#last time for his memorial and the time before just to talk to him because he was still alive. drove 5 hours just to see his face

[l4ndoflove]

ocean eyes , pt. 2

feat. lando norris

lyrics preview if you jump into lando's "ocean eyes", you know the risk is drowning... but for him, you're willing to take it

maddie shout-out to my baby @piston-cup for being the most supportive "anon" ever and my main motivation to write this, I LOVE U <3

2440 words

⏮️ previous track

Ten days.

That’s exactly how long your silence lasted.

Not that you went radio silent, of course, just… quiet. Quieter than you’d ever been with Lando, anyway.

You started calling him less and less often after that night at his apartment—not out of pettiness, but simply because the mere sound of his voice made your chest ache in a way that should’ve never belonged to him in the first place.

Because it was wrong.

Because now, every time his name lit up on the screen of your phone, a little part of you stubbornly hoped he was calling for the same reason you were waiting for him to.

He never was. And distancing yourself suddenly seemed like the only thing that could help you, if not overcome that suffocating feeling of yearning, at least lock it up in the farthest corner of your mind and pretend it wasn’t giving you the illusion you’d lost something you’d never even had.

Lando, for his part, didn’t seem to notice. He kept texting you, kept sending you stupid reels and talking to you as always—maybe even more insistently than before—making the whole “ghosting” plan way harder than it should’ve been.

Until, one day, it happened.

A message. That’s all it took for your resolution to crumble.

lando: oi muppet

lando: you coming to monaco this weekend right?

You weren’t sure how many times you’d reread those words in your head, allowing that stupidly affectionate nickname to carve a deeper hole in your already hollow chest—right where your heart was supposed to be.

Clearly long enough for his voice to ring in your ears as if he was there talking to you in person.

You could’ve said no. That you were busy. That you couldn’t afford the flight and you didn’t want him to pay for it as always.

You should’ve said no–

you: sure

you: but i’m not crashing at yours this time

lando: why not :(

you: because

Because.

***

You spent the whole weekend with his parents, part because you hadn’t seen them in ages, part to use them as a wall to shield yourself from Lando.

And, against your better judgment, it worked. Adam and Cisca basically stole you whenever they got the chance to tell you about their life—which was perfectly fine—and ask you about yours—which wasn’t, but you tried to answer them anyway.

That’s how you ended up tucked in a corner of the McLaren garage, away from all the cameras, the mechanics, the noise, headset covering just one of your ears as the woman beside you talked the other off.

But your mind was somewhere else entirely.

Your eyes were fixed on the screen hanging right above your head, searching for a flash of papaya every time the frame moved to a different sector.

Ironic, you thought, how everyone kept calling Lando’s car a “rocket ship”, yet your heart could race just as fast.

Sure, you were used to Sundays like this, the adrenaline of the competition, the excitement of knowing your best friend would be starting from pole position… but Monaco?

It had been his dream since childhood, probably. Hell, he’d talked about it so much it had become your dream, too. And you were finally watching it happen in real life.

“Did they pit him yet?” Cisca’s muttering brutally brought you back from the labyrinth of memories you’d lost yourself in, your eyes snapping away from the screen and landing on her focused face instead.

“No, he still has to go in.”

“Right,” she nodded, more to herself than to you as her attention shifted back to the broadcast. “When do you think…”

Her voice trailed off. Scrunching your eyebrows together, you followed her gaze to where it had stopped, confusion lacing both your expressions now.

“Oh.”

Yeah, oh.

You found yourself staring at none other than Magui, orange headphones sitting naturally on her hair like a crown, effortlessly charming even though she wasn’t trying to be.

You already knew she was there, of course. You’d seen her walking around the paddock the days before, and it also wasn’t the first time they’d shown her on live television—nothing new, really.

What Sky Sports had forgotten to mention earlier that weekend, however, was now staring right back at you, written in capital letters so bright that you felt them burning behind your eyelids the moment you looked away:

Margarida Corceiro

Model & Lando Norris’ Partner

Two pairs of eyes bore through you before you even had the time to give those words a meaning, and you had to muster every ounce of willpower you had left to keep a straight face without showing any compromising emotion.

“So… they made it official, huh?” Adam’s voice was hesitant, awkward, almost like he wasn’t sure if he should laugh or hold back.

“But–I thought…” His wife kept glancing between you and the screen with the same lost expression of a fish out of water, disbelief simmering beneath her initial confusion.

As for you… well, you didn’t have time to add anything else—not that you would've even if you had the chance to—because the whole team suddenly erupted into cheers so loud that they startled you.

Crofty’s voice echoed off the walls, blasting from the speakers: “Lando Norris wins the Monaco Grand Prix!”

He'd done it.

He’d won, and you hadn’t even looked at the screen the moment he’d crossed the finish line, too busy obsessing over something that shouldn’t have surprised you the way it did.

The least you could do for him now was running up to his car like everyone else around you and congratulating him with a hug, a smile, maybe a few tears, too: the usual routine.

And run you did—turning your back to parc fermé and heading toward the exit like the coward you were.

Because you couldn’t stand the idea of watching someone else being the reason his smirk widened as soon as he spotted her in the crowd, jumping into his arms before you, getting lifted off the ground like she was the real trophy…

As selfish as it sounded, that had always been your place—and you weren’t one to share.

So–

“Where are you going?”

You froze.

Lando had always had the annoying ability to express your thoughts for you.

“Out,” you replied without even turning around, “it’s hot here.”

“You’re kidding, right?” he scoffed like he couldn’t believe his ears, jogging up to you until you were face to—well, chest. “I won Monaco, and you’re just… what, leaving?”

You exhaled a shaky breath. “Listen, I–”

“No, wait, I know!” he brightened up, suddenly excited. “It’s for a surprise, right? If I have to stay here, I can–”

“Lando, it’s not… what surprise?”

His grin, that big, toothy grin that lit up every room he walked into, faltered, and your heart withered like a sunflower in the dark.

“Maybe the team planned something without telling me, I don’t know,” you rushed the words out, desperate to fix your mistake, “so why don’t you go back to them–”

“You don’t want to be with me?”

“No–I mean, yes! But I’m sure there are plenty of people who want to congratulate you right now–”

“And you? Do you want to congratulate me?”

Your breath caught at his sharp tone.

He’d never talked to you that way before.

And you tried to answer him, you really did, but all you managed to do was open and close your mouth a couple of times, unable to make a single sound because of the growing tightness in your throat.

Lando frowned.

“So now you won’t even speak to me? After one week of silence? Are you–” he cut himself off, running a hand through his hair out of frustration. “Are you mad at me? Is that it? Did I do something wrong?”

“What? No!”

“Then why are you acting like I did?”

“I’m not acting like anything–”

“Yes, you are! You don’t call me anymore, you don’t reply to my texts, you barely look at me when we’re together—this weekend I didn’t even know where you were half of the time!”

“Sorry, I didn’t know you were tracking my whereabouts 24/7.”

You flinched before he did when you registered what you’d said, the voice inside your head screaming “What the hell are you doing!?”.

Choosing yourself, that’s what you were doing. Because choosing Lando had become way too complicated, and if you had to hurt him to stop hurting yourself… then be it.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Can we not do this here, please?”

“Why? What are you so scared of? People watching?”

Now that he mentioned it, you remembered you still were in the middle of the garage where all his team, friends, family—and girlfriend, your mind didn’t fail to add—were, and the heavy silence that had fallen over the room was proof enough that they’d heard everything.

“I’m not in the mood right now, okay? Just let it go,” you shrugged, turning to leave.

His hand closed around your wrist a second later.

“No, I’m not letting it go. I’m not letting you go.” Were you imagining things, or did his voice actually soften? “You’ve been avoiding me for days, and I want to know why. As your best friend, I think I deserve the truth.”

There it was. The final straw.

You’d never felt so little nor sounded so miserable when you finally found the courage to speak up.

“That’s the problem,” you whispered, not trusting yourself to talk out loud. “What if I don’t want you to be my best friend anymore?”

At that moment, everything stopped.

The air was so still you could hear a pin drop.

Instead, you heard someone gasping, then trying to cover it up with a cough. Someone shifted in the background. From the corner of your eye, you even saw Adam holding back Cisca and whispering something that sounded awfully close to “Let them sort it out themselves.”

As if you could sort anything out when Lando was standing right in front of you, yet you didn’t even dare to look him in the face.

Then, voice low and hoarse like it physically hurt him to speak, he broke the silence.

“You don’t mean that.”

You did. That was the problem. And you hated how painful it was to finally admit it—to him as much as to yourself—but most of all, you couldn’t handle being the reason he sounded so broken on what should’ve been the best day of his life.

“Sorry, I… I shouldn’t have said anything. Forget it.”

“God, can you stop minimizing this like it’s nothing? And will you–” he tugged at your arm, making you stumble dangerously closer to his chest. “Will you at least look at me? I’m trying to talk to you.”

He leaned in as if to prove his point, ragged breath fanning over your hair as he searched your eyes—which were inevitably drawn to his like magnets to metal.

The second you locked gazes, you knew it was over.

He was glowing. Champagne still dripped from his soaked through fireproofs and the messy curls that were sticking to his forehead, drops sliding down his tan skin like liquid rays of sunshine.

No wonder why they called him McLaren’s golden boy.

And yet, even as he stood there bathing in the Monaco sun, the brighter light still was the one shining in his eyes.

Captivating. Hypnotizing, even. Just as lethal as the one deep-sea predators use to lure their prey right before they strike.

You had to escape before you ended up the same way.

“There’s nothing to say. Now go celebrate, they’re all waiting for you.”

“Nothing? You not wanting me as your best friend anymore is nothing?”

“I didn’t mean–”

“Then what did you mean? Because I’m having a really hard time understanding you–”

“I want you to be more than that, okay? That’s what I meant.”

The words flew out of your mouth so suddenly that you surprised even yourself, but there was no turning back now. The damage had already been done, so you might as well go all the way with it, right?

“I know it’s stupid, and I know it’s never gonna happen, but I can’t pretend I’m fine with playing the part of the supportive best friend when all I really want is to be with you. And maybe if we hadn’t played that stupid game at your apartment last week, I wouldn’t have realized I was–I am in love with you, and we could go back to being friends, and I wouldn’t cry every night over you being with Magui–”

“Wait–Magui? What does she have to do with any of this?”

Despite the situation, you couldn’t help the bitter, disbelieving chuckle you forced out as an answer.

“She has everything to do with this, Lando. She’s the one who kissed you ten days ago and gets to do it whenever she wants, she’s the one Sky Sports called your “partner” on international TV–”

“Sky Sports did what?”

The question made you roll your eyes. “Don’t play dumb, you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“Actually, I don’t.”

He was serious. You’d learned to understand when he was messing with you, and that wasn’t the case—no, it was something much worse, the spark of a feeling you’d buried deep inside you long before.

Hope.

“So you’re telling me you had no idea they’d be hard launching your girlfriend today?”

“No,” he paused, gaze softening together with the grip around your wrist. “I’m telling you she’s not my girlfriend.”

Bullshit.

Reading the skepticism in your expression, he anticipated your objection just as you opened your mouth to make it.

“We broke up last week.” His thumb started tracing gentle patterns on the back of your hand. “Ten days ago, to be exact.” He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “The night I realized I was in love with my best friend.”

You blinked up at him, his last words barely audible over the pounding of your heart—and you were met with the same mirrors of water you’d been so scared of drowning into.

The only difference was that, this time, the reflection you saw was yours—not Magui’s.

And when Lando’s lips finally found yours, you let yourself fall and dive into them.

Because now you knew he would be there to catch you.

© 2025 l4ndoflove. all rights reserved.

[iwaszumi]

TIDES ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

cw: fem reader, hate fucking, toxic relationship, lots of dirty talk, pussy slapping, spit, biting/marking, multiple creampies.

It’s been 8 months since the breakup, and yet the second you lay eyes on him again, you forget why it even happened.

He’s standing at the edge of the room, back to you, drink in hand — like the universe is testing your self-control one last time.

Miya Atsumu.

The reason you can’t date. Can’t sleep. Can’t breathe right.

You should walk away. You should pretend you didn’t see him. But no, your body moves on its own — just like it always fucking does with him.

When he turns around, the glass pauses at his lips. His eyes narrow just a little, and then he smirks.

“Didn’t think ya’d show up.” His voice hasn’t changed — still thick with Kansai drawl, still smooth like sin.

“Didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to come back here,” you shoot back.

He laughs, deep and guttural. “Missed me that bad, huh?”

You scoff, arms crossed, ignoring the way your pulse spikes. “Only missed how quiet life got without your ego in the way.”

He steps closer, slow. Deliberate. The kind of stride that says I remember exactly how to fuck you stupid. His scent hits you — cologne and a memory you never managed to erase.

“You lie like you don’t still dream about me.”

You’re about to fire something back, but he closes the space between you in one breath.

“I ain’t here to play games,” he murmurs, voice low in your ear. “You feel it too, don’t ya? This heat. This fuckin’ ache.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

“I still taste you in my fuckin’ dreams,” he growls. “Still wake up hard and pissed off ‘cause it ain’t real. You know what that does to a man?”

You do. Because you’ve been living the same hell.

And when his fingers graze your wrist, you don’t stop him. You never did.

“You wanna pretend we’re done? Fine. Lie to yourself all night. But you came here wantin’ somethin’. Just like I did.”

You look up at him. That same gold gaze. That same stupid cocky smirk. You want to slap him and fuck him at the same time.

So you say the only thing you can:

“Prove it.”

He doesn’t wait for a second invitation.

Atsumu grabs your wrist, hard enough to remind you exactly who you’re dealing with, and tugs you out of the crowded room like he owns you. Maybe he always did.

Neither of you say a word. No need. The silence crackles.

Down the street to his car. Speeding in a heated silence to his hotel room. The door slamming shut as soon as you enter. Back hitting the wall. And then his mouth is on you.

Hot. Bruising. Angry.

His hands find your waist, then your jaw, then your thigh, everywhere, like he can’t decide what to touch first. Like he’s starving. Like he’s mad you’re still the best thing he’s ever had.

“You really went there wearin’ this?” he pants between kisses, teeth tugging at your bottom lip, hands grabbing at the dress that fit you just a little bit too snug. “Just beggin’ me to ruin it, huh?”

You claw at his shirt, yank it up and over his head — that stupid perfect torso still as unfair as you remember. You rake your nails down his chest hard enough to leave lines, and he groans like it’s the only language he understands.

“Shut up and fuck me.”

That does it.

He grabs you by the thighs, lifts you like it’s nothing, and drops you onto the bed with zero finesse. The air punches out of your lungs — and he’s on you before you recover.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t touched yourself thinkin’ about this,” he growls, dragging your clothes off piece by piece, rough hands everywhere. “Bet you came with my name on your fuckin’ lips.”

You glare up at him, breathless, wrecked already. “I hate you.”

He presses his forehead to yours, cock twitching against your thigh, eyes dark and wild.

“Yeah? Hate me this much?” He shoves two fingers between your legs without warning — you gasp. Already soaked. He chuckles darkly. “Thought so.”

He spreads you open, and the look on his face? Possessive. Rabid. Worship and war all wrapped in one.

Then he spits — right on your heat— and rubs it in slow, smug as hell. “Gonna take you raw. Stretch you out all over again. Remind you what you fuckin’ gave up.”

You moan, hating how good it feels. Hating him.

“I should’ve never let you go,” he mutters, lining himself up, cock heavy and hard and leaking against your entrance. “But you’re mine tonight. Ain’t no one else makin’ you scream like I do.”

Then he thrusts in — deep — and your back arches off the bed. You claw at his shoulders, nails sinking in. “F-fuck—!”

“That’s it,” he pants, slamming into you harder. “Take it, baby. Fuckin’ take it. You wanted this.”

His name falls from your lips like prayer and poison. He fucks you like he’s trying to wipe out every other man’s existence. Like you still belong to him.

And maybe you do.

“Look at you,” Atsumu hisses, voice wrecked with obsession. “Drippin’ all over me, takin’ this cock like you fuckin’ missed it.”

He’s buried deep — hips slamming into yours, rhythm brutal, unforgiving. You’re soaked, thighs shaking, hands clawing at his back like you’re trying to keep yourself tethered to something real.

And he’s losing it. Sweat dripping down his temple, mouth half-open, chest heaving.

“This pussy’s fuckin’ mine, baby. Still remembers me, don’t it?”

“Y-you think I forgot?” you gasp, head tipping back when he grinds into you just right, making you see stars. “You think I wanted anyone else after you?!”

He laughs — dark, sharp, breathless. “You didn’t want me. You just hated that I ruined you for anyone else.”

Then he grabs your face, fingers squeezing your cheeks, forcing you to look at him.

“Say it. Say who fuckin’ owns you.”

You glare through tears, trembling on the edge. “F-fuck you.”

His hips snap — deep, mean thrusts that make your walls clamp down on him, harder, tighter — and you can’t help it. You break.

“You! Fuck, it’s you, Atsumu!”

“That’s right,” he growls, crashing his mouth to yours. “You’re mine. Always fuckin’ were.”

He keeps going, grinding you into the mattress until your body starts locking up, until your orgasm rips through you like wildfire — moaning his name like you swore you never would again.

And he follows — slamming in one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he spills inside you, groaning like it’s the only relief he’s ever known.

“Gonna fuckin’ breed you,” he pants, still grinding into your overstimulated pussy. “Mark you so deep you’ll feel me for days.”

You’re twitching, still sensitive, still spread wide and full of him — and you should push him off, but he’s not done.

Not even close.

He pulls out slow, watching your cum-slick hole clench around nothing.

Then he slaps it.

Hard.

You yelp, thighs jumping, and he shoves two fingers right back in — pushing his cum deeper with a lazy grin.

“Don’t waste a drop,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded. “Still got more for you.”

Before you can even breathe, he’s flipped you over, dragging your hips up with no patience. You’re boneless, panting, already wrecked — but he lines up again, cock thick and twitching.

“Atsumu—”

He slams back in.

No warning. No mercy. Just raw fucking need.

“Gonna fuck you through every emotion I’ve ever had,” he hisses. “All the love, all the fuckin’ rage—every bit of it, deep inside you.”

This round’s dirtier. Angrier. He’s moaning now, whispering filth between curses and gritted teeth.

“You think that boy you flirted with at the bar could ever fuck you like this?”

“Bet you thought I’d beg for you back. Nah, sweetheart — I’m just here to ruin you.”

“Feels too good to let go. Gonna keep you like this all fuckin’ night.”

You’re a mess. Screaming into the sheets. Drooling, crying, gasping his name like a plea and a threat.

And when he cums again — still inside, still raw — he pulls your hips back into him, deep and slow, letting every drop leak into you again.

“Still mine,” he mutters, breath ragged. “And you fuckin’ love it.”

Your legs are weak. Your body’s trembling. But after he fills you up for what feels like the nth time that night, Atsumu slumps back on the mattress with that cocky, fucked-out look on his face, something in you snaps.

You crawl up his chest slowly, deliberately. He’s still inside you — half-hard, flushed, twitching. You plant your hands on his chest, nails digging in, and grind down.

His whole body jolts.

“The fuck—?” he gasps, voice cracking.

“Shut up.” Your voice is dark, raspy, drenched in vengeance. “You think you get to ruin me again and walk away smirking?”

He tries to grab your hips, but you slap his hands away. “No. Hands off. You sit there and take it.”

And he does — because one look at your face, sweaty and smeared with tears and lust and war, and he knows he’s in deep.

You roll your hips again, slow and filthy, using him like a toy. He groans, cock hardening again under your heat, stretching you wide all over.

“Look at you,” you whisper, grinding faster, thighs clenching. “So full of yourself — but you always came back to this, didn’t you? Always needed me.”

He’s panting now, hands fisting the sheets, trying not to buck up and ruin your rhythm.

“Baby,” he moans, desperate, wrecked. “You’re so fuckin’ tight—shit—please—”

“Oh, now you’re begging?”

You lean forward, teeth at his throat, breath hot on his skin.

“You liked marking me up?” you growl. “Your turn.”

You bite his collarbone — hard — enough to bruise, enough to make him hiss through his teeth. Then you do it again. And again. Bite after bite, leaving hickeys as well. Claiming him like territory.

“Gonna walk out of here with scratches down your back and my scent all over your dick.”

He chokes on a laugh and a moan, hands twitching, whole body trembling under you.

“F-fuck—gonna cum—can’t hold it—”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” you growl. “You cum when I say so.”

You pick up the pace — bouncing now, ass slapping against his thighs, wet sounds obscene in the room. He’s babbling, moaning, desperate.

You reach down and rub your clit with quick, tight circles, the pressure building like lightning. Eyes locked on his. Dominance burning in your stare.

“Look at me,” you pant. “I’m gonna cum on your cock and you’re gonna thank me.”

And when you do — legs locking, head thrown back, pussy squeezing the life out of him — he cums right after, swearing and groaning and filling you up again.

This time, it’s you that doesn’t stop.

You grind through it, letting him feel every wave of your orgasm as his overstimulated cock twitches inside you.

“Still think you’re the one who wins?” you whisper, collapsing forward, lips brushing his.

He’s breathless, broken, sweat-slick and shaking.

“You’re a fuckin’ menace,” he groans, smiling like he loves it.

“You’re damn right I am.”

You haven’t even climbed off him when his hands snap back to your waist — bruising grip, lust in overdrive — and he flips you over again like he’s got something to prove.

“Think you can take control, ride me like that, and not pay the fuckin’ price?” he growls, voice gravel now. “Cute.”

He doesn’t give you a second to breathe. Doesn’t care if you’re still trembling. His cock’s already hard again, still coated in both your cum, and he slams back into you from behind with a snarl.

You cry out, arching, legs barely holding you up — but fuck if it doesn’t drive you wild all over again.

“You act like you don’t want this,” he hisses into your neck, biting down hard enough to bruise. “But your body’s beggin’ me to break it.”

“You think I’m impressed?” you spit, even as your hips rock back into his. “You’re pathetic. Always have been.”

He laughs. Low. Mean. The sound of a man who’s two seconds from tearing you apart.

“Yeah? Keep sayin’ that while I fuck the attitude outta you.”

His pace turns brutal — hands locked on your throat and your hip, fucking you like he wants to leave you ruined, shaking, and remembering.

Every thrust punches a moan out of you. Every slap of his hips echoes with spite and need.

“You gonna let someone else put a baby in you someday?” he growls suddenly, biting your shoulder. “Gonna let some soft little loser claim what’s mine?”

You clench around him. Hate it. Love it.

“No one ever had me,” you pant. “I just let you pretend.”

That sets him off.

He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanks your head back, and leans in until his mouth is at your ear, voice shaking from restraint.

“Don’t care what you say. I already fucking did.”

Then he drags you up onto your knees, pulls you flush to his chest, and starts fucking up into you, both of you in a sweaty, furious mess of tangled limbs and unspoken addiction.

“Fuckin’ say my name,” he growls, one hand between your legs again, rubbing your clit like he’s punishing you.

“N-no—!”

“Say it. Or I stop.”

You break. Again.

“Atsumu—fuck—please—!”

“That’s it,” he pants, fucking you through it. “That’s all I wanted. Just your fuckin’ voice when I wreck you.”

You cum hard, twitching around him, barely able to think.

He cums inside you for the fourth time — loud, gasping, swearing — and slumps against your back, forehead to your shoulder, cock still twitching inside you.

Both of you are covered in sweat. Bite marks. Bruises. Spit. Sex.

And you still don’t let go of the anger.

Not yet.

You’re both sprawled on the bed, wrecked in every sense — sweaty, trembling, breathless.

The room smells like sex and sweat and something bitter beneath it. His cum is still dripping out of you, slicking the inside of your thighs, but neither of you moves to clean up.

Your back’s to him. You can hear him breathing heavy, his chest still heaving against your spine.

Then—

He calls your name. His voice is different. Raw. Quiet. No venom left.

You don’t answer. Just lie there, staring at the wall, eyes blurry.

He curls around you from behind. Arms slow. Hesitant.

You want to pull away. You don’t.

“I didn’t mean to fuck it up so bad,” he whispers. His breath ghosts over your shoulder. “I know I did. I just—fuck, I still dream about you.”

You shut your eyes. “Stop.”

“I mean it.”

“No, you don’t,” you say, voice shaking. “You mean it right now, because your dick’s still wet and your head’s fucked. But tomorrow, you’ll go right back to forgetting me.”

He flinches. Silence.

“I tried to forget you.”

You twist to look at him — eyes red, lips swollen, mascara smeared. He looks just as ruined. Just as lost.

“You think I didn’t?” you snap, voice cracking. “You think I wanted to keep wanting you?”

He swallows. His hand finds your waist, then slides to your cheek.

“You’re the only one that ever meant anything,” he murmurs.

You know it’s a lie. He probably told someone else the same thing once.

But it still splits something open inside you.

Your lip trembles. “Why now?”

“‘Cause I’m scared I’m never gonna find this again,” he says. “Even if it’s fucked. Even if it hurts. I’d rather be bleeding next to you than whole with anyone else.”

Tears spill down your cheeks. You don’t wipe them away.

You grab his face. Pull him in. Kiss him — deep and soft, but shaking, messy.

And when you roll on top of him again, guiding him back into you slow and gentle this time, it’s not hate anymore.

It’s pain. Longing. A thousand “I’m sorry”s in every grind of your hips. He moves with you. Strokes your waist. Whispers your name like a prayer.

You both cry. You both pretend it means something. You both know it won’t fix anything.

But in this moment — this quiet, broken moment — it’s enough.

Just for tonight.

a/n: this is one of the filthiest things i've ever written lmao. live laugh sexual frustration.

[preemptivejustice]

Arthur’s silence wasn’t dismissive, instead just a happy pause between the middle of the chaos. He was happy to let it spread out for a bit more than usual, happy to just let Steven take a bit of a lead to talk - his eyes were a bit more tired, his blinking a little bit slower from the effort of the day. But there was something soft in them, too; a quiet fondness that Steven so easily managed to pull out of him, even when everything else ran him down. 

The observations were all fascinating. They were all correct, though Steven wasn’t unique in being observant. Marc was, equally so - though perhaps Marc cared more about environment, and Steven about people? Perhaps. Or maybe Steven was a bit more observational overall. 

It was the only frustrating part of meeting these two at such separate times, having to try and pull comparisons from memory rather than being able to see it all clearly. 

“You’re right,” he muttered, not with a nod but rather with that same, tired stare. “I did… ‘have a day’.” 

A soft breath escaped him, his eyes flickering with amusement. He tried to get himself to relax, forcing his shoulders away from his ears and letting his spine curve into the arch of his chair, even If his leg protested lightly. 

“The tea is a good idea,” he added. He still had his mug, there were probably tea bags in the break room; “I think I’ll take your advice, thank you. That sounds very good.”

After this, he’d try and get something - it was never too late to turn the day around, he supposed. He’d get home and try to spend some time with the cats, maybe, to watch them for anything else - but he’d still be at work for quite a few hours. 

“And I’m very glad to hear you finished a puzzle,” he continued, his lips finally tilting back up into a smile. “That takes patience. And the garden walk. Abby is good company. You’ve done some good things, really - I call those ‘grounding’ things. Things where you interact with the space around you, with the people around you - that’s important.” 

It was something that Marc needed to do more, frustratingly enough - though part of him wondered if Steven was only here because Marc disliked the thought of being grounded so severely. If he was so against being in the hospital that he’d rather be hiding in his own head. 

“I think it’s endearing too,” he agreed. “Sliding a letter under your door, and running off. That sounds like something a younger version of me might’ve done.” He huffed a small laugh, tiny but genuine. “He cares. A great deal. And you could say he’s shy, yes. But… between you and me, I think your letter is one of the few things he really likes, here. He talked about it the last time I saw him, you really brought him comfort with it.” 

His gaze was kind, though he wondered if Marc was hearing that, as well; he was sure that if Marc did, they’d end up talking about it, if that bothered Marc for him to’ve said. 

“You’re doing good,” Arthur continued with a little nod. “Being patient with him. And with yourself.” Arthur let the moment breathe with that, shifting again; writing one little note, before looking back to Steven.

“Can I ask if you asked anyone to join you with the puzzle?” he gently asked. No judgement, not ever, but an invitation to explore. “To be alone with something like that can be peaceful - but… did you ask other people If they wanted to join? Or was there maybe a bit of worry that no one would say yes, so you chose not to?” 

When Steven finally lets Harrow get a word in - pauses long enough for the man to manage to do so - he thinks he can spot some discomfort there, pulsing through the doctor's very being; Unsure what exactly it is, but Steven takes that moment of non-rambling to take a closer look at the other sitting there, as he always does, just...

---More stiff, maybe, yeah. He appears more stiff. More sore, in a way that's hard to describe, as Steven obviously cannot feel whether some soreness really is going on there. Harrow's expression tells that he must've had a day, someting taxing happened, pulled on his nerves, left him tired and a bit exhausted.

Well, Steven's never been really good at such things. He could be entirely wrong, definitely, but... it pokes at him, in a way, and ist causes brows to lift again as that excited expression softens a bit, followed by what is clear empathy appearing within dark brown irises.

"Had a day, yeah?" A gentle inquiry, all soft-spoken and kind, with Steven shifting a bit forward in his seat as he folds his hands onto his lap, blinking once while a few seconds of silence pass. "I, erm, I'm not saying that you look--- bad, or something, no, not at all! Just... a bit tired, maybe? Tense - around the, uhm, jaw-area. Shoulders. ...Something like that."

Mentioning all this sure as hell is a great way to make friends, huh? Steven cringes a bit - internally, that is - before he clears his throat, then allows another smile to tug on his lips again, head tilting a bit, nostrils flaring as he exhales a breath. That previously mentioned empathy continues to exist, however, because it is genuine in nature, sincere; Steven's not one who likes to see other people suffering, and he wants everyone to be okay - which is stupid, honestly, because life is shit sometimes and there's no way for a man like him to make everyone's day be a bit better.

But he cares, still. Has a heart made of gold - which he himself does not really see, not at all.

"Y'know, it might sound stupid to some, but... whenever I feel a certain way, I like to have a cup of tea. It's a warm beverage, therefore makes one feel more relaxed, and it smells - and tastes - very nice. ---Depending on the kind of tea, of course, and whether someone's able to make it the proper way." A slight jab at the psych ward's canteen? Definitely. Steven clears his throat for a second time.

"...What I wanna say with that is, that, uhm... maybe have a cup of tea, yeah? I'm sure it will help you deal with whatever caused you trouble today. --- I mean, yeah, People keep saying that it isn't the case, but I think that tea can help to fix everything!" A true Brit he is, but he might also cling on some childhood memories there, who knows? Steven might not even be aware of it - he just believes in it, the magic powers of a good cup of tea, and he thinks that others can profit from it as well.

Another soft gaze, another kind smile, and Steven inhales deeply, then exhales - looks at the succulent again, being very much fond of it, before his attention is back on Harrow.

"To answer your question - sorry, I just... y'know..." A hand moves, gestures at the doctor, then drops back onto his lap as Steven nods, shrugs, then clears his throat once more. "...Uhm, yes, things have been good for me! ... As far as they can be good, since I'm here and not at home, but!" A finger is lifted, accompanied by a nod, brows rising along the shape of that forehead - so expressive, always. "I did finish an entire puzzle yesterday! No one really wanted to join me, unfortunately... but that's okay. I also went for a stroll in the garden; That lovely caretaker named Abby joined me, and we talked about birds! Very interesting. ---I kinda hoped to find another letter this morning, but... yeah, Marc probably takes his time, huh? ... I hope he's okay and doing well, all things considered. ...I have to admit, I found it rather endearing that he must've made his way over to my room in the early morning just to slide the letter under the door without me noticing, and then probably hurried back to his own room; Wished he would've knocked or stayed for a chat, but... I guess he's shy. That's okay! I can wait."

[arkaniist]

not to be overly dramatic about this and please forgive the forthcoming yap but i have to talk about this panel + a slightly weird trend i've seen in the fandom for a long time (but especially after the last chapter with a possible mention of sebastian's past).

it has long, long been established that sebstian did not exist before ciel summoned him. i am not saying this in a vague 'because love changed him' kind of way (even tho it did also do that but more on that later). i mean literally. ontologically. the being we know as sebastian, the protagonist of kuroshitsuji, came into existence near the beginning of the series of events being related to us by the manga, for and because of ciel, and everything - everything - we know about him since the moment of his manifestation in the human world has been a created facade for ciel's sole benefit.

i don't just mean the obvious things like his name or his job or his gender. i'm also talking about the way he looks, the way he talks, how he dresses, how he acts, how he treats people, the way he kills and what methods he uses, his 'aesthetic' and how he chooses to maintain it, his wants and goals, his tastes, his whole personality; all of it is completely unique to the character we are reading about now. he created all of it in a single moment and we watched.

sometimes i get the impression that people think of sebastian as always having existed, hanging out sebastian-ly in the dark ether, talking like he currently does, acting like he currently does, sometimes even looking like he currently does, caring about all the same things he currently cares about, with all the little personality quirks we like perfectly intact, just waiting to pop up in the human world like a jack-in-the-box.

that was not the case.

whatever it truly was - how it acted and spoke and what it desired and what it looked like and so on - are so far removed from our sebastian as to be unrecognizable as the same character. that former character stopped existing before we readers ever even so much as laid eyes on it - from the moment he manifested in front of ciel he had already completely changed his entire existence to suit what ciel perceived as a demon. he was quite literally born that day: fully formed, the galatea to ciel's pygmalion.

(now who's a cradle robber?)

sometimes sebastian talks about his former existence in such a way that tricks the reader into believing there had been true continuity - we know he has always liked cats! we know he has worked with witches before! he's been to schönbrunn palace and learned to waltz! but those miniscule details actually reveal nothing about the nature of the creature to which sebastian assigns those prior experiences - we can't help but retroactively apply an image of our sebastian in those situations even though we know, logically, that the being who did those things has passed on at least some of its memories* to its current incarnation, and nothing else.

(* this also requires the reader to take a demon at face value and believe his word when he says things like that. did he really live in the hapsburg court, or did he come into existence with the experience of a person who had lived in the hapsburg court because that suits his current aesthetic, or did he become that person the moment it was necessary for ciel? did he ever really work with witches (did witches even really exist?), or does ciel assume that demons must have worked with witches and thus sebastian certainly must confirm - of course i have. let me tell you all about this extremely stereotypical depiction that does not in any way challenge your view or expectations of me or other people that summon demons. anyways. my point is that he could be lying about literally everything he says about himself and we would not be able to tell because we don't really know him and there's no way to corroborate his anecdotes because he is the potentially unreliable narrator of his own story.)

what we do know for a fact is that sebastian's cinematic record starts from the moment he was born just like everyone else's - and for our sebastian, that was the moment our ciel first laid eyes on him, giving him form and function.

doesn't it just... drive you insane? it makes me dizzy. sebastian didn't just randomly choose ciel, or pick a master based on some pre-existing list of desires and show up, take-what-you-get. it was never a coincidence that they well suit each other, work perfectly together, understand each other like no other could. the brief period of time where sebastian had to learn to temper his strength and abilities was not a mistake or a remnant of his former self, it was his afterbirth. it was an extension of his coming into being, perfecting what raw materials ciel had created him from.

sebastian only exists at all because ciel wanted him to - exactly the way he is. every perfect strand of hair, every sweetly curled vowel, every whim and action we have ever seen has existed only for ciel. he was literally made for him in every sense of the word. he was born into the world wholy, entirely desired, down to the last eyelash and snarky joke.

and when ciel is gone, however it happens, there will be no reason for sebastian to keep existing. they exit the story together.

[mattsvoicemail]

THE SPACE BETWEEN | PT 2 之间的空间

WARNINGS: ONGOING ANGST. AMNESIA/MEMORY LOSS. EMOTIONAL DISTRESS. HOSPITAL SETTING. GRIEF. SUBTLE MEDICAL MENTIONS. FLUFF. HAPPY ENDING.

you go back the next day. and the next. and the next after that.

you bring him stories. photos. playlists. inside jokes he used to quote back to you without thinking. you sit beside him and talk like nothing's wrong—even when it is. especially when it is.

sometimes, he listens. nods along, polite. smiles when you show him pictures of the beach trip from last summer, or when you remind him of the time he fell asleep in the backseat with half a sandwich in his hand. but other days, he's distant. closed off. eyes blank, staring out the window like he's trying to escape a life he doesn't recognize.

and you don't blame him.

not really.

it's just—god, it's exhausting.

to love someone like this.

to hold so tightly to a version of him that only you remember.

some nights you go home and scream into your pillow. some nights you cry so hard your chest physically aches. and sometimes, worst of all, you don't cry at all—you just go still. numb. silent.

like grief has finally swallowed you whole.

but you don't stop going.

even when nick gently suggests you take breaks. even when chris hugs you too long and says, "i hate seein' you like this." even when the nurses start recognizing you by name, even when matt still doesn't.

you go.

because that little sliver of hope?

it's the only thing keeping you alive.

the days stretch. blur. bend.

the bruises on matt's face fade. the bandages come off. he starts to walk again, slowly, carefully. he jokes more with the nurses. gets impatient with the food. his chart improves. but his memories—your memories—stay locked behind glass.

and you're still on the other side.

one afternoon, it's just the two of you again. chris had to leave early. nick's running errands. the hospital's quieter than usual, softer somehow, like the whole building is taking a breath.

you sit beside matt, legs curled beneath you, voice low as you start to talk again. about anything. everything. the night you and him got caught in the rain walking back from that gas station near his old apartment. how you were both soaked, freezing, laughing like idiots. how he wrapped you in a towel and said, "you're the only person i'd ever be this stupid with."

matt's quiet. watching you. there's something in his eyes—tired, maybe, but focused.

and then—

"and then we ordered pizza," he says suddenly. "but the place messed up the toppings. you picked the olives off mine so i'd eat it anyway."

you stop breathing.

your hands freeze in your lap. your heart feels like it just slammed into your ribs at full speed.

your eyes snap to him.

"what?"

matt blinks, like he just realized he said something out loud. "i—sorry, it jus'—popped into my head. like i could see it."

"matt," you whisper, your voice shaking. "you remembered that."

he looks unsure for a second. like maybe he dreamed it. maybe he read it in one of your stories. but then he meets your eyes—really meets them—and something in you shifts.

"yeah," he says quietly. "i think i did."

and suddenly you're crying. not like before. not the grief kind. this is messy, breathless, relieved. you reach for him without thinking, your fingers threading through his, and this time—this time—he holds on.

tight.

like something inside him finally clicked. like he knows you. maybe not everything. maybe not yet. but enough.

enough to start.

you don't let go of his hand.

not for a while.

not even when the nurse comes in to check his iv. not when she glances at the way your fingers are tangled together and politely pretends not to notice. not when matt glances down at your hands like he's trying to figure out when that started feeling right.

because for the first time in weeks, something is right.

he doesn't say much else that afternoon. doesn't try to push it. just sits there with you, his thumb brushing slowly over your knuckles, like he's testing the shape of a memory he doesn't want to lose again.

you don't push either.

you talk about small things. the weather. your drive in. a song you heard that reminded you of him—not in a nostalgic, painful way this time, but softer. lighter.

matt listens.

and more importantly—he looks at you.

really looks. not just like you're someone who visits. not just like you're someone he's supposed to trust. but like someone who matters.

someone who might have mattered all along.

the days keep passing.

and something shifts.

not everything at once. not like in movies where the memories come back all at once with a gasp and a tearful embrace.

no—it's slower than that. quieter.

he starts asking you questions. little ones.

"did we ever go to that diner across from the studio?"

"did i like this show?"

"what was our first fight about?"

and you answer them. always.

sometimes it hurts. sometimes you laugh. sometimes you have to excuse yourself and cry in the hallway because you shouldn't have to re-teach someone how to love you.

but you do. because he's worth it.

because deep down, he's still him.

and sometimes, the remembering sneaks up on him.

like when he's brushing his teeth and suddenly mutters, "you used to steal my toothpaste, didn't you?"

or when a nurse asks what snacks he likes and he automatically says, "anything she brings."

like it's instinct.

like somewhere in the core of him, you never left.

one evening, three weeks in, you bring a movie to play on your laptop. he's in bed, legs stretched, eyes sleepy from a long round of physical therapy. you're beside him, laptop balanced between you both.

it's a film you used to watch together all the time—some dumb, low-budget thriller you both loved to make fun of. and when that one ridiculous line comes on, the one that always made him laugh, he says it with the character before you do.

word for word.

and then he looks at you. startled. then smiles.

that smile—the real one.

the one you haven't seen since before the crash.

"i remembered that," he says, a little breathless. "i didn't even think. it just came out."

you laugh, tearful and soft. "i know."

he stares at you for a long moment. like he's still figuring you out, still drawing the lines of who you were to him—and who you might still be.

and then—gently, quietly—he says your name. like a test. like a question.

you whisper, "yeah?"

he exhales. "i think m'fallin' in love with you again."

you don't say anything at first.

you just look at him—really look. eyes stinging, throat tight, hands folded in your lap like if you move too fast, the moment will break. but it doesn't. it just… sits there, warm and steady and unbelievably real.

"okay," you whisper, voice cracking. "then we'll start there."

he nods. small. almost shy. like he's scared you'll disappear if he says too much. but you don't. you stay.

and from there, it gets easier.

not easy. not perfect. not the way it was before.

but easier.

he remembers how you like your coffee. that you hate mint-flavored gum. that you get carsick if you don't sit in the front. little things. things he never asked to learn the first time, but now listens for like they matter. like they're puzzle pieces.

and he's trying to put the whole picture together.

he starts asking for you when you're not there.

once, you walk into the room and find his head tipped back on the pillow, eyes closed, and you think he's asleep—but he mumbles, "where were you?" like he felt the absence. like it didn't sit right with him.

another time, you're helping him sit up, adjusting his pillows, and he looks at you with this soft, unsure expression.

"can i ask you somethin' kind of… weird?"

you glance at him. "of course."

"did i ever ask you to move in with me?"

you blink, smile tugging at your lips. "once. right before your birthday. you said you were tired of pretending your apartment wasn't half mine already."

he huffs a laugh, a little crooked. "was i romantic about it?"

"no," you grin. "you asked with your mouth full of cereal."

he groans, shaking his head. "jesus. sorry."

"don't be," you say softly. "i loved it."

his gaze lingers on you, and for a second, it feels like the space between past and present collapses entirely. like maybe this is what healing really looks like—not forgetting the pain, but letting it live beside something better.

the next day, he's cleared to walk the halls.

you help him up, one arm around his back, slow and careful. the fluorescent lights above you buzz faintly as you take your time, step by step. nurses pass. other patients. it's a normal afternoon. nothing special.

but to you—it's everything.

at one point, he stops by the window at the end of the hallway. the light hits his profile just right, soft and gold. he looks over at you, eyes squinting a little in the sun.

"do you think we'll be okay?" he asks.

your breath catches.

you step closer, slip your hand into his again.

"i think we already are."

you sit with him one more night before discharge. the room is dim, lit only by the blue glow of a muted tv and the low hum of machines that won't follow him home. his bag is half-packed. there's a paper cup of ginger ale on the tray beside him, untouched.

you're beside him, shoulder to shoulder. close. still.

he's quiet for a long time.

then:

"do you remember when i asked you what we were?"

you glance at him. "when?"

"after the accident. first time i really looked at you. i asked if we were something."

you nod. it hurt like hell. you'll never forget that day.

matt shifts to face you more fully, eyes soft, almost apologetic. "you said yes. almost four years."

you hum. "we were."

"i think we still are," he says quietly. "or maybe we're becoming it again."

your eyes sting, but this time it's not grief. it's relief. it's something like peace. like standing on solid ground again after weeks of drowning.

"i think we never stopped," you whisper.

he exhales, slow. and then—like it's the most natural thing in the world—he leans forward, forehead resting against yours. your eyes flutter closed. the air between you doesn't hurt anymore.

"thank you," he murmurs.

you nod, voice caught in your throat. "for what?"

"for not givin' up on me," he says. "for standin' in the space between who i was and who i am now—and stayin'."

and that's when you realize:

the space between wasn't empty.

it held everything.

every tear. every quiet moment. every second you loved him without being loved back.

and now—it holds you both.

slowly, completely, all over again.

author's note. sorry for the late post, but here's your happy ending!! :)

taglist. @sugarraez @dominicfikeenthusiast @mi-co-uk @zenithsturniolo @tezzzzzzzz @bbgirlmatt @courta13 @grace-sturnz @salaciousxsturniolo @maliaforstvrns @ribbonlovergirl @eyesonmattyb @matts-wife @ariieeesworld @mattybsgroupie @k-pevensie28 ꒱ ₊˚⊹ .ᐟ

to be added to my taglist, please refer to this post.

[angelsfat3]

꽃.ㅤㅤ( 𝓛𝖔𝔳𝑒 ) ／ㅤ𝔐𝓸𝑟𝖊ᆞᆞᆞ𝑃𝔩𝖊𝓪𝒔𝖊.

𝖣𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗌, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗃𝗎����𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈... 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗁 𝗂𝗍. 𝖮𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗍?ㅤ／ㅤ𝑐𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑔𝑒!𝑎𝑢, 𝑏𝑓𝑓!𝐽𝑎𝑘𝑒, 𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑠𝑡, 𝑠𝑢𝑔𝑔𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑣𝑒(?), 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑐.ㅤ٭ㅤ危险──𝑯𝒆𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒖𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂 𝒋𝒆𝒓𝒌 𝒂𝒔 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔, 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒃𝒂𝒍 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 (𝑱𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑯𝒆𝒆), 𝒍𝒐𝒕𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒄𝒓𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈.

The sun barely slipped through the half-closed curtains. A soft breeze stirred the sheets, carrying with it the bitter scent of cigarettes, beer, and sweat-stained bodies. The morning chill felt sharper on just one side of the bed.

Heeseung frowned faintly, still half-asleep, but slowly waking up as seconds passed. His hand reached out blindly, instinctively, searching for something… someone. But there was nothing. Just wrinkled sheets. Cold linen.

He slowly pushed himself upright—and that’s when he noticed it. The silence. Not just any silence, but the kind that felt hollow. Cruel. There was no breathing beside him. No lingering scent of cologne in the air. The room was too clean. Too empty.

[...] was gone.

No note. No final touch. No last kiss. Not even the courage to look him in the eye.

Heeseung let himself fall back onto the mattress, lying flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Swallowing was hard, like something heavier than grief was lodged in his throat.

He didn’t know why it hurt this much. Or maybe he did… but couldn’t bring himself to admit it.

“...Did he hear me talking to her? Did he… read the messages?” he wondered, trying to piece together the morning before sleep claimed him again.

His phone buzzed, snapping him out of his spiral. Chloe.

A missed call. A message that read: “Good morning, babe. Hungover? Lol”—as if she cared. As if her damn name hadn’t just shattered the only honest thing Heeseung had felt in months.

The truth was, he thought he’d moved on. Thought he could have both. That maybe, with a bit of luck, [...] would understand. That he could go back to Chloe without losing what he had that night.

But there was no going back now.

[...] was gone. And the emptiness in the bed was nothing compared to the one in his chest.

Then, the memories came crashing like a wave. The way his boy’s skin trembled under his touch, the soft sighs, the stuttered moans, the love bites marking every inch of him. That moment—that moment—when his eyes shut in bliss, trusting Heeseung with everything.

And now? Now he’d left him with the bitter taste of regret stuck to his tongue.

Heeseung covered his face with both hands. The room didn’t smell like him anymore. Didn’t smell like his skin. It just smelled like failure. And for the first time in a long time, Heeseung wished he could cry.

But he couldn’t. Not even that came.

Because deep down… he knew he deserved every second of this.

Heeseung couldn’t even remember how he got dressed, or how he made it down the stairs so fast. Every step away from that room felt like a sting against his skin. Minjeong’s house still echoed the remnants of the party—half-empty cups, bottles scattered on the floor, a playlist looping in the background, bodies asleep in every corner—but it all felt miles away from what he had felt the night before.

The faster he walked, the more reality hit him, and the laughter still ringing faintly from behind felt distant—too cheerful for what he carried inside.

He walked in silence, hands shoved deep into his pockets, head down, turning at every corner and picking up his pace. Every step seemed heavier than the last, and he didn’t even know where he was going anymore.

The morning dew still lingered on the streets, leaving distorted reflections in every puddle. He stopped in front of the bus stop—the last place he’d seen him, when they were still close... still laughing, still playfully nudging each other. That memory, so innocent, tore something open in his chest. Heeseung closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, like that might ease the crushing weight pressing against his ribs.

Minutes later, already on campus, something made him stop dead in his tracks.

There, across the garden, sitting on one of the benches, he saw them.

[...] was there, shoulders curled in on himself like the whole world was too much. And Jake was next to him, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and rubbing his back gently with the other.

His touch was protective. Warm. Far too intimate for someone who was “just a friend.”

Jealousy burned its way up Heeseung’s throat like poison, searing every inch it passed.

But he had no right to go near them. Not after what he did. Not now that even he was starting to believe the damage was real.

He clenched his fists when Jake leaned in and whispered something close to [...]’s ear—and he smiled, just a little. That smile hurt more than any broken bone ever could.

Heeseung wanted to run to them. He wanted to say everything—how sorry he was, how stupid he'd been, that he could fix this, that he could change.

But he didn’t move. He just stood there, watching from a distance, swallowing the lump in his throat as his eyes filled with rage, with grief... and guilt.

Jake noticed him. Their eyes met, just for a second. Cold.

A look that said everything: “Don’t come closer. You’ve done enough.”

Heeseung took a step back. Then another. And finally, he left.

Quietly. Without a word. Without starting another war.

Jake lowered his gaze as Heeseung disappeared between the trees on campus. He didn’t say a word, didn’t explain. He just turned to [...] and offered him a piece of muffin he’d bought at the cafeteria.

“Wanna bite?” he asked softly.

[...] only shook his head against Jake’s shoulder, sinking deeper into the sweater, clutching it tightly.

His eyes were still red, though no more tears came. He looked drained, numb. Silent. Like someone who’d run out of tears and was now left with memories too heavy to carry.

Jake scooted a little closer, letting the silence speak for them. Only the rustle of leaves and the distant sounds of students passing by broke the stillness.

“Can I… ask you.. again?” Jake finally said, voice low, careful.

“Why did it hurt so much…?” He paused, glancing sideways. “That call. The thing with Heeseung and his ex.”

[...] didn’t answer right away. He rubbed his hands like he was cold—though it was just the memory freezing him from the inside. Eventually, with a sigh, he looked up, eyes fixed on the bushes surrounding the garden.

“Because It wasn’t just the call.” His voice cracked slightly, but he kept going. “It was everything before it.”

Jake turned toward him more fully, setting the coffee cups aside, giving him his full attention.

“He...” [...] swallowed hard, fingers gripping the fabric of his pants.

“He made me feel like I mattered. Like I was something more. He looked at me like I was art. He kissed me like he was handing me the universe. And I... I believed him. Or maybe... I fell.”

Jake lowered his eyes, lips pressed tightly, hands clasped to stop them from curling into fists.

“Last night… the party.” [...] continued, eyes shut, tilting his head back as if reliving it moment by moment—the touches, the moans, the way Heeseung held him like he’d never let go.

“We... went to a room. He said he wanted to talk... and yeah, we talked. But he also kissed me. He touched me like it hurt not to. Like he needed me. And I...” his voice broke again.

“God, I was such an idiot. I gave him everything. We had sex... and I thought it meant something. I thought—finally—someone chose me.”

Jake didn’t know what to say. Every word was a blade in the chest.

He didn’t know if he wanted to hold him, scream, or just collapse from the ache.

“And the next morning, while I could still feel him on my skin...” [...] whispered, squeezing his eyes shut to stop the tears. “I heard him tell Chloe he loved her. That he missed her. That the only reason he even went to the party... was for her. Because he hoped she’d be there.”

A long silence followed.

Heavy. Raw. Devastating.

Jake swallowed, leaning in without a word, just enough to rest his hand over [...].

“I’ve never felt so filthy,” [...] confessed with a bitter laugh. “So invisible. So disposable. Like I was just a quick fuck to help him forget someone else... A way to fill the emptiness for one night.”

Jake didn’t let go. He looked at him with a gentleness, with a love that tried to understand. Tried to soothe. His voice came out in a breath.—“He didn’t deserve a damn thing you gave him.”—

[...] looked at him then—for the first time all day. His eyes still held pain, but something else too. Something deeper. The kind of emptiness that only exists when someone’s been shattered. But in Jake’s gaze, he found a glimmer of hope.

“Do you think... someday it’ll stop hurting?” he asked, voice small, like a child.

Jake gave him a sad smile, brushing his thumb over [...]’s knuckles.

“Oh, it will... trust me. But until it does, you won’t have to hurt alone.”

The sun slowly climbed between the buildings, like even it wanted to shine on someone who needed it most. [...] didn’t answer. He only lowered his gaze again, quietly feeling the warmth of Jake’s hand return a small piece of himself.

Like his skin, broken and marked by hollow affection, had finally found a place to heal.

The wind played with a few strands of his hair, and without thinking much, Jake gently tucked them back, brushing them aside with the tips of his fingers, as if he was afraid of hurting him even more. That simple, tender gesture made [...]’s throat tighten.

“Thank you...” he whispered, barely audible. “for not judging me.”

Jake slowly shook his head, his brows gently furrowed, his thumb softly stroking the back of [...]’s hand.

“I never could. Not after everything we’ve been through, and everything life has put you through.”

[...] let out a trembling sigh, his lips tightening as if he were trying to hold back the tears still hiding beneath his ribs, behind his lashes.

“You know... There are moments,” he said, “when I just want to erase everything. That night, for example—like it never even happened. But then I remember it all… I remember it like I’m still there. And it hurts. It hurts so much I feel like I can’t even breathe.”

Jake leaned in closer—not too much, just enough for his warmth to surround him, without needing to pull him into a hug.

“You don’t have to erase it. It’s normal that it still hurts. Everything’s still too fresh...” he said softly. “What you lived... what you felt... it was real to you. That’s valid. That matters. You matter.”

[...] felt something break inside his chest. A sob escaped his lips—dry, stifled, like he’d been holding it in for minutes. He covered his face with both hands, unable to hide the vulnerability that now poured through him. His tears were silent, but they were anything but invisible.

Jake didn’t hesitate for even a second. He wrapped his arms around him the moment he heard it, pulling him in tightly, pressing him against his chest like he could keep every one of his broken pieces from falling apart.

“It’s okay, my sun... I’m here,” he whispered in his ear. “You don’t have to carry this alone. Not ever again.”

[...] buried himself in Jake’s neck, just like he had the first time—a secret refuge no one else knew about. A place only for him.

“I don’t know how I’m going to get through this...” he confessed, his voice nearly drowned in tears. “I loved him so much, Jake... I loved him more than anything in the world, and even after I walked away, I still loved him. I still believed in him... and he broke me. He shattered me without even thinking about what it would do to me.”

Jake clenched his jaw, fighting back his own emotions—the sting in his chest that came from knowing he was the second choice in the heart of the person he loved most. But this moment wasn’t about him. Not yet.

“Then let me help you. Let me help rebuild you into someone even stronger than the man you were before,” he whispered tenderly. “Not so you can fall in love with someone else... but so you can fall in love with yourself again. So you can be your own priority.”

[...] looked at him with a trembling smile, his eyes red and glistening. He hugged Jake tightly, clinging to him as if his trembling body had finally found something solid to hold on to—something warm in the middle of all the cold darkness. Something that felt like light pulling him back home.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

As the days passed, [...] began to breathe with a little less difficulty. Sometimes, when he looked in the mirror, he no longer saw the tearful eyes of every morning before. Instead, he saw a pair that—though still broken—were trying to find themselves. The wound Heeseung had left was still there, of course. It was still deep, still sharp... but something inside him had begun to harden, to protect itself. His heart and mind were starting to understand.

And Heeseung? Pff, he tried to reach out. Over and over again.

His first attempt came on an ordinary morning, right after class. His breathing quickened in the hallway as he searched frantically, his eyes scanning for him—searching for [...]’s eyes, like just one glance could say everything he never had the chance to explain.

And yes, he succeeded. He found [...] leaving the classroom, the last one out.

But before he could take even one more step, Jake appeared—he was becoming a habit by now. “Come on, we’ve got to get to the field. The principal said he’s giving a speech... or something like that.” His voice wasn’t harsh, but it was firm. He placed a hand on [...]’s back and guided him away from the stranger trying to catch up to him.

Heeseung didn’t give up. He tried again. And again.

He waited outside campus. He showed up at the café where he knew [...] liked to study. He even knocked on his dorm room door. But every single time, Jake was there. Not with open threats (not exactly), but with a presence so constant and protective that it was impossible to break through that shield.

Sometimes, when [...] saw Heeseung from a distance—laughing or looking around for him—his heart would tighten. There was still pain. Because forgetting wasn’t that easy.

But when Jake’s hand touched his, squeezing gently, or when he just looked at him while telling a random story to distract him, that tremble inside would ease, even just a little.

Thanks to Jake, the nights were no longer about tears—but they were still full of thoughts. [...] still remembered how it had felt. How, for a brief moment, he believed everything finally made sense, that things might go back to how they used to be. But he also remembered the sound of betrayal. The ache. He remembered the voice of the man who shattered his soul.

And that memory was enough to make him close the door again. Even to himself.

But I must say… every failed attempt from Heeseung only pushed him further away. Not because of what he did, but because of what he would never be able to fix. The words that never came, came too late. The attempts—hollow. Everything now felt like the same old pattern, like back when it was just a kiss, back when Heeseung was the lost drunk boy.

Jake didn’t ask about Heeseung anymore. He was just there. In the lows, in the timid laughs that were slowly returning, in the afternoon walks under the sun. In everything [...] needed, without ever having to ask or force anything.

In general.. everything stopped feeling forced. It all just… slipped by, almost unnoticed. Days turned into weeks, and now, a month had passed since what had felt like the end of the world.

But guilt and remorse still lingered—always there, hovering like a fly over trash. Never quite gone.

It was one afternoon, as the sun began to fade behind the buildings, that a soft but firm knock echoed at the dorm room door, the place where [...] spent most of his time with his moon. The hand behind the knock hesitated for a moment, then knocked again, more urgently, more nervously.

From inside, Jake opened the door without losing his composure. His gaze lifted slightly, hardening the second he saw who was on the other side being a pain in the ass.

“What do you want?” he asked calmly, though there was a faint growl in his tone.

Heeseung looked at him. A flicker of contempt and coldness crossed his face. He knew it wouldn’t be easy—but this was his moment, and it was already inevitable. He’d lost [...], yes, but he wasn’t ready to give up without a fight.

Jake didn’t look away for even a second. He wasn’t going to let Heeseung get close again—not without a proper hit. Verbal, at least. Jake was never the type to throw punches.

The air thickened quickly. It was uncomfortable—tense, packed with unsaid words passed between glances and heavy sighs.

“Let me talk to him,” Heeseung said firmly, his voice barely above a whisper, teetering on the edge of collapse.

“He’s not here.”

Jake stared him down without blinking and responded sharply. His hand remained firmly on the doorknob, not opening it any further, as if Heeseung’s presence alone dirtied the threshold.

“I just want to talk,” Heeseung growled with a furrowed brow, stepping closer. “Just for a few minutes. That’s all.”

Jake let out a bitter, low laugh.

“Ah... Now you want to talk, huh? How convenient.”

Heeseung clenched his jaw. The knot in his throat wasn’t guilt—it was rage. Rage at seeing him there, standing in front of the dorm that should have been his, guarding the boy who… had once been his, in body and...

“Stay out of this, Jake,” he snapped. “You don’t know what happened.”

“Don’t I?” Jake crossed his arms and scoffed. “Want me to tell you what I do know? I know that morning, he came in here crying. He was lying on the floor, for god’s sake, arms wrapped around himself like he was dirty... And I know he didn’t tell me what happened at first because he didn’t want me to hate you more than I already did.”

It all made sense now, every piece finally fit. [...] had heard him that morning—when Heeseung was caressing his back while talking to Chloe.

That explained why he hadn’t been with him that morning. That explained why he never spoke to him again. That explained why Jake… was like this. Fuck.

“I didn’t…” Heeseung tried, but Jake cut him off.

“You know what’s the most fucked up part? He still defended you. Even with his heart torn to pieces, he told me maybe you didn’t mean it. That maybe you just... ‘didn’t know what you were saying.’ Ugh.”

Jake’s anger was climbing into his face, his eyes glassy from pure rage.

“And now? You, here, knocking like everything could be fixed with an ‘I just want to talk.’ Do you even realize what you did, asshole?”

“... I-I loved him! Okay?!” Heeseung suddenly shouted, losing control. “It—It wasn’t just sex!”

“Oh, right. And that’s why you went and talked to your fucking ex after sleeping with him?” Jake looked at him with disgust, eyes scanning him up and down. “That’s why you said you missed her while he was still aching from what you two.. did?”

The silence that followed was more unbearable than anything else.

“He… came to me. He.. he wanted it. He knew what would happen.”

Jake stepped forward, letting go of the door.

“Are you fucking sick? Did you really just say that? You’re gonna justify what you did by blaming him? Are you kidding me? You piece of shit.”

Heeseung clenched his jaw, his eyes sharpening as he let the rage take over—rage born from not knowing how to defend himself.

“You’re saying that because you don’t get it. You weren’t there. You don’t know what it felt like… what it was like to have him in my mouth, even if it was just for one night,” Heeseung whispered.

“Because you, Jake, no matter how much you take care of him, no matter how many of his tears you wipe away, or how hard you try to play the saint… you’re never going to have him the way I did. You’ll never know how his voice sounds when it breaks, when he’s begging you to stop. You’ll never see him cry from pleasure, trembling from the way I moved. You’ll always be the virgin little boy in love with the slut I fucked.”

Ouch. Disgusting. And low.

Of course Jake shoved him. Hard.

It was like an explosion that had been building since the first sentence. Heeseung stumbled back, almost losing balance, and for a moment everything went silent. Jake stared at him, eyes lit up—not with jealousy, but pure disgust.

“You’re a fucking... You think that’s love? Reducing him to the way he moaned when you touched him? Calling him a ‘slut’?”

Heeseung couldn’t say anything. He just stood there, small. Feeling exactly what he should’ve admitted all along—like a disgusting excuse for a human being. An immature man who only tried to fill a void, even if it meant destroying someone else’s heart in the process.

“You broke him. Left him shattered. And now you have the balls to show up here, pretending you came to apologize, only to go on about how he moaned for you? That’s all that matters to you, isn’t it?”

Jake stepped in again, stabbing Heeseung’s chest with his finger, and this time his voice dropped—low, venomous.

“I’d rather be the ‘virgin little boy’ a thousand times than be like you. Because in the end, I won. I’m the one who gets to touch him whenever I want, and he doesn’t push me away.”

Each word was like a jab straight to the heart.

“Now leave. You’ve wasted enough of my time.”

Heeseung said nothing. He couldn’t. Because he knew every word was true.

The sharp bang of the door echoed down the hallway like a gunshot. Heeseung stood there, frozen, his breath unsteady, fists clenched, and eyes fixed on the wood separating him from a fight—or another humiliation.

On the other side of the door, Jake was breathing heavily. Not from fear. From helplessness. From what he'd just heard. From how much he held back from breaking Heeseung’s face. He closed his eyes, and only when he heard his own shaky breath did he force himself to calm down.

Was everything his now...? Or at least, that’s what Jake wanted to make Heeseung believe, though deep down, he knew [...] didn’t belong to anyone.

Heeseung stood there, replaying everything in his mind before his body even dared to move, as if his legs doubted their ability to carry him after that fight. He finally made his way down the stairs, head low, hands still trembling.

The anger no longer burned. All that remained was that bitter emptiness, that hollow echo of knowing there was no way to go back and change the words he had said.

When he turned toward the hallway leading out of the building, expecting to find a sunless sky, dim but still glowing, that’s when he saw him.

His prince.

Walking in the opposite direction, headphones in, still unaware of Heeseung’s presence, eyes on the steps. And if the world had a button to stop time, Heeseung would’ve pressed it right then.

The first thing he noticed was his hair. A new cut—shorter on the sides, with loose strands falling naturally across his forehead, as if the wind knew exactly how to caress him. Then his skin. Clearer, glowing even, as if the tears had been replaced with tenderness and gentle care. He wore a loose jacket and dark jeans—simple… but he looked fucking beautiful.

No… more than beautiful. He looked like a god. He looked happy. At peace.

As if he didn’t remember him at all.

Heeseung’s heart twisted violently. It felt like he was witnessing something he shouldn’t, like watching a film about someone nostalgia painted too clearly… And it hurt. It hurt so much.

[...] looked up quickly. And he saw him.

And for a moment, for one fucking second, their eyes met again.

Heeseung felt his heartbeat slow down, felt nerves, anxiety, fear. It was like that feeling of panic when you don’t know what to do, what to say, and the words just won’t come.

[...] didn’t smile. Didn’t frown. Didn’t cry. He just looked at him. With a calmness that shattered every brick Heeseung had built into his temple.

As if he no longer hurt.

Heeseung stood still for a few seconds, looking him up and down, admiring him the same way he had that night.

He took a deep breath, trying to form words in his throat that refused to come. He took a step forward, then another, until he was standing right in front of him.

“Baby… I-I mean, [...]...” his voice trembled, barely able to whisper. “C-Can we talk...? Just give me… give me a few minutes. Just a moment to explain...”

“No… Not now.” he replied, his voice cold, like a stranger’s. Like someone who had never known Hee. “I don’t want to.”

Heeseung saw the invisible wall [...] had built from the very first second. The distance shattered something inside him—his pride.

Without thinking, his hand reached out and brushed [...]’s arm, a fleeting, timid contact, trying to stop his stubborn steps.

“Please...” he insisted, voice cracking. “You don’t understand... how I feel. I need to explain… I need you to listen, just for a moment...”

[...] pulled his arm away with a sharp motion, as if disgusted by the touch.

“There’s nothing to explain,” he replied with a tired, steady voice. “What happened, happened. And I’m done looking for answers where there are none.”

Heeseung swallowed hard, feeling tears blur his vision. He knew he was running out of time—it was now or never to—excuse—explain himself, to try to get back the one thing that had ever felt real.

He stepped closer, just a bit more, as if that inch of distance was his last burning thread. His last hope.

“I know… I-I know I failed you. I hurt you. But...” he paused, searching for the right words. His chest rose and fell, struggling to keep the tears from falling. “I can’t let it end like this. Not without fighting for you… I need you… [...], I need you so much… I miss you...”

[...] didn’t look away—he only stared deeper, his expression that of someone who had finally learned that idealizing someone only brings pain, that it breaks you once you see who they truly are.

“I don’t need you to fight for me, Heeseung,” he said in a broken voice, gently shaking his head. “I need you to leave me alone.”

Heeseung felt the ground vanish beneath his feet with that sentence.

“I need you to leave me alone.”

Before he could rationalize, before he could realize how pathetic or prideful it might seem, he dropped to his knees in front of him. Truly. In that moment, he didn’t care if anyone saw them, didn’t care what was left of his dignity.

His shoulders trembled, and finally, the tears burst from his eyes with urgency, soaking his lashes, his cheeks—every corner those drops could reach.

“No… D-Don’t say that… please, don’t tell me that…” His voice was barely a gasp, breaking with every word. “You can’t ask me to do that… not you. Not after… how you made me feel…”

[...] took a step back, in shock. He pressed his lips together, took a deep breath, crossing his arms in front of his chest, trying not to collapse with him.

“Please. Get up, Heeseung. Just make it easier for both of us,” he murmured, hardening even more, though his eyes were already starting to shine with pain he could barely conceal.

But Heeseung shook his head. Clumsily wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand, his red, tear-filled eyes already looked empty.

“No… I-I… I can’t. Not until… until I can tell you the truth…” He cut himself off, struggling to breathe. Drawing air into his lungs felt twice as hard now.

“Those seconds… you shouldn’t… have heard that. It wasn’t what it seemed, I swear it wasn’t. I didn’t want…” His voice cracked, and he rubbed his face in desperation, like he wanted to scrub off the guilt.

“And what do you expect to achieve by telling me this, Heeseung?” [...] snapped, starting to feel that constant stabbing sensation in his chest. The wound burned—it kept tearing open the longer he stayed. He could feel the blade twisting deep inside.

“N-Nothing! Just… It was a mistake. A fucking mistake. I was drunk, confused, exhausted. And you… you were sleeping so peacefully, and she sent me a couple of messages and… and I…” He inhaled deeply, burying his head in his hands.

“I just… I didn’t mean to hurt you that much. I thought nothing would happen… a-and… besides, I didn’t… I didn’t feel anything when I said all that. I was only thinking about you… b-but I said all that because…”

[...] clenched his jaw, feeling his breathing quicken. He didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to pity him. He didn’t want to believe him… but there Heeseung was. On his knees. Crying like his life depended on it. Like someone had a gun to his head.

“You used me, Heeseung,” he murmured, voice cracked.

“First you made me believe you really loved me. You made me feel like that moment meant something… And then you just forgot about me… for her?” He dropped his gaze, swallowing down the knot in his throat.

“How did you expect me to react? Happy knowing I gave myself to someone who doesn’t know how to be alone?”

Heeseung looked up, desperate, tears staining his cheeks with fresh drops retracing the path.

“I know… I know I fucked it up bad, I never should’ve used you… but I was just so… lost. S-Sad. But believe me… I can change, for you. Just let me be close… again. You don’t have to forgive me today, or tomorrow… but don’t shut me out. Please don’t. I swear I’ll change, a-and I’m already changing… Just… don’t hate me so much…”

[...] stayed silent, feeling something inside him drying out. He had buried it forcefully, ripped out a part of his life to avoid being consumed… but now, it took just one moment to feel how, slowly, it was all starting to… simply fade away.

He took a deep breath and shook his head softly.

“I don’t hate you, Heeseung. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to,” he said, eyes now glistening too—though he remained standing, firm.

“But I’m not going to let you keep hovering in my life anymore. I don’t need you, and you don’t need me. We’re not friends. We weren’t ever anything more… Live your life and just forget what happened. Move on.”

And with that, he turned around, taking a step forward. Then another. And another.

And Heeseung knew—this was the worst kind of goodbye. Not only had he humiliated himself, he had exposed a part of him so raw, all for something he already knew would end badly.

He wanted to beg again, to scream, to grab his hand, to tell him that life didn’t taste the same without him—that no skin, no voice, no other love could ever compare. But he didn’t.

He was tired too.

[…] he walked without looking back, his steps steady—though in truth, his legs were shaking more than ever. Heeseung’s voice still echoed in the back of his mind, and he could still feel the hot, trembling touch of Heeseung’s hand on his wrist.

The sound of his broken voice calling his name between sobs still rang inside him. The way his tears hit the floor—it was all still there. Still fresh. But he didn’t stop, no matter how tight the knot in his throat begged him to turn around, to answer, to scream back. He wasn’t going to give in.

His headphones hung around his neck, still playing something soft. He walked quickly, passing through the dorm hallways without lifting his gaze, as if afraid Heeseung might chase after him again.

He climbed the stairs with his breath short and uneven. And by the time he reached his door, he could barely recognize himself. His eyes burned, his chest, calves, and heels ached with heat. The corners of his lips trembled downward—but he wasn’t going to cry.

Not because he wanted to play strong, but because there was nothing left to cry about. It wasn’t the heartbreak that hurt—it was the anger. Because it all happened so fast. Because what Heeseung did was so low. Because he showed up just when everything was starting to feel normal again. When he was starting to feel normal again.

He opened the door.

Jake sat in front of his computer, glasses perched on his nose, a faint frown on his face as he worked through a couple of formulas that looked like a foreign language to 90% of his brain.

The room looked the same as always—clean, moderately tidy, with that warm light Jake always preferred over the harsh white from the ceiling. A soft lo-fi playlist played in the background. Jake turned his head slightly and smiled when he saw him.

“Heyyy, you got here right when I was about to text you,” he said in that soft voice that always felt like it reached every fragile corner of his soul.

[…] tried to smile back, but when he did, it came out forced—barely a twitch of his lips. He closed the door behind him, leaning back against it for a second like he needed it to hold him up. Jake’s brows furrowed a little, and he slowly took off his glasses.

“You okay? What happened?” he asked, noticing how heavy he was breathing, his chest rising and falling hard. “Let me guess.. another dog chased you again?”

[…] shook his head, pulling off his jacket without meeting Jake’s eyes. His voice came out soft, barely catching air.

“What? Oh.. no... I just.. ran.”

Jake nodded gently, though his gaze lingered with quiet concern. He could tell something was off. But he didn’t push. He simply stood up, walked over, and without another word, wrapped his arms around his waist, resting his chin softly on his shoulder.

“Well… at least you’re here now,” he whispered. “How was your day?”

[...] stayed like that for a few seconds, arms hanging at his sides. He didn’t hug him back at first. But he didn’t pull away either. In fact, he didn’t say anything. His body just… allowed itself, for the first time in hours, to loosen up a little, exhaling deeply, shakily. His eyes closed and his face dropped, his forehead resting gently on Jake’s shoulder.

The warmth of their bodies, Jake’s voice, the familiarity of the dorm room, the soft music playing in the background, the faint scent of cologne.. it was everything he needed after the storm that had rattled him outside.

As if, for now, he could hide from everything that had just happened in the arms of someone who didn’t know the full story… but who he was sure could figure it out just from the way their eyes connected. And still, Jake never pushed him to speak.

“So… that bad, huh?” Jake whispered, trying to lighten the moment a bit.

Jake hugged him a little tighter, sliding one hand gently down his back, as if he could ease the thoughts racing through his… friend’s head. He didn’t need to know everything to feel something had broken. Again.

Finally, [...] took a deep breath. That’s when he wrapped his arms around Jake. Not tightly, but slowly, almost hesitantly.

Jake smiled a little against his neck after he buried his face in it.

“Do you want something for dinner?” he asked softly. “I can order pizza, or… whatever you want.”

[...] shook his head, not pulling away.

“No… Just… give me one more second like this,” he murmured.

Jake nodded quietly.

A couple of minutes later, when they finally pulled apart, Jake walked to his bed and sat down, taking off his glasses completely and setting them on his pillow.

He glanced over at [...].

There was something strange in his eyes. Like he was tired, but not physically. It was as if his spirit was completely drained. Jake could see it.

Because he wasn’t stupid.

Because he knew the details, the little gestures growing weaker, the pauses in his voice, now rough and worn.

[...] took off his sneakers quickly and lazily tossed his jacket over the back of the desk chair. Then he let himself fall back on his bed, lying flat, staring at the ceiling. Jake turned his head to keep watching him.

A comfortable silence settled in for a moment. Or at least, that’s what it tried to be.

Because Jake’s mind wouldn’t stop thinking about him. Something was wrong. Too wrong.

“...Nothing weird happened on campus today, did it?” he asked suddenly, not in an accusing tone. Just curious.

Jake tilted his head a little, like seeing him from another angle might help his brain connect dots he didn’t know existed.

“You didn’t run into anyone? Heeseung... maybe?”

[...] didn’t answer right away, but his body tensed. Slightly, but enough for Jake to notice. Just for a second. A hand twitch, a squeeze on the sheet.

“Hmm? No, it’s.. a miracle…” he lied, closing his eyes.

But the answer came too fast. No stuttering. And he didn’t look at him again.

Jake clenched his teeth. Not from jealousy, not because he didn’t get the answer he wanted. Just.. instinct.

He stood up, walked to his bed, and sat on the edge, looking down at him.

“Well, that’s… good. I’m glad he finally got it,” he began calmly, pretending to believe him. “But—seriously, why were you running?”

[...] opened his eyes slowly. Looking up at him, the warm light reflecting in his gaze, the shapes of the bulbs looked like little stars over a black sea. It was captivating.

“It’s nothing important, it’s just that… I don’t know, I had some coffee and suddenly felt like running,” he whispered.

The lie wasn’t direct, but it was the cruelest of all. Minimizing what he felt, what happened, everything that was said, everything he thought—when in reality, he had just stood frozen. Even though he knew that, somehow, he had every right to, and he didn’t want to give Jake another reason to be stressed.

He had been there through so many low points, yeah. Did he ask for it? Never. Did he refuse? Not once.

Jake had spent months suffering with him, holding him, comforting him, seeing him as more than just someone who had been used to forget another body. Jake was everything he had once dreamed of in Heeseung, everything his mind had convinced him of back when they were best friends.

“Sorry for making you worry,” [...] said, swallowing hard and letting go of the bedsheet.

“It’s okay. Don’t worry. Next time let’s race—last one back has to… buy ramen for the whole week!”

Jake didn’t want to make him feel worse. He didn’t deserve it—not after that little scene. Pfft, worthy of a drama novel.

He simply slid his hand toward his, giving it a soft squeeze while raising his eyebrows and offering a faint smile.

[...] just nodded, slowly closing his eyes again. And that night, when Jake turned off the light and returned to his desk after hearing him start to snore softly, the only brightness left in the room came from the flickering computer screen… and his own reflection, tear-streaked, threatening to fall across the keys.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The clock on the wall read 2:14 a.m.

Jake hadn’t said a word since he sat back down at the desk. The screen cast a bluish glow over his face, but his eyes weren’t really following any text, and his hands just rested on his cheeks. He was only pretending to be focused, while his ears, in the background, stayed alert to every breath from [...].

He was still lying down, one arm over his eyes. He wasn’t fully asleep. Jake knew that from the way he shifted now and then, not quite finding a comfortable position.

The silence stretched on for several more minutes, at least until the bed creaked softly, making Jake glance up from behind his laptop again.

This time, Jake let himself give in to his more instinctive side. More... protective? maybe. He just wanted to make sure everything was okay. Sometimes [...] did that when he cried.

Jake walked barefoot across the cold floor, stopping beside him. He stood still, looking down in silence.

He wasn’t sure how long it had been since that happened...

He only knew he couldn’t take his eyes off him. [...] looked so sweet when he slept; his long lashes, the little sounds he made, the slight furrow of his brow... it was like the world had never touched him. He looked like an angel.

Jake slowly crouched down. Carefully, with a trembling pulse, he brought one hand to [...]’s cheek. He brushed his face lightly with his knuckles, just barely grazing him, feeling his skin, his warmth. Then he traced the line of his cheekbone, his jaw, his lips. The touch was gentle. Reverent.

Like he was handling something fragile—fresh porcelain.

Jake swallowed dryly.

His heart was pounding hard in his chest. His breath was so quiet, he could only hear the thudding in his own ribcage.

His eyes didn’t leave [...]’s lips, because they were right there. Right in front of him.

He didn’t even know when they had become so familiar, so addictive. He sketched them in so many... ways.

They had this soft curve that stayed etched in his memory. The perfect anatomy, not in an aesthetic sense, but in the most human way.

Light brown liner, pale pink inside, slightly parted. The way they pressed together when his expression shifted in a dream, or how he’d unconsciously wet them, giving them that soft, glistening look...

Jake watched them silently as he leaned in closer, holding his breath when he felt [...]’s breath brush against his face.

Did I mention they were soft? They were. So plush, he could already taste their sweetness just with the tips of his fingers.

Fuck.

He bit his lower lip—barely—his eyes darting between [...]’s closed eyelids and the way his lips parted a little more, letting out that sweet hum of soft breaths and low snores.

He wanted to kiss them. Yes.

He hesitated.

He leaned in... just a little closer. Closed his eyes as his forehead rested gently against [...]. And for a moment, his mouth hovered over his, without touching.

He was torn between desire and guilt, between everything he had kept quiet... And everything he might never be brave enough to say.

“You can’t do this, Jake... not like this,” he thought.

“But love doesn’t always ask for permission.” What a stupid phrase. It was easier to just say he was going to do it because [...] would never know. He was so exhausted that not even an alarm would wake him.

“Fuck it...” he whispered.

And then he kissed him.

His lips fell onto [...]’s with the delicacy of fine crystal. Not in a rush, but with a hunger for more—with anxiety. Just love, he wanted to believe that. It hurt, physically hurt, not being able to wrap his arms around him, not being able to bite his lips, to leave him breathless. It hurt that he could only kiss him in the most cowardly way.

In secret.

His hands stayed where they were. Still over the sheets, gripping the fabric. His brow was furrowed, his eyes squeezed shut to keep from imagining everything he could possibly do.

Jake wished his lips could say everything his voice never dared to, but... was that even possible?

Was one night kiss, enough?

Jake’s heart and mind quieted... a little. But for the first time in days—weeks, maybe years—he felt a sliver of peace.

He stayed there for what might have been minutes, memorizing the way [...]’s lips had softened against his, the faint aftertaste of coffee from earlier still lingering. Then he slowly pulled away, lifting one hand to touch [...]’s cheek.

“You don’t know how much it hurts not being able to tell you how much I love you…” Jake whispered it like a sorrow.

He stood up soon after, not noticing how [...]’s fingers twitched slightly, tightening around the edge of the blanket.

Jake turned with a restless heart and slipped back into his bed, lying flat on his chest, back facing the ceiling.

Silence returned to the room.

Until [...] finally opened his eyes.

Suddenly, as if jolted out of sleep paralysis.

His lips trembled. His eyes were wide open, fixed on the ceiling, his chest rising and falling faster now.

He didn’t know if he’d dreamed it. If his body had betrayed him. If the kiss had actually happened.

But the warmth was still there. On his mouth. On his cheek.

He slowly sat up in bed, careful not to make a sound, and brought his fingers to his lips. He touched them. Ran them side to side, top to bottom, pressed them, tugged softly at the lower one.

His eyes shimmered. He was confused. Dazed...

Deeply happy.

Though there was fear, too.

Because if that kiss had been real... Then maybe everything Jake had once said when he was drunk could be real too.

And what hurt the most... Was that it had been the most beautiful kiss he’d ever felt. And it had come from someone who was beginning to fill every corner of his thoughts.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

⸺ ⠀ 𝑐꯭𝑟꯭𝑒꯭𝑑𝑖꯭𝑡𝑠 @angelsfat3 .

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ㅤㅤㅤㅤ(ㅤ𝑓ollowㅤ ㅤ，ㅤㅤ #𝖫𝖨𝖪𝖤! )

𝗋𝖾𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗀  &   𝗋𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗌      .       𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾.

[cherryblossomfairyy]

How You Get The Girl.

Pairing: spencer reid x ex!reader

Summary: An unsub targets Spencer Reid by sending photos of his girlfriend, Y/N, threatening her safety without ever touching her. After the case ends, Spencer makes a heartbreaking choice—leaving her to protect her from his world. Along the lyrics of the song "How You Get The Girl" by Taylor Swift.

Masterlist

Spencer Reid had never thought he could feel fear like this. Not for himself.

But when Garcia showed him the envelope that had been delivered anonymously to Quantico, that changed. Inside were photographs—dozens of them. All of you. Some at work. Some at home. One especially chilling: you sitting at a café, eyes downcast, reading a book. Unaware that someone had been watching you. The message scribbled across the last photo: “She’s your weakness, Doctor. I wonder how she’d react to seeing what you keep from her.” The implication was crystal clear. This wasn’t just about fear—it was about control. The unsub had chosen you to get to him. And it was working.

Spencer didn’t tell you immediately. But he pulled away. He came home late, distracted. Held you too tightly, like you might slip away. You noticed the way he started checking locks twice. How his hand twitched when you stepped toward the window. And when the team finally caught the unsub—a delusional ex-professor obsessed with intellectual rivals—Spencer didn’t feel the usual relief. Only dread. Because now that it was over… he had to tell you. And he had to make a decision. You found him on the couch that night, shoulders hunched, staring at his hands like he didn’t recognize them.

“Spence?” you said quietly, approaching. “What’s going on?” “I need to tell you something,” he said. His voice cracked. “But once I do… you might hate me.” Your heart dropped. “What are you talking about?” He explained the photos. The threat. The unsub’s fixation. How long it had been going on without your knowledge. And then, the final blow: “I think we should… take a step back.” You blinked. “What?” “You’re not safe with me. You were targeted because of me. I can’t go through this again. I can’t risk you.” “Spencer,” you said, stepping closer. “You don’t get to decide what I can handle. Yes, it’s terrifying. But I love you. That doesn’t go away because of one man’s obsession.” “And you were too afraid.”

He looked at you then—really looked—and the pain in his eyes nearly broke you. “I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered. “But I’d rather lose you by choice than lose you to someone like him.” Your voice shook. “Then you don’t trust me. Or us.” “I don't want you to go.”

 “I trust you more than anyone,” he said. “That’s the problem.” He left quietly that night. Not slamming doors. Not yelling. Just silence. “That's how you lost the girl.”

And you sat in the dark, knowing he’d broken both your hearts in an attempt to protect one.

It had been 6 months, 3 days, and some odd hours since you last saw him. “Say it's been a long six months.” The memory still clung like static—Spencer Reid, standing in your living room, eyes clouded with guilt and logic he used to explain why walking away was "the best thing for both of you." He didn’t cry. Not until the door shut. And not until you leaned against the other side, shaking from the ache of losing someone who once memorized your coffee order and the way your lips quirked when you were about to lie.

He left.

And he didn’t come back. Not when you needed him. Not when the apartment felt colder without his books strewn across the couch. Not even when your cat—his cat, really—refused to eat for two days straight. You moved on. Tried to. Until tonight. Until you opened the door and found him standing in the rain. Hair soaked, hands buried in his coat pockets, eyes a little more hollow than before. He looked like the storm wasn’t outside—it was inside him. And for the first time in almost a year, he spoke your name like it was a question and a prayer. "Y/N…"

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Not when everything you’d sewn shut ripped open again. "I—I should’ve never left." Silence stretched. He took a shaky breath. "I want you for worse or for better, I would wait forever and ever and ever" The lyric slipped out like it had been rehearsed in a hundred sleepless nights. You blinked. Rain clung to your lashes like tears that hadn’t fallen yet. "You’re quoting Taylor Swift to me?" Spencer cracked a small, almost-sheepish smile. "I’ve listened to that album a lot lately. Trying to figure out how to get the girl."

“She'll open up the door. And say, are you insane.”

"You're about 6 months too late." "I know," he said softly. "But I thought if I showed up at your door, with a smile, with a bouquet of words I never had the courage to say before—maybe you’d let me try again." Your heart hurt. Not in the jagged, fresh kind of way. But in that tender, aching way that said, you still love him, even now. "What changed?" you asked

Spencer looked down, then up—eyes glassy. "I realized that no amount of safety or logic could replace you. I wanted to protect you from everything, including me. But all I did was protect myself from feeling, and I lost the best thing I ever had." The rain started to slow, like even the sky was listening. "And if you say no," he whispered, "I’ll go. But I had to try. I had to tell you. I still love you."

Your voice was quiet. "Why now?" "Because I’m tired of missing you in silence. I’m tired of pretending that I didn’t throw away something extraordinary." The ache gave way—slowly, but surely—to warmth. You reached out, brushing wet curls from his forehead. His breath hitched

In his hands he held a frame, the glass smudged from where his thumb had lingered too long. Inside was a photo—one she thought he’d forgotten. It was them, mid-laugh, his lips pressed to her cheek as she squinted at the camera, caught in some stolen moment of joy.

"Remind her how it used to be. With pictures in frames of kisses on cheeks."

He held it out like an offering—fragile, but full of meaning. “Before the threats. Before I pushed you away. When it was just us, this is my favorite picture of us . I miss that. I miss you.” Her fingers brushed his as she took the frame. Neither of them said a word, but the weight of the silence said everything.

"I hated you for a while," you admitted. "I hated me too." You studied him. The rain had soaked through his clothes, but he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just waited—like he’d wait another year if he had to. Finally, you stepped aside.

“Stand there like a ghost. Shaking come the rain.” "Come inside before you get pneumonia, Doctor Reid." He exhaled, the closest thing to a laugh caught in it. And as he stepped into the warmth of the apartment—your apartment—you weren’t sure who was more relieved. You didn’t kiss him. Not yet. But you left the door open.

The door shut softly behind him, the click echoing like a heartbeat. The moment he stepped into your apartment, it hit him like a tidal wave. The scent of your candles. The same scuff on the wall where he’d once accidentally knocked over a stack of case files. The ghost of your laugh clinging to the furniture like it never left. Spencer stood awkwardly in the middle of the living room, dripping onto the hardwood, eyes darting toward the bookshelf—the same one he helped you build.

His gaze lingered on the framed photo of the two of you at a fall festival. You were laughing. He looked at you like you hung the stars. Some things hadn’t changed. You handed him a towel. Soft, lavender-scented. Your fingers brushed, and he held onto it a second too long before taking it. ”You really came here… just to say all that?” you asked cautiously, like you didn’t quite trust the idea of him being here, real and vulnerable. “No,” he said. “I came to mean it.” He hesitated, then added, voice cracking, “I came to show you how important you are too me. How much I miss you. How much I want to do better for you.”

You froze. “I told myself if I ever got another chance—if you ever opened the door—I wouldn't mess it up again. I’d tell you ‘I want you for worse or for better, and I’d wait forever and ever’ if I had to.” He looked at you then, the towel forgotten in his hand. “I would’ve come back sooner. But I was afraid you moved on. That you didn’t want me anymore.” You looked away. “I tried to move on.” His breath caught. “Did it work?” “No.” His chest loosened for the first time in months. Hope—fragile, flickering—started to come back to life.

He took a shaky step toward you. “I thought about how to get you back. Over and over. And every time, it sounded like i made the biggest mistake in letting you behind in the first place. Like I didn’t even deserve this moment, this chance.”

 “I thought I was protecting you,” he said. “I thought if I stayed away, you’d be safe. But I didn’t sleep. I didn’t eat. I started hearing your voice when it wasn’t there. I’d walk into a room and expect to see you. And when you weren’t... it felt like I was coming undone.” You said nothing, just watching him fall apart in real time. “I lost my mind without you,” he whispered. “I lost me without you.” "Tell her how you must've lost your mind."

Your breath hitched.

He reached up, eyes glossy with unshed emotion, and said gently, “Say I want you, say I want you back to me…” Your heart twisted. “Spence…” “I should’ve said it back then. Every day.” His voice cracked. “Instead, I left you standing in a dress, in your doorway. I was a coward. I walked away like an idiot who didn’t know how to love without breaking things.”

“When you left her all alone.”

“You were scared.” “I still am,” he admitted. Silence fell between you like a soft snowfall. Then he whispered, almost like it hurt to say: “I miss you. I miss laughing at your terrible coffee order. I miss your books next to mine. I miss… waking up beside you and thinking, ‘This is home."

He looked down at his hands. “I thought I was protecting you. But all I did was break us.”

The room was quiet. You stepped forward. Slowly. Carefully. Then you asked, “Do you want to try again?” “No.” He paused. Then, without breaking your gaze “I want to do better. I want to make you feel like this… let you hear it every day. I want to earn back everything I threw away.” You stepped closer. It wasn’t just words anymore. It was a promise. “And say you want me.”

The air shifted. He could smell your shampoo. He wanted to fall into you, but he waited. And then— You swallowed hard, eyes burning, then stepped into his arms—wet clothes and all. He stiffened for half a second, then melted against you like he’d been waiting for this moment every day since he walked away. You said it. “I want you too, Spencer.” He felt it all at once—relief, grief, forgiveness. Love. When your arms wrapped around him, he clung to you like a man who’d finally come home after a long, cold exile. Your lips met. And it wasn’t desperate or rushed. It was steady. Warm. Familiar.

“And that's how it works. That’s how you get the girl.”

The rain had stopped sometime during the night.  Now, light filtered through the curtains in soft ribbons of gold. The apartment smelled like coffee and comfort, and Spencer lay beside you—awake, still, and quietly wondering if this was real. He hadn’t slept much. Not because he was anxious, but because he didn’t want to miss a single second of this. Of you, finally asleep in his arms again. Of the way your breath moved softly against his neck. Of the peace he hadn’t felt in months. You stirred beside him, stretching lazily. Your voice came out sleep-rough and soft. “You’re staring.” “I’m memorizing,” he whispered. You rolled toward him, burying your face into his chest. “Still got that eidetic memory, huh?”

“I do.” His fingers brushed through your hair. “But I want to remember this differently. Not as a statistic or timestamp. Just… the way it feels.” You looked up at him then—eyes sleepy but bright. “How does it feel?” He smiled, a slow, crooked thing that only came out when he was truly content. “Like I finally said the right words.” You laughed. “It only took you quoting Taylor Swift in the rain.” He flushed. “It worked.” You paused for a moment, tracing patterns on his shirt. “Were you scared I wouldn’t let you back in?” He nodded. “Terrified.”

“But you showed up. With a smile. With a bouquet of words you never said before.” He blinked. “You listened to the song again.” “I never stopped listening to it,” you said. “I just stopped hoping it would come true.” Spencer’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Well, I’m here now. And I’m not leaving. Not unless you tell me to.” You reached up, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “No more leaving. No more silence.” “I promise.” He kissed you again—soft and sure. “Broke your heart, I'll put it back together.”

And as the morning light poured in, mixing with your laughter and his quiet, steady heartbeat, Spencer knew this wasn’t the end of the story. It was the reprise. Because the boy who walked away had finally learned that love is worth more than fear. And this time, he was going to show it you every single day.

 “And that's how it works. That’s how you get the girl.”

[cypherheartnokey]

You know I love this theory!!! Definitely think SOMETHING like this is going on. Amazing post as always!!! @greenfiend

———

… However. Still. If you’ll allow me… I can’t help but always be left with this annoying BUG in my mind, nagging me & forcing me to ask more questions.

What I am talking about is this:

-> In the TFS documentary, Kate Trefry (one of the main ST writers) explicitly says:

“This is science fiction, NOT fantasy.”

This is science fiction. NOT fantasy.

To me, this unequivocally indicates that a “it was all a dream/fantasy”-type ending—in the merely figurative/abstract/narrative sense—is something completely out of the question.

In other words, I think it’s absolutely impossible that this “narrative framing” / “split reality” thing is not caused by a scientific explanation—it HAS to be, as is the rule within science fiction.

The ‘stories within stories’ HAVE to:

-> exist within the universe of the Stranger Things story;

-> be canon;

-> be REAL—as opposed to imagined or fictionalized within the story universe itself.

———

My current belief is that there are multiple worlds/universes/timelines/realities going on (as hinted at in the show consistently).

I believe the reveals are happening this way:

SEASON 1

Phase #1 — Will died?

Phase #2 — Oh wait, he actually… didn’t?

SEASON 5

Phase #1 — OMG Will REALLY died originally!!! The show we’ve been watching is a fabricated reality created by someone.

Phase #2 — Wait, but now this fabricated reality (where Will is alive) is getting out of control & causing more damage in different ways. In an attempt to solve this, Will dies “again” (as in, at his current age during s5). Show ends. Tragic story. Bittersweet. Everyone is devastated by the Byler Shakespearean love story.

Phase #3 — They… plant an unexpected surprise on us. My guess is the last episode, or some previously unannounced extra footage/episode/short after the epilogue. At the last minute (a la Mike Wheeler), this story is changed. Somehow, even though he’s late—he buys time. And he finds a way to fix it. Mike & Will find a way to be together again.

This ^ is my current prediction of events.

———

What I am very unsure about though, is the scientific mythos behind how this would be possible.

My current theory goes like this:

BILLIONS OF YEARS AGO

Brain-Reality-affecting (manifestation-capable) alien virus hits the earth.

1940s (?) — according to TFS lore or whatever

Alien virus is discovered by human scientists & starts being used in experiments, maybe even on human subjects.

1970s

Will is *somehow* exposed to & infected with the alien virus.

1970s/80s

Infected Will suffers the effects: his psyche starts influencing the (meta)physical reality around him.

What this means is that he unknowingly starts influencing/altering/creating/erasing all sorts of Stranger Things: events, cycles, vibes, people, memories, weather, geography, locations, dimensions, otherworldly creatures.

Basically, EVERYTHING that reality is comprised of.

SEASON 5 (1987–?)

Maybe, & this is a very shot-in-the-dark MAYBE.

We know that Will knows Mike very well. Mike is highly intelligent, an exceptional “code-breaker” & deeply in love with Will.

So Will trusts Mike with a final challenge.

Before dying, Will leaves behind some kind of secret & unexpected artifact/trick/sign/message/code embedded with a part of his alien acquired power.

Because Mike never gave up on his love, he ends up finding this sign (unlike others, who ignored it) & harnessing it to give his above-mentioned final chosen “fix” to their story.

This weird theme was actually hinted at (in a pretty bizarre & cryptic way) in the ‘Hawkins Horrors’ book’s final horror tale—which just so happens to be the story told by Mike. 👀

A Teddy Bear come-to-life 🧸, a Church ⛪️ & a Bridge 🌉 are also involved…

———

Now… How does all of this happen? What are the additional consequences of the virus? How does Will manage a final coming-back-to-life? How do they fix the virus mess? Do they even fix it? Is its spread the narrative/mythological foundation towards future Stranger Things spin-offs?

I have no idea. This is what’s frying my brain.

As evidenced above, I’m a hardcore believer in—sci-fi supported—Manifestation Theory.

But the entire concept seems so incredibly complicated to grasp (& pull off) that I feel I don’t have the necessary capacity or knowledge to be able to predict or figure out the logic of it (if there is even any—S3 Lucas: “Emotion, not logic”).

After all, more often than not, logic is not our brain’s strong suit.

But maybe, it doesn’t always need to be.

The Show Itself is a Story within a Story

written by characters who exist beyond it

All roads lead to the library...

Why do I think this? What is the purpose of this twist? And most importantly… who is writing this story and why?

First off I’ll just say that I’m well aware this is an unpopular and highly controversial theory. That many say it invalids the story and would be an unsatisfying end. I understand perspectives like this. I won't be going into the arguments about whether or not this should be the ending, but rather I'm merely arguing that there is a high possibly of this actual being the ending. More specifically, the final 20 minutes of the show.

I’m well aware the writers have claimed that theories that “it was all a DnD game” are bogus. However, they have clearly lied to us many times to conceal spoilers. So, let’s try not pick and choose what they say is gospel, and what should be taken with a grain of salt.

Also, I will add that I have already made a theory post similar to this. Although I am likely wrong about many aspects of that theory, I do still agree with the general concept. This post is more of a basic summary of the framed narrative clues.

The Show Itself is Framed as a Novel

To put it very simply, the show is presented to us like a novel. Each episode is a chapter, each season a sequel, and when split they are in volumes.

Another Universe

Most of us have accepted the possibly of there being another universe beyond what we know. I agree with this. However, I believe that this universe we are seeing (the show) was created by characters within the other universe. Much like how Mike creates another universe whenever he DMs a campaign...

The world where none of this tragic stuff ever happened? Well, it definitely does exist... but... it's not "out there". Instead, that's the story we know within the show. The story that likely has a gay ending (both meanings of the word).

In other words, the story we are shown is the "watered down" story.

Finishing the Story and Changing the Ending

If you read the comics, you will find a blatant reoccurring theme of writing stories, and finishing said stories. While the comics are not necessarily canon, they remind us of the important themes of this show.

In The First Shadow play, we are reminded again of the concept of writing our own stories, and more specifically…. Changing the ending. Making the ending happy and gay.

We even had a leak reveal that El apparently says “they don’t get to write the ending, but we do.”

We also had an entire Stranger Things novel written in the format of a “Choose Your Own Adventure” book, where we, essentially, choose the ending for the characters.

This is a reoccurring concept within and beyond the show for a reason.

Frame Narratives

Within the show, we are frequently reminded of the concept of framed narratives. It is, essentially, a story within a story. Basically, there are at least two stories: the story that is the painting, and the story that exists within the frame of said painting.

The First Shadow play itself is a framed narrative, as it is a play within a play. They perform the play “Dark of the Moon” within the play itself.

We are also introduced to the concept of “memories within memories” which is a literal track on the ST4 soundtrack.

Why This Concept Fits the Themes

As most of us know, a major theme within the show is the concept of free will vs. determinism. Are we all prisoners of fate, or do we have any agency over our lives?

This theme would extend to the characters written within a novel. The author is their “God” or rather the “Puppet-master”. Perhaps the characters will take on a life of their own and persuade the author to change their ending to a happier one?

Who is Writing the Story?

This answer is simple. Which main character is a writer? Mike. He is “the heart” of the story. However, Will likely helped bring the story to life with his art.

Even way back when pitching the show as “Montauk” the writers slipped in clues within the character descriptions.

All these four boy dealt with bullying, however, only two of them utilized fantasy and imagination to “escape”/“retreat” from their lives and insecurities. Mike and Will.

Why Are They Writing the Story?

*Sign* Okay here is the difficult part to explain… the unpleasant stuff. Everyone hates this I know. Please put the pitchforks down.

Let’s go over some of the previous stuff I’ve mentioned.

A universe where none of this tragic stuff ever happened

A watered down story

Changing the ending to a happy/gay one

These all imply that the universe that exists beyond the show... is a tragic one.

To make this abundantly clear: the main story's conclusion is a happy one! However, the reason why it exists in the first place is because it was created in a universe/story with a tragic ending.

This story exists so the ending can be altered. This is the point.

So What is the Story Beyond this Story?

I... don't know exactly. But I have some ideas.

The main idea I have is that: Will passed away... for real. And he left behind his art which Mike cherishes.

Mike created this story for Will to change his ending and utilized his art as inspiration. He also utilized science as a way to explain the supernatural concepts we see.

Why do I think this? Many reasons. For one, Mike appears to constantly be battling grief throughout the show. Shifting from denial, bargaining, depression, anger but never quite reaching acceptance. He also frequently expresses his fear of losing people: mainly Will and El. PLUS, we have many references to stabbing hearts, broken hearts... and Mike himself is referred to as "The Heart". His heart is broken and ridden with grief because he actually did lose Will.

I have also previously analyzed the many letters shown within ST and how they are associated with... death, as well as a watered down story.

This all leads to...

(Yes I am plagiarizing myself here. lol.)

Now before I breakdown what I believe fits into these blanks, I want to clear up a couple of things that have been brought up before:

“This letter was just revealed to be a letter from the ST writers to us fans during ST day years ago.” Yes that is true. However, I doubt they would just post it like this if that’s all it meant. That’s pretty lame to be honest. We know they love to be vague and cryptic with their clues of what’s to come in the show, why wouldn’t they be doing that here as well? Plus this letter fits perfectly with the set up I just described. Perfectly. I’ll explain that soon.

“This is… not about a couple”. It isn't. Simply because only one of them is alive at this time...........

Now let’s properly break down the letter.

“anyway I think you’ll ____ sorry I couldn’t get it done ____”

These lines imply that the writer of the letter attached something to it. The writer likely thinks the recipient will like whatever they attached.

The writer then apologizes about something. The wording makes it seem like they’re apologizing about not completing whatever is attached on time. If time is what they’re apologizing for, this is likely Mike writing this. Mike has been associated with running late many times throughout the show.

This is my guess: “anyway I think you’ll like [the ending]. sorry I couldn’t get it done [on time]”

The next part is easy and was confirmed by the writers:

“but you mean so [much to me]”

Obviously whoever wrote this letter cares deeply about the recipient.

“and it’s been [so hard being without you]”

I guessed this part. The writer is making an excuse as to why they weren’t able to complete something on time. It makes sense that the writer was struggling from being away from the recipient and thus that was the excuse for the delay. This would make even more sense if the writer was struggling with grieving the recipient.

“hope this is [enough to] last until [we meet again]. Love, [Mike].”

The “enough to” was simple enough to complete, not much else can fit in that context.

I guessed the “we meet again” because it's fitting. It also implies Mike will reunite with Will in death. Blue meeting Yellow in "the west" (where the sun sets).

Now, the date “November 6, 1983” is there because…

The attachment is the complete story of the entire show, beginning on that very specific date. The book attached to the letter, or the “book of letters” if you will. Mike wrote the story, or rather finished the story for Will. He couldn’t “get it done on time” because Will likely passed on prior to the completion of the story. He wrote the story, which is the “watered down” version of the true horrors he and Will experienced, and others too. The story was written so he and Will could survive everything in the end and become heroes forever and ever.

[seoul-bros]

Jikook Week 78 Complete (03/06-11/06/2025)

Jikook have finalized their 78th week in the military and their release is imminent. On the outside I'm perfectly calm but inside...

....they are coming back to us and I know they are as pleased about that as we are. Big Hit says no press on 10th and 11th but surely they won't miss the chance to say hi on a live?

So this is the last one of these. I really can't believe I've had the discipline to keep it up without missing a week. So let's end with a big jikook year - 2019. They were on the European leg (London and Paris) of the extension of the Love Yourself Speak Yourself Tour which ended in Seoul in late October 2019. The two Wembley concerts were on 1st-2nd June.

JK went live after the concert on the second day. He talked about ARMY singing Young Forever to BTS and his reaction. There are a few of fancams of the moment and although all the members are clearly moved by the experience it isn't perhaps surprising that jikook are hit the hardest. Young Forever means so much to Jimin personally and JK has always been the ultimate lover of ARMY. They really are two sides of the same coin.

He goes on to tell ARMY about the gift he has prepared for them for Festa 2019 - the DJ Swivel Forever Mix of Euphoria.

He then has a prescient moment...

I mean what is AYS if not a cheeky mukbang?

He ended the live talking about how lucky he was that his parents had let him follow his own path, that there were people who loved him and that he had been able to follow his dream.

After the Wembley concerts BTS went on to Paris for two more concerts on 7th-8th June and then returned home to Seoul on 10th June. Here is Hobi sunshine with his sunshine brothers Suga and Jin at the airport.

Jimin really enjoyed his time in London. A group of his friends had come to see him perform and Jimin acknowledged them on Twitter, "Precious friends came to watch the show😊🙏🏼"

Banner says, "Hyungs are here"

He and Jungkook were spotted out and about with them by fans.

Jimin mentioned it in his live with Namjoon on 6th June. He had been walking a little slower than the group just drinking in the sights and particularly the sounds of London.

He also posted these pictures on Twitter with the caption, "It was a truly precious tour I won't forget everything I received this time. Thank you very much"

What else did MiniMoni talk about on their live from Paris?

We found out that this live almost didn't happen because Jimin has stayed behind at the venue to practicing with Jungkook. I'm not sure that's what I would call this Mochi, my love.

Notice the extremely gentle scolding from their leader.

We found out that RM was having trouble writing and instead he had binge watched Mr Sunshine. Jimin on the other hand had been playing computer games with Hobi on tour.

They had a scary moment when Namjoon wondered if he spoiled the release of the BTS World OST (Joon really is the Mark Ruffalo of the BTS universe) but fortunately it was already on line. They then talk about Jin and how great he sounds on Dream Glow and Namjoon talks about helping him write the second verse to Tonight.

It's a live that hits on so many topics and really captures the era they were living through. Already experienced performers that came up from nothing with a treasure trove of shared memories and hints of the things that were to come. It's worth watching just for the boss baby method of English learning.

Let's end the post with a little bit of JK pre-Tik Tok days, lip syncing and dancing to Billy Eilish's Bad Guy. How does he do it? He's bopping around enjoying himself but still managing to hit a sexy cutie vibe. Wish I'd seen this before I did my JK Festa countdown. It would definitely have been included.

Good luck Jimin and Jungkook with whatever plans you are making post-military and I hope you get to continue to do that together, mutually admiring and supporting, creating a safe space for each other in which to learn and grow.

Post Date: 09/06/2025

[dimlitchapters]

—————————————- x —————————————

you’ve never liked your birthday.

you don’t tell anyone that, of course. you smile when your friends drag you out for dinner, laugh when someone hands you a gift bag, and blow out candles like you believe in wishes.

but deep down, you know it’s all performative.

because something always feels off on that day. like the air is heavier. like your skin doesn’t quite fit right. like the universe is holding its breath.

it’s not about growing older. it’s not about parties. it’s something you can’t name.

and every year, without fail, at exactly midnight, you feel like you’ve lost something.

you just never knew what—until this year.

it’s your twenty-second birthday. it’s raining. you’re sitting by the window in your apartment, music playing low, watching raindrops race each other down the glass. you’re not expecting anything. it’s just another year. another cycle of weirdness.

and then your phone buzzes.

[unknown number]- “can i come in this time?”

your heart stutters.

before you can respond, there’s a knock on your door.

three knocks. slow. familiar in a way that makes your skin crawl and your eyes burn.

you open the door.

and there he is.

he’s dressed in all black, a hoodie clinging to him from the rain, dark hair dripping. his eyes are wide and a little desperate. like he was afraid you wouldn’t open the door this time.

“…hi,” he says.

you don’t know him. you’re sure you don’t.

but your soul does.

“who are you?” you ask, voice quiet.

he smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“you said that last year too.”

you stare.

“my name’s jungkook,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “i… used to mean something to you. before time decided to be cruel.”

you laugh nervously. “what?”

he sighs and steps inside. you don’t stop him. maybe you should. but part of you wants him close. needs him close.

“every year,” he says, “i find you. on your birthday. just before midnight. you never remember me, but i always remember you.”

you blink. “what do you mean?”

he looks around your apartment like he’s memorized it. “it’s a loop. you’re stuck in time. and i guess… i’m stuck with you. but in a different way.”

you cross your arms. “prove it.”

he looks at you for a long second. then:

“you chew gum when you’re anxious. you hate surprises, even though you act like you don’t. you cried at 3:04 a.m. last tuesday because your dream ended before he said he loved you.”

you freeze.

he takes a step closer. “i know you always listen to music on rainy nights like this. i know your laugh sounds different when you’re genuinely happy. and i know that on your twenty-first birthday… you told me to let you go.”

your throat tightens. “why would i say that?”

his eyes flicker with something that looks like grief.

“because you thought i was holding you back. that maybe if i didn’t come back… the loop would end.”

“did it?”

he smiles sadly. “you’re still here. and so am i.”

you sit down, hands trembling. the clock reads 11:54.

“so what happens now?” you ask.

“we talk,” he says. “we laugh. maybe we kiss. maybe we don’t. it’s always different. but one thing stays the same.”

“what?”

“you forget.”

the silence between you is deafening.

“can we stop it?” you whisper.

he hesitates. “you’ve tried. every year. but you always change your mind. you always say… you’d rather have me for one hour than not at all.”

you look at him. really look at him.

he’s beautiful. not in a glossy, untouchable way. he looks real. like pain and joy and history and memory all tangled together. like something out of a dream you wake up missing.

“how long have we been doing this?” you ask.

he exhales. “six years.”

your heart breaks in places you didn’t know existed.

you don’t say anything. you just reach for his hand. and he takes it like he’s done it a hundred times before.

when the clock strikes midnight, you’re on the floor, leaning into him. his hoodie is still damp. your hair is tangled in his fingers. he’s humming something against your temple—a song you don’t recognize, but your chest aches like you should.

then everything goes quiet.

the next morning, you wake up in bed.

your phone is empty. no texts. no missed calls. the apartment is clean. there’s no sign of rain.

your birthday is over.

but your heart feels heavier than usual. like it’s holding someone else’s grief.

like it’s trying to remember a name it never learned.

you go to the window. and on the glass, drawn in the faintest trace of condensation, are three words:

i’ll find you.

[glitchthedemon]

What I believe chapter three tells us about Kris

Naturally there will be spoilers for chapter three and some for chapter four, so read at your own risk!

As we know, each dark world represents the will of its creator, which is why Susie's foutain was slightly different to the first fountain in the church, and because Kris created the third Dark world when the soul was *outside* their body, then we can assume that this dark world represents Kris's thoughts and wants, at least to some extent

I believe this can be best seen in Tenna, someone loud, somewhat attention-seeking and desperate. Of course, this doesn't really sound like the Kris we know, but the "Kris" we know isn't really Kris, it's us, but since the Dark Foutain was created while we were not controlling Kris, it represents Kris's will minus any of our influence. Back to Tenna, we see him wanting to make people happy, to bring/keep people together, to keep the good old times lasting forever.

The Family

Multiple times he brings up the divorce of Toriel and Asgore, and how the family used to be, including having the Holiday family round a lot. Tenna explains how much that deteriorates after Dess goes missing, Asgore and Toriel breaking up, and Asriel leaving for college. During his break down in board three, he says one line that really stuck out to me, as it didn't sound like he was talking to anyone

Despite not technically being part of the family, Tenna does seem to be a legitamate casualty of divorce, I imagine that as Asgore and Toriel argued more and more, Kris would distract themself with whatevers on TV, turning the volume up as their parents started to yell.

Since Asgore and Toriel are still on poor terms with each other, It's likely that Kris wants the family to be how it was before, with Asriel home and his parents happy together, and this can be scene in Tenna's persistence of them being one big happy family

(there are several other lines of his dialogue that show this)

Keeping up appearances

Tenna is always talking about how great classic TV is, that he's still relevant! Still wanted! still needed! But people have moved on - as Tenna says, "nothing stays big forever" - I imagine it's quite hard to feel wanted or relevant when your newest (and only) friends see that soul possessing you more than they see the real you

Kris was "the weird kid" before the events of deltarune, which can be inferred from a lot of dialogue in hometown, like Bratty's conversation about Asriel. Kris likely felt very alone, especially since they are the only human in their town. But now, with that thing possessing them, they have friends, they get to go on fun adventures, they're hanging out with Noelle again.

But without that soul? who knows what would happen to them and their friends. Would they fade away into the darkness, becoming just as irrelavant as they were before? Would they become useless, without any adventures to be had anymore? Would Susie not want to be their friend anymore once they aren't the same person from the adventures? (remember how much Tenna wanted to impress Susie because she was one of the first people to pay him real attention in so long?)

Minor Events

Didn't know where else to put this but Kris's darkworld events almost directly mirror lightword stuff they had previously experienced

Blue guy awkwardly involved with a broken-up couple

TV world directly affected by some of Kris's last memories before creating the dark fountain and going to sleep

There's likely a lot more but i don't want this post getting too long, so thank you reading this far!! If anyone has any other ideas they'd like to add then feel free!

[bitchinbarzal]

One Last Dance | T Meier

summary: after one love fuelled summer with timo, you’re marrying nico.

⸻

There are wildflowers in your hair and champagne on your lips when you spot him.

Timo.

Leaning against the bar in that way he always did — one arm braced, jaw tight, pretending not to look for you. You wonder how long he’s been here. If he saw you walk down the aisle. If it hurt.

You’re not supposed to care. You’re not supposed to think about him. Not today.

But the truth is, you haven’t stopped since Zurich.

You met Timo the summer you turned twenty-two, when everything was sun-drenched and fleeting. You were working abroad, running a photography program for kids while trying to figure out your own life, and he was already knee-deep in the hockey world, crashing in Switzerland for training and a bit of freedom. You collided at a lake party just outside the city — you in cutoff shorts, him in a backwards hat, both of you tipsy and too curious for your own good.

It was supposed to be nothing. A fling. A heatwave thing.

But it wasn’t.

You stayed up late, slept in his shirts, learned every freckle on his chest. He let you read pages from his journal and you let him photograph you in golden hour light. You danced barefoot on balconies and kissed like the world was ending. And maybe, in some ways, it did. Because when August came and you both had to leave — he to training camp, you to the States — there was no ending that fit.

You didn’t talk about feelings. You didn’t say goodbye properly. You just left, and he didn’t stop you.

Years passed. You moved on. You met Nico.

Sweet, steady Nico, who made you feel safe for the first time in a long time. He never made you question his love, never held back, never left you guessing. He was Timo’s best friend which was something you didn’t realise at first but by the time you found out, it was already too late.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That the past was the past.

But Timo never left your head. And now he’s here, in a suit and tie, watching you slow dance with your husband on your wedding night.

You try not to look, but you do.

Nico’s hands are warm on your waist. He leans in and kisses your forehead, murmuring something sweet, something only for you. You force a smile and nod, but your stomach turns because you feel Timo’s eyes like a brand across the dance floor.

The song begins to fade.

Nico pulls back slightly. “Be right back,” he says with a smile, gesturing toward the DJ. “I’ve got a request.”

And before you can step away, another hand slips into yours.

You already know it’s him. You don’t have to look up.

Timo.

His touch is tentative but familiar. Still calloused in the same places. Still warm like summer.

You should walk away. You should run. But you let him pull you in.

“I won’t keep you long,” he says softly.

Your heart thunders. You glance around, but no one seems to be watching. Or if they are, they’re too polite to say anything.

You try to keep your voice even. “You shouldn’t be doing this.”

He doesn’t argue. He just starts to sway, leading you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he’s done it a hundred times before.

Maybe he has. In Zurich. In memory.

“You look happy,” he murmurs after a beat. “You look beautiful.”

You blink hard. “Timo…”

“I’m not trying to ruin your day.”

“Then why are you here?”

His jaw tightens. “Because I needed to see if you were really gone.”

The music winds around you like smoke, heavy and slow. You can’t meet his eyes. You’re afraid of what’s there — or worse, what’s still there.

He shifts his hand slightly, thumb brushing the bare skin at your back, just above the waistline of your dress. You flinch.

“I loved you, you know,” he says, so low it almost disappears beneath the violins.

Your chest clenches. “You never told me.”

“I didn’t think I had to. I thought you knew.”

You finally meet his gaze then. And it nearly destroys you.

He looks like the boy you left behind and the man he became all at once. Hurt, but harder now. Like he built walls to keep you out and never figured out how to tear them back down.

“You let me go.”

“I didn’t want to,” he says, voice cracking. “I just didn’t know how to ask you to stay.”

You want to say something cruel. Something that will break the moment before it breaks you. But you don’t get the chance.

Because as the music swells to its final notes, he leans in.

And with a voice full of every word he never got to say, he whispers:

“It should’ve been me.”

The world stops.

Air catches in your lungs. Your fingers tremble in his. Your heart shatters in slow motion.

You pull back.

Timo lets you go, just like he did that summer.

And when Nico returns, all bright-eyed and proud with a new song queued up, you smile and step into his arms like nothing happened.

But something did.

And you’re not sure if you’ll ever be able to forget it.

[moonlitenvyillust]

I am high of copium and the next HSR trailblaze mission is still taking it's sweet time.

So.

RATIO THEORY TIMEEE

TW: possible Amphoreus spoilers (I'm dumb), English profanity, Indonesian profanity, there's no word for makes sense in the Kremnoan language!!!, OP is sleep deprived, I did not make the Amphoreus simulation and Phainon Lord Ravanger thingy

Dr. Ratio is a Data leak from the Amphoreus simulation

Okay, so we all prolly already know about the Amphoreus is a simulation and Phainon is a Lord ravanger thingy. To me this translates to: Amphoreus is Phainon's past planet before becoming a Lord ravanger and the amphoreus we're playing is the simulation Fuli created to trap him in a sense of familiarity, wether he realizes or not.

To me Fuli then split the Lord Ravanger's memories and self into two. Phainon being the memories of who he was before Lord Ravanger and Lord Ravanger themselves being Flame Reaver

Now, since we got the simulation thing out of the way, about Ratio being a data leakage of Amphoreus that somehow ran past Fuli.

Exhibit A: Design

Looking at Ratio's design, we can see it's somewhat similar to the open world NPC's clothes but different. More titankin coloured and much more fabric lined up together.

Now thinking of it this way it could be that the reason Ratio's design is slightly flicked off is because he's a data leak. A flawed sim character that Fuli didn't realize. Like Fuli accidentally mixed the memories made for an NPC and a Titankin into one and boom, Ratio.

In concluaion: Ratio's data is a mix of a Titankin and an open world NPC.

Exhibit B: the thing with bathing

We all know about the bathtub thing. We all know about the public bathing space in Amphoreus. And we who already watched the Cipher Trailer know about Cipher stealing Ratio's tub. Need I fucking say more?

The NPC data in Ratio is tingling with it. The data of baths being something they like.

Exhibit C: Gameplay

The Pilar thing on his ult falling down like the pillars in Amphoreus when we stop the oronyx prayer too fast, the sculptures he uses as his technique, bitch this is fucking cyberbullying

Now to add to this, the sculptures and the Titankin. The Titankins turn into stone and destroy itself when they die. And what happens to Ratio's stone sculptures when the time runs out? It destroys itself. The data is fucked and it translates itself incorrectly

Exhibit D: the Grove of Epiphany

Ah yes, the Grove of Epiphany, home to Anaxagoras who totally doesn't act and have similar feelings about foolishness to Ratio. I see no connection here

Anaxagoras's personality data got mixed into Ratio's bundle and boom, Grove of Epiphany data tingling with his Veritas Prime time

Exhibit E: his uncanny "bug" Appearances that happened three fucking times

One bug? Fuck you. Two bugs? Fuck me. Three bugs? What is going on here. Is he embodying his abilities as a data leak? Does he have that power? He's close to Screwlum like screwwy is a robot and he could be a data leak-

Exhibit F: the unknown heir of Justice

It's a known fact that the Justice coreflame was retrieved but we have no fucking idea who the fuck the heir is. Could it be who Ratio was supposed to be? Like mr "wants everyone to have the same amount of education" Seems pretty equal justice to me, maybe in the last cycle Ratio was just fine, chilling, even, and then the next re-start the data was fucked and mixed and kicked to the side, then the simulation went:

"Oh well, last time it's done so it's done ig"

And the coreflame is just there on it's own??? Like, simulations, as good as it is, has flaws. The black tide is a virus already so who cares? Pop-off ig

Thank you for coming to my ted-talk

[jackalsprey]

Still thinking about TFOne Megop (I have a problem)

There is no way in Unicron’s ugly aft that every little interaction doesn’t remind them of each other. They spent nearly every waking moment together. They spent their nights right across from each other. Everything would remind them of each other.

Optimus walking the streets of Iacon and picking out small spots he and D would go to take a rest from the mines.

Megatron recycling old memories on sleepless nights.

Optimus talking and laughing with Bee and just briefly - maybe because the names are so similar - he calls him D. Megatron getting furious at Starscream and threatening to smelt his face off, before realizing that was what he’d tell Orion every time he annoyed him.

Optimus seeing stalls filled with merchandise of the last Primes be replaced by images of him, and he scrambles to buy anything related to Megatronus Prime before they’re destroyed. Anything besides the decals.

When patrolling, Megatron absentmindedly hums an old song, before realizing with a shock it was what Pax hummed during slow moments in the mines.

The Iacon 5000 continues every cycle. The first time a former miner wins, Optimus disappears from the festivities. Elita finds him in his room, unwilling to leave or even say a word. She doesn’t push him.

Megatron returns to the site of the Primes’ last battle to pay respect to Megatronus Prime. He remembers his fight with Pax. He remembers Sentinel’s betrayal. And… he walks to what remains of Prima - Orion’s favorite Prime. He gives the two a proper burial. He leaves the other Primes - so as to never forget what Sentinel did.

Optimus and Elita get together. It’s good for them both. One night, as they kiss and things begin to heat up between them, D’s name slips from Optimus’s lips. Elita and Optimus sleep apart after that.

Megatron enforces a strict curfew for the Decepticons. Says they’re no use to him when they’re tired. Shockwave, always a night owl, takes a walk one night. As he passes by Megatron’s quarters, his audials pick up the faintest sound of tears and his leader’s breath shaking.

[theblueboxscholar]

I don't think The Rani knows.

I think that The Rani has been away from Time Lords and Gallifrey so long, I legitimately think she has no idea...

When The Rani refers to the loss of Gallifrey... I think she is talking about the og loss, the one where Gallifrey burned during the last days of The Time War, when The War Doctor used the Moment to burn the Time Lords and Daleks alike.

I don't think she knows about the 50th anniversary event, or that Gallifrey was saved in a second of time in a pocket dimension. I don't think she knows that Rassilon was deposed by Twelve. I don't think she knows that The Master genocided the entire planet after discovering what Tecteun (you can definitely throw Rassilon and The Other under the bus with her here let's be real) did, and what it means for Gallifreyians, Shabbogans, but most of all, for him. I don't think she knows that the Time Lords were turned into Cybermen, and that Thirteen seeded the planet (Gallifrey) so no life could ever live, evolve, or survive there again.

I don't think she knows that Gallifrey is, for all intents and purposes, deader than it has ever been in any other point in time.

I don't think she knows about The Doctor. I think she believes that he is 100% Time Lord, just like her, and The Master, and any other old school chums.

The look Fifteen gave her when she was talking about creating a new Gallifrey, in their image, the last true Lord and Lady of Time... the look of "oh, babes..."

She doesn't know about The Timeless Child. And somewhere, in a gold tooth, The Master is laughing. Because he knows. He finally has one upped her.

I think her plan was sound. I also think it was probably pushed into action due to The Flux. We see Flood!Rani throughout time and space, working on her plan. She would notice that The Universe has been half consumed. There goes half her fucking resources for her unethical, amoral Science™️! And who's to blame?

Potentially The Doctor. But she's not really emotional. Her emotions towards The Doctor are mostly irritation and annoyance. She doesn't HATE The Doctor, he's just a goody-goody who gets in her way or messes up her experiments. He's an annoyance, nothing more. But y'know whose fault it really could be? The Time Lords.

Okay, yes, they're "dead", but that's no excuse! It's their job to maintain The Universe! And now it's half fucking gone because they're not there to tend the balance. Fuck em, she'll make more, and fix the Universe and continue her experiments.

... But she's out of touch. She hasn't grown like The Doctor has post Time War. And she can't look beyond her wants to really see what's happening and put the dots together. (Not unlike Gat, who'd been chasing The Fugitive Doctor throughout Time and Space, and was utterly unaware of The Time War. She can't bring herself to believe it, and dies never knowing for herself if it's really true.)

I think the tv show has basically decided, "you know how Rassilon called back all The Time Lords to fight in the war and its bad? Well, not all went/she escaped." Which isnt even a KNEW concept. Yana!Master once his memories returned recalled that he'd fled the Time War before the burning, so terrified by what The Time Lords had become and how Rassilon was turning them into honest to god eldritch monsters to fight his eternal war.

Simm!Master post attacking Rassilon and forcing Gallifrey back to the voids of the Time War was cast out or fled Gallifrey after, eventually getting trapped on that spaceship stuck in the pull of a black hole where he murders himself (Missy) for being genuinely into The Doctor again.

The Eighth Doctor resisted the call basically until he was forced into regenerating and became The War Doctor.

Susan resisted at least till David passed away, but hell, she might have resisted indefinitely now for all we know! (Would make more sense given the fact The Doctor was protecting her FROM The Time Lords. And wouldn't it chap their asses if their little recall trick didn't work on her, the child they feared!?)

And her desire to use Omega is just ego. There is no more Tomb of Rassilon to plunder for the ✨️extra special✨️ genetic coding to use, so the next best thing is Gallifrey's other hero/god/historical figure!

Sure, she could just use herself and The Doctor, and that would be fine and probably work. But it could be so much better!! Ego. She is literally breaking into a world/dimension/reality where her logic will not save her. It is a universe governed by the rules of a "mad man", where logic has no home. But her ego tells her that she's too smart, too logical to fall for silly superstitions.

Now, what came out of the underverse was not Omega. The episode says as much.

This is The Beast of Omega. This is The Boogeyman. This is some form of Omega told in myth and bedtime stories to frighten young Gallifreyians. (I do think she could have eventually located Omega, but due to her having to force speed run breaking open the underverse she drew up the wrong thing.) Her ego cost her, if not her life than her freedom. She was basically vored (iykyk) and swallowed whole. That doesn't mean she's dead. She will however be trapped in the Underverse. (Would be interesting if that's where Rogue and the Childur were trapped to. Basically the Gallifreyians equivalent of the Phantom zone.)

I have a lot more thoughts but I need to sit and reqatch the episode as well as get my thoughts organized. But its been long enough so here's my thoughts so far.

[aryaryxoxo]

The Armor Doesn't Cover Everything #soshiro hoshina x platoon leader!reader. ⤷ @drratiosgaybathtub I love the way you right soshiro so much!!! I was going to ask if you could write hoshina with reader who has a lot of scars that aren’t from fighting kaiju so I just wanted to ask :3 it’s one of the things I struggle with so it would mean a lot 😭(I don’t know how comfortable you are with writing certain things and I couldn’t find your rules 😭)  other than that I hope your taking care of yourself!!! Love your work :3 

warning: heavily implied 'self-harm'.

“Hey. You weren't at dinner.”

The last voice you wanted to hear cut through the quiet, low and unmistakable. Soshiro Hoshina. You didn’t even turn around as he stepped into the office you, he, and Okonogi shared.

“I wasn’t hungry,” you replied, trying to keep your tone even—normal. As if the weight pressing down on your chest wasn’t there. As if you weren’t seconds away from scratching your skin raw.

Today’s mission had been brutal. Not because the Kaiju were any stronger—but because the memory that clung to your skin afterward was. The 3rd Division had been fighting the same hoard for what felt like hours, and your suit—usually a point of pride—had become unbearable.

You loved it, really. It made you agile, quick, synced with the team. It could even ping your vitals if you died. But today, the friction was merciless. Sweat soaked through the underlayer, rubbing your skin raw. And right over the old scars—the ones no Kaiju gave you.

They weren’t from the battlefield. They came from something quieter. Something lonelier. From the days before the Defense Force, when you had no war to fight but the one inside your head.

And now the suit clung to them like a second skin. Every movement, every stretch, felt like a spotlight on old pain. And somehow, it wasn’t just your skin that stung.

You shifted in your chair, biting the inside of your cheek. You tried not to scratch. Not here. Not with him.

“You sure?” Soshiro’s voice came again—this time softer. Less a question, more a check-in.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not with your throat tight like that.

“You fought good today,” he added.

Silence stretched between you, filled only by the hum of the building and the quiet clink of his gear as he stepped inside.

You thought he’d leave it at that. But then—

“I’ve had those days too, you know,” he said casually, as if talking about the weather. “Where it’s not the Kaiju that get you. It’s something else. Something quieter. Meaner.”

That made you look up. His eyes weren’t mocking, just steady. Patient.

Your voice cracked before you could stop it. Barely a whisper.

“Can you... hug me?”

It surprised even you. But the weight of today, the sting beneath your suit, the hollow ache behind your ribs—it all swelled until it slipped past your lips.

You remembered the nights where all you could do was curl up, nails digging into the same skin that betrayed you, praying for the world to just go quiet. Back then, all you had was your knees. Now, somehow, he was here.

Soshiro didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

He crossed the room slowly, not like someone swooping in to fix you, but like someone simply choosing to stay.

When his arms wrapped around you, it wasn’t tight. It wasn’t forced. Just warm. Solid. Real.

You didn’t cry, not really. But your body softened, like it had been holding tension so long, it forgot what it felt like to be safe.

And maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was messy. Maybe you were crossing a line you weren’t supposed to.

But you didn’t want to question it.

Not tonight.

What mattered wasn’t what you were becoming or where this was going.

What mattered was that he stayed.

That when your scars itched and the world felt too loud—he was with you.

A/N: Thank you for trusting me with this request. Please remember to always prioritize your mental health—you matter. I hope you continue to overcome your silent battles, one step at a time. I’m proud of you, and I love you so much. 💛🩷