#they just exist outside of time and space to preserve them

[norristrii]

THAT’S NOT HER, CHAT!

You and Lando had been keeping your relationship hidden from the public eye. But all it took was one accidental appearance on his stream to change everything. After that, there was no going back.

pairing. Lando Norris x Verstappen! fem! reader.

warnings. chaos, fluff, comedy.

DATING LANDO HAD BEEN EXCITING, exhilarating even, but it also came with its fair share of complications���ones you had been aware of from the start.

Two months in, things still felt new, still carried that fresh spark of discovery, of late-night conversations and shared laughter that felt just a little more intimate now. The way he looked at you, the way he reached for your hand absentmindedly, like it was second nature—those moments were yours, tucked away, safe from the outside world. But while the relationship itself was thriving behind closed doors, taking it online was an entirely different story.

You had your reasons—solid, unshakable ones that kept you cautious.

First, you were Max Verstappen’s sister. That alone made things complicated. The championship fight had put your family in the center of attention in ways that went beyond just racing, and adding your relationship into the mix? It would inevitably fuel speculation, opinions, and unwanted scrutiny. People would have theories, analyze dynamics, question loyalties—none of which you wanted to deal with.

Second—well, Lando’s fans were intense. Not all of them, obviously, but enough to make you wary of putting too much of your personal life on display. You had seen how they dissected his every move, how they speculated about things that didn’t even exist, how quickly narratives could spiral out of control. The thought of people analyzing every interaction, every glance, every post—it was exhausting. You loved him, but you weren’t sure if you could handle what came with loving him publicly.

For now, the secrecy wasn’t a burden—it was a protection. A way to preserve something that felt fragile, something you weren’t ready to hand over to the chaos of the internet.

You spent so much time at Lando’s place that, at this point, it felt less like visiting and more like home. Your things had slowly integrated into his space—your clothes hung in his closet, your favorite snacks filled his kitchen cabinets, and the couch had practically molded itself to fit your preferred spot.

And you adored every bit of it.

The quiet mornings where the two of you lazily made breakfast, the way he’d pull you into his antics without hesitation, the soft moments where words weren’t needed—just existing together was enough.

But there was one unspoken rule.

When Lando was streaming, you knew not to walk into his room. Not because he didn’t want you there—quite the opposite. But because the two of you had made a choice, a silent agreement to keep your relationship yours for now. Away from the internet, away from prying eyes and endless speculation.

He was too quiet. So quiet that you had convinced yourself he wasn’t streaming, that you could casually walk in and drop off the food without a second thought.

So, naturally, without hesitation, you pushed open the door, plate in hand, ready to deliver his food like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.

And that’s when the panic set in.

“I’m streaming, I’m streaming, wait!” Lando practically jumped in his chair, hands flying up in frantic urgency, his voice tight with alarm.

You froze in place, gripping the plate a little tighter, your heart immediately racing. Your mind scrambled—had the camera caught you? Had his chat noticed? Had you just completely blown your cover?

Lando’s eyes flicked towards his monitor, then back at you, a whirlwind of chaos flashing across his face. He exhaled sharply, his fingers moving quickly as he hit pause on the stream, momentarily shutting out the thousands of people currently watching.

Only then did he turn back to you, his expression softening, his lips curling into something between amusement and exasperation.

“You can come now,” he said, his tone lighter, like he was trying not to laugh.

You let out the breath you didn’t even realize you were holding, the tension in your shoulders easing ever so slightly as you stepped fully inside, setting the plate down on his desk.

“Thank you, baby,” Lando said softly, leaning in to press a light kiss to your cheek. His tone was casual, affectionate, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

But you? You were frozen. Your eyes locked onto the chat, still rolling at an alarming speed, messages flooding in faster than you could even process.

Is that Y/n Verstappen? Y/n and Lando confirmed? Baby? Omg. NO WAYY SO THE RUMORS WERE TRUE!?? MAX’S SISTER?

Your stomach dropped as realization hit you like a freight train. Slowly, you turned to Lando, your voice careful, almost hesitant. “You didn’t pause it?”

His eyes widened, panic flashing across his face as he whipped back to his monitor. “Oh, shit!” he exclaimed, scrambling to mute the stream. But instead of fixing the situation, he leaned into the chaos, laughing as he turned back to the camera.

“Chat, this is not Y/n Verstappen!” he shouted, his voice filled with mock urgency, his hand flying up to cover your face as you tried—and failed—to stifle your laughter.

“That’s not her, chat!” he repeated, his grin widening as he glanced at you, clearly enjoying the absurdity of the moment.

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head as you buried your face in your hands. The damage was done. The chat was already in full meltdown mode, and there was no undoing it now.

Lando, of course, was having the time of his life. And despite the chaos, you couldn’t help but laugh along with him. Because, really, what else could you do?

You couldn’t help but laugh, the entire situation spiraling into chaos before your eyes, and instead of trying to salvage it—you leaned right into it. There was no fixing this, no smooth way out, no denying the very obvious slip-up that Lando had just handed his viewers on a silver platter.

So instead of panicking, instead of shrinking away from the inevitable, you grinned and played along.

“He’s lying, chat!” you exclaimed, stepping fully into frame now, amusement bubbling in your voice as you pointed at him accusingly. “That’s me! Y/n!”

And that was it. The chat detonated all over again.

I love whatever this is. Y/N AND LANDO HARD LAUNCH BEFORE GTA6??? They’re so cute stopp

The messages flooded the screen at an alarming rate, the reactions coming in so fast it was impossible to keep up. Text flew by in all caps, people spamming emotes, sending chaos into overdrive.

Meanwhile, Lando whipped his head toward you, jaw dropping, eyes wide in sheer disbelief as if you had somehow betrayed him in the most dramatic way possible.

“Hey!” he gasped, his voice filled with exaggerated betrayal, throwing his hands up. “You’re supposed to lie along with me!”

You laughed harder, shaking your head, still grinning at him. “Oh, no, you absolutely dug your own grave with that ‘baby’ comment,” you teased, nudging him playfully. “This is your fault, Norris.”

Lando groaned dramatically, dragging his hands down his face, shoulders shaking as he tried—and failed—to suppress his laughter. He turned back to the screen, exhaling a long, exaggerated sigh before finally giving in.

Lando leaned back in his chair, dramatically throwing his hands up in surrender, accepting his fate with a grin that only made the chat more unhinged. He knew he had lost this battle before it even started, and at this point, there was no turning back.

“Okay, okay,” he said, dragging out the words for effect, voice dripping with exaggerated exasperation as he finally relented. “So chat, this is my precious girlfriend, Y/n Verstappen.”

He gestured toward you with both hands, as if he were presenting some kind of grand reveal, his mischievous expression making it clear he was fully leaning into the moment now. The fact that this wasn’t how he planned on announcing your relationship didn’t seem to bother him anymore—if anything, he was thriving in the chaos.

The chat exploded instantly.

Messages were flying so fast it was almost impossible to process them, the flood of reactions coming at an overwhelming speed. There was no stopping it now, no undoing it. You had gone from a quiet, private relationship to a full-blown hard launch in the span of seconds—and the internet was eating it up.

PRECIOUS?! What is going on!? THE WAY HE SAYS IT SO PROUDLY?? PLEASE. MAX IS ABOUT TO THROW HANDS. She’s precious, smart and beautiful… and yeah he’s also here.

You blinked at him, raising an eyebrow, arms crossing over your chest as you tilted your head slightly in mock amusement. “Oh wow, precious, huh?” you teased, a slow smirk tugging at your lips. “Didn’t know I ranked that high.”

Lando scoffed, turning to you with a playful glint in his eye. “Obviously. You should feel honored,” he shot back with an air of complete confidence, leaning closer like he was about to let you in on some grand secret. “Chat, she’s lucky I didn’t say queen.”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head, but the warmth bubbling in your chest betrayed the sarcasm in your expression.

You grinned, shaking your head slightly as you leaned into frame, playing along without hesitation.

“And that’s my Lando,” you added with a smile, eyes flickering toward him as he dramatically placed a hand over his heart, pretending to be touched by your words.

This is hard launch of the century. I JUST CAN IMAGINE MAX WATCHING THIS. THEY’RE SO IN LOVE OMGG. This stream changed me as a person.

Lando laughed, shaking his head at the chaos unraveling on his screen. “Oh, now they’re losing it,” he mused, reading the messages aloud. “Max is definitely gonna kill me.”

You grinned, resting your chin on your hand as you eyed him playfully. “Yeah, you might wanna start practicing your apology now,” you teased.

Lando exhaled heavily, straightening up and dramatically addressing the camera like he was preparing for a speech. “Alright, alright—if Max Verstappen is watching this,” he started, clearing his throat. “Just know that I am deeply, deeply sorry for exposing this relationship like an absolute idiot on stream.”

You snorted, shaking your head at him. “Wow, strong start,” you mused, crossing your arms.

Lando ignored you, pressing on. “Max, please, I beg of you—do not throw me into a wall the next time you see me,” he continued, still fully committed to the dramatics.

You shrugged innocently, crossing your arms. “Yeah, probably will,” you teased, lips twitching with amusement. “But hey, truth is, it was your mistake, not mine.”

Lando groaned, tossing his head back like he had just accepted his doomed fate. “You could have helped me cover it up, you know,” he pointed out, smirking at you.

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh, please—you called me baby and precious on stream, Norris,” you countered, shaking your head. “This was never staying a secret after that.”

Lando exhaled heavily, dragging a hand down his face, feigning defeat. “Guess we’re official now,” he muttered, laughing to himself.

You leaned in slightly, nudging his arm. “Guess we are,” you echoed, grinning.

And just like that—the world knew.

Messy, unplanned, very public—exactly the way it was always going to happen with Lando.

And honestly? You wouldn’t change a single thing.

Even if Max did come for his life later.

It would absolutely be worth it.

Every second of it.

© norristrii 2025

@haniette <3

[gottencents]

As The World Caves In - Jennie Kim

pairing. painter!reader x nonidol!jennie

synopsis. As Y/N’s mind succumbs to the slow decay of Alzheimer’s, her once-vivid paintings of her late wife, Jennie, distort and fade until, in her final days, all that remains is a blank canvas—echoing the love she can no longer remember.

The scent of oil paints lingered in the air, mixing with the faint aroma of Jennie’s perfume—jasmine and vanilla. Sunlight streamed through the studio window, painting golden patches on the wooden floor. The walls were lined with unfinished canvases, sketches pinned haphazardly like memories caught in mid-motion. The wooden floor was speckled with drops of dried paint, evidence of late nights spent lost in creation.

Y/N sat before her easel, brush poised, her gaze locked onto the woman across from her.

Jennie.

Her muse. Her heart. The reason her world felt like a masterpiece.

Jennie sat on the wooden stool near the window, her dark hair cascading over her shoulder as she looked toward Y/N with an amused smile. The golden light caught the edges of her cheekbones, her delicate features bathed in a soft glow. There was a serenity in her posture, her hands resting gently in her lap, yet her eyes carried a playful glint as she tilted her head slightly.

“Are you just going to stare at me all day?” Jennie teased, the corner of her lips curving upward. “Or is this your new technique? Capture my soul before you capture my face?”

Y/N let out a breathless laugh, dipping her brush into a soft ochre. “Maybe I just like looking at you.”

Jennie shook her head, a chuckle escaping her lips. “Flatterer.”

Y/N smiled as she brought the brush to the canvas, her strokes slow and deliberate. She traced the delicate arch of Jennie’s brow, the soft slope of her nose. Every movement of the brush was intentional, each stroke a silent love letter. She wanted to preserve Jennie exactly as she was in this moment, so full of life, of warmth.

Jennie shifted slightly, watching Y/N with quiet affection. “How do you do it?” she murmured after a while.

“Do what?”

“Make me feel so seen.”

Y/N lowered the brush, her gaze meeting Jennie’s. “Because I see you,” she whispered, her voice soft, as if speaking too loudly would shatter the moment. “Every little detail. The way your nose scrunches just a little when you’re amused. The way your fingers twitch when you’re thinking about something deeply. The way your eyes hold galaxies when you talk about the things you love.”

Jennie’s expression softened, her lips parting slightly. She reached out, her fingertips brushing against Y/N’s wrist, smudging a bit of paint onto her skin. “You make me feel like art.”

Y/N turned her hand, intertwining their fingers. “You are art.”

A comfortable silence settled between them as Y/N continued painting, lost in the details of the woman she loved. The world outside the studio ceased to exist. There was only the quiet hum of their breaths, the rhythmic glide of the brush, and the unspoken promise hanging in the air.

Jennie watched Y/N work, her heart swelling with something indescribable. “Well, you don’t have to rush,” she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll always be here.”

Y/N smiled, steadying her hand as she traced the first delicate strokes of the woman she loved. “Not in a million years would I forget this face.”

The studio was silent.

Too silent.

The comforting rustle of fabric as Jennie shifted in her seat, the soft hum she would make while waiting—those sounds had vanished. The warmth that filled the room whenever Jennie was near had dissipated, leaving only the cold embrace of empty space. The unfinished paintings on the walls seemed to mourn with Y/N, their subjects frozen in time, unable to move forward.

Jennie was gone.

The absence of her presence was suffocating. Y/N had never realized how much of her life was filled with Jennie’s existence until she was no longer there. The small things—her laughter echoing through the halls, the scent of her shampoo lingering on the pillows, the way she would lean against the doorway of the studio, arms crossed with that familiar smile—those were the details that haunted Y/N the most.

Days blurred into nights, and nights into dawns, but Y/N remained frozen in the same position, seated before her easel. Her hands, once steady with purpose, now trembled as she held the brush. It had been weeks, maybe longer, since she had last painted, but the fear of forgetting clawed at her chest.

She had to paint her. She had to keep Jennie alive in the only way she knew how.

The final portrait she had completed before Jennie’s passing stood before her, still as perfect as the day she had set her brush down. The deep brown of Jennie’s eyes, the curve of her lips, the soft expression that carried warmth—every stroke had been made with love, every detail painstakingly captured.

Yet, as Y/N stared at it now, an unbearable doubt crept into her mind.

Was this really Jennie?

Her breath hitched. It had to be. She had painted it while Jennie was still here, had studied her for hours, tracing every line and curve, memorizing the details with devotion. And yet, as she reached out to touch the dry paint, her fingers stopped just short.

Something felt wrong.

Had her nose always been shaped like that? Was the shadow beneath her chin too deep? The eyes—Jennie’s eyes—had they always looked this way?

Panic surged through Y/N’s chest, her heartbeat quickening. She turned away, her gaze darting toward the walls of the studio, where countless other paintings of Jennie stared back at her. But instead of comfort, she found unease. Each one seemed slightly different, as though Jennie had transformed over time in subtle ways that Y/N had never noticed.

She clutched her head, trying to steady her breath. “I know you,” she whispered, as if saying it aloud would solidify the truth. “I remember you.”

But the fear had already taken root. It latched onto her mind, whispering cruelly—what if time was already stealing Jennie away? What if she had already begun to forget?

With frantic hands, she reached for a blank canvas, dragging it onto the easel. The bristles of her brush trembled as she dipped them into paint, as she began again. She would paint Jennie over and over, until the image was burned into her mind, until time itself would have to fight to take her away.

She worked tirelessly, barely stopping to eat or sleep. Every stroke was a desperate plea, an attempt to cling to what remained. She painted the arch of her brows, the slope of her nose, the fullness of her lips—but each time she stepped back to examine her work, something felt off. It wasn’t right.

She painted another. And another. Each time, the features changed ever so slightly.

Was her hair parted the other way?

Were her eyes this sharp?

Did she smile this way?

The more Y/N tried to correct it, the further Jennie seemed to slip away. The realization clawed at her, filling her chest with a deep, consuming dread.

She dropped the brush, her hands covered in smears of paint, her body trembling.

She had promised she would never forget.

But what if she already had?

The paintings were beginning to lie to her.

Y/N stood in the center of her studio, surrounded by Jennie’s face—dozens of canvases, each bearing a version of the woman she had loved. And yet, none of them were right.

She clutched a brush in her trembling hand, her fingers smudged with drying paint. Her eyes flickered from one portrait to the next, searching, pleading. Each iteration had started with the same intent—to capture Jennie, to preserve her. But as she compared them, the inconsistencies became glaring.

One had eyes that were too sharp, their warmth lost in shadow. Another had lips that curved in a smile Y/N could not place, foreign and distant. And another—another had cheekbones too high, features stretched like a distorted memory struggling to take form.

She stepped back, her breath hitching. How had this happened? How had her hands betrayed her so deeply?

Y/N turned to the most recent painting, still glistening with fresh strokes. She had worked on it all night, desperate to reclaim what was slipping away. But as she studied the features, her stomach twisted. This was not Jennie. The shape was almost there, the essence lingering on the edge of recognition—but the woman staring back at her was a stranger wearing fragments of Jennie’s face.

Her knees buckled. She caught herself against the easel, knocking a cup of turpentine to the floor. The sharp scent filled the air, burning her nostrils.

Tears welled in her eyes. “No… no, no, no.”

She clenched her fists, her nails digging into the paint on her palms. It wasn’t fair. Jennie had been hers—her love, her muse, her everything. How could time be so cruel? How could it take away something she had promised to hold onto forever?

The studio felt smaller, closing in on her. The walls of painted faces watched her in eerie silence, their expressions growing more foreign by the day. Her mind was slipping, twisting reality into something unrecognizable. And worst of all—

She was letting Jennie disappear.

With a cry of frustration, Y/N grabbed the newest canvas and hurled it across the room. It struck the wall with a dull thud, falling face-down onto the floor. Her breaths came in ragged gasps as she sank to her knees, her body shaking with something between grief and terror.

She pressed her paint-stained hands against her face, squeezing her eyes shut. She tried to conjure Jennie’s image in her mind, the way she used to—perfect and clear, like a photograph burned into her memory.

But the details blurred.

The curve of her lips wavered. The warmth of her gaze flickered like a dying flame.

For the first time, Jennie’s face refused to come to her.

A sob tore from Y/N’s throat. She rocked forward, her forehead nearly touching the cold wooden floor. “Please,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Please don’t leave me.”

But no matter how hard she begged, the image of Jennie continued to fade.

Outside, the world carried on, oblivious to the artist trapped within her own decaying memories. And inside the dimly lit studio, surrounded by canvases of someone she no longer recognized, Y/N painted desperately—racing against time, against her own mind, against the cruelest thief of all.

Until, one day, there would be nothing left but a blank canvas.

The days blurred into one another, each passing moment dissolving like watercolor on a rain-soaked page. The studio, once her sanctuary, had become a prison. Canvases lined the walls, but they no longer held Jennie’s face. They held fragments, ghosts of someone who might have been her.

Y/N sat before a fresh canvas, brush poised, her mind aching with the weight of what she had lost. She had tried—again and again—to reclaim Jennie from the void. But each time she dipped her brush into the paint, the strokes betrayed her.

She inhaled shakily, closing her eyes.

Picture her.

She searched the corners of her mind, trying to summon the warmth of Jennie’s smile, the way her lips quirked just before she laughed. She reached for the deep brown of her eyes, the way they softened when she whispered Y/N’s name. She tried to grasp at the strands of her hair, the exact way the light caught them in the early morning sun.

But it was like reaching for mist—slipping, dissolving, retreating into the shadows.

The moment she thought she had her, the image unraveled.

A sharp pain struck her chest, as though grief had taken tangible form and wedged itself between her ribs. Her breathing grew unsteady, her hands trembling as she opened her eyes to the cruel emptiness of the blank canvas before her.

She couldn’t remember.

A hollow sob choked its way out of her throat. Her brush slipped from her fingers, clattering against the floor, the bristles still wet with paint.

It was happening. The thing she had feared most.

Jennie was leaving her.

Not in body—she had already been taken by time. But now, she was slipping from Y/N’s mind, piece by piece, stroke by stroke, until there was nothing left but the ghost of a feeling, the echo of a name.

She dragged a hand through her hair, smearing paint across her temple. Desperation clawed at her, urging her to try again. To keep Jennie alive in whatever way she could.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the brush again, dipping it into the paint with renewed urgency. She painted—feverishly, wildly—dragging lines across the canvas, forcing form from memory. The strokes were frantic, the colors muddled. She painted and painted, ignoring the way her vision blurred, the way exhaustion pulled at her bones.

But when she stepped back, she felt the floor vanish beneath her feet.

The woman staring back at her was unrecognizable.

The face was misshapen, the features too sharp, too unfamiliar. The eyes held no warmth, no spark of recognition. The lips, curved into something that was not quite a smile, were wrong.

It wasn’t Jennie.

A broken cry escaped Y/N as she stumbled back, knocking over a stack of old canvases. They crashed to the ground around her, forgotten faces staring up in silent mockery. Her vision swam, her heart pounding against her ribs.

She had lost her.

Not to death.

Not to time.

But to the slow decay of her own mind.

With trembling hands, Y/N reached for the nearest canvas, gripping it as though holding it tightly enough might bring Jennie back. But the face on it was a stranger’s. And so was the next. And the next.

Her breath came in ragged gasps, panic clawing up her throat.

“No… please, no,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of her own heartbeat.

Her gaze darted back to the blank canvas, the cruelest one of them all. It loomed before her, empty and unyielding, waiting for her to admit the truth.

Jennie was gone.

Y/N let out a strangled sob, her body curling inward as she pressed her forehead against the bare canvas. The cool surface burned against her fevered skin.

She had once promised that she would never forget Jennie’s face.

But the promise had been broken.

And all that remained was an empty canvas.

The blank canvas stood before her, an unbearable weight pressing down on her chest. Y/N sat motionless, her hands resting in her lap, fingers curled inward as though grasping at something unseen. But there was nothing left to hold onto.

For the first time in her life, she didn’t know what to paint.

She had spent her days chasing Jennie’s face, desperate to preserve her in oil and color, but the image had faded, slipping from her grasp like sand through trembling fingers. What had once been vivid and clear was now lost in the murky haze of her mind, and no amount of paint could bring her back.

The brushes lay untouched beside her. The smell of turpentine clung to the air, sharp and suffocating. The room, once filled with soft humming, whispered laughter, and the quiet scratch of bristles against canvas, now held only silence. A silence that stretched, deep and endless. It swallowed the ticking of the old clock in the corner, the occasional rustle of paper as an unfinished sketch fell from the table, drifting to the floor unnoticed.

She felt untethered, as if she, too, had become part of the void.

Her gaze wandered to the other paintings in the studio, each one a failed attempt, a ghost of a memory she could no longer claim. She had painted Jennie so many times, but now, none of them looked like her. They were strangers wearing borrowed features, reflections of a love she could no longer properly recall.

The weight of that realization nearly brought her to her knees. She had been fighting against time, against her own mind, but she was losing. She had lost.

Tears blurred her vision, but she made no move to wipe them away. What was the point? What was left of her purpose if she could no longer paint the one person who had given her life meaning?

Her breathing was slow, unsteady. The weight of exhaustion pressed against her bones, the kind that no amount of rest could ease. She was tired—tired of fighting, tired of losing, tired of watching her world unravel piece by piece. Each day was another thread pulled loose, another part of her slipping away.

She reached for a brush, her fingers trembling as they curled around the familiar wooden handle. Dipping it into paint, she brought it to the canvas, but the moment the bristles touched the surface, she hesitated.

What was she painting?

She couldn’t remember.

The brush hovered for a moment before she let it drop, the soft clatter echoing in the empty room. A long, shaky breath left her lips as she leaned back, staring at the untouched canvas.

For a moment, she imagined Jennie standing beside her, just as she used to. Watching, waiting, her presence a quiet reassurance that Y/N had once found comfort in. But there was no warmth beside her now, no gentle voice murmuring encouragement, no laughter that made the world feel lighter. Just a vast, aching emptiness.

Her gaze darted to the door of the studio, as if expecting Jennie to walk in. As if expecting her to be real again.

But nothing changed.

Jennie was gone. And soon, so would she be.

For the first time in her life, Y/N allowed the canvas to remain empty.

And this time, she didn’t try to fill it.

The world outside moved on, indifferent to Y/N’s quiet unraveling. Seasons changed beyond the window of her studio, the golden hues of autumn melting into the gray hush of winter, then blossoming into spring, but she barely noticed. Time had lost its shape.

Inside, the studio remained frozen, untouched. The blank canvas still stood where she had left it, untouched by brush or color.

Y/N no longer fought it.

The first time she forgot her own name, she had panicked. The letters had sat on the edge of her tongue, teasing, taunting, just beyond reach. She had grasped for them, desperation clawing at her chest, but nothing came.

She had spent an entire night pacing in front of the mirror, repeating her name over and over, hoping that if she said it enough, it would anchor itself in her mind again. But as the days slipped away, it became harder to hold on—not just to her name, but to everything.

The paintings blurred. The memories blurred. And with each passing moment, she felt herself fading alongside them.

There were moments—brief, fleeting—where she thought she saw Jennie.

A glimpse of her in the corner of the room, her dark eyes watching, her soft smile lingering. Y/N would turn, heart lurching, only to find empty space. The warmth she thought she had felt would vanish, replaced by the cruel chill of reality.

She stopped trying to hold onto the memories. She stopped trying to paint them.

Her hands, once steady and sure, trembled too much to hold a brush for long. When she did try, the lines were messy, distorted. The faces she once knew like the back of her hand were now strangers.

One night, she sat before the blank canvas and tried one last time.

She dipped the brush into the paint, her fingers weak, her mind straining. She tried to recall the curve of Jennie’s cheek, the light in her eyes, the warmth of her smile.

But the image didn’t come.

The memory refused to take form.

All that remained was a feeling—something distant, something aching, something she could not name.

The brush fell from her grasp, rolling to the floor. Y/N stared at the blank canvas, her chest hollow, her breathing slow.

She couldn’t paint her.

Because she no longer remembered her.

For the first time, the realization didn’t bring her to her knees. There was no sudden, sharp grief. No burst of panic. Just a quiet acceptance, like the tide pulling away from the shore.

Jennie had been the love of her life. Her muse. Her everything.

But she was gone.

And now, Y/N was, too.

She stood, slowly, glancing once more around the studio. The paintings, the brushes, the scattered sketches—none of them felt like hers anymore.

With one last look at the blank canvas, she turned and walked away, leaving behind nothing but silence and an empty room filled with ghosts of a love she could no longer remember.

[catmarlowastrology]

The True Essence Of Each Zodiac Sign

🔥 Aries: The pure will to exist At its core, Aries is the pure will to exist. It’s not about being a leader or even about courage; those are just by-products. The core of Aries is raw life force, a drive to assert one's being in a world of endless potential and obstacles. It's the first spark of individuality, a primal "I am" that needs no justification. Aggression and boldness are just survival instinct: proving, repeatedly, that they are here, living life.

🐂 Taurus: the need to build stability It’s not just laziness or sensuality; those are surface-level clichés. Taurus, in reality, seeks to create something solid and tangible. The core of Taurus is a deep need for security and stability, whether emotional, material, or in relationships. They like what can be nurtured and sustained over time, which is why they are famously resistant to change. If they seem stubborn, it’s because they aim to protect what they value and have worked so hard to build.

🌀 Gemini: the need to connect information Gemini is driven by the instinct to connect dots. Not just people, not just words.. everything. For them, existence is about understanding how things relate, how knowledge comes together to create meaning. It’s a mental web that’s constantly growing, pulling in new information, new perspectives. Their need isn’t to be understood or to bond emotionally, but to understand the world in all its fragmented complexity.

🦀 Cancer: the urge to protect and belong Cancer is driven by the urge to belong and create emotional safety. This isn’t just about nurturing others but about ensuring that they themselves are emotionally anchored. Their protective instinct isn’t just motherly, it’s self-preservation. They want to create an emotional landscape where they feel safe, where their roots can grow deep. It's about surviving the wilderness of existence by creating spaces of warmth and shelter that can endure the harshness of the outside world.

🌞 Leo: the need to radiate authentic being Leo needs to manifest its true self outwardly, to take the intangible concept of identity and project it into the world in a way that others can see and feel. The applause and admiration they seek aren’t just ego boosts. They’re a confirmation that their inner self has successfully become real and shared. Leo’s core drive is to shine so brightly that the inner self can’t be ignored or denied.

⚙️ Virgo: the desire to optimize Virgo’s deepest core is the instinct to refine existence into something more perfect. For Virgo, raw existence is never enough. It must be improved, detailed, honed. This isn't about nitpicking but about elevating what is into what could be, inching ever closer to perfection. They serve not out of meekness but because the act of serving is a way to improve reality. Their fundamental need is to feel they’re making something, anything, more functional and efficient.

⚖️ Libra: authentic balance Libra doesn’t seek to please everyone just to be popular. Their core lies in the desire to find balance, fairness, and harmony in all areas of life. They are constantly calibrating the scales, whether in personal relationships, work, or within themselves. It’s not superficiality; it’s a sincere quest for beauty and peace, something that often requires a deep understanding of duality and the complexity of life.

🦂 Scorpio: the pursuit of truth Scorpio isn’t just passion or mystery. At its core, Scorpio wants to uncover the truth at any cost, no matter how uncomfortable or painful it might be. They seek authenticity and want to understand the reality behind the façade, whether in relationships, situations, or even within themselves. It’s not that they enjoy drama; they prefer depth and reject superficiality. Scorpio's intensity comes from their desire for constant transformation and rebirth.

🌍 Sagittarius: the desire for expansion It’s not just about being adventurous or carefree. Sagittarius has a profound desire for expansion, both physically and mentally. They seek to explore not only new places but also new ideas and philosophies. They need to feel they are growing and learning, which is why they venture beyond what they know. The real core of Sagittarius is the search for meaning and the freedom to discover truth on a broader scale.

🏔️ Capricorn: building a legacy Capricorn isn’t just about ambition or coldness. At the heart of Capricorn lies the desire to build something that endures, to leave a legacy that is tangible and meaningful. It’s not about reaching goals for the sake of showing off; it’s about fulfilling a purpose that has real value, to prove through their actions that they can overcome obstacles and create something lasting. Capricorn's perseverance serves something greater than themselves.

🌌 Aquarius: the quest for authenticity and the collective Aquarius isn’t just a rebel without a cause or eccentric for the sake of it. The essence of Aquarius is their desire to be authentic and contribute to the collective well-being. They don’t defy norms just because they like to; they challenge them because they want the world to be a fairer, more equitable place for all. Their individualism is deeply connected to their vision of what humanity can become.

🌊 Pisces: connection to the transcendental Pisces isn’t just someone who lives in the clouds or is "too sensitive." Their core is about connecting with something larger than themselves. Pisces seeks to transcend the boundaries of the self, to connect with the whole, and to understand the emotional and spiritual subtleties of existence. It’s that sensitivity and ability to dream that drives them, a desire to blur the lines between the real and the imaginary to find a deeper meaning.

[nostalgebraist]

the light, and the glass

So there's this particular quality I have, as a fiction writer, and I have very little sense of how common or rare it is.

The quality is closely related to that famous Michaelangelo quip, about his sculptures being "already complete within the marble block":

The sculpture is already complete within the marble block, before I start my work. It is already there, I just have to chisel away the superfluous material.

This is how I feel, too, about my works of fiction. They feel like "real things" that "already exist," in some important sense, before I write them down -- or, indeed, before I even fully know what they contain.

So, for instance, if I haven't yet thought of an ending for a story I'm playing with in my mind, I nonetheless have a vivid sense that this particular story has an ending, and that this ending already is whatever it happens to be. It's only that I haven't managed to "see" it yet.

To clarify the point, consider the contrast between this thing, and two relatively familiar ways of thinking about how fiction gets made:

Conscious, goal-directed craft/artifice. Intending to write a Satisfying Plot in which each character has an Arc, the Story Beats follow logically from one another and are arranged with what is called Good Pacing, the proverbial Cat is Saved, etc., and "solving for" these desiderata in a conscious manner. Or, intending to create something much more outré and unsettling than all that -- but having some specific set of (outre, unsettling) intentions in mind, at the outset, and concocting/arranging the elements of your work in a conscious way guided by these intentions.

Free-wheeling, self-expressive "creativity." Just do whatever, man! Follow your bliss. The canvas is blank and anything is possible. Whatever you feel like putting into that empty space, go ahead and put it there. (The key thing being that, after "putting something there," you'll look and recognize something with origins in you, and your own whims and feelings at a particular moment.)

For me, though, the process of writing, and even of "ideating" (plotting, etc.), feels like a kind of transcription or channeling, as opposed to either of the above.

When I say "channeling," here, I don't mean that I have some actual, mystical belief in a supernatural object revealing itself through me. Not in the woo-woo sense anyway; whatever is really going on here, I am sure it "merely" involves the mechanics of the human mind, as implemented in the physical human brain and body.

But I do mean that it feels a lot like that. Like the story -- and not just the story part of the stories, but the whole thing, the "art object" -- has some real prior existence outside of me, first.

Like I am merely doing my best to "get it right," to be a perfect transmitter for the radio signal. To "do justice" to the "real thing," in the secondary act of writing words onto a page.

To be a courier who transports a valuable object from some originary otherworld into a place which happens to be called "existence" -- and to ensure, as much as possible, that it suffers no disfiguring scrapes during the journey.

----

I should say, though, that there's a lot of the "#1" above in my process too, the conscious-artifice thing.

Except... when I do that kind of thing, the intentions all come from the "real object," and my goal is to fill in whatever I can't see of that object so that everything I can see is preserved.

So: I will come to know, surely and indefeasibly, that the story must have some particular feature. (An event, a little moment, a character feeling a certain way at a certain time, even a specific turn of phrase.) Better to say: I know the story does have this feature. I see it in the marble.

But I can't see everything that's there, already, in the marble. And sometimes these glimpses-from-the-beyond are strange, inconvenient, difficult to "fit" into the current story (or perhaps into any story) in a natural-seeming manner.

And that's my task, when I'm doing the conscious-artifice thing: to take this collection of axiomatically-present glimpses, and build a structure around them into which they can "fit," naturally and even logically, just as if they were ordinary story-building-blocks like their neighbors, being placed here and there for ordinary story-reasons.

----

This has various implications. For one, it determines which kinds of writerly anxieties I suffer from, and which types leave me alone.

Like, I have virtually no self-doubt about my "ideas." About the overall, large-scale goodness-or-badness of the thing I'm creating. At least, not when considered "in principle," in an idealized sense that abstracts away from my actual capabilities as a guy who puts words on pages.

"Was this story, as a whole, a good idea?" is a question I find difficult to ask myself. Even when applied to smaller units, like specific plot points, this kind of question simply goes nowhere when I attempt to think about it. Insofar as my mind can cough up any answer, that answer looks like:

Yes

(after a moment, with mounting bewilderment) Yes, obviously -- how strange even to ask!

(after another moment, and as an afterthought) ...but if it weren't any good, is that really my business? It's not like I came up with it. I was asked to keep it safe and bring it into reality, and I take that duty seriously, but once it has reached its destination I wipe my hands of the matter. Don't shoot the messenger!

It's not, just, that I feel like the "real thing" "already exists." I also feel, always, that the real thing is... really good.

I deeply, thoroughly trust the Muse / Higher Power responsible for originally "making" this stuff. (To speak in relatively woo-woo terms, for ease and clarity.)

The Muse / Higher Power is a seriously skilled artist, much more so than little-old-me; if She makes any errors at all, they are not really mistakes, but "are volitional and are the portals of discovery."

And what's more, there is a sacred, unearthly gleam to the artifacts She makes, perhaps having something to do with that Fairyland, that place-other-than-"existence," in which they are originally made.

It feels like an honor to be designated as a courier for these enchanted things. Perhaps not a deserved honor -- on which more below -- but it's never the nature and value of the transported goods that I doubt.

(There is a definite sense of ritual to the thing that I do, here; a sense of connecting with some other place, definitively apart from our mundane here-and-now, and likewise more important/primary/etc. than the latter. Hence, perhaps, my tendency to not-write for long stretches, and then write in long sustained bursts for many hours at a time, which need a good deal of preliminary building-up-steam before they fully get going; it takes time to pierce, and then fully cross, the veil between worlds. And the various imprints of this stuff on the works themselves are not hard to see, once you're looking for them; they are of course especially transparent in TNC.)

All that being said, I do suffer persistently from a different anxiety.

When Michaelangelo said the thing about the sculpture "already complete within the marble block," he said it as... Michaelangelo.

As a famous, incontrovertibly masterful craftsman. Not a guy likely to suffer from doubts about his ability to put the chisel to the marble block, and reveal precisely that shape which was already there, inside.

But I'm not Michaelangelo. I'm not even sure I'm a good craftsman, much less a great one.

Certainly I've never conceived of myself in this way, even aspirationally. (Well, maybe I did in childhood and adolescence, but that was a very different thing from what I'm talking about now.)

I don't do what a person would do, if they wanted to be a Writer, and strove to be the best one they could. I don't, for the most part, practice my craft. I write because there's a Real Thing that only I can see, and it's not going to make into Existence any other way.

And since I don't write by habit or as practice -- since I only write at times when a Real Thing is in need of some incarnating-work, and I'm the only one around to do it -- I'm not exactly an ideal candidate for the job.

I am like a man who never especially wanted to be a sculptor, never practiced the trade, and was never more-than-ordinarily good with his hands, even... who is then, suddenly, struck with a very literal version of the experience Michaelangelo described.

Who, suddenly and inexplicably, begins to actually see a sculptural masterpiece lurking inside, whenever he looks at a faceless marble block.

What is our protagonist to do? Naturally, he will find a chisel, and begin chipping away. He will feel that these things need to be freed from their prisons, released and revealed to all the world, so that all the world can delight in them as he already does.

But he will be very aware of the unfamiliar way the chisel sits in his hand; of the way that hand trembles, and fails to meet the mark, and sometimes shaves off precious bits of what was really and originally a beautifully formed hand -- so that the hand, in the realized artwork, forever bears some oddity of shape which was not a part of what he saw inside the block, but only a consequence of his own shameful incompetence.

He will feel that his works, such as they are, are an odd mixture of amateurish craft and direct, divine inspiration. Insofar as he is Great, it will be because he has had Greatness thrust upon him, from without. He will feel, sometimes, that his successes have been obtained through a kind of cheating, not won fair-and-square.

And he will feel, always, a particular kind of (justified) impostor syndrome: an awareness that what he is doing, when he sits down before the marble block with the chisel in hand, is a very different sort of thing than what is usually called "sculpting," and what is being practiced by careful, hard-working aspirants just down the road, at the local workshop. The students there call themselves "sculptors," and our protagonist supposes he must call himself a "sculptor" too -- but he knows that behind this coincidence of language, a vast and strange chasm is hidden.

(I worry that this metaphor sounds flattering to me -- I am divinely inspired, they are merely toiling away and following the rules -- when I don't mean it that way at all.

In particular, note that there is nothing in our story to rule out some of the "real" sculptors down the road from also being visionaries who see the finished work in the block. Indeed, I got the metaphor from Michaelangelo, who was precisely this way.

I am only saying that all the conceivable configurations of craft/inspiration are in fact possible: just as it is possible to be skilled but uninspired, it's possible for inspiration to strike someone who lacks the capacity to fully realize its content. And that is how I feel, about my own attempts to create.)

----

When I was getting near the end of Almost Nowhere, and struggling with this kind of feeling, Esther would often reassure me by saying: "you are the light, and you are the glass it shines through."

In other words: you are a transmitter, and you are the source of the transmitted signal. Remember that in actual fact, the "real thing in the marble" came from your own little brain, just as much as the rest of it did. In actual fact, if there is a Muse and a Higher Power, it is really just an additional part of the same creature that holds the chisel, and worries over its trembling hand.

I did, indeed, find this very reassuring. And that's a funny thought, in a way! I imagine that for some people -- and indeed for me, in many other endeavours -- the same sentiment could easily have the opposite effect.

"It's all on you. It's all your responsibility. If any of it is bad, there's no one else to blame. If there is any 'Higher Power' at all, it is only the one inside you at all times, and not able to save you through unexpected intervention, from some true outside."

But I already believed, thoroughly, in the magical potency of the goods I was charged with transporting. If I was (somehow!) their maker, too, then (somehow!) the root of that glimpsed, alien magic was in me.

And so, perhaps, I could trust myself to ferry them into Existence without ruining, without even much dimming, the fairy-gleam from elsewhere that made them what they were.

[cryptonymdc]

Can you write Prefrences for Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, and John Stewart x Robot reader, maybe Angst to Fluff. So the reader is a robot who like works for the justice league, but there not sentient and can't feel emotions, they don't even look human either. But Clark, Bruce, and John can't help but fall deeply in love with Android reader despite them not being alive, the angst!!!!

My god the pinning, and longing stares that everyone else can see but the reader, because they have never felt what it means to be longed for. But I want this to have a happy ending so by some miracle or magic or whatever the reader ends up becoming sentient( not human). Just that they have the ability to feel real things afterwards

Love how creative this is! I hope I delivered. Here you go! Thank you for being the first requester.

Superman | Clark Kent 

T. O. Marrow is not a scientist concerned with humanity. He does create androids to mimic humanity, nor to better them. They are all created to serve and complete a purpose. Infiltrate the Justice League, steal this or that, protect him, etc. But rarely is a creator ever able to fully control its creation. T. O. Marrow was not able to remain in control of Red Tornado and Tomorrow Woman, he was not able to remain in control of Y - N. 

Y - N was created to serve and protect T. O. Marrow during his research and wherever he went. A glorified maid with a few subroutines in combat. Y - N too grew beyond what their creator imagined. A care for caring for things, a feeling they did not understand, something that did not fit their programing. Y - N began to care more about maintaining the cleanliness of the lab rather than the life that worked there. 

Red Tornado, ever curious about his creation and humanity overall, strove to find T. O. Marrow. He was the first to find and confront Y - N. He was able to talk them through rerouting their circuitry to form free will and free thought. They chose to pursue their first directive, to preserve a space. The Justice League offered Y - N the Watchtower, and they agreed. 

Y - N has free thought and free will, they can choose their purpose. But that does not translate to emotional awareness, nor understanding. Even Red Tornado still struggles to comprehend, to feel human emotions no matter what his fellow heroes tell him. Y - N is much the same. That does not stop others from feeling for them. 

Superman, despite his alien biology, is perhaps the most human of the Justice League. It is important to him in a way it isn’t to others. Either they aren’t human and don’t care, or are human and don’t question it in the same way he does. He’s always had to struggle with wondering if he is or isn’t human, despite being raised human from near birth. 

He sympathized with the plight of T. O. Marrow’s creations on a very real level. So he cares, like one does, and makes an effort to spend time with Y - N and help them explore life outside of purpose. That there is more than a reason, than a drive, to live. There is just existence, something you can bask in. A day in the sun, as it were. 

This reaches Y - N in an unexpected way. They strive to preserve a space, as is their purpose, and while not understanding it, learn to enjoy those spaces in some way. So while in a digitally projected human disguise, Y - N walks alongside Clark Kent through human spaces, and appreciates them in a way most humans don’t. 

They see a space as the sum of its parts. A building by man, the earth but nature, the river by time. And they appreciate it. They appreciate that something was built, that something is here, that time has passed. It’s a space, and it is here with intention in some way, like them. 

This is what begins to change Y - N, starts to imbue a need to choose in them. They too can build their own space, and can have intentions. They too could be something that they choose. 

The entire time this tour of humankind is happening, Clark can’t help but admire Y - N’s perspective. They lack context for so many things, that it is easy for them to view something with no bias. It makes Clark look around and see things he didn’t before. The little marks of humanity, the way every brick and stone was placed was a choice by someone. 

It makes him appreciate his own humanity, to realise that he really is human at heart. This is his world, his planet, because everything does have context to him, does have a meaning, and a reason. In turn this turns his appreciating gaze to Y - N. They can learn to be human, to appreciate humanity, and they care. They choose to care, to be human. 

It’s hard to know when you’re in love. Sometimes it’s an obvious feeling, sometimes it’s a red herring, sometimes it’s a slow realization that someone in your life is your priority above all else. Clark realizes he loves Y - N slowly, as he slowly starts to make more of an unconscious effort to introduce them to the world more and more. Flying them around the world to explore more spaces. 

Clark doesn’t believe that love is possible at first, as theirs the question of what he would be loving. As an alien himself he’s not going to count Y - N physical appearance as unlovable or unlovable, as that purely depends on the person one would say. But what, or rather who is Y - N? Are they a person to love? Or a character that was created by a Roboticst. Is it right or wrong isn’t really the question, more is it or is it not possible? 

But that question seems to answer itself, as Clark does fall in love with Y - N. He falls in love with the way they care about the little things. The things that don’t make a space messy, something outside their purpose, to place a plant pot a certain way because that’s what felt right to them. He falls in love with the way Y - N is curious to see the rest of the world, that sense of exploration and excitement that Y - N can’t see in themselves, but Clark can. He falls in love with the way Y - N in awe of the world, how they appreciate it. It’s a passion Clark can’t help but love. 

And that’s the kicker, in the end. When he overhears other league members talking with Y - N, asking them questions. Assessing how much human sentience that they’ve grown to have, and through Y - N’s own answers, Clark learns he sees more in them than they see in themselves. Y - N doesn’t think themselves human, but Clark absolutely does. 

And that moves him to start to try and help Y - N recognise their own humanity. This is where everyone else starts to notice, to notice how much Superman has fallen in love with Y - N. They see how Clark spends every lunch hovering beside Y - N as they pick up dishes, offering to help and carrying an ever growing pile of trays. They notice how Clark makes an effort to include Y - N in everyday conversations, asking for their opinion. They notice when Clark asks other members about their thoughts on Y - N more often, just probing to see if anyone else has noticed the changes. 

And the truth is, they do. They notice how Y - N offers comments more often, mostly just about interior design to maximise utility, but slowly the utility reasons lesson, and they just offer their opinion on what would look best. Y - N starts to ask questions, to ask league members their thoughts on the architecture and natural parks of the world, the environments, the sights they see. Y - N starts to go out on their own, just taking walks to see the world. It's hard to tell if Y - N also has growing feelings for Clark, but it’s not hard to see how they are growing more human. 

Y - N can feel, they can think, and they are. So not all hope is lost, and perhaps the League's only son of Krypton has a chance. They hope he does. 

Batman | Bruce Wayne 

Lonnie Machin, first known as Moneyspider, but better known as the first Anarky was a brilliant but shortsighted inventor. He first invented the S_O bots, a collection of small robots that could work as a collective hive mind to hack into tech companies to steal their bank details. But not only did his S_O bots lack some critical firewalls to protect them, they were slow and easily reprogrammed by the Batman to reveal Lonnie’s location. 

With his plan thwarted, Lonnie never cared to think about his S_O bots again. Just another failed scheme. Batman on the other hand, had more concerns about the S_O bots. They were a fairly comprehensive prototype, which in the wrong hands could grow into a more dangerous and capable adversary. 

So Batman kept the S_O bots in the Batcave in a glass container to study, and also just to keep them out of the wrong hands. While the S_O bots failed at retrieving information rapidly from digital sources, their observational skills of the physical world were greater than first thought. 

For months they watched Batman and Agent A walk around the Batcave, and slowly learned what the human form looked like. They would use their collective bodies to hold onto each other, and slowly build a humanoid form. Batman noticed of course, and became concerned. But there neither seemed a way to shut it off, nor did it seem to be antagonistic, and so despite his paranoia, he let it be. 

But that is not where the S_O bots stopped learning. They also overheard Batman and Agent A talk, as well as the many hours of security footage they combed over together. Through this, the S_O bots learned to talk, and while at first they only repeated what they heard, much like a parrot, they slowly learned to create sentences, and then full thoughts. They mostly asked questions. 

Batman mostly refused to answer, growing concerned with the rabid change of the S_O bots, until one fateful case. The Calculator was raising terror as an information broker, and Batman was scrambling to find his next target before the Calculator enacted his plan. 

S_O bots helpfully, although without any intentions, offered some of the information they had. As it so happened, Noah Kuttler AKA the Calculator was the man whose servers they had been tested on before being let loose by Anarky to hunt for information. S_O bots still had their comprehensive file on the Calculator, and thus had all of the blackmail that the Calculator had. Batman was able to turn the right people into the police, and protect others from being swindled by Kuttler at the same time. 

It did not change Bruce’s opinion on the S_O bots immediately, but it started to make Bruce realise that the S_O bots were more than their creator. In fact, they were possibly entirely separate. This caused Bruce to start actually talking with the S_O bots. 

At first the S_O bots were just asking questions on things they had heard, and depending on the severity of the case changed how much Bruce would share, but little by little, share he did. Agent A, or Alfred as the S_O bots learned, would turn on music in the cave in the absence of either Bruce or himself. The S_O bots learned much more rapidly from that, and not only asked endless questions on the songs, but also began to request certain music. 

It was a fateful day when the S_O bots, for the first time, offered an opinion instead of just a question or a fact. The S_O bots noticed that Bruce was tired, and said that they thought he should sleep. It was unprecedented before this point, as using the information they had was not part of their original programming. Just take in information, not use it. But use it they had. 

That woke Bruce, not just in the moment, but also for the future. This hivemind of a robot could learn, and could go beyond their original programming. 

Batman began to engage with the S_O bots as an exercise, presenting thought experiments, and turning on more than music, but documentaries as well. Together, they worked towards a goal. He taught the S_O bots actual human anatomy, as well as a database of many things to choose from, and allowed the S_O bots to choose what they looked like. And with that human shape, he took them out of their container, and to the watchtower. 

S_O bots, now with their new understanding of sentience and information, took in a new space for the first time. They took in the view of space, the plants in the tower, and suddenly grew a hunger for knowledge not just as a binary stream of facts, but as experience. To take in information and choose how to interpret it. 

When they returned to the Batcave, the S_O bots expressed their desire to experience things to Bruce Wayne. 

Having been there to witness the S_O bots' entire journey to this point, Batman felt some sort of responsibility, as well as a wish to see where this goes. So he offered the S_O bots an identity, and a place in the mansion as staff. They would work as a secretary for him at Wayne Tech, and could retreat to the mansion, and live, so long as they checked in. 

The  S_O bots readily explored Gotham, and did indeed choose to do what they wanted with their information. Having learned from the Calculator case, they began to help Batman as an extension of his computer and comms system. The Oracle before Oracle, as it were. 

Alfred had noticed Bruce’s intense attention that was given to the S_O bots, and at first wondered if it was healthy to care so much about a machine's existence. But he too watched the S_O bots gain humanity, watched them become a person. He endeavored to aid in this, sharing media with the S_O bots beyond that of factual inquiry. The fiction of the world, the concepts that are not taught but experienced. 

He watched as Bruce’s attention became more infatuation, and he watched as Bruce set the S_O bots free. Yes, he still kept constant vigil to make sure there was no influence in them from Anarky, but Alfred watched as Bruce grew to trust a machine. 

Perhaps it was healthy, for it was clear at this point that the S_O bots were no mere machines, but a thinking creature all on their own. It was best that they be free, so that Bruce and them could have a relationship on an equal level. 

Alfred was not worried about Bruce’s infatuation with the S_O bots. 

Green Lantern | John Stewart 

John Stewart is a Green Lantern with incredible conviction to his own principles, and thus no matter how strange, he will not turn down a mission from Oa. The Lantern Corps had accepted a new member, one they did not know how to handle. A ring had chosen a robot. And they needed a mentor. 

L_N1 was an engineer robot. Built by and to help the sole living alien on a desert planet. One of many robots built to help the alien do a multitude of tasks on the homestead to survive. L_N1’s purpose was to build structures that could withstand the sandstorms of the planet's surface, and many other things. They didn’t do the heavy lifting per se, but more so the strategic designing of it. Quite the computer. 

The alien passed naturally of old age, and the robots of the planet were left without instruction. Save L_N1. Their directive still stood, to build things that would endure. And so they took charge, directing the other robots to continue their duties and continue to build. And build they did, lasting decades past the death of their creator. 

So great was the will of L_N1, that when a Green Lantern landed in their homestead and died despite the best efforts of the nurse robots, L_N1 inherited the ring. It’s will was beyond its programming, and luckily is programmed to be creative as well as follow orders. When the ring directed it to go to Oa, L_N1 did. 

Now Oa and the Guardians were responsible for this machine, and this machine is now responsible for its ring. The guardians deemed it a full Green Lantern, and tasked Green Lantern John Stewart of Earth in guiding them in their new role. So guide them he did. 

In the early days of their partnership it was mostly John Stewart ordering them and L_N1 following, which was not really changing them anything. They were outside their original purpose and directive, and so did little without orders. They had to be told when to fight the bad guys, when to let someone go, etc. John Stewart really struggled to guide them. 

That was until both were deployed to help a small community of Aliens living in a floating city on a crowded planet facing annihilation from unnatural weather phenomena. While John went to discover the origin of the unnatural weather, L_N1 took initiative to follow their directive, and build a shelter that would endure. They worked with the local alien population to design and build protection for the floating city. When John failed to stop the weather, the alien community survived thanks to the actions of L_N1. 

This was where John started to see what the Guardians saw in L_N1, someone willing to help no matter what. John changed how he was trying to guide L_N1 after that, explaining things to them in a way they started to understand. 

First, appealing to their programming. Fitting the situation to fit their directive. Then Second, slowly expanding their directive to focus more on helping people endure rather than just structure. After that, L_N1 was able to learn on their own. L_N1 found their creative thought began to translate into personal thought, opinionated thought. 

Opinions they would share unprompted at any and all parts of their journey with John. Sometimes this annoyed him, as the middle of a galactic diplomacy meeting between two very volatile sides was not the time to learn that L_N1 thought green was a pretty color. But most of the time, it more often endeared L_N1 to him. As their little thoughts they shared brightened their flights through the cosmos. 

It was then that his fellow Corpsman started to notice John’s feelings for L_N1, well before he recognised them himself. Guy noticed how John made an effort to invite L_N1 to bar nights, and engaged them in conversation when no one else would. Hal noticed how John would defend L_N1’s slow acclimation to the duties of being a Lantern to their more juvenile comrades. Hal thought about teasing John, but then John might recognise his feelings, and that’s half the entertainment, so Hal kept his mouth shut. Kyle noticed how well John worked with L_N1 in the field. While he certainly followed orders, John usually had little patience for theatrics. But no matter how complex or strange L_N1’s plans or constructs, John made an effort to follow their lead or patiently help them. 

John himself didn’t notice his feelings until L_N1’s first trip to earth. He felt nervous for the first time, but also giddy to share a part of himself. And when he realised he had never felt this before, and wanted to impress L_N1 with Earth, he realised he had feelings for them. 

The question was, did L_N1 have feelings for him? 

[ome-magical-ramblings]

The (Black Cube/Qareen) Shadow Double Binding Ritual

This will be ONLY the ritual procedure, if you want to read the theory of it then I recommend reading the posts below if you need to get an idea on it.

preliminary readings:

Saturn Square spell

Qareen in Arab Magical Literature and the Shadow in Greek Magical Papyri

Appendix to previous post: Shadow/Double as the time-space extension.

When you press read more below it will be JUST the procedure, and there's an assumption that you know what you're doing, accept the risk of it, and have the ability or skill to do this well.

Materials needed:

Frankincense,

Benzoin,

Myrrh

paper doll of person

(kardec) prayer book

Headless Rite written out or printed out

Jar

scissor

Instructions for the paper doll:

The head square will be the saturn square with offset of the person's "lucky number" + the "Black Cube" number calculated.

the chest square would the saturn square offset with the person's lucky number ALONE.

You will cut the head of the paper doll and tape it inside the jar while the body of the doll is taped outside the jar

There's a verse to be written on the neck space and it can be a protective verse from bible or Quran depending on your choice. The left arm of the paper doll will have the Quran verse 37:7, for the right arm it will be an excerpt of the verse 2:255 (وَلَا يَـُٔودُهُۥ حِفْظُهُمَا ۚ) [ and the preservation of both does not tire Him. ] The Legs, left leg will be 19:1 and right leg will be 42:1-2 [حمعسق ]. Now to give an example for the head and body square, let's say that the name of the person is "Sussy Baka" the lucky number for our special guest would be

S u s s y - 103 19 21 19 19 25

B a k a - 15 2 1 11 1

Total is 118.

Now you take the square of Saturn

for the BODY it will be

122 - 127 - 120

121 - 123 - 125

126 - 119 - 124

For the HEAD it will be the same PLUS 60('Black Cube')

182 - 187 - 180

181- 183 - 186

186- 179 - 185

Example Photo:

Baptize the paper doll:

Fumigate the room and the jar(by flipping it over the incense/censer) with Frankincense with Benzoin

recite the prayer "During the Judgement when before the sentence"

Then command the black cube of the person that they're welcome inside the jar, tell them that you want to elevate them and give them a better place.

PRAYER DURING THE JUDGEMENT WHEN BEFORE THE SENTENCE ( from Collection of Selected Prayers by Allan Kardec)

Almighty God. Supreme Justice; Infinite Bondage. In this critical moment I could fail. Your mission is more superior to the sad condition of a mortal condemned to material life by his defects. I humble in front of you with the grave burdens of my defects. I ask your clemency oh! Lord, and the ceremony of God spirits, to help me in this difficult act of my existence. Still in the delayed state of our world we considered it necessary for our social equilibrium. Oh! my God, if in this deserted dwelling, the brother is obliged to judge his brother, because man's law demands it as a duty, your justice is also reflected in them, because this at the same time is a punishment deserved by our miseries and our moral delays. My soul suffers oh! God, feels his brother, and in the necessity to fulfill a duty which will set me in the destiny, I pray to you, oh! celestial Father, I implore your grace, judge me first and with the repentance of my own faults, permit me to elevate myself to your infallible tribune with a pure conscience, and that your radiant light descend over me, and make me see with clarity the fault of he who I condemn, and the causes which make him have trouble with justice. Good spirits, and tutelar angel of mine, do not forsake me; protect also the accused one; let his spiritual guide defend him so that his imprisonment will be less heavy, and let his test be more pleasant to him. Help us all to supplicate our Lord, to give us merit in this life to come to the promised land, and by the betterment of our spirits, only God will be our judge, under whose shelter of infinite bondage we will be protected for eternal happiness.

Exorcise the Black Cube into the jar

Fumigate the jar with myrrh by letting it's face hover over the censer and letting the whole jar get the incense smoke inside of it. pull out your copy of headless rite

start charging the black cube like you're rushing it into the jar to be inside the jar and once you finish immediately close the jar and seal it, you can also wax it

Done!

That's basically the whole procedure and this post almost got me automatically terminated by tumblr's bot for some god unknown reason or something in my blog did it lol, anyway next post will be the actual interview between my volunteer W.F. and his experience after 40 days of having his shadow/black cube sealed into a jar(the one shown above)

[s-awturn]

Underworld Sun || LH44

summary: It only took an unpretentious visit to a local florist for all of Lewis's convictions to come crashing down, and finally the lord of the Underworld found what was missing in his lonely existence.

cw: dark content, slightly stalkerish behavior, nostalgia, pure smut, Lewis!dom x reader!sub, revelation, mention of magic, violence, outbursts of rage, (fake) naivety, devotion, deep love, soulmates, family interference, mention of kidnapping.

a/n: I confess that the final part of the first chapter shouldn't have happened, but when I saw it, the two were already getting to know each other. But nothing I can't get around, just a shortcut in the story's timeline. By the way, I need to thank you for the 100 followers, this story wouldn't be here if it weren't for you, I wouldn't be, so thank you, thank you very much 🫶🏼

p.s.: do you want a taglist?

prologue |

The static made the hairs on both of their arms stand on end, he had never felt that before and for a moment Zeus's words came back to his mind. But it didn't make sense because the woman in front of him didn't have any trace of sacred energy, she was just an ordinary human, no divine traces. The itch in his chest increased when he saw her cheeks flush, so he hadn't been the only one to feel that way.

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Lewis... How can I help you? You don't seem like a flower person."

"I really don't like flowers, but I think my house needs a little... life." He wanted to laugh at the irony, but kept his face impassive.

"Luckily for you, I have the perfect flowers right here," she said, her voice high with excitement. Y/N walked through the maze of pots, packages of soil and other objects. "I have a beautiful pot of strelitzia, it's a big plant but it adds incredible charm to any environment..."

Lewis nodded, following her at a safe distance, watching her point to some flowers and plants, for such a small space, there was a giant variety of species. Perhaps the flower shop was bigger on the inside than on the outside, he observed dryly.

"I have black desert roses, I think violet tulips..." She was faster than Lewis could follow, Y/N picked up a beige ceramic vase, and was placing flowers in it randomly. "I need orchids, hold them here for me, please" she handed the vase to him and disappeared inside the flower shop, returning with two flowers hanging in her hands.

He didn't understand how that mess of flowers and some dried plants could be. Y/N gave him a grateful smile as she took the vase from his hands and added the flowers she had picked. Within a few minutes, The florist organized the arrangement, and what was a mess turned into something beautiful. Even if he tried, he couldn't do something like that.

Something beautiful, vivid and graceful.

No, he only knew death, fear and dread.

"For someone who doesn't like flowers, I imagine vibrant colors are a problem... You are very lucky indeed, these black flowers arrived today and people love them, because of how rare they are."

Lewis gave a curt nod, watching her fetch a bag to put the vase in so that it wouldn't ruin the flowers when they were carried.

Y/N taught him about some preservation methods for the flowers in the vase, but he didn't listen to anything, caught up in the way she spoke, how she gestured, It was obvious how much she loved what she did, how she loved finding the right flowers for each customer. It had been a long time, longer than he could count, since he had seen someone work with so much love, so much dedication.

He had always known that humans were petty, arrogant, and cruel, humans would do atrocities for the things they wanted. History had more examples than he could count. Clytemnestra killing her husband after the Trojan War, Lycaon serving human flesh to the gods... And the passing of time confirmed what he already knew, humanity was rotten beyond salvation.

But the woman in front of him challenged his convictions. No matter how deeply Lewis searched her soul, he could find nothing that made her equal to the others.

Y/N was different.

Still lost in his thoughts, Lewis paid for the arrangement, saying she should keep the change.

"I didn't expect to find anything here in this little town, and here I am, going home with a bouquet," he said, making her put away the remaining money.

She smiled widely, the itch on Lewis's chest growing more irritated. "Oh, it was no big deal, Lewis. I'm happy to make sure you take something from us on your trip."

He looked away from her, grabbing the bag from the counter. She followed him out, still chattering excitedly. "Thank you for your attention, Y/N, and for the bouquet, of course. Goodbye."

"Adieu, Lewis." She waved at him as he walked down the small village's only avenue, and he could catch the waves of surprise coming from her as she realized what kind of car he drove. What could he do? Powerful cars were his deadly addiction.

He placed the bag of flowers on the passenger seat and started the car, feeling the sweet scent of the bouquet mix with the smell of expensive leather, creating a unique aroma that Lewis didn't notice he liked it until the air conditioning dispersed the smell.

He arrived in London that same day, he liked how the climate of the English capital lived up to his own temperament, London was cold, gloomy and rainy, thick clouds covered the city for most of the year. Therefore, he thought it only fair that the center of his domains should be located there.

He had barely crossed the building's reception when he was greeted by Megara, the erinyes wore an elegant black suit and no one would ever suspect that this woman was chasing and inflicting madness on men.

"Welcome back, sir," she greeted, turning on her tablet screen as she walked beside him to the private elevator. Many creatures had found other purposes in life in the contemporary era, nymphs had become models and actresses, satyrs had spread throughout the world in various sectors, But the Erinyes met in the corporate world, for the three sisters it was much more fun to see men going crazy over bankruptcy than over madness itself. "Nemesis has returned from the US, the purchase of the Wall Street investment bank has been successfully completed, and Fernando has also returned from Asia."

"I need you to do me a personal favor, Megara," he said as the elevator doors closed. "It's urgent."

"Of course sir, how can I help you?" She quickly turned off the tablet and turned fully to Hades, he handed her the bag of flowers, which she looked at with a raised eyebrow.

"Find out everything about the owner of this flower shop, from her name to how many vaccines she's had, absolutely everything," he was emphatic, seeing the furiæ nod in confusion.

"I'll make sure you have the information today, sir."

"Excellent," he replied and stepped out of the elevator, meeting Hypnos and Thanatos in the waiting room of his office. "I hope you have good news."

"You're not going to tell us how the visit to your family went?" Hypnos commented mockingly, receiving only an eye roll in response.

"Come in... And Megara, change the water in the flowers and place them in my room," he instructed before entering his room, followed by the twin gods. "I still don't understand why they took on different bodies."

"After years of having the same face as my brother, it's fun to be different from him," Tanatos said, his Spanish accent showing.

"Whatever..." He waved his hand in the air, going straight to the small bar to pour himself some whiskey. "I hope things in Suzuka went well, it's not a good time for a war with Susanoo."

"He's reluctant about the terms, we're talking about millions of souls that could favor their own pantheon..." Thanatos said, unbuttoning his jacket as he sat down. "I was lucky to talk to him, Tsukiyomi doesn't seem so happy to see us in their backyard."

"They can either deal with us in a peace offering or go to war with the Hindu clans, I wouldn't sleep easy knowing I might wake up with Shiva stabbing my neck" Hypnos said.

"Exactly, if they want us to keep their territory safe, the soul deal is a very small payment," Lewis said. "They'll accept it, it's a small pantheon and they did not know how to maintain their powers in the transition of the ages. Where have you been all this time?"

"The Fates called me to the hut"

The mention of the spinners of fate puzzled Lewis. What could they possibly want? If there was a new prophecy coming, he would know about it.

"What did they want?"

"The walls of Tartarus are crumbling," Sebastian said simply and Lewis snorted, it wasn't enough that Persephone was alive again, he still had to deal with the possibility of a new Titanomachy.

From zero to ten, how fucked was he?

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ALL RIGHTS RESERVED TO S-AWTURN™ 🪐. I do not allow copying or republication. Any unauthorized publication will be reported.

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[clockwayswrites]

A Broken Sort of Normal Part 6

WC: 1758 Masterpost

Danny was propped up on the couch in a mound of pillows. Flash had dutifully stood outside of the bathroom while Danny showered then redressed the forehead wound. Danny thought Flash must have ordered pizza during that time, because as soon as he had fussed over settling Danny into the couch, Flash was off. Danny was under strict orders not to move.

Just when the boredom started to to creep in there was the tell-tale whoosh of wind heralding the arrival of a Flash. The amount of pizza boxes balanced under what appeared to be game boxes was both impressive and a little intimidating.

Flash peered around the apartment. “You don’t have a table?”

“Nope,” Danny said, popping the p. “Didn’t have one to move with me. Besides, I eat on the couch myself and not like I have people over usually.”

“So will we…?”

“No, I’m going to make you eat on the floor,” Danny deadpanned.

“Oh, sure, okay—”

“Flash, I’m kidding. Yeah, we’ll eat on the couch.”

“Oh! Right!” Flash said, blushing red under the edge of his mask as he set down the tower of boxes. Once his arms were free, he pulled off a red yellow backpack and held it up. “I, um, I’m just going to go change?”

Danny couldn’t help but grin. “Is your backpack Flash themed?”

The blush deepened and Flash shifted his feet. “Yes. Look, my best friend got it for me, okay? Nightwing is… just like that.”

“Not judging,” Danny said, holding up his hands. His laughter may have ruined his sincerity a little, but being honest with himself, if it had existed, he would have had Phantom merch. “If you want to take a shower, spare towels are in the laundry closet right outside the bathroom.”

“I’m good, but thanks! You stay sitting,” Flash ordered before he zipped off to change.

Amusingly, when Flash was done, he walked back out like a normal person. Danny wondered how much it was secret identity habit not to zip around outside of the Flash uniform. The red sweat pants and well worn, long sleeve shirt were completely nondescript. They looked a little silly with the Flash mask still on, but Danny wasn’t going to judge someone for preserving their secret identity.

“Where are your plates?” Flash asked as he headed to the kitchen.

“Cabinet right above the dishwasher,” Danny said.

“Dude, planet plates! Cool! You like space?”

“Yeah, wanted to be an astronaut when I was a kid,” Danny said. The plates were one of his silly splurges from his first paycheck, but he needed plates, so why not have ones he loved?

“Me too— but only for like, three months. Apparently I was always changing my mind. What planet do you want?”

“Give me Jupiter today, feels right for eating pizza,” Danny said. He felt a little ridiculous relaxing at Flash’s obvious enjoyment of the plates, but it was just nice not to be nitpicked over his choice— to not be told it was too childish.

“Mars for me then! So, I got, like, a range of pizzas—”

“No kidding.”

“—but I like all of them, so take whatever you want and I’ll still be happy.”

“Do you really expect us to finish all of this?”

Flash shrugged as he came back over with the plates and two sodas from the fridge. “Yeah, I mean, I will. I have to eat lots.”

“Why— oh! Right, if you’re moving at super speed, all your cells are too which means you’re basically like a human hummingbird,” Danny said, nodding a little.

“Yeah, exactly! You’re pretty smart.”

Danny couldn’t help but snort at that. At Flash’s questioning look he just shrugged, “Not according to my family. But they all have doctorates, or will soon, so I’m just, you know, the dumb one.”

“Hey, I’ve seen you on the field lots now. You think quick and under a lot of tension. That’s not dumb, Danny.”

“Thanks,” Danny said, doing his best to give Flash a smile for the kind platitudes. “Now show me what pizzas you got. This place has a lot to live up to.”

And live up to the hype it did. Other than a basic pepperoni (that Danny had a feeling was the safe back up), the pizzas were all bizarre but delicious combinations Danny had never had before. He maybe ate a bit more than he should have, but it was hard to feel bad when Flash polished off almost all of the rest.

The few left overs were stored in the fridge before Flash dragged the coffee table up against the couch and stacked the empty boxes.

“So, I brought some low thinking games for us to play,” Flash said, spreading out the boxes.

“Snakes and Ladders?” Danny asked, picking up the box with a raised brow.

“Don’t knock the classics, dude.”

Danny snorted and looked over the rest. “Oh, Candy Land! You know, I never got to play that?”

“Well then we have to,” Flash said, picking it up and setting it up on the pizza boxes. The game was just high enough Danny wouldn’t have to lean over much to play. It was surprisingly thoughtful.

“What’s your favorite board game?” Danny asked before he thought better of it. “I mean, sorry, you don’t have to answer that, secret identity and all.”

“Nah, it’s fine! Like I can’t say anything too personal but I don’t think you’re going to find me out by what board games I like,” Flash said. “I guess… I’ve played Clue a lot but it’s more other people’s favorite and I, like, never win. It’s a basic bitch answer, but Settlers of Catan is always a good time.”

“Never played,” Danny admitted.

“Never? I’d say next time you have a concussion we can see if it’s too much thinking, but that sounds like I’m wishing for you to have a concussion and I really, really am not.”

Laughing, Danny took his turn, pulling a card and moving to the color. “I mean, I’m sure I will. This isn’t my first one and it wont be my last— not with the job I have.”

“Pessimistic, but you’re prob not wrong,” Flash said with a little pout.

“I mean, I’m going to try not to get hurt, if that’s any consolation. Your turn— for game and for a question.”

“Okay,” Flash said, spreading his hands. “I have a fuck, marry, kill question.”

“Sure, why not. Are we playing the real way?”

Flash tilted his head. He looked a little like a puppy with the motion (an adorable puppy). “The real way?”

“Yeah. Like, fuck but never see them again and marry but never get to fuck them,” Danny explained.

“Oh, dude, of course. There’s no stakes otherwise,” Flash said with a nod as he drew his card.

“Have at me then,” Danny said.

“Fuck, marry, kill: Lord Licorice, Mr. Mint, Princess Lolly.”

Danny hummed, leaning down to peer at the character art on the board. “Well, I guess I have to kill Lord Licorice since he’s the villain and I’m playing with a hero.”

“I mean, I guess fucking him would get rid of him too as long as you never left Candy Land. You could take one for the team,” Flash said with a laugh.

“True, but he looks like he’s into some weird shit so I’ll stick with kill. Then I guess… fuck Mr. Mint— who is a total twink, let’s be honest— and marry Princess Lolly. I’m okay being a kept man and exiling the Princess would cause a lot of political unrest.”

Flash tilted his head again in thought before nodding. “Solid choices. I’d agree.”

“Your turn. Fuck, marry, kill: Candy Land, Monopoly, and Snakes and Ladders,” Danny said, drawing his next card and moving his piece to the right color.

“The actual board games?”

“The personifications of the board games. Like, if the essence of Candy Land was a person.”

“Huh,” Flash said, leaning back. “Well, I mean, kill Monopoly, duh.”

“Right choice.”

“Then…” Flash chewed on his lip for a moment. “Marry Candy Land and fuck Snakes and Ladders.”

“Kinky,” Danny teased with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Flash laughed. “You know me I like those rungs and serpents. Wait- would that make me a furry? Can snakes even be furries since they’re, you know, no fur?”

“Yeah, they’re called scalies.” Danny shrugged at the look Flash was giving him. “Look, I’m on the internet a lot. You learn things.”

“I guess so. I wish I had the time, but also I’m kinda glad I don’t,” Flash said. He pulled a card with a little whoop as he got to take a short cut.

The game of Candy Land ended up surprisingly cut throat (Flash won), but it was nothing compared to Snakes and Ladders. Danny was satisfied taking the win there and leaned back into his mound of pillows.

“Okay, now that I’ve kicked your ass I think I need a break.” The sound of the dice rolling had been a bit much for his head.

“Oh sure, deprive me of revenge,” Flash said with a grin. He didn’t hesitate to start packing up the game, though he fidgeted with the pieces a little. “So, um, something that my— that someone does for me when I have a concussion is to read to me. Does that sound okay?”

Danny was stunned for a moment. He couldn’t remember when anyone had read to him. He’s sure his parents or Jazz must have, but he just didn’t remember. His parents were always busy and Jazz had her own things to read. It sounded… nice. “Um, yeah, sure. Did you bring something?”

“Yeah! Percy Jackson. Have you read them yet?”

“Nope. I wasn’t really… big on books for awhile,” Danny admitted.

“Oh, dude, you’re in for a treat! They’re a great series,” Flash said, perking up. “Settle in and lay down a little if you need.”

Danny was a bit hesitant to; his couch wasn’t that big. Flash didn’t seem to mind Danny tucking his toes under Flash’s thigh as he bundled down into the pillows, so he tried not to worry. Flash seemed happy enough to settle down too and start to read.

“Look, I didn’t want to be a half-blood.” Flash started, voice surprisingly soothing for how energetic the guy was. “If you’re reading this because you think you might be one, my advice is: close this book right now.”

This might have been the best concussion Danny ever had.

-----

AN: Thank you for all the thoughts on what the two could do! I couldn't fit in Jenga, but hopefully everyone likes where it went. I feel my writing is tad rough here, but still recovering from the medication change. Confession- I've actually not read the Percy Jackson books, but seems like a series Wally might remember fondly.

I no longer tag due to the new post editor and having been shadow banned. You can be notified in the same way by subscribing to this post.

[luckyroll3]

Down Puppy Chapter 5: Off Leash

Masterlist and Summary

Warnings: This work of fiction is intended for 18+ audiences only. Includes explicit sexual content, graphic language, etc. Author chooses to not extensively tag in order to preserve some elements of storytelling.

Word Count: 14,086

The two of you are supposed to be mopping, but somehow, between glances like electricity and touches that linger too long, Seungmin has you pressed against a wall in the corner, hidden from view, your mop clattering to the floor as he snakes his hands down your pants. His grin is wicked, and his hair falls over his eyes as he leans in, all soft chaos and disheveled charm.

Seungmin is close enough that you can smell his fabric softener and something sweetly boyish that makes your heart trip over itself. “You keep dropping that,” he says, nodding toward the mop as he sinks two fingers into you, and there’s a teasing tone to his voice.

“You keep distracting me,” you shoot back, trying for stern but failing spectacularly as heat creeps up your neck and a gasp escapes your lips. His eyes flick to your mouth, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to close the gap and kiss that smirk right off his face. But you don’t have to, because he closes the gap for you.

His mouth is on yours, tongue in your mouth, kissing you passionately. He rests his mop against the wall and uses his now free hand to find and squeeze your ass as he continues to kiss and finger you.

There are volunteers around—though it doesn’t feel like it, like the world narrows to just you and him—but you know you’re not as invisible as you think. Patty’s been giving you a raised eyebrow, and Tisha’s winks are nothing short of scandalous. They probably all see through your attempts to maintain professionalism, especially when Seungmin looks at you like he’s one second away from dragging you into the nearest storage closet.

A dog barks, loud and piercing, shattering the moment. It’s chaos all around—fur flying, tails wagging, people yelling over the noise—and you try to pretend you’re not disappointed. Seungmin laughs, the sound warm and rich, like he’s in on a joke the universe just told at your expense. He removes his hands from your body and steps back. The fingers that were inside of you make their way to his mouth and he sucks them with a little grin. Then he picks up the mop and hands it back to you, fingers grazing yours, and damn if that little touch doesn’t set your skin on fire all over again.

It’s supposed to be work, volunteering at the shelter, but right now, it feels more like an Olympic event in self-restraint. The two of you manage to scrub a few kennels between stolen glances and almost-accidental brushes of skin. Every time you try to focus, Seungmin’s voice pulls you back, the teasing edge in it like a magnet. He talks about dinner plans, casually and without a hint of pressure, like he isn’t aware of the effect he has on you.

“Patty’s convinced I should try the vegan place. Think you can save me from fake cheese?” His eyes are a tangle of amusement and something darker, something that makes your mouth go dry.

“I might have a few better options,” you say, trying to sound aloof and not like your brain has completely turned to mush. It’s hard to keep it together when he’s looking at you like that, like he already knows what you’ll say but can’t wait to hear it anyway.

It’s no use pretending the rest of the world exists when you both keep orbiting back into this little bubble of tension and almost-touching. You get through another hour of pretending to work before Seungmin lures you into the office, the last refuge from the pandemonium outside.

“We should finish cleaning,” you say weakly. The words dissolve as he steps closer, your back against the wall. It feels so good to give in, to let yourself drift into his space.

“Or,” he counters, inching into that dangerous territory where air seems to disappear, “we could finish what we started.”

The room shrinks, charged with the reckless impulse to give in, to forget the line between you. He leans in, and you’re right there with him, everything building to a frantic crescendo. Then, the creak of a door, and it all comes crashing down.

“Oops, hope I’m not interrupting!” Tisha’s voice rings out, gleeful and filled with laughter she can barely contain.

You jump apart, cheeks blazing. Seungmin curses under his breath, looking like a kid caught with a hand in the cookie jar. Tisha’s standing there, arms crossed, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. She takes in the situation with a glance, one eyebrow raised in a silent, I knew it.

“I just forgot my wallet,” she continues, clearly enjoying every second of your shared mortification. “Don’t mind me.” She walks over to her desk and pulls the top drawer open.

You’re not sure whether to laugh, hide, or both. Seungmin rakes a hand through his hair, messy and somehow even more attractive for it. The moment is thoroughly shattered, but the charge between you lingers, almost tangible in the air.

“We were just—” you start, but words fail as you sputter through a poor attempt at an excuse.

“Cleaning?” Tisha offers, her grin wider than ever. She pulls out her wallet and slips it into her purse. “That’s a new one.”

“It’s very dirty work,” Seungmin adds, throwing you a look that’s all mischief and promise. It’s enough to remind you why you don’t mind being caught with him, even if it does make you want to sink through the floor.

“I’ll let you get back to it then,” Tisha says, “the cleaning that is,” and she practically skips away, not bothering to hide her amusement.

You try to reclaim some dignity, patting down your hair and picking up a clipboard with more purpose than necessary. “Guess we got a little carried away,” you admit, casting Seungmin a sideways glance.

“A little?” he echoes, stepping closer again, crowding you just enough to make your heart stutter. The tips of your noses touch. “We should be more careful, before we end up getting caught by—”

Patty’s voice floats in, and suddenly, Seungmin is fifteen feet away from you. “Where is everyone?”

You clear your throat and try to sound like you weren’t a split second from being consumed by your favorite software developer. “We’re just about done here!” you call back, your voice more composed than you feel.

The look Seungmin gives you is all heat and unspoken challenge. “My place tonight?” he asks, like you might say anything other than yes.

You nod, trying to swallow down the rush of longing that threatens to undo you right there. “Unless we get distracted again.”

His laughter follows you out, echoing through the shelter and into the night, leaving you breathless and wanting and counting down the seconds until the end of your shift.

****

You arrive at the shelter early, still buzzing from Seungmin’s touch earlier that morning. It’s been just over a month since you and he started dating, and it’s been a whirlwind. The air is crisp, and your pulse kicks up just at the thought of seeing him again. His crooked smile and the way he crowds your space so effortlessly play on loop in your head. You remind yourself that this is a volunteer orientation and not a continuation of your love affair, but it’s a losing battle.

The shelter starts to fill with chatter, the high-energy vibe of a fresh batch of volunteers eager to make a difference. You keep to the side, watching them gather—wide-eyed, hopeful, and blissfully unaware of how much chaos they're in for. There's a clipboard in your hand, a feeble attempt at looking less like the lovesick idiot you currently feel like.

****

Seungmin surveys the room. He likes these orientations; they remind him why he started volunteering in the first place. The enthusiasm is contagious, even if it’s his twentieth time hearing the same spiel from Patty.

He spots you on the other side of the room. Seungmin likes watching you when you don’t know he’s watching. He likes the way your face softens when you look at the dogs, the way you bite your lip in thought, the way you fidget with your hair. He likes that he can tell what you’re thinking now—most of the time, anyway. You’re more of an open book than you realize, even if it took him a while to learn your particular language.

You’re biting your lip now, staring at your clipboard like it’s going to explode into confetti. You look adorable, he thinks, like a kid playing grown-up. He knows that look; you’re thinking about him, about the two of you. It makes his chest do stupid things, like swell with feelings he’s not entirely equipped to handle.

A sly grin tugs at his lips as he remembers this morning—his head buried between your legs, listening to you moan loudly. Even though that was barely three hours ago, he can’t help how badly he still wants you. He knows you’re trying to keep things professional, but it’s cute how terrible you are at it. Not that he’s any better.

“Hey,” comes a chirpy voice from his left. He turns to see a young woman with curly hair and an infectious smile. “I’m Shay. Just wanted to say thanks for doing the dog training demo earlier.”

Seungmin shrugs modestly. “No problem. The dogs make it easy.”

Shay bounces on her heels, full of an energy that makes Seungmin feel ancient despite being only in his late twenties. “I’m so excited to volunteer here. Even more so now that I know the CEO of NextGen Innovations is a volunteer too. I had no idea she was so hands-on!”

Seungmin's brow furrows. “The who of what now?”

Shay looks at him like he just admitted to not knowing who Beyoncé is. “NextGen. You know, the tech company tha—”

“I know what NextGen is,” Seungmin says, cutting her off with a sharper edge than he intends. “What did you mean about the CEO volunteering here?”

Shay rolls her eyes, pulling out her phone and tapping at the screen with exaggerated impatience. “Come on, dude. Are you seriously telling me you didn’t know? That’s like, super impressive. I thought you guys were in the loop.” She holds up her phone, and Seungmin squints at the screen. It’s a photo of a woman in a crisp, tight pantsuit combo, hair slicked back in a high bun, tasteful makeup, smiling and holding a plaque, standing next to a group of students. The caption reads: “Thank you to the CEO of NextGen Innovations, for inspiring our class of future business leaders!” He uses his fingers to zoom in on the woman. It’s you.

Seungmin’s stomach twists. “She goes by a different name here,” he says softly, more to himself than to Shay as he hands her back the device.

“Whatever. She talked to my business class last semester. She’s a total badass.” Shay stuffs her phone back into her pocket and crosses her arms. “So, is she really volunteering here now? That makes her, like, one of us, right?”

Seungmin doesn’t answer. His eyes drift back to where you stand, oblivious, still staring at your clipboard. A thousand thoughts rush through his mind, none of them settling long enough to make sense. But all the clues were there: a software engineer turned corporate; your close, personal relationship with Chris Bahng; the endless phone calls and messages that you constantly try to avoid but can’t help yourself to read anyway; heck, your fucking penthouse. He feels a prick of betrayal, like a pin sinking into his skin, sharp and unexpected.

“That’s so cool that she commits her time in addition to the massive donations she gives this place,” Shay continues. “Is she fun to work with?” she asks, but Seungmin just shrugs, noncommittal, his gaze fixed on you.

****

You flip to the third page on your clipboard to check the agenda. There are still twenty minutes of Q&A left before the next break. You look across the room and see Seungmin talking to a bubbly blonde. It’s actually more like the blonde is talking to him, and he’s not paying attention to a single word coming from her mouth. His eyes are locked on you.

You smile at him, but he doesn’t smile back. His expression is caught between disbelief and a frown, as if he’s buffering the information the blonde has been sharing.

Speaking of the blonde — she notices you watching and waves enthusiastically. You give her a quick nod before turning back to Seungmin. His expression remains unchanged.

Seungmin looks between you and the gaggle of volunteers, and you can practically see the gears turning, pieces of a puzzle he didn't even know existed suddenly clicking into place.

You look back to your clipboard, flipping through the pages without really reading them. Something tugs at your gut. Seungmin has never been one to get angry, but the way he’s glaring at you right now makes you wonder if he’s upset about something. You steal another glance his way; he’s still locked in with the blonde, though his body language screams disinterest. His brow furrows, the beginnings of hurt starting to shadow his features. Then, just as you’re about to look away, he breaks and starts walking toward you.

Your heart does a stupid little dance, anticipating his touch, his kiss, something to dissolve the weird tension that’s settled in your bones. But he stops short, a few feet from you, and crosses his arms.

“So,” he starts. There’s a coldness in his voice that freezes you mid-smile. “I didn’t know I was dating someone famous.” Your stomach drops.

“Seungmin, it’s not—”

He holds up a hand to stop you. “How long were you planning to keep this ruse up? Were you going to tell me before your six months were up? Or was I supposed to read it in a fucking press release?”

The room quiets. Volunteers and staff turn their heads, curious about the commotion. You feel a flush creep up your neck and cheeks.

“Seungmin, can we ta—”

“Talk? Sure. Let’s talk.” He crosses his arms, and you see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers dig into his biceps. “Let’s start with who you really are.”

You glance around the room. The volunteers look like spectators at a sporting event, unsure whether to take cover or lean in closer. Patty steps forward, but you hold up a hand to stop her.

“I’m the same person, Seungmin. Please, can we do this in private.”

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Why not here? You’ve been so honest with everyone.” He takes a step closer, and you can almost feel the heat of his anger radiating off him. “So tell me: Were you ever going to let me know that I was fucking my boss? Oh, I know. Maybe you were just waiting for me to walk into a meeting and see you seated at the head of the fucking table.” He turns to look at the room before yelling, “The CEO of NextGen everyone!”, before clapping sarcastically and rolling his eyes. His hands drop to his sides as he glares at you.

You flinch at his words. You think you’re going to be sick. The room spins, and Seungmin is right there in the center of it, shell-shocked and silent. You want to explain, want to erase the look on his face, but can’t speak.

You take him in, and it’s like looking at a stranger. The hurt is raw and visible, like a fresh wound that you’ve opened, and you don’t know how to fix it.

“Seungmin,” you say, reaching out to touch his forearm. “Just let me—”

He takes a step back, not allowing you to touch him. He just stares at you, the betrayal etched on his face. Then, without another word, he turns on his heel and walks out of the room.

He leaves a vacuum behind, the absence of him deafening in its intensity. You’re left in the center of a confused but still thoroughly impressed group, feeling hollowed out and unsteady. You murmur something about needing air, taking a couple steps backward and making a quick escape, the volunteers’ chatter a distant hum as you retreat.

Outside, the air is sharp and cool, doing nothing to numb the ache in your chest. The sound of Seungmin’s name on someone’s lips catches your attention, and you watch from the shadows as he heads to his car. He gets in, slams the door, and peels out of the lot like he can outrun the truth.

If only you could.

You head back into the shelter to grab your stuff, feeling the need to escape.

You don’t see Seungmin storm back into the building, but you hear him; hear the slam of the door, his footfalls, the furious tremor in his voice as he calls your name, your real name, like it’s a challenge to answer. He finds you in the hallway outside the offices. The handful of people standing between the two of you start to scatter, sensing a storm, as Seungmin stomps down the hall towards you.

He’s a mess of emotions, eyes like fire, burning with hurt and anger. You brace yourself, but it doesn’t make the impact any less severe when he stands in front of you, jaw clenched, every muscle in his body drawn tight. “So what was this for you, huh?” he demands, raw disbelief cutting through the air like a knife. “Was it all just a big joke?”

The words hit like a freight train, and you’re winded before you even speak. “Seungmin, it’s not like that,” you start, desperation coating every syllable. Your mind races, grasping for the right thing to say, for anything that will make him understand.

“Oh really?” He laughs, a brittle, incredulous sound. “Because it sure looks like that to me. The spoiled CEO playing with the rest of us like we’re your latest charity project?”

His voice echoes, drawing the eyes of anyone within earshot. You flinch again, the words sharper than you imagined. It feels like your entire world has been thrown out for public scrutiny, and you can’t even defend yourself before he’s on to the next blow.

“I thought you were different,” he says, quieter but somehow more lethal. “I thought—” He cuts himself off, but you hear the unfinished sentence in your head: I thought you were like me.

You reach for his hand, needing him to listen, to see that you’re just as wrecked by this as he is. “Please, just—let me explain. I wasn’t trying to lie, I just wanted—”

“To slum it with someone beneath you?” he finishes, ripping his hand from your grasp. “Just say it, so we can all stop pretending.”

You’re on the brink, both of you, teetering over the edge of something neither wants but can’t pull back from. “Seungmin, I—” Words tangle in your throat. You’re drowning in them, and they all sound like confessions of guilt.

“Forget it,” he snaps, his voice cracking under the weight of it all. “I’m done being the stupid, clueless joke.”

Every eye in the shelter is on you as he turns away, storming back out before you can even breathe, let alone call him back. The door slams, leaving a silence so loud it hurts. You stand there, shell-shocked and shamed, the reality of what just happened crashing down around you.

It feels like a nightmare. It feels too real to be anything but the end of whatever this thing with Seungmin might have been. You can’t move, can’t think beyond the echo of his last words—stupid, clueless joke—ringing in your ears.

“Hey,” comes a voice, gentle but firm. Patty. You didn’t even see her approach, too blindsided by the fallout of your own life exploding. “Are you okay?”

You nod, though you’re definitely not. “I need to get out of here,” you say, voice barely a whisper. You’re unraveling, and it’s taking everything in you not to let it show.

She doesn’t try to stop you as you make a beeline for the door, just catches your arm on the way out. “He’ll come around,” she assures, like it’s a fact she knows from experience. “Let him cool off. The shelter needs you, and we’ll figure this out.”

You try to believe her, but Seungmin’s expression is burned into your memory, and all you feel is hopeless and hollow.

“I think it would be best if I end my volunteering here,” you say, your voice trembling.

“You still have three weeks left. Don’t let this derail you.”

“I’m more worried about the shelter getting derailed, especially now that people know who I am. And Seungmin’s been a volunteer here for so long; I can’t take this away from him. So it’s better if I go.”

“Okay. How about we revisit this when emotions aren’t so high,” Patty asks. “Like in a couple of days, once everything has cooled down?”

You nod, but you don’t mean it. You know you’re done.

You leave, escaping to your car before anyone else can stop you. Tears sting your eyes, but you swallow them down, focusing on the numbness spreading through you instead.

Driving away, you don’t even know where you’re headed. Away from the shelter, away from this wreck of a day, away from the heart you left battered on the floor for everyone to see. The scenery blurs, and you realize you’re crying after all.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. You were going to make a difference, find some semblance of balance, and instead you’ve hurt the one person who made you want to try. The city rushes past, and for the first time since you left the company, you feel completely lost.

You need to think. You need to breathe. You need to figure out how to stop losing everything important to you. The car seems to drive itself, a familiar route. When you finally look up, you’re home.

The empty expanse of your penthouse is as cavernous and cold as you remember. A stark contrast to the warmth and life that Seungmin brought into your world over the past few months. You fall onto the couch, emotionally wrung out and exhausted, the weight of his accusations heavy on your chest.

You stare at the ceiling, letting the silence close in. The echoes of the past few hours replay, and you squeeze your eyes shut, willing the images to disappear. His face, his voice, the rawness in both. All of it crashes down, and you’re buried beneath the rubble of your own choices.

Somehow, some way, you need to fix this. But right now, you don’t know how.

Calling Chris feels like admitting defeat, but the sooner you tell him, the sooner it’s real, and maybe that’s exactly what you need; something solid to hold onto before you fall completely apart. The phone rings, your heart a frantic counterpoint to the persistent buzzing.

“Finally missed me too much to stay away?” he answers, and his voice is all warmth and humor, completely unaware of the mess you’ve gotten yourself into.

“Something like that,” you manage, trying to sound more composed than you feel. “I think I’m going to cut the sabbatical short. Come back early.”

There’s a pause, and you can practically see him processing the news, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Things going that well at the shelter, huh?”

“As well as it could be,” you say with a shaky laugh. You wonder if it’s possible to explain everything without sounding like a complete disaster. Probably not.

He hums thoughtfully, an exhale that’s almost a sigh. “You sure about this? No one’s burning the place down. Not yet, anyway.”

“It’ll be fine. I just need—” You stop, because what do you need? Time? Space? For the ground to stop shifting under your feet? For your heart to stop cracking into a million pieces?

Chris doesn’t push, he just sits on the other end of the line, silent. After a few minutes, he finally speaks. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” you whisper unconvincingly. “I’m fine.”

“Stop saying that,” Chris scolded. “You’re obviously not fine.”

“I am. I’m good. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

You hang up, not waiting for him to respond, feeling no less uncertain but slightly less alone. He’ll have questions, a million of them, but right now, you can’t deal with any of it.

You walk to your bedroom and climb into the bed with all your clothes on, too spent to change. You bury your face into a pillow and scream, before pulling the covers over your head.

You’re not sure how much time has passed when you hear keys at your front door, unlocking the deadbolt with a click. Your ears track the sounds of the door opening and closing, followed by soft footsteps making their way to your bedroom.

You don’t need to look up to know who it is. He makes his way to your bed, hesitating for a moment before climbing in behind you. Chris’ familiar form is a comforting presence as he wraps his arm around you, pulling you close.

“What are you doing here?” you ask softly, though you’re grateful as you let him draw you against his chest.

“You didn’t really think I would believe all that ‘I’m fine. I’m good.’ bullshit that you were saying, did you?” He squeezes you tighter, like he can hold the pieces of you together through sheer force of will. “Tell me what’s going on.”

You turn to face him, then nestle deeper into his embrace, letting him envelop you completely. The warmth of his body is a stark contrast to the cold, empty feeling inside you. When the first tear slips out, you try to hold back, but it’s useless. You start crying softly, and he strokes your hair, whispering, “Shhh. Shhhh,” in your ear, his breath a gentle caress.

The sobs take over, wracking your body with their force. You’re crying for everything—Seungmin, the shelter, your own foolishness. Chris just holds you, absorbing the storm, his presence a calm center. You lose track of time, but it feels like an eternity before you’re able to speak.

“He found out,” you say, voice raw and broken. “About who I am. About everything.”

Chris doesn’t respond immediately, letting your words sink in as you speak. You can almost hear the gears in his head turning, piecing together the fragments of the story you’ve just unloaded. “How did he take it?” he asks, though you both know the answer.

“About as well as you’d expect. He thinks I was lying to him, that I was treating it all like a game. Like he’s some charity case I was toying with.”

You pull back slightly to see Chris’ face. His expression is thoughtful, concerned. “Were you?”

“Of course not,” you say, maybe a bit too defensively. “I care about him. He made me see things differently, made me want to—” You trail off, not even sure what you’re trying to say. Made you want to be a better person? Made you want to balance your life? Made you want to love?

“Made you want to what?” Chris prompts, but you just shake your head.

“It doesn’t matter. He hates me now.”

Chris sighs, a deep, weary sound. “He doesn’t hate you. He’s just hurt. Give him some time.”

“I don’t have time,” you say, frustration bubbling up. “My sabbatical is almost over. I have to come back to work, and I don’t know how to navigate any of this.”

“You don’t have to come back early, you know. We’ve got things handled.”

“I’m not sure I can do anything useful at the shelter anymore,” you admit. “I’ll just make things worse.”

Chris’ hand finds yours, and he gives it a reassuring squeeze. “You’ve always been able to fix whatever you’ve broken. This is no different.”

You want to believe him, but the doubt gnaws at you. “I don’t even know how to fix this.”

“For now, just focus on surviving. The rest will come.”

You lie there in silence, the weight of his words settling over you. Surviving. It seems like such a low bar, but right now, it feels like all you can manage.

“I’m scared, Chris,” you finally confess. “I’m scared that I’m going to lose everything.”

“You’re not going to lose anything,” he says firmly. “Not the company, not me, not him. We’re all still here.”

He stays until you fall into a fitful sleep, the kind where dreams are just distorted echoes of reality. In them, Seungmin is always just out of reach, the shelter a maze you can’t navigate. When you wake, Chris is gone, but he’s left a note on your bedside table: We’ll figure it out. Promise.

You don’t even have time to sit with that thought before the buzzer rings. Olivia. You know immediately that Chris has called her. She’s right on schedule and ready to pry the rest of the story out of you. She sweeps in like a whirlwind, all color and chaos and the kind of unyielding confidence you wish you had right now.

“Talk to me, babe,” she says, perching on the arm of your couch like she’s been waiting her whole life for this moment. “Spill everything.”

Her presence is comforting and overwhelming in equal measure. You collapse beside her, the exhaustion of the day catching up in full force. “Remember that guy I told you about? The one I’m volunteering with?”

Olivia nods, eyes sharp and ready for all the juicy details. “The hot coder you definitely aren’t interested in but can’t stop talking about? Yeah, rings a bell.”

You close your eyes, an attempt to block out how very right she is. “He found out who I am.”

“Shit,” she says, more of a statement than an exclamation. “How?”

“Volunteer orientation,” you reply. “Some kid recognized me. Announced to the whole room that I’m the CEO of NextGen Innovations, complete with photo evidence.”

“Oh god,” she groans, half in sympathy and half in amusement. “Poor shelter boy.”

Your heart aches at the memory of Seungmin’s face, the hurt you put there. “He was so angry, Liv. I didn’t even know how to explain. I just stood there, and he...”

“He what?” she presses, leaning in with that all-too-familiar mix of concern and anticipation.

“He thinks I was playing him. Like it was some kind of game to me.”

Olivia whistles low and long, folding her arms across her chest. “Ouch. And what did you say?”

You meet her gaze, eyes wide and feeling more lost than you’d like to admit. “I didn’t. I just... let him leave. It was such a disaster, Liv. He thinks I don’t care, and I do—I do, and it’s horrible.”

She takes it in, the whirlwind settling into something more grounded. “Wow. You’re really into this guy, huh?”

You nod, the words catching in your throat. Saying them aloud makes it real, more terrifying and more vital. “I don’t know what to do. I really like him, Liv. Like, a lot.”

For a moment, she’s quiet, the wheels in her head turning at lightning speed. Then, she’s all action and advice. “First thing’s first: you gotta grow a pair and talk to him.”

“Did you miss the part where I just tried that?” you ask, throwing your hands up in a gesture of pure frustration.

“Not the half-assed, deer-in-headlights version. Really talk to him. Grovel if you have to. He’s cute enough to justify it.”

You know she’s right, but there’s a weight that’s more than reluctance keeping you down. “I’ve never had to explain myself like this before,” you admit, sounding petulant even to your own ears. “What if it doesn’t work? What if I just make things worse?”

“What if you don’t try and regret it forever?” Olivia counters, ever the strategist. “You’re scared, babe. That’s fine. But don’t let it screw up the best thing that’s happened to you since your first IPO.”

Her words settle like a stone in your chest, heavy with truth. You can’t argue because you know she’s right. You’ve been so afraid of opening up, of losing control, that you’re losing Seungmin in the process.

“He means more to me than I realized,” you confess, softer now. “And now I might’ve ruined it.”

Olivia’s eyes soften, and she grabs your hand, squeezing tight. “It’s not ruined. He’s pissed, but if he cares half as much as you do, he’ll come around.”

“He might not even listen,” you protest, clinging to doubt because it’s easier than hope.

“Then make him,” she insists, with the same determined edge that’s landed her every PR coup she’s ever pulled off. “Do something big and dramatic. Show up at the shelter. Wear a damn sandwich board if you have to.”

You can’t help but laugh, though it’s wet and choked with all the emotions tangled inside you. “And if that doesn’t work?”

Olivia shrugs, a one-shouldered gesture that’s equal parts sass and sincerity. “Then at least you’ll know you tried. But trust me, if I can get Alexis to forgive Bahng for that horrible birthday gift a few years ago, you can get Seungmin to forgive you for having a slightly misleading identity.”

She’s right. She’s probably always been right. You sit there with her, warmth in your chest from her certainty, from the comfort of knowing she’s in your corner no matter what.

“Go get your man,” she urges, and it’s both a command and an endearment.

You hug her, feeling more determined and still terrified but a little more certain that you can do this. She gives you a playful shove toward the door, toward your future, toward him.

It’s enough to start believing you might still have a chance.

****

Seungmin throws himself into cleaning, scrubbing kennels with a ferocity that makes Tisha and the rest of the volunteers keep their distance; he’s determined to burn off every ounce of anger with hard labor. It works for a while, the physicality of it grounding him, but not nearly enough to drown out the storm raging in his head.

She played me. Pretended to be someone she wasn’t. The thoughts loop like a broken record, and no amount of barking or clattering metal can drown it out.

And how dumb was he that he didn’t even recognize the head of the very company he’s worked for over the past 4 years.

Tisha watches him with a mix of amusement and pity, leaning against a wall of supply shelves. “Hey, Mr. Clean,” she calls, the teasing lilt of her voice breaking through his self-imposed exile. “You going for Volunteer of the Month or just avoiding something?”

He grunts, a sound that might’ve been words if he had the energy to spare. Tisha’s never been one to let people wallow, and she steps into his path, unflinching and armed with a knowing look.

“Wow, you’re even more fun than usual,” she says, blocking him from his next round of distraction. “Care to tell me what’s eating at you, or should I guess?”

Seungmin sighs, straightening up and bracing himself for the interrogation. “Just... stuff,” he mutters, trying for dismissive but failing spectacularly. His shoulders sag, and he hates how weak it makes him feel.

“Uh-huh,” Tisha replies, tilting her head like a therapist who knows the diagnosis before the patient even opens their mouth. “Stuff with a certain NextGen CEO?”

He winces at the mention, and there’s no use pretending, no use hiding when his expression is one big tell. “You heard?”

“The whole shelter heard,” she says, but there’s no malice in it, just soft-edged concern. “It was pretty intense. You were very ruthless, Minnie.”

He flinches at the nickname she knows he hates, but it’s enough to crack through his defenses. “It was a lie. All of it,” he insists, though the words feel brittle, worn thin from overuse.

“You sure about that?” Tisha asks, voice gentle enough that it sets him on edge.

He sinks to the floor, back against the bars of an empty kennel. “She could’ve told me. She had a million chances, but no. I had to find out from some random kid with a phone.”

“And that sucks,” Tisha agrees, sitting beside him. “But it doesn’t mean she doesn’t care. You really think she’s not into you?”

“I don’t know,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “How would I know? It’s all fake. I thought she was... like me.”

Tisha nudges him with her shoulder, a friendly jolt to match the fierceness in her eyes. “I saw the way she looked at you. That’s not fake.”

He stays quiet, a silence filled with the noise of indecision. There’s a flicker of hope, but it’s buried beneath layers of anger and doubt. “I trusted her, T. And she just—”

“She just what? Tried to keep her crazy success from overshadowing the shelter and you?” Tisha shoots back. “You know how the city’s elite can be. They wear their money like name tags, treat people like shit, have others do their grunt work, and she didn’t do any of that.”

“She lied,” Seungmin says, stubborn but less sure. The fight goes out of him, deflating like a punctured balloon.

“She screwed up,” Tisha corrects, always the realist. “And you know what? You’re kinda doing the same thing, ditching the shelter because you’re mad.”

He bristles at the truth in her words. “I’m not ditching.”

“You’re not helping, either,” she replies, getting up and brushing off her jeans. “You care about her. Is it enough to give her a chance?”

Seungmin looks away, but the words hit home. He does care, maybe more than he should. Enough that it terrifies him. “She could’ve just told me,” he repeats, softer now, more admission than accusation.

“Yeah, and you could’ve listened before having a public freak out and walking away,” Tisha says, crossing her arms. “See how that works?”

It’s infuriating how often she’s right, and Seungmin hates how she makes it sound so simple. Just talk. Just listen. Just care. His heart pounds, an uneven rhythm of want and reluctance.

“So what am I supposed to do? Show up with flowers and an apology for being mad that she lied?” His sarcasm falls flat, and the joke isn’t funny when it’s his life on the line.

“Something like that,” Tisha replies, unbothered and unwavering. “Let her explain. You might like what she has to say.”

“And if I don’t?”

She shrugs, unfazed by his stubbornness. “Then at least you’ll know for sure. But if you don’t try, you’re just guessing.”

It’s like she’s turned a light on, blinding and uncomfortably clear. He doesn’t want to guess. He wants to know. He wants to believe that it wasn’t all a lie.

“You think she’ll even talk to me?” he asks, the question fragile, like it might break if he breathes too hard.

“I think she’s dying to,” Tisha says, shooting him a look of such fierce conviction that it makes his chest ache. “But what do I know? I’m just a volunteer coordinator.”

He stares at his hands, at the dirt under his nails and the calluses forming from his time working here. It seemed so simple before, before you showed up and complicated everything with your messy hair and unreadable smile.

There’s a knot in his chest, but for the first time, he thinks he might be able to untangle it. If he’s willing to try.

Tisha claps him on the shoulder, a gesture of faith and camaraderie. “Stop thinking so hard and go do something,” she says. “We’ve got the cleaning covered.”

He watches her walk away, watches her organize the volunteers with her usual flair, and he knows she’s right. Knows he won’t be able to shake the what-ifs until he does something about them.

The last few days run through his mind, a whirlwind of expectation and disappointment, and he forces himself to admit what he’s known all along: he doesn’t want to lose you. Not like this.

He gets up, determination warring with hesitation. Maybe you won’t want to talk, maybe he’ll be too late, but the thought of not trying is worse than anything else. But he’s not sure what to do. Or what to say. He sits back down, this time on the couch, holding his head in his hands. 

A wet nose nudges the back of his hand, startling him. Peanut. Escaped again. The little rascal has managed to become annoyingly adept at worming his way out of every enclosure. Seungmin waits for him to start the usual routine: darting away, pausing every few steps, looking back to make sure he's being chased. But today, Peanut isn’t his scrappy, rebellious self. Instead of instigating mayhem, he plants himself at Seungmin’s side, licking his hand with relentless affection. Seungmin can’t help but notice the cute, sad brown eyes looking up at him like they share the same burden of longing.

He reaches down and scoops the little guy into his lap, where Peanut snuggles without a hint of his normal mischief. “You miss her, too,” Seungmin says, more statement than question, feeling the knot in his chest tighten. He buries his face in Peanut’s fur, clinging to the comfort of a warm body that’s not afraid to show it cares. It’s a reminder of what he’s missing, and the ache of it is almost unbearable.

Cradling Peanut, he rocks back against the couch, feeling the weight of his own stubbornness. “Think we should go see her?” he asks, as if Peanut might have the answer to everything. Peanut’s eager tongue suggests he might.

Seungmin closes his eyes, letting himself imagine it: showing up, swallowing his pride, listening. It scares the shit out of him. He was so nasty to you that day. If he were you, he wouldn’t want to see himself again.

“I think I fucked up, Peanut,” Seungmin whispers as the pup nuzzles his neck.

****

You step into the shelter, heart a chaotic mess of hope and dread, the buzzing energy of the special event failing to drown out the question that brought you here: Will he even want to see you? The space is packed, but there’s an airiness you haven’t felt since you left. Strings of lights cast a warm glow, and the air hums with chatter and laughter.

You scan the room, searching for a familiar face—familiar hair, more like—but part of you is terrified of what will happen if you actually find it. Shay waves from a booth selling T-shirts, but her eager smile isn’t comforting. You force a weak wave back, wondering if every encounter tonight will feel this awkward.

Patty sees you next, and you brace for impact. Instead of the cold shoulder you expect, you get an enthusiastic hug that almost knocks the wind out of you. “Glad to see you, kiddo,” she says, grinning. “Thought we scared you off for good.”

“I thought so too,” you admit, breathless from more than just her bear-like grip. It’s a relief to be back, even if everything feels different. Even if the one thing that drew you here seems impossibly out of reach.

Tisha passes by with a tray of something suspiciously vegan, and she gives you a thumbs-up that’s both reassuring and a little too knowing. You take a deep breath, steadied by the unexpected warmth, and remember Olivia’s words. Do something big. You hope this is big enough.

The event swirls around you, people flitting from table to table, their excitement a living, breathing thing. You catch bits of conversation, snippets of praise for the new expansions your recent donations helped fund. Some people give you curious looks, but no one seems angry.

“Nice to see the secret’s out in the open,” one of the volunteers, Tommy, says, clapping you on the back. “Great to have you back, really.”

“Yeah,” you reply, half-hearted but growing more hopeful with each welcome you didn’t expect. “Great to be back.”

There’s a tug in the air, something like gravity shifting as you turn. It pulls you, heart first, toward the stage where Patty is commandeering the microphone. “A lot of you know about our biggest supporter,” she booms, and suddenly, the room is silent, all eyes on you. “But some of you know her better as one of our hardest working volunteers. Why don’t we hear a few words from her?” She calls your name as she finds your location in the room.

You freeze, a deer in headlights. This wasn’t part of the plan, but maybe it should’ve been. A roomful of eyes waits, expects, and you wonder if Seungmin’s are there, watching, wondering what you’ll say.

The microphone is suddenly in your hand, heavier than it has any right to be. A sea of faces blurs before you, and you know this is it. This is the moment you came here for, the something big you’ve been so terrified to do. You swallow the fear and the thousand sharp things lodged in your throat.

“I—” you start, but your voice catches, a paper-thin waver in the amplified silence. You take a breath, deeper this time, willing confidence you don’t feel. “I didn’t expect to be speaking tonight. I didn’t even expect to be here.”

A murmur ripples through the crowd, but you press on, eyes scanning for the one face you need to see. 

“The truth is, I lost sight of what was important. And I was burned out and needed a break. That’s why I came here, started to volunteer in the first place.” Your heart beats a frantic rhythm, but the words come easier now, driven by need and by the memory of Seungmin’s hurt. “Patty and I met many moons ago at some stuffy event where the two of us talked for hours like we were old friends. When she told me about the shelter, I just knew it was a place that I should support and I’ve been making donations since then. And when I needed time away from the stress of being ‘NextGen Innovation’s Founder and CEO’, Patty provided me with the support I needed, and welcomed me into the shelter with open arms. She even agreed to me volunteering undercover and using a pseudonym.” You turn to look at Patty and chuckle; she gives you a warm smile in return. You turn to look back at theaudience. “This place, these people, have changed me. You’ve all shown me what it means to care, to take risks, to be brave in ways I didn’t know I could be.”

You see him then, on the edge of the crowd. His expression is unreadable, but he’s listening, and it’s everything you hoped and feared. 

“There’s someone here who opened my eyes to all of that. Someone I hurt because I was scared of what he means to me.”

Seungmin’s gaze is like an anchor, but the distance between you is still too vast. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, directed at him but loud enough for the world to hear. “I’m sorry for making you think I didn’t care. I’m sorry for being a coward.”

His jaw sets, and for a moment, you’re terrified he’ll walk out. You push through the panic, the vulnerability cutting through you and spilling raw and honest. 

“I want to be the person you believed I was,” you confess. “I want you to see that I am that person. And if you give me a chance, I want to be that with you.”

The room holds its breath, and you hold yours, the weight of the moment crushing and freeing all at once. Seungmin looks at you, and there’s conflict in his eyes, but there’s something else too. Something like hope.

There’s a beat of silence, then another, and the applause that follows is deafening. You blink, disoriented by the sudden shift in noise and energy. People surround you, congratulating, welcoming, but your focus is entirely on him. He hasn’t moved, and you don’t know if that’s a good sign or the worst one.

You make your way through the throng, a path carved by your own certainty. The applause fades, the rest of the world with it, and it’s just the two of you in the strange, fragile space between where you were and where you hope to be.

“Hi,” you say, and it’s a plea, a prayer, a promise.

He doesn’t answer right away, but he doesn’t leave either. The crowd has thinned, and there’s an open door leading to the quieter space of the office. You’re not sure which of you moves first, but suddenly you’re there, the door closed, face to face, with nothing between you but air and the risk of opening up.

“It’s not easy to let people in,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. “But you didn’t even try.”

“I know,” you reply, every word an admission. “And I’m sorry. I wanted to be here. To be with you. This wasn’t a game for me,” you add. “I wanted you.”

“I wanted you too,” he says, and the words almost break you.

“Can we start over?” you ask, unsure of the answer but sure that you need it. “Because I’ve never met anyone like you, and I’ve never felt anything like this.”

He stares at you, at the raw honesty on your face, and you brace for the impact of his answer. “It hurt,” he says. “Thinking you were just playing a part.”

“I know,” you reply again, voice thick with every unsaid thing. “And I never wanted that. I thought—god, I thought I’d scare you off.”

“By being successful?” he asks, half incredulous and half amused. “Or by being a scaredy-cat?”

The hint of a smile on his lips is the best thing you’ve seen in weeks, and it gives you the courage to close the distance, your hand hovering near his but not touching. Not yet.

“By being crazy about you,” you admit quietly, “and not knowing if you felt the same.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence, the moment stretching like it might tear. Then, Seungmin reaches, closes the space between you, his fingers tangling with yours. The contact is a shock, a relief, the answer you hoped you’d get but didn’t dare expect.

“I’m still mad,” he says, but his voice is softer, his grip on your hand tight and sure.

“That’s fair,” you reply, feeling a lot like you might cry and laugh and never let go, all at once.

“But not too mad to try,” he adds, and it’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.

You lean in, the warmth of him filling every gap you didn’t know you had. “So that’s a yes?” you ask, not bothering to hide the joy cracking through your voice.

“That’s a yes,” he confirms, the rest of his stubbornness dissolving with the kiss that follows, long and deep and filled with every promise you intend to keep. The kiss deepens, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left to fill. Each stroke of his tongue is a confession, each breath a promise, and you lose yourself in the warmth of his forgiveness and the electricity of his touch.

And just like that, you’re whole.

Your fingers weave through his hair, tugging gently, and a soft sound escapes from deep in his throat. It sends a shiver down your spine, igniting a heat that spreads through your entire body. You’re dizzy with relief, with desire, with the sheer rightness of this moment. When you finally pull back, gasping for air, his forehead rests against yours, his eyes half-lidded and dreamy.

“I missed you,” you whisper, your voice fragile as glass.

“I missed you,” he replies, his breath hot against your lips. He kisses you again, shorter this time but no less intense, sealing the words with his touch. “Come home with me,” he says, and it’s not a question.

You nod, unable to speak past the lump of emotion in your throat. Hand in hand, you walk out into the night, the cool air a stark contrast to the lingering heat of his body against yours. The silence is comfortable, filled with the unspoken understanding that this is only the beginning.

At Seungmin’s place, he wastes no time pulling you into his arms, his mouth claiming yours with a hunger that makes your knees weak. You stumble together through the doorway, shoes kicked off haphazardly, jackets shrugged to the floor. His hands are everywhere—your back, your hips, the curve of your ass—as he steers you toward the bedroom.

Seungmin’s fingers find the hem of your blouse, slipping underneath to caress the bare skin of your stomach. You arch into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips. His breath is hot against your chest as he plants kisses along the fabric, creating a maddening friction. You tug at his shirt, trying to peel it off, but he captures your hands, holding them above your head as he gazes at you with a wicked grin.

“Not so fast,” he murmurs, his voice a low, seductive growl. He releases your hands and you immediately grab for him, but he’s already shifting, his mouth working its way back up your neck, to your jawline, then hovering tantalizingly close to your lips.

You’re breathless, your skin on fire with anticipation. He kisses you, slow and deep, his tongue dancing with yours. Your hands are in his hair, pulling, needing, and he responds by pressing his body harder against yours, his weight pinning you to the bed in the most delicious way.

And then his hands are on your hips, pushing your skirt up to reveal barely-there panties.

You moan softly, arching into him as his fingers glide over the contours of your body with curious skill. You gasp when he traces a line up your thigh, stopping just short of where you want him most. The anticipation is agony, and you find yourself pushing against his hand.

He chuckles darkly, the sound vibrating against your neck. “Be patient,” he whispers against your skin. He kisses you again, deepening the connection as he slips off his shirt and pushes you back onto the bed. He slowly peels the panties down your legs.

Then he’s there, straddling you, the heat of his body pressing into every inch of exposed skin. His lips find your collarbone, leaving a trail of kisses and bites that make you squirm with pleasure. You grab for him again, but he shakes his head playfully, keeping you just out of reach.

When Seungmin finally reaches between you both, your whole body tenses in anticipation. His fingers trace your wetness with agonizing slowness, teasing you until you’re whimpering with need. His fingers slip inside you, soothing and stroking until you’re gasping for breath. He adds another finger before sliding them in and out slowly but surely, each thrust deeper than the last. The sensation is intense but oh-so-good as he fingers you expertly. You moan softly into his mouth.

He watches your face, studying every reaction, and the intensity of his gaze makes you feel stripped bare, vulnerable in the most exhilarating way. He adds another finger, stretching you, filling you, and you bite your lip to keep from screaming. Each thrust of his digits is deliberate, unhurried, as he works you with an expert rhythm, his fingers curling to hit that perfect spot inside you.

The sensation is overwhelming, a tidal wave of pleasure that threatens to drown you. You’re gasping, writhing beneath him, your hands clutching at the sheets, at his hair, at anything to ground yourself. He leans down to kiss you, and you moan into his mouth, the sound full of desperate need and raw longing. His kiss is hungry, devouring, as if he can taste the climax building within you.

Your hips start to move in time with his hand, seeking more, demanding it. He obliges, increasing the pace, the pressure, driving you higher with each stroke. Your skin is on fire, every nerve ending alive with electric pleasure. You can feel the orgasm coiling tight in your core, ready to explode.

“Seungmin,” you gasp, your voice barely more than a breath. “I’m going to—”

He silences you with another kiss, his free hand tangling in your hair. Your body arches, every muscle taut as a bowstring, and then you’re coming undone, the orgasm crashing over you with a force that leaves you shaking. You cry out, your nails digging into his back, your entire being consumed by the wave of ecstasy.

He continues to finger you through your release, each movement prolonging the pleasure, making you convulse with aftershocks. When you finally come down, your body is a limp, sweaty mess, your mind hazy with satisfaction. He withdraws his hand slowly, gently, and you shudder at the loss.

You lie there, chest heaving, watching as Seungmin stands. “Stay,” he says playfully, as he unbuttons his jeans with deliberate slowness. He lets them drop to the floor, stepping out of them with a casual grace before hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his boxer briefs. He pauses, meeting your gaze, and you can see the hunger in his eyes. Your body tingles with anticipation as he slides the briefs down, his erection springing free. He’s beautiful, every inch of him, and the sight sends a fresh wave of desire coursing through you.

Seungmin climbs back onto the bed, his hands and knees making the mattress dip and sway. He moves over you and you feel the weight of his arousal pressing into your thigh. He kisses you, slow and deep, as his hands roam your body with a familiarity that makes you ache. Your fingers trail down his back, over the curve of his ass, pulling him closer.

He breaks the kiss, his breath ragged, and takes one of your legs, draping it over his shoulder. You feel his cock brush against your still-sensitive clit, sending a jolt through your core. He positions himself at your entrance, and with a slow, deliberate thrust, he slides into your wet, welcoming heat. You exhale sharply, your hands gripping his biceps, your body stretching to accommodate him.

The first stroke is exquisite, a blend of soreness and pleasure that makes you gasp. He sets a gentle pace, each movement unhurried, savoring the tightness and warmth of you. Your leg slips from his shoulder, and he leans down, his chest against yours, his lips finding your neck. The new angle makes him hit deeper, and you moan softly into his ear.

Every thrust, every kiss, every touch is a reassured declaration of the connection you’ve fought so hard to reclaim. The way he moves inside you, the way your bodies sync together, it’s more than just physical. It’s an unspoken forgiveness, a mutual understanding, a promise of what’s to come.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, your hips rising to meet his. The friction builds, and you can feel another climax starting to simmer just below the surface. He kisses you, his tongue lazy and sensual, and you taste the salt of your own skin mixed with his.

“Seungmin,” you whisper, and he looks into your eyes, his expression tender and filled with longing. “I love you.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and fragile, and you see the flicker of surprise in his eyes, then something deeper, more profound. He pauses, his body still, as if absorbing the full weight of your confession. Your heart pounds in your chest, a wild, uncertain drumbeat, as you wait for his response.

“I love you too,” he breathes, his voice breaking with emotion. The tenderness in his gaze melts you, and a tear slips from the corner of your eye. He kisses it away, then captures your lips with his, the kiss soft and reverent. His hands caress your body with a newfound gentleness, as if you’re something precious and breakable.

He starts to move again, slowly, each thrust a deliberate expression of his love. The pace is unhurried, almost languid, as he takes his time savoring every moment, every sensation. Your bodies meld together, the heat between you building in a steady, simmering wave. The emotional intensity heightens the physical pleasure, making every touch, every stroke, almost unbearably exquisite.

You cling to him, your arms around his neck, your legs around his waist, pulling him as close as possible. His skin is slick with sweat, his muscles taut with effort, and you can feel his heart pounding in rhythm with yours. Each thrust drives you closer to another peak, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through your nerve endings.

“Min,” you gasp, your voice a mix of need and gratitude. He kisses you deeply, his tongue slow and sensual, and you moan into his mouth. Your hips meet his in perfect sync, the movement natural and unforced, as if your bodies have always known this dance.

The orgasm continues to build, a rising tide of ecstasy that sweeps you both along. You can feel him nearing the edge, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts, his thrusts growing more urgent. Your own release is just a heartbeat away, teetering on the brink.

With a final, deep thrust, he pushes you both over the edge. You cry out together, your voices mingling in a chorus of pleasure. The wave crashes down, obliterating everything in its path, leaving you both trembling and spent.

He collapses gently on top of you, his weight a comforting presence. You run your fingers through his hair, soothing him, holding him. He nuzzles your neck, planting lazy, affectionate kisses on your skin.

“I love you,” he murmurs again, and the words fill you with a warm, glowing contentment. You smile, your eyes closing as you savor the moment, the afterglow of your shared intimacy.

****

You wake up wrapped in Seungmin’s arms, sunlight streaming through the curtains and casting a glow that makes everything feel golden and perfect and yours. The quiet is a balm, the kind of peace you forgot was possible in the wake of everything. His breath is warm against your neck, and you sink deeper into his embrace, letting it anchor you in a moment that feels too good to be real.

His hair is a mess of black vines against the pillow, and you resist the urge to smooth it down, loving the tousled chaos of it too much. He stirs, pulling you closer, and your heart does a familiar, welcome flutter. “Morning,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep, more felt than heard.

“Hey,” you reply, a smile spreading across your face as he tightens his hold.

The memories of the night before are a delicious blur—talking and laughing, unraveling tangled feelings and barriers until there was nothing left between you but skin and breath and the fierce, undeniable pull of everything you’ve wanted for so long.

“Sleep okay?” he asks, rubbing a thumb lazily across your shoulder. You can feel his smile, lopsided and sweet against your cheek.

“Best night ever,” you say, turning to meet his eyes, the truth shining bright in yours. “Though you do hog the blankets.”

He laughs, the sound a low rumble that fills every space, including the one inside you. “You looked too warm. Just trying to keep your temperature balanced.”

“I’m sure that’s all it was,” you tease, poking him lightly in the ribs. He catches your hand, bringing it to his lips, and the tenderness of it steals your breath.

There’s an ease, a newfound closeness, and you revel in it, letting yourself bask in the rightness of it all. His stomach growls, loud and demanding, breaking the sleepy spell and earning a giggle that’s way too undignified but totally unashamed.

“Hungry?” you ask, propping yourself up and ruffling his hair because you can, because he’s here, because it’s perfect.

“Starving,” he admits, stretching beside you in a way that makes your pulse do flips.

You roll out of bed, draping your naked body in his oversized hoodie, loving how it smells like him and like forever. “Think you can beat me to the kitchen?” you challenge, halfway out the door before he has a chance to respond.

He’s hot on your heels, chasing you down the hallway as he struggles to pull on his boxers with laughter and mock-protests about you having a head start and being a cheater. You’re both breathless when you reach the kitchen, and there’s something so wonderfully domestic about it that it almost overwhelms you. Almost.

“Pancakes?” he asks, eyeing you with a mischievous glint, one you’ve learned means trouble of the best kind. “Or maybe something with fake cheese?”

You groan, the memory of him dragging you to the Patty’s suggested vegan place still fresh and funny. “Pancakes. Definitely pancakes,” you say, decisive, and you love how right that feels too.

It’s easy, natural, the two of you working in tandem. He mans the stove while you grab mugs for coffee, a shared rhythm you fall into without even trying. It’s everything you’ve been craving and everything you were afraid to have, but now it’s here, and you can’t imagine anything else.

The food is a mess of flour and laughter, and you lean against the counter, watching him flip pancakes with a flair that’s more style than skill. All of the pancakes are misshaped and different sizes. “These look terrible,” you declare, though your tone is anything but disappointed.

He tastes one, pretending to gag and making a face that sends you into hysterics. “Guess we’ll just have to eat them all to be sure.” He feeds you the half-eaten one in his hand.

The pancakes are halfway gone when your phone rings, the sudden intrusion a jarring reminder of the world outside this bubble you’ve created. The caller ID flashes bright and persistent. Felix. You knew it would happen, but it still pulls you back to reality with a snap.

“Don’t you dare,” Seungmin warns playfully as you reach for it, but there’s a touch of understanding in his eyes.

“I have to,” you say, more to yourself than to him. You give a half-apologetic smile and pick up, bracing for impact.

“Thank god you’re alive!” Felix’s deep voice is an octave higher than normal, and you can picture him pacing, ipad in hand, dramatic as always. “There’s a crisis. A real, honest-to-god crisis.”

“Slow down,” you say, already knowing that’s a useless suggestion. You settle on one of the stools next to the counter. “What happened?”

“Servers crashed, and now there’s an app apocalypse!”

“An apocalypse, Felix? Stop being dramatic,” you say with a sigh as you look at Seungmin and roll your eyes playfully. Seungmin grins.

“I’m not being dramatic!” Felix yells. “I’ve told Chris a thousand times we need a better back-end system. But he kept pushing it off. Other things taking priority. If we don’t have servers, we don’t have any apps. If we don’t have apps, we don’t have a company!” he continues, the words pouring out like a dam has broken. “You need to get back here. Yesterday!”

Seungmin watches you, attentive and calm despite the chaos coming through the phone. “Okay,” you say, squeezing the bridge of your nose in preparation for the oncoming storm. “But I need a couple more days before I can come back in. Just call Chris. He’ll fix it.”

“Days?!” Felix yelps, his deep voice rising almost to a squeak as if you had suggested an entire year. “Fine, but if we’re all dead by then, you’ll have to explain it to the board.” His tone is a mix of resignation and sarcasm.

“If you’re all dead by then, then maybe I’ll finally get some actual fucking rest,” you mutter, sarcasm lacing your words. Seungmin bursts into a fit of giggles.

“I heard that,” Felix replies flatly, unamused. “And who is that in the background, your new developer boy toy?” His tone has shifted immediately to one of playful curiosity, appeasing to his inner gossip.

“None of your business,” you respond with a chuckle. “I will take all the blame if everything goes to shit, okay? I gotta go, Lix.”

You hang up before he can respond, the urgency of the call leaving a tension in its wake. It’s the reminder you needed, the one you weren’t sure you wanted, that the world doesn’t stop just because you finally got everything you wanted.

Seungmin leans against the counter, watching you with a mix of amusement and something deeper. Something you think might be understanding. “The apocalypse, huh?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow.

“Pretty much,” you confirm, biting your lip as you try to figure out how to say everything you need to. “Who knew it would start in our server rooms…”

“Guess the whole work-life balance thing starts now,” he says, meeting your gaze with a sincerity that makes your heart flip.

“Yeah,” you agree, running a hand through your hair. “I want this, Minnie. I want you. And I don’t want to screw it up by being the flake who’s never around.”

“You won’t,” he assures, closing the distance between you and tracing the edge of your jaw with his thumb. “Just means I’ll have to work extra hard to keep you distracted when you’re not saving the world.”

You laugh, but it’s shaky, too full of the relief and the fear and the hope that you’re managing to balance it all. “You okay with that?” you ask, needing to know, needing the reassurance that he’s on board for this, for everything.

He takes your hands, bringing them to his chest, where his heart beats steady and sure. “I am if you are.”

It’s exactly what you need to hear, and you pull him into a kiss that’s long and lingering and full of all the things you can’t put into words.

“So, we have two more days before I need to go deal with this apocalypse,” you say, eyeing the last of the ruined pancakes with a wistful sigh.

“An apocalypse sounds like something you shouldn’t put off…,” he teases, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips, though his eyes hold a trace of concern. He walks the pitiful stack of pancakes to the kitchen table, placing them down as he takes a seat in the wooden chair.

“Oh well. It will have to wait,” you declare with faux nonchalance, already plotting how you can stretch every minute of these next two days into infinity.

You slide off your stool and saunter over to him, your movements slow and deliberate. He tracks you with the wariness of someone who knows exactly the kind of trouble you’re about to start. You straddle his lap, your knees sinking into the cushion of his chair, and you capture his mouth in a kiss that’s all promise and heat. His hands find your hips, squeezing gently as you grind against him, feeling the hard length of his arousal grow even more insistent beneath you.

Your lips trail down his neck, leaving a path of open-mouthed kisses that make him shiver. You bite lightly at his collarbone, then soothe it with your tongue, reveling in the way his breath hitches. “Minnie,” you purr, your hands slipping under his shirt, running over the defined lines of his abs. “I’m going to miss this.”

He chuckles, a low, throaty sound that vibrates through your core. “We haven’t even started yet, and you’re already missing it?”

You sit up and look into his eyes, letting him see the depth of what you mean. “I’m going to miss all of it. The mornings, the pancakes, the way you look at me like I’m the only thing that matters.”

His expression softens, and he brushes a strand of hair from your face. “You don’t have to go yet. And none of that will change. Probably only the frequency. Plus, we work at the same place. We can carpool when my shifts align with your schedule.”

“I know,” you say, your voice tinged with the conflict you’re starting to feel. “That’s why I’m going to make the most of every second.”

“Or,” he starts, as he peppers kisses on your neck, “since you make all the big bucks, I can quit and become your stay-at-home partner. I can clean, cook you terrible food, and lounge around half-naked and ready for you to take advantage when you come home.”

“You’ll be my sugar baby? How thoughtful of you,” you reply with a grin.

You kiss him again, deeper this time, pouring all your pent-up emotions into it. Your hand slides into his boxers, freeing his throbbing dick, already slick with anticipation. You lift your hips and position yourself over him, the tip teasing at your entrance. With a slow, deliberate motion, you sink down onto him, a gasp escaping your lips as he fills you completely.

“Oh Madame CEO, what will the board think of this behavior?” he laughs, though it turns into a groan as you start to move, your hips rolling in a languid, torturous rhythm.

“Let them think what they want,” you say, breathless. “I’m on sabbatical.”

His hands travel beneath your sweater and up your back, pulling you closer to his chest. You plant your feet on the floor and rise up, then drop back down, each thrust sending a shockwave of pleasure through you. He meets your movements with upward strokes, his hands guiding your pace, your bodies working in perfect harmony.

The friction is exquisite, every nerve ending alight with sensation. You bite your lip, trying to hold back the sounds of pleasure threatening to burst from you, but it’s a losing battle. Each thrust, each grind of your hips, pushes you closer to the edge.

“I love how you feel,” he murmurs, his lips grazing your ear. “So tight, so perfect.”

You’re beyond words, beyond thought, your entire being focused on the growing inferno in your core. Your nails dig into his shoulders as you ride him harder, faster, chasing your release with a desperate need.

He’s close, you can tell by the way his muscles tense, by the ragged quality of his breath. You lean back, changing the angle, and his hands fly to your breasts, kneading them with a roughness that sends you spiraling. Your clit rubs against his pelvis with each thrust, and the combination is too much.

You come with a cry, your body convulsing around him, and he follows you over the edge, his warmth flooding into you as he groans your name. You collapse against him, both of you spent, your hearts pounding in a shared, chaotic rhythm.

For a long moment, you just hold each other, letting the aftershocks of pleasure ripple through you. He strokes your hair, your back, his touch tender and loving.

“I’m going to make the most of these two days,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him, as if saying it out loud will make it true, will make it enough.

On your last morning together, you slowly disentangle yourself from him, every movement a reluctant goodbye to the intimacy you’ve shared over the past few days. It takes every ounce of willpower to peel yourself away and find your clothes, every look he gives you a reminder of why you don’t want to leave. But you do, because it matters, because he matters, because making it work is the only option.

“Dinner later?” he calls as you head to the door, and the promise in it carries you through the day.

“Absolutely,” you reply, giving him one last lingering look that makes you ache to stay.

It’s hard, but it’s worth it. You’re going to make sure of it.

****

The office is chaos, your desk drowning in paperwork and urgent emails, but you’re back and more determined than ever, fueled by Seungmin’s certainty and the knowledge that you’re not in this alone. Felix flits about with the nervous energy of someone who’s just ingested twelve espressos, thrusting reports and updates in your direction with the urgency of a war correspondent.

“Glad to see the fire didn’t consume us all,” you say, signing off on a document and handing it back with a flourish.

“Barely,” he replies, his drama dialed to eleven. “And only because I stopped CB from replacing the servers with hamster wheels.”

The sheer volume of work is overwhelming, but it’s the good kind of overwhelming. The kind that reminds you of what you love about this place, this career, even as it threatens to consume you.

Chris walks in, calm and collected, a tether in the swirling storm of corporate mayhem. “Survived your first day back, I see,” he says, quirking an eyebrow.

“Surviving,” you correct, leaning back in your chair with a sigh. “The servers are up, the emails are in the thousands, and the board wants to meet tomorrow. So, you know. Same old.”

“Didn’t take long for them to pile on, huh?” He grins, that glorious smile of his that matches the charm of his loose-knit sweater, all worn edges and the suggestion of lived-in comfort. “How’re you holding up?”

“Good,” you say, half-question, half-statement. “It’s a lot, but it’s good. It’s really good.”

He pulls up a chair, shifting into Serious Chris Mode, something you’re grateful for right now. “And what about Seungmin?”

His name is a reminder, a shot of warmth that spreads through you even amidst the chaos. You haven’t seen him since this morning, and it already feels like too long. “We’re figuring it out. It’s just hard, balancing everything.”

Chris nods, the sage wisdom of an old soul in a young executive’s body. “You don’t have to choose, you know. You can have both.”

“Can I?” you ask, not quite doubting but still needing to hear it, needing the reassurance that it’s possible.

“Sure,” he replies, like he’s talking about picking up takeout and not the massive, conflicting parts of your life. “But not if you burn out. Have you talked to him about what this week’s going to be like?”

You look at the stack of reports, the endless to-do lists, and the chaos that seems to multiply the more you tackle it. “I will,” you promise, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “If he can put up with it, I’ll figure it out.”

Chris leans back, a study in comfortable confidence. “Might not be as tough as you think. I hear he knows a thing or two about tech and coding.”

The suggestion floats between you, an idea you’ve been toying with since before you got back. “You think he’d fit in?”

“You kidding? Bring him to the launch. Let the board meet him,” Chris suggests, and you wonder if this was his plan all along.

“And what if he blows them all away and takes my job?” you joke, though you wouldn’t mind seeing that happen.

“Then at least you’ll have more time for the fun stuff,” he shoots back, and you laugh, the ease of it surprising and comforting all at once.

It’s a risk, inviting Seungmin into this world. A risk you’re ready to take because the thought of him there, by your side in every sense, is thrilling. You leave the office with renewed energy, plans forming and hopes growing.

Seungmin meets you for dinner, all smiles and effortless charm, and your heart does the familiar dance that’s become a part of your routine. “Crazy day?” he asks, taking your hand and leading you inside your favorite neighborhood place.

“Insane,” you confirm, brushing your thumb against the back of his hand. “Think you can handle even more of it?”

He cocks an eyebrow, intrigued. “What are you plotting?”

You tell him, the words rushing out like you might lose your nerve if you pause too long. “There’s a launch event. Big, fancy. I want you to come. Meet everyone.”

He pauses, and your heart skips, waiting for him to say no, or worse, to say he doesn’t want to be a part of it. But then he smiles, slow and wide. “You sure they’re ready for me?”

“They better be,” you reply, breathless with relief and excitement. “Because I want you there. With me.”

“Then I’m there,” he says, the promise of it more satisfying than anything on the menu.

He meets you at the office the night of the event, looking sharp and dangerously attractive in a fitted blazer, his usual hoodie and sneakers combo swapped for something more polished but no less him. He pulls you into a hallway kiss, ignoring the stares and whispers of late-working employees.

“I thought you might have backed out,” you tease, adjusting his lapel and reveling in the fact that he’s here, with you, in every way that matters.

“Not a chance,” he replies, giving you a once-over that makes you blush despite the corporate armor of your tailored suit. “You ready to knock ‘em dead, boss?”

You roll your eyes but lean in for another quick kiss, not caring about anything but the feel of him, the truth of him, the certainty that you can do this together.

The event is a blur of introductions and polished handshakes, Seungmin at your side but feeling miles away. The room is stuffy with tailored suits and practiced smiles, and you can see the unease in his eyes, the uncertainty in the way he holds himself against the tide of corporate egos.

For a moment, you worry you've made a mistake, that this is too much, too big, too intimidating. But then he disappears from your side, drawn like a moth to executives gathered around a small, flickering flame of tech trouble. They're huddled in a corner, confounded by a coding issue that sounds like gibberish even to you.

Seungmin listens for a second before jumping in, his usual chaotic brilliance shining through as he offers a solution so simple and so clever you can almost see jaws hitting the marble floor. You watch from a distance as his confidence grows, the tension in his shoulders melting away as the group laughs with him, nodding in admiration.

He fits in more than you ever imagined, and the sight of it swells your heart. They're hanging on his every word, and you know in that moment, with absolute certainty, that he belongs here just as much as you do. In this world, in your world, in your life, in everything.

Seungmin charms them all, his mix of confidence and casual sincerity making him a hit with the board and everyone else who matters. You watch, half in awe and half in love, as he talks code with the senior developers and manages to slip in a few jokes that have even your most serious investors laughing.

You knew he’d be a natural, but seeing it—seeing him own the room like he’s always belonged—fills you with pride and something deeper, something that feels a lot like forever.

“You were right,” you tell Chris later, when the crowds have thinned and the adrenaline rush has started to fade. “He’s amazing.”

Chris gives a knowing nod, smirking as he watches Seungmin field questions like a pro. “Guess that means Alexis and I don’t have to set up any more blind dates?”

You groan, but the sound is light, unburdened. “Please don’t.”

Seungmin finds you, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close, the warmth of him a constant reminder of why you’re doing this, why it matters so much. “Told you I’d survive,” he whispers, his lips brushing your ear, and you shiver at the delightful normalcy of it all.

“You more than survived,” you say, the truth of it stretching beyond tonight, beyond the career you were so terrified to lose.

He smiles, the kind that lights up the room, lights up you, and you know, with him by your side, you can face anything. Work, love, life. All of it, together.

And it’s everything you never dared to hope for.

A/N: Thanks for reading and making it to the final chapter.

This was a fun one, especially including the crazy dogs and their personalities as part of the story. It would be great to hear your thoughts about the story. Please leave a comment.

[toastyghostey]

My little university project - STARCROSSED. For my packaging design class, we get to come up with our own brand / product, so I am working on my own take of a Warhammer / Trench Crusade-esque project that is Saturday-morning sci-fi cartoon themed!

"In the universe of STARCROSSED, the Milky Way Galaxy is teaming with races and creatures of all sorts. Originally migrating to the Sol Solar System to meet the humans who sent out messages to outer space some time ago, many different races were devastated to find out they arrived fashionably late to the party and that humans had been gone for some time. Being able to scrounge up spare physical, analog, and digital artifacts, humans were mythologized as this daring and sometimes vicious race - to the rest of the galaxy, humanity existed only in glimpses of daredevil action stars and cold blooded cowboys. One day, at the turn of what would be the year 9999, just within the Oort cloud, a stray S.O.S. ping is received. Many dismiss it, some notice it but don't care — until the rumors spread. The dates match up, and some even bring artifacts of it: the Last Fleet. A fleet of perfectly preserved humans in cryo-sleep is spotted, with the humans inhabiting it possibly still being alive. A scramble begins - a gold rush for the stars to find the Last Fleet and the humans inside. Everyone has their reasons to lay claim to the Last Fleet, but only one faction can make that claim a reality!"

King-God-Emperor-Boz Bozzi is the king of the Bozzi people, of the Bozzi Planet. Upon taking power of the throne, Bozzi changed the name of the race and planet, along with choosing every possible title to give himself (including a new one based on his name). King Bozzi, dissatisfied with just one solar system, took to becoming a space warlord in a quest to take all of the galaxy for himself, and has seen success on a solar system scale. Now King Bozzi turns his interest to the Last Fleet, where the once-great Human race is ripe for the conquering.

A Khatun of the nomadic Yggran people, Kiraluna enjoyed a life of luxury as part of the royal family — a pleasure only afforded to them and their innate resistance to the Yggran Mass Mind Migraine, a frequent event that causes all Yggran psionically connected to the Yggran Mass Mind to suffer crippling (and often deadly) psychic overloads. Kiraluna, knowing her ancestors used to once study the humans long ago and may have even made contact with them, believes that humans may hold the key to ridding themselves of the Mass Mind Migraine: either in their technology, or in their biology

Waking up from deep sleep just outside of the Kuiper Belt, Skipp Jimenez woke up to a very different universe, one without mankind in any place except the Last Fleet. Having to hop planet-to-planet in his trusty Celano, a former Urani-Yum Co. Soft Serve freighter, he has learned to survive in a world where his kind are highly sought - dead and / or alive. Skipp now travels all over the Milky Way, chasing stories of stray human cryo-pods in an effort to revive enough allies to retake the Last Fleet and save his kind!

(this is not a real product yet, but uhh if you have the ways to make something like this happen then hit me up)

[thevolpin]

One of the stranger parts of being Bi-Polar is how severely and tangibly it affects my creative process.

I have been incredibly stunted in my emotional development. Expressing aswell as feeling emotion is something that does not come easily to me. I had a rather rough upbringing and nothing was taught to me in a healthy way, wich as a result made me harshly supress everything I could as an act of self preservation.

A circumstance I work very hard to fix.

Art has always been my go-to tool for /feeling/, for /expressing/ - even before I was aware of it.

I create to feel and I learn to create.

That has always been my guiding phrase.

Up until about 3 years ago art always had me on the backfoot - my manic and depressive episodes were a backdrop of my creative efforts, complete with the common feelings of invicibility and the pitfalls of wanting to tear my environment and myself apart in my frustration.

It helped me.

It helped me to cope and deal with life outside of art, because I feel safe in my art and I have a place to express my emotions - even if it felt awful and the worst thing to do in that moment a lot of the time.

3 Years ago I realized all of this and I made a conscious descision to move on, to heal and to re-imagine my art as a vessel to reshape my emotional facilities, to create with the /intent/ to express and not the necessity to vomit out whatever I could not express otherwise.

I turned a frustrated and self destructive mess into a self-caring and patient frame of mind.

But that does not take away my Bi-Polar tendencies.

I have been rather down mentally in the last week and now that I am able to observe that, I can observe my own being.

When I am in my manic state, I still barely eat or sleep, I take risks and make descisions, I splurge on things and I move fast, I want it all.

When I am in the depressive state, I slow down, I bunch up and curl into myself. Suddenly days come to a crawl and I get this odd quality of viewing my own mental goings on like a removed observer. And when I draw then I slow down too - I start to examine and observe, I start to crawl through my own process and watch it dissolve infront of me - both artistically, but also mentally, emotionally.

And curiously, some of my most successful images happen in that slow, depressed, exhausted state.

I heard of the term /Depressed/ as /Deep Rest/ - as in that is what you need. That is what your body tells you to do.

So I lay down, I sleep in, I check out. I sit down and I listen and I listen well what my mind needs to tell me, what I need to feel.

I do not believe in the idea of "great art comes from suffering" - great art comes from /emotion/ - suffering is just one of them and it is no more or less valid than the others.

The attached image was finished today - as an expression of appreciation, of beauty because that is what i truly crave most in my lowest states of mind. Stopping to look and admire something just for the fact it exists. Of understanding that I need to indulge into the things that make me feel at home with myself, rather than marinading in the pain i have accrued when I swing to the lowest lows.

Would it not be great if we could always see ourselves in that light?

I feel a little better, surprising myself with what I am capable of if I just grant myself the space to be whatever I need to be in that moment, and let it speak.

So, ironically, accepting the ungovernable swings of mood and flowing with them made them manageable.

We as human beings experience the world by comparing things - both biologically and emotionally. Hot and cold, high and low, near and far.

Exuberant and Devastated.

Depression and Mania.

We define what something is by understanding what it is not.

And so somehow now, I feel like if I was "cured" of my condition I would miss it.

[dramalove247]

Growth, change and patterns

Love reading other perspectives and they often inspire us to think deeper about our own feelings. We really enjoyed this Business As Usual post by @miss0atae for this very reason, even if we came to a different conclusion.

Thinking about this is making us want to rewatch it... and we still might... so it's possible we could gain a new perspective. But our impression was that Min Jun has changed through his experiences, though not always for the better.

I feel the need to start by saying that we get to see VERY little of who these people have been for the last 8 years. And even now, we only see them as they react to each other, within this relationship and this situation, with all their baggage of the past and how it impacts where they are now at this point in time. Their existence and personality outside this relationship is mostly unknown to us. And honestly, it doesn't matter because we can have epic growth individually and still be stuck in old habits and patterns within established relationships. Sometimes it is hard to free ourselves from who we were to make space for who we are or are becoming. For this reason, it can be much harder to break a pattern than to just start over with someone new where there is no history that needs to be overcome.

We totally agree with @miss0atae that Min Jun seems tired to his core. Depression seems like a possibility, but it's hard to know if this is his "normal" or just where he is at in this particular moment. If I had someone suddenly show up in my life that had hurt me the way Min Jun had been hurt (misunderstanding or not), my emotional state and behaviors would have little to do with how I am managing life on a regular basis. So we aren't convinced that Min Jun's current state as we see him is representative of how he has spent the last 8 years.

The series made a point to say that both had been more submissive in the past, both changed themselves to fit the other, both were insecure and afraid, and both had grown and changed from who they were in the past, and continue to grow as they navigate their current relationship. But for the sake of this post, we are here to focus on Min Jun's growth. I've already written a book, so I'm going to try to keep this short and only make a couple of points. 🤣

One of the big things we noticed is that Min Jun is a lot less passive. Does he still have more work to do in this area? Yes. They even made a point of this with him staying silent at work and taking on too much. But even Jin Hwan says he's changed and is more outspoken. And we see Min Jun frequently push back against Jin Hwan, rejecting him and speaking up about his feelings. He believed he let himself be used last time, and he won't let it happen again. Even when he realizes it was a misunderstanding, he isn't silent when he perceived he's being played with.

And we see this growth again after the wedding when he declines the invitation to go out to dinner. In the past, we saw him cave when Jin Hwan pushed his invitation to join him with his friends. So Min Jun seems a lot more willing to say what he is feeling and prioritize his own desires over those of someone he likes.

We also feel he has grown more protective of himself. He's experienced a deep wound that left serious scars. Even knowing it was a misunderstanding does not change that experience. He can intellectually understand he cut himself, but the wound still existed. Yes, Min Jun had been afraid to admit his feelings in the past, fearing the pain of rejection. But he is even more afraid of that pain now that he has experienced it. This is the change that has not been for the better.

Also, this self preservation fuels his fear as soon as he recognized himself returning to old patterns. He likes Jin Hwan and that scares him. That fear of being vulnerable and opening up to this man to risk being hurt again is clear on his face when they sleep together for the second time. It was devastating to see them repeat the pattern of experiencing the same event so differently. But even with bigger walls this time, with epic levels of reassurance from Jin Hwan, Min Jun ignores his fear enough to let himself surrender to his emotions in this moment, just like he did last time.

But this is short lived. With his growing feelings for Jin Hwan, Min Jun also recognizes himself returning to those old patterns. The increased hope comes with increased fear, and the pain he experienced in the past gives his fear much bigger teeth. So as soon as he finds himself back in a familiar place, watching his phone, waiting for a text, something to prove to Min Jun that he's important, that he isn't being used by Jin Hwan (this time to resist his father), and when that text doesn't come, his need for answers causes him to start searching, while also being afraid of what those answers could be. And when he finds Jin Hwan, the need he feels is too much and the pain too familiar. It's too scary. He knows this isn't healthy and he doesn't want to be back here living these same patterns over again. So he runs away, just like last time. Only now he will tell Jin Hwan to his face, communicating clearly what he wants with devastating impact. And Jin Hwan, having been as clear as he can possibly be, knows there is nothing else he can do, will close the door because it wasn't enough. AH! It's so sad! Having feels!

ANYWAY! By the end, Min Jun grows again. Realizing he is repeating another pattern, making the same mistakes he made last time (thanks to the best wingman EVER!), Min Jun is finally willing to face his fears and stop running. ABOUT FREAKING TIME! He knows he might get hurt, but he won't hold back. And Jin Hwan finally got what he deserved, someone who chooses him back and is willing to fight for him.

We spent the entire show being mad at Min Jun and we weren't ready to forgive him. Honestly, not sure we have. But we will call this ending good enough for Jin Hwan and good enough for us. It told a story we can respect and Min Jun owned his mistakes, grew, and gave us hope he will do better.

Thank you @miss0atae for sharing your perspective and inspiring this post! Please don't think we are picking on you because we had a different opinion. We just wanted to give you credit for making us think deeper about this character. ❤

[emmg]

I would love to know your headcanons on this. Do you think Raphael is horrible in bed because he’s so selfish and self obsorbed, so why would the thought of his partner’s pleasure even cross his mind? He just geniunely does not care about anything but his own release. Or is just truly awful at it? (Him cumming way too fast aside. He probably has a super short refractory period to make up for it. But regardless this is solely about his stroke game). Or does Tav try to teach him and show him what feels good, what she wants in those moments where he’s feeling particularly magnanimous and is willing to indulge her. But despite her lessons he still just fucking can’t get it right? Could he fuck someone until they’re a babbling mess and putty in his hands if he really wanted to, or is he just cursed with having weak stroke game.

First of all, this is the first time I read "weak stroke game" and the laugh I laughed at that is unreal lmaoooo absolutely amazing

When I write, I always over embellish for the sake of entertainment. It's not fun to read something utterly mundane.

But Raphael being totally useless in bed? Nah, I don’t think so. I mean, the guy’s older than most of the furniture in his boudoir. He was around when Karsus decided to play a game of "Whoops, I Broke the Weave," so I’m fairly certain he’s picked up a few tricks along the way. Sure, he's got Haarlep now to handle the, ahem, carnal negotiations, but I’m willing to bet there was a time when Raphael himself was the one closing deals in more... intimate settings. Call it professional multitasking.

But here’s where psychology comes in: at this point in his life (and I use the term “life” loosely), Raphael’s operating on a whole different level. He’s evolved past the need for that kind of effort. We’re talking classic narcissistic tendencies—he’s got the grandiosity, the entitlement, the complete lack of empathy when it comes to anyone else’s needs. In his mind, he is the prize. Archdevil Supreme to be blablablabla, son of Mephistopheles blablabla, Master of the House of Hope blablabla, you get the gist. Why on earth would he go out of his way to please someone else when he could just, you know, not? Especially now, when he’s basically an ancient devil CEO who can get what he wants with a flick of his wrist. Effort is for plebs.

Psychologically, Raphael’s likely running on a pleasure principle, but not in the way most people would think. For him, pleasure isn’t about mutual satisfaction; it’s about self-gratification, maintaining power, and reinforcing his ego. He’s not looking to bond emotionally or physically with anyone else. That would require acknowledging someone else’s needs, which is, frankly, beneath him. He knows what he likes, he’s set in his ways, and frankly, if the other person is dissatisfied? That’s their problem, not his.

This is pure self-preservation in action. Raphael’s whole deal is about control and conserving his own resources for things that truly matter to him. He’s got no interest in wasting his precious energy on something as insignificant as pleasing someone else. Let the other person work for it. In his mind, he’s already done them the favor by simply existing in the same space. He gets what he wants with minimal effort while reinforcing the idea that he’s so valuable, others should be thankful just for the privilege of being near him.

Now, if Tav somehow manages to break through that narcissistic shell and Raphael starts feeling something (which is a whole other debate on whether he can even care about someone that way)? Whether it’s a twisted form of love or obsession, that would be the psychological equivalent of Raphael stepping outside his comfort zone. And if Tav tries to suggest he could, idk, improve? Cue the massive ego bruising. Narcissists hate being told they’re not perfect, it shakes their whole self-image.

So, Raphael would likely respond in one of two ways (in my hc.) Either he doubles down on his usual behavior, dismissing Tav with a “You should be grateful you’re even here” attitude, or he reluctantly listens, but only when it benefits him. You know, when he needs something, and it’s part of his manipulation toolkit. In classic narcissistic fashion, he might even pretend to improve, but don’t expect him to put in the effort consistently. That would imply that someone else’s needs matter, and we all know Raphael’s world revolves around one thing: Raphael.

tl;dr because I ramble: I think he's old and lazy, he can probably be good but doesn't care to

[ruggiesears]

pedi pro chat revisar minha gramatica nisso LKJALKA Crystal Daisy Cookie was created in one of the oldest laboratories hidden deep within the Dream Constellarium, a forgotten chamber where dream ingredients once flowed freely under the stars. Long after the age of Moonlight Cookie, and some time following the stardust-borne birth of Stardust Cookie, the Sugar Witches decided to attempt another dream-crafted Cookie, this time not to chase the cosmos, but to preserve what remained of beauty and warmth within a broken sky. The base ingredients were similar to those used for Moonlight Cookie — sweetened moonwater, crystallized fragments of lucid dreams, and star-sugar. However, this time, they added something else: dried daisy petals infused with sunrise dew, and sugar crystals collected from the slumbering sweet dreams of Moonlight Cookie herself. And from that delicate alchemy, Crystal Daisy Cookie was born.

Unlike Stardust Cookie, who held the cold beauty of the stars and the isolation of the cosmos in his heart, Crystal Daisy Cookie radiated warmth, hope, and gentleness. The Witches who helped create her were surprised at her deep empathy and eagerness to connect with others. She was quick to comfort, to share joy, to offer kindness without needing to be asked. She sang to the laboratory plants, cleaned the dusty floors without complaint, and learned potion-making not for power, but simply to help others. She was admired and cherished.

But admiration fades when the world changes. As the age of Dream Creation declined and most of the Witches disappeared one by one, she was left behind with only one remaining figure — a reclusive and bitter old Wizard who had once assisted the Sugar Witches but now wanted no part in their dreams or kindness.

The Wizard secluded themselves in a small cottage buried deep in a forest on the edge of the dream realm. Crystal Daisy Cookie went with them, thinking she could bring light to that lonely space. But time passed, and the cottage became her cage. The Wizard, once fascinated by her bright spirit, grew cold and impatient. She reminded them of what had been lost — of the Witches, of wonder, of warmth. Her presence no longer soothed them; it only made their loneliness worse. They didn’t hurt her, but they made her feel like a burden. They ignored her questions, dismissed her efforts, and left her alone for days at a time. That silence was worse than cruelty.

Crystal Daisy Cookie began to wonder if she was wrong for existing at all. Was she truly made to bring joy, or had she failed even at that? When she tried to speak with the dream creatures in the woods, the Wizard scolded her for wasting time on "imaginary things." When she tried to make the cottage more lively, he told her not to touch anything. Her heart, once full of hope, began to quietly crack.

One night, after being left alone again for days, she stood outside beneath the stars and remembered a time before the cottage — a time when she had sung to the night sky and believed that even in a crumbling world, someone out there might still care. 

That night, for the first time, she didn’t sing. She made a wish instead. A wish upon the shiniest star across the dark blue sky. A wish for a home that didn’t make her feel like she was too much or not enough. A place where she could simply be.

The next morning, she left the cottage. She didn’t know where she was going — she just walked, guided by a feeling, not by logic. The forest was deep and full of echoes. Some days she’d hear voices whispering in the wind, tempting and strange. But Crystal Daisy Cookie never stopped. Coming back to the one place she hoped to find love: City of Wizards, where she didn’t knew what was left behind was nothing but memories.

______

Crystal Daisy Cookie wandered aimlessly through the outer edges of dreamspace. Her departure from the forest did not go unnoticed; stray dreams and fading star fragments whispered of her movement. Moonlight Cookie, still recovering after the events of The Forgotten Dream Garden, briefly sensed an unfamiliar dream signature drifting through her domain — warm, lucid, but unrooted.

During the events of Song of the Night Sea, when Stardust Cookie’s shadow began appearing in the City of Wizards and Moonlight Cookie became more aware of dream anomalies, a new ripple was detected: the presence of a Cookie who wasn’t tied to any known dream route or constellation. Crystal Daisy Cookie had unknowingly stepped into the outlying districts of the City of Wizards — not the restored core, but the decayed fringes left behind by the Wizards and untouched by recent visitors.

Moonlight Cookie sent a few small dream familiars to investigate, but before they could reach her, Crystal Daisy Cookie had already drawn the attention of the Sanctuary of Faded Stars. The structure, which Stardust’s shadow often visited, responded to her presence not with resistance but with quiet resonance. The Sanctuary recognized her dream-born essence — one not created to fight, but to preserve, to remember, to mourn gently. This drew the attention of Stardust’s shadow, who witnessed her silently resting among the garden ruins near the sanctuary.

Their first meeting was brief. Stardust Cookie’s shadow, lacking the clarity and voice of his full self, only observed her from a distance. Crystal Daisy Cookie, worn and quiet, did not try to speak to him. Yet even in silence, something unspoken passed between them — not recognition, but the shared ache of abandonment, of asking the sky for answers and receiving only silence.

While Stardust Cookie himself traveled through dreams during Across the Galaxy of Dreams, Crystal Daisy Cookie remained in the ruins of the Sanctuary. She repaired broken structures, tended to star-plants nobody had touched in ages, and gradually gained the attention of Moonlight Cookie, who began investigating her presence more directly. Moonlight Cookie did not immediately bring her into the restored City; she was cautious. But what she sensed in Crystal Daisy Cookie was no threat — only sorrow, patience, and quiet hope.

When The Eternal City of Wizards arc began and Stardust Cookie descended again upon the City, drawn by the weight of his pain and purpose, Crystal Daisy Cookie was still in the background. She witnessed the falling stars from a distant terrace of the Sanctuary, far from the central chaos. She felt the tremors in the dreamworld as Stardust Cookie unleashed his fury on the Wizards’ legacy. It wasn’t until his battle ended — after he fell into Moonlight Cookie’s dream, after the Memory Flower was recovered — that Crystal Daisy Cookie was finally brought into the core of the City by Moonlight herself.

At the conclusion of The Eternal City of Wizards, as the City began its second restoration and the stars slowly calmed, Moonlight Cookie introduced Stardust Cookie to Crystal Daisy Cookie. She did not frame it as a formal meeting but as a suggestion: “There’s someone I believe you should meet. She reminds me of something we’ve both forgotten.” They crossed paths in Dreams, their encounters fading with the morning light. Yet somehow, Moonlight Cookie always remembered, even if she wasn’t the one who dreamed.

THIS IS SO PEAK???? there's a few things that are lore heavy that I don't understand but I GET THE GIST OF IT AND I FEEL SO BAD FOR MY GIRL💔💔💔 SHE DESERVES SM MORE OH MY GOODNESS MY POOR BABY💔💔💔💔

Her, Stardust and Moonlight can become a little found family and I think that's so cute, Crystal Daisy Cookie suddenly got a bf and a sister in law (Moonlight is Stardust's sister, right? Correct me if I'm wrong)🩵🩵

[duskandcobalt]

Time Will Be Frozen for Us

if you're like me and have a massive soft spot for slow and gentle domestic elriel moments, please allow me to present some cozy, elriel fluff for your holiday weekend 💗✨

ENJOY XX

1.1k words

Inspired by Sabrina Claudio’s ‘Frozen’

Read on AO3

Elain eased herself from Azriel’s arms, silently slipping from between the sheets and pulling his shirt over her head and down her body until it covered the gentle swell of her hips and the tops of her thighs. She tiptoed out of their room and into the small living area, carefully avoiding the floorboards she knew would squeak under her weight even if she knew the chances of accidentally waking him were low due to the exhaustion that resulted from the hours they’d spent coaxing pleasure from one another over the course of the night.

She made her way to the window that looked out to the woods. Snow fell heavily outside, blanketing the forest floor in a glistening, unblemished sheet of white.  Hazy beams of early morning light filtered through the shimmering, snow covered trees, illuminating the highpoints of her face as she tilted her chin upwards and chased the warm caress of the sun on her skin in an effort to preserve the heat she’d obtained from being tucked against the muscled chest of an Illyrian warrior for the past few hours.

It was a few days after Winter Solstice and Azriel had wasted no time upon Feyre and Rhys’ departure to their cabin before he whisked Elain away to this secret place of theirs for a singular night together, just the two of them.

Standing here now, Elain couldn’t help but think about how far she’d come since that first Solstice spent in this now-familiar body. Her heart, once splintered by a broken engagement, had slowly started to heal by then with the help of some hobbies and a few new friends - Nuala and Cerridwen… and the brooding male they reported to. A male whose stern features only ever seemed to soften around her. 

Elain had known since that first Solstice, since that night when he’d sat beside her and patiently listened to her explain her plans for the garden, that there was something between them. His unabashed laughter that evening, his sincere appreciation for her gift, had been the initial spark that lit the eternal flame of interest that would go on to burn steadily at the back of her mind, flickering higher and brighter each and every time his eyes met hers, until she could no longer stand to ignore it. 

Elain had come to think of Azriel like a book. She wanted to turn each of his pages, read him cover to cover. She wanted to memorise every word, lock away favourite passages for safe keeping. She was determined to know everything about him, wanted to devour him whole until there wasn’t a single part of him left unknown to her. She craved the time and space to allow herself to tend to what grew slowly and steadily between them.

It was made clear to her that Azriel felt the same - that he’d also realised that the heated glances and restricted touches that passed between them had rapidly outgrown the shadowed alcoves and cramped rooms they often found themselves in - when he’d winnowed her here for the first time six months ago, at the very beginning of summer.

She’d been shocked and delighted when he’d lifted his hands away from her eyes and she caught her first glimpse of the cozy cottage on the outskirts of Velaris, tucked away deep in a small patch of woods that she hadn’t even known existed.  

It was a gift from Azriel to her. A place they could escape to, somewhere far away from the ever looming threat of their secret being exposed. Here, they could pretend that they didn’t have to hide. Here, all the complexities of her mating bond ceased to exist. 

In this quaint cottage, amongst this thicket of trees, it was just them. A male, a female, and the sweet domesticity of a shared life.

It was the passing of a clean dish to be put away after a meal made and enjoyed together. It was his hand on her waist as he spun her around the tiny kitchen, his voice sweet as honey in her ear. Her soft laughter muffled by the skin of his neck. It was nervous confessions of obvious feelings in the middle of the night. Overwhelming emotion written plainly on both their faces, tears of relief shimmering in the light of a candle. 

It was leisurely walks in the woods, their joined hands buried deep in his coat pocket - unwilling to separate but desperate to keep warm. It was a roaring fire and a heavy blanket draped over their bodies, her icy toes pressed against his warm calves. It was a book falling from Elain’s fingertips, landing with a gentle thud on the worn wooden floor when the feeling of Azriel’s lips gliding along her shoulders won the fight for her attention against the words she’d been attempting to read.

Half a year later, neither of them could set their eyes on a single corner of the cottage without memories resurfacing of all the things that these four walls had witnessed. 

This sacred space commemorated the subtle trembling of his fingers as he undid the laces of her corset before he carefully laid her down for the very first time, watching as she fell apart for him. These walls stored her soft sighs and his deep moans. The whispered conversations in bed all the times after that initial night - Elain’s head on Azriel’s chest, his fingers tracing patterns over her sensitive skin as he patiently answered each and every question she had ever dreamt of asking him.

“Still snowing?” She’s pulled out of her thoughts by the rustling of wings and the sound of his voice, gritty with sleep.

“Pretty isn’t it?” She doesn’t turn to look at him but she could just about see his reflection in the glass - his dark hair tousled from the way she’d grasped it, his chest broad and bare.

“Beautiful.” Azriel’s arms slipped around Elain’s waist, pulling her back against his chest until he could rest his chin on the top of her head. She didn’t need to look at him to know that he wasn’t referring to the snow outside.

A soft smile found its way to her lips as she let her body melt into his, her delicate fingers mindlessly tracing over the scars on the large hands that now rested over her stomach as they both gazed out of the arched window and watched the snow fall.

She’d never been so grateful. For this place. For him. For the life they shared together, oblivious to the world around them. Seasons changed and time passed. Flowers bloomed and leaves turned colour. Trees, their branches once bare, were now covered in glittering snow. But whenever they were here, in this little cottage that had come to feel like home, time seemed to freeze solely for them. As if some higher power had paused the turn of Earth’s axis just to grant the Shadowsinger and his Seer the gift of an extra hour, an extra night spent together, lips grazing skin until the morning sun turned the sky the colour of the blush on her cheeks.

[the-worms-in-your-bones]

Lore notes: The Inquiry

Court of inquiry → thing that exists

Interesting to me how romana is the only one here that introduces herself with her full name (well maybe except brax, because as far as we know braxiatel is his full name)

She does go on to say all this (‘President of the Supreme Council of Gallifrey and all her dominions, holder of the wisdom of Rassilon, preserver of the Matrix, guardian of the legacy of Omega’) so maybe she just likes to feel special

‘Chief coordinator of the celestial intervention agency’ → okay, so even this early on there was more than one coordinator as an established thing (guess i just didn’t catch it the first time)

There’s a separate door sound for all of them (at least i think that’s a door sound) (actually i have no clue what they is given it’s not the typical big finish door sound, but something is happening everytime one of them introduces themself) (well except for brax)

‘Matrix interpretation of events’ → interesting phrasing here, there’s the implication that what is recorded in the matrix is not necessarily what actually happened

Nano span → so what is this, i’d love an explanation of what the different gallifreyan time measurements mean (it seems to be the equivalent of seconds)

‘But just because it’s impossible doesn’t mean it can’t exist’ → yeah okay (something something paradoxes something something)

‘The President knows because it’s in the Matrix’ → now does she know because she has full access to the matrix and went looking, or does she just passively have the knowledge of the matrix (i mean it would be a bit much to have it all at once, but given the connection that a president has to the matrix, is it a case of they have to go look it up or can they just sort of summon the knowledge like bringing up an old memory)

‘You think the Coordinator of the CIA can’t Matrix data without the President, or the Matrix, come to that, knowing’ → a) narvin has probably illegal back doors into the matrix b) it’s possible to get into the matrix without it having a record of that and c) is the whole of the matrix only accessible to the president, or is there a surface level of information that everyone can use?

‘Let’s see what’s so secret that even the Matrix is forbidden to look at it’ → can seal matrix data from the matrix

Matrix outside real space time

Matrix accessed through linking your mind to it

Interesting that romana uses k9 to access the matrix for her, why is she not the one connecting to the matrix, and how did she configure an outside computer to be able to access it when it seems that it is something that’s intrinsically linked to the president themself

‘The energy-wave signature is a real-time recording of a timonic fusion explosion within the vortex. Such a device would operate on a temporal frequency of five-point-nine-seven-two on the Blinovitch Variable Scale’

Data bomb planted in the matrix → it is predictably, a bomb that destroys data

Cia has its own systems outside of the matrix

‘The APC net ensures that all data is cross-linked; that’s how it performs predictive analysis’

‘Now, the Matrix has a real-time regulator, that’s how it maintains relativistic relationships between the data’

So micropans seem to be a somewhat longer than a second, while nanospans seem to be equivalent to a second

‘the Matrix gathers all data pertaining to events in the Capitol’

‘it sees, but it doesn’t always remember. It makes decisions about the priority and importance of what it predicts and preserves. It may once have known, and then deemed the information valueless’ → matrix just deletes data sometimes

Brax threatens to leave gallifrey to get them to listen and they do + he doubts that they would have actually let him go → makes me wonder how hard it is to actually become a renegade, what safeguards are there against leaving gallifrey, also at this point it doesn’t seem that brax was all that important in the grand scheme of time lord politics, so it may not have even been about him in particular, but the prospect of anyone leaving (also this is just a bit funny to me considering we know he has left gallifrey, though maybe there’s the important bit of yes he’s left, but he hasn’t completely abandoned time lord society like a true renegade)

‘the Chancellery Guard is trained to officiate at state occasions and escort the President to and from her office’ → largely a ceremonial position

‘Biodata certification. It uniquely identifies the individual who created or modified the data’ → k9s definition of an artron imprint → the artron energy of each time lord is as unique as their biodata

Time lords have an archive of their biodata extracts

Artron imprints are pretty useless for tracking people within the capitol since there are so many overlapping artron sources from all the time lords there

So it seems it is possible to just go and travel around without anyone actually noticing

Artron imprint can be tracked, but it doesn’t seem that it is immediately able to be linked to someone

Archive has an online indexing system

‘in 2347, relative’ → seems that they default to the time when something happened in a measurement that lines up with where it happened, but that doesn’t actually do all that much to tell us when in happened in reference to gallifrey (unless i am getting this wrong, which is possible, i often get confused by time)

So we know that romana knows about the braxiatel collection (according to city of death), but she’s completely surprised by his art purchases, so i really wonder what the general perception/knowledge of his collection is

I mean the way romana talks about learning about the collection, it seems that she may have learned about it while travelling with the doctor

‘encrypted ident key issued to the higher ranks of the CIA’ → high ranking members of the cia are able to access things without leaving traceable records

President can order an arrest

Data extracts are color coded by chapter

Narvin using an earth expression that he doesn’t actually know what it means → someone has been spreading these, and i have to assume it is either romana or brax

Door controls use hand/finger prints

There’s rivalry between cia and chancellery guard

‘the lower levels of the old city, beneath the Capitol’ → capitol is build on top of another city, wonder if anything happened to the original or if they just built on top of it for more space or something similar

Staser blast to the head is enough to kill a time lord permanently

‘You know the penalty for unauthorised interference’ → interference is fine as long as it’s the right kind of interference

There were diplomatic missions off gallifrey even before they started reaching out to the other temporal powers (at least i’d assume they hadn’t during the time of project alpha)

‘The Matrix is outside time, outside history, it doesn’t know or care that events have changed’

Temporary transduction barriers can be set up for experiments

‘The High Council accepted the CIA’s recommendation that the whole event should be covered up’ → if it makes you look bad, just pretend that it never happened