#and he doesnt want them to leave him but he also doesnt want them to be better than him and he kind of wants them to know they aren't | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

xylatox · 24 hours ago

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Manacled Hands, Shared Sins || csb

I am back reading another of Yun’s work (my precious shayla) and God. I’m so excited!! Been loving Soobin extra more recently so im looking forward to this even more :))

I immediately love how high stakes the beginning is.

Hexing him in your mind wasn’t enough. You needed to see him writhe and squirm and regret every breath he took from the moment he decided to knock over that damned lamp. You wouldn’t stop until he begged. Until the arsenal of curses in your vocabulary bled dry.

I love her personality so damn much of my god

Also, Im always so obsessed with your vocabulary Yun like, it truly amazes me everytime

Out of spite, your hand twisted the knob.

This is so me

I am so intrigued with everything relating to Soobin because what on earth is going on

You always steered clear of situations that never concerned you. It wasn’t indifference; rather, it was a necessity. It was a rule you clung to with the kind of desperation only survival breeds.

I will always be in love with your words I swear to god.

I think its super sad to that mc has to lean into the narrative people push when it comes to those sorted into Slytherin, like its sad that shes treated like that because of how some people behave. Even though I am by no means a HP fan (I never finished the books or movies) I have done the house sorting for fun since my mum is a die-hard fan and this women gets disgusted every year when I get placed into Slytherin and its hilarious honestly.

Yun please I swear I gotta get a glimpse into how you think because this line is amazing what the heck

Until that summer of your freshman year, when you pushed open an unused storage room’s door on the outskirts of the castle, you found him hiding away with tears running down his cheeks.

My poor baby :(

Also MC truly playing into the Slytherin narrative just breaks me eventhough you can tell she doesnt really want to :(

"Until then, our hands are manacled."

SCREAMING PART OF THE TITLE IS REFERENCED AHHH

"I don’t like to be in anyone’s debt," Soobin said, and though the words came soft, there was nothing weak about them. They were steady enough to sound like a decision had been made. “So whatever it is you want — name it. Just say it, and you’ll have it. Then we’ll be done.”

Im sick I find him saying this back kind of hot I cant lie😭

????HE JUST COLLAPSES LIKE THAT???

Poor baby is exhausted oh my goodness

I love that theyre both literally just surviving, trying to fit into the mold that is expected of them and honestly? Im a bit obsessed

“No,” he said, voice clipped but not raised, the change in tone enough to make the prefect blink. “Leave the Slytherins out of it. Unless you’ve got solid proof, there’s no cause to single them out. You told me the last magic trace showed the artefact was by the lake, didn’t you?” He raised an eyebrow, the smile now gone from his face. “Then if you’re so eager, go dive in and see what you find.”

This made me giggle so stupid oh my god i love himmmm😭😭

To your surprise, he laughed — a proper one, soft but genuine, and you found yourself momentarily thrown. It wasn’t the reaction you’d expected, and as the sound settled, you noticed how it pulled deeper creases at the corners of his eyes. His dimple deepened, and though you’d never admit it aloud, your gaze lingered on it a moment too long.

On my knees, in love with him so bad hes so fucking cute i might pass out

Then came the grin again, lopsided and strangely genuine in a way that didn’t suit the polished Head Boy the rest of the school had come to revere. “We’re sharing sins.”

THE OTHER PART OF THE TITLE REFERENCE IM FUCKING AHHHHHH

Whether you spoke of it again or not, you’d both remember.

Yun I swear to god Im going to crash out (in a good way). I feel sick (in the best way) I love them so freaking much that my words cant even explain the extent ugh. Im soso excited for the continuation of this. Your work as always continues to be soso amazing.

Manacled Hands, Shared Sins || Choi Soobin

i. CHAPTER ONE

.☘︎ ݁˖ Back to story ml .☘︎ ݁˖ Event masterlist

Being a Slytherin was never about villainy – it was about survival. So when you stumble across Choi Soobin, Ravenclaw’s golden Head Boy, accidentally ripping a hole through reality itself, you do what any sensible person would: you make it his problem.

Unfortunately, you’re also a witness to the ritual. Which means if this whole mess comes to light, you’re just as screwed as he is.

⊹₊⟡⋆ 11.7k/ ?

Ravenclaw!Choi Soobin x Slytherin!afab!reader

[NOTE that: Specific warnings will be listed before every chapters || Check the story masterlist page to get the genre + whole warning section] chapter warnings: hogwarts college/uni au, characters are 20+, except for the first part of this chapter - the entirety is written in flashbacks, prejudiced system, reader and soobin starts with a rocky relationship (they're both emotionally constipated and just trying to survive), mild description of nosebleed and fainting, dual pov

MHSS is finally here oh my god this fuckass fic made me pull my hairs out and crash out on a daily basis. It's totally on me for making such a detailed plot back when I dropped the teaser I'm ngl don't even know what was going through my head when I came up with the storyline. I'd like thank my moa friends for this chance and allowing me to bring this story to life <3 ily all so much. The story will be updated weekly! Hoping you like this story as much as I hated writing it <3 Reblogs and feedbacks are appreciated! © filmsbyun ── please do not copy, translate, or repost my work without permission.

Tonight, everything had the chance to change.

After a failed heist of the Marauder's Map from the caretaker’s office, you were compelled to take an improvised detour.

It was supposed to be a perfectly well planned infiltration of the said office to get the magical tool before anyone even realized something was missing. It should have gone without a hitch.

But then Choi Yeonjun, in all his infuriating recklessness, knocked over a lamp with the crook of his elbow.

There was no time to think, let alone breathe. The fast approaching footsteps of the caretaker and his cat reverberated into your bones. You spun on your heel and cast one murderous glare in Yeonjun’s direction, one that said you’d personally transfigure his organs the next time you see him, and then darted into the hidden passage behind the filing cabinet. You didn’t need to tell him where to go — he knew. The two of you split, vanishing into separate secret tunnels that curved beneath the stone walls like veins.

It was an old maneuver in the textbooks — splinter the team to fracture pursuit. Let the enemy scramble. Let them guess which way you’d gone and lose time deciding.

You ducked beneath low beams, boots scraping against damp stones, and emerged somewhere near the third-floor Charms corridor. It was dead silent. You took a moment to press a palm against the wall, steadying your breath, your other hand clenched into a fist.

You felt the irritation bloom in your bloodstream. You hated disruptions to your perfectly constructed plans. More so if the plan promised you nothing but the desired result in your desired way. You despised the unpredictability of someone else’s incompetence.

The map should’ve been yours tonight. You could’ve had one of the greatest magical tools in your very hands if Choi fucking Yeonjun didn’t fuck up.

Tonight, everything had the chance to change.

You didn’t know what it was exactly but suddenly you felt uncomfortable inside. If your senses weren’t keen, you would’ve almost missed it. The air felt uncharacteristically colder, a dip so slight it could’ve been passed off as a draft. Especially during this time of the year considering summer was fast approaching. Yet here, in this corridor, the air felt wrong. Not just cold, but cutting in a way that made your skin tighten beneath your robes. Your eyes narrowed as you stared ahead.

It was not safe to stay outside now considering the caretaker is well aware someone is breaching the curfew hours. You should’ve doubled back the moment you reached the junction. You should’ve taken the route back to the Slytherin dorm long ago.

But instead, you found yourself walking toward the far end of the corridor. It felt like something magnetic was pulling your being to it. It was as if a vicious voice in your mind telling you to see what you could find in there. You stood in front of the door, now feeling the chill biting into your skin through your robes.

Turn around. Leave.

Magic tainted the air and the darkness that surrounded you, but it was almost foul. It reeked of something utterly bestial.

Just before your hand gripped the doorknob, you paused. You stared at it, eyes slightly narrowed and one single thought planted itself in your mind: But what was the point of going in? There was no logic to this, and definitely no reward waiting on the other side. You didn't even know what was behind that door. If you had the map, perhaps you would’ve had some semblance of direction. Instead, all you had was this knot of frustration curdling in your stomach and a bitter aftertaste crawling up your throat reminding you of your failed heist.

Out of spite, your hand twisted the knob.

Locked.

Your head tilted slightly. There was a strange tension in the air that clung to your skin the moment you touched the door. Magically sealed.

Colloportus, probably.

Someone was inside. Now that tickled your curiosity.

“How useless,” you muttered under your breath before fishing out your wand as you stepped back half a pace, “Alohomora.”

The enchantment peeled away with a faint metallic creak. The door opened, spilling cold, stale air into the corridor like breath from a tomb. Your instincts made you grip your wand tighter, the tip barely alight, casting only a faint glow that brushed against the floor.

As you stepped inside the door shut softly behind you, muffling out the corridor. At first, the light seemed distorted, your vision struggling to orient itself to the strange hue tinting the air.

You didn’t know what you were expecting on the other side. An unused room with dust-slicked furniture, perhaps. Rows of forgotten bookshelves or peeling chalkboards — the leftovers of a classroom that no longer served a purpose. At worst, a Gryffindor huddled over some misguided prank, ready to bolt at the sight of whoever crossed them.

Anything, really. Anything but this.

Tonight, everything was going to change.

Anything but him.

You could've sworn your heart stopped beating for a moment. The hand holding the wand slowly dropped to your side as your eyes adjusted to the dark — hoping you were seeing things.

A rift in space, like a violent slash through the air itself. The air around it warped, sucked inwards and shuddered out, like the room was caught in a perpetual gasp. Blackness spilled outward from it in slow drips, thick tendrils of darkness stretching and recoiling, disappearing again, only to return seconds later with renewed intent. The edges shimmered faintly, like oil catching low light, and the space around it throbbed with unnatural pressure.

And standing before it, back to you, head tilted upward like he was staring into the maw of a god in utter defeat was—

"Soobin?" His name slipped out of you before you could help it. A bewildered recognition punched out of your chest.

Choi Soobin flinched like you’d hexed him.

His body twisted sharply as he turned to face you, eyes wild and trembling. There was a pale sheen on his forehead and a terror in his gaze that had nothing to do with being caught and everything to do with what stood — what moved behind him.

You stepped back instinctively, wand lifted a little higher now. Everything was supposed to change tonight but not like this. You were never supposed to find him, let alone come near him.

It had been a year already without exchanging more than what the corridors and shared classes required — brief flickers of coincidental glances, not even nods. It was meant to stay that way until you took your last breath, until you could forget what he’d asked of you with those eyes, what you gave in return without ever saying yes. But here you were, standing just a reach away from him, again.

“Soobin… what are you doing?”

A little over one summer ago, your world unexpectedly collided with Choi Soobin.

You always steered clear of situations that never concerned you. It wasn’t indifference; rather, it was a necessity. It was a rule you clung to with the kind of desperation only survival breeds.

From the moment you were sorted into Slytherin, your name had carried a shadow. You had no freedom to define yourself because everyone else decided who you were before you had a chance to be anyone.

Peers assumed the worst — that you were manipulative and power hungry. Even the smallest act of kindness from you was met with suspicion, as if it were part of a larger scheme. You still remembered a moment in second year — offering to help a Hufflepuff carry a stack of books, only to watch them recoil like you’d threatened them. You remembered thinking to yourself, what would a twelve year old possibly do?

In group projects, Slytherins were the ones no one wanted to be paired with. In duels, you were expected to go too far, and so you held back until it was dangerous to do so.

You learned fast that there was no benefit in trying to prove yourself otherwise. No matter what you did, your actions would always be dissected under the same poisoned lens. This prejudice, this reputation that Slytherins couldn’t escape sometimes baffled you. You had to learn to lean into the mask they gave you just so you could quietly survive. The unfairness you faced didn’t soften with time; it calcified. Hardened into something dense and cold in your chest. It was rage, maybe, but rage so familiar that it settled inside you like second skin.

Therefore, you began to adapt. If the world expected you to be dangerous, then at least you’d make sure they were right to be scared. You started giving them what they wanted. You built a shell so tight around you that you could breathe without fear of anyone getting too close. You developed a habit to always make sure you’re the one in control.

Because being in control meant being safe. Control was how you survived. In this twisted, prejudiced system that you’ve come to resent so deeply, you had to make sure you played the game cunningly. People always assumed Slytherins were power-hungry. They never realized that power was just another word for safety — one you were forced to cling to, because of how the world decided who you were before giving you a chance.

The House prejudice. The biased professors. The way people assumed light was good and dark was evil — you despised all of it. But instead of trying to break the system, you chose to play it better than anyone else. The only power you craved was the kind that let you live without compromise.

And maybe that’s why people like Choi Soobin made no sense to you.

He existed on the other end of the spectrum, where people assumed the best instead of the worst. Head Boy. Top of the class. House of blue and bronze. Teachers adored him. Students respected him. To them, he was the golden standard, someone whose light could not be touched by shadows. You’d always watched him from a distance, not out of envy, but as a way to study the architecture of privilege. The kind of boy who never had to prove he was good — people just believed he was.

You had always seen him as the perfect, pristine model of a student — without a hint of fault, always so thoroughly put together that it seemed almost unnatural. His uniform never bore a crease, his hair always neatly styled and his dimpled smile which was entirely too charming — was the sort that teachers favoured and classmates admired. His record gleamed with achievements, badges, merits, and praise. It was only natural, then, that you saw him as one might look upon an altar, some polished figure placed far above your reach, never faltering and never flawed.

He always looked so unbreakable.

Until that summer of your freshman year, when you pushed open an unused storage room’s door on the outskirts of the castle, you found him hiding away with tears running down his cheeks. And just like that, everything you thought you knew began to fray.

The summer sun flared behind you, casting a wide spill of golden light across the dusty floor, stopping just short of where he sat crumpled in the dark. That spill of light caught his face, and for the first time, you saw Choi Soobin — utterly shattered.

He was crouched down, knees pulled to his chest, shoulders trembling as though whatever composure he usually clung to had slipped completely from his grasp. His face was flushed and puffy, neat hair now askew and those lips — bitten and swollen — looked like he’d tried to hold the sobs in until it hurt.

Your eyes widened on instinct, mirroring his, except his were glassy and bloodshot, and the moment hung between you like glass waiting to hit the floor — your breath stuck in your throat, his faltering in his chest.

The tear tracks that streaked his cheeks glistened faintly in the scant light ought to have made your stomach twist with empathy. But that sight of him — this pathetic, crumpled version of Choi Soobin — sent a rush through your bloodstream so sharp and immediate you almost didn’t recognise it.��

It slithered through your chest like a thrill you had no right to feel, a bitter sort of satisfaction rooted not in cruelty but in the cruel symmetry of it all. Because right in front of you was Choi Soobin with a crack in his polished shell. How lucky were you to catch it? Alone, and by sheer accident?

A strangled sound left his throat as he stumbled upwards, hands fumbling to steady himself against the wall. One arm reached out towards you as though bridging the space might undo what had just occurred.

"Why are you here — no, it doesn’t matter. You—!"

Your heart kicked to your stomach at the sight because of what it meant. He was going to plead. You could see it forming in his panicked eyes, in the way he was reaching out slightly, from the shadows he curled in, towards you who stood at the threshold in the light.

It was ironic, almost cruelly so. All this time, you had been the one forced into shadows while he basked under everyone’s approval. And now, here he was, desperate and cornered in the dark, with you holding the door. That image clung to your vision, tipped the balance of your thoughts.

"Please," he rasped, voice hoarse and shaky. "Don’t tell anyone. You didn’t see this. Alright? You didn’t see me. Please."

Because even as your heartbeat quickened, even as your mind raced through the possibilities this encounter had suddenly opened, a low, grim voice inside your head reminded you that this was someone breaking. You weren’t supposed to feel satisfaction watching it happen. It came with an edge of shame, twisting itself around your ribs. You weren’t cruel. You never had been. But the balance of power had always been something you fought to claim, and now that it lay squarely in your hands, warm and alive and real — you couldn’t pretend you didn’t want to close your fist around it.

He said it again, almost tripping over the repetition, each plea more frantic than the last. His tone was splintered with desperation, barely stitched together by what little dignity he had left to himself. He sounded as if the very idea of you walking away with this memory terrified him more than being found in this state by anyone else.

Because you were the one person who’d say nothing, and mean it. Unless you didn’t.

And oh, the way your heart picked up with each of his pleas. This wasn’t the sort of power you clawed tooth and nail for in the face of prejudice. This was power handed to you, freely, through the very act of witnessing. He had no clue what you might do with it — and that, more than anything, made him panic.

A part of you recoiled at the sensation and as much as that part of you that still remembered the sting of loneliness wanted to offer him mercy, the part that had learned to survive by staying three steps ahead… it could already see the leverage hanging between you.

For years, you’d learned how to hold your tongue, when to manipulate a conversation, how to survive being judged before anyone saw the green and silver snake emblem — after all the side glances, all the mistrust, and all the assumptions it was like the universe had thrown you a bone.

Golden, rule-bound, Head Boy Soobin, asking for your silence.

You didn’t need to think very hard. If he didn’t want this moment to exist, then you held the power to erase it — or hold it like a noose. You wondered, idly, what it would feel like to have him caught in your palm. What might he give for your silence? What could you make of that control if you truly chose to keep it?

"Why?" you asked, your tone cutting through the charged air. "What’s in it for me?"

Soobin froze, eyes widening, clearly taken aback by the question. His mouth parted, searching — no, scrambling for something, anything to say in return. But for a few seconds, he came up empty, lips working soundlessly until his gaze flickered to the floor. The apparent defeated breath which slipped past his trembling lips ruefully had you claiming your victory. You should’ve known better than to think you could easily seize up a Ravenclaw like him.

You watched the change wash over him like it was a spell. He straightened up fully, the trembling in his frame gradually pushed aside by the sharper angles as if remembering the role he was supposed to play. There it was again — that mask. Neatly pulled back into place, only this time you knew how easily it cracked.

"Forget it," he said sharply, though his voice cracked slightly around the edge, betraying the rush with which he reclaimed control. "Just go. If you’ve got what you wanted, then go on. Walk out. It won’t matter either way, will it?"

You blinked once, your brow twitching in surprise that slowly bled into caution. There was something in the way he said it, a calculated precision that felt as though it had been honed under pressure. It was meant to cut.

"No one’s going to believe you anyway."

With two long strides, his frame came close enough but still maintained a safe distance. He towered above you in height, his shoulder far above where yours stood, and you took in the way that if you had stood a little more close to him — his lips would have easily brushed your forehead if he so much as leaned in. Yet, your chin stayed level. Your feet didn’t budge.

But the meaning behind the words struck harder than you anticipated. You’d heard that before too many times, from too many people, in too many forms. Like he’d plucked it directly from the mouth of every person who'd instinctively blamed your house for bruised egos.

The implication that your voice held less weight simply because of the house you’d been sorted into. He meant it as a bluff, a wall of indifference to hide the very real fear he’d shown before. But those words scraped across old wounds, and the sting made your fingers twitch.

A breath caught in your throat, then left as something closer to a scoff. You've played this game too many times to lose your balance now. You gave him a look that teetered on the edge of disbelief and smiled, or rather, allowed your mouth to curl into something too restrained to be mirth.

"Are you sure about that, Head Boy?" The title left your lips like a mock coronation stripped bare. "Because not long ago, you looked frightened out of your skin over what I might do after seeing you like… this. Doesn’t seem like such a throwaway moment now, does it?"

You stepped forward slowly, one foot after another, until there was barely an arm’s length left between you both. Soobin didn’t move but his throat bobbed with a swallow, jaw clenched — and your gaze stayed level with his, unshaken.

"If you’re confident," you said quietly, laced with the barest edge of challenge, "then say it again. Tell me to leave, to walk out of here bearing witness to your pitiful state, trusting that blind hope of yours that I’ll just let it all vanish. Go on, Soobin. Tell me."

His jaw ticked, eyes flickering with too many thoughts at once, and for a long, stretched-out second he simply stood there, every inch of his tall frame taut with conflict. Then, lethargically he dragged a hand across his face. His fingers pressed hard into his brow, then down over the curve of his cheek, wiping off the exhaustion with those long drag of his fingers.

"What do you want?" he asked, finally.

This was him giving in — not to you personally, but to the situation. And that’s when you get to decide the terms of how this arrangement will proceed. You took a moment yourself to think over what you truly wanted.

You didn't hold any personal vendetta against him nor do you want to hurt him. You never wanted to hurt him in the first place, only sought to solidify the leverage he himself presented in front of you. Having the Head Boy tethered to you — even by circumstance — might one day tip the scales in your favour. And right now, you weren’t above playing the long game.

Your gaze flicked briefly to the scuffed floor beneath your shoes, your expression falling into one of mild, almost disinterested contemplation, though your mind raced through possibilities with exacting clarity. After a few moments, you let your lips curl into the faintest semblance of a smile.

"Hmm. I’ll think about it," you said at last, voice low but audible. Then, meeting his eyes again, you added, "Until then, our hands are manacled."

Your smile had barely faded, the echo of your words still hanging in the air —

"Until then, our hands are manacled."

— when you made the turn, prepared to let him go, to walk out and leave the silence to stitch him back together. You had no intention of dragging it further, no desire to bruise what dignity he still had, only to mark the moment, to keep the upper hand. But before your foot could land into a stride, his fingers closed around your wrist.

They weren’t rough or bruising, but they held just enough insistence to halt your step and to command your attention. Your head turned sharply. He was looking at you not with that frantic panic from earlier but with a kind of stillness that unsettled you. The flush had left his face, leaving behind a pallor that did not suit him, and his breath came shallower than it should have.

You blinked at him, momentarily caught off-guard by the vehemence in his voice. You weren’t sure what surprised you more — that he still had it in him to bark terms, or that he thought this was a simple trade to finalise and forget. You studied his face, the stubborn tilt of his chin clashed with the dampness at his temples, the taut lines around his mouth, the sheen over his skin. Your eyes flicked to the point of contact between you — your wrist, small in his hand — and you gave it the faintest twist, more a signal than a struggle.

"Let go," you muttered.

But before you could follow through, before you could wrench your hand back fully, your gaze caught on a detail that hadn’t been there seconds ago. A line, red and stark, had begun its slow descent from his nose to the curve of his lip. You blinked once, processing it.

"Soo—"

Your attempt to speak his name fractured mid-syllable as his expression shifted — eyes unfocused and jaw slackening. His frame swayed alarmingly, head tilting forward but he looked at you mustering all of his might one last time.

“Please,” he managed to breathlessly croak out. His grip, which had held you fast only moments ago, tightened just once, a brief flare of strength as if trying to hold onto something, anything. Then it went slack completely.

In a heartbeat his knees buckled and the full weight of him collapsed forward.

Soobin woke with a start, lungs dragging in air that felt stale and far too cold against his damp skin. His chest heaved once before he shot up onto his elbows, eyes darting around with a vague urgency as though he couldn’t quite piece together where he was. The dimness of the room pressed in on him, shadows stretching long across the stone floor. It was only when he caught sight of the small, rectangular window near the ceiling — its glass tinged with the bruised hues of dusk that it clicked. He was still in the storage room. The sun had gone down. How long had he been unconscious this time?

He shifted slightly and saw a robe, folded neatly and placed beneath his head like a makeshift pillow. His own had been draped over him, now pooled in his lap where it slipped down when he sat up. His brows furrowed, and he was about to straighten up further when a voice made him flinch.

"You’re up?"

His gaze snapped across the room. You were sitting against the opposite wall, legs stretched out in front of you. There was nothing pointed about your tone, nor any warmth either.

At a loss he turned his head slightly, taking in the storage room with a fresh glance but the abrupt movement sent a sharp throb blooming behind his temples and he winced.

"Don’t move around too much," you said, uncrossing your arms and getting to your feet with minimal fuss. "You passed out from exhaustion."

You crossed the room in even strides before crouching down beside him — not too close, but near enough that he could see the faint sheen of sweat on your collarbone, likely from the stress of the situation rather than the air itself. His eyes tracked your movement before narrowing slightly.

"Why are you still here?" he asked, tone lower than usual, roughened by wear.

Your eyes rolled over to his with a sardonic tilt to your brow. "Surely you weren’t expecting me to lug you up to the Hospital Wing, were you?" There was a dry slant to your voice, and your gaze flicked once to his tall frame, your meaning crystal clear.

He had the decency to look slightly confused.

"I nicked a few healing potions," you added, pulling a small vial from your pocket and turning it over in your hand. "Didn’t use a Reviving Spell because you looked too comfortable knocked out cold."

But Soobin just blinked at you, frown deepening as he shook his head faintly, strands of hair brushing against his forehead. "No... that’s not what I meant. I meant—" he faltered, eyes narrowing again, "—why didn’t you leave?"

You stilled, the potion vial cooling in your palm. You looked at him squarely then, and a soft sigh pushed from your chest as if the answer, though simple, was too tangled to unpack in full. You let your gaze fall away for a moment, tracing the dull lines on the stone floor, before you leaned forward and offered the vial towards him.

"Why were you crying?"

The question came out quiet but not tentative, as though you already knew the answer — which you did — and were just daring him to name it aloud.

He didn’t take the vial nor did he answer, rather his eyes dropped to his fists, now limp against his lap. He stared at them for a moment, before murmuring, "I thought I said I don’t like to be in anyone’s debt."

You chuckled, the sound soft and lacking any real bite, though it made him glance up with mild surprise. It was clear then that he hadn’t expected that reaction. You, on the other hand, were beginning to see him more clearly with every passing minute.

The perfect version of Choi Soobin in your mind had long since shattered. And now, as he sat there frowning at his own hands like they’d betrayed him, you could finally admit that he was no different from you in the ways that mattered.

You gave the bottle a small shake and then dropped it into his lap, where he fumbled clumsily to catch it.

"You won’t be in my debt," you said evenly, and got to your feet again without waiting to see whether he drank it or not.

Soobin's fingers tightened slightly around the healing vial in his hand, knuckles paling as his eyes lifted slowly, gaze steady in that way of his — still somewhat guarded, but no longer openly confrontational.

"For what?" he asked, a rasp still clinging to the edge of it. "For your silence? Or the fact that you helped me?"

You paused in your step, then turned just enough to glance down at where he sat. The rigidity hadn’t left his posture, and you could see the way he was still watching you like he expected the other shoe to drop. It struck you then, how similar it looked to the way you’d spent half your life waiting, anticipating, calculating. It almost felt like staring at a mirror.

And for once, you couldn’t fault him for it.

"You’re still on guard," you observed, your tone level, not accusing. You turned back to face forward again, keeping your gaze on the opposite wall as you spoke. "Can’t blame you. I’d be, too."

Soobin didn’t respond straight away. But then his voice came, a little rough, the words spoken slowly like he wanted each one to land. "You asked what was in it for you. So how do I — why should I — trust that you’re not just doing all this because it benefits you somehow?"

You didn’t look at him right away. Your gaze flicked to the dim slit of the window, the last strips of sun thinning out like paint against the castle wall, and you exhaled slowly before finally meeting his eyes again.

"You’ve every right to be cautious," you murmured. Then, quietly, as though confessing it more to yourself than him, "I might’ve wanted a transaction earlier. I’d be stupid not to. But I’m not heartless. I couldn’t walk out and leave you there, knowing full well I could help."

The question in his eyes was still there, though fainter now, as though his certainty was beginning to wear thin. And maybe that’s why you said what you did next.

"I’m not what they make me out to be," you said. "Most times, I’m not even close. And you of all people should know what that’s like, shouldn’t you?"

That made his brows draw in, and the crease between them deepened just slightly. You knew he’d caught the implication.

"People see what they want, right? They call you perfect because it suits them. Just like they look at me and see trouble. A Slytherin must be scheming. I’m used to being doubted. But you—" Your voice softened just a notch, not in pity, but in recognition. "You get doubted for the opposite. No room to slip up because you’re the one everyone bets on."

"You don’t know anything about me," he muttered at last, gaze dropping and away from yours.

"I could say the same," you replied without hesitation. "Besides, I’ve seen plenty already."

You watched the storm gather behind his eyes again, but it wasn’t the same as before. There was less bite in it, more weariness. With a sigh, you stepped closer and crouched beside him again, retrieving the vial he still hadn’t opened. "Drink it," you said, holding it up in front of him. "It’ll help. You’re still half out of it, and it’s getting late. They’re probably already wondering where you are."

He hesitated, but finally took it and drank, his throat working through the bitter liquid. You waited, arms draped across your knees. When he lowered the bottle, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, you didn’t bother sugar-coating the next question.

"Why don’t you want people to see you like this?"

He didn’t look at you, just stared down at his hands. Then, almost like the words slipped out without meaning to, he said, "My worth only matters if I come out on top."

Your head tilted, just slightly. The pieces had been falling into place from the moment you found him, but now they were slotting in too perfectly. You didn’t say anything for a moment. Slowly, you exhaled.

You were beginning to think there wasn’t much point in keeping him leashed by some hollow agreement. He was just as misjudged as you. So you shifted back, sitting on your heels, and said, "Look, I know trust isn’t a word people use around Slytherins. I’m not asking for that. But if it’s fairness you want, then here’s my offer. You agree to help me out when I ask — and in return, I keep this between us. That’s it. Just an even trade."

You watched him closely, saw the flicker in his expression as he tried to process your offer, the way he was weighing the edges of your words. And maybe you should’ve been more idealistic, more kind-hearted, but that wasn’t how you’d learnt to survive.

You hoped he’d say yes — not just for your sake, but because it meant he’d started to see you as more than the house stitched on your robes. But even then, deep down, you knew better than to let your guard down. Because in your world, trust was a currency far more dangerous than gold, and if he ever turned on you, you’d have to do what you always did: survive.

“Alright.”

Soobin couldn’t recall the last time he’d slept properly. His days began far too early, long before the rest of the castle had stirred, trudging into duties that he never had the heart to refuse. The badge stitched into his robes caught the sunlight just right, glinting with every step, as though reminding him of what was expected. He ticked every box, filled every space that others left behind. It was never enough to simply do well; he had to do more. He had to be more.

By the time evening fell, Soobin had already run himself ragged. His nights were riddled with broken naps, eyes shut only to be startled awake by the persistent tug of responsibility. More often than not, he’d catch the sunrise from the dormitory window — bleary-eyed, blanket kicked to the floor, still in uniform from the day before. If he did sleep, it was never for long, and it was never uninterrupted. And yet, every single morning, he would rise and reapply the polish on the version of himself that the world had come to know. He’d fasten the buttons on his robe, draw his tie straight, and pull that mask on with both hands — the one that made people proud of him. The one that made them believe he had it all figured out. The one that hid the parts of him that no one cared to ask about.

He hadn’t even realised, until recently, just how long he’d been wearing it. It had grown into his face like a second skin. He often told himself that he was doing it all for his own sake. That the pursuit of perfection was something he wanted. But if he peeled back the layers, if he really sat down and looked the truth in the eye, he knew it wasn’t that simple. Since he was a child, affection and approval had come tethered to achievement. A good grade earned praise, a trophy won applause, an honour badge earned a pat on the head. It didn’t take long for the boy to understand: his value was conditional and was tied directly to success. And so he adapted. He became whatever was needed of him. The world taught him that love and worth were things to be earned.

So, every morning, he told himself again: this is for me. But behind that mask Soobin was already rotting.

The real him — the raw, tired, fallible boy that existed beneath the accolades and expectations had long been buried beneath a veneer of perfection polished so thoroughly that even he struggled to remember what lived underneath. It wasn’t that he wanted to fool anyone, but the thought of letting that image slip, even by a thread, left him dreading what might be left behind. The fear was always there, crouched at the back of his mind: if he stopped producing, if he slipped up, even once, would he still matter? Would he still be worthy of the praise he’d spent his entire youth collecting? Each day they asked more of him — more excellence, more responsibility, more poise and each day, Soobin gave them all of it with a smile that never reached his eyes. He gave until he had nothing left, and still, the asking never ceased.

No one had ever managed to break through the mask he wore — not classmates, not professors, not even his closest acquaintances who only ever saw the version of him that smiled at the right time, performed when needed, and never once faltered. The hollow part of him, the part hidden behind tired eyes and rehearsed words, had been left untouched. Until you appeared with a sledgehammer and hit it square on his face, cracking the mask in one go.

You, who were supposed to be a stranger.

Soobin hadn’t known what to make of you. He knew your name, of course. You’d both walked the same corridors for years. Sat in the same exam halls. Existed in the same world but it had never collided. He had always been far too consumed with perfecting himself to ever stop and consider the people around him. While yours seemed untouched by that particular strain of madness, carved from a quieter kind of resilience.

He thought you were the sort who liked to be alone, someone who kept to the shadows by choice. Maybe he hadn’t cared to look beyond the lines he’d drawn in his head. He had never paused to wonder what you might be like beyond the stories told in whispers between students, never thought your paths would cross in a way that mattered.

And now, in the wake of a single moment that had slipped past control, you were there, woven into the edges of his thoughts, tethered to a side of himself he’d worked desperately to conceal. You had seen a part of him that he hadn’t even let himself look at for too long. And Soobin, for all his cleverness, didn’t know how to untangle that without losing hold of the rest.

“Soobin?”

The voice cut clean through his thoughts, sharp enough to pull him back from wherever his mind had wandered. He blinked, turning his head toward the Ravenclaw prefect standing beside him with an expectant look. Right. They were in the middle of an inspection. A lost artefact, supposedly one of the older enchanted trinkets tucked away for display, had gone missing over the weekend, and somehow it had turned into a full-blown investigation. Not that the item held any real threat or value; if anything, Soobin thought the whole affair had been blown grossly out of proportion. He cleared his throat, mustering a faint smile as he straightened up.

“Sorry — what were you saying?”

The prefect, arms folded and brow creased, let out a sigh. “I said we ought to check the dungeons next. The Slytherin prefects have been acting shifty ever since we mentioned rounding up their lot for questioning.” Another groan followed, the boy’s voice carrying an exaggerated drawl. “Honestly, I’ve seen them slinking about corridors they’ve no business being in. Always somewhere they shouldn’t be. Isn’t it obvious who we ought to start with?”

Soobin listened, the words floating past him like smoke, leaving behind only irritation. It had been three days since that afternoon in the storage room — three long days filled with restless thoughts, unspoken questions, and your voice echoing in the corners of his mind: "I’m not what they make me out to be." — "You of all people should know what that’s like." And he did. Merlin help him, he did.

The prefect’s face coloured with disbelief. He opened his mouth to object, but Soobin cut him off before a single word could leave his lips.

“You’re dismissed.”

The prefect faltered then turned on his heel and stalked off. Soobin’s eyes drifted to the window at the far end of the corridor, to the grey skies outside. Three days, and yet your words still stirred something uncomfortably real in him.

Yes, this was what his mind had become in the aftermath; an utter disarray because of you.

To clear his mind, Soobin had taken to sorting potions in the classroom long before any of the junior students were due to arrive. The room was still and faintly lit by the slanted sunlight pouring through the narrow windows, and for a short while, that silence had granted him the illusion of peace. He busied himself sorting through labelled vials and rattling jars filled with potion ingredients, meticulously aligning them according to the Professor’s usual arrangement, hoping the orderliness would somehow impose itself upon the growing disorder in his mind.

Anything to stop his mind from drifting back to that moment three days ago. Anything to stop thinking about you. And of course, as if summoned by thought alone, the door creaked open.

He froze mid-reach, heart lurching with the sharp recognition that some part of him had known it would be you. You paused in the doorway, your own expression unreadable, but you masked your surprise more effectively than he did. Glancing around at the empty classroom, you ambled in and let a few vials drop onto the surface with a clink.

"You following me now?" you said, tone dry but teasing, your eyes flicking toward him with a faint quirk of your brow.

Soobin, throat dry, feigning a disinterested scoff and muttered, "Don’t flatter yourself."

You smirked faintly, then leaned back against one of the desks. "Word is, someone’s lost a trinket and now the castle’s having a meltdown over it."

He watched your face more than he listened to your words, wondering if you, too, had already been on the receiving end of those narrow-eyed stares and baseless suspicions like the rest of your house? He wouldn’t put it past them. Slytherin had always made for convenient scapegoats. He didn’t know if anyone had singled you out yet, and he wouldn’t ask — but the thought made his chest tighten regardless.

"I’m looking into it," he said at last, hands fiddling with a cork that didn’t need adjustment. "I’m doing what I can to stop people jumping to conclusions. But — well — I mean, I just hope —"

You snorted and held up a hand, cutting him off without needing to raise your voice. "Don’t pity us. Told you, we’re used to it by now. Frankly, it’s getting funny. Watching them scurry around like rats thinking they’ve uncovered something worthwhile. But I will say this — you’re wasting your time rounding us up."

You reached into your robe and pulled out another small vial, turning it over between your fingers before tossing it lightly to the desk beside him. He watched you cross the room with an unhurried gait before you leaned your side against another desk, tilting your head slightly as you continued. "One of your prefect lackeys cornered me yesterday, asked if I’d been out past curfew. Couldn’t lie — of course I had. Have you seen our dorm? Feels like a cupboard on the best of days. Sometimes I need air, that’s all."

His eyes widened, caught off guard by the ease with which you admitted to rule-breaking, and you laughed at the expression he wore.

"Lucky I was out, though. I had such a magnificent view of the Great Lake. You might want to check with the Gryffindor Quidditch lot."

He blinked, processing your words. "Are you sure you saw —"

You shrugged, straightening up, brushing past him with a careless grace. "Up to you, Head Boy. Whether you believe me or not, that’s your decision."

Just before stepping out, you gave him a languid wave over your shoulder. Just like that you were gone, leaving him standing there amidst the shelves and sunlight and questions.

Soobin stood unmoving for several long moments, your words echoing louder than he’d expected. There was no logic in doubting you — not when everything you’d done until now pointed away from manipulation. Besides, you had every reason not to help him. Perhaps it was your way of keeping the suspicion away from your house, now that you had him at a disadvantage. Or were you truly doing it because you simply could?

Either way, the more he thought of you, the less sense you made, and the more you occupied his thoughts.

But for now, he had to take a chance. A risk, yes — but one rooted in instinct. By mid-afternoon, he had assembled his group of prefects and approached the Gryffindor Quidditch team. What followed sent a ripple through the castle by sundown: sure enough, buried beneath spare brooms and scattered playbooks, the artefact was found, tucked into a leather duffle that bore the team’s crest.

The case, to the astonishment of many, was closed within hours.

In the Great Hall, under the enchanted ceiling dimming into evening stars, Soobin had been summoned to the front of the room and praised, his name ringing out across the four long tables amid applause and murmured admiration. He bowed his head politely, offered the required responses, accepted the accolades — but it felt hollow.

Because the truth sat heavily in his chest: the success wasn’t his. It all felt wrong because it wasn’t his doing.

As his eyes swept over the Slytherin table, he found you seated among the others, your chin propped on your palm, your expression as unreadable as ever. But you were watching him. He held your gaze, his shoulders slumped with the breath leaving him in a slow sigh. If his eyes could speak, he hoped they’d managed to say the words he couldn’t voice aloud, not here.

You did this.

You smiled faintly, a small twitch of your lips before you looked away.

The applause continued, but Soobin could no longer hear it properly over the ringing in his ears. The recognition refused to sit right. Praise meant nothing when it was built on someone else’s truth. If the system failed to acknowledge how to recognise the likes of you, someone had to.

Because he, at least, knew the full story — and he wasn’t about to forget it.

For as long as you could remember, sleep had never been something that came easily to you. It was a fickle guest at best, arriving uninvited and leaving without warning, more often absent than present. There were stretches of time where your nights blurred into each other, endless hours spent staring at the ceiling of your dormitory, thoughts circling like vultures over carrion, refusing to give you peace. On nights when the insomnia bit harder than you could handle, you would find yourself wandering beneath the stars, seeking calm in the open air and high arches of the Astronomy Tower. It had long since become your refuge, a haven away from the noise, both external and internal.

Draped in shadows and starlight, the tower had always felt like another world entirely, a secret space far removed from the buzz and bustle of daily life. Up there, it was just you and the sky, the stretch of it so vast it made your problems feel smaller, if only for a little while. Over time, the late hours had become sacred, a carved-out slice of the day that belonged solely to you. You knew the patrol schedule of the prefects by heart, memorised the patterns of their rounds and adjusted your movements accordingly, weaving yourself between the gaps they left behind. It was a routine that had served you well for years, earned and protected with vigilance.

So when you reached the floor just beneath the tower that night, bleary-eyed from another restless stretch and wrapped in your usual cloak of solitude, it came as a rude jolt to realise your calculations had, for once, failed you. The faint scuff of approaching footsteps told you someone else was near, and your brain kicked into high alert, racing to concoct a plausible diversion or escape plan that might buy you time. But your mind never had the opportunity to come up with a plan.

A strong hand caught your arm, and before you could so much as draw a breath, you were pulled into a narrow alcove, swallowed by shadows. Another hand came over your mouth firmly and you froze in alarm. Your heart thundered in your chest as your back hit the cool stone of an alcove wall. You blinked trying to restore your disoriented vision in the dark and when your vision steadied, you saw Soobin.

He was pressed close, his body angled between yours and the faint light spilling in from the corridor, and he looked at you with a warning glint in his eyes as he brought a finger to his lips, silently urging you not to make a sound. You stared at him, stunned into silence, and after a long beat, he slowly withdrew his hand from your mouth and stepped back. The sudden lack of contact made the air feel colder somehow, and you drew in a sharp breath as if recovering from a plunge underwater.

From where you stood, tucked away in the shadows, you listened to him speak with another prefect. His tone was levelled as he dismissed her presence with a few convincing words about being on patrol and already checking the area. Eventually, the sound of footsteps receded down the staircase.

You remained still until you were certain the coast was clear, then turned your head toward him. He leaned against the entrance of the alcove, arms crossed over his chest, and for a moment there was something almost rueful in the way he looked at you.

"Had a feeling you’d be here tonight," he said, voice softer than you expected.

You eyed him warily; instinct dictated your response. Your brow arched, tone dry as ever. "So you are following me."

He motioned his head toward the staircase. "Come on."

You hesitated for a heartbeat before following him up the remaining flight, steps silent against the worn stone. When you reached the top, he didn’t speak immediately, simply moved to one side to let you pass through the archway that opened into the Astronomy Tower. The wind tugged faintly at your hair, and above, the sky stretched wide and blinking with stars.

"I was wondering," he said eventually, glancing sidelong at you, "if you wanted to seal our transaction."

That caught your attention. You regarded him with narrowed eyes. "Oh? What do you propose?"

He exhaled slowly, as though choosing his words with care. "Top floors are part of my patrol area. I usually take the tower last, so it’s clear most nights. You could use it — whenever you like, really."

You tilted your head, assessing him, weighing the truth in his words against the instinct that had long since taught you to doubt everyone. He seemed to sense it because his voice softened, the bravado peeling back just slightly.

"It’s my way of saying thank you. And... I’m sorry. For the things I said back in the storage room. The way I looked at you then. If using the tower brings you any kind of peace, then maybe it’ll bring me some too. Knowing I could give you something in return."

You scoffed at his words, startled perhaps, but far too practised at hiding it to let the slip show for long, and as always, you reached for the oldest armour in your arsenal: deflection. “You do realize I didn’t do anything grand for you, right?”

Soobin didn’t so much as blink at your reply. If anything, he looked rather resigned to hearing it, offering a soft nod that seemed more of a confirmation to himself than a response meant for you. “Yep. Had a feeling you’d say that,” he murmured, then he held out a hand, as though proposing a treaty. "Truce?"

Your gaze dropped to his outstretched hand, studying it as though it were a foreign object before your expression twisted with incredulity, arms crossing in front of your chest in a motion that was part self-protection, part calculated provocation. “And access to the Restricted Section whenever I need it. You’ll cover for me,” you bargained smoothly.

One of his brows arched, and though his expression remained composed, there was the faintest flicker of exasperation in his eyes, perhaps even reluctant amusement at your audacity. “I don’t even have permission to enter that place myself,” he replied, the protest lacking any real conviction.

You only shrugged, unbothered. “Yes, but you’ll be let off the hook far more easily than I would, wouldn’t you? I’ll take advantage of that,” you said, voice light but the meaning underneath it anything but.

A long sigh escaped him, and he brought his fingers up to rub at his temples as though your very presence were both a headache and puzzle. You raised your hand with theatrical flair, interrupting him with a disarming smile that hinted at mischief rather than apology.

“I think that evens out the weight of our deals. I’m being so terribly generous by keeping your secret, after all. Surely you can manage this much for me in return. Unless —” You tilted your head, letting the smirk curl lazily across your lips. “Your saintliness is repulsed by my sins?”

That drew a comical snort out of him, and he shook his head, shoulders dropping a touch as though conceding the match, if only this round. He turned without answering, crossing the space to where a weathered satchel lay slumped against the stone wall of the tower. From it, he pulled a book bearing the tell-tale signs of having been plucked from the shelves no ordinary student was meant to touch.

When he held it out to you, you didn’t move to take it right away. Your brows drew together, gaze narrowing as it moved between the book and his face. “You don’t have permission to enter the Restricted Section, you say?” you asked slowly as the implication sank in.

Because it was obvious now — to get that book, he would have had to slip past more than one barrier, and likely break more than a few rules. The smile on his lips told you he hadn’t borrowed it under anyone’s good graces. He’d gone in himself, without approval and permission.

He didn’t look the least bit remorseful. If anything, there was a flicker of pride in the way he stepped closer, extending the book again, as though this too were part of the truce. “As you can see, I’m no saint,” he said with a soft laugh bordering on irony. “You already know that, don’t you?”

Then came the grin again, lopsided and strangely genuine in a way that didn’t suit the polished Head Boy the rest of the school had come to revere. “We’re sharing sins.”

You looked down at his hand again. The very hands that had been manacled to yours by shared sins and lighthearted transactions, as though the pair of you had sealed some farcical pact made in jest. Who could have predicted that those same hands would soon find themselves bound in matters far graver, knotted into secrets far more treacherous, tangled in deeds that could not be wiped clean with a simple curfew excuse or concealing secrets?

You shook his hand once, a simple act that now bore the full weight of a promise neither of you could have fully understood at the time. That was where it began — the point from which everything gradually, almost imperceptibly, began to shift. What started as necessity quickly became habit, and habit became familiarity, until even the strangeness of it began to fade into routine.

It surprised you, how quickly the pattern formed. The corridors would be vacant by the time you arrived, just as he had said, and you no longer had to move with the same guarded tread or cast furtive glances over your shoulder. He would appear after his patrol, and there would be a brief exchange of acknowledgement before you two went into your bubbles.

Most nights passed in that strange parallel silence, with the only sound being the occasional turning of a page. He studied a lot, not just schoolwork but obscure texts filled with difficult incantations, ancient theory, and dense paragraphs even the professors didn’t bother assigning. Sometimes he muttered to himself, testing wordless charms under his breath, barely more than a whisper of intent and flicks of his wand. Other times, he simply fell asleep.

You would watch, faintly incredulous, as his posture would slacken and his chin drop slowly to his chest. There were nights he barely lasted twenty minutes before nodding off, and you had to wonder if he really lacked that much awareness or if he was just that used to trusting no one would disturb him.

Or worse, if he thought you would be kind enough to rouse him when it was time to leave.

He’d be disappointed if he thought you’d be that nice. You weren’t his minder. Yet each time, as if on cue, you found yourself going back to your words; fingers tapping his shoulder or nudging his arm with a muttered, "It’s time."

The days rolled into weeks. There were nights when the silence gave way to words without preamble. One such night found you with your back resting against the cold surface of a column, head tilted back to peer up at the invisible sky beyond the high windows, while Soobin lay sprawled nearby on his back, his arms folded over his midriff. The silence between you transformed into something so harmless now that when he spoke, it didn't feel jarring.

"Mind if I talk?" he asked, not so much seeking permission as gauging whether your presence was receptive to it tonight.

You said nothing, only glanced down at him briefly before returning your gaze upwards, and by now, he knew you well enough to take that for a yes.

"I don’t reckon I’ve slept properly in weeks," he murmured after a moment, as though he didn’t expect an answer, and perhaps didn’t even want one.

You wanted to respond — your nights hadn’t been restful either, not for years now — but instead you stayed still, allowing him to continue.

"There’s always something more to revise, more to commit to memory, more to get just right. If I’m not top of the class, it’s like I’ve failed — like I’m squandering the whole bloody point of it, whatever 'it' is meant to be."

There was a note of distance in his voice now, like he was repeating something someone else had once said to him, or perhaps something he’d told himself so often it had begun to lose all meaning. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, but they weren’t really seeing it, and when his hand came up to drag across his face, it was with a weariness that seemed to sit in his bones.

"I don’t even know what I’m chasing any longer," he said, pressing his fingertips beneath his eyes, as if he could force back the shadows clinging to them. His voice had lowered further still. He took in a breath, one that hitched slightly at the end. "I reckon most people think I enjoy it — the marks, the badges, the praise. That I live for it. I’ve never said otherwise, have I? That’s probably my own fault." He gave a shrug then, though it looked rather more like his shoulders were folding in on themselves than offering any real dismissal.

Maybe no one had ever asked. You didn’t reply, but you did shift slightly, sock-covered toes flexing beneath your robe as your thumb found the edge of a loose thread at your knee. You rolled it between your fingers, not to fidget, but to keep your hands occupied while your thoughts tangled around his words.

They weren’t revelations, not really — not anymore. Over the course of these late nights, in snatched looks and half-conversations, you had begun to fully piece together a version of Soobin that didn’t match the one paraded around the castle like some living trophy. He’d carried the image so well, you supposed people had stopped asking what lay beneath it. You weren’t even sure if he could see over it himself anymore.

You’d suspected as much weeks ago. Merlin, you’d known from the moment you found him in that cramped storage room, folded in on himself with tears slipping down his face like he was trying to shed everything that made him human.

He wasn’t held together by certainty or pride, but by the sheer pressure of never being allowed to fall behind. He lived in a world of ‘musts’ and ‘shoulds,’ where stepping out of line meant failing entirely. And you — well, you had come to see it far more clearly than you’d intended.

"If I stop," he said, voice thinner now, barely carrying across the distance between you, "it’ll look like I’ve given up. But if I keep going like this, I’ll fall apart." He said it as a truth he'd long since resigned himself to.

So you picked the option where no one notices. You didn’t say it out loud, but the thought crossed your mind anyway, bitter still not untrue.

You glanced at him though all you could really look at were his hands. One brushed a loose string on his sleeve, then curled into a fist. They were restless. He hadn’t looked your way once.

“You’re not very good at taking your own side,” you said eventually. Your voice wasn’t cruel.

He gave a brief snort, as though the truth of it didn’t surprise him. “I’ve not the faintest clue how,” he said, voice dry. “I think — I think I’ve only ever been taught how to win. No one ever mentioned what to do if I decided to lose on purpose. Or if I just lost.”

You shifted again, rolling your head to the side to look at him, your cheek pressed to your forearm, eyes sharp in the shadows. The air was beginning to bite more now somehow, the stone floor colder beneath your robes, but you didn’t move beyond that small adjustment.

"That sounds like a miserable way to live."

He remained silent, then softly, "It is."

No words were shared for a few minutes. You sat with everything he said, not sure whether to add anything, or whether adding anything would cheapen it. It felt like he took a part of his heart out and forced you to hold the bleeding piece. And now it sat in your hands, raw and uncomfortable, a truth so vulnerable you didn’t know if you had the right to hold it. Your hands were now tainted.

His titles and image walked into rooms before he did. His perfection gave people something to admire, but it never gave them a reason to look closer.

“I’ve got people saying they admire me,” he added eventually, the words shaped around a humourless laugh, “saying they’d always be there if I needed. But do I really have anyone I can rely on?”

He said it like a question, but you weren’t sure he wanted an answer. He was lonely. Far lonelier than you’d guessed.

“Is that why you were crying that day?” you asked carefully.

He smiled, if only faintly. “Had no one to talk to. So I tucked myself away till I couldn’t take it anymore.”

He turned then, rolling onto his side to face you properly, one hand folded beneath his head. That smile remained, though it didn’t touch his eyes. “What about you?”

You frowned. “What about me?”

“Why do you always seek control?”

“To survive,” you answered plainly.

But it was enough for soobin. Because he wasn’t a fool, and the truth had been clear to him for a while now. Ever since those strange, shared hours in the storage room brought your paths colliding, he’d had to confront a version of you that defied every assumption he’d once held. You, who always seemed self-possessed and untouched by opinion, had wormed your way into his orbit without propriety, and now, there you remained: fixed and constant and increasingly difficult to ignore. You were in his periphery in ways you hadn’t been before, cropping up in spaces he’d never registered you in, though now, he wondered how he could’ve possibly missed you.

His gaze had become trained on the people around you — he observed the way others spoke to you, the glances exchanged in corridors, the narrowed eyes in classrooms and he noted the subtleties most others overlooked. The treatment wasn’t always cruel, but it was pointed, and it was frequent. Soobin, who had lived much of his life under the soft glow of admiration and expectation, found it easy to see the difference. And in those differences, he understood you better than he expected to.

And you, though less willing to admit it, had started seeing him too. Not just in this shared nightly hour you had, but in your own time, when you caught yourself glancing up in the corridors to find him already there, or letting your gaze pause just a fraction too long when he passed by your table in the Great Hall. He seemed more present now than before, more noticeable, though you weren’t sure whether it was him changing or you. Your eyes knew to find him. And perhaps his had done the same.

You didn’t quite know how to feel about it all. The change wasn’t entirely uncomfortable but it made you wary. That was a more simple way to put it. You, who had learnt better than to give in to soft comforts, couldn’t help but question it. After years of distrust, of guarding yourself against shallow kindness and false smiles, how could you begin to allow anyone in? Even someone who had, bit by bit, begun to pull away at your corners without trying.

For Soobin, it was different. The change felt like breathing for the first time in too long. It confused him, yes, left him reeling in the early days, but it also peeled back that internal tautness he never quite realised he lived with. You with all your blunt remarks and unreadable silences had given him a kind of space he didn’t know he needed. You saw him when he didn’t have anything to offer. You didn’t praise him, didn’t expect him to prove himself, and didn’t look away when the cracks showed. And that had shaken him. Because it meant, for the first time in a long while, he wasn’t terrified of not being enough.

You were always being watched before you were known.

And he was always being looked at, but never really seen.

There was a sharp clarity in it now, the way you mirrored one another in temperament, in guardedness, in how you both wore your defence mechanisms like second skin. He had begun to see through yours, just as you had peeled back his. He knew you kept your heart barricaded not because there was nothing within, but because you had been given far too many reasons to lock it away. And yet, there it was, beating still.

He thought, perhaps selfishly, that if you'd let him, he could be someone you could rely on — just as he had slowly come to rely on you.

“Thank you for listening to me,” he said at length, and though his tone lacked embellishment, there was a sincerity to it that caught you off guard, not because you doubted its truth but because you rarely knew what to do with such honesty when it landed so plainly.

Your eyes snapped toward him, but by then he had turned away, flat on his back again, his face tilted towards the terrace and eyes closed as if he’d already begun to retreat from the moment. Your chest tightened, a discomfort blooming somewhere near your ribs. It wasn’t just his gratitude that disarmed you, but the fact that he meant it and it wasn’t something you were used to.

The air around you tightened. Though you rarely backed down from anything, your mind recoiled before you could think better of it.

“I’m heading back early tonight,” you said briskly, already rising on your feet. There was no sharpness to it, just a faint breathlessness. “Goodnight, Soobin.”

Soobin didn’t question it. He merely nodded once, eyes still closed, and let you go. Maybe he understood. Or maybe he didn’t care. You weren’t sure which would’ve unsettled you more.

Your steps echoed slightly as you made your way down the spiraling stairs, one hand pressed to the stone wall to keep balance, not that it mattered — it was your breath that threatened to slip, your thoughts that began to fray at the edges. You didn’t know what this meant or what tonight would become, if it became anything at all — but as you slipped down into the darkness, one thing had been made clear. Whatever had passed between you tonight, it was not the sort of thing that vanished come morning.

Whether you spoke of it again or not, you’d both remember.

To be continued.

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polysyndetonaddictsupportgroup · 4 months ago

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hello hello!! your fic pez dispenser debris brings me immense joy. and i wanna know if the other nejire and tamaki will be showing up. id love to see their reactions to fucking #leku. and i’d love to hear your thoughts on them in general if you have any to spare. the big three have such a fun dynamic to me.

Tamaki will appear. I’m not fully settled on Nejire. In my mind, she moved to Kyoto not long after she graduated but keeps in very close touch (if you read the battle of Yokohama posts, she was there during that fight because she was visiting Her Boys and insisted on a Big Three Sleep Over, which is why the three of them were together when Izuku called to begin with). They have a group chat that she started blowing up when the Leku news hit. All of them are painfully, violently aware of the fact Mirio is absolutely not dating Izuku and also of the fact that Mirio’s probably close to drowning himself at the mere thought.

I do really like the idea of the Big Three having been sort of outcasts before they were the big three, and I think canon supports this reading. They were all sort of the weird kids. They were each other’s only friends. After they started rising in the ranks, they became more popular, but they all consider the others their main people.

I also like the idea that they became the Big Three because of each other.

They were friends before they were the big three. And it’s not a coincidence that the big three were all already friends. They pushed each other to grow in their skills and surpass everyone else.

The reason why they haven’t been more present in pez is actually the same reason why I didn’t have them open a hero agency together: they all need to grow separately from the others for a bit.

Like. Here’s Mirio, with two very skilled and experienced heroes at his side, waiting for Izuku to graduate so he can start his agency. Why not go into business with the friends he’s already been fighting with for years?

I see the Big Three as people who all, for one reason or another, decided that they needed to learn how to be strong on their own at the start of their career.

Take Tamaki. He’s childhood friends with Mirio. He was briefly referenced in one of the tumblr posts as one of Mirio’s staunchest advocates after he lost his Quirk. So why isn’t he heroes with Mirio?

Well, he sort of is. He’s got a mutual support agreement with him.

Time to derail into my favorite topic: the economic models underpinning fictional societies. As you can probably guess I’m great at parties.

Mutual support agreements are contractual devices that I came up with in response to the convoluted economic structure of heroics compensation I discussed a few posts ago. In that post, I discussed independent/underground v. agency models with respect to public compensation and how I think that there’s an impossibly complicated matrix that grants heroes portions of the local budget based on their statistics. Briefly, I discussed how that calculation would cause conflict with big name heroes taking credit for their sidekicks’ work because agencies would necessarily need to be counted as one entity for the purposes of public funding.

What happens when multiple agencies are involved in the same incident?

As a reminder, the reason why they need to assign credit for a bust to one individual is because agencies are funded as a whole. This is a grant system that’s meant to be more than just about paying a salary—the government is providing funds meant to go towards an office space, supplies, everything. You could not give everyone in an agency public funding separate checks under that model. Public funding is made out to the agency as a whole and it’s up to the agency as to how to use it. But if you have six people from the same agency who all register the exact same take down because they all participated—well now you’ve got the one job reported six times over for the same filing entity. That’s going to horrifically skew the funding calculation. The government’s paying for the same bust six times over and you just incentivized hero agencies to send their people all to do the same job because it pays the same to have six guys stop one criminal as it does to have six guys stop six different criminals separately.

But hey—sometimes it’s a six guy job. That would more appropriately be considered an enhancement to a job’s relative difficulty than it would be to giving credit for a takedown. After all, the same job could require “six guys” or “one All Might.” If you focus on the number of heroes an agency uses in a job than you do on how difficult that job actually is, then you’re inadvertently penalizing better heroes because Mid Tier Agency needed six guys to handle what you did on your own, but since they needed six whole guys they get paid more for the same thing that you could do solo.

But the reason for this one man credit structure is because you’re getting one check for the government per agency. But what about when heroes from different agencies team up? Big Hero is not sharing a government funding check with Even Bigger Hero, and there’s absolutely no way that every single team up is just fucking pro bono for everyone but one guy. That’d make it impossible. So the same job would have to get counted multiple times when it involved different heroic entities.

The fact that you were teamed up instead of solo would go into the relative value calculation of each independent job. You get the full pot if you’re solo, but if you’re sharing the load, you’re sharing the credit. But at the same time, how much credit you get would also have to be determined on a case by case basis. Like. A hero that evacuated three civilians contributed to a fight, but they in no way should get equal credit and compensation to All Might, who fought the entire villain team solo.

So say Big Hero Agency and Bigger Hero Agency are doing a team up for the good of Japan. Big Hero Agency initiated the investigation, did most of the legwork, and invited Bigger Hero Agency onto the job. However, when it came to actually fighting, Bigger Hero Agency absolutely carried the day. Big Hero Agency would have been dust if Bigger Hero Agency hadn’t been there.

Who deserves more credit and compensation?

There is probably some kind of governmental dispute/appeal board to settle disputes about compensation, but like. As someone who does government work. The government’s absolute favorite thing to say is “we are not babysitting you, fucking figure it out like big boys.” They’ll have a way to resolve disputes, but they will also heavily incentivize voluntary agreement amongst the parties.

Planned team ups probably have legal working shit out ahead of time. Spontaneous team ups or heroes stealing each other’s fights a la Mount Lady and Kamui Woods in the pilot are probably the biggest headaches.

But what about heroes that are always teaming up? They’re your go to. Your homeboy. The daredevil to your Spider-Man. You don’t file your paperwork together, but you’re still always fighting side by side. Are you renegotiating who gets credit for what in every single little fight?

Fuck no. That’s a huge pain in the ass. Enter the mutual support agreement. It’s a contract that has a bunch of clauses meant to help streamline deciding who gets credit for what and resolve disputes before they happen.

You wouldn’t just want this for compensation purposes. Say Big Hero commits the hero equivalent of police brutality. Now he’s being sued. He’s apparently not that big of a hero as the name implies, because he’s got no fucking money. You want more money for your client, so you need a deeper pocket to pull from. At the time of the incident, he was working with Bigger Hero Agency. They’re not the same agency, but it was Bigger Heroes bust, and they work together all the time. Big Hero is basically one of Bigger Heroes employees hidden behind a different corporate structure. Should Bigger Hero be liable for Big Hero?

That’s a big fucking court case that can be headed off at the pass by the fact that Bigger Hero put indemnification and liability clauses in its mutual support agreement. There’s a lot of issues that would arise from the practice of heroics that you’d want to govern ahead of time with a contract. So you sign a mutual support agreement.

But the silly little fake tumblr post also said they weren’t popular and mostly agencies like Idaten used them. So why is that?

Frankly, because it’s not very worth agencies while to team up with other agencies on the regular. The system doesn’t incentivize it.

If you have all of your own sidekicks on a job, you can steal credit from them. The same is not true for heroes from other agencies. You get more public funding if you staff a job with all people from your agency instead of having part of the credit go to other agencies. And you get to stand in front of the cameras and say “Big Hero Has Saved The City Again” instead of having to say “Thank You To Our Dear Friends From Bigger Hero Agency Who Carried This Team.”

Idaten is the exception because, well. It doesn’t care. Idaten’s priority is cultivating the necessary talent and teamwork needed to get the job done. It doesn’t care if it has to go outside of the agency for that. Fuck, Tensei’s canonically willing to reach out to vigilantes. Its genuine focus is saving people, so it goes against the grain of what the system incentivizes.

Mirio and Tamaki have a mutual support agreement. They’re out working together so much that Fat Gum’s agency approved an overall disliked mechanism to facilitate their team ups. They are heroes together—so why aren’t they in an agency together?

I think Tamaki wanted to spend his first year in heroics forcing himself out of his comfort zone so he’d improve. Fat Gum will force him in front of the cameras. He’s focusing on learning how to communicate effectively with the public and with the media, and Fat Gum has the sort of resources and infrastructure where Tamaki can devote the time to learning that and improving. If he was in an agency with Mirio, he’d use Mirio as a crutch to hide from something he genuinely wants to improve in. Fat Gum forces him to grow.

Mirio himself sort of had to go independent. For one, he and Izuku decided to start their agency not too long after Mirio got his license. It was before Mirio debuted. Izuku had just finished his first year. No one knew who either of them were, and they had no clue just how famous they’d both become before Izuku graduated.

They both figured they’d be a couple of nobody heroes with a dinky little agency right out the gate of Izuku’s graduation and were sort of genuinely excited at the prospect. They’d just be heroes together, which is all they wanted. They’d figured no one would give a shit about them until well after they started their agency and started working and that Izuku would have 0 offers to work elsewhere because he wasn’t even going to apply to agencies. So Mirio decided he’d stay independent until Izuku graduated so he wouldn’t be tied up in an agency contracts and they could just start fresh.

The other reason is that most agencies wouldn’t touch Mirio with a ten foot pole because he was Quirkless, and even with the ones that would, he suspected they’d sideline or coddle him because he was Quirkless. Being independent meant he could do whatever the hell he pleased. So he bought the Mirio Mom Van and, for a brief, glorious moment, convinced All Might to supervise their bullshit so he could start going on jobs with Izuku (students have to be supervised by heroes with a teaching license, which he wouldn’t be eligible for for the first three years of his career, except in exigent circumstances. He couldn’t have Izuku as an intern himself but All Might sure could). For a few beautiful weeks it was just Mirio, Izuku, and fucking All Might in the Mirio Mom Van going on stakeouts, all wearing the world’s stupidest mustaches. The UA internship program revoked permission for this arrangement not long after it started formally out of concerns for the legality of this arrangement since All Might was no longer an active duty hero, informally because All Might, Izuku, and Mirio is the stupidest and most reckless combination fucking imaginable and they are killing Aizawa from the stress they are killing him. So now Mirio works alone while he waits for Izuku to be fully licensed.

Nejire I kind of see as someone who moved away from her hometown right out of the gate of graduation but visited home very frequently, which is why she moved to Kyoto after graduation but was having a fucking sleepover at Mirio’s place when Yokohama happened. She takes the bullet train back at least once a month and spends the weekend bumming on Mirio or Tamaki’s couch. I think she wanted to see who she was away from home and there’d never be a better time to do it. I also think she’ll move back so that way she can work more fully with Her Boys one day, but wanted to push herself out of the familiar first.

All of the trio’s reasons for not working together quite yet are mutable, to be clear. Tamaki just wanted the experience early in his career or he knew he’d never learn the public relation skills he wanted to get. Nejire also just wanted the experience somewhere else before she put down real roots somewhere and is liable to move back to be with her friends and family. And Mirio’s on the verge of opening his own agency, so he doesn’t have to worry about getting sidelined by his boss anymore or getting tied up in a bad contract.

#pez dispenser debris #from the rest of the trios perspective Mirio now has twenty baby ducklings he is responsible for #it is adorable #also does any soulless media conglomerate out there want to pay me to just overthink the mechanics of their fictional universe because that #all I want to do really. I’ll come up with economic structures for you that only I care about #dm me disney #Tamaki and Nejire aren’t as close with class a as Mirio is but that’s because there’s no competing with Mirio #those are His Kids #in the aftermath of Yokohama some HPSC drones try pulling some bullshit with Iida and Mirio immediately gets in their face #those are his fucking kids. like he’s Izuku’s Big Brother but he’s sort of everyone’s big brother just to a lesser degree. he’ll take care #of all of them. those are his little brothers best friends of course he’s got their back too. the entire class loves him.#Nejire and Tamaki were also super involved in Mirio’s retraining process after he lost his quirk. like Izuku was his number one training #buddy because Izuku greeted him with an Energy and a comprehensive training plan and then dragged the rest of his class in on it too #but Tamaki and Nejire supported him and trained with him every step of the way. they were so fucking proud of him and they’re both his #staunchest defenders. they’re the kind of people who are friends forever even if they’re not together #so they both got super involved with class a by proximity because they all were involved in Mirio’s training #ngl both Izuku and Mirio miss the time before they were stupid famous #like they’ve never had more fun as heroes than sitting in Mirio’s fucking mom van with fucking All Might in the backseat with no one in the #world giving a shit about what they were up to. it was peak grunge hero chic they loved it. all might loved it. the only one who didn’t lov #it was Aizawa because they were killing him they were actually killing him. what do you MEAN all might got out of the car too and fought he #doesn’t have a STOMACH. what do you MEAN it was for old times sake and he can still throw a great punch. WHAT DO YOU MEAN they were low #level loser thugs and it was a bonding experience. HE DOESNT HAVE A STOMACH LEAVE HIM IN THE VAN. that was before they told him about all #the bullshit Mirio and Izuku did together. Aizawa got an ulcer from that time of his life. he told nedzu he could revoke the internship #program’s consent to the arrangement or he could bury yagi because one way or another he was putting a stop to this and nedzu could pick #how he did it. Aizawa needs rest he is so so tired he swears to god other classes weren’t like this #every morning he wakes up and Bakugou is a meme okay he needs to address his stress levels where he can. he is gods strongest soldier but #that does not mean he wants this many battles. can he. can he have less battles

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