips pulling into a smile that reaches her eyes. “You look even more beautiful than what he says.”

AND SHES HERE MY BABY :(((( My precious star, I missed her.

The air felt thinner now. You could feel your pulse in your throat, in your wrists, in the trembling tips of your fingers that curled tighter under the table. “Then how would you run a family if you don’t even have one?”

No. Raya you didn’t

“Don’t cry,” she whispers finally, pulling back, her palms warm against your damp cheeks. Her eyes search yours. Slowly, she slides a handkerchief from her pocket and presses it into your hand, her thumb brushing over your knuckles as she lets go. “My mother… she’s always been like this. I won’t tell you not to feel hurt, you should feel hurt. She doesn’t know how to soften her words, even when she should.”

I really do love the MC from TSS so bad, shes such a darling. Her and Soobin and such lovely examples of not feeding into the behaviour of the household that raised you (just focussing on the mother). Wait omg ::::::((((((( TSS’s MC is pregnant against oh my god :::((((((

Beomgyu stays still, waiting. His jaw flexes slightly, not out of impatience, but out of habit, you can tell. He doesn’t move, not until she disappears inside the building safely, not until the glass doors close behind her and she’s no longer in sight.

I just know he’s worried :(((((((( 

She took a step closer, “I’m Aera,” she said smoothly, not a trace of hesitation. “Soon to be Soobin’s fiancée.”

Oh god. Oh my god. I feel so bad for her what. I feel sick for her/

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” he murmurs, “You’ve been asleep so long, I’m starting to miss you.”

Oh this is a cute line 😭😭I didnt expect such cute words

By the time you found a clean sheet of paper and sat at the dining table, your whole body trembled with the weight of it. The pen felt too heavy in your hand. Your tears hit the page before your words did.

You slowly, wrote your goodbye.

Nooooooooooo. Raya ::::((((( RAYA NOOOOOO YOU MADE HER MOVE TOO ;-;-;-;-;-;-; RAYA.

“Why are you here?” You asked, each word flung like stones across the space between you. Your jaw clenched. “Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I tell you I don’t want you anymore?”

Your voice cut clean but your hands betrayed you. They shook at your sides, fingers twitching like they weren’t sure whether to reach for him or push him away. The ache in your throat frayed the edge of every word. And Soobin saw it. He saw all of it.

Oh my god.

"Marry me." It’s his last attempt to keep you from walking away. “Marry me, and I’ll do anything you want. Anything. Just don’t—” His throat closed up, and for a second, it sounded like he forgot how to breathe. “Don’t walk away again.”

Noooo the dried up tear reserve is filling up :(((

“I don’t want the world.” His eyes locked on yours, fierce and aching. “I never wanted any of that. Not once. I just… I just want you.”

My heart clenched oh my god. Oh, To be loved like this.

The odds of this… of you… out of all the people, all the cities, all the winding chances and missed timings, was one in a million.

I giggled. Its always a Raya fic when the title is referenced in the end. It’s literally such a trademark of yours now and I always get to giddy reading it :). This was a remarkable first spin-off to the TSS series Raya. As always, I truly love your work, there are no amount of words that exist in this world to correctly describe how your works make me feel. Thank you for existing and thank you always for writing.

‎₊ ˚ ⊹ ིྀ 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍

𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀: 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝖾𝖻𝗈𝗅 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗂 𝗌𝗈𝗈𝖻𝗂𝗇 𝗑 𝗆𝗂𝖽𝖽𝗅𝖾-𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

He stares at you, the glisten in his eyes that you've come to know whispers his truth. His shaking hands hold your wrists. Droplets slide from his hair, tracing the sharp angles of his face, mixing with the storm clinging to his skin as he stares at your face. You feel it before you hear it. You see it before he speaks. "Marry me." It's his last attempt to keep you from walking away.

𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌: chaebol au, strangers to lovers, angst, family issues, toxic societal norms, yearning, longing.

𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍-𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌: MDNI, multiple-smut scene, heavy make-out, body-worship, nipple-play, fingering, oral!fem receiving.

𝗐𝖼: 17.5k — playlist.

𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌: hi hello!! to clear things up, this is a spin-off of the main story but each txt male lead gets their own reader! (aka you, heh). other female leads might show up for the plot, but they’ll stay nameless.

(definitely read the first part if you haven’t — but you can read this as a standalone!) see the event 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄.

If there is one truth that time cannot taint in your life, it is your love for flowers. They bloom unburdened, much like the love you cradle for things that ask for nothing in return.

Perhaps you were a flower in your previous life — maybe that’s why people have always likened you to one. A flower is something delicate, something beautiful, something that marks in memory with its scent and colour. Yet if you were to tell the real reason why they call you that, it wouldn’t be for any of those things. It wouldn’t be because you were particularly graceful or charming.

It would be because you see the world through the eyes of a dreamer, a romantic, someone who clings to the smallest joys as if they were... lifelines.

You cherish the minuscule things, not out of whimsy but out of habit, because you grew up knowing that gratitude was not just a virtue but a necessity. You learned to say thank you for everything placed into your hands, whether it was something you longed for or simply something to fill the space on your plate. Even at nine years old, a meal was never just a meal... it was a gift.

You don’t blame your parents for leaving. People say you should be grateful — they gave you life, after all. And they did. But not even a year into your existence, they chose their own paths, carving out futures that no longer had room for you. And you never resented them for it, not really.

It doesn’t mean it wasn’t lonely.

No matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise, it’s hard so, so hard to grow up in a house that never truly felt like home. Hard to wake up each morning knowing there’s no mother to greet you, no father’s voice to remind you you’re safe. Hard to fall asleep at night, knowing that if a nightmare came, there would be no one there to hold you.

No one at all.

They're happy, somewhere out there. Twin sisters from your father’s side, three brothers from your mother’s. And you were happy for them, truly. They had their lives, their homes, their own worlds to tend to. They checked in when they could — once, maybe twice a month, just enough to remind you they were still out there. Just enough to keep you from forgetting... while you stayed with your grandmother.

And that was enough. Or at least, it had to be.

“Nana,” you sigh, “You just watched that yesterday. Are you sure you want to go again?”

“Yes. Mom.”

You continued to scrub the plate she ate from, forcing a smile. She’s called you Mom again. It happens often now. Some days, you’re her daughter. Other days, her niece, a friend. But most days, you’re her mother.

And that’s fine. It has to be fine. As long as there are still days when she calls you anything at all. Because the worst days, the ones that keep you up at night, are the ones when she just looks at you with empty eyes, searching your face like you’re a stranger.

You swallow hard and turn back to her. “Did you take your meds, Nana?”

"Yes."

You wipe your hands on the kitchen towel, glancing toward the small pillbox on the counter. Walking over, you flip open the lid, scanning the compartments. She took them. A quiet breath of relief escapes you.

“Thank you,” you murmur, closing the box. “After this, we’ll head to bed, okay?”

“Okay.”

You sink onto the couch beside her, adjusting the hem of your floral home dress—the one you tailored yourself, stitching distractions into the fabric on nights when the weight of it all felt unbearable.

Mama Mia plays on the screen, the familiar melodies filling the small space between you. It’s always been her favourite movie. Even after the diagnosis, even as the world around her blurred at the edges, she kept coming back to it.

As if, somehow, it was something she could still hold onto.

You glance at her, watching the way her lips move with the lyrics, her hands tapping against the armrest in time with the music. She remembers this.

“Can I hold your hand while we watch?” you ask softly.

Your grandmother turns to you with a soft smile, her eyes whispering at the corners. She’s seventy-five now, her hair thinner, her hands frail, but to you, she’s still the same. Still beautiful. Still her.

People told you to put her in a nursing home. Said it would be easier, that it was the practical choice. But how could you? How could you leave the one person who never left you? The person who held your hand through every scraped knee, every heartbreak. The only real family you have.

Her frail fingers squeeze yours gently. Then, just as you turn back to the movie, you hear it.

“I love you, Y/N.”

Your breath halts. You tear your gaze from the screen, eyes wide, heart pounding. It’s been months — months of her calling you by the wrong names, or worse, not calling you anything at all. But now, she’s looking right at you, remembering you. A lump sits in your throat as tears sting your eyes. You grip her hand tighter.

“I love you too, Nana,” you whisper, voice shaking.

And you do. More than anything. Even if one day, she forgets. Even if, someday, she doesn’t remember you at all.

You slide the key into the lock, your right shoulder weighed down by the new pots you picked up earlier. As the door swings open, the soft chime of the bell echoes through the quiet shop. Stepping inside, you nudge the door shut behind you and flip the sign to OPEN with a satisfied smile.

It’s 10 a.m., and the morning light spills in through the windows, casting a warm glow over the flowers on display. Running your fingers gently over delicate petals, you inhale their fresh scent, the fragrance mixing with the faint traces of paint lingering on the walls — your own handiwork, soft strokes of color bringing the shop to life.

You set your bag down behind the counter and power on the computer, scrolling through the day’s orders. Five minutes pass in a comfortable rhythm before the familiar chime rings again. The door swings open.

Someone’s here.

"Good morning!" You greet with a warm smile, but your voice falters just slightly as you take him in. He’s not the usual type to wander into a flower shop. Dressed in a sharp, black tailored suit, he carries himself with an air of quiet confidence. The glasses perched on the bridge of his nose add to his composed demeanor, but it’s his presence — towering in the doorway, making the shop feel smaller somehow, catches you off guard.

Still, you keep your smile, smoothing the surprise on your chest. "Are you looking for any particular flowers?"

He glances at you and gives a small nod — a quick acknowledgment that he’s heard you. It’s familiar. You’ve dealt with customers like this before, the ones who prefer to browse in silence before saying what they need.

You nod back slightly, a polite gesture, then shift your gaze back to your computer, trying to shake off the strange unease prickling at you. He hasn’t even spoken yet, and still, something about him makes your pulse tick faster.

Why?

“I'm looking to have a funeral arrangement made.” he says suddenly, making you blink and look up.

His eyes meet yours.

You cleared your throat, "I'm sorry for your loss." You try to follow the routine speech that you have. "Let me get my book and I'll assist you. Please, take a seat."

You point towards the table, a round wooden structure with three matching chairs, a small white vase holding a fresh boquet decorated the center. He quickly followed your instructions, pulling the chair as it scraped on along the wooden floorboards before they sit with a sigh.

You took a quick glance at him again, watching as he fishes out his phone, one of the brands that is you think the latest release, and you see a unique looking rolex in his wrists. You avert your eyes as soon as you did, and your eyes catch the black car parked in front of your store.

Your store.

Your small humble store that is stark comparison compared to everything this man have.

You cleared your thoughts as to why he chose this place to buy flowers. You turned around to gather your book filled with arrangements.

"Do you run this place by yourself?" As you reach for the leather spine of the book, you glance over your shoulder, meeting his eyes already on yours.

He didn’t respond, even as you took a seat across from him. Still, you could feel his gaze following you. You pushed the roses aside, their petals bruised from restless handling, and replaced them with the open book. Its pages, worn thin, exhaled the faint, bitter-sweet scent of aged paper — a comfort you almost resented tonight.

He stayed silent, his arms draped over the table, eyes steady. His presence bled into the air, heavy and warm, as though the room itself bent around him. You swore you could see it — something low and smoldering radiating off of him, a slow burn that clawed past the polished edges he wore so well.

You tore your gaze away before it could swallow you whole.

You tighten your grip on the pen. “May I have the full name of the deceased?” Your hand drifts across the top of the page, hovering over the empty space waiting to be filled, just as you wait for his answer.

When it comes, it lands harder than you expect.

“It… doesn’t have a full name,” he says quietly. Your eyes lift to meet his. “But we call him Moon.”

Your breath catches. There’s only one meaning behind words like that. A child. Your mind pulls back into dim memories; the parents who’d come to your shop before, searching for flowers with little else to offer but love for someone whose life never had the chance to unfold. Your lips part, but no sound comes. You drop your gaze, forcing it back down to the blank page. You’ve done this before — too many times — but it still finds a way to shake you.

Pushing through the heaviness in your chest, you press the pen to paper and write the name.

Moon.

“And what are you looking for in this arrangement?” The words burn as they leave you, bitter and dry, clinging to the back of your throat. You wait, feeling the seconds stretch thin between you.

“What do you think?”

You should know. This is what you do — what you’ve poured years into. Flowers have been your language longer than words ever have. But it’s always this question that unravels you. It pulls at the seams of whatever certainty you pretend to hold. Of course you have ideas. They come in flashes,but what are they worth?

What if it’s wrong? What if it’s not enough?

The thoughts spiral fast, like they always do. Familiar and merciless, burrowing deep where you can’t shake them loose. They weigh heavy in your chest, anchoring themselves into the cracks of a confidence too fragile to stand against them. You sit there, hollowed out and grasping for something to offer this man, something that won’t disappoint him, or worse, dishonor what he’s lost.

A baby. A mother greiving. And now this man, carrying his own mourning, offering no guidance to make the task easier. Your fingers twitch, restless and unsure. You have to give him something. Anything.

“Well, for funerals, people usually gravitate toward chrysanthemums,” you say, lifting your free hand toward the cluster of blooms sitting in their vases to the right. His gaze follows where you gesture. “Lilies are another favorite,” you add, motioning to the soft petals hanging to the left. “And people often ask for—”

“But what do you think?” His voice cuts through yours, making your words falter. Slowly, your eyes meet his, and he holds your gaze across the table. “What do you gravitate toward?”

“White roses,” you murmur, your gaze flicking away from him and toward the blooms resting quietly in the front window of the shop. “They symbolize… eternal love, and remembrance.” Your voice softens. “If it were me… someday… I think it would make me happiest to be remembered that way. To be loved like that, even after.”

When you finish, your eyes drift back to his, uncertain, before you quickly lower them to the blank page in front of you. “Sorry,” you whisper, flinching at your own rambling.

“No.” His voice is firmer this time, “Don’t be sorry. Tell me more.”

You swallow hard. Your heartbeat stirs faster in your chest, a throb blooming from the tender cut on your fingertip. You breathe through it.

“Forget-me-nots,” you say. “I suppose… I’d start with a base of hyacinths, then layer in forget-me-nots and foliage as filler. And maybe top it off with white roses.”

“Think you can have it ready in two days?” he asks, his gaze shifting toward the rosebuds waiting to be trimmed on the table. “That’s when the memorial service will be.”

You nod before the words even catch up to you. “Yes, yes. That’s no problem.” You lower your head and start to write, sketching out the arrangement you’d described, even as your hand strains to keep steady against the shake running deep in your chest.

“Here.” He sets a small black bag on the table. You don’t have to open it to know — from the weight, the way it sits — it’s easily a week’s worth of your shop’s earnings.

“That’s too much. It’ll only be —”

“It’s the least I can do,”His voice is gentle but leaves no room to argue.“I doubt many would have come up with something as thoughtful as yours.”

“Please… I can’t let you overpay.” Your hand rests on the bag, fingers curling around the edge as you begin to slide it back toward him but his hand meets yours, halting you. His fingertips graze against your skin.

His eyes catch yours, and the words die between your parted lips, caught somewhere too deep to reach. Slowly, he stands from his chair, his hand slipping away from the pouch. You watch him smooth out the front of his coat, before stepping toward the center of the table. His fingers reach for the rose in front of you. The stem just one thorn away from being trimmed. The same thorn that had cut you earlier. “I’ll take this too, then,” he says. “Is that alright with you?”

The nervousness clawing at your chest tightens, cinching your breath and locking the words in your throat. It burns — sharp and hot, like a brand searing them shut. You can only nod, managing the smallest smile before your eyes drop, trailing back down to the thorn that had drawn your blood.

You reach for your shears and rise from your chair, stepping toward him.

“I’d just started working on this one when you came in,” you murmur, lifting the sharp edge to the base of the stem. His fingers shift aside, careful and slow, as you steady the blades around the thorn. His eyes stay on you, not on the flower, not on your hands, but on the furrow of your brow as you focus.

You sense the moment he holds his breath.

With one clean motion, you clip the thorn away. “Thank you,” you say, your voice soft and thinner than you meant it to be.

“Thank you,” he echoes. His tone mirrors yours, but heavier somehow. “I look forward to seeing what you create.” He turns toward the door, tall frame gliding in that unhurried way of his, but he doesn’t touch the handle yet. His body shifts just enough to glance back. “By the way… I should get your name.”

“Y/N,” you answer. The name comes easy, but your breath feels uneven behind it. “And yours?”

You’ve never been like this before. Never so openly invested in someone you’d barely exchanged a few scattered words with. Never so quick to give away your curiosity. But here you stand; unmoving, staring, studying him more openly than you’d dare with anyone else.

He smiles. Barely. So faint you might have missed it entirely… if you weren’t so completely, foolishly locked on him. Enough of a curve to tug at the corner of his mouth. And there, a small hollow moves in his cheek. Does it get deeper when he really smiles? Does his smile reach his eyes?

Your throat tightens at the thought, inexplicable.

“Soobin,”

He came back two days later. Right when he said he would. When you handed him the arrangement, his eyes lingered on it longer than you expected. His face didn’t shift much, but you caught it, a flicker of surprise, as though he hadn’t entirely expected it to look the way it did. As though he hadn’t expected you to remember it so well.

“Thank you,” he said, voice low, steady. And before you could step back or fold the moment away, he spoke again. Another request. The same one. For next week.

And that’s how it started.

It became a pattern before you realized you’d memorized it. Every week, almost the same day, he returned. Always asking for the same thing. And it took so little, for you to start waiting for him. You didn’t need to admit you were. It was clear enough in the way your hands moved faster on the mornings you thought he might show up. The way you found yourself glancing at the clock more often. The way your breath shifted, when the bell over the door chimed and you hoped it would be him.

The weeks folded into months before you realized how quickly the time had passed.

“Your wife must be having a hard time,” you say quietly, watching him from behind the counter as his fingers brush along the edges of the newest arrangement vases you’d set out last week. Your voice tries to sound casual, light enough not to pry. “But she’s lucky to have you.”

It’s the only explanation that ever made sense. The one you’d quietly settled on back when he first asked for those mourning flowers. That was how you’d made sense of it. How you’d made peace with why the arrangements always felt so heavy.

He stops. “Wife?” His brow lifts, faint confusion softening the lines around his eyes.

Your throat pulls tight. “Uh… yeah,” you fumble, heat creeping up the back of your neck. “… How is she recovering?”

There’s a pause. His stare doesn’t waver. His jaw sets, just enough that you can tell he’s measuring something inside before letting the words go.

“It’s for my sister.”

Sister. All this time, you thought you understood. The flowers, the endless varieties he carefully chose week after week — they were for his sister. That’s what you told yourself. It made sense. She must be the one who lost a child. A grief so cavernous that even the brightest blooms could barely soften its edges. You could understand it. the tenderness of a brother trying to tether her to something gentle. The quiet, steady ritual of bringing beauty to someone drowning.

But one year have passed. One year, and still, he comes.

You watch Soobin now, and something inside you twists sharp and deep. Your throat pulls tight, a burn clawing up the back of your eyes, your heart thrashing in your chest like it’s frantic to be let loose. His fingers move across the petals with reverence, the kind of touch meant for something breakable, sacred. As though each flower is an apology too heavy to speak aloud. A brother so devoted, so relentless in his quiet offerings — and surely he has a life beyond this. A job. Responsibilities. People waiting for him. And yet here he is. Always here. Always returning, as though caught in some private penance only he can feel, rooted in your little shop like he doesn’t know where else to go. Every week, standing in the hush of your little shop like a man trying to repent for a sin he never committed.

The flowers… you’ve always loved them. They’re stitched with meanings you’ve memorized like scripture; hope, solace, rebirth. They ask for nothing in return, and still, they give so much. The burn behind your eyes sharpens as you watch him, your mind comparing him to one, your chest aching in places you thought you’d long since sealed shut.

You wrap the arrangement slowly, careful with each fold and knot. Your heart thuds against your ribs like it’s trying to outrun the thoughts crowding your chest. The ones you don’t say out loud. The thought unsettles you more than it should. It coils tight in your gut, sharp and sickening. Because part of you already knows — one day, the door won’t open. One day, he won’t come anymore. You hear his footsteps before you see him. He’s seen that you’re nearly done ,the bouquet he asked for, the one you’ve handled like it’s something sacred. You feel his presence before you meet his eyes.

You don’t know why. You can’t name it, not exactly. Maybe it’s the dread that coils in your stomach that there will be a day you wake on a day he’s supposed to come, only to find the hours slipping by, the bell above the door never ringing. And before you can stop yourself, before your good sense can catch up to your mouth, the words tumble out. “Would you want to go out sometime?”

You instantly regret it, the way your voice cracked, the way you can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry,” you say quickly, fumbling. “That was, I didn’t mean to put you in an awkward position. If it’s invasive or —”

“Yes.” You blink. His expression is steady, unshaken. “Yes,” he says again, softer this time. “I was going to ask you, too.”

Your breath stumbles in your chest. You nod, unsure of what to say, heart hammering loud enough to drown out everything else, but he goes on, “Next week. Same day, same time. Let’s do that.”

You nod again, this time slower. Something settles in your chest, light but anchoring. “And,” he adds, as he picks up the bouquet, “make another arrangement.” You glance at him, brows lifting in question. “Anything you want,” he says. “Doesn’t matter what it costs. Just… make something for me.”

You swallow the rush in your throat, the spark behind your ribs. You can already feel the stems in your hands, the petals under your fingers. You don’t know what you’ll make yet but you know it will say everything you can’t.

“Okay.”

You stare at the bouquet as it slumps at the edge of the table. The one you arranged so carefully, over and over again for days.

Dawn had already cracked the sky.

Now, the gloss on your lips is gone, long since faded like the sun. The coat you pressed at sunrise feels stiff, resentful, like it's been waiting just as long. Your spine aches from sitting too straight for too many hours, and your breath trembles in your throat, thin and cold.

He said he’d be here before lunch. He said he’d take you out.

He never came.

Maybe he got held up. Maybe it slipped his mind. Maybe something urgent came up. You tell yourself these things because it’s easier than the alternative. Still, the silence wraps around you too tightly. It hums in your ears, thick and heavy, until the only thing left is the dull thud of your heartbeat, knocking against your ribs like it’s looking for a way out.

Your eyes sting. Are you even allowed to cry over this?

“Well,” you murmur, voice thinner than you’d like, “let’s get you to a vase.” Carefully, you gather the arrangement, fingertips grazing the petals. You breathe in — soft, floral, faintly sweet — and hold it there.

Your movements felt slow. Deliberate, almost. Strange, when these steps had always come easy to you, and yet, you lingered. As if dragging out every motion might somehow buy him time to show. Your gaze settles on the bouquet now resting in the vase. You exhale, slow and shallow, but no words rise to meet the breath. There’s nothing left to say. Nothing worth breaking the quiet for. Turning to the door, your steps this time are steady, unhesitant. No more stalling. You did what you could. You waited. You hoped.

And now, it’s clear; he’s not coming.

You were just about to lower the blinds when a familiar car slid to a stop out front. Your breath caught, frozen tight in your chest. You didn’t move, didn’t blink, as the driver’s door flung open before the engine had even settled into idle. There he was, the tall figure who’d haunted your thoughts for months, carved into every restless night. Disheveled, frantic, a deep frown cutting across his face.

When his eyes found yours, he ran.

The air slammed back into your lungs so fast it almost hurt. The fog, the static that had smothered you for hours, gone. Blown clean away in one look on his face.

He's here.

“Why did you wait for me?” The words tumbled out the moment he pushed the door open, his gaze locking onto yours. His face, guilt etched into every line. “You waited for me,” he said again, quieter this time. The guilt cracked, crumbled at the edges, and in its place came something softer. His eyes didn’t waver. It was awe, unmistakable and unguarded.

It was as if he couldn’t believe you were real.

The car ride was quiet. His coat rested over your shoulders, warm and grounding, as the streetlights blurred past. Since it was already late, Soobin had offered his place. You didn’t argue.

“We’re here,” he murmured, unbuckling his seatbelt. You’d somehow already undone yours without realizing it, stepping out into the cool air just as he rounded the front of the car to meet you. His hand hovered near the door, but you’d beaten him to it. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you breathed, offering a small smile. Your eyes drifted past him, brows pinching slightly as you took in the skyline ahead —towering buildings stretching into the night. Your confusion flickered across your face before you could hide it. “You said your apartment, right?”

He hummed, his lips twitching into the faintest smile. He nodded toward the buildings ahead. “Come on.”

You walked, still puzzled, trailing a step behind him. Your eyes wandered, curious and cautious, as you neared the towering building. Inside, staff seemed to scatter and straighten the moment they caught sight of Soobin. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Postures snapped upright. The door swung open before either of you reached it.

“Late evening, Mr. Choi,” the security guard greeted, bowing deeply. The others followed suit, dipping their heads in swift, practiced motions. It felt surreal. Like you’d stumbled into the middle of a K-drama you used to watch. Like you were seeing something you weren’t meant to. Soobin didn’t slow. He didn’t pause at the front desk like everyone else did. He just kept walking, glancing back once to make sure you were still with him. When he reached the elevator, he pressed the button without hesitation. The panel lit up, and you caught the word just above it; Penthouse.

Your breath caught, but you masked it quickly, dropping your gaze. That’s when you noticed his hands, resting at his sides, relaxed. The silence wrapped around you again. You shifted your hand, hesitant, pinky inching toward his. You just wanted to hold it — just once. Who knew if you’d get another chance like this? Maybe tomorrow he’d decide you weren’t someone he wanted to see anymore. Maybe you’d bore him. Maybe he’d drift away like people sometimes do.

So just once. Just to know what it felt like.

Your fingers moved closer, careful, unhurried. Barely an inch away — Ding. The elevator chimed, breaking your focus. Your hand froze mid-reach. Soobin turned, catching you dead-on. His gaze flicked down, just fast enough to see the way you yanked your hand back, swatting it away like you’d touched something too hot. “Uh—” you blurted.

His brows lifted slightly, softening — not in mockery, but in surprise. “Stop acting so cute, will you?” he murmured, and his words only deepened the flush on your cheeks. “You’re making it harder for me.”

Before you could even piece together what he meant, his hand reached out. His fingers found yours, threading between them with an ease that made your breath catch. The touch was warm, grounding, and when he gently tugged, you startled just a little. He didn’t say anything about it. He only pulled you softly toward him and guided you into the elevator. The elevator closes, but everything feels distant.

And all the while, his fingers stay laced with yours, anchoring you gently as the world rose around.

“Do you drink?” he asks, his voice low as he approaches the couch where you sit. The bottle in his hands glints under the warm lights, dark glass wrapped in crinkled gold foil, the wine inside a deep, velvet red that swirls languidly as he moves. One glance, and you already know: it’s expensive.

His penthouse is sprawling, though you suppose all penthouses are. “On special occasions,” you admit, watching as he reaches for two crystal glasses.

“Would you call this a special occasion?” He sinks into the couch beside you, his back meeting the cushions.

“I’d say so.” Your answer draws a small smile from him as he leans closer. Carefully, he cradles a glass in each hand and offers one to you. You accept it, fingertips brushing the cool surface as you balance the bowl of the glass in your palm, the slender stem threading between your knuckles. You lift it gently, only needing the faintest tilt toward your nose to catch the aroma. Your intuition was right, this would be the finest drink you’ve ever touched.

You take a sip. The wine blooms sharp on your tongue, threading warmth down your throat.

“Tell me,” he says, lifting the glass to his lips. His bangs fall loose over his eyes, soft and unbothered, and you fight the quiet urge to reach over and sweep them aside. “How did you start your business?”

“Like most things in this world,” you reply, taking another small sip, the pungent taste stinging your palate. “A bit of luck and a bit of misfortune.”

Soobin shifts, turning more fully toward you. One arm drapes along the back of the couch, as though he’s subconsciously reaching closer. His glass rests loosely against his thigh, “What was your luck?”

“I received money. Enough to build the business.”

“And the misfortune?”

Your throat tightens slightly. You swallow. “It was because my grandmother… wouldn’t be able to take care of it anymore.” Your voice softens. “Or herself anymore.”

The quiet smile at the corner of his lips falters, folding into something more solemn. A flat line. His eyes don’t leave you, they track every flicker of your expression: the slight furrow of your brow, the quick blinks you can’t quite suppress, the faint, compulsive bite to the inside of your cheek. But he doesn’t press.

“Why flowers?”

You know the answer. It unfurls easily in your mind, sprawling and layered. But a flicker of doubt tugs at you. If I ramble, will he grow tired of me?

“I liked their meanings,” you say instead, choosing your words slowly. “How each plant holds its own importance, just by existing. It’s fulfilling. And it’s a beautiful thing… seeing the way even simple arrangements can affect people.” You glance down, your thumb brushing the base of your glass. The words settle in the air between you.

He doesn’t fill the silence or shift in his seat. His eyes stay fixed on you. The glass in his hand remains perfectly still. His gaze lingers like he’s reading something delicate between your lines, like you’re a puzzle he’s in no rush to solve. He watches without pressing, without judgment. You feel the heat creep into your cheeks despite yourself, and you lower your gaze, hoping it hides the way your pulse trips over itself.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a pause, his voice lower, gentler. “I feel like I’m bombarding you with all these questions. Would you like to ask me something instead?”

A dozen questions flicker through your mind, each vying for space. Yet one floats to the surface, steady and clear, eclipsing the rest. “Why did you ask me to make you that bouquet?” The words leave you smoother than you expected.

For a breath longer, he says nothing. And then — a soft, breathy laugh escapes him. His eyes crinkle at the corners, something warm spilling over his features, and you swear you feel your heart tighten in your chest.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him laugh. It’s the first time you’ve seen the hollows of his cheeks deepen, the dimples ghost into view.

“Well,” he says, clearing his throat gently, He leans forward slightly, setting his glass on the table with a clink. “I do have an answer. But it’s a long one… if you’ll bear with me.” You nod, something soft and weightless settling in your chest.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, voice steady, unflinching. “Every time I come to see you… you’re even more beautiful. And you take my breath away.” That ache—the one you’d fought to swallow down minutes ago—surges back with a quiet ferocity. Your bottom lip parts, breath hitching in surprise.

Soobin’s voice dips, even softer now, like he’s confessing something he’s carried for far too long. “I asked you to make me that bouquet because I knew you’d pour yourself into it. You’d try your best to make it perfect for me. And when I saw it… I knew you’d done exactly that.” He pauses, gaze never wavering from you. “I never planned to take it with me. That bouquet—it was always meant for you.”

He shifts closer, just a few inches, slow and unintrusive. You don’t look at him; your eyes drop away, blurred with the tears threatening to spill over. You hold them back with every ounce of restraint, blinking fast against the shimmer at your waterline.

“I could’ve gone to any florist,” he continues, his voice barely above a murmur, “bought flowers and handed them to you. But I didn’t want that. I wanted you to make them… for yourself.”

Your chest pulls tight, your breath shallow and quick.

“I wanted you to create something as beautiful as you are. That’s why I asked for the bouquet.” His words land soft, final. “Because you’re beautiful.”

You try to fight it. Your head lifts slightly, your gaze tipping upward as if looking higher might will the tears back in. But the moment you blink, they slip free, tracing a slow, unbidden path down the curve of your cheek. There’s no hiding it. Not from him. Soobin’s eyes track the tear’s descent, his expression open and unreadable.

“I…” You falter, biting down gently on your tongue as your throat burns, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says immediately, “Tell me.”

Your breath shudders out, thin and shaky. “It’s just… earlier, I thought you wouldn’t come back.” The fracture in your voice is clear, woven into every syllable. Soobin hears it as easily as if you’d shouted it. His focus sharpens, tender and intent, even as another tear slips down your cheek.

Without a word, he lifts his hand. His touch is featherlight, the side of his index finger brushes just beneath your eye, catching the tear before it can fall farther. The contact startles you; your breath catches, your eyes widening at the gentle weight of his skin on yours. Though he’d caught your tear, his hand lingers on your cheek. His skin is cooler than yours, a contrast that sends a ripple down your spine. Then his finger glides down the curve of your face, tracing a path to your chin. His touch is careful, as if he’s afraid you might shatter under anything less. His fingers cradle your chin gently, coaxing, as he tilts your face toward him. Your breath catches as your gaze is guided back to his.

He’s looking at you.

Your nerves spark like a live wire under your skin, a delicate ache blooming in your chest. You swear you’ll come apart if you move too quickly, if you breathe too hard. Your heartbeat drums mercilessly in your ears loud enough, to fill the silence between you.

He leans closer. Slowly, gingerly, he edges forward like he’s stepping through every invisible barrier you’d built, slipping past every wall you thought you’d carefully kept intact. You watch as his eyes trace the line of your lips. Is he feeling the same tremor, the same breathless ache threatening to consume you whole?

Your eyes mirror his, drifting down until they rest on his lips. You feel his breath first, warm and shallow against your mouth. Your eyes flutter shut, anticipation blooming low in your belly — an ache, a flutter, a trembling promise. The thought alone sends shivers down your spine.

His lips meet yours. It's soft.

You don’t dare move. His fingers remain at your chinr. And for the first time, you let yourself surrender completely, allowing someone else full, irrevocable control. You let him lead. You let yourself fall. Then, subtly, Soobin shifts. His lips part just slightly against yours, enough to press a second kiss, lighter than air, softer than thought. The faintest sound of it rings in your ears, delicate and clear, as if it’s the only sound left in the world. There is no one else. Nothing else. Only you and him.

When he pulls away, it’s slow. He creates space between you, his gaze dropping—gentle, searching. “I apologize,” he says softly, his voice drawing your eyes open again. His pupils are dark, downcast, uncertainty clouding their depths as his fingers slip away from your skin. “If I made you uncomfortable… if I overstepped — I’m sorry.”

Without a word, with your tears now stilled, you reach for him. Your fingers wrap gently around his wrist, the same hand that had so carefully traced your skin. You hold him. With a pull, you guide his hand back to your face. When his fingertips meet your skin again, a wordless relief unfurls in your chest.

He’s watching you. His eyes are locked to yours, dark and unwavering, tracking every small shift in your expression as if deciphering the meaning behind your touch. Your hand stays clasped at his wrist as you draw your lips inward, wetting them with a soft sweep of your tongue, a silent permission offered without a single breath of speech.

You see it instantly, the way his brow knits downward, a soft furrow of longing. His lips part slightly, a breath escaping that he doesn’t bother to rein in. The expression across his face is raw, unguarded, needy in a way that makes your stomach swoop, a sweet ache pulling low in your core. His gaze flickers downward, fixated on the subtle shift of your mouth.

Before you even can take your next breath, his lips are on yours again. His mouth meets yours with more urgency, yet still achingly soft. His free hand ghosts up your jaw, fingers threading into the hinge of your neck, You’re taken aback, quite literally as his mouth parts against yours, deepening the kiss in a way that makes your breath falter. Your head tips backward instinctively, but before you can drift too far, his hand is there to catch. His fingers tangle into the soft strands at the nape of your neck, cradling you.

You clutch tighter to his wrist, as if that alone could tether you. The moment dissolves into something weightless, and the sensation of Soobin’s kiss begins to eclipse everything else — until the world narrows to nothing but his lips, his breath, his touch.

Your lungs tighten. Your head spins just as you feel the graze of his tongue against your lower lip. With a soft gasp, you break away.

Cool air rushes between your lips as you pull back, your breath coming quick and shallow. Your fingers, once gripping tight at his wrist loosen, falling limp against his skin. His hand slides gently from the back of your head, fingertips gliding down the column of your neck before settling against the delicate curve of your throat. His thumb traces there idly, barely a whisper of contact.

His voice, when it comes, is hushed. “Are you alright?”

All your life, you had been pursued. Suitors with bright eyes and polished words circled like moths, eager to capture your hand, to fasten their futures to yours. They came with promises that echoed hollow against your ribs. They smiled too easily, spoke too sweetly and though you tried, how you tried to meet them halfway, something inside you always stayed untouched.

You had forced smiles you didn’t mean. Laughed at jokes that never reached your eyes. You wrapped yourself in false emotions like gossamer, hoping the weight of them would feel like belonging. But after every encounter, you only felt emptier. You never understood why.

Until now.

With Soobin’s kiss still lingering on your lips, with his hand resting against the tender line of your throat as though you were something precious, and easily breakable. The truth settles in you, your heart had never been wandering.

It had been waiting. Waiting for him.

It wasn’t that no one wanted you. It was that your soul had already made its choice long before your body could catch up. And after all the quiet, lonely years of not knowing what you were longing for, he had finally found you.

You are home.

"I…" Your voice is thin, threadbare with wonder. You search for words, but none seem big enough to hold what you’re feeling. "I’ve never… been kissed like that before."

He smile slowly, a laugh tumbles from him and the thumb resting against your neck drifts upward, grazing the curve of your cheek with such careful reverence it makes your breath catch. You don’t have time to react. He leans in before you can even think, brushing a kiss against your lips, so brief it’s almost weightless. Too fleeting, too quick, and when he pulls away, you instinctively lean forward, chasing the fading warmth.

"Is that better?" he murmurs, mischief softening the edges of his gaze.

You swallow thickly, your pulse fluttering wildly beneath his touch. "I didn’t…" Your voice falters, a smile tugging unbidden at the corner of your lips. "…say that I didn’t like it."

It was as if your words had unspooled something inside him, like you'd spoken a secret incantation only he could hear. The moment your words left your lips, he was on you — his mouth capturing yours with a hunger. His hands slid down at your waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, warm palms pressing against your skin as if he needed to feel every inch of you. His lips broke from yours only to travel lower, grazing the delicate line of your jaw before finding the curve of your neck. The first brush of his mouth there drew a sound from you, a soft moan. You felt him smile against your skin, a low, pleased hum from his throat as if your every sigh was a gift.

Without thinking, your arms wrapped tighter around him. You shifted, lifting your legs to curl around his waist, pulling him flush against you. The soft, unrestrained groan that escaped him at the motion sent a spark racing straight through you.

You had never felt so wanted as hands slid down, tracing the shape of your thigh before they dipped to the bend of your knee. You had never felt so treasured as he slowly, began to gather the fabric of your skirt, dragging it higher along your leg with unhurried care, revealing skin he touched as though memorizing you with each pass.

"You taste divine," he breathed against your neck, the words threaded with awe and desire. His lips trailed open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your throat, grazing you with teeth soft enough to make you shiver, as if he wanted to consume you completely yet worship every part of you. Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging gently as you guided him back to your lips. He met you eagerly, melting into the kiss as though he’d waited lifetimes for it.

“If you want me to stop… tell me,” he whispered against your mouth, voice rough and tender all at once.

You nodded unafraid, and in that quiet, unspoken agreement, you watched something flicker in his eyes. As if he was vowing to worship you fully but never without your permission. His hands moved, deft and gentle, helping you ease out of the thin barrier of fabric that separated you, his gaze never leaving yours as if even in this unraveling, your comfort was his compass.

His smile curves against the delicate line of your neck, breath fanning across your skin as his words slip through, velvet-soft and low, “You’re already so wet for me.” His tone is laced with adoration. “I didn’t know you’d be such a good girl for me.”

The world dissolves.

It shrinks and softens until all that’s left is him — Soobin and the press of his body against yours, Soobin and the way his voice drips honey and reverence into your ear, Soobin and the hands that worship every part of you like he’s learning a language spoken only through touch.

Every piece of clothing that falls away is marked by his mouth, kisses dragged slow across your lips, your jaw, the hollow of your throat, the slope of your collarbones. His lips move like he’s tracing constellations on your skin, as though, somehow, you hold the entire night sky within you.

His hands, large and steady, move over you with a duality that makes you ache. Greedy and gentle. Certain but tender. He touches you as though he’s starved for you, but terrified you might slip away if he’s too careless. His fingers map your curves, glide down your sides, ghost along the backs of your thighs, curling possessively.

The room is thick with something heavier than air. It’s breath; yours and his, tangled in rhythm. It’s the soft rustle of fabric sliding over skin, the quiet catch of a moan swallowed between kisses, the faint sighs that spill when his hands find somewhere new to caress. Everything slows because he slows it. He takes his time, like he refuses to let any detail slip by unnoticed.

It doesn’t feel like he’s simply undressing you.

It feels like he’s unveiling something sacred. Like every inch of you laid bare is a gift he’s longed for, and now that he has it, he won’t squander a second. His gaze drinks you in between every kiss, full of a softness that cradles the sharp edge of desire. His pupils blown wide, his lips pink and kiss-bitten, his breath shaky though he tries to steady it.

You’re cherished.

“Soobin,” you gasp, breath hitching as he pulls you effortlessly into his lap. His lips find the swell of your breast, as his hands caress you with tender precision — teasing. The soft drag of his tongue against your nipples pulls a shiver from deep within you.

“I’ll take you to bed, sweetheart,” — “Yes, please,”

His mouth meets yours again, slow and consuming, while his arms curl around you. Without breaking the kiss, he rises, lifting you as though you weigh nothing, as though carrying you is the most natural thing in the world. You don’t open your eyes. You don’t need to. Your hands stay laced behind his neck, your fingers threading through the soft hair at his nape. You surrender wholly, letting yourself be cradled in his care. His footsteps echo and then you feel it, the plush give of the mattress beneath you as he lowers you gently into the center of the bed. The sheets are cool against your back, but his gaze is molten, grounding you in a warmth no fabric could match.

“Soobin…” Your voice trembles, “I haven’t done this before.”

For a moment, his expression stills. Something softens even further in his eyes. His lips tilt into the faintest, sweetest smile before he leans down, planting a slow kiss on your lips.

“I’ll be gentle with you then,” he promises, voice so gentle it nearly breaks you apart. His forehead rests against yours as his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, his touch light as silk. “You don’t have to fear anything with me. We’ll go slow. You just tell me everything you want… everything you don’t.”

You gave him a smile, you reached up and kissed him. A simple peck. His eyes is open mid-kiss, like he couldn’t bear to miss a second of it. As though the feeling of your lips wasn’t enough, he wanted to see it too. “I trust you,” you whispered against his lips, “I do.”

You had never been blinded because of a smile before.

His lips press against your sternum, inching his way with slow pecks towards the plump skin of your breasts. And the second he finds your nipple, a sharp gasp leaves your throat as you feel his warm tongue caress the sensitive flesh. His hand moves to your navel, his palm lying flush to your abdomen as he holds you down to the mattress; continuing to glide his tongue over you. As Soobin lifts his lips from you momentarily, the chill of his saliva lingers on your breast, makes you softly squirm in his grasp.

He move to the other side of your body, slowly slowly repeating the process as he suckle at your hardened bud ever so gently. But this time, he use his teeth to bite the softest mark onto your nipple; the careful sting pulls your back into an arch. You whimper at the roughness, though it only lasts for a second, and as you process their actions, Soobin begins to trail down from your breasts, moving to the other one. His hands work, reaching down to caress your core which pulse between your thighs.

You try to control yourself as he went lower, to control your body, control the moans begging for release but the moment he place a kiss to your clit, the little control you have begins to slip. He starts gently, a kiss, a soft lick up your entrance, and gets back to give the most careful suckle at your clit. His gentle licks turn into passionate laps as he palce his tongue flat to your clit and allow the pressure of his muscle alone to spark up your spine.

You gasp at the feeling, your hands grip desperately onto the sheets by your sides.

With his hand still placed on your lower belly, Soobin outstretches his fingers towards his mouth latched onto your cunt. His thumb finds its place just above the hood of your clit, as he begin to add to the simulation causing your teeth to sink into your bottom lip. He swirl the wet skin, sucking, intervals of tender kisses in between as he feel you between his lips; as the squelching of his tongue against your soaked entracne takes over the silence of the night.

"You're being such a good girl for me," Soobin kisses the words onto you, "So fucking good." He use his freehand to pull your leg up and over his shoulder, your body willingly at his control. He lift his mouth from you only to place his lips inside of your thight, his fingers still simulating you even with the pause.

You can feel it brewing. The band threathening to snap at any moment. Your pleasure pleading for release as he return to lap at your cunt.

"S-Soobin," you gasp, "Wait, I-" your please turn into tight cries of desperation as they retrieve a smile from Soobin, who listens intently to you moaning his name.

"I know baby," he kisses your clit, his thumb giving you an experimental amount of pressure, "I know baby, you can cum on my tongue. I don't mind."

If it weren't for your orgasm now unleashing inside of you, you possibly would have laughed, but the only thing that comes out of you, among the essence leaking into Soobin's mouth, is the lewd noises breaching the shores of your pleasure. Your hips instinctively push into his mouth as it explodes.

Your legs twitch, faint tremors echoing long after the euphoria crests and slowly ebbs away. Your breath is uneven, your chest rising and falling in shallow pulls as your mind tries to fix itself again. The world feels distant, softened at the edges, but you feel him. You feel Soobin everywhere. You hardly register the trail of his lips scaling their way back up your body, delicate kisses pressed along your stomach, the hollow between your ribs, the curve of your collarbone; until his face hovers just above yours. His breath fans against your lips, warm and even, as though he’s been composed the entire time, despite the flush that paints the high of his cheekbones. And when you meet his eyes —

Adoration. That’s all there is. As though you hung the stars in his sky.

Your fingers, still faintly trembling, reach down to the waistband of his pants, a silent plea building in your chest to return the worship he’s lavished on you. But before you can so much as graze the fabric, his hand wraps gently around your wrist, and moves it away.

“Tonight is about you,” Soobin murmurs, voice low, coaxing you back into ease. A smile, soft and disarming, tugs at the corners of his lips as he dips forward to nuzzle the tip of his nose against yours. “Just think of it as my way to say sorry… for making the prettiest girl wait so long.” His fingers, those long, graceful ones you’ve become so attuned to, sweep gently through your hair, combing it back from your damp forehead as though you were something priceless. His thumb brushes the line of your temple before trailing down the curve of your jaw, feather-light.

You stare back at him, your gaze tender and unwavering, the reflection of your own adoration open across your features. Whatever he sees in your eyes makes something in his expression soften even further.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, his voice dropping as he nestles closer to your side. Instinctively, you open your arms for him, and he slides into the space as though it were carved just for him, his head resting gently against your chest.

“Nothing,” you whisper truthfully, your fingers threading into his soft hair as you tilt your head to study him. Wonder flickers within you like the soft flicker of candlelight, igniting gently as you take in the way the dim glow plays in his irises — deep brown kissed with honey, shadows and softness blending as if the universe itself tried to paint the richest portrait inside his gaze. “You’re beautiful,”

The smile that spreads across his face is breathtaking. His lips curve in that boyish, gentle way that squeezes your heart painfully tight, and then he laughs. Your own smile spills out in response, and soon both your laughs mingle, weaving together in the space between you like spun gold, before your lips find each other’s once more.

You woke with the sunlight brushing gently across your skin, the warmth pooling on the sheets.

His breath is steady against the back of your neck, his chest rising and falling. His arm is still draped over your waist, fingers laced together just under your ribs as if even in sleep, he’s afraid to let go. Every time you shift, even slightly, his hold tightens; subconscious, instinctive. As though his body has decided on its own that you belong nowhere but here. You feel the ghost of his lips at the back of your head again, a soft, unthinking kiss pressed into your hair. And then that murmur that drifted from him throughout the night, something wordless and sweet, as though he was dreaming of you and couldn’t help but let it slip into the waking world.

You are exactly where you’re meant to be.

You blink slowly, everything is softened by the white sheets. Warmth surrounds you, not just from the sun filtering through the windows, but from the comforting weight draped over your back. You shift slowly, turning in his embrace until you’re met with the sight that makes your heart swell.

Choi Soobin.

Your fingertips ghost along the curve of his cheek, feather-light, afraid you might wake him if you touched him too boldly. His skin is soft beneath your hand, still asleep. His lashes rest delicately against his cheekbones, his lips parted slightly, breath deep and even.

“Sleepy Soobin,” you whisper, your thumb brushes along the slope of his cheekbone and, instinctively, he leans into your palm, nuzzling against your touch. The simple action sends a tender ache spiraling through your chest. Your mind drifts back, to the way his hands gripped you with both hunger and patience. To the way his lips worshiped every inch of you. To the way he had cradled you afterward, not letting a single shiver escape him unnoticed, whispering soft words against your skin.

Your eyes drink him in, the soft rise and fall of his chest, the tousled strands of dark hair falling across his forehead. You lean forward, pressing the lightest of kisses on the corner of his mouth. You linger there, breathing him in, letting your lips stay against him like a silent thank-you whispered straight from your heart.

“I don’t think,” you murmur softly against his skin, your lips curving in a smile, “I’ve ever been this happy before.” And as if he heard you even in sleep, his arm around your waist tightens, pulling you closer.

Your phone buzzes. You move quickly, fingers curling around the device as you move yourself out of Soobin’s arms. You sit on the edge of the bed, the cool air brushing against your skin. His shirt hangs loosely off your frame, the fabric soft and saturated with the faint scent of him. You tuck a hand into the hem absentmindedly as you answer. “Hello?” Your voice is hushed.

“Oh, hi. I just wanted to check in about your grandmother. She took her meds.” Hana’s voice comes softly from the other end, the caregiver you’d called last minute yesterday when you weren’t sure you’d make it home in time.

Relief unfurls gently in your chest. “Thank you, Hana,” you murmur, a small smile touching your lips. “I’ll be back in the afternoon.”

There’s a few more exchanged words, small reassurances and thank-yous, before you end the call. The screen dims in your hand, but you don’t move just yet. You glance over your shoulder. He hasn’t stirred, not really, but his brows are slightly furrowed now, as if he noticed the loss of you in his sleep. The sheets dip where you’d been moments ago, and one hand rests, palm open, where your body had once been.

A soft smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. You want to crawl back to him already. But you know you can't.

Setting the phone down, your gaze drifted toward the bedside table. You remembered Soobin opening the drawer last night, tucking away both of your things. You needed your ponytail. You pulled the drawer open.

Your fingers falter for the the first thing you see. You hadn’t meant to intrude. Two large bottles, their labels slightly worn, tucked neatly in the corner of the drawer as if he’d kept them close, yet out of sight.

Sleeping pills.

Your lips press into a thin line as thoughts flicker behind your eyes — how gentle he’d been with you, how steady and warm his gaze had felt, how easily sleep had taken him last night in your arms. And yet… these. Did he take them every day? Your hand brushes over the edge, and finally, you spot your ponytail nestled beside his wristwatch.

You swallow gently, pushing the drawer close.

You hummed softly as you slid the fried eggs onto a white plate, the gentle sizzle fading as you set them down. This place is a wide, unfamiliar kitchen, but somehow your hands had found their routine effortlessly. Turning, you arranged the plate beside the crisp bacon and the golden slices of toasted, buttered bread.

Out of the corner of your eye, the bedroom door creaked open. "Good morning," you called, your voice laced with a smile that turned fully when you saw Soobin, no confusion in his sleepy gaze, no hesitation in his steps. He made a beeline straight to you.

Before you could even set down the last plate, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest with a soft exhale of relief. His lips found your hairline in a series of slow, affectionate kisses, "You didn’t have to make breakfast, baby. I could’ve called someone."

"I didn’t mind it," you replied, breathless with laughter as you tried halfheartedly to nudge him away. But he only shook his head, clutching you tighter, "Come on," you coaxed gently, tilting your head to meet his soft gaze. "Let’s eat."

At just those simple words, he loosened his hold, his hand sliding down to lace his fingers with yours.

“What is it?” Soobin asks softly, voice in curiosity as he chews his food. His eyes catching the question behind your gaze. “I did tell you… you can ask me anything, remember?”

You nod, your fork slowly tracing circles on the edge of your plate. “Yes…” You swallow, “I don’t mean to pry, I really don’t. I just… I just wanted to ask if you take those pills every day?”

He nods slowly. “I do,” he admits. “I’ve always had trouble sleeping.” Your lips part to speak, but before you can, he sets his fork down and leans in, elbows resting on the table as his hand slides gently over yours. His thumb brushes over your knuckles. “But last night…” A faint smile curls the corner of his lips,“Last night, I didn’t even think about them. I didn’t need them.” His voice drops, “You were here.”

Sitting at that table, sharing breakfast, you felt like you were learning him in layers, like pages of a book gently unfolding for you. You already had your suspicions the moment you first met Soobin. The cut of his clothes, the sleek car he drove; they all whispered of a life far from ordinary. But hearing it from his lips, hearing him confess that he was set to inherit and run an entire empire, sent a quiet shiver up your spine. A chaebol. How had someone like you managed to cross paths, let alone hearts, with someone like him?

He spoke openly, though gently, about the burden he had carried since he was just a teenager. How sleep had long been a stranger to him. How those pills had been his quiet crutch in the endless swirl of expectations, decisions, and responsibilities that clouded his nights. You tried your best to absorb every word. Soobin told you how he had found you captivating from the very first moment he saw you — how, despite that, he never had the courage to approach you.

“All my life,” he murmured, gaze dropping to the untouched food on his plate, “I watched my sister become trapped in a marriage. Watching her lose herself made me believe I shouldn’t chase anyone… or anything. But then, I saw you.”

It was unclear why he trusted you so deeply, why he felt safe enough to share such memories about his sister’s pain and the misplaced guilt he carried on his shoulders. But he did. He let you in. The shadows in his expression melted the moment you leaned in, your lips pressing a soft, reassuring kiss to his and your arms curling gently around him. Maybe that was why. Maybe you were his perfect match. You were the one brave enough to ask him out first; unknowing then, but somehow sensing what held him back.

You learned more little things about him that morning too. How he often misplaced his watch because he’d take it off absentmindedly and forget where he’d set it. How he liked his coffee with an extra spoon of sugar and a generous pour of creamer, because despite everything, Soobin had a sweet tooth.

And somehow, every one of these small pieces only made you fall for him more.

“I can’t wait to get back and see you,” his voice comes gently through the phone, smooth and warm like a whisper against your ear. “Just three more days, and I’ll be back. Okay?”.

“Okay,” you breathe, your voice softer than you intend. “Just make sure you’re eating well, alright?” You swallow gently, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “I’ll see you soon.”

His laugh drifts back to you, honey-sweet and effortless. You miss him already. “Okay, baby.”

And just like that, the line clicks silent.

You move quietly around your shop, fingers trailing along the shelves, straightening small displays here and there. You smile to yourself, a small, private thing, as memories of the past few days float to the surface. His touch. His laugh. Everything lately had felt… right. Almost effortlessly so.

The soft chime of the doorbell rings out, pulling you back to the present.

“Welcome,” you call, your gaze lifts and locks instantly with a pair of sharp, assessing eyes. A woman stands there, immaculately dressed, her age maybe in her fifties, though the confidence she wears makes her seem ageless somehow.

Her eyes sweep over you unblinking, as though weighing you against some invisible scale. “Are you the woman seeing my son?” A chill skips down your spine.

“Pack your things up,” she says crisply, her gaze drifting coolly over the small, carefully curated space of your shop. Her lips twitch, close enough to make your stomach twist. “Come have lunch with me.”

You blink, thrown off balance, your heartbeat picking up beneath your ribs. This… wasn’t what you’d expected today. “Uh—yes, ma’am,” you say, trying to gather yourself.

Her head tilts, something sharp glinting behind her expression. “Why did you stutter?” The question is too sharp for someone who doesn't know you. Before you can even try to answer, she lifts her hand in a small, dismissive gesture. “Go on. Change your clothes. Make it fast. I don’t like waiting.”

Your fingers twitch on your lap as you lower your gaze, lashes casting shadows over your cheeks. The seat beneath you feels too plush, too stiff all at once, as if you don’t quite belong in it. You’re somewhere deep inside this towering glass building — a restaurant so vast and pristine it feels like even your breath is too loud for the space. You try to inhale quietly, chest tight, as Soobin’s mother sits across from you, commanding the room with a presence that doesn’t falter.

You watched, silent, as she spoke crisply to the waiter. Her tone left no room for correction, no cracks for uncertainty to slip through. She didn’t ask what you’d like. She didn’t ask if salad was to your taste. She simply ordered it for you without sparing you a glance — as though she already knew what you should eat, or perhaps decided it didn’t matter.

The clink of glassware is sharp, and you jump slightly when she clears her throat. Slowly, reluctantly, you lift your eyes to meet hers. Her gaze is steady, dark and searching, the sort that makes you feel like you’re being turned inside out with just a look.

“What do you want—”

"Mother," a new voice drifts into the space; light, melodic. You turn instinctively, and there she stands: a woman so strikingly beautiful it’s impossible to mistake the relation. The soft curve of her jaw, the familiar gentle slope of her nose, she carries pieces of Soobin effortlessly in her features.

She moves toward the table with a grace that makes the heavy atmosphere ease, as though her very presence carries warmth where there was only frost before. Soobin’s mother’s stern face softens, her posture loosening subtly for the first time since you sat down and it’s clear this new woman holds sway over her in ways no one else has managed thus far.

The young woman settles beside her mother, her gaze drifting to you with a kindness that wraps around you like a soft blanket. No scrutiny, no sharp edges, it's curiosity. “I’m Soobin’s sister,” she says her name gently, her lips pulling into a smile that reaches her eyes. “You look even more beautiful than what he says.”

The sincerity in her voice disarms you. It feels like exhaling after holding your breath for too long, like finding a familiar light in a room full of shadows. Warm. Genuine.

“Th-thank you,” you murmur, voice small as your gaze drops shyly to your lap. The elegance she carries so effortlessly makes you acutely aware of every inch of yourself; of your softness, your simplicity. You steal a glance upward as she turns away, leaning toward her mother, her voice soft and fluid as she starts to recount her day.

Their hair, not a strand out of place, styled with a polish that speaks of salons you’ve never stepped foot in. The fine lines of their blouses, their tailored cuts, fabrics that drape as if stitched to their skin. Even their nails is perfectly shaped, coated in shades that gleam soft and subtle, unchipped. Their handbags resting beside them glint of understated luxury, the kind of leather that never creases, the kind of detail you notice only when you’ve never had it.

Your gaze falls to your skirt — the one you had sewn with patient hands from fabric you bargained for at the market’s edge. You’d chosen the material carefully, pieced it together with love, made it yours. But here… it feels smaller somehow. Less. You smooth your palms over your knees.

How long will you have to sit in moments like this? How long will you have to feel the weight of difference settle like a stone in your chest? The gap between their world and yours feels so wide it burns.

You don’t belong here.

You hadn’t even managed to lift your fork, “How old are you?” Soobin’s mother asked.

“Twenty-three,” you murmured, your tongue thick in your mouth. The number sounded too small as soon as it left you.

Her lips tugged downward. “Five years younger than him. Too young.” A pause, heavy. “Education status? What of your family?”

You swallowed hard. “I’m living with my grandmother.”

Her brow arched, unimpressed. “Since when?” — “Since I was a child.”

The air felt thinner now. You could feel your pulse in your throat, in your wrists, in the trembling tips of your fingers that curled tighter under the table. “Then how would you run a family if you don’t even have one?”

The sting behind your eyes burned fast. You blinked hard, but it did nothing to wash it away. You felt small, smaller than you ever thought you could shrink.

“Mother,” Soobin’s sister snapped, her voice tight with disbelief. You lifted your gaze to her, grateful and ashamed all at once. Her expression was shocked that her mother had gone that far.

But then the next blow landed. “Do you even know there’s a girl who’s supposed to marry him?” Her tone dropped, dripping with disdain as if she wanted to watch you crumble beneath it.

“Mom, stop it. Now.” Soobin’s sister, again. Firmer this time.

Your lips parted to answer — to say something, anything — but all that came out was fragile and thin. “We… we haven’t talked about it.” It was all you could manage. Your voice cracked just enough to make the shame crawl higher up your throat. Your chair scraped against the floor softly as you rose, every inch of your body stiff and burning. You forced a tight smile that felt more like a grimace. “Excuse me… I’ll just take the bathroom.”

Your legs carried you away before the first tear slipped free.

You gripped the sink’s edge so hard your knuckles ached, head bowed as silent sobs racked through your chest. You couldn’t catch your breath. Couldn’t hold it together long enough to even pretend you belonged here. Your reflection in the mirror blurred behind the sheen of tears; eyes glassy, cheeks flushed, lips trembling. Small. Out of place. A girl trying to fit in.

Of course she was right. You’d always known it, hadn’t you? You were someone born from absence. A child left behind by two people who couldn’t even stay for you, much less for each other. You’d spent so long tucking that truth away, convincing yourself. His mother didn’t have to scream to shatter you.

You wiped at your face uselessly, but the tears kept slipping, warm and bitter down your jaw. You didn’t want to ruin what Soobin had left with his mother, thin and cracked as it might be. You’d seen the strain in his eyes before when he spoke of her. You’d heard the weight when he talked about duty, legacy, responsibility; but you wouldn’t be the reason he chose sides. Maybe everything really had just been a dream. And maybe now…maybe it was time to wake up.

The door creaks open, and you flinch too late to hide the tears streaking your cheeks.

Soobin’s sister.

Her expression crumbles the second she sees you. “Oh, honey.” Her voice is soft, almost breaking, and before you can turn away or gather yourself, she’s already crossing the room. You shake your head, a weak protest caught in your throat, but it falls apart the second her arms wrap around you. You don’t mean to collapse, but you do. Your body folds into hers, trembling, your fingers clutching at the fabric of her coat.

“I’m so sorry,” she breathes against your temple, her voice rawer now, as if she can feel even a fraction of what’s tearing through you.

Your chest hurts. You can’t speak. You don’t trust your own voice not to shatter the second you try. So you just stand there, breathing uneven, tears soaking the front of her blouse.

“Don’t cry,” she whispers finally, pulling back, her palms warm against your damp cheeks. Her eyes search yours. Slowly, she slides a handkerchief from her pocket and presses it into your hand, her thumb brushing over your knuckles as she lets go. “My mother… she’s always been like this. I won’t tell you not to feel hurt, you should feel hurt. She doesn’t know how to soften her words, even when she should.”

“I came here because I heard she’d come after you the moment Soobin flew out for his trip,” she continues, “And about that woman… or whatever arrangement that was, Soobin never met her. Not even once. That was all our mother’s doing. If you want the truth, it’s best you hear it straight from him, hm?” Your fingers curl tighter around the handkerchief.

“I… I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice frayed at the edges, the apology slipping out even though you aren’t sure what you’re apologizing for— being here, being too small for this world, for falling for someone you were never supposed to have?

“Don’t be,” she says softly, her lips tugging into a smile. "You’ve done nothing wrong."

She reaches to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, “You can go home. I’ll handle her,” she promises. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t come near you again, not until Soobin gets back and sorts all of this out himself.”

Your throat tightens again, “Why?” The word falls out of you in a whisper. “Why are you doing all of this?”

“Soobin deserves to be happy,” she says, there's a glisten in her eyes. “And you… you make him happy.”

You sit still, hands folded tightly in your lap, nails pressing crescents into your skin as the hum of the engine vibrates beneath you. Through the window’s glass, blurred by your uneven breaths, you see them, Soobin’s sister and her husband.

Choi Beomgyu.

Even from here, even without sound, it’s clear. The way his eyes search hers, soft and intent. The way his hand brushes her cheek, tender and unhurried. And then, his palm drifts lower, resting on the curve of her stomach.

Your breath catches, an involuntary gasp escaping from your lips. You hadn’t noticed it before, maybe because you’d been too wrapped in your own thoughts, but there it is now; the small, rounded swell of her belly beneath her dress.

She’s pregnant.

Your eyes dart away. It sinks in heavier than you expect—the contrast of it. The weight of what you felt in that restaurant still gnawing at your ribs. You swallow hard, blinking fast. You shouldn’t be jealous. Not of them, not of their certainty, not of the way they fit together. You curl your fingers tighter.

Beomgyu slides into the driver’s seat, his eyes flicker to you in the rearview mirror, not invasive. “You okay?” His voice is gentle, low.

You swallow past the knot tightening in your throat. “Yes.”

He doesn’t press. He just nods once, slow, and leans back in his seat. His hands rest on the wheel but he doesn’t start the car. Instead, his eyes shift toward the building. You follow his line of sight and see her— his wife, walking toward the entrance.

Beomgyu stays still, waiting. His jaw flexes slightly, not out of impatience, but out of habit, you can tell. He doesn’t move, not until she disappears inside the building safely, not until the glass doors close behind her and she’s no longer in sight.

Only then does he release a small breath and turn the key in the ignition. The car starts.

You've never seen a love so whole.

You’d finally made peace with it all, to speak to Soobin when he returned. His sister’s promise had held true; his mother hadn’t darkened your doorstep again. For once, the silence felt like safety.

Only one more day. Just one, and he’d be back.

The sharp chime of the door snapped through the quiet. You turned instinctively, forcing a smile onto your lips out of habit.

Standing there was a woman. “Good morning,” you greeted softly, stepping behind the counter, trying to keep your hands steady.

“You’re Y/N, right?” Your stomach flipped, hands instantly cold. What is it this time?

“Yes,” you answered carefully, guarded. “How can I help you?”

She took a step closer, “I’m Aera,” she said smoothly, not a trace of hesitation. “Soon to be Soobin’s fiancée.”

Your breath stuttered. The smile fell clean from your lips. “I’m sorry… what—”

“His mother told me about you.” The words barely registered before the woman dropped to her knees in front of you. The motion was so sudden, so desperate, your breath caught in your throat and your eyes went wide.

“Please…” her voice cracked as she folded her hands together, her head bowed low in a way that looked almost unnatural for someone like her; pristine, polished, composed. But here she was. Crumbling. “Please tell him to accept the proposal.”

Your chest constricted painfully. “No, no, stand up, you don’t have to,”

But she shook her head sharply, her shoulders trembling. Tears clung to her lashes, heavy and raw. “I’ll let you have everything you want. You can still be with him .I don’t care. I’ll just marry him in name. I’ll stay in a different room. A different house, even. I won’t touch him. Our family… we need his. Please, I’m begging you.” Her voice broke entirely on that last word.

Even she knew. Even she understood what his mother refused to admit; his heart was already in your hands.

You walk to the building, each step echoing in your chest. The elevator hums softly as you press the button, your reflection in the mirrored doors a stranger to you. When it finally dings open, you step out into the hallway.

Your hand hovers over the doorbell of his home. You take a breath and press the button. And then you wait.

You run over the speeches you carved into your heart all day, I’m sorry, but we need to break up. I’m sorry, I can’t do this anymore. But the moment the door opens, it all disintegrates.

He stands there, and for a split second, it’s as if everything stills. His eyes meet yours, rimmed with exhaustion so deep it settles into the lines of his face. “I’ve been waiting for you, sweetheart.” His voice is soft. Almost fragile.

And before you can think, before you can remember the careful goodbye you rehearsed a thousand times, he reaches for you.His fingers curl around your arms, and he pulls you into him. Into the chest that has always felt like home.

The door clicks shut behind you.

“Soobin, I—” Your voice barely breaks through the air before it’s swallowed by the heat of him; his lips finding the curve of your neck, hot and hurried, like a man starved. His body crowds yours effortlessly, the breadth of him making you feel small. His hands, large, trembling with restraint digs firmly on your waist.

“I fucking missed your voice,” he breathes against your skin, “I fucking missed you… I couldn’t even sleep.”

Your throat tightens, a lump clawing higher and higher as your heart caves in on itself. Coward. That’s what it feels like. Your heart, shrinking, curling away from what you came here to say. Because how could you speak of endings when he’s here, clinging to you like this? When he holds you like you were his last hope?

“I need you, baby,” he murmurs, his fingers slide to your blouse, undoing the buttons one by one, slower than his breath, slower than the pounding of your pulse against your ribs. His knuckles brush against your skin, “Did you miss me?”

You open your mouth. The truth swells painfully, desperate to tear out. I did. I missed you more than you’ll ever know. But all you manage is a breathless, broken, “I—”

His hot mouth sucks your nipple. “…Yes.”

It’s all a blur — his hands, his mouth, the way he whispered your name. You don’t remember how the clothes came off, how the sheets tangled beneath your bodies. You only remember the weight of him, the heat of his skin, and the soft drag of his lips along your body that made your breath catch.

The sharp stretch, the slow push of him sinking into you. Tears spill before you even realize they’re falling. It isn’t the pain that makes you cry. It’s the ache in your chest, the way your heart splits in two at the sight of him — Soobin, tired and unraveling, still so gentle. You were too scared to say no. Not because you didn’t want him, but because you did. Too much. You craved to erase the exhaustion from his eyes, even if it was only for one night.

Maybe you were fooling yourself into thinking you were giving something to him, when really, you were trying to steal one last piece of him for yourself.

His brow furrows as he stills inside you, the concern written all over his face. His thumbs swipe at your damp cheeks, his lips brushing against your skin in soft, frantic kisses. “Did that hurt? What’s wrong?”

You force a breath through the tightness in your throat, eyes locking on his, “No,” you manage to choke out, your voice cracking. Your hand comes up to cradle his cheek, thumb brushing the soft curve of his under-eye, tracing the shadows you wish you could take away. You swallow the sob clawing at your chest, and say it. You have to say it. Even if it’s the last time.

“I— I just love you.” His lips part slightly at your confession. His breath stutters, and something raw flickers behind his gaze; wonder, disbelief. His whole body goes still as if those words rooted him to the earth. “I love you, Soobin.”

"I love you. I fucking love you."

Warm hands find your waist, circling you with a gentle pull, long fingers tracing slow, reverent patterns across your bare skin. A soft squeeze follows, then warm, featherlight kisses trail from your neck to your ear, each one taking time to settle on your skin. Your name slips from his lips, barely more than a breath, before he tucks himself closer, body melting into yours.

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” he murmurs, “You’ve been asleep so long, I’m starting to miss you.”

You exhale a soft huff, but there’s no real protest in it. Just the lazy stretch of your arm as you roll toward him, pressing your face into the curve of his neck where he smells like him. Your voice comes out muffled. “Let’s stay like this for five more minutes.”

A smile ghosts against your temple. His hand slides to your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer. “Okay,”

You finally peeled yourself from the bed, soft sheets still warm with sleep and the weight of him. He trailed after you, tall and shadowing your every move around the kitchen as the morning light spilled in. You couldn’t help it, your fingers found his constantly. On his wrist as he buttered toast, laced with his as you poured coffee, curled around his as you sat across from him at the table. And for the first time, you saw it clearly: the way Soobin’s cheeks flushed pink under the weight of your affection, his gaze flickering down, shy and boyish, every time you touched him like you couldn’t stop.

Now, he stands by the mirror, freshly showered, crisp shirt hugging broad shoulders, hair damp and curling just a little at the edges. You’re sitting on the edge of his bed, watching him. He wanted you to stay here, in his penthouse. Wanted you here waiting when he came home.

You rise when you see him fumble with his tie, long fingers struggling with the knot. “Let me,” you say softly. Your fingertips brush against his as you take over, feeling the steady thrum of his pulse beneath his skin. He watches you, head tilted down, eyes steady and soft, drinking in every precise movement as you fold and tug the silk into place.

His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, “Thank you, baby,” he murmurs. He leans in, scattering kisses across your face — your forehead, your nose, your cheeks, your lips — each one light and full of that unshakable, boyish smile of his.

You walk him to the elevator, bare feet padding softly on the cool floor. He steps inside, glances back at you, and lifts his hand in a wave; a grin stretching wide, something childlike and unguarded lighting up his whole face.

All while everything was breaking your heart.

You moved quietly through his home. The morning hush wrapped around you like something delicate and suffocating all at once. You folded his clothes with shaking hands, smoothing out every crease, tucking each piece into its rightful place as if order could somehow soften what you were about to break.

His watch. You found it lying carelessly on the counter where he always forgot it. You fixed it gently onto the shelf beside his cufflinks and rings, aligning everything just so, because you knew he liked it neat, even if he never said it out loud. It was small, but you wanted to leave it perfect for him.

The kitchen was next. Your movements felt numb now, mechanical. You prepared everything the way he loved it: coffee beans ground just right, the sugar jar filled, the creamer where it belonged. You wrote it all down on a small scrap of paper; the exact way you made it for him, step by step and pressed the note beside the kettle. Your handwriting blurred through your tears, but you forced yourself to keep writing.

By the time you found a clean sheet of paper and sat at the dining table, your whole body trembled with the weight of it. The pen felt too heavy in your hand. Your tears hit the page before your words did.

You slowly, wrote your goodbye.

"Nana, this is your new room, okay?" Your voice is soft, careful not to crack as you push the door open, guiding her slowly inside. "It’s a little different, but we’ll figure it out. I’ll make sure we’re alright."

You smile, or something close to it, when she nods faintly, her eyes drifting over the unfamiliar space. The pale walls, the narrow window, the worn bed frame. None of it felt like home yet, but it had to be. You’d make it be.

Her fingers brushed against the edge of the dresser as she turned to you. "Why did we move so suddenly?"

You swallowed around the lump in your throat. "Oh," you answered lightly, "because we had to."

Your chest tightened when her gaze lingered on you a beat longer, as if peeling back layers you didn’t want exposed. And then, almost absently, she asked, "How about your man?"

You froze. The air seemed thinner, sharper. You weren’t even sure she remembered him clearly — just a distant echo of the day Soobin had shown up with that gentle smile, introducing himself with careful politeness.

"I… I broke up with him," you whispered. She didn’t react at first. Just nodded quietly, turning to sit on the edge of her bed. Her small frame curved gently as she smoothed the blanket beneath her hands, her movements slow and methodical.

You took a step back toward the doorway, trying to breathe steady. Trying not to crumble in front of her. But then, just as she rose again to cross the room, her voice drifted back to you. "Love will not fail," she murmured. "If it fails… it’s not love."

It was as if you’d just torn your own heart out with your bare hands.

Love will not fail. If it fails, it’s not love.

It had been days since you moved.

And still, no matter how many boxes you unpacked, no matter how carefully you folded your grandmother’s cardigans into drawers or wiped down every surface, this place didn’t breathe like the home you left behind.

The sky hadn't lightened once since you arrived. It hung heavy and bruised from dawn to dusk, a slate-colored weight pressing down on everything. You couldn’t remember the last time you saw sunlight crack through.

And then, the rain came.

You noticed it first in the shift of the wind. A few drops scattered across the concrete, and then it broke open all at once. Panic seized you as your mind jumped to the laundry. The sheets you’d washed them early this morning and hung them in the front of your lawn, hoping they'd dry before nightfall.

You bolted outside, breath shallow, feet slipping slightly against the wet pavement. Cold droplets clung to your hair, running down the line of your neck, soaking through your shoulders. Your fingers fumbled over the clothesline as you yanked the white sheets down frantically, heart racing as you tried to save what little you had.

And then — Your body stilled. Your hands slackened on the fabric as your gaze caught on a figure standing just past the fence.

For a moment, the rain softened around you, every sound falling away except the ragged beat of your own heart breaking all over again.

Choi Soobin’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles pale under the dim wash of the dashboard lights. His eyes flicked from one worn street sign to the next, cataloguing every turn, every corner, like a man tracing the edges of an old wound. Every so often, he let the car slow to a crawl. Stared a little too long at places that meant nothing to him, but might have meant everything to you.

It’s the town, the one his investigator pointed him to. The small, quiet town where the woman who tore through his world had disappeared into without a trace but with every piece of him still in her hands.

He’d already gone over everything twice. No. Three times. He couldn’t remember anymore. His chest felt tight, like something was sitting on it and daring him to breathe around the weight. He wondered if he should start all over tomorrow. Sweep the streets again. Retrace the steps he didn’t even know you'd taken.

Without meaning to, Soobin’s hands turned the wheel, guiding him down a road he’d circled too many times to count. Muscle memory, maybe. He didn’t know why he kept coming back.

The first drops of rain tapped against the windshield, soft and uncertain, like the sky hadn’t made up its mind yet. He let out a breath and dragged a hand down his face. He glanced right, thinking to turn back, to call it for the night. But then he saw it.

A figure cutting through the field, darting between rows of white laundry sheets billowing in the wind like ghosts.

He didn’t think. His door was open before he could catch the impulse, the car engine still on behind him as he bolted forward. He didn’t even shut the door. His feet hit the wet grass hard, slipping a little, but he kept running. Fast. Desperate. Like if he blinked, even for a heartbeat, you might vanish.

The way you vanished from his life when he turned his back.

If he’d stayed that day. If he’d ignored the meeting, called in sick, shut the world out, would you still be here now?

He saw you stumble back. Your shoulders tensed, then you turned to escape. And just like that, the breath punched out of his lungs. His heart cracked against his ribs, like thunder rolling too close to the ground. Panic clawed at his throat. His feet wouldn’t move fast enough. So he did the only thing left.

He called your name. Louder than he meant to. He shouted it. Frantic. You didn’t move at first. Just stared at him across the field, rain threading through your hair, clinging to your skin. When you spoke, your voice was sharp.

“Why are you here?” You asked, each word flung like stones across the space between you. Your jaw clenched. “Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I tell you I don’t want you anymore?”

Your voice cut clean but your hands betrayed you. They shook at your sides, fingers twitching like they weren’t sure whether to reach for him or push him away. The ache in your throat frayed the edge of every word. And Soobin saw it. He saw all of it.

Choi Soobin stares at you, the glisten in his eyes that you've come to know whispers his truth. He's now infront of you, eyes sweeping your face.

The storm isn’t just around him; it’s inside him, bleeding into the tremble of his hands as he reach and clutch your wrists, desperate. Rain seeps through his clothes, slides down his skin, but he doesn’t flinch. He just looks at you.

Because you're the only thing keeping him standing.

"Marry me." It’s his last attempt to keep you from walking away. “Marry me, and I’ll do anything you want. Anything. Just don’t—” His throat closed up, and for a second, it sounded like he forgot how to breathe. “Don’t walk away again.”

“I said—”

“Don’t lie to me!” The words snapped harder than he wanted, frustration cracking wide open in his chest. His hands curled into fists at his sides, not in anger but in helplessness. “Don’t make me feel crazy. Don’t make me feel stupid. My sister told me everything, Y/N. I know. I know everything.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. Your shoulders caved, the last of your defenses buckling under the weight of it all.

“I’m not fit for your world,” you choked, voice splintering as tears blurred your vision. Your hands fell limp at your sides, fingers tangled in the thin fabric of the laundry you’d long forgotten.

“I don’t have anything. I hardly even have myself,” you whispered, your face crumpling like it hurt to say the truth out loud. “And you — you deserve the world. You deserve more than someone who can’t even keep her life straight.”

Soobin’s chest hollowed at the sight of you crumbling in front of him. He didn’t care about the rain, or the mud soaking through his shoes, or the ache in his lungs. There was only one thing left he wanted to do. Fall to his knees if he had to. Beg, if that’s what it took. Beg for you. Beg for everything.

“I don’t want the world.” His eyes locked on yours, fierce and aching. “I never wanted any of that. Not once. I just… I just want you.”

His breath shuddered out, shaky, as if saying it hurt and healed him all at once. “I want to live with you. To grow old with you. To have your children. To wake up next to you for the rest of my life.” His words stumbled, his throat thick with the burn of unshed tears, but he didn’t stop.

Before you could slip farther away, Soobin reached for you, his arms wrapped tight around you, pulling you into his chest. His hand cradled the back of your head, fingers threading into your damp hair with a gentleness that almost broke you on the spot. His heartbeat thundered against your cheek.

“Don’t leave me,” he whispered, voice cracking on the plea. “Please, baby. Not when I finally found you. Not when all I want… is to spend the rest of my life with you.”

He felt you shift in his hold, felt your hands press against his chest like you were about to push him away. His stomach dropped but he didn’t let go. He couldn’t.

“I love you.” The words came out hoarse, frayed at the edges. Honest in a way that stripped him bare. He felt you still. The tension in your shoulders faltered. Slowly, slowly, you softened against him, all the walls you’d been gripping so tightly started to crumble in his arms.

You stopped pulling away this time.

“I love you,” he breathed again. His lips brushed against your temple, “I’ll fix everything for us. I swear it. You just have to trust me, baby. Please. Just trust me.”

He felt your arms loosen, the fight in them dissolving. Softening, giving your surrender — just as the rain itself began to ease, falling gentler, as though the sky had finally tired too. A breath punched out of his chest, relief so fierce it almost dropped him to his knees. His arms closed tighter around you, cradling you against him like he could tuck you safely inside his ribs, where nothing could ever reach you again.

When would he ever get a moment like this again?

A chance like this? To meet his soulmate. To meet the one person who could read the shadows behind his smile before he even noticed they were there. Who knew him better than he had ever dared to know himself.

What were the odds? If he hadn’t driven down that street that day. If he hadn’t wandered into your little flower shop with its peeling paint and sunlight pooling across wooden counters. If he hadn’t looked up and seen you and not known, right then, that he’d nearly lived his life without finding his missing half. And what were the chances you would’ve seen him?

He shuddered, blinking hard against the burn behind his eyes. His throat tightened as he breathed you in, the faint trace of wildflowers still clinging to your skin like memory. His heart clenched.

The odds of this… of you… out of all the people, all the cities, all the winding chances and missed timings, was one in a million.

taglist: ily @heesmiles , @lovingbeomgyudayone , @virtaideen , @hyukascampfire , @fancypeacepersona , @bamgeutori , @lilbrorufr , @beomieeeeeeeeeeees , @xylatox , @yunverie , @imlonelydontsendhelp , @moagyuu , @immelissaaa , @readinmidnight , @pagelets , @wonderstrucktae , @boba-beom , @seodami , @izzyy-stuff , @gyudollies , @i-am-not-dal , @page-isa , @tyunarisu , @s0urcherry , @prettypeachprincesz @zaynspidey @sxmmerberries @immelissaaa @definitelynotherr @fics-lovebot @missychief1404 @irishspringing @lovesickchoi @beomgyusluver @sumzysworld @usuallyunlikelyfox @soo-blue @younbeanz @storminacloud @bamgeutori @soobinieswife @prized-jules @soobmeongie @lostgirlysstuff @hoseocakes @fancypeacepersona @ke4s @lvlyhiyyih @aerangi @suneonu @ryuhannaworld @soheeunderthesun @luvleyylina @georgeweasleys-gf @marissariveraaaa

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

hey sex witch,

i am so sorry in advance if this is a question you don’t/would not know how to answer. i’ll absolutely take it somewhere else if that’s the right thing to do. but to get to the point - i’m 19 and i just finished my freshman year of college. i lived in a triple this year, and i haven’t shared a room with people very often. for some reason, at some point, i gained this misconception that it was okay to masturbate in the same room as someone else if that person was asleep. writing that out, i really want to reiterate that i have no fucking clue why i thought that was okay in the moment. if i had to guess, i think i just had read something where a roommate did that and internalized it as normal behavior for some reason. not to excuse it - just to give some backstory as to what happened & why. so, yeah. that’s what i did, one night back in the fall. but within the next day i saw a post online where someone mentioned that their roommate did that & did internalize that what i did was fucked. so i never did that again, but i also didn’t tell my roommates because i thought that it would just make things worse, and just avoided talking to them because of what i did. and now i’ve moved out. and i guess what i’m trying to say here is - is the right move in this situation to tell them? my gut says absolutely not, but it felt like the wrong thing to just let them go on thinking i hadn’t done that. i really did like my roommates, and they didn’t deserve that. i thought my actions were an act of just being polite, making sure i was doing it at a time when they wouldn’t be bothered. but i do understand, obviously, that it was fucked up and i shouldn’t have. i just want to make things right, or at least as right as they can be. sorry for the essay, and i really appreciate any advice you can give me.

hey anon.

just to start out: no, you absolutely don't need to tell your roommates about jacking off while they were asleep. that's not going to add anything of value to their lives. this isn't a catholic church; we don't have to do confession.

I also think you're being, like, way too hard on yourself here. this isn't even in the top 20 worst roommate crimes I've ever heard; I feel like its somewhere worse than "leaving toothpaste blobs in the sink" but well below "knowing stealing roommates' food." you made a freshman roommate 101-level misstep, no one said anything, and you're not going to do it again. move on.

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

hi, hope you're doing great !! feel free to ignore this if it makes you uncomfortable !! i would love to see a simon x neurodivergent!reader, maybe she's blunt because she doesn't really get social cues, quiet when happy (it's when she starts talking that something is wrong LOL). anyway i'm projecting ahah love your writing, have a great day love !!!

Tell Me Without Saying It

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Neurodivergent!Reader

Warnings: Sensory overload, emotional dysregulation (non-violent), swearing, misunderstandings, implied neurodivergence, protective Simon, soft comfort themes

Author's Note: Thank you so much for trusting me with this idea. As someone who relates deeply to a reader like this, this was written with so much love and understanding. You are not too much. You are not hard to love. We all have different experiences in this way of life but what matters is that you’re enough and you deserve love.

Summary: You're not always easy to read, but Simon’s learned how to speak your language. Silence means comfort—unless it doesn’t. When you spiral after a sensory overload, he knows just what to do.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The first thing Simon noticed when he got home was that the house was too quiet.

Which didn’t mean much to anyone else. Most people wanted noise to signal life: laughter, a TV humming, the click of a phone being scrolled through. But Simon? He knew the real signs. The real warnings.

Like the silence you made when something was wrong.

Because when you were happy, you didn’t talk much. You just… were. Curled up in your spot on the couch with your hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, sipping your drink slowly, not saying much—maybe just humming, blinking slow and content like a cat in sunlight. That was your language. Peace was stillness. Quiet was safety.

But this kind of silence?

This was tension.

He kicked off his boots, set them neatly by the door. No keys jingling. No TV on. No scent of candles or your soft humming or even the tap of your fingers on your phone screen. Just… nothing.

“Love?” he called out softly, dropping his duffel by the stairs.

No answer.

His shoulders stiffened.

Then came the sound—subtle, but there. A quiet thud from the bedroom. Followed by the unmistakable scrape of something hitting the floor and a shaky breath. Not yours. Not really. Yours were always so measured. This one was clipped. Erratic.

He moved without thinking.

——

The door to your shared bedroom was cracked open. And there you were.

On the floor. Not collapsed—you never lost control—but very deliberately sitting in the corner, your knees tucked up to your chest, eyes glassy and jaw clenched hard like you were forcing it shut.

The room was a little messy. Drawers pulled open. A hoodie half-flung across the bed like you’d tried it on and hated how it felt. Socks mismatched on your feet. Your water bottle tipped on its side, leaking onto a notebook.

Simon took in every detail in half a second and dropped to a crouch beside you.

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak.

But your fingers twitched once when he got close. He saw that. So he didn’t touch you. Just sat down against the wall beside you, giving you exactly 7 inches of space.

Enough to breathe.

Not enough to be alone.

Your voice, when it came, was hoarse and clipped. “I don’t know why it’s happening. I was fine. And then I wasn’t. Nothing happened. But everything feels like it’s moving too fast, and I hate all my clothes and I can’t fucking—”

You broke off. Bit down hard on the inside of your cheek. Looked away.

Simon nodded slowly. “Alright,” he murmured. “I believe you.”

You swallowed thickly.

“I don’t want to talk.”

“Then don’t.”

You flinched, maybe expecting a follow-up. A suggestion. A fix.

But Simon didn’t offer one.

He just sat beside you, quiet. Breathing slow. Letting you match his rhythm if you needed to.

Three minutes passed like that.

Then you whispered, “My shirt felt wrong and then my pants felt worse and I hate that I care but it makes my skin crawl and I tried to change but I didn’t want to change because I liked what I picked this morning but now it feels like someone else picked it for me and I don’t know why I care but I do.”

Simon turned his head just a little, just enough to look at you without crowding.

“I know that feeling.”

You glanced at him, skeptical. “You do not.”

“I do,” he said softly. “Got that way after missions. Couldn’t wear anything tight. Couldn’t be inside sometimes. Felt like my skin was screaming. Couldn’t explain it. Just wanted it all off me. Like I’d been put in someone else’s body.”

You blinked. Your expression cracked.

“…Exactly.”

Simon reached down slowly, brushed his knuckles against the floor. Still didn’t touch you.

“Okay if I get you something soft to wear?”

You nodded, hesitant.

He stood up, moved through the room carefully, like someone walking in a church. Quiet. Respectful.

He found your favorite hoodie—the oversized one with the sleeves that hung past your hands and the tag you’d already cut off—and your soft cotton joggers. No elastic waist. No tightness. Just you.

He brought them back and set them down beside you gently.

You looked at them. Then at him.

“Can you turn around?” you asked.

He turned without hesitation.

Behind him, he heard the rustle of fabric. The shuffle of movement. A tiny, whispered sigh of relief.

And then, after a few seconds: “You can look now.”

You weren’t crying. You didn’t cry often. But your eyes were puffy and your breathing was still uneven.

Simon dropped back down beside you.

“I don’t want to explain myself every time this happens,” you muttered suddenly. “I’m tired. I just want it to be. And not feel guilty about it.”

“You don’t owe anyone an explanation,” he said, voice like rough velvet. “Not even me.”

You looked at him sharply, like you were waiting for a catch. But there wasn’t one. Just Simon, steady and quiet, his big frame curled beside you like a dog waiting patiently for the storm to pass.

“I don’t know how to be soft,” you admitted. “I don’t know how to sugarcoat. I say things and people think I’m rude or cold or robotic but I’m just—me. This is what love looks like for me. It’s quiet and blunt and weird. And I’m scared you’ll get tired of that.”

Simon turned fully to face you then, gaze sharp, intense in that way that could shake a lesser person to their bones. But you didn’t flinch. You just held your ground, even in your moment of overwhelm.

“I fell in love with you because of that,” he said firmly. “Not in spite of it.”

Your throat bobbed.

Simon leaned in just a little, eyes locked on yours.

“You don’t sugarcoat,” he said, almost fond now. “You say exactly what you mean. You’re never fake. You’re quiet when you’re happy and loud when you’re hurting. That’s how I know what matters.”

You were quiet again, but this time… soft. The air around you shifted.

Simon reached out slowly, giving you time to pull away.

You didn’t.

He cupped the side of your face, thumb stroking along your jaw.

“Don’t need you to be soft, love,” he murmured. “Need you to be real. That’s who I’m staying for.”

A long pause.

Then, finally—finally—you leaned into him. Tentative at first, then full. Tucked your head under his chin. Let your hands bunch into his hoodie.

He held you. No rocking. No shushing. Just his arms, firm and solid and safe.

After a while, you spoke again. “Thank you.”

Simon rested his cheek on top of your head.

“Anytime,” he said. “Every time.”

——

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[deja-you]

Starling: Act I

bucky barnes x reader

masterlist | series masterlist | next part

word count: 1.7k

summary: You don’t expect to befriend your neighbor in apartment 3B. Not the one who only speaks in dry observations and quiet glances. Not the one who watches you like he’s memorizing your escape routes.

A/N: hi! So I've been inactive for years and trying to remember how to do this all again. This is my very first time writing for this fandom so this is a big change for me! I would welcome any tips or advice or literally anything. But this is basically going to be a five part series? I'll probably be doing a lot of format changing and all that soon.

You moved into the apartment two months ago and still haven’t figured out whether the building is sketchy or charming. Maybe both. Probably both. It’s old. Radiators don’t work the way they’re supposed to, floorboards creak in some kind of Morse code, but your neighbors mostly mind their own business, unless they’re Mr. Keller. He’s always looking for a reason to report you for a noise complaint even though it's his bird that is constantly shouting threats of getting you arrested. 

It’s the right amount of shady. Just the kind of place where nobody questions why you’re doing laundry at 2:47 a.m., and if they do, they’re probably running from something, too. 

You’re jiggling the coin slot on the washing machine with a bobby pin you keep tucked in your sleeve. You’ve got the motion down to muscle memory. The trick is gentle pressure and patience–things you learned the hard way. The washer clicks open. 

The door creaks behind you.

You don’t turn around immediately. Whoever it is walks soft, which means they’re either dangerous or polite. Maybe both. You bobby pin back into your sleeve and keep your tone light and casual.

“Almost done. There’s a dryer open if you want it.” 

You’re met with silence. Then:

“That’s illegal, you know.”

“So is jaywalking,” you shrug.

You pause, hand still on the machine’s lid, glancing over your shoulder. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed like it’s instinct. Gloved on one side. You catch the glint of metal peeking out from the other. Left hand. Of course.

You know who he is. Of course you do. But you’ve gotten good at pretending you don’t recognize ghosts when they show up in the flesh. 

He doesn’t smile, doesn’t move. He just stares like he’s trying to figure out if you’re dangerous or just disrespectful. Maybe both. 

You break the silence.

“It’s not a crime if no one sees it.”

He raises an eyebrow at your faulty logic.

“I saw it.”

“What, you gonna report me to the landlord?”

“Mr. Keller would love that.”

“Yeah. Well. Mr. Keller also things his parrot’s a government spy, so I’m not exactly quaking.”

There’s a small flicker in his expression. An almost smile. Almost. He still hasn’t moved from his position on the wall.

You turn back to the washer and finish loading it before snapping the lid down and dusting off your hands. When you walk past him, your shoulder brushes the air between you. You turn back briefly to get one more quip in.

“Thanks for the legal advice, Barnes.”

His brow furrows slightly. “Didn’t give any.”

“Sure you did.”

You give him a small, coy smile and leave the room without looking back. You can feel his eyes on you as you make your way to the stairwell.

- 

It’s been a few weeks since your interaction with Bucky Barnes a.k.a. The Winter Soldier a.k.a. Your neighbor in apartment 3B. 

The apartment is too quiet to sleep. Too many locks on the door, not enough on your mind. You throw on a hoodie over sweats, lace up your boots without tying them, and slip into the hallway like you’ve done a hundred times before. You grab your to-go cup of tea–the one you’ve nuked twice but never actually drank. 

The stairwell is cool and dim, lit by one ceiling light that flickers like it’s on its last life. 

You freeze halfway down the first flight. He’s already there.

Sitting on the bottom step, hoodie up, elbows on his knees. His hetal hand hangs loose between them, glinting when the flickering light catches the plating. He’s not asleep, but somewhere else entirely. You hesitate.

Then, quietly, you descend the rest of the stairs and sit two steps above him. Not beside him. Just…near. 

Neither of you say anything at first. You set your cup by your feet, it clinks softly against the concrete. He doesn’t respond. 

For a minute, there’s nothing but the soft humming of the building. Pipes ticking. A TV murmuring through the walls. The buzz of the light overhead. 

Then:

“You always this dramatic, Barnes?”

Silence. You think he’s not going to respond. But then he turns his head slightly to look at you.

“Only when I’m awake.” 

You nod as if this makes sense. It does. “Must be exhausting.” 

“Yeah,” he says softly. 

Another beat of silence.

“You got someone looking for you?”

The question is blunt. Between your current interaction and the brief one in the laundry room, Bucky Barnes has picked up that you’re running… or hiding from something. Someone. You don’t know if there’s something obvious you’ve done to give it away, or if it's just the fact that Bucky could recognize someone on the run from miles away. He should be able to. He’s spent too much of his life on the run himself. 

You don’t look at him when you answer.

“Not anymore. Not really.” 

He nods slowly. He understands. 

Then quieter:

“You got someone looking out for you?”

You don’t answer. The light flickers again. You find your hands grabbing fistfuls of your hoodie, knuckles white. 

He doesn’t press. He just breathes out slowly, leans back against the wall behind him, and shifts slightly like he’s settling in to keep watch–just for a while. He decides then and there that he’ll look out for you. Whether you want him to or not. 

You stare down at your cold tea, still not drinking it. 

-

You’re headed back from a bodega run that wasn’t about groceries so much as getting out of your head. It’s late—later than usual—but the building’s always quiet at this hour. You like it that way.

Except this time, the stairwell isn’t empty.

You spot him instantly, crouched on the landing like he belongs to the shadows. Hoodie up, shoulders tense. Left hand dangling loosely over his knee. The other—

Split knuckles. Blood dark across his skin, pooled in the creases. There’s some on his jaw, too.

You stop halfway down the stairs and exhale through your nose.

“You got a thing for this spot, or is it just a coincidence I keep finding you here?”

He doesn’t answer. Just shifts his jaw and glances away like the wall’s got something important to say.

You sigh, head back up the stairs, and return thirty seconds later with your beat-up first aid kit from under the kitchen sink.

“Don’t move.”

“I’m fine.”

“I’m sure you are. But that hand isn’t.”

You drop to a crouch beside him, ignoring the stiff way he goes still. You pop open the kit, flick the latch like you’ve done it a thousand times, and pull out a packet of antiseptic wipes.

He doesn’t protest again. Just watches.

“You throw a punch or catch one?”

“Little of both.”

“You win?”

“...Define winning.”

You huff a quiet laugh and start cleaning the blood. The cut’s deeper than it looked, but you don’t flinch, even when the antiseptic hits raw skin and he tenses under your touch. He doesn’t make a sound.

You don’t ask what happened. He doesn’t offer. It’s better that way.

You tape the knuckle gently, fingers brushing over his calluses, and you catch him watching you—not the kind of stare people give when they’re sizing you up, but the kind they give when they’re trying to remember the last time someone touched them like this.

When you’re finished, you close the kit, set it aside, and wipe your palms on your sweats.

“You should put ice on it.”

“Don’t like the cold.”

“That’s rich, Frosty.”

That gets the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but closer than anything you’ve seen from him.

“You always talk this much?”

You sit back on your heels and arch a brow.

“Only when I’m patching up super-soldiers who loiter in my stairwell.”

“I wasn’t loitering. And we share a stairwell.”

“You were brooding. Bleeding and brooding. It’s a step up.”

He grunts—noncommittal—and leans back against the wall. The tension in his shoulders has eased. Just slightly.

“Thanks.”

You nod.

Neither of you moves for a moment. 

“Next time,” you say, standing and grabbing the kit, “try to win in a way that doesn’t involve blood loss.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

You start back up the stairs.

“Hey,” he calls after you, voice low.

You turn.

“You didn’t ask.”

“About what?”

“Why.”

You shrug. “Didn’t need to.”

And you leave him there—alone, but not as alone as before.

-

The city is quieter than usual tonight.

No sirens. No arguments echoing off brick. Just the distant hum of traffic and the occasional flutter of fabric on clotheslines no one ever takes down. Brooklyn pretending to sleep.

You’re out on the fire escape, perched like you belong there. Bare feet on cold iron, knees tucked under a blanket you meant to mend weeks ago. One hand wrapped around a beer bottle gone warm. The other resting loosely on your knee, fingers twitching every now and then like your nerves haven’t quite gotten the message that you’re safe.

You’re not sure what time it is. You don’t check.

The window creaks open behind you.

You don’t turn around.

You know it’s him.

Bucky steps out like the fire escape might bite him. Slow, deliberate. He’s in sweats and a t-shirt, hoodie slung over one shoulder. Barefoot. You catch the glint of the metal arm in your periphery.

He doesn’t sit. Just stands by the railing, hands braced on the edge, body angled slightly toward you.

“You always sit like that?”

Your eyes stay forward.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re gonna fly away if I say the wrong thing, Birdie.”

The word hits you in the chest like a second heartbeat.

You go still.

Your grip on the bottle tightens, not enough to crack it, but enough to feel the strain.

Your gaze drifts up—to the skyline, the lights, the dark slice of sky where stars are supposed to be but never quite are.

“Don’t call me that.”

Your voice is quiet. Not sharp. Not pleading. Just… tired.

He doesn’t apologize.

“Okay.”

A beat.

“But I’m gonna anyway.”

You let the silence stretch. The breeze carries the faint smell of fried food from a cart six blocks away. Somewhere down the street, someone yells at their dog in Russian.

You don’t correct him again.

Not because you like the nickname.

Not because you trust him.

But because, for the first time in a long time, someone called you something without expecting anything back.

You take a slow sip of your beer.

He stands there a while longer.

Just breathing beside you.

Not trying to fix anything.

Just staying.

[heartsforkatsuki]

loser monologue. ｡°✩ k.bakugo

pov ; katsuki hopelessly yearns for you

pairings ; katsuki bakugo x GN!reader

tags ; yearning depressed bakugo, so much angst, hurt no comfort, hurt, so much hurt, not really a happy ending.

also bakugo started writing as a coping mechanism

song ; loser monologue by signs crushes motorist listen to it pls it’s important

it’s been officially a year after you and katsuki broke up now, and you were officially moved on.

6 months ago, you started dating a new guy, yo shindo.

today, though, katsuki still dreaded every day he had to wake up without you.

when he woke up, the first thing he did was check his calendar, and when he saw the date, he rolled right onto his back and stared at the ceiling, blinking his tears back.

to top it off, he didn’t have work today. which meant no distractions. he couldn’t help his cravings.

he spent the morning staring at old candid pictures he’d take of you, some of them pictures you’d never even seen.

smiling softly at old pictures of you two in a cafe together, and his stomach dropping when he sees that loving look in your eye that is now forlorn.

he couldn’t help but daydream and fantasize about how your skin would feel against his again.

how perfectly you fit in his arms when he held you, like you two were the final attaching pieces in a puzzle.

how smooth your skin would feel when he’s trace circles on it, how his hands fit perfectly on your bare hips.

just breathing your scent one more time would be enough.

he knows it’ll never happen, but he can’t stop himself from dreaming.

he thinks about you for hours , until his stomach makes its final drop when he realizes he’s spent the past four hours dreaming of things that wont ever, ever happen.

so he writes,

you’re so beautiful , and funny. everytime i see your picture or name, my stomach flips and i get butterflies.

he’ll play your voice notes and videos of you on repeat, goosebumps rising all over him when he hears your voice say his name.

he’s tried, so hard, to not look at you, to delete the pictures, to block your number even though you don’t text.

but he can’t , he can’t stop how he feels.

he doesn’t know how long he’s gonna feel like this, but he knows it won’t end anytime soon.

when he sees you posting with your new boyfriend, it makes him sick to his stomach.

today, of all days, you have a monthly anniversary with him. of course.

any other guy would’ve lost interest, stopped loving. but not katsuki.

it just makes him miss you more.

if you knew how i really felt i wouldn’t be writing this shit right now. you’d understand how much you mean to me.

he wasn’t lying. you meant everything to him, but he lost everything when you left.

he wished you’d pine like he did, staring at pictures, unable to move on. but he knows you don’t.

he wishes he could be with you, feeling the warmth of your skin next to his, seeing you smile when he teases you.

he misses the feeling of twirling your hair in his fingers , seeing it shine as the sun hit you and made you glow.

to talk, touch, laugh, make out , anything. i’ll take anything if it comes from you.

[alexanderlightweight]

I can’t find the names of the fics but could we see more from either a guide/sentinel verse or a daemon verse please?

see, I counter your not remembering the names with just writing another sentinel/guide fic so you never knew the name to begin with. since it didn't exist before. bam. it's a power move. also I didn't want to pick which one to write tbh because that was apparently more effort to my brain than creating a new one.

tis the 'tism.

I raise you *blinks at my non-existence cards and lack of ability to play* 'an entire new verse.' ha! I clearly won this round'... i'm not sure that's how it works actually tho. so my bad if you actually won and I claimed victory anyway.

no but seriously I hope you enjoy! its been a while since this prompt was sent in <3

lumine

currency of fate

Alec’s been online since he was a babe.

He’s pretty sure he was born online but thankfully some traumas are too big to remember, no matter how powerful one is.

Maryse won’t admit why, but Alec knows it’s because he was born in a Circle bunker. That in the same hovel he was birthed — with an open and raw mind without psionic shields — there were people being tortured and experiments carried out around him. Their desperate emotions frantic against Alec’s unshielded mind.

Alec carries those scars beneath heavily laid shields and he carries the hate he was born with too.

His mother can tell, better than his father.

Robert’s learned to avoid him on instinct, Maryse stalks the edges of his boundaries and when he’s eight, she starts to exude this kind of badly hidden stubbornness but also hope.

Alec can tell it has to do with him and it’s nothing good. He can also tell by Maryse’s growing relief that it involves the Institute.  

His parents hate it here. 

They don’t like being around and dealing with mundanes and they loathe the downworld with a hatred that sears against Alec’s mind. They especially don’t like being around the pride that ended Valentine’s life and most of the Circle they were once a part of.  They don’t like that they have to toe the line of Bane’s laws and territories as the Archon of the local pride.

Alec really isn’t sure how he’s made it this far, all he knows is that it’s the wards of the Institute's help.

They are what formed the first external shields that Alec’s ever had and the only ones since. It had started with tiny, thin but ever-growing and thickening shields that Alec's formed from necessity rather than knowledge. The wards had drawn energy from the magic that made them and whatever it was that anchored them to the angelic core and protected Alec. It had been the wards that sheltered his mind and soul and the psionic wounds he’d had since birth that had only grown finally started to heal.

The magic of the wards and the power of the angelic core are what keep him stable, they’re what keep him healthy and why he writes — not to the Clave — but to Idris’ pride.

There are no nephilim sentinel and guides in New York anymore.  

Every single one refuses to work with his parents but that also means Alec’s never been a part of any pride.  He’s also never met a sentinel or met another guide.  Alec’s pretty sure the Clave and Idris' pride don’t even know he exists. The people around him don’t know either, Alec can tell by the way the people of the Institute hate both his family and him. They even hate little Izzy, though thankfully she can’t tell or feel.

However it means that while Alec’s been protected from the damage of that hate, it’s made him wary. So when Alec feels his mother’s attention sharpen and focus on him, he acts first.

Within fifteen minutes of his fire message being sent, a contingent of shadowhunter sentinel and guide pairs storm the Institute.

Alec watches from a shadow of a hallway. Just out of reach of everyone and with easy access to the new shadowhunters... or the front door of the Institute.  

Which choice Alec makes depends on just how things go. He’s not stupid enough to only leave himself with one exit and he’s strong enough to daze everyone long enough to make it to the sewers. 

And they may be sentinel and guides but none of them can follow him into Bane’s territory and Alec’s memorized the route there.  True, the warlock sentinel probably won’t like a nephilim kid trespassing, but Bane’s a sentinel.  He won’t hurt Alec and he won’t let Alec be taken by anyone Alec isn’t comfortable with, Alec knows that much.

Besides, Bane did the wards of Alec’s Institute and it’s his magic that shelters Alec, so there’s no way he’d hurt Alec, no matter how much he hates Alec’s parents.

Alec can feel the truth of that.

It’s those shields that he slowly tucks back, letting the barest hint of his mind out in a way he hasn’t since he was five and figured out the wards were helping him.

The female sentinel in charge, Hirune Lakecastle is finishing introducing herself and she stiffens, turning so that her deep brown eyes focus on Alec.  

Alec swallows and steps forward out of the shadows and lets the shield pull back another layer as the rest of the group focus on him.  The Institute shadowhunters still don’t know what's going on and are staying in the formation ordered.  His parents, however, they’re panicking.  Alec can feel it and he lets another layer push back and shares the deep seated loathing he holds for them.

It’s enough that every other guide in the room flinches and then turns hostile glares on Maryse and Robert.  His mother’s emotions flare with anger, despair and finally shame.  As if she realizes that the piece she’d been about to barter to the Clave has been swept from her hands.

Alec won’t let her or Robert control the narrative this time.

Or ever again.

“How long have you been online, Alex-” 

Alec shakes his head, grateful the sentinel picked up on his discomfort and stopped. “Just Alec, Commander.”

She smiles at him and her emotions echo the motion, ringing true. “Alec, then. Do you know?”

Alec knows she thinks he’s done lowering his shields. That’s he’s bared himself to the world but the thing is, Alec will never be able to do what she’s expecting him to.  He knew it the moment she walked in, her guide comforting but nothing else.

The very wards that shield him will be the reason he can’t join a pride, no matter how powerful the Archons.  The presence of the shield has been with him since before true memory. So he was at least three, which is around when he knows for certain that he was moved to the Institute.  

Alec knows what he should say, or even what he could say to soften the blow but Alec is tired. He’s wishing he could have even a fraction of safety that the mundane children he sometimes passes feel.

“Coming online?” He asks and he makes sure to let genuine curiosity swell, because he does wonder what it would be like to feel the change from unawakened to online. “Isn’t everyone born online?”

The horror that is projected at him is overwhelming until it isn’t. 

The wards and his shields snap back fully back into place, the emotion not only shielded, but reflected.  The magic and his own powers instantly fling it back, despite Alec knowing he isn’t being attacked.

Alec blinks up at the ceilings from the floor, where he’s vulnerable despite his best efforts to stay mobile. Resentment coils for a moment before the wards soothe it away and Alec gets to his feet.

A calloused, dark brown hand with the familiar scars of an experienced hunter enters his vision. Alec takes it, bracing himself for both the pull and emotions.

The tug is smooth, effortless and without jolting his shoulder like most of the adults around the Institute do and Alec blinks in surprise.

Ah, another inconsistency he missed then.

Alec also misses the way the sentinel in front of him winces but he doesn’t miss how she bristles at the shadowhunters around them.

“Can you meet with me and my guide, Alec? We’ll go somewhere private. Just the three of us and a pair to guard.  The rest of my team will stay here and... get answers.”

There’s a threat of promise in her voice, for Alec instead of against him.

“The greenhouse?” Alec asks immediately, because it has the most exits and confusing scents and also is one of the only places that doesn’t feel suffocating. Maybe because his parents never go in it and neither do most of the shadowhunters who aren’t scientists. 

It’s a short trip, with Alec’s hand being held the entire time for some reason, even though the sentinel can’t possibly lose him that easily.

“My daughter is a few years older than you.” Alec is told as they enter and he wonders if that’s supposed to make him lower his guard. “She’s latent, but it should be several years before she comes online.” Alec blinks, because he doesn’t actually know the normal age for coming online.  Just that his situation was unusual. He’d figured out that much from books, but the books hadn’t mentioned actual numbers and Alec doesn’t have the clearance for that kind of information yet 

—

Barely five years of so-called ‘peace’ and Magnus is still finding new ways to heal parts of his territory in places he’d thought untouched and protected. It’s both terrifying and infuriating how much damage nephilim can do when they go rampant and how much invisible trauma they can still inflict once the battles have long ended but remain clear in memory. 

Warlocks carry long memories.

Nephilim like to forget and repeat their sins.

Thankfully, Magnus is one of the sentinel’s who personally ripped Valentine Morgenstern apart and that’s the only reason he lets nephilim blood linger on his territory.  No nephilim sentinels or guides live in the Institute, they fled from Maryse and Robert’s soul-stamped betrayal and what was once nephilim territory is now Magnus’.

Perhaps the deed hasn’t been signed, but does that matter when the leylines and angelic core would kick the nephilim out at a moment's notice if Magnus wished?  At the moment he’s being lenient because for now, the nephilim are more useful as fodder than not.  The rifts have been opening more and more of late and it’s better to let the shadowhunters be the first line of both defense and offense to the demons than warlocks or other members of Magnus’ pride.

In however many years as he wants, Magnus will kick Maryse and Robert out of his territory for good and insure some other, less disgusting nephilim is in charge.  If he lets anyone remain for long depending on the political and demonic climate.

However for now, he’ll let them be bait and fodder for the demons coming forth.

Despite the fact that Magnus’ senses have been wreaking havoc on him for centuries, they’ve been settling as of late. Magnus has never zoned out in public, but he has gone feral quite a few times and when he does, he’s been able to pull his entire pride with him until the threat is gone or the danger passed.

Hence Valentine’s lack of existence.

However despite his current annoyances and lack of a decent partner, Magnus feels soothed.

Not just his mind but his skin.  

Magnus no longer has to layer the inside of his clothes with magic and sew his own pieces just to feel texture on his skin.  Or to make every single one of his own products because even Catarina can’t tailor them to his senses as delicately as he needs.

Magnus has a suspicion, however he can do nothing about it as it’s fleeting and never lingers.

Whenever he reaches for the thought, it disappears.  

Cahya has been watching something, their form elegant and distant as they watch somewhere and something Magnus cannot see. The feeling of contentment stays, even though sometimes over-protective instincts full of rage tickle his spine and whet his appetite and lust not for flesh but for battle.

The Institute, despite now being Magnus’ territory, remains something of a deadzone to Magnus’ senses. It’s something he’s grateful for.  That he doesn’t have to endure the stench of the pure nephil blood or their petty emotions and hear their pretentious, self-righteous words.

Magnus is more than capable of bugging the Institute.

He’s not going to risk his senses on listening to the squabbles of nephilim and he doesn’t need to.  The wards let him know what is going on, even now, when they fluctuate and the 

There’s a moment where dread trickles down Magnus’ spine but before he can even think of what caused it, Cahya roars.

It’s so loud both physically and psionically that Magnus’ vision, thoughts and hearing are all left ringing as he recenters himself. All he feels is relief, though he doesn’t understand why except for the fact that Cahya also seems relieved... and proud.

“Something the matter, dearest?”

Cahya chuffs and turns to rub against Magnus’ legs, purring and shaking their head with smug pride.

“Well, as long as you're happy.” Magnus knows he’s exuding doubt, but Cahya doesn’t seem to mind as they shove Magnus’ magic into the couch, growing it so they can lay out on top of him.  It’s been ages since they’ve offered their belly like this, wanting pets and cuddles and nothing but pure attention.

Magnus luxuriates in it.

Cahya is always affectionate... when Magnus allows himself to love his own soul. It’s easier looking at them and seeing how beautiful and powerful Cahya is. However their adoration of him is in turn, beautiful and empowering.

Because surely Cahya wouldn’t stay if Magnus were broken.

Cahya embraces the same... nay an even stronger ruthlessness than Magnus himself.  Most are tempered by the echo of their soul, Magnus is equally matched and neither temper each other but feed the flames they both embody. 

It’s what makes both of them so terrifying and why Magnus is Archon of his pride, despite being unbonded.

AN:

Baby!alec is very paranoid/concerned because of how he came online. Magnus does not know that his magic is basically already claimed as a guide and is protecting him until he’s old enough to meet Magnus.

Alec actually won’t be able to join any nephilim prides because of how protective the shields from the wards are. And he’s also not going to admit he knows where the shields are from, because of ingrained prejudice the pride will assume that its the angelic core that protected him, not Magnus’ magic.

A lot of potential sentinels get sent to visit Alec when he’s older because it’s assumed that it will take a bond to get through the shield thats both protecting him but not letting him bond to a pride.  Which is true, except ofc that wont matter since he’ll be bonding with magnus who can already get past the shield... made from his magic. Whether or not he knows it yet.

Alec has no idea how much feral predator pup/kit he’s giving off right now. Also despite his best efforts, he is projecting maybe not his need for exits, but the fact that he feels cornered. His narrative is skewed because he’s both incredibly powerful but also not as durable as he assumes.  Like he has no idea what he’s doing and he’s making pretty decent assumptions but also, he’s wrong sometimes. Since he’s 8/9.

Cahya is actually reacting to Hirune trying to form a pride bond with Alec which doesn’t work and Cahya is smug in helping protect Alec.

Yes Alec has a spiritual guide animal, he’s hiding right now because Alec isn't advertising his active guide status in hostile territory or to outsiders until he has backup or an escape route.

Valentine is dead in this fic. Jocelyn lives in the mundane world, she still fled but Magnus watches her closely and rotates the warlock and sentinel/guides who keep an eye on her. they make sure unhealthy attachments 'like dot's' to Jocelyn or Clary don't form.

[reachartwork]

when i was young i used to autistically flap about imagining the awesome high-intensity fight scenes in the fictional mecha anime WHITE REVOLVER that i made up entirely in my head and made it my life's goal to one day write and direct. in a post-post-apocalyptic cyberpunk megacity, nameless protagonist-kun receives the mecha WHITE REVOLVER as an inheritance from his long-dead revolutionary father and proceeds to singlehandedly dismantle the entire regime with the sort of brutal, hot-blooded intensity you would expect from a shonen protagonist. unlike everyone else, who had guns, jet boosters, and awesome overwhelming might, the WHITE REVOLVER had only at its behest the ability to hoverskate really fast (i was watching lots of Birdy the Mighty: Decode around this time) and razor sharp energy claws to dismantle things by sideswiping them. and the ability to literally eat enemy mecha parts to incorporate them into themselves.

surprise, this was a deconstruction of gurren lagann, thanks like... 11 year old me. cool idea. the bbeg, who had the matching BLACK REVOLVER, was actually his long-vanished dad (i had and still have not ever seen a single star wars movie) who had actually succeeded in overthrowing the regime the first go around and was now running the asylum trying to keep everything together - the citizenry, as it turned out, preferred the last guy. the WHITE REVOLVER's most distinctive feature was its single large bladed horn crest (i had also never seen a gundam series at this point), and its white and pink-purple color scheme. the BLACK REVOLVER on the other hand, had a split open v-shaped crest (kamen rider esque) and a black and green color scheme. oh and the WHITE REVOLVER was evil, and was steadily digesting the protagonist as fuel, and there was a reason the dad abandoned it for his mechanical knockoff/superior second version and tried to seal it away in his old workshop.

(alien organism or something i dont remember why).

anyway so their final fight lasts like a full two episodes of just steadily destroying more and more of the city, ripping off more and more of each other's robots limbs (for scale, these mecha are more like exoskeletons, about 3 meters tall at most), while the WHITE REVOLVER keeps digesting parts of the protagonist to regenerate, his arms, his legs, his organs, etc, until even his brain is gone and only his BLOOD AND GUTS and RAW COURAGE OF A MAN is fueling the WHITE REVOLVER. so that by the time the final episode ends and the WHITE REVOLVER (sans pilot) kills and absorbs the BLACK REVOLVER, you, the watcher, have steadily gone from excitement, to apprehension, to active disgust, and then finally, fear and anxiety at the ominous last shot of the series of the WHITE REVOLVER growing a second pair of arms, standing in the totally demolished ruins of the megacity, and beginning to jet out into space.

anyway. here she is.

[creatingblackcharacters]

hi! this might be a complicated ask. i'm writing a Black-coded (nonhuman) ex-soldier with PTSD and was wondering if there is anything else i should consider with this character's relationship to violence. since im white, i dont have a nuanced perspective on how growing up Black(coded) might affect his behavior in this area.

my character is Black-coded in his character design, but more importantly, in-universe, he is part of a phenotype of his species that is treated like they are less intelligent and more violent than the other phenotypes. in canon material for this universe, other characters who are subject to these stereotypes have been interpreted as Black, so there is precedent for this analogy. a huge part of the source material is the struggle for equality, freedom, and liberation for all phenotypes. (not that its always done well)

the way im writing him now, he's a very calm and avoidant pacifist when possible, wanting to distance himself from the battlefield. but when he feels his new friends are in danger, he will fight again to protect them and himself. thing is, he has PTSD, and what he registers as a life-or-death threat might not register as a threat to his friends. as a result, they might find his actions overly aggressive… they don't understand what the war was like & how not being proactive enough cost him a friend. he's terrified to lose someone again, and this is the root of his behavior. that fear drives him more than the fear of returning to the battlefield. i dont want him to be an "angry aggressive Black man" or anything, i want it to be clear that he's acting from a place of fear, trauma, and protectiveness. i also want to note that he is not the only Black-coded character. one of the three never-seen-battle, carefree characters is also Black-coded. hopefully i've written him with enough nuance to avoid falling into stereotypes about aggression, but if not, i'd want to hear where i can improve.

now, the part where i really need advice is on how growing up as a part of this stereotyped phenotype might affect how he does (or does not) express things like anger, hostility, or fear. might he try to keep his emotions under wraps to avoid appearing angry or aggressive? or uncritically embrace it as a part of his identity? might he be afraid that expressing his emotions honestly will invite discrimination from his friends who do not have this phenotype? im afraid i just dont know where to begin with this one, but i feel it must be addressed as an important part of his character. oppression is a big topic in the source material and i feel i'd be remiss to avoid it in my OCs.

i know this is a long ask, but if you do choose to answer, thank you very much! if you'd like elaboration on anything, just ask. he's my favorite OC in this story and the most well-developed, and i want to do him justice

Hi, sorry for taking so long to get back to you, but I've been thinking about how to answer this question daily. In my honest opinion, I think you should pause on this character and do some further research. You have an incredibly intriguing concept that would be really cool to explore... But I don't think that, right now, you as an author necessarily understand what you need to in order to depict the complexity of this character's experience.

My suggestion would be finding and reading books written by Black men about their experiences as Black men. They will include their stories of how they had to deal with their emotions, their traumas, and their relationships. I'm sure there are even stories of Black vets, if you really want to get that specific, but just in general life experience will hold patterns worth understanding for characterization. Ta-Nehisi Coates' Between the World and Me, or Monster by Walter Dean Myers, stuff like that.

[apricustar]

there’s something about this finale that left a bad taste in my mouth—and the more i sit with it, the more i realize it’s part of a bigger problem that’s been running through most of the season; something i’d even argue began back in s7.

this entire season has lacked emotional resonance. we’re not shown the important moments anymore, we’re just told they happened via seeing the result of the action. and that gap? it makes everything feel flat.

take the finale’s last few seconds—mara’s adoption, athena selling her house, buck looking at a new place, eddie staying in LA, madney’s baby. these should’ve hit. they should’ve meant something. but instead, it’s a montage we’re apparently supposed to feel something about, even though the show doesn’t take the time to let its characters feel anything??

it plays like a highlight reel more than anything! it’s rushed, detached, almost careless in its delivery, like the show just wanted to check boxes instead of tell a story. the show gave us the results, not the journey. and in doing that, it robbed those moments of any real weight.

eddie’s storyline is perhaps the clearest example of this issue. it feels as though eddie has been thrown away, especially in the latter portion of this season.

we open the season with eddie dealing with chris’ absence—sort of. we get that awkward birthday facetime call, the quiet ache of trying and still receiving nothing. we see eddie throw himself into work, into structure, into being okay. we see the performance of coping. we see him attempting show up and still be a father to chris despite being 800 miles away.

and!! then we don’t really see eddie grapple with his decision to move. not directly. it’s buck who finds the listings, buck who brings it into the open. in 8b, it bubbles up into tension and into that fight—and then eddie leaves, like he was slipping out the back door of his own life. after all the build-up, we still get nothing.

no first days in texas. no private moments with chris. no reconciliation. he disappears from entire episodes. he vanishes from his own story in a way that feels disrespectful.

he returns for bobby’s funeral. and in the finale, without a single conversation, he’s suddenly staying in LA. we never see him and chris talk about his move to el paso, or the decision to come back. there’s no acknowledgment of anything that happened up to this point—no conversation to do with anything of value!!

we just get a silent reversal of everything the season built instead, like none of it happened. all the important aspects of rebuilding happened entirely offscreen!!

and it’s not just eddie. this has been happening everywhere—this slow erasure of interiority, of depth, of care. the show used to sit with its characters. it used to feel like it knew them. like it trusted us to want more than plot. but now? everyone feels thinner. quieter. like echoes of themselves. like the writers are writing around the people they used to understand.

and the result is a season—and a finale—that feels emotionally empty not because there wasn’t anything there, but because it was never given space to land. we’re watching the outcomes of conversations we never got to hear. the aftermath of moments we never saw happen. the characters don’t feel fully fleshed out anymore. the show lacks heart. it lacks nuance. it’s lost the version of itself that once knew how to feel through things instead of just announcing them. and if the characters aren’t given space to care, to process, to live in the in-between—then how are we supposed to care, either?

so when the final montage hits—when all the big life changes flash across the screen—we’re not feeling closure. we’re just feeling the distance. the hollowness of a show that used to ask us to feel with it—and now seems scared to.

[cheesesandwichsanto]

The Letter

Summary: You find a letter in Eddie‘s room

Warning: none

Word Count: ~1k

A/N: English is not my first language

If you enjoy the story; likes, reblogs and comments are really appreciated 🖤

It was like every other Friday evening after Hellfire Club.

He called you the moment he was back home.

You drove over to Eddie’s trailer.

You both ordered some food, watched a movie together and smoked one on his porch, while talking about everything under the sun.

He crashed on the couch while you slept in his bed.

You both had been best friends since kindergarten.

He was just one year older than you.

You were inseparable ever since.

But when puberty started, everything changed for you.

You saw him in a different light.

You didn’t saw the boy with messy hair, leading some so-called cult, living in a trailer park that everyone saw.

You saw a handsome man with long flowing curls, passionate about his hobby and the person he truly was.

He didn’t put on an act for others.

He was seen as the town’s freak, but you just as a regular girl from creative writing club. (Which you, honestly, just joined because Eddie convinced you. So you could help him write his lyrics.)

He repeated senior year for the second time, you repeated it for the first time.

So you hoped you could graduate together and leave this shitty town behind.

The moment you fell in love with him?

It was when you were at Corroded Coffin’s band practice at Gareth’s garage, waiting for Eddie to finish and go to the new taco place in town.

You observed him playing his guitar, and seeing him pulling those strings with his silver rings on his fingers during his solo, with his tongue peeking out to focus, and his curls up in a messy bun, it did something to you that you couldn’t explain.

You couldn’t look at him the same anymore.

Normally, girls were into boys like Steve Harrington or Billy Hargrove - the pretty boy or the bad boy.

But not you; you liked the nerdy metalhead living in Forest Hills Trailer Park.

You knew that he had a thing for Chrissy Cunningham in middle school.

He told you, and it brought an aching pain to your chest.

It didn’t help when you saw them in the woods a few weeks ago during break, sitting on the bench, talking and laughing.

Friday evening

You picked up “Ghostbusters” from Family Video, while Eddie ordered some pizza.

After the movie, it was time for your weekly smoke session.

“Can you grab my lighter? It’s on the green box left shelf” He yelled from the living room, before he grabbed his pack of cigarettes and went outside to sit on the porch.

You misheard him, thought he said ‘in the box’.

You looked for the green box, (how are you supposed to find anything in this mess?) grabbed it and opened the lid.

Inside were some pictures of you and Eddie.

One where you both were barely 10 years old, his arm around your shoulder, in your grandma’s garden.

Him grinning from ear to ear.

Another one with Eddie and you dressed fancy.

You both were 13 and it was Snowball, where he didn’t want to go at first, but after you bickered for the 7465th time, he gave in.

And he ended up having more fun than you, but he would never admit that.

But there was also a folded piece of paper underneath the photos.

You were just nosy by nature, so it would be unfair to you not to open it.

You took a seat on the bed and folded it open.

It was Eddie’s handwriting.

You would recognize this scribble everywhere.

To my dear Y/N,

If you're reading this letter, I’m probably dead, or I maybe finally grew some balls to tell you how I feel. Hopefully, it’s not the first. If its the first one, please take care of my guitar.

You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my whole damn life.

Do you remember that one time I picked you up from Robin’s? It was raining outside, and I felt like shit for letting you wait. But you didn’t even care. You were soaking wet, but when you got into my van you burst out in laughter, because you said I had a booger sticking on my cheek. (It was glaze from a donut. I still swear) - that was the moment where I wasn’t able to deny my feelings for you. I know, weird. I don’t want to ruin our friendship, so hopefully you feel the same. I don’t even know what I am writing here. So I come to the point:

Sweetheart, I’m in love with you

Your guitar god,

Edward Munson

You put the paper down and started at the wall, but got interrupted by a voice.

“You read it, didn’t you?” Eddie said, standing in the doorway, scratching his chin and sounding slightly awkward. You nodded slowly.

“Eddie… why have you never told me about how you feel?” You asked back confused, wrinkling your eyebrows.

“Why would a girl like you, be with a guy like me? Come on. You’re out of my league anyway.” He mumbled, looking at the floor of his room.

“Don’t say stuff like that… you are the most important person in my life.”

You got up to stand in front of him.

“And I … feel the same Ed’s” you whispered nervously.

“Seriously?” his brown eyes turned big.

“I do.”

It took everything in you, to do what you were doing next.

You reached for his face and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips.

He pulled away, stunned for a second, but then he kissed you again.

After a while, it was you who pulled away, your lips millimeters away from his.

“I really, really like your letter by the way, guitar god, I always knew there was some kind of poet inside you, even if it was not easy to read your scrawl” you said teasingly, taking a strand of his hair and twirling it around your finger.

“Oh shut up” he said laughing “I’m fucking embarrassed that I even wrote that cheesy thing, you should burn it”

“I’m happy you did. And I will frame it, and put it on my nightstand next to my bed.”

[nervoushottee]

Casual | Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

Summary: To you, what you and Steve had felt like coming home but to him? It was only just casual.

Warnings: 18+ MNDI, S1 King Steve (asshole), implied sex, descriptions of sex but not in detail, ANGST, Steve being a piece of shit, I think I gave Carol the wrong last name?

Notes: I love Chappel Roan’s “Casual”. Always have and always will. One day a few months ago when listening to the song I literally thought about this fic and just wrote crap on paper and forgot about it. Months later and here it is! I haven’t wrote for Steve in a long time so please bear with me if it’s rusty. This fic is inspired by a oc fic that I’m writing for a Canon Stranger Things store but Oc’s are always so hardddd to write compared to Reader. So there are some plot points used from that story to add in this story because it just felt right.

please enjoy! Not edited

(I know I know! This isn’t what you want for me to post! The Jesse fic IS being worked but very slowly due to my feelings with the S2 potrayal so bear with me on that!)

You and Steve have always been around each other—like a tether or an invisible string guiding you together. You live two houses down and one across from him, you’re in the same friend group. You’re a cheerleader and he’s on the basketball team. The both of you were causally and unintentionally tied to the hip.

So it only makes sense when the two of you fuck one night when Steve’s parents aren’t home.

Steve was bored—that’s what he told you over the phone a couple hours before. With a playful groan and a promise of a joint, you shove some sweats and sneakers and make the short walk to his house.

Another thing that the two of you so casually have in common—being an abandoned child.. Father kicked it years ago with the stupid and overused milk scene; Mother drowns herself in liquor that when she’s sober it’s scary. You should hate her, want her to show up more in your life but you’re not…not really.

When she slurs her speech with how much she loves the man who left her years ago and tries to find him again and again in old rich men—you can’t help but feel bad for her. You can’t help but hope and pray that you’ll never be like her: a shell of a woman constantly heartbroken from the one that got away.

Despite her absence and the (many) rich boyfriends in a suit that she drags to meet you—then cry her eyes out when it’s over, you have a roof over your head and money in your pocket. The last guy she dated was able to upgrade the television set in the living room. The guy two guys before that one fixed the pool that hadn’t been working for three years straight (you would use Steve’s anyways). That is what’s different between you and Steve.

Steve’s parents are rarely ever home. Business trips or vacations is what they call them but from what Steve told you, he knows it’s mostly his father having a business meeting or whatever and his mother tagging along be every time she didn’t, his father would go and cheat with a younger version of her. Despite Steve’s nonchalant attitude toward it whenever it’s brought up with Tommy and Carol, you know Steve better than that.

It was nights like these when Steve “bored” out of his mind and calling you to come to his or he’d go to yours—Steve would whisper out the feelings that were hidden inside of him. When the joint was down to its last hit or the beer too warm to drink anymore on a warm night. Or even if it was just a little too quiet and a little too comfortable. The two of you would bring out all of the skeletons you kept deep in the closet.

It was a mutual understanding between you both to keep it to yourself. Despite not being more than good friends, the weight of the conversations you shared meant more to you than just that.

Shaking your head, you scoff playfully as you see Steve already standing in the drive. His hands placed on his hip and his foot tapping on the cement. If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought Steve was a disappointed mother rather than your cute friend.

Of course you think Steve is cute—who fucking wouldn’t? You still keep it to yourself though.

He taps his hands on his wrist, his eyebrows furrowed in disappoint, “Do you know what time it is young lady? For you to go out this late and come to a boys house of all things is just unacceptable.”

You roll your eyes as you walk toward him. “Sorry mom, it won’t happen again.”

“You bet your ass it won’t.” he says sternly, as you stop a foot or so in front of him, you can already see the playful and fond gleam in his eyes. Sometimes you wonder if he only saves that look for you.

Steve opens the door for you and once you step inside, it’s like you never left. You know Steve’s place like the back of your hand and you won’t be surprised if Steve knows yours just the same. Following him up the stairs to his bedroom, the two of you get into a routine that has honestly warmed your heart since it started.

Steve goes slides his desk to corner of the wall as you open the window that it was faced toward. You can hear the crickets chirping in the night and the faint sound of trees rustling from the night wind. The air warm from summer being just a blink away, so you unzip your jacket after pulling out the light you had shoved into it. Steve sits on the other side of window as he pulls out the joint that was promised. You chuck off your shoes with a groan an wiggle your sock covered toes as you hear the scrape of the lighter against Steve’s thumb.

He doesn’t take the first hit, he never does. Not with weed or even cigarettes—he simply lights it for you. You don’t remember when it started but you do remember the curt remark from Carol at a party once. Steve had got a couple beers, had opened one, handed it to you and pull one for him out of his pocket. Carol (drunk and little jealous) had asked “Who is she, your girlfriend Harrington?”

You and Steve had both shrugged off the comments, not really taking to heart the words that your friend had slurred out your mouth. But as Tommy dragged her away for some air, and you watched Steve light the cigarette just to give to you, the words were replaying in your mind for the rest of the night.

Months later and here you are, sharing the small joint with Steve. Fingers brushing against each other as you exchange it back and forth. You blow the smoke out the window with your arm rested on the windowsill. Your cheek squished against your arm, you look out at the night sky. You don’t know if your eyes are playing tricks on you but you can only see two stars in the sky. They stand in the blackness of the night parallel to you and Steve.

You’ve got to be super high already. You clear your throat and rub your eyes against your arm. “Mom’s got a new guy.”

“Oh yeah?” Steve asks as he hands the small joint to you.

You hum. “Yea he’s,” you inhale warm smoke, “He’s some guy up from Indianapolis. Works at a lawyer firm or accounting something.” You shrug your shoulders, you never really give a shit about the who and what of your mom’s new flavor of the month.

“Think this one’s gonna stick?” Steve accepts the last bit of the joint.

You shake your head and smush your cheek back on your arm. “They never do.”

Because from what your mom tells you whenever she drinks vodka—that all of them can never hold a candle to your father. She tells you that with tear in her eyes, mascara smudged and lips quivering. You always exchange her vodka out for whatever after a while when she’s not looking; Usually she’s too drunk to even notice the difference.

You snap out of your daydream at the touch of Steve’s warm hand against your waist. His skin on yours makes your breath hitch silent. Your shirt had ridden up with how you were leaned against the window sill, so you know it wasn’t his intention to place his hands on you like that but he doesn’t move it. Instead you feel his thumb softly move back and forth. Faint baby strokes against your skin that sends goosebumps up your spine.

You try your best to look casual as you direct your gaze to Steve. He’s smoking the last bit of it, the roach looking tiny in his big hands. You let out a whine, “You’re hogging it Harrington.”

Steve shrugs, “Not my fault you were lost in a daydream.”

You use your unoccupied hand to reach out for the roach but Steve takes the little thing and extends his arm out of your reach. Orangey red ember staring back at you as you squint and pout. “That shit probably only has one hit left. ‘S not fair, I was just enjoying my high.” You lie.

Steve debates it for a second, you see how his face changes from playful to thoughtful to fond in the bright moonlight.

Fuck, you really like the way he looks at you.

“Fine. How about this?”

Steve takes the last and final hit of the joint and you gasp in shock— slightly annoyed that he didn’t share it. But once Steve gets into your personal space, his hand still on sliding from your waist, up your back to softly cup your neck—you realize that Steve Harrington is actually fucking sharing it.

You lean to meet him as suck in the warm smoke that Steve blows into your mouth. His gaze low and heavy as he leans back a bit to watch you lick your chapped lips.

You can’t really tell who pulled in first but all you know is that night you and Steve had sex for the first time.

The morning after, when you woke up to the sun on your skin and the sound of birds chirping. The bed is empty when you turn around. Your naked underneath the sheets and you shove Steve’s shirt over your head and shrug on your sweats as you make your way out of his room.

You follow the sound of pots and pans and walk downstairs to see Steve in the kitchen. His back toward you as he places a pan on the stove. There’s a cup of coffee next to him and a mug empty right next to his.

“Hey.” you mumble out.

Steve turns to the sound of your voice and with the same fucking in his eyes that makes your heart jump—he smiles softly at you. “Morning. Coffee?”

Warmth and relief flutters inside of you as you let out a deep sigh, “Yeah that’s perfect actually.”

The two of you don’t talk about what happened last night. Neither of you ask the what are we question and it makes you happy and anxious at the same time. But as you laugh at some stupid story he’s telling, you remind yourself that it was only one time and it won’t ever happen again.

Until it happens a second time and then a third time. Then it turns into something so continuous that Tommy and Carol catch on.

“Are you guys fucking or something?” Tommy blurts out at your table in the cafeteria. You nearly choke on your Coke. Carol eyes you both as she blows the biggest bubble of gum she’s done so far. You keep the soda can up against your lips—an act of not speaking, blaming it on drinking soda.

“Don’t try to deny it either,” Carol states with a pop of her gum. “Those hickeys conveniently placed blow your neck is peaking out of your collar.” She tells you. Your mouth slightly gaped like a fish, you reach to adjust your shirt collar as Steve clears his throat.

“It’s nothing serious. We’re just hanging out.” Steve says like it’s whatever.

You ignore the pang in your chest when the words come out of his mouth. But, you’re in no mood to make a fool of yourself, so you do what you do best—push down those unwanted feelings and agree. “Yeah,” you shrug your shoulders. “We’re just-”

“Casual.” Steve finishes for you and like the stupid girl you are—you nod. You take the multiple blows he sent your way with the five letter word and the look on his face that’s nothing like how he looks at you in private.

With the ring of the school bell, you watch as Steve wipes his mouth with a napkin, toss it on his tray and leave the lunch table. Tommy follows after him like a lost puppy while leaving his girlfriend in the process.

You almost don’t see the small look of shock and disappointment in Carol’s eyes with how fast it leaves. She pops her gum and in a blink of an eye it’s gone. Her usual bored stare takes its place as she locks eyes with you.

“Bathroom?”

Going to the bathroom with Carol Jenkins means more than just going to the bathroom. No, it doesn’t mean making out in the stall—even though you did do that one time when the two of you both turned sixteen; Just to see how kissing girls felt. It meant what every other group of girls did when going to the bathroom at Hawkins High.

To Reapply lipgloss, smoke out the window and gossip.

The highschool bathroom window only opened three inches on every floor for safety reasons and to prevent kids from smoking. But all you had to do was stick your hand out and let the smoke trail out side.

So hear you stood by the window, cigarette in the hand extended outside. You take a puff and watch the track team do laps on the yard.

“You know, if what you and Steve have isn’t as casual as he thinks it is—you need to tell him like now.” Carol says out loud. You nearly break your neck with how quick you turn to the redhead who is reapplying her lipgloss for the second time since you lit the cig. She meet your eyes yet, giving you time to save face as she primos and fluffs her hair before finally turning to you.

You shrug, “He’s right. We’re just—having fun.”

She nonverbally asks for the cigarette and you hand it to her. Watching as she walks to the window and blows the smoke she just inhaled out the tiny open space. Carol’s a bit shorter than you, something you made fun of in a cute way whenever you’re too drunk. But now, for some reason, you’re the one that feels small. Almost as if she can read right through your bullshit lie and knows that what you want and what Steve wants are two different fucking things.

“Well,” she taps the ash of the on the window sill. You wipe it off in annoyance. “Make sure you remember that and have fun.”

The thing about Carol Jenkins—she wasn’t always a bitchy mean girl. No, before status and highschool popularity and even Tommy, she was a pretty good friend. As time went on, she changed and you did too. But probably not in the same direction though.

Carol doesn’t say anything to you about the matter ever again after that. And you continued on with the facade of being okay with being just causal with Steve.

Because the thing is, it wasn’t casual. Steve can go about and say that the two of you were just casual but it doesn’t feel casual and it never has.

Not when he kisses your hand when the two of you take long drives and especially not when you hold each other so close at night.

You know how many freckles Steve has on his back. You’ve counted them on one lazy Sunday morning. The wind blowing through the open window of your bedroom, curtains light and flowy with the sun peeking through. Steve, chest bare, sleeping on his stomach with hands underneath the pillow. You on top of him, cheek smushed against his back and your legs tangled together.

You had woken up before him. Eyes a bit blurry and mouth dry as you glide your fingers up and down his back. M Dancing around his spine as you count all the small dots that were scattered across his body. Twenty three of them.

He knows where all your birthmarks are. Could find them blindfolded with nothing but his wandering hands.

You’ve moaned his name against his mouth and he’s grunted out yours. In his room and yours. In the front seat of his car and the back seats. At Lover’s Lake when the sun is gone and the moon is bright. At Skull Rock, a place you both found after too many close calls getting caught by the cops at the lake. On his bathroom counter and underneath the warm shower water. At his parent’s beach house and at parties when you are able to ditch your friends.

None of that felt fucking casual to you.

You wished and prayed not to be like your mother. But here you are, drunk out of your mind in the corner of the room at Tina’s Halloween party. Black eyeliner smudged against your eyes and fake blood dried against your mouth. You can taste the nasty artificial taste of it as you lick your lips. “Pure Fuel” nearly finished in your stained and sticky solo cup; you watch as Steve and Nancy walk through the crowd of dressed up teens—in their own couple’s costume.

He’s wearing the same sunglasses he had at the beach house. The same ones you took off his face to see his pretty brown eyes and kiss his lips afterwards.

Drink in hand and eyes blurry with tears, you painfully watch the couple dance to the music.

What you and Steve had wasn’t casual. You knew that deep within your bones. But Steve doesn’t speak to you, not like he used to, not after that night and not since Nancy. Because he’ll see it tightly in his mind that what you had was causal when it was nothing of the sort.

So, as you watch Steve follow Nancy to what you assume is the bathroom to go fuck like you used to do with him, you follow in your mother’s footsteps. Hips swaying and mind fuzzy as you tangle your warm tongue with Billy Hargrove’s.

He’s a mistake. He isn’t Steve. But he’s just enough to make you forget how the boy you loved was never your boy begin with.

He made that very clear.

[chunkitakii]

Omg I just read your NSFW for Luz and RAHHHHHHHHH how do you get him so good???? Like he was such a little shit and sexy in a way. I was wondering if you could do a prompt for him another NSFW prompt where we end up putting the little punk ass in his place, overstimulation and everything (maybe ending with him getting back at us) ty!!! Also fem reader pls? Remember to take your time

Lux Imperator/Mr. Ring-A-Ding NSFW P.t 2!!!

Part 1

OMG Thank you SO much!!! I tried so hard to get him as accurate as possible! Im so glad my work payed off :’) ANYWAY, I seen your little request and oh boy. I have never started writing so quick in my life. This was just so much fun to write!

But the thought of getting payback at Lux is so satisfying to think about. Him being a whiny, whimpering mess? YES PLEASE!

WARNING: This contains Overstimulation, blowjobs (Lux receiving), hints that reader is a female (Lux calls them Toots), and Lux being a whiney bastard.

I DIDN’T PROOF READ THIS SO SORRY IF ITS ROUGH

(Pic not by me)

The next day you had to go to work with a pair of legs that couldn’t even work, thanks to Lux’s “rough housing” yesterday. You couldn’t even finish sweeping the floors in Lux’s theater room. You had to sit down for a break every once and a while. The soreness in your legs was too much to handle, as well as the other work Mr. Pye had given you that you couldn’t finish yesterday.

You could hear Lux’s laugh across the theater, snickering and chuckling as he watched you struggle with simple tasks. Gosh, what an asshole…

You couldn’t take this anymore. Every time Lux wants to play “patty cake,” it always ends with either you losing feeling in your legs, or you continuing the day with marks or bruises. Good thing this time there weren't any bites or bruises, that would be another thing blocking you from doing any work.

To be honest, you loved it when Lux gives you attention. He can be sweet and caring in bed. Lux made sure to take care of you after a long day of work. But there can be times when he just does it for his own benefit. For his own entertainment, much like the other night. Using you until you had nothing left to give, sucking you dry until you were nothing but a husk.

You would lay there for hours trying to catch your breath. All sweaty and shaky. Trying to regain your energy back after it was taken from you in pleasure. But oh, how it felt. You were sure you were on cloud nine. It felt delightful in the moment, but it had a hard price to pay. And today, you did not want to pay it.

So, today’s the day that you have had enough. You were tired of having Lux drain you dry just for his entertainment. You were sick of having to walk home with legs that couldn’t keep you up-right. Or bruises and cuts that leave you limping.

You were so sick of it, you just needed something to make you feel better. Something to make Lux pay for his actions. Something like revenge.

A couple of days had passed since then, and you had patiently waited for the right time. You had also waited until you had fully healed from that night's game of patty cake.

What had seemed to piss you off even more was that Lux either teased you from that night, or just straight up ignored your complaints. He teased how you wiggled and moaned underneath him from just his hands. And how you are just a baby for being so sensitive that night.

What an ass…

The day went by, and you were finishing up organizing film reels. Mr. Pye had asked if you could reorganize them as he went off to bed, probably just so he could give you something to do. You didn’t mind. It just fastened to time for you to give your attack.

Putting the last film up, you made sure to be as quiet as you can. You turned off the light off the storage room, removing any and all light within it. The only source of light that was through the open door from the lighting from the hallway. Lux needs light for strength and power. He was i. the body of a literal toon, defeating him would be close to impossible.

But you don't want to kill him, no. You just want to make him weak and helpless, much like the night he made you weak and helpless. Too weak to move from the large amounts of pleasure he had given you.

You just wanted to give the same treatment to him. To show what it's like to put on someone else’s shoes…

“Hey Lux? Can yoh come jn the storage room!…” You called out the door, trying to reel him into the dark room with you.

After a short second, you could hear the tippy taps of his shoes coming closer into the room. Instantly, you quickly but quietly hid behind the door.

“Yes, Sunshine? Need any help on something?” You hear him speak around the corner of the room. With a couple of more steps, he was now fully into the room.

“Gee willikers…Looks like you need help with the lights too-”

Slam! You slammed the door shut behind Lux. Sealing you and Lux in a room with absolutely no light. You can faintly hear Lux let out a quiet ‘eep!’

But the weird thing is Luz still had sort of glowed even in the pitch black room. Just like a cartoon in a film, the white part of Lux’s eyes glowed.

That's new.

Although you had to quickly knock yourself out of the thought and into what you were here to accomplish.

Without a second to spare, you launched yourself on top of him, Grabbing him and lifting him up lightly just for a moment before pushing Lux on top of a nearby table. Lux let out a soft huff noise as his toon body hit the hard surface. As his body hjt the table, a soft squeaky noise was heard. Much like a chew toy.

Lux looked at you in shock and disbelief, staring up at you as you towered over him with a hand on his torso, keeping him down.

“Woah-ho there sunshine, aggressive much?” He questioned, a smile creeped on his face. It wasn’t a warm smile, but a smile that held such cockyness. You knew he wasn’t taking this seriously.

You settled yourself in between his legs, glaring down at him through the darkness. You didn’t know if he could even see you or not, but it didn’t matter. You pressed down your hand upon Lux’s chest, putting more pressure. Not trying to hurt him, but to try and test the waters.

Lux let out a grunt from the pressure, he instinctively wrapped a hand around your arm to try and relieve it. But to his surprise, you didn't budge, not one bit. Lux can feel himself become weak in strength, no doubt it was because of the pitch black room he was in. The lack of light made him become weak.

“What are you trying to pull here? Was it because I didn’t let you win in a game of chess? Well i'm sorry to tell you, you're just not good at strategy.” Lux chuckled out, but you could hear it in his laugh and voice that he was uneasy. Unsure what you are trying to do to him, let’s see if you can try and keep it that way.

“It is not because of chess, but consider this payback…”

“W-Wait a…minute!” Lux pleaded, trying to get you to get off of him just for a moment. The room was filled with nothing but his desperate moans, the shuffling in the dark room, and the wet sounds of your mouth upon his regions.

You don’t know how long you have been here, but revenge still burns hot within you. You wanted to make him pay for that night. It has been working so far. Lux’s whines and cries were music to your ears, proving to you that what you are doing is good. Way too good is Lux’s eyes.

Lux can’t even form any words beyond this point. Throwing out words that can't be comprehended, he doesn’t even know what he is saying himself. The only thing that he could do was moan and holler your name like it was the only thing he could say. It was all pornographic really. But oh how you loved every bit of it. You thought that you should make this a routine.

If you counted correctly, you have made him spill his seed over 10 times. It should be torture for him, but he's a cartoon, he can handle it. And by the look upon his face, he seems to be enjoying it…For the most part…

“Sweet Pea…Pl-ease, I don't think I have anything left in me!” Lux pleaded as his body shakes in pleasure. He was then followed by his own whines filling his mouth. His back arches upward and his hips thrust away from you. “Please, just for a moment. I can't take it anymore!…I need a break, I-mmh…need… light!”

Lux knew that he was weak, he could feel it. He didn’t know what your little, devilish brain was doing, but he couldn’t last another round of your hot, lovely mouth on his joy-stick. He needed light to regain his strength, but you stripped him from that.

Before he can move away, you positioned both of your hands on his hips and ground him to the table, preventing him from moving anymore. His legs twitched on your shoulders. Trying to either push you away for a breather or to pull you in closer.

From the goodness of your heart, you granted him that break. Slowly, you lifted your head and detached yourself off of him. Saliva and residue of his cum was the only thing that connected your mouth and his region.

You can hear Lux pant in relief, and his body relaxed. With the strength that he had, he lifted his head to look down at you.

“Finall-”

“You remember that night of patty cake?…hm?…” You cutted Lux off, waiting for his response. You wanted to jog back his memory of the night so it didn't seem like you did all of this for nothing. And hopefully Lux can at least learn a lesson.

You can see Lux’s tired eyes go from a confused state to a shock one. His breath hitched and he put on a worried smile. “Oh, That night. I was just trying to loosen some tight gears you had, that's all!”

“Lux, I wanted you to stop for a while so I can continue working.”

“That’s not what your body told me- Ah!…”

You re-attached your mouth back onto Lux once more, it seems that he did not learn his lesson just yet. A couple more rounds should do…

After a couple of hours of pumping and sucking him dry, you had finally called it quits. You were tired, your jaw and arms becoming sore. And Lux couldn’t even form not one thought in his mind. Which scared you because right now he didn’t even form any words.

You got up from the table and made your way through the dark room and to the light switch. Now, you saw Lux and all of his glory, and your hard work too.

He laid there, twitchy and sweaty. He had cartoon stars and birds flying in a circle above his head. His smile was all wobbly, and his toonish eyes were now twisting in swirls. The mess below him was a different story. But it nonetheless brought pride within you.

You brought some towels to clean Lux and everything else up before you put on his pants for him. You were pissed about the whole patty cake incident, but you weren’t pissed enough to just leave him there. You still cared for him.

You then softly picked Lux up, and brought him into a room with a window. It was nighttime, and the moon was full. Good enough to give him his strength back.

You laid him down where the moon beamed down on. You can faintly hear him sigh blissfully as he bathes in the moonlight. Soon, he gained enough consciousness to now form sentences. “So you’ve learned your lesson to be gentle next time?” You said, Lux could hear the smirk in your voice.

He gave out a soft grumble before speaking. “I wasn’t that rough on you, I think you’ve over exaggerated a little toots…” He argued, still soaking in the moonlight.

You chuckled at him, “You're a toon, you’ll get over it.” You simply stated before turning your back to him to get yourself cleaned up. But before you could reach the door, Lux spoke up once more. His voice still spent, but the venom in his voice was still present. “You're right, I am a toon…” Lux muttered out before snapping his fingers. You were about to throw some snarky comeback at him. But you were pushed back into a nearby wall.

Just by the snap of his fingers, Lux had gained back all of his strength. The process of him being an incoherent mess was no longer present. It was like all of your work in making him pay was just thrown out the window.

Lux also gained more than his strength, he gained the ability to grow more than 5 feet. Now towering over you with his new height. Maybe this was the same power he had when he had shown up in the theater, intimidating and huge.

You can feel how small you were just by staring up at him. Your kneese became weak and your throat became dry. His face held such cockyness, like he did when he played patty cake that night. You can hear a dark chuckle bubble in his toonish throat.

“My turnnnn~!” Lux sang maliciously, chilling you to your core. Chanting his turn like this was some sort of game to him. You're hoping Mr. Pye doesn’t have anything for you to do this week, because you are going to be stuck in bed for the next few days.

ANOTHER HEADCANNON, this mf can go for days if he had a light source and a will.

He can’t take you seriously even if you are trying to get payback to him. That will probably cause him to be TWICE as hard. Your just provoking him anyway LOLOL.

[javelinbk]

Martin: How did the idea for “Two Of Us” come to you? Did you first of all have an idea to write a film about an aspect of the Beatles - and then arrive at this particular story? Did you start out by wanting to write about the dynamic of John and Paul - and then arrive at this place? Or was this specific story your very first thought?

Mark: I wanted to do something creative with all this ‘useless knowledge’ that I had accumulated over the years, as a sort of purging and also as a kind of tribute, a way of saying thanks. Initially, I thought about writing a biography, but there have been so many. I think it was the conceit that I had some kind of unique insight into the dynamic between John and Paul that really got me started. And I would see these interviews with Paul where, whenever they asked him about John, everything would shift -- his face, his tone of voice. I would watch him and think, "My God, he really loved John, and he hasn't gotten over losing him."

Martin: Did you have an idea of what ground you wanted to cover? i.e. what factual topics you wanted each person to cover. And what emotional terrain you would want each of them to cover?

Mark: I knew that John's painful childhood would play an enormous role in the way I portrayed him, that he would be seen as never having completely come to terms with being unwanted. And I knew that I wanted to get across how much Paul really loved and understood John, which, I believe, is what frightened John.

Martin: Your original script ended with “Here Today” (Paul McCartney’s 1982 tribute song to John) being played - though you were subsequently unable to obtain permission for its use. If there had been total access from the Beatles for their recordings and their publishers for their music - would you have wanted to feature other music by them - and by John and Paul individually? If so - what specifically would you have wanted to use? And to underscore which points in the film?

Mark: It would have been nice to have "Silly Love Songs" in there, since that kind of summed up where Paul was at back then. The song that I kept coming back to, though, as I was writing, was "Jealous Guy". I'm practically convinced that John actually wrote that song for Paul. Whether he knew it or not.

Martin: Were you ever thinking that this might be regarded as a heresy to postulate history? Not just Beatles history - but postulating history with any real-life characters. Did you actively think about any of the precedents in the literary and dramatic tradition where real-life persons have been portrayed? And more particularly about works which have not just depicted known events - but have speculated about things that MIGHT have happened?

Mark: I didn't give it a lot of thought. Certainly it's been done before, from Shakespeare through something like "Melvin and Howard." And, more recently, in films like "Gods and Monsters". "Shakespeare in Love", for that matter.

Beatles historian Martin Lewis interviews Mark Stanfield, screenwriter of Two of Us (2000)